We have a serious epidemic in my house. All the children are infected. There is no cure. I have tried almost every home remedy possible to no avail. I don't know if I will rid the house of this infestation.
The disease? Backtalkus Waytoomuchious.
I really don't remember much back talking when I was a kid. We knew that it was just something you were not allowed to do. In fact, back talk was so rare, that the one time I dared to cross the line, my memories are so vivid that I can feel the fear as if I were in my parents' back yard running from my dad all over again. I had just been to the salon with my mother to get a perm. For some strange reason, my parents got a sick kick out of perming my boy-short hair every year from first to fourth grade. I looked like a fat, brown haired orphan Annie with a giant gap in my front teeth. It was awful, but for some reason, I let them do it to me. I was particularly upset after this trip to the stylist and was pouting when we got home. I went outside to show dad.
"Dad it's awful! I hate it!!"
"It's great! What do you mean? I love your hair like that!" Dad was always mellow and even keeled- something I admire now, but it absolutely drove me crazy as a kid. I just wanted him to get hyped up with me- I hated the hair cut and I wanted him to hate it with me!!
"Dad, how can I got to school like this? I am going to go wash it out!!"
"It looks cute," he said, "And besides your mother paid a lot of money for that, you can't wash it out."
"It's awful," I screamed, "Why can't you admit it is awful!!"
"I really like it," he giggled.
That was it. He had pissed me off beyond no return. I thought carefully before I picked the absolute worst thing I could say.
"Well, you....you're just a BUTT HEAD!!!" I paused in fear, looking at my jolly father's face. I couldn't believe that I had said it. And I knew I was in soooo much trouble. I ran as fast as I could through the back yard.
To this day, I only remember the act of the back talk. I don't remember actually getting in trouble that day. And that is where things are so different with my own kids. For me, I knew that back talking and disrespect were unacceptable. Unless used for drastic measures, as in the story above, there was no way I would risk talking to my folks like that, no matter how frustrated I got. In our house now, back talk is a way of communication for my brood like primal cave-man grunting was for the Neanderthal.
All of our kids are skilled at back talk, but our 8 year-old has absolutely mastered the art form. It is amazing. She doesn't even have to say anything. That girl can back talk with her eyes!! A typical scenario would be as follows:
Kids are outside playing. I am sipping my coffee, enjoying a lovely morning, gazing adoringly at my beautiful children play. I watch them run, I watch them throw a ball. I watch them giggle. I watch my daughter smack the shit out of her little brother's head with a Nerf baseball bat. Enjoyable moment over.
"Get over here right now, Missy!" I yell through the screen. (Sobs coming from the youngest. He is not hurt, but he knows how to get what he wants and is playing big to get his sister into more trouble.)
"Whaaaaat???" she asks. You really have to hear this in person to get the sickening effect of her whining.
"I just saw what you did to your brother! It is not ok to hit, now go stand in the corner until I say get out!"
"But mom-"
"No talking, just GO!" I see the fake tears starting in her eyes.
"I'm trying to tell you something!" She pleads. I don't know what she has to tell me. I busted her dead cold. Saw it with my own eyes. "They were hitting me first!" she screams, in an octave only picked up by dogs.
"No they weren't, and I am not asking you to tell me anything. Go to the corner for hitting your brother."
We are in complete hysterically sobs by this point. "You never listen to what I say!! They hit me!"
"I am not required to listen to you. Go to the corner. NOW!"
"I am not lying! You hate me, they hate me. No one wants to play with me......." It goes on and on and on and on and on. There is no stopping this girl.
So I try to pick her up and place her in the corner. By now she is kicking and screaming and yelling. What part of busted do you not get, kid? I mean seriously, if I had been caught doing something like that, I would have walked with my tail between my legs to the corner myself without my mom having to say a word. What makes her think she has a right to talk and act this way?
This is my everyday. These kids have coping issues, and I understand that. They all have had a rough time of it, but it is time they learned how to compose themselves and act more like people and less like barbarians. My best motherly advisor is my mother. Not only did she raise three great kids (or so we think) but she also is a grade-school teacher of kids around my herd's age.
One night, after she had a particularly hard day with her class and I had just fought a battle myself, I asked her what she thought was wrong with my kids.
"It's not your kids, honey, its all kids these days. They all talk back. They think they have a right."
"What do you think is the problem, mom? I mean, we were never like this. What in the world has changed?"
"Kids today have been taught that they can have an opinion. What they need to realize is that they may have one, but we don't need or want to hear it. I don't think kids should be able to have an opinion until they are about 15!"
