If there is anything true about marriage, it is that there is a lot of give and take. When children enter the scene, that give and take increases; new revelations surface, and you give some tasks away while taking others for yourself. For example, it became evident fairly quickly that I would be the one to clean up all throw-up-related messes (including my husband's) in the household. The first time that Jeff was tasked with cleaning up after a sick child, I ended up cleaning up not only the child's mess, but also his. For whatever reason, along with blessing my husband with incredibly gorgeous hair, an unbelievably patient temperament, and giant, T-Rex legs, God also bestowed upon him one of the most sensitive gag reflexes known to mankind. The thought, sound or sight of someone about to upchuck sends Jeff's gag reflex into uncontrollable spasms. When the children occasionally choke at dinner, all that remains of Jeff is a dust cloud from his rapid departure into the bathroom.
When sick himself, Jeff is very well-intentioned about trying to make it to the bathroom; unfortunately, his gag reflex has rendered that nearly impossible on most occasions (Jeffry's mother has confirmed this fact). I still remember the first time he surprised me by losing his dinner "on the go" after the very ample consumption of a chicken casserole. To this day, I remember the casserole contained tiny, red pimientos. Those festive flecks ended up brightly decorating our hallway, living room floor, furniture and kitchen. Granted, we lived in a small space back then, but the projection and splatter radius was impressive--it took me hours to clean.
After that delightful event, I threatened to murder Jeff with my bare hands if he did it to me again. And he didn't--the next time, he actually made it to the bathroom. I was downstairs when I heard a noise that paralyzed my entire body with horror--imagine what you think the exorcism of an entire host of Satan's most vocal demons might sound like. That sound right there is the closest I can come to describing my husband, tossing his cookies in the acoustically resonant bathroom. After the paralysis caused from terrified horror faded, I was thrilled that he had actually made it to the bowl.
So, rather than risk further exorcisms, I am the official go-to girl for throw-up messes at our house. Gratefully, I have always been around when the kids get sick. That is, until a few weeks ago. I was at school when I received a frantic chat line from my husband: "Can you come home right now? We have a situation." With the worst possible scenarios running through my mind, mostly involving Evan and a head injury (if you know Evan, this is a statistically accurate conclusion), I asked what happened. I quote from my actual chat archives his response: "Evan threw up. Lots. I've been trying to clean it up for 30 min. Every time I approach it I gag like a monster."
Now, am I a bad wife because I audibly chuckled with vindictive glee when I heard the news? After relishing a moment of satisfaction over his misery, I pondered the situation. It was actually was quite serious: the end results were all unsavory. I considered calling in the teacher next door to cover my class while I went home to deal with the situation. But then I thought, that's absolutely ridiculous. He's a grown man! He can do this! I then sent him my hard-learned advice on how to deal with the mess, and wished him luck. And by golly, if Jeffry didn't step up to the plate. He made me proud. Now, to reciprocate, he has vowed to get me to actually squish a spider in a tissue paper--crunching bones, squirting guts, and the possibility it will escape and crawl with its unnaturally hairy legs into my clothing--without experiencing a full-blown panic attack. Marriage IS all about give and take, after all.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Monday, April 5, 2010
Mealtime: The Epic Battle of the Ages
Although scholars might state otherwise, I believe that desserts were first invented by parents desperate for a bargaining tool in order to get their kids to eat their vegetables. I can see Adam and Eve, frustrated at little Cain and Abel's refusal to eat their leafy greens, perhaps dangling some forbidden fruit over their heads, saying they could have some if they would just three bites of spinach. So, the other night when I heard my boys declare, "I don't want dessert," in order to get out of eating their casserole, I thought to myself, "Oh, great. What am I going to do now?"
It became evident early in our parenting career that dinner was not going to be a pleasant event where the family sat down and happily consumed the delicious meal so diligently prepared by Mother. Instead, I now more accurately liken it to a battlefield, a bitter war fought between several stubborn entities. Mealtimes with toddlers are a dreaded event, and a consistent test of parents' patience. In our pre-mortal existence, I can only imagine infant souls attending "How to Test Your Parents' Patience in Order To Further Their Spiritual Development" classes, where mealtime strategies was the most effective lecture subject.
Concerned that our children would slowly dwindle away into nothing because of their refusal to eat anything that wasn't pre-processed and shaped like a dinosaur, I consulted our pediatrician. He dispensed the following warm-fuzzy tidbit: "Kids eat when they are hungry, not according to social customs like adults do. Try not to make mealtimes about power. If they don't eat, they don't eat. They'll probably survive." I took this bit of advice home, and attempted to implement it, much to Jeffry's chagrin. Jeffry comes from the school of thought that includes strict mandates such as "You will eat every single crumb of food off of your plate before you get down," and "I don't care if you don't like it, you have to eat it anyway." Having suffered through this battle with my parents myself, I wasn't too fond of reenacting it with my children. It brought up memories of stare-downs over the dinner table, where my father and I squared off like gunslingers in an old western movie, steely adversaries, determined to fight it out to the death. Given the remarkable and all-too common victories of children in this fight, we as parents must adapt new techniques to survive and regain control. So, desperate for the strategically important table-top supremacy, we have tried all of the following approaches, without success:
1. The Laissez-Faire Approach: The philosophy behind this hands-off technique is that if they don't eat their dinner, oh well. The consequence is no snacks until the next mealtime; the theory here is that they will learn that if hungry, they will eat their meals. And all is usually pretty peachy, until, right before lunch or dinner, famished from not eating the previous meal, they follow their parental unit around for an hour, constantly whining and wearing down their resolve. This works best when the parent is especially busy, on the phone, or needing to go somewhere in public. Usually, said parent will cave and give them a snack. Then, because they had a snack, they don't eat the next meal, and the nasty cycle perpetuates itself. Granted, the parent is at fault here, but who can blame them, especially if you ARE a parent? In the millions of battles a parent has to confront over the course of one day, fighting one more is exhausting. Children know this, and apply that information better than the best enemy informant. Then of course, it's always fun when the other parent comes home and casually remarks, "Well, why did you cave? I never give in. You have to stick to your guns." This conclusion to the laissez-faire approach never ends well. Conflict within the ranks is not a winning strategy.
