by Heather C.
Binkley
by Alison Welti
Tales from
the Trenches
of Motherhood
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Happy New (School) Year!
by Heather Binkley
September 6, 2010
Check out Heather's blog: Did You Remember Your Pill Today?
Tomorrow’s the big day. My kids go back to school for another academic year. All in all, I think we’re ready. We have our supplies (well, most of them anyway. Who the hell decides that a kid needs 6 chisel tip BLUE dry erase markers without making sure that someone local carries them?) We’ve done our shopping for back to school clothes. We’ve met the teachers. We’ve even started to review some of the things we were supposed to be doing all summer long. (Luckily my 6 year old still sort of knows how to read.)
As we’ve been gearing up for yet another school year, it has occurred to me (not for the first time) that New Year’s Day is misplaced on the calendar. New Year’s Day should coincide with the first day of school and not the winter solstice. I know that for most of our history we’ve been beholden to the agricultural calendar and nine out of ten times I would even argue that that’s the way it should be, but this is the exception.
Ever since I was a child, September was the beginning of each new year - not January - and June through August were the mystical twilight realm through which children passed during their metamorphoses from one grade to the next. The first day of school was like a birthday that all kids held in common. It was the day that each of us became a grade older. (Your actual age didn’t matter much. You could have skipped 2 grades or been held back 3 times. All that really mattered was what grade you were in.) On the first day of school we all took another step towards adulthood together.
As a young adult, I trained to be a teacher and the rhythm of my youth continued. September was the beginning, June was the end, and July and August were just limbo. Resolutions were made, plans were set into motion, and one after another the years ticked by. The years I taught 7th grade, the years I taught 8th, the year I taught high school... all of them started in September and ended in June.
The first September after my son was born was the first break that I ever remembered in that rhythm - and it felt odd, like something was off.
Four Septembers later, I was ready to jump back into sync. Preschool, Kindergarten, First Grade, ... there’s a new one every September. This year? It’s Third, First, and Preschool.
We’ll make our preparations, we’ll declare our resolutions, and we’ll take a deep breath as our kids molt the last vestiges of their previous grades and emerge in the brilliant colors of their new ones. I’ll watch my children and remember the excitement and anticipation that I used to feel, but it’s different for me now. I’m proud of them and excited for them, but there’s a part of me that wants to stop the clock. Luckily for them, I can’t.
They’ll go to bed early and we’ll set our alarms, but I’ll stay up late. I’ll set out the backpacks and pack the lunches. I’ll make sure their first day of school outfits are ready and I’ll write notes to tuck into each of their lunch boxes. When I finally go up to bed, the clock will have struck twelve and I will have rung in the New Year.
Happy New Year!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------And You Thought Curious George Was Naughty
by Matthew Kaiser
August 29, 2010
Check out Matt's blog: Deliberately Unintentional
Joy radiated from my boys’ beaming faces as the Patriot Center lights dimmed and the Curious George Live musical began. Enraptured by the big, dancing monkey, the flashing lights and gaudy costumes, my two young sons sat as still as statues – for about two scenes, anyway. Just as their attention began to wane and their squirming and fussing reached crescendo, the lights clicked on for intermission, providing us a chance to exit stage left without making a scene. As we waved good-bye to the Man in the Yellow Hat’s mischievous monkey emblazoned on the side of the tour’s trailer, I had no idea that the real monkey business was yet to come.
The boys had grazed on buttered popcorn, pretzels and peanut butter sandwiches during the show, but now it was lunchtime. After a short drive to our favorite Irish pub, the Auld Shebeen, we were greeted and seated in a booth by the always affable owner. The situation looked good. A Celtic band played Irish folk music in the front room. A squeaking fiddle could be heard along with the nasally whine of bellow-powered bagpipes and the rhythmic boom of the goatskin drum. A recorder’s effervescent notes bubbled over strumming guitars and mandolins, and a player furiously fingered the buttons on his concertina as he squeezed sweet music from the small, hexagonal accordion.
