Eliott – Page 6 – The UnderToad

The Poop-Sponge

I came down to breakfast this morning and John said, “I’m having a bad day. I don’t know what’s wrong. I just feel angry. I’m experiencing your kind of irrational anger and I don’t know what else to do, so I’m just going to express myself.” He then went on to vent about the two things which had him completely wound up by 9:30am on a Saturday morning: my burning dinner in his griddle (which is actually a non-stick skillet) the night before and the fact that I did not delineate clearly enough which sponge was the “poop-sponge.”

Let me back up.

Carter has been using the “potty-chair” all week. As an instrument in potty-training, it is debatable whether cleaning the potty chair is in fact preferable to changing a poopy diaper. I have to admit, I’m glad Eliott never took to using it. Carter, however, immediately recognized it as the one thing in the house that could only possibly be fully hers, and loves it. So I got out a new sponge to clean the potty-chair all week, and casually mentioned this fact to John. Unfortunately, there is no visible difference in the poop-sponge and the other sponge. They are both relatively new, blue, and located near the kitchen sink.

So part B of his anger this morning was over the fact that my poop-sponge directions had caused confusion, to say the least. Paranoia was the natural result of my inattention to detail in both location of sponge, and explanation of location. (It turns out he did mistakenly clean the entire kitchen with the poop-sponge. In hindsight, I might not have pointed this out ~~today~~ ever and/or attempted a better job of convincing him otherwise.) It also does not matter to John that the possibility of even a trace of Carter-feces on the sponge in question was negligible at best. I had, after all, mostly cleaned the potty chair with the flushable wipes first, and then merely disinfected it with a sponge and anti-bacterial soap. Seriously.

But remember, this is the man who refused to allow me to wash cloth diapers in the same machine that his own clothes would also be washed. Nevermind the logistics here and the fact that clothes and diapers would never actually intermingle within the machine. Remember too that the entire conversation started this morning with the disclaimer that John was experiencing my irrational anger, which cannot be appeased with logic, no matter how hard one tries. I actually understand this.

For the first time in my life (I dare admit), I responded in a way that put only John’s interests at heart. This is to say, I did what he always does to me, when I’m in such a mood. (Because, as my mother oft explains, this is how men work. They communicate best by showing, rather than telling, and treat others as they wish to be treated, rather than taking the female verbal cues to “LEAVE ME THE EFF ALONE WHEN I’M IN THESE MOODS!”)

Completely against my nature and desire, I climbed on top of him and enraptured him in a full body bear hug, right there at the kitchen table. I soothed him with loving reassurances that “Everything will be okay, honey,” and “It is all my fault if the entire family contracts Hepatitis-C,” and finally, the clencher, “Don’t worry. I still love you.” Unsurprisingly, he reacted exactly like I do, which is to stiffen, whine, and attempt to back out of the hug. Though my size is no advantage in such a situation, I did have him pinned to the chair. This is about the time Carter noticed someone usurping her spot, became jealous, and proceeded to angrily kick at me saying, “No Mommy. Stop it. No hugs. NO HUGS!” (I thought, where are you when I’m the recipient of such torture, huh kid?!)

Unfortunately, the hug had little to no real effect on The Undertoad, which has lingered throughout the day, bouncing back and forth between Dad and Mom, Mom and Dad, 2 out of 3 meals, and plans to have the house clean by bedtime.

I’m not sure how they do it, but children manage to pick up on these sorts of “I got nothing today” moods. It’s even worse when Mom and Dad are experiencing it at the same time. The children develop a vague awareness of control, who has it and who does not. John and I both admit, the best thing to do on days like this is to just mentally hunker down, whisper when we feel like yelling, laugh when we feel like crying, and close our eyes a lot. Oh. And whiskey doesn’t hurt.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel. With the girls both in bed at exactly 8:01, John opened the Netflix envelope downstairs to reveal Project Runway Season 8 Disc 1.

Take that, Undertoad.

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

Just So I Don’t Forget

When I was about 10 years old, I got on a chair in my closet and brought down a very old box which had been through a couple of moves without being re-opened. Inside were a handful of relics from my childhood: my christening gown, a children’s china tea set, my baby book, and a small box of various cards, newspaper clippings, and pre-school awards.

As the 2nd of four children with a fairly meticulous (and possibly somewhat bored at the time) mother, every single page of my baby book is filled out. Besides pictures (of which there are plenty), my mom documented all of my first doctor visits, saved a lock of hair, and even filled out the date of every single tooth on that weird tooth chart. She admits now that she never got that far with my little sisters’ baby books.

Eliott and Carter each have a baby book. Sadly, though they are my first two, their baby books are more empty than those of my younger sisters. It isn’t that I don’t have enough time, energy, nor creativity to do it. No. I’m blaming modern technology for this. First, when is the last time I actually developed a roll of pictures? (Answer: college.) Second, when the majority of the universe is documenting everything from what we’re eating for dinner tonight to where we’re hanging out RIGHT NOW (and with whom) via Facebook and Twitter, it’s no wonder we don’t see the point in writing down the exact moment that 2 year molar poked through. (For the record, I will say the tooth chart with Eliott seemed stupid until Carter started cutting teeth and then I really did wish I’d had some sort of a guide to go by from the previous child. I’m over it now though, which means, the task was exactly as important as I originally deemed it.)

