So, Ivy has spent one month in first grade....one. long. month.
The little good girl I had last year in Kindergarten is long gone, and in her place is a whiny, reluctant 6 year old teenager!!
How, you ask? I think it revolves around her lazy disposition and spelling tests, but we'll see.
First, she despises working. She refuses to do homework. I sit with her and try to encourage her to do every problem or question. I start out being the nice supportive mommy, gently coaxing answers out of her and encouraging her to write neatly.
After an hour of this (and we've only completed 2 questions!!), I decide that I have to get something done! So, I leave her to it, refusing TV, snacks, and drinks until it's complete. When she starts chewing on her pencil or playing a game with her crayons, I step in a up the threat level.
Of course, 10 minutes later, I'm offering drinks and candy if she will just finish two more problems!!!
One evening, I swear she spent two and a half hours writing twelve spelling words twice each. That's 6.25 minutes spent on each word....
In the height of my homework frustrations, I find a worksheet under the coffee table one evening. After I study it, I realize it is this week's spelling words. I call another 1st grade mom, and she thinks the worksheet was supposed to be turned in on Tuesday. It's Saturday.
When I lay it in front of Ivy and ask her why it was under the coffee table, she confesses that she put it there. "Why?????" I ask. (I'd like to tell you I asked in my nice voice, but that would be a lie.)
Ivy says, "Mommy, I want to go back to Kindergarten. This first grade stuff is just too much work."
So, after making her swear to give it to her teacher and apologize when the weekend was over, I contemplated her statement. True, there was a lot more work...and the infamous Tracee-stress-inducers called spelling tests (I mean, it would be so much easier if I could just take them for her!!) But, I hated to tell her this, it was only going to get worse. I mean, if she couldn't copy twenty-four words in less than two hours, how was she ever going to do 50 math problems?? And heaven forbid she would ever have to write a paper!!
I'm not sure what the future holds for her and her inability to focus on her homework....all I know is I have only two short years to figure it out before I have two homework-skipping time-wasting divas on my hands....
Showing posts with label meltdowns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meltdowns. Show all posts
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
My bad list
If you know me, you know that I am scared of many things. By disclosing this list, I expect you to (right now!!) make a vow that you will never use it against me.
It might be therapeutic to "put it all out there," but I'm actually cringing at the thought of typing some of these words....
Here goes.....
Mustard
Ew. That was difficult to type. This scares me. The color, the word, the smell....when I was 5 months pregnant, I got some on my hand and I panicked...I ran...and then fell down. I had to spend hours in a hospital being monitored (it was horrible...I had to lay down in a bed, they brought me juice, gave me a TV remote control....absolutely horrible! LOL)
Then, one time a student thought it would be funny to put some on the door of my classroom. I couldn't unlock it, I had to get the janitor. Even after I watched them clean it off and bleach it five times, I wouldn't touch the handle with my bare skin for about three weeks. The thought of it still induces gagging.
Pickles
You could chase me around with an evil cucumber. I'd run screaming. Ivy almost touched one when she was a year old, and luckily I grabbed her just in time. One year olds don't understand why you won't touch them until they are bleached.
At one of my baby showers, there was a huge jar of them...and it made me cry. People thought I was just overcome with emotion.
Belly buttons
They are creepy. Everyone's looks different....and I can go nuts thinking about the center of them....(taking a small break here to breathe through a paper bag).
I can't touch mine without massive mental preparation. I can feel it if someone looks at mine. I can't look at other people's....and heaven forbid someone touch theirs in my sight!!!
Walking in the lake
A while ago, I couldn't swim with fish. A friend of mine in college had talked me into getting in the ocean with her...after a half hour, I calmed down, my panic receding...until the next wave brought a huge school of fish with it. I immediately swam for the shore, swimming until my stomach touched sand. I also couldn't swim in a lake when all my friends did.
That fear receded with time, and I'm now a happy lake-swimmer...as long as it's very deep. But, walking into a lake from the shore, the feel of my feet on grass, the swirls of mud around my toes makes me sick. It's also not a good idea for me to stare at the fish-finder on the boat before I swim...
