It's raining today in good ole Hoboken, but it's a steady spring rain, not an icy winter soaker, and I'm actually enjoying it. Not Ian.
"Mom? Why is it raining?"
"Just because it is." Having not had my coffee, that's about as creative an answer as I can muster.
"I don't like it. It makes the mud all squishy and you can't play there."
True. Ian steps square into a puddle and soaks his right Adidas sneaker.
"I don't like puddles."
Well don't step into them, I'm thinking.
"Mom? Why is it raining?"
Oh, brother. "It's raining because it will help the grass to grow and then you won't have all that mud. Isn't that good?"
"OK." Ian walks a few steps and then shifts to a new, but related, topic. "Mom? My pants are dying."
"Your pants?"
"NOOOOO!" Ian must be thinking "Boy, this Mom doesn't listen very well!" The thought has crossed my husband's mind on more than one occasion, and now his sons are experiencing the same hair-pulling joy of talking to someone who's not paying attention.
"No, Mom! My PLANTS! My plants are dying."
"You have plants? In class? Ian that's really cool."
He's totally underwhelmed. "I guess so. But actually, they're just dying."
The word "actually" has recently come on full force in Ian's vocabulary. He uses it at any opportunity.
"Can you show them to me when we get to class?"
"Sure."
We get to class and he shows them to me, sitting by the window, which is getting pattered with rain today. They look pretty happy and green to me. I explain to Ian that the little green leaves at the bottom are new growth. He looks encouraged, though he's only half paying attention because Rebecca has just walked into the classroom. The ceiling could cave in on us and Ian probably wouldn't notice. I'll admit, Rebecca is cute.
"Actually, Mom? I need to go talk to Rebecca now. See you later."
And he's off. But he'll be back. Actually, I'm sure he'll be back. I still do his laundry.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Abracadabra
"Mom, I want you to pick me up from school and take me to soccer."
I love these requests. I feel like the Ultimate Bad Mother when I have to admit to - gasp! - having my own things going on. Somewhere down the line, though, I'm convinced it will save all of our sanities if I do.
"Ian, I can't take you because that's the day I have my writing class."
"What's a writing class?"
"They teach you how to write stories."
Ian thinks about this. I know what he's thinking: Why would anyone need a class to learn how to write stories? I imagine native peoples sitting around a campfire and, before the chief pipes up to spin a new yarn, he says: "Is there anyone here who has taken a writing class? Maybe you should start." Ha ha. Even better is when I have my own things going on that feel like a complete waste of time when I explain them out loud to my kid.
"Where is your writing class?"
"It's in Manhattan."
"Oh, that's where Jerry goes."
"Who's Jerry?" What a question, Mom. Who's Jerry?
"You know, Mom. Like Tom and Jerry."
"Oh, the mouse! I love Tom and Jerry."
"Yeah, they're OK."
"So what do you like, Ian?"
"I like to play Crystal with Rebecca and Lisa."
"Oh, how does that go?"
"They dress up like witches and put spells on people."
I'm suddenly reminded of a freind of mine who used to live in a dump of an apartment in the East Village with a girl who called herself a 'wicca.' Their whole apartment stank of incense. I wasn't sure I was cool with 'Crystal,' but I kept quiet.
"Do you play like you're a witch, Ian?"
"No, they are the witches. I'm the one they put the spells on."
That gets a good laugh out of me and Ian isn't sure what's so funny. I look at him, so innocent as to the mess he's already embroiled in at the age of 4, and the bigger messes to come, and there ain't an eye-of-newt his Mom can do about it.
I look down at him. My friend, I think, if only you knew. This is just the beginning.
I love these requests. I feel like the Ultimate Bad Mother when I have to admit to - gasp! - having my own things going on. Somewhere down the line, though, I'm convinced it will save all of our sanities if I do.
"Ian, I can't take you because that's the day I have my writing class."
"What's a writing class?"
"They teach you how to write stories."
Ian thinks about this. I know what he's thinking: Why would anyone need a class to learn how to write stories? I imagine native peoples sitting around a campfire and, before the chief pipes up to spin a new yarn, he says: "Is there anyone here who has taken a writing class? Maybe you should start." Ha ha. Even better is when I have my own things going on that feel like a complete waste of time when I explain them out loud to my kid.
"Where is your writing class?"
"It's in Manhattan."
"Oh, that's where Jerry goes."
"Who's Jerry?" What a question, Mom. Who's Jerry?
"You know, Mom. Like Tom and Jerry."
"Oh, the mouse! I love Tom and Jerry."
"Yeah, they're OK."
"So what do you like, Ian?"
"I like to play Crystal with Rebecca and Lisa."
"Oh, how does that go?"
"They dress up like witches and put spells on people."
I'm suddenly reminded of a freind of mine who used to live in a dump of an apartment in the East Village with a girl who called herself a 'wicca.' Their whole apartment stank of incense. I wasn't sure I was cool with 'Crystal,' but I kept quiet.
"Do you play like you're a witch, Ian?"
"No, they are the witches. I'm the one they put the spells on."
That gets a good laugh out of me and Ian isn't sure what's so funny. I look at him, so innocent as to the mess he's already embroiled in at the age of 4, and the bigger messes to come, and there ain't an eye-of-newt his Mom can do about it.
I look down at him. My friend, I think, if only you knew. This is just the beginning.
Friday, February 19, 2010
Enter the "Why"
When my two sons were just a couple of inert infants, I used to look forward to the day they could talk. Then they started talking, and I found out what a bliss it is to be around people who can't talk back. Bliss. Now, not only do they talk back, but they do something far more dangerous: they reason.
"Mom, why are you making huevos for Papa?"
"Because he likes them, so I'm making them."
"But why?"
"Because he likes them."
"But why?"
You get the picture. This morning was a headbanger of "why"s.
"Mom, why are you wearing that shirt?" He looks at my multi-colored, hippy-patterned, long sleeve cotton shirt from Target and I'm suddenly defensive.
"Because I want to."
"But why?"
"Because it's the first thing I got out of my drawer."
"But why?"
"Because it doesn't make me look fat."
This silences him. Julian has been on the Cheerios and Cheezits diet nearly since birth, so the idea of not wanting to look fat has not been a concern of his so far.
I go into the boys' bedroom to wake up Ian. Professor Julian Emeritus is trailing me.
"Mom, why are you waking up Ian?"
"Because he needs to get up for school."
"But why?"
