Ruining creatures of all species

This is a bit of a rule-breaker here, since usually we only discuss our human children on this blog, but we did technically adopt our dog and we do take responsibility for her behavior and I feel I've wrecked the lives of Kate & Sarah enough as reported here that I've earned mention of a pet and I was a terrible, terrible puppy mama tonight.

Lola's cousins from Virginia, Jake & Ramona, are visiting this weekend. They're very sweet. Jake and I have hit it off, which I'm told is unusual for Jake; he's usually not a real people doggie. I think we must be kindred spirits. Anyway, we never really know how Lola is going to treat her guests so we're always on edge when dogs come to visit. She is often, I'm ashamed to admit, a very rude hostess. Especially when it involves food or her favorite stuffed toy, the squeaky carrot. To our surprise, after an initial tussle to establish her alphaness, she's been very good.

This evening while we were all sitting around the dining room table a fracas welled up. There was growling, a bark, a yelp and the already elderly and gimpy Ramona (still puppy soft, how does she keep her hair so stunning at her advanced age?) wound up thrust into the sideboard, yelping and limping. I leaped from my seat and roundly scolded Lola. A quick swat under the chin and a stern "Bad girl!" preceded a doggy time out away from all the humans.

When Lola was released from her penalty box she rushed to me for a reassuring snuggle and I noticed at that moment that she was bleeding directly above her eye. As best we could determine, she'd taken a solid kick to the face and nearly lost an eye. And I'd punished her. Worst. Doggy Mama. Ever.

(OK the bloody spot is hard to see here - it's just above her left eye there see? No? Well it's terrible. She's resting with her head above her heart so she won't bleed out.)

Tired.

I committed so many horrible acts of bad parenting this week it seems I should be able to recall them all here for you. I know there was some lack of hygiene (Sarah currently smells bad but we put her to bed that way anyway). And I sent Kate to bed when she was claiming to be starving (she hadn't eaten her dinner, you don't eat dinner, you find yourself hungry at bedtime, life's hard.) I accidentally left Sarah's favorite pacifier, with which she still sleeps, in the car that we just dropped off at the shop and just now I sat here listening to Kate whine "I want my mommy" over and over until she got sick of it and quit. In my defense, I'd tried several times to give her a kiss goodnight and she wouldn't let me. Those are the ones that stick out, but it seems like there were so many more.

I'd love to regale you with tales of my ineptitude but right now, on this, the last workday of my week, I am so tired that I don't care that Sarah stinks or that Kate is upset. I don't even care that I'm contemplating going directly to bed at 9:30 on a Friday night instead of yucking it up at some local pub (sometimes I get nostalgic). This parenting business is exhausting. Come to think of it...I think I might stink a little. I don't care about that, either. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Taken Down by Song Therapy

I want to begin by stating that I am fully aware that when a child has been traumatized sometimes the best way to find out what's doing the hurting is by getting said child to produce a work of art. I have great respect for the professionals who are able to tease out the gruesome details of a horrible event from a silenced kid who really needs to begin to heal. That said, though, there is always something nearly comic to me when this type of event is depicted on television, such as in Law & Order. The worried cop or assistant DA watches unseen from through the "secret window" while the therapist gently coaxes the victim to doodle. Then, the therapist shows the results to the camera and it's an unholy cartoony interpretation of blood and guts and OH MY GOD the softball coach did it!!!

Back to real life. At Kate & Sarah's daycare they sing "Where is Thumbkin" a lot. You know, that little song to the tune of "Are You Sleeping?" in which we sing the name of each digit on our hand. "Where is Thumbkin where is thumbkin [produce your thumb] Here I am! Here I am!..." Any time the subject of someone or something's location comes up both Kate and Sarah set it to that tune. My favorite was when we were taking pictures of all the Obama supporters in our immediate area and they started singing "where's Obama? where's Obama?" and Jeremiah and I responded "we don't know! we don't know! Possibly Ohio or maybe Virginia...Flor-i-da. Flor-i-da" Good stuff.

