There's no talking to my children these days. Seriously, we can't have any sort of conversation without someone turning into an entitled little turd monkey.
Por ejemplo:
Today.
Doodlebug was upstairs. Boo was practicing her violin in her room, and Doodlebug was *supposed* to be cleaning his. In theory, of course. Instead, I heard the shriek of an indignant (and also constantly attitude-laden) girl. I called Doodlebug down and told him to stop messing with his sister. He said ok and promptly went back upstairs… to mess with his sister. I called him down a second time and told him to knock it off and enumerated a consequence if the behavior continued, specifically that he would be told to eat dinner and go to bed early. Because if he couldn't manage to control himself around people, it was a sign to me that he needed to go to bed so he couldn't be around anyone. Made sense to me, anyway. He said ok and promptly went back upstairs… to mess with his sister.
Argh.
So I called him down a THIRD time and told him the consequence was being enacted and to get dinner. He walked over to the fridge and stood there with the door hanging open. I told him to get food and get out, and in response he slammed the fridge door because heaven forbid we close a door with any sort of decency around here. I let it slide and told him to feed the animals while he thought about what food he wanted to eat, at which point in time he flopped himself on the floor like a 2-year-old. I told him to get moving.
So he grabbed the food bowls and hauled them to the laundry room, where he flung open the closet door and yanked out the cat food bag. I heard food fly and reminded him that he would need to clean up that food.
"It's FOUR pieces," he shot back. "Apparently I need to clean FOUR pieces."
"Yes, you do!"
"Mutter mutter mutter..." *cracks cat food can open and flops the lid on the dryer, where I know for a fact it's dripping wet cat food juice on the top*
"You'll need to clean up that mess, too, you know."
"THERE'S NO MESS. THAT'S FROM YESTERDAY."
"Well, if it's there from yesterday, clean it up!"
"I *WILL,* but I didn't make a mess!"
"As long as you clean it up! Just CLEAN IT UP."
"O-KAAAAY."
Silence.
I look over to see what he's doing and he's got a cat in his arms and is positioning it precisely two inches over the food bowl and holding it there. Cat torture. Awesome.
"DUDE!"
*jumps*
"I'm just getting him down!"
"Son, I've been watching you. You want me to do that to you??"
"No." *puts cat down*
"Then what on earth…???"
"He was trying to steal food and I was getting him down!"
"OK. Get the animals fed, and you can forget about having a proper dinner. You can have a banana or yogurt, take your shower, and GO TO BED. Since you can't quit messing with anything, apparently."
"But I didn't DO anything!!!"
Etc.
Etc.
Etc.
And after all that (and then some), there was, in fact, a mess from today's cat food can lid. Oz went in and saw it (because Doodlebug did not, in fact, clean up any of the FOUR pieces of cat food or yesterday's mess, despite his assurances that he would do so) and we had to call the boy back downstairs and get him to clean it, and then he started fighting with us again because we're just so mean for making him do something he'd said he'd do and we're just overreacting to his little white lie that there wasn't a mess today.
This scenario plays out, in various versions, half a dozen times every day, and while this particular version is about Doodlbug, Boo is not innocent. This morning she had a snark episode about French toast sticks for breakfast. Seriously. French toast sticks.
(For the record, the serving size is two sticks. There are six in a box. And two sticks is simply not enough breakfast and therefore, or so sayeth Boo, nobody will EAT the sticks because it's just not enough. My answer of just eating more sticks was apparently completely unexpected and unacceptable, and clearly I should never ever buy them again.)
I am ill-equipped to deal with these sorts of scenarios. I loathe attitude and disrespect in any way, shape or form. Oz is equally done with all of it.
Pretty sure our children won't see the other side of their teen years. Heck, they'll be lucky to see trick-or-treating tomorrow night.
Ugh.
Showing posts with label tweens. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tweens. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Dear Children,
Dear Children,
This is your mother speaking. You know, that insane person who runs around thinking she gets to tell you what to do because she pushed you out of her nether region? And yes, I just said Nether Region. I could have said Lady Garden. Or worse.
Quit covering your face, Doodlebug. It's not that bad.
Anyway, this letter is from that woman.
You are 11 going on Hellspawn and 8 going on Obnoxious. I can see the signs written in your blank stares and shrieks of agony when I speak to you, and I know that within the next year or two, everything I say is going to go in one ear and out the… excuse me. EXCUSE ME. HEY!! I'm talking to you!!
Dammit, let's start again.
----
ATTENTION, CHILDREN, THIS IS YOUR FOOD-GIVER SPEAKING.
Ahh, yes, that did the trick. Now, eyes on me and at least pretend to listen for the next 45 seconds, and then you can return to whatever electronic device you were staring at. Otherwise there will be no snack/FaceTime later, whichever consequence annoys you the most.
Got it?
Good.
OK. In the next few years, and this will probably start in the next few months, you will no longer wish to acknowledge my presence in public. In fact, you probably won't want to acknowledge my presence at home, either, but you certainly will never, ever want to go out in public with me, and you won't want anyone to know who it is in the SUV that's dropping you off at or picking you up from school, and quite frankly you'll probably prefer that I just drop you off at a friend's house each morning so you can pretend I don't exist at all.
Sadly, that is not how this is going to go down.
Here is what will happen as you get older:
I will expect things of you. This might - gasp! - include you doing chores. Do them, or there will be consequences. Everyone in this house does chores, including you. You are not special enough to escape the gravitational pull of chores. You are also NOT the only person in this world who has to do chores. Drama Girl, I'm looking at you.
If you eat it and finish it, throw away the empty container and add it to the grocery list. If you eat someone else's food that they bought for themselves or were given, they get to be mad at you. Hobbit Boy, this time I'm looking at you.
If you finish a toilet paper roll, replace it. Kleenex is not an acceptable substitute. Not wiping is not an acceptable substitute. Yes, you must flush the toilet. It is not a brain-eating monster. Believe me, at some point in your college years, it will probably be your best friend for an evening or two. However, if you flush something down the toilet - or sink - that shouldn't ever, ever be flushed or drained and clog my septic, you will explain to me, Daddy, and the plumbing company what it was and why you flushed it or you will pay the bill. Take your pick. This time you're both getting The Eye.
If you want to have friends over, I need to be able to see the floor in your room and the white in the toilet. I'm not asking for pristine; I'm asking for my house not to reek of sweat/hairspray/nail polish remover/pee/things I don't want to think about.
If you want to have friends over, take a shower. Otherwise you won't have any friends to invite. And by 'shower,' I don't mean squat over the drain like you live in a third-world country... Doodlebug. I mean stand up and actually wash yourself. With soap.
If these above things don't seem to be happening, I will be there. I will remind you. Things will disappear if they invade my space, and if you don't see them again, it's because they're in the nearby Goodwill store or landfill. Take your pick.
Just because you don't acknowledge me doesn't mean I don't exist.
Just because you don't acknowledge me doesn't mean I don't love you.
Because I do.
Love you.
And exist.
I will be a HORRIBLE, MEAN MOM. I will be the Gatekeeper of the Pantry. I will be the person you loathe with every cell in your being (and I'm pretty sure the air around you will vibrate with the intensity of your hate). I will be the person you rant about to your friends. Fine. We are a passionate family, and it may be a rocky road, but I'll be there with you. And even when you scream at me, yet again, that I'm a HORRIBLE, MEAN MOM but follow that up with, "Can I have a hug?" I will be there to say yes.
Because no matter what, you're my babies.
That came out of my nether regions.
*smile*
Love,
MOM
This is your mother speaking. You know, that insane person who runs around thinking she gets to tell you what to do because she pushed you out of her nether region? And yes, I just said Nether Region. I could have said Lady Garden. Or worse.
Quit covering your face, Doodlebug. It's not that bad.
Anyway, this letter is from that woman.
You are 11 going on Hellspawn and 8 going on Obnoxious. I can see the signs written in your blank stares and shrieks of agony when I speak to you, and I know that within the next year or two, everything I say is going to go in one ear and out the… excuse me. EXCUSE ME. HEY!! I'm talking to you!!
Dammit, let's start again.
----
ATTENTION, CHILDREN, THIS IS YOUR FOOD-GIVER SPEAKING.
Ahh, yes, that did the trick. Now, eyes on me and at least pretend to listen for the next 45 seconds, and then you can return to whatever electronic device you were staring at. Otherwise there will be no snack/FaceTime later, whichever consequence annoys you the most.
Got it?
Good.
OK. In the next few years, and this will probably start in the next few months, you will no longer wish to acknowledge my presence in public. In fact, you probably won't want to acknowledge my presence at home, either, but you certainly will never, ever want to go out in public with me, and you won't want anyone to know who it is in the SUV that's dropping you off at or picking you up from school, and quite frankly you'll probably prefer that I just drop you off at a friend's house each morning so you can pretend I don't exist at all.
Sadly, that is not how this is going to go down.
Here is what will happen as you get older:
I will expect things of you. This might - gasp! - include you doing chores. Do them, or there will be consequences. Everyone in this house does chores, including you. You are not special enough to escape the gravitational pull of chores. You are also NOT the only person in this world who has to do chores. Drama Girl, I'm looking at you.
If you eat it and finish it, throw away the empty container and add it to the grocery list. If you eat someone else's food that they bought for themselves or were given, they get to be mad at you. Hobbit Boy, this time I'm looking at you.
