Be Careful What You Ask For

I am fortunate to have a flexible job that allows me to pick the boys up from school and work from home in the afternoons. This has been important to me for several reasons. First, I want to be able to pick them up from school, supervise their homework, spend some time with them in the afternoons, get a jump start on dinner and save some money. And frankly, Sam spent one day in afterschool care, and let's face it, they aren't reading Dickinson and playing chess. I thought I could provide a more nurturing and wholesome environment.

This worked well for two years when it was just Sam and me. But this year Jake was added to the mix and things are, well, a little more ... challenging. Most afternoons go something like this:

2:45-3:10: Pick up
3:10: Jake's first meltdown
3:11: Someone needs to urinate
3:12: Home
3:13: Sam and Jake run through the house, throwing off backpacks, shoes, socks, homework, grenades and rocks.
3:14: I plead with them to pick up their stuff.
3:16: I stop a fight.
3:17: Someone is hungry.
3:19: I fix the first of many mini-meals.
3:21: Jake's second meltdown
3:25: I stop a fight.
3:30: Sam starts homework.
3:32: I stop a fight.
3:45: Sam finishes homework.
3:45-6: Sam and Jake tear up the house, cry, fight, giggle, eat and change clothes ... often.
5: I start dinner.
5:13: I stop a fight.
6: I try to serve dinner.

Needless to say I feel I have aged tremendously in the past year. And not in a good way. Not like a good cheese or a fine wine or an expensive cigar. More like a felled tree that was weak to begin with but now is spongy where it should be sturdy and wooden where it should bend.

So this week I told Bryon and Jake I didn't think this arrangement was working out. I thought Sam was a bad influence on Jake and Jake was a bad influence on Sam and my need (want) to work and clean and fix dinner while supervising them didn't help. So maybe it would be a good idea for them to go to afterschool care instead. I meant this as a threat, mind you.

This is where Bryon is supposed to say, "I'm sorry. It will get better. It's great that you want to be with the kids and do a good job at work and I'm sure it's tough doing all at once."

And this is where Jake is supposed to say, "Mom. I will be good from now on. I don't want to go to afterschool, I want to be with you."

But that's not what happened.

Jake wanted to go. Pleaded. That's where his friends are. They play outside. They run in the gym. They play with scissors and fire and knives. For days he reminded me that it was ME who suggested he go to afterschool. Last night, after days of hemming and hawing, I tried to explain.

"Jake, I suggested afterschool because I thought you would really rather be here. That's my mistake. If you really want to go to afterschool, I will see what I can do, not because it's what I want, but because it's what you want. But you have to know, afterschool is not like the movies. You can't just buy a ticket and go. It's more like the city bus. If the bus pulls up to your house and it's full, you have to wait until there is a seat. I'm not sure when there will be a seat."

That really didn't placate him. At bedtime he was still mad at me. "I'll never get a seat on the bus," he told me.

Who knows. Maybe after Christmas we'll look into the afterschool program. Maybe he'll forget about it. But I know one thing. This isn't the last time Jake will surprise me. And it certainly isn't the last time he'll break my heart.

One Year Later

Sunday, November 15 marked the one-year anniversary of my grandmother's death. Maybe because of that I've been thinking a lot about her. Mostly I wonder what she would tell me, what she would say to me these days when I have trouble evoking the motivation and appreciation and gratitude I should possess.

It may be a leap but it reminds me of a story about my grandfather, who died in 1990. One summer day he was sitting in our backyard and someone asked him where he got the feather that was propped in his cap. "From a bird," he said. Of course.

So how does this relate to my grandmother? Again, it may be stretching but if you would ask her how do I get out of this funk? How do I get happy? She would probably reply in the same obvious way: By getting happy. I think she would tell me to get my act together. She would tell me to take a walk, say a prayer, hug the kids. She would say no one said it would be easy. She would say it doesn't have to be so hard.

So once again, as the holidays descend upon me I am getting out the decorations, listening to Christmas carols, planning to bake and entertain and be merry. I am watching the Christmas cactus I was given shortly after my grandmother died as it gets ready to bloom, just like hers did every year. And when it did, she would tell you with delight, the Christmas cactus is blooming. I'm sure there were many years I didn't really listen. After all, I was too distracted with worry about money, work, the kids, the dishes, the house.

