Head Games

One of my boys ended up in Urgent Care last week. He had a gash across his forehead that required three stitches. He’s fine. This is not our first head wound rodeo. I have three boys, so head wounds are kind of a trend. All three of them have now had one, and the one last week was round two for that kid. Right now we’re two for two on a plain old accident versus a really stupid choice.

The very first one was an accident. One kid slipped and hit the back of his head on the corner of the wall. That was my first experience with a head wound, and holy shit. In case you’re not aware, when you gash your head, it bleeds like a stuck pig. It’s incredible. My husband was standing patiently over me while I sat with the kid in my lap, bathing in his blood, completely freaking out.

“You have to calm down,” he kept saying.

“Are you kidding me? This kid looks like he’s going to need a transfusion in about three minutes, and you want me to calm down??”

Since my husband is a) a boy, and b) an Eagle Scout, he knew about the bleeding. He’s also far less inclined to flip out over things that have to do with the kids than I am. He told me later he was prepared to take the kid to Urgent Care if it hadn’t stopped bleeding when it did.

The next time someone came to me gushing blood from his head I managed to keep my cool. We were at the softball field watching my husband’s men’s league game. The kids were off playing. My oldest was about six, and I turned around to see him walking toward me with a wave of blood flowing down his face and dripping off his nose. Because he knew there was something going on, but couldn’t tell what, he had his brow furrowed in a way that made it appear that he had a six inch gash across his forehead. As calmly as I could, I grabbed a napkin and a bottle of water, and wiped the blood off so I could see the actual injury.

There were three small nicks, the largest of which was the size of the head of a pin along his hair line. When I asked him how it happened, he said they were throwing rocks up in the air, and watching them fall back down again.

“Next time maybe take a step to the left after you throw them up,” I suggested.

Honestly.

The next accident occurred at a family Christmas celebration. It was about three days after Christmas, and we were at my aunt’s house. The kids were out back playing, running races back and forth across her patio. One of the twins got to the “finish line” and his brother somehow managed to shove him, causing him to sit down hard and whack his head against a concrete planter. The result was the expected fountain of blood. He got a staple and some ice cream.

All of which brings us to the other night. Again, the scene of the crisis was the same softball field, and again, there was a rock involved. This time, however, it was one of the twins and his sister, playing with one of their friends. They were playing War. And throwing rocks at each other. Because of course they were. I got a call from my husband to come get my daughter so he could take our son to Urgent Care. The result was three stitches. And ice cream, of course.

I’m sure this isn’t the end of our relationship with Urgent Care. I think we have a few more years before they’re past the point where they’ll throw rocks and end up with head wounds. Yes, I’d like to think they’ve learned that throwing rocks = blood = stitches, but these are boys. Lessons like these are learned slowly.

My Shopping Fantasy

Years ago when I had four small children I used to dream about a time when I could easily take all of them out with me—to the grocery store, the post office, the bank. They would be old enough, I thought, to follow directions, wait patiently for a few minutes while I conducted my business, and not beg constantly to have things bought for them.

My youngest child is now 8, and I’m still waiting for this.

I have heard taking a toddler to the grocery store compared to the experience of taking a herd of goats with you. While taking older children is easier in some ways, in some ways it’s just as challenging. Instead of trying to keep them rounded up, you’re trying to get through the store while they pretend the cart is their Siamese twin. It’s more like taking along a very old, mostly blind dog who refuses to leave your side, while it constantly asks for everything on the shelves.

Older children seem to have an uncanny ability to walk directly in front of your cart as you try to push it along. And like tourists in the Piazza San Marco, they tend to stop every twenty feet in front of something that catches their eye so they can inspect it. You find yourself not only dodging other shoppers, but constantly telling your offspring to “MOVE!” giving a trip to the market the feeling of navigating a carnival midway on demolition derby night, only without the games and funnel cakes.

Once you get to checkout things don’t necessarily improve. They’re still in front of the cart, and don’t seem to realize that in order for the transaction to be completed, you, the holder of the credit card, need to be able to get to the payment station. Not just be able to push the cart all the way through the checkout, although that is necessary, but actually reach the card reader without a four foot tall impediment between you and it. It’s gotten so bad with my kids that I’ve started telling them that if they don’t get out of the way, I’m taking the cost of the groceries out of their savings accounts. Unless you’re paying, move it, kid.

Another phenomenon that baffles me is when it became impossible to run an errand without them acquiring something. There is no destination, no retail or service establishment, at which my children don’t expect to get some kind of thing. The bank, the dry cleaner, the post office—we can’t get out of any of them without some financial transaction, however small, that awards them with a gumball,  or even just a mint. Lord help us if we go to a real store, because then the expectation is something of significance—a toy, a stuffed animal, a cookie.

As a child I can remember getting a lollypop at the bank, but it seems that my children hear the jingle of car keys and start trying to decide which unfulfilled material dream will be realized on this excursion. We can’t set foot out of the house without the expectation that we will return richer in goods than when we left. When they were smaller I could deflect this, telling them we needed to stick to our list, or that I had no change. Now that they’re older, they understand how these processes work, and that most of the time my denial to acquiesce to their wish is because clearly I’m just mean.

I’m still waiting for that magic moment when I can go to the store and have it be easy. In my fantasy I’ll be able to transact my business without anyone whining for a quarter to buy a gumball, or nag me for some four dollar and ninety nine cent wad of synthetic with enormous black plastic doe eyes. I’ll be able to reach the payment terminal without obstruction. I’ll be able to push the grocery cart up and down the aisles without an extra 65 pounds of weight hanging off one side. I guess in my fantasy, my kids all wanted to stay home while I ran errands.

New Year's Resolutions for My Children: An Alphabetical List

Although it’s not quite Christmas, many are already engaged in the annual task of making New Year’s Resolutions with an eye toward improving themselves in the coming months. In the spirit of this, I am providing an alphabetical list of possible resolutions for my children. I would encourage them to choose any and all that sound appealing.

Attitude is something I will attempt to control when interacting with my parents. I will not sigh loudly, roll my eyes, or make flip comments when asked to do simple tasks that I know are my responsibility, such as hanging up my jacket.

Brushing my teeth promotes good oral hygiene and saves the rest of the world from exposure to breath that smells like I’ve been snacking on rotten meat with onion and garlic sauce.

Cupcakes, while delicious, are not the only acceptable treat for me to bring in to my classmates for my birthday. I will think outside the box in this regard.

“Doy” is not an acceptable response when my parents tell me something I already know.

“EVER!” is a superlative that I will use with restraint, particularly in negative applications, such as, “You are the WORST MOM EVER!”

Fart noises (either real or imitated), while hilarious to me and my friends, are not generally socially acceptable, particularly in settings such as movie theaters, public transportation, and church.

Garbage is something that belongs in the garbage can. The living room end tables are not garbage cans. I will internalize this fact.

