My job as a mom has many responsibilities. Some of them I never knew existed until I had kids. Some of them (like changing bed sheets or watching Legos reproduce) are less than thrilling. Others are just plain fun to fulfill.
For instance, it’s a bit of a kick to finally be on the other end of “You’re wearing that?!?” since I have been (for years) a bit sheepish about what boys are willing to wear in public. Once teenager-dom shows its face, somehow clothing (and showers) become important. It’s a refreshing change. It’s also thoroughly entertaining to put together interesting clothing combinations, just to see if anyone notices and starts to sputter.
I am now able to check this off my Mom bucket list: Arrive at least a half hour late to pick up offspring from an extracurricular event. (I was actually 45 minutes late). But in my defense, I waited 30 whole minutes for the bus to arrive the day before. My only regret is that apparently middle school coaches are required to stick around with the kids until parents show up. And that I left my phone in the car so I missed the phone call alerting me that someone was waiting. (I brought the coach a gift card to the local coffee shop as an apology.) It was nice to have someone wait for ME for a change though.
I never realized how much fun it would be to purposely make meals that my boys don’t like. For the most part, they are great eaters, however I do have one child who doesn’t like tomatoes or onions and another who detests peppers. The other night we had fajitas for supper, which put two of them over the edge - onions and a plethora of multi-colored peppers brings out lots of gagging noises and a bit of whining. My response is to smack my lips and pile more onions into a certain child’s tortilla. And then wait to see if he will actually eat it in order to get a snack before bedtime. The suspense is addicting.
When I do laundry, I throw all the socks into one basket. When a boy claims that he doesn’t have any socks to wear, it is joyous to show him the pile and tell him to start searching and matching. The worst job ever is no longer my problem. I took the time to write little initials on the insides of sock bands and since I think they all know the alphabet, they are more than capable of sorting socks. (It hasn’t solved the missing sock problem though.)
My boys are not terribly responsible (I know, it’s all about the training), but this sometimes works to my advantage when I find little tips left just for me at the bottom of the wash. I collect change and dollar bills - now it pays to do the laundry.
I love to watch the joy they take in creation and how they pay attention to the little things. The other day the youngest spotted a hummingbird and spent the better part of an hour trying to follow it around the yard. The oldest fills the bird feeder within view of his bedroom window every day, taking note of what types of birds are hanging around. Another one has an affinity for flowering weeds and never fails to bring me clumps of whatever is blooming.
It’s been a ball being the family recorder and keeping track of all the things our boys say and do, all with the express purpose of using it as ammunition for a graduation party slideshow or stories at a wedding reception. I will have proof of many of life’s humorous moments in the form of photos, words and in the case of the one child who thinks he could start a business of dancing, plenty of video.
But honestly, the most enjoyable part of being a mom is seeing progress. We’ve moved from walking and potty training to bike riding and learning algebra. I’ve seen them go from spoiled toddlers to boys who actually might share their toys once in awhile. I’ve seen them help each other make their beds (those fitted sheets are quite the challenge.) I’ve seen them learn to pray out loud in front of other people and be willing to do it for special occasions. I’ve witnessed temper tantrums and selfishness, but I’ve also observed them asking for forgiveness and actually finishing their chores on time. They may be bottomless pits when it comes to food, but they always ask permission before raiding the fridge. They have opinions, tempers, questions and emotions and most days every one of them are evident. But there are occasional glimpses of God’s grace peeking through dirty fingernails and buzz cuts - quick hugs, playing together without fighting, obedience and successful Bible memory work.
Those are the things that make this job even more enjoyable. That and an endless supply of information on things like fish illnesses, how to raise meal worms, Roger Bannister, iPods and Sponge Bob jokes.
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boys. Show all posts
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Friday, March 2, 2012
cooks in the kitchen
Because we hope they can eventually function on their own someday (and not die of starvation), we’ve been slowly attempting to teach the boys to cook.
It has been an experiment with mixed results. Most meals have been edible, but their appearances may leave some room for improvement. Chili was interesting with very strangely shaped (and very large) chopped onions and celery.
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were a success but the cook that night was very frugal with the cheese, never guessing that his mother uses at least six slices per sandwich. I doubt he’ll forget that next time; the astounded look on his face that he could use THAT many was priceless.
The main specialty of at least three of the boys is eggs. (The youngest still isn’t allowed near hot pans, even though he insists he’s old enough to fry his own.) They have mastered frying both hard and soft eggs (many preferences within this household - from yolks running all over the place to smashed as hard as possible). They’ve managed omelets, but again the chopped veggie thing tends to be a problem. Someone taught them that eggs on peanut butter toast was a good meal, so that’s been the go-to breakfast for awhile, much to Mom’s repulsion. And they do extremely well in the fine art of hard-boiled eggs - even getting the timing down just right so the yolks don’t turn greyish.
Awhile ago, two boys wanted to know what a poached egg was, which made for the perfect opportunity for a cooking lesson. Here’s what I heard during the process: “Oh sheesh, that’s gross!” “Oh sheesh, that’s crazy!” “Wow!” “Are they good, Mom?” “Don’t know, never had one.” “How long does it need to cook?” “Don’t know, never made one.”
They figured out that they had to keep the water boiling or the egg will stick to the bottom of the pot and that they didn’t add enough water either. When the egg was done: “Why are you putting it on the stove?” “Why not?” “Where else would I put it?” “On a plate?” (I think Mom’s sarcasm gene was inherited by this one.) “Why would I do that - it’s more work!” (This come from the one whose chore was dishes that week.) After making them eat the egg, they concluded it was much better than a hard-boiled egg, because the yolk doesn’t get stuck in their throats. (Go figure.) Then it was off to brag to their brothers that they got to crack an egg into boiling water. “When can we do it again?” was the last question I heard.
Cooking class apparently was a success that day.
Hubby has used the kitchen to his advantage too, only in the area of preparing venison on the days when Mom is gone. He had all four boys grinding deer meat with an antique hand-crank grinder and packaging it into 3-pound freezer bags to use later for venison burgers or jerky. Making jerky was pawned, er, delegated to the boys, who mixed up the seasoning packets into the ground meat by hand, rolled it out to the right thickness, cut the strips and placed them into the dehydrator. Somehow hubby seemed to have failed to get his hands very dirty with that project. The end result apparently was edible, but I’m taking their word for it because I’m not a fan of venison.
One boy wants to be a chef someday, but he has flat out admitted that the only reason he does is so that he doesn’t ever have do the dishes. Apparently he’s seen enough cooking shows on TV to know that some other peon does the cleanup, not the cook. The other boys I think would live on cold cereal if they had the choice, mainly because there are fewer dishes.
I supposed in many ways they are typical of most humans. They enjoy the fun parts of cooking: the tasting, the nibbling, browning hamburger, using a hand mixer, licking spoons, dumping in spices and of course the eating. But they do not like the cleanup and inevitably someone will complain about how many dishes a certain other someone used while they were cooking. And the boy whose chore it is to clean up the table gets upset because of the onion skins or potato peels that get dribbled all over.
The only one who doesn’t complain is Dad, because we made a deal when we first got married - whoever cooks doesn’t have to clean up - and now he’s somehow getting out of all of it.
Turns out he may be smarter (or sneakier) than all the rest of us put together. Wonder how long it’ll take before the boys catch on.
It has been an experiment with mixed results. Most meals have been edible, but their appearances may leave some room for improvement. Chili was interesting with very strangely shaped (and very large) chopped onions and celery.
Tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches were a success but the cook that night was very frugal with the cheese, never guessing that his mother uses at least six slices per sandwich. I doubt he’ll forget that next time; the astounded look on his face that he could use THAT many was priceless.
The main specialty of at least three of the boys is eggs. (The youngest still isn’t allowed near hot pans, even though he insists he’s old enough to fry his own.) They have mastered frying both hard and soft eggs (many preferences within this household - from yolks running all over the place to smashed as hard as possible). They’ve managed omelets, but again the chopped veggie thing tends to be a problem. Someone taught them that eggs on peanut butter toast was a good meal, so that’s been the go-to breakfast for awhile, much to Mom’s repulsion. And they do extremely well in the fine art of hard-boiled eggs - even getting the timing down just right so the yolks don’t turn greyish.
Awhile ago, two boys wanted to know what a poached egg was, which made for the perfect opportunity for a cooking lesson. Here’s what I heard during the process: “Oh sheesh, that’s gross!” “Oh sheesh, that’s crazy!” “Wow!” “Are they good, Mom?” “Don’t know, never had one.” “How long does it need to cook?” “Don’t know, never made one.”
They figured out that they had to keep the water boiling or the egg will stick to the bottom of the pot and that they didn’t add enough water either. When the egg was done: “Why are you putting it on the stove?” “Why not?” “Where else would I put it?” “On a plate?” (I think Mom’s sarcasm gene was inherited by this one.) “Why would I do that - it’s more work!” (This come from the one whose chore was dishes that week.) After making them eat the egg, they concluded it was much better than a hard-boiled egg, because the yolk doesn’t get stuck in their throats. (Go figure.) Then it was off to brag to their brothers that they got to crack an egg into boiling water. “When can we do it again?” was the last question I heard.
Cooking class apparently was a success that day.
Hubby has used the kitchen to his advantage too, only in the area of preparing venison on the days when Mom is gone. He had all four boys grinding deer meat with an antique hand-crank grinder and packaging it into 3-pound freezer bags to use later for venison burgers or jerky. Making jerky was pawned, er, delegated to the boys, who mixed up the seasoning packets into the ground meat by hand, rolled it out to the right thickness, cut the strips and placed them into the dehydrator. Somehow hubby seemed to have failed to get his hands very dirty with that project. The end result apparently was edible, but I’m taking their word for it because I’m not a fan of venison.
One boy wants to be a chef someday, but he has flat out admitted that the only reason he does is so that he doesn’t ever have do the dishes. Apparently he’s seen enough cooking shows on TV to know that some other peon does the cleanup, not the cook. The other boys I think would live on cold cereal if they had the choice, mainly because there are fewer dishes.
I supposed in many ways they are typical of most humans. They enjoy the fun parts of cooking: the tasting, the nibbling, browning hamburger, using a hand mixer, licking spoons, dumping in spices and of course the eating. But they do not like the cleanup and inevitably someone will complain about how many dishes a certain other someone used while they were cooking. And the boy whose chore it is to clean up the table gets upset because of the onion skins or potato peels that get dribbled all over.
The only one who doesn’t complain is Dad, because we made a deal when we first got married - whoever cooks doesn’t have to clean up - and now he’s somehow getting out of all of it.
Turns out he may be smarter (or sneakier) than all the rest of us put together. Wonder how long it’ll take before the boys catch on.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
music to my ears
We are not what I would consider a musical family - unless you count our extensive collection of 80’s music. I enjoy a broad range of genres - you’ll find everything from Gregorian chants to alternative Christian rock to Steve Miller Band on my iPod. And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention my love for ABBA and Switchfoot.
The iTunes library is ever-expanding as the oldest son keeps downloading songs by groups I’ve never heard of and honestly don’t care much for. Add that to the plethora of country songs that my boys magically memorize (much to my chagrin) and we seem to know a lot of songs.
But I’m not so sure we know music.
