Shock and Aww

Personal parenting styles are basically just glorified amalgams of trial and error techniques. With this in mind, I present today's informative blog topic, one of my favorite personal techniques: The Dave Seville. I won't bother explaining who Dave Seville is because those of you who've seen Alvin and the Chipmunks (the cartoon or the movie) already know, and for those of you who don't, there's Google. Now that everyone is (hopefully) caught up, you know how Dave always tries to get Alvin's attention by calling him a couple of times quietly, calmly, just before he completely explodes? That's me. Dave Seville...Washa.

I've always kind of wondered if Dave is even actually angry when he yells at Alvin or if he's just learned that yelling is the only effective way to cut through Alvin's obvious lack of focus and make himself heard. For me, while I do yell at my children about things that would legitimately enrage most parents (i.e. spilling an entire carton of juice all over the table and the floor – more than once in a day, feeding carefully prepared meals to the dog, using the crayon Mom doesn't know is in the car to create modern scribble art all over the back side windows) I'm really almost never legitimately enraged when I raise my voice. I do it more for the shock value than anything.

When you're raising small children, that moment of pure, frozen shock immediately following what the wayward child perceives as an entirely unprovoked parental outburst is priceless... and fleeting. In this moment, you can turn almost any situation to your advantage.

This is a point perhaps best illustrated through example:

Mom enters the kitchen to find the two children that just seconds ago she left sitting at the table quietly sipping from their cups of milk, now doing something different entirely. The oldest child, Logan, is blowing increasingly large bubbles in his milk, smiling happily to himself each time one of his bubble geysers spouts high enough to overflow the sides of the cup, affixing itself to either the table or his shirt. His partner in crime, Julianne, having not yet figured out the exact mechanics of simulated geothermal activity, has settled for attempting to plunge her entire hand into a cup that may be just barely large enough to accommodate it... were it not filled at least halfway to the top with milk. As it is, this process causes surprisingly (and evidently disappointingly) little milk to actually overflow the cup, but it does present the opportunity for a new activity: Using the drips from the milk-covered hand to paint a lovely lactose fresco on the recently polished surface of the table.  Just as Ms. Washa-Pollock is adding the final strokes to her masterpiece, her brother, Old Cupful, pauses to take notice of the fact that a group of feline tourists have appeared to observe the spectacle and lend a paw in clearing the path of liquid destruction.

Mom walks in quietly, unassumingly, and makes a calm and composed request, “We don't play in the milk, we drink it. Please get paper towels and clean up your mess.” Mom then turns her back, commences scrubbing a large pan, and the milk chaos resumes. Calmly placing the finished pan into the dish drainer, Mom turns around, notes that her request has been ignored, and with slightly more force, renews it, “Don't. Play. In. The Milk. Milk is for drinking. Only. If you do not wish to drink your milk, then please put your glasses in the refrigerator and you can have them later.” Mom leaves the room in order to begin scooping up the myriad of toys that have been haphazardly dumped in the doorway and that are now all but barracading everyone in the kitchen. When she turns around to check on her little ones... well I'll leave you to imagine what she sees.

That's that then. Mom storms into the kitchen eyes flashing, finger pointing, loud enough to scare the felines into abandoning a perfectly lovely and unexpected midday meal. “WOULD YOU TWO LOOK AT THIS HORRIBLE MESS!” (It's actually not that bad.) “I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING SO DISGRACEFUL!” (Today alone I've seen messes worse than this one.) “THIS IS THE THIRD TIME I'VE ASKED YOU TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS, AND THAT ISN'T EVEN COUNTING WHEN I ASKED YOU TO PLEASE NOT MAKE A MESS IN THE FIRST PLACE! I'M GOING IN THE LIVING ROOM TO CHANGE THE BABY'S DIAPER AND WHEN I COME BACK I HAD BETTER NOT SEE ANY MORE MILK ANYWHERE!

As Mom makes her dramatic exit from the kitchen, leaving the startled, suddenly motionless, speechless children to begin their frantic scramble for paper towels, she notices the pile of toys still blocking the kitchen door, and pounces on that opportunity like a gatto on leche (cat on milk; the kids love Spanish). Without missing a beat, she fires back over her shoulder, “AND PICK UP THESE TOYS BEFORE SOMEONE FALLS AND CRACKS THEIR HEAD OPEN AGAIN!” (I know exactly what you're thinking. 'Oh my! Again? How many times has this happened? How many times can a person crack his/her head open without incurring permanent brain damage?' The answer: I have no idea because unless you count the time a few months ago when Julianne fell flat on her face and damaged a couple of her front teeth, which I don't, this has never actually happened. Sure gets 'em movin' though, because really who wants to be responsible for an injury like that? Again.)