The mood seemed perfect, but then the slightest delay in the highchair’s arrival signaled the beginning of a downward spiral into chaos. ‘Lil C (17 months) had made himself comfortable in the booth and was busy rearranging napkin-wrapped silverware. He kicked and writhed as I threaded his tiny Spiderman shoes through the chair’s leg holes. It was obvious that our borrowed naptime had come due, and the big Bank of Sleep was calling to collect. As if to celebrate the beginning of the end, ‘Lil C, with a toothy grin, raised his sippy cup to cheers us all.
It’s nearly impossible to get mad in an Irish pub, so when an errant ketchup-covered French fry landed in my beef stew I barely flinched. As napkins and half-eaten bites of a grilled cheese sandwich were jettisoned from the table, my wife and I could only throw our hands in the air and try to stifle our laughter. She was red-faced and nearly in tears when Big C (3 ½ years), after finishing his chocolate milk, moved on to a tall glass of ice water which he promptly dropped in his lap with a cold splash. ‘Lil C countered by tossing his plastic cup. After eating little more than half a red crayon, he laid his tired head down on the table.
Big C has an aversion to vinegar’s pungent odor, so when I doused a pile of fries in malt vinegar he covered is face with a crumpled paper tablecloth and slumped in the booth like a pat of melting butter sliding down a mound of mashed potatoes. Just then our waitress, a restaurant veteran who’d probably served thousands of families in her career, arrived with the bill. I sensed she was moderately amused by the scene: food strewn about the table, packets of coffee sweeteners scattered beneath dinner ware, a meal’s worth of fries on the floor, shredded crayon boxes, sopping napkins, a nearly sleeping child, and another one soaked and sourpuss with his spinning Curious George toy in hand. But she was speechless - apparently shocked and stunned – when she heard Big C had sucked ketchup straight from the flip-top squeeze bottle. (At least we told her!)
As we headed for the door, ‘Lil C, like a celebrity accepting accolades for a brilliant performance, waved and smiled at customers individually. Although, they seemed amused by the show, I’d had quite enough mischievous monkey slapstick for one day. I’m sure the gentleman in the restroom, who found himself temporarily left in the dark after a Big C potty break, felt the same way.
Here are my five suggestions for a successful meal out with children.
1. Never say no to chocolate milk
2. Order food and drinks during the waiter’s first visit
3. Accept the fact that ketchup is a universal condiment
4. Request the check with your second drink order
5. Tip generously
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Geocaching
by Sarah Wimmer
August 16, 2010
Lately, my family has been trying to save money and really stick to our budget. One way to do this is to find free activities to do on the weekend. One activity we love to do is geocaching! Geocaching is described on Geocaching.com as " a high-tech treasure hunting game played throughout the world by adventure seekers equipped with GPS devices. The basic idea is to locate hidden containers, called geocaches, outdoors and then share your experiences online."
My family likes to think of it as treasure hunting with your GPS. (Make fun if you want...my sister does...but don't knock it until you try it. It's fun!) I use Geocaching.com to find coordinates of where the "treasure" or cache is located. There are other websites, but I find this one easy (and free) to use. Go to Geocaching.com and pull up "hide and seek a cache" on the left side bar. Search by the area of your liking and see all the treasures hidden.
When you decide on a cache to seek out, click on the link to go to that page. The page will give you the GPS coordinates to plug in to your GPS, the name of the cache, the difficulty level of finding it, the difficulty of terain, the size, and more including hints about where to look! Some pages will have pictures of people finding the cache, be careful, it can give away where it is so don't look if you want to be surprised! One thing to pay attention to are the first comments at the bottom to see when it was last found. Sometimes caches are destroyed or stolen, so make sure it is still there before you go looking - someone will mention if the cache needs maintenance or if it was not found. Another thing to pay close attention to are the "attributes" on the right hand side. This will tell you if it is a good place to take dogs or kids, safe at night, and more.