Being the Center of Attention
Now, often my conversational skills are so excellent that I become the center of a rapt group of listeners (yeah, right). And a lot of people who know me don't understand why I'm scared of it.....but, being the "planned center of attention" is a different story...walking down the aisle at my wedding...standing up and conducting a band concert (total occupational hazard there, I know)...telling a group of adults about anything...having my name announced for something...being on a stage in general...it's all frustratingly terrifying. I suddenly am over-aware of what I'm wearing, stains, how my mouth looks. If my back is turned, I am constantly brushing imaginary stuff off of it.
There are a lot more items I can put on this list, but I'm afraid I've reached my tolerance level for today....have fun reading and think of me sitting in the corner with my head between my knees taking deep breaths for the next few hours....
It might be therapeutic to "put it all out there," but I'm actually cringing at the thought of typing some of these words....
Here goes.....
Mustard
Ew. That was difficult to type. This scares me. The color, the word, the smell....when I was 5 months pregnant, I got some on my hand and I panicked...I ran...and then fell down. I had to spend hours in a hospital being monitored (it was horrible...I had to lay down in a bed, they brought me juice, gave me a TV remote control....absolutely horrible! LOL)
Then, one time a student thought it would be funny to put some on the door of my classroom. I couldn't unlock it, I had to get the janitor. Even after I watched them clean it off and bleach it five times, I wouldn't touch the handle with my bare skin for about three weeks. The thought of it still induces gagging.
Pickles
You could chase me around with an evil cucumber. I'd run screaming. Ivy almost touched one when she was a year old, and luckily I grabbed her just in time. One year olds don't understand why you won't touch them until they are bleached.
At one of my baby showers, there was a huge jar of them...and it made me cry. People thought I was just overcome with emotion.
Belly buttons
They are creepy. Everyone's looks different....and I can go nuts thinking about the center of them....(taking a small break here to breathe through a paper bag).
I can't touch mine without massive mental preparation. I can feel it if someone looks at mine. I can't look at other people's....and heaven forbid someone touch theirs in my sight!!!
Walking in the lake
A while ago, I couldn't swim with fish. A friend of mine in college had talked me into getting in the ocean with her...after a half hour, I calmed down, my panic receding...until the next wave brought a huge school of fish with it. I immediately swam for the shore, swimming until my stomach touched sand. I also couldn't swim in a lake when all my friends did.
That fear receded with time, and I'm now a happy lake-swimmer...as long as it's very deep. But, walking into a lake from the shore, the feel of my feet on grass, the swirls of mud around my toes makes me sick. It's also not a good idea for me to stare at the fish-finder on the boat before I swim...
Being the Center of Attention
Now, often my conversational skills are so excellent that I become the center of a rapt group of listeners (yeah, right). And a lot of people who know me don't understand why I'm scared of it.....but, being the "planned center of attention" is a different story...walking down the aisle at my wedding...standing up and conducting a band concert (total occupational hazard there, I know)...telling a group of adults about anything...having my name announced for something...being on a stage in general...it's all frustratingly terrifying. I suddenly am over-aware of what I'm wearing, stains, how my mouth looks. If my back is turned, I am constantly brushing imaginary stuff off of it.
There are a lot more items I can put on this list, but I'm afraid I've reached my tolerance level for today....have fun reading and think of me sitting in the corner with my head between my knees taking deep breaths for the next few hours....
Monday, January 10, 2011
Ivy, and Marley, and Me.
**SPOILER ALERT**
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
For some reason (fate? God? A weird slip of my finger on the mouse?) the movie Marley and Me appeared at the top of our Netflix queue. We didn't know this until it arrived when we were expecting Grown-ups.
My husband and I were kind of upset. "What was that doing on the queue?" he growled.
"I think I put it on there to watch with the kids," I said, sheepishly. At one time in our lives, we thought watching movies with the kids would be fun. We have since found out that if the movie is not animated and full of royalty, watching it with the offspring is not a pleasant experience. It's up there with root canals and public speeches.
At any rate, one evening after dinner, we put it in the PS3 and sat down as a family to watch it.
