I've got that certain "je ne sais quoi"

The word on the street is that I'm bossy.

Moi?

I overheard Tweenie scheming with BFF for a possible weekday sleepover, or at least a bowl of ice cream before dinner.

"Mom's not the type, like if you beg and beg and beg, she totally won't give in. Even the fluttery eye thingy only works on Dad anymore."

Indistinct mumbling from BFF.

"Anyway, she said I have to clean this pigsty up this instant. And, well, I believe her. She's kinda, you know, bossy."

That's kids for you, right? They always think their parents are tyrants whose only pleasure lies in inventing odious chores.

Recently, Husband tried to help out by throwing a load of laundry in the washer. I came swooping from another room and shooed him away. He doesn't read the tags, ok? Doesn't make me bossy.

"Helping" Tweenie pick out her clothes for school isn't bossy either. It's a teachable moment.

I was observing Rascal today in a quiet moment. I have always said he takes after Husband, in looks and attitude.

He was "helping" Kye.

Lesson #1: When pouncing on Big Sister, you must land on the soft mushy stomach part, not the bony pelvis. If you make a mistake, you will have to repeat the maneuver until you have it right.

Lesson #2: When tossing rocks at the cat, you must throw overhand. No sissy stuff, got it?

Lesson #3: You are not allowed to eat the part of the sandwich that has no peanut butter smeared on it, even if Mama has taken care to cover every millimeter. Also, Mama is not allowed to re-smear or cut the offending part off. The whole sandwich would be ruined.

Rascal: "No, Kye. Nooooooooo dat. I show. Dis, okee?"

Kye: "Deh?"

I guess he was paying better attention than I thought.

Not so funny anymore

You may have noticed that I try to find any scrap of humor that may be found in what are otherwise exasperating situations.

Sometimes, I think the most intolerable circumstances eventually yield the best stories. But then there are times when Mama is just worn down and the smallest problem is overwhelming.

Today was one such day. I hate to write a bummer post, but in the interest of authenticity I figured my readers should know that for this camel, that straw weighed a freakin' ton.

Those of you who have been keeping up to date know that I was recently away visiting family with my kids. Husband was enjoying the peace and quiet because he had to "work". Apparently that also covers going over to his friend's place to admire the rifle collection. Not that I'm upset; I'd rather he admire someone else's deadly weapons than collect them himself.

During my trip, we tried to control our Hectic.
Hectic Rule #1: only one outing per day, or only one batch of visitors invited to my mom's house per day.
Hectic Rule #2: get kids to bed at a reasonable hour, with some small allowance for the fact that we were on vacation and leaving places at 7:30 pm is (surprise, surprise) an unpopular idea.
Hectic Rule #3: get in a nap every day, even if it's only 10 minutes.
Hectic Rule #4: resort to alcohol if Rules 1-3 fall through.

I relied on Rule #4 a lot. But then, so did Tantie and all the other adults scattered around the house. Both of my sisters plus husbands were staying there too. I think they were even more tired than I by the end.

I go on autopilot when I'm in stress. Like cramming for finals or finishing my term paper in the few small hours before it was due, and still feeling alert at 4:23 am. Like going through my wedding day all serene and calm.

When it's all over I crash. In my pre-child life, it meant getting a roaring migraine shortly after the fireworks ended. These days I don't have time for migraines, so it basically means I turn into a fire-breathing dragon with no fuse and black periods of self-pity.

Luckily these don't last long. I can already feel the fog lifting, although that might have been one too many hits with the nasal spray (oh yeah, I also always get a cold after repressed stress). I think there might be a Coors Light in the fridge, too.

Today's freak out started with Kye's fever and fussing (who also has a bad cold), continued with a long wait at the doctor's office, compounded by Tweenie's soccer practice on a crunchy field under a scorching sun, and topped off by a tantrum from Rascal who didn't want to use his usual brand of toothpaste - at least, that was his jumping-off point. He branched out from there.

I of course kept my cool through it all. Ok, I lie. I spent the day in simmering anger. I must not hide it very well, because my kids are like mirrors of my moods. I didn't blow until much later, but my black mood was infectious from the first moment. I am annoyed at myself that I couldn't get a grip.

