Peaches and Curry

"Politically correct." One of my favorite terms. Is it "black" or "African American?" My brother-in-law has black skin but he is not of African descent. His mother was born in Dominica, he grew up in England, then served in the US Navy.

Since very early on Charlie has referred to African Americans or blacks or "people with skin like Uncle Colin" as "brown." He recently made a new friend at school, a brown boy named Benjamin. "Mom, if you see a boy with a blue shirt and brown skin, that's Benjamin." What was so funny about it is that they wear a uniform, and all the boys wear blue shirts. Recently Charlie got the esteemed 96 pack of crayons and discovered the various skin-toned crayons from burnt sienna, raw sienna, peach, apricot, tan, bittersweet and burnt orange. He pointed out last night that I am peach.

So, back to political correctness. It's no longer sitting "Indian style" it's "sit like a pretzel" or "criss-cross applesauce." You can't call anyone an "Indian giver," and don't get me started on "Smear the Queer."

On the way home from dinner out Mark mentioned that a man he works with asked if we were going to the India Festival, but he misspoke and called it the "Indian Festival."

Charlie, from the far back seat "Indian Festival, I want to go."

"It's not what you think, honey," I replied. "What you're thinking of are Native Americans, Indians are people from India."

"Yes, not like cowboys and Indians, like you're thinking," my husband added. "Native Americans are the people who lived here when the Europeans came. The Indians we're talking about come from a country called India."

"So they don't go woo woo woo woo woo?" Making a circle with his lips and patting it with his hand (you all know what I am taking about).

"No," Mark replied. "They're really quiet and sit at desks in front of computers."

Hey Diddle Diddle

For those of you keeping up, this Sunday Charlie's second fiddle lesson was scheduled. He gave me a bunch of crap about not wanting to go, that he wanted to quit. I thought about it and said, "Ok, we'll quit." He followed me into the living room, and said "Mommy, you look mad." I told him I wasn't mad, I was sad and that I didn't want him to keeping doing it just because I wanted him to. He ran out the back door yelling gleefully "Daddy, I'm going to quit!"

The teacher has still not called me back to send me a refund.

A Benefit of Thumb-Sucking

Yesterday, we were leaving the gym, I was of course doing five things at once, and Max ran like a bullet to the "grownup area" where the people were on the treadmills and elliptical machines. He ran so fast I had to run to catch up with him and grabbed his arm. How many times a day does a mom of a two-year-old have to do this? Well, while we were walking out to the car, I was holding his hand and he kept saying "ow."

When we got to the car, he was holding his arm limp. When I told him to squeeze my finger he squeezed it with the other hand. I was a little suspicious, so I gave him a train to play with and he played with it with one arm. I bribed him: "If you squeeze Mommy's hand you can have a pop-pop (our family's version of "lollipop.") He said "Ok," then squeezed with the other hand. I started thinking maybe I had broken his arm. I remained calm. I called the family doctor and told the nurse "I have a 2 1/2-year-old and he says his arm hurts, but I don't know if it does, or if he's just being 2 1/2." I was hoping the doctor would say "Bring him in and we'll check it out," but no. The answer was "Kids this age don't fake these things, take him to the ER."

Knowing it could be a long wait I picked up Wendy's and headed to the nearest hospital (only five minutes away.) On the way I called my husband and said "I may have broken Max's arm," and he said "I'm coming." I felt like telling him not to come, because I was not freaking out, but I have told him not to come many times and it has not been good.

We got to the ER, and he was the talk of the town. It's not a children's hospital, so nurses from all over the floor came to see him. The triage doctor came in and of course called for and x-ray. When everything sort of calmed down and we were sitting there waiting for the x-ray, and two minutes before my husband walked in, Max decided to sucked his thumb. Yes, the same thumb of the injured arm. I looked at the nurse as if to say "Do you see this?" She just smiled. Then he hopped off my lap, and jumped into daddy's arms, then started to dance. When I asked him about his arm, he said "Hurt all gone."

I am not a hypochondriac. My kid's arm was jacked up. Other people witnessed this. They took him in for x-ray anyway, and of course the arm was not broken. he most likely had something called "Nursemaid's Elbow" where the elbow gets a little bit dislocated and all they do to fix it is turn the hand palm-up and bring it up toward their face. Well, evidently he relocated it himself when he sucked his thumb.

The more people I talk to about this, I realize how common it is. If I had known this, I would have said to him, "I'll give you a pop-pop if you suck your thumb."

Suzuki Mom No More

I had been considering changing Charlie to a different Suzuki School for violin. Our present school was not convenient and I really did not like the director (see my previous post Cranky Suzuki Mom).

So I called another Suzuki School I had heard good things about. I emailed the director, she seemed really nice. They expected me to buy an electronic tuner, but that was fine. They were a little more expensive, but that was ok, too. I emailed the individual instructor the director suggested and found out she had a "keyboard requirement." This means the kids have to learn keyboard as they learn violin. Ok, to me, that's a bit much. It's hard enough to get Charlie to practice violin twice a week let alone throwing in keyboard. Not to mention I'd have to buy a keyboard. I emailed the director back and asked for a recommendation for another individual instructor who did not have a keyboard requirement (which she had offered up front to do anyway). At that point I got an email scolding about how the teacher she had recommended was the founder of the school, and students are lucky to be able to train with her.

Not long after this transpired a woman from our present school called asking for my email address. I told her "Well, we are changing Suzuki schools."

"Really, why?"

"Um, er, well, um, to be perfectly honest..."

"Yes?"

"I don't like the was Ginny interacts with my kid."

