Remind me why I sent the girls to Girl Scout camp this week, dear readers? Not only do we miss out on a week of field trips and the beach, but I get a lovely preview of the beginning of the school year, with all the shaking out of bed, forcing of breakfasts down throats and burst blood vessels while screaming for children to get in the van that entails. I know, I know, enriching experiences (archery!), and gaining independence, blah, blah, blah.
This morning was a test of that last one - for both myself and #1.
The morning routine for camp requires us all to be in the van by eight in the morning, in order for us to pick up the other two girls we car pool with, and make the twenty-five minute drive into the wilds of New Jersey. "Wilds" being far enough for the camp not to be in the parking lot of a mall. This is even earlier than we leave for school, so needless to say we're pretty rushed - especially after six weeks of no schedule at all. We've barely been making it by the skin of our hastily brushed teeth. This morning was no different, and for some reason, as we approached the entrance to the camp, I began to worry I had swapped the girls' sandwiches by mistake. This has happened before at school, and since #2 eats anything, she happily munches away, and by the time #1 has found her in the lunch room half her peanut butter sandwich is gone and she is left with #2's completely inedible (in her opinion) turkey sandwich. So I ask my eldest to check and hear the words that send every mother's heart plummeting to the depths of her chest after a frantic morning of preparing for school/camp, "I forgot my lunch."
"FUUUUUUUCCCKKK!"
That is what I wanted to scream, but didn't. I had planned a morning of grocery shopping and a playdate for Little Man, I really didn't have time to drive an extra hour to retrieve and deliver a forgotten lunch. What does #1 say about this? Does she offer an apology or ask what should she do? Nope. She continues to play the license plate game with her friend and my rage slowly starts to build. "This little shit expects me to make this right. She isn't giving this a thought." This, I'm afraid, is a situation of my own creation, dear readers. A little background...
Beginning in second grade, my mother returned to work. My sister and I were shuttled, during the pre-school and after-school hours, to various relatives and day care centers, until we were old enough to stay home alone, approximately around the time I was in fourth grade, the same age #1 is now. If, in the normal course of events, I forgot my book report, or my lunch, I got points taken off my grade and ate the awful school hot lunch of franks and beans. Nobody was running over to the school to bring me the overdue library book I had forgotten on the kitchen table. I was going to have to face the consequences of my actions, and the pissed off librarian, again. While I appreciate my parents were in a situation they themselves were not big fans of, and I understand the choices they had to make, it's not much consolation when you're the only kid who doesn't have the paper bag for puppet making. Basically, once I left the doors of my house, I felt I was completely on my own.
One could say this early exposure to self-sufficiency is what helped shape me into the responsible child I became - or turned me into a detail-obsessed, control freak. Either way, having to be responsible for my own actions, or lack of action, thereof, taught me quickly that checklists and a quick mental run through before one leaves for the day is pretty helpful. This experience really affected my decision about whether to stay at home and many decisions I make about how I raise my kids. I help them make lists and try to foster as much independence as I can, but I have to confess, when they drop the ball, I'm the one to pick it up - and deliver it to the school's main office before lunch. So often, in fact*, passing #1's open classroom door on the way to the office one day, after having run home to fetch her forgotten gym sneakers, her teacher shouted out, "Go get a cup of coffee and get out of here! She'll live!!!"
Today, dear readers, I had had enough. Arriving at camp, I pulled #1 aside and told her how upset I was that she all but ignored the fact she had no lunch, leading me to believe she assumed I would take care of it in a snap. I informed her of my grocery and play date plans and asked her how she thought having to drop her lunch fit in. I ended by telling her, "When you mess up, and it creates more work for me, you need to apologize. I'm not your slave, I'm your mother." At which point, my sensitive child burst into tears and apologized, making me want to rip the skin off my own body with the guilt. But, even though it was hard, I'm glad I said it. I will not become one of the disturbingly increasing number of parents who do things such as type their kid's hand-written paper because he didn't leave enough time, or blames the boss for firing their constantly tardy child from their summer job at Dairy Queen. And if and when I choose to catch her when she falls, she'd better realize it and at what cost. I can not produce daughters who expect to serve their families completely with no thought for themselves, or a son who expects to be waited on hand and foot! (Such manic projections, tend to be made before nine in the morning fueled by too much caffeine, but are still valid.)
