the pieces of my life

Both Pie and Rebecca Rubin are doing well right now, thank you. It was really touch and go for both of them for a bit. Pie had such a fit this morning that I had a choice to make: Do something that would rightfully have DSS after me or take it out on Rebecca Rubin. I’m sorry Rebecca Rubin. But those moments you spent in the trash can were well worth it, in my book.

Adam’s still in London and the kids have morphed into devil children. Pie refused to walk Doodles to school, which meant that either 1) she’d be home alone or 2) Doodles would miss school (which given what comes next, I don’t think he would have minded). Out and out tantrum about getting on her boots to walk the boy. That’s when Rebecca Rubin made a visit to the trash can (and no, I did not put a $100 doll in the trash can, but she took a little rest on top of the trash can). And then finally–screaming the entire three blocks–we get to Doodles’s school where Doodles–Doodles!!!–had a horrendous drop off. He cried and cried and refused to go into school and his (yes, 1st grade!) teacher had to peel him off of me.

After school, Pie was whiny and insisted on a playdate. It was really against my better judgment, but I agreed. The girl who came over is a charming girl, who I actually really like a lot. (Does this mean there are kids I don’t like? Let’s not go there, shall we?) Let’s just say the playdate did not go well. On either side. Pie didn’t share. The other girl decided we were all mean (I was mean–I insisted she hold my hand when we crossed the street to pick up Doodles. Can you believe what a be-yatch I am?). No one could get along. The playdate ended very early.

I managed to keep both kids alive and occupied the rest of the afternoon without resorting to too much bribery (okay, there may have been a few extra marshmallows in the hot chocolate, but this is survival mode!).

And now? Now the kids are fed, in pajamas, teeth brushed, and parked in front of Phineas and Ferb. If I play my cards right, they’ll both be in bed by 7 and I’ll have my glass of wine at 7:01.

We’re almost at the finish line. Almost….

Ah. The end of one of those days. You know, those days. Those days when all you can do is say, “It’s 8:20 p.m. and both my children are still alive.” It may not sound like much of an achievement, but it’s all I’ve got today, and I’m pretty darn pleased. Because the little one came this close to being throttled. By her own mother.

The day started well enough–I had a pleasant run with a friend. I felt good. Ready to tackle my novel. Got home. Took a shower. I had a teeny tiny, itty bitty little blood blister on the very tip of my nose. Got out of the shower and it was bleeding. I know, exciting stuff. Except that it wouldn’t stop and I had to put a band-aid on it. On the tip of my nose. To wear all day. On my nose. The tip of it. A band-aid. And when I told Adam, “Must be cancer,” all I got was, “Must be a blood blister.” He has this crazy idea: “If you hear hooves, think horses, not zebras.” Which is wrong. When you hear hooves, think cancer.

But this is not about my hypochondria. This is about keeping my children alive. Which I did! Even though my daughter did everything she could to push me. I picked her up from camp with a plan. We’d hit the farmers’ market. Then over to ballet class. Then a quick trip home to put together the food from the farmers’ market to take to a picnic at Doodles’s camp’s family night.

Ah, a plan? Did I say a plan? Ha! Pie decided she wanted to show me how she can use the monkey bars, so I figured we could do that and still squeeze in a trip to the market. Pie showed me. Her ability on the monkey bars? She can place her hands on two bars and then drop. Whoo hoo! A few friends were on the playground, so she wanted to stay. Fine. She can stay. We can make it a very fast trip to the market after ballet class.