I took piano lessons for years and yet wouldn’t consider myself talented enough to even play for church. Both hubby and I sang in choir, but neither of us feel comfortable singing in the shower. And yet somehow, the music bug has bit the boys. Two of them can actually sing and stay in tune - the other two might have to rap or deejay.
The firstborn told us at a very young age that he wanted to be just like Michael W. Smith when he grows up. As he hit teenager-dom his tastes have changed to include much more percussion and electric guitars. He has been taking guitar lessons for a couple years, graduating from a very sweet and mellow acoustic to a not-so-sweet and not-so-quiet squealer of an electric guitar. I’m starting to think we may have made a mistake by not insulating the walls surrounding his bedroom. He is about to embark on the adventure of playing for the middle school youth group worship band and I’m pretty sure that this will not only increase the number of his jam sessions but also the volume.
Boy number two begged and begged to start piano lessons. I put him off for months, knowing full well how much we butt heads and how much reminding he would need to practice, thus increasing the head-butting. Three months later, he has progressed beautifully and I have a permanent lump on my forehead. His teacher oohs and ahhs about his ability to learn songs quickly while I silently seethe at how well he plays during his lesson and how quickly things disintegrate at home. He seems to be able to memorize a song instantly but cannot keep a steady rhythm on anything longer than a whole note. (I fear this is genetic because I find it incredibly difficult to sing and clap at the same time.) The rhythm issue only adds to the tension between us.
If he doesn’t play a piece perfectly, he will listen to his teacher say the exact same thing I told him all week and instead of pounding piano keys in frustration, he nods and plays it to her satisfaction. She claims she understands the battle I’m in, but I’m not sure I believe her, even if she is a pastor’s wife. I’m tempted to move the keyboard into his room and tell him he can’t leave until he’s done practicing, but that would be his idea of a perfect day - locked in a room by himself. And I’d probably still be able to hear keys banging since we didn’t insulate his room either.
All of this noise leads to aching ears and very little musical enjoyment.
And now the third one has been “hinting” that he would like to start violin. Oh, why not? A squeaky violin will only add to the shrieks of guitar strings and hammering of piano keys. I’ll bet anything number four will want to beat the drums.
I guess I should be grateful they enjoy music and remember that worship is still worship no matter what key it’s in or no matter how loud it is. Life unfortunately has taught me that worship can be sometimes be painful.
Maybe they’ll form a band someday and this season of suffering will turn into a season of rejoicing. In the meantime, Lord, please keep my iPod battery charged - it works even better than ear plugs.
The iTunes library is ever-expanding as the oldest son keeps downloading songs by groups I’ve never heard of and honestly don’t care much for. Add that to the plethora of country songs that my boys magically memorize (much to my chagrin) and we seem to know a lot of songs.
But I’m not so sure we know music.
I took piano lessons for years and yet wouldn’t consider myself talented enough to even play for church. Both hubby and I sang in choir, but neither of us feel comfortable singing in the shower. And yet somehow, the music bug has bit the boys. Two of them can actually sing and stay in tune - the other two might have to rap or deejay.
The firstborn told us at a very young age that he wanted to be just like Michael W. Smith when he grows up. As he hit teenager-dom his tastes have changed to include much more percussion and electric guitars. He has been taking guitar lessons for a couple years, graduating from a very sweet and mellow acoustic to a not-so-sweet and not-so-quiet squealer of an electric guitar. I’m starting to think we may have made a mistake by not insulating the walls surrounding his bedroom. He is about to embark on the adventure of playing for the middle school youth group worship band and I’m pretty sure that this will not only increase the number of his jam sessions but also the volume.
Boy number two begged and begged to start piano lessons. I put him off for months, knowing full well how much we butt heads and how much reminding he would need to practice, thus increasing the head-butting. Three months later, he has progressed beautifully and I have a permanent lump on my forehead. His teacher oohs and ahhs about his ability to learn songs quickly while I silently seethe at how well he plays during his lesson and how quickly things disintegrate at home. He seems to be able to memorize a song instantly but cannot keep a steady rhythm on anything longer than a whole note. (I fear this is genetic because I find it incredibly difficult to sing and clap at the same time.) The rhythm issue only adds to the tension between us.
If he doesn’t play a piece perfectly, he will listen to his teacher say the exact same thing I told him all week and instead of pounding piano keys in frustration, he nods and plays it to her satisfaction. She claims she understands the battle I’m in, but I’m not sure I believe her, even if she is a pastor’s wife. I’m tempted to move the keyboard into his room and tell him he can’t leave until he’s done practicing, but that would be his idea of a perfect day - locked in a room by himself. And I’d probably still be able to hear keys banging since we didn’t insulate his room either.
All of this noise leads to aching ears and very little musical enjoyment.
And now the third one has been “hinting” that he would like to start violin. Oh, why not? A squeaky violin will only add to the shrieks of guitar strings and hammering of piano keys. I’ll bet anything number four will want to beat the drums.
I guess I should be grateful they enjoy music and remember that worship is still worship no matter what key it’s in or no matter how loud it is. Life unfortunately has taught me that worship can be sometimes be painful.
Maybe they’ll form a band someday and this season of suffering will turn into a season of rejoicing. In the meantime, Lord, please keep my iPod battery charged - it works even better than ear plugs.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
i'm in lego la-la land
The ratio of individual Lego pieces to children at our place is about 4,573 to one. I’m pretty sure we didn’t have that many to start with. I’m kind of worried that they’re somehow fulfilling the Biblical command to be fruitful and multiply.
No matter how many times I try to hide those colorful little rectangles, they keep popping up, usually right in the path of my cold feet. Cold feet and hard plastic are not a good combination. Neither is having only three tables to build things on and four boys. Space is at a premium around here and they’re forced to carve out their own square footage and defend it faithfully.
To their credit, Legos seem to be the one toy that my boys (even the four-year-old who long ago told me to sell the “baby” Legos) can use without fighting about THE rules. Well, actually that’s not true either. They have devised some sort of distribution system so that they all have an equal number of wheels and guys and if someone swipes something, beware - it’s Lego mania.
As I’m writing this, the entire kitchen table is covered in creations - cars, strange pagoda-looking houses, some sort of tower with elephant heads on top, a music studio complete with round discs to resemble CDs and a few random unidentifiable blobs of color.
While they enjoy Lego construction, they do not seem to be capable of Lego collecting at the end of the day. I’m pretty sure they’re not colorblind, so I can’t figure out why the every-color-of-the-rainbow pieces aren’t visible to their eyes when I announce clean-up time. It’s as if their eye sockets only see things a foot off the ground. Perhaps some sort of Lego-induced disorder? Maybe the bright colors affect their vision and their brain.
When I finally lose my patience with the pieces, I swoop in a Lego-frenzy and pick everything up - banishing it to the far reaches of a dusty closet. The Lego-free house last about four days before some desperate, Lego-starved boy braves the darkness and possible spiders in a closet with no lights to pull out the 20-pound container.
And before I know it, they’re stockpiling again, worse than some of the hoarders I’ve seen on TV. One boy has been begging to purchase more - with his own money even! They’re usually so tight-fisted with their dollars, you can’t even pry tooth-fairy money out of their dirty palms to put it in a piggy bank. I’m amazed that a simple building block can out-do much fancier, battery-operated toys.
I should probably be grateful they are using their imaginations to create models of their future houses (with bathrooms and toilets even!), trucks and trailers and other odd shapes, when they could be frying their brains on video games. They seem to be content to spend an entire afternoon constructing, designing and occasionally crying when something breaks. But, they immediately start all over again and then proudly show off their creations. “Mom, look at this!” “ Mom, can you make a sign that says: Sports Shop”?
Welcome to Lego La-la Land - where imaginations run as bright as the colors and the pieces always go together, even if something’s missing. I wish real life could do that sometimes.
I don’t know how many times I fret about this or that piece of my life not fitting together where I think it should. Often, I can’t seem to see the missing piece that’s right in front of me.
Good thing there’s a Master Plan created by a Master Lego Designer. He knows which pieces go where and will sometimes put them in place for me. And sometimes, He’ll even start over if something topples.
That’s a Lego Land that has a little less La-La.
No matter how many times I try to hide those colorful little rectangles, they keep popping up, usually right in the path of my cold feet. Cold feet and hard plastic are not a good combination. Neither is having only three tables to build things on and four boys. Space is at a premium around here and they’re forced to carve out their own square footage and defend it faithfully.
To their credit, Legos seem to be the one toy that my boys (even the four-year-old who long ago told me to sell the “baby” Legos) can use without fighting about THE rules. Well, actually that’s not true either. They have devised some sort of distribution system so that they all have an equal number of wheels and guys and if someone swipes something, beware - it’s Lego mania.
As I’m writing this, the entire kitchen table is covered in creations - cars, strange pagoda-looking houses, some sort of tower with elephant heads on top, a music studio complete with round discs to resemble CDs and a few random unidentifiable blobs of color.
While they enjoy Lego construction, they do not seem to be capable of Lego collecting at the end of the day. I’m pretty sure they’re not colorblind, so I can’t figure out why the every-color-of-the-rainbow pieces aren’t visible to their eyes when I announce clean-up time. It’s as if their eye sockets only see things a foot off the ground. Perhaps some sort of Lego-induced disorder? Maybe the bright colors affect their vision and their brain.
When I finally lose my patience with the pieces, I swoop in a Lego-frenzy and pick everything up - banishing it to the far reaches of a dusty closet. The Lego-free house last about four days before some desperate, Lego-starved boy braves the darkness and possible spiders in a closet with no lights to pull out the 20-pound container.
And before I know it, they’re stockpiling again, worse than some of the hoarders I’ve seen on TV. One boy has been begging to purchase more - with his own money even! They’re usually so tight-fisted with their dollars, you can’t even pry tooth-fairy money out of their dirty palms to put it in a piggy bank. I’m amazed that a simple building block can out-do much fancier, battery-operated toys.
I should probably be grateful they are using their imaginations to create models of their future houses (with bathrooms and toilets even!), trucks and trailers and other odd shapes, when they could be frying their brains on video games. They seem to be content to spend an entire afternoon constructing, designing and occasionally crying when something breaks. But, they immediately start all over again and then proudly show off their creations. “Mom, look at this!” “ Mom, can you make a sign that says: Sports Shop”?
Welcome to Lego La-la Land - where imaginations run as bright as the colors and the pieces always go together, even if something’s missing. I wish real life could do that sometimes.
I don’t know how many times I fret about this or that piece of my life not fitting together where I think it should. Often, I can’t seem to see the missing piece that’s right in front of me.
Good thing there’s a Master Plan created by a Master Lego Designer. He knows which pieces go where and will sometimes put them in place for me. And sometimes, He’ll even start over if something topples.
That’s a Lego Land that has a little less La-La.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
it's nice to have boys...
because the fun doesn't end when you get home from camping. One boy keeps beating up the others. One boy wants a new family (and has his bags packed ready to leave to find one). One boy is lost in ipod land. And one boy is acting out a one-boy drama in the living room because he thinks he's dying of hunger since he hasn't got an afternoon snack yet.
I love my life.
I love my life.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
life's messy - grace it up
Somewhere along the line we have gained another rug rat to add to the four that already wreak their own brand of havoc our house. And surprise, surprise - it’s a boy.
