Dirty Little Secret

Today I ran into my neighbor at the grocery store. Not so strange, even though we were not at the grocery store located several blocks from our respective homes but at one several towns away which has lower prices. And is always SO. DAMN. CROWDED. Usually I just split the difference and go to the slightly closer, slightly cheaper and significantly less crowded one that’s located one town away. But what also had to buy Lovebug a boogie board, or as I used to call one, a kickboard. His sister has one and there were savage fights over it during our last trip to the pool.

Plus, it was only $5.

Which I probably saved shopping at the super crowded grocery store conveniently near 5 Below, aka, the shop where they sell cheap kick boards.

So I see my neighbor and she almost stops in her tracks. Which is dangerous at super crowded store, because those bitches will run you over. We smile and say hi and as we race in opposite directions, she calls, “You’re so brave!”

She was child-free – apparently I should have been friendlier with her so that maybe she would share her baby-sitter with me. Because I had all 3 kids with me.

You would think that because I had them all corralled in the genius contraption known as the car cart (that’s right, my kids are so close together in age that all 3 of them fit on a car cart) and that generally they are well-behaved kids, shopping with all 3 of them shouldn’t have been such a big deal.

I should, in fact, be using this post to scoff at being called brave for taking 3 kids to the grocery store. Because, I mean, really, it’s not like going to war. It’s not even like dealing with them for 2 weeks straight by yourself. Which I have done.

But I am not scoffing. Because I loathe unfamiliar grocery stores. Add in construction and rearrangement, aisles not meant for the super-size car cart and the fact that ChunkyMonkey was hungry and I”m surprised we all survived.

So, thank you, neighbor. And thank you for complimenting the kids’ behavior when we ran into you at the check-out. True, you may have been complimenting because the pinching fight Ironflower and Lovebug had just finished left no marks, but I don’t care. It’s your kind thought that counts.

Now how about sharing that baby-sitter?

I don’t know whether to blame my very, very, very late ’30′s or my children, but something around here has turned what used to be pretty normal periods into weeks from HELL. Add in the fact that said weeks are unpredictable (in fact, this week started LATE and I was imagining myself as one of the few women whose bodies overcome tubal ligation. As in, pregnant again. As in, mother of 4. As in, no semblance of sanity left.) and you have a recipe for various disasters.

Like having to ask your 5 year old to go up and get you a tampon.

Because I have kept my daughter ignorant of such things, I had to describe what they looked like.

(Generally, we’re pretty open around here – correct names for body parts, explaining that touching yourself is fine in private, daddies plant seeds in mommies to make babies – but periods are a lot of detail. My own mother was very, very open about hers and it freaked me out so much that I dreaded it for years. I even ignored my first one for a day or two. So I see no reason to depress Ironflower ahead of time with details of blood, bloating and bitching.)

So my description was clear enough, apparently, because she found me one easily. She brought it to the downstairs bathroom, where I had discovered my desperate need a few minutes earlier. But naturally she wanted to hang out, not hand over the tampon and get away.

“What’s it for, anyway?” she asked. This is the problem with encouraging your children to ask questions and to always providing them with an over-abundance of information.

Naturally, ChunkMonkey came toddling in at that moment. And because I was busy trying to think of an explanation that would not freak her out while, um – let’s say “covering my shame”, shall we? – I was not prepared. And because I was not prepared, ChunkyMonkey proceeded to grab the tampon and throw it into the sink.

“Nice job, ChunkyMonkey, ” I said sarcastically. Ironflower asked if the tampon was supposed to go in the sink. Ironflower still misses a lot of my sarcasm. For which I am grateful.

“Does it help with clogs?” she asked hopefully. We have a sink clogging issue at our house, possibly because everyone except ChunkyMonkey had SO MUCH FREAKING HAIR. Anyway, I pondered the clog question with a slight smirk.

In the end, I said that mommies’ bodies had to get rid of stuff each month and that tampons helped. I waited for follow up questions (nervously), but there were none. “Will you make lunch when you’re done?” she asked cheerfully.

I nodded and asked her to shut the door. The whole situation could have been avoided, of course, if I just kept a stash in the downstairs bathroom.

How do you handle those kinds of situations? Uh, you do have those kinds of situations, right? I’m not the only person whose had her 5 year old grab a tampon for her, am I?

When I quit working full time, one of the first things I did was rush my kids to story time. Ironflower was 18 months old, Lovebug 3 months. Lovebug mostly hung out in his stroller. I drove to the main branch of the KC library because they had all sorts of neat kids’ stuff and a craft room and what have you. I was sure that Ironflower would love it because she loved (and still loves) listening to stories.

It was hell.

Ironflower did nothing but mortify me. She walked around instead of sitting in my lap. She talked during the stories. Sometimes she got up and did a little dance in front of whoever was reading, waving at the audience of parents and nannies.

