Let's Give Her Something to Blog ABout
At one point this afternoon, when Doodles was facedown on the front porch screaming and Pie was clutching at my leg wailing, my neighbor--who shall henceforth be referred to as Beetle--said to me, "This should be your blog for today." But the thing is, as I pointed out to her, is that this stuff doesn't translate well. You can't see the mournful way my son quivers his mouth as he lets out his earth-shattering shriek. You can't feel the death grip as little Pie squeezes onto my leg with every ounce of oomph that she has.
Today was just one of those days.
I should have known. I'd been having highly productive days recently, and I knew there'd be a payback day. This was it. It started off well enough. I had a great boot camp class. When I got home, contractors had started the demolition of the house sort of across and down the street and the kids were sitting on the front porch, a captive audience. But it also meant that it was impossible to get them inside, get them dressed, and out the door. We were late. Definitely late. Shoes on, people! Don't forget, you have water play first at camp, so wear the right shoes for the job!
Me: What shoes are you going to wear, Pie? Your water shoes or your Tevas?
Doodles: Those shoes [pointing to leather sandals]
Me: You can wear those after water play. But they'll be ruined in water play. What do you want to wear?
After much pouting and negotiation, she finally settled on the water shoes, which are an absolute bitch to get on. It seriously takes almost five minutes to cram her foot into these shoes. We're now in the Very Late category.
Me: Okay, great, your shoes are on, everyone, it's time to get into the car!
I let Doodles out to get in the car, and by the time I turn around. Pie has her shoes off.
Me: What are you doing?!?!
Pie: Put on shoes by my own self!
Me: We are LATE! What are you THINKING! Why didn't you say you wanted to do it yourself in the FIRST PLACE! Let me get those back on you.
Pie: NOOOOOOOO! DO IT MY OWN SELF!
Um, ballistic might be the right word for what I went through. But let's just say, I finally got those shoes on and the kids into the car. And no, we're not going to listen to Princess music!
I dropped the kids off at camp, but when I went to pay after shopping at the local farm stand, I realized that their "favorite books"--needed for Favorite Book Day at camp--were still in my purse.
So I dashed back to camp to deliver them. Then I dashed to the eye doctor's for my yearly exam. I hate going to the eye doctor. I don't just hate. I detest. There are those who fear the dentist. There are those who fear the gynecologist. I say, "Dentist, scrape away! Gynecologist, get thee thy speculum! Heck, Dentist, scrape away while I've got the speculum but Eye Doctor! Away with thee! I shun thee!" I've always had a serious eye phobia, stemming perhaps from when I was, I don't know, seven or eight, and while playing, sort of, accidentally, I don't know how, got a scissors poked into my eye. (Mom was right kids! Don't run with scissors!) Rush to the hospital, many strips of paper dipped in medicine dipped in my eye, this close to losing my vision in that eye, my stomach churning even now despite my having blocked most of it out. Oddly enough, nine years ago, I did suffer through Lasik surgery, and I have completely blocked that out, although that could do more with the extra doses of Valium they let me have than with anything else.
Okay, so let's get back to the here and now, shall we? I had an eye doctor appointment today. I always warn the assistant that I'm not a good patient, but I'm so jovial about it, they never take me seriously. Until it's time for the...duh duh duh...glaucoma test! Yes! Once again I made an eye assistant (technician? Nurse? what?) cry uncle and give up on me. The good doctor had to do it himself. I actually have an excellent eye doctor. Boston magazine called him "up and coming." But I still hate going. And I have to go yearly (as opposed to the rest of you people who only need to go every other year, and I bet 99% of you don't even go at all, lucky bastards with good eyes! Just wait! That glaucoma can really sneak up on you!) because I have "thin retinas." Yes, that's right. The one thing that can definitively be called thin on me is my retina. Go retina! Anyway, the point to this (a point? since when do I have a point?) is that my appointment was at 9:45. It was 10:55 by the time I got out of there. With fully dilated eyes. Which means one of my few days of kids in camp and I'm stuck with the ability to do, oh, nothing.
So I do busy work till it's time to pick up the kids. Kids aren't happy because they need to be picked up early to go to Doodles's feeding group. ("Mom, they're about to read a group story!" "Doodles, you're about to go eat fruit!") Since he eats at feeding group, I packed him just a snack for lunch: a cheese stick and carrots with hummus. And the boy? He ate the cheese stick. So he should have been starving. But he was so not into feeding group today. Not that he ever is, but today it was clearly more about control issues than about feeding group itself. I'm having many issues with the boy about control. He's pushing buttons, taking names, and generally being a real pain about things.
