Kids

Kids
Easter Pic

Friday, December 17, 2010

Our Elf on the Shelf Disaster…



    I have been desperate this Christmas season to find ways to help my son stay off Santa’s naughty list this year.  He has been atrocious.  My latest idea has been to purchase an “Elf on the Shelf”.  It is a cute idea.  The set ran me a ridiculous $30 for an elf and a book, but as a parent of a naughty boy, there is no price too high for good behavior.  The elf came and Ford named it Elvis.  The book details that there are only two rules: You cannot touch the elf or he loses his Christmas magic and the elf is not allowed to talk to the children.  Ford IMMEDIATELY said that he knew the elf was fake and that he wanted to hold Elvis.  How, might I ask, did I get such a jaded four year old?  Elvis was already on top of the computer armoire when Ford arrived home from school.  I was SURE he would not be able to reach it.  I was wrong.

That evening Ford came running in, triumphantly waving Elvis and yelling, “I have ALL his Christmas magic” in a classic cartoon villain voice.  Nice.  I sent him to his room and hid Elvis and when he came downstairs I said that Elvis had disappeared.  Ford seemed alternately nonplussed and worried that the elf was no longer in the house.  The next morning Elvis was at the top of the Christmas tree with a note from Santa explaining that he was giving Ford another chance to be a good boy.

Unfortunately, Elvis has done nothing to improve Ford’s behavior.    Apparently Ford decides when Elvis can see him and when he can’t.  I forgot to move him to another place last night and Ford was disappointed when he hadn’t moved in the morning.  I told him that the weather had been too dangerous for Elvis to travel to the North Pole.  So at this point I am out $30, am stuck trying to remember to move an elf every night, and my child doesn’t seem to care that Elvis, Santa, God… ANYONE is watching him.  At his age I would have been a neurotic mess trying to make sure I was good for everyone, terrified that Santa or the elf would be disappointed in me.  I can’t decide if I am happy that Ford didn’t inherit my people pleasing tendencies, or if I am just plain tired….

His sister, on the other hand, seems determined to out-do Elvis.  Her climbing skills have really improved in the last month or so, and every time I leave the room I return to find her standing on some piece of furniture, or clinging to a bookcase, or shut in a closet, or emptying the pantry, or stuck behind the couch.  As with her brother, no amount of time out or other penalties seem to phase her.  It is a good thing she is so darn cute.  She doesn’t understand about Elvis yet, but I am pretty sure next year he will be watching yet another naughty child…

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Singing on the Train...