That said, there is much about my own baby book that I really do love and want my own children to be able to experience for themselves one day. The difference is that rather than piling a chair with books to reach the tops of their closets, they’ll have to search through the archived bowels of Google (if it even still exists by then) to find THIS. Very. Blog.

So here are a few nuggets that I’d like to not one day forget:

Eliott:

I’m not sure if this is true for all 4-year-olds, but it is certainly true for my 4-year-old. You have an imagination and can make things up that reasonable adults would wonder where you first heard them. Likely, you heard them nowhere. Also, you have dreams, remember them, and can talk about them the next morning. Your dreams, in fact, very similar to adult dreams, speak volumes of the things in your life which are important to you and the things you worry about. (Example, one morning last spring you woke up clearly upset and proceeded to explain that you were dreaming about “circle time” but none of the kids were following directions. This had you, my just-like-your-Dad-type-A rule-follower, seriously stressed out. You went to school later that morning and explained the exact scenario to your teacher, all details intact.)

Also, though you don’t fully understand many social conventions yet (such as the true meaning of the word “friend” and the difference between “friend” and “best friend”) you seem to have a very keen grasp on who likes you and who does not. On the other hand, you are completely oblivious to the fact that the 10 and 11 year old boys next door are clearly not interested in your pink princess shoes. It’s pretty cute.

You like to play house with your sister, whom you have pet-named “Gancia” (pronounced Gayne-cee-ya). The two of you pretend like the downstairs powder room is an elevator and the cabinet is your car. You often fight over who gets to drive.

You have already begun to plan your princess wedding to your husband Peyton, which is strange considering you have not yet been to a real wedding. Yesterday you asked if you were old enough to get married and I said no, you have to be a grown up. When you asked why, I explained that there are a couple things you should probably do before you get married. Some examples included: go to school, learn to drive a car, move out of your mom and dad’s house, and probably go on a couple dates. You agreed and said you’ll be ready to get married when you are six. You and Peyton could ride your bikes to the wedding.

Finally, about a month ago, I was getting you and Carter ready for bed and I forgot to grab your underwear after baths. When I told you to just wear your PJ’s without underwear you squealed and giggled, “No! That is SO weird.” Off-hand, apparently I responded with, “No it’s very liberating,” because you are now currently really into not wearing underwear. And every time you do it, you announce, “It’s very liverating.”

Carter:

At the beginning of the summer you could hardly speak two syllable words. Now you are stringing entire sentences together and actually using most prepositions correctly. A few of your cuter common phrases currently include:

“Where did Eliott go?”

“I take a nap.”

“Mommy. Hey, Mommy. Right there. Uh-huh.”

“Daddy not home. Daddy at work.”

“Here! Thank you. Thank you, Mommy. Thank you.”

On the surface you appear to be very polite, somewhat in your own world, and obliviously self-confident. Daddy and I agree that this might work out in your favor one day, as long as you don’t completely lose the love of the big sister who adores you enough to run from any room in the house to fetch your Boo anytime Mommy scolds you. The fact is, you are a bit spoiled, completely by nature and not nurture, which I predict to one day manifest itself in true Paulus style arrogance. Again, not a bad thing in my opinion. You laugh a lot and sometimes it surprises me the things you pick up on that seem funny. You scold the dogs next door with the authority of an 8 year old, but secretly, all animals freak you out. (Even cats. Tiny benign ones.) You have learned from Eliott how to say “Yes, Mommy” or “Yes, Daddy” at exactly the right moments and you seem to know that apologizing instantly after doing anything wrong will get you almost anywhere.

You are scary smart. And like your big sister, you are really stinking beautiful.

I continue to pray that both of you intimidate all men until you are at least 24, when you meet the one who is enough like your father to marry you.

Confessions, Eliott

Mid-Summer Vacation Alternate Read

*The following was written yesterday and lost before publication, hence the condensed version you saw published. Somehow I recovered this today (on my iPhone no less) and like it enough to get over the repetition in subject. I’m also over my inability to figure out how to do italics while typing on a phone.*

For the record, both of my little sisters are getting married this year. Truth be told in entirety, in three months I can say that all three of my siblings got married in 2011, which is kind of like my worst nightmare as a parent, and I’m surprised my parents’ heads haven’t exploded yet. (Though, John and his one brother also got married exactly 2 weeks apart and his parents also survived, so it is nice to know that it can be done, should similar circumstances befall me one day in 2032.)

I seem to remember a few weeks ago (a few?) the onset of anxiety as a result of imagining an entire summer without preschool. This was about a minute before I was reminded that my manifesto to “never be in another wedding after my own” doesn’t extend to immediate family.

Tomorrow, July will be exactly half over. So far, I haven’t had even one entire week of kid-entertainment planning duty. Awesome.

First it was two weeks of swim lessons, which, although we got stuck in the what-almost-killed-us 9:15am class, turned out to be shared with two very cool women from church and a new friend named Hilary who ended up on my porch for book club before the lessons were over. Then, the girls went to Michigan with Daddy and I made dress decisions with Laura. The next week was Vacation Bible School (only for Eliott) which is the first time I’ve noticed exactly how rarely Carter is not running her mouth. The location of VBS also resulted in the discovery of my new favorite grocery store. While Eliott was filled with the Holy Spirit, our freezer with filled with discounted meat. Amen.