And so I sit here now, spilling my catharsis into cyberspace for all you fine folks to read. Feeling a lot better already. Hoping for a better day tomorrow.

Sleep: the Final Frontier

We fogeys (a.k.a. pretty much anyone over 25) have vastly different priorities than them young'uns.

So, for example, we appreciate:
-spinach
-road trips
-sleep

This last is particularly underrated by the ankle-biter gang, as I discovered over the course of the last 24 hours.

I assumed myself more or less in the clear once we completed the infant-based night schedule. I cheerfully accepted the maximum 6-hour nights dictated by the twin demands of Husband/Mama Quality Time and freakishly early school bus pickups (we were lucky to pull the last stop on the route, which is 7:12 am).

While I held out some vague hope of the occasional nap, I have developed the (instantaneous) ability to squeeze 5 winks out of an episode of Berenstain Bears. Or, just hypothetically speaking, watch my boys play with their cars on the dining room floor and fall asleep beside my breakfast plate unexpectedly.

Fast-forward back to recent events...

Last night, Tweenie and Rascal decided they wanted a sleepover. I didn't care one way or another; they weren't going to sleep on their own anyway after nearly an hour of shenanigans. They both solemnly promised to go to sleep instantly (those were my exact instructions) and not be heard from until the next morning.

I wasn't even 10 steps out of the door when I heard a rasping sound from my boy. With a sigh of resignation, I turned back to deliver the threatened consequences but paused at the door when Tweenie said,

"What are you doing?"

"I seeping. See? Zzzzzzzzzzzz."

"Be quiet!"

"I seeping. Shhht! Mama be angey."

More snores.

"Maaaaaaaa!"

Of course I had to separate them after all, but at least they didn't want to share a bed after that.

After preschool today, Rascal wanted to play with Kye. Unfortunately, this was during the planned naptime. Rascal was not impressed. He stomped outside and sulked. I ignored it and brought Kye up to bed, then started on some chores.

Eventually I heard Rascal come back in and head for his stack of cars. I didn't check on him right away and this was just the opening he needed. From Kye's bedroom upstairs, I heard Rascal's characteristic singsong:

"'Ake up, Kye! You come play me."

I zoomed up the stairs.

"Come, Kye! We play now, okee?"

I discovered them both sitting in the crib, proud of themselves. I scowled, banished Rascal, and tucked Kye back in. He howled.

Later, I attempted to sneak a catnap while Rascal watched TV and ate soda crackers.

"Mama, 'ake up! Noooooo seeping, okee?" Crumby fingers jabbed my eyelids open before they could crack voluntarily. I yelped as salty bits burned in my eyes.

"Sowwy, mama! Is you hurtid? Nooooooo seeping, okee?"

Message received loud and clear. I went upstairs and woke Kye up myself.

That Sweet Child of Mi-y-ine

Maybe I'm too new to this game.

I take an excessive amount of pleasure in rolling Tweenie's eyes, especially when it's with my inherent geekishness. Exaggerative efforts are like cheating, because I know I can achieve my ends almost instantly.

We were driving somewhere the other day, just the two of us. I flipped through stations, trying to find something mutually enjoyable. I landed on one of those Top 100 channels where they play Justin Timberlake at least 10 times each hour.

"Mom, this is totally lame."

"Oh reeeeeeally?" I started switching.

Axl's powerwhine came wailing over the airwaves. I haven't listened to his captivating caterwaul since high school, which was--

...um...

--several years ago.

I cranked it, boosted the bass, started grooving at the wheel. I sneakily glanced over, expecting to see white orbs centered in a scowling face framed by hands jammed over ears.

I only saw air guitar.

"This is awesome!" she hooted.

Now, whenever it's just us in the car, we turn to the 80s power rock station and bond in a strangely fascinating way. Husband would most definitely approve.

I

My life has been dissected, investigated. Were it not for an untrained lackey at the quickee photo studio conveniently located inside a certain discount supermarket, I would have had a reward waiting at the end of a long five month finger-drumming spring.

I refer, of course, to the insanity that applying for a passport has become.