When it’s time to leave, I get the first hint of Pie’s evil twin, Tart. The clingy, whiny Tart. We head to ballet class. Now, this girl loves ballet. Lives for ballet. But suddenly we arrive at ballet, and she doesn’t want to go. Well, not exactly. She doesn’t leave the car, but doesn’t say she wants to go home. In fact, when asked, she claims she does want to go ballet. I get her into the class, only she refuses to go in. Fine. We’ll leave. But she doesn’t want to leave. Won’t stay, won’t go. My voice is getting that edgy anger us moms get when we’re furious in a public place. I really don’t care if she does ballet or not, but I’m not going to sit in the waiting area with her while the class is going on. So we leave. And we drive two blocks when she announces she really does want to go to class. So I pull over. I get her out. And, yes, I’m angry. And I walk her back to class. We don’t even make it through the front door when she’s pulling me back to the car. So we get into the car. And ten minutes later, she starts screaming, “I want to go to ballet! I want to go to ballet! Turnaround! Turn the car around! I want to go to ballet!” And of course, we’re all done with ballet. But not with the screaming. The screaming lasts for a full hour.

So we go home. And thank goodness for Beetle, because I called her up and told her she needed to take my child before I left her on a street corner in a box with a note that reads, “Free to a Good, Decent, Clean Any Home.”

And damn, if Beetle didn’t walk in to find my daughter on the floor screaming. And within seconds, Tart/Pie was up and acting like her charming self. “Today I made a fish bank! And look, here’s my sand castle. I glued and put sand on. Mommy, made blueberry cereal bars. Do you want one?” A different child. So with the child safely ensconced with Beetle, I headed solo down to family night. With no farmers’ market goodies. I searched the house for dairy goodies (Jewish camp–no meat allowed), and I ended up with lots of veggies and quesadillas made with American cheese. Mmmm!

On the highway. I leave at 3:45, which is cutting it a little close for the 4:15 start, but I shouldn’t be too bad. Except for the traffic. Which is bad. So very, very bad. So bad that I finally arrive at the camp at 5:17. Luckily, Adam got there about twenty minutes earlier, and of course lots of folks got caught in the traffic. The family night was great and Doodles really belted out the camp songs during the performance. I even forgot for a second that I have a huge band-aid right on the tip of my nose.

And then we get home. Pie is happy to see us, excited because Beetle gave her some hand-me-downs from Tab. Can you count to five? Quickly? Because that’s how long it took for Tart to return. And she went down screaming. And then giggling. And now screaming again.

Me: What was up with your behavior today?
Pie: I was tired. It’s because I don’t take naps anymore. [She hasn’t taken a nap in well over eighteen months]
Me: Oh?
Pie: Yes, I should take naps again. I need to take naps
Me: Okay, I’ll cancel your playdate tomorrow so you can come home and take a nap.
Pie: Noooooo! I don’t need a nap!

I repeat. It’s 8:20. My children are alive. Give me a freakin’ medal.

Whenever people hear that my kids are up at 5 or 5:30 in the morning, they get this horrified expression on their faces and say, “How can you stand that?” Even when I explain, they don’t quite believe me. But the honest to God’s truth is that we end up waking up our kids. I’m out of bed before the alarm (set for either 5 or 5:30) every day. I can’t remember the last time my alarm actually went off. And with our creaky house, Adam and/or I always end up waking at least one child up. This morning, I got out of bed at 4:57 a.m. I went into the downstairs bathroom to change, but before I was out, I heard thump, thump, thump on the stairs in a way that was either Adam sleepwalking drunk or a child. It was Pie.

Me: Pie! What are you doing up? It’s still night.
Pie: I was all done.
Me: But look, it’s still dark!
Pie heads to the window. The tiniest inkling of dawn is far away, but visible. She exclaims, in a very loud voice: Look, Mommy! It’s not dark! There’s light out there!

The plus side of this is between camp and a playdate after camp, she’ll be exhausted and she’s been known to fall asleep while watching her show, often at 5 p.m. I expect that will be the case tonight.

(And why was I up at 4:57 a.m.? My boot camp went for a 5 1/2 mile trail run–what an incredible way to start the day, running through the woods. It’s really a much tougher workout than straight running. I can generally run 10 miles at a 9:25 pace; here I did 5.5 at about an 11-minute pace. Hills, navigating tree roots and rocks, mud–all slow down the pace. But it’s such a serene day to start the day that I came home even more energized than I usually do after boot camp.)