Then, John and I had our first weekend together and without kids since our honeymoon (which was actually last summer). We spent two nights away visiting two different sets of friends, celebrated first pregnancies on both ends, and drank on behalf of the moms-to-be. We checked in on the un-sold condo and two hours later (in the middle of Ikea), our realtor called to tell us after almost 11 months, someone finally wanted to buy it. There is a very delicate emotional balance of relief and disappointment that comes with selling property at a loss, but I’m guessing that this is another one of those big picture moments of life that I will not actually be looking back on one day and regretting. In the meantime, I’m trusting the difference will be made up in the form of business for my genius, not to mention dead-sexy, and competent, attorney husband. (No pressure darling.)

Carter’s birthday came early with Grandma and Grandpa (and fireworks), came again on time with just us, and came yet again with Mimi and Pop Pop in Tennessee. The kid now associates lighting the citronella candles on the back porch with singing “Happy Birthday.” While my children were in Tennessee, I was in Las Vegas for more sister/wedding celebrations, which I graciously forgot was three time zones away. I turn 30 in exactly one month and one day and am not for one minute embarrassed to admit that I’m possibly a little too old for staying out until 3am. (But apparently I’m not too old for 4 inch heels, trading clothes with 25 year olds, and blonde wigs.)

The recovery has been made easier by the fact that while I was gone, my type-A-in-denial husband had fully gutted the three most disorganized rooms in the house and put them back together in a way that would make the producers of Hoarders proud. Our moms will be happy to know that if we have any more tornadoes this year, we can now fit in the closet under the stairs and won’t be forced to brave the wind in the middle of the night to run next door for safety. Eliott, who permitted me a three hour nap yesterday afternoon, exclaimed simply: “Daddy made the house FUN!” This was her response to finding that an entire closet of “lost toys” had been found. Nevermind that more than half of them are Happy Meals prizes.

So we have three weeks ahead of a rigorous schedule balancing time at the gym, the pool, the park, and the library, before Erica’s wedding in Spokane. Oh and I might have a few books to read for book club. My life is difficult.

Today, I’m eating the first tomatoes out of my garden with mozzarella cheese.

Confessions, Eliott

Honesty

For a little while in college, I was minoring in sign language. Many people are surprised to learn that American Sign Language is not in fact just a direct sign-to-word translation. Meaning, when speaking ASL, you won’t actually sign every single word that was (or would be) spoken. True sign language communication is much more holistic and artistic than stringing long sentences of words together.

In order to minor in sign language, we had to take one or two classes that basically covered the Deaf culture, which, also surprising to many, is different from the speaking culture. One of the biggest differences is how quickly Deaf people get to the point. Our professor explained that to hearing people, it seems blunt, but in reality, it is just a more efficient way of communicating. I totally get this. Because they get to the point quickly and do not mince “words” when they are talking to each other, an outsider might look in on a Deaf conversation and think, “Well that sounds rude.” Let me give you an example that I still remember one of my professors telling us early in the semester. She had been an interpreter for years and had met and known many Deaf people in her town. Then, she moved away, got married, and had a baby. She went back for a visit and ran in to an old Deaf friend. The first thing this woman signed to her was, “Wow! It’s been so long! You fat! Used to be thin, what happened?” To this our professor signed back (all the while, both women smiling and hugging) “I know! Got married. Had a baby. Kept the belly! Your hair’s gray!” This conversation was like a warm moment between two old friends where absolutely no offense was taken by either party at anything that was said.

I wish we hearing people could be more like this.

The English language probably has 25 synonyms for “fat” (in varying degrees of politeness). Sign language, on the other hand, does not have 25 different signs for each of those words. I mean, sure, perhaps this Deaf woman could have signed “You look different,” but in order to sign that, she has to show where the difference has taken place. To point to the face, as if to say, “Your appearance,” is different, would signify that my professor’s face had changed. And perhaps she could have signed a literal: “You have added a respectable amount of weight to your butt, legs, and belly,” but in her culture, that would never be done. The genuine love this woman had for my professor and the “No offense, but–” was controlled by two things: her facial expression, and my professor’s knowledge that in her culture, this woman was absolutely not being offensive.

Again. I wish we hearing people could be more like that.

How much time do we waste in adding all sorts of unnecessary words to how we feel, in the fear that what we really want to say might offend someone? How much time is wasted in cleaning up an accidental offense? And then, how often do we end up bottling up how we really feel because we’re afraid of hurting the feelings of someone else at the expense of our own?

Dear humanity: grow thicker skin. It will increase productivity and decrease stress all over the world.

On a seemingly unrelated note, getting together with other moms of pre-school kids inevitably leads to conversations of “Listen to what my child said in line at the grocery store the other day which mortified me…” One common one, of course, includes kids who are so obsessed with pregnancy (usually stemming from a pregnant mom) that they believe everyone with any sort of belly at all must also be pregnant. Even men. Another is the pointing out of obvious physical differences between people. Sometimes this sounds like, “What is that big thing on your cheek? That big red thing? With hair.” I also realized that my child isn’t the only kid who was really excited about learning the word “nipple,” showing hers off, and asking others if they also have them.

One sentiment I rarely share with these moms though, is that feeling of humiliation. In fact, I admitted recently that Eliott often gives voice to the exact thoughts inside my programmed “Things not to say out loud” head. I’m often so relieved and satisfied to have them spoken aloud that I have to work at concealing my agreement with her. (This could possibly say one of two things: one, that I still have the maturity of a 4 year old. Noted. Or two, that my child is my genetic spawn and DNA is in far more control of things than many give it credit for.)