For instance, last week at the playground, I gave the kids a five-minute warning and a one-minute warning.
Then I said, "Time to go!"
Doodles yelled, "I want to go on the slide again," which didn't really mean slide down; it meant have a chat with his buddies on the top of the slide, which is not a fast process.
I told him, "We have to get to [the much loved] skating class. We need to go now."
Doodles proceeded to walk up three steps of the slide, and turned and looked me in the eye.
"Now," I said.
He climbed up two more steps.
"Doodles, I'm going to count to three and you'll lose your show! Get down!"
"No," he said, and climbed up another step.
No show for him that night!
But once again, there is a point, and the point is that Doodles and I are frequently at odds these days (any favorite parenting books out there that deal with this sudden change of attitude? The "I'm almost five, I'm going to kindergarten, I can do any damn thing I want!" attitude?). The point is that Doodles is having control issues and I felt really validated when it took two people and twenty minutes at food group to get him to eat. I felt horrible as it totally crushed him--he was in tears, refusing to eat--but it made me realize it's not just me!
So we head back to town. "We'll make a quick stop at the Farmer's Market and then we'll do whatever you want!"
What did they want? To fall asleep in the car. Before I could get to the market. So I transferred them inside and let them sleep for about 45 minutes, because even that, I knew, was going to wreak havoc on their nighttime sleep. I tried to wake them gently. "Hey guys! Do you guys want to have Popsicles and play with Tab [the girl across the street]?" They both muttered no and went back to sleep. I kept working on them, chanting, "Popsicles! The big lime ones! Popsicles! Popsicles!" until I finally got them up.
We sat on the porch with Tab, had some Popsicles in the brutal heat, and then the kids wanted to play. I made the highly unreasonable request that before Doodles play in the yard, he put on shoes. After all, there is a lot of construction going on on our street. So he went inside. To pout. For forty-five minutes. And I finally said to him, "Look, if you're going to be in a bad mood anyway, then I'm cutting your nails," something he hates and dreads and detests, probably as much as I hate the eye doctor. But I'm just a horrible person that way, insisting that when his nails get to be more than 1/2 an inch long that they need to be cut.
So we had a Doodles meltdown. And Pie, who was unhappy that I went inside to retrieve Doodles, decided to have a meltdown too. So Beetle and Tab are on the front porch swing, reading a Junie B. Jones book, while my kids are writhing all over the front porch, screaming the kind of screams that, if I had heard someone else's kids screaming, I would have called DSS on the parents. And that's when Beetle said to me, "You should blog about this today." Which I'm doing. So blame this entry on the Beetle. I'm going to bed.
Today was just one of those days.
I should have known. I'd been having highly productive days recently, and I knew there'd be a payback day. This was it. It started off well enough. I had a great boot camp class. When I got home, contractors had started the demolition of the house sort of across and down the street and the kids were sitting on the front porch, a captive audience. But it also meant that it was impossible to get them inside, get them dressed, and out the door. We were late. Definitely late. Shoes on, people! Don't forget, you have water play first at camp, so wear the right shoes for the job!
Me: What shoes are you going to wear, Pie? Your water shoes or your Tevas?Doodles: Those shoes [pointing to leather sandals]
Me: You can wear those after water play. But they'll be ruined in water play. What do you want to wear?
After much pouting and negotiation, she finally settled on the water shoes, which are an absolute bitch to get on. It seriously takes almost five minutes to cram her foot into these shoes. We're now in the Very Late category.
Me: Okay, great, your shoes are on, everyone, it's time to get into the car!
I let Doodles out to get in the car, and by the time I turn around. Pie has her shoes off.
Me: What are you doing?!?!
Pie: Put on shoes by my own self!
Me: We are LATE! What are you THINKING! Why didn't you say you wanted to do it yourself in the FIRST PLACE! Let me get those back on you.
Pie: NOOOOOOOO! DO IT MY OWN SELF!
Um, ballistic might be the right word for what I went through. But let's just say, I finally got those shoes on and the kids into the car. And no, we're not going to listen to Princess music!
I dropped the kids off at camp, but when I went to pay after shopping at the local farm stand, I realized that their "favorite books"--needed for Favorite Book Day at camp--were still in my purse.