The only reason I kept putting myself through the humiliation (because, even though this was a story time for young children, I got very few sympathetic looks from the staff when Ironflower acted up. Mostly they were annoyed) was because it was also my chance to check out grown up books. It takes a lot more than humiliation to keep me from getting new reading material.

At around 2 1/2 Ironflower suddenly became the pillar of story time. But that was after we moved here, so I never got to show off her excellent  behavior to the people who spent 10 months glaring at me. When Lovebug got mobile, he was always an angel at storytime. I figured it was because he’d been going practically since birth.

Anyway, today ChunkyMonkey and I went to storytime at our local, small library. ChunkyMonkey has also been going to storytime since birth. He does not get up in front of our librarian when she is reading or singing songs. But he doesn’t sit in my lap either.

He explores the room, stopping by to hug me frequently. He is usually quiet, but I don’t think he’s ever sat still for a story or a song. And I feel like apologizing to Ironflower, because ChunkyMonkey and I have a much better time at storytime than she and I ever did. I’m not embarrassed by his behavior or that he doesn’t act like all the sweet, docile children (at least, not in this particular instance). Consequently he does his thing and scribbles a bit on the craft and it’s all good.

Except when he inspires another child to rebel. Today 2 little girls – normally lap-sitters – noticed what a fine time ChunkyMonkey was having while walking around one of the craft tables. So they too decided to explore. And their mothers tried to corral them. Which made them run faster. And shriek. And pull on the table cloths.

It crossed my mind to make ChunkyMonkey sit down with me. That probably would have helped the other moms settle their girls down. But it also would have meant incurring the wrath of the pissed off ChunkyMonkey. This kind of wrath includes kicking, screaming, biting and throwing things.  I looked at him as he toddled toward me. He wasn’t shrieking or pulling the tablecloth or disrupting anything. He hugged me and gave me an angelic, then continued toddling around the table.

I totally let him. I believe the librarian cut short her book reading as the 2 girls ran around the craft tables. But that wasn’t my fault, was it?

Dear Ironflower,

A few days ago you graduated from preschool. This morning you told me that you didn’t want to go to kindergarten – you wanted to stay in “the green room” forever.

Oh kiddo, I sort of feel the same way.

I remember tearing up the first time I left you at school. You didn’t, though it was the quietest I’d ever seen you. I remember going to the Halloween family night a couple of months later, watching the older kids race around and be totally at ease as you and 2 girls from your class stood there awkwardly. Now those girls are your best friends and the 3 of you race around with utter confidence.

You climb on top of the monkey bars you couldn’t reach. You write the full name you barely recognized. You recognize – and say hi to – half the kids and all of the teachers. You count well past 100 after denying you could ever count past 10. You are a bright, friendly, articulate, independent, funny and beautiful girl, Ironflower.

Sometimes you are still my baby girl. I’m trying to cherish those moments when you need me, because I know they are going to get farther and farther apart. You are going to love kindergarten, I promise. And I am going to love watching you change your mind. Even if it will make me tear up.

love,

Mommy

So this morning I had to go to the grocery store. With all 3 kids. I know there are some moms who bring their 6 well-behaved kids to the grocery each week, along with their lists and their coupons.

I am not one of those moms.

I try to do my grocery shopping when the older two are in preschool and Hot Guy is able to watch the toddler. I am lucky if I remember to bring my list or my coupons, because I have yet to manage to bring both.

It is not that my kids are bad at the grocery store. Generally, they are pretty good – so good, in fact, that I often bring home more junk food than I’d intended. Because they ask so politely. And they’ve walked in the aisles without hitting each other. It’s just that I have a hard time having 3 simultaneous conversations, remembering what I want to buy and using the scanner correctly.

In retrospect, I probably should have skipped the scanner. But I like scanning as I go, because that means I can bag as I go and then I don’t get stressed out at the checkout. Besides, I thought Ironflower and Lovebug would like using the scanner. As usual, I was wrong about what they’d like. ChunkyMonkey was the only one who liked the scanner. As in, he liked eating the scanner.

Despite the wrestling matches that ensued every time I had to take the scanner away from ChunkyMonkey to actually use it, I made it through most of the store in a fairly good state. In the juice aisle, however, all 3 kids needed me at the exact same second, which also happened to be the second that I was trying to scan juice boxes. So I put the scanner down.

Somewhere.

After dealing with each kid’s issue, I reached for the scanner so that we could resume shopping and get the hell out of there. But the scanner was not in the cart. Or under the cart. Or next to the juice boxes. Or in my bags. Or in ChunkyMonkey’s hands.

I had a sudden vision of having to go up to the customer service counter and tell them that I lost a scanner. I realized that I would have to start shopping all over again. I ordered Lovebug and Ironflower to look. I muttered exasperatedly. Finally, I said loudly, “How could a scanner just disappear?”

