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Monthly Archives: January 2013

Here’s a Secret – Don’t Ask your Kids to be Responsible

Posted on January 31, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Tyler, can you put your clothes away, please?” I ask, although I don’t know why I even bother. I know the clothes will just stay there right in the nice pile on the bed where I left them folded, until ultimately they wind up getting knocked to the floor where eventually, after a day or so of walking past and sighing, I will pick them up and put them in his drawers.

For years, I convinced myself they were too young to really understand responsibility. I excused their behavior, and fell victim to the ultimate mom mistake. I would just do it for them. At the time, it definitely seemed easier.

But then I had a few wake-up calls.

It started years ago, back in Kindergarten with Tyler. When the teacher told him he needed to zip his own coat, Tyler responded, “But you do it so much better.”

When I wanted Michael, my 7 year-old, to accompany me into Target to pick out a bean bag seat that he lobbied for, he barely glanced up from his Kindle to remark, “You do it. I’ll just stay here.”

When I asked Julius, my 5 year-old, to do anything at all… such as to help me to pick up the toys that he had scattered from his room all the way to the neighbor’s yard, he lay on the carpet and moaned, “But it’s going to take soooo looooong,” until the job was pretty much done. He’s a smart one.

They all are. So how come they have such a dumb mother? For years, I made their irresponsibility okay by putting on their shoes because they were lazy, putting their dishes in the sink because they were busy, picking up their crap, waitressing them snacks, finding their lost school books, packing their back packs, reminding them to do their homework, buying them new hats, gloves, sweatshirts, lunch bags for all the lost ones… you name it, I nagged about it and then did it.

It wasn’t like I totally just gave up the ship. I tried. I mean I initiated a number of highly praised reinforcements for positive behavior. There was –

The Responsibility Chart – The  Melissa and Doug magnetic board looked perfect hanging in our kitchen. There were all these cute magnets for brushing your teeth and feeding the cat. Some said, Help Mom and Share. Aw. This worked fantastic as a toy to play with the magnets. Or as pieces to lose, chuck or step on. 

Ohhh magnets! Let's throw them up in air! Yay!

Ohhh magnets! Let’s throw them up in air! Yay!

The Ticket system – I got this idea after visiting Chuck E. Cheese. You get tickets for doing good things and then trade the tickets in for prizes. It was all about positive reinforcement. I got a roll of tickets from Party City and it was on. I started dolling them out for every marginally positive thing they did. You used a fork instead of your hands? Ticket! You used a tissue instead of your sleeve? Ticket! I was trying to encourage them, but by my fourth trip to Game Stop I realized they were playing me.

Allowance – This was suggested by my two older boys with the peanut gallery approval of my youngest chanting, “Money! Money! Money!” Here, they would each do their responsibilities, seemingly simple tasks like, waking up for school, getting themselves dressed, and brushing their teeth. Yeah, it’s that easy to earn a buck in my house. And yet, they couldn’t pull it off. Hmm. 

“Be a Star”  – In this chart, each child is a different colored star that moves up or down according to behavior. When you reach the top, you receive a ‘reward’. If you reach the bottom, you receive a ‘punishment’. On your mark, get set, GO! Will Michael act better than Tyler? Will Julius tell on Michael? Competition was the star here. Who would get to the top first? Who would be crying first? Answer: Me. 

If you can you find the cart hidden behind all the crap, you get a star!

If you can you find the cart hidden behind all the crap, you get a star!

Points! – Our latest, conceived by Tyler. An intricate system modeled after one of his video games where points are given for certain tasks and good behavior. Again, if you get enough points, you win something. Here, there is also the possibility of a ‘knock out’.  If you do three bad things, you lose your points for the week. On paper this was great, but it failed in action. There was a lot more fighting over how many points would be attributed to what tasks than actual task doing.

Nothing seemed to work. Except, me that is. I assessed my attempts and realized that all those systems are really just bribery prettied up to seem psychologically and socially acceptable. Cause, saying, “Kid, clean your room and I’ll give you 5 bucks” doesn’t play well anymore. It’s not the 70’s. Sigh.

And that’s when it hit me. A belt slap straight from the past.

