Author Archives: Naptimewriting

Put That in Your Not a Pipe And Don’t Smoke It

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I only have five minutes, world, so you’re gonna take this without a candy coating…

If you em-effers don’t finish the em-effing 880/92 interchange by tomorrow, so help me Goddess I’m gonna freaking take a steam shovel to all that equipment and drop it into the Bay. It’s been more than 10 years, you effing dolts, and we have NOTHING to show for a thirty minute merge every freaking hour of every freaking day except more effing heavy equipment NOT DOING ANYTHING! Even my four year old today said it would be faster if you used shovels and a bucket to build whatever the effing hell you’ve been building for decades that had better em-effing be so awesome it rips a hole in the space-time continuum and restores the ozone layer, the regular temperature of the world, all the polar ice sheets, every species that has died out during our lifetimes AND Party of Five all in one blink of an eye. Because if this new freeway interchange bee-ess does not ROCK MY EM-EFFING WORLD when you finish it tomorrow (I was pretty clear, wasn’t I, that if it still shows no signs of progress for another decade you’re all gonna be forced to participate in a World’s Worst Tax-Wasting and Time-Wasting Construction Pride Parade before a crowd of World’s Most Angry Disestablishmentarians), then heads are gonna freaking roll.

Also? Lady who glared at me today? You really wanna go there, punk? Do I LOOK like I need to be messed with today? I just had a long talk with my kid about Fourth of July and how it was the end of bickering between two groups, the “Pay taxes and be quiet” group and the “we’re not paying until we get to vote” group because the latter group knew where to hide from the shooting long enough to shoot the former group. Do you think, after a conversation like that, the nuances of which lasted the whole 55 minute car ride and involved explanations of why tribal groups also got involved and what smallpox is, that I need you glaring at me? I will shoot YOU , lady, with the straw shooter or toilet paper shooter or construction paper shooters in the back if you freaking EVER look at me that way again.

Crappy food companies, quit pretending your crap is food. Crappy magazines, quit selling your crap by telling people that they are crap and you have the secret to being less crappy. Crappy people everywhere, quit your crap and get your crappy cars and crappy kids and crappy selves out of my freaking way. And crappy stores, if you sell your crappiest crap near the checkout counters I’m going to let me kid take it all off the shelf and FLING it all over your crappy store because it is some bull puckey that you put it there so my kid will whine at me to buy it. No way, no how; now I’m saving all the parents of the world by throwing this crap to my kid so he can shoot it at you with his pipe-cleaner bazooka.

Because I’ve been sitting at the 880/92 b.s. for nigh on ten years and any minute now I’m gonna go ragingly insane.

Contrarian. Rhymes with Librarian.

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Me: Peanut, please don’t climb on the furniture.
P: Why?
M: Because you could get hurt.
P: No I won’t.

M: Pea, please leave the trash in the gutter.
P: Why?
M: Because it’s germy.
P: No it’s not.

M: Peanut, honey, please sit while you eat.
P: Why?
M: Because if you wiggle all over you’ll spill.
P: No, I won’t.

M: Honey, we don’t throw in the house.
P: Yes we do.
M: No. The rule is no throwing in the house.
P: Why?
M: Because whatever gets thrown could break something.
P: No it can’t.

M: Pea, please help me by carrying your lunch box to the car.
P: Why?
M: Because I can’t carry too many things at one time.
P: Yes you can.

M: Sweet thing, next time, please wait one minute until I finish on the phone.
P: Why?
M: Because I can’t hear two people talking at once.
P: Yes you can.

M: Peanut, please use a smaller voice.
P: Why?
M: Because it’s early morning and nobody is ready for a big voice yet.
P: Well, I am.
M: I mean that Mom and Dad and the neighbors can’t take it.
P: Yes you can.

M: P, please clean up for bath.
P: I won’t.

M: Pea, please don’t point that at me, I don’t like it.
P: I will point at you because I like it.

M: Babe, please bring that shirt to the laundry.
P: No.

M: Peanut, do me a favor, please, and use your inside voice.
P: NO!

I can’t wait to teach this kid to drive.

