Tag Archives: parenting

Go the F%$! to sleep. Oh, fine. One more hug.

Posted on March 18, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Mama!” I hear him yell from his bedroom; his need finding me, even though I’m downstairs in the kitchen cutting an apple for my older son.

“Mama!” He yells again and I roll my eyes. I’ve specifically told him not to call for me, that I will be there shortly.

Even at six years-old, lying with him at night is a non-negotiable. I love it more than it annoys me, which I repeatedly remind myself as his calls become more insistent.

I could enjoy relaxing with him more if I didn’t feel anxious about also getting the other boys into bed. If I didn’t hear the loud tick-tock of the clock in my head, announcing with every beat that it’s getting later and later; that I won’t have any time for myself and my husband, that they will not get enough sleep, that they are stomping on my last nerve and I might just snap, ruining a perfectly good day in the very last minutes.

I finish slicing and trudge upstairs to my oldest son’s room where he is reading a Tom Green book and happy for the snack. I note that he is fully dressed, and even though I’d rather he be studying his vocabulary for a test tomorrow, I hold my tongue on both counts. He’s eleven. I need to cut him some slack. Besides, I’ve told him twice already.

I stop in my middle guy’s room to tell him to stop shooting basketballs and get in bed. He continues shooting, so I tense, preparing for battle. “Just let me make this shot!” He bargains, sensing the imminent loss of his ball. I accept his compromise thankfully, confrontation averted.

Finally, I head to my youngest son’s room. He’s hiding under his covers, preparing to jump out and shout ‘BOO!’ He does it every night. I used to feign surprise but now I just tousle his head. “Boo yourself.”

“I wasn’t supposed to call for you.” He admits. “But I did.”

“I heard you.” I say, pushing a long dark curl away from his face.

“But you took sooooo long.” He complains.

“You were supposed to be relaxing.” I scold, but not really.

He nuzzles closer, unzipping the extra sweatshirt I’m always wearing because even in the house I’m cold, and tucks his little arms in and around me.

“Stay for 10 minutes.” He coos, snuggling his face against my chest.

He still loves squishing into my boobs. Since he was three, he’s been trying to cop a feel.

“Two minutes.” I whisper, feeling my insides go mushy at the soft curve of his cheek, the long lashes, and pouty mouth. With his eyes closed, he still looks so much the baby and I tenderly kiss his fat cheek that’s not as chubby as it used to be.

“Mama!” My middle son yells. “Tickle!”

“One minute.” I call out.

My baby instinctively pulls me closer. “No, not yet.”

I pet his head and kiss him again, knowing it’s time to go, wanting to go, but afraid of the day he’ll just let me, so we cling to each other a little more.

“Mama.” I hear the voice of my oldest. “Come.”

I really want them all to be sleeping. It’s late. I’m tired. I want to relax and watch Modern Family. But I can’t stop myself from taking the moment to baby each one of them; to remind them that they’re still little and special and mine.

It’s time to go, and I gently but forcibly extract myself.

There are still two more rooms to visit.

Such a faker

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Posted in Boys! and tagged bedtime, go to sleep, growing up, nighttime rituals, parenting. Bookmark the permalink.

The boy who cried boo boo

Posted on February 20, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I see the number for the school displayed on my cell, and it immediately triggers a small spike of anxiety. Quickly I detach my feet from my spin bike and hurry from the class. Once outside the dark, loud room, I answer, and a familiar voice greets me.

“Hi. It’s Nurse Judy.” Of course. I knew it.

“Everything’s all right.” She continues. It’s part of school nurse etiquette to say everything is alright within the first five seconds.

I am both relieved and annoyed. It’s the third time this week that my middle son’s visits to the nurse have elicited a call home.

“I have your son here. He’s complaining of a headache.” The resignation in her voice is second only to my own.

Last week, it was a stomach ache. The week before that his elbow hurt, an old cut on his finger bothered him and his loose tooth was “so annoying”.

