I just had the following conversation with my seven-year-old:
Kid (yelling): I am not going to tell you because you JUST WON'T UNDERSTAND.
Mom: Why don't you try to explain?
K: You just won't get it.
M: Why? Do you think I'm stupid.
K: No. You aren't stupid. You could be a little dumb, though.
M: What is the difference between stupid and dumb?
K: Dumb is when you just don't have as much brains and you're not as smart. Stupid is when you are dumb, and mean, and kind of a jackass.
M: You can't say that.
K: I'm just telling you.
M: So, do you think I'm dumb?
K: No. Not excessively.
At that point, I laughed until I coughed, and then I coughed until I peed a little in my pants.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Nuh-Uh
So, the conversation went something like this:
Dad: If I told you the sky was blue, would you argue with me?
Kid: No.
pause
Kid: But it isn't blue. It's brownish, blackish, with just a tiny bit of blue.
We have entered the argumentative phase of development. Okay, we haven't really just entered it; we've been here a while. But it seems to be permeating all areas of life right now. Where it used to just be arguing about turning off the TV or brushing teeth, we're now finding ourselves embroiled in lengthy discussions about the simplest items. Most peculiarly, my kid will even take hold of a position not in his best interest.
For example, his dad told him that he couldn't be on the computer today until later this evening. He helped me clean up the kitchen, he's quietly practicing his numbers, and he's just being an all around sweet kid. So I told him that he could get on the computer this afternoon. Instead of being thankful, he says, "Dad told me I couldn't get on until evening. That's past afternoon." I said, "Okay. I guess not until this evening."
He even got in trouble in school recently for arguing with his teacher. She was calling kids up to help with a math exercise, and she called him. He said it was another boy's turn, and he refused to participate. He ended up getting sent out into the hall.
Is it a sense of fairness or stability he's looking for? Is this his way of fighting back against an unexpected result? Or will this be the technique he uses to figure out the boundaries of his world? I myself am at a loss on how to help my boy navigate these waters, but for now, I think my best defense will be a quick, "Nuh-uh," and a change of subject.
Dad: If I told you the sky was blue, would you argue with me?
Kid: No.
pause
Kid: But it isn't blue. It's brownish, blackish, with just a tiny bit of blue.
We have entered the argumentative phase of development. Okay, we haven't really just entered it; we've been here a while. But it seems to be permeating all areas of life right now. Where it used to just be arguing about turning off the TV or brushing teeth, we're now finding ourselves embroiled in lengthy discussions about the simplest items. Most peculiarly, my kid will even take hold of a position not in his best interest.
For example, his dad told him that he couldn't be on the computer today until later this evening. He helped me clean up the kitchen, he's quietly practicing his numbers, and he's just being an all around sweet kid. So I told him that he could get on the computer this afternoon. Instead of being thankful, he says, "Dad told me I couldn't get on until evening. That's past afternoon." I said, "Okay. I guess not until this evening."
He even got in trouble in school recently for arguing with his teacher. She was calling kids up to help with a math exercise, and she called him. He said it was another boy's turn, and he refused to participate. He ended up getting sent out into the hall.
Is it a sense of fairness or stability he's looking for? Is this his way of fighting back against an unexpected result? Or will this be the technique he uses to figure out the boundaries of his world? I myself am at a loss on how to help my boy navigate these waters, but for now, I think my best defense will be a quick, "Nuh-uh," and a change of subject.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Bittersweet I-Told-You-So
I started it. I'll admit it.
I have not cleaned my oven in a really, really long time. I have some serious carcinogens baking in the bottom. Most of the time, 350-400 doesn't make much of a difference, but tonight I was baking pizza, and I had to heat the oven to 500.
Yup. 500. The boiled over mess on the bottom of the oven that had resisted prior baking events was no match for the heat, and I did manage to fill my house with a really cool smoky haze.
As I was trying to battle the smoke with the small window off to the side of the kitchen, my husband came in and opened our sliding door. It would have been a fantastic idea, IF we had a screen door. I told him to shut the door, because we already have a nice little family of flies in our house. He mumbled and grumbled about me being cranky (note: see earlier post about starving monkeys), and proceeded to get our big fan to blow the smoke out of the house.
I puttered around, cleaning stuff up, biting my tongue when I heard my sweet husband say, "Wow. You were right. Where are all these flies coming from?" I'd like to say that the, "You were right," was music to my ears, but I knew I was right. I didn't need to hear him admit it.