If you finish a toilet paper roll, replace it. Kleenex is not an acceptable substitute. Not wiping is not an acceptable substitute. Yes, you must flush the toilet. It is not a brain-eating monster. Believe me, at some point in your college years, it will probably be your best friend for an evening or two. However, if you flush something down the toilet - or sink - that shouldn't ever, ever be flushed or drained and clog my septic, you will explain to me, Daddy, and the plumbing company what it was and why you flushed it or you will pay the bill. Take your pick. This time you're both getting The Eye.
If you want to have friends over, I need to be able to see the floor in your room and the white in the toilet. I'm not asking for pristine; I'm asking for my house not to reek of sweat/hairspray/nail polish remover/pee/things I don't want to think about.
If you want to have friends over, take a shower. Otherwise you won't have any friends to invite. And by 'shower,' I don't mean squat over the drain like you live in a third-world country... Doodlebug. I mean stand up and actually wash yourself. With soap.
If these above things don't seem to be happening, I will be there. I will remind you. Things will disappear if they invade my space, and if you don't see them again, it's because they're in the nearby Goodwill store or landfill. Take your pick.
Just because you don't acknowledge me doesn't mean I don't exist.
Just because you don't acknowledge me doesn't mean I don't love you.
Because I do.
Love you.
And exist.
I will be a HORRIBLE, MEAN MOM. I will be the Gatekeeper of the Pantry. I will be the person you loathe with every cell in your being (and I'm pretty sure the air around you will vibrate with the intensity of your hate). I will be the person you rant about to your friends. Fine. We are a passionate family, and it may be a rocky road, but I'll be there with you. And even when you scream at me, yet again, that I'm a HORRIBLE, MEAN MOM but follow that up with, "Can I have a hug?" I will be there to say yes.
Because no matter what, you're my babies.
That came out of my nether regions.
*smile*
Love,
MOM
Friday, November 22, 2013
Making the Most of Moments
The days are coming when my children no longer wish to spend any time with me. I know this. And because of that, I try to make the most of the moments that we have together.
A few minutes ago, Doodlebug was sitting next to me. He swiped my iPad and was taking (and editing) pictures of himself. I won't give him the password, so he couldn't do anything else, but he was making the most of his time and abilities to do what he could with what he had. One day earlier this week he tried to curl up on my lap - all 5'4" and 108 lbs. of him. I thought about kicking him off because OMG NUMB LEGS but then realized that he's 11 and soon will realize that cuddling up on mom's lap is either A) impossible or B) gross, so I held him and rocked him and remembered back to the time when he fit in the crook of my arm and loved the fact that even being this much bigger, he still likes my lap.
I strongly suspect that he and Boo will hit puberty together. This makes my moments with her precious, too. She's spent a lot of time this week fighting everything I say with all her might. A couple days ago, she was fighting me so often and so hard that when I graded her math paper and wrote 95% on it, she decided my '5' looked more like an 'S' and felt the need to draw a line through my five and write a big, giant, blocked 5 underneath, just so I would know what it should look like. Juvenile? Yes… but then, she is one. So I kept my adult mouth shut. Right before lunch that day, she burst into tears. She had no idea why she'd been fighting me so much all morning, and quite frankly, the tension that she'd caused between herself and me had stressed her out so much that it had culminated in the tears that were now streaming down her cheeks. She needed to cuddle.
The kids get up in the morning and fight. They're upstairs now, fighting because Doodlebug barged into the bathroom in order to scare his sister. The fighting seems constant. Annoying. Useless. But a small part of me relishes it because the day is coming when they probably won't even speak to one another because they'll both be too busy texting friends or rushing from school work to jobs to extracurriculars to social engagements. The noise is obnoxious, but silence isn't always golden, either.
Their Christmas lists get smaller each year. The requests change a little, but mostly they get more expensive. This year the boy is gunning for an iPad (not a chance this side of Hades - he can't even be responsible with a Kindle Fire, so there's no way he's getting anything else), and the girl wants a sewing machine (we'll see). I've been handing them any Christmas catalogs that come in, letting them circle the things they want. I've ordered little things for them. I could have passed on these ideas to others, but I'm selfish - I want to get them the things they want and let others get them the gift cards that will become a standby soon enough.
Sometimes when I tuck the kids into bed, they want to hug… and hug… hug. And I do that, too, because right now, they want to hold on to me. They want to hold on. To me. And I want to hold on, too. These years and weeks and days and hours are fleeting. I have to make the most of it.
A few minutes ago, Doodlebug was sitting next to me. He swiped my iPad and was taking (and editing) pictures of himself. I won't give him the password, so he couldn't do anything else, but he was making the most of his time and abilities to do what he could with what he had. One day earlier this week he tried to curl up on my lap - all 5'4" and 108 lbs. of him. I thought about kicking him off because OMG NUMB LEGS but then realized that he's 11 and soon will realize that cuddling up on mom's lap is either A) impossible or B) gross, so I held him and rocked him and remembered back to the time when he fit in the crook of my arm and loved the fact that even being this much bigger, he still likes my lap.
I strongly suspect that he and Boo will hit puberty together. This makes my moments with her precious, too. She's spent a lot of time this week fighting everything I say with all her might. A couple days ago, she was fighting me so often and so hard that when I graded her math paper and wrote 95% on it, she decided my '5' looked more like an 'S' and felt the need to draw a line through my five and write a big, giant, blocked 5 underneath, just so I would know what it should look like. Juvenile? Yes… but then, she is one. So I kept my adult mouth shut. Right before lunch that day, she burst into tears. She had no idea why she'd been fighting me so much all morning, and quite frankly, the tension that she'd caused between herself and me had stressed her out so much that it had culminated in the tears that were now streaming down her cheeks. She needed to cuddle.
The kids get up in the morning and fight. They're upstairs now, fighting because Doodlebug barged into the bathroom in order to scare his sister. The fighting seems constant. Annoying. Useless. But a small part of me relishes it because the day is coming when they probably won't even speak to one another because they'll both be too busy texting friends or rushing from school work to jobs to extracurriculars to social engagements. The noise is obnoxious, but silence isn't always golden, either.
Their Christmas lists get smaller each year. The requests change a little, but mostly they get more expensive. This year the boy is gunning for an iPad (not a chance this side of Hades - he can't even be responsible with a Kindle Fire, so there's no way he's getting anything else), and the girl wants a sewing machine (we'll see). I've been handing them any Christmas catalogs that come in, letting them circle the things they want. I've ordered little things for them. I could have passed on these ideas to others, but I'm selfish - I want to get them the things they want and let others get them the gift cards that will become a standby soon enough.
Sometimes when I tuck the kids into bed, they want to hug… and hug… hug. And I do that, too, because right now, they want to hold on to me. They want to hold on. To me. And I want to hold on, too. These years and weeks and days and hours are fleeting. I have to make the most of it.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Optimism - When NOT to Share
The boy has been on the lookout for the tiniest signs of puberty ever since he started reading about adolescent 'symptoms' in various books about the topic. It's like he can't wait to grow up and get out of here or something. (The girl, however, will live here as long as someone will subsidize her decor and clothing accessory habits. I have a surprise for her... all subsidies end at the age of 18 unless the child in question is enrolled full-time at a college/university.)
Occasionally the boy will be peering at himself in the mirror, as he does for long periods when he's supposed to be showering, and he'll think that he sees something. At this point, even though this is supposedly what he's looking for, he freaks. And then he gets giddy. And then he gets embarrassed. And then he feels the sudden urge to run downstairs in his underwear and share whatever revelation he's just had.
A few weeks ago I was asked to inspect his upper lip for signs of facial hair. Well, of course, there's vellus hair. Which he had just apparently noticed. And which he was mistaking for an actual mustache. No, son, I will not buy you a razor for something that *I* have and don't even shave off. It's the same color as your face. When it starts looking like you have a porcupine growing out of your upper lip and I'm freaking out and crying because OMG MY BABY IS GROWING UP, that is the appropriate time to think you are capable of growing a mustache.
Once or twice, his throat has been itchy from either allergies or being rudely awakened from one of his infamous midafternoon naps, and he's asked me if that means his voice is cracking. D'awww... no, son, sorry, it doesn't.
And once, he came downstairs and wanted to know if all that 'other hair' would match the hair on his head. And I said not necessarily. And then he said, "Well, what if you have really bright hair? Like... red hair?" And I said I had no idea because quite frankly, I'd never asked anyone. Ever. Nor did I intend to. And please walk away now. Thankfully he dropped the subject.
I don't even want to imagine what symptom of adolescence he's going to invent next. I just want to take his face in my hands and look him straight in the eye (well, as straight as he'll look at anyone in the eye. You have about 0.2 seconds to get your message in before he's elsewhere) and say, "Y'know what? Make ya a deal. You quit telling me about imaginary pubertal symptoms, and I'll let you know when I notice something." Because I love that he's excited about getting bigger, and part of me is really, really glad that he comes to me with these sorts of things because it means he trusts me with his body and its issues, but sometimes... sometimes Mama just doesn't wanna know!
Occasionally the boy will be peering at himself in the mirror, as he does for long periods when he's supposed to be showering, and he'll think that he sees something. At this point, even though this is supposedly what he's looking for, he freaks. And then he gets giddy. And then he gets embarrassed. And then he feels the sudden urge to run downstairs in his underwear and share whatever revelation he's just had.