Why was I asking my kids to clean up? Why was I asking them to do anything? And what was with all those rewards?

So, here’s the new system in our house. In action.

“Tyler, put your clothes away.”

No bells or whistles. No prizes or points. I no longer ask. I tell. And guess what? It works.

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I Get Schooled By Social Media

Posted on January 29, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Lately, I’ve been trying to learn a thing or two about blogging – how to increase readership, when and how to post things on FB for the most views. Stuff like that. I got most of my info perusing Jeff Bullas’ blog. I started off reading, Signs I Wasn’t a Good Blogger and continued from there. It was good stuff, unless you consider that according to his seven steps, I wasn’t a good blogger.

The last bit of information that my brain absorbed before my 5  year-old started crying for cocoa puffs for dinner, was that to increase FB interaction and encourage comments on your blog, you should ask a question.

Why?

Glad you asked. I wondered that as well, especially since so many of the blogs I read seemed to end in a question. I saw it in action on Facebook pages as well. According to my research, uh Jeff, it’s simple. Ask a question… get an answer. Genius, right? (You don’t need to answer that.)

I figured I’d put my new wisdom into action. I had just written a bittersweet post about my grandmother, who died young and how I regretted our lost relationship. I figured I’d ask an intriguing question on my FB page to encourage people to click the link and read the essay. It was a perfect opportunity. Now I just needed the bait.

After some fiddling, here’s the question I came up with – Has someone you loved, died too soon?

Provocative, I thought with satisfaction.

Within seconds, responses poured in. Wow. That question bit really works. Happily, I began reading comments. Someone had lost grandparents, someone lost a parent. I grimaced a bit, and apprehensively wrote my condolences. More comments. More condolences. The uneasy feeling inflated to a balloon the size of Snoopy in the Macy’s day parade. What have I done?

That’s when the last comment came in. A reader shared her husband’s passing only a month before at age 53. I stared at the screen. Oh my God. I panicked. What could I say to her? What was there to say? How could I put a question like that out there? What the farfignewton was I thinking?!

I shook my head with dismay. I fretted. I worried. I responded with my sympathies. It felt completely inadequate. I felt like a total ass. I needed to stop this immediately. I wrote a general comment about my insensitivity and stupidity and then deleted the whole bit.

I let out a big puff of relief. It was gone. I worried that the people who had opened up and shared would think I was discounting their feelings by deleting the post. I really hoped I didn’t offend them. Jeez, that was some learning experience.

I walked into the living room, the sweat still wet on my brow, needing to confess my thoughtlessness. My husband listened to me go on about people I didn’t really know, who were so open to sharing their sadness, especially the woman who lost her husband.

Do you know what my husband’s response was? Of course you don’t. But it wasn’t, “That’s terrible,” or “Wow, you screwed up.”

He asked, “You know where we keep the important papers, right?”

Uh, what are talking about here? “The important papers?” I repeated hesitantly.

“Yeah, you know, the insurance and our financials and all that.”

I looked at him mutely. How did we get here? I refused to answer. I would not discuss even the possibility.

“Well, do you know where they are?”

LALALALALA. I wanted to scream and cover my ears. No no no!  Instead, I spat at him, “Yeah! I know! I know! Sheesh!”

He smiled and went back to whatever he was doing on his iPAD.

I sat across from him distressed and annoyed and confused, but wiser. I had definitely learned something today.

No question about it.

Are there any questions you wished you never asked?

(Better, right? 😉 )

 

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A Foot Spa and A Lost Soul

Posted on January 24, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Every so often, by which I mean, a few times a year, I get all puffed and indignant by the loads of laundry I’m schlepping, and my kids and husband who are throwing balls around my head, and decide, “I can’t take it anymore! Enough is enough! Something must be done for me!”

That’s when I march myself in to get a massage, but of course, I don’t go to any fancy schmancy spa, I’m way too practical and not nearly important enough for that. I go to the local foot spa where for $28, I get to lay down on one of their couches and just close my eyes for an hour.

