Domestic Psychology

My Geoff says:

// June 28th, 2011 // No Comments » // me, parenting

1. Scoot back.
2. Brush.
3. Bathe.
4. Show me your homework.
5. Unplug now.
6. Clean up this mess.
7. I love you.

Still feral

// June 10th, 2011 // No Comments » // parenting

Amy: “Mom! Evan’s on the trampoline.”
Me: “Okay.”
Amy: “He’s *naked.”

Every window in the house is like a television whose channel can’t be changed, so I went to the trampoline channel/window. Tiny clothing was scattered on the ground in a pattern that could only be caused by tossing the clothing off of the trampoline. On the trampoline, a 6-y-o with a grin that was impossibly big, jumped on the trampoline. His feet touched the trampoline surface for a moment, then his body seemed to float weightlessly in the air before landing and taking off again. The child who prefers to be naked and loves to bounce on the trampoline discovered that the combination of two good sensory experiences combine to create bliss. At the very moment I realized how watching Evan’s joy made me feel calm and happy, his sister reached the trampoline. “Mom said you hafta put your pants on or come inside.”

I hate being the mean mom who makes children wear pants, bathe regularly and have bedtimes in the summer. No. I like clean, well-rested children. I love my little nudist.

*She pronounces it nekkid.

Found: one egg

// May 4th, 2011 // No Comments » // children, holidays, parenting

Six days after Easter and two days after the storms, I found an Easter egg in the yard. It wasn’t one of the four boiled eggs that were not found. Wild animals probably found those. Wild animals is not a euphemism for my children either. No, I found a small yellow plastic egg with candy inside. The candy was a foil wrapped Peepster. Peepsters are chocolate coated Peeps. Not entire marshmallow chicks or bunnies, but small bits of Peeps. Peep giblets dipped in chocolate and wrapped in foil that spent almost a week outside.

As I stared at it bemusingly, Noah asked me if I would be eating it. I delicately said, “Ew. Absolutely not.” Okay, maybe not so delicate, but Noah scooped it up and walked in the house with uncharacteristically swift speed. He turned down the hall as if he was heading to his room, but marched further into his little brother’s room.

“Ouch! Why did you hit me with an egg?”
“It still has candy in it.”
“Can I eat it?”
“Yeeeees.”
“Thanks Noah!”

I’m not Grandaddy

// April 20th, 2011 // No Comments » // parenting

Evan: “Can we go get Icees?”
Me: “No.”
Evan: “When Grandaddy picks me up from school, HE takes me to get an Icee.”
Me: “I’m not Grandaddy.”

After several days of repeating this exact conversation, the tactic changed.

Me: “Goodnight Evan.”
Evan: “Wait! Don’t turn out the light yet. I need to tell you something.”
Me: “What is it?”
Evan: “I want you to think about Icees. Then, go to sleep and dream about Icees. Then, wake up and think about Icees all day while I’m at school. After you thought about it all night and all day, then pick me up from school and take me to get an Icee.”
Me: “I will think about Icees.”

The next day, we bought Icees on the way home from school. As we left the corner store, Evan had one more thought.

“Grandaddy would have let me get a candy bar, too.”

- – - – -

Amy: “Do you have any change that I can practice counting?”
Me: “No. Do you want to play the coin counting game on the iPad?”
Amy: “What about the penny jar?”
Me: “Okay.”
Amy: “Yay! Grandaddy lets me keep all the coins I count.”

Boo-boo?

// April 9th, 2011 // 1 Comment » // parenting

The children were playing cheerfully, so I started painting another of the upstairs doors. As soon as I had paint under my fingernails, on my arms and between my fingers, Amy ran through the house in full panic mode.

“Mooooooom!”
“I’m painting, Amy. What’s the problem?”
“Evan is hurt! He has blood on his face.”
“What happened?”
“I dunno.”
“Can you get him in the house while I wash the paint off my hands?”
“Oh, he’s already inside. He’s playing Legos.”

The absence of tears from my very dramatic 5-year-old both concerned and confused me. Amy dragged her brother into the room where I was painting. I gasped.

“Take a picture and send it to your father so that he will come home.”
“Okay.”

I ran for a wet washcloth as my phone rang.

“What happened to Evan? Does he need stitches? Is his retina scratched?”
“I have no idea what happened. I’m trying to find out how bad it is. Evan, be still while I put this washcloth on your cheek.”
“Mooom, I was trying to build something and you’re gonna make me lose my place.”
“Doug, you don’t need to come home. Evan is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”

I sent the fuzzy picture that Amy took to Twitter. Almost instantly, someone correctly identified the injury as red Popsicle splatter. They politely ignored the dirt.

Always my baby

// April 6th, 2011 // No Comments » // kid quotes, parenting

“You keep calling me baby, but babies are only one. I’m five. Five year olds are awesome! Five year olds are not babies. It’s okay though. I still love you even though I’m not a baby.”

