Category: Parenting

Looking For A Pay Raise Now

Luke in his self-imposed cleaning exile.

Being a parent is work. It’s work every day. Some days the work is difficult, and you need a drink before 5 p.m. Other days the work is less stressful, and it feels more like play. In either case, parenting is a job that you can’t escape. From the minute that child comes into your life, things are different. You are different.

Today, my little Luke came home from school with summer break fever and without his homework folders. The math homework he was supposed to be working on tonight was apparently left on his desk instead of making its way into his backpack for the ride home. Luke hasn’t forgotten his homework once all year. His oversight hit him hard.

“I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I forgot it,” he said repeatedly.

“It’s okay, Luke. It happens. You’ll just have twice as much to do tomorrow, but it will all be fine,” I reassured him.

“I can still work on some other stuff,” he said, reaching for the memory verse he needed to work on. He took it in the living room and started practicing it. A few minutes later, he returned. I could tell he was still angry at himself. He’s a lot like his mother, proud and stubborn, but I want him to be better than his mother so I tried reasoning with him.

“You’re being too hard on yourself, Luke. You haven’t forgotten anything all year. It happens sometimes. It will be fine. No worries.”

He went upstairs, and I lost track of him while I started Joe on his book report, a game board about the historical fiction work he’d recently finished reading. (Have I mentioned how much I hate grade school book reports?) When I found a good stopping point to escape from the dreaded game board, I went in search of Luke. I found him in the basement. He was sitting in the middle of a big pile of Legos, cleaning up.

“Luke…what are you up to?” I inquired.

“Cleaning. Since I forgot my math homework I thought I should try to do something else good.” My little guy was punishing himself for his oversight.

“You realize, sweetie, that I’m not angry at you for forgetting your work. It’s the end of the school year and you’re excited. Sometimes people forget things. It’s not the end of the world,” I told him.

“I know,” he replied. “I still can’t believe I forgot it, though.” He was taking this much harder than I thought.

Damn. He is my kid. Poor thing.

Now, I’d like to say that I immediately stopped him from cleaning the basement because I didn’t want him torturing himself any further, but I can’t. He is me. I can completely relate to his need to be angry at himself a little bit longer for his error and to try to make up for his mistake in some small fashion. Not wanting to interrupt his process, I let him keep right on cleaning. Besides, a clean basement is a clean basement however you come by it, right?

Parenting is work. It’s a lot of work for something you volunteered to do and will never be paid for. But, there are days like today, when I look at my sons and truly understand that the investment of time I’m making in them right now is worthwhile. Yes. They’re learning some bad things from me (like how to be hypercritical of their mistakes, apparently), but they’re also learning some good things from me too, like how to take responsibility for their actions and how to turn a negative into something positive. Today I received the first positive performance review I’ve had in a while. It felt good too. Now, if I could just find the person who could give me a pay raise, I’d be all set.

Posted on by Me 1

Mother’s Day Mayhem

Stagecoach ride at Whispering Elk Guest Ranch

Let me throw aside all sappy sentiment and be honest for a minute. Mother’s Day confuses me. When I was young, I had my mom and Mother’s Day was all about her. Easy enough. Then, I got married, and Mother’s Day was multiplied because now I had to think about my own mother, as well as my husband’s mother. Whose mom got to take precedence? Was I now supposed to try to fit both moms into the one day? To make matters even more confusing, I then became a mother. What exactly is the protocol at that point?

Ever since I became a mom this day has been a mixed blessing for me. The pull to make sure I was not enjoying this day while neglecting my own mom and mother-in-law was overpowering and, quite honestly, aggravating. As selfish as it is, I want this to be my day now that I’m a mom actively engaged in the raising of children. Certainly that isn’t too much to ask. Or is it?

Most mothers have ridiculously high expectations as to what would constitute an ideal Mother’s Day, though, and no one will be able to meet them, not even for one day each year. Realistically, it’s best to take your Mother’s Day visions, write them off as delusions, and soldier on. Take my Mother’s Day today, for example. We were up in the mountains staying in a nice log cabin, and I was still awakened at 6:30 a.m. by the ruckus of my sons barging into my bedroom to tell me they were awake. Thanks for the heads up, sweeties. It’s not as if I wouldn’t have figured that out on my own in two minutes when you began arguing with each other while “quietly” playing Battleship. Eventually, their father got home from his morning job taking photos and cleared them out of the house so I could get a bit more sleep. That was pleasant.