I giggled with my mom, but the more I thought about it, the more I saw her point. They think they have the right-of-way when it comes to family or school decisions. And many adults will argue that it is good for them to have opinions! Well, yes sometimes it is. But as an adult, it is my job to determine if that opinion is going to be heard and whether or not it is in the best interest of the child. I am sure my kids' opinion would be that we never eat vegetables with dinner. Would I ever let them put that opinion action? No way! Would I ever let them express that opinion? Sure, at the right time, but the right time is NOT when we are at the dinner table and I am telling you to eat your veggies! At that point, your opinion has been vetoed and you best keep your mouth shut....unless of course you are filling it with your broccoli!
Although there is a time and place for juvenile opinion (Highlights magazine?) I believe we have gone a bit too far with empowering children. At least in my household, we need to worry less about giving the children a voice, and start to focus on finding them a flipping hearing aid so they might listen once in a while. Then we might be getting somewhere.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
I wish you were an ant....
In college, I worked at a daycare that practiced a form of early childhood education called the Reggio Emilia Philosophy. The method takes its name from a region in Italy, and not unlike Montessori, prides itself in the child being a self-learner and the environment giving the child the opportunities to learn. We were instructed to encourage creativity and self expression, to let the kids learn from mistakes and to never, ever use the word "no." I learned to speak to children in a soft, lilting voice and to let the child take the lead. The children loved me, I loved my job, and I bought the philosophy, hook, line and sinker. I felt like I had more knowledge of child rearing than people with their own kids, and I was confident that when I started a family, I would have some of the best tools to raise respectful, intelligent and creative genius children.
That is, until reality bitch-slapped me.
Flash forward six years later, throw in two ADHD boys, a daughter with some serious post-traumatic stress syndrome and a mom who works 40+ hours a week and you can kiss your "Reggio-Schmeggio" goodbye. Don't get me wrong, I really want to encourage creativity, and I do. But when you inherit children who have serious coping and social issues, creativity tends to take a back seat to things like, oh, I don't know, teaching the kids not to smear poop on the bathroom wall. Now, if you read my previous post, you can see that I did not take a very "Reggio" approach to addressing the poop issue. Had it been Reggio, I would have told my daughter, "I can see by your beautiful artwork on the bathroom wall that you like to paint. You just have not found an appropriate medium- Now, let's think, what could we use instead of poop to create something? That's right, paint! I'll go get some right now! What's that? Oh you do your best creative work on the pot? No problem, you can paint in the bathroom. Well sure, you can paint with your pants down too!! Don't forget to wash your hands!!!"
This is obviously not going to work in our household. But the question remains: When you have kids that know how to manipulate better than a seasoned con artist, how do you give them creative space and encouragement while maintaining strong, respectful boundaries of parent and child?
A prime example of this came the other morning when I was helping our six year-old get ready for school. This child hates mornings. Especially "night-morning" which is his term for when you have to wake up before it is light outside. I look forward to waking this beast like a gladiator looked forward to entering the coliseum in ancient Rome. This particular morning, the beast was in rare form.
It started with the usual. Kicking the covers, throwing the pillows and finally standing up, but only to stomp feet and declare, "I.AM.NOT.WAKING.UP.YET.!!!" Throwing body back on bed, sliding between bed and wall, until finally I have to pick up writhing child and place him (gently) into the shower, all while listening to the chanting of "You.can't.make.me.do.ANYTHING!!"
After the shower, we head back into the room to get dressed. As I am picking out clothes, the running commentary on how mean and terrible I am is not stopping. Don't get me wrong, I am not taking this lightly. I am throwing in statements like, "That is not a nice thing to say," and "I don't like mornings either, Sweetie," to "Please, just be nice and get ready for Mom!" Finally, I hit a wall. I snapped. "If you say one more mean, hateful word to me, I am going to put all your toys into garbage bags and put them in the garbage can!!!."
He sat down to put on his shoes. He thought for a minute. And then he said, quietly, yet firmly and clear enough to hear, "I wish you were an ant so I could step on you and squish you!" Then he smirked.
Now, I have to give the kid credit, I don't know too many six year-olds who would pull that one out of their pocket, but then again, I don't know too many six year-olds aside from this charmer. I wanted to laugh. I thought it was hilarious, and I definitely value humor. But I could not let him use his creativity to dupe me! I am the parent! I am in charge! I had to place firm boundaries.
"Oh yeah," I said, "Well I wish you were a slug and I was a salt shaker!"
Yeah, I know, not very grown up of me, but sometimes you have to fight fire with fire!