Last week, on a particularly hot day, we went to the grocery store. Though the parking lot was mostly empty, I did not take a prime spot toward the front. Instead, I parked in a space that was empty on both sides, knowing I could open both car doors wide and allow a breeze to flow through while getting kids buckled into their 5 point harnesses. But the moment we pulled in, two rather large white SUV’s pulled in on each side of me. One was a Tahoe. The other was an Escalade. In hindsight, I can’t be sure that both these women weren’t well within their own lines on either side, but the fact was, in my little red Hyundai, all three of us were forced to squeeze out of the doors to avoid dinging the pristine white walls on either side. Needless to say, I was a little annoyed by this. I reminded Eliott (who can now undo her own seat belts) to “be careful” as she opened her door, but before I could even gather my shopping bags and get out I hear her little four year old voice of fury and arguably genetic sense of superiority from behind the car: “Why did you park so close to us?” Looking in my rear view mirror I see a horrified woman who seems to be in her mid-50s. Eliott goes on: “We almost couldn’t even open our doors. You should not park so close to our car next time.”

So many possible responses.

(I did, with difficulty, manage to refrain from a double fist pump and gladiatoresque, “YEAH!” in the woman’s face, followed by high fiving my four year old.)

Actually, I let the woman handle it herself. And I didn’t apologize for Eliott. And I don’t regret it.

Confessions, Eliott

Those Were the Good Old Days

I think many of my childless friends would look back fondly on pre-school as one of those on-the-whole really good times in life. I also think that before I put my own children in pre-school, I too assumed everything about it was as innocent and gleeful as play-doh and rice tables. And mostly, it is. In the last five months, I’ve been invited to relive pre-school through Eliott (and soon Carter, when she can string more than 3-word sentences together and talk about anything besides what she’s currently looking at). Thankfully, our brains have this fabulous filter which, barring any major childhood trauma, causes us to remember mostly good things. But in these past five months, I’ve not only been reacquainted with carpet squares and the coveted Line Leader title, I’ve been newly introduced to a little something my adult self is going to call Pre-School Politics. Deep sigh. If you thought junior high was hard, and then were disappointed to find out that the “real world” and junior high are surprisingly similar, then let me burst yet one more of your idealistic ‘when-I-grow-up’ bubbles: junior high :: high-school :: the work place :: pre-school. All of them. Socially synonymous. Biggest difference? Relative height.

Some of you may remember my St. Patrick’s Day story in which a girl I called so-and-so punched (pinched, whatever) Eliott. Today, let’s give so-and-so an easier name to type. To make things personal yet keep them anonymous, we’ll call her Kelsey. (I never knew a Kelsey I actually liked.) I usually talk to Eliott about school on the drive home and continue at lunch. For about the first four or five weeks, it was all I could do to keep up with the other ten names of the kids in her class. One name, however, came up with such regularity, that I knew relatively quickly I didn’t like the kid. Kelsey.

Kelsey was naughty today, Mommy. Ms. Tiffany had to put her in time-out…

Kelsey is not my friend. I do not like her.
Well, you should be nice to her, Eliott. You should be nice to everyone.
Kelsey is not nice, Mommy. She told me, “No Eliott. You can’t sit here. You are not my friend.”

Kelsey took the purple scooter from me today in the Life Center.
Well, Eliott, you -always- get the purple scooter. Sometimes, it is nice if you let someone else have the purple scooter. Just because purple is your favorite color doesn’t mean you are the only one allowed to have the purple scooter. You need to share and let others have a turn.
No, Mommy, there are lots of purple scooters. She didn’t want a turn. She took it away and brought it to Ms. Tiffany and said, “Here Ms. Tiffany. Put this away so that Eliott can’t have it.”

Oh no. Mommy does not like Kelsey. Imagine how difficult it is for me to filter my eyes of experience back down to a 4-year-old’s level. Of course I want to say, “Listen Eliott, bitches like Kelsey are going to pick on you for your entire life unless you do something about it. You have my permission to do and say whatever you want to make Kelsey leave you alone. And if you have to move your owl at the end of the day, keep this in mind: it was worth it.”

I actually don’t even know what I’m supposed to say. “All that matters is that Mommy and Daddy love you, and Jesus loves you.” (I was a kid once. I heard this. It didn’t make me feel any better, even when I knew it was true.) Or, “Kelsey is jealous of you and feels threatened by you. The best thing you can do is take her attitude and meanness as a compliment, and move on. Be nice to her. Even though you don’t know it, being nice to her is exactly what she needs.” (Right. I heard this one too. ALL THE TIME. Though I fully understand it now and believe it is also the root of Eliott’s problem, I also know that she doesn’t know the word “jealous” yet, and even when she knows what it means one day, she’ll still never fully understand this phenomenon of women.)

Fast forward to just after Spring Break. (Don’t even get me started on why pre-school needs Spring Break…) Eliott comes home that first Monday and says, “Hey Mommy, Kelsey’s coming over to my house next week.” This is news to me.

“Really?” I say, “Because you didn’t ask me if that was okay.”

“No. Her mommy says it’s okay. She’s coming over to my house.”

Initially, I just ignored this. First of all, “next week,” for Eliott’s grasp of time, currently translates to “anytime in the future.” Second, I was pretty sure Kelsey was just employing some sort of manipulation tactic that would die out as soon as her 4-year-old memory kicked in.

