Other People's Children

I am by turns endlessly amused and irritated as heck by other people's children. Why are my kids the only normal ones?

Imagine my affront when, during Rascal's recent wellness checkup, the doctor suggested he be evaluated by a speech therapist because he's a late bloomer on the communication chart. Although Dr. Knowitall was polite and diplomatic with his expressions of concern, it baffled me that he could not decipher Rascal's lingo.

What part of "Shinofing dat oh me past is dooty, dat Kye!" did he not understand? Idiot. So now we wait for an appointment and hope fervently that insurance will cover us. Moron.

Like, other people's children?

The other day I babysat for my friend's grandkids. I've met them once, months before and typically, the 2- and 4-year-old didn't remember me. Which didn't stop them from requiring hugs, kisses, and showing me all their mosquito bites. Yeah, weird!

While fixing a snack in the kitchen, I heard a thonk followed by a scream from the living room. "Somebody!" called Big Missy. "Somebodyyyyyyyy?"

I assumed she was just generally calling for assistance, and of course I rushed over to take stock of the situation. Little Missy was sitting on the floor crying angrily.

"Somebody? That boy spilled water." Oh, that must be my name. Somebody. As for That Boy, she waved generally in the direction of Rascal and Kye.

I am making a huge effort these days to not automatically assign the blame to Rascal, and so I tried to discover from BM which That Boy she meant. She had already forgotten.

About two seconds later the same crisis erupted with someone else's water cup. My bad - the sippy cups were all in the dishwasher. Once again, the blame could not be determined.

Later on, after snack and the refilling of the cups (about an ounce of water apiece), the big kids thundered off into the playroom leaving Little Missy and Kye alone in the living room. I turned on PBS and put my feet up. Then watched as Little Missy calmly toppled over all the cups onto the coffee table.

She looked up at me, stuck out her lower lip and pointed at Kye.

P.S. For all the rest of you illiterates, Rascal's comment referred to the snotty deposit Kye had just swiped onto his pants. See? Told you it was completely understandable.

The best medicine

There are two cure-alls in this world: a sympathy Band-Aid and kissing the ouchie better. I discourage the first and encourage the second in our house.

When I can't dispense this tender First Aid I expect others to jump in, and so it happens on occasion that Tweenie or Rascal have to pinch hit. It usually works pretty well.

Of course, when we're in public someone invariably gets hurt, either by accident or while misbehaving. It happened again during my recent physical exam.

Alert: stirrup deets to follow. All squeamish persons must click away from this post immediately! That means you, Alejandro.

I was splayed out on the exam bed in nothing but a hospital smock. The doctor began his exam. Rascal was yanking latex gloves out of the dispenser one at a time. He reached over to the female anatomy flipchart and slipped off the rolling stool onto the floor.

He started to bawl. He pointed at his skinned knee. "Big ouchie, mama! Kissy!"

I asked Tweenie to take care of him.

"Nuh-uh, he's bleeding. I'm not touchin' it. Eww!"

Kye wandered over and poked at it. "Deh?" he asked.

Rascal bawled louder. My cooing noises from atop the table weren't helping.

The nurse leaned over. "Oh, bless your heart!"

The doctor looked over. "Hey, little fella. Bless your heart!"

We learned when we first moved to the south, you always bless each others' hearts. You can pretty much say anything you want to a person, as long as you bless their heart at the end.

Everyone was trying to placate Rascal. He was loving the attention, but I could see it was only a tiny scratch. Although I felt sorry for him I was in a certain discomfort myself, being exposed below the waist. "Um, excuse me?"

They couldn't hear me over the wailing and their blessings.

"Hello?"

Slowly, the doctor and nurse returned to my side and finished up. Rascal quickly realized a kissy was not immediately available, and so he improvised and kissed himself better. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

All better!

Drunk with power

I can make my children believe just about anything. I can make them squeal with laughter or tremble in fear just by adjusting the angle of my eyebrow. I can still use comments like "I'm your mother, I know everything".

Sometimes the absolute power thrills scares me. I have these Zach Braff moments, where time stands still while I recognize the moment before me and have to decide, do I behave like the adult or seize this chance to wield my control and selfishly act on impulse? For example, the time I tricked Rascal into giving me the bigger piece of birthday cake-- but I digress.

When I was young, I was the most gullible kid in the neighborhood. My playmate next door would spin stories about his escapades as I sat there in total awe. The hero worship opportunity must have been irresistable to a 7-year-old boy.

"And then I killt him with my magic sword. For real!"