"Because he does. He just does." I'm sort of running out of answers that will stop him dead in his tracks, like the 'looking fat' answer, so I opt for the totally unimaginative, which starts to rile him.
"BUT whhhhyyyyyy? Why are you getting him up?"
"Because Mommy will be in really big trouble if he's late to school."
"But why?"
"Because life's not fair for Mommy at all."
"But why?"
"Because you boys drive me bonkers."
"But why?"
Now I've got him. The old answer-a-question-with-a-question: "I don't know Julian. Why do you and Ian drive me bonkers?"
He's totally, utterly stumped. Then, probably while he is considering the word "bonkers", he collapses into a fit of giggles. He points at me and laughs and laughs and laughs.
I should try that answer next time.
"Mom, why are you making huevos for Papa?"
"Because he likes them, so I'm making them."
"But why?"
"Because he likes them."
"But why?"
You get the picture. This morning was a headbanger of "why"s.
"Mom, why are you wearing that shirt?" He looks at my multi-colored, hippy-patterned, long sleeve cotton shirt from Target and I'm suddenly defensive.
"Because I want to."
"But why?"
"Because it's the first thing I got out of my drawer."
"But why?"
"Because it doesn't make me look fat."
This silences him. Julian has been on the Cheerios and Cheezits diet nearly since birth, so the idea of not wanting to look fat has not been a concern of his so far.
I go into the boys' bedroom to wake up Ian. Professor Julian Emeritus is trailing me.
"Mom, why are you waking up Ian?"
"Because he needs to get up for school."
"But why?"
"Because he does. He just does." I'm sort of running out of answers that will stop him dead in his tracks, like the 'looking fat' answer, so I opt for the totally unimaginative, which starts to rile him.
"BUT whhhhyyyyyy? Why are you getting him up?"
"Because Mommy will be in really big trouble if he's late to school."
"But why?"
"Because life's not fair for Mommy at all."
"But why?"
"Because you boys drive me bonkers."
"But why?"
Now I've got him. The old answer-a-question-with-a-question: "I don't know Julian. Why do you and Ian drive me bonkers?"
He's totally, utterly stumped. Then, probably while he is considering the word "bonkers", he collapses into a fit of giggles. He points at me and laughs and laughs and laughs.
I should try that answer next time.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Little Lost Alien
Some mornings things come up that can just bring everything to a grinding halt, especially when we are on the verge of running late and I can feel my stress level rising (see post: Last Minute Louie for a reminder of the humiliation I would suffer upon being late to school).
Julian woke up with a little alien figurine in hand, the one from the Toy Story movie, and had been carting it around all morning. He had told me four different times (at least, I lost count) that he was going to take it to school to show to his friend Liam.
"I think that's great, Julian," I said. I was trying to find socks that would fit Ian and I could have cared less, as long as he wasn't having a tantrum. He could have said, "Mom, I'm going to shove this alien up my nose," and he would have gotten the same response from me.
I find the socks, put shoes on me and them, I reach for my keys, then panic sets in. Julian is pacing the apartment.
"Mom, where's my alien?"
I almost say JC out loud but catch myself.
Then I ask a question that is mainly rhetorical. "Where did you leave it?"
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know." He's pacing in and out of the bedrooms nervously, not really looking at anything.
I start poking around in his room while Ian is thundering around in his snow boots. Did I mention our downstairs neighbor is a saint?
I turn over every dumped out toy, rummage through the buckets of their Ikea toy shelves, crouch to look under the beds (hardwood floor, bad knees, not fun). Then I think to check out where he hides all his best booty: in his bed.
Sure enough, the alien in question was stuffed in one of the folds of his jungle comforter. I pick it up and hand it to him. He's visibly both relieved and awed by my toy-hunting skill.
"Oh, Mom," he smiles broadly, "you are so good at finding aliens!"
High praise, indeed.
Julian woke up with a little alien figurine in hand, the one from the Toy Story movie, and had been carting it around all morning. He had told me four different times (at least, I lost count) that he was going to take it to school to show to his friend Liam.
"I think that's great, Julian," I said. I was trying to find socks that would fit Ian and I could have cared less, as long as he wasn't having a tantrum. He could have said, "Mom, I'm going to shove this alien up my nose," and he would have gotten the same response from me.
I find the socks, put shoes on me and them, I reach for my keys, then panic sets in. Julian is pacing the apartment.
"Mom, where's my alien?"
I almost say JC out loud but catch myself.
Then I ask a question that is mainly rhetorical. "Where did you leave it?"
"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know." He's pacing in and out of the bedrooms nervously, not really looking at anything.
I start poking around in his room while Ian is thundering around in his snow boots. Did I mention our downstairs neighbor is a saint?
I turn over every dumped out toy, rummage through the buckets of their Ikea toy shelves, crouch to look under the beds (hardwood floor, bad knees, not fun). Then I think to check out where he hides all his best booty: in his bed.
Sure enough, the alien in question was stuffed in one of the folds of his jungle comforter. I pick it up and hand it to him. He's visibly both relieved and awed by my toy-hunting skill.
"Oh, Mom," he smiles broadly, "you are so good at finding aliens!"
High praise, indeed.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
That Thing He Does
All kids have "that thing," you know? That certain mannerism they have or thing they say that is so uncharacteristic for their age that it's adorable, even if it borders on being inappropriate. Julian has something we call the finger wag. An authoritative wag of the right index finger, the other fingers carefully curled under, the chubby pointed one moving rapidly side to side. Tsk tsk tsking.
If something is not where it belongs, he wags.
If somebody does something they're not supposed to do, he wags.
If somebody uses a bad word, he wags.
Today, I got a protracted explanation of what a bulldozer was doing in front of his daycare when we were walking in. There was such a mountain of snow accumulated in the street that they had to send in a bulldozer to scoop all the snow away, and two highway workers to scrape off what was left of the snow and ice when the dozer was done.
"Mom, they're cleaning that street because that street is dirty." The finger is up, poised for wagging, but not moving yet.
"Mom, that street is dirty that's why they have to clean it." (Julian is also artful at saying the same thing about four different ways.)
"And Mom, that street has a lot of snow on it, and that's not good to have a lot of snow on the street." Then, there it is: wag wag wag.
"Mom, snow doesn't belong there on the street," the wagging is continuing, like a metronome, in front of his face. "Snow belongs on the sidewalk. That's where snow belongs."
He stares at the bulldozer and the men scraping with rapt attention, his round little cheeks luminous in the morning sun, his mouth slightly open.