The foot spa is a dark, questionable hideaway in between a Domino’s Pizza and a small jewelry store, but by the time I’ve shuffled my broken body through the door, I am beyond caring. There are no deadlines or children tugging at my shirt. No legos to step on or video games going beep beep beep. You don’t need an appointment or to give your name. You don’t even undress. It’s just… quiet, while the hands of a faceless person rub you to snore-dom. In that room, everyone is invisible, including you. Bliss.

Today, I was desperately in need of a moment. My body ached. My brain ached. I went to the foot spa on the precipice of mental collapse or consuming an extremely large ice cream sundae which I would lovingly regret. I needed this.

I was silently led to my couch, and barely even noticed the fellow lost and exhausted souls lying nearby. I took off my shoes and my sweater, leaving me in sweats and a tank top and lay down. Ahhh.

His hands were upon me quickly, uh, a little too quickly, kneading my face and my hair. I tried to relax, but his fingers were moving so fast on my face I began to feel like he was molding me into a candy dish. And he was kind of pulling my hair. Ow, dude.

He moved down and started working on my shoulders and neck. I relaxed. This was why I was here. His hands were strong like an ox. I like a deep massage, but his rubbing was taking deep to new depths. I tensed. He was double knotting my knots. I peeked at him through my pretend relaxed closed eyes. Holy mother, he was Asian Hulk.

When he moved onto my body, things only got worse, if you can imagine that. He massaged down my legs with such aggression that I practically jumped from the bed. Hello? You don’t squeeze someone’s thigh!  When he rubbed down my back, I was sure he would break something. I didn’t think this place had great insurance.

Not even close.

Not even close.

I mentally talked myself up to verbalizing a complaint. I told myself again and again to just say, “A little softer, please.” Instead, I mutely mouthed, “help” while convincing myself that soon he would move on to another body part. There was no relaxing, only squinting and holding my breath till he stopped poking my pressure points through to the other side.

Then, it was over.

I survived.

I zipped up my sweat shirt and put on my shoes. My angry masseuse was waiting for me with a peaceful smile and a Dixie cup of water. I had hard time meeting his eye. Did he really not know? I tipped him for beating the crap out of me, embarrassed to be doing it, but more embarrassed not to, and left.

Why couldn’t I just open my mouth? Why did I lay there mute? I heard my thoughts in answer, “You can take it.”

That’s right, I can. But I don’t always have to. Why do I always have to? Next time, I resolved, I’ll say something. Better, I’ll treat myself to a real massage. Maybe. Hopefully. Ah, whatever.

In the comfortable safe haven of my car, after a day of crazy and an hour of torture, I opened my kindle and popped a butterscotch sucking candy. My shoulders dropped as I sucked its sweetness and lost myself in my book. Finally, finally I relaxed.

Have you ever stayed quiet when you should have spoken up for yourself? 

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My other grandma…I remember

Posted on January 22, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I remember when I was a little girl, my grandmother, my mother’s mother, lived blocks from my house, and many days my mother would leave me and my brother in her care.  

I remember playing casino and pisha pasha – a card game that no one in our family can remember how to play and no one else in the world remembers as a game.

I remember going to her pool club, where I’d watch her play mahjong while eating cut up pieces of sweet, drippy cantaloupe.

I remember her refrigerator always had layered parfaits of Jello and cool whip, or it might have been pudding and whipped cream, but I think it was Jello. Could have been both.

I remember bananas, pretty little cups with flowers on them and stories of magic.

I remember beautiful holiday dinners and Shabbat candles.

I remember the whole family going out on Sundays for Chinese food and her ordering Subgum Chicken.

I remember singing, “Oh I won’t go to Macy’s any more, more, more…” and “In Bloomingdale’s Department store, you check them on the second floor…”  Clearly, the connection between Jewish women and shopping runs deep.

I remember sitting on her front porch, and as you could in Brooklyn, climbing over to the next porch and the one after that.

I remember playing Red light, Green light, One Two Three and Mother May I?

I remember rocky road ice cream was her favorite flavor.

I remember me being a bit snarky and insensitive, and really not all that nice.

I remember her getting sick.

I remember her dying.

I was 13, when it happened. I remember being so confused and uncomfortable at her funeral, my first real death. I curled in a ball on a chair and cried.