It was windy outside when my mother woke me up for school.  I could hear rain pummeling the metal storm shutters we closed every night over the windows for privacy.
    “The news said there is a tropical storm coming.  What did they say at school yesterday?  Should you still go?” my mother asked. 
    “I don’t know,” I answered.  I knew what to do if there was an earthquake or a tsunami, but a tropical storm?
    “The rain is coming down sideways.”
I sighed. When the rain came down sideways I left my umbrella in my bag.  It was useless.  The wind would only turn it inside out.  I would have to wear the purple slicker my mother bought me.  What an embarrassment.
    “You should probably get ready to go, just in case.”
I heard my mother rouse my sister and brother and carry the baby downstairs.  Meg waited in my doorway.  She is not a morning person.  We had to take a shower together in the ofuroba, a Japanese bathroom, so as not to waste water.  My mother cleaned its tiled walls nearly every day to cut down on the mold, which grew anyway.  I longed for a soak in the tub, but that was only for special occasions.  It was too expensive to heat the water every day.   Meg and I took turns reaching for the towels placed just outside the door. It was useless for both of us to get cold. Japanese homes are not usually insulated so the cold seeps in.  I could see my breath in the hallway as we raced into my parents’ bedroom, doors closed to conserve the heat from the kerosene heater.  There we would find our school uniforms, neatly pressed, waiting on the bed.
I poked my head out of the paper, shoji, door that separated my parents’ bedroom from the family room and kitchen.
    “Anything from the school yet?”
    “No. Your breakfast is ready.”
    Could you please call?  I wondered to myself silently.  My mother would never call.  She never called anyone.  She never spoke to anyone she didn’t know. Once my brother brought a Japanese woman home from the park.  She was a newly converted evangelical Christian, eager to practice her English and spread her faith.  When my brother buzzed the intercom to let my mother know he was coming in the gate with a new friend she yelled, “I don’t speak English” into the receiver and refused to open the door until the visitor was gone.
I sighed.
We ate our breakfast in silence and then dutifully piled in the car.  On the way to the train station I glanced at the clock, 5:37am.  We were never going to make the 5:40 train.  The station seemed more crowded than usual.  It smelled like cigarettes and hair gel, the kind old men use to slick back their hair. There would be a greasy film on the train car windows.  We were stuffed, like marshmallows in a plastic bag, onto the train.  Sometimes it was so crowded my feet left the ground.
No one sings on the trains in Japan.  No one speaks.  No one looks directly at another human being.  We were in complete isolation.  Sometimes my blue eyes or my sister’s wildly curly hair attracted attention. Children on their way to school would point at us- gaijin, foreigners.
Once my garish, enormous, turquoise Beverly Hills 90210-lunch box got stuck in the doors as they closed. I was mortified. An attendant violently shoved the lunch box in with a baton without even a glance in my direction.
 I clung to my adopted little brother who looks almost Japanese even though he is Korean, so small he was frequently pulled out of the train with the departing passengers.  He would then blend into the crowd, making it nearly impossible for me to find him before the doors closed and the train left.  Once I did lose him.  The rule was for him to wait at the train station until I could take a train in the opposite direction and retrieve him.  I called “Chris-to-pher” into the crowd several times.  No answer. My palms began to sweat as I imagined his scared lost face as our train pulled away from him.   I tried to see over the other passengers, but there was not enough room for me to turn my head. Suddenly there was an umbrella poking out between two people.  They grunted in frustration and tried to move away.  The umbrella was soon followed by a hand, and then a squished little face.  As Christopher poked and squirmed he inched is way closer to where Margaret and I were standing.  When he was safely wedged between me and Margaret he said triumphantly, “I used my umbrella,” and smiled hugely.  Nothing ever phased him for long. When little old Japanese women asked him questions in department stores he would grin at them and speak in complete gibberish.  They probably thought he was retarded, a fact we reminded him of often when he was a teenager. 
While I was in middle school I believe my sister Meg’s sole mission in life was to embarrass me.  At first she tried little things, speaking in a slightly raised voice, pointedly smiling at passengers who refused to look at her.  I would beg her, plead with her, to stop.  Once we were picking up her uniform skirt from a department store in Yokohama.  All of our uniforms were hand-me-downs from other, richer, students, except hers.  I was already jealous.  Christopher, who believed it was as much his mission to annoy Meg as it was hers to annoy me, began to taunt her.
“I’m not touching. I’m not touching.” He jumped in front of her and waved is little fingers in her face.  Before I could respond with a motherly scolding Meg began to hit him with the box that containing her brand new skirt.  This went on for several minutes, my begging, her hitting, and him shrieking.  I am sure it was a confusing sight to the passengers waiting for the red train that day.  Two gaijin ganging up on a little Asian boy. 
At this time in our lives we were convinced that my mother knew everything, had spies everywhere.  So, when we arrived home that evening, we sheepishly told my parents what had happened. As we learned from my brother who lied, badly, constantly, there was usually a lesser punishment for children who came clean immediately, rather than waiting for the parental unit to find out. Dad explained that misbehavior could impact him at work if his commanding officer was notified that LCDR Rennix’s children were acting up on the trains.  From then on I lived in constant fear that we would get my father fired.  I also think we were grounded, a punishment more humiliating than harmful.
No one sang on the trains, except my sister.
“STOP in the name of love…BE-FORE you BRE-AK my heart… Think it O-OVER.”
 I could hear it, but I couldn’t believe it.  Margaret was belting out the same line over and over again. She didn’t know the rest of the song.  There was enough room on the train that morning for her to incorporate dance movements as well.  The other passengers pretended not to notice her.
“Meggie, pul-eeze stop”
“STOP IN THE NAME OF LOVE,” she motioned for me to stop then held her hands over her heart. “THINK IT O-OVER,” she pointed to her head in time with the music. 
Though Margaret has a pretty singing voice now, she was decidedly tone deaf as child.  This, accompanied by jerky dance movements, created what I now consider a comical picture; but at twelve I thought my life was over.  My father would be fired and I would get in trouble for failing to control the situation.  Christopher was no help, doubled over with laughter.  He didn’t care if people looked at him.  Margaret eventually became bored with her game, but I remained humiliated.
Our trip consisted of three different trains, a total of forty-five minutes, and then a one mile walk up to St. Joseph’s International School in Ichicowa-cho.  Public buildings are always on the tops of mountains in Japan where no one can grow anything.  The trains usually run in the valleys with buses that bring people from valley to peak.  My parents believed that the buses were too expensive, so we walked.  The tropical storm lashed the train car with heavy waves of rain.  When we disembarked (30 minutes late) at the last station before our hike the wind picked up.  The rain ran down the streets and stairs that led to the school in small rivers.  Stores were barely open, storm shutters still closed with the faintest light inside visible through cracks in the doors. When we finally reached the school it was well into first period.  I half expected school to have been canceled so we could turn around and go home, but it wasn’t.  In the office the principal asked for our excuse for being late.
    “There is a tropical storm,” I said hopefully.  “We thought school would be canceled.”
    “A tropical storm.  Exactly.  Not a typhoon.  You are tardy.” He said tardy like we had committed a capital offense.  I had never been tardy before.  I could not even imagine what punishment it entailed.  As it turned out, tardy meant we went to class with a stern warning to come to school on time.  I was sure I would have to show the tardy slip to my mother.  But my siblings and I agreed that just this once we could forgo our policy of total disclosure and keep the tardy slip to ourselves.  It was one of the only things we agreed on for most of my adolescence.