A few weeks ago I was asked to inspect his upper lip for signs of facial hair. Well, of course, there's vellus hair. Which he had just apparently noticed. And which he was mistaking for an actual mustache. No, son, I will not buy you a razor for something that *I* have and don't even shave off. It's the same color as your face. When it starts looking like you have a porcupine growing out of your upper lip and I'm freaking out and crying because OMG MY BABY IS GROWING UP, that is the appropriate time to think you are capable of growing a mustache.
Once or twice, his throat has been itchy from either allergies or being rudely awakened from one of his infamous midafternoon naps, and he's asked me if that means his voice is cracking. D'awww... no, son, sorry, it doesn't.
And once, he came downstairs and wanted to know if all that 'other hair' would match the hair on his head. And I said not necessarily. And then he said, "Well, what if you have really bright hair? Like... red hair?" And I said I had no idea because quite frankly, I'd never asked anyone. Ever. Nor did I intend to. And please walk away now. Thankfully he dropped the subject.
I don't even want to imagine what symptom of adolescence he's going to invent next. I just want to take his face in my hands and look him straight in the eye (well, as straight as he'll look at anyone in the eye. You have about 0.2 seconds to get your message in before he's elsewhere) and say, "Y'know what? Make ya a deal. You quit telling me about imaginary pubertal symptoms, and I'll let you know when I notice something." Because I love that he's excited about getting bigger, and part of me is really, really glad that he comes to me with these sorts of things because it means he trusts me with his body and its issues, but sometimes... sometimes Mama just doesn't wanna know!
Thursday, September 26, 2013
Jekyll and Hyde
Doodlebug. It's a dang good thing I love that boy, because he is either spectacularly calm and lucid or bewilderingly unstable and illogical this week. There is no middle ground. Boo hasn't been easy, but she's at least been herself. My Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde son... I don't even think he knows who or what he is these days. He swaps back and forth too quickly to settle into a single persona.
Warning: This post is long and fairly rant-filled. I suppose that isn't entirely new, but I felt a warning was in order.
On Monday, Doodlebug decided (decided? Maybe that isn't the right word. Maybe he was simply uninspired. I've no idea) not to do his schoolwork. Because he'd been generally horrid on Sunday evening and again on Monday morning, screaming at me, his father, his sister, and anything that happened to tick him off, which included pretty much everything, Iordered invited him to spend the morning doing his school work in his room where he couldn't be interrupted, distracted, or otherwise disrespectful to anyone or anything. I always print out the week's lesson plans in advance, so he knew what he had to get done; at lunchtime, he had one subject ready to be checked. One. Along with this he felt, with all the know-it-all-ness of an almost-11-year-old boy, that this was not a problem, because surely Mom would be perfectly willing to cater to his every whim and do school on his schedule, not hers/when it needed to happen.
*snort*
At 2:30, when he finally managed to get that first subject corrected but hadn't accomplished anything else except the eating of the food and the going to the bathroom and the multiple getting of the drinks, I calmly informed him that the rules of the Sunnyview School Education Plan are thus:
1. All work listed for a single school week must be completed no later than Friday evening at 5 p.m. This gives the teacher (me) time to grade and him time to correct any mistakes before dinner that evening. Because, ya know, the teacher is also the cook and he likes to eat, right?
2. Swim team is a privilege. If he wishes to attend swim team practice, all of Monday's work must be completed prior to Tuesday's practice time, and all work from Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday must be completed prior to Thursday's practice time.
3. Teaching and explanation of assignments happens between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. weekdays. I will not explain/help with anything outside of those hours... because I can't do it. I can't be 'on' all the time. And nobody likes Mama when she hasn't gotten her 'off' time.
He listened sullenly, as preteen/teen boys are apparently wont to do, and then uttered his current catchphrase. "OK." Actually, I lie. It wasn't even that much. It was, "'K."
By 5 p.m., he'd completed four of his assignments. Ordinarily he's done with that much by about 11 a.m. and through with all this Monday work by about 1:30... 2 at the latest if he's struggled or lollygagged. He did know, however, that going to swim wasn't going to happen if he didn't get his rear in gear, and so he went back upstairs and worked after dinner to get more done before bed. Dr. Jekyll had returned.
On Tuesday he actually applied himself to his work, but his brain was scattered. Dr. Jekyll was still in residence, but Mr. Hyde's residual effects hadn't entirely worn off and threatened to return at any moment. This was made plainly evident when we got to swim. We were running late due to the fact that Boo had lost her glasses and had spent a frantic 20 minutes trying to find them (no luck), so I told Doodlebug he would have to change quickly and not spend his normal 15 minutes playing snap-towel or whatever it is that he does in the locker room that takes him so long. Boo and I sat down in the observation room, and I watched for him to emerge. No boy. Practice started... still no boy. About the time I was about to march around the corner and use my back to open the door a smidge and start yelling, he walked into the observation room... still fully clothed.
"What's up?" I asked, having a fairly good idea what the answer would be.
"I... um... can I have the keys? I need to go out to the car and look for something."
I handed over the keys, and out he wandered, showing no urgency or distress whatsoever because apparently it's in the pre-teen code that to be seen hurrying and/or distressed would result in utter disgrace and humiliation. He meandered back a minute later, empty-handed. I reached for the keys, eyeing him, "Well?"
"Apparently... I forgot my jammers."
I'm about 99% sure my eyes bugged out of my head at that point, because I had point-blank asked the child before we left the house, "DO YOU HAVE ALL YOUR SWIM STUFF." And yes, I do use that tone of voice when I ask that question. It used to be effective at making him actually think about things. Apparently that is no longer true. Score one for selective hearing abilities.
We left swim. We went back home, Boo dismantled her room in the search for glasses (I came up when she reemerged downstairs in tears, claiming they were gone forever, and promptly picked them up from between her nightstand and her bed, which was, of course, the first place I told her to look), and the boy finished his Tuesday school work, squawking incessantly.
On Wednesday morning, I couldn't move. I couldn't get out of bed. I was pretty sure my body was holding me there, unable to function, until my stress level was somewhere below critical. I was actually scared of what I would face. I finally forced myself out of bed sometime around 9 when my bladder gave me an ultimatum.
It wasn't pretty, but we did make it through the day, the worst and best part being when the whiteboard jumped off the wall and tried to attack my son, because if even inanimate objects feel like mauling him now and then, I think I'm off the hook for having similar emotions.
Today has been quiet other than the anger that surfaced when I told him to go outside and enjoy this gorgeous fall day before it starts raining this weekend. How dare I suggest he get fresh air? He went out and sulked for a while before he decided he'd had enough of this whole sunshine thing and came back to cocoon himself in his bedroom with the last book in the Eragon series (never mind that I suggested he read it outside... outside doesn't have beanbags and does have things like clouds which are horribly distracting). I'm about to go fix food to feed the beast. If only I knew which beast would arrive at the dinner table...
Warning: This post is long and fairly rant-filled. I suppose that isn't entirely new, but I felt a warning was in order.
On Monday, Doodlebug decided (decided? Maybe that isn't the right word. Maybe he was simply uninspired. I've no idea) not to do his schoolwork. Because he'd been generally horrid on Sunday evening and again on Monday morning, screaming at me, his father, his sister, and anything that happened to tick him off, which included pretty much everything, I
*snort*
At 2:30, when he finally managed to get that first subject corrected but hadn't accomplished anything else except the eating of the food and the going to the bathroom and the multiple getting of the drinks, I calmly informed him that the rules of the Sunnyview School Education Plan are thus:
1. All work listed for a single school week must be completed no later than Friday evening at 5 p.m. This gives the teacher (me) time to grade and him time to correct any mistakes before dinner that evening. Because, ya know, the teacher is also the cook and he likes to eat, right?
2. Swim team is a privilege. If he wishes to attend swim team practice, all of Monday's work must be completed prior to Tuesday's practice time, and all work from Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday must be completed prior to Thursday's practice time.
3. Teaching and explanation of assignments happens between the hours of 8:30 a.m. and 5 p.m. weekdays. I will not explain/help with anything outside of those hours... because I can't do it. I can't be 'on' all the time. And nobody likes Mama when she hasn't gotten her 'off' time.
He listened sullenly, as preteen/teen boys are apparently wont to do, and then uttered his current catchphrase. "OK." Actually, I lie. It wasn't even that much. It was, "'K."
By 5 p.m., he'd completed four of his assignments. Ordinarily he's done with that much by about 11 a.m. and through with all this Monday work by about 1:30... 2 at the latest if he's struggled or lollygagged. He did know, however, that going to swim wasn't going to happen if he didn't get his rear in gear, and so he went back upstairs and worked after dinner to get more done before bed. Dr. Jekyll had returned.
On Tuesday he actually applied himself to his work, but his brain was scattered. Dr. Jekyll was still in residence, but Mr. Hyde's residual effects hadn't entirely worn off and threatened to return at any moment. This was made plainly evident when we got to swim. We were running late due to the fact that Boo had lost her glasses and had spent a frantic 20 minutes trying to find them (no luck), so I told Doodlebug he would have to change quickly and not spend his normal 15 minutes playing snap-towel or whatever it is that he does in the locker room that takes him so long. Boo and I sat down in the observation room, and I watched for him to emerge. No boy. Practice started... still no boy. About the time I was about to march around the corner and use my back to open the door a smidge and start yelling, he walked into the observation room... still fully clothed.
"What's up?" I asked, having a fairly good idea what the answer would be.
"I... um... can I have the keys? I need to go out to the car and look for something."