He’s always been somewhat sensory, and in kindergarten and first grades often spent lunches at the nurse. He didn’t like all the noise. The smells would make him nauseous. There were random daily visits as well, and I knew that his brain just needed a little break. So it was Nurse Judy or the bathroom. And although I don’t know how often he makes trips to the bathroom, I won’t be surprised the day Nurse Judy calls recommending a pediatric urologist.

By second grade, Nurse Judy and I were speaking far less often, and I had dreams of a well-adjusted child who might someday eat foods that were a color other than white. As it turns out, my enthusiasm was a bit premature. Now halfway through third grade, it seems we’ve taken some steps backwards and they’ve led right back to Nurse Judy’s office.

What to do, what to do with the boy who cries boo boo?

Sometimes, I worry that I’m quick to push aside his complaints, but then he comes home begging for a play date and asking for macaroni and cheese, and I think, “Aha!” I was right. Still, I’ve all too often watched a kid zoom around like a happy monkey all day only to spend the night with a high fever and vomit. With kids, it can be hard to tell.

Just last week, his frequent nurse visits and random nighttime complaints, often a subtle warning for the next day’s nurse’s call, finally wore away at my mommy worry and guilt, resulting in a day off from school and a visit to the pediatrician.

“What’s wrong?” The doctor asked.

Both my son and I looked at each other, my boy barely repressing his amused smile.

“Well, he has a headache.” I said, secretly trying to inflict some pain by shooting daggers at him.

“But not all the time.” My son interjected happily.

“And a stomachache.” I said.

“But much less now.” He chimed in again.

“He complained of a sore throat this morning.” I added, feeling stupid.

“Yeah, and sometimes my legs hurt, and my cut on my finger really kills!” He waved his finger dramatically.

Oh no. The doctor looked at us like Mrs. Munchausen and baby Hypochondriac. “I see.” He said, and I could see that he did.

After a strep test that I made my son get because he hates it but also because someone in his class had strep and I’ve seen it present as a stomachache, headache and sore throat came back negative, we skipped out of there and headed straight to Dunkin Donuts.

His smiling eyes twinkled as he chomped down on his rainbow tie-dyed donut, and I watched him with a mixture of adoration and pride. Yes, I had been conned. He wasn’t physically sick, but mental health is equally important.

Apparently, this was just the medicine my kid needed.

I’m sick. Really.

36 Comments

Posted in Boys! and tagged kids playing sick, mental health days, parenting, sick kids, the school nurse. Bookmark the permalink.

Help

Posted on January 27, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

He walked out from the school, his backpack slung behind him looking sweetly melancholy or merely just exhausted. It was hard to tell in the dark.

Usually, my husband did this late night Hebrew school pick-up, but tonight he was working late. So at 8:10pm, I was in the car on a cold night with my two younger boys instead of in the middle of our stalling before bed routine, probably somewhere between whining for snacks and whining to brush teeth.

When he opened the car door, the noise of his brothers tackled him and he flung the door too hard and hit his hand on the car parked next to us. Not too bad, but enough to make him grimace. He didn’t cry. Instead, he decided to inflict some pain on his brothers. “You guys have nothing better to do than yell and play video games!” He lashed out at them. “Can’t you do anything else?”

“You okay?” I asked, a little concerned by the desperation in his voice.

He just nodded but didn’t say anything more.

Back in the house two minutes, he lost it again when his youngest brother complained that he pilfered one of his goldfish crackers. “You’re so sensitive!” he yelled and then stomped into his room.

Uh oh. Something was wrong and it wasn’t the hand.

I got the two younger boys in the shower and went in to see my oldest son. His room was dark and he was lying under his covers fully dressed, clutching a favorite old dinosaur toy, feigning sleep.

“Baby?” I questioned and rubbed his back soothingly. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” He muttered.

“I can tell something’s wrong. Please tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” He insisted; his eyes squeezed closed so not to face me, his mouth twitching emotion.

I sat next to him in silence, studying his heartbreakingly sweet face obviously in the midst of some internal struggle. Do I respect his space or probe deeper? Where is that parenting book when you need it?

“Did you get in trouble in class?” I asked gently.

He shook his head.

“Did you get into a fight with someone?”

More shaking.

“Were you embarrassed or hurt in some way?” I persisted.