This conundrum surrounding creativity is something I am up against with all three of my kids. For my lovely brood, creativity often involves the sinister. the mischievous, or the forbidden. Creativity that is safe and fun is just too blase. The kids asked me one day if they could use the scrap lumber and some tarps from behind the garage to make a catapult and shoot the chickens across the yard. I said no (suck that Reggio!) But then I suggested that they use the same materials to build a fort. "No, that's boring. Can we watch TV?"
Sometimes, I wish I was an ant.....
That is, until reality bitch-slapped me.
Flash forward six years later, throw in two ADHD boys, a daughter with some serious post-traumatic stress syndrome and a mom who works 40+ hours a week and you can kiss your "Reggio-Schmeggio" goodbye. Don't get me wrong, I really want to encourage creativity, and I do. But when you inherit children who have serious coping and social issues, creativity tends to take a back seat to things like, oh, I don't know, teaching the kids not to smear poop on the bathroom wall. Now, if you read my previous post, you can see that I did not take a very "Reggio" approach to addressing the poop issue. Had it been Reggio, I would have told my daughter, "I can see by your beautiful artwork on the bathroom wall that you like to paint. You just have not found an appropriate medium- Now, let's think, what could we use instead of poop to create something? That's right, paint! I'll go get some right now! What's that? Oh you do your best creative work on the pot? No problem, you can paint in the bathroom. Well sure, you can paint with your pants down too!! Don't forget to wash your hands!!!"
This is obviously not going to work in our household. But the question remains: When you have kids that know how to manipulate better than a seasoned con artist, how do you give them creative space and encouragement while maintaining strong, respectful boundaries of parent and child?
A prime example of this came the other morning when I was helping our six year-old get ready for school. This child hates mornings. Especially "night-morning" which is his term for when you have to wake up before it is light outside. I look forward to waking this beast like a gladiator looked forward to entering the coliseum in ancient Rome. This particular morning, the beast was in rare form.
It started with the usual. Kicking the covers, throwing the pillows and finally standing up, but only to stomp feet and declare, "I.AM.NOT.WAKING.UP.YET.!!!" Throwing body back on bed, sliding between bed and wall, until finally I have to pick up writhing child and place him (gently) into the shower, all while listening to the chanting of "You.can't.make.me.do.ANYTHING!!"
After the shower, we head back into the room to get dressed. As I am picking out clothes, the running commentary on how mean and terrible I am is not stopping. Don't get me wrong, I am not taking this lightly. I am throwing in statements like, "That is not a nice thing to say," and "I don't like mornings either, Sweetie," to "Please, just be nice and get ready for Mom!" Finally, I hit a wall. I snapped. "If you say one more mean, hateful word to me, I am going to put all your toys into garbage bags and put them in the garbage can!!!."
He sat down to put on his shoes. He thought for a minute. And then he said, quietly, yet firmly and clear enough to hear, "I wish you were an ant so I could step on you and squish you!" Then he smirked.
Now, I have to give the kid credit, I don't know too many six year-olds who would pull that one out of their pocket, but then again, I don't know too many six year-olds aside from this charmer. I wanted to laugh. I thought it was hilarious, and I definitely value humor. But I could not let him use his creativity to dupe me! I am the parent! I am in charge! I had to place firm boundaries.
"Oh yeah," I said, "Well I wish you were a slug and I was a salt shaker!"
Yeah, I know, not very grown up of me, but sometimes you have to fight fire with fire!
This conundrum surrounding creativity is something I am up against with all three of my kids. For my lovely brood, creativity often involves the sinister. the mischievous, or the forbidden. Creativity that is safe and fun is just too blase. The kids asked me one day if they could use the scrap lumber and some tarps from behind the garage to make a catapult and shoot the chickens across the yard. I said no (suck that Reggio!) But then I suggested that they use the same materials to build a fort. "No, that's boring. Can we watch TV?"
Sometimes, I wish I was an ant.....
Monday, October 10, 2011
Introduction
My path to parenthood has been a very unconventional one. A very unconventional, moderately dysfunctional and sometimes straight up shitty path. I have never birthed a child. No, I have never had morning sickness, never swelled up like a whale, never passed the proverbial watermelon through the hole the size of a proverbial lemon. Nope, I have never done that. However I consider myself just as much a mom as anyone. For me, my children came to me after some very unfortunate circumstances in their lives and at the ripe old age of 30, I have become mom to three children ages 6, 8, and 12.