I was wrong.

I have to go inside to drop-off and pick the girls up every day, because Carter is too young for the car-line. Kelsey, on the other hand, is a car-line kid. And though I’ve -seen- I’ve never actually -met- her mother. For the next several days in a row, when I came in to pick up the girls, Kelsey also got off the bench and announced she was “coming over to Eliott’s house.” The first time I just kept walking down the hall and let the teachers chase Kelsey and get her back on the bench. But when this tactic ceased to work, I had to have a heart-to-heart with Eliott and an eye-to-eye with Kelsey. In the car I instructed Eliott as follows:

Listen to me Eliott. Are you listening? Kelsey is not coming over to our house to play. Not today. Not next week. Okay? Do you want to know why? It is because I do not know Kelsey’s mommy. You can play with Kelsey at school. But she can’t come to our house. So when she tells you she’s coming over, you need to say, “No, Kelsey, my mommy says you can’t come over.” Okay? Let’s practice. Pretend like I’m Kelsey. “Hey Eliott, I’m coming over to your house today.” What do you say, Eliott?

No, you can’t come over to my house.

Why?

Because your mommy is not friends with my mommy.

Perfect. As for the eye-to-eye, I squatted down one day (to a full head shorter than Eliott’s height, go figure) and looked Kelsey directly in the eyes. I put on a serious face, but added that nice mom-ish smile and said sweetly, “Kelsey. You are not coming over to Eliott’s house today. I’m sorry. If you want to come over, you tell your mommy to come ask ME if it is okay. Alright?”

So I thought the Kelsey thing was over. Little did I know just exactly how correct I was with my original assessment of jealousy and manipulation. It is very obvious that Eliott does not have to work very hard for kids to like her. In fact, it isn’t just the kids in her class. It is kids all over the tiny school. We walk into the building every morning and kids I do not recognize are beating on their windows and waving. We leave at noon and kids from other classes are waving and yelling, “Bye Eliott!” Once I even heard a little boy turn to his teacher as we passed and whisper excitedly, “Eliott waved at me!” I thought, WHAT? Who is this child, and where did she come from?

I asked her at lunch one day, “Hey Eliott, how do all the kids in other classes know you?”

“I don’t know, Mommy. Everybody likes me.” (No chance of teenage suicidal thoughts in our future.)

“Yes, but how do they know you? Do they say hi to all the kids in your class?”

“I don’t know.”

“How do they know your name?”

“Because, when I see other kids I just yell (demonstration with her hands cupped around her mouth), ‘Hey kids! Hey kids who are not in my class! My name is Eliott!’ And so they just know me.”

It (unfortunately) came as absolutely no surprise then, when Eliott crawled into my bed one morning and started crying. “Mommy. Kelsey doesn’t like me anymore. She said, ‘You are not my friend anymore, Eliott.'”

I hugged her to my chest and said, “It’s okay, Sweetie. The most important thing is that Mommy loves you, and Daddy loves you, and Jesus loves you. And don’t worry. You will always be taller than Kelsey.”

Confessions, Eliott

Eliott’s First Lesson In Irony (to be reviewed in 10 years)

Eliott, why did you get a spanking?

Because I wasn’t listening.

No. (But apparently also yes.)

Because I wasn’t following directions?

No.

Because I was being rough in the bathtub.

No. Eliott. It has to do with the gum.

Because I ate four pieces of gum.

No. Because you LIED TO ME about the gum. When I asked how much you ate, you didn’t tell the truth. Do you know what happens when you don’t tell the truth?

I get a spanking.

Well, yes, that, but do you know what else happens?

No.

Santa doesn’t come. He knows every time you lie. And then he doesn’t come.

(And, just in case you actually stop lying and he was thinking about coming, he’s now going to change his mind because Mommy used him in this very lesson. About lying.)

Confessions, Eliott

What Women Want

I have some free advice. I’m sure this advice has been said and probably written before but I never claimed to be the greatest teacher in the Western World based on originality. (I claim to be a great teacher because I speak the language of the people, can create a metaphor, an analogy, or a real life example for just about any lesson on the spot, and I’m funny.) So listen up, because if you don’t get this after I’m through with you, your wife, mother, sister, daughter, girlfriend, or that girl who never returns your calls has every reason to believe you are exactly as idiotic as you probably are.

LESSON:

Women + Want = VALIDATION

(Now, let’s define our terms and review things we already know.)

A. Women = One of two kinds of humans. The kind who…

1. do not problem solve alone.
2. do not need help (in the form of advice) when problem solving, except the maintaining of eye contact and, “That sounds like it might work,” muttered at appropriate times.
3. tend to be lead by emotion which appears to cancel out rationality:

MYTH: emotional women are incapable of rational thinking.
FACT: Estrogen, like Satan, resides within us as an ever present stronghold over most verbal and many physical behaviors. For our purposes, consider estrogen and emotion to be Siamese twins sharing one heart.

B. Want = not merely a petty desire or even a need; better stated as…

1. crave, require, cannot survive without.
2. THIS IS IMPORTANT
3. must have in order for everyone to dwell in peace.

C. Validation = Confirmation of existence, importance, and correctness by another living, breathing, and thinking human, preferably within 3 years of woman’s age or older, preferably over the height of 3.5 feet (extenuating circumstances here may apply). Validation…

1. has to do with feelings not circumstances which actually exist.
2. has nothing to do with anyone except the woman.
3. can be accomplished with a very simple approach to all future conversations. (Examples below.)

