They're all Innocent. Until They're Not.

The other night at Medium’s Little League game, another mom commented that Small was playing nicely with the other kids.  Several of Medium’s teammates have younger siblings, so they often play together during the game.  They play tag, hide-and-seek, cars, etc., and occasionally they check in to see if they can buy a treat at the concession stand.  Supervising them ends up being a collective effort among the parents as we adopt the it-takes-a-village mentality and we all keep an eye on the kids. 

I was feeling pretty good about myself and my stellar parenting because Small was indeed playing nicely with the other kids.  I should have known right then  . . .

After the game was over, Small started packing up his cars when a little boy approached accompanied by his mother. 

“That’s him,” he said, pointing to Small.  “That’s Small.”

I turned around, sure that this little boy was going to return a car or that his mother was going to tell me how much her son enjoyed playing with my sweet boy.

“Hi,” she said.  “I didn’t see the altercation so I don’t know exactly what happened, but my son tells me that Small scratched him.” 

Her son pulled down the neck of his shirt to reveal fingernail scratches so deep that they had broken the skin.  Mom said he had scratches on his back as well.

Oh, hayl no.

I could have:

A.  assured her that my child—my sweet, kind baby boy—would NEVER hurt another child

OR

B.  told her “boys will be boys” and shrugged it off.

But here’s the thing.  I know my kids.  I know that it’s Survival of the Fittest at my house and sometimes they touch each other in anger.  It’s our job, as parents, to teach them that hurting others is not how we solve problems.  I don’t care if the other child was telling Yo Momma jokes and Small was defending my honor (which is not the story, by the way.  It had more to do with the other child having the ball that Small wanted.)  He needs to learn NOW that we don’t hurt other people just because we don't get our way.

I literally gasped out loud, my eyes widened, and my voice deepened as I said, “Small, did you hurt this boy because you were angry?”  I even middle-named him, which is the universal signal for you’re in deep sh*t.

Small’s face turned into the frown that makes my heart melt and admitted, “yes.  He was hogging the ball.”

“You do NOT put your hands on another person when you don’t get your way,” I replied.  “Get!  Over!  Here!”

I heard the other mom reassure her son, “it’s okay.  He’s coming to apologize.”

“Sorry,” Small said.

“It’s okay,” the other boy mumbled.

“I am so sorry,” I admitted to Mom.  “Thank you for telling me.  We are going to have a long talk when we get home.” 

My sweet little angel baby.
He'll cut you.

With that, her family accepted our apology and left for the night while I sulked and stewed in embarrassment while Small cleaned up the rest of his toys. 

I don’t consider myself the type of parent who lets her children have free reign.  As he’s gotten older, I have allowed Small a little more leeway at the ballpark.  He spends almost every night of the week at the ballpark and has done so since he was in a stroller, so he’s used to being there.  He knows what the rules are and how far he’s allowed to roam, and I check in periodically so I can get a visual of where he is and what he’s doing.  Even so, I have no idea when this altercation happened, but I know for damn sure it happened.

We all know people who think their children can do no wrong . . . you know, the people living with their heads in the sand because they don’t want to deal with the hard parts of being a parent.  I am surprised that Small was so aggressive with another child as he is generally pretty easy-going and sweet, but I am also certain that he is capable of such behavior.  I’m not doing him any favors if I make excuses for him, and he needs to learn that now, when he’s young and impressionable.  This is not the last time he is going to make a mistake or do something wrong.  When I tucked him in that night, I reassured him that I love him SO much, even when he does something wrong.

But tomorrow, at Medium’s ball game, Small will be sitting by my side and will not be allowed to play with his friends.  It’s gonna be a long game.  For me.

What's Been on My Mind . . .

A Seinfeldian rant:

1.  The stripes on my bedspread should be horizontal instead of vertical.  I need them to go up and down.  When they are horizontal, I lie in bed and think about the fact that they’re not vertical.  Think, think, think. I need them to be up and down so the tag is on the bottom right. 

2.  I can’t stand it when people use their cell phones in public restrooms.  I’m answering nature’s call.  That doesn't mean you need to answer your BFF’s call. 

Lane Bryant

3.  The initials for Lane Bryant are LB, as in lbs.  Is that supposed to be some sort of sick joke?  I don't need any extra LBs on my clothing . . . that’s why I shop there in the first place.