Their dad and I met six years ago while working in a restaurant. Much to the dismay of most people I know, it was love at first sight. See, he was very rough around the edges, and still is. However, over the years those who know me, my friends and family, have come to love him like I do. And now they have embraced his children as part of our own family. My family is amazing and I love them more than anything in the world.
Dad and I are still together, still in love and still going strong. The children have different stories that brought them to live with us, about which I will not go into detail. That is not important now. We are a family and this is the story of our journey together.
I call myself mom here, because they call me mom. Occasionally, when they are mad, they call me their "fake" mom. Sometimes, I have to bite my tongue not to say, "Well then I guess you lost the 'fake' dessert your 'fake' mother made you!" They are right though, I did not birth them. But for all intents and purposes, I am their mother. I bathe them, I clean their puke when they are sick, I buy them Christmas presents, I throw their birthday parties, I go to school conferences, I do it all. (With dad, of course, but this blog is about me, not him!) I wash their streaked underpants, I turn their dirty socks right-side-out before washing, and I sniff feet to make sure they have been washed properly. If that isn't motherly love, then I don't know what is.
I really hope in this blog to explore some of the unique situations I have found myself in, including raising a clinically diagnosed defiant child, working with the system trying to get custody of kids, and having to play academic catch up with three kids that are falling behind in school. It hasn't been all struggle though, and the fight to give these kids a good life has started to pay off. And lets not forget moments, that while at the time seem so frustrating and nerve wracking, when I re-tell the story, make me pee my pants.... one of which inspired the title of this blog.... Let us begin with:
IS THAT CHOCOLATE OR POOP?!?!?!
About two months ago, I sat down to do my business on the toilet. As I glanced over to the tile wall, I noticed some brownish, swirl marks right about arms height.
"Is that shit??" I said, literally out loud.
"It can't be," I answered myself, "My kids are not disgusting enough to swirl their poop on the wall! Besides, we had chocolate for dessert, it must just be from sticky fingers"
I gave them all the benefit of the doubt, grabbed the Tilex and disinfected the shit out of the shit (or chocolate- I didn't know at this point). I went to bed and forgot about the poop. Until two days later, when again, doing my business, I glanced at the tile. This time, our little Picasso had designed a more linear piece, straight lines slanting down.
"Oh my God," I thought, "It is shit!"
Horrified, I Tilexed again, and this time marched straight into the bedroom and announced to dad, "One of the kids is wiping their crap on the wall!"
"Nuh, uh," he said.
I wasn't in the mood to bicker, so I went to bed.
A few days later, before a shower, the hieroglyphs appeared again! Against my natural instinct to disinfect, I ran back into the bedroom, grabbed dad's arm and dragged him into the bathroom."Like I said, one of your children is smearing shit on the bathroom wall!" I rarely use the term "your kids" with him, and when I do, he knows that I am not denouncing ownership of them any more than a biological parent that says this to a spouse when a child does something incorrigible.
I decided to leave the poop on the wall and confront the kids after school. I knew none of them was going to admit to it, but I thought if I scared them all good enough, maybe at least it would stop! That night, when we were all brushing teeth, I gathered the three of them together. "I would like to know who is smearing poop on the wall!"
The harmonious chorus of "not me!" would have made Handel proud.
"Well, someone is doing it and it certainly isn't me or dad. I will tell you right now, that I am going to check the bathroom after each one of you poops until I find out who it is! And when I find you, and I will, you will wish you had never touched your poo! You will be cleaning the bathrooms from top to bottom and will be grounded forever!" I could tell by the looks in their eyes, that I was getting nowhere. My threat was useless, whoever did it could just stop and I would never know. I had to take a different tactic. I had to play dirty.
In a soft, concerned mother voice, I said, "You know, you guys, this actually scares mom a bit. It makes me worried about whoever did this. You see, normal people don't play with their poop. The only things that play with their poop are monkeys and crazy people. And you are definitely not monkeys, so that means you must be nuts. If you are crazy you have to live in a special hospital for crazy people. They might even put you in a straight jacket!!"
The boys, our 6 and 12 year-olds, snickered a bit. But as much as she tried to hide it, I saw the look of panic flash through our 8 year-old's eyes! It was her! I knew it was! I had successfully solved the mystery! I didn't blow her cover to the boys, but I knew I had gotten through to her.
Later that evening, our daughter came out and admitted to me that she smeared the poop. I informed her that she was not going to live in a psych ward and that she wasn't crazy, but it was disgusting and she would be cleaning the bathrooms for two weeks.
