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Tuesday, March 29, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, February 21, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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.
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.
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