4.  I don’t think people who can’t use apostrophes correctly should argue that English should be the “official” language of the United States.  

Pinterest: we-smallpuppet.tumblr.com

5.  Why is it that I get 25 ketchup packets at the McDonald’s drive-thru, but if I ask for one mustard packet they practically have to call the manager at home to get written authorization?

6.  I love Hershey’s Kisses, but since Easter I’ve decided that the wrappers are fornicating with the dust bunnies under my couch and they’re multiplying.  I find them everywhere.

7.  If my children ever get lost or kidnapped, I’ll just show the police my ipad and they can get the kids’ fingerprints from there. 

8.  Bruno Mars accidentally turned my 5-year-old into a badass.  Even though he sings “hot pants” instead of “hot damn,” I just can’t seem to get him to annunciate “funk you up.”  So yes, my preschooler will totally f*ck you up.

9.  I think Large’s math teacher is a super hero called The Underminer.  At one point Large may have believed I was kinda smart, but after last night’s homework I’m pretty sure he thinks I’m barely functioning as an adult.

10.  Watching Downton Abbey makes me want to speak with a British accent.  And also Peppa Pig.  There’s just something about cartoon English pigs that makes me feel particularly Bri-ish.  Honestly, I think I have more in common with Peppa than with Lady Grantham.

Scenes From a Happy Marriage

Setting: master bath on a cold, snowy, winter Saturday morn

Hubby (from shower, holding shower drain filled with long, luxurious brown[ish] hair and soap scum residue):
     Yech!  Do you ever clean this out?

Me (standing in front of mirror, brushing my long, luxurious, brown[ish] hair)
     Ew. No. That's gross.

Hubby (incredulously)
     But it's YOURS!

Me
    That's man's work.

Hubby
     Why do I have to do it?

Me
      Um, because it's disgusting. 

And ..... scene. 

Our Nightly Ritual: The Fight

I keep watching Downton Abbey and thinking how nice it must be to sit in a window and read a book, or take a leisurely walk out in the field, or make time for tea with my family every day.  But that’s not the world we live in. 

Yesterday was one of those days when I felt like I didn’t stop moving all day.  After I got all three kids out the door - which includes a bus pick-up, a middle school drop off, and a preschool drop off - I came home and had a couple hours to myself . . . during which I put laundry away, picked up the bedrooms, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, folded even more laundry, and ran a forgotten lunch box up to school.

I got a text from hubby mid-morning that said his meeting was pushed later in the day, so he wouldn’t be home until late. 

This text was meant to convey the following:  Babe, I’m sorry I can’t be home to help with homework/dinner/practice because I have an unexpected schedule change, but rest assured that I really want to be home with you helping to parent our children.  You're doing a great job.  I adore you.  

What I internalized was:  blah, blah, blah, you’re on your own again tonight.  Sorry.

What I responded was:  I just took a urine sample from the dog.  You suck.

After picking up Small at preschool and dropping off said urine sample at the Vet, we came home for a healthy snack (pop tarts) until it was time to pick up Large at school for a doctor’s appointment.  We were at the doctor’s office for an hour while Medium got off the bus and came home to an empty house for the first time.  For the duration of that hour, half my mind was listening to the doctor, half of it was keeping Small off the dirty floor, half of it was helping Large with his math homework (hehehe . . . see what I did there with the all the halves?) and half of it was envisioning all the things that could be going wrong at home . . . fire, noise violations, raucous partying, floods of biblical proportion, etc. 

Once we got home it was time for the daily Fight.  The Fight proceeds as follows: I tell the boys in my sweet mommy voice that it is time to start homework.  (Surprisingly enough, even though I left Medium a note with specific directions regarding how he should be spending his quiet hour alone, he did not begin his homework.)  The boys chase each other around the kitchen table.  I use my firm voice to tell them to quit horsing around and get going on the homework.  They head for the pantry.  They sit at the table and touch each other non-stop.  I separate them into two rooms so that they can each “focus.”  Focus is a buzzword during The Fight.  Large asks me for help with math homework from Room A while Medium asks for my spelling advice from Room B.  Small whines that I told him I would build a track for his cars from Room C.  I help Large in Room A, Medium starts “Mom!Mommy!Mom!Mooooom!CanYouHelpMe?Moooom!” from Room B, and Small tugs on my shirt hem.  I go into Room B to help Medium with spelling, and he asks me how many times the Braves have won the World Series or something equally as irrelevant. 

