My son has thick, unruly hair. If he were a girl, I'm sure this would result in long, flowing, fairytale locks. For a boy, it means a haircut every 4 weeks. Yes, I could go the other route and let him grow it to his butt. But really? Child androgyny is not Cool on any level. (Do you hear me, Kate Hudson? Let's hope someone buys you a giftcard to Supercuts for this next baby.)
I started nipping my kid's hair with the safety scissors when he was about 8 months old. I was not one of the moms who waited until the first birthday for a haircut, then cried and saved the tufts of hair in a ziploc baggie. (Because honestly? When you come across that bag o'hair in a memory box 10 years down the road, your first thought is going to be: "RAT!" And beating a bag of your child's hair with a broom is not a proud parenting moment.)
Once I could no longer cut his hair myself (read: used my husband's dull "body hair" clippers on the kid, and left him with a polka-dotted head. Sidenote: Body Hair Clippers? Seriously?), I enlisted the professionals. Three years went by without incident, and I beamed with pride at my well-behaved son while other kids had meltdowns at the barber shop.
Fast-forward to present day. He has become THAT kid. I have to take him to a different salon every month, lest we get blacklisted. (Or arrested. It can't look good to the other salon patrons as I wrestle my kid's head into submission just to have his neckline trimmed.) Last month I told him, "If you are a good listener during this haircut, I will buy you whatever you want for lunch." And my lovely child said: "Well, I guess I'll just be hungry today!"
Yesterday at the local hair-dive, we ended up with a stylist from Poland. And here is a sample of the dialogue exchanged between my son and the Polish hair lady:
My son, upon hearing her accent: "What are you, Italian or something?" (I would like to say that I held in my laughter. But I would be lying.)
Woman, after much thrashing by my child: "These trimmers do not hurt you. Let me show on your hand."
Son: "STOP TRYING TO SLICE MY HAND OPEN!!!! AAAAGGHHHH!"
Woman (three seconds into using trimmers): "His ear is cut. He will not stop the moving. I cannot continue like this."
Okay, I know what you're thinking: I was too quick to judge Kate. She is obviously the smart one here. But a big tip turns even the most embarrassing situation into a tolerable one. (And FYI? It would seem my pride costs exactly $20.) So the lady put in some gel, offered my son a sucker, and said a sweet goodbye. His response? "Goodbye! And thanks for the terrible haircut!" Cue the blacklist.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
First-Time-Mom Mistakes
As you all know, I had my baby at 25, while unmarried and living in a different zip code than my Baby Daddy.* (And if you didn't know? Welcome to the party. What took you so long? Put an umbrella in your drink and make yourself comfortable!) Therefore, I am chock-full of advice on what you should NOT do when you are a young, selfish, first-time-mom.
1) Do not say "No thanks, I'm sure we will be fine," when your mother offers to move in with you for the first week after Bringing Home Baby. This woman has successfully raised you to be a non-psychopath, remember? (At least in the medical-slash-legal sense of the word. Practicing voodoo on your skinny neighbor because you can't get your pre-baby Spanx on past your ankle is perfectly normal.) She most certainly has answers to your first-time-mom questions. (And if not, she will provide you with endless commentary of how she used to do things "in HER day." Example? "Gas drops? Ha. In MY day, I dipped a sprig of parsley in hot oil and put it right up your bum.") Set her up in the room with the largest bed, so everyone in the house can curl up with her and cry during midnight feedings. And then beg her to stay for the month.
2) Do not listen to your husband when he says, "Let's use my family doctor for the baby. He's a great guy. And oh yeah... he's really hot, so you'll like him." (As if I would base my son's health on the hotness of his doctor. Please. That is only part of the reason I chose him.) Because when he walks into your hospital room and the jaws of your friends drop onto the floor, you will look down at your ravaged, unshowered body and hate your life. Also? The temptation to get dolled up in full makeup and a cocktail dress every time your kid needs a vaccination will be hard to ignore. (Shout-out to Doc: Thanks for everything! And I promise I will never again ask for a breast exam in your office.)
