The G-Word?

Okay, I admit it, we're taking our 5 1/2 year-old to therapy. This isn't therapy like a box of tissues and "family of origin" issues (at least I would hope not yet). So far the therapist has met with hubby and I once, Charlie once, and me twice. Okay, I see where this is going.

First of all, since he was about 2 1/2 Charlie has had "behavioral issues." He's defiant, sometimes angry, contrary and grumpy. Sound familiar? Sounds like his mom! Anyway, the whole frustration came to a head in October when I went to his parent/teacher conference (my husband was out of town). Every conference we've ever had we have braced ourselves for the worst, expecting Charlie to be as much of a brat at school as he is at home. So we'd go into the conference and they'd tell us how great Charlie is, what a good listener, well-behaved. We'd look at each other like "Are we all talking about the same kid here?" The experts say as much trouble as your kid is at home, if he behaves at school, you're doing something right because he has developed a sense of comfort at home but has also learned the boundaries.

So in October I go into his first Pre-K parent/teacher conference. Our frustration with Charlie had been mounting since school had ended the year before, but I had the memory of the other conferences to soothe me. "He's fine, just a rebel like his mom." I mentioned to the teacher that we had been having trouble at home with Charlie and she confirmed that they had some of the same issues at school. I got a little worried. "Well," I said, fishing for some sort of reassurance, "we have been thinking of getting some professional help." The reassurance did not come. "I think that would be a good idea," was her response.

So, we are getting the professional help, sort of. To the tune of $160/hour, the therapist gave me the run-down of the standard parenting tricks. Time-out, taking away privileges, sticker charts, the whole nine. Finally, yesterday, after her fourth little suggestion I had to stop her. "I'm not trying to poo-poo everything you are saying," I said. "It's just that my husband and I are very educated people. We've read the parenting books. The standard fare does not work with this kid. If it did, we wouldn't be here." We agreed that my husband and I would return together the following week. By then the questionnaires would be returned from the teachers. We could go from there.

As I was leaving, I told the therapist I was confused (not really, as I mentioned, I see where this is going). She met with Charlie once. For 45 minutes they played chess with army guys. She was able to ask a few questions, and actually get a few answers before he said "Can we stop talking about this, please?" How could she possibly see what's wrong with Charlie?

Let me tell you where I think this is going...

1. It's all my fault. Hey, I watch Nanny 911. There are no bad kids, only bad parents. Mom needs to be more consistent, Mom needs to pay more attention to him, Mom needs to intervene when Charlie gets bored, Mom needs to get more involved at school.

2. Like me, my brothers, my sister and my husband, I think my child is brilliant. I think his brain is far more advanced than his emotions and he struggles for a balance. I think he's bored at school. I think he thinks we're all idiots. I think he does need more of my attention (please let me remind you, Dear Reader, that Charlie has two younger brothers), more consistency and most importantly, he needs challenged.

What's the g-word, you ask? Gifted. He fits the profile like a poster child. "Gifted." That term makes me laugh. I have learned that there have been tremendous strides in the understanding of the complicated needs of gifted kids since I flunked out of the "gifted" program when I was ten. You may think that this realization would bring us pride and hope. Nope. We are standing at the bottom of a tall mountain looking up. There will be summer homeschooling, enrichment classes, learning to help him deal with his anxiety, hand-picking of teachers. I am up to the challenge. But there is one thing that is going to turn our lives upside-down, but that will have to wait for the next installment when I breach the touchy subject (at least in my family) of Catholic School.

From the Mouths of Babes Part II

"You are louding my piece of quiet."

-Atticus C.

The Cliche #2: The Minivan

I've never been much of a believer in 'the car defines the person.' I have driven whatever was most practical, most of my life that meant some Japanese car with good gas mileage. By circumstance, after Atticus was born (my second child) I ended up driving a Ford Expedition, and Hubby took over my black Honda Accord. The Expedition was a good vehicle. I think I may have even used the four-wheel-drive a few times. It was big, but very easy to drive and park. We tend to drive cars into the ground, so I planned on driving it for a few more years, at least until the repairs cost more than just buying a new car. But then I got pregnant with number three.

What I like to call "The Great Minivan Debate" began the minute I saw two lines on the pregnancy test. Hubby's reasoning was that even though the Expedition did have a third row of seats, Charlie was not yet three, could not buckle himself in and out, so I would spend a lot of time crawling in the back to buckle him in. He made me talk to friends with minivans. He humored me, and we looked at a Volvo wagon and Chrystler Pacifica, both of which had the same issue as the Expedition: no easy access into the third row.