2. Cut-Throat Business Approach: Deal with dinnertime like it is a high-stakes corporate negotiation. Come in with bargaining power, and have a bottom-line in mind. Contractual bites need to be negotiated with the child: "You can get down if you eat 5 bites of your meal." You can substitute 5 for some other number, if desired. Start high though; this way, when they say "No, 3 bites," you have room to budge, and the child can feel like they won a victory. Children are excellent negotiators, so expect to spend a good five minutes discussing the terms of bite-age, along with continuous enforcement throughout the meal. Beware of the following common evasion tactics: Shady accounting tricks ("Hey, that wasn't my 2nd bite, it was my 3rd! I took one when you weren't looking!"); weak follow-through (taking baby-bites to fill their contractual quota); leading on the client (taking so long in-between bites that dawn starts to approach, and the parentals just give up); playing the victim card (forced gagging to look more pathetic --nothing like almost throwing up to make Mom or Dad feel guilty); introducing extenuating circumstances (actual puking; Mom hates cleaning that up. A little throw-up goes a long way towards getting you out of dinner); and, lastly, we are anticipating the evolution of skimming off the top (food in the napkin--a bit too sophisticated at this stage).
3. The Quick-Order Chef Approach: This technique revolves around the parent cooking only foods that the children will actually consume. This means, however, that either you and your spouse are forced to eat hot dogs every night, OR that you have to cook two separate meals--one for kids, one for adults. Either way, it's not ideal. Besides, simply choosing food that "the children will actually consume," is, a large percentage of the time, an exercise in futility. The word "capricious" isn't applied to children haphazardly; no, their palates are definitely subject to, and I quote the definition, "impulsive, seemingly unmotivated notion; an unpredictable or sudden condition, change, or series of changes." The meal that was their favorite one night will be deemed abhorrent the next day, a cruel and effective torture on parents' hopes and dreams of peaceful mealtimes. Also, the list of things that kids won't eat really limits the possibilities. Here is a list of things that my children have forbidden at one point or another: sauces in any form, excepting cheese on macaroni; capriciously, cheese on macaroni; sandwiches that are in any form other than on homemade wheat bread cut into four squares; chunks of fruit in yogurt; seeds in jam; anything green; tomatoes (whether whole, chunked, fresh, canned, or even in small flecks in a casserole); all vegetables except frozen corn; mushrooms; bread that crumbles too easily; homemade cheese pizza (I blame Little Caesar's for that one); orange cheese; chicken nuggets NOT shaped like dinosaurs (exception: McNuggets); hot dogs with buns, ketchup or mustard on them; and, last but not least (I could go on for quite a while), anything at all that has "stuff" on it ("stuff" is an all-encompassing and surprisingly comprehensive category, and must be removed from the food before consumption, usually through a laborious process of napkin-wiping).
4. Behavioral Psychology Approach: This branch of psychology, focused on rewards and punishments, usually deals with rats in mazes, being trained to push buttons and perform tricks in order to win golden cheese-nuggets. It also can apply to children. The approach is that if they don't eat dinner, they don't get a reward, or dessert. As for punishments, the threat of time-outs, no songs or stories at bedtime, or the removal of a prized toy has also been attempted. This works really well, until they decide that dinner is just so gross that it isn't worth choking it down in order to get a treat or evade consequences. As mentioned above, my boys have reached this point, rendering me powerless.
Note the common theme of children triumphing over parents in the above strategies. They are smart little rascals. We all were, once. I myself was a champion among picky eaters, so I realize the tinge of hypocrisy in my frustration with my children's fickle palates. The most infamous story, often repeated with zest and plenty of mockery at family gatherings, is the temper-tantrum I threw, in public, at a Dairy Queen, when my blizzard wasn't mixed properly. So usually, when sharing my woes, my parents simply laugh unsympathetically and taunt, "What goes around comes around!" Combined with the realization that nothing my parents did worked either, it makes for a rather hopeless situation.
And as my children evade and conquer yet one more time, I take hope in the knowledge that I now enjoy zucchini, and other formerly repugnant food items. It proves that most children DO grow out of their pickiness, eventually. In the meantime, before each meal I prepare my strategy, lock 'n load, and step into the war-zone.
It became evident early in our parenting career that dinner was not going to be a pleasant event where the family sat down and happily consumed the delicious meal so diligently prepared by Mother. Instead, I now more accurately liken it to a battlefield, a bitter war fought between several stubborn entities. Mealtimes with toddlers are a dreaded event, and a consistent test of parents' patience. In our pre-mortal existence, I can only imagine infant souls attending "How to Test Your Parents' Patience in Order To Further Their Spiritual Development" classes, where mealtime strategies was the most effective lecture subject.
Concerned that our children would slowly dwindle away into nothing because of their refusal to eat anything that wasn't pre-processed and shaped like a dinosaur, I consulted our pediatrician. He dispensed the following warm-fuzzy tidbit: "Kids eat when they are hungry, not according to social customs like adults do. Try not to make mealtimes about power. If they don't eat, they don't eat. They'll probably survive." I took this bit of advice home, and attempted to implement it, much to Jeffry's chagrin. Jeffry comes from the school of thought that includes strict mandates such as "You will eat every single crumb of food off of your plate before you get down," and "I don't care if you don't like it, you have to eat it anyway." Having suffered through this battle with my parents myself, I wasn't too fond of reenacting it with my children. It brought up memories of stare-downs over the dinner table, where my father and I squared off like gunslingers in an old western movie, steely adversaries, determined to fight it out to the death. Given the remarkable and all-too common victories of children in this fight, we as parents must adapt new techniques to survive and regain control. So, desperate for the strategically important table-top supremacy, we have tried all of the following approaches, without success:
1. The Laissez-Faire Approach: The philosophy behind this hands-off technique is that if they don't eat their dinner, oh well. The consequence is no snacks until the next mealtime; the theory here is that they will learn that if hungry, they will eat their meals. And all is usually pretty peachy, until, right before lunch or dinner, famished from not eating the previous meal, they follow their parental unit around for an hour, constantly whining and wearing down their resolve. This works best when the parent is especially busy, on the phone, or needing to go somewhere in public. Usually, said parent will cave and give them a snack. Then, because they had a snack, they don't eat the next meal, and the nasty cycle perpetuates itself. Granted, the parent is at fault here, but who can blame them, especially if you ARE a parent? In the millions of battles a parent has to confront over the course of one day, fighting one more is exhausting. Children know this, and apply that information better than the best enemy informant. Then of course, it's always fun when the other parent comes home and casually remarks, "Well, why did you cave? I never give in. You have to stick to your guns." This conclusion to the laissez-faire approach never ends well. Conflict within the ranks is not a winning strategy.