The other day I was having my usual hard time getting the little rugrats from the bed to the bathroom to the closet to the car to daycare in what I considered a timely manner. As I hustled them out the door they both objected "it's cooooooold!" It was what I would describe as crisp, but would be nearly 70 by midday. "Oh, just get in the car, I'll turn on the heat!" Of course, daycare is 2 miles from our house at most, we generally arrive there well before the engine warms up enough to produce real heat. They whined and complained the whole way there while I gripped the wheel and clenched my teeth, eyeing the clock. When we arrived I leapt from the car and pulled each kid out. Holding Sarah in one arm and Kate by the hand I hustled down the sidewalk toward the building. That's when Sarah began to belt out "Where's my sweater? Where's my sweater?" and Kate cadenced back "I don't know! I don't know! Mommy it's so cold out! Mommy it's so cold out! We are cold. We are cold" while all their teachers looked on.

It's not that I allowed them to be cold for 7 minutes that bugs me so much. It's that I got caught.

Black Friday

The morning was off to a good start. I'd worked out. Kate got herself up and pleasantly ate breakfast then headed to the TV room for Pee Wee's Big Adventure (again) while I showered. Ah, Friday. Aunt Jo Jo will be picking the girls up from daycare and they're going to have an overnight at their house so we can all hang out together in the lovely yard with the big outdoor fireplace.

Then it all went to...er...poo. I managed to get Sarah up and dressed, hair sweetly pulled into pigtails. Then I moved on to Kate, who wasn't moving away from the TV. I'd asked if she wanted a dress or pants and she said a dress. So I came in with dress in hand. Wrong dress. There was screaming. I refused to go fish out a different dress and told her she could put that one on, or wear jeans. She opted for jeans. I got the jeans (why was I not sending her upstairs her own self? We were running late...) Then she didn't want the jeans. I said "tough" and started to force her into them. She flailed and screamed and cried. I told her if she didn't stop behaving so poorly there'd be no sleep over at Uncle Steve's and Aunt Jo Jo's. She wept "I want the dress! I want the dress!" On and on this went until I let her have the dress, but told her if she didn't shape up and apologize for her behavior I was keeping the promise to cancel her sleepover. Then she kicked her sister.

While I was brushing the numerous knots from her hair Sarah declared she wanted me to do her hair. "I already did your hair! It looks gorgeous." I said. Sarah's solution to this problem was to pull her pigtails out. We were now running very late.

Kate was still intractably refusing to apologize for her various slights against me (and now Sarah, too) while we rode in the car to school. "Last chance!" I said. Silence. I pretended to call Joy. "Hi" I said, into my phone that had dialed no one "Kate has decided she doesn't want to see you today. She would rather go home from school and directly to bed, so, no need to pick her up as planned. You can still get Sarah, though." Then I pretended to hang up. Still silence from the back seat.

It wasn't until we arrived at school (she refused to speak to me, and walked as far behind me as possible on the way in) and one of her teachers told said "all you have to do is say you're sorry and you can still have your sleepover? Hello, no brainer!" that she saw fit to apologize. I thought I had another 9 years before this stuff started. I am exhausted, and remain unrepentant regarding lying about calling Aunt Jo Jo. I'd do it again. I wonder where Kate gets her stubbornness?

Not speaking to mommy.

Playing NEAR Poop is For Amateurs!

I didn't want to have to share this tidbit with anyone, but once I saw the poop posts going up I figured I had better weigh in. There might be a WA&UE point in here somewhere but I believe respect for decency begins at home and besides, they had to deal with the aftermath.

We allowed this sweet little angel of a child (doesn't she look normal?) and her sister to hang out with their aunt and uncle a few weeks back while we did something grown-up, like run a series of errands that would take 2 full days if we brought them along. It was a beautiful late-summer/early autumn afternoon and Kate & Sarah were running around in my brother and sister-in-law's yard with the neighbor kids. As sometimes happens during these impromptu playdates, Kate ended up full-on nude. She's a bit of an exhibitionist. At some point during all the fun, Kate decided she needed to use the potty. I suppose, for my mind went blank and I stopped listening early into the telling of it, she decided she was having too much fun with all the kids to take the take the time to trek into the house and to the bathroom, so she opted to poop in the yard like the dogs do. I mean, like the dogs doo. It was all too convenient not even having undies to pull down.