If you recall having watched the Chipmunks as a child, you'll probably also recall that Dave's total count of meltdowns per episode is never less than one. Dave hollers at Alvin twice in the slightly over two minute long Chipmunk Christmas Song alone, but if you look at the Chipmunk “family” overall, the kids are happy and well-adjusted, and overwhelmingly Dave is kind, patient, and accomodating, yelling only when he needs to for the purpose of retaining order. And once he's accomplished the challenging and ongoing goal of gaining Alvin's attention, he quiets back down and proceeds with the task at hand. The same can be said, I believe, of the situation at our house.

Most of the time, the kids and I maintain a positive, fun relationship occasionally interspersed with a little yelling and time out, but when I have to make negative comments I try to keep them to the situation. For example, “Look at this horrible mess! I have never seen anything so disgraceful!” as opposed to “You two are so bad! You made a mess again because all you can ever do is disappoint me.” The mess is bad, the behavior is bad, but always the children are good. They just need a little reminder of what good looks like every now and then.

Christmas Christmas Time Is Here....

Stolen Kisses

Here's an amusing toddler-dog cycle: (Assuming you're not the toddler or the dog.)

Dog licks toddler's face.
Toddler begins whimpering because dog licked her face and it's "yucky".
Dog sees toddler in distress and attempts to cheer her... by licking her face.
Toddler starts to cry because dog licked her face... again. Toddler yells, "Bad doggie! Go away!"
Dog appears a bit confused, but still wants to help. Dog gives toddler several kisses on the face.
Toddler balls up her fists, shakes a little, and yells, "GO AWAY DOGGIE!"
Dog is very concerned about toddler's increasing distress level. Dog climbs into toddler's lap and begins continuously licking her face.
Toddler howls and attempts to fight off her devoted protector.
Mom steps in, removes dog from toddlers lap, praises dog for his caring (if unwelcome) actions, and offers toddler human hugs.

Toddler accepts.  Signs of distress quickly melt away.
Dog is pleased to see toddler cheerful again. Dog jumps excitedly into toddler's lap and gives her another kiss.

Toddler smiles and says, “Look Mom! Doggie's giving me nice kisses! Toddler hugs dog and says, “Aww, thanks doggie! I love you.”

Thanks Doggie. Mom loves you too.

Dish Mania

You've heard the expression about too many cooks I assume. But have you heard the one about too many dishwashers? If your answer is no then you haven't been to my house lately.

Back Story: My house is well over 100 years old with beautiful ancient woodwork and lots of space (well, if you don't fill the space up with a husband, 3 children, 2 cats, a dog, a beta fish, and the occasional outdoor bug-box-dweller anyway). It's a bit outdated in places which isn't at all bothersome in general, the most notable exception being the kitchen. The two modern conveniences our kitchen most lacks are: 1) a dishwasher and 2) sufficient currency in the spare change jar with which to purchase one. (Also, unless I were willing to knock out some cabinets, to which I am not overly attached though demolition is not really my thing, it also lacks an acceptable installation site.

At any rate, assuming that my Cereal Mom income remains stable (i.e. at the official USD exchange rate of next to nothing or less), then my calculations show that I can expect to achieve my by then much needed kitchen remodel with built-in dishwasher in just under 3.5 million years. Oops, guess the great great great great great times infinity grandchildren will have to foot the bill for this one. Sorry about that kiddos.

Since I am more than a bit of a work widow and thus scarcely ever enjoy the luxury of another adult to help with the dishes, the kids and I have settled into what you could call a comfortable routine:

Step 1: Mom quietly secures 6-month-old baby into handy front pack carrier.

Step 2: Mom gets sponge nice and warm and sudsy. Dishwashing commences. Mom attempts to remove all debris from dishes while simultaneously guarding against a) crushing baby by leaning too hard against the countertop or b) Knocking baby unconscious by swinging heavy plates, pots, and pans within dangerous proximity to baby's tiny, soft skull.

Step 3: Despite the fact that baby is strategically positioned in the carrier facing Mom, some instinct of child-destructiveness informs baby of the precise location of barely reachable objects which she then uses her entire miniscule body weight to swing the carrier in the direction of. This awkward swinging motion causes Mom to unwittingly slop water all over the cabinets, the floor, and the surrounding countertops in a somewhat vain attempt to retain control of the temporarily sterile object.

Step 4: Baby, exhausted from the strain of many fruitless attempts to procure stoneware and cutlery, falls asleep. This is only somewhat of a relief to Mom who is now unfortunately faced with a whole new obstacle: baby has gone limp. (Limp being a highly technical term used to describe the appearance of a baby who has recently completed the process of closing her eyes and instantaneously doubling her weight.)