3) You know that video they try to show you at the hospital to make sure you know how to take care of your newborn? The one that tells you how to feed him, bathe him, and basically not pull a Britney on him? Well, don't spend the duration of this video giggling with your husband about the mullets and acid-washed jeans onscreen. Otherwise when you get home, you might show up on your mother's doorstep saying, "How do I get this stuff out of his neck folds?" (Sidenote: when your mother graciously takes your baby and washes him, do not plop your head on the kitchen table and fall instantly asleep. I may or may not have slept through an entire year of my child's baths.)
Here's hoping y'all learn from my first-time-mom mistakes. You will be just fine as long as you don't shave your head, change your kid's diaper in the middle of a department store, and get carted off to the looney bin. (I was always rooting for ya, Britney!)
*Present-day husband. When the stick turned pink, I had the good sense (somewhere between a brief bout of hyperventilation and the popping of a Xanax) to yell: "You'd better marry me!"
1) Do not say "No thanks, I'm sure we will be fine," when your mother offers to move in with you for the first week after Bringing Home Baby. This woman has successfully raised you to be a non-psychopath, remember? (At least in the medical-slash-legal sense of the word. Practicing voodoo on your skinny neighbor because you can't get your pre-baby Spanx on past your ankle is perfectly normal.) She most certainly has answers to your first-time-mom questions. (And if not, she will provide you with endless commentary of how she used to do things "in HER day." Example? "Gas drops? Ha. In MY day, I dipped a sprig of parsley in hot oil and put it right up your bum.") Set her up in the room with the largest bed, so everyone in the house can curl up with her and cry during midnight feedings. And then beg her to stay for the month.
2) Do not listen to your husband when he says, "Let's use my family doctor for the baby. He's a great guy. And oh yeah... he's really hot, so you'll like him." (As if I would base my son's health on the hotness of his doctor. Please. That is only part of the reason I chose him.) Because when he walks into your hospital room and the jaws of your friends drop onto the floor, you will look down at your ravaged, unshowered body and hate your life. Also? The temptation to get dolled up in full makeup and a cocktail dress every time your kid needs a vaccination will be hard to ignore. (Shout-out to Doc: Thanks for everything! And I promise I will never again ask for a breast exam in your office.)
3) You know that video they try to show you at the hospital to make sure you know how to take care of your newborn? The one that tells you how to feed him, bathe him, and basically not pull a Britney on him? Well, don't spend the duration of this video giggling with your husband about the mullets and acid-washed jeans onscreen. Otherwise when you get home, you might show up on your mother's doorstep saying, "How do I get this stuff out of his neck folds?" (Sidenote: when your mother graciously takes your baby and washes him, do not plop your head on the kitchen table and fall instantly asleep. I may or may not have slept through an entire year of my child's baths.)
Here's hoping y'all learn from my first-time-mom mistakes. You will be just fine as long as you don't shave your head, change your kid's diaper in the middle of a department store, and get carted off to the looney bin. (I was always rooting for ya, Britney!)
*Present-day husband. When the stick turned pink, I had the good sense (somewhere between a brief bout of hyperventilation and the popping of a Xanax) to yell: "You'd better marry me!"
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Gimme A Guideline!
I spent my entire Saturday teaching (forcing) my child to blow his own nose. I know what you're thinking. He's FIVE. What 5 year-old can't blow his nose? Well, when God passed out the love-of-all-things-grotesque quality to little boys, my son must have been busy cooking a mean risotto or admiring the daisies. Because bodily functions repulse him. (I know little boys who call their moms into the bathroom to look at what they did in the toilet because it's "awesome." My kid? Keeps his eyes on the ceiling and yells "Hurry up and flush it down!!")
So this morning, my son woke me at an obscene hour with a tissue in hand, saying, "I know it's still dark out and I'm not supposed to wake you yet, but... blow my nose." It being a Saturday, and one of the only days that I can sleep past 7am, you will (hopefully) empathize with my response: "Today is the day you will learn to blow your own nose. And if you ever want to see the Super Mario Brothers again, you had better figure it out." (In hindsight, I probably should not have approached the situation like a kidnapper asking for ransom.) Wouldn't you know, the kid blew his nose on the first try.