I am not an American. My life in the U.S., therefore, is greatly facilitated by the possession of valid, non-expired paperwork. If the system was not in the greatest crisis known to mankind at this time (because surely they could not foresee the frantic increase in passport demand the recent change in U.S. border policy created), I would not have had to sit and watch my window of opportunity shrink steadily and ultimately close while I waited for a crisp new booklet featuring my scowling face and full biographical details.

My relief was instantaneous when I saw the DHL van pull into my driveway. I ripped open the package in Christmas-morning anticipation, only to see my pile of notarized photocopies and applications butterfly-clipped to my rejection letter.

What? They can reject me?

Supposedly the photo was overexposed. Which means that my skin was too pale (someone should have told them about my natural aristocratic teint that refuses to take on any color other than lobster-red). Also, my notary stapled together what she should not have and failed to staple that which she ought.

At this point, I was sitting without a valid passport. My enquiries to the consulate of my home country provided only the suggestion that I travel back home to rectify the problem in person. This was a big part of the reason for my recent trip.

The first opportunity after my arrival, I ran down to the local passport office a half-hour after opening. There were at least 100 people ahead of me in line. Coming earlier would not have helped, though, as some of the bored applicants had stood in line for an hour before the place opened up. This joint was hotter than Justin Timberlake, it seemed.

An older gentleman in uniform was obviously in charge of crowd control. "No rioting or singing, please" he half joked.

He asked each applicant if they had all their paperwork and photos together. I was surprised by how many people rolled their eyes at their spouse and shuffled back out the door. I smirked, clutching every identifying document I have ever owned, neatly labelled and organized, in my used DHL rejectelope.

I watched long minutes tick by, I noticed people rushing out frantically to feed expired meters. I sat with ticket #A099 folded in my hand. When the lighted board summoned #A065, the woman sitting beside me leapt up.

"I won!" she shrieked, holding her golden ticket aloft. The snowy-haired bouncer looked over in mild annoyance.

After a 2-hour wait, my number clicked onto the board. I dutifully paid the extra fee for expedited service. Then I went back to my car and drove to the wine store.

Yesterday I returned. The passport pick-up window had a lineup of one, and I walked out with a shiny new passport. Now all I need to do is get back home...

p.s. Rascal's passport expires next summer. I'll keep you posted.

The Importance of Role Models

We are visiting family these recent weeks and it's been a busy time.

We haven't been back since our relocation; most of our friends and family have never met Kye. Back then, Tweenie was adorably toothless and Rascal still deceivingly calm.

It was, of course, purely coincidental that I conceived our planned third child right around this time. As it happens, Kye is starting to break out of his deliciously catatonic state that had my ovaries in an uproar a few months ago. His budding hero worship of Rascal has indeed convinced me that a fourth child would not be such a swell idea.

We spent this last weekend at the cottage with relatives. Their son is just a few months younger than Tweenie and of a similar mindset as Rascal. It was no surprise that the two of them got on famously. They share a love of all things motorized and spent most of their time on the boat and SeaDoo.

Uncle and Tantie were with us. Big Boy insisted on giving everyone a ride on the SeaDoo. He's quite possessive of the jet ski, and when Uncle asked to have a turn he was not impressed.

"You're probably going to crash it into those rocks on purpose just so we don't get to have a jet ski any more," he accused. He's the ripe old age of seven, by the way.

His dad hollered for BB to share. BB ran away, the key still dangling from his wrist.

"If I have to chase you, you're dead meat!" threatened his father. BB glared belligerently and cooperated at last.

I was in pain with abdominal spasms; I was trying not to laugh in front of Rascal. I glanced over at him once I caught my breath. He was staring at BB, eyes wide and with a fascinated smile on his lips.

How're y'all, eh?

We're transplants to the south, victims of corporate restructure and our own greed. We have been living in the US of A for nearly two years and the grandmas are getting antsy.

And so I found myself booking flights back home to the True North (Strong and Free) - sans Husband who begged off due to work conflicts.

They say flying is the safest form of transportation. It's easy, see: you get into this metal tube with metal flaps riveted to the sides, and then you jet yourself a zillion miles an hour 30,000 feet closer to outer space, all to save 30+ hours of driving cross-country.

That was my mantra: this is better than driving 30 hours, this is better than driving 30 hours...

