UnchartedParent.com

It’s school-vacation week.  Six-year-old “Jack” is thrilled that he’s got no school this week.  And me?  Well, I’ve been left with 3.6 minutes to myself all week, and yes, that includes going to the bathroom.

So writing, well, it’s just not happening this week.  Nor is reading, researching, thinking, talking to friends or family on the phone, running more than one or two very brief errands per day, making plans for any of the major events we have coming up in the next month or returning phone calls for any reason. 

On the other hand, you should see the fort I built with Legos yesterday.  It was awesome.

Somebody get me a latte and another grownup—fast!

One standard job requirement for being a mom is organizational skills.  When life frequently requires two or three people to be in multiple places at the same time, accomplishing innumerable tasks while engaging in varying quantities of conversations, you learn that you have to plan things.

I found myself faced with one of those afternoons last week.  I discovered that in the space of forty-five minutes, I would have to drive to pick up my son from school, collect his stuff and get him loaded into the car, drive to pick up my daughter from daycare, collect her stuff and get her loaded into the car, find something to do with them under someone else’s supervision and then get to a mandatory fundraiser for a nonprofit organization connected to my grownup life.

Hey, no problem: this is what moms do.

My job became considerably easier when I learned that the fundraiser was going to be held in a large conference room at my husband’s office.  This was perfect.  I’d simply deliver the kids to him, hand over the diaper bag and descend one level to arrive at my fundraiser on time.  Piece of cake.

Things got off to a rocky start when, upon dashing to my son’s school the second my haircut was completed, I was publicly mocked by my son’s archery instructor for having arrived too late to see my son in action.  No matter; I politely ignored the instructor, packed up my son and bundled him into the car.  I then raced to my daughter’s daycare and tucked her into her carseat.  So far, so good.  I drove to my husband’s building, secured a killer parking spot right in front at precisely five o’clock, extracted the kids from the car, and began to parade them up to my husband’s office.

We made it up to his individual office with no trouble, but alas: my husband was nowhere to be found.  I began to peel off the kids’ coats, hats and mittens, but was interrupted by a cry from my son: “I have to go potty right now!”

I sighed, glanced at my watch and looked out into the hallway.  Still no sign of my husband.  “Really?  Right this second?”

“Yes!  Right this second!”

I sighed again.  “Okay, let’s go, everybody.”  I frog-marched everyone to the ladies’ room and sent my son into one of the stalls. 

I heard a plaintive cry.  “Oh no.  I really, really had to go.  I didn’t make it.” 

Oh, cr*p! 

“How bad is it?”

“My clothes are wet.”

I rubbed my forehead against the oncoming headache.  I looked at my watch.  “Okay, stay here.  I’m taking ‘Emmie,’ and I’ll get you a new pair of pants from the car.”  (It’s not just Boy Scouts who need to be prepared.)  I turned to Emmie.  “Come on.”  I grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the bathroom door.

“Why?”

I dragged Emmie around the corner to her father’s office.  Still no sign of him.  I snatched up her jacket, threw it on her and dragged her to the elevator.  She smiled and ran with me, laughing at  our fun game.  I muttered curse words under my breath.

We made it downstairs, outside into the below-freezing weather.  I ordered Emmie to remain on the sidewalk while I opened the back of the car and dug around for the size 5 pants I knew were in there somewhere.  Pants procured, I locked the car, ran to the sidewalk, grabbed Emmie’s hand and proceeded to drag her in reverse over our route again.  She giggled.  I glanced at my watch; I was now fifteen minutes late.

“Damn.”

Upon reaching the third floor, I ran into my husband.  I threw his daughter at him.  “Take her.  Get a plastic bag.  Meet me outside the ladies’ room.  Now.”  (What, he wanted a greeting?)

I ran into the ladies’ room, peered into the stall and saw my son in exactly the same position in he’d been in when I left him.  “Jack!” I exclaimed.  “I told you to get undressed!”

“Oh,” he said, wonder in his voice.

I tossed the new clothes under the stall, and waited for him to change.  And waited.  I tapped my foot, and waited.  I checked my watch, saw that it was almost 5:25, and waited.  I tried to imagine a scenario where it would be professionally acceptable for my husband to take my place in the ladies’ room of his office, but I came up empty, so I waited.  Jack came out, shuffled toward the sink, and I waited.  I picked up the soiled clothes and stuffed them into the plastic bag my husband had delivered via Emmie, and I waited.

The millisecond Jack was done washing his hands, I pushed him out the door.  We all returned at a trot to my husband’s office, where I picked up my purse, said my abbreviated goodbyes and turned to leave.

