Supermom Breaks a Nail

by Kristen Easley

  “You’re joking?”  Dad asked.  “What did he say?”

  Logan replied, “He said, ’Stop it!’”

  As we headed out of the airport, my father put his arm around me and told me how glad he was we were there.  “We have some of your favorite meals planned; your old room is all made up for you, and a fire is laid in the hearth waiting for you.  The football game is on at 1:00,” he said

  “Thanks Dad,” I said, leaning into him.

  He leaned in closer and whispered, “And I bought the good scotch – lots of it.”

  I love coming home.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Crime and Punishment

  When it comes to discipline, the “How to Raise a Kid” books imply children today have evolved with functioning and logical minds by the time they are nine months old.  We no longer need the barbaric ways of our predecessors that involve angered tones or stern language.  Instead, we can have a loving and open discourse with our children, which allows them a say in a situation.  Many times their inappropriate behavior (we do not use ‘bad’ as a modifier as it implies the child is flawed) is a result of their frustration about not having an equal voice in the rules and workings of the household.  If you simply allow the children the opportunity to make the right decision, they will. 

  I have found a small flaw in this theory when it comes to my children.  If I allow them the opportunity to make the right decision, they will consistently and categorically make the decision to do what they want with little to no regard for what the correct decision is.  After a few years of having every boundary I ever set smashed, I decided perhaps we could attempt some form of discipline. I was tired of apologizing to every person we encountered for the action/word/sound my children made.

  I decided to try the “How to Raise a Kid” books’ recommendation and have a comprehensive discussion with my children about their actions. I needed to clearly lay out what is expected of them.  I could do this.  I had negotiated contracts in my former SWOC life.  I had been asked to write papers arguing my points in college.  Surely I could engage in constructive discourse with my children about my expectations. 

  Fortunately, I was provided the opportunity to try this approach out almost as soon as I had made the decision to try it.  Tabitha knocked down Logan’s block tower one too many times.  She pushed the tower, and he pushed her.  Unfortunately, given her natural balance, she toppled over.  She screamed, and he immediately went on the defense.  I sent him to his room to think about his actions.  After an appropriate amount of time, I called Logan to the living room.  I sat him next to me on the couch.  In the calmest voice I could find, I asked him if he knew what he had done wrong.  He admitted to pushing Tabby. I discussed everything that was wrong with violence and why we must never use it as retaliation.  I asked for confirmation that he understood what I was saying.  I never wavered in the strength of my words or tone.  I followed all the rules.   

  There was only one problem:  Since the light is better in Logan’s room, I will sometimes do my makeup in there.  That morning, apparently, I had left my makeup case behind.  He had helped himself to some blue eye shadow which he streaked across his cheek.  A little purple lipstick was around his mouth and chin. Mascara that he actually succeeded in applying to one set of lashes lay in clumps and bled below his eye. 

  I was engaged in conversation with a miniature drag queen. 

  When Nate arrived home that evening, he looked tired and frazzled.  He gave me one of his half smiles that tells me to give him some space so he can shake off the workday before he put on his Dad hat.  I, however, was tired of wearing my Mom hat and decided whatever had happened in his day could wait.  I told him of the altercation between Logan and Tabby.  He took one look at his son and asked, “So you forced him to wear makeup?” 

  I laughed.

  Logan said, “Yes.”

  “We need to talk,” Nate said.

  “I agree.”  I said.  “How about in Bermuda?  I’ll call Mary.”

  “I’m serious,” he said.  “What happened?”

  I saw that he was getting agitated.  I sent the kids to their rooms to play.  Nate tried to sort out the details.  I became increasingly infuriated as he pinched the bridge of his nose, which indicates what I am saying is giving him a headache.  A cry came from Tabby’s room.  I rolled my eyes and went off to see what had happened.  I stood in the doorway of Tabby’s room undetected.  Tabby was holding a doll at a tea party she had set up.  She could not get the doll to stay upright in a sitting position.  Every time she released it, the doll would fall to the side.  Tabby balled her little fists and made a noise from her throat.  Logan turned around from the puzzle he was working and asked Tabby what was wrong.  He even put a hand on her shoulder.  She turned her watering blues to Logan and pointed to the doll. 