Then came the annual vacation to Hilton Head. "Wouldn't it be nice to have the in-car DVD player so we could drive straight through and keep the kids occupied?" Yeah. In addition, seeing as we had an 18-month-old and a 3 1/2-year-old at the time, we were schlepping strollers, booster seats, and the Pack-N-Play as well as luggage. So we took up my sister-in-law's offer to borrow her van for the trip.

Our experience with the van was great. Intellectually I appreciated the fact that it was so easy to get the kids in and out, it drove like a car, there was plenty of room for all our stuff, and of course, the dvd player. When we got back from vacation, however, and the conversation turned again to needing a new vehicle, I balked. I knew plenty of people who drove their kids around in cars or SUVs. Hmmm, but did I know anyone with three kids who did?

Now, my husband works in marketing for a large bank. He understands marketing, how it often appeals to the emotions, not the intellect. I know this too, but sometimes I actually fall for it. Nissan had a TV spot for the Quest that hit the nail on the head. A husband and wife were arguing about getting a minivan, and the ad implied that the compromise would be the COOL-LOOKING minivan, the Nissan Quest. Well, I was hooked. Even though I had owned a Honda since I first became a driver, we tooled right past the best-selling minivan in the world to the Nissan Quest because I wanted the cool-looking minivan. Hubby implored me to at least look at the Honda Oddyssey, but I insisted on the Quest.

Now it is two years later. I indeed have three children, and a minivan. I hate my minivan, but not for the reasons you would expect. It's fine, silver, looks pretty cool, and definately has the practicality I needed to make my life easier. The sliding doors are the best thing. I can open the doors from 30 feet away. I hate my minivan because the Nissan Quest has a TERRIBLE turning radius. If you investigate things like turning radius when you go to buy a car, more power to ya. The thought never crossed my mind. Not only is it difficult to park under normal situations, but it is scratched up both sides from hitting the sides of my garage opening as I try to park. We have exactly 20 feet from the garage to a fence, and the only way for me to park in the garage is to back in, and, well, if you knew me, backing is not my forte.

Last week I pulled into a parking spot at the gym. Then I backed out, straighened up, and pulled in again (this is standard protocol if the parking spots aren't angled). I cut the engine and turned to my left. Parked there was a beautiful, brand-new black Honda Oddyssey. Evidently it only took Honda one season longer than Nissan to adopt the "modern styling" for the minivan. As I got out of the car I noticed the woman driving the Oddysey was just getting in.

"Your van is beautiful." I called out.

"I love it," she called back. "I was so against getting a minivan, but then we looked at this one, and it was so cool-looking I was hooked. It's so convenient for the kids, and it's so easy to park."

Sigh.

A Nightmare for the Easily Overstimulated

Every Friday I pick up my nephew from Kindergarten so we can spend the afternoon with him. My nephew goes to a private school in the city, a very expensive private school with NO PARKING. I don't mean no parking like when my hubby says "there's no food in the fridge," I mean everyone parks on side streets. It's ridiculous on the best day. I park three to four blocks away, put the baby in the stroller, the other two holding on while we navigate a cracked and uneven sidewalk that is about 36 inches away from rushing traffic. The ridiculous turns into a nightmare when the weather is even the slightest inclimate. Today it was pouring down rain.

The trek to the school was trying:

"Mommy, why don't WE have an umbrella?"

"Because I only have two hands, and I have to push the stroller."

And then there's the dawdling. At what age to children actually understand the word "hurry?" And at what age do they understand that the more slowly they walk, the longer they will be in the pouring rain, and the wetter they will get?

Anyway, we get to the school, and, as usual, panic rises in my chest. It is a complete melee of children and adults and backpacks and strollers. I am able to spot my nephew in the crowd of kids in white shirts and navy blue pants, but I've got to get checked to make sure I'm on the list, which I am, and sign him out. Then I ask, "Xander, where is your coat and backpack?"

"Over there," he responds, pointing to a round table with no less than 50 coats and backpacks. I don't even know what his coat and backpack look like, and I have left my kids unsupervised in the hallway for many minutes. Just as I am allowing myself to fully experience physiological effects of overstimulation on my body, which comprise of complete inability to move and speak, I hear Xander call out "Here they are."

So now back out into the rain with four children this time. I have instructed the 3-year-old to hold on to the stroller, and the five-year-old and six-year-old to hold hands and walk in front of me. Again we navigate the treacherous sidewalk, again we have the dawdling (why am I the ownly grownup who has to keep yelling "Walk quickly?"), and by now the baby's legs are drenched (because he is in the seated position in the stroller) and the rain has soaked through my jacket at my shoulders. We are just about to the side street on which we are parked when a bus comes by, running through a puddle in the street, and in perfect Laurel and Hardy fashion, sends a spray of water all over us.