Moments like these would be easier if the parenting experts of the world set up some guidelines. You know, like "Start baby on solid foods by 6 months." "Take away the pacifier by age 1." "Put them in a car seat until they get a license." (At least that's what it seems like. I mean, 4 foot 9? Please. I'm pretty sure my mother piled large suitcases around my infant body to keep me from rolling to the floor. And my grandpa let me ride in the bed of his pickup truck at age 5 so that my ice cream didn't melt on the upholstery.) How else am I to know the exact age that my kid should be blowing his own nose?
While we're at it, another guideline I would like some insight on is this: At what age do I stop bathing my son, and make him take his own shower? (Though let's be honest. Even if there were a book with this information, would I read it? Probably not. It would cut into my Facebook time.)
After polling some Cool Moms, I decided to put my kiddo in the shower with my husband to make the transition easier. Unfortunately, this was met with rather... unpleasant reactions from both parties. Upon realizing which body parts were at eye level with my son's gaze, my husband demanded a pair of swim trunks. And now my son showers with his eyes closed.
If there is, in fact, a manual for these types of scenarios, feel free to point me in the right direction. Though you should probably post it as your Status Update, or put it on Twitter. My attention bottoms out at 140 characters.
So this morning, my son woke me at an obscene hour with a tissue in hand, saying, "I know it's still dark out and I'm not supposed to wake you yet, but... blow my nose." It being a Saturday, and one of the only days that I can sleep past 7am, you will (hopefully) empathize with my response: "Today is the day you will learn to blow your own nose. And if you ever want to see the Super Mario Brothers again, you had better figure it out." (In hindsight, I probably should not have approached the situation like a kidnapper asking for ransom.) Wouldn't you know, the kid blew his nose on the first try.
Moments like these would be easier if the parenting experts of the world set up some guidelines. You know, like "Start baby on solid foods by 6 months." "Take away the pacifier by age 1." "Put them in a car seat until they get a license." (At least that's what it seems like. I mean, 4 foot 9? Please. I'm pretty sure my mother piled large suitcases around my infant body to keep me from rolling to the floor. And my grandpa let me ride in the bed of his pickup truck at age 5 so that my ice cream didn't melt on the upholstery.) How else am I to know the exact age that my kid should be blowing his own nose?
While we're at it, another guideline I would like some insight on is this: At what age do I stop bathing my son, and make him take his own shower? (Though let's be honest. Even if there were a book with this information, would I read it? Probably not. It would cut into my Facebook time.)
After polling some Cool Moms, I decided to put my kiddo in the shower with my husband to make the transition easier. Unfortunately, this was met with rather... unpleasant reactions from both parties. Upon realizing which body parts were at eye level with my son's gaze, my husband demanded a pair of swim trunks. And now my son showers with his eyes closed.
If there is, in fact, a manual for these types of scenarios, feel free to point me in the right direction. Though you should probably post it as your Status Update, or put it on Twitter. My attention bottoms out at 140 characters.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
A Stranger Story
Yesterday, my son opened the door for a complete stranger while I was in the shower. I know, I should have had this talk with him earlier, but I didn't think he could operate the deadbolt. (Besides, we haven't had a random afternoon visitor since 2006. Unless you count my mother, which I don't, because she lives across the street. It's like Everybody Loves Raymond up in here.)
So my kiddo announced, "Someone's at the door and I don't know him. Want to come see if you do?" Now, I was shampooing my hair at this very moment, so here were my options:
1) Have my son stay in the bathroom with me and lock the door behind him. Thereby leaving the random stranger to push open the screen door, walk into our living room, and rob us blind. (Inciting a very big "I told you not to leave the laptop on the coffee table" from the husband.) And what would I do if he made his way to the bathroom? Shove a tampon in his mouth and blow-dry him til he burned?
2) Launch my wet, soapy self out of the shower and into the living room in nothing but a towel. However, my track record (read: family history of zero coordination) indicates that I would have broken an ankle upon exiting the shower in such a hurried, slippery manner. And where would that leave us? Right back at #1. Though in this scenario I spray his eyeballs with my Ultimate-Freeze-bad-for-the-ozone-aerosol hairspray. Poorman's mace.