I handed over the keys, and out he wandered, showing no urgency or distress whatsoever because apparently it's in the pre-teen code that to be seen hurrying and/or distressed would result in utter disgrace and humiliation. He meandered back a minute later, empty-handed. I reached for the keys, eyeing him, "Well?"
"Apparently... I forgot my jammers."
I'm about 99% sure my eyes bugged out of my head at that point, because I had point-blank asked the child before we left the house, "DO YOU HAVE ALL YOUR SWIM STUFF." And yes, I do use that tone of voice when I ask that question. It used to be effective at making him actually think about things. Apparently that is no longer true. Score one for selective hearing abilities.
We left swim. We went back home, Boo dismantled her room in the search for glasses (I came up when she reemerged downstairs in tears, claiming they were gone forever, and promptly picked them up from between her nightstand and her bed, which was, of course, the first place I told her to look), and the boy finished his Tuesday school work, squawking incessantly.
On Wednesday morning, I couldn't move. I couldn't get out of bed. I was pretty sure my body was holding me there, unable to function, until my stress level was somewhere below critical. I was actually scared of what I would face. I finally forced myself out of bed sometime around 9 when my bladder gave me an ultimatum.
It wasn't pretty, but we did make it through the day, the worst and best part being when the whiteboard jumped off the wall and tried to attack my son, because if even inanimate objects feel like mauling him now and then, I think I'm off the hook for having similar emotions.
Today has been quiet other than the anger that surfaced when I told him to go outside and enjoy this gorgeous fall day before it starts raining this weekend. How dare I suggest he get fresh air? He went out and sulked for a while before he decided he'd had enough of this whole sunshine thing and came back to cocoon himself in his bedroom with the last book in the Eragon series (never mind that I suggested he read it outside... outside doesn't have beanbags and does have things like clouds which are horribly distracting). I'm about to go fix food to feed the beast. If only I knew which beast would arrive at the dinner table...
Monday, September 9, 2013
Girl Trouble
I don't even know where to begin this blog post. I've typed the first sentence about 15 times and have finally resorted just to writing this in an effort to have some sort of introduction into this topic. There's no pretty way to write it, I guess.
Doodlebug suffers from sudden-onset preteen ennui and sullenness, but I think I expected that. Several parents have warned me that there was a chance that he'll no longer speak to me after a certain age, and I can certainly see where that may be true. He just stares at me, either blankly or with much malice depending on his mood and what I've dared to say. Obviously these generalizations aren't a guarantee, but so far it's been fairly accurate - he flip-flops back and forth between grumpy preteen and snuggly boychild quite often, and while I don't know that I'm going to like 11 very much, I have confidence that I'll muddle through somehow. I guess 11 years of not totally failing as a parent have given me that much.
Then there's Boo.
People had warned me about girl drama, too, and I've kept a careful eye open for it, wondering how on earth it was going to manifest in my particular female specimen. Here's how it has evolved for me: it started young. Two- and 3-year-old girls are sassy creatures, constantly asserting their dominance and mothering instincts over the entire household, stuffed animals and pets included, and parents wonder how on earth their daughters can get any worse. (I was guilty of that as well, when Boo was that age.) Then they turn 6, give or take, and everything ramps up a notch. The sass becomes more direct, more personal, and it's generally targeted at one particular person like Mom, Dad, or a sibling. Then they turn 8, 9, whatever age happens to be a year or two before the onset of true adolescence/puberty (I think...), and suddenly the drama doesn't stop at the door of the house. Other people get dragged in. Cliques form in schools right around this age, and the girls start to flock together like small wakes of vultures, actively preying on one another on occasion. Friendships that were formed in kindergarten fall apart because differences - even subtle ones - suddenly matter.
Boo is a sweet girl (I've been told this by other parents, so it's not just a proud mama saying that). I've worked on acceptance with both kids, remembering how my opinionated stances andassertive bossy attitude alienated me from a lot of people when I was growing up, and Boo really tries to give people the benefit of the doubt. However, since she's getting a little older and a little more discerning, she no longer wants to hang out with people just because they're of a similar age. I get that. I like that she's starting to think about who she wants to be friends with, who she can bond and share secrets with as she gets older. Knowing who to trust and who to keep at arm's length is important.
She's come to me (me!) several times lately with questions about how to handle situations that have come up between herself and another girl, and I can tell she's really struggling with whether she wants to be friends with this girl or not, and if not, how to let this girl down gently so that there aren't any dramatic aftereffects. I'm encouraging her to be kind but honest and firm and to remember that I am aware that there's no way she can be friends with every girl that comes along and she shouldn't expect to be, either... but I know she still idealizes friendship. She still wants everything to be all sunshine and unicorns and rainbows, and she fears what will happen if she decides she really doesn't like someone.
As a homeschooling mom, I find myself in an equally precarious position. If this was a public school setting, I likely wouldn't know the other girl well at all, let alone be acquainted with her parents. I would have distance and, with distance, perspective. The way things are, however, I do know the girl and her mother (and have met her father once) and find myself pondering the what-ifs. It's an odd dynamic, and I hope I don't find myself in the position of defending my daughter, because this Mama Bear doesn't usually express herself well when confronted. I don't want to cause drama any more than my daughter does, but I will speak the truth, and I won't make my daughter go outside her comfort zone just to appease others. I don't see how that would help her in the long run, especially if she's already gone out of her way to be polite, honest, and non-confrontational as long as possible.
It's just one of those situations that is inevitable but still regrettable, and I wish I had a magic ball that told me all the 'right' things to say. In the meantime, I've told Boo to remember that she still has plenty of friends that she does enjoy and is close to and not to worry too much about this other girl. These things often have a way of sorting themselves out. Any advice?
Doodlebug suffers from sudden-onset preteen ennui and sullenness, but I think I expected that. Several parents have warned me that there was a chance that he'll no longer speak to me after a certain age, and I can certainly see where that may be true. He just stares at me, either blankly or with much malice depending on his mood and what I've dared to say. Obviously these generalizations aren't a guarantee, but so far it's been fairly accurate - he flip-flops back and forth between grumpy preteen and snuggly boychild quite often, and while I don't know that I'm going to like 11 very much, I have confidence that I'll muddle through somehow. I guess 11 years of not totally failing as a parent have given me that much.
Then there's Boo.
People had warned me about girl drama, too, and I've kept a careful eye open for it, wondering how on earth it was going to manifest in my particular female specimen. Here's how it has evolved for me: it started young. Two- and 3-year-old girls are sassy creatures, constantly asserting their dominance and mothering instincts over the entire household, stuffed animals and pets included, and parents wonder how on earth their daughters can get any worse. (I was guilty of that as well, when Boo was that age.) Then they turn 6, give or take, and everything ramps up a notch. The sass becomes more direct, more personal, and it's generally targeted at one particular person like Mom, Dad, or a sibling. Then they turn 8, 9, whatever age happens to be a year or two before the onset of true adolescence/puberty (I think...), and suddenly the drama doesn't stop at the door of the house. Other people get dragged in. Cliques form in schools right around this age, and the girls start to flock together like small wakes of vultures, actively preying on one another on occasion. Friendships that were formed in kindergarten fall apart because differences - even subtle ones - suddenly matter.
Boo is a sweet girl (I've been told this by other parents, so it's not just a proud mama saying that). I've worked on acceptance with both kids, remembering how my opinionated stances and
She's come to me (me!) several times lately with questions about how to handle situations that have come up between herself and another girl, and I can tell she's really struggling with whether she wants to be friends with this girl or not, and if not, how to let this girl down gently so that there aren't any dramatic aftereffects. I'm encouraging her to be kind but honest and firm and to remember that I am aware that there's no way she can be friends with every girl that comes along and she shouldn't expect to be, either... but I know she still idealizes friendship. She still wants everything to be all sunshine and unicorns and rainbows, and she fears what will happen if she decides she really doesn't like someone.
As a homeschooling mom, I find myself in an equally precarious position. If this was a public school setting, I likely wouldn't know the other girl well at all, let alone be acquainted with her parents. I would have distance and, with distance, perspective. The way things are, however, I do know the girl and her mother (and have met her father once) and find myself pondering the what-ifs. It's an odd dynamic, and I hope I don't find myself in the position of defending my daughter, because this Mama Bear doesn't usually express herself well when confronted. I don't want to cause drama any more than my daughter does, but I will speak the truth, and I won't make my daughter go outside her comfort zone just to appease others. I don't see how that would help her in the long run, especially if she's already gone out of her way to be polite, honest, and non-confrontational as long as possible.
It's just one of those situations that is inevitable but still regrettable, and I wish I had a magic ball that told me all the 'right' things to say. In the meantime, I've told Boo to remember that she still has plenty of friends that she does enjoy and is close to and not to worry too much about this other girl. These things often have a way of sorting themselves out. Any advice?
Monday, August 26, 2013
Chronicles of Raising a Preadolescent, Vol. I
The last three weeks have been hell. At first I thought it was me, since I really had been in a funk, but the last three weeks have been particularly 'special' and I'm pretty sure I've figured out why.
And it has a name. What is it, you ask?
M1.
I love this child. I do. I have loved him ever since he had to be dragged out of my womb kicking and screaming. However, I swear to any deity willing to listen, I totally understand why young male lions are kicked out of the pride and told to go find their own territory because MOM AND DAD AREN'T PUTTING UP WITH IT ANY MORE. Hear me, boy? Do ya? Hm?
Something tells me I'm not getting through.