Once you have picked which cache you will search for first, plug the coordinates in to your GPS and go searching. Actually we use an application on our phone. I know Blackberry and IPhone both have apps for this - check out your phone's applications to see if there is one for it also. Now you are ready to go searching!
The cache is usually in an old ammo can and is just little trinkets with a log book to show you've been there. We like this because it gets us outside and gives us something to do on the trails or in the park. The kids like it because it really is a treasure hunt to them with a new little item to show for it at the end.
A couple of things:
-Use all your safety rules you know about walking in the woods, on trails, etc.
-"Cache in, trash out"- help the environment while you are out, take a bag to collect trash as you go and make sure you leave no trash of your own!
-If you take from a cache, leave something in return - if you really get in to it there are even "travel bugs" that people track online to show where all they have been
-Enjoy being with your family, doing something together, outside, for free!
Do you geocache? What do you think? Let me know here.
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A Day At The Zoo
by Alison Welti
August 9, 2010
Check out Alison's blog: Tales from the Trenches of Motherhood
I was awakened by a boy wearing only jungle motif jammy bottoms and complaining of severe hunger. My eyes shuttered. I grunted and rolled away. My survival instincts were kicking in and my body knew that if I played dead there would be a 50/50 chance that my sleep steeling predator would move on to more lively game, like my husband or dog. Nope. It didn’t work. The restless native used more aggressive measures to wretch me out of my glorious stayed-out-too-late-last-night, probably-haven’t-made-it-to-REM-sleep-yet slumber. I was probed in the back by Buzz Lightyear, and he was saying things, very loud and obnoxious things. There was no way out, not with a three-year-old boy with hunger pangs.
I cricked and creaked my way down the steps whispering loudly to please keep it down since baby sissy was still sleeping. I’m sure it’s normal for three-year-old boys to jolt awake and flit about with as much energy as a frat house hopped up on Red Bull on a Friday night, but it just seems so unnatural. I need time and space. Oh how I need space and peace. Yes. But forget it. It never happens for me. I have to turn it on and try to match the excitement Georgie has for a brand new day. He always acts surprised that the sun actually rose up off the horizon and lit the world. I guess we just take it for granted. I would prefer to be in bed at sunrise and for a few hours thereafter.
Nevertheless, we had to start eating immediately, because this was a day for big things. We had plans and they would take us on the “eventure” of a lifetime. George finished off three bowls of cereal. His baby woke up. George refers to his little sister, Evie, as his baby. Things were really coming together. My husband and I packed. We packed and packed and packed. And anyone with two very small children know that we continued packing and making trips upstairs and to the garage several times. During the packing the natives were getting restless. There was pinching by the toy box, hair pulling and toy stealing by the front door, and dog riding under the dining table. There were stainless steal pot lids clashing as symbols and squealing with joy at big bubby’s ingenuity. And yet there was still packing and some arguing for good measure. And of course, right on cue, when we were walking out the door there was pooping. By the grace of God, a bottle of Alieve, and some kinda luck we were on our way to the National Zoo.
I was giddy as we walked through the entrance. We made it after all. It was like making it to the finish line at a marathon. George insisted upon seeing the farm animals first. Have you ever been there? The farm animals at the National Zoo are probably cleaner than my dog, and for sure cleaner than my children. They must get bathed daily. Oh, and their barn is immaculate. The inside is covered in richly stained, cedar planks, and there wasn’t a scant trace of manure. I was ready to move in. Let me be a donkey here. Show me to my stall please. I’m pretty sure that George would have spent the entire day looking at the goats, but we had more exotic animals to see.
