How to Get Paid

There’s this “game” that my husband and five-year-old son play. I think it must be a testosterone-fueled initiation of sorts for boys as I watched my two younger brothers play the same “game” throughout my adolescence. Simply explained two males want the same object (i.e. the last slice of pizza, the remote control, all of dad’s loose change on his nightstand) and then proceed to beat on one another to prevent the other from getting said object. Of course my husband suffers far more abuse than my son ever does and nine times out of ten my son ends up with the prized possession.  

Now hold that thought and cut to this mommy and her kids packed into their truck and headed to a play-date. As it was still quite early in the morning it was no surprise to the kids to find us in the local coffee shop drive-thru. And is almost always the case, I had no cash on me. I was rummaging through my wallet trying to put together the required buck ninety for a large coffee with cream, all the while muttering about how daddy has all of the money and mommy never has any.

From behind me I heard my son say, “If you just lay on daddy you can take his money.”

Out of the mouth of babes I tell you! Of course I knew that Brennen was referencing the “game” that he played with his father, and was suggesting that I hold him down to take the loose change from his nightstand.  That fact, however, did not stop me from laughing at the simple truth of his pronouncement.

“My son,” I said as I rolled up to the drive-thru window, “you are wise beyond your years. When I lay on top of your dad I do get to take his money.”

What more can this mommy say except that it pays when daddy gets laid!

Those Things That Stick Up

My daughter's hockey team was set to compete in an 'away' tournament, which meant that my family would be spending the weekend in a hotel. The kids were jacked!

It was the night before the tournament and I had started packing everyone's things. I was working on the toiletries when my young son wondered into my bathroom. Of course he wanted to help. I watched as he grabbed a handful of Always pads from beneath my sink and threw them into the bag that I was assembling.

"Here mom," Brennen said cheerfully, "you'll need these."

"Thanks bud,” I grimaced, “but I don't need those."

The next thing I heard was, "Here mom, you'll need these too."

I turned cautiously towards my son and found him holding my razor, shaving cream, and waxing products. I was beginning to think that my son had spent too much time with me in the washroom.

"Thanks bud," I muttered again, "but I don't need those."

Apparently my not needing those things did not matter, as Brennen stuffed his treasures into the now bulging toiletry bag. He was so happy to help that I couldn't bear the thought of his thinking that I didn't want him too. So I stomped down my objections and decided that he could pack whatever he liked. I would simply unpack and repack later when he was asleep.

"Where are the things that stick up?" Brennen asked suddenly.

Stick up? I had no idea what he was talking about. “I don't know what that is, Brennen."

"Yes you dooooo know. The things that stick up!"

My son's frustration was evident, and my patience was wearing thin. Clearly I needed to come at this from a different angle.

"What does it look like, Brennen? What do you use it for?"

"You know mommy - the things that stick up your ba-jyna!"

Lord, what is a mommy to do?

Let this mommy answer her own question. She needs to start locking the bathroom door behind her – that’s what!

Truth is funnier than fiction I tell you. Truth is funnier than fiction!

Poop in the Sink

It was Sunday night and the end of a great weekend was fast approaching. My family and I had spent the day visiting with friends and the time had now come to say good-bye. The boys had spent the majority of their day in the basement playing hockey, so everyone was helping to gather up all of the gear and move it to the front door. During the process our little friend Sammy passed me as he was exiting the downstairs washroom.

“What’s brown in your sink?” he asked.

Brown in my sink? I had no idea. Rust stains? The more I thought about it, though, that didn’t make sense. We had a water softener and the house was still new-ish.

As soon as I could I checked out the situation. I am not sure what I had expected to find when I pushed open the door, but it surely was not what I found – poop in the sink!

Soft, brown poop was smeared around the sink basin and had plugged up the drain. Right away I made the assumption that this had been done by my daughter, who at times liked to “play” with unconventional substances. The next assumption I made was that Cinderella – that’s me – was going to have to clean this mess up. Really, there are no words!

Parenting 101 states that you should never humiliate your children in front of others – or at least that’s what this mommy says. So I closed the door behind me and casually announced that should anyone need to use the washroom before leaving they could just head upstairs. Although more than one questioning glance was sent my way, I just smiled and then quickly helped our friends to, and out, the door.

With our company gone I thought how best to handle the situation. If I was correct and it was my daughter that I needed to speak with, asking her why there was poop in the sink would not be the right approach. So I asked her to join me in the washroom, and then I simply pointed and began with, “Did you do this?”

“Yes,” came her response.

“What were you doing?”

“I wanted to conduct a science experiment!” And the tone of her voice said that she felt that was pretty obvious.

I wish there were a manual telling parents how to respond in situations such as finding poop in the washroom sink.  But there isn’t. Once-upon-a-time this mommy would have reacted in anger. I would have yelled unkind words and undoubtedly crushed my child’s spirit. But to what end? So this time I chose humor.

“Well my girl,” I said matter-of-factly, “if you were trying to conduct a science experiment then you certainly earned yourself top marks for originality. In the future, however, I would advise that you rethink your choice of materials.”

What more can this mommy say except that poop happens!

A Boy's Confidence

"Mommy," my young said blurted out while watching TreeHouse, "my penis is HUGE; it's all the way down to my knees!"

What can I say? My son is confident! But seriously, as a mother how do you respond to that? This mommy chose humor, of course!

"Don't tell your father," I whispered conspiratorially in my son's ear, "he'll want to know your secret." And just as I knew he would, my son jumped up off of the couch and ran towards the stairs.

I stood in the kitchen listening to his little feet climb as fast as they could. And I burst out laughing when I heard him call, "Daaaaddddy, where arrrre you? I have a secret to tell you."

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!