Informing #1's counselor of the forgotten edibles, I was told the camp could easily provide a lunch for her. Huzzah! Here was my O. Henry moment! My child would learn her lesson in minding her P's and Q's** the same way her mother did, with an overly salty tray of artificial meat! Then of course, she came home and told me lunch was a make-your-own peanut butter and jelly on a white roll (we only eat wheat bread), and apple (which she likes and normally gets in her lunch) and four Oreos (aforementioned apple is the dessert). "Can I get camp lunch every day?"
Sure, if you remember to bring in the form.
*I'd like to defend my eldest child by admitting that roughly 40% of the time, it is my own forgetfulness that requires I run the t-shirt for tie-dying over before Art. Nothing sucks worse than not being prepared and it's your mother's fault.
** Or her six P's according to my father in-law, "Proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance".
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Monday, August 8, 2011
Sister Wives
I was a little light with the posting last week as one of my best friends, of annual Boston trip fame, B, braved the six hour drive from the wilds of New Hampshire, with her two children under the age of eight in tow, and came to spend a few days in suburban New Jersey.
It was bit of a Country Mouse/City Mousse scenario. I started B out slowly, taking her and the kids to the park and town pool the first day, before dragging them along on a Mean Mommy summer field trip to The Land of Make Believe, a local amusement park. B is a powerhouse of a woman, she works from home, is raising two well-behaved children, as well as maintaining a huge vegetable garden, canning her own produce and making her own maple syrup, both of which she brought as gifts. She has kindly ignored the fact that I give my children Aunt Jemima, but now after this visit, I have discovered the grade of syrup she makes and has gotten my children hooked on is the most expensive. And did I mention she keeps chickens? CHICKENS! I knew this trip would be a bit of a culture shock to her and the kids, and I had already tested the limits, giving B's children ice cream twice in one day and keeping her little one up past seven o'clock the night before, but I hoped our trip to LOMB wouldn't be pushing it too far. B handled it like a trooper though, even when the tidal pool became epically overcrowded on such a beautiful August Friday. I even discovered, on a trip to the bathroom, that the ramp to the lazy river had become dappled with shit-covered footprints after some toddler let a nugget slip out of his/her diaper. I neglected to tell her fearing she would immediately run for the exit.
Despite the fact that my friend wanted to kill me, or rather because I know she stifled the impulse, I love her even more. We had a great time managing the tasks of motherhood together, and during her visit it became even clearer to me how much we all should really be living with female relatives or friends. I have written about it before, but I had never been in a long-term situation, where another mother and myself were caring for our children together alone (or practically, so late does H work). I not only had the benefit of female companionship, but an extra set of hands to lighten the load. Scratch that, not just lighten the load, but see when the load was getting too heavy and know what part to take. I was cooking dinner and B was setting the table, I was loading the dishwasher and she was putting away the leftovers. Packing for LOMB in the morning, I was not struck with one of my tension headaches, trying to pack lunches and the bag of towels and assorted crap. B did the food while I packed the bags. Its' even better when you feed your children similarly, or one of you feeds her kids even healthier than you do - that being B, whose kids don't even drink juice - so you don't have to worry about anyone packing Ho-Ho's as morning snack like a certain husband would do. And don't even get me started on running errands. Realizing I was out of the lemons I needed for dinner, I ran to the corner market after feeding the kids lunch, and, in addition to not having to turn a ten minute job into a thirty minute one, I returned to a clean kitchen and happily playing children. We started calling each other "Sister Wives" ala the TLC show - minus the Sammy Hagar knock-off husband.