Actually, I'm not a nervous flier. My problem was wrangling three kids on said metal tube of death, while surreptitiously profiling the other passengers.

Does that granny with her crotchet project hate screaming kids on a flight?

Will that pierced teenager be listening loudly to his iPod in the seat behind me?

Surely they won't seat me next to that portly gent? (Ok, so that wasn't very P.C. of me, but let's be honest - personal space is a big deal.)

This is better than driving 30 hours...

Oh yeah right. At least in my van the DVD player can pinch hit.

I must give my kids more credit. For the first leg of our journey, they behaved like perfect angels. I don't know if they were fascinated or stupefied by fear. Even in the airport during our stopover, they stayed close to me and were content.

At the gate, a very attractive man was smiling cheekily in my direction. Kye trotted over and gabbled at him. He winked at me.

I've been married for well over 10 years. It's a big deal, ok?

Once the plane was in the air, the performance started. Rascal ran up and down the aisle. Kye pestered Mr. Handsome. Tweenie began a running commentary to occupy herself and distract away her lingering nervousness.

"Okay, I can see cars. Little little cars. Ooh, there's a train. Okay, now we are going into the clouds. Okay, now we are in the clouds. Coming, coming, okaaaay, now we are on top of the clouds...." And so it continued.

This (amusing only to me) behavior continued for an hour or so, and then all three revved up for the finale. Kye began to howl. Rascal flopped around in his seat and made loud zooming and growling noises. Tweenie read loudly from her activity book.

In the end I apologized to the passengers seated nearby, and Mr. Handsome was over his little flirtation. I truly didn't care about any of it. I was back on solid ground and my children would have 2 weeks to recover before their encore presentation, bless their hearts.

Back to other eh-sayers who speak like they have hot porridge in their mouths. Back to farm fields bisected into neat postage-stamp squares. Back to comfort food and good-natured ribbing from my uncles. Back to passing off screaming kids to aunts and grandmas who coo at them and stuff their faces with homemade cookies.

Back home.

The herd mentality

We see the laws of the animal kingdom demonstrated daily in this suburban jungle.

Tweenie and friends have a clique they call the "Cheetah Team". This is no relation to the popular Cheetah Girls movies. Instead, it consists of an alpha girl bossing around 4 others ponytail-sporting subordinates and an omega dude (who I think has a crush on my daughter, which is the only reason he's there).

Tweenie is decidedly down the pecking order, owing to her natural "let's all get along" temperament. Many times I have been concerned that she does not assert herself but she reasons it all away, saying:

"Oh, K lets me do whatever I want, as long as I ask her first."

She believes that if she leaves the Cheetah Team she'll be doomed to have no friends all year. The Law of the Jungle is, apparently, obey without question or you're stuck with the girl who eats erasers.

Rascal is Head of the House here, and asserts his authority acknowledged or not. He is, after all, a very scary wowoff.

Kye is his deputy. Everything he does has first been demonstrated by Rascal and all completed according to big brother's approval. This most recently includes a certain daredevil stunt.

***

I made a Starbucks run yesterday. As we left, I caught our reflection in the large windows. Mama Duck - latté in hand, Reebok track pants and T, highlited mane in a ponytail with big sunglasses perched on top - followed by one, two, three little ducklings in a row.

A sobering reminder and a PSA

It's another reminder of how time (and technology) flies.

When I was Tweenie's age, I sat happily with our LPs listening to the Disney stories that chimed when you were supposed to turn the page. We didn't have a TV, much less a computer or game station, until I was in junior high.

Ok, so we were weird.

When we eventually got on the Modern World train and started the brain-sucking habit of Saturday morning cartoons and after-school Cosby show, my mom thought herself very clever when she'd unplug the TV and VCR, scrambling around the cables so we couldn't watch any more.

She'd chortle to herself upstairs, imagining us looking at the TV in dismay, then shrugging our shoulders and turning to the copies of Dickens she had casually laid out on the coffee table. Little did she realize I knew where the user manual was kept, and my sister and I would be watching the Young & the Restless lickety-split. Of course we did so with the volume down so low we had to sit right beside the speaker, finger on the on/off button in case we should hear her footstep on the stairs.