When I walked into our family room and saw about 20 flies clustered on the ceiling then headed back into the kitchen to see another larger army fluttering around, I was completely disgusted.
I may have said a few unpleasant things...
And as my knight in shining armor dropped his dishes in the sink, and headed out the door to go hang with his buddies, our discourse went something like this:
Him: Once you get the kitchen cleaned up, you'll be able to deal with it better.
Me: Right.
Him: You could run to the store and get a fly strip or a fly swatter.
Me: Wow. Thanks for the advice. Any other genius suggestions?
Him (muttering): I'm glad I'm leaving tonight. You're cranky.
Me (clear as a bell): You know what, I'm actually glad you're leaving, too.
I have spent the last two hours quarantining our child in a room with ventilation. Spraying the ceilings and any random surface a fly could cling to with some random bug killer I found under the sink. Vacuuming up little carcasses and chasing down not-yet-dead but fairly dopey flies. And wiping down all surfaces that might have been coated with spray. There are still a few rogue pests fluttering around, but the masses are gone. And, our kitchen and family room are cleaner than they've been in a while.
It's a bittersweet I-told-you-so moment. I feel very, very proud of myself for dealing with it. But I would have much rather been wrong and spent the evening laying on the couch.
I have not cleaned my oven in a really, really long time. I have some serious carcinogens baking in the bottom. Most of the time, 350-400 doesn't make much of a difference, but tonight I was baking pizza, and I had to heat the oven to 500.
Yup. 500. The boiled over mess on the bottom of the oven that had resisted prior baking events was no match for the heat, and I did manage to fill my house with a really cool smoky haze.
As I was trying to battle the smoke with the small window off to the side of the kitchen, my husband came in and opened our sliding door. It would have been a fantastic idea, IF we had a screen door. I told him to shut the door, because we already have a nice little family of flies in our house. He mumbled and grumbled about me being cranky (note: see earlier post about starving monkeys), and proceeded to get our big fan to blow the smoke out of the house.
I puttered around, cleaning stuff up, biting my tongue when I heard my sweet husband say, "Wow. You were right. Where are all these flies coming from?" I'd like to say that the, "You were right," was music to my ears, but I knew I was right. I didn't need to hear him admit it.
When I walked into our family room and saw about 20 flies clustered on the ceiling then headed back into the kitchen to see another larger army fluttering around, I was completely disgusted.
I may have said a few unpleasant things...
And as my knight in shining armor dropped his dishes in the sink, and headed out the door to go hang with his buddies, our discourse went something like this:
Him: Once you get the kitchen cleaned up, you'll be able to deal with it better.
Me: Right.
Him: You could run to the store and get a fly strip or a fly swatter.
Me: Wow. Thanks for the advice. Any other genius suggestions?
Him (muttering): I'm glad I'm leaving tonight. You're cranky.
Me (clear as a bell): You know what, I'm actually glad you're leaving, too.
I have spent the last two hours quarantining our child in a room with ventilation. Spraying the ceilings and any random surface a fly could cling to with some random bug killer I found under the sink. Vacuuming up little carcasses and chasing down not-yet-dead but fairly dopey flies. And wiping down all surfaces that might have been coated with spray. There are still a few rogue pests fluttering around, but the masses are gone. And, our kitchen and family room are cleaner than they've been in a while.
It's a bittersweet I-told-you-so moment. I feel very, very proud of myself for dealing with it. But I would have much rather been wrong and spent the evening laying on the couch.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A Pig, A Gorilla, and A Gecko
One of my favorite bedtime activities is snuggling down with my son and making up a story together. We each take turns, weaving our ideas together. Sometimes we follow the same rabbit trail, but sometimes our stories end up in an unrecognizable place. I thought I'd share tonight's story with you (abridged; K - kid's storyline, M - mom's storyline).
K: There was once was a woman with a magical garden maze. It was very, very small. The plants in the maze started to rot and die. The woman hired planter guys to come in and replant the maze, but none of their plants would grow.
M: One night, the woman looked out of her bedroom window and noticed that only one tiny plant in the middle of the maze was still alive. She was so sad she began to cry. She went out to her maze and looked up in the sky. She wished upon a star, and her tears fell onto the plant.
K: The woman cried and cried and cried for days. Her tears touched the plant again, and it started to grow. The whole maze regrew. And the woman put a screen on the top of the maze to keep it safe. People started coming to look at the garden maze again. One day three people from the USA came on an airplane to visit the maze.