2. Cut-Throat Business Approach: Deal with dinnertime like it is a high-stakes corporate negotiation. Come in with bargaining power, and have a bottom-line in mind. Contractual bites need to be negotiated with the child: "You can get down if you eat 5 bites of your meal." You can substitute 5 for some other number, if desired. Start high though; this way, when they say "No, 3 bites," you have room to budge, and the child can feel like they won a victory. Children are excellent negotiators, so expect to spend a good five minutes discussing the terms of bite-age, along with continuous enforcement throughout the meal. Beware of the following common evasion tactics: Shady accounting tricks ("Hey, that wasn't my 2nd bite, it was my 3rd! I took one when you weren't looking!"); weak follow-through (taking baby-bites to fill their contractual quota); leading on the client (taking so long in-between bites that dawn starts to approach, and the parentals just give up); playing the victim card (forced gagging to look more pathetic --nothing like almost throwing up to make Mom or Dad feel guilty); introducing extenuating circumstances (actual puking; Mom hates cleaning that up. A little throw-up goes a long way towards getting you out of dinner); and, lastly, we are anticipating the evolution of skimming off the top (food in the napkin--a bit too sophisticated at this stage).
3. The Quick-Order Chef Approach: This technique revolves around the parent cooking only foods that the children will actually consume. This means, however, that either you and your spouse are forced to eat hot dogs every night, OR that you have to cook two separate meals--one for kids, one for adults. Either way, it's not ideal. Besides, simply choosing food that "the children will actually consume," is, a large percentage of the time, an exercise in futility. The word "capricious" isn't applied to children haphazardly; no, their palates are definitely subject to, and I quote the definition, "impulsive, seemingly unmotivated notion; an unpredictable or sudden condition, change, or series of changes." The meal that was their favorite one night will be deemed abhorrent the next day, a cruel and effective torture on parents' hopes and dreams of peaceful mealtimes. Also, the list of things that kids won't eat really limits the possibilities. Here is a list of things that my children have forbidden at one point or another: sauces in any form, excepting cheese on macaroni; capriciously, cheese on macaroni; sandwiches that are in any form other than on homemade wheat bread cut into four squares; chunks of fruit in yogurt; seeds in jam; anything green; tomatoes (whether whole, chunked, fresh, canned, or even in small flecks in a casserole); all vegetables except frozen corn; mushrooms; bread that crumbles too easily; homemade cheese pizza (I blame Little Caesar's for that one); orange cheese; chicken nuggets NOT shaped like dinosaurs (exception: McNuggets); hot dogs with buns, ketchup or mustard on them; and, last but not least (I could go on for quite a while), anything at all that has "stuff" on it ("stuff" is an all-encompassing and surprisingly comprehensive category, and must be removed from the food before consumption, usually through a laborious process of napkin-wiping).
4. Behavioral Psychology Approach: This branch of psychology, focused on rewards and punishments, usually deals with rats in mazes, being trained to push buttons and perform tricks in order to win golden cheese-nuggets. It also can apply to children. The approach is that if they don't eat dinner, they don't get a reward, or dessert. As for punishments, the threat of time-outs, no songs or stories at bedtime, or the removal of a prized toy has also been attempted. This works really well, until they decide that dinner is just so gross that it isn't worth choking it down in order to get a treat or evade consequences. As mentioned above, my boys have reached this point, rendering me powerless.
Note the common theme of children triumphing over parents in the above strategies. They are smart little rascals. We all were, once. I myself was a champion among picky eaters, so I realize the tinge of hypocrisy in my frustration with my children's fickle palates. The most infamous story, often repeated with zest and plenty of mockery at family gatherings, is the temper-tantrum I threw, in public, at a Dairy Queen, when my blizzard wasn't mixed properly. So usually, when sharing my woes, my parents simply laugh unsympathetically and taunt, "What goes around comes around!" Combined with the realization that nothing my parents did worked either, it makes for a rather hopeless situation.
And as my children evade and conquer yet one more time, I take hope in the knowledge that I now enjoy zucchini, and other formerly repugnant food items. It proves that most children DO grow out of their pickiness, eventually. In the meantime, before each meal I prepare my strategy, lock 'n load, and step into the war-zone.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Hot Tamale!
Evan has recently developed a love of boogers. I understand that this is probably a normal developmental stage, so am trying not to be bothered by it. But, if you come upon him unsuspected, most likely he’ll be mining for gold. Photographic evidence has been ga
thered, and the “should we do anything about it?” parental discussions have been had. While trying to decide what measures, if any, should be taken, especially as he engages in nostril-diving in line at the store, I can’t help but remember some experiences from my own youth that correlate with the subject. My siblings and I occasionally participated in booger-flicking wars, at a much more mature age than Evan’s tender 3 ½ years. My father even liked to pretend to flick them at us to elicit horrified screams. Such playful shenanigans help me to relax a bit, especially when Evan finds a particularly juicy one while we’re in the vegetable aisle.
My younger sister Amy, to her credit, never participated in such juvenile tactics as mentioned above. However, she did have a penchant for sticking things up her nose, and while this behavior is normally “just a phase” that some children go through, she persisted in lodging things up her nostrils well into high school. For Amy, nasal embedment wasn’t always the goal; in fact, one of her favorite things to do was to take the ends of jacket strings, creep them up into the nasal cavity, and wiggle them around just enough to make herself sneeze. Her only rationale for such strange behavior was, “sneezing feels good.”