“Stop!” He almost cried, burying his face in his pillow. “You’re making it worse.”

I guess I should have chosen space.

“Okay.” I conceded. “I’m sorry. I just want to help.”

I rubbed his back a little longer; not wanting to leave him, dying to know what was upsetting him, but uncertain what to do. The idea that someone would put him in this emotionally vulnerable place was too much for me. No one was allowed to hurt my baby.

“You can’t help.” He said into his pillow.

What? Untrue! I can help! I need to help. I’ve always been able to help. Don’t shut me out, I wanted to cry. Instead, I left him to get the other boys into bed; the ones whose biggest problems were if I had pirate booty to give for snack the next day and if I could secure a good play date.

By the time I came back to his room, he was asleep.

But I would be up all night.

Back when it was easy… sigh.

41 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Middle School and tagged communicating with children, communicating with tweens, getting shut out, parenting, tweens. Bookmark the permalink.

Let The iBeatings Begin!

Posted on January 21, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

I want to beat my children. Wait, did I say that out loud? Please don’t call child services. I don’t really want to beat them in the literal way, just figuratively. Figuratively, I want to beat them silly.

Why? I don’t know. Maybe because they’re spoiled and deserve a good figurative beating. Because maybe, I’m tired of the word, “Wait” when I’m asking something like, “Do you want vanilla or chocolate?” and their video game can’t be interrupted; or maybe because they remember they need special molding clay at 9pm for a diorama due the next day. Or because I make three different dinners for them to say, “I’m not hungry” but five minutes after everything has been cleared away, find them attached to my waist, devastated by hunger. Because I sit and help patiently with homework only to be told that “It’s fine” with an eye roll of disdain, even when it’s not, and they haven’t figured out yet that they should say bless you when I sneeze, or offer to help when I’m schlepping in 12 grocery bags instead of throwing their knapsack on top of the bags. That’s why. I could go on, if you need more.

But it’s no longer the 70’s when beatings were just as acceptable as lack of supervision and random light drug use. When I tell my children I’m going to beat them – an entertaining threat that I somehow picked up watching the hysterical skit from Bill Cosby Himself – they roll their eyes. “Oh funny, mom.” Yeah, I have them quaking in their furry crocs.

Ooops.

I need something to show them that I mean business. I probably would get more of a response if I threatened to beat their devices.

That’s it! They would cower in fear. I would have them at my mercy. I can hear them now…

“NO! My iPhone hasn’t done anything wrong. Please, beat me! Just leave it alone.”

“But, it’s taken me so long to get to that level!”

“Not my contacts!”

“Take the DS! Or the Wii. Just leave the X-Boxxxxxxx!”

Gee, what’s that doing there? Mwahahaha

Or, maybe we could create a new app – iMomfia where I control all the apps on my kids’ devices. If one of the children doesn’t behave, I could make one of their apps just disappear. They’ll never know which one.

I would hold their complete submission in my hands. I would have them doing their homework, putting their dishes in the sink, taking showers without hassle. It’s genius. Or blackmail. Same, same.

Somehow technology has become the only effective method of bribery in my house. For the past few years I’ve used it as a carrot, dangling before them. “Do well in school this year and I’ll get you an iTouch… Show me how helpful you can be around the house and maybe you’ll earn yourself an iTunes card…” So, I guess it’s partly my fault that it’s become the most important thing to them, but I prefer to blame society.

Yes! It’s society’s fault that I own them in the first place, and now just to get my children’s attention, I may have to beat a device worth hundreds of dollars.

Ouch.

This is gonna hurt.

*No children or devices were harmed in the making of this totally humorous post.

63 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged Apple, discipline, humor, iTouch, parenting, technology. Bookmark the permalink.

You’ll grow up when I’m good and ready

Posted on January 15, 2014 by Ice Scream Mama

“Hey, baby.” I say to my eleven year-old. It’s what I call my boys, except my middle son, who at four would already reprimand me for calling him baby. “I’m not a baby.” He’d growl, to which I’d reply, “You’re my baby.” He never accepted my answer and would yell at me whenever I slipped.

Not so with my oldest. He’s always embraced both being a baby and being my baby.

