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).
Monday, February 7, 2011
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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
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.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)