Foolery

Bed and Barf-fest

(Photo stolen from these guys)

Your speech changes over the years according to the life you take on. If that life includes children, your speech changes dramatically -- not so much in the words you say, but in what those words mean.  Here are two examples from my weekend.



"We were up all night; I got almost no sleep."

Then:  Well, for SOME people, I suppose, this indicated a rather eventful and, *ahem* ADULT evening. (For me it meant I was helping my cokehead neighbor paint his house, but that's another story.)

Now:  Barfing child.



"I never know who I'll wake up with."

Then:  I'm not gonna explain that; it means what you think it means (for clarity, not something I ever actually said -- not even remotely).

Now:  Antsy kids changing beds in the middle of the night and/or currying favor with one or another parent; barfing likely.



So I'm off to bed now to try to catch up on some missed sleep, and hope no one barfs on me. But really, I wouldn't care too much and I'm pretty sure I wouldn't wake up.

Night, y'all.

Winging It

When we were trying to transition Sparky from nighttime diapers to plain old Dora the Explorer undies, we ran out of diapers one night without realizing it.  Of course this was discovered at 7:30 at night as we were getting the kids ready for bed.

"I have an idea," I said.  I went to my bathroom and found one of the heinous dreaded maxi pads still left over from my post-pregnancy days -- rather small, as those things go, but still, *shudder* -- and showed it to Sparky.  "I'm a little bit unsure about this," I began.  "See, if I understand it right, this thing might give you a mild shock if you piddle on it."

Big eyes.

"Not enough to hurt you, of course -- and I'm not even sure it will happen?  But maybe?  And if it does, I think it will just be a tiny little zap, to wake you up."

Big eyes.

"So, what should you do if you start to piddle in the middle of the night, Sparky?"

"Stop piddling and go to the potty?"

"Yep, that's right --"

"'Cause it'll give me a shock!"

"Well, actually, I'm not sure about that, but it might, so --"

"So I'd better not piddle 'cause of the shock!"

"Right."

Before I went to bed I woke Sparky up and took her to the potty.  She was NOT happy about it, and wished me a face full of poo, and threw a wad of toilet paper at me, but that's unimportant.  The important thing is that Sparky piddled in the potty.  Because she wasn't speaking to me at the time, I let her put herself back to bed.

When she crawled into bed with Chas and me, about an hour later, she was dry, and stayed dry the rest of the night.  We celebrated her success the next morning.

All this warm fuzziness went out the freaking window when both Chas and I forgot to buy more Pull-Ups again the next night.  Sparky reminded us of this fact at 7:30 once again, when she asked about her diapers.  "Oh crud!" I said.

"That's okay, Mama," said Sparky.  I'll just get another one of those things that shock me if I piddle."

All rumors of a shock mechanism (as well as all claims of brilliant parenting) were dispelled that night when Sparky flooded the bed before I got to her to drag her to the potty.

The moral of this story is

• Don't lie to your children.
• Lie to your children, but have a better back-up in case of full lie meltdown.
• Keep the lie going at all costs, blaming shoddy Chinese workmanship on the maxipads.
• Keep the lie going at all costs, giving her a mild electric shock with a household appliance if necessary.
• Learn to love that pee smell, since at this rate she'll be in grad school before you get rid of the diapers.
• Pick one and run with it. If you're getting parenting advice from a blog called Foolery you're in worse shape than even ME.

Quite Possibly the Funniest Thing You'll Read All Week

Have you seen this yet? Get some eye drops, and maybe some Tums, 'cause this one's gonna hurt. Excerpted from this Reuters article (the notations in red are mine, all mine, baby):

Spears' mother plans parenting book

By Dana Ford

LOS ANGELES (Reuters) - As lawyers for Britney Spears and her ex-husband fought a court battle over custody of their two young sons [the battle may be OVER their two young sons, but it’s FOR show], a publisher said on Friday that the pop star's mother is writing a book about parenting.