I am living in the land of “not me” and “I didn’t do it.” A year ago, the youngest got blamed for everything - including things done in places he couldn’t possibly reach. Now that he’s older, wiser and slightly more capable of challenging the charges against him, the older three have got creative.
They invited a fall guy to join our family. His name is Andrew.
Whenever I find Legos stuffed under the TV cabinet or socks under couch cushions, they strangely belong to no one and no one left them out. No one, that is, but “Andrew.” I have yet to see what this impetuous child looks like and whether or not he carries any Larson genes like cowlicks and the inability to put shirts on with the tag in the back. My guess is that he’s quite intelligent since I can never seem to catch him in the act of sneaking cereal or scattering the Monopoly money in five different rooms. He also must be at least five feet tall, because he manages to get into the top shelves to pull down toys that were supposed to be taken away.
Andrew is rather amazing. He’s also downright disorderly.
He leaves mud clods on the rug. He spills water and doesn’t wipe it up. He doesn’t put away his rubber boots. He “borrows” tools without permission and leaves them outside to rust. He has even been known to leave the toilet unflushed.
If it weren’t so frustrating to hear “It wasn’t me” on a daily basis, all this Andrew-blaming would almost be funny. Even though the dirty, smelly sock left by the front door might fit Boy #3, he will insist, “It’s not mine!”
I’m starting to wonder about my childrens’ intelligence - or at the very least their common sense. For some reason, they haven’t figured out that I get more upset about excuses than I do that stuff doesn’t get picked up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been completely mortified by the condition of my house when some random person stops by. Coats on the floor. Cushions off the couch, creating some sort of sad-looking fort. Random socks peeking out everywhere. And then there are the toys that I’m convinced are procreating. Some days I’m tempted to run for cover, but I’d probably trip on something as I get up to speed and sprain my ankle. Tinkertoys can be weapons, you know.
Other days I blow. The blaming others, the denial, the justifying - it can add up to one irate mother who more often than not doesn’t keep her cool. I rant and rave for awhile. I throw things outside in a huge heap. Then I complain to hubby and to God about how unresponsible and dirty and irritating my children can be.
After all, I never make excuses for my behavior. I never forget to do things. I never blame other people for my failures. (I never deny things either.) And of course, God never shows me grace when I do all of that.
When I grumble to him, he asks: “Did you show love?” “But, they’re such pigs!” I protest. “Did you bite your tongue?” “But he really needed the discipline!” I justify. “What kind of mess did YOU make today?” “Um, well...” I mutter, knowing I’ll make more of a mess if I continue.
The whole point of God showing me grace is so that I’ll show some grace to my boys, and to Andrew. And it might be working - the other day one boy broke the water filter right off the kitchen faucet. A bit nervously, he came to confess.
Thankfully, I didn’t bungle the opportunity. A deep breath and a hug later, I realized - grace can clean up a whole lot of messes.
I am living in the land of “not me” and “I didn’t do it.” A year ago, the youngest got blamed for everything - including things done in places he couldn’t possibly reach. Now that he’s older, wiser and slightly more capable of challenging the charges against him, the older three have got creative.
They invited a fall guy to join our family. His name is Andrew.
Whenever I find Legos stuffed under the TV cabinet or socks under couch cushions, they strangely belong to no one and no one left them out. No one, that is, but “Andrew.” I have yet to see what this impetuous child looks like and whether or not he carries any Larson genes like cowlicks and the inability to put shirts on with the tag in the back. My guess is that he’s quite intelligent since I can never seem to catch him in the act of sneaking cereal or scattering the Monopoly money in five different rooms. He also must be at least five feet tall, because he manages to get into the top shelves to pull down toys that were supposed to be taken away.
Andrew is rather amazing. He’s also downright disorderly.
He leaves mud clods on the rug. He spills water and doesn’t wipe it up. He doesn’t put away his rubber boots. He “borrows” tools without permission and leaves them outside to rust. He has even been known to leave the toilet unflushed.
If it weren’t so frustrating to hear “It wasn’t me” on a daily basis, all this Andrew-blaming would almost be funny. Even though the dirty, smelly sock left by the front door might fit Boy #3, he will insist, “It’s not mine!”
I’m starting to wonder about my childrens’ intelligence - or at the very least their common sense. For some reason, they haven’t figured out that I get more upset about excuses than I do that stuff doesn’t get picked up. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been completely mortified by the condition of my house when some random person stops by. Coats on the floor. Cushions off the couch, creating some sort of sad-looking fort. Random socks peeking out everywhere. And then there are the toys that I’m convinced are procreating. Some days I’m tempted to run for cover, but I’d probably trip on something as I get up to speed and sprain my ankle. Tinkertoys can be weapons, you know.
Other days I blow. The blaming others, the denial, the justifying - it can add up to one irate mother who more often than not doesn’t keep her cool. I rant and rave for awhile. I throw things outside in a huge heap. Then I complain to hubby and to God about how unresponsible and dirty and irritating my children can be.
After all, I never make excuses for my behavior. I never forget to do things. I never blame other people for my failures. (I never deny things either.) And of course, God never shows me grace when I do all of that.
When I grumble to him, he asks: “Did you show love?” “But, they’re such pigs!” I protest. “Did you bite your tongue?” “But he really needed the discipline!” I justify. “What kind of mess did YOU make today?” “Um, well...” I mutter, knowing I’ll make more of a mess if I continue.
The whole point of God showing me grace is so that I’ll show some grace to my boys, and to Andrew. And it might be working - the other day one boy broke the water filter right off the kitchen faucet. A bit nervously, he came to confess.
Thankfully, I didn’t bungle the opportunity. A deep breath and a hug later, I realized - grace can clean up a whole lot of messes.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
tardiness
I am not known for my punctuality. I believe it's some sort of personality defect - really it's my only flaw. (Please hear the sarcasm there!) If it involves leaving the house by a certain time to get somewhere else by a certain time - forget it.
It drives my husband crazy. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed desperately as we've been driving somewhere for the slow drivers to find other roads and for stoplights to be frozen green. Sometimes it's worked miraculously, but most times, we show up a couple minutes late (even if the clock is set forward by unknown increments.)
But in my defense, it's usually not my fault (unless tardiness is genetic, then in a roundabout way, it probably is. But we won't go there now...)
It's the kids.
They are the reason I am perpetually late and perpetually flustered. We rarely make it to church on time. We'll fly into the parking lot and each of us will have to run with separate kids to make it to their separate areas before the worship team is done with the five songs they do on Sunday mornings. If we have to add a bathroom stop in for the youngest, we're screwed.
We haven't made it on time to freestyle wrestling practice yet this month. Even if I drive like a you-know-what from you-know-where, I still pull up to the school at 6:31. And the kids are running inside in various stages of dress and undress. Last week, I thought we were on a roll...until one boy decided to check the chickens a minute before everyone was out the door. This normally would be cause for celebration (he did something without being asked! It's a miracle!) but not on this day. He set all five eggs on the rug in front of the side door and his brother promptly smushed one when he turned to tie his shoes. Yep, we were late again.
The next time practice day rolled around, we were again just about ready to head out the door on time and I (stupid me) asked the middle child (who never has ANYTHING ready) if he remembered his water bottle. Of course not. Then he couldn't get the lid unscrewed to fill it up. I uncapped the thing and was treated to the not-so-pleasant aroma of stale well water. I couldn't just fill it up and have him drinking stinky water, so out came the Dawn and hot, hot water. You guessed it - late again.
I've lost count how many times we've had to turn around halfway to town to retrieve someone's wrestling shoes. Last week we showed up to guitar lessons without a guitar. I probably shouldn't say "we" because really I have enough on my mind to get four kids into the van and make sure they're not too dirty or that their everyday clothes aren't too dorky in case we stop at Walmart or the library. I can't remember the guitar too. (The upside is that the guitar-forgetter will probably never leave it behind again.)
I feel a bit like a cowboy trying to round up the herd and get them through the door and corralled into the van. All without losing one or forgetting one behind. I'm not a very good drover however, because my four bulls fight me every step of the way, leaving behind tell-tale piles of crap and taking much longer to get going than even the most patient cowboy could tolerate.
So, this morning I was late again. I was trying to get my oldest in to town to meet his father for a doctor's appointment. I was in the van but he hadn't changed his clothes and then he forgot his language book (yes, I'm a mean mom and make my kids take their schoolwork everywhere if they haven't finished it.) Then, driving into town we get stuck behind an idiot in a PT Cruiser driving 45 mph. Hubby wanted me to get to his office early, which of course meant we got there two minutes late. Phooey.
As I was driving home, I noticed my feet felt weird. Looked down to discover I had left the house wearing my slippers. Who do I blame on that one?
It's probably a good thing that my kids don't have to make a bus to school in the morning - they'd end up chasing tail lights like my brothers and I did many, many times. So, maybe it is genetic. Which of course, just means that it's still not my fault - it's my parent's.
It drives my husband crazy. I can't tell you how many times I've prayed desperately as we've been driving somewhere for the slow drivers to find other roads and for stoplights to be frozen green. Sometimes it's worked miraculously, but most times, we show up a couple minutes late (even if the clock is set forward by unknown increments.)
But in my defense, it's usually not my fault (unless tardiness is genetic, then in a roundabout way, it probably is. But we won't go there now...)
It's the kids.
They are the reason I am perpetually late and perpetually flustered. We rarely make it to church on time. We'll fly into the parking lot and each of us will have to run with separate kids to make it to their separate areas before the worship team is done with the five songs they do on Sunday mornings. If we have to add a bathroom stop in for the youngest, we're screwed.
We haven't made it on time to freestyle wrestling practice yet this month. Even if I drive like a you-know-what from you-know-where, I still pull up to the school at 6:31. And the kids are running inside in various stages of dress and undress. Last week, I thought we were on a roll...until one boy decided to check the chickens a minute before everyone was out the door. This normally would be cause for celebration (he did something without being asked! It's a miracle!) but not on this day. He set all five eggs on the rug in front of the side door and his brother promptly smushed one when he turned to tie his shoes. Yep, we were late again.
The next time practice day rolled around, we were again just about ready to head out the door on time and I (stupid me) asked the middle child (who never has ANYTHING ready) if he remembered his water bottle. Of course not. Then he couldn't get the lid unscrewed to fill it up. I uncapped the thing and was treated to the not-so-pleasant aroma of stale well water. I couldn't just fill it up and have him drinking stinky water, so out came the Dawn and hot, hot water. You guessed it - late again.
I've lost count how many times we've had to turn around halfway to town to retrieve someone's wrestling shoes. Last week we showed up to guitar lessons without a guitar. I probably shouldn't say "we" because really I have enough on my mind to get four kids into the van and make sure they're not too dirty or that their everyday clothes aren't too dorky in case we stop at Walmart or the library. I can't remember the guitar too. (The upside is that the guitar-forgetter will probably never leave it behind again.)
I feel a bit like a cowboy trying to round up the herd and get them through the door and corralled into the van. All without losing one or forgetting one behind. I'm not a very good drover however, because my four bulls fight me every step of the way, leaving behind tell-tale piles of crap and taking much longer to get going than even the most patient cowboy could tolerate.