Step 5: With impeccable timing, baby's 3-year-old brother wanders into the kitchen in search of sustenance after a treacherous living room wrestling match involving multiple varieties of pillows, a two-year-old sister, a plastic dinosaur, and possibly a small dog. Upon noticing that he is being excluded from the dishwashing action, he immediately pulls the nearest chair to the sink, digs around until he uncovers a suitable child-size plastic cup, and commences one or all of the following activities: placing the not-yet-clean cup under the faucet stream directly above the already-clean object that Mom is attempting to rinse, changing the flow of the water so that it will look more like a fountain (which is essentially useless to the dish-rinsing process although endlessly entertaining to a preschooler), continually filling the cup with water and then holding the cup as high in the air as possible allowing the water to spill out of the cup and into an already full waiting bowl, thus causing a tremendous splatter of bacteria-infused sink water all over the counters, backsplash, baby, and floor.

Step 6: Aforementioned 2-year-old sister, having presumably recovered from a brief wrestling-match-induced stupor, wanders aimlessly into the kitchen and is of course magnetically drawn to the sink. Her attempts to wedge a rather sizable kitchen chair into the pea-sized gap between Mom and Brother are repeatedly thwarted by shoves, screams, and newly-awakened-baby kicks to the head. Undaunted, she laboriously heaves the chair into place on Mom's as-yet-unoccupied side and begins leaning over... well let's just say basically laying on the counter, propped up only by Mom's formerly dish-scrubbing, but now essentially immobile shoulder and the thankfully nearly full dish drainer.

Step 7: While baby entertains herself by grabbing fistfuls of now-easily-accessible toddler hair, preschooler continues to douse everyone and everything in the immediate vicinity, toddler steps down from the chair momentarily returning naked due to a drop of water having touched her clothing, and Mom breathes a tentative sigh of relief having noticed a bare spot in between the many remaining dirty dishes where a glimpse of metal sink is finally visible.

Step 8: Preschooler notices naked toddler, suddenly becomes aware that his shirt sleeves have become damp, tosses all unnecessary garments to the floor (for him the term unnecessary refers to all objects of clothing other than underwear), then breaks into hysterical tears upon realizing that Mom has usurped his precious plastic cup under the unlikely pretense of it “just being time to wash it”.

Step 9: Mom turns off the faucet, herds the nudist children in the direction of the table, hastily (and sloppily) reclothes them (still with baby in pouch) and all commence soiling the lunch dishes.

Step 10: Munch and repeat.

Note: I only said you could call it a comfortable routine.

Could You Be A Cereal Mom?

Assuming that the middle class has, in fact, shrunken into oblivion and is therefore for all intents and purposes non-existent there remain two classes of people. You know what they are, so I'll leave the class warfare conversation to trudge onward without me.

If all households in America can be lumped into two income ranges, then it stands to reason that only two classes of moms exist as well. I started thinking of what these classes might be called. Certainly not upper and lower class. That's not creative enough for us crafty mom-types. As a stay-at-home mom, pretty much everything I do from baby care to preschool snacks and crafts and beyond revolves around what I buy at the grocery store. Based upon this information, what follows are my proposed Mom Class Divisions:

Cereal Mom: At our house there have been more weeks than I care to think about where we've lived on little to no meat, boxed 'flake' potatoes, and some frozen corn that my husband's aunt and uncle grew in their garden last year. The main beverages we consume at our house are milk and water and while we're waiting for payday, most often when the milk is gone, the milk is gone. One thing we are never without, however, is cereal. I realize that cereal is not the cheapest item on the supermarket shelves, but just as there are (or were) subdivisions in the middle class (upper, lower, was there one in between? The middle middle class?) so too are there various levels of Cereal Momdom. I personally am what I'd call a Malt-O-Meal Mom. I purchase the ginormous 39 oz. bag (that's well over 2 lbs. for those mathematically challenged moms such as myself). I try to select a reasonably healthy, low calorie variety and then let those kids go to town. They eat cereal for snack, breakfast, and sometimes other meals as well. Does this happen on a regular basis? Of course not, but you know how the old saying goes: A Cereal Mom is always prepared... to feed her family cereal.

Caviar Mom: Obviously to be considered a Caviar Mom one need not buy caviar exclusively or even often or even ever. Just as there are various levels of Cereal Momdom, so too are there many levels of this class status. In my humble opinion, which matters because I'm the only one doing the writing (and most likely the reading) here, the lowest level of Caviar Mom is simply the ability to make a grocery list, go to the store, buy everything that is on that list, come home, and pull up your bank account online without wincing and/or scrambling for the nearest calculator. In other words, if you're familiar with the choice between paying the bills and eating, then you are not a Caviar Mom.

One day... I aspire to become a Special K Mom (that's a couple of rungs above Malt-O-Meal Mom on the cereal hierarchy, just above Generic Store Brand Cereal Mom). I know it's a stretch, but hey, let a mom have her dreams...