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My boys have been working on cleaning their room. Well, I wouldn’t really say they’re working on it because working implies that there is some degree of progress being made. And there has been NO progress. Not in two days. That’s right, I told them that they would have no tv or video games until they cleaned their room. That was five days ago. Then I told them that they were going to stay in their room until it was clean (coming out for meals and bathroom breaks, of course). That was Monday evening. It is now Wednesday afternoon and they have made NO progress.
The next weapon in my arsenal was to threaten them with the items they love so dearly. I told them that if they didn’t start making some progress I would come in and begin to relieve them of some of the clutter myself. Beginning with the DVD player. And still they made NO progress.
Armed with a trash bag I stormed into their room to capture my next vicitim in this viscious and unconscionable battle. As I rounded the corner I found my two oldest boys, not cleaning (which I totally knew) but sitting on the bed reading. Now, a part of my mind (the really tiny rational part) thought “Well, at least they’re reading”. But the bitchy, I-told-you-to-do-something-and-you-better-get-it-done-now, part of my brain (the great big throbbing, swollen part) didn’t give a shit what they were doing because the fact is, they were told to get their room clean–not read a book!
And then I heard what The Oldest was reading out loud as The Middle leaned attentively over his shoulder. “And God saw everything that he had made, and, behold, it was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.” That’s right. My kids were busy screwing around…reading The Bible.
So, what do I do? I’m kind of an asshole if I punish my kids for reading The Bible when there are so many more pressing issues for them to deal with, like locating the source of the smells wafting from their room. And, I’ve never been terribly involved in my religion (beyond having one and knowing what to do if I ever find myself in Mass with no viable exit strategy) but even I know that I can be subjected to some very bad karma if I mess with the good book. So, I decided to compromise. To make the punishment so miniscule that it would hardly matter, but would still matter a little to the people who have just turned my furious rampage into a slow steam. I grabbed a toy soldier, one of the Barbie-doll sized ones with articulating joints. Only this one has no lower legs and only one hand. And, he’s naked. And neutered. So he really had a lot going against him anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s an unfortunate victim of the Underground Escape Network . He either was injured trying to make a break for it, got caught up with the wrong group of escapees, or was captured by the wardens boys trying to escape and was hobbled. Either way, he was forced to make the sacrifice for the rest of the platoon–which, incidentally, is still laying in the mounds of crap on the bedroom floor of two kids who are working very hard at making NO progress.
Here is one of those conversations that, when you’re in the middle of it, it seems like you are leading it into a good and positive place. And then you get to the end and realize how terribly wrong it all went and that you may be single-handedly responsible for further damaging your child’s psyche (if you really want to).
I was watching The Middle and The Baby through the window. The Middle had a Tee set up and was teaching The Baby how to hit the ball. It was one of those moments that you just know you have to get on film but you also know that if you are seen they will stop and the moment will be lost forever. I grabbed my video camera and headed to the one window that I knew had both a great view and a screen that had detached from the corner of the frame. I slid the window open and recorded for a minute or two before being detected. Both boys came over to the window and The Baby reached his pudgy little hand up into the window frame. The Middle jumped back a foot, a mortified look on his face.
“He’s touching a spider web,” he yelled.
“It’s not a spider web,” I said, trying to quell the rising panic and future trauma of having witnessed someone actually touch a spider web.
“What is it then?”
I thought fast, looking for an answer that would seem less threatening. “It’s just a cobweb.” (That’s right, I have ripped screens and cobwebs….judge me)
“What’s a cobweb?”
“It’s nothing, “ I tried to brush it off, “just a dusty…thing.” (Really, the kid is 6 and has lived in my house every year since his birth, he should know what a cobweb is by now!).
A while later he asks, “What’s a cob?”
“What?” (By then I had forgotten about that whole conversation)
“What’s a cob?”
As I realized what he was talking about, I saw a golden opportunity to create my own legacy. A child-hood memory that my children could pass on to their children detailing the little known fable of the great and evil Cob. A creature so hideous, with yellow eyes and pointed teeth, that he is forced to hide in the corners of rooms and windows and under beds awaiting the nights when he is finally free to wander, feeding on anything left laying in his path. His one hope is that some night a child will have left a pile of clothing, toys or books high enough so that he can reach the bedding and pull himself up to the top of the bed. Once there he only needs to feed off the finger of a sleeping child and he will grow to the size of an elephant and will then rule the world. Just one finger is all he needs…
The story grew quickly in my head and tickled my tongue, wanting to be verbalized. And my mind, just as quickly began weighing the pros and cons of what I was about to say. A mental slide show raced through my head with images of me soothing The Middle from nightmares night after night after night. My mind also factored in the distribution of information, meaning that The Oldest would inevitably hear the story of the great and terrible Cob and he would also be up with nightmares every night. And that kid doesn’t need any more to fuel to fire his fears.