From the Mouths of Babes

Sunday morning, trying to grasp even an extra few minutes of sleep, we let the kids play in the study. When I got up and came downstairs, I noticed they had gotten into the packs of photos in the closet, more specifically, the photos of me in the operating room during my third c-section. If I had a choice, there would not exist photos of me in the operating room during my third c-section, let alone some of the pretty graphic ones my hubby took. But there are, and the kids got into them. I gathered them up, put them away, and we headed down to breakfast.

The fact that my children were not delivered vaginally has been explained to them. When explaining "how babies are born" we were always very straightforward about the preferred method and the method by which my three sons arrived on this earth.

Later that morning, when I was getting my three-year-old dressed he said to me "Mommy, you're so pretty" (for some reason, he says this all the time). Then he said "I love you because......(something unintelligible)." I said, "What?" And he repeated himself, and this time I understood...

"I love you because they had to cut us out of your belly."

What else can I say about that?

Quote of the Day

"Instead of needing lots of children, we need high-quality children."

Margaret Mead

The Cliche #1: Soccer Mom

Hey, I'm pretty hip. I am not stuck in the 80's. I listen to a wide range of music. I wear black almost every day. I know what it means to be "snarky." So... when my five-year-old (then four) started playing soccer, and my husband informed me I was officially a "soccer mom," I was in deep denial. He smirked and said "look at yourself." I was baffled as I stood there on a early Saturday morning, which a few short years prior had been solely dedicated to sleeping off the Friday night libation. I did look at myself. What's the big deal? I sat in my folding chair in my Juicy Couture sweatsuit, next to the double stroller containing my two youngest, chatting with friends and drinking Starbuck's coffee. What's the cliche in that? But that's not really what I'm here to tell you about.

If you have never seen 4 and 5 -year-olds playing soccer, you are missing out. It is a complete melee. Coach Patty, who has been our coach for two years, does not believe in teaching kids how to play, but would rather that they develop an "instinct" for the game. Well, I don't know about that, but I have certainly seen kids kicking the ball the wrong way, picking it up with their hands, and my personal favorite, collapsing onto the ground in a wrestling match as if this were the NHL. Actually, this is not what I am here to tell you about either.

With my husband away on business, I had the great priviledge to accompany my son to soccer practice. I bundled him up in his little shin guards and soccer cleats, and prepared myself for a nice 30-minute chat with the other parents while the kids ran themselves ragged. I could not have been more wrong. What my husband didn't tell me is that's it's parent participation soccer practice. There was goalie practice, Monkey in the Middle, and for me the most painful, Sharks and Minnows. This is me vs. Charlie and basically it's a free-for-all to go after the ball, the "shark" trying to get the ball from the "minnow." Charlie has greatly improved since last season, because he's got a pretty good kick. He hauled off, going for the ball, and jabbed that little soccer shoe right on my ankle bone, almost eliciting a tear.

Just as my own little rage against the cliche we listened to blink-182 all the way home.

The Worst Craft Ever

Just a quickie... my 3-year-old brought home a craft from preschool... I think it was supposed to be an acorn, but it was decorated with dryer lint. Dryer lint. I saw a hair in there and almost threw up in my mouth. LOL.

Noggin

Noggin has these little narratives before their shows begin explaining the benefits of the show. Here's what they have to say about Atticus's new obsession, "Go Diego, Go!":

Cognitive Skills - Science

• introduces facts about real animals and habitats
  
• encourages focus on specific details
  
• models careful observation and accurate naming and description of things observed
  
• encourages exploration of the relationship between animal characteristics and environment
  
• develops awareness of the diversity of living things
  
• models using technology such as computers and cameras for scientific observation and research
  

Language and Early Literacy Skills

• develops listening skills
  
• promotes familiarity with some Spanish words
  

Social and Emotional Development

• models cooperation
  
• models asking for help when needed
  
• models an attitude of helping others
  
• models respect for the environment

Wow! Well, here's what I have to say about the benefits of "Go Diego, Go!":

• Keeps my children occupied for 20 mins so I can get a shower

What the...

This is what my son looked like when my husband took him to run errands Saturday. In case the photo is not clear, that is his soccer shirt, he has his Spiderman boxers underneath, and those are his "brown shoes" with no socks. I am far from a control freak when it comes to what my kids wear, but COME ON!

Someone Please Explain Homeschooling

Ok, I'm sure this is going to get me in big trouble with the homeschooling contingent, and make it all the more clear to Dear Reader that I am just not cut out for this job, but here goes...