[Get up, go to the bathroom, throw up a little, have a shot of whiskey, kick a puppy – whatever it takes to suspend disbelief long enough to read the next paragraph]

Religious publisher Thomas Nelson said it will publish "Pop Culture Mom: A Real Story of Fame and Family in a Tabloid World," by Lynne Spears. Nelson spokesman Curt Harding [how’d you like to have THIS guy’s job today?] said the book, to be out next spring, will be about Lynne Spears' raising three children and will have a religious element [yeah, and Baghdad has QUITE a religious element, but it doesn’t make it wholesome, and I wouldn’t wanna go there].

Feel free to read the rest by your lonesomes. I have to go throw up a little.

Smedley's First Day of First Grade

A post script to the prevailing Smedley crisis (not wanting to move to a different first grade class from the one she was expecting to join):

Success, so far. Friday night I brought up the situation, and got the protracted whine and smart-mouth that I expected. My answer was, "Well, it was my mistake that I let you believe that you had any say in the matter, and for that I'm sorry. So, you can either accept it without being a turkey, and we can enjoy this nice dinner Daddy made, or you can pitch a fit, and forfeit any chance of a cookie for dessert, and go to bed early. Either way, you'll be going to Ms. Hart's class on Monday. Your call."

 

Guess who clammed right up? And she wasn't even sullen!

 

Later I sat her down and had a talk with her. I told her that I understood her fear about going to a different class, but that either way she'd be with a new teacher, not her wonderful kindergarten teacher. And she could, and should, play with any kids she wished on the playground, not just those in Ms. Hart's class.

 

And then I told her about my own first grade experience.

 

We moved from Modesto to Orland in the fall of 1971. My first day of school I knew no one -- neither the teacher nor the kids, nor did I know anything about the school or the town. My teacher was very nice to me the first day, but I was definitely "the new kid," in a classroom of first and second graders (and, if I remember correctly, third graders, too -- tiny school) who already knew the ropes. I was shy and terrified that first week.

 

The fear lasted, however, not because of the kids, but because of our teacher. Mrs. Thompson turned out to be as old school as can be believed, ruling with an iron fist, and the fear in the room was palpable. When I told Smedley about my own experience in a new classroom, she couldn't believe it, and quickly forgot about her own fears.

 

Smedley had a few moments of apprehension when the kids were called to line up at the classroom door, but I watched as one kind little girl took Smedley by the hand and pulled her into line with her. I hugged my daughter goodbye, and she barely noticed, she was so busy drinking in her new classroom.

 

Battle over, now let's work on the war.

Is It Too Late To Abdicate My Parental Responsibilities?

School starts Monday.

 

Not for me, of course -- I put in my time, thanks.  Smedley starts first grade, and it's gonna be a fight.  Another fight.  Big surprise, I know.

 

Last year the kindergarten class in our tiny little school was on the verge of overspilling its legal size boundaries, so they moved a few of the kids in with the first grade class.  While they were still receiving the kindergarten curricula, those kids were a bit more socially advanced and could handle being mixed in with first graders.  Smedley stayed in the regular K class.

 

This year, however, she's beyond ready.  Please, cover your eyes if a little bit of parental bragging stirs your stomach.  Smedley ended kindergarten reading beyond a second grade level, and she's continued to advance this summer.  She reads to Chas from The New Yorker.  I think she could probably read The Wall Street Journal, if we had one, which we don't.  And all of her other skills and concepts are above average.  Sigh.  Bragging over.

 

So the school has given us a choice:  Smedley may stay with the first grade class she started with, or move into the more advanced first grade class that is now mixed in with second graders.  Guess which one we've chosen?  Right.  Guess what Smedley says?  Also right.  And any time a well-meaning uncle has asked my daughter, "Well, are you ready for first grade to start?" he has gotten a more detailed (and obnoxious, let's face it) answer than he was expecting.  ". . . and I am NOT going into Mrs. Hart's class, no matter WHAT Mama says!"  Aye-yi-yi . . .