The first treasure George spotted after the livestock was cotton candy. I don’t know how he knows what cotton candy is. How do kids do that? They learn things and you don’t even realize it. Well, he certainly knew what it was and he wanted it. He wanted it more than he wanted to breathe air. I resisted. Only a neglectful mother would let her baby boy eat mounds of fluffy, artificially colored sugar. He became obsessed. Around every tiger, sloth, naked mole rat, and lemur was more cotton candy. It got hot. We ran out of water and nutritious snacks. I was thinking about falling into the Cheetah enclosure just to get a few minutes of peace in the shade and drink some cool water. It was just that bad. There it stood a lemonade/cotton candy cart, and we gave in. George picked his color. He was in bliss, and we won, as well. The walk back to the car was quiet – sticky, but quiet.
The ride home was none to pleasant. I can tell you that that much sugar in a three-year-old body should probably be illegal unless you have about 50 fenced in acres and some kind of harness or animal trainer. I’m still not sure how the seatbelt contained him, and I was pondering ways to sedate him in a humane fashion. When he finally came down from his sugar high and was able to respond in a semi normal way to questions, we asked him the key question of the day. “George, what was your favorite part about our day?” I predicted he would say Amazonia or the Reptile House, the misting machines would even be an acceptable answer. His honest and hurtful response: “THE COTTON CANDY!!!” I even tried asking him later in the evening and before bed, but every time I asked I got the same wretched response.
Needless to say, we will not be going back to the zoo anytime soon. I realized that I have my own zoo at home. I would rather not pack the entire house, drive 40 miles in hoards of traffic, pay $20 to park after preying on exhausted families for their precious piece of asphalt in the city, and be harassed about eating 10lbs of colorful sugar. I think I’ll stick around the house at my own zoo for a while.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------Learning to Fly
by Heather Binkley
August 2, 2010
Check out Heather's blog: Did You Remember Your Pill Today?
The other day my son came upstairs very agitated. Apparently he had caught one of our dogs trying to kill a baby bird. Tears welled up in his eyes as he told me about what happened and I pulled him close. We went down together to survey the damage and, much to my son's dismay, it was too late for the bird. "I just don't like it when innocent creatures die for no reason at all," he says to me as I bend down to pick it up.
"I know, sweetie. I know."
"Why didn't it fly away?"
"It was just a baby. It probably didn't know how to fly very well."
"Well, why did it's parents let it out of the nest then?"
I smiled at him. "If they never let him out of the nest, then how would he learn to fly?" I put my arm around my son. "You know. That's the hardest part of being a parent. It's so tempting to keep you close and safe, to protect you from all of the bad things that might happen, but then you'd never learn to do the things you need to do in order to grow up."
"Like cutting my food with a knife?"
"Yep. Like using a knife or walking around the block or learning to drive or even just learning to ride a bike. It all could be dangerous, but it's my job to make sure you learn to do those things. How else are you going to grow up and do them for yourself?"
"But the bird couldn't fly and he died."
"Yeah. That sucks! It really does. He probably shouldn't have been allowed to try flying in a yard that had dogs in it, huh? I bet his parents are really really sad right now. They wish that they had watched him more closely or that they hadn't let him out of the nest today, but they couldn't have known. Maybe they did tell the baby to stay away from our yard. Maybe the bird didn't listen or he got lost. That's why it's important to follow the rules." He rolled his eyes at me as he realized I wasn't really talking about the birds anymore but instead referencing an issue we had faced earlier this week.
"Mom!" Another quick hug and he was off to play wii.
My dad always said that parenting was all about fostering roots and wings. "Kids need strong roots so that they're well grounded and capable of making good decisions but they also need to develop strong wings that can carry them anywhere they want to go." The biggest challenge of parenting is finding the balance. It's all about balance.
As I cleaned up the mess of feathers, I thought about my own fledglings.
Roots were easy to develop. Plant them in good soil, water them, feed them, make sure they get plenty of sunlight and shelter them from storms. Protect them from predators and the roots will grow deep and strong.