Homeschooling... I don't get it. Like wiping butts, cooking food, cleaning the sty, and entertaining the inmates doesn't take enough time out of the day, there are actually people who take on the responsibility of educating their children as well.

We live in a community with a sub-standard public school system, so for the most part, people who remain in our neighborhood after their children reach schoolage either homeschool or send their kids to private schools. We moved here knowing we would be part of the second group. One of the best Catholic gradeschools in the city is right across the street from my house.

My husband came up through Catholic schools, and attributes much of his success to that. Mind you, he went to one of the most prestegious college prep high schools in the midwest, St. Charles Preparatory High School. Thank God I have all boys because we would not know where to send a girl to high school since there is no equivalent school for girls in Columbus. But I digress.

I went to public high school, but not without cost. I spent the days of my early childhood in the city schools, but then came the concept of "busing." In the late 1970s, they decided that rather than kids in Columbus going to neighborhood schools, they would bus some of the white kids to the 'hood, and bus some of the black kids to the white neighborhoods. It still amazes me that it took them almost 20 years to realize forced desegregation doesn't change social ideas. Anyway, this "busing" concept forced a good number of middle class whites in Columbus out of the city to the surrounding suburbs. From the Wiki on White Flight: "...A similar 1977 Federal decision, Penick v The Columbus Board of Education, accelerated white flight from Columbus, Ohio to its suburbs." That included my family, as we moved to a town north of the city with its own school system. In that town "middle class" meant something completely different than we were used to. But again I digress.

Now, knowing the educational background of me and my husband, you can see why we are both baffled by homeschooling. To hubby, education is something you pay for, and for me, something provided by paying property taxes. And another thing... people are educated for many years to be qualified to teach my kids how to read. How could I possibly think I could do a better job? Heck, my middle kid knows his letters and can count to 20, not to mention, he knows how to spell O-H-I-O, and I have no idea how he learned this (he's three).

Maybe the moms who homeschool (I'm not being sexist here, I'm sure there are dads who homeschool, too) have a better relationship with their kids than I do. I mean everything, especially with my oldest (age 5) is a battle. I can't even imagine what will happen when we add on the homework factor. I shudder to think how it would go if I was the one who assigned the homework.

Busted!

Please refer to post "I Sassed the Parking Lot Attendant."

Today, pinned to every single kid's schoolbag was a note regarding the parking lot. An excerpt is as follows:
"It has been brought to our attention... that some parents... are not paying proper attention to the direction given by the individuals patrolling the parking lot."

Damn! I sassed the parking lot attendant and they killed a tree.

I Sassed the Parking Lot Attendant

A little background... when my oldest was three, there was a tragic accident in the parking lot of our pre-school. A four-year-old was backed over and killed. The most poignant thing that came out of it was that every single woman in our community was telling herself after that how easily either one of the moms (the one whose child died, and the one who ran him over) could have been ME. Almost three years later, I don't know anything about the driver, but the woman who lost her son (tough as nails chick, I know her) has since given birth to a baby girl (they had two other girls at the time of the accident).

Having said all that, after that accident they completely restructured the parking situation. One of the rules is that you don't pull into a spot where you have to back out. You pull through. You only come in one way, exit one way, they have two parking lot attendants (volunteers from the church, all older men) with whistles and light sticks. If you use your cell phone or sip your beverage in the parking lot you will get whistled at. I am proud to say I personally have never been whistled at.

I am usually early picking up my kids, but yesterday I was there right at 11:15 (pick-up time). There was not a spot to be found. I circled back out of the lot twice before parking in the very last spot, furthest from the school, rather than circle again.

A question that many people ask me is how I navigate a parking lot with three young kids. Well, I carry the baby in my left arm (I can physically manage that for 5-6 minutes, tops, before he starts to slide down my hip) then hold the hands of both older boys in my right hand. On a good day Charlie and Atticus do not kick each other or give each other flats on purpose, and Max does not bite my shoulder.

So, yesterday, after pick-up, we are doing this inelegant parking lot waltz the four miles out to my car, when I notice one of the old parking lot buzzards following me. We get to the car, and as I am yelling at the kids to get in their seats and buckling them in, the guy is pointing out all the scratches and dents on my car, advising me which could be buffed out, etc. Okay, irritation begins.

I move around to the driver's side to get in and the old buzzard follows me. Clearly at this point he is not following me to make idle chit-chat, so once I get in, I roll down the window to find out what he wanted to say, and this is how it went...