"Well, my son is in Book 4, and I have found Ginny to be very patient with him."

"Huh."

"I commiserate with other Suzuki Moms all the time. It's hard. It's not just music training, it's a parenting style."

Something clicked in my head. Something that had been bubbling just under the surface for a while. I don't know why it takes me so long to come to terms with things. I had been forcing myself, and more importantly, Charlie into a situation that was no fun. I mean, if it stressed me out, it had to be why he hated it.

"Well," I said. "I believe it may conflict with my parenting style."

I emailed the director of our school that day to tell her we were quitting. I emailed the woman from the other school and told her we were no longer interested. Nobody emailed me back. Nobody asked why.

The last chapter of this tale is I found Charlie a fiddle instructor. She didn't really mind how he held the bow. She let him sit down when he played. He's already learned the first two lines of "Bile Them Cabbage Down." The second line, I might add by ear.

I don't know if he's going to stick with it. He still complains about it, but we actually got through one thirty minute practice session Tuesday. He says he wants to quit, yet in the same breath says "When I get good, I will be able to play real fast."

For more information, read the Wiki on Suzuki Method.

Cookies or Cereal?

Charlie was walking out the door to play.

"Oreo, Mom."

"Oreo?"

"Yeah, that's goodbye."

"Don't you mean Adios?"

"No, oreo, it's goodbye in England."

The King

Yesterday Charlie asked me why it's good to be the king. What six-year-old asks such questions? Mine, I guess. I told him it's because traditionally the king has lots of money and jewels and gets to boss people around.

He thought about that for a minute, I could see the wheels turning in his head. "What about the queen, if she asks people for stuff do they bring it?"

"Yes," I said.

"So it's good to be the queen too?"

"I suppose so, but she doesn't get to boss people around as much."

"What if there is no king?"

"Then the queen is in charge, but usually the queen refers to the king's wife."

"What if the queen has a husband, is he the king?"

I'm getting a little tired, but Charlie isn't. He has much greater stamina for these things. "If the queen has a husband, he's a prince."

"Why do you call us princes, then?"

This too complicated, even for me. "Because you are special," I responded.

Not The Soft Shoe

Not too long ago we purchased a beautiful 37 inch LCD television. we did our research and for our viewing conditions (a lot of backlight and viewing from the side) LCD was better than plasma, and of course, also more expensive. Personally, I think it's a little silly. First of all, we are sitting ten feet from the thing at the farthest, so the size just seems ridiculous to me. Secondly, since there are only a handful of channels that broadcast in high-definition, what's the point? Having said that, ESPN is just such a channel, and it is pretty weird to be able to see the blades of grass when watching a golf tournament.

Well, we instituted a No Throwing Anything Ever rule. In the past soft balls and stuffed animals were ok, but now the game has changed. It is, after all, an LCD screen, just like on your laptop computer. You wouldn't throw a Transformer at your computer.

Several months passed and for the most part the kids were re-trained to the No Throwing Anything Ever rule. Then one day, while I was sitting on the toilet, Atticus (then 3 1/2) came sheepishly in (evidently we have an open-door policy) and said "I am sorry I jacked up the TV, Mommy."

"What do you mean, jacked up the TV!?!?" I finished and ran downstairs. I stared. I couldn't believe it. The liquid crystal behind the clear film had shattered like glass. "WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!?!?" I repeated over and over until I almost hyperventilated.
Atticus very quietly replied "I didn't like Dora any more, so I threw my shoe."
"YOU THREW A SHOE!?!?!" I screamed. Go to your room. They never go to their room when I tell them to, but this time he did, and did so quickly.

I called my husband. How was he going to take the news that his baby was destroyed?
"The TV is dead, I cried into the phone, Atticus threw a shoe."
"He threw a shoe?!?! What was he thinking?"
"He didn't like Dora any more."
"What were you doing?"
"Pooping."

Later that night, Mark and I had a talk. He told me it was no big deal. He told me when I first called he thought someone was hurt. Then he told me his father had such a thing for his electronics: TVs, guitars, stereos, that Mark said sometimes he felt like his dad loved his stuff more than his kids. He said he didn't want to be like that.

In the next few days I made some calls. First I called the insurance company to see if it was covered. "No," my agent said. "With the policy you have it's not covered. Now, if he had thrown a shoe at your neighbors TV..."

Then I called the place where we bought the TV, and bought an extended warranty to see if it was covered. "No," the man said, "not for accidental damage. Now if a tree had fallen on your TV..."

Then I called the credit card company to see if they covered it. "No," the person said. I expected no less at that point.

Then I called Sony to see if we could get the screen replaced. To replace the screen would cost more than to replace the TV.

We watched it broken for a few weeks. The cracks creeped further and further until we could watch it no more. Sadly, we had no choice but to take it to the curb. Within five minutes there was a knock on the door. "Are you really throwing that TV away?" a woman asked. "Yes," I replied, "but trust me, it's not watchable and the screen is not replaceable." They took it anyway.

Several months later, just before football season, having been watching our old 24 inch TV had we had dragged from the basement, we decided to purchase a new TV. We went to Circuit City on a Saturday night (big mistake) and I was trying to keep three boys rounded up and stop then from destroying electronic devices while Mark talked to the sales girl. He had just about decided again on LCD. I walked up and said "What if a child were to throw, say, a shoe at a plasma TV?" "Nothing," she replied, "the screen is three layer of glass." Mark and I looked at each other and and simultaneously said "We'll take plasma, then." Then Max came up behind me and accidentally dropped his toy onto an LCD TV on the lower shelf.

"Yes," Mark repeated, "plasma."