Doodles slept a smidgen later, but not enough to keep him up very late tonight.

The two of them have been killing me lately, but in a fun way. Doodles is still in his independence phase, but it’s gotten a lot easier to tolerate. He’s mellowing some, I’m mellowing some. Pie can still unleash a wicked temper tantrum, but they’re fewer and farther between. But they are a trip together.

Doodles is completely laid back and Pie is fairly high strung (hmmm, I wonder which parent each of them takes after!). Pie will get really worked up about something, and Doodles is just, “Whatever!” Like yesterday at ice skating. Doodles always wears the dark blue gloves; Pie wears the light blue. Pie began to have an absolute fit. “I want the other blue gloves. The OTHER blue gloves!” I suggested she take a deep breath and simply ask her brother.

Pie: [taking deep gasping breaths till her voice is normal] Doodles?
Doodles: Yeah?
Pie: Doodles, can we trade mittens?
Doodles, shrugging: Sure!

Nine times out of ten, Pie wants what Doodles has. And nine times out of ten, he’ll swap with her. Especially because of this, I try to be especially respectful when he doesn’t want to swap or share. And generally, I can tell who’s the instigator in any problem.

For instance, yesterday, there was a battle over a drum. I’m 99.9% sure that Doodles had it first, and Pie didn’t want him to have it. I caught the two of them struggling with it. In true Solomon’s wisdom fashion, I told them, “If you guys can’t figure a way to make this work, I’m going to put the drum into time out.”

Pie immediately latched on. “Yes! Drum in time out! Drum in time out!”

So of course I handed the drum to Doodles. Later I came out when I heard Pie yelling, “Close the gate! Close the gate!” I found the drum on the steps and Pie trying to close the bottom gate. We never close that gate except when someone is sitting on the stairs in time out. She was determined to give that drum a time out one way or another!

Of course the biggest problem with have is with… smooches! Doodles is an affectionate kid and he smooches Pie. Pie sometimes likes it, sometimes not. I heard blood-curdling screams two days ago, and I ran, figuring someone had impaled himself or something equally horrific.

Pie, trying to talk in the sobs: Doodles smoooo me! He smoooo me!
Me: He smushed you? That wasn’t very nice.
Take Pie to Doodles.
Me: Where did you smush her?
Doodles: Right here [points to the top of his head]
Me: You smushed her head?
Doodles: Smooched.
Me: Oh! You smooched her!
Nods from everyone.
Pie: He smooched me! He smooched me!
Me: Well, there’s only one thing you can do!
Pie looks at me expectantly.
Me: Get him back! If he smooches you, you should smooch him back! Even more!
Pie instantly stops crying.
Pie: Yeah!!!
Pie goes running after Doodles, smooching him all over his head while he mock cries.

Crisis averted. Peace reclaimed. Maybe I should be sent abroad as a peace envoy. I’ve got loads of experience.

When it comes to parenting philosophies, I think I’m closest in spirit to Tom Hodgkinson, who last February wrote this lovely article called, “Idle Parenting Means Happy Children.” So much of the article resonated me, but I think my favorite was this:

My idea of childcare is a large field. At one side is a marquee serving local ales. This is where the parents gather. On the other side, somewhere in the distance, the children play. I don’t bother them and they don’t bother me. I give them as much freedom as possible.

I have a garden. I plant things in it. When I remember, I water those plants. Usually I don’t. And somehow–fertile ground, good conditions, sheer luck–those plants thrive. I get big bouncing beautiful tomatoes at the end of the summer. I call it Gardening by Neglect.

Now, I’m not saying I’m Child Rearing by Neglect. But I do think that self-sufficiency is a good thing. The other day, Doodles and Pie were playing in the front yard, while I was sitting in a yard chair, leafing through a magazine.
Doodles: Mommy, pitch to me!
Me: No.
Doodles: Pul-lease! Pitch to me!
Me: Mommy does not pitch. Ask Pie to pitch.
Doodles: But Pie doesn’t pitch well. You pitch!
Me: The only reason I had Pie was so you could have a playmate. Now go play with her.