"Gosh! You gots magic? How come I don't got any?"

"You're a girl, you have girly magic. It's invisible and anyways, it don't work on us boys."

"No way!"

"Yuh-huh. Now I'll do a magic trick on you. See how many rhymes you can make with the word 'duck'."

"Yuck, muck, buck, f---, puck, gu-"

"She said a bad word!" he hollered to his mom down the hall.

I burst into tears and ran home. I didn't even know which one I said was the wrong one. My mom didn't know what to make of it all, with my face mashed against her lap and me blubbering about a duck. It was years later when I suddenly realized how that trick worked.

Ohhhhhh.

My family and friends say Tweenie is my clone. We look alike and, according to those in the know, we have very similar personalities. Turns out she's every bit as gullible as I am was. When I'm in a smartass mood, I like to lead her down the garden path a bit. We usually have a good laugh about it afterward.

There are certain things that I don't feel right about tricking her, such as Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Early on, I decided that if she asked me straight out if they were real, I would answer truthfully. And I did.

It turned out that was the wrong answer, but you can't unring a bell (although I sort of tried and then lost a ton of credibility. It took a few days of persistent lobbying to re-establish my position as Person of Absolute Knowledge and Trustworthiness). Now, any time I try to tell her anything she challenges me, as in:

"Mom, seriously, don't mess around. For real? I am not joking here."

"Mom! I know what you're doing when you cover your mouth with your hand! Mother! Why are your eyes watery? Why are you breathing like that?"

So there were a few holidays where we had to have the fantasy-character discussion again, which always ended in my earnest assertion that there are no such things as elves (jolly or otherwise), flying reindeer, rabbits that poo chocolate eggs, or fairies that buy teeth. Although, on that last one I am diligent in paying up. She knows who to lecture if I forget or leave a measly quarter.

Now that she knows the truth, she has taken it upon herself to educate her starry-eyed cousins, brothers, and friends. She is universally met with staunch denials and hurt feelings. This often sets off a new round of inquiries to her all-knowing mama, who each time has the renewed opportunity to announce it was all a big joke and by the way, Santa prefers oatmeal raisin cookies and skim milk for his girlish figure.

But the memories of my friend and gullible past prevent me from using my power of persuasion and force me to tell the disappointing truth. I kick myself each time as I see her little face fall, and then, in desperation I say that we can pretend it's all real and oh my goodness, did I just hear sleighbells?

"Mom, seriously. Mother!"

mwa ha ha ha ha haaaaaa!

A little self-discipline is always good

Today I put myself in Time Out. Not because I misbehaved, but it was a freakin' close call.

It was one of those days that started off bad and didn't improve. There was a general outcry at the cinnamon french toast on the breakfast menu, followed by a failure to come to a consensus on the Dora The Explorer vs. Berenstain Bears post-breakfast TV time (more accurately known as Mama's coffee break). It kind of went downhill from there.

Eventually I realized I was at a critical point, beyond which lay the uncertain realm of parental behavior generally regarded as heinous and pathetic. In short, I was about to bellow at my children and then quite possibly burst into tears. This would achieve the dual aim of both letting off steam and frightening my children into a temporary submission.

I fled for my bedroom and locked the door. Ignored the pounding on my door. Breathed deeply. Eventually the pounding stopped. I picked up Pride & Prejudice and shut out the rest of the world for a chapter.

When I read everything else ceases to exist. I don't hear suspicious sounds, smell suspicious odors. Situationally speaking, this can be a very good thing. As in this situation. I think it's a little like delta-wave sleep. I once tuned out a fire alarm at school while reading--but I digress.

When I allowed myself out of Time Out, it was strangely calm. Tweenie bopped to some music on her computer game, Rascal and Kye doodled around in the backyard. There was a uniform path of destruction running through common areas, but nothing extraordinary.

I went outside after the boys. They were plucking my tomato plants bare. My tomatoes have shown tremendous resilience this summer. At this point I am down to two plants, of which one came up wild from last year's compost I used to fertilize the bed. Neither of them has more than 3 leaves and the six tomatoes formerly attached to the vine are now stuffed into Twit's kibble dish.

Breathe. Breathe. Shoot evil eyes. And breeeaaaathe.

Back inside again, cleaning up the carnage. At some point I happened by the phone and noticed the answering machine blinking. My friend was laughing at the message greeting. Huh??

"Ma-aa, you better get over here, Rascal's doing something to the pho-one!" Beeeeeeep.

I went back to P&P for more therapy.

Brrrrrrring! Mom, it's for you...