3) Instruct my son to return to the living room and close the door in this stranger's face. Whereupon this dude would have every opportunity to steal my adorable, yet normally anti-social, kiddo. (Seriously? I have to endure lengthy parent-teacher conferences because my kid won't deign to speak to another child at preschool, but hey! Welcome to our home, potential serial killer!)
Because none of the above are remotely acceptable (and all scream "parenting failure"), I will only admit that my solution involved a combination of all three. Thankfully, the person at our door was just a kid wanting to shovel our driveway. (Who will no doubt come back on a regular basis, due to the half-naked woman pressed against the picture window trying to get a look at the person's face who may or may not have tried to steal her baby.)
Everyone learned a lesson here: my son now knows that the world is not full of sunshine and roses and sane people... and I should stash a semi-automatic weapon under the bathroom sink.
So my kiddo announced, "Someone's at the door and I don't know him. Want to come see if you do?" Now, I was shampooing my hair at this very moment, so here were my options:
1) Have my son stay in the bathroom with me and lock the door behind him. Thereby leaving the random stranger to push open the screen door, walk into our living room, and rob us blind. (Inciting a very big "I told you not to leave the laptop on the coffee table" from the husband.) And what would I do if he made his way to the bathroom? Shove a tampon in his mouth and blow-dry him til he burned?
2) Launch my wet, soapy self out of the shower and into the living room in nothing but a towel. However, my track record (read: family history of zero coordination) indicates that I would have broken an ankle upon exiting the shower in such a hurried, slippery manner. And where would that leave us? Right back at #1. Though in this scenario I spray his eyeballs with my Ultimate-Freeze-bad-for-the-ozone-aerosol hairspray. Poorman's mace.
3) Instruct my son to return to the living room and close the door in this stranger's face. Whereupon this dude would have every opportunity to steal my adorable, yet normally anti-social, kiddo. (Seriously? I have to endure lengthy parent-teacher conferences because my kid won't deign to speak to another child at preschool, but hey! Welcome to our home, potential serial killer!)
Because none of the above are remotely acceptable (and all scream "parenting failure"), I will only admit that my solution involved a combination of all three. Thankfully, the person at our door was just a kid wanting to shovel our driveway. (Who will no doubt come back on a regular basis, due to the half-naked woman pressed against the picture window trying to get a look at the person's face who may or may not have tried to steal her baby.)
Everyone learned a lesson here: my son now knows that the world is not full of sunshine and roses and sane people... and I should stash a semi-automatic weapon under the bathroom sink.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Can I Get a Do-Over?
It happens so regularly it's almost routine: I wake up in good spirits (and with a craving for coffee so all-consuming it's almost grounds for rehab), look in the mirror, and say, "I'm not going to yell today." I emerge from the bedroom feeling as serene as Stewart Smalley (he really had a good thing going, and if more people went around thinking, "goshdarnit, people like me!" the world would be a nicer place).
And then? My husband wants to know why I didn't clean the coffeemaker properly, my son spills his juice in such a fantastic fashion that the walls are now tie-dyed maroon, and my phone alarm rings telling me I forgot about a doctor appointment. I yell: "What is WRONG with everybody?!" and head right back to the bedroom, praying for a Do-Over.
Want to know what other parenting boo-boos I would Do-Over if I had a magic wand? (Or a magic head-nod like I Dream of Jeannie? Sidenote: it's a shame my son doesn't appreciate the irony when he asks me for his own laptop and I cross my arms, nod my head, and say "poof!")
I would feed my child whatever my husband and I were having for dinner, and not prepare "kid friendly" food instead. Why? My son currently eats 5 foods: mac and cheese (Kraft only), turkey bacon, waffles, pizza (if the sauce isn't "too spicy") and chicken nuggets. We went to visit a friend over the Christmas holiday, and the restaurant choice was based solely around my son's preference for the chicken strips. Embarrassing, high-maintenance, and brought about only by my (poor) parenting skills.