One priceless nasal-lodging incident occurred on a family road trip across the long and scenery-deprived Nebraska. On this particular trip, Dad was in “adventure” mode, which for him, meant going off the beaten track in search of small streams and tributaries of which to take endless photos, while attempting to engage his children in sophisticated sedimentation discussions. This particular excursion took us hours off of the straight-shot home-- fed up, we children vocally registered our boredom and disgruntlement. The four of us even made a sign: “I’m bored,” and every time we passed another car, we flashed the sign and pulled our best tortured faces. Soon enough even that got old, and we shifted into hyper-silly mode. At this point, Amy’s nasal propensities kicked into high gear. She started putting random things up her nose, then making faces, sending the rest of us into hysterics. All was giggles and kicks until a box of Hot Tamales candy surfaced. Not even hesitating, she doubled up, putting one in each nostril, pulling a distorted face. The rest of us were laughing heartily when Amy’s face turned into true despair and she screamed, “It burns! They burn!” The offensive and spicy hot tamales were removed, but the burning persisted for a good while longer.
Now, logic would conclude that Amy had learned of the dangers of sticking candy up her nose, and therefore would never repeat the act. Not so. Several years later, Amy approached me after school, obviously distressed; upon close inspection, there was a thin stream of blue oozing out of one nostril. Horrified, I thought that she had some sort of funky bloody nose, my visions of “blue blood” stemming from a cheap vampire flick I saw once where the vampires didn’t bleed red, but blue. Although pretty sure my sister wasn’t a vampire, I experienced a brief flicker of doubt until Amy whispered, “It’s a blue peanut M&M. It’s stuck. Help!” Not sure what she wanted me to do, I ushered her into the girls’ bathroom. Further investigation revealed that it was too far up to fish out, and posed a serious snort-an-M&M-into-the-brain threat. Amidst baffled inquiries of the “What, are you 5 years old? Why do you keep sticking things up your nose?” variety, I encouraged her to inhale through her mouth so as to not blow out an eyeball with the M&M as a result of hysterical gasping, and then pinch off the other nostril and attempt to snort the intruder out into the sink. Next followed a combination of really messy blue snot-shots, nasally whimpers of “ow! ow! ow! ow! ow!”, and me stifling laughter while she hunkered over the sink, lunging forward with each attempted dislodgment. After several really good tries, the M&M was still housed in Amy’s nose, and apparently setting up permanent residence. I mused over the possibility of simple disintegration over time; however, the advertised “won’t melt in your hand” factor led me to wonder just exactly how long that process would take. The blue shell was definitely well on its way, considering the state of the sink. With a disgruntled sigh, I decided, “All right, all right! I’m going to go see if I can’t rustle up a toothpick, or maybe a pair of tweezers—maybe then we can leverage the candy out.” Gratefully, I didn’t meet anyone I knew in the halls as I searched; I couldn’t really imagine a concise answer to the phrase, “Hey, what’s up? Where you headed?” that wouldn’t prompt the inquirer to make a mental note-to-self to avoid those crazy Hotchkiss sisters...I was mulling this over when Amy herself rushed up and declared triumphantly, “I got it! It came out!” Her eyes were watering, the right nostril was inflamed and ringed in blue, but, there was no more M&M. A couple hours of blue-tinged drainage, and she was good as new.
Despite such antics in our youth, the Hotchkiss siblings have turned out to be fully-functioning members of society, making mature decisions on a daily basis. This gives me hope for my children, and helps me to relax and enjoy the journey, even if it is filled with the occasional pit-stop for nasal cleanings.
thered, and the “should we do anything about it?” parental discussions have been had. While trying to decide what measures, if any, should be taken, especially as he engages in nostril-diving in line at the store, I can’t help but remember some experiences from my own youth that correlate with the subject. My siblings and I occasionally participated in booger-flicking wars, at a much more mature age than Evan’s tender 3 ½ years. My father even liked to pretend to flick them at us to elicit horrified screams. Such playful shenanigans help me to relax a bit, especially when Evan finds a particularly juicy one while we’re in the vegetable aisle.My younger sister Amy, to her credit, never participated in such juvenile tactics as mentioned above. However, she did have a penchant for sticking things up her nose, and while this behavior is normally “just a phase” that some children go through, she persisted in lodging things up her nostrils well into high school. For Amy, nasal embedment wasn’t always the goal; in fact, one of her favorite things to do was to take the ends of jacket strings, creep them up into the nasal cavity, and wiggle them around just enough to make herself sneeze. Her only rationale for such strange behavior was, “sneezing feels good.”
One priceless nasal-lodging incident occurred on a family road trip across the long and scenery-deprived Nebraska. On this particular trip, Dad was in “adventure” mode, which for him, meant going off the beaten track in search of small streams and tributaries of which to take endless photos, while attempting to engage his children in sophisticated sedimentation discussions. This particular excursion took us hours off of the straight-shot home-- fed up, we children vocally registered our boredom and disgruntlement. The four of us even made a sign: “I’m bored,” and every time we passed another car, we flashed the sign and pulled our best tortured faces. Soon enough even that got old, and we shifted into hyper-silly mode. At this point, Amy’s nasal propensities kicked into high gear. She started putting random things up her nose, then making faces, sending the rest of us into hysterics. All was giggles and kicks until a box of Hot Tamales candy surfaced. Not even hesitating, she doubled up, putting one in each nostril, pulling a distorted face. The rest of us were laughing heartily when Amy’s face turned into true despair and she screamed, “It burns! They burn!” The offensive and spicy hot tamales were removed, but the burning persisted for a good while longer.