Of course, that probably serves me right when five minutes later I heard a thud that was the dull sort of sound that can only mean a child’s skull is caving in. The screams of agony didn’t help.
Doodles: It was an accident!
Pie [clutching a bright red cheek]: AAAAaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaa!
Doodles: It was an accident! You know she doesn’t pitch well. So I got close so I could hit the ball.
I call it good parenting that he only had a plastic bat, as I refuse to buy him a wooden bat, so Pie wasn’t seriously injured. I assuaged all hurt feelings (and guilt) with a few extra shows.

But as I’ve mentioned before, Doodles is exhibiting signs of a need for independence. I respect this. I understand this. He’s getting ready to enter kindergarten and it’s normal for a separation process to begin. He’s at an age where he wants to do–and can do–many things on his own. Doodles can use a knife to cut his own French toast. He can turn on the iPod himself, but due to limited reading skills, he has to take whatever song is on. He can get his own yogurt out of the fridge, dress himself (including doing all buttons and tying up lace shoes), go by himself to the bathroom at the Res (the local swimming hole), recite his address and phone number, and countless other things that seem to multiply daily. But there is a limit to what he can–and is allowed–to do. On the no list: Driving a car. Drinking beer. Crossing the street by himself. Swimming in the Res without a grown-up watching him. Jumping from the top of his dresser. All things he will dispute. All things I stand firm on. All things that will cause a serious interval of pouting. The stubbornness and pouting when he doesn’t get what he wants and the plain old not listening is making me insane! (I actually heard Adam tell him he was being “fresh” the other night. “Fresh.” Take that Ward Cleaver!)

In a quest to conquer our stand-offs, I’m returning to a world I had left behind: the world of parenting books. But finding the right parenting books is a pain. After all, we’re cosleepers so we must be attachment parents. But wait! I let my kids scream and don’t go running at every tale of woe. So I must be a Babywise parent. But wait! I try to inject strong Jewish values in my parenting. So I must be a follower of Wendy Mogel. Pie actually went to visit the great and good Doctor Ferber, so perhaps it’s at his altar we should be bowing?

You see my dilemma? I don’t have a stand. And in the world of parenting books, you need a stand. I’m currently reading the highly recommended Playful Parenting, which tells me to do the one thing I really don’t have any interest in doing: playing with my kids. For, seemingly, hours on end. This seems to me to be an uber-attachment philosophy, always open to my children to stop, drop, and play.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m always open to a dance party (definitely in if it includes little naked tushies), happy to read stories, and can certainly be talked into doing a craft project or two. But I’m not a “throw the ball, get on the climber, toss ’em into the Res” kind of mom. But this playful parenting thing seems to go to an extreme, as evidenced even by the author who, by his own examples, frequently slips and forgets to be playful.

So I’m on the search for parenting books that fit my non-philosophical parenting philosophy. I’ve gotten some recommendations from friends (and I’m dying to know about this $115 parenting book. It’s not even anywhere in our entire library system, which consists of “35 public and 6 college libraries in the Metrowest region of Massachusetts”!) and I’m wading through the stacks on my shelves that have been ignored all these years. So, in attempt to embrace all my parenting non-philosophies, my current reading list includes: Raising Your Child to Be A Mensch; Children: The Challenge; the aforementioned Playful Parenting; The No-Cry Discipline Solution; the one my own mother swore by all those years, Parent Effectiveness Training; and just for good measure, Siblings Without Rivalry.

