The Paradox of Responsibility

I made my son cry tonight.

This in and of itself is not news, because he usually dissolves to tears at least once each evening. In fact, I was expecting him to be upset about the news I had to tell him. I was prepared to explain, sooth, and make it all better, as mommies do. But, leave it to my sweet pea to throw a wrench in it...I guess I should start at the beginning.

Lately, we've been trying to be careful about the way we spend money. My husband would tell you that I haven't been trying very hard, but the truth is, we've cut down on most of our extraneous purchases...like drive through TCBY on the way home from work and eating out every meal on the weekends...I've also cut back on some of the crap we usually have in the house...there are no flavored potato chips in my pantry nor ice cream in the freezer. And, most significantly, I've only ordered one book from Amazon this month, and I've been to the library twice!!

When our son asks us about these things, we tell him that we're trying to save our money...we don't want to have to take extra money out of the bank to pay for things we really don't need. I've wondered what he makes of these messages...usually the instant response is just frustration that we can't hit McDonald's to get the latest and greatest in McCrap-Toy.

Today, I went out to lunch with my co-workers. When it was time to pay the bill, I realized that I didn't have my wallet. After borrowing $15 from one of the other ladies, I pulled out the Spider-man wallet I've been toting around for the last few days. Someone casually mentioned that my son was probably squirreling away more money than the rest of us combined.

I ripped open the Velcro lock, and low and behold, $15. I quickly handed it over to my co-worker, knowing that I could stop by home after work and zip to the bank to replace the money before picking him up.

It wasn't until later this afternoon that I realized he was probably going to be upset about it. Don't get me wrong. I knew that I needed to replace the money. I mean, who wouldn't be upset if they opened their wallet to find all their cash missing. But I started thinking about how much he likes his things, just the way they are, in his particular way. I knew that he would probably realize that the cash in his wallet was not the cash he put there.

When we got in the car, I turned around and looked at him and said, "Hey buddy. I went out to lunch today, and when it came time to pay, I realized I didn't have my wallet. I borrowed $15 from your wallet. Don't worry, though, I stopped at the bank and got $20. I put the $20 bill in it's place."

He just looked at me like I was an alien. I didn't know what he was thinking, until we got home and he brought me the $20 bill. "Mom, you made the right choice to use my money. I don't want this $20. You keep it."

An argument ensued where I explained to him that when you borrow money, you pay it back. And that it's embarrassing that mommy wasn't responsible enough to have her wallet with her today.

I thought that was the end of it until he burst into tears and choked out, "But mommy, you took this money out of the BANK!! We don't take money out of the bank. We put it there to save it. I don't want this money."

I pulled him onto my lap and felt like a total jerk. Here my young son was showing me that not only had he been listening to what we've been saying about money, but our message has become so enmeshed in his thinking, that the thought that I would give him money from the bank was weighing on his heart. I held him close, and I whispered in his ear that I appreciated him being so thoughtful and responsible, but his money is his money...he's earned it or it's been given to him...and he didn't need to feel bad at all about keeping it.

It's such a hard lesson to learn as a parent. On the one hand, I want my son to learn that there is a lot of stuff out there that we just don't need to spend our resources on. But on the other hand, I don't want my son to be weighed down by this kind of responsibility at 7. It's going to be a big shift, changing our messaging to help him understand that money should be budgeted...we save some, we spend less, and everything's going to be okay.

So...are you new around here?

Why is it that just when you seem to have your kid figured out, bam, he does the old switch-er-oo on you?

Although, this time, I'm not complaining. It seems as though Robert is settling nicely into his divine-given gift of wit and timing. It's so cute to see him crack little jokes that are actually funny.

The other night, we had some friends over, and after they left, I went around the house turning off lights. He was sitting on the couch watching TV. I flopped down next to him and said, "Did those small people turn on every light in this house?"

Without even breaking his stare on the TV, he deadpanned, "Yes. Yes they did."

For some reason, it totally made me giggle.

I wonder if he's going to have my sense of humor? It would be nice if someone in this house actually laughed at the same things I laugh at (instead of just laughing at me).

Anyway, I feel like there's a new person living here. And I wonder how he'll like it, if he settles in well, and how long he'll stay...

Are you dumb or are you stupid?

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.

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.

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.

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!!

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.