Homework is going to be a feature in my life for the next six to ten years. I will accept this and stop arguing with my parents because they insist I do it.

Independence is something I will earn as I get older. I will stop acting like a four year old because I am not being treated like a sixteen year old, because I am a twelve year old.

Kicking anything inside the house--be it a balloon, a ball, or any other object--has the potential to turn out very badly. I will stop at once.

Lollipops are in fact, overrated. I will admit that my mother was right about this, and stop demanding them every time we find ourselves within a quarter of a mile of our bank.

Minecraft, although fascinating to me, may not be equally as fascinating to those around me. Therefore, I will make an effort to confine my conversations about it to 12 hours per day or fewer.

No is a word I will learn to take for an answer.

Odor of the body is something that is eliminated only with regular use of soap and water. I will put this into practice, and realize deodorant can only do so much.

P is a letter of the alphabet, the sound of which does in fact mimic the slang term for urination. Even still, I will stop giggling every time I hear it.

Quickly is the manner in which I will endeavor to prepare myself for activities that involve a fixed timeline, such as dressing for school.

Reason and logic will serve me better than whining. However, sometimes my requests will still be denied. If so, I will learn to accept the decision gracefully (see above: No).

Socks are either to be removed completely, or worn with shoes over them when wandering around in the yard. Also, they do not belong on the coffee table. I will remember this.

Tantrums are for children much younger than I.

Umbrellas and flashlights really aren’t toys. I will stop destroying umbrellas, and running down the batteries on flashlights, by playing with them. Then the next time it rains, or there is a power failure, my parents will have the tools they need to deal with the situation.

Video games, while enjoyable, are not the only activity available to me. I will find ways to branch out.

Water is an acceptable beverage to consume when I am thirsty. I will stop insisting that soda is “the only thing” that will quench my thirst.

X marks the spot where my dirty clothes go. There is no “X” on the floor of my room.

“Yellow snow” jokes are really only funny the first time they’re made, when one is five. I will stop at once.

Zipping my coat will keep me warmer than not doing so.

Happy Holidays!

Selective Hearing

What I say: “Go get dressed. Be sure to change your underwear, and brush your teeth.”

What they hear: “Run around in your underwear screaming like a lunatic, punching your brother repeatedly.”

What I say: “It’s almost time for dinner.”

What they hear: “It’s time for another four cheese sticks.”

What I say: “Be sure to take all your stuff out of the car into the house.”

What they hear: “The car is a great place for the backpack you’ll need to take with you on the school bus tomorrow morning.”

What I say: “Put the remote back on the shelf so we can find it.”

What they hear: “Shove the remote down in the couch cushions so your father and I can spend half of the little time we have to watch TV after you go to bed hunting for it.”

What I say: “Take this upstairs and put it in your room.”

What they hear: “Go up to the fifth step from the top and toss this on the floor above you.”

What I say: “Stop whining.”

What they hear: “Can you go up an octave?”

What I say: “Put your clothes in the hamper in the laundry room so they can get washed.”

What they hear: “Clean clothes are overrated.”

What I say: “Don’t blow that straw wrapper at your brother”

What they hear: “Bet you can’t nail him in the eye with that.”

What I say: “Time to take a bath.”

What they hear: “Time to take off all your clothes and dance around in the hallway like a stripper in front of a customer waving a hundred dollar bill.”

What I say: “Take those cheese stick wrappers to the trash can.”

What they hear: “Take those cheese stick wrappers into the kitchen and leave them on the counter.”

What I say: “Keep your hands to yourself!”
What they hear: “Humans thrive on physical contact.”

What I say: “Hang up your coat and backpack.”

What they hear: “Those hooks are very fragile—stay away from them.”

What I say: “Pick up your room.”

What they hear: “Shove everything on the floor under the bed and spend 45 minutes screwing around in your room.”

What I say: “Time to do your reading.”
What they hear: “Time to come up with two hundred new names to call your brother, all of which must include the word ‘butt’ in some way.”

What I say: “Stop yelling!”

What they hear: “I’ve been in louder sensory deprivation chambers. You’re going to have to do better than that.”

What I say: “Pick up your socks!”

What they hear: “…”

7 Things My Kids Refuse to Do

Kids are often reluctant to do things that to adults are very basic and instinctive—we hang up jackets, take glasses to the kitchen, and recycle cans. We’ve learned that these are things inanimate objects won’t do by themselves, and no one else will do for us. While kids haven’t yet learned that coats do not spontaneously find hooks from which to suspend themselves, they also have a high tolerance for crap on the floor. My kids would rather step over something a thousand times than pick it up. While this isn’t unique to my children, nor is it likely to be the lead story on the ten o’clock news, it did make me think about some other things my kids refuse to do, which completely baffle me.

Loosen their shoe laces
A couple of my boys wear high top sneakers fairly regularly. It’s not a carefully guarded secret that the easiest way to get one’s foot into a high top—or really, any sneaker—is to loosen the laces so that the opening is wide enough to accommodate more of the foot as it slides in. And yet, my children seem to see this as an irreversible act. They insist on trying to jam their foot in with the laces as tight as they were when the shoe was taken off the last time, then declare that there’s something wrong with the shoe, because they can’t get their foot in. News flash, boys: it’s not the shoe.

Keep their socks on
Seriously, if I have to ask, “Oh for god’s sake, who left their socks on the coffee table?” one more time, I will probably spontaneously combust.

Put on shirts or long pants
I’m the first to admit that my husband is a bit of a miser when it comes to the heat. He’s from New England, and all that stoically enduring hardships shit combined with the penny-saved-is-a-penny-earned Benjamin Franklin crap means that he likes to keep the house at a setting that feels a lot like “meat locker.”

My boys, for reasons that haven’t ever been explained, prefer to sleep in just pajama bottoms, in spite of the fact that all their pajamas are sets, and I have no problem with them sleeping in regular t-shirts. They get up and feel a slight chill, so they grab the blankets from their beds and wear them downstairs looking like the Duke of Linens & Things. This drives me to a point just beyond insane, because eventually they warm up, or go get dressed, but naturally they leave the blankets draped all over the living room furniture. Or on the floor of the mudroom (which is what happened this morning—true story).

Take things all the way upstairs
Although usually related to the blankets from their beds, this problem is not exclusively confined to that. I hand them something and say, “Take this upstairs.” Half an hour later I go up to find whatever it is on the floor, in the place they could reach when they were about five steps from the top.

Put shit in their backpacks so they don’t forget it in the morning
They will spend upwards of ten minutes finding a spot for something so they won’t forget it in the morning instead of just going to the mudroom, opening their backpack, and sticking whatever it is in there. They’ll move the item around three or four times, usually because I say, “You can’t leave that there—I’m going to have to make dinner on that part of the counter, and it will be in my way.”