  “Not working,” she said and demonstrated by trying to sit the doll once more.  Tears rolled down her cheeks. 

   “Let’s try this!”  Logan said, jumping up.  He brought a book over and made a tent of it behind the doll.  The doll gently reclined on it. 

  Tabby was thrilled.  “Than ew, Logun,” she said and began pouring the imaginary tea. 

   “You’re welcome, Tabby.”

  They proceeded to play in harmony, Tabby at her tea party and Logan at his puzzle.  I took a deep breath and returned to the living room.  I sat down next to Nate and asked how his day had been.  He said “Fine” curtly and leaned back in his chair.  When he looked at me, I smiled, inviting him to elaborate.  Slowly, he did.  The more he talked, the more he relaxed.  When he was done, we revisited the kid’s altercation and aftermath.  When I told it now, we both snickered, then laughed.  I like laughing with Nate.  He is a nice companion to be going through all of this with. 

  Especially if we go through it in Bermuda. 

  Chapter Fourteen

  Swimming in Lake Me

  The other day, Nate asked me if I wanted some “Me Time.”  I probably should have mentioned the overwhelming sense of the walls closing in on me long before he mentioned the twitch in my left eye whenever I looked at the children.  But I took his suggestion. Me Time is short lived.  I took a night to get my nails done – (“a night” equates to 3.75 hours in Momhood time). 

  Once I returned, Nate felt owed.  I don’t mean sexually; that is what jewelry is for. I mean he wanted some Me Time.  He checked out to surf the internet for six hours.  However, it was 9:00 P.M., and the children were just finishing dinner.  Pajamas, teeth brushing, stories, songs and the general battle to get them to stay in bed had not yet begun.  I asked as to what, perchance, delayed the bedtime ritual?  He didn’t know.  They were just messing around. 

  Why bother?  I had to play catch up, and I was out 50 bucks for the nails that subsequently got smudged.

  So I tried a slightly different approach.  After the children were down, I poured my third glass of wine and told Nate, “The funniest things happen today.  Right after lunch, Tabby decided instead of finishing her grape juice at the table, she would take it with her.  Once on the couch, she decided to dump the juice out.  No reason -- just turned the cup over.  But that wasn’t the funny part.  The funny part is, when I saw it, everything in my vision took on a red filter.  That’s right; I saw red – bright red -- blood red, really.  And then it all became kind of fuzzy, and I realized I was shaking…I know, weirdest thing, but I was shaking – my whole body. 

  So I went to the Mommyverse and asked others if this had ever happened to them and what they did about it.  Some of the Mommyverse suggested I take a day off!  How about that?  You’ve gone white again.  No, I don’t mean I am going to actually leave the house and have you watch the kids.  I mean I am just going to let you take point tomorrow.  I will maybe take a bath, catch up on some reading -- get a few things done.  Of course, I will help out if you need it, but you will be the Main Parent tomorrow.  What do you think?”�
�  

  Here is how my day off went:

  My bath is peppered with cries from the children who now HAVE to have a bath despite their protests and claims of tortures the night before.  Nate comes in every five minutes, asking where something is, how is it going, do I want the children to come in?  I begin to shave my legs when the children break in.  They launch themselves into the bath with me.  Nate realizes he has lost the children and comes to find them.  When he sees them with me, regardless of the fact that they are still in pj’s sitting in a full bathtub, he says, “Oh, good. You have them.  I am going to run to work really quick to grab something.  I’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” 

  Twenty minutes becomes a hundred twenty minutes, as per usual.  I feed them and get Tabby to take a nap.  I sit on my lawn chair and start reading.  Nate, recently returned, gets me a soda.  What a guy.  He goes back in the house, presumably to get his own soda.  Logan immediately needs something – anything.  He needs to re-create Starry Nights in sidewalk chalk, and can I help him?  He needs to learn arithmetic right now.  He is interested in changing the brakes on the car - and so on.  I realize Nate is missing.  I go to find him only to discover he is asleep in our bed, where he stays for another hour.  By the time he wakes up (with the requisite “Wow. I must have really needed that”) it is time for dinner.  Nate mentions how much he likes the way I cook steak.