There's no dog at the beginning, so I had to keep Ivy interested. Story watched it for approximately 24.7 seconds before she was running back and forth, jumping on the chair, and shouting random comments in my ear (Mommy!! MOMMY!!! Is Abby a dog?)
Finally, the puppy appeared. From that point on, as long as a dog was on the screen, at least Ivy was engaged. As the movie wore on, it became clear to us that the dog was going to die. (There's the spoiler!!)
I had two choices: Stop the movie and pretend the dog got better and it was over, or face the sorrow of a six-year old who has just watched an animal die. I decided to go with the latter...our dog is nine years old and at some point, she's going to have a real life lesson in family pets dying. The parent in me knew it would be hard, but it would also be emotionally cleansing and healthy, right?
WRONG.
Never ever ever ever ever again will I think that way. Ivy cried for almost two hours after that movie was over. As soon as we thought she had stopped, fresh wails came out of her mouth, tears flew from her eyes, and she asked us unanswerable questions:
- Where did Marley go when he died?
- Why didn't they just make the movie with him being alive and happy at the end?
- Why couldn't the doctor fix Marley?
- Did the family get a new puppy?
- Who made this movie be like this?
Ivy finally came up with her own solution that would put her fears and sadness at ease: She wants us to write a letter to the director. In this correspondence, we should explain to him how the movie should have ended and that we would appreciate it if they could remake the movie with the appropriate closure. I said, sure, we'd work on it in a couple days, hoping that she'd forget about it.
but she's not, of course. Four days later, she's still bugging me about this letter at random times. When I'm in the shower. When I'm cleaning toilets. Before I am awake.
I think I'm actually going to have to write it.
And no, we're probably not watching anymore movies with the kids. Ever. =)
Sunday, October 17, 2010
It's the Great Pumpkin, Story Brown!
I have never carved a pumpkin.
Okay, that's a lie, apparently I carved one at a party when I was sixteen, but like many many other things that happened pre-college, I don;t really remember it.
But, I thought that it would be a really cool thing to do with my kids. And I thought for sure I could do it as long as I read about it on eHow first. Which I did.
And confident with that, I took the girls to buy pumpkins yesterday at Wal-mart. I decided to use the self-checkout since most of the lines were at least three people deep. I scanned each pumpkin, then waited patiently as the machine freaked out when I placed them in a bag. I inserted my cash, and waited for my change ($2.24!) to magically appear. The coins rolled down the chute, but the cash dispenser remained empty. I got down on it's level and saw my two dollar bills smushed deep inside the slot.
The lady running the self-checkouts called for "back-up." Which was a very young girl who stood with me and spoke into an earpiece begging someone to bring keys to the machine. We waited. Story and Ivy did impromptu modern dance in the aisle. We waited some more. A guy ran across the store shouting that he was getting the keys. Ivy and Story tried to pick each other up a dozen times, crashing into some woman's cart. (Yes, I am waiting for $2. I'm cheap, remember?)
The guy arrived with the keys. At that moment, the young girl decided to take $2 out of someone's till to give to me instead. After we'd waited. And my kids had accosted customers and merchandise.
So, we made it home with the pumpkins, and I decided to use them as incentive for the girls to clean up the playroom. After 6 hours of them begging to carve and me saying, "go clean up first!" I gave in, cleaned up the playroom myself, and then started the process.
We laid out both pumpkins on trash bags. I took a really big knife ans sawed the top of the first one. I was expecting a much bigger mess of stuff than what was in there. Both girls were waiting with anticipation. I tilted the pumpkin towards them, shoved a spoon in, and then pulled a spoonful of stringy stuff and seeds out. "Look guys, we get to scoop out all this stuff!"
"Cool!" Ivy said.
Story put her hands over her eyes and let out a blood curdling scream. "Noooooo, Mommy!!!!"
"Story? What's wrong?" I asked, peeling her hands off of her eyes.
"Mommy! I no wanna do da punkin. I skeered uh dat!" Which, loosely translated, means "I do not want to carve pumpkins, Mother. I am frightened of them."