Now, we have one TV in our house and the computer sits in a corner of our kitchen. I'd like to say this is because I've learned from my own deviousness and the actions of my friends to hide undesirable behavior from their parents, but the truth is we're too cheap to buy a second TV and don't have another convenient space for the computer where the RoadRunner people can drill through my floor and baseboards to provide the basic necessity of life only high-speed internet can offer.

How do those people on dial-up exist?? Just a quick thought...

Last week it paid off in spades. Tweenie was on one of her dozen kiddie sites with BFF. It's one of those interactive ones where you can communicate with other users, and she is quite addicted to it. I heard them giggling over another user's comment, and then snorting laughter and "ewwwwww!"

I glanced over. The message read: "I am really a dude, so do you want to go out with me?"

The two girls were about to continue on with their game paying no further notice to the user whose question hung in cyberspace, forgotten.

I freaked out. I made them sign off and I shut the computer down. BFF went home soon after and I had a chance to talk it over with Tweenie. She had, of course, not taken any of this seriously and assumed it was a stupid joke. I went on at length about the importance of internet safety and anonymity, which led to the carefully treaded discussion of the people (and I use that term lightly) who would exploit children online.

Her eyes grew wider. "So, we're supposed to lie about our name and age on the computer?"

"It's important to not give out any information to someone you don't know because they might use that against you."

"But the dot-com company makes us tell them."

"So we make something up. Choose a new name and birthday, and just put that in each time."

"But then I'll get the birthday points on a different day, not the right one!"

"Trust me, it's important."

"You said it's a sin to lie."

"Ok missie, if you don't believe me you can ask Dad."

Husband was even more upset. He demanded I contact the site administrator, the police, and possibly also the FBI. He talked about getting a new IP address and installing a firewall. He mentioned the possibility of Tweenie avoiding the site altogether. Faced with this two-pronged attack, Tweenie agreed to avoid the site until we had a chance to contact the appropriate entities and deal with the situation.

The next day, I heard her talking to some neighborhood friends. "Yah, I was, like, totally creeped out!"

On the phone to another friend: "That was sooo creepy! And also, like, gross!"

She wore it like a badge of honor. Bragging rights. But I think she got the message.

***

And now for my PSA.

I've noticed that many toys and TV shows advertise websites with games and interactive play. Many of them require that kids create a profile to use all of the features, often asking for detailed personal information. Many of the input fields are not required for site access. Even if the site does not display your information on a profile, it accustoms your child to sharing personal details online and they may not be as wary when other users ask.

Talk to your child about internet safety. If you are comfortable with him/her using certain sites, consider creating an alias. Use a non-identifying email account where required and monitor your child's online activity closely.

Buzz Lightyear, Space Ranger

"To 'finny, and 'yond!" Rascal shrieks, as he hurtles himself off the ladder into the pool.

The best way to perform this trick is to wait until Tweenie and BFF are engrossed in their pool-side Barbie world:

"Like, I totally love your bathing suit, Maxine!"

"Yah, like, when Ken and I were shopping it was on sale. And then he, like, asked me to marry him!"

"Ewww!"

"Ok, pretend she didn't say that. Pretend your girl is like "ooh, true love!", 'k?"

This will ensure that Brother's approach goes unnoticed. The resulting furor is most definitely worth the wait.

If Mama is the target, the best launching position is from the sofa toward the loveseat. As this is a Evel Knievel death leap of over 4 feet, the chances of injury are fair to good and as such will guarantee a speedy response.

This week, Rascal and Tweenie have been attending Vacation Bible School at a little church down the road. When I drop him off, he looks at me with liquidy blue eyes, lip trembling, and a very brave but shaky "Bah-bye mumum". He follows the teacher into the room and sits obediently in front of the Play-Doh.

The parents come to collect the kids at the end of the night in the sanctuary. They wrap up their evening with a few songs and a talk about "what they learned today". The windows overlook the parking lot, so I peek in first to see if they are finished.

During the final bouncy song, Rascal sat in the pew quietly with his hand folded in his lap. As soon as the leader got up to pray the final blessing, he jumped up onto his seat and crowed,

"To 'finny, and 'yoooooooooond!"