I would read one of those "Dr. So-and-So's Sleep Method for Infants" books, and follow it. Let your baby cry for 3 hours? Check. Maintain a bedtime routine? Absolutely. Perform a sleepdance while yodeling? I'm all about it. Because obviously my method of snuggling, rocking, crying (both of us), and finally delivering us both a dose of Benadryl did not do the trick.*
I would not do everything for my child simply because we are in a hurry. This includes: shoe-tying, coat putting-on, washing him in the tub, and feeding him. (That one was more to save me the mess, and I realized the other day the damage I did when my son said, "I hate using a spoon. Why can't you still feed me?" I have horrific visions of him at a business dinner 20 years from now, asking the waitress to cut his steak.)
I'm well aware that having at least one more child will give me the chance to undo all the first-time-mom damage I have done, and grant me the Do-Over I dream about. But that subject is a blog for another day. In the meantime, I will just cross my arms, say a prayer, and channel my inner Jeannie.
*Stop freaking out. After 6 months of no sleep, this was doctor-endorsed.
And then? My husband wants to know why I didn't clean the coffeemaker properly, my son spills his juice in such a fantastic fashion that the walls are now tie-dyed maroon, and my phone alarm rings telling me I forgot about a doctor appointment. I yell: "What is WRONG with everybody?!" and head right back to the bedroom, praying for a Do-Over.
Want to know what other parenting boo-boos I would Do-Over if I had a magic wand? (Or a magic head-nod like I Dream of Jeannie? Sidenote: it's a shame my son doesn't appreciate the irony when he asks me for his own laptop and I cross my arms, nod my head, and say "poof!")
I would feed my child whatever my husband and I were having for dinner, and not prepare "kid friendly" food instead. Why? My son currently eats 5 foods: mac and cheese (Kraft only), turkey bacon, waffles, pizza (if the sauce isn't "too spicy") and chicken nuggets. We went to visit a friend over the Christmas holiday, and the restaurant choice was based solely around my son's preference for the chicken strips. Embarrassing, high-maintenance, and brought about only by my (poor) parenting skills.
I would read one of those "Dr. So-and-So's Sleep Method for Infants" books, and follow it. Let your baby cry for 3 hours? Check. Maintain a bedtime routine? Absolutely. Perform a sleepdance while yodeling? I'm all about it. Because obviously my method of snuggling, rocking, crying (both of us), and finally delivering us both a dose of Benadryl did not do the trick.*
I would not do everything for my child simply because we are in a hurry. This includes: shoe-tying, coat putting-on, washing him in the tub, and feeding him. (That one was more to save me the mess, and I realized the other day the damage I did when my son said, "I hate using a spoon. Why can't you still feed me?" I have horrific visions of him at a business dinner 20 years from now, asking the waitress to cut his steak.)
I'm well aware that having at least one more child will give me the chance to undo all the first-time-mom damage I have done, and grant me the Do-Over I dream about. But that subject is a blog for another day. In the meantime, I will just cross my arms, say a prayer, and channel my inner Jeannie.
*Stop freaking out. After 6 months of no sleep, this was doctor-endorsed.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
The Good, The Bad, and The Cool
Since the dawn of the Calling All Cool Moms blog (which started on a whim after coming up with the idea in the shower-- the only place I am ever truly ALONE, and therefore where I do most of my thinking), I have been asked: What is a Cool Mom? And while I'm sure every mom is Cool in her own way, I would like to present to you a few qualities that we Cool Mamas must possess:
1) Staying calm (and even witty) in times of crisis/embarrassment. I will never forget the day I decided to venture out of the house with my 4 month-old-- in the snow-- to enjoy a cup of coffee at Panera. While removing the baby, diaper bag, purse, and stroller (I deserved a medal already) out of the car, the stroller rolled away from me. And landed, still folded up, against an Escalade. Whereupon the woman got out of her car (in a pencil skirt and heels-- yes, my post-baby body was jealous, but really? My post-baby brain urged my kid to spit up on her.), looked at me with horror and disgust, and said: "Did that THING just hit my car?" (Seriously? Her car would have considered the stroller a tiny speed bump, and she's worried that my FULLY PADDED baby carrier dented her school-bus-sized vehicle?) I stuck my face out between the baby and all its paraphranalia and said: "Dont worry, I have insurance... and a HORMONAL IMBALANCE!!"