That’s really all I remember, little vignettes, snippets of truth that have been tenderized by age. I only had her a short while, and I regret not being mature enough to listen, learn or appreciate. I regret childish behavior that can never be resolved. I regret not hugging more. I regret being only 13 when she passed, and not having had her for 42 years like I did with my father’s mother. I regret not getting to love her more, to have built a relationship, to really know who she was.

I regret that I can only remember what I remember, and it isn’t nearly enough.

gm terry

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“Daddy, what’s a boner?”

Posted on January 17, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Howard and I, along with dozens of other parents with excited, terrified expressions, filed in to the cafeteria of one of our local elementary schools. It was a meeting to brief us all on the upcoming presentation our fifth grade children would be attending in next week – The Adolescent Development program.

Yep, ready or not, it’s puberty time. Very soon your sweet child, who is still running around with his shirt inside out and markers on his hands, will transform into an entirely different animal.  You will need to be there to help guide him through this difficult transition, but there are rules, and you must follow them.

  1. First, you will need to say penis and vagina a lot with a straight face, and explain why dick and pussy are not appropriate, with same straight face. They will want clarification on appropriateness. For example, they might ask if their body parts could be called, Willy Wonker or Vjay jay?*
  2. Things will get hairy. Your child might run out to you naked and show off their sprouting hair and every other sprouting piece of their bodies, or shut themselves up in the bathroom and not come out again for the next four years. Both are normal.
  3. You will be buying more deodorant because sometimes in the near future you will smell something that reminds you of dirty laundry and leftover meat loaf mixed together. You will soon realize it’s not something, but someone.
  4. If you have a girl, there will be self-esteem issues and depression. If you have a boy, avoidance and anger.  Hmm… there’s something familiar about that.
  5. There will be nocturnal emissions. And I’m not talking about your husband’s gas. Just close your eyes, do the laundry and cry in your ice cream.

Now here’s the important thing, listen close. Don’t screw it up. Because you totally can, and then their perspectives on their bodies are eff’d for life. Life! How’s that for pressure? Remember, puberty is not sexuality and shouldn’t be confused as such. Just stick to the facts, man. Answer any question simply, honestly and get out as quick as you can. Do not expand or over-explain. Do not go on and on. It’s just body basics 101. Clinical stuff. Yep, you’re going to bleed every month. Yep, you smell. Yep, you will gain weight. Happens to everyone. Cookies, anyone?

Please do not do what my husband did during his ‘teachable moment”.

Tyler – Dad, what’s a boner?

Dad – Well, it’s a slang term for when your penis gets hard. It’s called an erection. (Perfectly articulated as if we speak about erections regularly – “Morning, honey. I have a big erection. Could you get me the paper?”)

Tyler – So you get an erection for having sex? (Uh, sex? What?! Where, or more accurately, who are all these new words coming from?!)

Dad – Yup.

OH MY GOD, DAD!! What??? How did you eff up so fast, on your first at bat? No no no! Erections are not for having sex. Were we not at the same meeting? Erections are a normal part of body development and function. He’s been having them since he was a baby, remember? No big deal. Now get back in there (shove) and go fix it.

Deep sigh. We’re not even out of the gate and we’ve been sidelined. I can tell this is going to be quite a growing experience, and not just for the kids. I just hope we don’t screw him up too badly. He’s such a sweet boy. I want him to grow into a sweet young man.

When the meeting ends, the shell-shocked parents stand from the cafeteria lunch tables, stretch and look around at each other with corroborated smiles, that border on giggles. We’re all in the same shaky boat heading for the falls and we know it. Up ahead, there are going to be some tricky waters to navigate. All I can say, is hang on to your erections, it’s going to be a wild ride.

*By the way, the answer is no. Those are not appropriate terms for a child’s penis or vagina. Did you get that correct? If not, (shove) get back in there and fix it!

peter brady

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Youth isn’t wasted on my son

Posted on January 15, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“I don’t want to grow up.” Tyler, my oldest, then only three, looked up at me with serious eyes full of concern. “I want to be a baby.”