My Addiction

I am addicted to coffee and chocolate, but find me a mom that isn’t and I will find her secret.  Those addictions make sense though.  I don’t get enough sleep, hence the coffee and I don’t get enough peace, hence the chocolate.  My real addiction isn’t rooted in any logic.  I am addicted to being pregnant and having babies.  I feel a surge of jealousy every time I see a round belly or hear that a friend is expecting.  I long to feel a baby using my organs for kickboxing practice.  It is one of the only times I feel beautiful.

I have been either pregnant or nursing since March of 2008.  My pregnancies are easy, and my labors are easier.  My last was only an hour and a half from start to finish and I felt fine within an hour of giving birth.  The nurses kept telling me, “You are just made to have babies!”  The problem is:  I am finished.  My husband made the final decision and took steps to make sure that Lily is permanently our youngest child.  And while I might pray every night that the surgery reverses itself, I know that the chances are less than probable.  I try to be grateful for the three beautiful children I already have, and I am, intensely grateful, but addictions don’t ever make sense.  Even though I have a five-month-old baby that I absolutely adore, I want to be pregnant again.  Given the right spouse I could give the Duggars a run for their money, and be happy to do it.  I guess in the grand scheme of things it is best that I have one that will cut me off before we run out of money and patience. 

So my question is:  Is there a cure?  There is no twelve-step program for those women who would like to be eternally pregnant or have a million babies.  There is no magic pill to keep me from crying when my son says he wants a baby brother to play with.  He told me today that he wants a little brother named George that will play sharks with him.  Ford even offered to share his room.  He said we could make room for all the babies.  I don’t know that four would be enough, though,  or even five.  I think I will always have this feeling that we could have “just one more”.  So if you are pregnant and you catch me looking at you I don’t think you are fat, I think you are beautiful, and I would trade places with you in an instant.

Monday, November 8, 2010

Dusting and other pointless chores…

Some people really get into spring-cleaning, but I am more of a fall cleaner.  In the spring I want to get out of the house after being cooped up all winter and the summer means Busch Gardens, Water Country, the beach, the pool, anywhere outside the house.  By the time the fall rolls around the dust bunnies are big enough to eat my children.  I keep a pretty clean house most of the time, but the dust is really my nemesis.  It could be argued that laundry and ironing are my least favorite chores, but at least I do them.  I can honestly say that I cannot remember the last time that I dusted, and that means it was before the baby was born, so at least 5 months ago. 

I am convinced that dusting, along with keeping a green lawn, are the most pointless and time consuming wastes of life.  Dusting is ridiculous.  There are a million products out there to help with dusting your home, but basically the dust just moves around.  I imagine that a man who wanted to keep his wife very occupied for the duration of their marriage devised the concept of dusting. Perhaps a woman who wanted to keep her husband outside, or in the garage, indefinitely, created the concept of a green lawn.  Americans spend hundreds, sometimes thousands, of dollars every year trying to keep their lawn green, weed free, and looking pristine.  I have tried to tell my husband that grass is not supposed to be green all year long.  It turns brown in the winter because it is supposed to, not because we have failed the lawn game.  During the hottest part of the summer our lawn looked like a dying crusty wasteland, but it was over 100 degrees outside.  I don’t care how much you water; the grass is going to die. 

Let’s not even get into the weed situation.  My philosophy is that if it is green it is welcome to reside in my lawn with the rest of my grass.  Unfortunately, my husband would like all the grass to look the same.  Now I have nothing against gardening.  Understand the beauty of flowers and other plants, even if I can’t get any to live.  I used to wonder if I would be a good parent based on the fact that I always kill the plants in my flowerbed.  I do best with those that thrive on neglect.  Too bad my house and lawn don’t work that way.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Navigating the Minefields of Mommyland….

    A blog I read this morning got me thinking, “What is the hardest part of motherhood?”  In my opinion, it isn’t dirty diapers, lack of sleep, or the terrible twos.  My biggest challenges have come from navigating my relationships with other moms.  One conversation could leave me riddled with self-doubt, mommy guilt or self-righteous indignation.  You see, every mom has an opinion on just about every subject relating to their kids.  Motherhood brings all kinds of people together.  When I was in college my friends were people who shared my political views and read the same books.  Now my friends are mothers of children who are the same age as my children.  I follow the same rules with my friends that I would in most social situations.  Don’t talk about sex, money, politics, or religion.  So what does that leave me to talk about?  The weather and being a mom. I think most of the time it would be easier to talk about religion…

    What most men don’t seem to understand about the stay-at-home mom is that I look at mothering the same way that I looked at going to work. This is my job.  While I don’t get quarterly reviews or pay raises, I take this job just as seriously. I want to be the best, and it has taken me years to realize that, unlike with most jobs, my finished product is out of my control.