EXAMPLE 1 (woman to man):

What is said: We never talk anymore. -OR- You’re not listening to me.
What is meant: I have been talking to children, idiots, and/or myself all day. Will someone please (pretend to) be interested in me for ____ minutes/hours and remind me that I’m an adult with a college education who has something to offer the world beyond the confines of goldfish crackers and/or 3 word sentences? (This is even applicable for women who are not stay-at-home moms.)
Things not to say: What do you mean we never talk anymore? We talk every night when I get home from work. | I heard everything you said tonight. If you gave me a quiz on tonight’s conversation, I promise you I’d make an A. | Honey, just because you think I’m not listening doesn’t mean I’m not listening. (All of these messages say the same thing: You. Are. Wrong.)
Things to say (when all else fails, simply repeat her words back to her with emphasis on different words): You’re right honey, I feel like we never talk anymore. | I know. I spend the entire day at work talking to idiots who might as well be children and I’ve probably been bringing that home. Can we start over? (This actually appeals directly to how she feels and might illicit a response of agreement and relief knowing someone understands her.)
Pre-emptive Strike Strategy: regularly mention how much you miss “talking to” her when you are apart. | Do not ask, “How was your day?” Instead try (with raised eyebrows and as much interest as you can muster), “So, any good mom gossip/drama today? Anybody cheating on anyone? Who’s mad at whom? Who’s kids were the most annoying today? Did you find any good deals today?

EXAMPLE 2 (woman to woman, possibly):

What is said: Does your child ever do this? -OR- What do you do when…
What is meant: I’m not actually looking for advice nor a solution. I just need someone to confirm that my child/situation is normal and hear from someone who has experienced it and survived. By the way, don’t want to hear HOW you survived, just that you did. I will then make appropriate comparisons, tell myself that if YOU can do it, then I definitely can, and sleep more soundly tonight as a result.
Things not to say: No, that has never happened to me. | You and your life are completely abnormal and this just might in fact kill you. | Have you tried A, B, or C? (Even if she hasn’t, she’s beyond “trying” anything at the point where she comes to you pretending to ask for advice.) | You need to do this, this, and this. (No. What she needs is a stiff drink. The hero is the person who shuts up and hands it to her.)
Things to say: Yes. It is completely normal, mine did it too and then one day, just stopped. Like that. Guess it was a phase. (More than likely, this is a lie. Don’t worry about it. Just give her hope.) | Ugh. Yes! I hate that! I know exactly how you feel. You are a good mommy and an even better wife. Those kids (that husband) are lucky to have you! They don’t even know how good they’ve got it. You are [insert short list of positive qualities here]. (Even though you are convinced she probably could do something to better her situation, it will only be regarded at this point as criticism. All she wants is for someone to throw her a freaking bone. Validate her effort, because right now she feels like it is futile and therefore, she is useless and a failure. At life.)
Pre-emptive Strike: paying regular verbal compliments for unusual things to the women in your life will generally improve her overall mood and life-outlook and ultimately will get you everywhere.

A while back it seemed like Eliott had reverted from semi-well adjusted and pretty much happy 4 year old back to the terrible two’s. After what seemed like weeks of fighting whining and crying over every little thing, I decided to treat her how I always want to be treated when I’m being that whiny. I just started agreeing with her. Genuinely. “You’re right,” I said to the shoe-trauma, “You do not like putting on your shoes. It is hard to put them on every day. It is so hard. And you do not like it.” And like magic, the girl stopped whining, looked at me and said, very matter of factly, “Yeah. I do not like it.” She put the shoes on and was done.

VALIDATE US. That’s it.

Confessions, Eliott

Oprah Sighting

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned that I grew up (mostly) in Spokane, Washington, as in, the east side of Washington State (America’s best kept secret). For the Southerner and the East Coaster, I need to explain a few things. No, it is not rainy there. That’s Seattle. We’re on the other side of the Cascades where the rain shadow effect keeps the seasons pretty well-rounded. In fact, though the winters are long and it isn’t unheard of to have snow on Easter, for the most part, Spokane could boast of having four distinct and nearly perfect seasons.

Also, there are no black people there. Well, there are. Possibly 1,000. Total. And certainly fewer on the North side of town, which is where I lived and went to a small, private, Christian school with one black kid total in my entire 5 years of attendance. He was younger than me and was well known as, “You know, the black kid.”

From whiteville, Washington State I moved to Waco, TX, and more specifically, Baylor University: also predominantly white. It would certainly be a hasty generalization to say that most of the black students were there to play sports, but it also wouldn’t be entirely untrue.