Story was scared of pumpkins? The girl is a powerhouse when it comes to fear. She's either wildly brave or is intensely scared. Usually her phobias are loud things: fireworks....and fire. (She's got this new fear of the grill we have to get her out of, because we cannot stop grilling!!!) But pumpkins? It's almost like my insane condiment fears.
Ivy was happily scooping out her pumpkin. She pulled the long membranes out and laughed at the squishes they made. I cut the top of Story's pumpkin off and then tried to engage her into using her brand new scooping spoon. "NOOOOO!!!" she screamed, fleeing the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door shut.
So, Ivy and I scooped and laughed. When we finally got all the gunk out, we drew faces and got out our little carving saws (please forget that I said saws...yes, the package said ages 12 and up, but my girls are smart!) I yelled for Story to come and carve the face out.
She tiptoed in, crept quietly over to where we were sitting. Ivy was attacking her pumpkin face with gusto. Story nervously took the saw, and I guided her hand to where I had drawn an eye. She sawed once, twice, and back again, then let go of the saw and ran crying from the room.
Ivy and I exchanged looks. "Boy, what a chicken," Ivy said. "Hey, that's okay," I said, "leaves more for us to do!"
We finished the pumpkins, and sat them up on the counter. Story came in just as we were done. She walked over to the two orange things and looked at them skeptically. She covered her face with her hands, and then opened them and screamed. "Mommy they scare me!" she said, laughing. Then she turned and saw me dumping the pumpkin innards into a bag. "AHHHHHHH!!!!" she screamed, fleeing the room once more.
Although I got her to pose for pictures with the finished product, Story has assured me that she is very scared of the inside of pumpkins. She is also never going to carve one, and was practically in hysterics until I promised her that Ivy and I would do all the carving from here on out.
And although I would like to pretend this is a silly little fear, as a condiment-phobic, I'm just thinking the apple has not fallen far from the tree. The girl is in for it.
Okay, that's a lie, apparently I carved one at a party when I was sixteen, but like many many other things that happened pre-college, I don;t really remember it.
But, I thought that it would be a really cool thing to do with my kids. And I thought for sure I could do it as long as I read about it on eHow first. Which I did.
And confident with that, I took the girls to buy pumpkins yesterday at Wal-mart. I decided to use the self-checkout since most of the lines were at least three people deep. I scanned each pumpkin, then waited patiently as the machine freaked out when I placed them in a bag. I inserted my cash, and waited for my change ($2.24!) to magically appear. The coins rolled down the chute, but the cash dispenser remained empty. I got down on it's level and saw my two dollar bills smushed deep inside the slot.
The lady running the self-checkouts called for "back-up." Which was a very young girl who stood with me and spoke into an earpiece begging someone to bring keys to the machine. We waited. Story and Ivy did impromptu modern dance in the aisle. We waited some more. A guy ran across the store shouting that he was getting the keys. Ivy and Story tried to pick each other up a dozen times, crashing into some woman's cart. (Yes, I am waiting for $2. I'm cheap, remember?)
The guy arrived with the keys. At that moment, the young girl decided to take $2 out of someone's till to give to me instead. After we'd waited. And my kids had accosted customers and merchandise.
So, we made it home with the pumpkins, and I decided to use them as incentive for the girls to clean up the playroom. After 6 hours of them begging to carve and me saying, "go clean up first!" I gave in, cleaned up the playroom myself, and then started the process.
We laid out both pumpkins on trash bags. I took a really big knife ans sawed the top of the first one. I was expecting a much bigger mess of stuff than what was in there. Both girls were waiting with anticipation. I tilted the pumpkin towards them, shoved a spoon in, and then pulled a spoonful of stringy stuff and seeds out. "Look guys, we get to scoop out all this stuff!"
"Cool!" Ivy said.
Story put her hands over her eyes and let out a blood curdling scream. "Noooooo, Mommy!!!!"
"Story? What's wrong?" I asked, peeling her hands off of her eyes.
"Mommy! I no wanna do da punkin. I skeered uh dat!" Which, loosely translated, means "I do not want to carve pumpkins, Mother. I am frightened of them."
