Invisibility Cloak

What a spectacular high it is to be appreciated and thanked for doing your job. There’s employee of the week, employee of the month, and employee of the year. You get respect, raises, and recognition.

Isn’t that splendid?

Let’s compare that to say, oh I don’t know, being a mom. Go ahead. Guffaw. You know where I’m going with this. I have two children—good kids with nice manners. They have been brought up in a home where they have learned that they are lucky. Consequently, they are thoughtful and generous individuals. They gladly give up gaming time to help package up hats and scarves for our local homeless shelter. They spend time shopping for groceries to give to local food pantries. They donate their books and toys to kids at safe houses. They say please and thank you.

And yet.

Here I am. Standing in the hallway as my two lovely little children blow by me in a whirlwind of energy to get to the table. The one full of food that I set out for them. Or ignore me as they retreat to the basement to play their new Wii game. The one that I bought them. Or don’t look up from their book as I walk out of my room in the morning, heading into the kitchen to make their breakfast. Not so much as a “good morning” never mind a “thank you so much for making my breakfast”.

There is something quite special about being invisible. I always wanted a super power when I was little. I thought it would be so cool. I thought about which one I would choose and, though it was a tough decision, I usually wound up picking flying or being invisible. I haven’t been able to get those childhood wings to work yet but, man, I sure did get the invisibility that I wanted so badly.

Be careful what you wish for.

Don't Ask, Do Tell

Please, I beg of you, stop asking your kids what they want.

For instance, if you're, say, oh I don’t know, calling your dad on Father's Day, don't hold the phone up to your child's head and ask, "Do you want to say 'Happy Father's Day' to Grandpa?" A lot of the time, you're going to hear a "No." 

This wasn’t really a question, so don’t ask it. You're setting yourself up for a battle:
“But I don’t want to say it.”
“But you should say it.”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Well, you have to.”
“Nooo…”
“Alright, this is the last time…you have to—oh, sorry, Dad, hold on, he’s just being—stop crying and say ‘Happy Father’s Day’!”

Or 

"Honey, do you want peanut butter and jelly for lunch?"

"No"

Pause. "Well, that's all we have."

See where this is going?

I know all the parenting magazines tell you to "empower your children" and "let them be part of the decision making" and blah blah but, bloody hell, if you already know what answer you want, don't ask the question.

When You Are Broken...And Have Kids

When you trip, fall, take a spill or in any other way injure yourself, it sucks. That’s just the end of that. But when you have children, there is a whole new set of suckiness that goes along with being broken.

I herniated (another) disc. It’s bad. I had to be hauled away in an ambulance, doped up on pain meds (which I HATE taking), and waited on. I can’t do much of anything. Aside from the lack of movement, the excruciating pain, and the severe annoyance of not being able to do anything for myself, I have my kids.

Kids don’t get it. Not really. They understand the fact that you’re hurt. They bring you drawings of flowers and smiley faces. They say “Hope you feel better” and all that but then it’s all "Why can't you do this for me?" and "OW! Waaaaaah! I hit my hand on the doorknob!"

Seriously? 

When all is said and done, though, I’m glad they don’t understand because, if they did, that would mean they’d been through something like this and I am thankful every damn day that they haven’t.

Boys in Teal Tutus and Pale Pink Ballet Shoes?

When I was growing up, little boys went to little league baseball and little girls went to dance class. Boys got uniforms and mitts, girls got tutus and tights.

Now, thirty years later, we are not stereotyping kids anymore. Right? We are not discriminating. Right? Here’s something interesting (or maybe not). My little boy loves dancing. And he’s damn good at it too. Here’s something else. He hates sports. He’s tried t-ball, soccer, basketball, and skating. He hates them. All of them. He watches his brother, who loves sports, at practices and games and thinks it’s great but doesn’t want to participate.

So, after being the only boy in his class at a horrific dance school last year, we started looking for somewhere else to take him. He kicked ass during the recital. He has an incredible ear for music and can move like no one’s business. Whenever I call a studio, I’ve always been told that “Why of course he is welcome!” but that welcome ends when I hang up the phone.

I just stumbled on the website for our local recreation department which is advertising their newest dance classes. They are one of the ones who spoke with me and told me how bloody welcome my little boy was. I mentioned their constant use of “her” and “she” in the write-up. They changed it. They changed it! How awesome is that? Now, they are careful to use the words “children” and “dancers” and “students” just to undermine their boys-are-welcome theme with the required dance attire which is as follows:

Ages 3-5 Dance attire required: black leotard, white tights, pink ballet shoes, black tap shoes

Ages 6-7 Dance attire required: black leotard, black shorts, pink/white tights, pink ballet shoes, and black tap shoes

And, if that weren’t enough, here’s the picture advertising their boys-are-welcome! dance class:  

I have to say if this stupid site was advertising co-ed soccer for kids and the required attire was Adidas Boys Shorts, Nike Arsenal Boys Jersey, Adidas Boys Metro Socks, and a jock strap, and their picture was this...

...they wouldn't have that page up longer than an hour.

Deck the Halls (Or, Mopping the Floor With Well-Wishers)

Ah, it’s that time of year again. Crackling fires, snow forts, hot chocolate, and warm, wooly mittens. Makes you feel all happy inside, doesn’t it? Trees and wreaths. Stockings and santas. That’s great. Really. Have your happy holiday but, I swear, I’m not going to be decking the halls, I’m going to be decking the next person who indiscriminately says “Merry Christmas” or asks a child what santa is bringing her for Christmas.

Public service announcement #4

You celebrate Christmas. Good for you. That’s wonderful. Now take your fuzzy santa earmuffs off for just a second and listen. Not every family celebrates your holiday. Not every child writes letters to santa and gets toys from the north pole. So, please, stop saying “Merry Christmas” to people unless you know that they celebrate that particular winter holiday. And, for the love of the elves, please stop asking little kids what santa is bringing them unless you are completely, positively, and in all other ways certain that child is getting toys from santa. Capisce?

All Unattended Children Will Receive...

Maybe I have a strange sense of humor. Maybe I can't stand when parents let their kids run amok. Or maybe I'm someone who would put this up if I owned a candy store. Or, really, any business for that matter.

This is, by far, the very best sign I have ever seen in a candy shop--where kids (and parents) are very likely to be. You know what? I don't own a business but I do have a house. I love this and I want one for my home. I really do.

"All Unattended Children Will Receive A Cup Of Espresso And A Free Puppy"

Potty Humor and the Peloponnesian war

 Conversations with my 7-year-old.

“Can I read Big Nate?”

“No,” my husband responds. 

“Why? Because it’s inappropriate?”

“Yes, because it’s inappropriate. And I’ve told you this before.”

“I know but I thought you might have changed your mind since then,” he says.

“Changed my mind since last week?” My husband smirks. “No, I haven’t changed my mind. Just because you're able to read a book for older kids doesn't mean the content is something we want you reading."

My little one sighs and looks at my husband. “It’s not like I’m reading about the Peloponnesian War.”

No. It's definitely not like that. 

 

Just for the record, I did NOT teach my 7-year-old anything about the Peloponnesian War.