So, this morning I was late again. I was trying to get my oldest in to town to meet his father for a doctor's appointment. I was in the van but he hadn't changed his clothes and then he forgot his language book (yes, I'm a mean mom and make my kids take their schoolwork everywhere if they haven't finished it.) Then, driving into town we get stuck behind an idiot in a PT Cruiser driving 45 mph. Hubby wanted me to get to his office early, which of course meant we got there two minutes late. Phooey.
As I was driving home, I noticed my feet felt weird. Looked down to discover I had left the house wearing my slippers. Who do I blame on that one?
It's probably a good thing that my kids don't have to make a bus to school in the morning - they'd end up chasing tail lights like my brothers and I did many, many times. So, maybe it is genetic. Which of course, just means that it's still not my fault - it's my parent's.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
prohibition
I may have to start a ban around here.
Maybe I should explain. I'm mortified by my kids. They can learn a song lyric by heart after hearing it one time. Which ordinarily wouldn't be so bad, but they don't have great taste in music and end up choosing lyrics that, well, mortify me. Why they can't memorize Bible verses or which slots the silverware go into is beyond me. Instead, they're savants at picking up words about alcohol or women that are sung to a catchy tune.
It all started when my husband switched radio stations while working on the addition. Out when the local Christian station and on came current country music. (To be fair, I had to agree with his reason - we both got sick of hearing the SAME song 14 times a day. Only I switched to Air1 for the Christian rock and he went to stereotypical redneck anthems.)
I should probably be grateful that I have children with great memories. But I'm not. It's a bit embarrassing/ridiculous/surreal to hear a six-year-old sing this:
"Rain makes corn; corn makes whisky; whisky makes my baby frisky."
I mean really. My husband has a hard time figuring out what makes me frisky, so I'm pretty sure that a kindergartener doesn't have a clue. There have to be better phrases that come through free airwaves into our house to bounce around in my boys' brains.
My four-year-old was into the "Pants on the Ground" thing for awhile, complete with a wiggly butt dance. Before that, he would belt out, "little bit of chicken fried; cold beer on a Friday night; pair of jeans that fit just right..." Yeah. And worse, after he'd sing, the stupid song would be stuck in my head for hours.
The older two aren't any better, although they'd graduated to Steve Miller Band classics like "The Joker" or the Eagles' "Hotel California" thanks to Band Hero. But even they have got caught up in the country music craziness - especially after Mom got a Taylor Swift CD for Valentine's Day. The older of the two likes to belt out "You Belong to Me," yet can't understand why girls steal his hat and won't give it back. The second crooner has latched on to Lady Antebellum (who I adore), but still something's not quite right when you hear an eight-year-old singing, "It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now..."
See what I mean?
Perhaps I'll enact a law that breaks some sort of Personal Freedoms when it limits what boys who pick up on country music lyrics way too quickly can hear. I'd call it the "No K102 4 U" statute. It would scramble inappropriate content so all they'd hear was static when the offending song was played. Maybe it'll have to mean inventing a special tool for the stereo that I can turn off and on at will. That way I can screen songs for them, but listen to whatever I want.
After all, not only is it appropriate for me to sing "God is great, beer is good, people are crazy," it's mostly true.
Maybe I should explain. I'm mortified by my kids. They can learn a song lyric by heart after hearing it one time. Which ordinarily wouldn't be so bad, but they don't have great taste in music and end up choosing lyrics that, well, mortify me. Why they can't memorize Bible verses or which slots the silverware go into is beyond me. Instead, they're savants at picking up words about alcohol or women that are sung to a catchy tune.
It all started when my husband switched radio stations while working on the addition. Out when the local Christian station and on came current country music. (To be fair, I had to agree with his reason - we both got sick of hearing the SAME song 14 times a day. Only I switched to Air1 for the Christian rock and he went to stereotypical redneck anthems.)
I should probably be grateful that I have children with great memories. But I'm not. It's a bit embarrassing/ridiculous/surreal to hear a six-year-old sing this:
"Rain makes corn; corn makes whisky; whisky makes my baby frisky."
I mean really. My husband has a hard time figuring out what makes me frisky, so I'm pretty sure that a kindergartener doesn't have a clue. There have to be better phrases that come through free airwaves into our house to bounce around in my boys' brains.
My four-year-old was into the "Pants on the Ground" thing for awhile, complete with a wiggly butt dance. Before that, he would belt out, "little bit of chicken fried; cold beer on a Friday night; pair of jeans that fit just right..." Yeah. And worse, after he'd sing, the stupid song would be stuck in my head for hours.
The older two aren't any better, although they'd graduated to Steve Miller Band classics like "The Joker" or the Eagles' "Hotel California" thanks to Band Hero. But even they have got caught up in the country music craziness - especially after Mom got a Taylor Swift CD for Valentine's Day. The older of the two likes to belt out "You Belong to Me," yet can't understand why girls steal his hat and won't give it back. The second crooner has latched on to Lady Antebellum (who I adore), but still something's not quite right when you hear an eight-year-old singing, "It's a quarter after one, I'm a little drunk and I need you now..."
See what I mean?
Perhaps I'll enact a law that breaks some sort of Personal Freedoms when it limits what boys who pick up on country music lyrics way too quickly can hear. I'd call it the "No K102 4 U" statute. It would scramble inappropriate content so all they'd hear was static when the offending song was played. Maybe it'll have to mean inventing a special tool for the stereo that I can turn off and on at will. That way I can screen songs for them, but listen to whatever I want.
After all, not only is it appropriate for me to sing "God is great, beer is good, people are crazy," it's mostly true.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
getting the best of me
I have finally figured out that I’m outnumbered. Four kids against one mom is just plain unfair odds. I can no longer keep tabs on four boys all at the same time.
One will dump out Lincoln Logs and run around trying to get everyone’s attention on him. (Any guesses?) Another one will lock himself in the bathroom with books and stay there until he’s discovered missing. One will be lost in a world of baseball cards, organizing and reorganizing and reciting endless statistics until you can hardly bare to hear any more about Chase Utley, Derek Jeter or Joe Mauer and where they were born, what their batting averages are and what size shoe they wear. The last one never leaves. I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse because his mouth never stops either.
But, unfortunately, being outnumbered isn’t the worst of it. I’m being outsmarted too.
It didn’t take them long to figure out the “Go ask your mom/Go ask your dad” game. It took even less time to realize that sending the youngest to ask for a snack is the most effective way to get candy. And they’ve also discovered that Mom can be easily wore down by endless requests from multiple kids. They stagger the begging just right so as to not be obvious, and then they time it perfectly to get a distracted affirmation to snacks or movies or playing video games. It’s really pure genius.
One boy has figured out how to escape the house whenever it comes time for chores or schoolwork, which is pretty much the whole day around here. He will do anything to avoid schoolwork, including playing with a younger brother who normally drives him crazy. He would rather go outside and rake leaves all day long than do his math. Ask him to pick up his room or do division problems and he will take the entire day. He can be found hours later, lost in space, surrounded by clothes that need to be folded and half-finished worksheets. He is the family foodie, but lately even taking away snacks hasn’t helped the procrastination.
Another one knows how to push everyone’s button, including mine. Five seconds ago, I told him if he didn’t finish his schoolwork, he wouldn’t be going to wrestling practice tonight, end of story. He simply looked at me and deadpanned, “What story?” He knows that calling one brother names will drive him crazy. He knows that singing songs wrong or out of tune will make another one insane. And the pummeling he usually takes doesn’t seem to stop him. There have been days when I would swear I can see the gleam in his eye as he tries to get me upset with him for whining or crying or being disrespectful.
One will interrupt everyone, not allowing anyone to work for more than five minutes at a time. He will sometimes throw things at us to get our attention, or he’ll start bumping the table or sometimes even run around the house singing “Little bit of chicken fried...” at the top of his lungs.
At times, I have all I can do to keep a straight face. But most times, I simply have to admit that they’re all getting the best of me. They’re just so much smarter than I am.
What I can’t figure out however, is if my kids are so smart, why I constantly fight to get them to do subtraction problems that they insist they don’t know how to do. And yet they can count exactly how many pieces of candy are left from their Halloween haul.
One child continually complains about any memorization, to the point that he’ll bang on his head and whine that he can’t remember. But, allow him to listen to the country music on the radio with Dad and he will repeat, line for line, lyrics that at best sound ridiculous coming from a grade-school boy. I’m still not sure if the point is to embarass his mother or to infuriate her with his ability to memorize song lyrics almost immediately and his inability to remember that nine times five is 45.
Another one will whine about every bit of work required of him. I have never met a kid whose normal voice (at least at home during the day) is so grating. “It’s too hard!” continually comes out of his mouth in a high-pitched squawk that you’d expect from a three-year-old girl with nasal issues.This same boy knows that he gets headaches if he cries too long. And still, one day last week he cried so much that he actually chapped his cheeks from all the salty tears and had to go to bed with Vaseline under his eyes.
All of this makes for some fun days. I can’t tell you how enjoyable it is to be outwitted by a six-year-old or find yourself humming some random Taylor Swift song because you’ve had three boys singing three of her songs at the top of their lungs all at the same time.
I sometimes wonder if at least a few of these kids couldn’t survive on Survivor. Outwit? No problem - if you’re not convinced, reread above. Outlast? Easy peasy - they have the stamina of bulls. Outplay? Well, they probably would have that one conquered too if it wasn’t for their father being Mom’s secret weapon.
There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my spouse. I am admittedly not much of a kid person. I often find them difficult, draining and stress-inducing. My husband, on the other hand, somehow innately knows how to “handle” them. When I call him (at my wit’s end), describing what’s going on, he usually laughs (which doesn’t help much), but then gives me some sort of priceless advice as to whatever the situation requires. I can’t imagine what kind of pickle we’d be in if we were both like me. (Oh, that’s so hard to admit.) He enjoys figuring these kids out. I would rather lock them in the basement. He enjoys their antics. I would rather be knitting and have a clean house.
The only thing my meager kid-intelligence has been able to figure out is that these boys somehow have a strange attraction to getting into trouble. Or for doing exactly what they’re not supposed to.
Sound familiar? Seems that the Apostle Paul and I struggle with the same thing. What I want to do I do not do and I do what I don’t want to do. So, why should I be surprised that my children do the very same thing?
Tomorrow, rather than letting them get the best of me, I’m going to try to remember that they are (as hubby says) just KIDS. And I’m going to try to squelch my desire to run far, far away.
One will dump out Lincoln Logs and run around trying to get everyone’s attention on him. (Any guesses?) Another one will lock himself in the bathroom with books and stay there until he’s discovered missing. One will be lost in a world of baseball cards, organizing and reorganizing and reciting endless statistics until you can hardly bare to hear any more about Chase Utley, Derek Jeter or Joe Mauer and where they were born, what their batting averages are and what size shoe they wear. The last one never leaves. I haven’t decided if that’s better or worse because his mouth never stops either.
But, unfortunately, being outnumbered isn’t the worst of it. I’m being outsmarted too.
It didn’t take them long to figure out the “Go ask your mom/Go ask your dad” game. It took even less time to realize that sending the youngest to ask for a snack is the most effective way to get candy. And they’ve also discovered that Mom can be easily wore down by endless requests from multiple kids. They stagger the begging just right so as to not be obvious, and then they time it perfectly to get a distracted affirmation to snacks or movies or playing video games. It’s really pure genius.