Wings are much harder. They need open spaces and lots of exercise. They need practice and inevitably, there are going to be falls - bumps, bruises, scrapes, and crash landings. With luck (and lots of kisses and band aids) they'll make it through each fall and go on to be better fliers, needing greater altitude and even more space. As time goes on, they'll fall less but the stakes involved in each fall will be higher. I don't think it ever stops being scary.
Oh how I wish I was raising plants instead of birds! No, not really.
If you enjoyed this post, please check out my daily blog at Did You Remember Your Pill Today?
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Meltdown at 30 Thousand Feet: A Flying With Children Fiasco
by Matthew Kaiser
July 26, 2010
Check out Matt's blog: Deliberately Unintentional
If you’ve ever seen a pair of scampering squirrels chasing each other up and down a tree at dizzying speeds, you may understand what flying with young children is like. Now take those two squirrels, stuff them in a paper sack, give it a shake until their good and mad, and then ask them to sit quietly on an airplane. Now you know what flying with my two sons is like. On a recent flight home from Colorado to D.C., they had a very public meltdown, and my response was about as effective as using gasoline to extinguish a fire.
When it comes to flying, I’ve become THAT guy at the airport, the guy with the rental cart piled high with a massive, over-stuffed, family-size suitcase, two backpacks bursting with toys, books, blankets and diapers, a cooler full of sippycups, and two car seats stacked precariously on top of it all. The carefree, pre-children days of traveling with a single backpack, a book and a buzz are a distant memory. So by boarding time, after loading and unloading the taxi, checking in to the whining demands for more juice, the usual headache of being processed by security, multiple bathroom breaks and an excessively long line to buy bagels; I was already worn out and ready to relax. I just wanted to find our seats, point the little jet of cold air on my face, and close my eyes. Of course, that turned out to be a ridiculously naive fantasy.
After gate-checking the jogging stroller, we were welcomed aboard by grinning flight attendants. Their insincere Barbie smirks couldn’t mask their true thoughts as they sized us up. They knew with one look - This family is going to be a problem. My wife carried our 16-month-old and a backpack, and I had a bag and my three-year-old’s hand. The apprehensive looks on the faces of the other passengers as we ambled past them down the aisle bordered on dread. I could almost read their minds as their fearful eyes moved from our procession to the empty seats around them: Please don’t sit next to me.Please...
With one bag stowed above and the other stuffed under the seat, it wasn’t long before my sons’ cheerful disposition dissipated and their behavior became unruly. Poor ‘Lil C was too young for a seat of his own and just wanted to lie down in his crib. He writhed and screamed and threw his Nuk and sippycup on the floor over and over. Then like the flip of a bi-polar switch, his wailing briefly turned to laughter and he sat still for a page or two of a story before returning to his sonorous assault on my ears.
Big C continuously pulled the window shade down. He unfastened his seatbelt during takeoff and banged his tray down repeatedly. The woman in front of us had her seat kicked multiple times as he whined, cried and threw tantrums over the most infinitesimal things. I tried to point things out the window like rivers, fields and clouds, but he wasn’t interested. My patience was gone and the end of my rope was tattered and frayed. I was screaming at my son through clenched teeth, yelling and gesturing at my wife in frustration, and generally making everything worse. The unfolding scene drew sympathetic looks from parents and irritated glances from others. The cacophony was so invasive, so crushing that I’m sure everyone was secretly praying that the mild turbulence we were experiencing would increase, tear the roof off, and suck them out into a blissful freefall.
There’s nothing worse than sitting near an irate parent. The offending parent’s hostility is contagious. A dark cloud of revulsion and hate spreads from them throughout the cabin and taints everyone’s mood. The recycled air tastes more stale than normal. People take long, hopeful looks at their watches. The merchandise in the Sky Mall catalog seems junkier than ever, and the already completed crossword puzzle feels like a personal insult. Passengers normally tolerate misbehaving children, but they loathe the hotheaded parent that loses their cool and makes things worse. I had become the irate parent.