It might be the smirk.
It's 1:01 p.m. on a Monday. This is a school day. The boy has completed his work in precisely three subjects - grammar, spelling, and art - and even those weren't completed without waspishness and peevishness and snarkiness and all those other -nesses that encompass raising a child who is quite sure that A) the universe revolves around him, B) he knows more than anyone ever alive ever knew, and C) he must have the last word in any and all conversations.
For example, this morning, he tried to argue that newspapers weren't descriptive. We weren't talking about newspapers, and he was supposed to have been working on his own work, but he felt the need to interject one of his Ultimate Hypotheses into M2's grammar lesson. "I think article adjectives are called that because they're the only adjectives used in newspaper articles, because newspapers aren't very descriptive."
I can't invent this stuff. Thankfully a quick reading of some articles from well-known moments in history - the Civil War, 9/11, the Kennedy assassination - showed the boy the error of his statement. Did he actually acknowledge that I still might know more than him? Of course not. He put his head down on his desk and thoroughly ignored me. Because if it can't see you, you can't see it. Mantra of all Ostrich Children.
Then there was this: I was giving him his weekly spelling pretest. We do this so that if he knows most of or all of the words on the list, we don't waste time on a useless lesson. One of the words was 'animosity.' He spelled it incorrectly - a-n-a-m-o-c-i-t-y. Not a big deal; I put a dot by it and moved on. When it came time for him to learn the correct spelling, I pointed out that he'd gotten close and gave him props for that. Was that enough? Hardly. "It sounded like you were saying anAmosity, Mom, not anImosity. So that wasn't my fault."
Argh. Animosity. Yes. How do parents survive this? Any tips? I'm going to need the village for this one.
And it has a name. What is it, you ask?
M1.
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| Mug shot of personified Mayhem |
Something tells me I'm not getting through.
It might be the smirk.
It's 1:01 p.m. on a Monday. This is a school day. The boy has completed his work in precisely three subjects - grammar, spelling, and art - and even those weren't completed without waspishness and peevishness and snarkiness and all those other -nesses that encompass raising a child who is quite sure that A) the universe revolves around him, B) he knows more than anyone ever alive ever knew, and C) he must have the last word in any and all conversations.
For example, this morning, he tried to argue that newspapers weren't descriptive. We weren't talking about newspapers, and he was supposed to have been working on his own work, but he felt the need to interject one of his Ultimate Hypotheses into M2's grammar lesson. "I think article adjectives are called that because they're the only adjectives used in newspaper articles, because newspapers aren't very descriptive."
I can't invent this stuff. Thankfully a quick reading of some articles from well-known moments in history - the Civil War, 9/11, the Kennedy assassination - showed the boy the error of his statement. Did he actually acknowledge that I still might know more than him? Of course not. He put his head down on his desk and thoroughly ignored me. Because if it can't see you, you can't see it. Mantra of all Ostrich Children.
Then there was this: I was giving him his weekly spelling pretest. We do this so that if he knows most of or all of the words on the list, we don't waste time on a useless lesson. One of the words was 'animosity.' He spelled it incorrectly - a-n-a-m-o-c-i-t-y. Not a big deal; I put a dot by it and moved on. When it came time for him to learn the correct spelling, I pointed out that he'd gotten close and gave him props for that. Was that enough? Hardly. "It sounded like you were saying anAmosity, Mom, not anImosity. So that wasn't my fault."
Argh. Animosity. Yes. How do parents survive this? Any tips? I'm going to need the village for this one.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Feeding Frenzy
My family has always gone through a lot of food. As soon as M1 was five months old, he insisted that he wanted food, and he wanted it NOW. And he wanted LOTS OF IT. My pediatrician at the time - not the same pediatrician we have now - tried to insist that I wait until he was six months old to start solids, but the child was schlucking down milk at a rate that allowed me little to no sleep as well as little to no recovery time between feedings. So, with much guilt, I sat him in the high chair, fixed a tiny, tiny bowl of rice cereal,... and got the hell out of the way as he grabbed the spoon from me and shoved it in his mouth. Repeatedly. I haven't seen a child so excited about food before or since.
M2 didn't take to solids right away, primarily because she didn't want baby food. She wanted what was on my plate, and she was content to wait until she was old enough and had teeth enough to eat it before demanding it. By that point, of course, she was talking and informed me quite vocally that it was time.
Since then, between growing children and growing grocery prices, my grocery bill has steadily risen. Not particularly shocking, but the quantities that we go through sometimes surprise other families. A 9"x13" baked pasta still might leave leftovers, sure, but only if I serve salad and dessert with it... and the leftovers might only be enough for one or two people to have lunch the next day. Maybe. I fix some meals - jambalaya, soups, etc. - in bulk.
M1 has been putting on weight again lately. He's not overweight by any means, but he's certainly a lot thicker than he normally is, and he simply can't seem to get enough to eat. Yesterday for lunch, he wanted Ramen noodles. M2 fixed two packets and split them between herself and her brother. He ate that. Then he poked his head in the fridge and found a leftover grilled chicken breast and ate that. Then he ate a nectarine. Then he fixed himself a gigantic quesadilla and ate that. After that I suggested that he stop eating for a while.
Tonight I watched the same phenomenon happen again. I fixed stuffing-coated pork chops, a family favorite (coat pork chops in sour cream and then in dry stuffing mix, lay them on a rack over a baking pan and bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees). I had about 3 pounds of potatoes that needed to be used, so I fixed mashed potatoes. I also cooked about half a bag of peas. Leftovers? None. And the kids asked that I fix the rest of the bag of peas as well, which I did. After they polished off dinner, they devoured most of a bag of grapes. M1 was ready to find something else as well, but I told him he could be done for now. Since he's also been napping regularly over the last week, I suspect that we're due for a massive growth spurt. He's already 5'2" or 5'3", so let's not think about how tall he'll be afterward.
I'm thankful that next week he will be at camp. Now that he's getting bigger, I'm quite ready for someone else to feed him for a while!
M2 didn't take to solids right away, primarily because she didn't want baby food. She wanted what was on my plate, and she was content to wait until she was old enough and had teeth enough to eat it before demanding it. By that point, of course, she was talking and informed me quite vocally that it was time.
Since then, between growing children and growing grocery prices, my grocery bill has steadily risen. Not particularly shocking, but the quantities that we go through sometimes surprise other families. A 9"x13" baked pasta still might leave leftovers, sure, but only if I serve salad and dessert with it... and the leftovers might only be enough for one or two people to have lunch the next day. Maybe. I fix some meals - jambalaya, soups, etc. - in bulk.
M1 has been putting on weight again lately. He's not overweight by any means, but he's certainly a lot thicker than he normally is, and he simply can't seem to get enough to eat. Yesterday for lunch, he wanted Ramen noodles. M2 fixed two packets and split them between herself and her brother. He ate that. Then he poked his head in the fridge and found a leftover grilled chicken breast and ate that. Then he ate a nectarine. Then he fixed himself a gigantic quesadilla and ate that. After that I suggested that he stop eating for a while.
Tonight I watched the same phenomenon happen again. I fixed stuffing-coated pork chops, a family favorite (coat pork chops in sour cream and then in dry stuffing mix, lay them on a rack over a baking pan and bake for 30 minutes at 350 degrees). I had about 3 pounds of potatoes that needed to be used, so I fixed mashed potatoes. I also cooked about half a bag of peas. Leftovers? None. And the kids asked that I fix the rest of the bag of peas as well, which I did. After they polished off dinner, they devoured most of a bag of grapes. M1 was ready to find something else as well, but I told him he could be done for now. Since he's also been napping regularly over the last week, I suspect that we're due for a massive growth spurt. He's already 5'2" or 5'3", so let's not think about how tall he'll be afterward.
I'm thankful that next week he will be at camp. Now that he's getting bigger, I'm quite ready for someone else to feed him for a while!
Monday, June 3, 2013
The Feast
Before the end of our school year, the kids and I discussed what we wanted to do over our summer break. M1 mentioned that he really wanted to get out his Italian cookbook and make some of the recipes. When he was poking through it, I noticed a recipe for a rosemary leg of lamb.
"Hey," I told him, "we've already got a leg of lamb in the freezer if you want to use that."
Of course, he did. And the menu snowballed from there. Soon it became known in our house as M1's Feast.
After much deliberation (and several grocery store runs), the feast finally happened. I won't say that he made everything without any help, because I did step in when he asked or clearly needed me to, but he planned and made the vast majority of the meal by himself. I'm pretty proud of him!
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| Click the photo for a larger and easier-to-read image |
M2's contribution was to type up and print menus for everyone to have at their place during the meal; she couldn't resist adding a few personal touches after printing, though.
This is what my boy looked like just before we ate. Beatific.
You can see how beautifully he arranged all the salads. He firmly believes in food presentation. If you look closely at the bowl of tapenade on the table, he'd like that. He arranged the pita chips around it, too.
The piece de resistance was the leg of lamb and potatoes. It had finished cooking while we ate our appetizer and salads, and it looked amazing by the time it got to the table. I did carve it; the idea of doing that was a little too intimidating for our young chef.
Still, he's proud of himself.
Finally, he brought in dessert. And bowls.
Don't be fooled. Underneath all that chocolate is a homemade tiramisu. He and I even whipped everything by hand, and he grated the chocolate himself. (No, we didn't make the ladyfingers. I do draw the line somewhere.)