It is an understatement to say that before entering the “real world” I had pretty homogeneous roots. On the other hand, I’ve really never considered myself above or below anyone else for any differences other than intelligence. As a result, I often open my mouth with good intentions, but am operating on the (incorrect) assumption that the rest of the world shares my twisted sense of humor and good naturedness about all things straightforward. Luckily, I am an equal opportunity offender, which in my mind, nulls-and-voids all of the offense anyway. This brings me to a list for the day:

“Things I’ve Said that Could Have Been Considered Racist Comments but Weren’t because I Said Them with Innocence and Love”:

On the 4th day of class my freshman year in college, I got the opportunity to put a face with a name that had come up enough times for me to remember. Attempting to create some sort of personal connection with this guy, when he said his name and shook my hand, the first thing that came out of my mouth was, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard a lot about you from some upperclassman. (Smiling enthusiastically,) Everyone says you’re like the whitest black guy at Baylor.” Of course I have no idea what this means, but by his fading smile, the what-the-hell-are-you-doing-Claire?-faces of those around me and his immediate reaction, “Who says that?” I realize maybe it wasn’t actually a compliment. I can say with certainty I never spoke to that guy again.
I use a Coco Butter Swivel Stick as chapstick. If you’ve never seen one I’ll describe it this way: most people think I’m putting glue stick on my lips the first time they see it. At camp however, all the black kids knew exactly what it was. Most of them just wanted to smell it because in their words, “Yeah! My moms uses that stuff.” On one of my first days as a classroom teacher in a racially mixed class of freshman, at some point I whip out the Coco Butter to the unsurprising exclamations of “Are you putting glue on your lips Mrs. Wait?” Without blinking I say casually, “No. This is my Black Lady chapstick.” (In hindsight, this might not have been the best response.) But at the very moment that several students are about to laugh thinking I’m making a racist joke, a 10th grade basketball player (who had failed English 9) sort of stands up in the front of the room, extends his hand and says, “Nah, nah, nah, she’s right. My moms uses that stuff,” and all malicious laughter suddenly turns to nods of agreement with me.
Fast forward to my final semester of teaching at public school. I am 5 months pregnant with Carter. I have a class of 12 honors sophomore students (by far my best class to date). I believe there were only 4 boys in the class. Two of them were black, one was white, and one was Hispanic. There were two names on my roster that I recognized by reputation (of their 9th grade teachers). One was a girl, the other was a boy with a hyphenated last name. Without knowing what the kid looked like, but simply knowing his last name was hyphenated, I had always pictured him as a white kid in my head. So calling roll the first day of class, I’m looking at the one white boy when I say this other kid’s name. When the “present” comes from the other end of the room, I stop and read the name again. I then look directly at the actual kid and say, “Wait a minute. You’re JHR?” He mutters an awkward but very polite, “Um, yes ma’am?” I then say very matter of factly, “Oh. You’re black. I always thought you were white.” As 22 eyes begin to shift timidly and mouths start to open I quickly recover with, “Oh no no. I don’t mean anything by that. It’s just that, well, how many black kids do you know with hyphenated last names?” To this, my now favorite student of all time smiles, puts his head on his desk, shakes it twice and says, “Actually none. I think this is about to be my favorite class.” **

When he was still my trainer at the wilderness camp, my husband taught me that you can say or do absolutely anything to a kid (in the name of therapy) as long as you have the right relationship with him. I think this is true for all humans. I consider it partially luck and partially genetic that most of my stupidly offensive comments have been taken with a teaspoon of humor and chased with a shot of forgiveness. This is not to say that all such instances have been so easy. But I like to think the same grace will be extended to my own child, as she is already showing signs of a similar genetic disorder. This was fully evidenced when, in line at the grocery store the other day, Eliott stands up in the cart and exclaims (for the entire front of the store to hear) “Mom! Oprah! Look! It’s Oprah! It’s Oprah! At Harris Teeter! Right over THERE!” No need to scan magazine covers. Ecstatically, she’s pointing to the one and only black female working that day.

**Edit: I feel compelled to add here that I wrote a similar version of this very story in the college/scholarship recommendation letter I wrote for this student at the beginning of the year. He assured me that he “worked my letter” in some form, into every application he submitted. He has, to date, been accepted into every college for which he applied (including Brown, Wake Forrest, and Duke), and, among many other awards, is a recipient of the Bill Gates Scholarship. Coincidence?

Carter, Confessions, Eliott

We’ve Got it Together

Things which encourage me to believe I have it all together:

Waking up on a school day at 8:25am and getting both children dressed, fed, brushed, and out the door, ON TIME.
Taking naps in the afternoon. Just because I can.
A clean kitchen.
Folded laundry.
Putting my kids to bed at 8 o’clock and being done for the night. Every night.
Eating Brussels sprouts and meatloaf (childhood punishment foods) and liking them both. A lot.
Letting Eliott do Play-Doh in my kitchen for the first time in her life under my direction and not having even a single conniption, mental or otherwise. (Note: this was also well before my 4:30 clock-out-and-start-drinking-time. Double bonus.)
Spontaneous 4 year old announcements like, “Today I’m going to have a good attitude all day,” and “I have a lot of work to do in my room, Mom. You can see when I’m done.” (This means she’s picking up. By herself.)

Things which bring me back down to earth:

One last point about that “having it together” thing:

My presence of mind to take a picture of this.

Eliott

Mood Music

As an education major at Baylor, I cannot even remember how many times I was required to write my “Philosophy of Education.” I frequently wish there had been a better system of data storage at that time (floppy discs?) because I’d absolutely love to read the educational philosophy of my 20 year old self. As I recall, it was normally about a page in length, and usually contained some sort of big picture idea translated to the little picture idea of a classroom I had as yet never truly experienced. I’m sure I had some lofty goals about changing the world, inspiring greatness (hah), and turning every child into an avid reader.

