Happy Mother's Day

I was recently asked to address a group of women at their meeting. Apparently I'd made some sort of positive impression on the coordinator. I can't imagine why, as I am still running around like a chicken with its head cut off after my three boys, ages 9, 6, and 4.

Two other ladies spoke before me. One was a practicing psychologist and another an ethsitician. When the mistress of ceremonies introduced them, she included their impressive qualifications, which included advanced degrees and their own business. Since I was a last minute addition (the original speaker wasn't able to make it) she hadn't had time to find out anything impressive about me. When she introduced me, "and our last speaker is Kirsten Kennedy...a ..." I filled in the awkward gap with a single word: "mom".

When I was preparing my speech the night before, I was filled with panic. What on earth could I say to a group of women of differing ages, education, and income that would be entertaining, unoffensive, and interesting? I was staring at the blank screen on my computer when the answer came in the form of my 4 year old son covered in sand, coming into the house to request my assistance with the finer points of castle construction.

Of course. Kids. Most of us had them. And those who didn't had probably seen some at some point or another. They definitely had heard them. My speech went like this:

Hi. I'm so glad to see so many of you were able to make it this
morning. I was asked to address you and offer some practical advice of some
sort. About what, I'm still not sure. I'm sorry I was running late today, but
our boys had karate and gymnastics, and our dryer isn't working, so I had some
trouble finding clean clothes this morning. I have three boys. The first two are
separated by three years, and the middle and youngest are 21 months apart. Let
me make it easy for those of you without any functioning brain cells after your
sleepless night: at one point in my life I had a five year old, a two year old,
and a newborn. We were living in a two bedroom house without a dishwasher. Less
said on the size of my house, the better. Sort of like the size of my hips.

When my youngest was 4 months old, at some point in the midst of
the chaos which now passed for my day, I realized that something was wrong with
me. I was fat, exhausted, and overwhelmed. In step with my generation, I ran out
and got a book to help me with my problem. That didn't work, so I joined a mom's
group. That only made it worse. I'd never seen so many thin, pretty, put
together women with perfectly behaved children in my life. I quickly decided I
needed to find out what they had, and get it, quick.

I got a "to do" list longer than my nursing tops. Depending on
the source, the advice I received only made me more tired. I needed to work out
every day. I needed to keep the house nice and the children clean. I needed to
cook nutritious meals. I needed to get together with some other moms. I needed
to develop a hobby. I needed to put on makeup every day. I needed to dress
nicely. I needed to go out on dates with my husband. I needed to discipline
myself to do a Bible study every day. The books and women all promised me, do
this one thing (whatever their particular "thing" was), and you will feel
better.

I have only one thing to say. Baloney. What I needed was a full
body post partum epidural. When was I supposed to put on makeup, when there were
some days I didn't even make it into the shower? Work out? I got a workout every
day pushing the double stoller up a 60 degree hill. Keep the house nice,
puhleese. By the time I got the dishes done from breakfast it was time to make
lunch. Fold the laundry - why? Do you have any idea how much a new baby spits
up?

What I needed as angel. And that's what I got. She knew, you see, what I was going through. Without my even asking, she flew across the country to my rescue. For one glorious week, I slept, took a shower, went for walks with my baby, and ate nutritious meals. Mama cooked, cleaned, did the laundry, and somehow kept the boys entertained during it all. She even stayed up all night once so that I could get a full night's sleep.

I closed off my speech with an exhortation to the assembled women to ask for help if they needed it. Even if they were a graduate of West Point and had an MBA in Finance. I was beseiged with women sharing their stories with me after the luncheon.

Happy Mother's Day, Mama. I love you.

The Parent Teacher Conference

This is such a misnomer. At the so called parent teacher conferences I've attended, the teacher talks and I occasionally get a word in edgewise. Think about it. Teacher holds all the advantages. I'm seated in a child sized chair looking up at my child's teacher. The last time I had to maneuver my rear into one of those little chairs I had flashbacks recalling my own elementary school years. When I reached 4th grade with Mrs. Hagelin, (an old school teacher who was never sick. She brought her medicine to class with her. Even the boys were aftraid of her.) I had to leave the room and splash water on my face to compose myself.

But nothing strikes fear into the hear of a child more than a parent teacher conference. What will your teacher tell your parents about you? Maybe the incident involving spitballs wasn't that smart after all. I recently had occasion to renew that fear. This time, however, I was the parent. Walking into my son's classroom, I got that same queasy feeling as when my parents went to the dreaded conference.