That thing has cast its spell on me: I spy the little pink bottom lip and decide to make my move while he's in a state of stunned distraction. I give the little lip a kiss while he's looking off into the street, holding the little baby flesh in my lips for a moment and savoring it. He shivers with delight in my arms. Kissing under the bleachers was never this good.
If something is not where it belongs, he wags.
If somebody does something they're not supposed to do, he wags.
If somebody uses a bad word, he wags.
Today, I got a protracted explanation of what a bulldozer was doing in front of his daycare when we were walking in. There was such a mountain of snow accumulated in the street that they had to send in a bulldozer to scoop all the snow away, and two highway workers to scrape off what was left of the snow and ice when the dozer was done.
"Mom, they're cleaning that street because that street is dirty." The finger is up, poised for wagging, but not moving yet.
"Mom, that street is dirty that's why they have to clean it." (Julian is also artful at saying the same thing about four different ways.)
"And Mom, that street has a lot of snow on it, and that's not good to have a lot of snow on the street." Then, there it is: wag wag wag.
"Mom, snow doesn't belong there on the street," the wagging is continuing, like a metronome, in front of his face. "Snow belongs on the sidewalk. That's where snow belongs."
He stares at the bulldozer and the men scraping with rapt attention, his round little cheeks luminous in the morning sun, his mouth slightly open.
That thing has cast its spell on me: I spy the little pink bottom lip and decide to make my move while he's in a state of stunned distraction. I give the little lip a kiss while he's looking off into the street, holding the little baby flesh in my lips for a moment and savoring it. He shivers with delight in my arms. Kissing under the bleachers was never this good.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Candy Land
More snow in Hoboken this morning.
Ian and me, in the park. Ian has thrown his head back and stuck his tongue out, eyes closed:
"What are you doing, Ian?"
Suddenly it occurs to me that only an unimaginative adult would have to ask that question. I feel a little pang of pity for myself and work on blowing it off while we continue the conversation.
"I'm catching those little balls on my tongue," he says.
"Ian, those little balls are called snowflakes."
He doesn't answer. Tongue out, still catching. I decide that playing along might lift me out of my drab adulthood and make me feel a little better.
"OK, so what do they taste like?"
No hesitation from Ian: "Chocolate!" He sticks his tongue out again: "And vanilla!"
"No other flavors? No strawberry? No pistachio?" OK, now I'm hamming a little.
"No, Mom, all chocolate and vanilla!" Ian is elated by this.
Chocolate snowflakes? Now that's a world I'd like to live in.
As I drop him off, I realize that today is the day he learned the word "snowflake" and that before today, he apparently didn't know what they were called. (I'm not sure how we missed this word with last week's dumping, but we miss a lot of things so why not this.)
I tried to remember when I didn't know what those little twinkling white things were called and I really couldn't. Fortunately, every day, Ian and Julian remind me of things I've long forgotten. And isn't that what it's all about?
Ian and me, in the park. Ian has thrown his head back and stuck his tongue out, eyes closed:
"What are you doing, Ian?"
Suddenly it occurs to me that only an unimaginative adult would have to ask that question. I feel a little pang of pity for myself and work on blowing it off while we continue the conversation.
"I'm catching those little balls on my tongue," he says.
"Ian, those little balls are called snowflakes."
He doesn't answer. Tongue out, still catching. I decide that playing along might lift me out of my drab adulthood and make me feel a little better.
"OK, so what do they taste like?"
No hesitation from Ian: "Chocolate!" He sticks his tongue out again: "And vanilla!"
"No other flavors? No strawberry? No pistachio?" OK, now I'm hamming a little.
"No, Mom, all chocolate and vanilla!" Ian is elated by this.
Chocolate snowflakes? Now that's a world I'd like to live in.
As I drop him off, I realize that today is the day he learned the word "snowflake" and that before today, he apparently didn't know what they were called. (I'm not sure how we missed this word with last week's dumping, but we miss a lot of things so why not this.)
I tried to remember when I didn't know what those little twinkling white things were called and I really couldn't. Fortunately, every day, Ian and Julian remind me of things I've long forgotten. And isn't that what it's all about?
Friday, February 12, 2010
Friday Morning, Starring Baby Triceratops
Julian traipsed out of his room at 6:42am on the dot this morning looking for his Mommy. Once he found her, already in the kitchen (OK, I'll be honest, this never happens... long story why I was there), she scooped him up and he promptly announced:
"Mommy, you be the Mommy Triceratops and I'll be the Baby Triceratops and Ian will be the Brother Triceratops."
Got it. Julian is very big into the Mommy/Papa/Brother/Baby roll playing. Just about everything in our house has played the roll, but usually dinosaurs get starring parts. If you break character, watch out.
"Juli, please finish your waffle."
Julian squirms in anguish at the table. "NOOOOO, Mommy, say 'Baby Triceratops please finish your waffle!'"
"OK, sorry, blah blah blah Baby Triceratops."
A few minutes later, I lapse again.
"Julian, c'mon, we need to get dressed."
More anguish, accompanied by some wake-the-dead stomping on our floor/the neighbor's ceiling. "NOOO, Mommy, I'm BABY TRI-CER-A-TOPS!!"
"OK, right. Baby Triceratops, can you go wake up Brother Triceratops?"
"Sure, Mommy Triceratops."
Then my husband comes into the kitchen to eat and spies a few left bites of waffle on Julian's plate. He follows Julian into the bedroom with a fork of waffle, where Julian is busy clocking his brother square between the eyes with a Transformer to help rouse him.
Suddenly, Julian comes running to find me, Papa trailing him still with a bite of waffle hanging from the fork. "No! I'm not hungry! Mommy, Papa Triceratops is bothering me!!"
Then, inspiration hits me, and I haven't even had my coffee yet. "Hey, Baby Triceratops, if you don't eat all your waffle you can't go scare all the other dinosaurs."
This works. He darts to the table and wolfs down the rest of what's on his plate and then asks for more.
We play the game all the way to school until I deposit Baby Triceratops in his classroom. It's one of those days when I feel totally in control, which is a major high for me (again, unfortunately).
I'm sure disaster is waiting around the corner, but for now I'm set. Sun is shining, kids are back in school and my husband and I are meeting friends for a big kid dinner (with adult drinks) in Manhattan tonight. Life is good. Happy Valentine's Day to all my Followers. I love you!
"Mommy, you be the Mommy Triceratops and I'll be the Baby Triceratops and Ian will be the Brother Triceratops."