My kids love the phone. None of them were ever fooled by the realistic-looking Barney phone, and for that matter the FisherPrice keys and carseat steering wheel attachment weren't big hits either.

Kye runs around with it clutched in his chubby hands, turning it onoffonoffonoffonoff. He lives for the moment when the automated message finally comes on.

"We're sorry, we are unable to complete your call as dialed."

Rascal punches in random numbers, talks to whomever picks up and then abruptly hangs up on them. So far we haven't been *69'd. He's a sweettalker.

Tweenie always answers with an enthusiastic "Oh, hi!", except when Husband calls from work. I always know it's him when I hear her say, "Uh, who is this?"

Today I was scrubbing the toilet. I heard her chattering to someone, assumed it was BFF. Eventually she came upstairs to find me.

"Mom, phone's for you."
"Kinda busy here, who is it?"
"I have no idea. Somebody important."
"Find out who it is, please."
"Mom, they asked for Mizz Rain. It's someone really important."

This whole conversation passed with her waggling the phone in my face, the caller listening in on our exchange. I sighed. It seems we have such a freakish last name that no one can pronounce it. I had a sneaking suspicion about this one.

"Hello, ma'am! May I say what a pleasure it is to speak to someone who doesn't hang up right away! I'm calling with a very special offer tod--"

An earnest discussion followed, with the take-home message that anyone inquiring for the "Rain" family is not a desired caller. Yeesh.

I'm steamed

A recent blog post in the online edition of the Orlando Sentinel caught my eye. Entitled "Captain, we have an evil-doer aboard this flight", it discussed a recent news bulletin about a mom and her tot who were removed from a plane because the toddler was being disruptive. Disruptive because the child was calling "bye-bye, plane" to other aircraft on the tarmac during the safety announcements.

I don't know about you, but I always listen to the super important information and take the time to peruse the safety card conveniently located in the seat pocket. And by always, I mean never. Which makes me a stupid passenger, I suppose, but at least I'm not the hyper teen gabbling to my friend on my cellphone whilst the plane free-falls to the ground, nor am I the obnoxious businessman in first class downing scotch and laughing loudly at Seinfeld reruns while people are trying to sleep in the next row.

Ok, to be fair, apparently the mother was not attempting to quiet her son and he wasn't using an indoor voice. That is irritating, and in my pre-kid days I would certainly have whipped out the death glare I ordinarily save for idiots on the interstate and probably asked the steward for a seat change.

But to kick them off the plane? Not only this, but the stewardess told the mother to shut her kid up and drug him with Benadryl. Wow.

Reading further, I came upon the comments section. Here I feel the need to warn you that in case you are stupid enough to empathize with the mother at all, you may become so enraged at the asinine submissions of some less sympathetic readers; I cannot be held accountable for your reaction. In fact I won't even spoil it for you, you should read them yourself. I think you'll figure out very quickly which comment is mine.

Oh crap, now I outed myself.

Perhaps the reason this hits a little close to home is that I'm planning a trip back to my hometown next month and am already dreading the flight with 3 children sans Husband. Tantie will be joining me, bless her heart, and another such brave soul I have never met in my life. I expect some stressful hours and aforementioned death glares from other passengers. I did not anticipate, however, the possibility of being hauled off to the airport security office at some point along my way. This has me up nights, no exaggeration.

I am the type who has imaginary arguments in my head, for planning purposes I tell myself. In the end, though, I decided that a shouting match with airline employees and other passengers would not well serve my purposes, and so this is what I do intend to do, should this situation arise.

I will smile sweetly. I will invite all offended parties to the airport bar so that I can atone for my children's atrocious behavior by treating everyone to a few drinks. I will charm them with kindness and they will feel horrible for their reaction. They will apologize and offer me free flights for life to any destination.

What in truth will happen is that Tantie and I will give it to them with both barrels in stereo. We will attempt to outshout each other in our violent defense of the, at this point probably petrified, children. We will be arrested and barred from air travel for the rest of our lives. We will run tattling to the newspapers and parade my beautiful children in their Sunday clothes for the cameras. I will cry quietly, with dignity. We will sell our story to A&E and make a bajillion dollars.

See you on The View!

Teaching independence - my bad

Rascal is 3 years old now. He's potty trained, can sort of dress himself, and clears his own plate from the table. He imitates every move Husband, Tweenie, and I make.

Oops.

This morning I made a vague comment about grocery shopping. Actually, I was planning on goofing off until 12:30 (when Y&R comes on), then afterwards halfheartedly finishing my chores and running out for groceries and take-out at the last minute. I didn't explain all these other plans to Rascal though, and so he assumed we'd leave right after Cinnamon Toast Crunch brunch.

