Why I'd Rather Have a 'Flower'

I stared at one of my best mommy-friends over the rim of my non-fat, decaf, caramel latté. The morning's events had been nothing short of horrendous and a sit-down with her was just what I needed.

I didn't want to rant; I'd already done that earlier at home. The fight was now over and sadly I wasn't sure who had won. The kids were still drawing breath when I'd dropped them at school and I had lived to tell the story. Okay I decided on a sigh, it was a tie.

"You look like you’ve been dragged through a donut-hole backwards,” Maggie stated unapologetically as she slid into the booth across from me.  “What did your kids do to you this morning?”

"Thanks for nothing,” I shot back. “And to answer your question it’s not this morning - it’s every morning! My kids have no problem getting up at the crack-of-stupid on a weekend when we have nowhere to be. But try to get them up for school and that’s a whole other story."

"Tell me what happens right now?”

Maggie didn’t realize it but I noted that she had started tapping her finger against those awesome veneers of hers; the tell-tale sign that she was becoming agitated. Perhaps now was not a good time to discuss my inadequacies as a mommy after all. But it was too late.

“What’s your expectation of the kids? Do you have a reward-system in place?”

Expectation? Reward-system? This was clearly another lesson that I, as their mother, had failed to teach them – If you met expectation A, you would earn reward B. A simple concept but not always easy to implement.

"No," I said sheepishly, "I’ve got nothing. I go into the kids' rooms, turn on the lights, open the curtains, and tell them it's time to get up. They know I'm going downstairs to make coffee and that they’ll get a five-minute warning before I'm on my way back up. In those five-minutes my "expectation" is that they get out of bed and do three basic things: go pee, get dressed, and brush their teeth. But that never happens. I go back upstairs and they're still in bed. So now I'm annoyed and yelling that if they don’t get up they're going to be late for school. I stalk to my room, get myself dressed, head back across the hall and guess what? They're still in bed! Now I'm righteously ticked and threatening to take them to school in their pajamas without breakfast. On a good day, all of that combined might motivate them to finally get out of bed!”

Feeling completely deflated I sank back onto the cold vinyl of the booth and took a deep, calming breath.

"Alrighty then," Maggie said slapping her hand on the table, "time to turn this ship around. Clearly this situation is not working for you!"

God I loved that about her. Maggie had been at this mothering-gig a lot longer than me and believed, dare I say it, that it was okay to put a mommy and her happiness first. She set rules and expectations that made her life easier even if her kids didn't like it. And the best part? She felt no guilt! It’s no wonder I aspired to be like my girl Mags.

"I wouldn't even go into their rooms to wake them," Maggie advised. "They need to be doing that for themselves. I sleep-trained my kids with one of those alarm clocks that turns color when it's time for them to get out of bed. If I'm upstairs when they get up I don't even speak to them. I'll give them a visual prompt if they're not staying on task but I don't speak. They know what's expected and if they want to earn that reward they’ll do it.”

Sleep-trained? God I loved that about her, too. Maggie always had a plan; always had a solution to the problem. Me? I had good intentions.

A year prior I'd bought the kids those fancy Discovery clocks for Christmas.  My daughter got the flower and my son got the rocket ship. The “intent” had been that the kids would learn how to tell time, wake up to the alarm, and enjoy the images of the galaxies, peace-signs and such that those clocks projected onto the walls and ceilings. I was sure we had set the time on the clocks and enjoyed the projections, but had we ever tried using the alarm function? I couldn’t remember.

"We don't have clocks that change color, but we do have alarm clocks - a flower for Bronwyn and a rocket ship for Brennen."

"Perfect!" Maggie exclaimed, and then we set about formulating a plan. 

One week later I again stared at one of my best mommy-friends over the rim of my non-fat, decaf, caramel latté. "Well?" Maggie prompted, "How did things work out with the alarm clocks?"

"Alright, I guess. I made a really big, over-the-top production about how great it would be to wake up to their alarm clocks, just like we discussed. I told the kids how big they were getting and that mommy would be so proud of them if they could wake up on their own."

"Sounds great so far."

"Yeah, I thought I was pretty great too. Academy award winning ‘great’," I laughed. "So I let the kids pick the morning that they were going to try out their alarms. I gave them a choice and let them feel like they had some control." I had pulled out every trick the nice social-worker had taught me for this one.

"The kids brought me their clocks and as I was setting the alarm on Brennen's I told him how awesome it was going to be; how his rocket was going to go off in the morning and wake him up. I started setting Bronwyn's alarm and I told her the same. I told her how awesome it was going to be; how her flower … and then I didn't know what to say. Her flower wasn’t going to do anything. It just was."

Suddenly Maggie was laughing uncontrollably. “You’re incredible,” she croaked. “You’ve just unknowingly described for your kids what separates the sexes. Boys have exploding rockets – amazing! Girls have flowers – the end.

Clearly our plan was going to require further thought. Fortunately I had the entire summer vacation to work it out. Shaking my head and laughing uncontrollably myself, I raised my mug and clanked it against Maggie’s.

“I’d rather have a flower anyway,” I whispered conspiratorially. “I like the idea of having something that lasts for more than one go-around and doesn’t require re-fueling!”

The end.

We're From Canada!

Brennen had just finished his martial arts lesson and had insisted on wearing his uniform to the evening's next event - his daycare's annual summer bbq.  As we were late to arrive, we headed straight for the back of the food-line.  Much to Brennen's delight one of his favorite teachers just happened to be standing right in front of us.

"Oh goodness Brennen,” Livy crooned, “look at you!  You are just too cute!  Are you coming from Jujitsu?” she asked.

Before Brennen could speak, his sister did.

"We're not from Jujitsu,” Bronwyn answered firmly, “WE'RE FROM CANADA!"