My current philosophy of education does not even come close to taking up an entire page and actually, has very little to do with actual education. In the same way I have swung from one extreme to the other in the “Nature vs. Nurture” debate, my new philosophy is that humans are born with a personality that is at least 90% genetic, and even the best discipline policy is not going to change someone’s natural inclination to be an asshole. However, every human also possesses the ability to make choices, and as long as the consequences of an action are clear and carried out with consistency, kids are capable of making the choice that ultimately suits their best interests in the end. This means that even the worst behaved kids in the world will choose to act in whatever manner best benefits them. As a counselor and then a classroom teacher, this simply meant making their lives more miserable than they made mine if they misbehaved, and catering to their wishes (within reason) when they didn’t. It took a lot of creativity at first (because you aren’t actually allowed to physically harm them in public school), but once I figured it out, my hourly existence wasn’t so bad. In fact, I think I probably ended up with more avid readers than I started with every year, I probably inspired a little greatness, and perhaps the world is a slightly better place as a result of Chief Claire and Mrs. Wait.

Parenting, I have decided, is not much different. Granted, my children are not juvenile delinquents. They are also not high schoolers. And I know that the grandparents (all four of them) think that John and I are like the strictest parents on the face of the planet, but what they have forgotten, all four of them, is that we learned from experience. And look at us. We’re normal, for the most part, and we don’t hate our parents.

I do sort of hate that I am raising my kids in a generation of non-spankers. This is a very quick point of disagreement and often one of contention among my peers with children, and I find myself announcing (before someone even knows my last name, sometimes) that, “We spank. Sorry. We’re spankers, so if that’s weird, well, we are.” And honestly, I can say that for us, it works, when we use it appropriately. But it certainly isn’t the only thing that works, and sometimes it doesn’t work. So we also use time-out. When I was the neighborhood babysitter, I knew the difference between the kids who were spanked and the kids who simply received “time-out.” At 14, I vowed that I would never use time-out as punishment. It seemed so lame and ineffective. I’ve since learned that when used appropriately it is not entirely ineffective. And, as Eliott is four going on fourteen, I’ve learned that sometimes the most effective mode of behavior modification is the taking away of a privilege. Today it is pop-beads. Tomorrow it will be the car. C’est la vie. That said, it is always particularly frustrating to me when my children reach new behavioral milestones and absolutely no prior method of enforcing boundaries, organization, planning, goal-setting, rewards, or discipline seems to work.

Eliott giving up her nap was one of the most recent and certainly prolonged of such battles. I admit that I have been somewhat of a Nazi about sleep in this house. I was a bit spoiled to have both my children sleep through the night before two months, but I tell you what, the first time they went one 8 hour stretch and I realized they weren’t dead, I stopped getting up. Naps have been the same way. Our entire day’s schedule revolves around nap time. There have been days that this is more of an annoyance than anything, but in the end, my personal sanity always wins out. I must have me-time. Every day. For more than half an hour. Sometimes 90 minutes isn’t even enough. And napping in the car does not count. That is why, when Eliott was pushing 3 and trying to give up the nap, I almost slit my wrists.

I started by wooing her to sleep, with rocking. When rocking-to-sleep was lasting upwards of 30 minutes, I needed a new tactic. So I started threatening spankings. At this point we still lived in the condo and the girls shared a room. This meant Eliott was sleeping in my room while Carter slept in the crib. Carter’s nap was as much dependent on Eliott’s silence as my sanity was. I’d put Eliott in my bed and tell her, “I’m coming back to check on you. If you are playing, you get a spanking.” If I came back to check on her and she was pretending to sleep, I didn’t care. I left it alone. But as often as not, she was jumping on the bed, getting into my stuff, or building forts out of pillows and end tables. We would often go 3 or 4 rounds of spankings before she finally passed out. Asleep. Passed out asleep. Don’t think I was knocking my child out cold (though the thought has probably crossed my mind, I admit it). Eventually, we progressed to “spankings with the spoon,” the fear of which bought me a few more weeks of pretend napping. The entire nap-time fight dragged out for at least 6 months. This is how long I refused to give it up. When the spoon ceased to scare her, I knew it was finally time.

I say as a point of celebration that it has worked very nicely since moving into a house (with enough bedrooms) for Eliott to have “Quiet Time” while Carter naps. This means she is in her room playing with the toys that her sister isn’t allowed to play with, and mommy is all alone, somewhere, not being bothered by anyone. I probably shouldn’t admit that my 4 year old is content to entertain herself every afternoon for at least two hours (I sense from my other mom-friends that this is highly unusual and I hate to karmically mess with it), but perhaps I am so blessed by my own genetics. I sincerely believe she needs me-time as much as I do.

This brings me to today. The pop-beads are at the top of my closet (the result of a pick-up-your-toys-battle that Eliott ultimately lost). This means her quiet time entertainment selection has been reduced, which punishes me as much as it does her. A faux pas I willingly acknowledge. My solution (a raw moment of personal genius) was to introduce her to a little toy called the discman. It so happens that my illegal copy of The Postal Service is burned on a purple CD, Eliott’s favorite color. Naturally, this was her first choice, and not a bad one, I might add. I went up to check on her about an hour ago to find the little cherub literally passed out asleep, on top of her covers, iPod ear buds dangling around her neck.

Had I only known. All those months threatening beatings, executing beatings, regretting beatings, tears (both of us), and angry tired frustration. All the girl needed was some double A batteries and a little mood music.

Once again, my Mother of the Year award comes 6 months late. But I’d like to take this moment to thank all of the little people who made it possible.