So I dashed back to camp to deliver them. Then I dashed to the eye doctor's for my yearly exam. I hate going to the eye doctor. I don't just hate. I detest. There are those who fear the dentist. There are those who fear the gynecologist. I say, "Dentist, scrape away! Gynecologist, get thee thy speculum! Heck, Dentist, scrape away while I've got the speculum but Eye Doctor! Away with thee! I shun thee!" I've always had a serious eye phobia, stemming perhaps from when I was, I don't know, seven or eight, and while playing, sort of, accidentally, I don't know how, got a scissors poked into my eye. (Mom was right kids! Don't run with scissors!) Rush to the hospital, many strips of paper dipped in medicine dipped in my eye, this close to losing my vision in that eye, my stomach churning even now despite my having blocked most of it out. Oddly enough, nine years ago, I did suffer through Lasik surgery, and I have completely blocked that out, although that could do more with the extra doses of Valium they let me have than with anything else.
Okay, so let's get back to the here and now, shall we? I had an eye doctor appointment today. I always warn the assistant that I'm not a good patient, but I'm so jovial about it, they never take me seriously. Until it's time for the...duh duh duh...glaucoma test! Yes! Once again I made an eye assistant (technician? Nurse? what?) cry uncle and give up on me. The good doctor had to do it himself. I actually have an excellent eye doctor. Boston magazine called him "up and coming." But I still hate going. And I have to go yearly (as opposed to the rest of you people who only need to go every other year, and I bet 99% of you don't even go at all, lucky bastards with good eyes! Just wait! That glaucoma can really sneak up on you!) because I have "thin retinas." Yes, that's right. The one thing that can definitively be called thin on me is my retina. Go retina! Anyway, the point to this (a point? since when do I have a point?) is that my appointment was at 9:45. It was 10:55 by the time I got out of there. With fully dilated eyes. Which means one of my few days of kids in camp and I'm stuck with the ability to do, oh, nothing.
So I do busy work till it's time to pick up the kids. Kids aren't happy because they need to be picked up early to go to Doodles's feeding group. ("Mom, they're about to read a group story!" "Doodles, you're about to go eat fruit!") Since he eats at feeding group, I packed him just a snack for lunch: a cheese stick and carrots with hummus. And the boy? He ate the cheese stick. So he should have been starving. But he was so not into feeding group today. Not that he ever is, but today it was clearly more about control issues than about feeding group itself. I'm having many issues with the boy about control. He's pushing buttons, taking names, and generally being a real pain about things.
For instance, last week at the playground, I gave the kids a five-minute warning and a one-minute warning.
Then I said, "Time to go!"
Doodles yelled, "I want to go on the slide again," which didn't really mean slide down; it meant have a chat with his buddies on the top of the slide, which is not a fast process.
I told him, "We have to get to [the much loved] skating class. We need to go now."
Doodles proceeded to walk up three steps of the slide, and turned and looked me in the eye.
"Now," I said.
He climbed up two more steps.
"Doodles, I'm going to count to three and you'll lose your show! Get down!"
"No," he said, and climbed up another step.
No show for him that night!
But once again, there is a point, and the point is that Doodles and I are frequently at odds these days (any favorite parenting books out there that deal with this sudden change of attitude? The "I'm almost five, I'm going to kindergarten, I can do any damn thing I want!" attitude?). The point is that Doodles is having control issues and I felt really validated when it took two people and twenty minutes at food group to get him to eat. I felt horrible as it totally crushed him--he was in tears, refusing to eat--but it made me realize it's not just me!
So we head back to town. "We'll make a quick stop at the Farmer's Market and then we'll do whatever you want!"What did they want? To fall asleep in the car. Before I could get to the market. So I transferred them inside and let them sleep for about 45 minutes, because even that, I knew, was going to wreak havoc on their nighttime sleep. I tried to wake them gently. "Hey guys! Do you guys want to have Popsicles and play with Tab [the girl across the street]?" They both muttered no and went back to sleep. I kept working on them, chanting, "Popsicles! The big lime ones! Popsicles! Popsicles!" until I finally got them up.
We sat on the porch with Tab, had some Popsicles in the brutal heat, and then the kids wanted to play. I made the highly unreasonable request that before Doodles play in the yard, he put on shoes. After all, there is a lot of construction going on on our street. So he went inside. To pout. For forty-five minutes. And I finally said to him, "Look, if you're going to be in a bad mood anyway, then I'm cutting your nails," something he hates and dreads and detests, probably as much as I hate the eye doctor. But I'm just a horrible person that way, insisting that when his nails get to be more than 1/2 an inch long that they need to be cut.
So we had a Doodles meltdown. And Pie, who was unhappy that I went inside to retrieve Doodles, decided to have a meltdown too. So Beetle and Tab are on the front porch swing, reading a Junie B. Jones book, while my kids are writhing all over the front porch, screaming the kind of screams that, if I had heard someone else's kids screaming, I would have called DSS on the parents. And that's when Beetle said to me, "You should blog about this today." Which I'm doing. So blame this entry on the Beetle. I'm going to bed.
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