Naturally they move it around so many times that the next morning they almost automatically forget to take it with them.

Dry their hair before bed
This one makes me physically uncomfortable. It’s so cold to go to bed with wet hair, and I tell them that. Occasionally the boys will let me dry theirs, but my daughter almost never will. The problem is that they wake up the next morning looking like they got the worst end of a deal involving a fork and an electrical outlet. And of course they won’t…

Let me brush their hair
You think this would be confined to my daughter, but my sons are just as bad about clutching their scalps and howling, “Nooooooooo!” when they see me pick up a hairbrush. Guys, it’s a hairbrush, not a cattle prod.

I know that my job as a parent is to raise them to be thoughtful, polite, disciplined adults (bonus points if they don’t use the word “apropos” as an abbreviation for “appropriate”). But honestly I’ll just consider myself a success if I can raise them to put their socks in the dirty clothes instead of leaving them in the living room.

Leaving (and Going to) Las Vegas

We took a trip to Las Vegas recently. We flew. I hate flying. I’m afraid of flying. Actually, that’s not really accurate. I’m OK with the flying part; it’s crashing I’m afraid of. I’ve never been in a plane crash. I know one person who was, but it wasn’t a jet. It was just a small charter plane. Everyone lived in that accident. This does not make me feel even one tiny bit better. I’m related to a commercial airline pilot. I know the odds of a plane crash. The problem is, I flunked Statistics, and I suck at math, so as far as I’m concerned, every take off is just as likely to end in a blazing fireball of jet fuel as any other. I’ve had dozens of conversations with pilots about how seldom planes crash and how the pilot wants to get home too and blah blah whatever the fuck I don’t care I still hate to fly.

But I had a few thoughts on airplane travel, and since I’m kind of a, “think some shit and vomit it all back up at you lovely people” person, here we go.

I’m always afraid the guy who figured out our fuel for the flight forgot to carry the two.
On our way down to Vegas, our flight was diverted to a place called Ontario, California. The pilot explained that there were scattered storms around Las Vegas, and planes were being put into holding patterns until they could get clearance to land. Our fuel wasn’t sufficient to sustain that, so we were being diverted. We’d be refueled, and fly back to Vegas, which was about an hour long flight. So considering that here we are with clearly low fuel, and we have to take off and land one more time than I was counting on (I hate takeoff most, landing is a close second, and turbulence is third), I was pretty unhappy. Add to that the flight attendant said that because the flight between Ontario and Vegas was so short they wouldn’t be offering beverage service (I am forced to fly with significant levels of liquid courage), this wasn’t looking good for me.

Since I suck at math (see: Airplane Crashes, Probability Of, above) I just always assume that the calculations for these things are super complicated (because, you know, you have to burn fuel to carry fuel) and worry that the guy who did them for our flight just found out his wife is having an affair with another woman, or his 16 year old daughter is dating a known drug dealer, or dealing with some other personal crisis that might distract him from his calculations. I know, I know these things are all done by computers these days, but someone has to input the data to make the calculation happen at some point, and so I worry.

(Update: we did not crash.)

If I were a flight attendant, I would be fired for scolding people who wanted to use the restroom before takeoff for not going before they left home.
On our flight (make that flights, plural) down, one Asian gentleman got up to use the restroom no fewer than seven times. Two of them before we even left the gate. Since I didn’t use the restroom the whole time (ew, get me started someday on public restrooms—thank god my bladder capacity is “camel”), I have no idea if he had a significant problem, or if he just had a very small bladder (but if the latter, dude, lay off the selection of complimentary beverages, would you?), but his trips to the potty seemed excessive. If I’d been the flight attendant, I’d have probably said more than I should have, especially about the pre-flight visits when everyone was trying to store their steamer trunks in the overhead bins. Sit. The. Fuck. Down.

For whatever reason, I get more free booze from flight attendants than I probably deserve. Or need.
Maybe because I’m clearly a white knuckle flier, or maybe because I’m often flying with multiple small children, flight attendants seem to take pity on me and sometimes provide me with as much free booze as I can soak up. On the first flight of our most recent trip, over the space of three hours, I was given three free bottles of white wine (those little ones, you know). In the past, on cross country flights, I’ve been given up to five or six (I don’t drink them—once I reach my limit I start stashing them in my purse so that I don’t have to pay for overpriced wine at our destination). On many flights earlier in my life sympathetic flight attendants gave me multiple free mini bottles of vodka (when I was still a vodka drinker, in my carefree youth). It’s not always free—I’ve paid for it plenty of times. But lots of times they just give it to me.

On this particular flight, I was traveling alone with my four kids. They were giving me all kinds of trouble getting into their seats. Not that they were bad, but they were constantly saying, “Hey Mommy…hey Mommy…hey Mommy…” (and for those Moms with children who don’t yet talk, or don’t talk in full sentences, two words of advice: 1) Their first word will probably be “dada.” You want to encourage this, and 2) I know you’re thinking, “I can’t wait until the day they can speak in full sentences, and express their thoughts, and converse!” Take it from me: Yes you fucking can). Finally they were all in their seats and I looked back at the flight attendant in the galley who had been watching this whole seating process, smiled sweetly, and said, “What time does your beverage service start?” She laughed and said, “Fifteen minutes after takeoff.” And free wine was forthcoming, bless her heart.

When did a water landing stop being “unlikely”?
When I was flying back in the 80s, and even into the 90s, I recall that the wording of the safety demonstration was, “In the unlikely event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device.” And they’d go on to explain about the straps and your arms and whatnot. But in the last ten or twenty years, I’ve noticed they’ve dropped that word, “unlikely” from their little speech. I have flown from landlocked destination to landlocked destination in my day, and still they don’t say “unlikely.” Particularly in those cases, I wonder what major body of water we’ll be flying over that would make a water landing not-unlikely in the event that we were to go down.

I mean, I get it—I remember the Air Florida crash in Washington, DC in February of 1982 or ‘83, when the plane flew into the 14^th Street Bridge and everyone ended up in the icy Potomac River and a bunch of people died. I also remember the more recent incident when the pilot “ditched” into the Hudson River in New York City and I’m pretty sure everyone lived. And there is some water near us, sure, but there’s way more land than water, so I’m still a little curious. Also, it’s not like water landings have become sort of the norm since the 80s and all the cool pilots are doing them. They’re still incredibly rare, as far as I can tell.

Also, for panicky hyper-terrified freaks like me, when they omit that small but significant word they might just as well be saying, “Kiss it all goodbye, and prepare to go down to your watery grave, you goner. I hope your insurance premiums are current.”

I can never hear airport announcements without thinking of that “red zone/white zone” dialog over the loudspeaker in the movie “Airplane."

 

"Listen Betty, don't start up with your white zone shit again."

As a result of this, I spend most of my time in airports snickering quietly to myself, which I alternate by dreading the flight I’m about to get on. Laughter, terror, laughter. It’s sort of the story of my life, anyway.