Story was scared of pumpkins? The girl is a powerhouse when it comes to fear. She's either wildly brave or is intensely scared. Usually her phobias are loud things: fireworks....and fire. (She's got this new fear of the grill we have to get her out of, because we cannot stop grilling!!!) But pumpkins? It's almost like my insane condiment fears.
Ivy was happily scooping out her pumpkin. She pulled the long membranes out and laughed at the squishes they made. I cut the top of Story's pumpkin off and then tried to engage her into using her brand new scooping spoon. "NOOOOO!!!" she screamed, fleeing the kitchen and slamming her bedroom door shut.
So, Ivy and I scooped and laughed. When we finally got all the gunk out, we drew faces and got out our little carving saws (please forget that I said saws...yes, the package said ages 12 and up, but my girls are smart!) I yelled for Story to come and carve the face out.
She tiptoed in, crept quietly over to where we were sitting. Ivy was attacking her pumpkin face with gusto. Story nervously took the saw, and I guided her hand to where I had drawn an eye. She sawed once, twice, and back again, then let go of the saw and ran crying from the room.
Ivy and I exchanged looks. "Boy, what a chicken," Ivy said. "Hey, that's okay," I said, "leaves more for us to do!"
We finished the pumpkins, and sat them up on the counter. Story came in just as we were done. She walked over to the two orange things and looked at them skeptically. She covered her face with her hands, and then opened them and screamed. "Mommy they scare me!" she said, laughing. Then she turned and saw me dumping the pumpkin innards into a bag. "AHHHHHHH!!!!" she screamed, fleeing the room once more.
Although I got her to pose for pictures with the finished product, Story has assured me that she is very scared of the inside of pumpkins. She is also never going to carve one, and was practically in hysterics until I promised her that Ivy and I would do all the carving from here on out.
And although I would like to pretend this is a silly little fear, as a condiment-phobic, I'm just thinking the apple has not fallen far from the tree. The girl is in for it.
Monday, September 6, 2010
My life is (on) a highway....
I was traveling home from my mom's house yesterday on a four lane highway. We'd been making pretty decent time when I noticed in the rear view mirror (which is placed on my kids, not the road, ha-ha!) that Story started squirming and crying in her seat.
"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"
"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"
"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.
I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."
"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.
"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.
I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"
Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.
She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.
Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"
"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.
We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.
I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.
I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.
When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.
"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.
"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.
"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.
I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.
I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)
"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.
"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.
I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.
"Story! STORY!" (I had to scream loud over the Polly Pocket DVD) "What's wrong??"
"Mo-mom-mo-momma-mom-mommy!" (because she's in that stage where it takes her forever to get a word out) "My butt huwts!"
"Why?" I asked. I was met with only more wiggling and whining. So, I started looking around. I noticed a BP up ahead on the left, so I pulled into the lane, signaled, and drove in. Just because they spilled a bunch of oil in the gulf doesn't mean I can't use their bathrooms.
I got both kids and my wallet out. We walked into the almost empty gas station (which is good because lately Story has developed this thing where she likes to almost jump in front of cars and scare me to death). We walked past the guy at the counter and into the bathrooms. I put Story on first after I coated the seat with paper. She peed. I said, "Your turn, Ivy."
"I don't hafta pee." Which she would say even if she had pee running down her leg.
"I don't care." I grabbed her, yanked the pants down, and placed her on the toilet. She peed.
I sat down about the same time Story got really interested in the trash can. She started to touch the lid and I yelled, "Don't!" She diverted and touched a piece of chewed up gum stuck to the trash bag. I yelled, "Nooooo!!!!!!"
Now, some days you can yell until you're blue in the face at Story and she laughs at you. Other days you can look at her kind of sternly, whisper "no" and she collapses into tears and screams. You can guess what kind of day this was.
She looked at me with big eyes. The tears welled and spilled out over her eyelashes. She put her hands up to cover her face in shame and wailed. And I mean WAILED. I tried to comfort her as I washed her hands. She screamed louder. I thought about the guy at the counter calling social services. He probably thought I brought the kids in here to beat them.