I looked down on him, tears welling. I had done this to him, I thought. I had given him this insecurity, along with his new baby brother. Distraught, with a touch of post-partum depression, I lovingly pushed his hair aside. It was the color of amber, like his eyes. My golden boy.

Of course, I did my best to reassure him that he could never be replaced, but he was no dummy. He heard and smelled his competition from a room away. We all did.

“Silly. You’ll always be my baby, no matter how old you are.” It was the truth. Always. Always. Always. Poo Poo Poo, may he live to be 100.

He looked up at me from his blue racing car toddler bed completely dissatisfied. “No. I want to be a baby!” He confirmed and then tried to crawl up my shirt.

Having a new baby was an adjustment for all of us. I figured he was going through what children typically did when a new sibling entered the household. He would out-grow it, I assured myself. But as the months and years went on, he not only did not outgrow it, he grew more and more resolved. The theme repeated itself, playing out sometimes subtly but often with huge dramatic tears over and over.

At four…

“I don’t like birthdays.”

At five…

“I don’t want to grow up.”

At six…

“I don’t want to grow old.”

At seven…

“I don’t want to die.”

At eight…

“I don’t want you to die.”

At nine…

“I don’t like birthdays. I don’t want to get older and have to leave my house. I don’t want to go away to sleep away camp. I don’t want to go away to college.”

At 10…

Breaking down into tears, desperate. “Mommy, I’m never going to be eight or nine or ten again! Once it’s gone, it’s gone! I mean, I kind of want to be a daddy and all, but…” Looks at me soulfully, sadly before emotion almost swallows his words. “I want to be the baby too.”

My poor, wonderful, sweet boy, he already knows the truth about growing up and growing older. He’s known it all along. And no matter how much I tell him that growing up is an adventure he will love, that he will experience things he can’t even imagine, that he can do and be anything, that the journey is a beautiful trip – the basics truths of life and death are already in him. When your eyes are open, you can’t help but see.

You wouldn’t know it to look at him. He’s a typical fifth grader; smart, goofy, athletic with lots of friends. He doesn’t have that edgy, pre-teen snark. He truly appreciates being young and revels in his childishness, clinging to the remnants of his babyhood. He joyfully snuggles with his mommy, treasures his stuffed toys and loves playing with the younger kids, leading them around like Peter Pan.

He might even engage in a game of ‘House’ where you can be sure he will cast himself as the baby. Or a puppy. They both suit him. So while my 10 year-old, crawling on the floor panting happily like a dog, might seem a little immature to you, believe me, he is wise beyond his years.

 

otto peter

Not actually my son, but the costume worked. Plus, he’s family. 🙂

 

 

 

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Date night – alone?

Posted on January 11, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

I’m embarrassed to say, it’s a pretty typical nighttime situation. My husband and I finally get the boys to bed. It could be anywhere between 8:30pm-10pm, when we trudge downstairs. He goes to the couch where he sets himself up with the iPad and the sport game du jour, while I either sit in front of my laptop to write an essay or read an essay. If it’s closer to the 10pm mark, I sit for a little, maybe flip the laundry and then head back upstairs. Usually, I give him a little wave before I go.

This is our quality alone time; him on the couch with the ball players, me, in bed with the Real Housewives. We could do worse, but we could certainly do better. I hear that in this young children stage, our behavior is pretty typical. We are tired. Honestly, I’m usually too tired to even mind the lack of time together. I need time to myself just as much as I need time with my husband.

For the record – yes, I have to say it – I think we have a pretty solid marriage. We like each other. We support each other. We met at 15, started dating seriously at 19, got married at 27, and have been married for over 15 years. We know each other. Well. Still, I don’t know if I’m okay that the majority of our time together is spent alone, or that I’m just in it deep, and numb to what’s happening.

Either way, it’s only at certain moments, when I realize we’re missing something. Like the other night.

My husband was down in the basement putting together a ping-pong table that we got as a surprise for the boys. He made his way down there around 9:30pm or so, while I finished up around the house and then immediately went to lie down. Around 11:15pm, he comes into our room where I’m dozing, and says, “Hey, why haven’t you come down the basement?”