Got it. Julian is very big into the Mommy/Papa/Brother/Baby roll playing. Just about everything in our house has played the roll, but usually dinosaurs get starring parts. If you break character, watch out.
"Juli, please finish your waffle."
Julian squirms in anguish at the table. "NOOOOO, Mommy, say 'Baby Triceratops please finish your waffle!'"
"OK, sorry, blah blah blah Baby Triceratops."
A few minutes later, I lapse again.
"Julian, c'mon, we need to get dressed."
More anguish, accompanied by some wake-the-dead stomping on our floor/the neighbor's ceiling. "NOOO, Mommy, I'm BABY TRI-CER-A-TOPS!!"
"OK, right. Baby Triceratops, can you go wake up Brother Triceratops?"
"Sure, Mommy Triceratops."
Then my husband comes into the kitchen to eat and spies a few left bites of waffle on Julian's plate. He follows Julian into the bedroom with a fork of waffle, where Julian is busy clocking his brother square between the eyes with a Transformer to help rouse him.
Suddenly, Julian comes running to find me, Papa trailing him still with a bite of waffle hanging from the fork. "No! I'm not hungry! Mommy, Papa Triceratops is bothering me!!"
Then, inspiration hits me, and I haven't even had my coffee yet. "Hey, Baby Triceratops, if you don't eat all your waffle you can't go scare all the other dinosaurs."
This works. He darts to the table and wolfs down the rest of what's on his plate and then asks for more.
We play the game all the way to school until I deposit Baby Triceratops in his classroom. It's one of those days when I feel totally in control, which is a major high for me (again, unfortunately).
I'm sure disaster is waiting around the corner, but for now I'm set. Sun is shining, kids are back in school and my husband and I are meeting friends for a big kid dinner (with adult drinks) in Manhattan tonight. Life is good. Happy Valentine's Day to all my Followers. I love you!
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Partial Snow Day Fake-Out
My cousin, Rachel, who has three kids, once gave me some very wise advice: when you have multiple kids, especially close in age and/or sex, make everything you get for them the same. Don't buy new toothbrushes where one has Diego and the other has Mickey. Buy two Diegos. Don't buy the 'variety pack' snacks. Buy all goldfish. Don't buy one black snow boot and one blue one. Buy two black ones. You get the picture. If not, each child will covet the different object of the other child and think that their own is chopped liver. And man, will you hear about it. And don't think that simply switching the object is going to fix it. Grass is always greener, remember?
So you can imagine the quandary I was in this morning when they announced that Ian's school would still be closed for another snow day and Julian's would be open. Two different, not the same, and who wants to go to his school when his brother is at home? I had to put on some theatre.
"Mom, are we going to school today?" Julian asked first thing. This is now starting to be the question he asks every morning, even on Saturday and Sunday.
"Yes, we're all going to school," I lie, in this case well, because I am hurriedly looking through Ian's drawers for school clothes to help support my fake-out that Ian is going to school. Even Ian doesn't know. I tried to let Ian in on a fake-out once and it bombed.
"Ian, I'm going to take you to Johnny Rockets today when Julian is taking a nap because you're doing so good at not hitting your friends, but don't tell Julian."
Ian's immediate next move was to run into the living room and announce to his brother that he was going to Johnny Rockets, nah nah nah. I know. I don't think I've ever felt like more of a total idiot.
So this time, Ian was on a 'need to know' basis, which meant he did not need to know.
To tell you the truth, it went great. Even Ian complained about not wanting to go to school and I kept up the ruse.
"Sorry, Ian, we all have to go to school," I said, smiling apologetically.
Once we dropped Julian at his daycare, I walked back to the car with Ian, who thought he was headed to his own school and I said to him: Ian, guess what? You're staying home with Mom today! To which Ian replied, with a fist pump: "ALLLLRIIIIGHT!"
Now, what am I teaching my kid by pulling the wool over on his little brother? Probably nothing good. But if you've ever heard them fight over a Mickey and Diego toothbrush, then you would have some sympathy for me. Really you would. At least I hope you would.
So you can imagine the quandary I was in this morning when they announced that Ian's school would still be closed for another snow day and Julian's would be open. Two different, not the same, and who wants to go to his school when his brother is at home? I had to put on some theatre.
"Mom, are we going to school today?" Julian asked first thing. This is now starting to be the question he asks every morning, even on Saturday and Sunday.
"Yes, we're all going to school," I lie, in this case well, because I am hurriedly looking through Ian's drawers for school clothes to help support my fake-out that Ian is going to school. Even Ian doesn't know. I tried to let Ian in on a fake-out once and it bombed.
"Ian, I'm going to take you to Johnny Rockets today when Julian is taking a nap because you're doing so good at not hitting your friends, but don't tell Julian."
Ian's immediate next move was to run into the living room and announce to his brother that he was going to Johnny Rockets, nah nah nah. I know. I don't think I've ever felt like more of a total idiot.
So this time, Ian was on a 'need to know' basis, which meant he did not need to know.
To tell you the truth, it went great. Even Ian complained about not wanting to go to school and I kept up the ruse.
"Sorry, Ian, we all have to go to school," I said, smiling apologetically.
Once we dropped Julian at his daycare, I walked back to the car with Ian, who thought he was headed to his own school and I said to him: Ian, guess what? You're staying home with Mom today! To which Ian replied, with a fist pump: "ALLLLRIIIIGHT!"
Now, what am I teaching my kid by pulling the wool over on his little brother? Probably nothing good. But if you've ever heard them fight over a Mickey and Diego toothbrush, then you would have some sympathy for me. Really you would. At least I hope you would.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Snow Day: 4:55pm
When your kid gets a birthday present and there's a little note at the bottom of the card that says "Don't hate us for giving this to him!", your first instinct is to hide the toy in the back of the closet and re-gift it to someone. But by then, the kid has it open and has decided that no other toy in the history of toys has ever been so awesome.
In our case, this was a few weeks ago for Julian's birthday and the gift in question was a game called "My Little Sandbox Play Set." I don't need to elaborate about why this gift is problematic, do I? I think the name says it all.
Suffice it to say, the boys have been digging in the sand for pirate treasure for the past 45 minutes and are starting to show signs of disinterest. Even though the box says "hours of fun." Somebody should really hold them to that.
Still snowin' and blowin' out our way...and the entire Southwest quandrant of my living room (there's no place else to play in a two-bedroom apartment) is covered in electric blue 'ultra fine sand', as they boast on the box. (Is the 'ultra fine' supposed to be somehow reassuring? It's just harder to sweep up. Give me the 'ultra huge, more like a baseball' size sand next time, thanks.)
