My son

Asleep in the laundry basket. Finally.

Published August 4, 2009

Yeah, I know we’re not supposed to label kids.

I know that if a parent says you can be difficult, then you’ll live up to the label, and if a parent says you’re sweet, you’ll be sweet.

But Sander can’t read, and no one’s going to tell him what I say here, so I’ll say it: Sometimes this four-year-old child is one huge, unmitigated, giant, pain in the ass.

I know that all of these quaint character traits that I’m seeing as negative will eventually turn into positives.

I know that bright, energetic children will turn into successful, driven adults.

I know that pushy turns into assertive, and bossy turns into a leader, and demanding turns into an adult who can get what he want. Curious turns into an education, and non-stop energy is fabulous when you’re thirty.

But you know what?

Right now he’s a pushy, bossy, demanding, curious little kid, full of non-stop energy.

And I have no idea how to parent him.

I love him, so, so much, and yet, he is the challenge that was given to me on earth to test my patience and my parenting ability and my faith in my ability to be a mother.

Almost every night, I have five or six courses of action I can pursue in dealing with him running through my head.

Take tonight.

We got home from gymnastics late (first strike.)

They hadn’t eaten dinner, and we ended up eating late, at almost 7:30 (second strike.)

I told Sander that he could watch the end of his new TV show, which had about fifteen minutes left on it. Then Mark didn’t know I’d promised that, and watched something else instead. (Third strike.)

So. I announce bedtime, not realizing that I have set the stage, yet again, for disaster.

Sander announces that he won’t go to bed. He’s going to watch the last few minutes of his show, as he was promised.

It’s already 9:30. I say it’s too late. Then Mark says if we promised, we promised. Fine. We’re obviously loser parents who can’t make up our mind. Sander sniffs the air, catching the scent of weakness.

So we let him watch the last fifteen minutes, thereby exposing our underbelly with Sander: If you give in once, out of kindness, love, friendship or in the interest of fairness, you are toast. Dead meat. You deserve everything that happens next. You have been warned.

It’s now 9:45. His show is over. 

And, surprise! He wants to watch another one. 

He now believes that we will give in if he throws a fit. This is obviously our fault, and yet we still don’t get it. 

The problem? We had an incredibly easy, sweet first child. With Sawyer, he would have smiled at us, thanked us profusely for letting him watch the show, and taken himself off to bed.

Sander has decided this is a turning point in his relationship with his parents. He can now call all of the shots, if he just digs in on this.

So, he’s going to watch another episode of his show.

No. Matter. What.

Mark and I, sensing danger in the water, have decided to hold our ground.

No matter what.

More than an hour of tears. More than an hour of begging.

Finally, Sander decides that we need to make him happy. We’ve made him unhappy by saying no, so now he wants a dish of ice cream, or to play a computer game.

That will make up for the bad things we’ve done to him.

So. In my head I have:

Stern Parent: You must not give into this kind of manipulative garbage. He’s just trying to see who’s in charge here, and you have to show him that it’s you. He thinks this is a bad thing? He’s going to see a bad thing. Right now.

Attachment Parent: This poor kid is so upset, and he’s really trying to figure out how to comfort himself. Maybe a dish of ice cream would show him that you can help him figure out how to soothe himself when the world’s too overwhelming.

Rational Parent: Yeah. Because, you know, bad behavior should get rewarded with ice cream. Well, wait a minute -- when I’m upset, I want ice cream... 

Middle-ground Parent: This doesn’t have to be a “him or me.” How can we make this work so we’re both on the same side?

So I go to pick him up, to help him and hug him and cuddle.

Nope. He wants me away from him.

He hates me. Hates everyone. All he wants is ice cream.

Finally, he goes off to seek comfort with his brother, who is apparently not as big a jerk as his parents.

He crawls in the laundry basket, looks at a couple of books, and falls asleep. At 11:40.

This child won’t take comfort, or snuggles or kindness when he’s mad.

He holds grudges. Has NO sense of humor about himself or his deeds.

You  can’t gently poke him, giggling, out of a bad mood.

You can’t tease him or tickle it away.

You can’t hug it away.

And yet:

He is exceptionally, undeniably, bright. Funny. He adores animals. He has a passion for learning that I’ve never seen in a child this young. He wants to sort animals into every category, and watches nature movies and reads animal books with a curiosity that borders on obsessive.

