Moving...

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See you there!

Because I said so..?

Believe it or not, even though we've gone through star charts of every conceivable iteration, we've never had official "house rules." I've seen them in other houses -- often they're cute ("Hey kids, guess what? You get to follow a few easy rules! Whohoo!"), complex ("You have three options for after dinner play, (a)..."), or just plain and simple ("There are Rules. Here They Are.")

I'm not sure why we've never had a list. We certainly have a few rules (which, according to several members of my husband's family, is a few too many). But they're so bloody basic, I just assumed I didn't need to write them down on stone tablets. They're more expectations than rules - things we do daily - plus a couple of things we ought never to do. As of late, however, I've been getting a ton of blow-back when I ask them to do the simplest of things. Every day Efram looks at me with total shock when I tell him it's time to shower -- as though I'm asking him saddle up the camel and take it out for a drink. I remind him that in this house, we shower daily.. at which point he blows up into full fury, listing all the people he knows who never have to shower. Of course, Bennett needs to get in on this - and apparently he has 5 friends who never have to brush their teeth. (He's also been setting off the house alarm at 6 each morning to play basketball or skateboard, so I'm feeling rather cranky about him in general today.)

So, in the middle of a Sunday night shouting match (really, I do try not to shout back at Efram who seems to be in a constant rage at the moment, but on Sunday nights my defenses are famously low), I run downstairs, type up a few rules, and stick a copy in the kitchen and on the boys' door. Within minutes Efram comes marching out: You're not allowed to write rules telling me I can't do something when I'm in the middle of doing it!!!

Really?

Bennett registers discontent by ripping a hole in the rules.

I see my problem. Growing up I felt I was often on the receiving end of arbitrary rule-making; a lot if it. And in a effort to seem just and fair, and to avoid making my kids feel the same way I once did, I led them to think that parenting is an absolute democracy. That I can't make up rules exactly when I see the need. Which is wrong, and plain stupid.

So, at the end of the rules, I tack on: HOUSE RULES CAN BE AMENDED BY PARENTS. AT ANY TIME. NO QUESTIONS ASKED.

I don't really feel good about it. But the next day I go over them with Efram, ask him if he has any questions, and make a point of noting the last line. He nods. Of course, I tell myself that he's happy with the clear boundary, that it comforts him to know I am in charge. But I know better than that. He's just soaking it all up... and quietly planning his first big lawsuit.

Knowledge Gaps

Lately I've been a little confused. It seems that while my kids think that I am the world's dumbest human being, they also seem to think I'm Seattle's answer to the Oracle of Delphi.

To wit: If you spit out chewed-up tofu behind the couch, I will find it. If you track dog crap into the house and don't bother to clean it up or mention it to anyone, I will find it. If you have an accident in your pants and hide your underwear in the art supply cabinet, I will also find it. You really must think I am the world's largest moron if you think you can get away with any of the above on my watch. And even when I'm not around, I'm around. So if you decide to pull some stunts at school -- guess what? Yup, I'll find it.

All this would fine, well somewhat fine, if they didn't also expect me to know things well beyond my pay grade. For example, this week is Purim -- the Jewish Halloween -- and Efram, for some reason unknown, has declared himself a San Francisco 49-ers fan. So, when Bennett decided to be Peyton Manning (big shock there) for Purim, Efram announced he wanted to dress up as some guy named Frank Gore. No, we hadn't ever heard of him either. But, I procured the jersey and some football pants for them, and even managed to get some of that black crap football players paint under their eyes. All in all, I was feeling rather smug and on top of things. Which is usually when things come to a SCREECHING HALT. Tonight Efram melted down all over us and from what I could understand: How could I, his own mother, be so cruel to send him into the world wearing a Frank Gore jersey when the older kids all made fun of what a crap player Frank Gore is? There was, he announced, no way in hell he was going to wear that jersey, and the entire shit-storm was my fault. (Ok, he didn't use any of the above profanity, but I can.)

M didn't make any of this better when he told me that next year he'd do what he did last year and take them all to the costume shop and let them pick out their own costumes.