I can’t say I don’t love it, but at times I worry if I’ve made his comfort zone too comfortable; if I’ve babied my baby too much.

“You want to call a friend to come over?” I ask.

He’s curled up in his favorite chair, wrapped in a blanket for comfort not warmth, a bowl of popcorn at his feet watching Austin and Ally on television. He barely turns his head toward me when he answers, “Nah. I’m good.”

“Are you sure?” I ask, walking to the chair and squatting down next to him.

At my closeness, he immediately leans over and nuzzles his head against my body. I give him a squeeze and kiss his head. Ah. My baby.

“I’m good.” He says again, opening his arms for a hug, which I happily embrace.

It’s his downtime. He works hard at school, homework and sports, so I don’t mind him relaxing if that’s what makes him happy.

He craves home, while my middle son craves independence. At eight, he’s already a social animal, and has secured a friend to come over. After his play date, it is not unusual for him to ask for another.

Sometimes, I worry a bit that my oldest is too happy nestled in his chair while his more socially developed friends spend more time bonding and making connections. I worry about him being left behind. Even, shallowly, about not being cool. I want, what I think, most parents want, for him to have an easy run through middle and high school. To fit in. To be well-liked.

“Mommy?” He asks, as I give his head one last tousle and rise to leave him. “Can you bring me water?”

I struggle with wanting to push him out there and pull him back in. I struggle with wanting to do things for him and for him to do them himself. Push. Pull.

He’s eleven. Maybe that’s the age where they need to mature. Almost all of his friends are texting and addicted to Instagram. Quite a few are already into girls. At the moment, my beautiful, sweet son remains blissfully unaware of the social tornado going on all around him.

But probably not for very long.

“Okay, baby.” I say.

His happy place

52 Comments

Posted in Boys!, Middle School and tagged growing up, parenting, tweens. Bookmark the permalink.

My five year-old is no longer five

Posted on December 12, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“You’re the best mommy,” my still officially five year-old son for ten more hours and two minutes, says as I sit with him in his bed at night. Because of the L word that cannot be mentioned, he is hugging around my waist while I am bent up against his head board, my hair wrapped in a tight mint-sprayed bun.

We are clear, I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. Once you get L, you might never feel confident or clean again. I have been officially cleared twice by professionals, have treated myself none-the-less and combed out my hair every night, pulling so much that soon, I will have no hair left to worry about. Still, I feel them crawling on me and scratch at my head like a crazy person, which obviously, I am.

I have spent the week torturing my entire family. Checking and combing, freaking out when one sib’s head interferes with another sib’s personal head space, yelling for head checks, denying play dates. A few days ago when my 8 year-old went to bed early, I pulled my fine tooth comb through his hair in the dark at least five times before he woke and yelled at me.The casual hug is a thing of the past. Now my head tilts awkwardly so as not to touch anyone else’s hair. Snuggling in bed is also off limits. Until tonight, I wouldn’t even have sat in his bed. But tonight is the last night he will be five, and after days of begging me to snuggle, I can deny him no longer.

It’s been a difficult week for many reasons and now thinking that I am holding on to the last moments of my baby being five, I am heavy with the thickness of my emotion. I could fall over right now and cry myself to sleep. But of course, I can’t, because then our heads might touch.

My five – for nine more hours and fifty seven minutes – year-old is my youngest, but he really is no longer a baby. He’s now strong and agile, joining his brothers in school and on the field; a mischievous charmer, filled with sass and silliness.

Yet, he still randomly misuses bigger words, saying things like, ‘Happy university’ instead of anniversary, or telling me to use the ‘constructions’ to put something together. He still tells me secrets from his ear to mine, basically making it impossible to hear his little whispers. And he insists on cuddling with me in bed. My 8 year-old and 11 year-old do as well, but not with the same need as my 5 year-old, who will not stop calling until he has his due.

At this moment, his little upturned nose and the full curve of his cheek make him look almost cherubic in profile, so close to a baby. His hair is still damp from his shower, the unstoppable waves pressed against me. If I move just a little, he will hug me tighter, afraid that it is time for me to go. But I’m in no hurry tonight, because there are only nine hours and fifty-two minutes left of my baby being five, and we’re going to hug till he snores.