One boy has figured out how to escape the house whenever it comes time for chores or schoolwork, which is pretty much the whole day around here. He will do anything to avoid schoolwork, including playing with a younger brother who normally drives him crazy. He would rather go outside and rake leaves all day long than do his math. Ask him to pick up his room or do division problems and he will take the entire day. He can be found hours later, lost in space, surrounded by clothes that need to be folded and half-finished worksheets. He is the family foodie, but lately even taking away snacks hasn’t helped the procrastination.
Another one knows how to push everyone’s button, including mine. Five seconds ago, I told him if he didn’t finish his schoolwork, he wouldn’t be going to wrestling practice tonight, end of story. He simply looked at me and deadpanned, “What story?” He knows that calling one brother names will drive him crazy. He knows that singing songs wrong or out of tune will make another one insane. And the pummeling he usually takes doesn’t seem to stop him. There have been days when I would swear I can see the gleam in his eye as he tries to get me upset with him for whining or crying or being disrespectful.
One will interrupt everyone, not allowing anyone to work for more than five minutes at a time. He will sometimes throw things at us to get our attention, or he’ll start bumping the table or sometimes even run around the house singing “Little bit of chicken fried...” at the top of his lungs.
At times, I have all I can do to keep a straight face. But most times, I simply have to admit that they’re all getting the best of me. They’re just so much smarter than I am.
What I can’t figure out however, is if my kids are so smart, why I constantly fight to get them to do subtraction problems that they insist they don’t know how to do. And yet they can count exactly how many pieces of candy are left from their Halloween haul.
One child continually complains about any memorization, to the point that he’ll bang on his head and whine that he can’t remember. But, allow him to listen to the country music on the radio with Dad and he will repeat, line for line, lyrics that at best sound ridiculous coming from a grade-school boy. I’m still not sure if the point is to embarass his mother or to infuriate her with his ability to memorize song lyrics almost immediately and his inability to remember that nine times five is 45.
Another one will whine about every bit of work required of him. I have never met a kid whose normal voice (at least at home during the day) is so grating. “It’s too hard!” continually comes out of his mouth in a high-pitched squawk that you’d expect from a three-year-old girl with nasal issues.This same boy knows that he gets headaches if he cries too long. And still, one day last week he cried so much that he actually chapped his cheeks from all the salty tears and had to go to bed with Vaseline under his eyes.
All of this makes for some fun days. I can’t tell you how enjoyable it is to be outwitted by a six-year-old or find yourself humming some random Taylor Swift song because you’ve had three boys singing three of her songs at the top of their lungs all at the same time.
I sometimes wonder if at least a few of these kids couldn’t survive on Survivor. Outwit? No problem - if you’re not convinced, reread above. Outlast? Easy peasy - they have the stamina of bulls. Outplay? Well, they probably would have that one conquered too if it wasn’t for their father being Mom’s secret weapon.
There is hardly a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Lord for my spouse. I am admittedly not much of a kid person. I often find them difficult, draining and stress-inducing. My husband, on the other hand, somehow innately knows how to “handle” them. When I call him (at my wit’s end), describing what’s going on, he usually laughs (which doesn’t help much), but then gives me some sort of priceless advice as to whatever the situation requires. I can’t imagine what kind of pickle we’d be in if we were both like me. (Oh, that’s so hard to admit.) He enjoys figuring these kids out. I would rather lock them in the basement. He enjoys their antics. I would rather be knitting and have a clean house.
The only thing my meager kid-intelligence has been able to figure out is that these boys somehow have a strange attraction to getting into trouble. Or for doing exactly what they’re not supposed to.
Sound familiar? Seems that the Apostle Paul and I struggle with the same thing. What I want to do I do not do and I do what I don’t want to do. So, why should I be surprised that my children do the very same thing?
Tomorrow, rather than letting them get the best of me, I’m going to try to remember that they are (as hubby says) just KIDS. And I’m going to try to squelch my desire to run far, far away.
Friday, November 20, 2009
the joes
Overheard today at the lunch table: Boy #4: I'm Mo Jo. Boy #4: I'm Joe Cool - he's the coolest. Boy #4: Well, then I'm Joe Bad. Mom (in her head): I think you're both Joe Blow.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
it's nice to have boys...
and it'd be nicer to borrow them to somone.
#3 mouths off, so #4 whacks him, #2 tries to stick up for #4 and #1 yells at them all. #3 shoves #4, then #1 and #2 hold down #3 so #4 can get another "free" whack in.
#3 mouths off, so #4 whacks him, #2 tries to stick up for #4 and #1 yells at them all. #3 shoves #4, then #1 and #2 hold down #3 so #4 can get another "free" whack in.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
life is boring?
Ever have one of those days or weeks or months where you feel like you’ve seen it all, done it all, heard it all and put up with even more than the usual?
It looks so peaceful outside as it snows. Inside - not so peaceful and not so quiet. I listen to two boys tease each other and another one run around screaming that he’s Superman, with cape and all. Thing two and three have already been outside in the white stuff, but failed to make it very long without coming back in to complain of the cold and the snow. And of course the sidewalk didn’t get shoveled.
A peek in the living room reveals the entire floor covered in a layer of Legos about an inch thick - you’d think it was snowing candy-colored pieces inside while it dumps white flakes outside.
There have been two meltdowns already this morning because someone didn’t want an orange for a morning snack - because oranges are stupid and sticky and too hard to peel. He wanted a “real” snack - whatever that means.
When the boys get bored, they get hungry apparently. There has been three requests (well, let’s be honest...three whining bouts) for lunch - and it’s only 10:15 am. The complaints have ranged from boredom to hunger to outright exaggeration. Here’s a sample:
“Can I have lunch, Mom?”
“My belly needs food!”
“I’m gonna fall asleep because I’m so starving!”
“I missed lunch for the last three days!”
“I can’t take it anymore!!” (This wasn’t me!)
“Mom, what can I do?”
“Mom, I’m so bored!”
“There’s nothing to do around here!”
Which makes me almost laugh, considering the state of cleanliness, but of course no one wants to admit that a possible solution to boredom is chores.
They only have 37 board games, 5,478 Lego pieces (on the floor), 76 different kind of balls, 269 matchbox cars, 182 books, and enough art supplies to outfit a small preschool. I have banned them from puzzles though, so those are still off-limits. (Wonder why?)
Do you think they want to play with any of it? Do I really have to even ask you that?
Instead, they decide that if they can’t have an early lunch, they’re going to have a “discussion.” They argue about who’s the tallest in the bunch, who is the best Nascar driver, who is the most like Dad, who gets to make their sandwich first, who is the strongest, who’s has the best robber bandana - and on and on and on...
This lasts until one falls off the arm of the couch, after trying to stand on it to be the tallest. He fell into the TV cabinet, bonking the side of his face, much to his brother’s amusement.
“They’re laughing at me!”
“It’s not funny!”
“I think I’m going to die.”
He then kicks his younger brother, who is walking around with a paper bag over his head, oblivious to the commotion going on. This results in punishment time out at the top of the stairs, but on the way up...
“What!?! I didn’t do anything!”
“He was trying bother me.”
“There’s nothing to eat up there!”
“I can’t go up there - I’ll starve to death.”
When he finally has the okay to come down and eat lunch, he’s reached gigantic proportions of brattiness and the mouth gets revved up and off to the races.
So the battle just moved from the living room to the kitchen table and ends when someone calls someone else a girl and a plastic bowl gets thrown. (Should I really be telling you all of this?)
The only good news in this whole ordeal is that the one with the biggest mouth is finally getting a taste of his own blabbery-ness from his brothers. They’ve finally managed to figure out a way to drive him crazy. As proud of them as I am, it’s really not helping me get anything besides this column done.
We have tears and hollering and now a bloody eye at the table. And one wants some serious revenge. Mom turns into the “bad guy” for breaking up a fist fight.
How can all of this be boring?
At this point, I’m not sure whether to crack up with laughter or with tears. These four “blessings” are turning out to be more than I can handle some days. I can’t help but think that God is watching all of this with amusement, hoping I get whatever lesson He’s trying to teach me and hoping I see the humor in all of it as well. He knows I can’t whine to him that I’m bored.
Just as quickly as the fight started, it settled down and I have four quiet boys scarfing down sandwiches, chips and raw broccoli. (This is how to make inside the house as quiet as the snow falling outside.)
“Mom, you are the best broccoli-maker ever!”
“She didn’t make it, God did!”
Ah, yes...that was all worth it. I’ll take that over being bored any day.
It looks so peaceful outside as it snows. Inside - not so peaceful and not so quiet. I listen to two boys tease each other and another one run around screaming that he’s Superman, with cape and all. Thing two and three have already been outside in the white stuff, but failed to make it very long without coming back in to complain of the cold and the snow. And of course the sidewalk didn’t get shoveled.
A peek in the living room reveals the entire floor covered in a layer of Legos about an inch thick - you’d think it was snowing candy-colored pieces inside while it dumps white flakes outside.
There have been two meltdowns already this morning because someone didn’t want an orange for a morning snack - because oranges are stupid and sticky and too hard to peel. He wanted a “real” snack - whatever that means.
When the boys get bored, they get hungry apparently. There has been three requests (well, let’s be honest...three whining bouts) for lunch - and it’s only 10:15 am. The complaints have ranged from boredom to hunger to outright exaggeration. Here’s a sample:
“Can I have lunch, Mom?”
“My belly needs food!”
“I’m gonna fall asleep because I’m so starving!”
“I missed lunch for the last three days!”
“I can’t take it anymore!!” (This wasn’t me!)
“Mom, what can I do?”
“Mom, I’m so bored!”
“There’s nothing to do around here!”
Which makes me almost laugh, considering the state of cleanliness, but of course no one wants to admit that a possible solution to boredom is chores.
They only have 37 board games, 5,478 Lego pieces (on the floor), 76 different kind of balls, 269 matchbox cars, 182 books, and enough art supplies to outfit a small preschool. I have banned them from puzzles though, so those are still off-limits. (Wonder why?)
Do you think they want to play with any of it? Do I really have to even ask you that?
Instead, they decide that if they can’t have an early lunch, they’re going to have a “discussion.” They argue about who’s the tallest in the bunch, who is the best Nascar driver, who is the most like Dad, who gets to make their sandwich first, who is the strongest, who’s has the best robber bandana - and on and on and on...
This lasts until one falls off the arm of the couch, after trying to stand on it to be the tallest. He fell into the TV cabinet, bonking the side of his face, much to his brother’s amusement.
“They’re laughing at me!”
“It’s not funny!”
“I think I’m going to die.”
He then kicks his younger brother, who is walking around with a paper bag over his head, oblivious to the commotion going on. This results in punishment time out at the top of the stairs, but on the way up...
“What!?! I didn’t do anything!”
“He was trying bother me.”
“There’s nothing to eat up there!”
“I can’t go up there - I’ll starve to death.”
When he finally has the okay to come down and eat lunch, he’s reached gigantic proportions of brattiness and the mouth gets revved up and off to the races.
So the battle just moved from the living room to the kitchen table and ends when someone calls someone else a girl and a plastic bowl gets thrown. (Should I really be telling you all of this?)
The only good news in this whole ordeal is that the one with the biggest mouth is finally getting a taste of his own blabbery-ness from his brothers. They’ve finally managed to figure out a way to drive him crazy. As proud of them as I am, it’s really not helping me get anything besides this column done.