 

So please keep us in your thoughts this weekend.  There will likely be lots of tears, tantrums, slamming doors and ultimatums (and that'll just be Chas -- it's the women in this household ya gotta watch out for).  Thank you for your support.

Maybe The Tooth Fairy Is Home Sick With The Flu, Too

My life is all about BARF this week.

 

Saturday night Smedley started hurling, but it was mostly over within 12 hours.  Then last night (Tuesday) Sparky brought everything up, at least three times, maybe more.  Sparky went through three sets of jammies and two sets of sheets, but -- lucky me! -- her Mankie and Poohbear and Joshua, World's Ugliest Gender-Indeterminant Doll were all blissfully barf-free.

 

And the Tooth Fairy forgot to show up for Smedley!  The second tooth in about a week simply fell out of Smedley's mouth onto the floor at bedtime; no blood, no pain, no tears, no drama, no kidding.  The Tooth Fairy was so well prepared last week for the first tooth that she even had time and energy and foresight to leave a little note with a toy, as well as a little toy for Sparky under her pillow.  (The note explained that sometimes the good fairy likes to treat the siblings when a very first tooth is lost.)  I can't entirely blame the T.F., however -- she had stashed a little book in my closet for the next Tooth Emergency, but some nosy girls found it the other day.

 

Smedley forgot to check under her pillow, so somebody up there must like the Tooth Fairy; a phone call to Chas placed just in time has ensured that now Smedley's teeth have a value of two bucks (hastily shoved under the pillow before she gets home from school).  Bad Tooth Fairy.  Bad Mommy.  Good Daddy.

 

I hope we're done with teeth -- and barf -- for a while, but I'm not counting on it.

Bad Spanish, Bad Mommy.

Part of our daughters’ bed-time routine, as I’ve mentioned before, is singing songs. Sometimes they sing with me, but usually they let me sing to them unaccompanied (as long as they get to choose the songs).

Last night Sparky asked for her usual, "My Bonnie," which she calls "My Bunny." We were all very goofy, and after singing the song, I noodled around and came up with an excruciatingly silly verse, just because I’m the world’s silliest mommy. I’ll spare you the details, but it’s a verse appropriate for a child in potty training – all I’ll say. The girls giggled with appreciation and the feeling that they were getting away with something naughty, and then Sparky turned to me with a serious look.

"Mama, is that how you sing ‘My Bunny" in SPANISH?"

Yes. Yes, it is, Sparky.

How to Put a Child Down For Sleep

The ability to put a child down to sleep for the night is one of the most important skills one can attain as a parent or babysitter. It is also the most elusive one.

Let's start with bathroom stuff. First up:  go to the bathroom. No, not you, though with the amount of time this operation will take, you may want to consider it first.

Get the child to go potty. Plan to run water in the sink for the child to spur her imagination -- at least enough water to wash a Suburban with. Don't be at all surprised if child announces a secondary plan, for which more time and toilet paper will be necessary.

After the toilet is flushed, the child will attempt to escape, but you must INSIST that the child first wash her hands. This usually involves at least as much water as you ran to make her tinkle, and about a quarter of that will end up on the counter and floor.

Before the child can run away, grab her by the waist and say, "Time to brush your teeth!" as brightly yet firmly as you are able with a squirmy, uncooperative and toothbrush-hating child in your grasp. You must let go long enough to uncap the toothpaste. After you've experienced once or twice chasing your child through the house while forgetting you have uncapped toothpaste in hand, you'll be smarter and have the toothbrush loaded and ready to go while she's washing her hands. This works even better once she has become territorial about the toothpaste, insisting upon doing the squeezing herself. (Don't sweat the mess; you have to mop up after the hand-washing anyway.)

I like to allow the child to brush her own teeth, emphasizing "Don't swallow the toothpaste -- spit it!" about every five seconds. Plan to be spat upon. It also helps to pick a funny little tune to la-la while you brush her teeth -- a personal favorite is the theme music to the old Benny Hill show, Yakkety Sax. This will not be your child's favorite, however.