    Want to avoid some serious, uncomfortable arguments with fellow moms? Here are my top five seriously friendship damaging topics to NEVER bring up or share about:


1) Breastfeeding
Everyone asks this question: So are you breastfeeding or using formula?  You have to navigate this question carefully.  If you say something like, “Well of course I am breastfeeding, ‘Breast is best!’” and then you find out that the mom that asked the question bottle-fed or was not successful at breastfeeding you can offend and hurt that mom.  Breastfeeding is a sensitive topic.  For some women it is easy, and comments like, “It doesn’t hurt if you are doing it right” or “It is the most natural thing in the world” make moms that have had difficulties feel terrible and inadequate.  An insensitive mom might even make the comment that those that don’t breastfeed are just lazy and would be successful if they tried hard enough. 

My advice: don’t talk about breastfeeding at all unless someone asks you for advice.  Even then, don’t dwell on the subject until you know someone REALLY well.  For example:  I had a conversation with a mother I barely knew about breastfeeding.  I thought that it would be safe.  I knew she breastfed and I was currently breastfeeding my second child.  I made a comment about how I thought it was strange if someone breastfed after a child turned one.  Twenty minutes later that mother was breastfeeding her almost 2 year old.  I felt terrible.  Now I know women who breastfeed children well over that age and I don’t even bat an eye.  Who am I to tell them it is strange?

2) Sleep Habits
Moms have some serious mommy guilt over this one.  Basically there are two camps: those moms who subscribe to an attachment parenting point of view and those moms that use cry it out, or the Ferber method.  Some AP moms co-sleep and some do not, but they believe that comforting their child to sleep is very important.  Moms who believe in cry-it-out want the child to learn to self-soothe.  Not being an AP mom myself, this has caused me many nights of tears and frustration.  I don’t like to hear my child cry, but at some point I need to sleep.  What is important is to realize that all moms are trying to do what is best for their child and judgment doesn’t help in either situation.

3) Discipline- To Spank or Not to Spank
This topic is better left to the caregivers who know the child best.  If you venture in this territory be sure to wear a pith helmet.  Some mothers believe that spanking is abuse, and others do it in the supermarket with witnesses.  Most moms range somewhere in the middle, but probably won’t tell you that.  It is best to leave this one well enough alone…

4) Car Seats
The latest debate about car seats makes me yearn for the “good old days” when you could just turn your child front facing on their first birthday.  Now the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that parents wait until a child is at least two and 35 pounds.  Of course, that means I would have been in a rear facing car seat until I was in the third grade, but I understand that we should try to keep our children as safe as possible.  Moms don’t agree on this issue… and mentioning that you think their child should be in xyz car seat… is a recipe for disaster… or at least a demolished friendship.

5) The Birth Plan
If it is natural or medicated all births are essentially the same…. A baby is born.  If it were up to me every woman would have a doula and at least try for a natural birth.  Pitocin would NEVER be administered unless there was an emergency… but it isn’t up to me.  To each her own.   If you think that men can get into a pissing contest, you have never seen women compare their birth stories. 

There are lots of other issues that can cause major missteps, but these have caused me the most problems.  I found that once I stopped talking and actually started listening to other moms the more I respected them, whatever their parenting decisions.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Election Day….

I will admit I have not paid any attention to this election.  I am not proud of my failure to keep up with all things adult, but I am just so exhausted.  I am -leave the keys in the freezer- forget where I am going- wandering around like I am lost- kind of tired.  I have two problems with the election this year. 
First: There is no preschool.
Second: Robo-caller hates me and only calls during naptime.
 I am not excited about taking my kids and the kids that I watch to go vote, especially since I have no idea who to vote for.  I have half a mind to write in Robocaller because he is the only “person” I have talked to about this election.  It was a pretty one sided conversation, mostly with me yelling about nap time and how much I hate elections, but I probably would have said the same thing to a candidate.

My priorities for today are to make a dent in the mountain of laundry that seems to accumulate every two or three days, try to work out, and take a nap.  More than likely I will only take a nap, if the girls decide to co-ordinate their naps today.  Ford and Grace are going to Nana’s house, so I will have a modicum of sanity, and only two children at the house.   Two children that are incapable of asking me every 20 seconds for food, entertainment, answers, and kids TV.  Whoever coined the phrase “Silence is golden” was obviously a mother of small children.