The elderly man behind us averted his eyes. He’d witnessed the whole thing and didn’t even give me a smile of sympathy. Fortunately, another mom came by. She discovered the scanner on the shelf under the juice. Where I hadn’t looked, because why would I put it under the juice? That would just be dumb. I thanked her profusely. I was reminded that there are still good people in the world. I will be forever grateful to the scanner fairy. My heart soared until I noticed the sour old man.

He pushed his cart by us, shaking his head. I think he saw me put the scanner under the juice and was too afraid to interrupt my rant. Or he’s the scanner troll.

I swear to the Goddess that this post was going to be happy. I was going to list things I like. Or something. I really wanted to write a post that didn’t involve bitching. Possibly that’s too much to ask when I’m on the rag, the kids have spring break and my allergies are trying to kill me, I don’t know.

I do know that I was a shitty mother this morning and I feel the need to confess. I had this plan in my head. I would take my kids to the indoor play area and grab some fast food lunch (sorry Jamie Oliver, I really am trying to do better {more on that later} but I’ve got 48 hours of solo time, killer cramps AND a headache). It would be fun. They would be happy. And cramps like french fries.

There were a few other people there, one family with two boys and a pair of women with their 2 girls. Lovebug and Ironflower rushed to make friends. The older boy didn’t want to befriend Lovebug at first, which Lovebug took on the chin and moved on. Eventually, the boy changed his mind. Ironflower seemed fine with the younger girls. I spent my time chasing ChunkyMonkey and preventing him from getting trapped in the play area.

Until I saw the 2 girls, but no Ironflower. The place isn’t very big, so I found this surprising. Eventually I found her crying in the corner. The girls didn’t want to play with her anymore. Now, I try to be reasonable. I know my daughter can be bossy. The girls were younger and already knew each other. I said as much (well, I substituted “decisive” for “bossy”). She kept crying. I asked if they said anything mean. She shook her head. She rejected playing with her brother. And me.

And then. . .well, I got mad.

I told my daughter that she needed to get over it and not let those girls ruin our good time. Or we would have to leave. She got up and climbed slowly around. She bit my head off when I checked on her and then she cried some more.

Even after the girls left, she didn’t want to play. She was too sad about them not wanting to be friends with her. I hugged her and held her on my lap. And then I sort of went off about the whole situation.

It’s not that I wasn’t sad for her. But if this kind of thing is going to devastate her so much. . .how will she ever handle elementary school? How will I?

I pointed out that she was ruining our family fun time over 2 little girls that we would never see again and obviously weren’t very nice. I pointed out that she loves to play with Lovebug. I pointed out that I had gotten dressed  and paid money and dealt with 85 ChunkyMonkey tantrums so they could have fun, dammit, and why couldn’t she just have fun for the love of God??????????????? (I left out the dammit, but I’m not sure about the “for the love of God)

I am not a nice person.

The mood lifted as we left. We got McDonald’s. We read stories. We had quiet time. Now they are watching a DVD. Under calm questioning, Ironflower still cannot articulate (and if you know Ironflower, you know that’s very very strange. . . . Ironflower is nothing if not articulate) why she was so upset.

But I’m so afraid of the next time someone doesn’t want to play with her. We’ve always encouraged our kids to be friendly and to include all kids in their games. But maybe that’s not the best thing for Ironflower emotionally. I just don’t know.

Advice, internets? Also, feel free to tell me how to handle this without turning into an evil cow.

I suppose you can blame it on the prospect of sending Ironflower to afternoon kindergarten. We were informed at the kindergarten orientation that “not every child can be in morning kindergarten” and that some parents had already sent letters – from their lawyers – requesting morning kindergarten. We don’t have a lawyer on retainer, so immediately I assumed that Ironflower would be an afternoon kid. My main reason for wanting Ironflower in morning kindergarten is that I would like to have both the older kids at school at the same time. Fortunately, the preschool MAY have afternoon pre-k next year. So I could get my wish. . . and have mornings to do fun things with my kids.

Because afternoons? Well, ChunkyMonkey has to nap. And usually, after a busy morning at school, so does Lovebug. Even Ironflower needs to decompress on school days. In the afternoon, my kids are kind of done with structure. They just want to chill. Which is fine. . .except that the teacher in me really wants to teach them things.

But if we had mornings together when they’re all fresh and cheerful and haven’t been beaten down by the man yet. . .er, I mean participated in quality educational programs. . .we could do so many fun things. And then I had this vision of homeschooling them.

Right now, all my former colleagues – with whom I used to teach public school – are probably staring open-mouthed at the screen. My mother is probably dialing my number, ready to say, “Oh, Jenny” just like she did when I told her I got a tattoo. And my husband is probably hoping that he’s going to wake up from this bad dream.