Now, logic would conclude that Amy had learned of the dangers of sticking candy up her nose, and therefore would never repeat the act. Not so. Several years later, Amy approached me after school, obviously distressed; upon close inspection, there was a thin stream of blue oozing out of one nostril. Horrified, I thought that she had some sort of funky bloody nose, my visions of “blue blood” stemming from a cheap vampire flick I saw once where the vampires didn’t bleed red, but blue. Although pretty sure my sister wasn’t a vampire, I experienced a brief flicker of doubt until Amy whispered, “It’s a blue peanut M&M. It’s stuck. Help!” Not sure what she wanted me to do, I ushered her into the girls’ bathroom. Further investigation revealed that it was too far up to fish out, and posed a serious snort-an-M&M-into-the-brain threat. Amidst baffled inquiries of the “What, are you 5 years old? Why do you keep sticking things up your nose?” variety, I encouraged her to inhale through her mouth so as to not blow out an eyeball with the M&M as a result of hysterical gasping, and then pinch off the other nostril and attempt to snort the intruder out into the sink. Next followed a combination of really messy blue snot-shots, nasally whimpers of “ow! ow! ow! ow! ow!”, and me stifling laughter while she hunkered over the sink, lunging forward with each attempted dislodgment. After several really good tries, the M&M was still housed in Amy’s nose, and apparently setting up permanent residence. I mused over the possibility of simple disintegration over time; however, the advertised “won’t melt in your hand” factor led me to wonder just exactly how long that process would take. The blue shell was definitely well on its way, considering the state of the sink. With a disgruntled sigh, I decided, “All right, all right! I’m going to go see if I can’t rustle up a toothpick, or maybe a pair of tweezers—maybe then we can leverage the candy out.” Gratefully, I didn’t meet anyone I knew in the halls as I searched; I couldn’t really imagine a concise answer to the phrase, “Hey, what’s up? Where you headed?” that wouldn’t prompt the inquirer to make a mental note-to-self to avoid those crazy Hotchkiss sisters...I was mulling this over when Amy herself rushed up and declared triumphantly, “I got it! It came out!” Her eyes were watering, the right nostril was inflamed and ringed in blue, but, there was no more M&M. A couple hours of blue-tinged drainage, and she was good as new.
Despite such antics in our youth, the Hotchkiss siblings have turned out to be fully-functioning members of society, making mature decisions on a daily basis. This gives me hope for my children, and helps me to relax and enjoy the journey, even if it is filled with the occasional pit-stop for nasal cleanings.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Wal-Mart Moms
We've all seen them and judged. The haggard mothers dragging dirty, noisy, and often screaming children through Wal-Mart. We tsk, huff and sniff at the lack of discipline and order, bemoaning the state of humanity. Or, maybe it was just me that did that. And once again, I find life has a funny way of coming full circle: I have recently joined the ranks of the Wal-Mart moms.
A few weeks ago, I made the mistake of taking the boys to Wal-Mart to get the oil changed. I shopped, but was finished long before the car was, so we had to sit in the small, overcrowded waiting area for nearly an hour. While we were there, the following conversations and acts occurred, witnessed at close range by numerous people.
1. Evan decided that he was hungry. If any of you know Evan (or me for that matter) you know what this means. Food must be consumed immediately or our alternate personalities surface: tantrums, screaming, crying, grumpiness, irrationality and petulance abound. And, Evan displayed all of these traits, while intermittently attempting to steal candy from the register area and consume it when I wasn't looking.
2. We are potty-training Evan, and big-boy undies are still a novelty to him. He has developed a fascination with his ability to pull them down and up again. So, of course, while I was tangled up in complicated conversations with Wesley (details below), Evan decided that this was the right time to continue honing his big-boy dexterity. He pulled his pants and undies down, and stood there for a bit, airing out, I suppose. I have no idea how long he was there before I noticed. I looked over to see Evan treating the customers to a show, and to top it off, he was carefully examining his parts like he had never seen them before.
3. A man with very long hair walked in at one point; Wesley loudly asked, "Is that person a boy or a girl, Mommy?" (This ranks up there with the time that he asked the cashier, who was sporting a goatee and long hair, if he was Jesus.)
4. Evan started tooting, loudly. Which of course put me in the awkward position of having to ask the question, in front of everyone, "Do you have to go poo-poo, Evan?" Each time, he vehemently denied it, stating, "No, no poo-poos yet." I knew otherwise--we'd been down this road before--so I ended up having to cart him out, in my arms, with him screaming and batting at me, "Let me down! Let me down! I don't want to go poo-poo!" and haul him to the restroom, where, as we know, the acoustics are much more resonant. Wesley followed me, stating loudly on his way out, "I want to see it, Mommy!"
5. Cordially, the waiting room provided a coffee stand for its customers. And this is the time that Wesley decided to engage me in a detailed conversation about whether or not he can drink it, and why I don't drink it--a subject we hadn't broached with him yet. The first question out of the chute, loud enough for the coffee-sipping patrons to hear: "Mommy, if you drink coffee you're a bad person, huh?" Dismayed by his uncanny timing, I informed him that was not correct. "Then why don't you drink coffee, Mommy?" I chuckled nervously, throwing peripheral glances around me to gauge the attentiveness of the other customers. "Well, I just don't like it," was my careful response. "Will you get sick if you drink coffee?" At this point, a woman, coffee in hand, piped in with, "Hey, I drink coffee and I'm not dead." Wesley took this in, mulled it over, and decided that he wanted some. Insert a typical power-struggle here, complete with Wesley's finely-honed--and ear-piercing--whining, and his highly dramatic pouty-face foot-stamp. When it was finally settled, I heaved a sigh of relief, and turned back to my magazine to read more about the latest Hollywood break-up. Then I heard, "Will drinking alcohol make you sick, Mommy?" And it all started over again. I attempted a sheepish smile-shrug of the "Kids! What are you gonna do?" variety, tossing it out to the other customers, hoping for some empathetic or commiserative smiles, but got nothing. Steely faces. Judgmental faces. Faces I used to make at Wal-Mart moms.
A few weeks ago, I made the mistake of taking the boys to Wal-Mart to get the oil changed. I shopped, but was finished long before the car was, so we had to sit in the small, overcrowded waiting area for nearly an hour. While we were there, the following conversations and acts occurred, witnessed at close range by numerous people.
1. Evan decided that he was hungry. If any of you know Evan (or me for that matter) you know what this means. Food must be consumed immediately or our alternate personalities surface: tantrums, screaming, crying, grumpiness, irrationality and petulance abound. And, Evan displayed all of these traits, while intermittently attempting to steal candy from the register area and consume it when I wasn't looking.
2. We are potty-training Evan, and big-boy undies are still a novelty to him. He has developed a fascination with his ability to pull them down and up again. So, of course, while I was tangled up in complicated conversations with Wesley (details below), Evan decided that this was the right time to continue honing his big-boy dexterity. He pulled his pants and undies down, and stood there for a bit, airing out, I suppose. I have no idea how long he was there before I noticed. I looked over to see Evan treating the customers to a show, and to top it off, he was carefully examining his parts like he had never seen them before.