Until, at 8:15, the boys bust into my room again and declared, “Mom…you gotta get up. The stagecoach is leaving and you’re going to miss it.” No. Seriously. We were going on a stagecoach ride and in their attempt to let me sleep in they’d put me in a position whereby I would now mess up the whole endeavor for everyone with my ill-preparedness. Crap. I jumped out of bed, started rooting around through clothes like a coati looking for insects, grabbed something to wear, threw it on, and tried to figure out how I was supposed to function without a Starbucks run. I spent a few minutes chewing out hubby, who happened into the room during my “hurry-up-and-get-out-so-you-don’t-miss-the-damn-stagecoach-experience” fit. Then, I emerged and got myself to where I needed to be for my relaxing morning ride.

In retrospect, the day ended well enough. I did get to travel via stagecoach through the beautiful Whistling Elk ranch. I also got to ride a horse, something I hadn’t done in 25 years. My boys took me out for Thai food for dinner, which was nice too. And when I got home I greatly enjoyed the gifts my sons had made for me at school, one of which was wrapped in a white paper bag with a drawing of Luke as a ninja on it. Can’t beat that.

I guess Mother’s Day all comes down to expectations. As the years have gone on, Mother’s Day has become less and less disappointing for me because I have come to expect less and less from it. I know that sounds negative, but it truly isn’t. Mother’s Day isn’t merely about me, as much as the name might imply. Every mom knows that once you bring children into the world your life will never be the same. It’s never about you anymore. You gave up that right when you allowed that little being grow inside your body and then push its way out. Mother’s Day isn’t so much about being appreciated as it is about being important. And, nothing reminds you how important you are more than having your child rush into your room at 6:30 a.m. just to let you know they are indeed awake, alive, and ready to go.

 

 

 

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Goslings I Love

Luke and a gaggle of goslings

I adore Ryan Gosling. In fact, I have serious Ryan Gosling issues. Ever since watching him in one of my favorite films, Lars and the Real Girl, I’ve been a fan. Okay. He is a bit easy on the eyes, but he’s also a legitimately good actor. So what if he’s roughly the age of a kid I would have babysat? Age only matters if you are a wine or a cheese anyway, right? Did you see him in Crazy, Stupid Love? There are exceptions that can be made in these type situations. I’m sure of it.

Today, the kids and I had a gosling sighting of another kind. As we were pulling into the neighborhood after I picked them up from school, we saw several Canada Geese with their flocks of young goslings. While I’m not a huge fan of the geese who permeate this neighborhood (trust me…they permeate…their poop is everywhere), their little goslings, all yellow and fuzzy every spring, are a delight.

So, we ran home, the boys did a bit of homework, and then we grabbed a couple half loaves of white bread that have been sitting on the counter too long to make it sandwich worthy and headed down to the lake in our park. When we got there, the geese did not seem to be anywhere nearby. I did see two adult geese without goslings, so I began to feed them while the boys stood at the dock waiting to see the babies. One of the geese I was feeding was limping terribly. When I got close enough to him, I noticed that his right foot was tangled in discarded fishing line. It was swollen to nearly twice the size of the other foot. I tried to get close enough to help free him but he was clearly in pain and did not understand that I meant to help him. I fed him some bread to ease my mind a bit, perturbed by human carelessness and wishing that geese had opposable thumbs so this one could free himself from his human entrapment.

Then I heard shouts from the dock. The boys had seen the baby geese. I rushed over to where they were. There were at least 17 of the little goslings, and the boys were beside themselves with glee. I’m grateful that my nearly 9 and 11 year old sons still find joy in little things like feeding geese and are not already cynical and disinterested like other boys their age. We spent at least a half an hour feeding those birds, sharing an occasional piece of bread with a couple toddlers who showed up too. It was 30 minutes of pure, in-the-moment happiness. Well worth the cost of a loaf of Wonder bread.