M: They asked the woman if they could walk into the maze. The woman agreed and took the screen off the top. As soon as the three people stepped into the maze, they shrunk down until the walls of the garden maze were ten times as tall as they were. They realized that they would have to search to find their way out. They began running through the maze, and found several dead ends. After turning back and continuing to search, they finally found their way to the end of the maze.
K: They stepped out of the maze and then they were 10 feet tall, and the maze and the woman were very small. They thought if they went back into the maze, maybe they would turn to normal size, but when they tried it, they shrunk tiny again. They kept trying and changing from tiny to giant. Finally they decided they had to get away from the maze. They walked and walked and walked, and as they walked, they began changing. When they got back to their airplane, they had turned into a pig, a gorilla, and a gecko. Now they had to figure out how to turn back into people.
M: And that will be volume 2 of our story.
Goodnight!!
K: There was once was a woman with a magical garden maze. It was very, very small. The plants in the maze started to rot and die. The woman hired planter guys to come in and replant the maze, but none of their plants would grow.
M: One night, the woman looked out of her bedroom window and noticed that only one tiny plant in the middle of the maze was still alive. She was so sad she began to cry. She went out to her maze and looked up in the sky. She wished upon a star, and her tears fell onto the plant.
K: The woman cried and cried and cried for days. Her tears touched the plant again, and it started to grow. The whole maze regrew. And the woman put a screen on the top of the maze to keep it safe. People started coming to look at the garden maze again. One day three people from the USA came on an airplane to visit the maze.
M: They asked the woman if they could walk into the maze. The woman agreed and took the screen off the top. As soon as the three people stepped into the maze, they shrunk down until the walls of the garden maze were ten times as tall as they were. They realized that they would have to search to find their way out. They began running through the maze, and found several dead ends. After turning back and continuing to search, they finally found their way to the end of the maze.
K: They stepped out of the maze and then they were 10 feet tall, and the maze and the woman were very small. They thought if they went back into the maze, maybe they would turn to normal size, but when they tried it, they shrunk tiny again. They kept trying and changing from tiny to giant. Finally they decided they had to get away from the maze. They walked and walked and walked, and as they walked, they began changing. When they got back to their airplane, they had turned into a pig, a gorilla, and a gecko. Now they had to figure out how to turn back into people.
M: And that will be volume 2 of our story.
Goodnight!!
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Thou Hast the Right to Blow Stuff Up
Short blog post for today...
As I look back on our weekend activities, I am left pondering what blowing stuff up has to do with freedom? Is it a reminder to us of the battles that were fought (you know, cannon fire and all that)?
Do the colors of the burst symbolize anything? When did it start to be synonymous with our Fourth of July celebration?
These are largely rhetorical questions. I've decided after the weekend that there must be something hard-wired in the male genetics that leans toward pyromania. That coupled with the fact that by the time you get home from the local Freedom Festivities, it is damn near midnight and you are so exhausted that any bit of inhibition was long ago lost.
I can guarantee you, if my husband came across me giving our son a close-up and personal lesson on flambe, he'd be irate. And yet, when I come out of grandma's house and see my son leaning over a bottle rocket as it's being lit, I have to pause and ask myself, what part of that is a good idea?
We all survived our weekend...all fingers intact, no burns. And my son has a happy memory of his Fourth of July. Best of all...at least what I keep reminding myself...as long as he was giddy about blowing stuff up, he didn't whine and beg to play his cousin's Wii.
As I look back on our weekend activities, I am left pondering what blowing stuff up has to do with freedom? Is it a reminder to us of the battles that were fought (you know, cannon fire and all that)?
Do the colors of the burst symbolize anything? When did it start to be synonymous with our Fourth of July celebration?
These are largely rhetorical questions. I've decided after the weekend that there must be something hard-wired in the male genetics that leans toward pyromania. That coupled with the fact that by the time you get home from the local Freedom Festivities, it is damn near midnight and you are so exhausted that any bit of inhibition was long ago lost.
I can guarantee you, if my husband came across me giving our son a close-up and personal lesson on flambe, he'd be irate. And yet, when I come out of grandma's house and see my son leaning over a bottle rocket as it's being lit, I have to pause and ask myself, what part of that is a good idea?
We all survived our weekend...all fingers intact, no burns. And my son has a happy memory of his Fourth of July. Best of all...at least what I keep reminding myself...as long as he was giddy about blowing stuff up, he didn't whine and beg to play his cousin's Wii.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Don't Go In a Monkey Cage Wearing a Fruit Suit
This morning I suggested to my husband that, in a sense of self preservation, it would probably serve him well to learn the difference between "Grouchy Janae" and "Tired Janae" because nothing snaps me out of tired and to grouchy (and beyond) than being asked, "Why are you so grouchy this morning?"