Dream job

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Peanut: Mom, when I’m a grownup I’m not going to work.
Me: Oh, yeah? What are you going to do?
P: I’m gonna sit around. Maybe read books. And sit around.
M: Hmm. Well, how are you going to get money to pay for heat and water and a place to live and food?
P: And a car.
M: And a car.
P: Well, I’ll just take the money.
M: From whom?
P: Who?
M: From whom?
P: From stores.
M: Oh. Then the stores won’t have money to buy things to put in the stores, and won’t have money to pay the workers.
P: I won’t take all their money. Just some.
M: Oh. Well, maybe you should have a backup plan, because taking is not okay, and a judge will put you in prison if you take money from stores.
P: …
M: So what’s your plan for after you get out of prison?
P: I know. You know when sometimes people drop money and don’t know they dropped it and it’s okay to take it if nobody knows whose money it is?
M: Yup.
P: I’ll just find money like that.
M: …
P: Then I won’t have to go to work.
M: Pea, you might want to have a backup plan for that one, too…

Reality Check

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Quote of the week:

“Everything you think, say, and do either helps or hurts. Leads you where you want to be or takes you off your path. Contributes to the family or tears it down. Everything either benefits or compromises you, the ones you love, and the entire Universe.”

Well, gee, that’s not putting too much pressure on our choices. Now I have to actually think about what I put in my mouth, what comes out of my mouth, how I react, and what I choose every moment of my day.

I guess I’ll start taking deep breaths and long drinks of water before every blink.

Like I didn’t have enough to do this week.

California is still the Old West

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Peanut: Can we have beets for dinner?
Me: Sure.
P: Raw, please. Or cooked.
M: Which one?
P: Raw. Shredded.
M: Okay.
P: With goat cheese, please. And balsamic. Or I’ll shoot you.

I’m quite over the shooting phase. It has been 10 days, and the boy can make anything into “a shooter.”

He doesn’t know a thing about guns. He only recently learned about bows and arrows. We’ve not shown him any movies with any projectile-firing weapons, and we don’t have any toys that fire projectiles. I was raised with guns, know my way around a gun, and have a terrified-respect relationship with guns. I want to live in a world with no guns. [Shut up with your “it’s too late for that, you commie liberal.” I know that, you jackass. And I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the parents who read this blog because their kids drive them nuts, too. Go pay the NRA to lobby for your Constitution-misreading right and leave my blog alone.]

And yet he’s up every morning at 6, demanding tape so he can attach something to something else and pretend it shoots. Mostly his contraptions shoot me, because I’m the one lucky enough to be locked in a house with him far too many hours a day.

I asked the teachers, who said the same thing all the books do…pretend violence is not real violence. It’s natural and acceptable play. As long as you don’t give him something that fires projectiles, and as long as you don’t make a big deal about it, all will be fine.

So when he points at me, I say, casually, “please don’t point at me because I don’t like it.” And then I move on to something else, distracting either him or myself so we can not focus on the damned shooter.

Nope. 20 hours a day that kid is pointing something at me and bellowing, “soot soot soot!” [We have issues with the /sh/ sound.]

I’d be fine with a finger as a shooter. I’ll play pretend whip cream fight or pretend water hose like any other goofy mom. Heck, I’ll play pretend poop squirter if the mood strikes. But please don’t point construction paper-taped-pencils at me and say you’re going to make me dead. I know you don’t know what dead is. I know you don’t understand why pointing at anything you don’t want to kill is absolutely not okay. I know you need a fantasy life.

Can you please get it somewhere else?

Because you’re the one who wants shredded raw beets with goat cheese and balsamic. And if the other shooters heard you, they’d shoot you just for saying that.

They come in threes?

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News within about a week:

family friend’s son died (second brain tumor)
family friend’s son died (suicide)
friend’s son died (accident)

friend’s husband being horrible, in crisis about marriage
friend’s husband chronically horrible, in crisis about marriage

friend treated horribly by colleagues

friend disappointed by partner
friend disappointed by boss
friend disappointed by parent

friend diagnosed with cancer
friend diagnosed with different cancer
friend waiting for diagnosis of type of cancer

so, clearly, one more marriage crisis or two more psychotic colleagues and I have a royal flush.

then what do I win?

The quick and the dirty

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Highlights of the visit with a dear friend this weekend include an Impressionism exhibit where we saw Monet’s The Magpie and Bouguereau’s The Birth of Venus (which, for my money, totally shames Botticelli’s gaudy version.)

Also, coating our palates with cheeses selected by the knowledgeable cheesemongers at The Ferry Building’s Cowgirl Creamery and finding shirts to celebrate our absent pal jc.