“Mamma!  Don’t go!”  Emmie was pleading, but she was smiling.

I looked at my husband.  “Good luck,” I wished him.  I departed to the sound of Emmie’s screeching.

I made it downstairs at 5: 32 for my 5:00 fundraiser.  Right on time.

Piece of cake.

As I began to write this post, I heard birdsong outside my office window.  As we are well distanced from our northern New England spring—such as it is—in mid-February, I glanced out the window, full of curiosity.  It has been months since I’ve heard birds other than the faithful, red-headed woodpecker who pokes at our trees or the occasional hawk who circles above, looking for a morsel that stands out against the white, omnipresent snow.

But when I glanced outside just now, I was surprised to find new visitors in the yard: a group of black-capped chickadees.  For the unfamiliar, these birds strike me as the sort who might have helped Cinderella pick lentils from the ashes.  Their song is bright and cheery, and they hop up and down the tree trunks like sprites.  I watched them for a moment, and wondered if by some chance, they might be a harbinger of an early spring.

But then I realized how silly that thought was.  The reality is that here in New Hampshire, we’ve got several more months of winter to go, and I might as well accept that fact, enjoy the chickadees’ pleasant interruption, and then move on.

So it goes with prescient moments brought to us by our children.

Last week, a friend was busy with the housework that pervades all of our lives.  She had had to run her dishwasher twice that day, and when it was time to empty it for the second time, she called her almost five-year-old son to help her.  Emptying the dishwasher is one of his few chores.

“But I already did that today,” he protested.

“I know,” my friend replied, “but I had to run the dishwasher again, so now you have to help me empty it again.”

The child sighed dramatically, then breathed, “But it never ends!”

A wide smile spread across my friend’s face.  She gazed lovingly, instructionally, at her offspring.  “That’s right,” she confirmed.  “It never ends.  Feeding you, washing your clothes, doing the dishes, all the rest of it—it never ends.”  She was delighted at her son’s epiphany, filled with optimism at his recognition of the tedious aspects of parenting.

But as it turns out, there was no life-changing epiphany.  My friend’s son’s observation presented her with an uplifting moment, a chance to enjoy, for a very brief second, the idea that someday, her son might understand and appreciate what a parent’s daily life can be like, even if the true day of realization is far off in the distance.

Just like the chickadees and springtime.  I know that the day will come.

And in the meantime, I was the one who wanted to live in the land of winter anyway, wasn’t I?

There’s a pair of girl’s underwear taped to my wall.

Now, before all you spammers and others who are tempted to think the worst get hold of this and run with it, let’s clarify one thing: I’m talking about potty-training.  Again.

“Emmie” is going to be three soon.  She’s a girl.  She’s very intelligent.  She has excellent command over her body and is a quick, observant study.  She wants to do everything her big brother does.  She wants to be bigger, to be older.  She’s independent by nature.

All of this should translate into one thing: after six years, I ought to be done changing diapers (at least during the day).

But, as I have often established, Emmie is nothing if not willful.  The more I request, suggest and plead, the firmer she remains in her resolve not to use the potty.  In desperation, I’ve decided to turn to that pillar of parenting, bribery.

Emmie is enthralled with the idea of underwear.  She talks about it frequently, verbalizing what she needs to do to be permitted to get her little buns in it—literally.  I’ve purchased itty-bitty underwear displaying Elmo and sparkly princess images, and she’s oohed and aahed over each pair.

But then I found “Little Einsteins” underwear.  This daily Disney cartoon is her current favorite, and her eyes grew as large as potty seats when I took the cotton prize out of its wrapper.  “Emmie,” I said, filling my voice with anticipation, “if you pee and poop on the potty, you can wear these.” 

Emmie actually jumped up and down with excitement.  “Yes!” she cried. 

I smiled.  “Do you want to wear these?”

“Yes!”  Her smile spread from one ear to the other.

“So are you going to pee and poop on the potty?”

“No!”

It was like she took out a little needle and popped my last balloon of hope.

She still talks about the underwear.  So I selected a key pair, decorated with a cherished Little Einsteins character and outlined in purple trim, and taped it to the wall, right by the potty.  This way, I know she’ll see it every day.

She’ll see it every day when she walks by the potty and thinks of me—and laughs.

Here’s an abbreviated rundown of my day yesterday:

6:45 a.m. – Woken by the piercing tones of electronic blues on my PDA.

