W.: Economics 101

W. has a little plastic cash register. It used to light up and beep and have a working conveyor belt... a year ago. Now its belt does not move, it may or may not light up, it doesn't beep and the microphone fell out. He loves it anyway.

Tonight he was playing with it, hardcore.

I was sitting on the sofa, pondering my next move, and he approached me.

Brightly, he asked, "Um, Mummy? D'you wanta buy somefing?"

Who could say no?

"Yes please," I told him, "what are you selling?"

"Um... I have... diapers. And lemonade. And........shoes? And .... Paris."

"You're selling Paris?"

"Yah."

"Okay, how much is Paris?"

"Four."

"Four, huh? Frog eating surrender monkeys. They'll sell their capital for four bucks."

"What?"

"Nothing. Okay, I'll buy Paris for four."

"Good."

He proceeded to plunk at the keys and make his own beepity noises. Then he stuck out his hand.

I put a bookmark in his grimy little palm. "That's four", I told him.

"Thank YOU", he sang cheerfully.

His fingers danced around the register another minute and then I asked, "Wait, I just bought Paris but I can't get there. How do I get there?"

He thought about it and said, "Well, I can ALSO sell you a plane ticket."

"Can you?"

"Um..." He tapped his chin thoughtfully with his index finger. "Yah."

"Oh, excellent. I'll take one of those, then."

"Good. Aaaaand.... you need a ticket to come home."

"Right. Very important."

"Yah."

He did some quick calculations.

"Hmm..... Now lemmefink...that's four for Paris.....and ten for the come home ticket."

"What!? You're charging me TEN DOLLARS to fly HOME?"

"Oh, and I forgot to make you pay for the fly to Paris ticket."

"Well, how much is that?"

"Um, four."

"Let me get this straight. Four bucks for Paris."

"Yah."

"And four bucks to FLY to Paris."

"Yah."

"But it's TEN dollars to fly HOME? Where I have to sweep and clean the toilet and make dinner and do laundry?"

"Yup!"

He beamed broadly at me, squitching up his eyes.

And I didn't know whether to be proud of his economic prowess or totally annoyed that even my sweet Baby W has been sucked in by the leech-mentality of the travel industry.

In the end, I grudgingly gave him a second bookmark , told him it was worth fifteen and told him to keep the change for good service.

He gave me a kiss and thanked me for playing store and carried his cash register off into the other room, humming.

I was so charmed. I think I might buy him a new one.

But only if he agrees not to price gouge his mother in future.

At Least He's Using The Right Terminology

So....

Last night, J. attended a pizza party at an area pizza joint. His father took him and his brother.

APPARENTLY.... during the festivities, one of his little friends went missing and J's father said, "J, where is Edgar*?" J, ever the wisenheimer, replied, "He's in the baaaaaaaaathroom.... I think he went to the LAAAAAAAAAAAAAADIES room!" And before his father could reprimand him for his snarky comment, J. blurted out - at top volume - "Or should I say - THE VAGINA ROOM!"

And THAT is what you get for teaching them what that organ is called.


This is going to be a very long summer.

*All names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Vacation, Day Two

Let me just tell you; this is no vacation.

And you would sue the stuffing out of any travel agent who tried to tell you it was.

I am plagued with stomach cramps and I am not very happy about it.

The kids watched tv for FOUR HOURS today. Sue me. I was in the room with them, curled up on the sofa, helping to color and cut out their versions of Power Rangers and Transformers and all manner of artwork.
We baked a cake (5 minutes of standing up), and I curled back up on the sofa.
We did some Window Art (15 minutes of sitting down) and I curled back up on the sofa.
You get the idea.

I dressed, and redressed, a wound W. has on one elbow courtesy of a tumble off a John Deere riding toy. Then I noticed it looked green in the middle despite copious applications of Neosporin... and had to perform a hydrogen peroxide rinse (repeat, dry, repeat, dry, repeat, dry - all to the sound of piteous wails) and REDRESS IT AGAIN.

The stomach cramps abated enough that we were able to go for a brief walk to the nearby market for apples, salad dressing. There, I was wheedled into buying a bag of Cheetos. I might have wheedled myself into buying some Mike's Hard Cranberry Lemonade as well.

Then I got home and thought about whether it would be wise to consume it.

So... that is still in the fridge.

I pounded some chicken, marinated it, threw it on the grill. I boiled farfalle , drizzled it with olive oil and let it cool. Then I chopped tomatoes, vidalia onions, peppers, tiny broccoli trees, and pineapple... slivered carrots and thawed petite peas. I tossed the lot into the farfalle, dressed it with a little Italian dressing and sprinkled it with parmesan cheese. I have to say... it was fantastic.