We have tears and hollering and now a bloody eye at the table. And one wants some serious revenge. Mom turns into the “bad guy” for breaking up a fist fight.
How can all of this be boring?
At this point, I’m not sure whether to crack up with laughter or with tears. These four “blessings” are turning out to be more than I can handle some days. I can’t help but think that God is watching all of this with amusement, hoping I get whatever lesson He’s trying to teach me and hoping I see the humor in all of it as well. He knows I can’t whine to him that I’m bored.
Just as quickly as the fight started, it settled down and I have four quiet boys scarfing down sandwiches, chips and raw broccoli. (This is how to make inside the house as quiet as the snow falling outside.)
“Mom, you are the best broccoli-maker ever!”
“She didn’t make it, God did!”
Ah, yes...that was all worth it. I’ll take that over being bored any day.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
sponges
No one ever told me how much kids pick up information - literally like sponges. They can retain so much and their memory capacity just scares me sometimes. Of course, the info they soak up is never what you want - like multiplication facts or what sound the letter "h" makes.
Instead, they suck in what Mom said about someone that shouldn't be repeated, and then they do. They memorize whole team rosters and then recite them in the van when you're trying to concentrate on not ramming into the idiot driving 30 mph in front of you. They pick up on song lyrics that are at best slightly inappropriate.
Hubby likes to listen to a country music station that plays both new and old songs while he's working on the addition. Normally this wouldn't bother me at all because I kind of like the station too (nothing like a little Johnny Cash or Marty Robbins on occasion.) But, of course the kids couldn't pick up on "El Paso" or "A Boy Named Sue." Instead, all four of them have been singing the chorus to a song that I have to admit is catchy, but a little strange coming out of the months of two- to 10-year-olds. I don't even know the name of it or who sings it.
But, apparently my brain is a sponge for useless information too - because I can actually recall the refrain (but probably only because I've heard it over and over and over:
"A little bit of chicken fried. Cold beer on a Friday night. Pair of jeans that fit just right. And the radio on..."
Yeah, picture that coming from a five-year-old and you get the idea of what I'm dealing with. Maybe I'll have to switch to classical music - no words. Course, them they'd just hum "Flight of the Bumblebees" and drive me just as crazy.
Instead, they suck in what Mom said about someone that shouldn't be repeated, and then they do. They memorize whole team rosters and then recite them in the van when you're trying to concentrate on not ramming into the idiot driving 30 mph in front of you. They pick up on song lyrics that are at best slightly inappropriate.
Hubby likes to listen to a country music station that plays both new and old songs while he's working on the addition. Normally this wouldn't bother me at all because I kind of like the station too (nothing like a little Johnny Cash or Marty Robbins on occasion.) But, of course the kids couldn't pick up on "El Paso" or "A Boy Named Sue." Instead, all four of them have been singing the chorus to a song that I have to admit is catchy, but a little strange coming out of the months of two- to 10-year-olds. I don't even know the name of it or who sings it.
But, apparently my brain is a sponge for useless information too - because I can actually recall the refrain (but probably only because I've heard it over and over and over:
"A little bit of chicken fried. Cold beer on a Friday night. Pair of jeans that fit just right. And the radio on..."
Yeah, picture that coming from a five-year-old and you get the idea of what I'm dealing with. Maybe I'll have to switch to classical music - no words. Course, them they'd just hum "Flight of the Bumblebees" and drive me just as crazy.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
oh the places you'll go...with boys
You never quite know where you'll end up as a parent or the things you'll find yourself doing. But in my case, I think it's even a little more extreme being the mother of four boys. The testosterone overload in this house has me doing things, saying things, learning things I would never have dreamed. And going places I never would have imagined.
Here's just a sampling.
I never thought I'd be sprawled out on a wrestling mat, trying to coach two seven-year-olds on how to do a double-leg takedown (you can read about the entire episode in the previous blog.) Although I have always enjoyed wrestling and even chose to cover it when I worked at a local newspaper, I never imagined myself down on all fours trying to be a parent/coach. I wouldn't have bothered to do it either, except that the other parents involved didn't seem to be able to stop the two boys from running at each other like bulls during a bullfight.
I never thought I'd ever watch an entire NASCAR race, start to finish. Watching 43 cars go round and round a track for three+ hours is about as exciting as watching golf. Nonetheless, because Sunday afternoons are supposed to be "Sunday Funday" around here, I have been forced to not only watch, but listen to three boys get excited about lead changes, crashes, penalties and pit stops. The other saving grace is that I can knit while I watch.
I never thought I'd ever know anything about NASCAR. Stuff like Tony Stewart was sponsored by Lowe's but will drive his own car next year. Or that Dale Earnhardt Dr. is team mates with Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. Jeff Gordon drives the 24 car. Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowe's and drives the 48 car - and he just made history this past year by winning the Sprint Cup chase for the third year in a row. I would not know that two Busch brothers drive cars - one sponsored by M&M's (Kyle) and the other by Budweiser (Kurt). I would also not know that the races are started not only by the National Anthem, but by a prayer, which I have to admit is pretty cool. I also would not know any of this if my oldest didn't talk incessantly about it.
I never thought I'd have to explain to a boy what a groom means - and have him respond that he never wants to get married if that's what he'll be called. His exact words, "I don't want to be called a stupid word like 'groom' all day."
I never thought I'd have kids into cards. I wish they were card sharks - they could probably earn their keep around here. This is the kind of cards that are just plain annoying - baseball, football and basketball cards. A friend of boy #1 gave him a stack this fall and that's what started the whole problem. Now I have a 10-year-old who will not talk about anything but football - how he wants to play football, who his favorite team is, whose cards he has and who plays on what team. He has a memory that simply astounds me and can rattle off statistics and information about completely meaningless things like what number Adrian Peterson is, where Peyton Manning played college football or that Randy Moss is his all-time favorite player. It bores me to tears.
I never thought I'd know that there are two Steve Smiths who play professional football, or that I could care less. I'd rather know what to do about two boys who can't get their school work done because all they do is play football or snow board.
I never thought I'd have to wipe off the toilet lid, the toilet seat, the edge of the toilet and around the bottom of the toilet on a daily basis. Four boys is more than one bathroom can handle. I should have taught them to pee standing up inside as well as outside.
I never thought I'd have four boys. That probably says enough right there.
Here's just a sampling.
I never thought I'd be sprawled out on a wrestling mat, trying to coach two seven-year-olds on how to do a double-leg takedown (you can read about the entire episode in the previous blog.) Although I have always enjoyed wrestling and even chose to cover it when I worked at a local newspaper, I never imagined myself down on all fours trying to be a parent/coach. I wouldn't have bothered to do it either, except that the other parents involved didn't seem to be able to stop the two boys from running at each other like bulls during a bullfight.
I never thought I'd ever watch an entire NASCAR race, start to finish. Watching 43 cars go round and round a track for three+ hours is about as exciting as watching golf. Nonetheless, because Sunday afternoons are supposed to be "Sunday Funday" around here, I have been forced to not only watch, but listen to three boys get excited about lead changes, crashes, penalties and pit stops. The other saving grace is that I can knit while I watch.
I never thought I'd ever know anything about NASCAR. Stuff like Tony Stewart was sponsored by Lowe's but will drive his own car next year. Or that Dale Earnhardt Dr. is team mates with Jeff Gordon and Jimmie Johnson. Jeff Gordon drives the 24 car. Jimmie Johnson is sponsored by Lowe's and drives the 48 car - and he just made history this past year by winning the Sprint Cup chase for the third year in a row. I would not know that two Busch brothers drive cars - one sponsored by M&M's (Kyle) and the other by Budweiser (Kurt). I would also not know that the races are started not only by the National Anthem, but by a prayer, which I have to admit is pretty cool. I also would not know any of this if my oldest didn't talk incessantly about it.
I never thought I'd have to explain to a boy what a groom means - and have him respond that he never wants to get married if that's what he'll be called. His exact words, "I don't want to be called a stupid word like 'groom' all day."
I never thought I'd have kids into cards. I wish they were card sharks - they could probably earn their keep around here. This is the kind of cards that are just plain annoying - baseball, football and basketball cards. A friend of boy #1 gave him a stack this fall and that's what started the whole problem. Now I have a 10-year-old who will not talk about anything but football - how he wants to play football, who his favorite team is, whose cards he has and who plays on what team. He has a memory that simply astounds me and can rattle off statistics and information about completely meaningless things like what number Adrian Peterson is, where Peyton Manning played college football or that Randy Moss is his all-time favorite player. It bores me to tears.
I never thought I'd know that there are two Steve Smiths who play professional football, or that I could care less. I'd rather know what to do about two boys who can't get their school work done because all they do is play football or snow board.
I never thought I'd have to wipe off the toilet lid, the toilet seat, the edge of the toilet and around the bottom of the toilet on a daily basis. Four boys is more than one bathroom can handle. I should have taught them to pee standing up inside as well as outside.
I never thought I'd have four boys. That probably says enough right there.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
is it snack time?
It’s painfully obvious that hubby and I need to pursue a new career. Or at least a part-time one that would better provide for the four hungry mouths that make up part of this family.
We need to start farming.
Keep in mind we already plant a rather large garden and this year even raised chickens to butcher. We apparently need to add to the crops and livestock. I draw the line at a milk cow, but I don’t think hubby would be opposed to goats.
It’s getting to be almost ridiculous - one chicken is no longer enough for all of us, unless I have at least three vegetables along with it, plus bread and maybe even something for dessert. We should have raised 50 this year instead of just 25.
No matter how many times I see it with my own eyes, I still cannot believe how much these kids of ours can eat. Even the two-year-old packs away more food in a meal than I could ever attempt to gag down. Last week he had third helpings of beef stew, even after gobbling down two dinner rolls and a heaping helping of fried cabbage. Last night Boy #3 actually broke a bowl trying to dish himself more wild rice soup. (I have no idea if it was seconds or thirds, but either way I wasn’t very happy.)
But, in spite of all of this food consumption, the thing that is really driving me crazy are the endless questions about snacks.
“Is it snack time?” (15 minutes after breakfast.)
“Is it snack time yet?” (Two minutes later.)
The only good thing is that at least two of them have learned to tell time, just by trying to figure out when snack time actually is. The trouble is that the time varies in direct proportion to how easily they wear me down with their incessant questions about snacks or what they can have for a snack. Some days, snack time has come as early as 8:30 am just because the only time the house is quiet when four boys are eating.
After lunch, we start the same routine all over again. I’m starting to seriously wonder if they’re all carrying some sort of tapeworm.
Half an hour after consuming an ungodly amount of food for lunch - trust me you wouldn’t believe me if I told you - they’re already starting in.
“Can I have a snack?”
“When can I have a snack?”
“Is it snack time?”
What I need is a snack laced with tryptophan, or some other tranquilizer that would put them to sleep for an hour so I could either work uninterrupted or take a nap. I’m sure there is something out there that would fit the bill, but my guess is it’s only used in zoos. Wait - this place would qualify!
There is no physical way that these boys could actually be hungry for a snack, so their desire to have one has got to be coming from somewhere else. Gluttony perhaps? If they know there is candy in the cupboard, they are much more likely to beg for snacks. It’s as if they feel they’re entitled to that snack, simply because they exist and the snack exists in the cupboard.