So those were the thinks I thinked during our travels. Come back later when I’ll spew some mental vomit about my experiences with Las Vegas! With an offer like that, you should be counting the seconds, right?!?

Bad Sport

I’m a terrible sports mom. I don’t mean I’m not supportive of my children in their athletic endeavors. I am—I want them to get good exercise, do well and be proud of themselves, understand what it means to be part of a team, and I want them to have fun. After the game we talk about what they did well, how they could improve, and how important it is that everyone played well, not just if the team won or lost. I’m just terrible at the during-the-actual-event stuff.

In the first place, I have no understanding whatsoever of the details of the rules of any sport. For all I know, you have to say “Mother, May I?” before you throw the ball back into play in soccer, and if the runner in baseball has his fingers crossed when he gets tagged, is he actually out? A lot of this is because I find sports boring as shit and don’t follow any of them. Plus I never participated in organized sports as a child. I took gymnastics once for about six weeks, and I rode horses all through high school, but neither of those involved fouls or outs or goals or anything. So things happen on the field or the court, and I’m not sure if they’re good or bad. Or if they matter at all. You’d think by now I’d get it, and to an extent I do (you can’t watch 8000+ hours of soccer without figuring out a little of what the hell’s going on), but the finer points of every game escape me.

I’m also not one of your gung ho sports mommies. I don’t stand on the sidelines and yell, “Go, Badgers!” or “Stay with it!” or “Nice D!” (which, it took me a really long time to figure out, was not one mom calling to another on the other side of the field with a compliment about her recent breast augmentation, but means, “Nice defense”). Shit I can barely remember which predatory animal my kids’ teams are named after, much less be expected to cheer and shout and generally make an ass of myself in their support. Besides, I’m just as likely to get the team name wrong (“Go Wolves! I mean…Cougars! I mean…Wildcats! Whatever!”). So you expect me to be able to recognize when they switch from playing offense to playing defense? I clap when my child’s team does something good (I know it’s his team, and I know it’s something good based on the reactions of the other, more enthusiastic parents of his team mates around me). I’m just not one for making a spectacle of myself. Besides, I never want to be that parent screaming in a voice that would crack a mirror while all the other parents stand around and roll their eyes at each other, wishing that parent would shut the fuck up.

 

???

 

 

???

 

 

???

 

Pretty sure it's one of these

 

Because I have no concept of how to play…any sport, really, I’m also never going to be that parent yelling instructions to every kid on the team. You know the one I mean—usually a dad (but I’ve heard moms who do it) who wants to tell not only his or her kid, but all of the kids the best time to pass, how fast to run, when to shoot. And they do it through the whole fucking game. I can’t believe the kids even hear these instructions, much less think to act on them. I’ve never figured out why these assholes don’t sign up to be the coach, if they know so much. Or, you know, shut up. Either one is fine with me.

I have a further confession that may brand me as a complete asshole, but I have to say this: I actually don’t care about the performance of any kid but my own. If your Connor or Madison plays well, that’s great. I’m happy for you. But don’t expect gushing congratulations from me on the goal/run/out s/he was part of. Because let’s be honest, if my kid wasn’t part of it, I probably wasn’t watching. The best you’re likely to hear is “Wow, Connor/Madison played a great game!”  I don’t mean that maliciously. It’s not unkindness on my part, it’s complete apathy. I really only pay attention to what’s going on when my kid is participating. The rest of the time I’m reading my book or catching up on Twitter (read: writing tweets about how annoying all the hyper enthusiastic screaming sports parents are and/or how fucking uncomfortable the bleachers are, and that my butt is now asleep. Because Twitter cares very deeply about my butt. It told me it did).

It also seems like most sports events are held either first thing in the morning, or during cocktail hour. I am a morning person—7 a.m. is sleeping way in for me, and always has been—but that doesn’t mean that I want to hop out of bed and scurry off to some playing field or other. I like to read, write, maybe watch a little Amazon Prime, have a Diet Coke. You know, relax. The only thing that would make it acceptable for them to schedule some damned game or other at 9 a.m. on a Saturday is if the concession stand sold Bloody Marys. And I can assure the local Little League that parents would stop grumbling about games at 6:30 p.m. on Wednesday if they could get a beer while they watched their kid miss every catch that was thrown to them for 90 minutes straight.

I’m sure the other parents think I’m a complete slacker, too, because I never volunteer to be scorekeeper, or wrangle equipment or anything. I volunteered in the snack shack exactly once, and that was one of the biggest nightmares I’ve experienced since I left the food service industry 25 years ago. A tip: if you’re forced to work the snack shack, sign up for the first shift of the day (assuming this is 9 a.m. or so). If your team’s snack shack serves anything remotely resembling real food, under no circumstances should you sign up to work between 11 and 2. You will be serving the “lunch crowd” consisting of 185 starving nine year olds whose parents were too busy running from one event to another to get them lunch, and agreed to get the kid a hot dog (and some fries and a pretzel and three Laffy Taffys and a Kit Kat and a Gatorade and a bottle of water). The day I did it many of the Little League teams were having “end of season” cookouts, so the pressure was reduced, but even with that I still left the snack shack smelling like a deep fat fryer, having flashback nightmares to my days working in a carry out serving barbeque sandwiches and tuna melts to construction workers.

So between not getting it, not caring about 80% of what happens on the field, and being perceived as not jumping in to do my part, I am a horrible sports mom. I’m sure other parents see me sitting there on the sideline with my magazine, or playing with my phone, and think, “You’re what’s wrong with parents today.” And they may be right, but I’d rather have them judge me as a bad sports parent (since they’re not entirely wrong) than have them rolling their eyes, wishing I’d shut up for just two seconds.

Why Cheese Sticks Suck and Other Whining

I love my children, but like all kids with all mothers, they have a few habits that make me want to chew broken glass. With four of them, this is inevitable, but of course they each do their annoying thing on a random schedule, so that I’m being bombarded by irritating behavior from all sides, and then I lose my shit. I think I might even be OK if they did the annoying thing(s) on some sort of timetable, and those who weren’t scheduled to be annoying would hold off. You know, my oldest could take 9 to 11 in the morning, the twins would each take a shift from 11 to 1 and 1 to 3, and then my daughter could work clean up from 3 to 5. Clearly by the time 5 p.m. rolled around, I would be ready to retire to my room and pluck out my eyebrows, one hair at a time, with my fingernails.

There are some little habits or behaviors they all share, and some that are unique to specific children. The one thing they all do that sends me in to a snarling rage faster than anything else is leave fucking cheese stick wrappers everywhere. Partly it’s the fact that they eat roughly 27,319 cheese sticks per child, per week, and that might be a conservative estimate. Of course, every stick comes in its own little plastic sleeve. They grab the number they think they will need before the next commercial break (approximately 2,642) and take them to the living room. Here they peel the plastic off of each stick, one by one, and carefully deposit them on the end table next to the couch. At the next commercial, they hop up to fortify themselves (with more mothereffing cheese sticks), and walk out to the kitchen leaving the two thousand plus goddamned wrappers on the table. Holy. Fucking. Shit.