Snow Day: 1:11pm
I was determined (because I'm usually like that, unfortunately for many people around me) to build a snowman with the boys today during our snow day. But I discovered that, when you're a little boy, it is infinitely more fun to destroy a snowman than to build it.
But Mom is sometimes a little slow on the uptake (and determined - which I've discovered is an unfortunate combination). I built two bottom bodies, only to have them both kicked in by the business end of Ian's Lands End boot. Then I got to my third lower body, put on the middle body and was starting to shape the head. Meanwhile, my sons were pelting each other with snowballs. Then they spied my nearly finished snowman and came running like a pair of Vikings. Despite my pleas for mercy, they laid into that poor headless snowman with gusto.
Needless to say, there is a nice smallish round snowman head laying on the ground in Church Square Park now, missing its body. I gave up.
I'm attempting to have them take a nap now... even though Ian will be five this year. I've insisted to him that even Papa takes a nap when he goes to work (not true) in my usual bad-liar style. Fortunately, Ian is about as gullible as me. We do fine. Julian? That's another post altogether.
More snow has started to dump in the last 30 minutes, with new energy, and is supposed to fall until sometime late tonight. Maybe my snowman will have a second chance at life.
Snow Day: 9:20am
ON YOUR MARK! OK, if your dad is from Spain, there are three things you learn early: serrano ham is way better than prosciutto, there's only one kind of "football" in the world and the Spanish teams play the best (apologies to our friends from those other European countries, and Brazil), and Nascar has nothing on Formula 1.
So Ian dug out his radio control Formula 1 Renault, Team ING, and is careening it around the apartment. I figure nobody in the building is going to fault me for letting them get a little rowdy on a day like this. His little brother has been in hot pursuit.
"Mom!! Ian won't let me doooo it!"
I told Ian if he helps his brother learn how to drive it, I'll let him watch Spongebob, which I had the foresight to rent at the supermarket last night to hold as a bribe, as needed. I'm kind of pulling in my Spongebob favors early, I know. We'll see what I have left by 2 o'clock.
Snow Day: 8:00am
SNOW TIME! The boys and I are at home today (so far, I'm still OK, thanks for asking) watching the snow pile up outside. Both of their schools notified us yesterday (one by automated phone message - what will they think of next?) so at least we knew what we were in for.
The pic attached is the view out our living room window, across a parking lot to a church which Julian calls the "Mouse House" because that's where "Pickey Mouse" lives (known as Mickey Mouse to the rest of who have been well indoctrinated by the Disney Co.)
So far this morning I have made breakfast, gotten everyone dressed, assembled a giraffe limbo game, fixed a matchbox car's wheel that was broken and hooked together a few cars of a duplo train so it can drive around Julian's bowl of oatmeal.
If you're snowed in, please COMMENT!
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Carry On
Ian rolled his Diego suitcase onto the elevator this morning, loaded with his sheet and blanket for nap time, along with 1 of the 13 different models of Lightning McQueen that we have in our apartment, and he stopped in his tracks.
Heading down in the elevator was a man who also had, are you ready for this?, a rolling suitcase. Ian glowed.
"Mom, his suitcase is just like mine!"
"Well, sort of, yes, just like yours."
The suitcase man chimed in, looking at the blue and orange graphics of Diego roping a troubled forest creature to safety. "But yours is cooler," he said.
Ian and the suitcase man exchanged a charmed smile.
Ian was walking on air all the way to school. I knew how he felt. Someone older, wiser, more important than him was doing something he was doing. And it feels good when we see that, doesn't it? Especially when we got up in the morning and came up with the idea all by ourselves, and then out on the street we see that mirror reflection of ourselves in someone we think is more ahead of the curve than we are. It shouldn't feel all that good, but let's face it. It does. Ian got it. So did I. Like when someone else is wearing the same Manolo Blahniks as me. Ha ha... I almost had you there, didn't I?
Tune in tomorrow for the Snow Day Chronicles... school has already been cancelled.
Heading down in the elevator was a man who also had, are you ready for this?, a rolling suitcase. Ian glowed.
"Mom, his suitcase is just like mine!"
"Well, sort of, yes, just like yours."
The suitcase man chimed in, looking at the blue and orange graphics of Diego roping a troubled forest creature to safety. "But yours is cooler," he said.
Ian and the suitcase man exchanged a charmed smile.
Ian was walking on air all the way to school. I knew how he felt. Someone older, wiser, more important than him was doing something he was doing. And it feels good when we see that, doesn't it? Especially when we got up in the morning and came up with the idea all by ourselves, and then out on the street we see that mirror reflection of ourselves in someone we think is more ahead of the curve than we are. It shouldn't feel all that good, but let's face it. It does. Ian got it. So did I. Like when someone else is wearing the same Manolo Blahniks as me. Ha ha... I almost had you there, didn't I?
Tune in tomorrow for the Snow Day Chronicles... school has already been cancelled.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Be Mine
When I got Ian to school this morning, his teacher took me aside. I always hate it when she takes me aside, sensing that I'm about to hear about some discipline problem that my husband and I have been lax in attending to. But she prefaces her comment today by saying: "Don't worry, Mom, it's not bad."
Whew. OK, so what is it?
"So, Mom, I told Ian and Rebecca that they could not be boyfriend and girlfriend."
I think I need to sit down. "Do they even know what that is?" I ask.
"Yes, it seems they do. They told me they're going to get married and buy a house together."
"What?"
"Yes, and Rebecca is going to work and Ian is going to stay home with the kids."
I can't find a chair so I sit down on a plastic milk crate by the door of his classroom. It's not comfortable. "He's going to what?"
"Yes, well, that's what they said. And he also hit Maggie last week."
Hit Maggie? He's a stay-at-home-dad who beats up on other women? I am not liking this.
"Yes, he hit Maggie because Maggie was playing with Rebecca and he wanted Rebecca to himself." The teacher gives me this knowing smile as she looks at me. I'm trying to think how I can deflect. Should we be worried about Rebecca and Maggie having a thing for each other (not that there's anything wrong with that)?
"But Mom, don't worry" continues his teacher, "it always gets like this around Valentine's Day."
She couldn't have started with that? I would have felt like Ian was less of a deviant if I knew this was just a case of overactive pre-school hormones stirred up by a commercial holiday designed to sell even more candy than was sold at Halloween and Christmas.