Congratulations on your first feast, my boy. Very, very well done.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Prepubertal boy is prepubertal
Warning: Novel ahead.
M1 gets angry on a regular basis. I'm cool with that. He's a kid. It happens. He throws his little tantrums (OK, so they usually aren't little, but comparatively speaking...) and we move on.
Yesterday, though, the Sign of the Hormone appeared. I've seen it off and on lately - one day he'll want to snuggle and be my little boy and I know everything and I'm wonderful, and the next he wants nothing to do with me because clearly I'm here only to ruin his life and I know nothing and he's ready to run the place without me - but yesterday was a real eye-opener.
It actually started Wednesday night. I had taken M1 to swim, and when we got home, Oz met us at the door. M1 had been given a plasma ball for his birthday, and it had been sitting on his dresser. We don't know exactly what happened, but Oz had been drawing water to handwash dishes (thanks, Babe!) when he heard a huge noise, almost like an explosion, from upstairs.
He hurried upstairs and discovered the plasma ball had fallen from the dresser and shattered, and shards of glass had flown all over M1's bedroom. We don't know if M2 was responsible, a cat was responsible, if it simply fell, or if it was a case of spontaneous plasma combustion (doubtful, since the thing wasn't even plugged in), but regardless, it made a giant mess of the room. Oz spent the next hour cleaning up as much as he could, but we still found pieces of glass in his bed and around the room for the next day and a half.
Anyway, during the cleaning process, Oz moved M1's dresser to try to get to pieces of glass that had flown behind it. M1's dresser sits about an inch off the floor, but stuffed underneath it was more stuff than you could imagine would be physically possible. We call this habit 'stashing.' He's done it since he was tiny, and it's become a particularly bad habit over the years. Anyway, since it was already 9 p.m. and M1 had been up since about 6, he was exhausted, so we told him to go to bed and deal with it in the morning.
Morning came. We did most of our schoolwork, and I asked M1 if he wouldn't mind putting the stashed items away before lunch. This gave him approximately an hour to put it all away, a time frame that was more than reasonable given the contents and size of the pile. I checked in regularly during that hour to make sure that M1 was on task, and he assured me he was. At noon, I walked in and discovered a perfectly clean floor. All seemed well. Until I picked up the antique pocketwatch case and opened it. It was empty. Now, I KNEW that the watch had been in the pile and just figured that M1 had forgotten where the case was when he put the watch away. So I asked him, "Where's the watch? Let's put it in here."
"I dunno."
"Is it in your miscellaneous drawer?" I asked as I walked over to said drawer to have a look (both kids have a 'miscellaneous drawer' where all things that don't have a place are allowed to live). I had to force the drawer open because of the amount of clothing and K'Nex and other bits and pieces stuffed into it. This all went on the floor while I was looking for the watch. Meanwhile, M1 was shrieking, "You weren't supposed to look in there!!!"
*sigh*
I finally found the watch - and the rest of the stashed pile - stuffed into his bottom nightstand drawer, not a single thing actually taken care of. All in all, I emptied three drawers of their stashed contents and asked him to put things - mostly clothes and cash - away.
This triggered the anger. "I hate you! I'm leaving!" was the first thing I heard, to which I assured him if he walked out of the house, he would not have a bedroom upon returning. "FINE! But I'm not cleaning this! YOU made the mess, so YOU clean it up!" All of this was accompanied by hopping - literally hopping - rage and shrieks of agony and punctuated by him flinging himself on the bed or hitting the wall. Finally, in sheer frustration, I asked him if he really thought I was enjoying this.
He spat a hateful answer back. "WELL, YOU MUST BE, BECAUSE YOU DO IT ALL THE TIME."
Oh, no, you didn't. Now, when I was a child (imagine that statement accompanied by a puffing out of the chest and haughty expression), if I'd said something like that, I'd have gotten the tar beat out of me. Thankfully, I have evolved, and I didn't smack sense into him. The thought flashed through my mind, but I didn't do it. Instead, I marched him downstairs and made him watch while I grabbed a trash bag. Then he had to watch as I marched back upstairs and proceeded to throw away anything that I didn't deem of intrinsic or sentimental value to the boy. I left his clothes, any cash, and all cards or other mementos. The rest got pitched. Then I informed him that if he wanted to live in my house, he would start treating it like a house and not his personal trash can, and that any time from now on that I found anything stashed, it would be instantly pitched, and it would no longer matter if it was money, clothing, or an item of sentimental value. If he wanted to be an adult living under my roof, I would treat him like one.
Then I left him to it. Half an hour later he emerged, tearful but calm, to tell me that he was sad that things had to escalate to the level they had for him to get the point. I hugged him and told him that I still loved him but that I would not tolerate disrespect; I would be happy to talk and negotiate but hopping rage really wasn't the answer. He cleaned up his room - properly this time - and all seemed fine.
Until this morning, when the first thing I heard out of him as he dragged his overly-full hamper down the stairs was, "Mom, this thing is really heavy, because YOU made me put in every shirt except one and every pair of pants except two when you cleaned out my stashed drawers yesterday."
Jesus Christ Superstar Almighty, REALLY?!? I didn't even dignify that one other than to suggest that he adjust his attitude before continuing with his day. Twenty minutes later, we had tears again as he informed me, "Mom, I'm just always really angry with you these days and I don't know why, and I'm sorry, and I love you! Can you help me?"
I hugged him and assured him that it's all normal, and that we would get through it together. I promised him that I wouldn't do what my mother did (tell me to go to my room and close the door and stay there till I could speak nicely to people, which caused me to stay there until I was 18).
Still, yikes. I'm not ready for this.
M1 gets angry on a regular basis. I'm cool with that. He's a kid. It happens. He throws his little tantrums (OK, so they usually aren't little, but comparatively speaking...) and we move on.
Yesterday, though, the Sign of the Hormone appeared. I've seen it off and on lately - one day he'll want to snuggle and be my little boy and I know everything and I'm wonderful, and the next he wants nothing to do with me because clearly I'm here only to ruin his life and I know nothing and he's ready to run the place without me - but yesterday was a real eye-opener.
It actually started Wednesday night. I had taken M1 to swim, and when we got home, Oz met us at the door. M1 had been given a plasma ball for his birthday, and it had been sitting on his dresser. We don't know exactly what happened, but Oz had been drawing water to handwash dishes (thanks, Babe!) when he heard a huge noise, almost like an explosion, from upstairs.
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| Warning: When these break, they will ruin your day |
Anyway, during the cleaning process, Oz moved M1's dresser to try to get to pieces of glass that had flown behind it. M1's dresser sits about an inch off the floor, but stuffed underneath it was more stuff than you could imagine would be physically possible. We call this habit 'stashing.' He's done it since he was tiny, and it's become a particularly bad habit over the years. Anyway, since it was already 9 p.m. and M1 had been up since about 6, he was exhausted, so we told him to go to bed and deal with it in the morning.
Morning came. We did most of our schoolwork, and I asked M1 if he wouldn't mind putting the stashed items away before lunch. This gave him approximately an hour to put it all away, a time frame that was more than reasonable given the contents and size of the pile. I checked in regularly during that hour to make sure that M1 was on task, and he assured me he was. At noon, I walked in and discovered a perfectly clean floor. All seemed well. Until I picked up the antique pocketwatch case and opened it. It was empty. Now, I KNEW that the watch had been in the pile and just figured that M1 had forgotten where the case was when he put the watch away. So I asked him, "Where's the watch? Let's put it in here."
"I dunno."
"Is it in your miscellaneous drawer?" I asked as I walked over to said drawer to have a look (both kids have a 'miscellaneous drawer' where all things that don't have a place are allowed to live). I had to force the drawer open because of the amount of clothing and K'Nex and other bits and pieces stuffed into it. This all went on the floor while I was looking for the watch. Meanwhile, M1 was shrieking, "You weren't supposed to look in there!!!"
*sigh*
I finally found the watch - and the rest of the stashed pile - stuffed into his bottom nightstand drawer, not a single thing actually taken care of. All in all, I emptied three drawers of their stashed contents and asked him to put things - mostly clothes and cash - away.
This triggered the anger. "I hate you! I'm leaving!" was the first thing I heard, to which I assured him if he walked out of the house, he would not have a bedroom upon returning. "FINE! But I'm not cleaning this! YOU made the mess, so YOU clean it up!" All of this was accompanied by hopping - literally hopping - rage and shrieks of agony and punctuated by him flinging himself on the bed or hitting the wall. Finally, in sheer frustration, I asked him if he really thought I was enjoying this.
He spat a hateful answer back. "WELL, YOU MUST BE, BECAUSE YOU DO IT ALL THE TIME."
Oh, no, you didn't. Now, when I was a child (imagine that statement accompanied by a puffing out of the chest and haughty expression), if I'd said something like that, I'd have gotten the tar beat out of me. Thankfully, I have evolved, and I didn't smack sense into him. The thought flashed through my mind, but I didn't do it. Instead, I marched him downstairs and made him watch while I grabbed a trash bag. Then he had to watch as I marched back upstairs and proceeded to throw away anything that I didn't deem of intrinsic or sentimental value to the boy. I left his clothes, any cash, and all cards or other mementos. The rest got pitched. Then I informed him that if he wanted to live in my house, he would start treating it like a house and not his personal trash can, and that any time from now on that I found anything stashed, it would be instantly pitched, and it would no longer matter if it was money, clothing, or an item of sentimental value. If he wanted to be an adult living under my roof, I would treat him like one.