But my stomach still hurts.

The kids took showers, screamed their heads off at each other and me, complained about their towels, complained about having their ears cleaned, made flatulence sounds at me when I tried to dry their hair, and shook their backsides at me by way of an answer when I asked them questions. THEN they complained when I followed through with my "IF I HEAR ONE MORE RUDE NOISE OUT OF EITHER OF YOU, IF ANYONE SHAKES THEIR BACKSIDE AT ME BY WAY OF AN ANSWER, THERE WILL BE NO STORIES TONIGHT", and Sybil tsked at me in disgust, saying, "You're so MEAN."

And that was not the worst thing she said to me all day.

And the soundtrack to the day has been, "Do you love That City more than us? How about more than ME? How about more than HIM? Why is it so special? When are you going back?" Which all, basically, made me want to throttle everyone, cry, and run away. I didn't do any of those things though.

I'm trying to be strong.
I'm trying to be the mother I used to be capable of being.

But mostly... I want these stomach cramps to go away and start planning happier things.

Feh.

Summer Vacation, Day 1

It's our first official full day of Summer Vacation. I am now the mother of a FIRST GRADER. How did that HAPPEN?

The boys were with their father last night and came back this morning, hungry and desperate to watch the Discovery Channel. I am feeling wrung out from yesterday so that worked for me. But they can't stay parked by the tv until they go back to their dad tonight, so I am trying to think of something clever to do with them. I'm not coming up with anything, but hey, it's only day one, right? RIGHT? This in no way sets the tone for the ENTIRE REST OF THE SUMMER, right? RIGHT?

Oh please God, someone tell me I'm doing this right.

Funny thing happened in the pool the other day... the boys were playing , kind of stream of consciousness pretending with these various action figures. The following discussion ensued:

W - Voice 1: Wait a second.... THIS isn't Hawaii! THIS... Is DUNKIN' DONUTS!

W - Voice 2: I LOVE Hawaii.

W - Voice 1: Yes...but I ALSO love Dunkin' Donuts.

Too funny.

The Mother Of All Days

So, Mother's Day.

The most hallowed of all the Hallmark holidays.

It's the day more phone calls are made than any other. Flowers are sold en masse. Restaurants are full for breakfast, brunch, lunch, tea, and dinner. Garden shops are packed, jewelry stores operate at full throttle, and the staff at Macy's perfume counters are working on overdrive.

Even the cell phone people got in on it, with mega-minute plans and pink pocket phones. Media centers are heralding DVDs, CDs, and books as the It Gifts, conveniently advertising the titles most frequently associated with estrogen soaked consumers.

Everything is covered in pink organdy and festooned with outsized blossoms and it's all! Very! Festive!

I'm not sure how it got to this point, and as a mother, you would think I'd just shut my trap and embrace it.

However.

For me, Mother's Day will be comprised of a morning of yard work , which I patently detest. Then I will clean the house and get gear and supplies in order for school on Monday. I will visit the supermarket and purchase gobs of food for other people and prepare dinner, of which I will be able to eat about six ounces, owing to my ongoing weight loss effort.

And that will be pretty much it.

No tea and flowers in bed or "let mummy sleep late" or family event / outing / brunch with a little token of affection and gratitude wrapped up nicely for me. Because I am in this alone now. I was in it alone before, too, but all bets are off and there is now no obligation for pretense.

It is just about the loneliest day I have ever felt creeping up on me.

There is nobody else who celebrates and rejoices in my motherhood. There are people who care about my children, but their existence doesn't bring joy to anyone except their parents. Even that is pretty limited some days. And maybe that's true for everyone but it is certainly true for me; these two are tough customers and many days, I do not feel up to the job.

I have a stepson, P, who is twenty three. He is six foot three, has many tattoos and drives a motorcycle. I do not want to think what else he may do that would give me the collywobbles if I knew about it. I met him when he was five; we have always got on very well and our relationship is still good. I've always assured him that I love him as much as I could love any child of my own creation.

After I gave birth a couple times, I realized that I was right. My love for J, W & P are three different kinds of love but I do not love any of them more than another. Just differently.

P. sent me an email today saying he wasn't sure if he would be able to get here to see me tomorrow, but that he wanted me to know that he was thinking about me. He said he would always remember how I made fancy designs on his hot dogs with ketchup and mustard when he was little, and how I made salads specially for him with a peculiar assortment of vegetables and weird dressing. He said he would try to get over sometime soon and that he loved me.