When he’s good, he’s loving and cuddly and adores me. He loves to spend time with, and his favorite thing, besides animals, is going to garage sales on Saturday mornings.

He does like to snuggle, when it’s his idea and he’s not mad.

He does want to hug me, and tell me I’m beautiful, when he’s in a good mood.

But man, I’m having to re-read every parenting book I have, and go get some new ones.

Playful Parenting. Attachment Parenting. Kids are Worth It parenting.

I’m not quite sure which style Sander parenting is.

Whatever it is, I think I’m going to be exhausted for a very long time.

So, about the garden...

A cute picture of Sander from a while ago. It just makes me smile.

The garden.

Yeah, there’s a reason I’m not writing about it.

Because it makes me want to cry.

And murder.

But I’m past the denial and anger stages, sort of, and I’m just about into the acceptance stage.

The worst drought in fifty years, plus the hottest July on record, ever, plus tons of new construction that have driven all the deer into our neighborhood = disaster.

There’s almost nothing left of the garden.

The deer have jumped an eight-foot fence, despite every website stating that they can’t do that.

Perhaps these are magical flying reindeer.

Perhaps my fence is two inches shorter than eight feet.

But really, what happened is that there’s no food and no water for any animals. We have skunks dying in the back yard, desperate to get to the dog’s water bowl.

Ants, spiders and scorpions are surrounding the house, looking for a way in. We have one chicken left, out of ten. The rest have succumbed to the heat or to animals dragging them away, because there’s no other food.

And so, the deer come into my garden. 

They ate every fucking tomato. Hundreds of them. Cherry tomatoes, heirloom tomatoes, pear tomatoes, grape tomatoes. Big ones, little ones, green ones.

And they ate them the week before they turned ripe.

I got a few cherry tomatoes, sweet and tender and amazing, the week before the deer discovered they could jump the fence.

And that was it.

I went away for three days in early June.

When I came back, late at night, I pulled into the driveway and there, in the middle of my tomatoes, was a deer.

I was like a madwoman, thinking that the deer had somehow wandered in and hadn’t done any damage yet.

I jumped out of the car, honking the horn and screaming obscenities, and ran right at the deer. Probably not safe. Probably not smart.

Probably not the best role model for two small children who were awakened from a slumber in their car seats, wanting to go home, watching their mother yell and rant and attack a large hoofed mammal.

And then, in front of me, the stupid starving deer jumped the fence.

I looked around, realized that perhaps it was stupid to charge a deer.

And then I realized that it was all gone.

The tomatoes.

The Swiss chard.

The pumpkins -- oh, those were sad. They left the vines, looking like a fine lace pattern all over ground, but ate the leaves. Left the green melons alone, never to ripen, to die in the heat.

The lettuce was gone, and the green pepper plants. Eaten down to the stems, those were.

Catnip, gone.

Beans looked as though they’d never been planted in the first place.

There was, however, one bright spot.

They ate every green and red pepper on all 14 pepper plants, but they did leave one plant, full of habenero peppers. Beautiful little orange peppers, wrinkling in the sun, too hot to touch, or even to smell.

It does make me smile to think that one deer tried one and was running around in circles, lips smoking, warning the others to stay away.

I’d like to shoot them, but we live in the city limits.

I asked a very nice policeman what would happen if I shot one.

“Do you live in the city?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know that it’s not hunting season and that you can’t shoot a gun or an arrow in the city limits?”

Yes, I said. I don’t care. I just want to know how much trouble, exactly, we’re talking about.

A little trouble and I might consider it.

“A LOT of trouble,” he said. “Not worth doing it, just for tomatoes. You’re looking at a LOT of trouble.”

So I asked Mark if maybe we could have some guys come, the kind who hunt, and maybe they could sit outside, with a silencer, and shoot a couple and take them away.

And he looked at me, and I could see him contemplating just what he had gotten into, with this wife of his who was willing to bring men with rifles and silencers into her home, and said, “Um, honey, the kind of men who would shoot deer out of season, and who would come to your house in the middle of the night and kill living creatures for money.... Well, I’m not sure you really want to do business with them.”

Oh. Yeah.

And so, I’m ignoring the garden.

