"Ian," taunts Julian, "you can't put your foot in the street when you're crossing or the cars will smash you like Tom and Jerry."
"No, they won't. I'm super fast!" Ian jets away from us down the sidewalk like Dash from The Incredibles.
Julian looks at me, gaping. "Mom? Did you see that?"
"I did. Don't worry, Julian. He can't escape us."
"Oh," says Julian, not the least bit reassured.
"Ian!" I call. "Wait for us!" He does. Shocker.
When I get close to him, I launch my I'm-your-mother-and-this-is-a-teachable-moment speech while I imagine my Parenting Scorecard, hovering in the heavens somewhere, is dinging like a pinball machine on full tilt.
"Ian, you can't run across the street."
"Huh? Why not?" I love when he asks a clarifying question to a statement he hasn't remotely heard or understood.
"Because you might trip and fall and then you'd be on the ground in the street. And that's really dangerous."
"Huh? Why?"
"Because cars won't be able to see you."
"OK. So I look for cars? And then I run across? Right?"
Mom, meet your son, Brick Wall.
"No. I said NO running. Do NOT run. That means walk, not run. Walk."
"OK, OK, OK."
Julian, the Reinforcer, chimes in: "Mom said not to run, Ian. Mom said not to do that." Juli shivers with the rush of being allied to the woman in command. I pat him on the head; I need all the suck-ups I can get in my position.
We get to the next corner. I utter my power word: "Manos!" [Hands] Both the boys lock in at my sides like a pair of F-14s in formation. We all hold hands, waiting for the traffic to pass. Ian is watching Julian, who is watching Ian's foot on the curb. Julian knows I told Ian he can't set foot in the street until I give the OK. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Ian slide his right shoe over the edge of the curb. Julian is shivering, anxious, starting to hop from one foot to the other. I'm pretending to ignore the whole show. Ian keeps his eyes trained on Julian, like a sharpshooter looking for his moment. He leans forward, extends his foot and drops the front of his shoe onto the asphalt. Julian is apoplectic. He sounds the alarm.
"MOM! Ian is touching the street and you didn't say he could touch the street!! Mom! Look at what Ian is doing! Mom! Mom?!"
I give the all clear and we start across the street. I smile at the crossing guard, remark to the boys what a wonderful day it is shaping up to be - sunny, warm. Ian is skipping along at my right side. Julian is yanking my arm. I know all I have to do is outlast Julian's moment of triumph and I'll be in the clear.
"MOM!! I'm trying to tell you something! Mom! Listen to me!!"
We walk a few more paces beyond the opposite curb and then I stop. I slowly bend to look Julian in the eye. His eyes are red and his face is flushed.
"What is it Julian?"
He looks at me, catching his breath. He starts to look vaguely lost. He looks up at a squirrel. Then all he comes back with is: "I don't know." But he has my attention, and doesn't want to waste the opportunity, so he says: "Mom? Did you see that squirrel there?"
God Bless short-term memory.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I'm Not Lovin' It
I really shouldn't be mad at the marketers. They know not what they do. I should know; I am one of them. And hell if I know all the unintended (or intended) consequences of what I do either. A marketer's life, while it may busy itself with things like customer satisfaction and consumer insights, is very narrowly focused on doing one thing extremely well: selling. If marketing were an Olympic sport, the ones working at McDonald's would be taking home a hell of a lot of gold.
On the way to school, we hear a radio commercial for McDonald's. The boys are such ardent lobbiers on behalf of the fast food chain that they should be given an office across the street from Congress.
"Mom, did you hear that?" Ian asks from the back seat.
"Hear what?"
"They're talking about McDonald's."
Damn. Why wasn't I faster to change the station?
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Can we go there?"
Julian lobs one in for the cause: "Mom, we need to go to Old McDonald's because we haven't gone there in a long long time. We need to go there."
"No, we don't go to McDonald's."
"Mom, did you know they have a playground inside?" offers Ian.
Yes, I did know that. Our babysitter takes them there sometimes to "play" and then they come home smelling like fried chicken nuggets. I've been looking the other way on that one for so long that my head is about to spin off.