  The next day I call The Mothers.  They laugh at me.  They remind me how there never was such a thing as Me Time in their day.  The only Me Time they were allowed was when they gave birth.  I thank them again for birthing and raising me and Nate and plead some child emergency to get off the phone.

  I call Gigi and Dawn because surely they must have similar experiences.  Dawn is at lunch with her husband, her nanny Selma tells me. Gigi is thrilled I called because she has had the most amazing weekend with her family and tells me all about it.  She asks what I wanted to say.  I tell her that I should go and will call her tomorrow. 

  I sigh, and just then Nate walks in with a sad little arrangement of flowers he bought from the guy standing at a traffic light.  He says we can order in tonight, and I put the flowers in water.  He tells me he loves me, and I think maybe this really is a nice life.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Potty Training

  Potty training is difficult for some and a piece of cake for others.  Below I shall include all of the methods I have found to be effective and everything I know about potty training after having trained two children:

  Chapter Sixteen

  Exalt Every Action

  The other day, Logan’s room was a disaster.  I stood in his doorway and told him we had to straighten up and get ready to go because it was time to go meet his little friend Greystoke at the park for our playdate.  No response.  I reminded him that he had pestered me all last week to call Greystoke’s mom for this playdate and we must not be late.  Logan dropped his toys and started walking out of his room. 

  “No, no, Logan.  We must clean up our room before we leave.”

  He continued to walk into the kitchen and stuck his head in the fridge.

  “Logan, you just had breakfast and snacks.  I don’t want you eating anything else.  Get out of that refrigerator and come back into your room.  Pleeeease.”

  He circled around to the living room and started watching TV.

  “Logan Princeton Unicef!  You come in this room right now, or I will tell Greystoke’s mom that we cannot play today!”  There is a possibility he knew I would not do this.  I never have before.

  When I had gone pink in the face, Logan meandered into his room and dropped a block into the toy chest.  I clapped and proclaimed, “Good job!  Atta boy!  Such a good boy, Logan!” 

  I effused over his efforts, if you could actually call what he was doing effort.  Any time any item was placed somewhere other than where it was originally, I jumped around and sang “Logan’s a great kid” songs. After twenty minutes and four items back where they belong, he tottered off to pilfer a banana.

  Well, he had tried, hadn’t he?  So I finished picking up his room and made his bed.  On our way out, I asked him to throw away the peel of his banana.  He deposited the peel into the trash can, and I got teary.  Somebody’s getting a treat from Toys&More for being such a good helper!

  I reward anything these days.  Once Tabby wet her pants but the urine did not actually reach the floor. I gave her three M&Ms.  My friends are no different.  Dawn bought the twins bikes because they went a whole week without making her cry.  Gigi’s son Schubert once saved a baby bird that had fallen from its nest, and Gigi donated a new ornithology exhibit to their local zoo in his honor.

  We acknowledge everything.  I keep confetti on hand in anticipation for the First we are about to experience – “Tabby used the TV remote control all by herself!  Hurray!” (Nate, call the cable company and get a new remote, would you?  This one doesn’t seem to function anymore.)  “Oh, boy. Logan went the whole day without dumping the dog food in the washing machine!  Pizza time!” 

  I attended Logan’s soccer game on Saturday.  The game was for three to five-year-olds.  No score was kept so that no one would be disappointed.  There was a shindig after the game.  We acknowledged either everyone winning or maybe nobody losing. I am not quite sure.  We had hot dogs; burgers; cakes; and syrup-heavy, neon-colored drinks.  During our celebration we recapped pivotal moments in the game that didn’t really affect the outcome because we did not keep score. 

