Dermabond: Part Deux

You are drinking wine with new friends and your kids and their kids are running around the house like crazy. You are shocked at how well this evening is going. This might be the first time, ever, that you've been over at someone else's house and been able to let the kids play on their own and not worry about anyone getting bitten. Your husband actually says this aloud to your new friends, which makes you cringe just a little. Why worry them? But they don't seem worried.

"They're boys," the new mom friend says. "Let them be boys." You love her instantly.

All five kids run upstairs from the basement playroom and chase each other through the living room, around the corner, and down a hall. You hear a scream, which is most definitely the scream of your child. You and your husband's eyes meet in that silent "you or me?" look. He's up first and goes around the corner.

"Ooh," he says. "Uh oh," he says, a little louder this time. His voice is light-hearted, but there's something in his tone that tells you that everything is not OK. You get up and meet him as he turns the corner. There is blood on your son's head and pouring down his cheeks. It's all over his shirt already and your husband's shirt. You watch as it drips on your new friends' hardwood floor.

You take your son from his arms, maybe more for you than for your son. If you're the one holding him then it can be someone else's responsibility to find out where the blood is coming from and to make it stop. Have I mentioned that you don't do well in stressful situations like this?

"He hit the corner of the wall. It's a small cut over his eyebrow," your husband says. "It's not bad, but it will need to be stitched up."

"OK. I'll take him to the emergency room," you say.

And you're off to the emergency room where the doctor looks at the cut.

By that time you are calm. The blood has stopped.

"Can you seal it up with Dermabond?" you ask the doctor.

"Yes, probably," the doctor says.

"Are you in medicine?" he asks, wondering how you know about Dermabond.

"No," you say, "He has a twin brother, who did almost this exact same thing last year."

After your son has been glued you return home where your husband has already put both of your other children to sleep. Your son might have a scar, which people who can't tell him from brother will appreciate. Plus, he has a good story. Days later he will delight in telling people, "There was blood coming out of my eyes!"

You? You're exhausted. So you sleep. It is a deep sleep, the sleep of the thankful, the sleep of a mother who knows how to appreciate the near miss, who knows that every mother does not return home from a trip to the emergency room with simply a small scar and a story. 

You Are Stupid

Most parents (myself included) have had the uncomfortable experience of hearing their children repeat undesirable four-letter words that the parent has accidentally said in their presence.

And as the mother of three children who love to play the name game and considering the fact that one of those children is named Huck ("Huck, Huck, Bo-Buck Banana, Fanna Fo...), we've had our fair share of accidental cursing too. This might have been avoided if only the name "Huck"had been included in Wikipedia's list of names that will result in profanity in the Name Game.

Each time one of my children have cursed I've somehow managed to remain calm and not bring attention to the word and the kids have moved on without incident.

But then about a month ago Huck turned to me out of nowhere and said, "You are stupid."

If Huck was looking to get a reaction out of me, he got one. A big one.

I looked at him, shocked and said, "Where did you learn that? We don't say that word. That's not nice. We do not say stupid. We do not say stupid. Never. Ever."

Since then he has used this word every day, several times a day. According to him, not only am I stupid, but his brother is stupid, his father is stupid, and his sister is especially stupid. Grilled cheese sandwiches are stupid and so are pajamas. The mailman, the stroller, a sippy cup of milk, and the big toe on his left foot are all very, very stupid. Kids at the park are stupid. Kids at school are stupid.

He also invents different forms of the word, including (but not limited to):

• Stupidy
• Stupidish
• Stupy, Stupy, Stupy, Stu

I try to be calm when I repeat, "Stupid is not nice." I try to explain that it makes people feel bad when he tells them that they're stupid. I've tried to give him alternatives, insisting that it is way more fun to replace "stupid" with any of the following:

• Silly Willikins
• Stupendous
• Weirdo

The only thing that seems to work, even a little bit, is to ignore him and wait for this phase to pass. At least he's not biting anymore.

Anyone been in this situation and have some advice that worked?

Tiny Little Racist

We live in a town where not many African Americans live. In my opinion, that's the worst thing about living in most small towns. Our town is very white, but still the man who checked us out at Costco yesterday was not the first black person that nearly 5-year-old Annabella has ever seen.

It was, however, the first time she chose to loudly ask me, "Mommy, why does that man have brown skin?"

When she asked the question, I was already pushing the cart away and I didn't see if the checker heard and I didn't look back. But there were several people pushing their carts toward the exit with me and I could tell they were all listening intently to my somewhat fumbled response. Marco was pushing the boys in the other cart behind us and also letting me field this question on my own.

ME: He has brown skin for the same reason you have the color of skin that you have. Because you were born that way.

ANNABELLA: I would not want to be born with brown skin. Or black skin.

ME: Why not? Brown and black skin is pretty. Just like your skin is pretty.

(She thinks about this for a minute. This might have satisfied her, but it doesn't satisfy me so I continue for her benefit and maybe to convince the people walking next to us that I am not trying to raise a tiny little racist.)