This one was for our Kindergartner. Back before I had kids, I promised myself I wouldn't permit myself to feel this crazy angst at my children's parent teacher conferences. I would arrive full of confidence and acceptance of any shortcomings of my child, should any be mentioned (which of course, there were).

I dressed in something other than my customary t shirt, jeans, and sneakers, actually applied makeup and put my hair to rights. That's when that little knot in my stomach started forming. We arrived at our son's classroom ready to hear how brilliant he was, and maybe he should skip 1st grade altogether due to his academic prowess.

That's not what happened. Have you seen a Kindergarten report card lately? It had been awhile for me, so my mother unearthed mine and read off some of the skills a Kindergartener needed to have to advance to 1st grade thirty years ago:

• tie shoes
• zip jacket
• knows primary colors
• plays nice with other children
• follows directions
• uses scissors
• washes hands independently

Kindergarten has changed. It is now what we learned in first grade. My son's list looked something like this:

• can copy sentences from board
• can write l, m, and first and last name
• knows phonics (always presuming already knows the alphabet)
• knows numbers from 1 to 100
• understands concept of rhyming words
• knows address
• knows telephone number
  
  

I sat there in stunned disbelief as our son's teacher explained some mysterious test called "Dibbels" required for advancement to first grade. I can't even pronounce it, much less explain what the heck it's for. Our child, who were were thinking of having tested for the gifted and talented program, apparently didn't perform very well on the "nonsense word fluency" part of the test. He kept interrupting the examiner, telling her the words weren't spelled right. (Apparently what he was supposed to do was sound out the letters of each word, to prove knowledge of phonetics.)

The other part he didn't perform particularly well on was breaking the words up into their parts. Excuse me? All this time we're teaching the kid to put the letters together to form words, and now you want to test him on breaking them up? His teacher explained that the test was to measure "the building blocks of reading". Since the child could already read, why does he need to be tested on the "building blocks". She didn't have an answer.

By the time we got home my head hurt from the description of these tests. We sent the object of these discussions off his room to play, where he promptly got out his trains and set up an intricate track involving switches, bridges, and a windmill (enhancing his fine motor skills). Then he proceeded to form a sculpture out of play doh (displaying his knowledge of primary colors) with his brothers before dinner (displaying the ability to get along with others). I wondered what the test administrators would have made of that.

The Temper Tantrum

C'mon, admit it. Before you reproduced and became responsible for the behavior of another human being for 24 hours, 7 days a week for 18 years or more, you would look at screaming children in public and think, "when I have kids . . ." It's o.k., you can come clean. We've all done it. My personal favorite is, "if that was my kid, I'd . . . "


Then you became a parent. I have three children. In the 9 years that I've been a parent, I have witnessed tantrums caused by everything from a sleepy, cranky kid to a request to get into the car. I've discovered something about tantrums these past years. There are categories of temper tantrums, you see. It's kind of like hurricane classifications, with a surprising number of similarities. Hurricanes are classified into five categories, based on their wind speeds and potential to cause damage. Tantrums can also be similarly classified, based on volume, duration and potential to cause damage.

Category 1: Whimpering

Child starts to cry, saddened at your inability to purchase say, some cereal, in the grocery aisle. Volume of whimper is confined to the immediate area around your grocery cart, eliciting sympathetic looks from surrounding shoppers. Thanks to the 3 second attention span and the lollipop in your purse, by the time you turn the corner to the next aisle, child is consoled. Embarassment level is minimal. Parental response is frequently distraction.

Category 2: No!
The day comes when your child does not want to do something. I know, it sounds impossible, but your darling little child does not want to please their beloved mommy. You want them to sit down and be quiet, and they want to stand up and shout. Church is a great time for this to occur. Restaurants and movie theaters are also famous for these battles of will. Child is told to sit down and listen. Kid decides this is the time they have to go potty, wash hands, read a story, etc. When informed that this is not the time to do those things, the kid errupts into a miniature volcano, getting up, walking around, and asking you all those questions you wish they'd ask later . . . like in 10 years after you've had a chance to look up the answer. Volume level is loud enough to be heard by those in a 10 foot radius. You're embarassed and frantically try to hush the kid, who responds with a loud "no!" and dashes off. You catch the offender and leave the area, possibly to return when the kid has had a chance to calm down. Parental response might include a swat on the butt and/or time out.