Although I suppose many of us have a love-hate relationship with food and/or snacks like chips, pop and ice cream. We want them even though we know they aren’t terribly good for us. They just taste good. And we usually eat them regardless of whether we’re actually hungry or not.
It’s like something clicks in our brains telling us - “It’s snack time!” - and off we go to the fridge or freezer or convenience store to find chocolate, candy or a mocha latte.
So I am not all that different from my kids - only slightly more economically capable (I can purchase my own snacks) and slightly better at justifying why I need snack time (Of course I’m worth it.) Speaking of that, I believe there is a cinnamon chip scone calling my name.
Isn’t it snack time?
We need to start farming.
Keep in mind we already plant a rather large garden and this year even raised chickens to butcher. We apparently need to add to the crops and livestock. I draw the line at a milk cow, but I don’t think hubby would be opposed to goats.
It’s getting to be almost ridiculous - one chicken is no longer enough for all of us, unless I have at least three vegetables along with it, plus bread and maybe even something for dessert. We should have raised 50 this year instead of just 25.
No matter how many times I see it with my own eyes, I still cannot believe how much these kids of ours can eat. Even the two-year-old packs away more food in a meal than I could ever attempt to gag down. Last week he had third helpings of beef stew, even after gobbling down two dinner rolls and a heaping helping of fried cabbage. Last night Boy #3 actually broke a bowl trying to dish himself more wild rice soup. (I have no idea if it was seconds or thirds, but either way I wasn’t very happy.)
But, in spite of all of this food consumption, the thing that is really driving me crazy are the endless questions about snacks.
“Is it snack time?” (15 minutes after breakfast.)
“Is it snack time yet?” (Two minutes later.)
The only good thing is that at least two of them have learned to tell time, just by trying to figure out when snack time actually is. The trouble is that the time varies in direct proportion to how easily they wear me down with their incessant questions about snacks or what they can have for a snack. Some days, snack time has come as early as 8:30 am just because the only time the house is quiet when four boys are eating.
After lunch, we start the same routine all over again. I’m starting to seriously wonder if they’re all carrying some sort of tapeworm.
Half an hour after consuming an ungodly amount of food for lunch - trust me you wouldn’t believe me if I told you - they’re already starting in.
“Can I have a snack?”
“When can I have a snack?”
“Is it snack time?”
What I need is a snack laced with tryptophan, or some other tranquilizer that would put them to sleep for an hour so I could either work uninterrupted or take a nap. I’m sure there is something out there that would fit the bill, but my guess is it’s only used in zoos. Wait - this place would qualify!
There is no physical way that these boys could actually be hungry for a snack, so their desire to have one has got to be coming from somewhere else. Gluttony perhaps? If they know there is candy in the cupboard, they are much more likely to beg for snacks. It’s as if they feel they’re entitled to that snack, simply because they exist and the snack exists in the cupboard.
Although I suppose many of us have a love-hate relationship with food and/or snacks like chips, pop and ice cream. We want them even though we know they aren’t terribly good for us. They just taste good. And we usually eat them regardless of whether we’re actually hungry or not.
It’s like something clicks in our brains telling us - “It’s snack time!” - and off we go to the fridge or freezer or convenience store to find chocolate, candy or a mocha latte.
So I am not all that different from my kids - only slightly more economically capable (I can purchase my own snacks) and slightly better at justifying why I need snack time (Of course I’m worth it.) Speaking of that, I believe there is a cinnamon chip scone calling my name.
Isn’t it snack time?
Monday, September 1, 2008
the science of life
September is one of the most stressful months of the year for me. I am usually elbow deep in tomatoes, pickles, whatever fruit I can find and possibly even sauerkraut, all while dancing in time to the rumbles from the boiling water in the canner. In between batches of salsa and stewed tomatoes, I’m also trying desperately to mentally prepare for the start of another home-school year - this time with three boys.
Doesn’t that all sound fun?
A friend of mine convinced her husband to take the kids away so she could have a “teacher-prep” weekend. I figure I’ll be lucky to get prep in between meals, snacks and squeezing cucumbers into jars.
To date, I’ve processed 65 quarts of pickles. Yes, you read that right and yes that’s a lot of pickles. But, considering boys 1-4 can and will eat an entire quart in one lunch, that will probably only get us through the middle of February. After that, they’ll have to start munching on carrot sticks.
Today I’ll finish the last batch of salsa and then will have to switch gears into science. (Although canning is a bit of a science, isn’t it?)
Boys 1 and 2 will both be studying biology this year and I need to figure out one science experiment per week for them. My goal this year is to have school be fun - for them. During the annual homeschooling conference last spring, I felt very convicted that I was making school too much about workbooks and not enough hands-on things like science experiments or history projects, or even art for that matter.
So, this year, we’re going to have fun. Or rather they’re going to have fun. I’m going to fret about teaching children how to draw, how to raise fruit flies and how to build a Babylonian mountain garden. And I’m going to stress about the mess all those projects will create.
But, this isn’t about me. I’ll have to get over it and get on with the “fun” of homeschooling. Another homeschooling mom told me she would be calling me weekly to see if I was having fun - I told her that wasn’t the kind of help I needed.
Feel free to ask the kids if they’re having fun - I’ll need the accountability. (If they say “no,” they’re lying.) And, you’re more than welcome to come over and teach them why they need to wash their hands, chew their food 20 times before swallowing and go to bed at 8 p.m. (That can all fall under biology, can’t it? And if it doesn’t, we’ll just call it family life science and everyone wins.)
Practicality trumps fruit flies any day.
Doesn’t that all sound fun?
A friend of mine convinced her husband to take the kids away so she could have a “teacher-prep” weekend. I figure I’ll be lucky to get prep in between meals, snacks and squeezing cucumbers into jars.
To date, I’ve processed 65 quarts of pickles. Yes, you read that right and yes that’s a lot of pickles. But, considering boys 1-4 can and will eat an entire quart in one lunch, that will probably only get us through the middle of February. After that, they’ll have to start munching on carrot sticks.
Today I’ll finish the last batch of salsa and then will have to switch gears into science. (Although canning is a bit of a science, isn’t it?)
Boys 1 and 2 will both be studying biology this year and I need to figure out one science experiment per week for them. My goal this year is to have school be fun - for them. During the annual homeschooling conference last spring, I felt very convicted that I was making school too much about workbooks and not enough hands-on things like science experiments or history projects, or even art for that matter.
So, this year, we’re going to have fun. Or rather they’re going to have fun. I’m going to fret about teaching children how to draw, how to raise fruit flies and how to build a Babylonian mountain garden. And I’m going to stress about the mess all those projects will create.
But, this isn’t about me. I’ll have to get over it and get on with the “fun” of homeschooling. Another homeschooling mom told me she would be calling me weekly to see if I was having fun - I told her that wasn’t the kind of help I needed.
Feel free to ask the kids if they’re having fun - I’ll need the accountability. (If they say “no,” they’re lying.) And, you’re more than welcome to come over and teach them why they need to wash their hands, chew their food 20 times before swallowing and go to bed at 8 p.m. (That can all fall under biology, can’t it? And if it doesn’t, we’ll just call it family life science and everyone wins.)
Practicality trumps fruit flies any day.
Monday, July 28, 2008
in training
There is lots of training happening in around here. Well, lots of instruction, lots of coaching, and lots of guidance - it’s the results that are debatable.
Boy #4 is potty training. (Need I say more?)
Boy #3 started swimming lessons for the first time - learning how to put his face in the water, splash the teacher and take forever getting his clothes back on while in the boys locker room so Mom can’t come in and hurry things up.
Boy #2 is in soccer - training to be the next David Beckham, except that for some reason he can’t keep his shoes tied.
After begging long and hard enough, Boy #1 is finally taking guitar lessons, hoping to emulate tobymac. He’s learning a few chords, but most importantly (and most difficult for him) he has to learn to play right-handed, training to be ambidextrous.
Hubby has been training for some time - plumbing, electrical, framing, farming and how to be a stay-at-home dad for a few days a week. Most of his training is going quite well - by the time the addition is done he will be a true jack-of-all-trades, but I doubt he’ll have figured out the laundry.
My never-ending painting job appears to be nearing completion and after some great on-the-job training I now officially have a favorite brand of paint. I’m looking into more training - courses in faux finishing to boost the old resume and pocketbook.
I am also considering gun safety - we have a serious rabbit problem in my flower bed and I’d like nothing more than to rid myself of pests and give the kittens something to eat since there are very few leftovers left over around here.
But perhaps the biggest source of training for hubby and me is what’s thrown at us every day - how to be parents. How to maintain calm in spite of spilled water, sour milk in breakfast cereal, cats refusing to exit the garage, disappearing socks, fighting children and millions of mosquitoes.
The proverb of the wise one tells us that we should train up a child in the way he should go. The trouble is I wonder sometimes who’s training whom.
For instance, we figure out boy #1 and the next ones come with completely different manuals. By the time we’re done with this parenthood thing, we’ll have four books on discipline, praise, food likes and sock preferences (crew, sock less, anklets and knee-high). We do crazy things like buying a non-working go cart at a garage sale because it would be a good project to work on with the boys, not quite realizing that 1) it will be us that does all the work and 2) the boys will get bored with it after two hours and $200 worth of parts.
The boys are acing their lessons on how to be and act like boys. This includes getting dirty, learning to fight, playing with toads and conning Dad into buying things like go carts that don’t run. We on the other hand, are not doing quite as well. We lose our tempers at wet beds, fly off the handle over broken toys and play right into the “Go ask your Mom/Dad” game that never ends in our favor.
While we might appear to know what we’re doing, now you know the truth - we are faking it just like everyone else. Or making it up as we go along. (Which inevitably leads to forgetting what rules you made for what behavior. Is it soap for sassiness and time outs for teasing? Is it cleaning the toilet for fighting or was that just a chore?)
Thankfully, I don’t think anyone is expecting perfection - daily we fail and daily we do some good things. We’re just hoping that in the end we’re the ones training rather than the ones being trained.
Some days I wonder though...
Boy #4 is potty training. (Need I say more?)
Boy #3 started swimming lessons for the first time - learning how to put his face in the water, splash the teacher and take forever getting his clothes back on while in the boys locker room so Mom can’t come in and hurry things up.
Boy #2 is in soccer - training to be the next David Beckham, except that for some reason he can’t keep his shoes tied.
After begging long and hard enough, Boy #1 is finally taking guitar lessons, hoping to emulate tobymac. He’s learning a few chords, but most importantly (and most difficult for him) he has to learn to play right-handed, training to be ambidextrous.
Hubby has been training for some time - plumbing, electrical, framing, farming and how to be a stay-at-home dad for a few days a week. Most of his training is going quite well - by the time the addition is done he will be a true jack-of-all-trades, but I doubt he’ll have figured out the laundry.
My never-ending painting job appears to be nearing completion and after some great on-the-job training I now officially have a favorite brand of paint. I’m looking into more training - courses in faux finishing to boost the old resume and pocketbook.
I am also considering gun safety - we have a serious rabbit problem in my flower bed and I’d like nothing more than to rid myself of pests and give the kittens something to eat since there are very few leftovers left over around here.