Where Hair Does Not Belong

It was a beautiful day; the kind of day that made you want to stay at home and play outside until the streetlights came on.  Unfortunately this mommy and her family were packed into their vehicle and headed to gymnastics.

Sunday afternoon gymnastics at 1 p.m. had seemed like a good idea at the time of registration.  As the weeks had worn on, though, and the weather had gotten progressively warmer, Sunday afternoon gymnastics at 1 p.m. was an obligation that I resented.

Now I must tell you, my children are the type that like to play outside ALL OF THE TIME!  To take a break to tend to a bodily necessity - such as eating - would never occur to them.  This was clearly another lesson that I, as their mother, had failed to teach them – when the family needs to be somewhere just after noon, we stop playing beforehand and eat lunch.

As our vehicle neared the highway I knew that it would not be long before the children, who had again chosen play over food, would start to complain about being hungry.  “There’s food in that bag between you guys,” I proactively yelled into the backseat, “cheese, crackers, bear paws, juice boxes.”   

After a few minutes had passed my son said, “Mommy I just picked up some cheese and it had a hair on it.  And you know what?” 

No, I did not know “what” and I had no interest in finding out “what”. 

Over the years I had discovered that there were several kid-common-occurrences that I could tolerate that others could not – vomit, diarrhea, eyelids flipped inside-out, the occasional pick-your-nose-and-eat-it.  Hair, however, was not one of those things.  Even if it turned out to be my own, the thought of hair in any place other than where it should be caused me to shudder.

“Well,” my young son jabbered on, “I ate it and it was yummy.”

“Okay.”  I could only manage that one-word-answer as I felt the bile start to creep up my throat.  And I was shocked as that was not what I had expected my son to say. But Brennen wasn’t finished – he had another insight that he wanted to share.

“So if you’re eating something Mommy and it has hair on it, you should keep eating it and not stop because it’s yummy.”

As quick as possible I pinched my nose shut to silence the snort that threatened to rip forth.   My husband, who was driving, refused to look at me.  I saw him bite down hard on his lip, however, in what I guessed was an attempt to not sputter or choke.

Now I must tell you, I know that my son’s advice was heartfelt and innocent and pure.  That knowledge, however, did not stop these three ‘truths’ from popping into this mommy’s mind:

1. My husband is of German descent,

2. I like to eat sausage, but

3. Under no circumstances do I like sauerkraut!

Bon Appétit!

She Calls Me Cinderella

The house needed to be cleaned and this fact had my children confused as we were not having company over.  This was yet another lesson that I, as their mother, had clearly failed to teach them – we clean the house on a regular basis whether or not anyone is coming to visit!

I rummaged through the cupboards, found some cleaning supplies, and started to assign everyone their job duties.  I handed my two children their Lysol wipes and asked them nicely to clean the upstairs bathroom that they shared.

I, myself, had so many things to clean that I hardly knew where to start.  After about twenty minutes of successfully avoiding cleaning my own bathroom, I went to check on the kids' progress.  My son - who is an excellent little cleaner - was enthusiastically wiping down his sink and counter-top. My daughter, however, was nowhere in sight.  Where she should have stood was my husband, instead.

"Where's Bronwyn?"

"She's in her bedroom," was my husband's response.

I poked my head around Bronwyn's door and was not the least bit surprised to find her lounging on her bed, ipad in hand.

I returned to the washroom and asked my husband curiously, "Why isn't she helping you?"

He shrugged his shoulders and through a sly grin replied, "She says your Cinderella; you do all of the work."

Unbelievable!

In that moment, the ‘truth’ is that Bronwyn almost came face-to-face with Cinderella’s Wicked Stepmother – but she didn’t!  I proudly put many years of therapy into practice, took a deep calming breath, counted to ten, and returned to my chores!

Later when I recounted the incident, a wise friend pointed out that in the end, it was Cinderella who realized all of her dreams.  While I was certain that this was not what Bronwyn had in mind when she had drawn her comparison, I decided to revise my thinking on the matter.  I decided that If in the end 
this mommy and her family got to realize the fairy-tale-ending, then Bronwyn
could call me Cinderella any time!

Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo!

Confusion at McDonald's

It was Friday and my husband was working the night-shift.  Those two facts combined were all the justification I needed for a ‘treat’.  I packed the kids and myself into the truck and headed for the nearest McDonald's with a PlayPlace.  As one might expect, I was not the only mother with this brilliant idea!  Everywhere you turned there were children underfoot, and when I finally snagged seating-for-three I was giddy with delight.

The kids and I squeezed onto the bench-seating and found ourselves directly opposite an elderly woman; she had a scarlet bindi and wore a traditional sari.  She regarded my blonde-haired, green-eyed daughter thoughtfully, and my daughter returned the gesture in-kind.

It was inevitable - even before the caramel on Bronwyn’s sundae had hardened, she was asking this woman what that 'thing' was on her forehead.  Surprisingly enough this woman gave way to a hearty chuckle and told Bronwyn that it was part of her religion.  "You have customs and this," she said, pointing to her forehead, "is a part of my custom.  Do you understand?"

No, my five-year-old did not understand 'custom'. 

As I watched Bronwyn stick her thumb in her sweet-and-sour sauce, I marveled at a child’s innocence.  I smiled at the woman, thankful that she had not misread my daughter's curiosity for malice.  Suddenly a girl, no older than Bronwyn, appeared beside the elderly woman.  Her granddaughter, I assumed.  Bronwyn eyed the denim-clad little girl over her chicken nugget.  After a short time she turned to the elderly woman and pointing at the little girl asked, "Where's her costume?"

I cannot tell a lie - I stuck a french fry in my mouth and stared straight ahead!