Then I did the only thing I could think of to bring a halt to the tears. "Wanna treat?"
"Yes!!!" they both shouted with glee. I took them out into the store and looked around. I decided to get a cup of coffee. They decided to get blue slushies. We went to the counter and paid for them.
We walked outside and Story immediately jumped off the curb and out into where there would be cars if there were any cars there. I yelled, but fortunately she was so excited about the slushie that she ignored my mean voice and jumped back up on the curb.
I laid my wallet on the hood of the car as I buckled the kids in their seats. As I did it, I thought, "Shew, I'd better not forget this. It would be horrible for my wallet to be spilled all over the highway." When I have thoughts like that, I should really learn to listen to myself.
I hopped in my seat after trying to set Polly Pocket back to where she was when we turned the car off. We backed out of the spot, and I went forward. I had to wait about three minutes before I could pull out, during which I should have paid more attention to the hood of my car.
When I pulled out and got up to speed, something flew at my windshield. It hit with a thunk! and I ducked and looked into the rear view mirror (which is how I have to use it to actually see the road) just in time to see my wallet crash to the ground in an explosion of little white, plastic cards.
"*&@^$#!!" I said as I pulled into the median.
"*&@^$#? What's *&@^$#?" Ivy asked.
"Nothing you should EVER EVER EVER say again!!!" I screamed as I slammed the car door and ran back to where my wallet was sitting forlornly in the middle of two lanes.
I got the wallet before it was run over by a motorcycle. I waited out two cars and picked up my license. I started collecting bits and pieces of things that had flown out of my wallet as it crashed to the asphalt, leaving the receipts and *sob!* my ticket stubs from Eclipse.
I ran back to the car with what I could find amongst the trash that people throw out of their cars and did inventory. I had my license, my medical card, a couple doctor's appointment cards, and my cash (which had stayed in the zippered pocket- thank God I didn't put it where my cash actually should go!)
"Mommy, what is*&@^$#?" Ivy insisted.
"*&@^$#!! *&@^$#!!" Story yelled. Great.
I tried to explain what cussing was to Ivy, how it was even worse than saying "stupid." She kind of didn't get it, so I fully expect a call from her teacher or another parent tomorrow asking me just what I've been teaching my child. In the meantime, I'm sure Story will be teaching all the three year olds in her room that word tomorrow.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Legends of the Falls
Tonight, Ivy and Story both fell. Twice.
I was watching my neighbor's little boy while she ran a quick errand. I took him up to the house, got a stroller, and planned on following Ivy and Story on their bikes as they trolled the neighborhood. As I pushed the stroller down the hill, I heard screams.
Ivy was laying face down in the grass of my neighbor's house. I started to walk faster toward her when my neighbor moved slightly and I saw Story spreadeagled on the pavement. I had no idea what was happening.
Apparently, they simultaneously fell. Ten feet away from each other. I gathered up the crying ones, grabbed the stroller, and made my way back to the house. The girls sat in the driveway and my little buddy and I went in and got band-aids, peroxide, and neosporin. I came back out and administered all three on knees and hands. The girls were instantly better, and went back down the street to play. I put the boy back in the stroller and away we went.
Before we caught up to the girls, wild screaming commenced. Why? Because Story was spreadeagled on the street again in the same place. Squealing and sobbing. Luckily, my neighbor was back to collect her son, so I scooped Story up and tried to get her to stop screaming. She didn't agree with me, and continued.
It was definitely time to go in. I walked down the street with my neighbor, Kellie, to yell for Ivy to come in. We stopped at the corner to chat for a moment while the kids ran around and Story flitted between laughing and squalling. In that short amount of time....Ivy met the pavement.
She scraped up both of her hands, and in the twilight I thought that was the worst of it. She cried and yelled the entire way back to the house on her bike, but I followed and soothes as best I could. She went in the house while Story and I put away the bikes and stroller. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream came from inside the house. Story and I dropped everything and ran (okay, she kind of toddled). All I could think was, "Someone's in the house!!"