My husband and I do not usually spend much quality time together in the mornings. I get up first, get ready for work, wake our son up, lay out his clothes for the day, and leave. My husband gets our son ready for school and drops him off. It's taken a few tweaks to the routine to make it seamless--most recently, we started making our son shower in the mornings to help wake him up, and that was the final piece to the puzzle. Now things run smoothly, we all leave the house with smiles on our faces, sun on our cheeks, birds chirping good morning, and all that whatnot.
That's all fine and good Monday through Friday, but what about on the weekends? I think my husband has forgotten that I am not a morning person. It takes me a long, long time to wake up in the mornings and become human. He should talk to my co-workers. I'm better than I used to be, but I still enjoy a cup of coffee or a diet coke before engaging in meaningful conversation. My body might be moving, but my brain is lagging behind.
This morning, my sweet husband was frantically trying to get out of the house to go play golf in the rain. I was trying to get myself awake before our 9 AM play-date arrived. While I was making breakfast, he started asking me questions. My brain wasn't ready to engage in my normal witty banter. I gave him yeses and nos, and I was otherwise quiet. Then he asked the inevitable, "Why are you so grouchy this morning?"
Let me tell you people of the world (or my three friends who read this blog), that is a stupid, stupid question. Stupid. And here's why:
Scenario 1: The person is in fact grouchy. Approaching a grouchy person in a confrontational manner is like walking into a cage of hungry monkeys wearing a fruit suit. The "grouchy" person in question is probably going to jump on your back and pick you apart until there's nothing left but a whimpering huddled mass, crying in the corner.
Scenario 2: The person is tired and just feeling quiet. Assuming that someone is feeling or thinking a certain way is a dangerous hobby. Verbalizing your assumption is just plain reckless. People generally rise (or lower) to meet the expectations of those around them. See Scenario 1 for the results.
Either way, you're gonna get attacked by monkeys flying at you in all directions.
I'm sure, deep inside me, there's a bit of regret for turning into the crazy, monkey lady. I hope by the time he gets home I've found the sweet part of me again.
But mostly, I hope that the next time he says, "Sweetheart, is something wrong? You don't seem your usual self this morning." I can turn to him with a smile on my face and say, "I'm fine...just starting a little slow today." And we can laugh quietly together, with the sun on our cheeks and birds chirping nearby.
My husband and I do not usually spend much quality time together in the mornings. I get up first, get ready for work, wake our son up, lay out his clothes for the day, and leave. My husband gets our son ready for school and drops him off. It's taken a few tweaks to the routine to make it seamless--most recently, we started making our son shower in the mornings to help wake him up, and that was the final piece to the puzzle. Now things run smoothly, we all leave the house with smiles on our faces, sun on our cheeks, birds chirping good morning, and all that whatnot.
That's all fine and good Monday through Friday, but what about on the weekends? I think my husband has forgotten that I am not a morning person. It takes me a long, long time to wake up in the mornings and become human. He should talk to my co-workers. I'm better than I used to be, but I still enjoy a cup of coffee or a diet coke before engaging in meaningful conversation. My body might be moving, but my brain is lagging behind.
This morning, my sweet husband was frantically trying to get out of the house to go play golf in the rain. I was trying to get myself awake before our 9 AM play-date arrived. While I was making breakfast, he started asking me questions. My brain wasn't ready to engage in my normal witty banter. I gave him yeses and nos, and I was otherwise quiet. Then he asked the inevitable, "Why are you so grouchy this morning?"
Let me tell you people of the world (or my three friends who read this blog), that is a stupid, stupid question. Stupid. And here's why:
Scenario 1: The person is in fact grouchy. Approaching a grouchy person in a confrontational manner is like walking into a cage of hungry monkeys wearing a fruit suit. The "grouchy" person in question is probably going to jump on your back and pick you apart until there's nothing left but a whimpering huddled mass, crying in the corner.
Scenario 2: The person is tired and just feeling quiet. Assuming that someone is feeling or thinking a certain way is a dangerous hobby. Verbalizing your assumption is just plain reckless. People generally rise (or lower) to meet the expectations of those around them. See Scenario 1 for the results.
Either way, you're gonna get attacked by monkeys flying at you in all directions.
I'm sure, deep inside me, there's a bit of regret for turning into the crazy, monkey lady. I hope by the time he gets home I've found the sweet part of me again.