3. A man with very long hair walked in at one point; Wesley loudly asked, "Is that person a boy or a girl, Mommy?" (This ranks up there with the time that he asked the cashier, who was sporting a goatee and long hair, if he was Jesus.)
4. Evan started tooting, loudly. Which of course put me in the awkward position of having to ask the question, in front of everyone, "Do you have to go poo-poo, Evan?" Each time, he vehemently denied it, stating, "No, no poo-poos yet." I knew otherwise--we'd been down this road before--so I ended up having to cart him out, in my arms, with him screaming and batting at me, "Let me down! Let me down! I don't want to go poo-poo!" and haul him to the restroom, where, as we know, the acoustics are much more resonant. Wesley followed me, stating loudly on his way out, "I want to see it, Mommy!"
5. Cordially, the waiting room provided a coffee stand for its customers. And this is the time that Wesley decided to engage me in a detailed conversation about whether or not he can drink it, and why I don't drink it--a subject we hadn't broached with him yet. The first question out of the chute, loud enough for the coffee-sipping patrons to hear: "Mommy, if you drink coffee you're a bad person, huh?" Dismayed by his uncanny timing, I informed him that was not correct. "Then why don't you drink coffee, Mommy?" I chuckled nervously, throwing peripheral glances around me to gauge the attentiveness of the other customers. "Well, I just don't like it," was my careful response. "Will you get sick if you drink coffee?" At this point, a woman, coffee in hand, piped in with, "Hey, I drink coffee and I'm not dead." Wesley took this in, mulled it over, and decided that he wanted some. Insert a typical power-struggle here, complete with Wesley's finely-honed--and ear-piercing--whining, and his highly dramatic pouty-face foot-stamp. When it was finally settled, I heaved a sigh of relief, and turned back to my magazine to read more about the latest Hollywood break-up. Then I heard, "Will drinking alcohol make you sick, Mommy?" And it all started over again. I attempted a sheepish smile-shrug of the "Kids! What are you gonna do?" variety, tossing it out to the other customers, hoping for some empathetic or commiserative smiles, but got nothing. Steely faces. Judgmental faces. Faces I used to make at Wal-Mart moms.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wesley the Chatterbox
Considering the fact that both Jeff and I were both painfully shy growing up, and continue to be, for the most part, mutes, we are continually amazed at how much our little Wesley talks. We always know where Wesley is, because he trails a fizzle of noisy vocal exclamations wherever he meanders (which usually isn't farther than speaking distance, so that Mom or Dad can answer his questions). A day home alone with Evan, on the other hand, is the total opposite. Every once in a while we jump up in a panic, and ask, "Where's Evan?" and have to go hunt him down, only to discover him happily-and quietly-playing with his toys somewhere. After bouts of Wesley's non-stop chatter, I find myself washed in guilt after I utter things such as, "Wesley, can you try to stop talking for 5 minutes? I can't hear myself think!" and the other awful parental expression that is probably often thought but shouldn't be expressed, "Wesley! Stop asking questions!" His favorite place to voice thoughts is in the car; we are in the car a lot, probably close to an hour a day. And that entire time, with no respite whatsoever, Wesley talks. I emerge from the van with ringing ears, my head spinning, finding myself wanting to hike to the nearest mountaintop, alone, to just sit there and bask in the silence. Here is a sample conversation that we had, just the other day, based on his imaginative flowerings stemming from the movie Bolt:
Wesley: Mommy, if doggies die, do they go to heaven?
Me: Yes, I am sure that they do.
Wes: What if they don't?
Me: They do.
W: But what if they don't?
Me: Wesley, I told you, they do. Don't worry about it.
W: So, if Cleo and Sammie die they will go to heaven?
Me: Yes.
W: If Sammie and Cleo die, can we get another cat, but paint it black and put a lightning bolt on its side?
Me: We'll see, but I don't like thinking about our cats dying.
W: But if they do, can we get a cat like the one in Bolt?
Me: We'll deal with that when it happens.
W: Can we get a dog that chases helicopters too, and name him Bolt?
Me: No. Mommy and Daddy don't like dogs.
W: What if our car was being chased by bad guys in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: You would have to drive really, really fast, huh Mom!
Me: Yes.
W: What if we are getting chased by aliens in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: And then they catch us and the green-eyed man comes! Then, we would have to get our cat to come save us! Mommy, what if Sammie and Cleo die, and we get another cat. Can we name the cat Bolt?
Me: I don't know.
W: What if there was a cow on the train tracks?
Me: That would be scary.
W: What if there is a cow and a train is coming!?
Me: I'm sure that the cow would move.
W: But what if it doesn't move, and the train is coming fast, fast, fast!?
Me: Well, the train will hopefully see it and put on its brakes.
W: But what if the brakes are broken?
Me: Then that is one unlucky cow.
W: Would the cow die?
Me: Probably.
W: Do cows go to heaven?
Me: I'm sure they do.
W: I don't want the cow to die.
Me: It wouldn't. It would hear the train and get off the tracks.
W: But what if it started running away, and ran and ran and ran but couldn't run fast enough?
Me: Well, that would be silly. Wouldn't it be easier for the cow to simply step off the tracks instead of running away?
W: But what if the cow doesn't know to get off the tracks?
Me: I'm sure it will. The cow will be fine.
W: What if there was a cat on the train tracks!?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there was a horse on the tracks?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there were sheep on the tracks? Is that silly, Mommy?
Me: Yes.
W: What if there-
Me: Wes, if there are ever any animals on the train tracks, they will all move. All of them. Okay? Can Mommy have a bit of quiet time now?
W:------But Mommy, what if-
Me: Wes! No more questions!
And so on, and so forth. Outside doing yard work the other day, Wesley harassed me with so many questions, hypothetical "what if's", and statements that required immediate and constant validation that I finally asked him to stop talking to me. Wesley paused, only briefly, then said, "Fine, I will talk to myself," and started a conversation with, "Wesley, would it be silly if there were bugs that talked?" to which he answered, "Bugs don't talk, silly!" and then proceeded to converse with himself for the next five minutes. Whenever we ask Evan a question, Wesley bursts forth with the answer. When we ask him to be quiet so that Evan can answer, it is like physical torture; he twitches, writhes, claps his hands over his mouth, does a dance, jumps, and finally, after a few seconds, usually boils over and shrieks the answer, jolting upwards like an overflowing volcano that's hit is combustible point. The first thing he does in the morning is start talking; we hear it on the monitor. The last thing he does at night is sing himself to sleep (a couple classic Wesley compositions: "I Am a Chicken of God," and "Christmas Lights are So Much Fun").