I like to think that when I take time to do little things like this with my boys I am making a difference in who they will become some day. I help them with their homework, I chauffeur them to and from tutoring and other lessons, and I make their lunches. All that is well and good. But, if something were to happen to me to take me from my sons, I kind of like thinking that what they would remember about me is that I could tell a merganser from a cormorant and that I did awesome voices for the characters in books I read aloud to them. I like to imagine that they might not remember that I barked at them too often and that they would instead remember that I would jump on their trampoline and get in spitball wars with them.

Lately I’ve been paying attention to how much the little things are the big things in life. A few minutes spent with those little geese today made a big difference to my boys. They talked about it all night long. When it comes to raising children, the little things we share with them are every bit as important as the big things we do to mold them. Keeping that in mind, I hope I always remember to make time for all goslings, not just the tall ones named Ryan.

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So We Beat On, Boats Against The Current

Ummm…yeah. No.

I’ve noticed lately that because we’ve had such warm, pleasant weather, spring fever has hit my boys early and relentlessly. They are already mentally finished with school, and they aren’t actually finished until May 25th. I’ve been pestering, wheedling, bribing, and cajoling to get them to focus on their studies.

Today, I made the boys sit down and get to their homework as soon as we walked in the door from school. Joe had 30 sentences to write for spelling. He did not want any help from me. Before I knew it, he was over at the counter stapling a couple loose-leaf pages together. I could tell from across the counter that his work was nearly illegible.

“Let me see your paper,” I requested.

“No, Mom. It’s done. I’m going to put it in my folder,” Joe replied.

“No, you’re not. Give it to me.” He looked at me, fear in his eyes. “NOW,” I bossed.

He acquiesced. The second the paper hit my hand I knew what I had to do. I was not happy about it.

“Seriously, Joe? Do you really think this is ready to hand in?”

It was a rhetorical question. His handwriting, usually difficult to read, was indecipherable. It might as well have been Sanskrit. While he had managed to capitalize the first word in every sentence, some sentences lacked final punctuation. Many words were incomplete. Most of the sentences did not have the spelling word underlined. Some of the spelling words were actually misspelled.

“No way,” I told him. “This has to be redone. This is not even close to acceptable work.”

“The WHOLE thing?” he gasped.

“Yes. You need to rewrite all thirty sentences. Neatly.”

“But, I’ll never get outside to play,” he cried.

“Yes, you will. It’s just going to take longer because you didn’t take your time the first time through. It’s a bummer, I know.”

Although I could tell he was livid (and sad too), he was careful to select new paper without any sign of tantrum, knowing that would bring down the Wrath of Mama Bear. No one wants to incur that. He sat focused for a while and his second paper was much neater, although still not perfect given his “sloppy Joe” penmanship.

Joe struggles with his schoolwork, not because he’s unintelligent but because his ADHD makes it difficult for him. The great weather and the approaching end of the school year are merely additional distractions he must face. I feel badly for him. It is much harder for him than it is for his classmates, even with the special concessions the school makes for him (like allowing him to print rather than use cursive for his written work). I truly loathe making him redo his work, but if I don’t make him do this now he will never learn. So, nearly every day he has homework we go through this same routine. He does it. I make him redo it. It’s like one long Groundhog Day. And this would frustrate the living daylights out of me if I hadn’t seen him catch on in other instances. It takes four times longer than it would for another child, but he eventually gets it. I know there’s hope.

I used to wonder whether the diagnosis of ADHD with Joe was unnecessary, whether we’d rushed to judgment. I’ve since realized that this is not a phony disorder with Joe. If you ask him, he can tell you that every sentence should start with a capital letter and end with a period. He knows it. He is simply unable to translate this knowledge because his brain thinks differently and he processes things unlike other people. Joe and I have a tacit understanding: I will keep harping on him until the basics become second nature, and he will keep giving me reasons to harp so that I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that he truly struggles because of ADHD and not because he’s lazy, stupid, or unmotivated. He doesn’t want to redo that paper any more than I want to make him redo it. We’re where we are because it’s where we are. Someday we will push beyond this, and there will be another obstacle. But, I have no doubt that we will overcome it. That is what we do, Joe and I.