My bathroom has been poop free ever since :)
Their dad and I met six years ago while working in a restaurant. Much to the dismay of most people I know, it was love at first sight. See, he was very rough around the edges, and still is. However, over the years those who know me, my friends and family, have come to love him like I do. And now they have embraced his children as part of our own family. My family is amazing and I love them more than anything in the world.
Dad and I are still together, still in love and still going strong. The children have different stories that brought them to live with us, about which I will not go into detail. That is not important now. We are a family and this is the story of our journey together.
I call myself mom here, because they call me mom. Occasionally, when they are mad, they call me their "fake" mom. Sometimes, I have to bite my tongue not to say, "Well then I guess you lost the 'fake' dessert your 'fake' mother made you!" They are right though, I did not birth them. But for all intents and purposes, I am their mother. I bathe them, I clean their puke when they are sick, I buy them Christmas presents, I throw their birthday parties, I go to school conferences, I do it all. (With dad, of course, but this blog is about me, not him!) I wash their streaked underpants, I turn their dirty socks right-side-out before washing, and I sniff feet to make sure they have been washed properly. If that isn't motherly love, then I don't know what is.
I really hope in this blog to explore some of the unique situations I have found myself in, including raising a clinically diagnosed defiant child, working with the system trying to get custody of kids, and having to play academic catch up with three kids that are falling behind in school. It hasn't been all struggle though, and the fight to give these kids a good life has started to pay off. And lets not forget moments, that while at the time seem so frustrating and nerve wracking, when I re-tell the story, make me pee my pants.... one of which inspired the title of this blog.... Let us begin with:
IS THAT CHOCOLATE OR POOP?!?!?!
About two months ago, I sat down to do my business on the toilet. As I glanced over to the tile wall, I noticed some brownish, swirl marks right about arms height.
"Is that shit??" I said, literally out loud.
"It can't be," I answered myself, "My kids are not disgusting enough to swirl their poop on the wall! Besides, we had chocolate for dessert, it must just be from sticky fingers"
I gave them all the benefit of the doubt, grabbed the Tilex and disinfected the shit out of the shit (or chocolate- I didn't know at this point). I went to bed and forgot about the poop. Until two days later, when again, doing my business, I glanced at the tile. This time, our little Picasso had designed a more linear piece, straight lines slanting down.
"Oh my God," I thought, "It is shit!"
Horrified, I Tilexed again, and this time marched straight into the bedroom and announced to dad, "One of the kids is wiping their crap on the wall!"
"Nuh, uh," he said.
I wasn't in the mood to bicker, so I went to bed.
A few days later, before a shower, the hieroglyphs appeared again! Against my natural instinct to disinfect, I ran back into the bedroom, grabbed dad's arm and dragged him into the bathroom."Like I said, one of your children is smearing shit on the bathroom wall!" I rarely use the term "your kids" with him, and when I do, he knows that I am not denouncing ownership of them any more than a biological parent that says this to a spouse when a child does something incorrigible.
I decided to leave the poop on the wall and confront the kids after school. I knew none of them was going to admit to it, but I thought if I scared them all good enough, maybe at least it would stop! That night, when we were all brushing teeth, I gathered the three of them together. "I would like to know who is smearing poop on the wall!"
The harmonious chorus of "not me!" would have made Handel proud.
"Well, someone is doing it and it certainly isn't me or dad. I will tell you right now, that I am going to check the bathroom after each one of you poops until I find out who it is! And when I find you, and I will, you will wish you had never touched your poo! You will be cleaning the bathrooms from top to bottom and will be grounded forever!" I could tell by the looks in their eyes, that I was getting nowhere. My threat was useless, whoever did it could just stop and I would never know. I had to take a different tactic. I had to play dirty.
In a soft, concerned mother voice, I said, "You know, you guys, this actually scares mom a bit. It makes me worried about whoever did this. You see, normal people don't play with their poop. The only things that play with their poop are monkeys and crazy people. And you are definitely not monkeys, so that means you must be nuts. If you are crazy you have to live in a special hospital for crazy people. They might even put you in a straight jacket!!"
The boys, our 6 and 12 year-olds, snickered a bit. But as much as she tried to hide it, I saw the look of panic flash through our 8 year-old's eyes! It was her! I knew it was! I had successfully solved the mystery! I didn't blow her cover to the boys, but I knew I had gotten through to her.
Later that evening, our daughter came out and admitted to me that she smeared the poop. I informed her that she was not going to live in a psych ward and that she wasn't crazy, but it was disgusting and she would be cleaning the bathrooms for two weeks.
My bathroom has been poop free ever since :)
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