I suppose I should have seen it coming. Last year Francie insisted she wanted to dress up as Jasmine, the princess from Aladdin. When the costume arrived in the mail she went postal. Needless to say, she wore some tatty old princess dress instead. Which is what I told Efram to do -- not wear a princess dress, but to put something together from what we already have at home and avoid the taunts of the "older kids." If there's one thing I do know, it's that the kids don't always want me to solve their problem, they just want to feel listened to and commiserated with. I may be a moron, but I'm pretty sure I'm right about that.

Mary Poppins Makes a Visit

Sunday nights are sometimes movie nights Chez Geller. We all pile onto the couch in the basement and watch a movie and eat dinner. I spend much of the time making 1,000 trips up the stairs to the kitchen, but generally the evenings are pleasant -- once they get started. As of late, movie selection has been something of an issue. Usually we let the kids pick -- and we endure the ritual Star Wars (sadly, my kids love the prequels) v. High School Musical (soul destroying) v. Random Barbie Movie (bizarre video game animation and oddly feminist messages), only to find something that nobody has seen, or at least remembers seeing. We've discovered some terrific movies along the way -- Ponyo comes to mind.

Once in a while, however, M and I choose a movie for them. Something we've seen, and loved. Often when we watch it with the kids, years later, it doesn't seem all that spectacular -- the Neverending Story was patchy, and that flying dog gave me the creeps. Often, a film we're sure they'll hate becomes a crowd favorite -- like The Sound of Music (Thank heavens for that gun scene at the end, the boys were whooping with delight).

Tonight, although Bennett pissed and moaned -- loudly -- we managed to get them to watch Mary Poppins. Their reactions were priceless. You don't meet the kids at first, but you hear about them and see one nanny quit ... and when Jane and Michael Banks finally appear, Bennett looks at me and says,

"That's it? Two kids?"

Yes, Bennett. Two kids. And even they can't get their parents attention. They have their own nanny, who sleeps near their rooms, eats their meals with them, and probably gives them lessons. They probably spend 15 minutes a day with their father, and maybe double that with their mother -- who was only too happy to leave them with a chimney sweep while she went off to chain herself to 10 Downing Street. So please don't complain about a babysitter once in a while. And the next time we get a sitter on vacation, please don't run off and re-appear hours later. Thanks.

Efram didn't understand why the poor kids had to go to the park as though they were dressed for synagogue.. he felt especially bad for the poor boy and those yellow knee socks.

M couldn't help but point out how bad the kids' teeth were. One of little Michael's front teeth was actually rotten. God bless British dental care.

Francie was completely confused: What the hell was Fraulein Maria doing in this movie? And why was her hair different? It took me a while to explain the whole concept of an actress, at which point she looked at me sadly and asked: "So she really didn't get to marry Captain Von Trapp?"

No, she didn't. It was all make believe. Farewell, sweet innocence -- auf wiedersehen.

Pop Up Adds...

I don't even want to know what goes into the algorithm for Facebook personalized pop up adds. They are either eerily on-point ("trying to loose baby pounds? try the master cleanse!") or bizarrely off-message ("fertility problems? try our new master cleanse!"). Either way, there is one that I have seen one too often to believe it's a mistake: a boarding school for troubled youth. Really? Word has gotten out that quickly? Am I now on the admissions list of every school for poorly behaved children?

Lately I feel as thought I'm the headmistress at the Tower of Babel School. Words come out of my mouth. I understand them. My children look at me as I speak, and seem to nod in comprehension. And then they go and do the exact opposite of what I'm saying. Which makes me think: Do they really understand me, or are they faking it? Their sheer defiance (and they continue to look at me as they defy) actually makes me wonder whether or not they understand. I suppose I just hope they don't get what I am saying. Because otherwise, I really have zero authority in this house. Which is something I've suspected all along.

Inception, Geller Style

Right before I got married my sister Sam (a tween at the time), wrote me a letter:

I can't wait to be a bridesmaid at your wedding.
I have seen Titanic 20 times.
I love Leonardo DiCaprio.
Mum says his real name is Lenny Caper.
A caper is a fish.

I loved that letter. And now I have kids of my own, I truly appreciate the linear logic. I thought that was the first and last time that Lenny Caper would be mentioned in relation to any of my life's events. Until now. I recently saw the movie Inception. (Ok, I saw the first 20 minutes and then fell asleep, leaving M to watch the rest alone. But I haven't made it through an entire movie in about 10 years; put me on the couch in the dark and I pass out.) From those 20 minutes I gathered the movie had something to do with people who mess with other people's dreams. Ha! Mr. Caper -- you make another entrance into my life. And here's why:

For some reason, there aren't enough hours in the day in which my kids have the opportunity to bicker with each other. No, as of late, they work overtime and fight in their sleep.