Too bad there were so many menfolk in our way (you heard me, Spouse, Other Spouse, and Peanut). We could have eaten and talked our way through the whole City. As it was, we tasted bits. But hopefully it was enough to get us through.

Texting while parenting

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Article from the New York Times about how hurtful it can be to kids when we pay attention to screens instead of our offspring.

I used to have a “no computer or phone while he’s awake” rule with Peanut, but had been easing that lately so I can check email while he’s in the yard or the small one is happily talking to his mobile. Guess I’ll go back to the daytime blackout, which is great news for my need for adult interaction and freelance work.

Sigh.

Lead alert: juice and fruit

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NPR featured a story today on high levels of lead found in fruit and juice for children…

Story is available http://www.kqed.org/epArchive/R201006101730and an FAQ page here.

The long list of products (including some from Whole Foods, Safeway, Kroeger and big, national brands you know and might buy, like Dole, Del Monte, and Earth’s Best) is available here or beginning on page nine of the legal notice to companies that they’re in violation.

Isn’t it good to know that we can’t trust one stinking company with our food, nor our government to protect us? Good, good times, Corporate America.

Worth the co-pay

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My first visit to the therapist this weekend resulted in this bit of wisdom:

All parents find that to be good—really good—at raising a child, some part of them needs to go underground. Some people let their hobbies go, some let their careers go, some let their marriages go. But something needs to give. Just be careful what you sacrifice because the stuff that gets pushed underground may never come back up.

Damn. That was totally worth the $20.

Because for the first three years of Peanut’s life, I thought that I had closed all the doors to my future. Instead of choosing what went subterranean while I made the sacrifice to parent full time, I shovelled everything under. I was not willing to choose a few thing to die so the other bits could thrive. I just jammed it all in a box labeled: Do Not Open until 2011.

But framing the choice I’ve made in terms of pushing a few priorities to the back burner and shoving some effectively off the stove and into the trash is enlightening. I knew I wanted to fill each hole that arose as my family grew less and less needy with bits of me that I had stuffed in that box. But I didn’t (and don’t yet) have a plan for what comes out when. Just bringing dribbles of *everything* whenever there’s a spare moment will not work. I need to make room in the fridge and bring myself back a gallon at a time.

So I’m going to spend the next few weeks thinking about what I’m willing to toss, what I want to keep on hold, and what could slip back into my life, in one gulp not tiny sips, so I’m more of a person than I’ve been for a while.

What are you letting go underground while you do your most important work, and what are you carefully guarding and tending so it won’t get buried as you do your “have to” and “should”s?

Moment of clarity

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I’m having a tough time accepting a lot about my life—that the novel is still not published, that my PhD is still a distant dream, that two totally awesome and timely journal articles are languishing at 95% complete and not yet submitted, that Spouse and I are destined to be poor…

And that my eldest is testing out being the school’s resident a–hole.

This troubled me for several weeks, hearing about the times he had to be separated from his partner in crime, stifling my horror as he tells me of his antics, wondering if I wasted my time being so carefully respectful and gentle and loving and patient. If he’s going to throw sand in the face of the sweet and shy one at school, why did I try so hard to do everything thoughtfully, mindfully, and (what I now consider) self-effacingly? Why not actually lock the door when I pee, or shower regularly, or say no to playing with him, or negotiate a little less if he’s going to be antisocial and embarrassing?

And I asked another parent at school, tearfully, “is my kid an a–hole?”

He said something I really appreciated: “No, he’s usually sweet and he’s doing some awful stuff. But that’s his job. Now, my kid’s an a–hole.”

Not true. But I realized we all see things in our children we don’t like, that the socialized side of us wants to just beat right out of them, and the kid side of us wants to run from. The preschool dad who talked to me has a child with some unsavory characteristics sometimes, who is not an a–hole. My kid is trying out some awful behaviors to get attention and see the responses, but he’s not an a–hole. What he is, is different than me and separate from me. We’re now walking that thin line where it’s my job to teach him what’s okay, and it’s his job to choose the okay over the not-okay.

I thought about it, and Super Cool, Sweet, Awesome Lady X at school has a child who is genuinely an a–hole. Sometimes. And another child who is delightful. Mostly. And neither is her fault. And the total a–hole parent at school has a kid who is generally okay. And that’s clearly not due to parenting.