Ian comes over to me to say goodbye and his little, deviant face looks up at me, his gray eyes wet from coming in out of the cold and his pink, plump lips smiling and showing off his chipped front tooth. I pat his blond hair down and lean over.
"Ian, you know it's not OK to hit, right?"
"Yes, Mom, I know," he says and throws his arms around my neck, squeezing me.
And in my head, I continue: And Ian, you know it's not OK to marry your 4-yr-old classmate and beat up on anyone who talks to her or to even THINK about buying a house with someone.... right?
But I just smile, and Ian bounds off to join Rebecca in the blocks area, probably to build a house. Who knows?
Whew. OK, so what is it?
"So, Mom, I told Ian and Rebecca that they could not be boyfriend and girlfriend."
I think I need to sit down. "Do they even know what that is?" I ask.
"Yes, it seems they do. They told me they're going to get married and buy a house together."
"What?"
"Yes, and Rebecca is going to work and Ian is going to stay home with the kids."
I can't find a chair so I sit down on a plastic milk crate by the door of his classroom. It's not comfortable. "He's going to what?"
"Yes, well, that's what they said. And he also hit Maggie last week."
Hit Maggie? He's a stay-at-home-dad who beats up on other women? I am not liking this.
"Yes, he hit Maggie because Maggie was playing with Rebecca and he wanted Rebecca to himself." The teacher gives me this knowing smile as she looks at me. I'm trying to think how I can deflect. Should we be worried about Rebecca and Maggie having a thing for each other (not that there's anything wrong with that)?
"But Mom, don't worry" continues his teacher, "it always gets like this around Valentine's Day."
She couldn't have started with that? I would have felt like Ian was less of a deviant if I knew this was just a case of overactive pre-school hormones stirred up by a commercial holiday designed to sell even more candy than was sold at Halloween and Christmas.
Ian comes over to me to say goodbye and his little, deviant face looks up at me, his gray eyes wet from coming in out of the cold and his pink, plump lips smiling and showing off his chipped front tooth. I pat his blond hair down and lean over.
"Ian, you know it's not OK to hit, right?"
"Yes, Mom, I know," he says and throws his arms around my neck, squeezing me.
And in my head, I continue: And Ian, you know it's not OK to marry your 4-yr-old classmate and beat up on anyone who talks to her or to even THINK about buying a house with someone.... right?
But I just smile, and Ian bounds off to join Rebecca in the blocks area, probably to build a house. Who knows?
Friday, February 5, 2010
Spidey Makes a Comeback
You may remember way back somewhere about November, I wrote in this space how Batman was better than Spiderman. Several reasons: he has a car, he can fly (without relying on that messy web), and there were a few other compelling ones that I can't recall now, but they were good (and I even came up with one).
Today, Spidey appeared in the backseat, in the form of a kiddie laptop, and was making a big comeback. Ian was teaching Julian how to play the "Letter Power" game.
"Jul, you have to start it like this," Ian says, pushing some buttons. Now he's an expert. I can remember when he would follow us around the apartment asking us how to turn it on.
"Oh, OK, thanks Ian." I can see Julian in the backseat. He's shivering with excitement.
"What do you want to play, Jul? Let's play Letter Power."
"Oh, OK, let's play Letter Power," says Julian, total putty when his brother is showing him something cool.
Ian presses a button and then Spidey says: "Let's play LETTER POWER! ALRIGHT!" and there are some swashbuckling sound effects, like we imagine Spidey swinging from one letter to the next.
Then some suspenseful base notes as Julian is asked to find the letter "T". He presses the key for "X."
I hear some kind of game show waah-waah and then Spidey says: "NICE TRY! TRY AGAIN. FIND THE LETTER T!"
Julian presses another key and I hear the computer say "F". Man, he's a slow learner. Ian's starting to get annoyed.
"No, Jul, this is the letter T," and Ian reaches over from his seat to press the key for "T".
"Oh, OK, that's T, OK," chirps Julian. "IAN! Let's do another one. Let's do it! I can do it!"
Ian's getting tired of this game (that makes two of us). "OK, Jul, but get it right this time, OK. I can't reach over there."
Ian stretches over to restart the game.
"ALRIGHT! LET'S FIND THE LETTER "B"!" says Spidey.
The car is quiet except for the tick-tocking of the laptop as it waits for a key to be pressed. Julian presses something and then I hear Spidey.
"WOW! YOU'RE AWESOME!!!"
Thank God. He's awesome. Maybe Spidey wants to come over tonight and cheer him on while he eats his peas.
Today, Spidey appeared in the backseat, in the form of a kiddie laptop, and was making a big comeback. Ian was teaching Julian how to play the "Letter Power" game.
"Jul, you have to start it like this," Ian says, pushing some buttons. Now he's an expert. I can remember when he would follow us around the apartment asking us how to turn it on.
"Oh, OK, thanks Ian." I can see Julian in the backseat. He's shivering with excitement.
"What do you want to play, Jul? Let's play Letter Power."
"Oh, OK, let's play Letter Power," says Julian, total putty when his brother is showing him something cool.
Ian presses a button and then Spidey says: "Let's play LETTER POWER! ALRIGHT!" and there are some swashbuckling sound effects, like we imagine Spidey swinging from one letter to the next.
Then some suspenseful base notes as Julian is asked to find the letter "T". He presses the key for "X."
I hear some kind of game show waah-waah and then Spidey says: "NICE TRY! TRY AGAIN. FIND THE LETTER T!"
Julian presses another key and I hear the computer say "F". Man, he's a slow learner. Ian's starting to get annoyed.
"No, Jul, this is the letter T," and Ian reaches over from his seat to press the key for "T".
"Oh, OK, that's T, OK," chirps Julian. "IAN! Let's do another one. Let's do it! I can do it!"
Ian's getting tired of this game (that makes two of us). "OK, Jul, but get it right this time, OK. I can't reach over there."
Ian stretches over to restart the game.
"ALRIGHT! LET'S FIND THE LETTER "B"!" says Spidey.
The car is quiet except for the tick-tocking of the laptop as it waits for a key to be pressed. Julian presses something and then I hear Spidey.
"WOW! YOU'RE AWESOME!!!"
Thank God. He's awesome. Maybe Spidey wants to come over tonight and cheer him on while he eats his peas.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Tall Orders
I just had had enough today.
"I want to take my tricycle to school!" Julian started in on me, fifteen minutes after we should have been out of the house.