I don't know what became of my child's own clothes, which I swear we went to the trouble of putting on her before abandoning her to the wilds of Third Avenue, but Kate came home wearing a dress belonging to one of her buddies whose mother was embarrassed enough for me in my absence to put it on her. I don't know what became of the poop, though I suspect it ended up scooped up in much the same fashion as the dogs'. I do know Kate's Aunt Jo Jo photographed it to submit into evidence or for posterity. For some reason, I can't seem to find the photo anywhere...

Call Social Services...

I've been absent for awhile, but not because I haven't been daily ruining the lives of my children through consistently shoddy parenting. I've just been slacking on the blogging front but seriously, is anyone really surprised by that? What I'm wondering today is, if I allowed my 4-year-old daughter to get a bra and wear it out in public and then even took pictures of her in it and posted them on the Internet*, does that net me some points up in this piece?

http://spawntimes.blogspot.com/2008/08/kind-of-disturbing.html

*Blogger considers "internet" a proper noun.

Most Recent Sin - Going to Work

Late, as is my usual ever since giving birth the first time, I breezed into the TV room where pajama-clad Kate sat eating cereal and watching Beauty & the Beast. "I've got to run off to work!" I said, swooping down to kiss her on the head.

Kate stopped eating, put her spoon down and looked at me, wide-eyed. "But..." she said sweetly "I thought you said you loved us!"

It is worth noting here that 2 nights ago I comforted a weeping Kate as she blubbered about not wanting to go to daycare the next morning. We've had a lot of visitors lately and have subsequently taken a lot of time off work. Kate and Sarah have both spent way more time than usual at home instead of at daycare. While Kate was crying and sitting on my lap, I rocked her in the rocking chair in her room and quietly assured her that I would much prefer to hang out with her and Sarah and daddy all the time, too, but that I had to go to work instead, which meant she would have to go to daycare. Then we talked about all the fun she has at daycare and how much she likes her friends and teachers, blah blah blah. She finally went to bed, all sweetness and hugs but apparently added my statement that I would rather stay home to her arsenal of guilt weaponry. I kind of admired her use of my words against me. But I was late.

"I do love you" I responded, "but not enough to stay here with you today" and just like that, I left.

I know, I'm late, but that's par for the course now that I have children.

You can't see much of the Bumbo here, but if you look closely you can see Sarah's wearing her "Daddy drinks because I cry" onesie and yes, she's up on the kitchen counter.

Hmmm...I wonder where Sarah is?

Of breast milk and beer

I've been absent lately, not because I haven't been doing a lot of worst mamaing, but because I've been forced to maintain a blog that no one reads for a work event. It's taking all my time. Besides, Kate's been keeping me in line. She tells me raising my voice when I speak to her is "very rude". I suppose I should be proud...

I wanted to bring you an email my friend sent me, because it seemed so very fitting for our discourse here. This is a tale from Anni, whose son Cyrus was born on Thanksgiving day last year. I used to have a glass of wine while nursing Kate because, I reasoned, the alcohol couldn't possibly get into my system that fast, and then by the time she was ready to eat again, it would be gone. I worried the sight of it was a tad, er, inappropriate, but my desire for wine outweighed my desire to be socially acceptable. This is just one of the many reasons I'm friends with Anni:

We were just up on Mackinac Island for a couple of days and I wanted to
tell you about a high point in my yet-small experience as a vacationing mother.
We were in a bar having dinner (well, waiting for the food). We
ordered beers and they came in those really tall slender glasses. I was
breastfeeding Cyrus and drinking my beer. (I think I breastfed in every
establishment open on the island, since there are only a few places and since it's
before tourist season.) There was this nice couple sitting across from us
trying not to notice. But then I knocked my beer all over myself (and a
little on him) and broke the glass all over the place. So I had to
disengage him from my boob (he protested) while mopping up beer and hoping there
weren't shards of glass in his clothes.... The nice couple nicely
continued to not notice. There was so much beer and glass around that we
just switched tables and Cyrus went over to the other boob. Then the food
came and we ate. When we left the nice couple gave us a big smile and said
a hearty goodbye -- was it sympathy or just amusement? We played it cool,
you know -- who doesn't spill a beer on your breastfeeding baby every now and
then? and having a kid made me even clumsier (though not as much as when I
was pregnant -- I was a total train wreck then).