Witness Efram -- who comes running into our room around 2 am screaming that Bennett has taken something from him, done something to him, said something about him.. it's hard to decipher at that hour. He's utterly convinced and ENRAGED, and each time it happens, it takes me a good 15 minutes to calm him down. I don't really put him back to sleep, because he is not really awake.. it all happens in some bizarro dream state.

Witness Francie -- who, while we were all piled into one hotel room in Portland, OR, starts yelling at Efram, who is asleep next to her in the bed. Again, it's hard to make out what she's saying, but we managed to make out that Efram had stolen one of the stuffed dogs she sleeps with. The dog is on the floor. I pick it up and give it to her, tuck her back into bed, but she's still moaning on about Efram. This goes on -- in patches -- for about 45 minutes.

As I spent the next 3 hours trying to fall back to sleep, I got to thinking whether I should, ala Inception, try to resolve all their sibling rivalry issues in their sleep. (I once saw a Flintstones episode in which Wilma tells Fred, in his sleep, that he needs to buy her more jewelry.) What if, next time one of them wakes up, I say things like: "That couldn't happen. Efram loves you,. He'd never do anything to hurt you. If you feel yourself getting mad at him, just jump up and down a few times. You'll feel much better" or "Bennett didn't take your football. He loves you. If you feel yourself getting mad at him, count to ten and you'll feel much better."

Granted it all sounds a little Manchurian Candidate... but what if I could program them in their sleep: You will only pee IN the toilet, not near it, not around it; You will learn to love all the clothes in your closet, and not just the pink items; You will never cry, fight, or puke on long car trips; You will spend school holidays peacefully playing chess with your brother; You will never throw a football in the dining room, inches from my china; You will never again take a permanent marker and draw all over your stomach so that weeks later the marks are still there like some virulent rash... I could go on and on, but you get the drift.

The possibilities are endless. Thanks, Lenny.

The Pacific NW: Happy moments

I need to remind myself how marvelous it is to run on a rare sunny day here. The lake is bright blue and the air is remarkable. I'm happy even though Bennett came home sick in the middle of the day when he couldn't be any less sicker. It's moments like these -- in the actual moment of making the "should I let him come home" decision -- that I try to define what kind of parent I want to be. I don't want to be the kind of parent who sends a kid back to class when he's just tired and needs to lie down on the couch without four siblings climbing all over him. On the other hand, I most certainly don't want to be the kind of parent who makes a habit of letting a very un-sick kid come home from school.

So, to walk the line between hard-ass and pushover, I say things like, "Let's not make a habit of this," or "Just this once." But really I might as well say nothing.. because those are the sort of statements that make me feel better, but have zero impact on a kid.

I'm home now with all five kids. The baby is asleep in a sling, and I can hear numbers one through four banging around in the boys' room upstairs. I have some decisions to make. I can:

a) go upstairs and micromanage: make sure everyone's playing nicely, and minimize the chances of a blowout.

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b) ignore them. cherish the relative quiet and let the pieces fall where they may.

I find myself in this situation quite often. I can't see them, but I can hear them... and while they're all getting along marvelously and famously, I know with an absolute certainty (history will back me up), that their unity is on the verge of coming to a big, fat screeching halt. But.. it's going to come to a halt with or without me. I never stop a fight. I only seem to make it worse. So, I inevitably decide to back off and let them do whatever it is they're going to do anyway. And enjoy the 5-6 minutes of peace and solitude (baby in sling aside).

The Orange Sweatshirt

While Bennett spends a good 20 minutes preening in the morning, and can't pass a mirror without drinking in a long, slow glance, Efram prefers to wear his shirts inside out and backwards. I used to attribute his overall wayward/homeless appearance to his spaciness -- convinced that because he likes to read while getting dressed in the morning, that he wasn't aware that the label of his shirt was under his chin, that his socks were inside out, or his shoes on the wrong feet.