I have tried everything to discourage this behavior. I’ve scolded, I’ve threatened, I’ve even praised when on the rare occasions they do manage to remember to take a lone wrapper out and chuck it in the general direction of the garbage can. Hell, I’ve praised them for even looking at the wrappers before getting up and getting more cheese sticks (“Thank you for acknowledging the pile of cheese stick wrappers on the end table. Next time maybe we can take it a little further, and actually touch them before getting up to get more. Good job!”). I think the only “cure” for this is going to be when they move out. Is 12 too young for a kid to have his own apartment? It is, isn’t it. Fuck.

The oldest, being a tween, has some special annoyances all his own. The one that has a fingernails-on-the-blackboard quality for me is, “C’mon please?” He asks for something, usually more of something he’s already had—more candy, more soda, more computer time—and I say, “No, you had your half hour computer turn today, you don’t need another one.” The immediate response is “C’mon please?” I’ve taken to saying “Don’t ‘c’mon please’ me. If you say that, there is no chance I will say yes to this request.” And since he’s just said it, guess what? Sometimes he stomps off to sulk, sometimes he gets mad and has a tantrum. Most of the time he just resigns himself and goes and finds something else to do. But I still hate “C’mon please?”

One of the twins is a total smartass (no clue how this could have happened). When he’s annoying, he knows it. It is one hundred percent intentional. The oldest with his “C’mon please” isn’t trying to annoy, he’s trying to plead, and just happened to pick a phrase, tone, and inflection that annoys. The smartass is just being a smartass, plain and simple. One of his favorite techniques is to ask, “What’s a [whatever]?” I’ll say something like, “First we’ll go to the grocery store.” He responds, “What’s a grocery store?” I say, “You’ll find out.” He says, “What’s a you’ll find out?” You see where this is going. And being nine, he doesn’t know when to stop because he’s about to get his ass kicked. About the only way to discourage him is to stop talking to him.

And then there are the “what ifs.” I tell my children, if X happens, Y will be the consequence. And all of them (but especially the smartass) have seven thousand what-ifs they need clarified. Most of them are either ludicrous or impossible, or both ("But what if we fill the house with chocolate pudding?" "But what if a cow gets elected president?" etc). On my death certificate, where it says, "Cause of Death," the doctor will write, "What If."

Another one all four of them share is the inability to tolerate anyone (other than themselves, of course) standing directly in front of the TV set. Why they can’t sit the fuck down is beyond me. We have thousands of dollars’ worth of furniture in the living room—chairs, sofas, ottomans—and they park their asses smack in front of the goddamned set. Of course the other three shriek out “MOOOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEUUUUHHHH” like a chorus of outraged beef cattle. What I find so amusing is that they all do it, in spite of how livid they know they get when their siblings do it. Children are just shit at self-awareness.

Related to “MOOOOOOOVVVVVVVEEEEUUUUHHHH” is “STOOOOOOOPPPPPPUUUUUUHHHH.” It’s generally expressed with the same degree of outrage, and has the same extra “UH” syllable on the end. This one is employed in a myriad of situations, everything from one of them checking the “Guide” on the satellite with the remote while everyone else is watching the show, to any touching, looking, or breathing that’s found to be objectionable (which is to say, just about all of it).

Although I’m not sure if it qualifies as an annoying habit as much as reflection of my failure as a parent, their complete inability to go to bed quietly is beyond maddening. When you read parenting magazines, they urge you to make bedtime a quiet time. Pajamas, stuffed animals, sleepy books about bears and bunnies, a reliable routine that just oozes warm fuzzy cuddles. Bedtime at my house? Picture Grand Central Station at 5:30 p.m. on the Friday of a three day weekend with crowd control provided by a platoon of Marines on their first day at Parris Island. Only louder. And less organized.

My hope is that they’ll eventually grow out of these habits. I’m fairly confident they’ll be replaced by new annoying habits, possibly worse than these. They’ll have the advantage of being novel, I suppose, and because they’re new, they won’t be quite as annoying as the current ones, which I’ve been dealing with for several years now. And eventually the new habits will become old annoying habits. It’s a bit depressing when you consider it.

However, now that I really think about it, if my experience with parents and in laws is anything to go on, eventually tables will turn, and they’ll be driven to the brink of insanity by the fact that I tap the top of my Diet Coke can three times before I open it (what? That keeps it from exploding—am I the only one who does this? Yeah, I know it doesn’t work; it’s a habit), or that I refuse to make my lists in my “To Do” notebook in anything other than pencil (and that I have to find the “right” pencil—I like a soft, dark lead, and go back and forth between mechanical and “traditional” based on my mood). And those are just the ones I recognize. I’m sure I have more. I might even develop a few more tics, just in case I don’t have enough now.

Because I’ll be honest with you, now that I give it some thought, I am really looking forward to this.

Caution: Children At Play

I was an only child and I hated it. Actually I hated it. Even though I probably got more in the way of experiences (like getting to go on vacation in places like England and Ireland) and toys (although not some of the ones I wanted most), I still hated it. I was lonely a lot of the time. My dad developed Parkinson’s disease when he was fairly young (he was 32, I was 2), and my mom ended up having to work to support us. She worked long hours, he wasn’t always mobile or feeling well, so I ended up on my own a lot. I used to long for someone to play with. I knew kids with siblings, and I knew their relationships with them weren’t always Connect Four championships and let’s play pretend, but there were times when they played nicely together, and I envied them those times. As a result, I swore I’d never have an only child, and I have four that are all fairly close together (the widest gap is four years, between the oldest and the youngest). Now I expect them to play together, and sometimes they even do. And when they do, I’ve noticed that they go through an interesting series of phases.

 

Phase 1: "There’s No One To Play With!"

This one always gets me. Dude. I endured three pregnancies just so I would never have to hear anyone say that. Morning sickness, the world’s itchiest fucking stretch marks, and feet that got just big enough that my kick ass cowboy boots I’d had since college didn’t fit anymore. All so you would never know the feeling of being lonely, and wanting the companionship of someone your own age on a rainy day when there seemed to be nothing to do. There are three other children in this household. Go find one of them and engage him or her in play. Because guess what? I am not going to play with you. Not Clue, not War, not Monopoly. Go find a sibling and ask them to play Clue or War or Monopoly with you. There’s no one to play with, my ass.  And no, you may not watch TV.