I was nearly institutional. After being scolded by my wife for losing my temper, I was in a near catatonic state, staring blankly at the graphic of the airplane traveling across the screen mounted on the seat in front of me. The plane was moving slower than eastbound traffic on Hwy 66 on a Monday morning. Slugs inch across the sidewalk faster than the animated plane moved. As we hovered over the Midwest, Washington might as well have been in Europe. My mind filled with fantastic visions of escape. Maybe if I kicked over the beverage cart, the anonymous Air Marshall would choke me out of my misery with a headlock. I wanted off the plane one way or another.
And just as I was about to commit a felony at 30 thousand feet, my baby boy fell asleep and his older brother’s attention was captured by a surprise gift. The remainder of the flight had its challenges, but the worst was over. When it comes to flying, I learned not to expect too much from the kids. After all, they were out of their element and out of their routine. Their sleep schedules had been obliterated by the switch in time zones, and ‘Lil C was forced to sleep in a Pack n’ Play all week. Like their father, I’m sure they just wanted off that plane, too.
Here Are My Five Tips for Flying with Young Children
1. Purchase small toys or games to be given as surprises during the flight
2. Pack plenty of snacks and beverages
3. Use stickers to reward good behavior
4. Download a few animated films to your smartphone
5. Stay calm (easier said than done)
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--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Pursuit of Mommyism..
July 19, 2010
Check out Areeba's blog: Hot and Spicy Firecracker Mom!
I became a "Mom" five years ago and quickly realized that life was never going to be the same for me. I went from a working mom to now a stay at home mom. Everyday there seems to be new issues to contend with. I finally sat down last night and started to write down things that make me laugh, cry and at times lose my mind. I am not complaining, I wouldn't trade this for the world, just venting I guess. Welcome to my world of motherhood!
Tantrums: My 4 year old is better now but my 2 year old has become a tantrum specialist. She will find the most perfect places to show me up. I love my grocery store trips where I literally have to force her to stay in the cart and as I am paying for my grocery bill she stands up and makes everyone around me very nervous. God I would just love to ignore her! lol.
My trips to Ross are the worse. I love that store. You can get some great deals and I feel like I am on a 30 mins deadline. I find myself screaming my daughter's name constantly. On my most recent trip, I counted how many times I had to call out her name and in 30 minutes time frame I called out 35+ times.
And how about our favorite, Costco! Good lord!!! That place is a zoo and my daughter is a little mouse running around/between/in those carts/aisles. Then those good 'ol samples! I used to just walk past them and not even bother, but now the girls are too smart and they start to yell out if God forbid I pass one. I know I look like a tool!
The Art of Cooking: Watching what the girls eat is always on my mind. Junk food is limited throughout the day and the need to be creative with the meals is always a challenge.
Manners Makeover: Say "please", "thank you"; "no yelling at mommy" or somebody else for that matter. Disciplining them is a challenge in itself. The best is when I am over at my friend's or family member home and the girls are screaming at each other, fighting for the same toy. Are you kidding me, you guys are too old for teething toys. I share these pursuits with my mom and she looks at me like I am crazy. She claims that we are too serious these days. She thinks I should loosen up and just enjoy this time. I think she is right. With another one on the way, it might be a good idea to start ignoring the little stuff.
Being a mom is not easy. My hats off to all the moms out there who on a daily basis deal with the same issues and are still able to keep their spirits, and energy up.