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Careful What You Wish For

The four of us together on a sunset hike

Steve and I like to hike. It’s been something we’ve done together since the very beginning of our relationship. When our boys were small, we took them along in Baby Bjorn carriers and then eventually the toddler carrier backpacks. It was brutal, but we refused to give up on hiking. When they were between 2 and 5, I would take the double jogger stroller to Roxborough or Waterton Canyon and push them through the hike so I didn’t have to carry them. Eventually, we accepted that they needed to be walking the entire time, so we slowed our pace, knowing that if we wanted them to become good hikers we would actually have to let them hike. Gradually their skills improved, and the distances they were able to travel increased.

Last year was a watershed year. They were finally able to do 7 mile hikes without getting too tired. We were thrilled. On our hike up Carpenter Peak, we’d have to play crazy games to keep them motivated (the boys yelling, “Stop…you separatist dogs” the entire time) but they were doing it. Although we were happy with the distances they could go, we weren’t pleased with the bribery that would have to take place to keep them moving occasionally. One day I promised them Sonic for lunch if we could get through a three-mile hike with a moderate climb in just an hour. We made it in an hour and two minutes; I had a cheeseburger and a strawberry slush that day for lunch.

Today, we hiked about 8 miles through Arches National Park with them. We never once had to beg them to keep going. In fact, we couldn’t get close enough to them to talk to them. We had to keep yelling ahead telling them not to run out of our field of view. You know what that means? It means THAT day has come…the dreaded day when you realize the torch has been passed and you can no longer keep up with your kids. This notion is especially depressing when you stop to consider the fact that you’re in the best shape you’ve been in for years. How can we be so good and yet not good enough? I’ll tell you how. We’re old. It’s official.

I guess my point is be careful what you wish for. We were so excited to have kids who could keep up with us. Last year they did. This year they’ve surpassed us. If there’s a silver lining in all of this, however, it’s that in a couple years they’ll hit that sullen, resentful, grumpy teenage phase where they come along and begrudgingly shuffle their feet and complain the entire way. I’m thinking when they get to that phase, we just might be able to out-hike them again. That’s something, right?

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My Sons Are Packing

Boys bag packed. Check.

This weekend, we’ll be taking a short trip with the boys. Joe and Luke are excited because we’re taking them out of school for a day. Hubby is excited because the trip is mainly an excuse for him to take photos. I’m excited because I have a personal rule that I must leave the state once every four months, and it’s time for me to get out of Dodge.

I was upstairs tonight contemplating all I need to do before we leave. The list was long and mind-numbingly dull. Then, it hit me. I can divvy out my laundry list of chores. I thought about the packing. I’ve never packed for Steve, but I do usually pack for the boys. Steve always manages to pack about 400 pairs of underpants and socks, but then will forget to bring something crucial, like pants. I figure that he’s a grown up, though, so I leave him to his own devices. I do not, however, want my boys packing like their father does. So, I determined that it was finally time to teach them how to do their own packing.

“Boys…come up here, please,” I bellowed downstairs.

Noisy chaos continued unabated. I yelled again.

“Guys…I need you to do something for me. Come up!”

Still no response. It once again appeared I was talking to myself, and it was the most intelligent conversation I’d had with them all day. When they finally figured out that my caterwauling was directed at them and came up, I handed them each a packing list. I figured that was a basic enough way to start the process.

“Here you go. You are going to pick out your own clothes for the trip. This is the list of all the things you will need. Please select the clothes carefully from your drawer and stack them neatly in a pile. Try to remember that the clothes you select should match each other, okay? These are the only clothes you will have all weekend, so make sure you like what you pick out because once we leave you’re stuck.”

I sent them on their merry way. I was feeling rather smug about it too. When they had finished, I did a quick check to make sure all items were accounted for and coordinated. Sure enough. It looked good. I was pleased. I tossed their clothes into the suitcase. Next time I will have them make their own packing lists first for practice. I figure if we keep going at this current rate of travel, they should both be excellent at packing by the time they’re 14 and 12. Then I won’t have to think about it at all. And, who knows? Maybe then they’ll teach their father how to pack.

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The Pickpocket

Luke models his rich and famous look.

I love my youngest son to pieces. He’s a gem. He makes me smile every single day. He makes many people smile every day. He’s determined, funny, and quick as a whip. This is why he’s dangerous. He’s a snake oil salesman. If you’re around him, you’d best keep your hands in your pockets or he will rob you blind. No. Seriously. The kid is a thief. He’s always been all about the money and working the angles to score something he wants. As much as I adore him, I feel it’s in the public’s best interest for me to issue a formal warning now before it’s too late.