"No, you might lose it." (This is my standard answer #83 re: removing items from the apartment that I or my husband will get stuck lugging home.)
Julian then brought me a nylon shopping bag we use to save on plastic at the grocery. "Here, Mommy, please put some candy."
At least he asked nicely, right?
"No, I don't have any candy."
"Yes you do. It's in the kitchen. In the candy box."
Aha. He seems to have noticed the plastic tub I bought at Bed Bath, loaded with birthday party flotsam I didn't want them ingesting, then shoved in the back of one of our cupboards in the kitchen.
"Oh, that. No, there's no more candy in that."
He looked up at me suspiciously. I'm such an atrociously bad liar, I don't know why I bother.
Next thing, just after I've put a blue and green striped shirt on him: "NOOO, I want to wear this," and he yanked a sweater out of his drawer, his favorite with little red snowflakes on it. I put the sweater on over the shirt.
"NOOOO!! I just want the sweater! Nooo!!" He was going full tilt by that point.
I took off the sweater, tossed off the shirt, and replaced the sweater on his bare, ivory little torso. There you go.
"NOOO! I don't want it like THAT!!!! I have to do pee pee!!"
Is he freaking kidding me? At that point, I was kneeling in the hallway in between his bedroom and the bathroom, trying to simultaneously get Ian to brush his teeth ("I'm too tiiiiired.") while I argued about fashion with Julian. I was losing on both fronts. I suddenly was outside my own body and looking down, seeing this image of Master and Slave, and I was not on the right end of the equation. So I blew up. And I'm not proud to tell you. I keep having this hope that I'll be able to wake up one day and be the kind of mother who could have reared the Ingalls kids out on the Prairie, calmly birthing all of them in the loft of our lean-to frontier house and then the next day be out in the field helping Charles and all the while having time to make homemade biscuits and pat my moppets on the head with love and adoration. But it ain't me. No matter how many times I wake up, it ain't me.
"Here, do pee pee," I pushed Julian down onto the plastic Ikea potty and told him to produce some urine or else! He was bawling. Jesus Christ.
I brushed Ian's teeth, probably a little too excitedly, rinsed him, shuttled him into the hallway for his coat. Then he looked up at me mid-fury, his eyes a little pleading and his voice very gentle, and he said:
"But Mom, I didn't do anything wrong."
No, you didn't, I reassured him with a pat on the head (another Prairie attempt). Ian is the best soldier in this little ragtag army, as my husband always says. Loyal and calm. The thumbsucking helps a lot. I wonder if that was Caroline Ingalls' trick?
"I want to take my tricycle to school!" Julian started in on me, fifteen minutes after we should have been out of the house.
"No, you might lose it." (This is my standard answer #83 re: removing items from the apartment that I or my husband will get stuck lugging home.)
Julian then brought me a nylon shopping bag we use to save on plastic at the grocery. "Here, Mommy, please put some candy."
At least he asked nicely, right?
"No, I don't have any candy."
"Yes you do. It's in the kitchen. In the candy box."
Aha. He seems to have noticed the plastic tub I bought at Bed Bath, loaded with birthday party flotsam I didn't want them ingesting, then shoved in the back of one of our cupboards in the kitchen.
"Oh, that. No, there's no more candy in that."
He looked up at me suspiciously. I'm such an atrociously bad liar, I don't know why I bother.
Next thing, just after I've put a blue and green striped shirt on him: "NOOO, I want to wear this," and he yanked a sweater out of his drawer, his favorite with little red snowflakes on it. I put the sweater on over the shirt.
"NOOOO!! I just want the sweater! Nooo!!" He was going full tilt by that point.
I took off the sweater, tossed off the shirt, and replaced the sweater on his bare, ivory little torso. There you go.
"NOOO! I don't want it like THAT!!!! I have to do pee pee!!"
Is he freaking kidding me? At that point, I was kneeling in the hallway in between his bedroom and the bathroom, trying to simultaneously get Ian to brush his teeth ("I'm too tiiiiired.") while I argued about fashion with Julian. I was losing on both fronts. I suddenly was outside my own body and looking down, seeing this image of Master and Slave, and I was not on the right end of the equation. So I blew up. And I'm not proud to tell you. I keep having this hope that I'll be able to wake up one day and be the kind of mother who could have reared the Ingalls kids out on the Prairie, calmly birthing all of them in the loft of our lean-to frontier house and then the next day be out in the field helping Charles and all the while having time to make homemade biscuits and pat my moppets on the head with love and adoration. But it ain't me. No matter how many times I wake up, it ain't me.
"Here, do pee pee," I pushed Julian down onto the plastic Ikea potty and told him to produce some urine or else! He was bawling. Jesus Christ.
I brushed Ian's teeth, probably a little too excitedly, rinsed him, shuttled him into the hallway for his coat. Then he looked up at me mid-fury, his eyes a little pleading and his voice very gentle, and he said:
"But Mom, I didn't do anything wrong."
No, you didn't, I reassured him with a pat on the head (another Prairie attempt). Ian is the best soldier in this little ragtag army, as my husband always says. Loyal and calm. The thumbsucking helps a lot. I wonder if that was Caroline Ingalls' trick?
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Bedfellow
Another morning of snow here in Hoboken, but this time, I was a little smarter about avoiding a "can we build a snowman!" meltdown. I did something pretty revolutionary. That's right. I kept the curtains closed. They got through dressing and breakfast and had no idea there even was any snow. I know, she's smart, isn't she? It only takes me a dozen times of getting it wrong to eventually get it right.
Anyway, it was all for nought as Toddler Drama came a little earlier this morning. I woke up today to feel the four rubber wheels of a monster truck digging into my lower back. At some point, Julian had moved into our room with his Hot Wheels and had turned our bed into a queen-size Auto Mall.
"Julian, why don't we pack these up and we can have breakfast?"
"NO!!!"
Hmm, OK. "Julian, want to help me make waffles?"
"NO!!!"
What else? "Julian, there's a surprise for you in the kitchen." Now I was skating on thin ice. There was nothing of the sort for him in the kitchen. I would have to improvise fast if he went for this one. But he didn't.
"NO!!!"
Then his voice wound up like a siren, starting quiet and then blaring. "I want you to staaaay in the bed with MEEEE!!!!"
Oy vey.