Then I left him to it. Half an hour later he emerged, tearful but calm, to tell me that he was sad that things had to escalate to the level they had for him to get the point. I hugged him and told him that I still loved him but that I would not tolerate disrespect; I would be happy to talk and negotiate but hopping rage really wasn't the answer. He cleaned up his room - properly this time - and all seemed fine.
Until this morning, when the first thing I heard out of him as he dragged his overly-full hamper down the stairs was, "Mom, this thing is really heavy, because YOU made me put in every shirt except one and every pair of pants except two when you cleaned out my stashed drawers yesterday."
Jesus Christ Superstar Almighty, REALLY?!? I didn't even dignify that one other than to suggest that he adjust his attitude before continuing with his day. Twenty minutes later, we had tears again as he informed me, "Mom, I'm just always really angry with you these days and I don't know why, and I'm sorry, and I love you! Can you help me?"
I hugged him and assured him that it's all normal, and that we would get through it together. I promised him that I wouldn't do what my mother did (tell me to go to my room and close the door and stay there till I could speak nicely to people, which caused me to stay there until I was 18).
Still, yikes. I'm not ready for this.
Monday, March 4, 2013
Back to Basics
So. If you're a fairly regular follower of this blog (or if you go back and read the last few posts), you'll see that M1, Oz and I are in the midst of (yet another) rough patch. These happen periodically, but as he gets older, the battles seem to be raging more heavily and the trenches are getting dug in rather deeply. Those of you whose children are teens already can sympathize, I'm sure.
The problem boils down to precisely this: M1 wants to be treated like an adult. He is 10 and feels that he is old enough for certain 'rights.' However, he won't accept the responsibilities that come along with the rights, and he acts like a spoiled toddler when asked to toe the line. He hasn't yet worked out that to get the 'rights' that he wants, he also has to behave in a way that makes us - Oz and I - think that he's able to handle them responsibly.
Some of this revolves around the fact that he is a 10-year-old boy. Some of it also revolves around the fact that his psychological issues that cause him to firmly believe that he is a pearl and the world is the oyster. I'm doing my darnedest to snap him out of that way of thinking, but I read a book about a year ago that strongly suggests that there is no easy way to accomplish that goal because I could dig out of Alcatraz with a spoon more quickly than I'll be able to reach the depths of M1's brain. And flogging him with a wet noodle only makes him giggle.
Still, things couldn't continue the way they did last week... or even over the weekend for that matter. (On Sunday morning M1 woke me up at 2:14 a.m. trying to steal remotes out of my bedroom [again] and shortly before several of my girlfriends came over at 2 p.m., he and his sister were playing at the top of the stairs [which we've asked/told them repeatedly NOT to do] and she came tumbling down the stairs with a beanbag. Because he pushed her. Thankfully, she's fine. Beanbags are good like that. But it did mean that instead of having an outing with Oz like they normally get to do when I have friends over, they were sent to their rooms instead.) So we're going back to basics. Obviously there are many therapy methods out there. We visited a therapist and tried cognitive behavior therapy when M1 was small, and the results were laughable. His hyperactivity and impulsivity are such that there's no way he can think before doing anything, let alone plan actions before doing them. Plus, that's more or less what I've been attempting to get him to use for the last... ohhhhh, year or so... and clearly we've gotten nowhere.
Time to try a new tactic.
I have decided that since M1 is so bound and determined to act like a toddler every time we ask him to take responsibility for his actions, he needs to be treated like one. What motivates toddlers? Sticker charts and incentives. I'm calling it applied behavioral analysis, but really it's a sticker chart with incentives.
First I had M1 make a list of his top 12 privileges. This included everything from swim team to summer camp to electronics. I had him prioritize them. Then Oz printed off a chart that I hung on the wall. There are columns for each day of the week as well as a "Total" column and a space at the beginning where I've written all 12 of M1's desired privileges, one per week. Each day has space for three small stickers that M1 can earn - up to 21 a week, though for this first week we're shooting for 14 and the maximum I'm expecting is 19. Nobody's perfect, and I don't expect him to be.
To earn his three daily stickers, he has to do three things - one for each sticker:
1. Stay in his room at night. Obviously he's allowed to get up and use the toilet if he needs to - I'm not unreasonable - but there's no need for him to be downstairs (he has small paper cups in his vanity if he wants a drink) or in the game room in the middle of the night. Nothing good can come of that.
2. Respect other people. He's had real issues lately respecting other people's space lately, particularly his sister. This one also applies to lying. If he doesn't want me to lie to him, he shouldn't lie to me, right?? This one largely revolves around remembering the Golden Rule.
3. Respect property. Don't break things. Don't dismantle things. Don't walk along all the walls deliberately trying to break the doorstops with your foot. Things like that.
That's it. I may need to get more specific, but we'll see. I'm starting broad. I can always modify and specify as we go. Each week, if he reaches his goal, he'll get one of his privileges back. If he doesn't reach it, we stay at the current level and try again the next week. At best, this program will take 12 weeks to implement, which I'm hopeful will be long enough to make some of these things into habit. I do hate that this means we'll be skipping swim for at least two weeks (his #1-priority privilege was going to our homeschool group; #2 and #3 were swim team practice and stroke development class, respectively), but if that's what it takes...
Wish me luck. It's been a while since we've done this sort of intensive work around here, but I think it's long overdue. Fingers crossed that it works, because if it doesn't, I'm all out of ideas!
The problem boils down to precisely this: M1 wants to be treated like an adult. He is 10 and feels that he is old enough for certain 'rights.' However, he won't accept the responsibilities that come along with the rights, and he acts like a spoiled toddler when asked to toe the line. He hasn't yet worked out that to get the 'rights' that he wants, he also has to behave in a way that makes us - Oz and I - think that he's able to handle them responsibly.
Some of this revolves around the fact that he is a 10-year-old boy. Some of it also revolves around the fact that his psychological issues that cause him to firmly believe that he is a pearl and the world is the oyster. I'm doing my darnedest to snap him out of that way of thinking, but I read a book about a year ago that strongly suggests that there is no easy way to accomplish that goal because I could dig out of Alcatraz with a spoon more quickly than I'll be able to reach the depths of M1's brain. And flogging him with a wet noodle only makes him giggle.
Still, things couldn't continue the way they did last week... or even over the weekend for that matter. (On Sunday morning M1 woke me up at 2:14 a.m. trying to steal remotes out of my bedroom [again] and shortly before several of my girlfriends came over at 2 p.m., he and his sister were playing at the top of the stairs [which we've asked/told them repeatedly NOT to do] and she came tumbling down the stairs with a beanbag. Because he pushed her. Thankfully, she's fine. Beanbags are good like that. But it did mean that instead of having an outing with Oz like they normally get to do when I have friends over, they were sent to their rooms instead.) So we're going back to basics. Obviously there are many therapy methods out there. We visited a therapist and tried cognitive behavior therapy when M1 was small, and the results were laughable. His hyperactivity and impulsivity are such that there's no way he can think before doing anything, let alone plan actions before doing them. Plus, that's more or less what I've been attempting to get him to use for the last... ohhhhh, year or so... and clearly we've gotten nowhere.
Time to try a new tactic.
I have decided that since M1 is so bound and determined to act like a toddler every time we ask him to take responsibility for his actions, he needs to be treated like one. What motivates toddlers? Sticker charts and incentives. I'm calling it applied behavioral analysis, but really it's a sticker chart with incentives.
First I had M1 make a list of his top 12 privileges. This included everything from swim team to summer camp to electronics. I had him prioritize them. Then Oz printed off a chart that I hung on the wall. There are columns for each day of the week as well as a "Total" column and a space at the beginning where I've written all 12 of M1's desired privileges, one per week. Each day has space for three small stickers that M1 can earn - up to 21 a week, though for this first week we're shooting for 14 and the maximum I'm expecting is 19. Nobody's perfect, and I don't expect him to be.
To earn his three daily stickers, he has to do three things - one for each sticker:
1. Stay in his room at night. Obviously he's allowed to get up and use the toilet if he needs to - I'm not unreasonable - but there's no need for him to be downstairs (he has small paper cups in his vanity if he wants a drink) or in the game room in the middle of the night. Nothing good can come of that.
2. Respect other people. He's had real issues lately respecting other people's space lately, particularly his sister. This one also applies to lying. If he doesn't want me to lie to him, he shouldn't lie to me, right?? This one largely revolves around remembering the Golden Rule.
3. Respect property. Don't break things. Don't dismantle things. Don't walk along all the walls deliberately trying to break the doorstops with your foot. Things like that.
That's it. I may need to get more specific, but we'll see. I'm starting broad. I can always modify and specify as we go. Each week, if he reaches his goal, he'll get one of his privileges back. If he doesn't reach it, we stay at the current level and try again the next week. At best, this program will take 12 weeks to implement, which I'm hopeful will be long enough to make some of these things into habit. I do hate that this means we'll be skipping swim for at least two weeks (his #1-priority privilege was going to our homeschool group; #2 and #3 were swim team practice and stroke development class, respectively), but if that's what it takes...
Wish me luck. It's been a while since we've done this sort of intensive work around here, but I think it's long overdue. Fingers crossed that it works, because if it doesn't, I'm all out of ideas!