But mostly, I hope that the next time he says, "Sweetheart, is something wrong? You don't seem your usual self this morning." I can turn to him with a smile on my face and say, "I'm fine...just starting a little slow today." And we can laugh quietly together, with the sun on our cheeks and birds chirping nearby.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Assuaging Guilt...with Sugar
I'm getting ready to escape for the weekend. I've been anticipating this girls' weekend like you would not believe. Crazy considering we just had a fantastic family vacation.
I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortably guilty about leaving for the weekend. It's strange...guilt and I are usually nice companions. I've fed my kid Lucky Charms for dinner instead of insisting that he try to eat chicken pot pie. I've left him crying at daycare, feeling a little relief that I got to escape for a few hours. I've made lots of parenting decisions that are questionable in the name of "picking my battles." All without losing a night's sleep.
I think the real reason is because I not only know I'm running away to have fun, but my son knows it too. He couldn't understand why mommy was packing up his "talkie-walkies" (to communicate between cars) and his DVD player (because mommy can't drive and watch TV at the same time). And he actually looked a little sad and asked if I'd call him every day.
So, tonight when I picked him up from daycare, we made a quick stop at the local grocery store to pick up some treats to get him and his dad through the weekend.
I had the best intentions, but surprisingly, we made it out of the store with a $50 assortment of junk food...animal crackers, animal cookies, sour gummy worms, laffy taffy, chocolate covered raisins, an assortment of lunchables, a box of corn dogs, and some cinnamon rolls.
He's sleeping peacefully, now, and I'll be gone before he wakes in the morning. But it's okay. I know he'll have a great weekend with his dad, and his tummy ache will be a good reminder that his mommy loves him.
I'm off to dig the Ben & Jerry's from the dark recesses of the freezer...it's one of those treats I keep hidden until I know he's sound asleep.
Have a great Memorial Day Weekend everyone!!
I'm suddenly feeling uncomfortably guilty about leaving for the weekend. It's strange...guilt and I are usually nice companions. I've fed my kid Lucky Charms for dinner instead of insisting that he try to eat chicken pot pie. I've left him crying at daycare, feeling a little relief that I got to escape for a few hours. I've made lots of parenting decisions that are questionable in the name of "picking my battles." All without losing a night's sleep.
I think the real reason is because I not only know I'm running away to have fun, but my son knows it too. He couldn't understand why mommy was packing up his "talkie-walkies" (to communicate between cars) and his DVD player (because mommy can't drive and watch TV at the same time). And he actually looked a little sad and asked if I'd call him every day.
So, tonight when I picked him up from daycare, we made a quick stop at the local grocery store to pick up some treats to get him and his dad through the weekend.
I had the best intentions, but surprisingly, we made it out of the store with a $50 assortment of junk food...animal crackers, animal cookies, sour gummy worms, laffy taffy, chocolate covered raisins, an assortment of lunchables, a box of corn dogs, and some cinnamon rolls.
He's sleeping peacefully, now, and I'll be gone before he wakes in the morning. But it's okay. I know he'll have a great weekend with his dad, and his tummy ache will be a good reminder that his mommy loves him.
I'm off to dig the Ben & Jerry's from the dark recesses of the freezer...it's one of those treats I keep hidden until I know he's sound asleep.
Have a great Memorial Day Weekend everyone!!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Feeding a Passion
As soon as we'd hung up the cleats after our last football game, I promised myself that I would feed my son's passion. It didn't matter what it was, if he was genuinely interested, I was going to make sure it happened.
As it happened, we went on a family vacation to Phoenix. Dad got in three rounds of golf in as many days, and my boy and I were left to explore the town with our wonderful friends. On our first full day there, we went to the Arizona Science Center. It was an amazing experience. We've participated in our local hands-on science center, but this one was extra cool...it had a planetarium. I wasn't sure how it would go over, but my boy loves the sky, so I thought maybe he'd be cool with it. He loved the experience. Besides swimming and watching TV (and having two "sisters" for four days), he thought the planetarium was the best part of our trip. I was stoked. I felt so proud of myself for finding an activity that would relate to his interests.
When we got home, we had a few days left before our little guy went back to school. Six weeks left of kindergarten, and I was determined I would find something to motivate my child to stay focused and stay out of trouble. The carrot was easy...he wants to build a play house. I think it's a fantastic idea. He's been drawing plans up and talking about it for months. Up to this point, dad has been adamant that we do not have the time, money, room, energy, etc. to build a playhouse.
