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This morning, Ian and Julian informed me that they were going to play "College." How could I not be intrigued by this?
"How do you play?" I ask them.
"You put on your backpack," Julian says, "and then," he flips up his little 4-yr-old paws, "you just go to college. That's all."
"Oh. And what do you do there?"
"College stuff," Ian says.
"Who pays the tuition?"
"What's tuition?" Julian asks, shocking me with his pitch-perfect pronunciation of a word I'm sure he doesn't know and will attempt to pretend he's not familiar with for years to come.
"It's what you have to pay to go to school. Do you have any money to pay it?"
They both look at each other. Weren't you supposed to handle that?
"That's OK, Mom. I'll just go to the bank," Ian says with a sigh of relief, patting Julian on the shoulder. What are big brothers for, eh?
"And the bank is going to give you money?"
"Sure," Ian says.
"Nope," I turn off the sink and put the last dripping pot onto the dishtowel. "You have to earn it."
"How do I earn it?"
"Working."
They're both quiet at the mention of this word. Ah, yes, working. That thing Mom and Dad do that takes them away from us. That mysterious thing that happens across the Hudson River where people where dark suits and loud shoes in big towers and come home with bad moods muttering about politics and stupid meetings. Even though they're not supposed to say the word 'stupid.' Ah, yes. Ian leans against the wall and gives Julian a onceover. He shakes his head and lets his Diego backpack slump off his skinny shoulders.
"OK, we'll play something else. I don't think we like college." He gestures to his brother. "C'mon, Jul. Let me show you the spaceship I built."
Julian shivers with delight. "Cool!! A spaceship!" he says, plunking his own Diego backpack on the floor next to Ian's. They run off.
I take a bite of some leftover Christmas fudge and lean against the counter. I listen to them in their room playing, making spaceship noises. Not packing a bag and emptying the place of all signs of life and childhood. Childhood is in full swing, for now. I had succeeded in getting them to forget college, and it makes me feel a little bit like the witch in the gingerbread house. Oh no, boys, you're not getting away from me yet...
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To celebrate Morning Talks' 100th post, the blog will donate $3 to Autism Speaks for every Comment on today's post and $5 for every new Follower through midnight Sunday. Up to $100. Please pass on this message, and thanks for reading. New posts will be up every other Friday this year. Check back!
Also, for readers interested in what 5-yr-olds have to say, check my other blog, The Book or Bust, on Saturday, Jan 8th for a review of Emma Donoghue's book "Room," written entirely from the perspective of a 5-yr-old boy.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Friday, December 3, 2010
Where There's Fuego, There's Fire
We're having a little bit of a discipline problem lately. Don't believe me? Here's a few choice moments from recent weeks.
"Ian no haciendo me caso," our Puerto Rican nanny says in her best Spanglish.
I dial my husband at work. "What is 'haciendo me caso'?"
"Ian isn't paying attention to her."
"Oh." I hang up and turn to the offender. "Ian, please pay attention to Irma, OK?"
Ian's look could best be described as that look George Clooney continuously gives to Al Pacino during the "Ocean's Eleven-Twelve-Thirteen" franchise. Smug. You suck at gambling. I got your girl. That kind of look. I might as well have said something like "Ian, could you please locate Osama Bin Laden and Julian Assange and give them both a time out for the next 120 years, OK?" It would have had the same effect.
Then the next week, my husband comes home to find two "frown faces" drawn on a piece of paper above each of our sons' names. The paper is hung to the back of our front door like a "Wanted Dead or Alive" poster. It lists such offenses as: spit out food, rolled under dining table laughing, said 'the party is on' as they ignored her, called her names so bad I won't even put them in this blog. It was a wonder that when I arrived later that night I hadn't found a note from my husband right next to it that said: "I'll see ya. Been real. Going back to the madre patria."
The next morning, I lay into them. Of course "them" means "Ian." Partly because Ian is older but mainly because Julian screams louder and is a general pain in the neck to discipline. Looking ahead to his teenage years, I can only plead one thing to the universe: we're going to need a bigger boat.
"Ian, what's this about?" I ask, showing him the frown face Wanted poster. He gives me the George Clooney.
My inner PsychoMama was starting to go ballistic. My inner PsychoMama had plenty to say that would not only disqualify her for Mother of the Year, but might prompt a neighbor to call Child Services. Are you kidding me with this crap! Do you know how close you are to being grounded until your first pimple? Don't give me that look. I'll glue your eyes open that way. I control your calories. I don't care where you come out on the percentiles. Try me. Fortunately, PsychoMama has a mute button, which is in permanent lockdown. But who knows for how long.