Monday, January 28, 2013
On Being 10
Being 10 isn't exactly fun all the time. I remember being 10. I remember that some days there weren't enough books to read, there weren't enough things to do (though picking on my sister was an unfortunate pastime that helped me while away more than a few hours), there weren't enough places to go, and my parents seemed to be irritated at me for no reason - and sometimes I at them for exactly the same lack of pretense.
The other day M1 and I were in the car, and he said to me, quite plainly, "Mom, I wish I could get a job."
"Aww," I said, pleased that he realizes he's not going to get a free ride through his entire teen years. "Why?"
"Because I'm bored," he answered, in that tone of voice that only young teens and preteens can muster. "That's why I want to play video games so much. It's something to do."
I can see his point. I really can. The problem is, what do you do with a 10-year-old? There are no volunteer opportunities for kids his age independent of the entire family. A paying job for a 10-year-old is scooping poop or walking dogs, something that isn't a need in our neighborhood. Paper routes? Fugettaboutit.
I suggested to him that perhaps he could spend his time working on a robot or learning programming languages, and he sighed and agreed, but in his next breath he told me he doesn't want to build "beginner" robots any more. He wants to build the real deal, something that can be used in a practical application. I cringed inwardly, because again, he's right. He's worked with a couple of Mindstorm sets and has the programming down; they aren't as much of a challenge as he expected, and he wants more. We visited the local Fab Lab, and he's inspired, but he was a bit overwhelmed, and obviously a parent will have to accompany him any time he wants to go down there and create anything. He hasn't put together a cohesive design in his mind yet.
So I understand his frustration. I really do. I'm frustrated, too. I wish I had some brilliant idea to keep him busy and engaged but that doesn't involve something he'll consider 'meaningless.' In the meantime, I suppose I just keep trying. Though if anyone out there has a thought, I'm happy to entertain it!
The other day M1 and I were in the car, and he said to me, quite plainly, "Mom, I wish I could get a job."
"Aww," I said, pleased that he realizes he's not going to get a free ride through his entire teen years. "Why?"
"Because I'm bored," he answered, in that tone of voice that only young teens and preteens can muster. "That's why I want to play video games so much. It's something to do."
I can see his point. I really can. The problem is, what do you do with a 10-year-old? There are no volunteer opportunities for kids his age independent of the entire family. A paying job for a 10-year-old is scooping poop or walking dogs, something that isn't a need in our neighborhood. Paper routes? Fugettaboutit.
I suggested to him that perhaps he could spend his time working on a robot or learning programming languages, and he sighed and agreed, but in his next breath he told me he doesn't want to build "beginner" robots any more. He wants to build the real deal, something that can be used in a practical application. I cringed inwardly, because again, he's right. He's worked with a couple of Mindstorm sets and has the programming down; they aren't as much of a challenge as he expected, and he wants more. We visited the local Fab Lab, and he's inspired, but he was a bit overwhelmed, and obviously a parent will have to accompany him any time he wants to go down there and create anything. He hasn't put together a cohesive design in his mind yet.
So I understand his frustration. I really do. I'm frustrated, too. I wish I had some brilliant idea to keep him busy and engaged but that doesn't involve something he'll consider 'meaningless.' In the meantime, I suppose I just keep trying. Though if anyone out there has a thought, I'm happy to entertain it!
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Oh, Those 'Tween Attitudes
If I didn't know better, I'd honestly wonder about M1 lately. I've heard other moms talk about the moodiness that can accompany the advent of hormones, and since I remember my teenage years I really had believed them, but in parenting you never really know anything until you experience it for yourself.
A few weeks ago, M1 stormed down the hall and hollered back at me, "YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!!!!"
If this had come out of M2's mouth, I wouldn't have blinked, but since it came out of M1, it was a bit surprising.
With the attitude has also come the boredom. It's very specific boredom, too - the kind of boredom that can only be alleviated by certain activities... specifically, watching TV or playing on the computer. It most definitely can't be helped by doing chores (heaven help the person who even thinks about bringing that up as an option) or playing with siblings, and using his imagination is also deemed 'babyish.' While he's never been the type to spend a lot of time using his imagination in play, he used to enjoy playing campground with his sister in the hallway. Now, everything depends on his mood.
This isn't to say he can't be pleasant, of course. He can be. The other night he crawled onto my lap, snuggled up, and begged to be cuddled. Cuddling a roughly 5'2", 90-something-pound 9 1/2-year-old is not easy, but I'll be damned if I'm going to say no to my boy when he asks to be treated like a wee baby instead of a young man.
He had been keeping his attitude problems private; however, these issues are slowly but surely becoming public as well as private. He snarled at me during a family barbecue last Sunday, which earned him a quick pop back into reality, and today when we went to a birthday party for one of M2's little girlfriends, the boredom and attitude combined. Within five minutes, he had parked himself at my shoulder and declared himself all done. When I separated him to talk about some ideas about what to do, all he really wanted to do was whine. The birthday girl's dad heard me and came over to investigate. He came up with several activity ideas, all of which M1 rejected.
I smiled at the dad's frustration. "It's okay," I assured him. "It's just that he's 9 and bound and determined to be bored and drag the rest of us down with him. I ruin his life on a regular basis these days."
The dad nodded and smiled back, only slightly reassured, before he left me to deal with M1 on my own. It took a little bit, but after a while, M1 did snap out of it and actually participated in the party, playing with some of the girls and the other two boys present.
This whole back and forth thing is disconcerting, but I guess it's better than a total swap all at once. A slow transition is definitely better. Teen years, here we come!
A few weeks ago, M1 stormed down the hall and hollered back at me, "YOU RUIN EVERYTHING!!!!"
If this had come out of M2's mouth, I wouldn't have blinked, but since it came out of M1, it was a bit surprising.
With the attitude has also come the boredom. It's very specific boredom, too - the kind of boredom that can only be alleviated by certain activities... specifically, watching TV or playing on the computer. It most definitely can't be helped by doing chores (heaven help the person who even thinks about bringing that up as an option) or playing with siblings, and using his imagination is also deemed 'babyish.' While he's never been the type to spend a lot of time using his imagination in play, he used to enjoy playing campground with his sister in the hallway. Now, everything depends on his mood.
This isn't to say he can't be pleasant, of course. He can be. The other night he crawled onto my lap, snuggled up, and begged to be cuddled. Cuddling a roughly 5'2", 90-something-pound 9 1/2-year-old is not easy, but I'll be damned if I'm going to say no to my boy when he asks to be treated like a wee baby instead of a young man.
He had been keeping his attitude problems private; however, these issues are slowly but surely becoming public as well as private. He snarled at me during a family barbecue last Sunday, which earned him a quick pop back into reality, and today when we went to a birthday party for one of M2's little girlfriends, the boredom and attitude combined. Within five minutes, he had parked himself at my shoulder and declared himself all done. When I separated him to talk about some ideas about what to do, all he really wanted to do was whine. The birthday girl's dad heard me and came over to investigate. He came up with several activity ideas, all of which M1 rejected.
I smiled at the dad's frustration. "It's okay," I assured him. "It's just that he's 9 and bound and determined to be bored and drag the rest of us down with him. I ruin his life on a regular basis these days."
The dad nodded and smiled back, only slightly reassured, before he left me to deal with M1 on my own. It took a little bit, but after a while, M1 did snap out of it and actually participated in the party, playing with some of the girls and the other two boys present.
This whole back and forth thing is disconcerting, but I guess it's better than a total swap all at once. A slow transition is definitely better. Teen years, here we come!
Monday, October 17, 2011
Revelation
The end of the world is coming. I know. I have seen the signs.
Did you see the signs, too? They're all over M1's room. The way his closet's contents have begun to ooze out of the door... the way underwear and socks are peeking out his nightstand drawer that's supposed to contain only magazines... the way his toy bins, half of them completely empty two months ago, have managed fill and overflow to the dresser. And don't even get me started on the full hamper that I asked him to bring me this morning when I did the rest of the laundy.
The signs are there. They are unmistakeable. They all point clearly to the fact that...
MY SON IS NINE. AND HE IS JUST. LIKE. ME.
In 2-3 years, his floor will no longer be a floor. It will be a foot-deep pile of rubbish that occasionally gets picked up but not necessarily vacuumed. Clothes will strew themselves with abandon across all possible surfaces. I'll be incredibly tempted to call the show "Hoarders" to deal with the crap my son leaves when he moves out.
I know this because I did it. I was the messy child. My mess never extended through the rest of the house, but for several years, my room had ONE path through it... and I use the word 'path' with trepidation, because really, it was more like a randomized hopscotch grid. I still don't know how I never lost my homework. My room became like this because I was largely sentenced to it from the age of about 9 until I was about 16, at which time I gained a car and pseudo-independence, and even then I only came out of my uber-cluttered hermitage to go to school, my job(s), and my extracurricular activities.
The problem is, the boy has a sass-mouth just like his mama, too, which is what caused her to be sentenced to her bedroom in the first place. I can still hear the admonition, "... and close the door, and don't come out until you can act like a civilized human being again!" Now? I find myself biting my lip to keep from saying the very same thing, because I swore up and down that if I ever had kids I'd never do that, and I like to think I'm not quite so hypocritical.
But geez it's hard!
As a parent, part of me feels like it's my responsibility to make sure that he keeps his room clean; on the other hand, I can already feel my authority slipping away, and it *is* his room. I guess I'll have to pick my battles. Because I can either nip the sass in the bud (which I will) or I can have him keep his room clean (which I'd like), but I imagine, after remembering my own teenage years, that there's no way I'm getting both.
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