What does this all mean? It means in a matter of minutes after opening each book, I’ll throw it down and through a little temper tantrum of my own. “Why oh why,” I’ll scream, “can’t they just get to the point!” These books have so much filler garbage to justify the cover price and all I want is the information. You know, for the same price as I’d pay for the hardcover–no, for more than I’d pay for the hardcover–I’d pay for a pamphlet that distills all the necessary information without all the filler necessary for them to charge a hardcover price. Think about it, publishers!

So, unless anyone can come up with some easy summaries for me, I’m off to bury myself beneath the avalanche of books. Because, let’s face it, if I just stay hidden long enough, this phase too shall pass and I’ll be looking for the answer to some other problem! Meanwhile, I’ll be on the far side of the playground. Drinking my ale. Come join me!

At one point this afternoon, when Doodles was facedown on the front porch screaming and Pie was clutching at my leg wailing, my neighbor–who shall henceforth be referred to as Beetle–said to me, “This should be your blog for today.” But the thing is, as I pointed out to her, is that this stuff doesn’t translate well. You can’t see the mournful way my son quivers his mouth as he lets out his earth-shattering shriek. You can’t feel the death grip as little Pie squeezes onto my leg with every ounce of oomph that she has.

Today was just one of those days.

I should have known. I’d been having highly productive days recently, and I knew there’d be a payback day. This was it. It started off well enough. I had a great boot camp class. When I got home, contractors had started the demolition of the house sort of across and down the street and the kids were sitting on the front porch, a captive audience. But it also meant that it was impossible to get them inside, get them dressed, and out the door. We were late. Definitely late. Shoes on, people! Don’t forget, you have water play first at camp, so wear the right shoes for the job!

Me: What shoes are you going to wear, Pie? Your water shoes or your Tevas?
Doodles: Those shoes [pointing to leather sandals]
Me: You can wear those after water play. But they’ll be ruined in water play. What do you want to wear?
After much pouting and negotiation, she finally settled on the water shoes, which are an absolute bitch to get on. It seriously takes almost five minutes to cram her foot into these shoes. We’re now in the Very Late category.
Me: Okay, great, your shoes are on, everyone, it’s time to get into the car!

I let Doodles out to get in the car, and by the time I turn around. Pie has her shoes off.

Me: What are you doing?!?!
Pie: Put on shoes by my own self!
Me: We are LATE! What are you THINKING! Why didn’t you say you wanted to do it yourself in the FIRST PLACE! Let me get those back on you.
Pie: NOOOOOOOO! DO IT MY OWN SELF!

Um, ballistic might be the right word for what I went through. But let’s just say, I finally got those shoes on and the kids into the car. And no, we’re not going to listen to Princess music!

I dropped the kids off at camp, but when I went to pay after shopping at the local farm stand, I realized that their “favorite books”–needed for Favorite Book Day at camp–were still in my purse.

So I dashed back to camp to deliver them. Then I dashed to the eye doctor’s for my yearly exam. I hate going to the eye doctor. I don’t just hate. I detest. There are those who fear the dentist. There are those who fear the gynecologist. I say, “Dentist, scrape away! Gynecologist, get thee thy speculum! Heck, Dentist, scrape away while I’ve got the speculum but Eye Doctor! Away with thee! I shun thee!” I’ve always had a serious eye phobia, stemming perhaps from when I was, I don’t know, seven or eight, and while playing, sort of, accidentally, I don’t know how, got a scissors poked into my eye. (Mom was right kids! Don’t run with scissors!) Rush to the hospital, many strips of paper dipped in medicine dipped in my eye, this close to losing my vision in that eye, my stomach churning even now despite my having blocked most of it out. Oddly enough, nine years ago, I did suffer through Lasik surgery, and I have completely blocked that out, although that could do more with the extra doses of Valium they let me have than with anything else.