After some creative persuasion, I convinced daddy that this could be a perfect opportunity to reward our son with something he really cares about.
We made him a deal. Each day he has a good day, he gets to put a star on his playhouse chart. And each week that he gets five stars, he gets something for his playhouse. Last week was the first week, and it worked out perfectly.
His teacher even e-mailed and said that he has been stopping himself when he gets frustrated and talking through his feelings, and he told her all about his playhouse. To keep the enthusiasm going, we went to Lowe's on Friday and got his first installment toward the playhouse...paint chips. (Realistically, Daddy will just dig through his shop and find some fun extra colors.)
In order to really make this worthwhile, we decided that he won't get the plywood for the walls until the last week of school...
Anyway, so far so good. It's been amazing. It feels so good to be able to facilitate my child's dreams instead of saying no to everything.
Before my arm got tired from patting myself on the back, however, the little guy threw me a curve ball. I took a cooking class at work last week, and when he overheard me talking about it, he asked if he could take a cooking class, too.
The practical side of me thought no way, but the new and improved let's-think-about-it mom prevailed. I told him I would see what I could come up with. After some quick posts on Twitter and Facebook, I found a personal chef who would come to my house and give my son cooking lessons. I know on the surface it seems really silly to pay someone to come teach my son something I'm totally capable of doing myself.
I really spent some time thinking it over, though, and I realized that yes I can engage him when I'm in the kitchen, but usually when we're in the kitchen together, I'm focused on trying to get a meal on the table in a reasonable amount of time. It occurred to me that the best way to feed this spark is to let him experience cooking at his own pace when it's all about him. So, we're doing it. Next Friday night is his first cooking lesson.
I hope that the let's-think-about-it mom sticks around for a while. Home is a happy place to be right now...and maybe if I'm lucky, I might get a night off from dinner duty now and again.
As it happened, we went on a family vacation to Phoenix. Dad got in three rounds of golf in as many days, and my boy and I were left to explore the town with our wonderful friends. On our first full day there, we went to the Arizona Science Center. It was an amazing experience. We've participated in our local hands-on science center, but this one was extra cool...it had a planetarium. I wasn't sure how it would go over, but my boy loves the sky, so I thought maybe he'd be cool with it. He loved the experience. Besides swimming and watching TV (and having two "sisters" for four days), he thought the planetarium was the best part of our trip. I was stoked. I felt so proud of myself for finding an activity that would relate to his interests.
When we got home, we had a few days left before our little guy went back to school. Six weeks left of kindergarten, and I was determined I would find something to motivate my child to stay focused and stay out of trouble. The carrot was easy...he wants to build a play house. I think it's a fantastic idea. He's been drawing plans up and talking about it for months. Up to this point, dad has been adamant that we do not have the time, money, room, energy, etc. to build a playhouse.
After some creative persuasion, I convinced daddy that this could be a perfect opportunity to reward our son with something he really cares about.
We made him a deal. Each day he has a good day, he gets to put a star on his playhouse chart. And each week that he gets five stars, he gets something for his playhouse. Last week was the first week, and it worked out perfectly.
His teacher even e-mailed and said that he has been stopping himself when he gets frustrated and talking through his feelings, and he told her all about his playhouse. To keep the enthusiasm going, we went to Lowe's on Friday and got his first installment toward the playhouse...paint chips. (Realistically, Daddy will just dig through his shop and find some fun extra colors.)
In order to really make this worthwhile, we decided that he won't get the plywood for the walls until the last week of school...
Anyway, so far so good. It's been amazing. It feels so good to be able to facilitate my child's dreams instead of saying no to everything.
Before my arm got tired from patting myself on the back, however, the little guy threw me a curve ball. I took a cooking class at work last week, and when he overheard me talking about it, he asked if he could take a cooking class, too.
The practical side of me thought no way, but the new and improved let's-think-about-it mom prevailed. I told him I would see what I could come up with. After some quick posts on Twitter and Facebook, I found a personal chef who would come to my house and give my son cooking lessons. I know on the surface it seems really silly to pay someone to come teach my son something I'm totally capable of doing myself.
I really spent some time thinking it over, though, and I realized that yes I can engage him when I'm in the kitchen, but usually when we're in the kitchen together, I'm focused on trying to get a meal on the table in a reasonable amount of time. It occurred to me that the best way to feed this spark is to let him experience cooking at his own pace when it's all about him. So, we're doing it. Next Friday night is his first cooking lesson.