6:46 a.m. – Turned on the TV and discovered the inevitable: the fifth “winter storm” in nine days (or sixth in ten days; I’ve lost track), and sure as there were inches of snow, sleet, frozen rain and heretofore unknown forms of precipitation which I like to call “glop” covering the driveway, my six-year-old son had no school.  Again.  Mentally acknowledged that I would not be able to keep to my new, iron-clad writing schedule this week, thus maintaining my perfect zero record for 2008. 

7:14 a.m. – Informed son that he had no school; stood back so as not to get knocked over by victory dance.  Said good morning to two-and-a-half year old daughter.  Why?

7:15 a.m. – Wished husband luck on his way to daily work out; i.e., clearing the driveway of “glop.”

7:16 a.m. – Continued negotiations with daughter over acceptable breakfast.  Why?

7:17 a.m. – Thought wistfully about making coffee.  Why?

7:18 a.m. – Gave daughter cereal she requested.  Why?

7:19 a.m. – Because this is what you asked for.  Why?

7:20 a.m. – Considered eating unmade ground coffee with a spoon.  Why?

7:21 a.m. – Why? 

7:59 a.m. – Requested that daughter stop asking “why?” and finish eating her breakfast so we could all go upstairs for a group tooth-brushing.  Why?

8:00 a.m. – Sniffed unmade coffee.  Why?  Drooled.  Why?

8:15 a.m. – Marveled at how daughter had already managed to get out five hours worth of conversation since 7:14 a.m.  Why? 

9:30 a.m. – Pushed husband and daughter out door for the day (no need to ask why).  Said goodbye.  Why?

9:31 a.m. – Told son to keep himself busy for just a short time while I got a little bit of work done.  Banged head on desk when he said, “Why?”

10:00 a.m. – Began “easy,” five-minute process to renew my blog’s domain name.

1:45 p.m. – Gave up attempts to renew domain name before son’s whining boredom caused him to explode all over the kitchen, right next to the cat puke.  Congratulated myself on my parenting skills due to my amusing him briefly by shouting near-obscenities into the phone at the obnoxious hold recordings which thanked me for my patience. 

2:00 p.m. – Allowed son to play carefully screened game on my computer while I showered.

3:00 p.m. – Mucked on foot and by car through slushy, semi-flooded parking lots and roads to complete critical errands like exchanging books at the library, which was, naturally, closed for inclement weather. 

4:30 p.m. – Carried daughter through inches-thick winter slop at daycare center.  Why? 

4:32 – 4:40 p.m. – Answered 2,346 questions.  Why?

4:45-5:00 p.m. – Brought in haul from car, requiring seven trips.  Why?  Received marching orders from daughter regarding snacks to be fed, television shows to be watched, pull-up to be changed, jokes to be told, games brother should be allowed to play, part of floor where grocery bags were to be deposited, etc.  Why? 

5:01-5:05 p.m. – Received critiques from son and daughter about how entry into house had been accomplished incorrectly.  Why?

5:30-6:00 p.m. – Made dinner.  Why?

6:30 p.m. – Son revealed that he had played more than the authorized computer game on my computer while I showered.  Made mental note to change settings on computer.

7:30 p.m. – Said goodnight to daughter.  Why?  Was told that she would not say goodnight to me.  Did not ask why.  Just left the room.

7:31 p.m. – Said goodnight to son.  Poked him to make sure he was still breathing. 

9:00 p.m. – Sat down to renew domain-name battle.  Went to fridge and opened beer.  Do you need to ask why?  Sat down again.  Decided to write long blog post about my day.  Why?

So how was your day?

When did my son turn into a sixteen-year-old?

School-vacation week is just around the corner, and six-year-old “Jack” couldn’t be more excited.  He hasn’t apprised me of all of his plans for the week, but I do know that some important agenda items include wearing pajamas all day long and building things even he hasn’t dreamed of yet out of Legos.

My vision for the week, however, is a bit different.  I see Jack peering over my shoulder as I try to write and whining about being bored—over and over and over again.

Enter Mommy.  By definition, I am resourceful.  It’s my job to puzzle out ingenious and irresistible ways to occupy my kids, both to their benefit and my own. 

I only had to glance out the window to see a solution as clear as my mission itself.  We live in northern New England, it’s mid-February, and we’ve had five snowstorms in the past nine days.  (Seriously.  And another one is supposed to strike tonight.) 

“Jack,” I said, pleased with my own brilliance, “how about vacation-week ski school?”  We’d talked about getting Jack on skis for the first time, but even though there are three good mountains within an hour’s drive, we’d never actually gotten around to doing anything about it. 