Mini Me

I found Kate sitting on the sofa in the TV room with her electronic Go, Diego, Go! game. "Hey, Kate, it's time to come to dinner." I said. She looked up at me slowly with a sort of pleading expression. Big. Sigh. "I'm trying to get some work done!" she said.

This reminder that I sometimes forgo quality fun time with my kids in favor of working made the fact that I fully intended to get some work done at the table while the girls were eating a bit awkward. But I did it anyway.

Fish face not so funny?

It was a little chilly out yesterday but not cold enough to keep the kids from playing with the sidewalk chalk on the driveway. They were all out there with Daddy and Uncle Steve - Steve drawing chalk outlines of the kids' bodies while I was inside working on dinner and the sun was setting. I looked up to see Sarah at the glass French doors. She had her face pressed up against the glass humorously. I walked over, got down on my knees and stuck my face against hers through the glass. She backed up and glared at me.

Sometimes it's a little hard to get a laugh out of Sarah so I went for the blowfish effect with my mouth on the (frighteningly filthy) window. No go. She was saying something but I couldn't tell what. I stuck my hands up to heighten the blowfish impersonation effect. Now her lower lip was quivering. She put her hands on the window. She's finally playing with me! I went for the sidelong view this time. She banged her hands on the window. The nose? Not amused.

It was a full minute at least before I finally realized...she was begging me to let her in out of the cold. Oops.

Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?

Kate won't stop saying "booty". She sprinkles it into her sentences the way the Smurfs do "smurf". It's been 2 days now. She won't cut it out. Probably because we think it's kind of funny. She's already discovered the surefire way to get an amused snort out of me is to randomly yell "booty!" during moments of comfortable silence when the family is all gathered in one place, everyone doing their own thing.

Here's what I found out this afternoon - daycare? Not amused. Evidently it came up when Jeremiah picked the girls up this afternoon. Kate is going to be 4 in June and it wasn't until now that it dawned on me she will need to get along in polite society. This is difficult for me to grasp because I can barely muddle through. Just the other day I convulsed a bit during a meeting at work when someone said something about "...what you DO do". Doo-doo! HA. Good stuff. I am 35 and read books by Stephen Covey and talk at length about work breakdown structures and I am reduced to giggles when someone says "DO do". There is little hope for Kate and even less for Sarah, as I'm sure we'll be too tired for discipline once we're done with Kate.

I was reflecting upon these matters as we all climbed the stairs together to put the kids to bed. Sarah quiet, Kate muttering like a crazy person "booty booty booty booty booty". I wonder if daycare knows we are perfectly accepting of Kate's alter-ego "Princess Camelbutt"?

Poor Showing

Today we headed to the Pediatrician's office for Sarah's 18-month check-up. With Sarah sitting nude save her diaper on the crinkly paper on the examining table, I answered the usual barrage of questions from the nurse. Words, yes coming along nicely. Walking, running, climbing stairs, yes, yes, yes. Drinking milk, not so much but some. No guns in our home. We don't smoke or feed her lead paint...Blah blah blah.

Then in came the doc. She starts in with the questions. This is when I started lying a bit.

Doc: So, she doesn't really like milk?
Me: Not so much. She'll drink a little. She likes chocolate milk.
Doc: Probably don't want to give her chocolate milk, it's pretty much pure sugar.
Me: Er...
Doc: She eats well otherwise?
Me: [relieved to be off the milk topic] Oh yeah, she'll eat anything.
Doc: OK, so you don't give her hard stuff like nuts or popcorn and of course no peanut butter until she's 2.
Me: [Smile and nod] (in fact, I give her all those things on a regular basis. She adores peanut butter and just last night consumed so much popcorn prior to dinner that she scarcely ate a bite of her meal)
Doc: And of course nothing grape sized...
Me: [Smile and nod] (Do grapes count?)
Doc: And you limit TV?
Me: [Again, relieved] She really doesn't care about TV (it's true!). Anyway, we usually only let them watch DVDs or public TV because I object to commercials.
Doc: Well, she really shouldn't get much watching in - you want to do more reading. Even though people say a program's educational it's...it's really not.
Me: Er...
Doc: Her skin is a little bit dry...you bathe her with Dove baby wash?
Me: I use the unscented castile soap for infants
Doc: You want to use a soap with moisturizer, something like Dove.
Me: [Smile, nod, suppress urge to punch doctor]
Doc: OK, the nurse will be right in with her shots!