Luke’s 9th birthday is approximately one month away. He’s been planning for this momentous occasion since one minute after he finished opening his last Christmas gift. That’s when he surveyed the present situation and noted what he did not receive. All those items, he immediately announced, had been bumped to his birthday wish list. He’s a man with a plan.

“Mom…I’m working on the list that Grandpa and Grandma asked for. I’ve decided that you can buy me the Lego Republic Frigate ship because that one’s $120, and I think that’s too much to ask them for. I’m looking at a couple smaller sets for them to buy me,” he announced this evening.

“You’re right. You can’t ask your grandparents for a $120 Lego set. Be more reasonable.”

“Well, I’m still trying to build up my collection (keep in mind the kid probably has over 5,000 Lego pieces in our basement already) so I can make my YouTube video with the clones. I want it to go viral.”

“You want what to go viral, exactly?”

“The video I’m going to make with my Lego figures. To do the awesome battle scene, I’m going to need 3 to 5 of those Republic Frigate sets,” he informed me.

“What? You need 3 to 5 of those $120 sets? Are you crazy?”

“No. I’ve got it all worked out. See…you’ll buy me one set, and I’ll use some birthday money and my allowance to buy another set. Then, I’ll sell off the parts I don’t need to get money for the other sets I do need,” he explained.

“So, let me get this straight. You want to film a Lego action video for YouTube, and to get the pieces you need you’re going to take the $120 set we buy you for your birthday and sell off pieces to make extra cash?” I questioned.

“Exactly,” he answered.

“Would it make it easier for you if I just handed you $120?” I suggested sarcastically.

“No,” he replied in all earnestness. “I still need the frigate for my battle scene. I’ll just sell the extra figures on eBay for cash.”

“Luke,” I reminded him, “you don’t have an eBay account.”

He just looked at me like I was simple and sighed with annoyance. Apparently, some of us don’t appreciate the wisdom of his big-picture thinking.

But, it’s starting to make sense to me. A couple weeks ago Luke announced that he plans to move to Hollywood because he’s (and I verbatim quote) “all about being rich and famous.” He will own a studio where he will write, direct, and star in his own films. I asked him where he will get the money for all this. He told me he’ll get investors. Obviously, this is where Steve and I come in. He’s working the investor angle on us already with his Lego Republic Frigate scheme. Like I said, you’d best manage your pockets carefully when Luke’s pitching one of his ideas to you. The dang kid has just enough charm, vision, and charisma to clean out your entire wallet. Duck into an alley if you see him heading your way.

 

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There Is No Standardized Life

Me and friends....CU graduation May '90

A friend of mine shared a link on Facebook today to this article by a man in New Jersey who exercised his legal right to exempt his 12 year old son from the standardized testing assessment conducted by the state. The reasons he offered for why he and his wife are removing their son from the testing echo my concerns about the usefulness of these tests which, by and large, seem only to stress out both students and teachers and do little for the advancement of actual learning and skill building for life. Even if I toss aside my feelings for the validity of these assessments, which teachers and students spend weeks preparing for and taking, Mr. Richardson’s article reminds me of how far we have not come in education since I was a child. When I compare the educational experience I had to the one my boys are getting, I cringe. And I say that without any intended disrespect to my boys’ school or their teachers; they are in a private school of our choosing because the educators there are truly wonderful. The state of education, however, has changed. My boys are missing out on what I got in spades in Douglas County schools while I was growing up…freedom to choose, freedom to think and express themselves as individuals, and freedom to create.

Growing up, I thought learning was fun. Yes. There was plenty of work, but with that work came a broadening of my mind and the knowledge that I was working toward independence. I felt invested in that. From specific exercises we did in grade school to the way I was allowed to customize my high school class schedule, I was given ownership and freedom in my education and those things empowered me.

In 6th grade, we were asked to fill out an application for McDonalds. This was purely for practice, obviously, but the principal reviewed the applications of both classes of 6th graders and then chose 10 of us to interview. I was among the 10 he interviewed. From those interviews, he then would chose a boy and a girl to “hire.” I remember sitting in that chair in front of the principal and trying my best to be articulate. I wanted that job and I got it. When he brought me into the office again to offer me the imaginary position, he told me that he chose me because he could tell from my responses that I was a hard worker and that I believed in myself. That singular experience profoundly affected me. I’ve interviewed for ten positions in my life from the time I began working at age 17. I’ve gotten the job every single time (knock on wood). I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. I think that experience I had interviewing at age 12 helped me to understand the process and prepare for it later in life.