“No thanks,” Jack answered, the same interest reflected in his tone that I might hear if I’d offered to educate him in the fine art of onion-peeling.

I was astonished.  “Don’t you want to learn to ski?”  For God’s sake, kid, you’re growing up in New Hampshire.  Skiing is practically an academic requirement.

“No, not during vacation week.”

“Why not?  Jack, what are you going to do all week?  We’ve got to do something to do other than just sit around for the whole week.”  I didn’t know what I was going to come up with that would top skiing, and I was feeling a little desperate. 

“Mom, for vacation week, I just want to hang out.”

Excuse me?  Just “hang out”?  How old is this child?  Next he’s going to want to borrow the car keys.  I’m sorry, but you can’t tell me you “just want to hang out” until you’ve at least left the “girls have cooties” stage of development behind.  You’re a child, you’re full of energy, you’re bursting with the spark of discovery.  It’s not time for teenage malaise yet.

Oh well.  You can lead a child to skis, but you can’t make him . . . oh, never mind. 

Maybe skiing can wait until next year.  After all, Jack’s a good kid and even a child is entitled to some downtime.  Maybe every minute of his day—and mine—doesn’t need to be filled in advance with planned activities.

If you need me or Jack during vacation week, you know where to find us.  We’ll be at home, just hanging out.

This is a direct quote from one of my two-and-a-half year old daughter’s daycare teachers from earlier this week.

I appreciated the evaluation because I was in need of a good laugh.  “What quiet, well-mannered child?” I asked in between guffaws.  (My reaction then sent another nearby mom into her own fit of laughter.)  

I’ve blogged before about my daughter’s split personality.  There’s the one they see at daycare: that’s where she obeys every command, never argues, complains or whines, has memorized all of the routines and cleans up after herself without being told and even assists the teachers in bringing the other toddlers into line when they misbehave.

I have never met this girl.  The “Emmie” I know more typically acts as she did yesterday morning.  I was attempting to dress her and had almost completed the task when she let loose a wild cackle and collapsed onto the floor in a perfect imitation of a limp rag doll.  When I asked her to get up so I could put her sweater on, she simply laughed some more.  I asked again, then I inquired, “Emmie, do you need a timeout?” 

“YES!” she shrieked.

Having attended this play before, I was not a bit amused.  “Fine,” I said, picking her up and carrying her to her timeout corner.  I’ve learned that at this point in her game, the only way to get her attention is to raise my voice in the sternest manner possible and make it clear that I am angry and disappointed in her.  “You sit here in a timeout.  You are behaving very badly!” 

But this time, she was ready for me.  “YOU FUNNY!!” she cackled like an escapee from an asylum.  “HAH HAH HAH!  FUNNY!” 

I’d like to tell you that I had the upper hand here; that with wisdom, patience and the ability to draw a teaching moment from any situation, I was able to suppress her amusement and convince her to see the error of her ways.  Instead, what really happened is that I approached my husband, who had witnessed the entire exchange.  “That’s not good,” he said in a voice heavy with sympathy.

When I returned to Emmie to ask if she was ready to behave now, she replied, “Yes, I behave now.”  Her voice was as bright as a sunny day in Florida.  And why shouldn’t it have been?  Who won in this scenario?

And who is this quiet, well-mannered child I keep hearing so much about?

Please click here to read my latest article, a review of the book, There’s an Easter Egg on My Seder Plate: Surviving Your Child’s Interfaith Marriage, at InterfaithFamily.com.

Why is it that the most ordinary words, when spilling from the mouths of our babes, can melt our hearts?

Yesterday I was getting dressed, putting on makeup, running my fingers and some “product” through my listless hair in an attempt to look like I was going to be doing something other than laundry and dishes for most of the day.  My mind was busy with my tedious to-do list when two-and-half year-old “Emmie” interrupted my thoughts: “Mommy, you look very pretty.”

Suddenly the day was brighter.  She earned a hug and a kiss, and she probably could have scored some chocolate chips had she thought to ask.  My mood improved dramatically.  I was left marveling at the power our children can have over us in the most ordinary ways.

Of course, that power can work against us.  For example, this same sweet daughter of mine offered this opinion last week: “Mommy, I like your big bum.”  I laughed at her, but I spent the rest of the week glancing back over my shoulder every time I passed the full-length mirror.

As adults, we need simply to filter our kids’ innocent words through our lens of rationality.  We’re grownups; we know what to keep and what to shrug off.  Right?

All the same, I think I’ll make sure that I’m facing forward anytime I’m in the vicinity of a mirror for the next couple of weeks.