I told you about my chill child last week, and he is pretty chill most of the time. Except when he’s not. Like those days I pick him up from school and he’s got a scowl on his face and the conversation goes something like this:
“Hey sweetheart, how was your da – “
“WHY DO YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS?”
I swear there was some planet in retrograde for our entire household last week. The same morning started off with the other child slamming doors and books and throwing shoes around on his way downstairs.
“Mom, will you please, just —WHY ARE WE ALWAYS LATE?”
I happened to be waiting, keys in hand, to drive him to school. So I had no answer. At least not one that wasn’t going to get me yelled at. (more…)
There are people whose mouths write checks their bodies can’t cash, whose bravado is bigger than their brawn. Who can be guaranteed to bristle at the slightest confrontation.
You know ‘em. People for whom the competition is a bigger deal than the actual feat, whose entire psyche is one, big button waiting to be pushed.
You might think this is something with which I’ve gained familiarity by virtue of being surrounded by adolescent boys. Nope. If anyone around here is prone to chest-thumping smack talk, it’s me. I’m a big talker, and without anything in particular to back it up.
There’s something about suggesting I sit something out, or wondering if I have the chops for anything in particular that will inspire my most irrational behavior.
I have two years of high school cross-country as evidence. I slogged my way through the first year, hating every step, to prove my dad wrong when he called me out for volunteering as team manager in order to earn a letter without doing any actual, athletic-ish work. I signed up for the second year to prove I don’t ever do anything to prove anything to anyone.
Then there were two seasons where I umpired my kid’s little league team even though I’d never actually even played baseball, or probably even watched a whole game. That particular behavior brought about by a team manager who shot off his big, dumb man mouth:
“I dunno, I guess a mom could do it.” (more…)
Dear anonymous letter writer,
Your note made its way to a few of us this week:
Thought he could tell time. We have a big clock in the living room. The kind with a face and Roman numerals. I guess that could be hard to read on the fly. Too bad there are also only two to three additional clocks in pretty much every room in the house.
Our youngest child has apparently never learned how to use them. He’s always asking me what time it is.
Thought he knew how to tie his shoes. Not sure why that same child insists on running around with his laces undone more than half the time. Is it a fashion statement? Did I miss a memo?
Thought sitting outside on a bench in 65 degree, sunny weather for 20 minutes wouldn’t do him any harm. I was wrong. It nearly did him in, poor thing, having to wait while I picked up his brother across town. He got sweaty. He was bored. Things could have escalated before I finally showed. It could have been tragic.
Trusted that no homework on Friday meant no homework on Sunday. How is it that math assignments are always popping up out of the blue, inspiring panic and outrage the day before the school week starts again? I think I remember having a conversation about homework on the ride home from school Friday. There wasn’t any, then. Not a stitch.
I totally get this one. Math usually pops out at me unexpectedly, too. Ruins my day. Damn math. (more…)
Future hobos: the early years. Kitchen demolition experts.
I recently subscribed to one of those services that delivers a box of ingredients and instructions for dinner to your door every week because:
True Fact #1: Parenting gurus say if you don’t sit down to a family dinner on a regular basis your children will one day be hobos.
True Fact #2: There are people around here who might not live to see hobo-hood, and the whole dinner process is part of the problem.
First there’s the whole question of what’s for dinner, to which the answer is usually “I dunno,” or “doesn’t matter.” But when we all gather at the table it will inevitably dawn on one or more of these people that it jolly well does matter and I somehow forgot that fish flambé or whatever I’ve fixed is expressly verboten, and that’s when the nightly Pouring Of The Cereal commences. (more…)
It used to be that Spring break was just a healthy opportunity to exercise my ability to ignore what sounded like a passel of wild pigs mowing through my kitchen every five minutes, and people pawing at me with complaints about boredom, while coming to grips with the fact that we’re staring down the barrel of summer and a full three months of this nonsense just around the bend.
But NO MORE. Spring break is now also the kickoff of a good, solid reason to be jolly. Treefort Music Fest. For the next few days, something like 400 bands will be performing in about a dozen venues downtown.
For every one of the past five years of this event, we’ve taken time off, stocked the freezer with frozen foods, and I’ve organized what I’m going to wear around comfortable shoes. With apologies to my lovingly ignored progeny, Treefort is the single best thing to happen to Spring break. (more…)
I talk a lot in this blog about running and skiing, but in the interest of complete disclosure, we’re not really a sporty family. Being a “meh” mom isn’t conducive to raising the next Carl Lewis or Shaun White.
Our experience with kid sports is miles wide and inches deep. This is because, while neither kid shows any phenomenal athletic ability, it feels like good parenting when whatever they’re doing doesn’t involve a screen and/or headphones. When someone shows half a mind to sign up for whatever’s in season, we’re supportive.
Track season just started again for our youngest, just as skiing season winds down. Before I tackle the three-page permission-slash-doctor’s-release-slash-fundraising-agreement Colin just handed me, I thought I’d share my parental perspective on various sports. (more…)
We bought a painting of a monkey at a benefit auction a couple of months ago. The artist painted it in honor of the Chinese New Year.
I know next to nothing about Chinese astrology, but the painting ended up being one of those things I HAD TO HAVE, because that’s generally the way I approach charity. We took it home with some ballet tickets and a certificate for a month’s worth of guitar lessons.
I was procrastinating recently and looked up “Year of the Monkey,” – procrastination being generally the way I approach life – which is how I found out I was actually born in a monkey year, and that monkey years are supposed to be mostly disastrous for us monkeys.
This discovery lead to the following conversation with Mike:
Me: Hey, did you know it’s the year of the monkey, and I was born in a monkey year?
Me: That means 2016 is supposed to be a disaster for me, mostly, especially in health and my love life. …. And I’m supposed to be cautious about traffic.
Mike: What do you care about the Chinese Zodiac? You’re German. And Irish.
Me: It also says I’m to expect significant financial gain in 2016.
Mike: … Well, maybe you’re a little Chinese.
Just so we’re clear, I’m married to someone who’s okay with my being a disaster in love and health as long as I bring home the bacon. (more…)
Last week’s list of how to annoy teenagers without even trying was something I almost didn’t publish out of guilt.
My kids are okay people, and by that I mean they give us way less trouble than people want to believe of teenagers. I also mean they inspire a whole bunch of gooshy, happy feelings the expression of which would get me kicked out of the snarky parents club.
I didn’t expect that of parenting. What I expected was to be at a point by now where I was counting the days until our oldest was leaving.
When I was on a business trip in December, there was a woman who got really gloomy toward the end of the week. She didn’t want to leave because she’d be returning to a home recently absented by her grown daughter.
I may have lacked the appropriate amount of empty-nester empathy. (more…)
Woke him by barging into his room first thing in the morning to make sure he wasn’t dead after his alarm had been blaring for ten solid minutes
Barged in again when there was no further sign of movement for another twenty minutes …
… while busting out a refrain from The Sound of Music
Reminded him that it was approaching 7am, and that (in a dramatic, movie trailer voice) the bus waits for no man
Suggested he change into clean clothes
Clarified that by “clean” I usually mean “clothes that don’t look like you’ve slept in them”
“….or like they’ve been balled up in pile in the corner”