I bawled.

I hope my own children have something good they remember about me when they are twenty three and doing things to give me agita.

I hope I've DONE something good they can remember.

I know I've sat up with them while they were horribly sick and done good parenting that way. I have read to them and tried to teach them another language. I have tried to give them a foundation for spirituality and a sense of what it means to Do The Right Thing. I have taught them to take their hats off inside, to wash their hands and respect their flag and hold the door for other people and to say please and thank you. But I don't know if any of that will be enough to sustain them later on.

The warm fuzzy person I used to be, who only ever wanted to be a mother, has been crushed to bits under the unrelenting, splintery wheels of her own runaway life. And I have no faith whatsoever that I'm doing any of this right, or well enough. I do know they deserve better than me, that they deserve a life I cannot give them, that they deserve the kind of mother I wanted to be and that they do not really deserve the kind of mother I am. It rips me apart when I think about it but I don't know how to get back to the kind of warm and fuzzy person I once was.

I love my children so much it hurts. And sometimes I just want to flee and get as far away from them as possible. These are not mutually exclusive feelings, although they kind of seem to be on the surface.

Once upon a time, I wanted eight children. Then I got reasonable and brought that number down to six. From there, I caved and settled on four. And stayed there. But I only have two - three including P. I can't imagine how much harder (and more crowded - and expensive - and messy - and stressful) life would be if I had the four I wanted.

I also can't imagine how much more love there would be. I wonder how it would have impacted our lives. I wonder a lot of things. I didn't think I was done having kids when I had W. I didn't pay attention enough when Baby W. was really a baby, and I didn't take nearly enough photos. I took almost no videos. And I didn't record as much as I should have done on paper.

So while I am sniffing the air, detecting a whiff of freedom as they grow, I am sniffing the air and realizing I cannot smell any Johnson & Johnson products anymore or the unfathomable scent of a newborn's neck.

While I am relishing a return to independence, I am mourning the loss of babies I never did right by in the first place.

Mother's Day is kicking my ass.

And I will not be sorry to see it go. By the end of the day, I predict I will have grasstains on my feet, food stains on my shirt, and tearstains on my cheeks.

I will ooh and ahh over the gifts my children made at school ( a craft foam magnet and a painted, one dimensional paper vase with one dimensional paper tulips glued in it) all over again, since they gave them to me today in their excitement. I thanked them, hung up the gifts in appropriately showy places and hugged and kissed them until they pulled away.

I'm trying.

But it doesn't feel like enough.

It never does.

This sucks.

Motherhood. It is suppsed to be glorious. Your status should be revered. Instead, I am resented, on every level, by each generation.

The child whose creation I had nothing to do with though... he thinks I did okay.

Just now, J ran in , half asleep and asked me to snuggle with him for a minute. I did, of course. I tucked him in, kissed him, rubbed his back. And I whispered to him, "You're okay."

And he murmured back, "So are you."

I hope he meant it.

Oh no she didn't.

My fellow parents who concede defeat to the television and occasionally (or regularly) plunk their kids down in front of Noggin or Sprout or Disney's lineup of shows, have come to expect a certain standard of programming.

Shows should be wholesome, benign, and full of fun while imparting life lessons.

Above a, they should be educational.

That is the general idea, and it facilitates us doing things like taking showers, having a normal telephone conversation, doing laundry, writing a note to the teacher explaining why our child emerged from the bathroom weaing his u nderpants on the outside of his jeans was out sick on Tuesday , or , you know, whatever. And it alleviates any guilt we have , or most of it, because hello, it's wholesome, benign, full of fun and life lessons and it's educational and those are good things.

My kids love Noggin.

Lately they have taken a shine to Noggin's dreaded Lazy Town show. Still and all - it's educational. And did I mention, wholesome?

Well.

I was recently on MySpace, and I came across a profile which displayed a little clip from Lazy Town, featuring its pink-haired heroine, Stephanie, singing her heart out. Usually , in my experience, Stephanie sings about how much fun it is to exercise and dance and be friends and use teamwork to solve problems.

Stephanie appears to be making cake in this clip though, and singing something not entirely related to exercising or dance or friendship or cooperation - at least not in any conventional sense. This is not the kind of education I was banking on my kids getting from watching Noggin.

Scroll down just enough to see her mouth - but not so far that you can see the flashing red words and try to lipread, and then scroll down to see the 'subtitles' and you will see that the flashing red words do indeed seem to reflect her apparently extremely heartfelt lyrics.

Seriously.

What. In THE hell. Is the world coming to???