I‘m not proud to admit that I wrestled with my decision, and that both choices were equally tempting and I could imagine either decision warming my heart a little.
“Mom. What’s a cob?”
“There is no such thing as a cob, son.” There, I’d done it. I made the right choice. I was free from the temptation. No more stories growing in my mind, begging to be verbailized.
“Then, what makes a cobweb?”
ARRGH….
There was a time in my life when I considered myself soo responsible. I was responsible for getting myself to work, to school and to the gym on a regular basis. I was responsible for paying the rent on the Party Palace in a timely manner, assuring said party den had adequate electricity, was cleaned and that I had an amazing outfit to wear to any soiree that came up anywhere in town. At the time I considered myself a damn responsible person.
Now I realize that I was just blowing smoke up my own ass. I didn’t know a damn thing about real responsibility and how it comes back to bite you on the ass every once in a while. I had no idea that the time would come when I was responsible for the actions of every living creature that I have housed for a period longer than one nightmarish weekend. Not only am I held accountable for those creature’s every action, I am also judged by them. If my offspring drops an f-bomb in the recess line, it reflects on me. One of my children scribbles graffiti on the bathroom wall during a party at his martial arts studio– my status drops (it doesn’t help that the budding criminal is stupid enough to graffiti HIS OWN NAME!). I have absorbed the scrutiny of the world innumerable times in the few short years since I first unleashed my urchins on the world. Each time I have soundly swallowed my pride and attempted to make amends. And now…well…this time I’m essentially on house arrest for 10 days and I’m pissed.
This is the point at which I need to introduce you to another member of my family. The little bastard, I’ll just call him Li’l Bastard, came into our family about a year ago. Well, he didn’t really come into our lives so much as we went looking for him (a fact that hasn’t escaped me). Since that time he has worked diligently to diminish both my shoe collection and the value of our home.
Recently Li’l Bastard has been going AWOL every time we leave the house. In general, he’s just been a neighborhood nuisance, jumping the fence, running around visiting people and helping lost shoes find a new home. He is a very gentle dog; he wrestles with the kids but has never hurt one of them so I was mainly worried about his safety.
I spent $250 on a wireless fence system thinking it would be a quick fix since The Hubbin was out of town. I spent 2 days trying to get the perimeter of the wireless “boundary” figured out and putting up the white flags so the dog would know where the boundary was. The boundary seemed to move on an hourly basis, letting him through one minute and shocking him 5 feet before the marker the next. I boxed it up and took it back to the store to exchange it for an in-ground, “Stubborn Dog” version.
After my purchase I went to dinner at my sister-in-laws. After I had stuffed myself with a particularly good enchilada casserole I got a call from my neighbor. Li’l Bastard had gotten out—several times—and was now being housed in his garage. That wasn’t the end of the story. It seems as though Li’l Bastard bit someone who was jogging past our house (not that that urge has never occurred to me) and Animal Control had been called. The neighbor assured the dog cop that Li’l Bastard was up-to-date on his vaccinations so he wasn’t hauled off to the pound.
I had to contact Animal Control the next day, a dog cop was sent to my house and I showed proof of his license and vaccinations. Then she dropped the bomb. The damn dog is under quarantine for 10 days (in case he was exposed to rabies while running around). At the end of those 10 days I have a mandatory court date and will have to pay fines and restitution. Li’l Bastard isn’t allowed out of the house except for a potty furlough and isn’t allowed to leave the property. I can’t leave him in the garage because it’s too hot and he would destroy the house if I left him in. So, I am essentially stuck at home with a one-year-old boxer who is dangling from the curtains because he can’t go out and play.
I will accept the fines, even though he is The Hubbin’s dog and I will forever hold this over his head, but when did it become my responsibility to do the time for someone else’s crime? Responsibility sucks.
(And…for those of you who don’t know…if you’re running and a dog chases you…STOP RUNNING!!!)