ME: Next year you will probably have kids with brown skin in your kindergarten class. (Sadly, every member of her preschool class is now white.)

ANNABELLA: Really?

ME: Really?

ANNABELLA: Well, if that's true then I'm not going to be friends with them. Because I don't like people with brown skin.

ME: What?

(I think my mouth dropped open so wide that my bottom lip hit the grocery cart.)

ME: Why?

ANNABELLA: Because they have short hair.

ME: All people with brown skin don't have short hair. You know that book we have at home, Uncle Jed's Barbershop? The girl in that book has long hair. 

And that's about the time that Marco stopped laughing under his breath at my efforts to apply logic to what was clearly Annabella just being contrary for the sake of being contrary and stepped in to put his many years of school-sponsored diversity training to work. He explained that being friends with someone has nothing to do with what they look like. He pointed out that his skin was a lot darker than her skin and that her brothers' skin was even darker. Then he asked how she would feel if he didn't like her just because she had blue eyes.

Annabella considered this as we finished unloading the cart and strapped the kids into their car seats. 

I wanted an epiphany. I wanted her to announce, "You're so right. I love all people for who they are no matter what they look like." Instead we were in the car headed home and moving on to other things. 

Four Months Post Mortem Concepts

My grandfather died four months ago and very few days go by when I don't think about him. He left us a table that he made himself out of a tree that someone had cut down and was going to haul away. My mother grew up with the table and my aunt used to press so hard with her pencil that her homework is still inscribed in it.

The kids think about their great grandpa too. Last week I was in the car with Annabella and one of her friends. Her friend asked if we ever used the 6th seat in our minivan, which is usually folded down.

"We used to use it all the time," Annabella said, "when my great grandfather was alive. That's where he would always sit."

We often pass by my grandfather's house and whenever we do Milo or Huck will always say, "There's Great Grandpa's house!"

This morning when Huck said it, I asked, "Does Great Grandpa still live there?"

Huck said, "No. He's died. He's in the hospital. In a dentist's bed. He's having trouble breathing."

Well, that's almost all true.

Overheard at Preschool Drop-Off

A tired mom gently bounces up and down holding her screaming 3-month old.

Helpful Mom: You could try putting him up on the dryer.

Tired Mom: I'm going to try putting him up on Craig's List.

I Thought You Were the Babysitter

It's time to register Annabella for kindergarten. So, all three kids and I are driving over there in the pouring rain with birth certificate, immunization record, and proof of address in hand.

Annabella has had some unexpected anxiety about kindergarten. Before this visit, I suggested a few times that we register. Her response was a resounding, "No!" I didn't push it. This time I am able to intice her because we've been invited to hear a local children's musician who plays at the school every Friday.

In the morning I am anxious about this too. Kindergarten, already? If older friends of mine are to be believed, in a second I'll turn around and she'll be in her high school cap and gown. But right now we are running late and I am losing my temper this way and that as I tried to herd my cats out the door and into the car.

Note to self: A person should not be harried if they're on their way to hear a fortyish bearded man sit in a tiny chair and sing "I've been working on the railroad."

I assume that there's some sort of parking protocol, so in an effort not to have anyone yell at me I park a block away. In my rush to get out of the house, I didn't put raincoats or rainboots on any of us, despite the torrential downpour. It is not until I have everyone unbuckled from their car seat and ready to face the elements that I realize that my umbrella won't open.

"Shhhhhhhi," I say. I almost always manage to stop myself before finishing the word. Almost.

So, we're holding hands, tromping along like soaked rats by the time we see the crossing guard, a fortyish woman, who is already picking up her orange cones. I smile at her, but she doesn't smile back.

Finally we find our way to the kindergarten classroom, walking past door after door with cheery signs that say things like, "It's cool to be peanut-free."

The children's musician works his magic on Annabella, just as I expected. And my own anxieties are eased by the warmth of the kindergarten classroom and the joy emanating from the students and teachers alike. We head to the office to register. As I'm filling out the forms the crossing guard comes into the office.

She looks at me and says kindly, "There's a parking lot in the front that you can use."

"Thanks," I say.

"I saw you before, but I didn't say anything because I thought you were the babysitter."

For a brief second I'm flattered. I look young and spry enough to be a babysitter!

Then she adds, "Well, because you have no raincoats or an umbrella or anything. I just thought. Well, you know. Sometimes the babysitters, they don't know any better."

No Naps: A Play in 7 Acts

Last month I made the cocky assertion that Milo and Huck were going to stay in their cribs until they went to college.

I think they heard me.

On Sunday, September 2nd the unthinkable happened. It was naptime and the boys were quiet in their cribs. We assumed that this meant that they were sleeping, but what they were really doing was plotting.