There were tears upon B's departure, my kids crying already missing their friends, and her kids crying from lack of sleep, too much artificial coloring, and too many Disney movies. I cried not only because it wouldn't be until November that I would see my bestie again, but because of all the work I now would have to do alone, and with no funny conversation to make it more enjoyable. I know the extended family scenario is tough, and we all enjoy our privacy - I think T is enjoying his ability to fart freely once again -but I still wonder if I would be a better mother if I always had back-up. Motherhood is like a war and no one should be in the trenches alone.
It was bit of a Country Mouse/City Mousse scenario. I started B out slowly, taking her and the kids to the park and town pool the first day, before dragging them along on a Mean Mommy summer field trip to The Land of Make Believe, a local amusement park. B is a powerhouse of a woman, she works from home, is raising two well-behaved children, as well as maintaining a huge vegetable garden, canning her own produce and making her own maple syrup, both of which she brought as gifts. She has kindly ignored the fact that I give my children Aunt Jemima, but now after this visit, I have discovered the grade of syrup she makes and has gotten my children hooked on is the most expensive. And did I mention she keeps chickens? CHICKENS! I knew this trip would be a bit of a culture shock to her and the kids, and I had already tested the limits, giving B's children ice cream twice in one day and keeping her little one up past seven o'clock the night before, but I hoped our trip to LOMB wouldn't be pushing it too far. B handled it like a trooper though, even when the tidal pool became epically overcrowded on such a beautiful August Friday. I even discovered, on a trip to the bathroom, that the ramp to the lazy river had become dappled with shit-covered footprints after some toddler let a nugget slip out of his/her diaper. I neglected to tell her fearing she would immediately run for the exit.
Despite the fact that my friend wanted to kill me, or rather because I know she stifled the impulse, I love her even more. We had a great time managing the tasks of motherhood together, and during her visit it became even clearer to me how much we all should really be living with female relatives or friends. I have written about it before, but I had never been in a long-term situation, where another mother and myself were caring for our children together alone (or practically, so late does H work). I not only had the benefit of female companionship, but an extra set of hands to lighten the load. Scratch that, not just lighten the load, but see when the load was getting too heavy and know what part to take. I was cooking dinner and B was setting the table, I was loading the dishwasher and she was putting away the leftovers. Packing for LOMB in the morning, I was not struck with one of my tension headaches, trying to pack lunches and the bag of towels and assorted crap. B did the food while I packed the bags. Its' even better when you feed your children similarly, or one of you feeds her kids even healthier than you do - that being B, whose kids don't even drink juice - so you don't have to worry about anyone packing Ho-Ho's as morning snack like a certain husband would do. And don't even get me started on running errands. Realizing I was out of the lemons I needed for dinner, I ran to the corner market after feeding the kids lunch, and, in addition to not having to turn a ten minute job into a thirty minute one, I returned to a clean kitchen and happily playing children. We started calling each other "Sister Wives" ala the TLC show - minus the Sammy Hagar knock-off husband.
There were tears upon B's departure, my kids crying already missing their friends, and her kids crying from lack of sleep, too much artificial coloring, and too many Disney movies. I cried not only because it wouldn't be until November that I would see my bestie again, but because of all the work I now would have to do alone, and with no funny conversation to make it more enjoyable. I know the extended family scenario is tough, and we all enjoy our privacy - I think T is enjoying his ability to fart freely once again -but I still wonder if I would be a better mother if I always had back-up. Motherhood is like a war and no one should be in the trenches alone.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Whining or no whining?
Did you see on the news recently that some restaurants and airlines are considering becoming child-free, not allowing families with children to use their services? Weren't you just waiting for me to lash out, express my rage, and belittle those close-minded individuals who can not accept that children are part of the world at large? Well, keep waiting. I think it's a fan-friggin'-tastic idea.
"What?", you say. "Is this the same woman who railed against the insensitive cretins she had to deal with on her sojourn to Florida?" Yes, yes, it is. Know why? Because if these child-free options become reality, for every glare, and beleaguered sigh I receive at restaurants for my well-behaved children having needs, or for merely existing, I would be able to snark back, "Don't like it? Go eat at Pas d'Enfants!!!" The jerks who roll their eyes when on a flight with a crying baby, while also deserving to spend the afterlife listening to that same sound for not having an ounce of compassion for someone trapped in a desperate situation, can easily escape this fate and spare the rest of us breeders their angst, by flying No Rugrats Airlines.