Hoping for fall.

Waiting to replant.

And to build a taller fence.

Texting while driving is for amateurs

July 28, 2009

Really? People can’t drive a car while text-messaging, because it’s distracting, and it might be as dangerous as driving drunk?

I don’t buy it. First, because I’ve driven drunk, years ago, in my reckless and stupid youth, and I don’t remember being able to be sober most of the ride home, and then decide to only be drunk at stoplights. 

Yeah, I text while I drive. At stoplights, and when I’m stuck in traffic, and when I’m sitting in a parking spot. I will occasionally look at a text while I drive.

But honestly, as anyone with kids will tell you, texting is NOT the problem. You know what is?

1. Trying to retrieve a baby’s pacifier from the back seat floor, two inches beyond your grasp, while said baby screams and gasps for air because he’s so mad he lost the damned thing.

2. Baby seats that face backward, forcing you to be a contortionist while you drive to make sure the baby’s breathing/hasn’t choked/still has said pacifier/is asleep.

3. DVD players that are set up three inches beyond your grasp in the back seat, forcing you to eject/retrieve/insert a movie while doing above said contortions, while mediating a fight about which movie it will be and finding the DVD holder and cleaning off the smudges from the movie. Then the movie’s got scratches, and it won’t work, and you need to repeat above, still negotiating which movie will be played.

4. Handing out drinks and fries while moving, then opening ketchup with your teeth, handing it all the way back, and then collecting the garbage (and DON’T TELL ME you haven’t done this if you have kids in the back seat....)

5. Trying to call the doctor on the way to the ER while your toddler is in the back wailing and either barfing, bleeding or bent over in pain, while your husband yells at the other assorted children in the car.

6. Making out with a new boyfriend while driving. It’s been awhile, but let me tell you, it’s WAY more of a challenge than a text message. And don’t tell me you’ve never done that, either.

7. Eating a hamburger, holding a drink and answering the phone. Judging from the freeways, everyone does this.

8. Fighting with your husband over the latest phone bill/electric bill/issue-that-you’re-fighting-about-that-month. It’s way more stressful than sending a text, and believe me, if you can’t remember the drive home because you were too busy defending your point, you weren’t paying attention to the road.

9. Cats, dogs or guinea pigs in the car. Or a new box of chickens from the store. Or a rooster who won’t stop crowing.

10. Driving cross-country when you have the flu with an autistic toddler in the back who nurses every two hours and has a complete terror of the dark.

Texting? It’s at the bottom of my list.

Do I do it? Not really. Once in a while. Mostly at stoplights.

But if you’re going to outlaw texting, then rear-facing carseats, kids, husbands, handjobs and French fries while driving have to be outlawed, too.

That ought to make the roads a little safer.

Questions I've been asked today

Published June 20, 2009

If you were Oliver Wood, and you had to kick one person off the quidditch team, but not Harry, obviously, because he’s famous and people come to see him play, who would you kick off and who would you replace him with?

What is the worst thing in the newspaper?

Would you rather be a cyclop’s eye or Anubis’ guts? Why?

Would you rather be trapped in a car at the bottom of a lake, with a hammer to get out, or be trapped on an ice floe, in a stagecoach, before cell phones were invented?

What’s your favorite character in any book, and what book would you move them to if you could?

What’s the best book you ever read?

What’s your favorite character in Star Wars the Clone Wars?

Why can’t we get another dog?

Why can’t we let our dog have puppies?

Can we get a horse?

What’s the most disturbing thing you ever saw?

What’s your worst fear?

Why does everyone have to die and what would happen if everyone came back to life at once?

What if all people were turned into big rubber balls?

What if we all could breathe under water?

What gives you nightmares?

Which one of us do you love better and why?

Why won’t you tell me what the most disturbing thing you ever saw was? 

Why won’t you tell me what gives you nightmares?

How old do I have to be to have a cell phone? Girlfriend? Video game?

Sigh.

My brain hurts.

My mid-term exam

Originally published Friday, March 13, 2009

Garden day. At one point, we had 16 helpers!

In the grand world of parenting, they say, there are no grade sheets and no final exam.

Hogwash, says I. I just aced my mid-term, and I’m feeling pretty good about it.