Phase 2: "UGGGGGHHHH I Don’t Want To Play With My Brother"

Yeah, see above. This gets a pretty high rating on my Tough Shit-O-Meter. Go find him and STFU. Of course, this is the phase that includes the most declarations that there’s nothing to do, and that they are so booooooooorrrrrred. They are never amused to hear my stories about being an only child and not even having anyone to not want to play with. It’s usually these stories that drive them away and push them into the next phase.  

Phase 3: The Picking Stage

Having been thrown together in an unwelcome partnership, one child decides that, fine, I will amuse myself with this sibling. He generally begins by picking at, pestering, or otherwise bugging the child he’s been sent to play with. (I’m using the male pronoun across the board here, because with three boys and a girl, in every combination of my children, at least one of them has to be a boy.)  It might be toy taking, teasing, or poking/prodding type behavior, but whatever it is, it causes the other child to become highly agitated. It’s not quite what I had in mind, but it occupies one of them. The other one spends the whole time yelling “STOOOOOOPPPPPPPUUUUUHHHHH!” This phase lasts for anywhere from ten minutes to forever.

Phase 4: The Playing Stage

At some point, they make a peace of sorts, and work out an activity that’s amenable to both parties. Lots of times the poking/prodding behavior becomes more mutual, and they end up in wrestling matches, usually in my living room. This does not thrill me for many reasons—the fireplace/hearth in the living room being a perfect surface for head smashing, the lamps being perfect for knocking over and breaking, the fact that they’re so fucking loud about it—and I end up banishing them to the basement or outside. Still, playing is playing and I am grateful for the consensual interaction. The only downside is that this phase has an uncertain duration. They may play together nicely for an hour or more. Or it may last only six minutes. In either case, it’s inevitably followed by…

Phase 5: The Attempted Murder Stage

Sooner or later, someone takes a liberty in the game. Someone oversteps their bounds, usually physically. These are boys (and one girl with three older brothers) after all—it’s almost always a push or a shove or a trip or some other form of perceived physical abuse. The victim always swears it was, “on purpose!” and, “for no reason whatsoever!” the abuser always claims repeatedly that it was, “on accident!” Either way, the victim inevitably accuses his sibling of trying to kill him. Oh yes, that’s right—he was hoping that he’d step on your foot, injure a toenail that would become infected, and cause your death by sepsis. Give me a fucking break. I’d say 90% of the time, the initial injury inflicted is in fact an accident. It’s a seven- or nine- or eleven-year-old who gets too enthusiastic in his play and accidently hurts the other person. But that doesn’t stop them from moving to the next phase.

Phase 6: The Revenge + Tattling Phase

Now that one person feels they’ve been abused, the gloves are off. They do what they can to harm one another, each feeling that they’re entitled to retribution for the wrongs done them by the other. They never try to hurt each other seriously (I would assume if they really wanted to cause serious harm that they’d just beat each other with one of our many baseball bats). It’s always small, stupid things. But with each offense comes a tattle. “He hit me!” “He threw the airplane right at my face!” “She pushed me off the chair!” Oh for fuck’s sake. My reaction to this is usually to dismiss them initially, then when they start getting to a point when they’re mad enough that they might genuinely hurt one another, I’m forced to separate them. And so, we transition to another phase.

Phase 7: The Time Out Stage

Usually they get sent to their room in an effort to put an end to Phase 6. It’s not really intended as a time out per se, because a time out in my mind implies a disciplinary measure that forces them to stop everything, sit quietly, and reflect on their choices. Sending them to their room—where, yes, they have toys and books and other amusements—is intended only to redirect them, and physically distance them from one another. Sometimes the tactic will be dividing the four of them among the two parents, separating the most recently acrimonious pair. My husband will take two of them to Home Depot, for instance, and I’ll take two of them to the library. Either way, they find a new focus, and are removed from the presence of the child with whom they were most recently doing battle, even if it’s for only a short time. Eventually the time out or errand comes to an end, and they are once again drifting through the kitchen, pestering me while I’m trying to do important things (like write a goddamned blog post, for the love of biscuits) and they start all over again.

“There’s no one to play with!”

Fuck. Me.

Note: I do play with them sometimes, of course. It’s not that I don’t want to interact with my children. But roughly half the times when they ask me to play, I genuinely can’t because some chore or task that is integral to keeping our household functioning requires my attention.

If the Shirt Fits...

I know teachers aren’t fazed by much that kids come up with. If they’ve been teachers for any length of time, they’ve probably seen just about everything there is to see. Be that as it may, I still feel a twinge when I realize I’ve sent my daughter off to school without brushing her hair. For the third day in a row. To counter this, I’m thinking of coming up with a new line of t-shirts, or possibly stickers that could be stuck on kids without their knowledge, with explanations that will cover for me on days when I’m sure the teacher is compiling notes to pass along to CPS, and it looks like today’s transgressions might seal the deal.

The first one in my line is for my daughter and others like her. It will say “I refuse to let my parents brush my hair.” This will go a long way toward explaining the snarls and mats. Beyond hating to have her hair brushed, my daughter loves hats and hoods. She won a polyester hat (at the fucking carnival) that looks like the face of a cow, with two long flaps that hang down over her ears. She wears this hat day and night. She sleeps in it, she wears it to school. The only reason she takes it off is for baths, and then under protest, so you can bet taking it off so I can brush her hair isn’t a priority. Plus wearing a hat or hood causes hair to snarl up and get ratty, and since she won’t let me brush it, that just makes things worse.

The next one will also be for my daughter, but also for slightly younger kids. We’ve all seen kids in outfits that were clearly of their own design and consist of Ninjago pajamas, a tutu and three winter scarves (and maybe a hat that looks like the face of a cow) or whatever. Or little girls who insist on wearing their Snow White dresses everywhere, including the pool. But not all adults realize that these outfits stem from equal parts stubbornness (on the part of the child), and exhaustion and a reluctant acceptance that defeat is the only option (on the part of the parent). While it might be a challenge to get them to put them on, for these kids I would offer a shirt that reads “My mother thinks this outfit is as strange as you do.” They’d have to be in fantastic patterns or insane colors so that kids would be inclined to include them in their sartorial repertoire. I suspect this would also be a big seller in a large sticker that could be stuck on their backs as they were walking out the door (“Hurry along, little Kyndle, we don’t want to be late” the parent would say, placing a sticker-covered hand gently between their shoulder blades).

Another one for younger kids that I wish I’d had when my children were small will be for those times when their outfit is bizarre or inappropriate, but not because of the ramrod will of a four year old determined to wear his or her “favorite shirt” for the 15^th day in a row. This is for those times when a child is dressed by his or her father, and that father happens to be one of “those” fathers. I don’t want to generalize—not all fathers have strange ideas about what constitutes an “outfit.” Some recognize that a child who is wearing a bathing suit and mittens is not a child who is wearing an ensemble fit for an audience with the Queen (or even a day at preschool), even if they do happen to be wearing matching socks. I’m fairly sure that 80% of the time my husband was in charge of dressing our children they were decently covered in something that didn’t look like he’d upended the dirty clothes hamper over their heads and called it a day. But for those days that missed the mark, I would have liked to be able to have them walk around with the disclaimer, “My daddy dressed me today” somewhere on their person.