I think I know one person who homeschools, maybe 3 people if you count bloggy friends. In every case, the parent made the choice because of her child’s health issues. That, of course, has nothing to do with my choice. Nor does Christianity, because I’m about as far away from an Evangelical Christian as you can get without actually practicing Santeria. It has do to with me. And what I want for my kids. And my desire to be authentic.

I’m not saying I’m going to homeschool. I’m not even saying that I necessarily want to homeschool. I’m just saying that as a former public school teacher, I do understand the limitations of our current school system and the whole testing culture that has invaded. I understand how nasty kids can be (sure, there are nasty adults out there, but the percentage of nasty kids is far higher. . ..check out your high school classmates on Facebook and see if I’m right). I understand that even at the best high schools there is a lot of time wasted on busy work.

We live in an amazing school district – one that is a huge strain financially. And one in which I think people may focus on the wrong things.  If we were a homeschooling family, we wouldn’t need to worry about school districts. We would have so much more freedom in choosing where to live. . .and when to vacation. . .and when to take a trip to the zoo. . .and yes, what our children learn. And the teacher in me is filled with joy at that prospect.

What do you think? Would you homeschool?

I have just received Ironflower’s 8 PAGE packet for her dance recital. Now, I might welcome the packet if it told me exactly what make-up to put on her or what to do with her beautifully unruly hair. I might welcome the packet if it laid out her 2 routines so that we could practice at home. I might welcome her packet if she wasn’t in preschool. But instead I look at the packet and think, are you FREAKING SERIOUS?

I still don’t know how to do her hair or her make-up. . .or even what her costume looks like (which doesn’t really bother me because the recital is not until late May, but why not just include this info in the packet?). But I do know that we can’t make our own DVD of the recital AND that it will cost us $40 to buy one. I also now know that I can purchase extremely over-priced bouquets and photos. Oh, and there’s a complicated lottery system for ticket purchases. I have also read about the procedures for picking up my child after the performance and extensive details about the dress rehearsal.

I am also to provide non-staining snacks and toys for her use backstage.

Snacks????? Toys??????

You know what I did backstage during the myriad recitals and performances I was in?

I talked to my friends and I watched the other dancers. When I got older, I put on more make-up. And I didn’t get to eat anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I also walked 2 miles up hill to school (actually, I would have done that, if my mom hadn’t driven me to school most of the time) and survived just fine.

I am usually the person who stands up for the booster seats until they can drive (or whatever the rule is now),  helmets and bouncy playground surfaces. I’m reluctant to leave my children with a baby-sitter or for them to have playdates without me. I overanalyze everything (which you have probably noticed if you’ve ever read this blog before). In short, I am a modern parent.

But I think we’ve gone off the deep end where dance recitals are concerned. First come, first served seating is no longer good enough for today’s families.  DVDs have to be professionally produced. Bouquets have be  big and expensive. Photos must be taken by an overcharging professional. Children must be entertained backstage. Packets must be sent home 3 months beforehand. All the spontaneity of live performance must be crushed.

I am so NOT cut out for helicopter parenting.

I was a picky eater as a child. My cousins like to remind of the phase I went through when I wouldn’t eat green food because it was my favorite color. (Just for the record, that wasn’t really it. It was because I hated most green foods. Especially lima beans. And broccoli.)

Naturally, I assumed that my own children would not have to rebel in this way. I wouldn’t demand that they eat their vegetables, I would simply present them with healthy choices and eventually they would find fruits and vegetables that they liked.

Karma is such a bitch, isn’t she?

My children are worse than I ever was. They don’t even eat pasta or cold cuts, let alone vegetables. The only fruit Ironflower eats willingly is apples.

So we decided to try a more forceful strategy. Now they can’t be excused without trying  everything on their plates. We figured that if they tried enough new things, they’d learn to like some of them. According to the parenting magazines, it can take 20 tries. We knew we’d have to be consistent and persistent. We were prepared for that.

We were not prepared for Ironflower, however. At 5, Ironflower has the will of an Olympian. An Olympian who refuses to eat any vegetables. Recently we’ve been working on baby carrots. (Do not tell me about dipping. The child won’t use any dip but ketchup, and then only on some kinds of french fries.)

Is one bite of carrot really such an unreasonable request?

The child has refused the carrot 4 times now. Each time she has not been excused from the table. She has stayed there until bedtime. FOUR TIMES.

I mean, she’s KNOWS we’re serious. She KNOWS that we’re not going to give in. And yet. . .

She won’t take ONE FREAKING BITE OF CARROT.

We’ve had the same issue with peas. And green beans. And pears.

But carrots, dude. Even I liked them as a child.

Anyone got advice they can pass on before dinner this evening? Because I’m getting kind of desperate.

I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.