But this year, guess what, the Christmas cactus is blooming. And I'm sure my grandmother hears me when I say that.

Stinker

There are sentimental reasons to have children: unconditional love, companionship, their unbridled joy, the lessons they teach you about life, love, friendship, happiness.

And there are practical reasons to have kids: carry on the family business or the family name. Or scoop poop.

Yes, Jacob loves to scoop poop.

Yesterday morning I couldn't find him for a few minutes (and yes, in our household this happens often. At any given time we are searching for at least one child ...) and it turns out he was in the backyard in his bathrobe surveying that day's "bounty."

I yelled to him through the bathroom window to come inside. "But there's poop!" he yelled back.

"Believe me, it will still be there this afternoon," I said.

Here he is in his "Indiana Jones Takes a Vacation In Havana" hat making mama proud ...

Rule No. 16

Whoever cleans up poop from the bathtub gets the last two glasses of wine.

Enough said?

Dallas 911

Jake had a particularly rough Saturday. And like many of Jake's meltdowns, I don't really remember how it started. Somewhere along the line he was upset that: we haven't yet replaced the Nintendo DS he left on the airplane after his uncle's wedding; I refused to let him eat pancakes AND cinnamon toast for lunch; Sam was spending the entire weekend with his friend Garrett.

But like all Jake's meltdowns he had soon spiralled to the point where the only option was to sit him in time out until he calmed down. Bryon retired to the den and I took Abby outside, where we were enjoying a lovely Saturday afternoon playing in the leaves and picking up acorns.

Until, that is, two police cars pulled up in front of the house.

I immediately worried about why I was getting busted when one cop asked, "Is there a 911 emergency at your residence?"

"Uh, no," I responded, still a little nervous that I was about to be sent to the pokey.

"A 911 call was placed from your house. Do you have kids?"

JACOB!!!

"Yes. And I know who did it. A 5-year-old coming off a temper tantrum. Before you leave, will you talk to him?"

"I don't want to torment the kid."

"Oh, but he needs to be tormented." Not to be cruel, but this is just the kind of "learning moment" Jacob needs. I once spent an extra 30 minutes driving around downtown Dallas trying to find a police station. I determined to find a cop who would tell Jacob the value of seatbelts.

When the cop agreed I ran inside and told Jacob there was someone in the front yard who wanted to see him. In an especially sad and evil twist, he was very excited to see his company. Until he walked out the front door and saw two cops and two cop cars.

Now I intended to teach Jake a lesson and I assumed the cop would give him a little lecture and be on his way, especially since he seemed reluctant to do it in the first place. But he laid him out. I almost .... almost ... felt sorry for Jake.

"Did you call 911?" the first cop asked. "Did you know that's against the law? There is a jail for children who break the law. You have to wear handcuffs and a jumpsuit. You wouldn't see your mom and dad. Do your parents think we need to take you there?"

"No," I interrupted. "I think he's been warned. I'm sure it won't happen again."

Jake scrambled back into the house, I shook the cop's hand and they returned to their cruisers.

Inside Jake was nervous and repentent. We reminded him that he should only use 911 in an emergency. He agreed.

"But what I REALLY want to know," he asked, "is how did they find me?"

Treats

Our Halloween came together at the last minute. A week before I had found a costume - I had it firmly in mind that I would dress up - but of course, the day before Halloween I couldn't find it anywhere. Since I didn't feel like dressing as a sexy bumblebee or sexy pirate wench or sexy nurse, I gave up.

But about 30 minutes before we started trick or treating I realized I had all the makings of a "Rock Star" costume - a Harley Davidson leather jacket (1992 was a weird year for me), black leather pants (2000 was a weird year for me), knee-high leather boots, a black wig and our Guitar Hero guitar.

The result?


(And yes, I made this face and hand gesture in EVERY photo we took that night.)

Abby and many other neighborhood children were afraid of me. I hit several kids on the head with my guitar and I had a bruise on my shoulder from the guitar strap, but it was fun.

Halloween is crazy in our neighborhood. This year was no different. I assumed the combination of weather and a Saturday night Halloween would bring out the masses. Kids started ringing doorbells at 6, long before we were ready. And despite my efforts to give one piece of candy to each kid, we ran out of $97 worth of candy by 8.

And then came the best part of the night. We threw together sandwiches and chips, picked out a few pieces of candy, turned out the lights and watched Monster House.