Beyond their appearance, I worry about the things that might come out of my kids’ mouths. I am no saint when it comes to my language, I freely admit this. I have been known to describe myself as sounding like a drunk longshoreman with Tourette’s syndrome (note: I am not a longshoreman, and I have not been diagnosed with Tourette’s syndrome). As you may have noticed, I use the word “fuck” the way the English language uses the letter “e” (which is to say, often, and with enthusiasm). But I don’t talk like that in front of my children. My children might occasionally hear, “What the hell is going on here?” or “Go brush your damn teeth right now!” But these are in extreme circumstances, like when my oldest son knocked out his little sister’s front tooth that wasn’t ready to come out and a Niagara Falls of blood was the result, or when I’ve sent them to brush their teeth five times and they’ve lied to me all five times. Then, yes, I use a mild swear word (mild: damn, hell, bastard; serious: shit, fuck, asshole).

But apparently they hear this sort of thing somewhere. I assume from kids who have older siblings. That’s where I picked up all my cuss words. Thank goodness for Ashely Templeton whose older sister taught her all the bad words, and she taught them to me. As we all know, that’s where that kind of thing often comes from, even when they’re very young. When my daughter was a toddler, there was another girl in her room at daycare who had a 19 year old brother. When nap time rolled around, and she didn’t feel like napping, she was known to sit on her mat and yell, “Fuckin’ bullshit! Fuckin’ bullshit!” in protest. I’m fairly confident her mother wasn’t the source that.

And sometimes it’s not even swear words, but potty stuff or goofy stuff. One of my twins has been calling his siblings “nose hair” in fits of frustration (“No, that’s MINE! Give it back, nose hair!”). My daughter went through a phase where she called everything “suckers.” (“Oh look I dropped those suckers. I better pick those suckers up.”)

However, as a parent, I never want the school staff to think they incorporate those words into their vocabularies because of exposure to them at home. So I would sell a shirt that said, “My mother doesn’t know where I pick these things up either.” An alternative for kids with older siblings would say, “I get my vocabulary from my older brother/sister.” That one’s a little sketchy, I suppose, because the teachers may simply assume that the older sibling is learning from the parents, and passing it on. Still, I’m hoping the teachers assume that the older kid picked this sort of thing up on the streets and taught it to the younger kids, since that's probably the reality.

So that’s my idea for a kids’ clothing line. I think it’s highly functional, and that parents would benefit from it. As I said, a few of them would need to be offered in sticker form as well as on shirts. They’d make great birthday presents (for the parents’ birthdays, of course), and I bet they’d be hot for back to school. Then I could go to parent/teacher conferences and not feel like I need to spend the first ten minutes explaining why my daughter’s hair looks like she was fathered by a reggae singer, and that her gutter mouth is not my fucking fault.

Get to Work

A couple of months ago we decided it was time our children had some regular chores. Up to that point, we’d forced them to help out sporadically, usually with the same result: they’d grudgingly do what we asked badly, and we’d have to do it after them. This time we decided to insist that they contribute to their own maintenance. Normally I’d muck out their rooms once a year, when my husband took them on a Boy Scout family camping trip over Memorial Day weekend. I’d drag everything out from under their beds, and everything they’d jammed in their closets in the last 364 days, and get rid of the garbage and the cheap ass fucking carnival stuffed animals. You know the ones—shit like a stuffed banana made out of crappy polyester that, had they seen it in the garbage, they would declare their favorite stuffed animal ever and oh my god how could I be so cruel as to throw it out?!?!? You know, the one they didn’t even miss when I actually did throw it out over Memorial Day weekend last year? Yeah, that one.

That used to take me all three days of the long weekend, and it was painful. So now they were instructed that they were going to have to muck out their own rooms weekly, and I would get to spend Memorial Day weekend drinking Mai Tais and having my nails done or, you know, cleaning the rest of the house. I made up a checklist and printed out copies. Each one has the same thing on it: remove the sheet from your bed, take it and all dirty clothes to the laundry room, put a new sheet on the bed, pick up all stuffed animals, pick up and vacuum one room (living room, dining room, mudroom/kitchen or hall), and a couple of lines for ad hoc write-in stuff. Each item has a check box so they can keep track of what they’ve done. Chore time is around 9 a.m. on either Saturday or Sunday (sometimes their sporting events interfere with the Saturday window).

The first two or three weeks went pretty well. It was a new thing, and they felt a sense of accomplishment when they were done. Then the novelty wore off, and that sense of accomplishment wasn’t sufficient to counter the drudgery of actually doing the chores. Congratulations, kids: you’re now prepared for life. These days they go to their rooms, ostensibly to do their chores, but they whine and fight and do everything but pick up their rooms. I think they may actually drag stuff out and make a bigger mess. So we have to ride their asses and make sure they’re making progress. I say “we,” but I think we all know who “we” is. Because interestingly, there always seem to be several “outdoor” tasks that become super ultra high priority and require my husband’s immediate attention as soon as the kids are sent off to do their weekly jobs. But, you know, I get it—those cardboard boxes aren’t going to break themselves down, y’all.

And of course, I hear how mean I am. This weekend my insistence that they pick up and vacuum a single room on the main level was labeled “child abuse,” and “forced slave labor.” I was declared to be the meanest, worst mom ever. (Two superlatives at once; you can imagine my pride.) I pointed out that I do every other fucking thing—the laundry, the cooking, the bathrooms. I suggested that if they were so unhappy about vacuuming the living room, they were more than welcome to clean the toilets. This was met with eye rolls, of course. It’s their most highly developed skill.

I’ve tried a reward system, but it kind of backfired. One week I was planning to run some errands (interesting errands, not just the grocery store, so they all wanted to go) and I said I would take two kids along. Whoever finished first would get to come with me. Problem number one is that of course we only have one vacuum cleaner, so whoever got the vacuum first was going to finish first. Problem number two was that my daughter stopped working entirely, crawled under a blanket on the floor of her bedroom, and started crying. When I finally pried out of her why she was crying, it turned out that she really, really wanted to come with me, just to spend some time with Mommy. This is a radical change from even a couple of months ago, when I would be leaving the house in the morning and would say, “Do you want a hug and a kiss?” and she’d think about it for a second and go, “Nah.” So the fact that she wanted to come with me was odd (although not unwelcome), and she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to finish in time to get her choice. Result: tears. So that kinda sucked (she got to go with me, even though she wasn’t the first one done).