Ivy came out of the bathroom with tears all over her cheeks. "Mommy, look at my eye!!!!!!!" she wailed. It was scraped up, puffy, and red. And it hurt a lot worse now that she had seen it. Relieved that no one was getting kidnapped by a stranger in the house, I ushered both girls to the couch, and laid out the materials needed to doctor them up. I endured a lot of screaming and pleas to stop as I cleansed the wounds.
When my husband came in from golfing, I gave him the task of trying to give them both ibuprofen (just so you know- convincing them that broccoli is candy would be easier). I told Ivy how good she'd been, and how brave. Of course, she looked at me like I was totally wrong (a disturbing new trait she's picked up lately). I said, "Really, Ivy! You rode your bike all the way up here hurt and everything!"
She responded with the funniest thing I have ever heard leave those cute little lips: Mommy, I am not brave. Did I cry? YES!!
I burst out laughing, which you know helped the situation tremendously. No, actually it just exaggerated the dirty looks.
Then Ivy laid her head back on the couch and screamed, "This is the worstest boo-boo I've ever had!"
I was watching my neighbor's little boy while she ran a quick errand. I took him up to the house, got a stroller, and planned on following Ivy and Story on their bikes as they trolled the neighborhood. As I pushed the stroller down the hill, I heard screams.
Ivy was laying face down in the grass of my neighbor's house. I started to walk faster toward her when my neighbor moved slightly and I saw Story spreadeagled on the pavement. I had no idea what was happening.
Apparently, they simultaneously fell. Ten feet away from each other. I gathered up the crying ones, grabbed the stroller, and made my way back to the house. The girls sat in the driveway and my little buddy and I went in and got band-aids, peroxide, and neosporin. I came back out and administered all three on knees and hands. The girls were instantly better, and went back down the street to play. I put the boy back in the stroller and away we went.
Before we caught up to the girls, wild screaming commenced. Why? Because Story was spreadeagled on the street again in the same place. Squealing and sobbing. Luckily, my neighbor was back to collect her son, so I scooped Story up and tried to get her to stop screaming. She didn't agree with me, and continued.
It was definitely time to go in. I walked down the street with my neighbor, Kellie, to yell for Ivy to come in. We stopped at the corner to chat for a moment while the kids ran around and Story flitted between laughing and squalling. In that short amount of time....Ivy met the pavement.
She scraped up both of her hands, and in the twilight I thought that was the worst of it. She cried and yelled the entire way back to the house on her bike, but I followed and soothes as best I could. She went in the house while Story and I put away the bikes and stroller. Suddenly, a blood curdling scream came from inside the house. Story and I dropped everything and ran (okay, she kind of toddled). All I could think was, "Someone's in the house!!"
Ivy came out of the bathroom with tears all over her cheeks. "Mommy, look at my eye!!!!!!!" she wailed. It was scraped up, puffy, and red. And it hurt a lot worse now that she had seen it. Relieved that no one was getting kidnapped by a stranger in the house, I ushered both girls to the couch, and laid out the materials needed to doctor them up. I endured a lot of screaming and pleas to stop as I cleansed the wounds.
When my husband came in from golfing, I gave him the task of trying to give them both ibuprofen (just so you know- convincing them that broccoli is candy would be easier). I told Ivy how good she'd been, and how brave. Of course, she looked at me like I was totally wrong (a disturbing new trait she's picked up lately). I said, "Really, Ivy! You rode your bike all the way up here hurt and everything!"
She responded with the funniest thing I have ever heard leave those cute little lips: Mommy, I am not brave. Did I cry? YES!!
I burst out laughing, which you know helped the situation tremendously. No, actually it just exaggerated the dirty looks.
Then Ivy laid her head back on the couch and screamed, "This is the worstest boo-boo I've ever had!"
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Ivy meltdown
Ivy has an unhealthy obsession with our neighbor's child. If it were up to her, they would play together every day for 6 hours. In fact, if she plays with her in the evening and they play for an hour (which I think is a long time) and I tell her to come in, she throws the most ridiculous fit. One time I had to chase her around the neighborhood and she ran and screamed and stomped away because I told her it was dark and we were going in.