Since getting rid of the pacifier, he's demanded I sleep with him at night, which I refuse, after way too much cajoling and singing of "Rock-a-Bye Baby". So he's started to find me in the morning and demand quality time in the A.M. under the covers with Mom. And all I want to do is get going with the morning. Snuggling is hard for me at that point. But if I make for the door, he has this way of completely melting, his lips curling out and his whole face cracking and his little body quivering and the tears spurting that I can't bear to see, so I stay with him. Snuggle, snuggle, snuggle. OK, should we eat now? [I know, you're reading this and thinking, "Man, is she a sucker." I know.]
When he's 15 years old and doesn't want to have anything to do with me, won't hold my hand or hug or kiss me, won't sit near me on the couch or even want to be seen with me in public, I'll look back on these morning snuggles and I will hardly be able to believe he ever wanted to curl up in bed with me. He won't believe it either. If it didn't feel so pornographic, I'd probably even have my husband take a picture of us snuggling together amid the mini inventory of the Auto Mall.
Today, it only takes him a few minutes to recharge his 'Mommy battery', as I call it, and then he pops up in bed. I'm hopeful. Now we can get on with breakfast. That's when he says:
"Where's my surprise?!"
Oy vey. How do I always do this to myself?
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Groundhog Schmoundhog
"Hey, Ian. You know what today is?"
"Huh?"
"Today? Do you know what it is?"
"I'm tired."
"OK. Well, today is Groundhog Day!" I'm very excited about this, clearly more than he is. I dislike winter, and any faux holiday involving a glorified rodent predicting the weather, hopefully less of the winter variety, is fine by me.
"Do you know what a groundhog is, Ian?"
"Nooooo." He sticks his thumb in his mouth and his walk becomes a little hobbled by the fact that one of his arms is now attached to his face.
I launch into my highly untechnical explanation. "It's like a little dog who lives inside the ground. On Groundhog Day, he comes out of his hole to look for his shadow." I watch Ian for signs of interest. Surely, animals coming out of holes is interesting to a boy, right?
Ian releases the thumb. "Oh. When does he come out of his hole?"
I try to remember the movie. He comes out after Bill Murray shows up with the satellite truck and hits on Andie Macdowell a few times.
"Today, sometime," I say.
Ian is scanning the park. "Mom, I can't see him."
"Well, he'll be here. And if he sees his shadow, it means 6 more weeks of winter."
"Why?"
"Because it does. That's just what it means."
Ian puts his thumb back in his mouth. If nobody was looking, I think I'd do the same. At least until we hear from the rodent.
Monday, February 1, 2010
Last Minute Louie
This post is dedicated to my sister-in-law, Amy, who uses this expression now and then. I just love it, and somebody should have told me about it a long time ago (see more below). Happy Birthday, Amy!
~
One of the most curious things about my mornings with Ian and Julian is the strange irony that I am now in charge of other people who have to be places on time. I am never to my own places on time.
No, really: I used to always miss the bus in grade school and my parents would have to drive me. I missed the bus for a regional track meet once and my Dad drove me 100 miles to get there in time for my race. I was so late sometimes in high school that I used to just skip first period altogether. After I graduated from college, I had this recurring dream that I missed my first class every day for the entire last year of school and then couldn't graduate. If I were an airline, nobody would fly me because I would have the worst on-time record in the industry. By a long shot.
So when Ian first started in pre-school this year, I had to confront one of my biggest personal growth issues head-on. You see, in Ian's school, if the parent brings the child late three times (that means past 9:00 a.m.), then the child is banned from school. I saw this on one of the 467 pieces of paper I had to sign about stuff like permission for your kid to take walks around town, having their pic in the newspaper, food allergies, favorite books, etc. Then I saw that little half-slip of paper about TARDINESS and almost went into shock. Were they serious? Banned from pre-school! [If James Lipton ever interviewed me on "Inside the Actor's Studio" and asked me my least favorite word, that would be it: tardy.]
"Don't worry," said the teacher's aide. "First you get two warnings."
Had they met me? Did they think two warnings was going to do it?
The first two times the child is late, the parent is led to the equivalent of a principal's office to write down on a piece of paper: "I will not bring my child late to school again" and then sign and date it. And the best part about this is that you have to bring your kid in with you while he watches you write this sentence out on a piece of paper. The only thing missing is the dunce cap.
So it's February 1st. How am I doing? I'm pleased to report to you that there hasn't been one humiliating trip to the principal's office yet. I've done everything humanly possible to make it, including failing to strap my kid into his car seat, walking to school with my pajamas under my jeans, and you can totally forget about my hair and make-up. Working from home has its advantages for us Louies.
But, alas, there's still five months left of school. I have plenty of time to screw it up.
~
One of the most curious things about my mornings with Ian and Julian is the strange irony that I am now in charge of other people who have to be places on time. I am never to my own places on time.
No, really: I used to always miss the bus in grade school and my parents would have to drive me. I missed the bus for a regional track meet once and my Dad drove me 100 miles to get there in time for my race. I was so late sometimes in high school that I used to just skip first period altogether. After I graduated from college, I had this recurring dream that I missed my first class every day for the entire last year of school and then couldn't graduate. If I were an airline, nobody would fly me because I would have the worst on-time record in the industry. By a long shot.
So when Ian first started in pre-school this year, I had to confront one of my biggest personal growth issues head-on. You see, in Ian's school, if the parent brings the child late three times (that means past 9:00 a.m.), then the child is banned from school. I saw this on one of the 467 pieces of paper I had to sign about stuff like permission for your kid to take walks around town, having their pic in the newspaper, food allergies, favorite books, etc. Then I saw that little half-slip of paper about TARDINESS and almost went into shock. Were they serious? Banned from pre-school! [If James Lipton ever interviewed me on "Inside the Actor's Studio" and asked me my least favorite word, that would be it: tardy.]
"Don't worry," said the teacher's aide. "First you get two warnings."
Had they met me? Did they think two warnings was going to do it?
The first two times the child is late, the parent is led to the equivalent of a principal's office to write down on a piece of paper: "I will not bring my child late to school again" and then sign and date it. And the best part about this is that you have to bring your kid in with you while he watches you write this sentence out on a piece of paper. The only thing missing is the dunce cap.
So it's February 1st. How am I doing? I'm pleased to report to you that there hasn't been one humiliating trip to the principal's office yet. I've done everything humanly possible to make it, including failing to strap my kid into his car seat, walking to school with my pajamas under my jeans, and you can totally forget about my hair and make-up. Working from home has its advantages for us Louies.
But, alas, there's still five months left of school. I have plenty of time to screw it up.
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