Huh? I’m half-asleep. “Sorry. I just thought you were busy putting together the table, and I was tired.”

“Why don’t you come down now? I’m almost done.”

I looked at him, bleary-eyed, and to be honest, slightly annoyed. The last thing I wanted to do was move from my comfy bed and wake myself from my happy haze.

“I really don’t want to.” I pouted.

He looked at me with disappointment. “I thought you’d be interested and keep me company.” He paused. “And I could use your help.”

I jumped on that. I knew it. He needed my help. He wasn’t interested in my company. My expression must have betrayed my thoughts, because he backed out of the room before I even answered. “Forget it. Whatever.”

Well, I got what I wanted. I was alone again, but now I was torn. I really, really wanted to be sleeping, but a part of my brain was flicking little red flags at me. Why didn’t I originally go down to keep him company? Why wasn’t I interested? Why didn’t I even think about going down? Shit.

I pushed the covers aside, got out of bed and trudged downstairs to the basement. He was sitting on the floor, studying the instructions sheet; tools and a half put together table next to him.

I studied his bowed, wavy head of hair and concentrated expression. He hadn’t yet realized I was there; still so cute, yet obviously going a little deaf.

“Hi,” I said.

He looked up and immediately smiled. It was the crinkly-eyed smile, the one I fell in love with.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Me too.” I said and meant it, and sat down on the floor next to him.

Sometimes, you just need a moment to get your head back in the game.

cute and handy... he's the complete package. ;)

He’s cute and handy… he’s got skills! 😉

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Dead Grandma Totally Messes With Me

Posted on January 8, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Before I even had a hint of the infertility problems which would plague me, before any of my babies were ultimately born; my grandmother envisioned me with a girl. She was prone to ‘seeing’ things, mostly dead people, but she also had an extremely refined intuition or esp. She’d offhandedly say things, like, “Oh, so and so just died.” While we were busy processing that information, the call would come in. So and so was dead.

So it was no surprise to me, and I took it as almost a certainty, when 11 years ago, she called and told me I was pregnant. I had been quietly trying for almost two years by the time of her call. I was seeing doctors, and was on an emotional roller coaster month after depressing month.

“Why haven’t you told me you’re pregnant?” she asked, her strong, smoky tone full of reproach.

“Uh, because I don’t know that I’m pregnant. Wait,” I held my breath like I was speaking with a doctor holding test results, “Am I pregnant?”

“If this old witch still has it, you are.”

Five days later, full shock and glee, I called her back. “I’m pregnant.”

I could hear her blow her cigarette smoke into the phone before she offhandedly replied, “It’ll be a girl.”

I had a boy.

She scratched her red head (what other color would a witch have?) and said, “I guess it’ll be the next one.” Nearly three years later, she was wrong again. Almost 3 years after that, when I had my third and last child, she was so convinced it was a girl, she snapped at me.  “What do you mean, it’s a boy!? Well, I’m sorry!”

I certainly didn’t care, but my grandma was not one to be wrong, ever. She didn’t take it well, but decided to love my boys regardless. They each were a shining, joyful light in her life.

By her 90th birthday celebration, she still remained convinced that I would have a girl. Somewhat dramatically (she knew no other way) she said, I would be naming the child after her, implying her death was near.

In the Jewish religion, a name is passed down after a loved one passes. My grandma had been housebound for the last decade with a variety of issues, but none of them life-threatening. Still, as she put it, over and over again, her suitcases were packed and she was ready to kiss her old ass goodbye. We listened to this talk for years, but recently, it seemed she might actually be getting closer to taking that trip.

I was over 40 by then. Given my age, and the fact that I had never become pregnant without assistance, I told her that, she would have to rely on another grandkid for that girl. Besides, I insisted, she was an ox with special powers, she wasn’t going anywhere.

Her response was a dirty look, but she conceded that maybe, in this one instance, her radar had been off. I don’t think she really believed it. She just no longer had the energy to argue. When I think about it now, I love that she remained truly convinced that she was right; such beautiful, dogged stubbornness.