Once the bathroom is staged for a hose-out, it's time to go back to your child's room to get her dressed. "Clean fresh undies first!" is the rule at our house. Selecting the perfect pair of Cinderella or Barbie panties will take your child about as long as an act of Congress. If your child is still in diapers, thank your lucky stars . . . unless, of course, the diapers have cute cartoons on them, which the child will want to pick from. In that case, Congress is in session again.

Jammies are next. We keep ours under the pillow, but I warn you that the child will NEVER remember this fact. She will empty her jammie drawer if you're not paying attention, digging through to find her favorites.

Once the child is in bed -- FINALLY -- it's time for the entertainment portion of our show. We usually have one book per child, and, of course, each child gets to pick her book. Expect tears. If it's too late for reading, we at least have songs. Lights out, and each girl gets to pick two, three, or four songs, depending upon available time. We have a large and varied catalogue from which to select our songs, but they rarely fail to include at least two Christmas songs. All year round. Get used to it -- they will NOT be dissuaded.

Goodnight hugs are next, but don't be surprised if over time you develop a ritual from which there must be no deviation. For instance, we start with a Big Fat Hug, then a Big Fat Kiss. Then there must be a Pat-Pat-Pat on the head (Pat-Pat-Patent Pending). On silly nights I may throw in a Zrrbbtt or two, which is just a tummy raspberry. Then a Nose-Nose-Nose, which I called an Eskimo kiss when I was little. Then a One Big Eye, for which you place foreheads and noses together so you are each staring at a cyclops up close. You must chant "ONE BIG EYE!" as you do this, or it doesn't count. If there's really a lot of time, you can throw in a Reach For The Sky, which is really just underarm tickling. Then the ritual closes with a Hardware Store, which Uncle Mantel Man invented. Place the palm of your hand on the child's head, and vibrate it like a paint can shaker at Home Depot. Hardware Store. Oh, and you have to yell, "Hardware Store!" as you do this.

Plan for several extra hugs and kisses. Say goodnight and leave the room.

But you're not done yet. Oh no -- now comes the litany of complaints. "Mama, you forgot to turn on the night light!" After this faux pas is corrected and you're comfortably engaged in your next activity, you'll hear, "Mama!  I want a drink of water.  You forgot my drink of water!" So you trudge to the kitchen to wash out some cups, taking care to drop in an ice cube because you don't want to forget the ice cube. Trudge trudge trudge. "Thank you, Mama. Mama? Did you remember the ice cube?"

So you think you're home free? Well, you're not. Not unless your child has a better memory than my two girls'. "Mama? I want a toy." Now, it's best to establish strict rules about the number of toys your child is allowed to sleep with. When I get lax they climb all over me, so I have to hold firm at TWO TOYS. Find a number and stick to it. 25 is a number, but unless you have endowed your child with a California king bed, sleeping with 25 toys is not realistic. No, our rule is two toys. And nothing with sharp edges. As fun as it may be, you just can't sleep with that school bus, Sparky.

I didn't address bath time, which has its own set of joys and sorrows. These are the basics, but I'm sure you'll find your own variations. You'll find yourself yelling sentences you couldn't even have composed BK (Before Kids). Sentences like, "If you kick the wall ONE MORE TIME I'm gonna CLOSE THIS DOOR TIGHT!" or "Stop singing or I'll CLOSE THIS DOOR TIGHT!" and even "Santa Claus is DONE watching you! He's SICK AND TIRED OF THIS and he recommended that I CLOSE THIS DOOR TIGHT!" Find the threat that works and stick to it.

Some variations we've gone through include "Pretend To Sleep On Me, Mama," "I'm Scared That The Owl Will Get Me, Mama" and the current "Please Play 'Route 66' And 'Mona Lisa,' Mama."

That's all. It's a cinch, right? Oh, excuse me; gotta go. Someone needs to go to potty again.