You do what you can and try your best, but some of your child’s behavior has nothing to do with you. (Yes I knew that, but now I have to repeat it more often than “please don’t pick up trash from the street.”) As I try to let Peanut separate and become his own person, I need to stop being embarrassed and realize that he is, in fact, his own person. And he’s four. And if he’s hated that’s his problem and if he’s loved it’s his problem. And all I can do is give him what I can to help get him through. He has to do the rest.

And damned if that isn’t the hardest part so far. Because from this side of the preschool fence, that adorable and feisty and opinionated and persistent and intense child is sometimes miraculously delicious, and sometimes a giant a–hole.

The unshowered mother of a newborn

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When you’re home with your first baby and unshowered for three days, nobody much minds.

When you’re taking the older one to school and you’re unshowered for three days, it’s kind of embarrassing.

When one of the preschool families brings in their pet boa constrictor and mentions its poor sight and reliance on smell, being unshowered for three days in the summer might be European in the Greek-economy way rather than the endearingly-French kind of way.

[Seriously, they said, “no, she doesn’t try to constrict us, but we try not to smell like chickens.” I asked about goats, because that is the farm animal I most resemble olfactorily.]

Wanted: job share

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This is way, way too much work for one sane person, so I’m seeking another to share the work. Here’s how the breakdown of how my proposed job share will go:

Both halves of the job share team will be creative, goofy, intelligent, patient, well read, loving, gentle, and sassy.

My half of the job will be to enjoy my children. To revel in their originality, listen intently to their stories, marvel in their creativity, laugh at their jokes, enjoy their antics, celebrate their achievements, cheer their efforts, foster their explorative natures, and build their self esteem, language, and knowledge. I will specialize in games, projects, smiles, and wonder.

Your half of the job will be to handle the actual parenting. To correct behavior, to guide impulses, to direct aggression and anger into positive outlets, to offer alternatives to batshit insane ideas, to anticipate and divert meltdowns, to gently socialize without fundamentally changing them, and to clean up all discharge. You will specialize in gentle discipline, positive reinforcement, and patience.

I will write novels and articles when I am not enjoying these delightful little creatures.

You will cook and clean whether or not they are being delightful.

I will get all their best moments, their hugs and kisses, and their adoration.

You will get the tantrums, the whining, and the age-appropriate bullshit (i.e., hitting, screaming, lying, swearing, and pouting).

I will celebrate them.

You will socialize them.

Please send applications to Naptime Writing c/o the unicorn right next to you.

Just wondering

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How is the child abuse rate in this country not higher?

(Seriously, no depressing replies from my social worker friends and family or law enforcement readers on how desperately high even a 0.00000001% rate is. I know that. But the question does not value a higher rate. It marvels at the <100% rate.)

Why can I not watch a film, show, or commercial without composing a critical theory response that involves footnotes and dreams of a research grant? What the hell is wrong with me? Am I missing enjoyment centers in my brain or something?

Where is that box of books I labeled to be first on the shelf after the three moves of a year-plus ago? I need two of those books, man. Where are they?

How does, "you may cut paper and only paper" translate into "try to cut your shirt, the rug, your chin, a bracelet, and the baby toys while I’m right here watching“? Seriously. Taking the whole ‘looking for negative attention’ thing to a whole new level.

No wonder I’m pissed I have absolutely no time to write…the voices in my head are better companions than small children. Why does nobody say how completely not ideal the companionship of young children is?

Repost: Laws of Motion, Child Sized Version

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(repost, as in “to post again,” not as in “offensive follow-up to a parry,” of musings from February 2009)

First Law: net inertia. Subjects at rest tend to stay at rest until you settle in. Then they spring into action, usually of the death-defying (or at least social-convention-defying) sort. Conversely, subjects in motion will tend to stay in motion until such time as you enjoy their motion. Then they will stop.

Second Law: F=ma. The relationship between the force needed to cajole a small person into even the most pleasant task is Force=(minutes needed to perform task without small children)x(age, in years, you feel after the task is complete). Exempli gratia, force required to put on child’s shoes=(.25)x(57)=14. Units may vary. 14 minutes, 14 different techniques, 14 different pair before they finally agree to leave one on, 14 threats to leave without said child if they don’t put on their flipping shoes NOW…

Third Law: For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. You get dressed, they glitter paint the cat. You prepare breakfast, they remove all the tape flags from your research books. You strike up a conversation with the clerk at the market, they strip down naked and run away laughing.

You don’t see how those are equal and opposite? You must possess logic and reason, then. Ah. You must not have children.