Shopping with Evan

// March 27th, 2011 // 3 Comments » // kid quotes, parenting

Me: “We are here to buy your friend a birthday gift. We are not shopping for Evan today.”
Evan: “Okay.”
Me: “How about this? Would your friend like this?”
Evan: “That one is better.”
Me: “Then we will get it for your friend.”
Evan: “Nooooo. That’s for me.”
Me: “What are we going to get for your friend?”
Evan: “I guess we can get this one.”
Me: “Is this for you or your friend?”
Evan: “Me.”
Me: “The next thing you pick up is going to be for your friend and not for you.”
Evan: “Give him that.”
Me: “That’s a wonderful gift for your friend. Mommy needs to get some dish soap and then we will go to the cashiers.”
Evan: “No. You can’t buy stuff for you. We are only here for my friend’s gift.”

Jury Duty

// February 28th, 2011 // No Comments » // me, parenting

Last week, I got summoned for Jury Duty. I spend most of Monday – Friday in the car or in a school, but I got chosen for Jury Duty. There are a bajillion people who don’t have lives that are completely focused on their five children, but they chose me for Jury Duty. Because every lawyer wants a news junkie, hyper-tweeting blogger on their client’s jury, I have been chosen to sit in the hall, get interviewed and get turned down, all day, every day, for two weeks.

The instructions letter with my summons included an e-mail address to contact if I am not able to “fulfill my duties.” While sitting in the elementary school carpool line last week, I sent an e-mail asking if my date to serve could be rescheduled for summer break when I can get a babysitter and the children don’t require constant mom taxi service. I got no answer. Now, I have to make a choice.

One option is to bring all of the children to the courthouse early Friday morning so that they will neither be stranded at their different schools nor unwatched. I think this will displease the court officials.

Another option is to just pretend that I will be finished at the courthouse in time to be in the Kindergarten carpool line before 1 pm. That couldn’t possibly go wrong and I would certainly make the 3 pm bus stop pickup and the 3:30 pickup at the high school. If I’m not there on time, I’m sure the teachers will happily watch my children, fix them snacks, supervise their homework and make sure they get to after school practices and activities.

My third option is, umm, well . . . I don’t have another option. Either option is going to end poooorly.

Update: I found a real person to talk to and I am officially . . . excused from serving. That loud noise you just heard was my sigh of relief.

just a mom

// January 20th, 2011 // 1 Comment » // me, parenting

I have gotten GREAT feedback from my histrionic post about Sarah leaving home. Some of it made me giggle. Some of it made me feel soooo much better. All of it was helpful. I am still scratching my head about the recurring theme in feedback that I am afraid of New York. I know I am a deliberately vague writer, but I truly never meant to imply fear of a city. I spent my high school years treating Voodoo Village as my personal playground. It never occurred to me that I was supposed to be afraid of a neighborhood.

I know that in Memphis, justice is weighted by your net worth and personal connections, but I am not afraid of Memphis. I love that city. I know that Chicago is quietly run by crime syndicates, but I am not afraid of Chicago. I love that city. I understand the exhaustingly complicated social rules of Atlanta, but I am not afraid of Atlanta. I’m sorry, I don’t love Atlanta, but I don’t fear it either. I have preconceived assumptions about New York and they are probably wrong, but they are based on the idea that it is a place where creative people gather with shared dreams of being artists, writers, actors and musicians. I will accept that I have romanticized New York, but I am recalcitrant to accept that I am afraid of it.

I understand that much of social media has evolved into categories. I know people who do or don’t follow me on various sites because of my liberal slant. There is a spike in readership of anything I tag with Autism. Ultimately, even labeling me a middle aged hippie is overshadowed by the fact that I am a mom. Everything in my life is filtered through my mom lenses.

I don’t fear New York. I fear my daughter getting sick and my inability to scoop her up and take her to the doctor. I worry about my child getting a home cooked meal after weeks of surviving on ramen and Dr. Pepper. I am anxious about her moving somewhere without a support system. I don’t have an off switch that changes the way I feel about my children just because they reach a certain age. Just to make things even harder to understand, at the same time that I am filled with anxiety and sprinkled with sadness, I am also excited and proud. You know, just like a mom.

She’s leaving home

// January 17th, 2011 // 8 Comments » // parenting

Sarah leaves in one week. Seven days. That takes my breath away, but you wouldn’t know it if you get within earshot of me. While Sarah Toy Story 3′s her room, I talk to her. I talk to her when we are in the same room. I shout across the house to talk to her. I stand outside the closed bathroom door and talk to her. What does all this talking sound like? Like this:

“And be sure to follow the laundry instructions on the tag and never leave your drink unattended and always have a working flashlight where you can find it in the dark and keep your phone charged.”

No matter how much I say, it doesn’t feel like enough. There isn’t enough time and I have a giant knowledge hole about all things New York. I feel like I should remind her to always keep enough credit on her Metro pass that she will never be stranded far from home. Then again, maybe not. I just don’t know. Is New York a ‘don’t talk to people on the elevator’ place? Are there restaurants that only the locals know about?

So, I need help. I need to know what YOU would say to a 17-year-old moving from Knoxville to Manhattan. You can leave me a comment or send me an e-mail. You can text my phone or call and talk to me. Send me a tweet. Leave me a comment on facebook. Please send me your wisdom. Just send it quickly, because . . . seven days.