My oldest son was terrified of the church nursery until he was 3. As a consequence, the only way we could attend was armed with a bag full of coloring books, toys, and other items of interest to hold his attention. These things lasted 10 minutes before the little explorer just had to start moving around. I've collected him from the center aisle, the pew in front of us, the pew in back of us, and the altar (he didn't want to leave without blowing out the candles.) One of my most vivid memories is when he called out "all done" at the end of a service. Our pastor was highly amused, and responded with "depart in peace".

Category 3: The full blown temper tantrum

You tell your child in a firm, reasonable tone that no matter how much they whine, you are NOT buying them the toy. Child falls to the ground, kicking and screaming, informing all the world what a bad mommy you are. (This never happens to my husband, incidentally.) The volume of your child's screaming can be heard at the opposite end of the store (big box, not boutique) and the looks coming your way by your fellow shoppers are filled with venom.

You realize that you don't need milk that badly, and decide to leave the store. The kid instantly becomes a dead weight, actually pulling away from you in an attempt to make his feelings known. In your journey to the car, you are kicked in the shins, knock over a display, and have sustained permanent injury to your eardrums. You could appreciate the kid's fabulous uppercut, but wish he'd restrict it to the boxing ring. Maybe karate lessons weren't such a good idea. You march through the parking lot, attempting to fish your keys out without losing your grip on the kid. (Personally I always threw them over my shoulder in order to leave one arm free. The kid, not the keys.) Upon reaching the car, you toss the child in (none too gently) and attempt to buckle the buckling, kicking, squirming mass of humanity into the car seat and get the heck out of there.

The screaming (now in an enclosed space) continues up until the kid falls asleep or you reach home, at which point you are the one screaming. You will never return to the store unless it's without the kid and you are wearing a wig and sunglasses. Parental response to this type of tantrum frequently includes a wooden spoon.


Important terms to know:
Tantrum Watch: Like hurricane watch, you are alert to the possiblity of a tantrum coming to your area within the next 36 minutes. You tune your mommy antenna to track where and when it will reach you.
Tantrum Warning: A tantrum is imminent. Leave the area immediately. I don't care if you have a cart full of groceries, leave.

The official hurricane season is from June 1 to November 30, but hurricanes can happen any time of the year. According to most child rearing experts, it's perfectly normal for toddlers to throw tantrums. Preschoolers are less likely to throw tantrums, but by the time they reach school age, children theoretically have better coping mechanisms. Well, that's all fine and dandy, but just how was I supposed to know that a request to follow me in Wal Mart would make my 6 year old fall to the ground, kicking and screaming? I mean, how was I supposed to know that he wasn't done looking at the lobsters yet?

Where is that little...?

In lieu of "good morning", my husband's first words to me this morning were, "Where is that little bastard?" Now, this might mislead a casual observer that my beloved husband and I are on less than civil terms. Nothing could be further from the truth, as any intimate observer would quickly realize. No, he was referring to our three year old, who woke us up at 6:09 on a Saturday morning in summer when we'd let him stay up until 9:30 p.m. the night before. Let's see if you can guess my response to this tender greeting. Was it:

a) in the garage

b) in the backyard

c) playing in traffic, or

d) playing in his room

A far cry from those vaguely recalled romantic greetings of the dawn that existed prior to our child rearing years. Now the only sighing heard is from the reluctant parent who decides to actually get up with the kid.

The kid in question had been up for most of the night. Not sick, injured, or any other acceptable excuse for being awake when it is time to sleep. No, he just decided to be awake. And, just to make things a little more interesting, he desired his beloved parents' presence during his nocturnal activities. They were fascinating, to be sure. The activities, that is. He suddenly decided NOW was the time to brush his teeth, play charades, and practice tying his shoes. Activities we had to tackle him to do in daylight hours were suddenly infinitely more interesting when the moon was up.

Our attempts to convince him of his folly were met with howls of indignation. That normally wouldn't faze us (hey- we Ferberized two previous kids before this one), but one son had karate the next morning and the other....let's just say Andy doesn't do cranky well. In desperation, we tag teamed him, figuring between the two of us we could bore him to sleep.

Daddy had the first shift, and I must say he did a fine job laying down with his boy, humming our alma mater, and patting the offender'ss back. But then Daddy fell asleep, and the kid decided to see what Mommy was up to.