The Felon on Furlough...and Looking For a Jogger
It’s that time of year again. The flowers are blooming, summer is just days away, and somewhere in America, some asinine music teacher decides that one more program has to be thrust onto every unsuspecting parent who has a second grader within her grasp. Oh yes the Spring Musical. We gather with our smartly dressed families, charge the batteries of our cameras and check to be sure that we have plenty of memory/film/tape to record every excruciating screech sweet melody. Mostly though, we are hoping that our camera is running when that one asshole parent does something humiliating. Well, ladies and gentlemen, this year, I was the asshole.
This year’s performance was scheduled for a Thursday evening. Now, since The Hubbin’ works out of town, he not only misses all of these m
emorable events, he’s also absolved of any guilt when things go terribly wrong, as they so often do when I take my wretched cherubs out in public. Since I didn’t have my second-string available, I called in my support troops (mommy, S-I-L, and da’Niece). The Middle had a baseball game and was firmly entrusted to another family member. So, there I sit, in the elementary school cafeteria, with my ass drooping over the sides of a really, really…really tiny chair (I mean really, with the obesity problem in America it isn’t more economical for a school on a shoe-string budget to buy some big-kid chairs for the times when all the fat-ass families are invited, rather than to keep replacing the really, really, really tiny chairs?). I’m feeling pretty good; the numbers are on my side. One kid on the stage (and he’s really the music teacher’s responsibility at this point) and one little 19-month-old in the audience, surrounded by three adults and a teenager; Yep, all my bases are covered. For those who know the story about the death of rule #37 I even have The Baby in his distance-limiting apparatus (because saying “leash” just sounds white-trash).
The Three Piggy Opera was fairly well received. The kids are doing their best to carry a tune be mindful of both the tone and composition of each piece. The Oldest, who seems to know on a cellular level any time a camera is pointed in his direction, has his smile-sing-wave-repeat routine down to a science. The parents and grandparents are being very courteous to each other, taking turns crouching in the aisle of the first row to get those blessed snapshots while squatting amid the collection of toddlers and pre-K siblings who are sitting on the floor. My second row seat is the best in the house to see my pride and joy, and also to serve as the scene of what’s about to go down.
The son of one my mommy friends joins the crowd of kids in the first row. The Baby sees his friend and wants to join him. I have the tail of his monkey “backpack” and plenty room so I let him join the group. He was literally an arms length away. No worries.
Here is where the universe began to unfold its diabolical plot to humiliate me in front of all those judgmental parental units who were there to worship at the alter of their offspring (I’m not casting stones, just saying…if it hadn’t been me, I would’ve been JUST as judgmental!).
So, within nanoseconds, a grandpa steps over the monkey tail with his first leg, almost tripping. I let the tail fall to the ground because The Baby is sitting and I don’t want to be known as the deranged mom who broke a grandpa’s hip. As the tail hits the ground and grandpa kneels over the pre-K brigade in the aisle to get his precious snapshot, The Baby, sensing a new degree of freedom, stands. I lunge for the monkey tail as he takes his first unrestrained steps towards the stage. Grandpa shifts back off of his arthritic knee onto the other, blocking my path. I will my arms to stretch like Mr. Fantastic, just enough to grab the tail of my eloping toddler. I’m balanced on one leg, reaching desperately forward with my gigantic ass in the face of the second row (and all the rows behind them) and my saggy, post-breast feeding jugs hanging over a traumatized 4th grader in the first row. Finally (and I think just to get my breasts off of her cheek) the girl in the first row reaches out and grabs the tail of the escaping monkey. And she just holds it, still completely out of my reach. “Just give it a little pull,” I tell her (hopefully that’s the last time she’ll comply with a request phrased just that way). She hesitantly pulls against the rabid monkey who is lunging toward house of straw where the little piggies are holed up and the wolf is preparing to huff and puff. I manage to slip my fingers into the loop of the tail as he lunges again. I give a back and up yank and pull him off his feet and up into my grasp. He is writhing, of course and the instant I get him pulled to my body, I loose my balance and bump into grandpa, right as I hear the click of his camera. Or, more accurately the click of that perfectly composed photo going to crap.
At this point there is nothing left to do but to take my writhing, screeching toddler and leave the room. And I will always blame that damn monkey!
Stumble It!
Stumble It!