I jot this down for two purposes: 1. Venting, and 2. Historical proof that he, at one point, never stopped talking. That way, when he is a brooding teenager whose reply to every personal question is "Nothing," or "Fine," as he skulks to his room, shutting the door in my face, I can wave this evidence as triumphant proof that he once communicated with his mother.
Wesley: Mommy, if doggies die, do they go to heaven?
Me: Yes, I am sure that they do.
Wes: What if they don't?
Me: They do.
W: But what if they don't?
Me: Wesley, I told you, they do. Don't worry about it.
W: So, if Cleo and Sammie die they will go to heaven?
Me: Yes.
W: If Sammie and Cleo die, can we get another cat, but paint it black and put a lightning bolt on its side?
Me: We'll see, but I don't like thinking about our cats dying.
W: But if they do, can we get a cat like the one in Bolt?
Me: We'll deal with that when it happens.
W: Can we get a dog that chases helicopters too, and name him Bolt?
Me: No. Mommy and Daddy don't like dogs.
W: What if our car was being chased by bad guys in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: You would have to drive really, really fast, huh Mom!
Me: Yes.
W: What if we are getting chased by aliens in a helicopter?
Me: That would be scary.
W: And then they catch us and the green-eyed man comes! Then, we would have to get our cat to come save us! Mommy, what if Sammie and Cleo die, and we get another cat. Can we name the cat Bolt?
Me: I don't know.
W: What if there was a cow on the train tracks?
Me: That would be scary.
W: What if there is a cow and a train is coming!?
Me: I'm sure that the cow would move.
W: But what if it doesn't move, and the train is coming fast, fast, fast!?
Me: Well, the train will hopefully see it and put on its brakes.
W: But what if the brakes are broken?
Me: Then that is one unlucky cow.
W: Would the cow die?
Me: Probably.
W: Do cows go to heaven?
Me: I'm sure they do.
W: I don't want the cow to die.
Me: It wouldn't. It would hear the train and get off the tracks.
W: But what if it started running away, and ran and ran and ran but couldn't run fast enough?
Me: Well, that would be silly. Wouldn't it be easier for the cow to simply step off the tracks instead of running away?
W: But what if the cow doesn't know to get off the tracks?
Me: I'm sure it will. The cow will be fine.
W: What if there was a cat on the train tracks!?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there was a horse on the tracks?
Me: Same thing. It would move.
W: What if there were sheep on the tracks? Is that silly, Mommy?
Me: Yes.
W: What if there-
Me: Wes, if there are ever any animals on the train tracks, they will all move. All of them. Okay? Can Mommy have a bit of quiet time now?
W:------But Mommy, what if-
Me: Wes! No more questions!
And so on, and so forth. Outside doing yard work the other day, Wesley harassed me with so many questions, hypothetical "what if's", and statements that required immediate and constant validation that I finally asked him to stop talking to me. Wesley paused, only briefly, then said, "Fine, I will talk to myself," and started a conversation with, "Wesley, would it be silly if there were bugs that talked?" to which he answered, "Bugs don't talk, silly!" and then proceeded to converse with himself for the next five minutes. Whenever we ask Evan a question, Wesley bursts forth with the answer. When we ask him to be quiet so that Evan can answer, it is like physical torture; he twitches, writhes, claps his hands over his mouth, does a dance, jumps, and finally, after a few seconds, usually boils over and shrieks the answer, jolting upwards like an overflowing volcano that's hit is combustible point. The first thing he does in the morning is start talking; we hear it on the monitor. The last thing he does at night is sing himself to sleep (a couple classic Wesley compositions: "I Am a Chicken of God," and "Christmas Lights are So Much Fun").
I jot this down for two purposes: 1. Venting, and 2. Historical proof that he, at one point, never stopped talking. That way, when he is a brooding teenager whose reply to every personal question is "Nothing," or "Fine," as he skulks to his room, shutting the door in my face, I can wave this evidence as triumphant proof that he once communicated with his mother.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Profound Moments in the Life of a Teacher
Every day I spend 4 hours with large crowds of teenagers. To be able to do this without being institutionalized, suffering a brain hemorrhage, having my self-esteem completely decimated into a smoking heap at my feet, or weeping in despair hourly requires a sense of humor and a specialized type of patience. That way, when the wad of paper that was aimed at the trash can hits me in the head-again-I can laugh it off instead of blowing a gasket. That way, as half of the students incessantly text right through the class period, I am able to brush it off, and remind myself to petition for a school-wide cell-phone jammer.
Yes, I teach, but that is only one area of my interaction with these kids. I show up each day to an assortment of random and entertaining situations that never leave me wanting for amusement. Below, I have listed a few of the things that have come up, just in this week alone.
Yes, I teach, but that is only one area of my interaction with these kids. I show up each day to an assortment of random and entertaining situations that never leave me wanting for amusement. Below, I have listed a few of the things that have come up, just in this week alone.
- 2 boys came to class completely covered in fiberglass, and spent almost the entire period picking tiny slivers of glass from their highly irritated skin. They said it was an auto-body project gone bad.
- I overheard an in-depth conversation where a kid was insisting that if everyone on the earth were to run really fast counter-clockwise, we could probably go back in time.
- I watched as a kid attempted to duck-tape his cell phone back together after it had been run over by a car.
- I spent a good part of 5 minutes convincing one boy that cutting out 25 mini-marijuana leaves to paste onto construction paper probably wasn't the best use of his time.
- A girl, tardy to class, attempted to ask me what she had missed; she was completely incoherent, and drooling as she talked. As she normally speaks quite well, it was a bit alarming. My concern must have showed because a friend piped up and told me she had just come back from the dentist, and was still numbed up.
