Who Knew Smacking My Kids Would Actually Work?

Before you trip all over yourselves rushing to the phone to call Child Services, of course I don't actually hit hit my children. I've never even spanked them--not really, anyway.

See, I'm very physical with my kids: I am always hugging, grabbing, squeezing, tickling, and generally smooshing them. They are still young enough to allow me to maul them, and you'd better believe I'm taking advantage of this. Because I know that the day is coming--very soon--when they won't want me touching them with a ten-foot pole, let alone my actual arms. Sigh.

Along with the hugging and kissing comes rough-housing--wrestling, butt pats and grabs, pretend torture, etc. One of my son's favorite games (which he's loved since he was two) is called Red Ants and involves me giving him tiny pinches all over his body while yelling "RED ANTS! RED ANTS! RED ANTS!" (Hey, I never claimed it was a good game.)

Well, a few weeks ago, I'd had it up to here with my son's lack of pleases and thank yous. This kid is the sweetest, most considerate boy you'll ever meet, so his rudeness was confounding, especially since he used to be very polite as a toddler.

I was always saying, "'Can I have some cereal'........what?" or, after handing him something on a silver platter, "What do you say?" (in that horrible lilting voice us moms use when we are this close to strangling our adorable spawn). I got so sick and tired of hearing myself, I felt like bashing my head against the wall until I could no longer speak.

It was sort of like the older he got, the more demanding he decided to be. Oh, hell no.

So I made an announcement: "From now on, if you don't say please or thank you, I'm going to slap you across the face. Like this." And I gave him a tap on the cheek. Nothing that would hurt him, of course--just a little something to get his attention. Before the slap, I would give him a glare--a last chance kind of thing.

It was all done in a tongue-in-cheek way. I treated it sort of like a joke (except that it wasn't)--never angry, always slyly smiling. My son would nervously laugh every time he got a slap.

But my point was clear.

And I'll be damned if it didn't work! Like a charm.

After no time, all he needed was the glare and he'd be pleasing and thank you-ing up a storm.

And now he just does it! A regular little gentleman he is.

Hey, it worked for me.

I Will Not Allow My Kids to Drown Me in Paper

I feel kinda bad throwing out my kids' artwork, I really do. But it's not as if I can keep EVERYTHING. Especially with this bout of cold of weather we've been having (yeah, it's called winter). All that indoor recess at my son's school equals dozens of flip books, paper monsters, and paper airplanes being brought home. Mountains of paper! And it's not even the good kind of paper, it's that thin, highly-rippable manilla crap public schools can afford love.

And then there's the junk masterpieces my little princess brings home from preschool. All I can say is, thank goodness she only goes three days per week.

I try to be sneaky about throwing their stuff out. I shove it way in the back of the recycling bag we've always got going. But inevitably, my son, who's an epic trash collector (he's about one bad-parenting episode away from growing up to be "Hoarders" material), will notice the corner of bright red paper peeking out from behind the truck-load of newspaper.

"HEY! WHY ARE YOU THROWING AWAY THE PAPER AIRPLANE/MONSTER/GIANT SQUID/GERM I MADE?"

Sigh.

So out it comes to live another day, adding to the general squalor of our family room, and getting increasingly wrinkled and ripped until it's sufficiently forgotten about (or, as is more likely the case, replaced by 10,000 newer pieces of junk) that I can shove it back into the recycling bag. But this time I make sure to push it way, way down to the bottom so no telltale red is visible to my son's eagle eyes.

Seriously, how is it that he can't find his socks lying in the middle of the family room when I'm screaming at him to get dressed in the morning so he doesn't miss the bus, but he can detect a millimeter of red paper poking out over the newspapers in a bag all the way across the room?

I've heard of selective hearing, but now apparently there's selective seeing, too.

Hey, I'm not a monster. I keep some stuff. But unlike some moms who are all, "OH, THIS IS THE MOST PRECIOUS THING EVER BECAUSE MY GIFTED, PERFECT CHILD CREATED IT!" I'm able to see things as they really are.

And fruit of my loins or not, my kids can make some crap.

So while this gorgeous piece of art my son created (which I love so much I went so far as to frame it--see? I'm not horrible) that helps me recall the beauty of spring when it's 10 degrees outside is a keeper:

This one is not:

Sure, it's purty, but if your kid cranked out masterpieces the way mine does, you'd be choosy, too. So, goodbye, colorful leaf!

And this drawing by my daughter that might just look like a bunch of scribbles to you, but which is actually an adorable rendition of the My Little Pony pegasi Rainbow Dash and Fluttershy (notice the wings?) is a keeper:

(I especially love the way she runs out of room for her name and is just like "screw it" and puts the "TTE" at the beginning. Note to any pregnant ladies out there: think long and hard before you give your child a name that's longer than five letters, because it's just cruel.)

This one, however, is destined for the circular file:

Yeah, it's cute and all. But what does it tell about my daughter, really? That she can use a glue stick and make a couple of scribbles, that's what. Adios, Elmer Elephant!

I just hope I'm not scarring them for life.

I Really Hope I Won't Have to Use the Imperius Curse Next Weekend

I just spent over two hours making this Platform 9-3/4 Hogwarts Express sign for my son's sixth birthday party, which is a week away. 

Over the next seven days, I'll be busy conjuring up Chocolate Frogs, Sugar Mice, Peppermint Humbugs, Butterscotch Broomsticks, Acid Pops, and cauldron cakes (cupcakes) decorated to look like Harry Potter, Hedwig the owl, and Harry's lightning-bolt scar. I will be hunched over creating signs pointing guests toward Potions Class, The Three Broomsticks Pub, and Honeyduke's Sweet Shoppe.