The voiceover starts talking about McD's latest marketing innovation: the McCafe, where the paper coffee cups are a nut brown - faux recycling? - McD's fair trade? - and the foam on the coffee is coated with a glistening lattice of chocolate syrup and whip cream. I mean, who wouldn't love another 700 calories and a sugar rush in the morning?
Unfortunately for me, Ian is paying very close attention and also, unfortunately for me, he knows his mother very well.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"If you wanted a cafe [that's what Ian calls "coffee"], you can get one there. McDonald's has cafe. Did you know that?"
This really isn't fair. I haven't had my coffee yet, and my own kid knows it, and he also knows he can use that to tempt me to go by McDonald's. But I'm not giving in, cafe or no cafe. The marketers are not going to win this one.
On the way to school, we hear a radio commercial for McDonald's. The boys are such ardent lobbiers on behalf of the fast food chain that they should be given an office across the street from Congress.
"Mom, did you hear that?" Ian asks from the back seat.
"Hear what?"
"They're talking about McDonald's."
Damn. Why wasn't I faster to change the station?
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Can we go there?"
Julian lobs one in for the cause: "Mom, we need to go to Old McDonald's because we haven't gone there in a long long time. We need to go there."
"No, we don't go to McDonald's."
"Mom, did you know they have a playground inside?" offers Ian.
Yes, I did know that. Our babysitter takes them there sometimes to "play" and then they come home smelling like fried chicken nuggets. I've been looking the other way on that one for so long that my head is about to spin off.
The voiceover starts talking about McD's latest marketing innovation: the McCafe, where the paper coffee cups are a nut brown - faux recycling? - McD's fair trade? - and the foam on the coffee is coated with a glistening lattice of chocolate syrup and whip cream. I mean, who wouldn't love another 700 calories and a sugar rush in the morning?
Unfortunately for me, Ian is paying very close attention and also, unfortunately for me, he knows his mother very well.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"If you wanted a cafe [that's what Ian calls "coffee"], you can get one there. McDonald's has cafe. Did you know that?"
This really isn't fair. I haven't had my coffee yet, and my own kid knows it, and he also knows he can use that to tempt me to go by McDonald's. But I'm not giving in, cafe or no cafe. The marketers are not going to win this one.
Monday, March 1, 2010
It Takes Disgusting To Know Disgusting
Ian and I trudged to school this morning through the wreckage of yet another Nor'easter snow storm.
It started last Wednesday night, first as a cold rain, then as a slimy slush, then pelting ice by Thursday morning that mixed with the slush and piled up in the streets and made everything around us in Hoboken look like the top of a glazed doughnut. By Thursday afternoon, the flakes were as fat as Thanksgiving turkeys and started sticking to everything - even the stucco side of our apartment building was frosted white like a birthday cake.
The flakes fell without end all through Friday until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Of course, we had no school on Friday (and yes, that is despair you detect in that sentence.)
Going out of the apartment was treacherous for most of the weekend, though we did it anyway. (Apparently, the city had warned people not to go into the parks on Friday as the trees were heavy from the glazed doughnut effect; some poor guy was even hit on the head in Central Park with a falling tree branch and killed. This Mom somehow missed the memo and took her 3 and 4-year-old children skipping into the park anyway. Like I always say to myself, only the grace of God stands between my kids and disaster. It sure isn't me.)
So this morning, trudging under the now-safe tree branches, Ian tells me all about his favorite subject these days: Rebecca.
"Mom, why didn't you put my snow pants on?"
"Because you're walking to school. You don't need them. That means I expect you not to jump in the piles of snow next to the street." (I know, it sounded ridiculous to me, too, but I said it anyway.)
"But Mom? Rebecca wears snow pants. She has pink ones. I want to show her my snow pants."
"Well tomorrow you can show her."
"Mom? You know Rebecca wears black boots," he looks down at his, "just like mine!"
Thank God I've purchased the right boots. It had nothing to do with Sears practically giving them away by the time I got around to buying them in February.
"Mom? You know what Rebecca does?"
I can't wait to find out.
"She does this funny noise with her nose, like this." Ian inhales sharply, then snorts like a pig. How ladylike. Ian is bowled over and laughs hysterically, then breaks free from my hand and jumps straight into a slushy, brown hill of snow piled up by the plows between the street and sidewalk.
Ian is still sniffing and snorting while he jumps. "Isn't that AWESOME, Mom!!??"