Until the orange sweatshirt. Among many other items of hand-me-downs he inherited from Bennett, Efram received an orange hooded sweatshirt. It was mildly worn when he got it, but given his revolting sleeve-chewing habit, and an additional year or so of wear, the sweatshirt has gone from looking worn, in a cool sort of way, to looking grubby - full of tears, holes, smears and stains. So grubby that people began to comment on it. ("Hey somebody has to buy that kid some clothes!") But the boys loves that sweatshirt, so much so that he tells me so regularly: "I love you, daddy, the orange sweatshirt, and my siblings." (In order of importance, I'm sure.)

Guilt led me to Landsend.com, where I bought Efram something he rarely gets: new clothes. Please, don't pity him. As the second child, he's programmed to prefer clothes soft and worn-in from the minute he gets them.. and he often rejects any "new" items I procure on his behalf, complaining of scratchiness. So, I found the softest sweatshirts I could find, knowing he'd refuse them if they didn't feel as though someone else had slept in them for a year, and a week later they arrived. There were three of them (big sale).

Now there are none.

As spacey as he can be, Efram had managed to get through the year without losing clothes at school. But in the space of 10 days, all three sweatshirts have vanished into thin air, and come tomorrow, Efram will proudly march into school wearing his beloved orange sweatshirt.

Should I have known better? Should I have scoured the bins at Goodwill and found some hand me downs from another boy? Should I have left it alone, and let him gaily march around Seattle wearing the orange nastiness -- like the Von Trapp kids in curtains? Probably. It didn't kill Captain Von Trapp, and it wouldn't have killed me.

Home

We're home. Flight home seemed, and actually was, shorter. Fiona managed to hold it together... but all in all, travelling with a toddler is sheer hell. Woke up to the sun.. and it's been around all day. Can see Mt. Rainier from the house, and the lake is clear and bright blue. I'm incredibly thankful b/c if I'd come home to rain and gray skies, I wouldn't have gotten out of bed this morning.

So Far

This trip could be one story: fiona's face plant from her stroller at the airport (which had M and I covered in her blood when we checked into the hotel), francie's possible concussion after she fell backwards of the couch and hit her head on the marble floor... And was drowsy and delirious for a few hours (comically, when I called our pediatrician, he asked if she was fatigued and irritable; when is she not?), or when we stupidly tried to do the famed drive to Hana and Francie threw up all over Bennett on mile ten, or when we turned back and went to a gorgeous rocky beach instead ... At which Efram sliced open his foot and M carried into a nearby restaurant dripping blood.

But that story doesn't do the glory of this trip any justice at all. I realize that any trip with five kids, three of whom are under five, is going to be full of mishaps. And if I were queasy, I'd never go anywhere.

M and I want to actually be in the ocean at the same time... So we've hired some sitters and we are going snorkeling.. Sea turtles, here we come.

Stitches?

Kicked off the trip by watching Fi face plant out of her stroller. Bloody face. Bloody mess. Bloody hell.

Home Alone

I have been single parenting for almost two weeks now as M is on his grande tour of Amazon offices. A few observations for spouses who travel:

1. Never once, now matter how true it may be, tell the spouse at home that you're tired. She (or he) doesn't want to hear it. She's been alone with your kids for days on end, and tired as you may be, tired on the Eurostar just isn't the same as tired in your own bed into which several small children have made their way in the middle of the night. And peed.

2. Bring an extra suitcase for gifts. Maybe two.

3. Pretend you've been eating tuna out of a can, even if you've eaten sushi in Tokyo and a pain au chocolat for breakfast in France. Every little bit helps.

4. When you get home, before you collapse into a jet-lagged slumber, leaving your spouse essentially on her own for another 48 hours... throw something sparkly at her.

I told M I love him, but I just don't like his kids. Does that make me the world's worst mother? My own mother in law swooped in and came to stay for a few days -- a true godsend. But my boys, Bennett especially, pride themselves on showing her what a crappy parent I am. He likes to say, within MIL earshot, things like: "Why are you telling us not to yell? You always yell. You yell all the time. That's why we don't like you." You can see what I'm up against.

By the time M got home from last week's trip I was in true dishrag form; I could barely string a sentence together. This week is a little easier. Even though Bennett devotes a full hour a day to whining about his finger, Francie has been home sick, and I had to do some work despite being on maternity leave, I'm in better shape. It may have something to do with the fact that I know he's coming home ...with a suitcase of chocolate.

Gum

Efram is forbidden from ever chewing gum again. At least until he is old enough to move out.

