Time Out At My House

There’s very a strict boys-don’t-hit-girls rule at our house. The girls know that if they egg #5 on just to try and make him hit so that he violates the rule, they’ll get punished too.

We were in the kitchen talking about which girls at school like #5 and which girls he likes back. Apparently we picked the right one (psst… it’s Iris), because he suddenly overreacted and kicked #3 in the back of the knee, hard. I sent him to his room.

Here’s the thing about sending this kid to his room. I always forget he’s in there.

Every. Damn. Time.

I’ll send him to his room and go along about my business and start feeling really smug and productive, entirely forgetting that the productivity is solely due to not getting interrupted every ten seconds- because I sent #5 to his room. I get so productive that I lose track of time. At some point, but usually not until at least forty minutes into it, I wonder where he is.

So last week when he kicked his sister, I sent him to his room, laughed with #3 about how he actually does like Iris no matter what he says, finished making dinner, got dressed, even put on makeup (which really should have been my first clue that something was amiss because there’s never time for that), packed my bag for work and went out to the car to work on my late Easter present for the kids. More about the gift in a minute.

I had something for #5 and went to get him. He was not in the music room. Not playing video games or watching TV. Not reading on my bed.

Me: Where did he go?

#2: You sent him to his room.

Me: Oh crap! I totally forgot.

#2: Wasn’t that like, an hour ago?

Me: Ummm. . .

#2 and #4, in unison: Parenting Fail!

So I went in to #5’s room and we talked about why he got sent there in the first place. We don’t want him to ever be a man who hits a woman, hence the rule. He gets it, and knows why it’s important. He still doesn’t believe that one day he’s going to be bigger than all his sisters.

I did not own up to the fact that I had forgotten him. He can work that out in therapy later when he figures it out. Then I showed him why I was looking for him, what I had saved. And I took him outside and let him put the last one on the car.

One what, you ask?

In Kristin Lamb’s excellent book Are You There Blog? It’s Me, Writer she talks a bit about privacy and mentions that she doesn’t like the little stick people that you put on the minivan because it tells robbers exactly how many people they’re going to have to subdue when they break in, plus a hamburger full of sleeping pills for the dog. She’s totally right. There’s even an episode of Dexter where the predator gets his prey that way.

My message to robbers here is clear:

We are an entire army of the goddamn undead. Don’t even try it.

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Is this going to hurt my chances at becoming class mom? What parenting or other fails have you had recently?

One and Done #2

Welcome to One and Done Sunday. A picture, and five links that are worth your time. Today with a couple of extra thoughts because of the date.

Superficial snapshot ten years ago: Aida tour, playing Phoenix. I lived there at the time so I got to stay at home instead of a hotel. I was packing up all my stuff to put in storage for probably forever and close out the guest house rental that was the very first place I’d ever lived all by myself.

I didn’t have a TV. I found out about the attacks when our company manager called to tell me the show was cancelled. It’s another post that I likely will never write, but there were things happening in my personal life at this time that made this tragedy seem not out of place.

The rest of the week passed in a stupor. When our run in Phoenix was over and we loaded out, planes still weren’t flying yet. Our company manager did a lot of string pulling and wrote a personal check to get us a sleeper bus that would take us to our next stop in Austin. It was Blink-182’s bus, available because they too were canceling shows, reeling from what had happened.

It was a long drive from Phoenix to Austin. We’re stagehands, so we did what we do: made each other laugh and told stories. We watched The Brady Bunch movie. We snagged a couple hours of sleep. The bus was stocked with snacks and I ate Blink-182’s Cap’n Crunch. Though things got far worse before they got better, speaking personally and globally, this is the moment where I began to heal.

It’s important to me to remember those moments of beginnings.

Fast forward five years to September 11, 2006.

These kids and their Dad and I hopped a plane in LA and flew back to New Jersey and started a life together. We had to get a special written dispensation to carry #5’s butt cream on the plane. I won’t speak for them, but as for me, I have never regretted any of it- the decision, the flight, or the butt cream (though I’m pretty happy he finally got potty trained).

Here are your links:

Clay Morgan is also remembering something different five years ago. The Greatest Teacher I Ever Had.

Funny: Tips for pet sitters by Paul Johnson, aka The Good Greatsby

Myth? No, an honest-to-god good day at the airport. Betty Londergan at What Gives 365

A really excellent picture of goats: Cheryl Zovich, Cur Tales

The best 9/11 post you didn’t read this week: Ten Years ago, Ed Whitehead had a view of the World Trade Center out his bedroom window and forty rolls of film. Perfect Souls Shine Through at Punchnels

That is five. However, given the gravity of the day, I leave you with one more which I would categorize as frickin’ hilarious by one of my favorite blogger/artists ever. Hyperbole and A Half: The Alot is Better Than You At Everything. Enjoy.

The Only Slumber Party

When #4 was in the third grade she turned nine and asked for a slumber party. I jumped at the chance, erroneously believing it would be a) cheaper and b) less time-consuming than a regular party. No loads of games and activities to plan; the girls would be largely self-sufficient.

I recalled slumber parties from my own childhood, where there were usually five of us and we’d be camped out in someone’s basement and the latest we were ever able to keep our eyes open was 1:00am.

At one slumber party I went to the birthday girl, Jeanette, mandated a no-talking rule promptly at 11:00pm and anyone who broke the rule got pointed at and her name written neatly on a piece of college-ruled notebook paper, which was to be given to Jeanette’s mother in the morning. I got my name written down for trying to talk someone into sticking someone else’s hand in warm water to see if we could make them pee their sleeping bag. We expected to have to write sentences- I will not talk at the slumber party– just like in school, but I don’t think that actually happened.

On the Friday night of #4’s slumber party, approximately 11,000 ~~velociraptors~~ nine-year-old girls arrived in our living room. I had invited them. On purpose. This is the point at which I suddenly understood, on a cellular level, that we did not have a basement. Nor did we have carpeting, or any absorptive surface in pretty much the whole house.

It all started off okay. They ate the junk food we bought. We did the few activities we had planned and they began entertaining themselves, doing little girl type things. The night passed happily, if loudly. I knew I could stick it out because soon enough they’d all be dropping off to sleep and we would once again have (relative) silence in our house.

I had never imagined that there might possibly exist 11,000 nine-year-old girls that were capable of going entirely without sleep, and that they would all be in my highly reflective living room, which was directly under my bedroom, at the same time.

Around midnight we called #4 upstairs and said, hey, tell your friends it’s time to quiet down and start to go to sleep. We weren’t too bothered yet, being that we work nights and usually stay up til 2:00am.

We called her up again around 1:00am and repeated the conversation a little more loudly.

Around 2:00am I called out, gently but firmly, from the doorway of the living room, “Girls, it’s time to go to sleep. No more talking.” Which was met by a stunned silence, then a fit of giggles which escalated into an even louder bedlam by the time I was at the top of the stairs.

Is there anything worse than a pack of nine-year-old girls who are acutely aware of their power? Where the hell was Jeanette?

By the time it degraded into us actually yelling at our birthday party guests somewhere after 4:00am to no avail, I just shut the door to my bedroom, set my alarm for 8:00am, and put my iPod on.

In the morning I discovered that they had eaten all of our other food during the wee hours of the morning and we didn’t even have anything left to make breakfast with.

We shoved the girls outside to play while CC went to the grocery store and made breakfast. By this time they were all fighting because not one of them had gotten a single minute of sleep. Some mothers began to arrive to pick their daughters up before breakfast was ready. It was awesome.

Got any slumber party stories to share?