My husband’s school experience was 180 degrees from mine. Steve went to high school in Illinois where his class schedule was chosen for him. The classes were predetermined for each student. Boring. At our high school, there were certain requirements that had to be met in core subjects (math, science, social studies, and English) but we were allowed to choose the courses we wanted to in order to meet those requirements. I knew I was interested in the social sciences and English, so I focused my classes around those subjects. I opted out of PE, home ec, and other fairly standard elective courses to take additional courses in English. I chose to study Shakespeare, grammar, and writing. I wasn’t forced either, as my husband was, into three years of history. I took history courses along with quarter-long courses on the current topics like the Middle East and Futures (a course where we studied emergent technologies and sciences). Everything I studied and the way I was allowed to choose my interests prepared me for college. Consequently, when I got there and was asked to write a paper about Othello I was able to formulate a topic and plan my paper without hassling the professor to help me choose something to say. I’d been allowed freedom to be unique, to find my own voice and interests, and to be responsible for my learning. It paid off. I got through college in 4 years with a 3.3 GPA and the desire to go to graduate school and learn more. I’d say that was a fairly successful educational experience. What’s more is that it prepared me for life, where I’m required daily to think creatively, problem solve, adapt, and be flexible. I’ve never once been asked to recite dates and locations for specific battles during the Civil War.

What I want for my sons is the opportunity I had, the chance to learn that education is fun. We did take standardized tests, but we just took them. We didn’t spend weeks preparing for them or stressing out over them. The teachers taught from the prescribed curriculum, we took the tests, and we did our best. End of story. As my sons prepare to take the Iowa Basics tests at their school, I’ve told them that these tests don’t tell us how smart they are or how successful they will be. They only tell us how well they take standardized tests. But, success in life isn’t determined by results on standardized tests. Success arises from believing in yourself, knowing your strengths, learning lessons on the fly, and finding opportunity in obstacles. I tell my boys that there is no standardized life. Darken whichever ovals you choose as you travel on your own path and, if someone dares to tell you you’re wrong, just remind them that they don’t have the answer key for your test.

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The Unusual Suspect

This is as close to abuse as Luke gets from his father. Tickle abuse.

On Monday nights, Joe has math tutoring. During that time, my darling hubby takes Luke to Starbucks where he buys him a rice krispy treat and they read together. This is their ritual. Luke loves it because he gets his favorite dessert, and Steve loves it because he has a legitimate excuse to hang out at Starbucks for the third time in a day without censure.

Tonight when Joe walked in the door, he was highly animated.

“Dad and Luke were at Starbucks and the police came over to talk to Dad because some lady with bad eyesight thought Dad was attacking Luke.”

“What?” I gasped, as Joe walked upstairs leaving me puzzled. Next, Luke came through the door.

“Luke…what happened? Did a policeman come talk to you?”

“Yeah…when we were in the car.”

Now I was even more confused. They were in the car? Huh? Nothing about what they were saying was making any sense. My husband is an extremely kind and gentle man. I’m not sure that he has ever laid a hand on either of our boys for anything other than a hug or a tickle war. I couldn’t imagine what he might have done that would prompt someone to call the cops on him for abuse. Steve’s a Boy Scout. The worst thing I can legitimately accuse him of is acquiring a few speeding tickets. I mean, the man doesn’t even swear. He walked through the door and into the family room where I was sitting.

“Someone called the cops on you for abusing Luke?”

“No. The cop was already at Starbucks. Apparently this woman who was sitting in another car must have thought I was being abusive.”

“Why would she think that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. All I can figure is that she saw me yell at him to sit up because he was slouching when he was reading. She must have left her car and gone into the store. That officer is often there when we are, so she must have asked him to go check it out. He walked out of Starbucks, came over to the car, and asked if I was having a bad day with my son. I told him we were just reading. He looked in the car and saw Luke and his book. He laughed and told us to have a good night. That was it.”