But perhaps the biggest source of training for hubby and me is what’s thrown at us every day - how to be parents. How to maintain calm in spite of spilled water, sour milk in breakfast cereal, cats refusing to exit the garage, disappearing socks, fighting children and millions of mosquitoes.
The proverb of the wise one tells us that we should train up a child in the way he should go. The trouble is I wonder sometimes who’s training whom.
For instance, we figure out boy #1 and the next ones come with completely different manuals. By the time we’re done with this parenthood thing, we’ll have four books on discipline, praise, food likes and sock preferences (crew, sock less, anklets and knee-high). We do crazy things like buying a non-working go cart at a garage sale because it would be a good project to work on with the boys, not quite realizing that 1) it will be us that does all the work and 2) the boys will get bored with it after two hours and $200 worth of parts.
The boys are acing their lessons on how to be and act like boys. This includes getting dirty, learning to fight, playing with toads and conning Dad into buying things like go carts that don’t run. We on the other hand, are not doing quite as well. We lose our tempers at wet beds, fly off the handle over broken toys and play right into the “Go ask your Mom/Dad” game that never ends in our favor.
While we might appear to know what we’re doing, now you know the truth - we are faking it just like everyone else. Or making it up as we go along. (Which inevitably leads to forgetting what rules you made for what behavior. Is it soap for sassiness and time outs for teasing? Is it cleaning the toilet for fighting or was that just a chore?)
Thankfully, I don’t think anyone is expecting perfection - daily we fail and daily we do some good things. We’re just hoping that in the end we’re the ones training rather than the ones being trained.
Some days I wonder though...
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
shopping around
The other night we went tub shopping. And we went with four boys. And yes, we’re slightly crazy.
We packed into the truck, nearly breaking some capacity laws and definitely violating some personal space rules.
After the inevitable jostles, pokes and tears, we pulled out of the driveway. No seriously, we made it the six miles to the local home improvement center to search for a couple of bathtubs and a lot of PVC.
One child insisted on going round and round the turnstyle at the store’s entrance, much to the amusement of the customer service guy. If there’s a counter attached to that mechanism, it’s going to be way off.
We got the baby into the cart and wheeled to the plumbing department - praying they make a tub deep enough to keep water inside when boys decide to wage war during bathtime. (What we really need is a tub with five-foot sides that will only fill up with five inches of water.)
Do we buy fiberglass or enamel-coated steel? Nonskid marks on the bottom? Biscuit or white? Too many choices for a bathtub that will have brown rings after mud-loving boys bathe.
After eeny, meeny, miney... (cut short because two loose boys were climbing in and out of all the shower stalls) we selected not quite the cheapest tub and then tried to wipe off the face print on one of the glass doors.
We moved on to the aisles filled with PVC parts and one boys got upset because he couldn’t push the cart. Apparently, he didn’t remember that he’d been banned from cart-pushing for life after the last trip to Wal-Mart when he tried to pop wheelies while his brother was inside the cart. He also thought it was great fun to play NASCAR around the endcaps, nearly taking an old lady’s foot off. He humphed that life wasn’t fair and something about giving people another chance, but I chose to ignore it.
I’m not sure what has happened. It never used to be a problem taking our children into a retail establishment. Sometime after 3.5 kids, I lost control of the little critters. Perhaps we finally got outnumbered. Or older. Or more distracted. Or maybe they just got smarter and stronger.
I told hubby that I now know why my Dad kept us all in the van while Mom shopped for groceries BY HERSELF. How he survived with seven kids cooped up for what seemed like hours in a minivan is nothing short of a miracle.
Back to reality in the plumbing department: we now had an entire cart full of wyes, elbows and tees. Eldest son was dispatched to get another cart and the fight was on. Who would get to push the second cart? We’re not as dumb as we may look. Mom got one. Dad took the other. Problem solved.
We took the two heaping carts of plastic plumbing pieces to the front. Checkout took 15 minutes and the receipt was three feet long. The cashier wished us well as we left. I believe his exact words were “Have fun!”
Unfortunately, the trip wasn’t over yet. We crammed in for a 20-minutes trip to Plymouth in search of a whirlpool tub for the master bath. We weren’t smart enough to bring snacks to distract the boys - and they had already lost their DQ privileges for their antics at the last place.
Store #2 wasn’t another adventure. Hubby caved into pushing a car cart that only fit two. And all four wanted in - after all it was a #48 Jimmie Johnson car. Boy #1 was told he couldn’t ride in it wearing a Dale Earnhardt hat. (Don’t even ask me how I know this - NASCAR has taken over our house.)
The other boys switched off, each arguing that the other got to ride longer. Thankfully the search here was quick - we picked the first tub we saw and figured we could live with it if it turned out to be too small, too big or too white.
Evidently boy #2 caught on that Dad was stressed, because back in the truck, he put his arm around Dad’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Occasionally he would pat his father on the back, smiling the whole while, like this trip was exactly what he would have chosen to do, tight quarters and all.
I wonder sometimes if we’re getting uptight in our old age, letting little things like shopping cart derbies get the best of us. Do we expect too much out of four boys who (from what I can tell) are just being boys? Should we be sitting back, like our seven-year-old, and enjoying the ride wherever it takes us? Not many people can say they’ve traveled in a pickup with five other people, two of whom are a bit smelly. We might be packed in, but we’re usually in good company. Time moves so fast, that soon the ride with these boys will be over.
Lord willing we’ll still get a few more shopping adventures to experience.
We packed into the truck, nearly breaking some capacity laws and definitely violating some personal space rules.
After the inevitable jostles, pokes and tears, we pulled out of the driveway. No seriously, we made it the six miles to the local home improvement center to search for a couple of bathtubs and a lot of PVC.
One child insisted on going round and round the turnstyle at the store’s entrance, much to the amusement of the customer service guy. If there’s a counter attached to that mechanism, it’s going to be way off.
We got the baby into the cart and wheeled to the plumbing department - praying they make a tub deep enough to keep water inside when boys decide to wage war during bathtime. (What we really need is a tub with five-foot sides that will only fill up with five inches of water.)
Do we buy fiberglass or enamel-coated steel? Nonskid marks on the bottom? Biscuit or white? Too many choices for a bathtub that will have brown rings after mud-loving boys bathe.
After eeny, meeny, miney... (cut short because two loose boys were climbing in and out of all the shower stalls) we selected not quite the cheapest tub and then tried to wipe off the face print on one of the glass doors.
We moved on to the aisles filled with PVC parts and one boys got upset because he couldn’t push the cart. Apparently, he didn’t remember that he’d been banned from cart-pushing for life after the last trip to Wal-Mart when he tried to pop wheelies while his brother was inside the cart. He also thought it was great fun to play NASCAR around the endcaps, nearly taking an old lady’s foot off. He humphed that life wasn’t fair and something about giving people another chance, but I chose to ignore it.
I’m not sure what has happened. It never used to be a problem taking our children into a retail establishment. Sometime after 3.5 kids, I lost control of the little critters. Perhaps we finally got outnumbered. Or older. Or more distracted. Or maybe they just got smarter and stronger.
I told hubby that I now know why my Dad kept us all in the van while Mom shopped for groceries BY HERSELF. How he survived with seven kids cooped up for what seemed like hours in a minivan is nothing short of a miracle.
Back to reality in the plumbing department: we now had an entire cart full of wyes, elbows and tees. Eldest son was dispatched to get another cart and the fight was on. Who would get to push the second cart? We’re not as dumb as we may look. Mom got one. Dad took the other. Problem solved.
We took the two heaping carts of plastic plumbing pieces to the front. Checkout took 15 minutes and the receipt was three feet long. The cashier wished us well as we left. I believe his exact words were “Have fun!”
Unfortunately, the trip wasn’t over yet. We crammed in for a 20-minutes trip to Plymouth in search of a whirlpool tub for the master bath. We weren’t smart enough to bring snacks to distract the boys - and they had already lost their DQ privileges for their antics at the last place.
Store #2 wasn’t another adventure. Hubby caved into pushing a car cart that only fit two. And all four wanted in - after all it was a #48 Jimmie Johnson car. Boy #1 was told he couldn’t ride in it wearing a Dale Earnhardt hat. (Don’t even ask me how I know this - NASCAR has taken over our house.)
The other boys switched off, each arguing that the other got to ride longer. Thankfully the search here was quick - we picked the first tub we saw and figured we could live with it if it turned out to be too small, too big or too white.
Evidently boy #2 caught on that Dad was stressed, because back in the truck, he put his arm around Dad’s shoulder, as if to comfort him. Occasionally he would pat his father on the back, smiling the whole while, like this trip was exactly what he would have chosen to do, tight quarters and all.
I wonder sometimes if we’re getting uptight in our old age, letting little things like shopping cart derbies get the best of us. Do we expect too much out of four boys who (from what I can tell) are just being boys? Should we be sitting back, like our seven-year-old, and enjoying the ride wherever it takes us? Not many people can say they’ve traveled in a pickup with five other people, two of whom are a bit smelly. We might be packed in, but we’re usually in good company. Time moves so fast, that soon the ride with these boys will be over.
Lord willing we’ll still get a few more shopping adventures to experience.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
conversations
The banter at the dinner table is getting rather interesting.
The two-year-old makes bald-faced statements in a rather yelling tone: "I big, you widdle!" And then he'll repeat himself 17 times while trying to shove as many fries into his mouth as possible.
If anyone should happen to argue with him, say to tell him he's little, he simply reiterates himself at a louder decibel. The other boys have tried to convince him he's wrong, but with limited success. He can just about out-shout any of them.
The four-year-old apparently can't stand to be upstaged. "I'm smart, you're wrong!" Number Three tells his younger brother.
"I big," Little Brother insists.
"Uh, uh - then what's two plus two?"
Blank look at that one.
"See, you're little, I'm smart," Big Brother taunts.
"You dumb" is Number Four's completely serious response.
Big Brother can't convince him of anything else after that. He finally gives up and leaves the table. Toddler is unfazed - he simply starts talking to himself, "I big, you wrong."
"I mart, you wrong."
Maybe he's talking to the hamburger that he refused to eat. I suppose it's hard to eat something with which you're conversing. I wouldn't be surprised if he figures out he's bigger than the burger and starts telling it so.
The two-year-old makes bald-faced statements in a rather yelling tone: "I big, you widdle!" And then he'll repeat himself 17 times while trying to shove as many fries into his mouth as possible.
If anyone should happen to argue with him, say to tell him he's little, he simply reiterates himself at a louder decibel. The other boys have tried to convince him he's wrong, but with limited success. He can just about out-shout any of them.
The four-year-old apparently can't stand to be upstaged. "I'm smart, you're wrong!" Number Three tells his younger brother.
"I big," Little Brother insists.
"Uh, uh - then what's two plus two?"
Blank look at that one.
"See, you're little, I'm smart," Big Brother taunts.
"You dumb" is Number Four's completely serious response.
Big Brother can't convince him of anything else after that. He finally gives up and leaves the table. Toddler is unfazed - he simply starts talking to himself, "I big, you wrong."
"I mart, you wrong."
Maybe he's talking to the hamburger that he refused to eat. I suppose it's hard to eat something with which you're conversing. I wouldn't be surprised if he figures out he's bigger than the burger and starts telling it so.
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