I hope that the let's-think-about-it mom sticks around for a while. Home is a happy place to be right now...and maybe if I'm lucky, I might get a night off from dinner duty now and again.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Meeting with the Village Wisemen
Last Friday my husband and I had the opportunity to sit down with our son's teacher and the school principal, vice principal, and counselors.
I was dreading the appointment. I was sure we were going to go in there and face a panel of judges...all offering opinions and blame as to why our son was misbehaving in school, with the ultimate outcome being medication.
Wow. Was I wrong. I couldn't have been MORE mistaken by the course of events. We sat down and briefly discussed the behaviors that are unacceptable (tantrums, hitting, disrupting class), and then they immediately focused on the cause of his outbursts...and not just that he needs to develop more self control, which he does.
They developed a great, proactive plan to help ward off some of the events that cause his meltdown as well coming up with ways to help mentor him to make better choices.
I've heard horror stories about parents' experiences with school administrators...mostly with parents in opposition to the school. It was such a relief to leave that meeting with a positive feeling. I felt like I was working together with the school to encourage and build up my child.
It really does take a village to raise a child, and we're in a pretty good place.
I was dreading the appointment. I was sure we were going to go in there and face a panel of judges...all offering opinions and blame as to why our son was misbehaving in school, with the ultimate outcome being medication.
Wow. Was I wrong. I couldn't have been MORE mistaken by the course of events. We sat down and briefly discussed the behaviors that are unacceptable (tantrums, hitting, disrupting class), and then they immediately focused on the cause of his outbursts...and not just that he needs to develop more self control, which he does.
They developed a great, proactive plan to help ward off some of the events that cause his meltdown as well coming up with ways to help mentor him to make better choices.
I've heard horror stories about parents' experiences with school administrators...mostly with parents in opposition to the school. It was such a relief to leave that meeting with a positive feeling. I felt like I was working together with the school to encourage and build up my child.
It really does take a village to raise a child, and we're in a pretty good place.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Oh...you want to PRETEND you're a football player
So, my son is not exactly a group activities kind of kid. Especially if those group activities have established rules that are not adjustable on the fly.
I learned this when he was three and taking Jumps, Giggles, and Wiggles. He didn't really care to march to the beat of Raffi, he preferred to look at himself in the mirror and blow puffer fish faces. We decided to try a more sport type activity when he was four, and we enrolled in a parent-and-kid soccer class. He spent most of the time laying on the ground whining. The summer he was five, we thought we'd try t-ball. Daddy was the assistant coach for the team. Luckily, there weren't any serious kids or parents on the team. (T-ball for small kids is BRUTAL...too much standing around time...not enough action to keep their little minds from wandering.)
Last fall he wanted to try football (flag, not tackle). It was the most painful experience thus far. There's so much to remember, and so many rules...and it was the first experience he had with team competition. He didn't enjoy it. Neither did we (especially dad who was again coaching).
Around Christmas time, he asked if he was going to get to play football again. Given his lack of enthusiasm for team sports, we were surprised, but we figured we ought to encourage where we can. We signed him up again...we were late, so we had to pay extra money, but it's worth it, right? He asked to do it. That means he must really want to play football.
After several weeks of twice-a-week practice and games on Saturdays (our season record is rivaling the Detroit Lions for you NFL fans)...after tirades and tears from everyone in the family (dad is coaching again...don't ask why)...after countless hours of wondering what were we thinking, I had an epiphany...our son does not want to PLAY football....he wants to PRETEND he's a football player. With two games and two practices left, we are on end-of-the-season countdown.
We're moving on to golf next. I'm digging deep into my cobwebbed recesses of optimism and trying to remain hopeful that this might be the thing that will click.
If not, I think I'll find a nice drama program.
I learned this when he was three and taking Jumps, Giggles, and Wiggles. He didn't really care to march to the beat of Raffi, he preferred to look at himself in the mirror and blow puffer fish faces. We decided to try a more sport type activity when he was four, and we enrolled in a parent-and-kid soccer class. He spent most of the time laying on the ground whining. The summer he was five, we thought we'd try t-ball. Daddy was the assistant coach for the team. Luckily, there weren't any serious kids or parents on the team. (T-ball for small kids is BRUTAL...too much standing around time...not enough action to keep their little minds from wandering.)
Last fall he wanted to try football (flag, not tackle). It was the most painful experience thus far. There's so much to remember, and so many rules...and it was the first experience he had with team competition. He didn't enjoy it. Neither did we (especially dad who was again coaching).