- In the middle of quiet writing time, a boy farted, then proudly claimed it, stating, "Yes, it was me," which launched half the class to hysterical laughter, and the other half into a discussion on how farts get a bad rap (one argument was that they were a natural part of human functioning, so why not embrace it instead of being shamed by it?).
- A boy abashedly explained to me that he had shaved off his highly prized chops because his grandma had asked him to, but to keep that information on the down-low.
- I completely botched an attempt at a "high-five-fist-bump" greeting.
- I listened as 2 kids programmed their cell phones to say "You have a phone call" in 5 different languages. As they were moving on to more obscure languages like "Danish", I intervened, asking how this was relevant to their work. Their response: "Why are you so down on other languages, Campbell? Just because you're an English teacher doesn't mean you have to be racist." I responded with my infamous stink-eye, which set them to work right away.
- I discovered a huddle of chuckling students who confessed that they were busy sending repeated texts to a kid who had gone to the bathroom so that his phone would ring continually while he was in the stall.
- I confiscated a roll of masking tape that was being torn into strips, covered in statements such as "I eat kittens for breakfast" and "Hug me, and hug me lots", and then being discreetly taped onto a student's back.
- I distributed a band-aid after one student decided to answer the burning question of whether staples would penetrate flesh.
- I fielded questions on all of the following-and highly pertinent to education-topics: American Idol and whether I think it is kind-of lame that an Osmond tried out, what exactly is going wrong with my car and would I be willing to let a mechanically-inclined student take a look at the engine (I politely declined), how in the world am I able to type so fast, how I feel about Chuck Norris (I am completely against him; this launched a "defense of Chuck Norris" tirade, counter-launched by my list of all cheesy and stupid actors-Vin Diesel, Jean Claude Van Damme, Steven Seagal, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and that one dude in Sniper with the intense eyes), if there is a secret government agency made completely of lethal assassins and if so how does one apply, and if the new technology put up in the classroom was really a spying device that the administration was going to use against them in blackmailing schemes.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Toiletries
Before anyone becomes a parent, they receive all sorts of advice, warnings, parenting and disciplining tips, and good wishes. As great as this is, I wish someone would have told me how much of my life would involve cleaning up, being covered in, talking about, lamenting over, and being completely embarrassed by poop and pee. I wish there was a more graceful way to say it, so Jeffry-a man who grew upset when I told Wesley what farts were and insisted we use "toot" instead-has suggested euphemizing the words. For the rest of this blog entry, pee will be referred to as "tinkle" and poop as "squeegee". You're welcome, Jeffry. Moving on...from the newborn that noisily explodes its pants during the prayer in relief society to the messes involved with potty-training, tinkle and squeegee are a constant of every young parent's life. Here are just a few charming anecdotes from recent months.
We attempted-and failed miserably-to potty-train Evan over the Christmas
break. Evan's stubbornness is monumental; I pray for strength to combat it the next time that I try. Because of our optimistic attempt, we had toilet-toppers in the bathrooms (little snap-on toilet seats that make it easier for the youngins to perch). One morning I heard Wesley screaming downstairs. As he tends to not have a "quiet voice" (a fact brought to my attention by the primary president), I took no notice until he came stumbling upstairs, with his head stuck in Evan's toilet seat. The look of misery on his face says it all.
During sacrament meeting last week, Evan set the hymnals on the seat, lifted up the covers to rest against the back of the pew, and proceeded to climb onto them and pretend to use those hymnals as "toilets". Because I was reverently pondering the sacrament, I took little notice until Evan climbed off and informed me that he was going squeegee.
As I was receiving a spiritual message from my visiting teachers a few months ago, unbeknownst to me, Wesley was downstairs with my visiting teacher's two little girls, tinkling into a Legos bucket. Traumatized, the girls came up and told their mom that "a little boy down there tinkled into a bucket in front of us." I disdainfully dismissed their claim, saying he had never done anything of the sort before. Later however, I discovered the freshly christened bucket, and Wesley's answer to why he had done such a thing was, "I wanted to show them." This proves that God has a sense of humor, because in my pre-child days, when my attitude towards mothering was both haughty and naive, I was horrified when one of Jeffry's advisor's little boys tinkled on a tree right in front of a group of us at a party. To Jeffry later, I chastised the kid's parents, labeling them as softies with no discipline of their children. And there you have it. My judgment day has come. Not surprisingly, my visiting teacher no longer brings her little girls over.
And, as I change one more dirty diaper that Evan kicks onto me, covering me with squeegee, I look forward to the day when I can wash my hands of this matter, once and for all.
We attempted-and failed miserably-to potty-train Evan over the Christmas
break. Evan's stubbornness is monumental; I pray for strength to combat it the next time that I try. Because of our optimistic attempt, we had toilet-toppers in the bathrooms (little snap-on toilet seats that make it easier for the youngins to perch). One morning I heard Wesley screaming downstairs. As he tends to not have a "quiet voice" (a fact brought to my attention by the primary president), I took no notice until he came stumbling upstairs, with his head stuck in Evan's toilet seat. The look of misery on his face says it all.During sacrament meeting last week, Evan set the hymnals on the seat, lifted up the covers to rest against the back of the pew, and proceeded to climb onto them and pretend to use those hymnals as "toilets". Because I was reverently pondering the sacrament, I took little notice until Evan climbed off and informed me that he was going squeegee.
As I was receiving a spiritual message from my visiting teachers a few months ago, unbeknownst to me, Wesley was downstairs with my visiting teacher's two little girls, tinkling into a Legos bucket. Traumatized, the girls came up and told their mom that "a little boy down there tinkled into a bucket in front of us." I disdainfully dismissed their claim, saying he had never done anything of the sort before. Later however, I discovered the freshly christened bucket, and Wesley's answer to why he had done such a thing was, "I wanted to show them." This proves that God has a sense of humor, because in my pre-child days, when my attitude towards mothering was both haughty and naive, I was horrified when one of Jeffry's advisor's little boys tinkled on a tree right in front of a group of us at a party. To Jeffry later, I chastised the kid's parents, labeling them as softies with no discipline of their children. And there you have it. My judgment day has come. Not surprisingly, my visiting teacher no longer brings her little girls over.
And, as I change one more dirty diaper that Evan kicks onto me, covering me with squeegee, I look forward to the day when I can wash my hands of this matter, once and for all.
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