Six months later, she died. I held on to her promises to haunt me and she didn’t disappoint; showing up in many ways, most notably as a fly on my wall, something she had always wished to be in her last homebound years.

I miss speaking with her, knowing I could just pick up the phone and hear her raspy voice. I know she hears me out there, but I’d be much happier to have her hear me over here. I try not to think about it.

But this week, I was late. Yes, that kind of late. A solid, bloated, hormonal and crampy, full week late. I knew I couldn’t be. I counted days and considered. It was not possible. Still, her voice was loud and bossy in my head; you will have a girl. Against all reason and sanity, I went and purchased a pregnancy test, cursing her under my breath.

I’ll spare you the suspense. I wasn’t pregnant, and two hours later, my friend, ‘Dot’ arrived. I laughed at myself and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

As the year anniversary of her passing draws near, I love that she can still mess with me. And since I don’t plan on having another child, I’m definitely going to be just a bit more careful about ‘things’ in the future. My grandmother doesn’t like to be wrong, and I don’t trust that witch at all.

grandma & jack

Boy, did she love her boys, but would it have killed me to have a girl?

 

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Clue: Don’t play Board games with my husband

Posted on January 4, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

It was close to bed time, when my seven year-old produced the board game Clue with wide eyes and wider expectations. “Can we play?” He asked, his green, green eyes earnestly pleading.

I considered saying no. We were finally back to school, but our routine was still on vacation. We were going to sleep too late, and I was dragging my youngest and my oldest out of bed in the morning. I checked the clock and sighed. It was after 8 pm and teeth still needed to be brushed. Plus, getting them all settled in bed could easily take 45 minutes.

“One game.” I warned. How could I say no to his happy, little face? Especially since, that face was the one that lashed out the most and could be the hardest to reach. I love his happy. His happy is gorgeous.

He and my oldest set the board up and handed out the cards. My husband also decided to play and teamed up with my five year-old, immediately initiating a lot of dramatic high fives as to the ‘awesomeness’ of their ‘team’. It had been a while since I had played a board game with my husband, but it only took the first high five before it all came flooding back. My husband was a competitive ass.

I recalled card games years before which had him casting sneaky, sideway glances at our friends or throwing his winning cards before them with a triumphant and challenging, “Aha!” As a team, I’ll admit to being caught up in his win at all costs attitude. We were unbeatable at Pictionary and Trivia Pursuit. After a bit, the game phase faded with our crew, or more likely, we stopped being invited.

We started playing, asking our questions, searching for clues to uncover the murderer. Me to my oldest, “I think it’s Green, in the living room with a dagger. Can you confirm anything?” As he nods and slides a card my way, my husband’s voice penetrates with loud, boisterous glee. “Ah, I see! Yes!! Now I’ve got it! Hoo Hoo Hoo. I’ve so got this!”

The boys and I roll our eyes and continue, but with each turn, my husband interrupts with hoots and commentary. “Oh, I get it! Do you guys get it! See what I’m doing here?! I can show you how it’s done.” And then there’s the crazy laughter, “HAHAHAHA! I’m going to win!”

His aggressiveness is a little scary, and my youngest decides to switch to my team. We all try to ignore him. It’s his first time playing, after all. He doesn’t even know how to play. When we remind him of a rule, he says things like, “What? That’s ridiculous. I don’t think that’s correct.”

Still we forge onward, getting deeper into the game, crossing more and more would be murderers off our list. Miss Scarlett is no.  Colonel Mustard is a no. My husband’s bragging and obnoxious behavior reaching new heights with every turn, until finally, he screams, “I’ve got it!”

We were all closing in, but I thought I needed another turn or two to be certain. I figured he was taking a risky leap of testosterone faith. “It is Mrs. White, in the garage with the wrench.” He smugly turns over the hidden cards. And, he is…right! Damn it. He is right.

I am so annoyed. I hear his insane, booming voice, “You want to know how I knew? First off, I was so bluffing with the wrench! You got to know how to play if you want to play with the master! Bet you’re sorry you switched teams now, buddy! HAHAHAHA!”

My boys are yelling at him in frustration. “Daddy! You just guessed you didn’t know…”

But he is in his glory, reveling in his win.