“Tomorrow’s my birthday.” He announces, as if we haven’t been counting off the days for months.

“I know.” In nine hours and fifty minutes.

“I can’t wait.” He says and snuggles closer.

I can.

“You’re the best mommy,” He repeats softly, drifting off.

“You’re the best baby.” I whisper.

And then I can’t take it anymore. Imaginary lice be damned, I lean down and kiss him on the head, pulling him to me.

I love this boy. And that’s the only L word that matters.

Back when he was just five.

32 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged 6 year-old birthday, growing up, happy 6th birthday, lice, parenting. Bookmark the permalink.

Ice Scream Mama’s terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

Posted on December 10, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

Today was too good not to write about. I mean, seriously, it was that bad. So hold on to your hats. And I mean that literally…

6:58am – Callback from lice professionals. I had left a message at 11pm last night, freaked out that my sis-in-law’s family had lice and we had basically spent the weekend braided together. I checked my kids and found nothing, but smothered them with lice repellant regardless and barely slept, sweating rosemary and mint all night. Our appointment is at 9:30am.

7:30am – Frying up latkes for middle child’s class for Hanukka party we would no longer be attending. Still, the latkes must go on, with or without us.

8am – Call to wake my father for doctor appointment that he already missed once and had issues you don’t want to know about, the second time. Bless the stars, he is awake.

8:30am – Frying, making breakfast, calling schools, freaking out over lice which I cannot see but know is there.

8:40am – Middle son runs in with finger gushing blood. I think it’s a joke from the magic kit we got them for Hanukka. “That’s not real blood.” I laugh. Yeah, it was.

8:45am – Call from dad alerting me that he would be missing appointment again because boils have broken out all over his body. Seriously. Boils. Blood. Lice. It’s officially the plagues.

9:30am – Without a trace of hail in the sky, we make it to lice professions. Whew.

Boy 1 checked, pronounced clean.

Boy 2 checked, clean.

Boy 3 checked…. Noooooooooo!!!

Mommy checked, clean. So they say. Mommy lays with boy 3 every night at bed time.

The brush out

Noon – Scratching the invisible bugs in my brain, we leave lice professionals cleaned of nits and cash.

Drop latkes at co-class mom’s house for afore mentioned party, pick up library book for oldest son, pizza place and home.

1 -2:40 – Laundry to sterilize every fabric in house.

3pm – Orthopedist for oldest son who hurt his hand a few days ago and is still somewhat swollen. We figure we should check it out.

4pm – Hello irresponsible parents. It’s a fracture. Cast applied, child and mother miserable, Coach Dad inconsolable.

4:30pm – Father at primary care doctor for boils who offers up this bit of brilliance, “Wow. No idea what that is!” Appointment with specialist secured.

5pm–8pm – Missed homework, dinner, never-ending laundry marathon continues.

Suffocate all stuffed toys in garbage bags.

Find children rolling on top of one another playing. Freak out and spray them like crazy with lice repellent. Near blinding occurs.

8pm – Oldest, “Uh, mom, I forgot I need this stuff for school tomorrow.”

8:15pm – At market.

8:40pm – “Time to shampoo and lice comb!”

“You forgot Hanukka presents!” Cry boys 1,2 & 3.

Crappity crap crap.

Run up to get gifts, run back down. Hurry through prayer and candle lighting. Throw gifts at them. It’s all extremely meaningful.

Boy 1 – “Why’d you get me this?”

Boy 2 – “This isn’t what I asked for.”

Boy 3 – A small nod of happy.

Yay. We can still make the 5 year-old happy. That’s almost thanks. Kind of.

8:30-9:30 – Lice shampoo all little heads. Pull UV light off lizard tank for better view while combing. Identify questionable dots of brown. Could be 8 year-old cradle cap or nits.

Husband who can’t find OJ in fridge glances over and says, “I don’t know why you’re driving yourself crazy. They’re good.”

Beat husband with lice comb.