2) Roll with the (preschool) punches. Ah yes, once your kiddo hits school, it's time to show the other mamas how Cool you are. However, forgetting that your child is Snack Leader, that he needs an empty cereal box for a project, or needed to wear a green shirt on "green day"? Not so Cool. (Yet that's how I roll. I know, but cut me some slack. I'm the only working mom in the class. And when I tell my kid I'm sorry that I keep forgetting these things? He says, "Mommy, don't be sorry. I'm not. It's no big deal." And that? Is One Cool Kiddo.)
I know one Cool Mom whose son was asked by his teacher to name 2 of his mother's favorite things, presumably for a Christmas gift. His answer? Miller Lite and Wine. And when the teacher phoned home to make sure "everything was okay?" This Cool Mom replied, "Absolutely! He even remembered which brand I like!"
3) Admit defeat. Let's be honest: sometimes your kids get the best of you. So if you are at the park with your 3 children under age 5, and one falls off the swingset, one needs to go to the bathroom, and you're trying to nurse the baby? Nobody expects you to be Julie Andrews (though wouldn't life be great if every time we are faced with a parenting problem, we could just break out into song with our family-- in matching jumpers-- and everything would be okay??). It's perfectly acceptable to scream "JUST BRING ON THE LOCUSTS ALREADY!"
So go off into the world, ladies, and show 'em how Cool you are. And if not? Well, just belt out a few lines of "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things." It seemed to help that Von Trapp family.
1) Staying calm (and even witty) in times of crisis/embarrassment. I will never forget the day I decided to venture out of the house with my 4 month-old-- in the snow-- to enjoy a cup of coffee at Panera. While removing the baby, diaper bag, purse, and stroller (I deserved a medal already) out of the car, the stroller rolled away from me. And landed, still folded up, against an Escalade. Whereupon the woman got out of her car (in a pencil skirt and heels-- yes, my post-baby body was jealous, but really? My post-baby brain urged my kid to spit up on her.), looked at me with horror and disgust, and said: "Did that THING just hit my car?" (Seriously? Her car would have considered the stroller a tiny speed bump, and she's worried that my FULLY PADDED baby carrier dented her school-bus-sized vehicle?) I stuck my face out between the baby and all its paraphranalia and said: "Dont worry, I have insurance... and a HORMONAL IMBALANCE!!"
2) Roll with the (preschool) punches. Ah yes, once your kiddo hits school, it's time to show the other mamas how Cool you are. However, forgetting that your child is Snack Leader, that he needs an empty cereal box for a project, or needed to wear a green shirt on "green day"? Not so Cool. (Yet that's how I roll. I know, but cut me some slack. I'm the only working mom in the class. And when I tell my kid I'm sorry that I keep forgetting these things? He says, "Mommy, don't be sorry. I'm not. It's no big deal." And that? Is One Cool Kiddo.)
I know one Cool Mom whose son was asked by his teacher to name 2 of his mother's favorite things, presumably for a Christmas gift. His answer? Miller Lite and Wine. And when the teacher phoned home to make sure "everything was okay?" This Cool Mom replied, "Absolutely! He even remembered which brand I like!"
3) Admit defeat. Let's be honest: sometimes your kids get the best of you. So if you are at the park with your 3 children under age 5, and one falls off the swingset, one needs to go to the bathroom, and you're trying to nurse the baby? Nobody expects you to be Julie Andrews (though wouldn't life be great if every time we are faced with a parenting problem, we could just break out into song with our family-- in matching jumpers-- and everything would be okay??). It's perfectly acceptable to scream "JUST BRING ON THE LOCUSTS ALREADY!"
So go off into the world, ladies, and show 'em how Cool you are. And if not? Well, just belt out a few lines of "These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things." It seemed to help that Von Trapp family.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Bored? Bring On Beyonce!