Around Christmas time, he asked if he was going to get to play football again. Given his lack of enthusiasm for team sports, we were surprised, but we figured we ought to encourage where we can. We signed him up again...we were late, so we had to pay extra money, but it's worth it, right? He asked to do it. That means he must really want to play football.
After several weeks of twice-a-week practice and games on Saturdays (our season record is rivaling the Detroit Lions for you NFL fans)...after tirades and tears from everyone in the family (dad is coaching again...don't ask why)...after countless hours of wondering what were we thinking, I had an epiphany...our son does not want to PLAY football....he wants to PRETEND he's a football player. With two games and two practices left, we are on end-of-the-season countdown.
We're moving on to golf next. I'm digging deep into my cobwebbed recesses of optimism and trying to remain hopeful that this might be the thing that will click.
If not, I think I'll find a nice drama program.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
He's Mine
Yup! He's mine.
I'm the mother of a six-year-old. I don't feel great about it, but occasionally, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. I have never exactly emulated the skills of great parents: patience, understanding, picking a battle...and amazingly, my sweet little boy has inherited most of my finer personality traits.
Just a quick anecdote to define our relationship...
A few weeks before his third birthday, he asked if he could go potty in the potty. We got very excited and encouraged him and went and bought big boy underwear and bought a Sesame Street potty seat. We didn't push. We held back and helped him when he seemed interested. Something clicked in that little brain, though...he knew we really, REALLY wanted him to get potty trained. Flash forward to a year and a half later. By the time he was 4 1/2 he still was not reliably potty trained. He had developed the attitude that if we really wanted him to use the potty, we could be responsible for taking him to the bathroom. I finally gave up. I had a little conversation with myself that if he could become potty trained by virtue of my sheer will and desire for it to be so, it would have been done. Seeing as he didn't care, why should we. I took a step back, deep breath, and we stopped reacting and even responding, and the battle wasn't fun for him anymore. Poof. He was reliable.
Now, I find myself in a parallel situation. My sweet, sensitive boy is in trouble with a capital T at school. He has not learned how to express frustration, sadness, anger, shock, etc. with any reaction other than his hands. His first impulse, and he almost always gives in to it, is to strike out. Now he's starting to be viewed as a bully. It's shocking to us, because he has a sweet, sweet heart, and not only that but he's very articulate and completely remorseful after he lashes out.
Anyway, we have our first meeting with his school on Friday. I'm not sure what to expect or how to deal with my emotions, so I'm turning to my standby...I thought maybe writing about our adventures and experiences might give me a chance to process things and gain a little perspective...
At the least, it will give me a chance to look back over our days with a sigh and realize: Yup. He's mine.
I'm the mother of a six-year-old. I don't feel great about it, but occasionally, I wonder what the hell I was thinking. I have never exactly emulated the skills of great parents: patience, understanding, picking a battle...and amazingly, my sweet little boy has inherited most of my finer personality traits.
Just a quick anecdote to define our relationship...
A few weeks before his third birthday, he asked if he could go potty in the potty. We got very excited and encouraged him and went and bought big boy underwear and bought a Sesame Street potty seat. We didn't push. We held back and helped him when he seemed interested. Something clicked in that little brain, though...he knew we really, REALLY wanted him to get potty trained. Flash forward to a year and a half later. By the time he was 4 1/2 he still was not reliably potty trained. He had developed the attitude that if we really wanted him to use the potty, we could be responsible for taking him to the bathroom. I finally gave up. I had a little conversation with myself that if he could become potty trained by virtue of my sheer will and desire for it to be so, it would have been done. Seeing as he didn't care, why should we. I took a step back, deep breath, and we stopped reacting and even responding, and the battle wasn't fun for him anymore. Poof. He was reliable.
Now, I find myself in a parallel situation. My sweet, sensitive boy is in trouble with a capital T at school. He has not learned how to express frustration, sadness, anger, shock, etc. with any reaction other than his hands. His first impulse, and he almost always gives in to it, is to strike out. Now he's starting to be viewed as a bully. It's shocking to us, because he has a sweet, sweet heart, and not only that but he's very articulate and completely remorseful after he lashes out.
Anyway, we have our first meeting with his school on Friday. I'm not sure what to expect or how to deal with my emotions, so I'm turning to my standby...I thought maybe writing about our adventures and experiences might give me a chance to process things and gain a little perspective...
At the least, it will give me a chance to look back over our days with a sigh and realize: Yup. He's mine.
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