As his laughter penetrates my ears, I consider my husband as the next victim of the game. It would be Ice Scream mama, in the kitchen with a spoon. I don’t think he’ll be allowed to play again anytime soon.

Great game!! Play at your own risk.

Playing Clue  just might be dangerous for my husband.

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I wonder if I’m even going to miss the vomit?

Posted on January 2, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

At 2:30am, I opened my eyes with a start. Boy who never sleeps and barely eats, aka my seven year-old, is standing next to my bed. I felt him there, heard his soft breathing. So even though I’m a little unnerved to see him, I’m not surprised.

His soft breathing has a rasp to it. “I don’t feel good.”

My first instinct is annoyance. Stellar parenting, I know, but it’s the middle of the night. I push the thought away. “Oh baby.” I say. His little face looks pained and then it gets that look. You know, the one that makes you immediately look around to see if you’re standing on carpet or near something valuable. I leap from the bed, and practically shove him from my room to the bathroom. We make it just over the threshold before he throws up.

Yes! I’m doing a mental fist pump, ridiculously relieved to have made it at least onto the tiled bathroom, where clean-up is markedly easier. Hmm. Should this not be my first thought? My second is not much better. I’m making a list in my head of the things I won’t be doing since I’ll have him home from school the next day. To redeem myself, I rub his back as he continues puking all over the floor.

I should have seen this coming, in fact, I did.

Earlier that day we were at video game center, or more accurately, the gambling learning center for 5-12 year-old’s. The object of every game is to win tickets. My kids foam at the mouth for tickets. No matter that we spent $30 for four army men, six tootsie rolls, a rubber frog that smells funny and a key chain. At least they’re learning something.

In the middle of the debauchery, my seven year-old son approached. “I want to go home.” He whined.

Uh oh. “Really? Why?”

“I just want to go home.”

I noticed his eyes were a little glassy, but I attributed that to the excitement from all the gambling. Then he sneezed and snot blew out his nose and hung in clean, oblong droplet to his lip.

“Tissue!” I screamed, running for my bag. “Tissue!” My capacity for denial runs deep, people. I saw the truth, but I wasn’t ready to accept it.  I told myself it was just a cold. We headed home, and not because of the stares of horrified gamers, but because we wanted to. So there.

I made breakfast for dinner and the boys had ice cream snowmen cups from Baskin Robbins for dessert. I didn’t take much notice that the boy who never sleeps and barely eats, didn’t eat much. Uh, nothing new there.

I snuggled them all into bed, spending extra time cuddling. I am acutely aware of the passage of time, and allow my sappiness to seep out at night, making me a pawn for their pleas of “Just one more minute!” or “I’m hungry.”

I know that each stage that passes brings me older, more mature children, less needy of their mommy’s attention. Little things change, like, my middle one only asks me to tickle his back for a few moments every few nights, instead of the rigorous tickle back routine I used to affectionately endure. My oldest no longer loves me coming to his sport games. All of a sudden, I make him nervous.

But my baby, my now five year-old baby, is still so full of mommy love that sometimes I’m pushing it away. Uh honey, can we triple hug and kiss again later? Mommy wants to work on an essay. Where is that DS?  I reflect with horror. I am actually taking some baby love for granted, when soon it will (poo poo poo) grow up and leave me cold. No more, I vow. We will hug day and night!

That’s when the vomit hits my foot and startles me back. I want to throw up too, but, instead, I get him some water, strip him down and wash him up. Then, I give him some Tylenol,tuck him back into bed, spending some extra time tickling.

With him settled, I get on my hands and knees and start the fabulously exciting activity of cleaning up. It’s after 3 am, I’ve still got to get all the towels and clothes into the laundry and clean myself up before I get into bed. We’re talking close to 4 am. Is this really something I’m going to miss?

Before I can even get my disgusting bundle down to the laundry, I hear his little voice call to me. “Mama…” I drop the towels and run to his room. Yeah, no question, I am.

(this is a re-enactment photo. no sick child was photographed for the making of this blog)

(This is a re-enactment photo. No sick child was photographed for the making of this blog. He’s good, right?)

 

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