We heard the door open with it's signature creak, a very different creak than the sound of Annabella's door. Then we heard little boy voices, conspiring voices. A few seconds later we saw Milo and Huck walking down the stairs. My heart sank into my stomach. Goodbye hours between 1pm and 3pm. Goodbye naptime.

Rather than bore you with all the specifics, I wrote this little play. Enjoy!

MONDAY - CONSEQUENCES

Me: I am going to take your trains away if you climb out of your cribs one more time.

Them: Here are my trains!

TUESDAY - BRIBERY

Me: If you stay in your crib we'll go to the pool and go swimming after naptime.

Them: I don't want to go swimming.

WEDNESDAY - NONCHALANCE

Me: If you get out of your crib I am not going to talk to you or look at you. I am just going to put you back in your crib and leave the room.

Them: Mommy, I'm out of my bed! Don't look at me!

THURSDAY - TRICKERY (AKA "QUIET TIME")

Me: You don't have to sleep. You just have to play quietly in your cribs.

Them: OK. (Five minutes of laughing and shouting later.) Hi Mom. We're done playing quietly in our cribs.

FRIDAY - LATER NAP

Me: Stay in your cribs. Stay in your cribs. Stay in your cribs. Please, stay in your cribs.

Them: No! No! No!

They finally fall asleep at 4:30 and when they're still sleeping at 6 pm I wake them up. They don't fall asleep until 9pm that night.

SATURDAY - NO NAP

Us: :(

Them: :(

SUNDAY - BABY GATE ON THEIR DOOR

Us: You can play quietly in your rooms and take a nap if you feel like it.

Them: (After an hour of play.) Mom! Dad! We're ready for you to let us out of our cage!

Us:

When a Mommy Chicken Loves a Daddy Chicken

In our house we like to multitask. Two babies at one time, three kids in diapers, two careers, etc.

So it should not come as a surprise that yesterday we tackled the issue of eating animals we love and reproduction in one interesting conversation with our children.

It all started when we decided to try a new organic farm stand that I'd heard about. Want to put off talking about the facts of life with your children? Skip the organic farm stand and just go to Whole Foods.

We picked out some strawberries and then watched the chickens for a while. When Milo started trying to scale the coop, we knew it was time to go. We paid for our strawberries and also bought a dozen eggs.

Annabella: Where do those eggs come from?

My daughter who eats eggs for breakfast twice a week and has become an expert at cracking them herself was looking intently at the egg carton. It's not that she's never seen eggs, she's just never seen them so close to chickens before.

Me: They come from the chickens.

Annabella: (Horrified) Are there baby chicks in those eggs?

Me: Um.

Marco: Only if they're fertilized.

Annabella: What does fertilizer mean?

Marco: Fertilized.

Huck: Fertilized!

Milo: Fertilized!

Annabella: What does fertilized mean?

At this point I would like to report that we had a long discussion about what happens when a daddy chicken loves a mommy chicken very much and fertilizes the egg, but if the daddy chicken is too tired or wants to watch "The Wire" on DVD instead then the egg isn't fertilized and we eat it for breakfast. But instead I answered her this way:

Me: Do you want some strawberries?

And that was enough to distract her, hopefully for several years.

How to potty train boys

Really, I'm asking you. How do you potty train a boy?

Hipster Parenting Meets TV Journalism

Found this Nightline interview about the "hipster parenting movement" on the Offsprung's hilarious Dadsmacker. It left me with some serious questions.

1. Why does the voice over make it sound like this is a story about getting SARS from school cafeteria food, large things falling from the sky, or some other way your children could be killed by something previously thought benign?

2. Did producers see the irony in the fact that the exact moment when Neal Pollack's wife Regina talks about trying to keep our children from being brainwashed by big corporations (read: Disney), the little ABC bug dances in the corner of the screen to get your attention?

3. I don't fully support a band that changes the words from "I Wanna Be Sedated" to "I Wanna Be Elated." (At the end of the day, I do want to be sedated and sometimes it would be nice if my kids were a little less elated or at the very least quieter about it.) However, the report seems to imply that it's better for kids to be sitting at home watching cartoons then it is for them to be jumping around singing and dancing with hundreds of other toddlers. I realize that's not a question.

4. Is there any stupider question you could ask a group of kids musicians than, "Do you guys have kids?"

5. The reporter says, "Not everyone is a fan of Pollack's book. New York Times columnist David Brooks calls him a 'whiny narcissist.'" To which I ask, is everyone a fan of David Brooks? I haven't read Pollack's book, but I did read Brooks' article and as far as I could tell it was basically encouraging parents to move out of the city so normal people wouldn't have to look at them.

6. Why is this interview with Pollack about this nebulous "hipster parenting movement" anyway? Why isn't it about something more socially interesting, like the fact that more fathers are insisting that they're jobs have flexible schedules so they can actually take their kids to the park?

Here's the thing. I kind of want to make fun of the parents they're talking about because they're way cooler than I am and it's always fun to mock people who are way cooler than you are. But I just can't get past mocking the report itself.