The other night she saw the little girl and some of the girl's friends behind our house at the pond and demanded to go out. I said, "No, Ivy, she's playing with her school friends." You can imagine the trauma that caused. Of course, when Ivy is upset, Story has to chime in...she either picks on Ivy for crying or she cries herself. She chose the latter.
So, what does a mom like me do when her kids are both screaming? Divert! When diverting their attention, I must sometimes do things that I would never allow them to do on a regular day. So, I ran to the living room floor, laid down on my back, and shouted, "Who wants to jump on the Mommy??" Story ran right to me and body slammed into my stomach. Ivy was a little harder to convince, but she eventually blew a raspberry on my tummy and that warmed her up.
Twenty minutes later, I was pretty sure that: my cornea was scratched, my stomach was covered in kid drool from raspberries, I had bruises up and down my legs, and a big chunk of my hair was missing. Daddy came in from a round of golf and said, "Hey, Kellie is outside on the swingset!" (Another neighbor with a son a little younger than Story.) The kids rushed off of me and ran to their bedrooms to change into outside clothes. I limped into the kitchen and looked for flip flops.
We went outside. Luckily, the other little girl was inside with her friends. We swang, Kellie and I chatted, the kids played. Then, Ivy spotted the other girl on her back porch and immediately tried to catapult herself into their yard. I grabbed her in mid flight, pulled her back to the swingset and said, "Ivy, Mommy said no!" This caused an explosion of tears, screaming, kicking, and biting. I tried to push her on the swing. No. Convince her to slide. No. She kept trying to sneak out of the yard.
So, I pulled the last straw. "Ivy, if you don't stop crying, you will go back in the house and straight to your room." She didn't even try, so I was forced to follow through. She stomped inside, screaming more and more. Story started too, so I took her inside with a sad wave to my friend.
I tried to talk to Ivy, reason with her.....but nothing was working. I ran a tub of water, took her clothes off by force and made her take a bath.
It made me sad to see her so sad. How do you teach kids to hide their emotions? And is that really what we should teach them?
The other night she saw the little girl and some of the girl's friends behind our house at the pond and demanded to go out. I said, "No, Ivy, she's playing with her school friends." You can imagine the trauma that caused. Of course, when Ivy is upset, Story has to chime in...she either picks on Ivy for crying or she cries herself. She chose the latter.
So, what does a mom like me do when her kids are both screaming? Divert! When diverting their attention, I must sometimes do things that I would never allow them to do on a regular day. So, I ran to the living room floor, laid down on my back, and shouted, "Who wants to jump on the Mommy??" Story ran right to me and body slammed into my stomach. Ivy was a little harder to convince, but she eventually blew a raspberry on my tummy and that warmed her up.
Twenty minutes later, I was pretty sure that: my cornea was scratched, my stomach was covered in kid drool from raspberries, I had bruises up and down my legs, and a big chunk of my hair was missing. Daddy came in from a round of golf and said, "Hey, Kellie is outside on the swingset!" (Another neighbor with a son a little younger than Story.) The kids rushed off of me and ran to their bedrooms to change into outside clothes. I limped into the kitchen and looked for flip flops.
We went outside. Luckily, the other little girl was inside with her friends. We swang, Kellie and I chatted, the kids played. Then, Ivy spotted the other girl on her back porch and immediately tried to catapult herself into their yard. I grabbed her in mid flight, pulled her back to the swingset and said, "Ivy, Mommy said no!" This caused an explosion of tears, screaming, kicking, and biting. I tried to push her on the swing. No. Convince her to slide. No. She kept trying to sneak out of the yard.
So, I pulled the last straw. "Ivy, if you don't stop crying, you will go back in the house and straight to your room." She didn't even try, so I was forced to follow through. She stomped inside, screaming more and more. Story started too, so I took her inside with a sad wave to my friend.
I tried to talk to Ivy, reason with her.....but nothing was working. I ran a tub of water, took her clothes off by force and made her take a bath.
It made me sad to see her so sad. How do you teach kids to hide their emotions? And is that really what we should teach them?
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