Even I , mother of three and all, would benefit from these options. Remember my big anniversary trip with H, where I was almost forced to watch NIckelodeon's morning line-up with my eight dollar coffee in the hotel's private lounge? Nothing sucks more than having gotten away from your own children, and then being subjected to the same noise and chaos you wanted to escape from - usually at an inappropriate hour and location, with minimal parental control. I can guarantee myself some child-free time when I have gotten rid of my progeny? Where do I sign up?
Some parents are in an uproar about this. As parents, we are so in love with our own children, we expect the rest o the world to be. Well, most people do. I firmly believe nobody cares about my kids except for me and a few others they share large portions of genetic material with. Can we all just give up this need for validation and accept that no one thinks Junior's rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus" is as cute as you do - especially the hundredth time trapped in an enclosed space hurtling through the air? It's not an insult to your kid specifically, nor does it invalidate your choice to be a parent, when other people actively dislike being around children. I even try to bear this thought in mind when forced into contact with the child-intolerant (although running my kid over with a garbage can, or on the way to the toilet, kind of impairs my ability to play devil's advocate).
Let's get behind this movement, people! Think of your next date night. You race around, trying to get dressed while feeding the kids pizza and setting up the movie and snack for the sitter to bribe them with. Prying sticky fingers from your hastily blown-out hair, you bolt for the door, speed like your driving a getaway car to make your reservation, collapse into your seat with a glass of wine and...you hear "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGEBOB SQUARE PANTS!!!!", blaring from an iPad propped up in front of a three year-old at the next table.
Check please.
"What?", you say. "Is this the same woman who railed against the insensitive cretins she had to deal with on her sojourn to Florida?" Yes, yes, it is. Know why? Because if these child-free options become reality, for every glare, and beleaguered sigh I receive at restaurants for my well-behaved children having needs, or for merely existing, I would be able to snark back, "Don't like it? Go eat at Pas d'Enfants!!!" The jerks who roll their eyes when on a flight with a crying baby, while also deserving to spend the afterlife listening to that same sound for not having an ounce of compassion for someone trapped in a desperate situation, can easily escape this fate and spare the rest of us breeders their angst, by flying No Rugrats Airlines.
Even I , mother of three and all, would benefit from these options. Remember my big anniversary trip with H, where I was almost forced to watch NIckelodeon's morning line-up with my eight dollar coffee in the hotel's private lounge? Nothing sucks more than having gotten away from your own children, and then being subjected to the same noise and chaos you wanted to escape from - usually at an inappropriate hour and location, with minimal parental control. I can guarantee myself some child-free time when I have gotten rid of my progeny? Where do I sign up?
Some parents are in an uproar about this. As parents, we are so in love with our own children, we expect the rest o the world to be. Well, most people do. I firmly believe nobody cares about my kids except for me and a few others they share large portions of genetic material with. Can we all just give up this need for validation and accept that no one thinks Junior's rendition of "The Wheels on the Bus" is as cute as you do - especially the hundredth time trapped in an enclosed space hurtling through the air? It's not an insult to your kid specifically, nor does it invalidate your choice to be a parent, when other people actively dislike being around children. I even try to bear this thought in mind when forced into contact with the child-intolerant (although running my kid over with a garbage can, or on the way to the toilet, kind of impairs my ability to play devil's advocate).
Let's get behind this movement, people! Think of your next date night. You race around, trying to get dressed while feeding the kids pizza and setting up the movie and snack for the sitter to bribe them with. Prying sticky fingers from your hastily blown-out hair, you bolt for the door, speed like your driving a getaway car to make your reservation, collapse into your seat with a glass of wine and...you hear "Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGEBOB SQUARE PANTS!!!!", blaring from an iPad propped up in front of a three year-old at the next table.
Check please.
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