These are tasks for which they do not get paid. I’ve had this debate with other parents, asking opinions on if they should get an allowance for maintenance work. I’m on the fence—I think about the “real world” that they’ll have to live in one day, and no one is going to give them a medal when they empty the fucking dishwasher and change their sheets. On the other hand, when you go to work you do get paid for your contribution to the overall success of the organization, and contributing to the success of the organization is what I’m asking them to do in this case. So for now they don’t get paid for making their beds and picking up their clothes, but they do for cleaning windows and dusting baseboards (I hate dusting baseboards, and they’re closer to the ground. They can do it, and I’ll give them a buck for it).

There is a downside to having them pull their own weight, and that is that I can’t get rid of the crap as easily. When I was doing it over Memorial Day weekends, I’d just dig everything out and make a big pile in the middle of the room. Then I’d pluck out the things that were just garbage, like all the stupid plastic slinkies from birthday party goody bags (have you read Kristin’s rant about goody bags? You should. Go ahead. I’ll wait), the aforementioned crap stuffed animals, random bits of unidentifiable toy (I don’t understand—I have some awareness of every toy that enters our house, one way or another, and yet I’m constantly finding little pieces of shit that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before; how is this possible? And what the hell are they?), and other precious gems that they would clutch to their bosom and shriek in outrage if they thought I was even suggesting that we get rid of it. I’ll just have to go into stealth mode to get rid of whatever replaces the stuffed banana.

Wallowing in Their Own Filth

Can someone explain to me the aversion children have for cleanliness? It seems that my children are not just oblivious to dirt, but actually actively dislike the concept of cleaning, be it themselves, spaces, or inanimate objects.

When I was a child, I don’t recall being particularly violently opposed to the habits of personal hygiene. I didn’t squawk about baths, and my parents didn’t have to threaten me with dire consequences to get me to brush my teeth. Or, you know, shit, maybe they did and I just don’t remember it. I do remember my father monitoring my tooth brushing a few times, but in my mind it was more of a tutorial than strong arming me into doing it.

My children, however, actively protest any behavior that relates to keeping them even moderately sanitary. If they had it their way, they would stink, be filthy, and have rotting cadaver breath. They would wear the same clothes for days on end, and in their bedrooms it would appear as though we had chosen a product called “sweat pants and cartoon character shirts” as a floor covering.

Two of them will willingly take a bath as long as I a) let them in the tub together, b) let them use my “big” (soaking) bathtub and c) provide them with 7-10 gallons of foaming soap each to spray on each other and themselves (my daughter spends the entire time in the tub insisting, "I'm ELSA" and making Olaf out of the foam. Oh Frozen, will you never release your grip?). The other two I practically have to physically drag into the shower and hold there until the water washes away the fumes and my eyes stop tearing. Of course these are the two who are the most fragrant if they don’t bathe for a day.

Part of the reason they get so ripe is because they have favorite clothes that they’re loathe to remove from their person. Like ever. The oldest has been known to sleep in his clothes (changing into pajamas is so exhausting, y’all). My daughter regularly changes her favorite shirt (by which I mean she reevaluates her options and picks a new one, not that she removes the old one and puts on a new one. God forbid) and will wear the new favorite for as many days as I will let her. The problem is knowing what shirt she has on. She wears a sweatshirt almost constantly, with a t-shirt under it. It’s the t-shirt she won’t change. Sometimes I just have to guess: “You’re wearing the same shirt you had on yesterday, aren’t you? Go change it.” Her slightly defiant look, and hundred and eighty degree turn to stomp back upstairs are generally the only indication that I was right.

Getting them to change their underwear is a special struggle. Sometimes I have to stand there and watch them remove the old ones and pull on the new ones. Based on their expressions and the huffing and sighing that goes on during the process, I can only assume that changing their underwear is only slightly less physically and emotionally traumatic than pulling off their eyelids and putting on new ones.

Tooth brushing is another despised activity in my household. I suppose when I was a kid I didn’t feel like I had hideous breath when I woke up. Little did I know I was probably dead wrong, or I was if my own children are any indication. They will go to the most phenomenal lengths to not brush their teeth. I’ll send them back two or three times to do it, and each time they’ll lie and say they have, and I’ll check their teeth and, hey kids, the same brown shit that was on your teeth five minutes ago is still on your teeth, you did not fucking brush your teeth. And then I have to send them back to brush them again and it would be so much simpler and less of a waste of time for ALL of us if they’d just fucking brush their teeth the first time I sent them do to it. And they’re just fucking around—it’s not that they don’t like the toothpaste or don’t know how to do it. For whatever reason, they just don’t want to use a bristled implement and a flavored paste or gel to scrub the foulness off of their various oral protrusions so they don’t have breath that smells like rotten meat rolled in poo.

And their fingernails. One of them regularly comes home from school looking as though the extracurricular activity for the day was harvesting potatoes. The kid has so much soil under his fingernails, that’s the only conclusion I can draw. And when I insist on scrubbing it out, you’d think I was torturing him the way he carries on. It’s ten times worse if I actually insist on trimming his nails at the same time. You remember that scene in “Gone With The Wind,” when Scarlett is standing in the doorway when the doctor has to amputate the guy’s leg and there’s no anesthesia? That guy could take lessons on expressing excruciating pain from my kid having his nails trimmed.

I’m wondering how long it will be before I can look at them and not know the exact contents of their most recent meal or snack. Anything chocolate or tomato-based is particularly inclined to give them away. I’m having a hard time convincing them that it’s ok to wipe your face with a paper napkin. They are not a priceless commodity, nor treasured heirlooms that need to be preserved. Just use the damned napkin.

As a reformed slob (and not always a successfully reformed one) I’m willing to give them a pass on their rooms, up to a point. They have to put all dirty clothes in the laundry room once a week, change their sheets, and pick up all the stuff on the floor, but I don't give them too much grief about the condition of their rooms generally. The only thing I did insist on was that when we got the dog I told them if they wanted the dog to be allowed upstairs, they would have to keep their rooms immaculate, because he would chew and/or eat anything that was on the floor. In a decision that proves they carry more than a fragment of my genetic material, they decided that was way too big a pain in the ass, and the dog just wouldn’t be allowed above the main level of the house. Which is fine with me because there’s no dog hair up there, and as it is on the main level, I sweep up enough hair every other day to make another dog. I can’t understand why this creature isn’t bald by now.

I suppose one day they’ll discover the opposite sex, and then I’ll be sorry I wanted them so clean. They’ll lock themselves in the bathroom and take half hour long showers and I’ll have to listen to the fights about who’s been in the bathroom for how long and that they need to get out. I understand from friends with older kids that the boys will end up smelling like the entire Axe display. But I will say I won’t miss the constant struggle to get them to brush their teeth and change their underwear. The fact that these episodes always seem to happen in the morning is most unfortunate, because they are one of the main reasons that I drink. I think if I started drinking at 7:30 a.m., the neighbors would talk. More than they do now, I mean.