P.S. This post did not include our struggles to look sexy and have somewhat of a social life with friends and hubby...that is my next post! Stay tuned!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------The Great Food Swap
by Alison Welti
July 12, 2010
Check out Alison's blog: Tales from the Trenches of Motherhood
As if my life is not chaotic enough with a ten month old and a three year old, I have the most high maintenance, lazy creature best known as a dog for a pet. We have a miniature, long-haired Dachshund slapped with the moniker, Bruiser, that my husband let me get for my birthday right after we got married. He would best be described as a black and tan ottoman as he has the broadest back and shortest legs of any creature this side of the Mississippi. On the rare occasion I have enough gumption to drag his lazy 17 pound (supposed to be 10 lbs) body into the open for public scrutiny I get assaulted with questions about my fury creature. No one knows what he is, and when I tell them the breed I get squinched faces and suspicious “hmmmmms” as replies. People act as if I’ve smuggled a rare, squat, fury, clawless sloth from the canopy of the rainforest in Costa Rica. Or perhaps they are pondering my obvious stupidity for being coerced into believing and subsequently forking over large sums of money to a breeder for a “pure bread Dachshund” of which the poor thing does not resemble. Before we had children I loved Bruiser fiercely. I still love him, but he’s at the end of the line, and these days he just adds stress to every situation.
Poor Bruiser is ghastly overweight and he will not walk. I have to lug him, or in some situations drag him to the grass so he can relieve himself. I am not amused by his tomfoolery. It’s utterly exhausting to cater to his every demand. He will also not walk down steps of any kind. I try to give him the benefit of the doubt and make excuses about his short-leggedness, but deep down I know he’s giddy that he gets airlifted to any location of his choosing and at any time he pleases. His demanding bark is such a shrill, grating sound that you have no choice but to give in just to get a reprieve. He expects to sleep in our bed every night and given a few seconds to roam he will forage and root around until he finds that perfect, cool spot under your pillow. He then performs his nightly ritual of scraping, scraping, scraping, circling, circling, circling, and plop. My husband sweetly barricades my pillow with decorative pillows so our hound cannot penetrate the barrier, therefore leaving my pillow in pristine condition. By nature Dachshunds are burrowers. They will find the smallest nook in your home and make it their lair. My sweetly smelling pillow is Bruiser’s first choice for a sleeping locale with my husband’s as a close second. On most days I too will protect my husband’s pillow from Bruiser. But sometimes, as we all know, husbands can annoy you to your very core. On those weary nights I let Bruiser excavate the little space under my husband’s pillow and make it his haven. I lay in bed awaiting his grunt of annoyance when he surprisingly unearths the beast from his sacred den. I chuckle to myself and think “one point for the home team”.
Lately Bruiser has not been eating his weight management dry dog food. For five years he has gobbled up his dinner as soon as he has been presented with it. In fact, feeding time is so significant to him that he starts his demanding bark and complementing whine at least one hour before his meal is expected, which makes dinner time in our house that much more fun. So, as you can imagine it is quite a surprise that he is not touching his food. He is being aloof about his food even. Me being me, I have pondered and worried about this new phenomenon. Is he sick? Is he dying? Is he tired of the same kibble? Why? I have analyzed and hypothesized… and then I saw it. The answer to my question came in the form of a newly walking baby girl who thinks she lives at a petting zoo and Bruiser is her own personal pigmy hippo or ring tailed lemur, or some type of animal that is allowed to eat senseless amounts of food from sweaty little palms at a God forsaken stench filled petting zoo.
My sweet little baby girl has been walking for two weeks, and subsequently has found new uses for her free hands, which benefits Bruiser in such a supreme way that he must think he has checked into dog heaven a little earlier than expected. His ship has come in, and he is reveling in his own glee. No, I wouldn’t eat dry, crunchy, foul tasting dog food if I was being hand fed the delicacies found left over on a baby’s high chair. I saw their little scheme with my own eyes, and couldn’t help but smile. After Evie finishes her meals I wipe her down and get her out of her high chair, which has been lowered to the shortest setting so she can easily reach her tray when she’s standing on the floor. She reaches back onto her tray takes a bite of any morsel she can seize and gives the rest to the shameless dog who sits expectantly at her feet. The astonishing part of the whole event was that Bruiser tenderly and ever so carefully licks the food off of her hand. I watched in amazement as the pair repeated the act several times. Both were in their glory. Of course I had to show my husband at dinner that night. We quietly observed from afar like spectators at the zoo. The two have such a cute relationship. It almost warms your heart. Almost…but then I discovered what was becoming of the dog food that sat uneaten in the stainless steel bowl. Two guesses…..?