Big Toy

We inherited a swingset from a friend of mine a couple years ago. It has two sling swings, a wavy slide, ladders and monkey bars. She inherited it when she bought her house and her child outgrew it. Mine are rapidly outgrowing this one, and since it's been through three families, it's looking a bit peaky. (And sounding creaky.)

So for one thing, I wonder if there are organizations which could a) use it and b) will take it away ; a family shelter or a children's facility or something.

Next up - that toy is what sucks my kids into the backyard despite the lure of television and the threat of bees. I realize lots, if not most, of us grew up without one and played outside all the damn time, but I would like to replace it with another one.

These things are expensive! I am not made of money - shocking, I know - but I do have a unique situation in which I have some funds available to me for use in the "rehabilitation" of J. and his many (many) issues. Gross motor (large muscle coordination), fine motor (articulation of digits and coordination of hands and feet), socialization (ie: friends may come to play and this would give them a good place to do it) and anxiety (bees! aagh, bees!) - these are the ways in my head I can justify using the money for such an item.

So I breezily went online and looked up some stores which carry them, like Wal*Mart, Toys R Us, BJs. HOLY COW these are even more expensive than I realized!

My current criteria are:
Must be wood
Must have playhouse / fort / hut / roofed thing
Must have sling swing
Must have glider
Must have slide, preferably non boring (ie: with twist or wave or something)

Preferred features:
Non ugly
Built in sand box
Picnic table / seat
Chalkboard wall
Should cost less than GNP of Bolivia
Should not require NASA team to assemble

Does anyone have a suggestion, a recommendation, a warning, a preference, etc.? Any brand , feature, etc, I should avoid? Anything worth a few extra dollars? Have a great experience with one particular model?

Your thoughts, please.

If The Licensed Shirt Fits, Wear It

My two guys are very big for their ages.

W. is four; wears a six, give or take.
J. is six; wears an eight, possibly going into a ten.

W. has a chest like a giant sequoia.

J. is long of torso.

W. is safe for another year, maybe two, because he still wears little boy sizes, 4-7.
J. is screwed this year, because while he might be able to be wedged into a 7, it's not really going to fit him anymore, unless it's manufactured by a brand that runs large.

Further compounding the problem, J. sometimes takes an 8 but sometimes an 8 just fits so he needs a 10. It gets worse with S/M/L, because he could be any one of those, depending on who makes the garment. And a size 8 baesball shirt is just barely fitting, but a size 8 from The Childrens Place is swimming on him. So this year - God help us both - I need to take him clothes shopping. I will have to bribe him with lunch or a movie or something afterwards because while he is enthusiastic at the prospect right now, I assure you, after trying things on in 2 stores, he will be at his flippin' limit. AND he's going to be one angry monkey when I tell him I am not buying him a size 7 tee shirt with (Insert Character Of Choice Here) on it because it is too small. He will wail and flap and twirl and scream and it will get ugly and I would bank on this, kids. He's already decided he needs something with Spongebob on it (horrors!) and something with Transformers (blecch!) and something with Spiderman (sob!). So you can see I have my work cut out for me here. I have scoped out Old Navy , where they have graphic tees that suit him sometimes, but those can kind of run beyond irreverent to downright fresh, and while I realize I have to pick my battles, I won't give in to being backtalked by a shirt. Which I have to pay for in the first place. And wash.

W. isn't so hard, yet. But he doesn't like short pants or short sleeves, preferring to run around al fresco , au naturale, as God made him. (I don't remember God having any contractions or stitches, but I'm in a mood today, so whatever.) So all summer, I chase him around and stop short of wrapping him in duct tape in order to keep his clothes on him. I am hoping a few concessions (characters) and compromises (Polo tee shirts instead of plain - he likes the embroidered horses. God help me.) will motivate him to wear his clothes instead of using them as props.

I walked through a big store earlier looking at the sizes and imagining J's reaction when he finds out he is too big for the stuff he wants and so help me, I started to cry. Because I totally hear that. I was 9 when I developed and nothing but nothing fit me. They did not make Hello Kitty tee shirts for teenagers back then, so not only did I have discernible cleavage all of a sudden, I also didn't have any cool clothes and I felt like I was out in the cold, thoroughly ostracized and different at the precise time you want to be just like everyone else. I couldn't get a grip thinking of my boy, my beautiful, rain-man-esque firstborn with all his precociousness and his ample gifts feeling like he wasn't good enough as everyone else and I wanted to pound my fists against something with the outrage of it.

Then again... maybe he won't even notice.

Rainman only had strong opinions about boxer shorts...and Kmart.