Why do I do this? I do enjoy it...mostly. I like the creativity, I love how excited my son gets when I tell him my latest greatest idea, I adore watching the kids have a blast, and, yes, I enjoy hearing the guests' compliments (meaning the parents because six year olds aren't exactly known for appreciating things).

Kids don't need all the hoopla to have fun--I know this. They'd be happy if the party consisted of two hours of unstructured play, pizza, and cake. Our moms didn't throw us elaborately themed parties when we were little--and we sure didn't complain. Party entertainment when we were little was Pin the Tail on the Donkey and maybe a pinata. There were no professional magicians or petting zoos or kids' gyms. Cone-shaped party hats and balloons were it.

I wanted to have the party elsewhere--a bowling alley or sports complex, perhaps--but my son really wanted it to be at home. And now that he's in Kindergarten there are so many more children to invite. And because there's nothing fun going on in January, 95% RSVP'd yes. And because the weather usually sucks on party day, we can't just toss the kids outside and say "Have fun." 

So this time next week, I'll be running around the house like a crazy woman, snapping at my husband for not helping enough (he'll counter by pointing out that I didn't actually ask for his help), and trying to  clean, set up, and decorate everything in time. All so 17 little boys and girls (and one magician with a rabbit) can trash it the next day.

But I'm pretty sure it'll be awesome.

One of Those Days....

Vacation is over. Camp is over. Swimming lessons--over. But that's okay, because in three short weeks my son will be starting kindergarten and I will miss him terribly. So I'm happy to be spending all day, every day of these next three weeks with my two favorite people. BUT (big but)...that doesn't mean my kids don't drive me insane daily now and then. 

Take today, for example. The day started out so well. My youngest had her last toddler music class, and my son tagged along. Nice. Then a short walk through the woods and a fun splash through a stream to the Chappaqua library (luckily we wore our rain boots!) to watch a series of short films based on kids' books. The mini-movies were cute and we laughed. Then we investigated whether there could possibly be anymore Angelina Ballerina books that we hadn't yet read, and--SCORE!--checked out two new ones.

Things went smoothly when we got back home--the three-year-old was successful with the potty (a sticker for her Potty Chart and three M&Ms, yay!)--and no one complained about lunch. But before long, things slowly began going downhill. 

It's never one big thing that changes the tone of the day, but rather a bunch of tiny, annoying occurrences that, added up, are enough to push a mother over the edge. A toddler who won't nap (but desperately needs to), a kid (or two) begging for just one more cookie, removing the husk from the corn-on-the-cob that's supposed to be for dinner to discover it rotting inside, trying to weed the overgrown mess that passes for the backyard and getting pricked by the weird, thorny vine that is slowly asphyxiating all the nice plants. The small snowflakes build up into a massive, dangerous avalanche.

Then the whining starts. Mostly from the three-year-old, but the five-year-old isn't too old to chime in with the occasional well-timed moan just when I'm about ready to crack. The half-hour before my husband gets home from work consists of me trying to give my son positive reinforcement on the marble run he's just built and read my daughter Dora and the Snow Princess (for the five-millionth time), all while eye-balling the oven to make I'm not burning dinner. 

Then they whine throughout dinner, and I end up not even tasting the food I made, or else I'm up and down so many times that it's cold by the time I get to eat. By this time, not even the bottle glass of wine I'm drinking is helping me chill out. 

I love, love, love my kids more than anything else on this earth, but bedtime cannot come soon enough. The three-year-old whines until the last possible minute but I bite my tongue because I know if I get testy with her right before lights-out, it will only delay things. So I take a deep breath and just get through it.

Then, on the way from my daughter's room to my son's so I can kiss him goodnight, the cat slinks up and makes her "PET ME" noise. It's somewhere between a meow and a purr (it sounds a little like hoochie-coochie Charo rolling her R's), and I can't help but laugh because I thought I was done, I really did, but now here's THE CAT demanding my attention. 

But with the cat, at least I don't have to look or listen or talk or read Dora. I can just sit and enjoy the peace and quiet. Phew.

You Win Some, You "Win" Some

My five-year-old son, Gavin, is starting soccer next weekend. It's his first foray into organized sports, and I'm not all that confident it's going to go smoothly.

Gavin is, shall we say, competition-adverse. You know those little boys who are always challenging their friends with, "I'll race you!" and "Let's see who gets there first!" Yeah, well, I don't have one of those. But my nephew is one of those boys, and when he and Gavin are together and Gavin responds to his invitations to race with "No thanks," the confusion in my nephew's eyes makes me sad. Why can't my son just say, "Sure!" and make his 3-1/2-year-old cousin's day?

Gavin is sweet, funny, smart, and creative. He's also athletic and coordinated: The problem with sports is all in his head. He enjoys kicking a ball around or hitting pitches but any whiff of competition shuts him down.

I know this isn't particularly unusual and that lots of kids behave this way, but that doesn't necessarily make it acceptable. Is it just me or are more parents letting their kids off the hook nowadays when it comes to competing? When I was little, you played games and learned to lose without being a total baby, and learned to win without being a total jerk. Because being a baby or a jerk meant you weren't gonna be too popular with your peers.

But these days, kids don't get to learn what competition is all about. Parents are always trying to protect their kids from getting their feelings hurt; nowadays everyone wins and everyone gets a medal. But competition is part of life, and I don't think age five is too young to learn about losing--especially when the outcome just doesn't matter much.

So next weekend, no matter what, I'll be out there encouraging my son to play, to try his best, and to have fun. And I swear, I'm not going to let a few tears change my mind: he's playing for sure.