9:45 – Children asleep on newly made up beds. 6^th load of laundry goes in.

10:45 – Sitting here writing this list, getting ready to shower and lice shampoo my head.

Feeling about 100% confident that tomorrow will be filled with combs and shampoo and stress.

I am totally bugged out.

This would never happen in Australia

37 Comments

Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream and tagged a bad day, alexander's terrible horrible no good very bad day, boils, lice, one of those days, parenting, plagues. Bookmark the permalink.

Sometimes, you just got to take a shot

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“Get your shoes on. We’ve got to go.”

This is the way it has to work. No explanation. No sweet talk. All business.

My three boys casually ignore me, focusing on SpongeBob. Sometimes, I really want to wring that sponge.

“Ahem!” I say loudly. “Let’s get a move on. Now!”

My “Now” sounds like it looks, all exclamation points, but amazingly, they don’t hear it that way and slowly amble toward their shoes.

“Where are we going?” my oldest asks, but I brush off his question.

“No questions. Time to go.”

My two youngest race out the door.

“So where are we going?” My oldest persists, and because he’s eleven and has showed progress and maturity these past couple of years, I tell him.

“Oh.” He says anxiously, eyes wide. “Do they know?” He gestures toward the happy faces climbing over each other in the minivan.

I shake my head no.

“Can I tell them?” He asks, eyes glinting.

“Wait till we’re closer. The less crying I have to hear the better.”

He nods happily. We’re in cahoots now.

During the seven minute drive, the secret spreads like a low hum across the car, reaching my youngest as we pull in, his eyes alight with panic. While the other boys wait, I patiently try to coax him from the car.

“Come on,” I plead. “It’s so quick. You didn’t even cry last year.” Uh, except for the half hour preceding it, of course.

He backs away, deeper into the third row.

Realizing negotiation was futile, I not so patiently pick up his flailing, twisting body and carry him. Once inside, he calms some, until the doctor appears smiling, with his Tweety and Sylvester tie and a syringe. It is a semi-creepy combination.

Oldest boy goes and takes it in arm like a pro.

Middle boy goes and barely bats one of his ridiculously long lashes.

Youngest boy… where is youngest boy? Sigh.

I pull him out from under the patient table and talk gently to him as he struggles to pull away. I show him how happy his big brothers are and he kicks at the doctor. I promise him treats when he’s done, but he is like a rabid baby bear covered in butter in my arms.

Finally, I restrain him enough for the three seconds it takes the doctor to insert the needle and it’s over.

My boy takes his time breathing heavily, recovering from his experience. “See, it’s really not that bad,” I coo, petting his curls. “It’s over so fast. You were very brave.”

He looks up, baby brown eyes still moist with tears, and utters two words full of indignation, “Toy store.”

I nod in agreement.

“Then treat!”

The kid may not be good at taking shots, but he’s certainly good at calling them.

Just hold still. This won’t hurt a bit.

19 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged afraid of shots, flu shots, health, kids hate doctors, kids hate getting shots, parenting, taking kids to the doctor. Bookmark the permalink.

Meet Prince Charming

Posted on November 7, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

“I did not eat the chocolate!” My five year old insists, brown smudges decorating his face and hands.

“Are you sure?” I question, my eyes pointing at his conscience, trying to pierce his resolve.

His smile is wide; little white baby teeth dirty with his lie.

“I’m totally sure, mom. Totally!” He brings his face of evidence near mine and even though he smells delicious and looks delicious, I push him back a little. I don’t want chocolate on my shirt. It’s only 8am. I try to wait until at least 9am, once I am out of the house and in public to get stained.

His mouth is sticking to his story but his eyes, as always, twinkle with mischief. They speak the truth. He knows I know. If he knew how to wink, he would.

“So, how did you get all that chocolate on your face,” I ask.

“What chocolate, mommy?” He laughs. “There’s no chocolate on my face.”

“What about your hands.” I say. “What’s that?”

He looks down at the brown stains and jumps up and down with uncontrollable glee. “That’s dirt mommy. I’m very dirty.”

“Well that’s true at least.” I nod. “Now go take your dirty hands into the bathroom and wash them.”