In the past two weeks, I have:

1. Been on a college tour of Berkeley, where I helped a teenager craft a plan to visit Europe this summer. Told her why traveling alone would be good for her. Had long heart-to-heart about her love life.

2. Talked to another teenager, one year older. Told him why traveling would be bad for him. He needs to stay put. Had long heart-to-heart about his love life.

3. Visited a gay bar. First the tame one recommended by concierge. Then the very scary one where all men were shirtless and had the crack of their ass showing above jeans. Left quickly.

4. Toured Berkeley in pouring rain for an hour and a half. Then got on a plane soaking wet.

5. Placed a $1,500 co-op order for seven homeschooling moms, ordered everything, figured out who got what, met the truck, co-ordinated time and meeting places for all moms, figured out who owed what, and divided up food. Filled my pantry.

6. Bought half a cow, found three other moms who wanted to divide the meat, organized the beef lady and all of the moms, got the meat here, met all the moms and delivered meat. Filled my freezer. For $3 a pound for hormone-free, no-antibiotic, pasture-raised Angus!

7. Had steak for dinner.

8. Organized and rounded up 16 people to put in my garden. Traded food and garden plots for work -- although I actually paid Dylan to help. Dylan was amazing -- coordinated and cracked the whip and within one day, I had 38 garden beds, six feet long by three feet wide.

9. Put up a fence around the entire garden, by myself. More than 100 feet long and 25 feet wide. Plus eight feet tall. Then put in a gate, too. I feel like the little red hen -- no one wants to help with the fence, but they’ll all want to eat the tomatoes!

10. Made enough food to give to all of the people who came and helped with the garden.

11. Went to my aunt’s birthday party in Houston, three hours away. Talked to many interesting “ladies who lunch.” Spent a nice evening with my aunt and uncle at their house.

12. Taught a cooking class to four young people with autism. Designed for teenagers, but two adults showed up. Turns out one of them had a penchant for kitchen appliances. He turned on every mixer, fryer, oven and fan we had in the kitchen, and really wanted to take the mixer paddles home. It went well, but suffice it to say I think there’s nothing heartwarming or sweet about people with autism. I think the whole thing just sucks all the way through. It’s such a tragedy. 

13. Adopted three guinea pigs. Original names were Cinnamon, Sugar and Pig-Pig. They are now Snowball, Messy and Pistol. The boys are in heaven.

14. Disassembled and then reassembled the entire damned guinea pig cage. One stupid one-foot-square piece at a time. Times 80.

15. Planted the entire garden, with plants I’ve grown mostly from seeds: tomatoes, peppers, lettuce, squash, herbs, pumpkins, watermelon, squash, strawberries, blackberries and fennel. And cardoon. What’s cardoon, you say? It’s an Italian vegetable I ate in a a salad at Chez Panisse. It looks like celery and tastes like artichoke. I was fascinated by it, and then when I came home I found some at the garden center and planted it. Only then did I look it up and realize it grows to six feet tall!

16. Kept my children alive, well-fed and happy. Taught the difference between obtuse and acute angles, dealt with two colds and coughs and two visits to the doctors.

17. Transported to Boy Scouts, gymnastics, vision therapy, violin, birthday parties, theater class and friend’s houses. Bought and wrapped birthday presents, found gym clothes and Scout uniform, kept up with violin practice, vision exercises and theater script.

18. Rented the back kitchen. Met almost every day with renters, went over rules and expectations, figured out finances and kept the kitchen clean and organized.

19. Played the role of big sister while my sister looks for a car and a job with a steady income. 

20. Kept my husband happy while he had a very stressful couple of weeks at work.

21. Kept alive three guinea pigs, two tadpoles, four chickens, two cats and a dog. I must admit they were on the far back burner, though. I’m not sure I would have noticed if a few of them dropped dead.

I have not:  

1. Lost weight

2. Stopped drinking coke when I’m stressed out

3. Learned to be frugal, despite my best efforts

4. organized my closet

5. done any laundry

6. been very nice to my husband, who deserves more attention

7. started running or exercising

8. come to terms with the fact that I’m turning 40 in three weeks

Frankly, I can live with that.

And who knows, the next section of parenting might kill me off, and you never know when there’s going to be a pop quiz.

But I’m pretty happy with my mid-term grade.