I find it on countertops, tables, notepads, sinks... And now in his pillowcase.

The Finger.

Took Mr. Bennett to Children's Hospital today to the Orthopedics Clinic to treat his mallet finger... also known as baseball finger. If the staff of Children's also worked at the DMV, passport office, or post office... the world would surely be a happier place, because they very well may be the nicest, sunniest people on the planet. I witnessed nice people take his x-ray, examine his hand, and explain to him that his hands are not to come into contact with a ball for six weeks while his finger heals. No baseball, and (wait for it).... no football.

He looked at the nice, sunny bearer of bad news in astonishment. And then he looked at me. To be honest, knowing how much of a pain in the ass he was going to be about this, I was just as disappointed as he was. But I shrugged. Then nodded, as if to say, "You heard the lady."

He tried to get around the restriction: "What if I hike the ball with my left hand?" Nice try, buddy. "What if I catch without using my finger." Ditto. She told him he can run around, bike, swim and play soccer, but as he sat there in his bright blue Colts hat, in the middle of football season, none of it seemed appealing.

And then I stupidly tried to put things in perspective.

"Athletes sit out for weeks a time" I say. "You're now an official athlete. Whohoo!"

He looked at me as if to say, if these are the nicest people on earth, then you very well may be the stupidest.

I am not phased by my failure. "Hey, look around," I say. "There are kids in leg casts, arm casts, and some in wheelchairs waiting to heal." You're so lucky -- it's only a finger.

The disgust now turns into a look of complete confusion. He couldn't imagine a broken arm, or anything else, and as an eight year old, he certainly couldn't put any of this in perspective. Perspective as I learned right there, is for adults. Adults who are grateful to be in the Orthopedics Clinic for nothing more than a finger. All an eight year old boys comprehends is no ball for six weeks, and nothing I said was going to help.

The nice, nice lady saw him fighting back tears. And then, nice as she is, makes things worse.

" I bet you have a Wii," she said. Bennett swings around, stares at me, and says, "No, I don't. But all my friends do." So now I feel mildly negligent as well as useless. "Well," she says, "You probably have video games at home." Still staring at me, he replies, "No. We have nothing in our house." At this point I expected him to add: "I'm the oldest of five. I barely get fed. For fun I get to peel paint off the side of the house and eat it."

Feeling rather crappy at this point, I immediately bleat out: "But he has a DS, and he can play it all he wants." And then Mr. Bennett gives me the biggest grin imaginable, because I've just said EXACTLY what he wanted me to say. In fact, I played right into the little bugger's hands.

And there you have it. I learned more about the complex mind of an eight year old boy (which as I have repeatedly noted, is far more complicated than that of a thirty-eight year old man), and even more about what not do when you're on the spot. Even if the world's nicest people are all around you.

I have to add, that being Bennett, he continues to surprise me. After I finished promising him the moon, I got the biggest smile when I promised to teach him to do something he's been begging to do for months: knit.

January seventh. Resolutions in tact.. Somewhat. Have yelled minimally. Have cared minimally. Feel no more zen than I did a week ago. Maybe it will take a few weeks to kick in.

Almost...

I'm generally known for getting in over my head. Especially with a new baby in tow. After a few weeks the sleepless delirium sets in, and I start saying yes to all sorts of projects I have no time for. Because I work from home and make my own hours, I went back to work earlier than I should have when Frances (No.3) and Fiona (No.4) were born. I figured I was home anyway, hanging out with a newborn, I might as well get some work done. It always worked for a few weeks, but then, right when I had a big brief to write, or I'd hit a bump in my research, it would coincide with a patch of sleeplessness, a school vacation, a sick kid, a visiting relative.. something that would make working virtually impossible. I'd try to work, but I'd end up with a work product that looked like something.. a toddler would have done.

I got an email today, about an administrative mistake someone else made, and just as I responded to it, I tagged on the end: "By the way, I'm ready to take on work now." I almost sent the email, almost dove back into a commitment I couldn't handle, almost resigned myself to more toddler-esque work product, but then.. I didn't. I erased the line.

2011

Tried to get the kids to make resolutions. They were far more interesting in making resolutions for me. Nice try. Bennett told me his list of resolutions for me was a mile long. After a lot of back and forth, I did manage to squeeze a couple out of them, but nothing substantial.