As I sit down to write today, all around me I see signs of the New Year. I have blankets and fleece socks piled in the corner (why do people never believe me when I tell them my normal body temperature is 97.3? In my world, 98.6 is borderline feverish.). My husband has a few days off work, and can't sit still for 10 minutes without remodeling a room in our house. (You think I'm kidding? Three seconds after I poured the coffee this morning, he walked around the house with a screwdriver in his hand until he found something to take apart. Now, he is removing lightswitches from the wall and muttering something about "ground wires." I see a trip to the ER in our future.) And what about my son, you ask? Well, he is perched right alongside me, saying "I'm BORED."
This is why some brilliant person came up with the whole "Take a Deep Breath and Count to 10" rule. Because what almost comes out of my mouth is this:
"Bored? Did you just say bored? Didn't you just get an obscene amount of Christmas gifts? Like, so many we may have to move just to accommodate your spoiled-ness? You are FIVE YEARS OLD. There is no such thing as bored. In my day, [I know. Who let my grandma in here?] there was no Nintendo DS. Or Wii. In fact, Super Mario was in black and white. So remove yourself from my arm and go play one of your snazzy electronics. In fact, you have my blessing to watch TV."
Oh, wait. Even after a 10-second meditation, my filter-less mouth can't control itself, and I actually say all this out loud. No, I am not proud of myself. And I'm even less thrilled that I am using electronics as a form of bribery. But it's either that or the bag of Dum-Dums, and those are for public bribery only. (The one time I tried to use electronics over Dum-Dums in the waiting room of a doctor's office? My son, who was making ridiculously loud Mario noises along with his DS, happened to look up at the smiling lady across from him and said: "What are YOU looking at?" Charming.)
My immediate reaction to his "boredom" was to say, "I will smack your hand if you can't get it away from my laptop. Now find something to do or I take away the Wii remote." (And not just because it bears a strong resemblance to a microphone and I enjoy pretending I am Beyonce on occasion. Hello, Nintendo? I am patiently waiting for Just Karaoke.) Apparently they teach kids subterfuge in preschool these days, because this is what my son started telling people: "I can't play my Wii anymore. Mommy will break my hand."
Bottom line? Now when my kid says he's BORED, I grab that Wii remote and make him watch my (amazing) rendition of Single Ladies. And a punishment that involves Beyonce? Everybody's a winner.
This is why some brilliant person came up with the whole "Take a Deep Breath and Count to 10" rule. Because what almost comes out of my mouth is this:
"Bored? Did you just say bored? Didn't you just get an obscene amount of Christmas gifts? Like, so many we may have to move just to accommodate your spoiled-ness? You are FIVE YEARS OLD. There is no such thing as bored. In my day, [I know. Who let my grandma in here?] there was no Nintendo DS. Or Wii. In fact, Super Mario was in black and white. So remove yourself from my arm and go play one of your snazzy electronics. In fact, you have my blessing to watch TV."
Oh, wait. Even after a 10-second meditation, my filter-less mouth can't control itself, and I actually say all this out loud. No, I am not proud of myself. And I'm even less thrilled that I am using electronics as a form of bribery. But it's either that or the bag of Dum-Dums, and those are for public bribery only. (The one time I tried to use electronics over Dum-Dums in the waiting room of a doctor's office? My son, who was making ridiculously loud Mario noises along with his DS, happened to look up at the smiling lady across from him and said: "What are YOU looking at?" Charming.)
My immediate reaction to his "boredom" was to say, "I will smack your hand if you can't get it away from my laptop. Now find something to do or I take away the Wii remote." (And not just because it bears a strong resemblance to a microphone and I enjoy pretending I am Beyonce on occasion. Hello, Nintendo? I am patiently waiting for Just Karaoke.) Apparently they teach kids subterfuge in preschool these days, because this is what my son started telling people: "I can't play my Wii anymore. Mommy will break my hand."
Bottom line? Now when my kid says he's BORED, I grab that Wii remote and make him watch my (amazing) rendition of Single Ladies. And a punishment that involves Beyonce? Everybody's a winner.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)