There's no other word for it. I'm annoyed by him jumping in the snow, but I know I only have myself to blame.
After his romp in the snow, Ian notices that he's gotten a bit of something brown and slimy on the toe of his left boot, not unlike the leftings of some dog poop. Great. I instruct him to scrape the boot around in the snow, which seems to fix things.
"Mom, that was disgusting!" Another favorite new word that Julian and Ian trade like a baseball card lately, sort of like: "Ian, you're DIS-GUS-TING!" and then Ian says: "No I'm not, you're DIS-GUS-TING!" And it continues on for a few moments like this until I've had enough and say something un-Caroline Ingalls-like.
When we get into his classroom, he decides that he needs to update Rebecca about the disgusting poop on his boot and he runs over to her with the news. Rebecca's face sours. I don't blame her.
I watch them for a moment and think that maybe I need to help Ian with his pipeline of girlfriends as Rebecca is surely going to re-evaluate after that news. And then I see something that reminds me how they must be made for each other: Rebecca starts sniffing and snorting.
I wave to Ian and he snorts back. I clearly have nothing to worry about.
It started last Wednesday night, first as a cold rain, then as a slimy slush, then pelting ice by Thursday morning that mixed with the slush and piled up in the streets and made everything around us in Hoboken look like the top of a glazed doughnut. By Thursday afternoon, the flakes were as fat as Thanksgiving turkeys and started sticking to everything - even the stucco side of our apartment building was frosted white like a birthday cake.
The flakes fell without end all through Friday until the wee hours of Saturday morning. Of course, we had no school on Friday (and yes, that is despair you detect in that sentence.)
Going out of the apartment was treacherous for most of the weekend, though we did it anyway. (Apparently, the city had warned people not to go into the parks on Friday as the trees were heavy from the glazed doughnut effect; some poor guy was even hit on the head in Central Park with a falling tree branch and killed. This Mom somehow missed the memo and took her 3 and 4-year-old children skipping into the park anyway. Like I always say to myself, only the grace of God stands between my kids and disaster. It sure isn't me.)
So this morning, trudging under the now-safe tree branches, Ian tells me all about his favorite subject these days: Rebecca.
"Mom, why didn't you put my snow pants on?"
"Because you're walking to school. You don't need them. That means I expect you not to jump in the piles of snow next to the street." (I know, it sounded ridiculous to me, too, but I said it anyway.)
"But Mom? Rebecca wears snow pants. She has pink ones. I want to show her my snow pants."
"Well tomorrow you can show her."
"Mom? You know Rebecca wears black boots," he looks down at his, "just like mine!"
Thank God I've purchased the right boots. It had nothing to do with Sears practically giving them away by the time I got around to buying them in February.
"Mom? You know what Rebecca does?"
I can't wait to find out.
"She does this funny noise with her nose, like this." Ian inhales sharply, then snorts like a pig. How ladylike. Ian is bowled over and laughs hysterically, then breaks free from my hand and jumps straight into a slushy, brown hill of snow piled up by the plows between the street and sidewalk.
Ian is still sniffing and snorting while he jumps. "Isn't that AWESOME, Mom!!??"
There's no other word for it. I'm annoyed by him jumping in the snow, but I know I only have myself to blame.
After his romp in the snow, Ian notices that he's gotten a bit of something brown and slimy on the toe of his left boot, not unlike the leftings of some dog poop. Great. I instruct him to scrape the boot around in the snow, which seems to fix things.
"Mom, that was disgusting!" Another favorite new word that Julian and Ian trade like a baseball card lately, sort of like: "Ian, you're DIS-GUS-TING!" and then Ian says: "No I'm not, you're DIS-GUS-TING!" And it continues on for a few moments like this until I've had enough and say something un-Caroline Ingalls-like.
When we get into his classroom, he decides that he needs to update Rebecca about the disgusting poop on his boot and he runs over to her with the news. Rebecca's face sours. I don't blame her.
I watch them for a moment and think that maybe I need to help Ian with his pipeline of girlfriends as Rebecca is surely going to re-evaluate after that news. And then I see something that reminds me how they must be made for each other: Rebecca starts sniffing and snorting.
I wave to Ian and he snorts back. I clearly have nothing to worry about.
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