My conversation with Ian gets me nowhere, so I round up all his most precious possessions and hide them for the next week, take away TV, and vow to glare at him as long as my eyes will hold out. He looks only mildly impressed. He asks me for a Fig Newton after breakfast and I say no to that, too. He asks to wear his blue hat instead of black one and I say no. No, I say!! My discipline was starting to strafe like machine gun fire, missing every target but killing some friendlies and creating plenty of collateral damage. I didn't care. This was war.
Then, there was today.
"The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair," our nanny says.
I'm making mac 'n' cheese in the kitchen when she says this to me. Only I have boycotted Kraft's radioactive version of it and am struggling with my "roux," with which I must blend my "grated cheese" only the problem is that I don't like to "measure" and so my cheese sauce is coming out more like orange play-doh. Dammit. What did she just say?
She sees my dumb look and repeats herself. "The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair."
I corral Ian into the kitchen. "What is this about?" Ian starts to give me the George Clooney, but I'm holding a heavy stainless steel frying pan and my kid is smarter than he lets on.
"But he asked me to do it. He didn't like long hair. He asked me to cut it off."
"So you did?"
"Uh huh."
"How much did you cut?" (Yes, I'm already preparing the alibi.)
"Just a little."
"Where was it? Would anybody notice?" (This was turning into a Lifetime movie.)
"I don't think so. It was on the side. A little."
I shrug at the nanny. Supposedly I was to receive an email about this, she informs me. I grab my phone off the counter and check. Nothing. I shrug at the nanny again. "Nobody sent me anything."
I turn to Ian, who is finally looking dejected and morose, just the look I had been striving for. Attaboy.
"Here, Ian," I say. "Have a noodle."
"Ian no haciendo me caso," our Puerto Rican nanny says in her best Spanglish.
I dial my husband at work. "What is 'haciendo me caso'?"
"Ian isn't paying attention to her."
"Oh." I hang up and turn to the offender. "Ian, please pay attention to Irma, OK?"
Ian's look could best be described as that look George Clooney continuously gives to Al Pacino during the "Ocean's Eleven-Twelve-Thirteen" franchise. Smug. You suck at gambling. I got your girl. That kind of look. I might as well have said something like "Ian, could you please locate Osama Bin Laden and Julian Assange and give them both a time out for the next 120 years, OK?" It would have had the same effect.
Then the next week, my husband comes home to find two "frown faces" drawn on a piece of paper above each of our sons' names. The paper is hung to the back of our front door like a "Wanted Dead or Alive" poster. It lists such offenses as: spit out food, rolled under dining table laughing, said 'the party is on' as they ignored her, called her names so bad I won't even put them in this blog. It was a wonder that when I arrived later that night I hadn't found a note from my husband right next to it that said: "I'll see ya. Been real. Going back to the madre patria."
The next morning, I lay into them. Of course "them" means "Ian." Partly because Ian is older but mainly because Julian screams louder and is a general pain in the neck to discipline. Looking ahead to his teenage years, I can only plead one thing to the universe: we're going to need a bigger boat.
"Ian, what's this about?" I ask, showing him the frown face Wanted poster. He gives me the George Clooney.
My inner PsychoMama was starting to go ballistic. My inner PsychoMama had plenty to say that would not only disqualify her for Mother of the Year, but might prompt a neighbor to call Child Services. Are you kidding me with this crap! Do you know how close you are to being grounded until your first pimple? Don't give me that look. I'll glue your eyes open that way. I control your calories. I don't care where you come out on the percentiles. Try me. Fortunately, PsychoMama has a mute button, which is in permanent lockdown. But who knows for how long.
My conversation with Ian gets me nowhere, so I round up all his most precious possessions and hide them for the next week, take away TV, and vow to glare at him as long as my eyes will hold out. He looks only mildly impressed. He asks me for a Fig Newton after breakfast and I say no to that, too. He asks to wear his blue hat instead of black one and I say no. No, I say!! My discipline was starting to strafe like machine gun fire, missing every target but killing some friendlies and creating plenty of collateral damage. I didn't care. This was war.
Then, there was today.
"The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair," our nanny says.