I roll my eyes and begin preparing dinner, which tonight consists of jarred spaghetti sauce over some frozen meatballs and macaroni noodles because we need to be out of the house by 5:45 for basketball practice.  And remember, we’re ALL going to practice because Daddy is stuck at the office.  We continue The Fight, except now my sweet, rational Mommy voice has been replaced by something that sounds a lot more stabby. 

We convene at one table for our “meal,” but the boys continue with the constant touching.  Medium doesn’t eat at all because he can’t focus on his meal long enough to take a bite, and Large ignores the no-electronics-at-the-table rule, but I don’t notice because I’m trying to wrestle a stray meatball from the dog while scrubbing sauce out of the carpet in the dining room because Small chose to eat alone in there. 

I guess we’re not having dinner. 

Clearly the power has shifted.  I beg them to PLEASE get shoes and socks on so we can be on time to practice, for once.  Small runs to gather cars to bring with him while Medium saunters upstairs to find a particular jersey to wear even though there’s no chance in hell he’s gonna find it, and Large launches into a debate reminiscent of Nixon and Kennedy, detailing why he should be allowed to bring his phone everywhere, all the time.

I threaten to pull them out of all extra-curricular activities since no one else seems to care.  (Cue baby violins.)  I bust my ass every night of the week trying to get homework done, children fed and dressed appropriately for whichever activity they may be partaking of, and showered and in bed at a reasonable time.  I’d much rather sit on my couch and watch crappy television than sit on an elementary school cafeteria floor while an underpaid staff person tells my kids not to run in the hallway. 

I must have this mug...

When I was young, I was a girl scout and I participated in one other activity at a time.  It is plausible that it only took one season for my mother to realize I was not meant to be a ballet dancer (because I was too clumsy,) a gymnast (because I can’t even walk in a straight line so how am I gonna balance on stuff,) or a soccer player (because I was easily distracted by pretty flowers and bumble bees.)  OR it could be that she had the common sense not to over-schedule her children and then get mad when they couldn't manage their time.  Either way, I’m doing something wrong because I’m way more wide-eyed and screechy than my mom ever was.  My goal for 2015 is to live simply; I’ve got about 11 more months to figure it out.

10 Ways I'm Failing at Motherhood. This Week.

Here are 10 ways I'm failing at this whole motherhood thing this week.  This list is not to be confused with how I failed at it last week, or with how I will undoubtedly fail at it next week.  

1.  One of the neighbor kids walked in on me watching Naked and Afraid with my 11-year-old.  If you’ve never seen it, it’s a pretty innocuous, Survivor-type show on the Discovery Channel, but the contestants happen to be naked.  Neighbor-kid walked in just in time to see a naked person’s behiney on tv.  I’m sure he went home and told his mom that Mrs. BoyMommy was watching porn.  With her 11-year-old.

2.  Small had chocolate milk for breakfast this morning.  That’s it.  Just chocolate milk.

3.  Explained “getting laid” to Medium and Large because of something they saw on The Big Bang Theory.  It would have been easier to explain the actual big bang theory.

4.  Told Small, “we’re not reading books right now.  We are watching TV.”

5.  Started crying at Target today.  And since Target is apparently the Grand Central Station of my social life, I got caught.  Seriously, I can’t keep my sh*t together long enough to grab a gallon of milk.

 

6.  Silently wished that the moms' email distribution list to which I belong would vacate all controversy and return to the usual menu of buying/selling each other’s used crap, advertising school spirit nights, and displaying pictures of neighborhood squirrels.  (Also considered suggesting we lighten the mood a bit by perhaps discussing religion or politics instead.)

7.  Bought two picture frames and told the check-out guy that, because I have three children, I’m going to have to pick my two favorites when deciding whose photos to display. 

8.  Suggested to another mom that, since her husband is helping me out with some daytime childcare while I have an appointment next week, she may want to perform some extra “favors” on my behalf.

9.  Purposely left our to-go box on the restaurant table last night so that I wouldn’t have to throw it away myself in 3 days.  For some reason I was worried I’d hurt the waiter’s feelings if I told him I didn’t want to save the nuggets for later. 

10.  Hid books behind the bookcase so that I won’t have to read the same stories again tonight.  I’m afraid if I skip as many pages as I did last night that eventually Small is going to notice significant holes in the plot.