Okay, so let’s get back to the here and now, shall we? I had an eye doctor appointment today. I always warn the assistant that I’m not a good patient, but I’m so jovial about it, they never take me seriously. Until it’s time for the…duh duh duh…glaucoma test! Yes! Once again I made an eye assistant (technician? Nurse? what?) cry uncle and give up on me. The good doctor had to do it himself. I actually have an excellent eye doctor. Boston magazine called him “up and coming.” But I still hate going. And I have to go yearly (as opposed to the rest of you people who only need to go every other year, and I bet 99% of you don’t even go at all, lucky bastards with good eyes! Just wait! That glaucoma can really sneak up on you!) because I have “thin retinas.” Yes, that’s right. The one thing that can definitively be called thin on me is my retina. Go retina! Anyway, the point to this (a point? since when do I have a point?) is that my appointment was at 9:45. It was 10:55 by the time I got out of there. With fully dilated eyes. Which means one of my few days of kids in camp and I’m stuck with the ability to do, oh, nothing.

So I do busy work till it’s time to pick up the kids. Kids aren’t happy because they need to be picked up early to go to Doodles’s feeding group. (“Mom, they’re about to read a group story!” “Doodles, you’re about to go eat fruit!”) Since he eats at feeding group, I packed him just a snack for lunch: a cheese stick and carrots with hummus. And the boy? He ate the cheese stick. So he should have been starving. But he was so not into feeding group today. Not that he ever is, but today it was clearly more about control issues than about feeding group itself. I’m having many issues with the boy about control. He’s pushing buttons, taking names, and generally being a real pain about things.

For instance, last week at the playground, I gave the kids a five-minute warning and a one-minute warning.

Then I said, “Time to go!”

Doodles yelled, “I want to go on the slide again,” which didn’t really mean slide down; it meant have a chat with his buddies on the top of the slide, which is not a fast process.

I told him, “We have to get to [the much loved] skating class. We need to go now.”
Doodles proceeded to walk up three steps of the slide, and turned and looked me in the eye.

“Now,” I said.

He climbed up two more steps.

“Doodles, I’m going to count to three and you’ll lose your show! Get down!”

“No,” he said, and climbed up another step.

No show for him that night!

But once again, there is a point, and the point is that Doodles and I are frequently at odds these days (any favorite parenting books out there that deal with this sudden change of attitude? The “I’m almost five, I’m going to kindergarten, I can do any damn thing I want!” attitude?). The point is that Doodles is having control issues and I felt really validated when it took two people and twenty minutes at food group to get him to eat. I felt horrible as it totally crushed him–he was in tears, refusing to eat–but it made me realize it’s not just me!

So we head back to town. “We’ll make a quick stop at the Farmer’s Market and then we’ll do whatever you want!”

What did they want? To fall asleep in the car. Before I could get to the market. So I transferred them inside and let them sleep for about 45 minutes, because even that, I knew, was going to wreak havoc on their nighttime sleep. I tried to wake them gently. “Hey guys! Do you guys want to have Popsicles and play with Tab [the girl across the street]?” They both muttered no and went back to sleep. I kept working on them, chanting, “Popsicles! The big lime ones! Popsicles
! Popsicles!” until I finally got them up.

We sat on the porch with Tab, had some Popsicles in the brutal heat, and then the kids wanted to play. I made the highly unreasonable request that before Doodles play in the yard, he put on shoes. After all, there is a lot of construction going on on our street. So he went inside. To pout. For forty-five minutes. And I finally said to him, “Look, if you’re going to be in a bad mood anyway, then I’m cutting your nails,” something he hates and dreads and detests, probably as much as I hate the eye doctor. But I’m just a horrible person that way, insisting that when his nails get to be more than 1/2 an inch long that they need to be cut.

So we had a Doodles meltdown. And Pie, who was unhappy that I went inside to retrieve Doodles, decided to have a meltdown too. So Beetle and Tab are on the front porch swing, reading a Junie B. Jones book, while my kids are writhing all over the front porch, screaming the kind of screams that, if I had heard someone else’s kids screaming, I would have called DSS on the parents. And that’s when Beetle said to me, “You should blog about this today.” Which I’m doing. So blame this entry on the Beetle. I’m going to bed.