I'm making mac 'n' cheese in the kitchen when she says this to me. Only I have boycotted Kraft's radioactive version of it and am struggling with my "roux," with which I must blend my "grated cheese" only the problem is that I don't like to "measure" and so my cheese sauce is coming out more like orange play-doh. Dammit. What did she just say?
She sees my dumb look and repeats herself. "The maestra says Ian cut a kid's hair."
I corral Ian into the kitchen. "What is this about?" Ian starts to give me the George Clooney, but I'm holding a heavy stainless steel frying pan and my kid is smarter than he lets on.
"But he asked me to do it. He didn't like long hair. He asked me to cut it off."
"So you did?"
"Uh huh."
"How much did you cut?" (Yes, I'm already preparing the alibi.)
"Just a little."
"Where was it? Would anybody notice?" (This was turning into a Lifetime movie.)
"I don't think so. It was on the side. A little."
I shrug at the nanny. Supposedly I was to receive an email about this, she informs me. I grab my phone off the counter and check. Nothing. I shrug at the nanny again. "Nobody sent me anything."
I turn to Ian, who is finally looking dejected and morose, just the look I had been striving for. Attaboy.
"Here, Ian," I say. "Have a noodle."
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Five Is Where It's At. Almost.
Ian speaks to me from under the collar of a long-sleeved t-shirt (without buttons, of course).
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Mom? Mom?" I grab a stringy arm and stick it in its designated arm hole. "Mom? You know what?"
"I have absolutely no idea what."
His voice comes back muffled, but defiant. "Five-year-olds can do whatever they want."
Really? I pull the shirt down and it pops over his head. His wispy blonde hair fluffs up into a Kramer-esque stand at attention. "Who told you that?"
"Caroline. She's seven." Caroline is Rebecca's older sister. Rebecca of last year's preschool love affair. I've learned that Caroline has more authority over Ian's tiny brain than I do. Lucky her.
I pull his Levis up over his tighty-whities. He wiggles his legs into them. I stop myself. "Hey, if five-year-olds can do whatever they want, I guess you can dress yourself." I have a cup of coffee getting cold in the kitchen. I stand to go get it. Ian gapes at me with his knees locked together by the fly of his jeans and grips my wrist as I start to leave.
"No!" he yelps. "I can't dress myself."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to. I only want to do what I want."
I sit back down. I knew this was too good to be true. "Ian, I have news for you. Even I don't get to do what I want." Ian looks crushed by this revelation. How can this be? I'm the grown-up. Don't I get to skip through the mall all day long with a lollipop in my mouth, buying myself things. Of course I do. In a parallel universe where there is no such thing as debt, the county jail, or calories.
"How come?"
"Just because. I have to do what a lot of other people want me to do, and sometimes what I want, but usually that almost never happens." Now he looks sorry for me. "But you have it easy now, Ian."
"Easy?"
"Yeah. You only have to do one thing."
"What's that?"
"Anything I say."
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"Mom? Mom?" I grab a stringy arm and stick it in its designated arm hole. "Mom? You know what?"
"I have absolutely no idea what."
His voice comes back muffled, but defiant. "Five-year-olds can do whatever they want."
Really? I pull the shirt down and it pops over his head. His wispy blonde hair fluffs up into a Kramer-esque stand at attention. "Who told you that?"
"Caroline. She's seven." Caroline is Rebecca's older sister. Rebecca of last year's preschool love affair. I've learned that Caroline has more authority over Ian's tiny brain than I do. Lucky her.
I pull his Levis up over his tighty-whities. He wiggles his legs into them. I stop myself. "Hey, if five-year-olds can do whatever they want, I guess you can dress yourself." I have a cup of coffee getting cold in the kitchen. I stand to go get it. Ian gapes at me with his knees locked together by the fly of his jeans and grips my wrist as I start to leave.
"No!" he yelps. "I can't dress myself."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to. I only want to do what I want."
I sit back down. I knew this was too good to be true. "Ian, I have news for you. Even I don't get to do what I want." Ian looks crushed by this revelation. How can this be? I'm the grown-up. Don't I get to skip through the mall all day long with a lollipop in my mouth, buying myself things. Of course I do. In a parallel universe where there is no such thing as debt, the county jail, or calories.
"How come?"
"Just because. I have to do what a lot of other people want me to do, and sometimes what I want, but usually that almost never happens." Now he looks sorry for me. "But you have it easy now, Ian."
"Easy?"
"Yeah. You only have to do one thing."
"What's that?"
"Anything I say."
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