And that, of course, is when Sarah changed her mind about trusting Mommy.

All-in-all, an excellent visit, I'd say!

Cafeteria Tactics

It was a sunny, surprisingly warm Sunday morning. The children were up, dressed and even had their hair brushed. I'd been to the Farmer's Market already and even made brunch. We all sat around the dining room table together, eating brioche french toast with bacon and, because none of that was even remotely nutritious (and it wasn't even Thursday), some fresh strawberries.

I saw it coming long before it happened. Sarah got an impish glint in her eyes. Holding a chunk of pure maple syrup-drenched french toast she debated. Eat it? Wing it at Mommy? I knew the route she'd take. I sensed it. She hauled off and threw that sticky, moistened bit right at me. It landed in my plate. Sarah throws like a girl (of course). Here, I thought was the opportunity to teach my youngest table manners. To let her know that there is absolutely nothing acceptable about throwing your food.

I must act quickly! This is always my thought because we believe that raising a child is nearly exactly like raising a dog - if you don't respond fast enough they forget why they're being punished. Fine, laugh all you want, but sternly commanding "sit!" has on more than one occasion prevented insurance-deductible-meeting injury. So there we were, frozen in time. Kate forced back a giggle. I looked at Sarah. I took aim, and threw that soggy bit right back at her.

We volleyed several times, everyone at the table giggling wildly until, in one of her finest comic moments, Sarah declared victory when she picked up the toast as if to fling it, and then ate it instead. Then she threw her fork at my plate.

I confess I enjoyed it. But I cringe a little, anticipating the call from daycare at some point this week...

Why you little...!

OK, so it's not what it looks like.  Nevertheless, I thought it deserved mention.

Get it out of the way early

I think this merits mention in this forum. Sorry for being too lazy to post it twice. Please see link.

Toddlers Gone Wild.

Hey, whatever keeps her entertained

So Sarah chews a bit on the cord of a powerful electric appliance, which is indeed plugged in...at least I know where she is.

I've got my nerve

During this weekend's Bakefest 07, as I've come to call it, I had a lot of help from Kate. Because the items we were baking were to be gifts I spent a great deal of time washing and re-washing Kate's hands and admonishing her not to touch various bits of dough or ingredients. It's a tricky balance, trying to make Baking With Mommy fun while trying to prevent the spread of spit-borne pathogens to ones friends. The shiny sheen of snot upon the cherubic faces of my little darlings had me wiping, washing, rubbing in hand sanitizer and trying to block out thoughts of the grossness all weekend. The skin on my hands is cracked and chapped from my obsessive compulsive behavior.

Where was I? Oh yes. So we're standing there over the bowl of my fabulous new mixer and I'm having Kate dump chocolate chips into the chocolate chip cookie dough. This, I've explained, is the most important part of the process because otherwise the chocolate chip cookies would just be...cookies. I also explained that when you open a new bag of delightfully chunky Ghiradelli chocolate chips you must taste one to be sure they are of the quality you expect for the cookies you're baking. I gave her one. She popped it in her mouth. We continued on. I looked from the bowl of dough back up at her just in time to see her about to push the tongue-moistened chip from her mouth into the dough.

Horrified, I yelled at her. "Kate! What are you doing?!? JUST WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?" She sucked the chip back in and looked all shocked and doe-eyed at me. The lower lip began to tremble but I wasn't done. She got quite a talking to about actually spitting into the very dough I'd just explained she should not touch, ending with "...and just what were you thinking spitting out a chocolate chip? Is something wrong with you?" She silently climbed down the steps of the little ladder next to the counter. I heard her go up the stairs and find her daddy. Then I heard her say "Daddy, mommy broke my heart!"

In the spirit of celebration, cont....

This is fun! Way to go, Paige - I can't wait to meet Ziggy!

Katherine Louise Drueke, June 12, 2004

Sarah Olivia Drueke, July 26, 2006