It’s like a food cycle gone wrong. I don’t know what to call it. The only thing that comes to mind is The Great Food Swap! My sweet little baby girl thinks that weight management dry dog food is a delicacy that must be swiped swiftly and quietly in warm, chubby, little baby hands and whisked quickly to a second location to be enjoyed in privacy and quiet. I don’t know how long it has been going on. I don’t know how to accept it. Right under my nose the smallest creatures of the house have been swapping food with a silent understanding and sense of respect for each other’s diet, and they’ve been enjoying it.
I’m sad to say that their fun is over now. The free trade agreement between species has been severed. It means more work for me. For now, I have to put the dog food in a secret location, and I have to clean Evie’s tray immediately. I see the sad, longing glances between them. Had it not been a major sanitary issue I would still be turning my head and ‘ignoring’ the swapping. The relationship between baby and dog was so sweet, so trusting. I realized that as adults, sadly, we have a lot we could learn from a baby and a dog’s relationship. The two cannot speak to each other, do not look remotely similar, but yet they have a pure, loving, kindly relationship in which they are each openly willing to share what means the most to them…food.
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To Wii or Not to Wii?
July 5, 2010
Check out Heather's blog: Did You Remember Your Pill Today?
The Christmas before my son was turning 6, we started to consider a gaming system. We looked at X box and we toyed with the PS3 and after weighing all of the options, we decided on the Wii. In the end, it came down to the physical nature of the Wii. I just didn't want my kids sitting in front of a video game for extended periods. The way I figured it, if they were going to play games, then they were going to move around.
It was great! My son, in particular loved it.
He loved it soooo much that we had to ban it. It was our punishment for everything. Listen and obey, or you'll lose your Wii privileges. It worked, too! For the most part, he would do anything for the Wii carrot. By the time we realized our mistake, it was too late and the damage was done.
"What mistake?" you ask.
This one. You see, if you use the withholding of Wii time as a daily punishment, it becomes ingrained and expected that Wii time is a daily certainty barring any kind of transgression. When the behavior you seek is eventually learned and maintained, it becomes difficult to remove the carrot. In all honesty, it's much worse than difficult. It's horribly unjust. We hadn't thought this one through all the way.
My son's behavior did change for the better, but now he felt like he was being punished every single day that he didn't get to play - whether he had done anything wrong or not. When we tried to explain that playing everyday wasn't guaranteed and that the punishment was the removal of the possibility of playing he seemed lost. He pointed this out quite eloquently one day with the words, "So let me get this straight. There are times that the punishment is that I can't play a game that I wasn't going to get to play anyway?" (long pause accompanied by big eyes and wrinkled forehead) "But that makes no sense at all!!!" How do you argue with that?
So we no longer have our best bargaining chip thanks to having lost a logic debate with our very literal, very analytical 8 year old. We've moved onto other consequences for poor choices (How's that for parenting lingo of the 21st century?) but the question of how to properly manage Wii time remains.
Is it appropriate to play it every day? How long is too long? Should the kids be given a total "screen time" allowance each day that includes television, computer, Wii, iPad/iTouch, and other portable electronics? (That's my favorite answer, but it's also the hardest to track.) Maybe it should be held in reserve for rainy days/days that it's too hot to go outside. I don't know how to manage it all. I want to just send them outside and never let them play wii, but that doesn't seem reasonable either. (Of course the hypocrisy of telling them that they've had enough screen time while I sit here all day and type is not lost on me.) Sigh.
How do you manage electronics in your home? Please visit my regular site Did You Remember Your Pill Today? and leave a comment. Let me know how you found me, too. Thanks for reading.
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