We sat around replaying the incident and having a good laugh about it because it’s ludicrous. If anyone in this house should have been approached by a police officer about any form of child abuse, it certainly should have been me. I do not have half of Steve’s patience, and I’m the one who gives our boys the greatest amount of verbal grief. Anyone who knows Steve could attest to his innocence. The man has not one edge. He’s as soft and squishy as the Stay Puft marshmallow man.

Although we joked about the whole event, it honestly frightened me. How creepy is it that someone sitting in another car was watching, evaluating, and judging what was going on in our car? Beyond that, how scary is it that someone would automatically contact the authorities without actually witnessing something abusive? I do believe that there’s a time to intervene to protect a child if you’ve seen or have reason to suspect abuse. But, why is it suddenly a criminal act to raise your voice to your child in the privacy of your car simply to tell them to sit up straight and pay attention to the book they are supposed to be reading? When I was growing up, if we misbehaved in a restaurant my parents could lock us in the car outside the restaurant while they finished their meal inside and no one would have blinked an eye, much less called the authorities. When my mom was a child, parents would make disobedient children kneel on rice for misbehaving or eat soap for backtalking or cursing. Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that in eliminating extreme punishments to protect our children we might have gone too far in the other direction if chastising our slouching child is enough to warrant police intervention. Just to be safe, I guess Steve and I will have to start yelling at our kids in the privacy of own home so no one has to bother the police.

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Obfuscation and Lies

Sneaky co-conspirators enjoying YouTube

The boys were upstairs being quite giggly earlier today. I love it when they’re having fun and laughing together. We’re lucky that it happens quite often with our two little monkeys because they honestly like each other. When I hear them both carrying on, no matter how loudly, with their happy, non-stop chattering, I feel good.

Today, though, something different was going on. I could tell there was something somewhat secretive about whatever it was they were doing upstairs. Still, heartened by their laughter and the joy they were obviously sharing, I let them continue. At one point, though, my curiosity began to get the best of me and I started up the stairs. Hearing my footsteps, they got very quiet, which made me a bit suspicious.

“Mom?” Joe called.

“Yeah?” I replied from halfway up the stairs.

“Don’t come up here,” he called down.

“Ummm…why?” I queried, becoming even more suspicious. Then I heard Luke yell to Joe.

“Close the door, Joe. Quick.”

“Why do you have to close the door exactly?” I wondered aloud.

“Don’t come up here, Mom. We’re having a farting contest in Joe’s room. It’s gross in here.”

Ewwwwww. Seriously? That was all I had to hear. I started back downstairs. Boys are so disgusting. I went back to the kitchen to finish my lunch, trying not to think of the foulness being perpetrated upstairs.

After about 15 minutes, though, I noticed it was very quiet. This could only mean one of two things…either they were doing something they weren’t supposed to be or the noxious fumes from their farts had rendered them unconscious. I sneaked back upstairs and stood outside the door to Joe’s room. It was quiet except for the sound of their computer. I had asked them earlier to stay off the computer for a while because they’d spent part of the morning watching Lego videos. I carefully turned the doorknob and peeked inside the room. There they were…co-conspirators, huddled together sharing one chair and, sure enough, watching more Lego videos that they weren’t supposed to be watching. Oddly enough, the Lego characters were either speaking Polish or Czech, which just cracked me up.

“WHAT are you doing?” I said a little too loudly. They both jumped, surprised and chagrined to have been caught in the act.

“We’re watching Lego videos,” Luke admitted.

“What did I say about spending too much time on YouTube today?”

“Sorry, Mom,” Joe said.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “I thought you said  you were having farting contests up here.”

“We just said that to keep you out of here,” Joe explained, honest to a fault.

Nice. I wasn’t sure if I should yell at them or congratulate them for their clever ruse. It had worked. They got themselves an extra 15 minutes of clandestine YouTube time with that false statement. I told them to close Safari and get downstairs. They walked past me rather quickly, fearful I might swat them as they passed by.

Truth be told, I’m rather disappointed in myself for falling for a “farting contest” story. What was I thinking? My boys are gross, but they’re not really that gross, at least not yet. It was a bit naive of me to believe that line. I hope, however, that my boys understand that their obfuscations and lies will have to become more clever in the future because I now see the game they’re playing at. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well…I’m just not that stupid.

Posted on by Me