Old Guy: Can I give you a few parking tips? (oh, boy, here we go)
Me: Okay...
Old Guy: You know you are supposed to pull in so you don't have to back out?
Me: I don't have to back out. (points to the lack of car in front of me)
Old Guy: Well, that's just the rule.
Me: Okay.
Old Guy: And another tip, a way to get a good parking spot is to get here on time.
Me: (deep breath) I was here on time.
Old Guy: Well, just so long as you know the rule.
Me: Yes, I know the rule, and I purposely disobeyed the rule.

Later at home I mused to my husband that perhaps they'd kick the kids out of school because I sassed the parking lot buzzard. "No chance, " he replied, "tuition is paid up."

The Lunch Nazis

Ok, we've signed up our two pre-schoolers for "Lunch Bunch" which is once a week when they pack a lunch and stay at school and eat. Today in their schoolbags were the "guidelines" for packing a lunch. That in and of itself is ridiculous, I mean who can't pack a lunch for their kid? But it gets worse... there are two whole pages of guidelines. Here are some examples:

• "No peanuts or peanut butter" is mentioned no fewer than four times, either in bold, ALL CAPS, or BOTH.
  
• "Candy will be confiscated by the Lunch Bunch staff." I wonder if they have an evidence room containing all of the confiscated candy. If so, I'd like to know where it is, because after a morning of getting three young boys out of the house I could use some Pez.
• "State Licensing requires that all lunches, regardless of content, have an ice pack." Umm, not gonna happen.
• I have left the best for last. For those of us who are unable, by the time your children are age three, to provide them with a healthy lunch, they have provided a sample menu, including serving sizes. Gee, I hope there is not a quiz. I will let you know, however, in case as a parent you don't have enough to feel guilty about, that hot dogs and deli meat do not count in the "lean meat" category. I wonder if chicken nuggets do, because my kids eat them no less than 3 times a week.

How Did We Get Here?

At the time I weaned my third child six months ago, I had been pregnant or nursing for over five years. I'm not bragging, I'm just saying it lends insight into my mental state. There are a lot of other circumstances that lend insight into my mental state, but I'll save those for another time, hehe.

Stay-at-home-mom (SAHM), housewife, homemaker. None of those terms is very sexy. The job is not sexy. The job I had before I was a mom was sexy. I was in inventory control in the buying office for Victoria's Secret Stores. Yes, I worked in an office where photos of half-naked women were everywhere, and to find a bra on my male bosses desk was commonplace. I was concerned with terms like "trend" and "stock-to-sales." I could spin a sales story with the best of them. I helped develop a fashion allocation system, and invented a process of sales projection utilizing historical sales by store/sku, which was unheardof at the time in the retail industry. I traveled to New York, California, and Miami regularly.

When I was 27, we decided it was good time to have a kid. Everyone else was doing it, we knew we didn't want to grow old kidless, so we decided to "try." Four years later we were still "trying." The turning point came one winter night when my spouse was in New York and I sat in my bedroom, needle grasped tightly in my fist, telling myself I would plunge the intra-muscular injection into my thigh at the count of three. I counted to three for three hours that night before actually stabbing myself. But a month later a little heartbeat was on the ultrasound. Our "little miracle" was on the way.

It was all downhill from there. Fertility was never an issue again, actually quite the opposite. My boys are each spaced 22 months apart. All three were born via c-section. #1 was an emergency because his heartrate dropped. So much for natural childbirth. I was told there was no reason to think there would be an issue the second time around, so we tried a VBAC. Atticus came out wounded and blue. Lowest APGAR scores a live birth can get. All's well that ends well, though. Obviously, Maxie was a scheduled c-section, and I was really hung up on the scheduled birthday. I just had them schedule it two weeks early. I went into labor the night before and the contractions were 3 mins apart two hours before the surgery was scheduled. So he picked his own birthday anyway. Like I said, all's well that ends well.

Me and My Peops

Who am I? I am a thirty-something stay-at-home mom with four penises in my house, five if you count the dog. I am clearly outnumbered, but I actually don't mind. The Good Lord blessed me with three beautiful, healthy, bright, energetic boys, sparing me of all the mom-issues women have with their daughters. I mean, I come from a long line of women who grew up hating their mothers, and the buck stops here.

Who are my people? My spouse and I have been together for 17 years, married for 13. He's a self-made man... grew up in the 'hood, actually several of them. Worked his way through private high school, put himself through college with no loans, and worked his way up in the banking industry. To quote him, he has more now than he ever thought he would have growing up, so what's there not to be happy about?

Kid #1, Charlie, aged 5. Kid #2, Atticus, aged 3. Kid #3, Max, aged 18 months. All I can say is that I don't know how three kids made up of the same basis for DNA could be any more different.

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