He raced off, shouting about his scawwy wowoff shoe-ies (new Spidey sandals) and favorite dino tee. I shuffled off to the shower first. He was annoyed about this, but quickly stripped down and jumped in with me. He insisted on using Husband's Adidas bodywash.

"I too, mumum, I be saxy," he told me seriously. (Where did he get that??)

Later I herded Tweenie toward the van, while Mama's big helper attempted to carry Kye. There's an 8 pound difference between them, so he was using something like a choke hold to drag Kye to the door. A strange grunting noise quickly alerted me to the situation - it was Rascal. Kye was completely indifferent to it all.

Shopping involved even more helping. Mostly the cart-pushing (aka "droving") was a sticking point. Also, he felt Husband should get Heineken instead of Coors Lite - which was on sale, by the way, and therefore not negotiable.

At home later, he noticed an abandoned pair of safety glasses and decided he wanted to wear them for the rest of the day.

"Okee, we cheese now mumum."

??

"Cheeeeeeeeeeeeezzzzzze!!!!"

Right-o.

Don't say I didn't warn you

I am a stay-at-home mom, largely isolated from the sanity-preserving effects of adult interaction. I operate on Mama Standard Time. I spend an embarrassing amount of time reading the grocery flyers and am addicted to Y&R. Despite having provided myself with a university education, I spend much of my day blabbering in babytalk.

Sometimes, however, my world collides with Everyone Else. It is at such times that a sign like this would come in handy, like a warning label. I'm sure my neighbor and the mail carrier would've been grateful for it.

The problem is, since my clock is set to MST, my schedule is skewed. I may just be getting out of the shower at 4 pm or still in my pajamas at lunchtime.

Or giving myself an armpit wax in front of my bedroom window (that conveniently overlooks the front walk) because I need the natural lighting, then seeing a much-awaited package arrive tucked under the arm of the mailman. I hurredly yanked on some clothes while cowering in the shadows of my bedroom and ran for the door.

Then, in true idiot fashion, I stood there gabbing with the guy about my recent trip to DisneyWorld while I signed the delivery slip. My waxy fingers goobered up his pen, and while sheepishly apologizing I reached up to push my hair out of my face. I stood there, still jabbering on about Mary Poppins as I yanked my hand free.

See, I was that desperate for adult conversation.

Now, when the mail guy sees me, he winks and smirks a little.

Then there was my poor neighbor who came by unannounced to drop off some squash he promised me. He caught me sleeping in after a night up with Kye and the flu. The doorbell rang, I foolishly stumbled to the door in my grotty Molson Canadian Tshirt and skivvies, squinted through the side window, caught his eye, reacted in horror, raced to the bedroom, frantically put on the first thing I found, patted my hair down, and casually sauntered to the door pretending like nothing happened.

He doesn't bring by any more squash.

At the Seaside

We just came back from a short week at the beach.

My children, despite my efforts with sunblock, have glowing tans and sun-streaked hair.

As for me (despite other efforts), my natural aristocratic teint is now offset by patchy burnt accents on my cheekbones and forehead. Conveniently, I wore my sunglasses the whole time and now have a lasting memory of our vacation. Well, until the skin peels anyway.

I learned quite a lot on this trip, like how little sleep kids can really get by on or how good McDonald's coffee tastes.

Or after learning I was swimming all week with sand sharks that I no longer need to freak out and flash back to that innocent childhood time when I snuck out of bed and caught the last few scenes of Jaws when my dad was watching it on TV.

Also that body surfing is funnest when you scream as loudly as possible, and that being buried in sand is a great way to exfoliate with zero effort on my part.

I was stepping into the shower one evening as Rascal sauntered in. "Yaykit!" he exclaimed, then set about stripping down to join me.

"See, mumum? I have 'oobies." He pointed proudly. "One, free, seben, two 'oobies!" He included a bruise and mosquito bite in his tally. "Mumum too, 'oobies. Big 'oobies!"

"Yes sweetie, but please don't poke Mama."

"Okee. See mumum, my bum."

"Mm-hm."

"Mumum too bum. Ooh, BIG bum!" He started giggling.

I hollered for Husband who came and took Rascal out. I assumed he would dress him in pajamas but when I came out of the shower Rascal was wearing his trunks backwards and struggling with his water wings. Husband was taking advantage of the full cable offered by our swank little motel and paying no attention whatsoever.

"Swomming, mumum?"