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.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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.
Monday, February 7, 2011
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.
0r
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).
a) go upstairs and micromanage: make sure everyone's playing nicely, and minimize the chances of a blowout.
0r
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).
Thursday, February 3, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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.
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