  Every “How to Raise a Kid” book tells you that positive reinforcement is the way to go.  If you react to good behavior and not bad, the children will seek out that reaction, and you foster good behavior.  The results of this were evident at a playdate I went to just last week. Tabby, Logan and I went to their friend Newru’s house.  Also there, was a pair of twins named Petunia and Gladiola.  Our mothers might have scooped us up and thrown us outside with the door locked behind us.  The other moms and I, however, attempted a friendly chat with our children present.  As we dodged various projectiles whizzing across the room, we tried desperately to keep focus on what the other was saying. 

  Meanwhile, the children were hitting and scratching and pulling and pushing and anything else that elicited shrieks from their victims.   In one conflict, Newru’s mom said to her son, “Oh, Newru, we don’t like to hit our friends, do we?  Go give Petunia a kiss and say sorry.” 

  “No?” 

  (To Petunia) “Newru is sorry, Petunia.” 

  (To Newru) “Aren’t you, Newru?” 

  Petunia’s mom tried to dismiss Newru’s actions as minor and probably deserved.  Petunia’s mom assured Newru’s mom that Petunia bleeds easily and the trickle of blood coming from her mouth could be from anything. 

  Periodically a kid did something that was not wrong -- not necessarily right but not wrong.  This child was held up as an example for all the other children, “Look at Gladiola!  She is sitting there tearing up that magazine and not bothering anyone!”

  (To Gladiola’s mom) “Oh, no, I wasn’t going to read that one anyway.”   We launched into a regular cheer section.  "All Praise Gladiola who didn’t bother us in the last five minutes.”

  Since my children did not actually draw blood and only broke a few toys, I rewarded them by having pudding for dinner.  

  Not surprising, The Mothers don’t exactly see eye to eye with me on this matter.  They believe a good boy is one who does what you say the first time.  They let me know that, when I held a job, my superiors did not huddle around my chair, lauding me for performing the tasks I was hired to do.  They warn me that, when Tabby turns in her paper to her Berkeley professor as assigned, it might just come back with an A, not a marching band trumpeting its arrival.  When adult Logan succeeds in not throwing his briefcase at the neighbor who waves hello, a messenger from above may not come down with a trunk of gold (or candy) for such actions. 

  But then, agai
n, what do they know? Raising kids is different today.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Celebrate Good Times… and Every Other Event Too!

  The other day I attended a pretty special celebration, a graduation.  I have always been fond of graduations because I feel like they are a symbolic door opening to the future of the graduate.  Will they be going to high school where their talent will be awakened?  Are they leaving for college where a whole new world of intellectualism and enlightenment awaits them?  Or perhaps they are entering the real world and the rest of their adult life is brimming with possibilities. 

  I like birthday parties, but it doesn’t seem like the guest of honor has to do anything but survive to get one.  Weddings are always lovely, but I find myself making bets with the other guests as to how many weddings the bride/groom will have. (If I like the person with whom I place the bet, I make plans to sit at their table at the next one).  But graduations are both a sense of accomplishment and a chance to expand one’s potential. 

  This graduation celebration I attended was no different.  There were speeches by school dignitaries.  Mothers were weeping over their children growing up.  Graduates took the stage to commemorate what they had learned.  Bouquets were everywhere -- balloons and cards abounded.  Relatives traveled far and wide to attend.  The excitement in the room was palpable. 

  Logan’s four-year-old friend Addison was graduating from the Fluffy Clouds class to the Big Rainbows class.  She was in a cap and gown.

  Her parents held a catered lunch in their backyard after the ceremony.  It was themed “Influential Women in Music,” given Addison’s newfound love of the kazoo.  At my table, some of the other moms compared this event to some of theirs.  (For those of you who don’t know, “comparing” in Mom talk means “lambasting.”)  It was a gently worded war to see who loved her child more.  For Sunshine’s first day of eighth grade, her mom made a colorful banner adorned with smiling suns (nice tie-in).  On Pylon and Fleur de Lys’ first day of third grade, their moms thought it would be cute to dress in their old cheerleading uniforms.  They wrote cheers and chanted them out front of the elementary school as their children emerged.  Aloysius' mom had a bouncy house on retainer, just in case.