I was rudely awakened by the overhead lights and my hair being yanked out by the roots. No, our son is not a candidate for future intervention with law enforcement officers, but rather somewhat uncoordinated. You see, he reached up and grabbed a handful of blanket to hoist himself up onto our bed, and didn't realize strands of my hair were intertwined in the blanket. My yelp could have alerted the neighborhood of an air raid.

This woke Daddy up, and after nodding off in a toddler sized bed in an awkward position, he had his own aches and pains to worry about. In his leap out of bed to come to my aid, he tripped on the toys on the floor, reached out to catch himself, and inadverdently grabbed hold of the Winnie the Pooh latch hook rug on the wall. The rug came down, along with a few pieces of the drywall. Suffice it to say, it was Mommy's shift after that.

After clearing a path from the bed to the door, I sat in the kid's bed, patting his back and singing lullabies in an effort to lull him to sleep. My arm was numb, my memory depleted, when deep breathing assured me he was asleep. I gently disentangled myself from the bed, remembered where the path to door was, and slipped out. I got back into our bed, where I managed not to disturb my sleeping husband.

45 minutes later, just as I must have been hitting REM sleep, our beloved son climbed into the middle of our bed with a book in his hands, declaring it to be "stowy time". Unable to think clearly, I suggested a DVD instead. The kid accepted my offer with alacrity, displaying an uncanny ability to change direction mid stream.

And that's how Daddy found us, 3 hours later. I was bleary eyed, whether from lack of sleep or the overexposure to shows designed for a 3 year old audience. Oh, and the kid? He was choice b), playing happily with a jar of bubbles.

Love my Valentine

I hate Valentine's Day. Now, I know, as a woman, I'm supposed to be thrilled with Valentine's day... the flowers, cards, chocolate, etc. I don't have any trouble with the day in principle, you understand. It's the parties. This year I have three boys in two different schools. And each child desperately wants mommy at his class party. My presence is requested at three different events tomorrow, beginning at 9 a.m., 10:30 a.m. and 11 a.m. At a glance this doesn't look too bad, except that the 10:30 one is at a different school, 20 minutes away.

Do you have any idea of the amount of cookies, cupcakes, and chocolate that I am responsible for? I made the fatal error early in the school year of presenting one of my children's teachers with some chocolate chip cookies for her birthday. The mistake was in letting the school know that I can apparently bake good food.

Cupcakes to preschool, three dozen heart shaped sugar cookies to 3d grade, and an enormous bag of chocolate to Kindergarten. Now, before anyone tells me to just go out and buy the stuff, there is a reason for making it all from scratch. The third grade class has a child with an allergy to nuts, and the boys in preschool refuse to eat any cupcakes with pink or any girlie colored frosting. Fortunately, I lucked out in Kindergarten - everybody loves chocolate.

And the Valentines cards. Not only do the kids get completely overloaded with sugar at Halloween and Easter, but Valentine's Day as well. Candy makers have come up with the brilliant, but sadistic, idea of combining cards with candy. The candy comes prepacked with a spot to write the names of the various people involved. Don't get those, you might think. But then you have to deal with your kid having the only mom in class who concerns herself with nutrition. It's worse than being the dentist's kid on Halloween. Social downfall is practically guaranteed.

So, tomorrow, when you are happily imagining what your significant other has cooked up for you, think of me, dashing from party to party, cupcake trays in hand.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me…

· Twelve cookie cleanups

· Eleven trips to toystore

· Ten tangled tree lights

· Nine bathroom visits

· Eight loads of laundry

· Seven bedtime excuses

· Six snowflake sculptures

· Five Hours of Sleep!

· Four painted pictures

· Three boys bouncing

· Two pooped parents

· And a knocked over Christmas tree.

Our Family Christmas Card

In keeping with tradition, I designed our family Christmas card this year. I'm starting to run out of ideas, so this year I plagiarized, with a bit of personalization thrown in for good measure.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my children gave to me....

• 12 cookie cleanups
• 11 trips to toystore
• 10 tangled tree lights
• 9 bathroom visits
• 8 loads of laundry
• 7 bedtime excuses
• 6 snowflake sculptures
• Five hours of sleep!
• 4 painted pictures
• 3 boys bouncing
• 2 pooped parents
• And a knocked over Christmas tree