He flashes a smile like Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise before he sleeps with Thelma and steals all her money, then skips away.

I know the smile well. His two older brothers share the same gift.

Charm.

In less than 10 seconds, he’s back. “Look, I washed my hands.” He says and shoves wet little fingers, still smudged with chocolate in front me to drip on my pants.

“Great.” I say, getting up to retrieve a paper towel. “I think you forgot to dry them.”

He stands in front of me waiting, a smile playing on his lips.

“Yes?” I ask, amused.

“I found something.”

Immediately my brow arches. “Really?”

He runs off, his voice trailing behind him, “And I didn’t take it from your bag.”

He returns with a dollar bill.

“Hmm. Where did you get that?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” He sings, “But I didn’t take it from your bag.”

“That’s good because if I check and see it’s missing, I might think you took it and then you’d be in big trouble.”

A furrow crosses his brow.

“I’ll be right back.” He says and runs off again.

I wash the dishes while I wait, and wonder what was in that stolen contraband he ate this morning.

“I’m hungry.” he says when he returns.

“Well, you didn’t have breakfast. Want cereal?”

“Nope.”

“Eggs.”

“Nope.”

“Pancakes?”

“I want these!” He produces two chocolates from his Halloween bag.

Of course.

“Pleaseeee! I’ll have them with pancakes, eggs and cereal, and then I totally won’t have any more snacks today.” He oversells his smile, his eyes glinting with delight. I can only shake my head, enchanted.

Watch out girls.

I can tell, he’s got you already.

16 Comments

Posted in Every Day Scoops and tagged charm, Charmed, humor, manipulated by children, parenting, prince charming, Third times a charm. Bookmark the permalink.

I’m in trouble

Posted on October 3, 2013 by Ice Scream Mama

They are fighting at the breakfast table.

“I have the most loom bracelets.” My little one brags, even though he doesn’t.

“You do not.” My eight year-old is quick to correct; soggy, Honey Nut Cheerios falling from his mouth.

“Yes I do!” My five year-old insists, holding on tightly to his dignity. It’s a loom eat loom world.

“You don’t!” My eight year old yells, totally agitated. He is the enforcer of justice in the world, except when he’s wrong, then he’ll just scream till you forget what the original argument even was.

“Stop teasing each other,” I reprimand mildly, wiping up the cereal. “And eat.”

“No! I won’t” My boy with the offended morals exclaims. “He’s wrong. Admit it.Tell him, he doesn’t!”

I sigh, heavily, and tell my five year-old that he indeed does not have the most bracelets.

“It would just be nice if you guys wouldn’t make the biggest deals over the smallest things.”

“Now you’re making a big deal over a small thing.” My eight year-old yells.

“Okay, you need to stop yelling.” I’m getting annoyed.

“NO!”

Eight year-old has transferred his frustration onto me and I’m close to transferring mine right back.

“If you don’t, you can go right up to your room.” I am calm. I am in control.

“Ha ha!” My five year-old provokes, with the stinky, little brother face to match.

“You’re so annoying!” Eight year-old shouts, again spitting wet Cheerios on to the table.

I need to put an end to this nonsense. “Okay, stop it right now, or you’ll both go to your rooms!”

At that, my 11 year-old, who had miraculously been minding his own business, snickers.

“What’s so funny?” I huff.

“You. You’re not sending anyone to their room.”

“What do you mean?” His twinkly, smug smile is pissing me off.

“I mean, you let everyone get away with everything.”

“I do not!” I am not so calm. I am not so in control.

“Yeah, you don’t really ever do anything.” My eight year-old pipes in merrily. Nothing like fresh meat to turn the tide.

“Yeah Momma! Yeah momma!” My five year old chants, standing on his chair doing the ‘my momma has no balls’ dance.

They’re all laughing.

Apparently, everyone is getting along just fine now.

Whatever.

I’m going to my room.

He's going to be way better at it than I am.

He’s going to be so much better at it.

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Posted in Crap that makes me eat too much ice cream, Uncategorized and tagged consistant discipline, parenting, punishing children, sending children to their room, sibling teasing. Bookmark the permalink.

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