House of Estrogen

Finding the Real Children within my Children

Have you seen the Caine's Arcade video yet? If not, it is a must-see. (It is at the bottom of this post.) I love this kid, and more than that, I love his dad. Kids are so spoiled these days (mine included) with iPods, iPads, Wiis, and 24/7 cartoons that it just seems to suck the creativity out of them.  Caine's childhood reminds me more of my own. One summer, all the kids in the neighborhood decided we were going to build a car. Imagine Fred Flintstone's car built with scrap lumber, a million nails, paint, and old roller skate or skateboard wheels, and you have a pretty good picture of it. We spent hours every day from sun up to sun down in the stifling Texas heat in my parents' carport building that thing. My mom's poor car tires suffered more than one puncture wound from the nails we left scattered hither and yon.  She just patched the tires and let us keep going though. We were out of her hair, out of her house, and using every bit of creativity, teamwork, and determination that we had.  After the car's short maiden voyage where we realized our engineering of the wheels really didn't work out so well, we turned the car into a lemonade stand. How's that for making lemonade out of a lemon?

I try to foster that environment for my girls. I kick them outside with the neighbors and tell them they have to play outside.  When Addie and I are taking our weekend siestas, the girls know they aren't allowed in the house unless someone is bleeding. They always manage to entertain themselves - usually with bikes, scooters, jump ropes, sidewalk chalk, dancing, and friends.  They have yet to build anything the scope of a car or arcade though. Perhaps I need to enforce more boredom? We had enough cardboard from broken down Girl Scout cookie boxes that they probably could have built Six Flags if they had been inspired.

Perhaps next time they claim they are bored or ask to watch TV, I'll hand them some packing tape, empty boxes, scrap wood, a box of nails, and a hammer, and tell them to go away. I'd love to see the results.  I know somewhere under the layers of Lady Gaga lyrics, Temple Run high scores, and iCarly quotes, there are children with big dreams, endlessly creative minds, and boundless optimism that only children have.

Here is the Caine's Arcade video. It will make you smile, make you cry, and make you wish you hadn't bought your kid that handheld video game.

Let the Punishment Fit the Crime

One of my favorite movies of all time is The Parent Trap.  I love both the 1961 version with Haley Mills and the Lindsey Lohan version from when she was cute and not on drugs. In high school, I babysat for a family in my neighborhood at least once a week who owned a VHS tape (remember those?) of The Parent Trap. I watched it every time I babysat. I knew every line of that movie and could practically recite the whole thing from start to finish.

One of my favorite lines is the camp director saying, "Let the punishment fit the crime. Let the punishment fit the crime."  If you can't hear her exact voice in the back of your head like I can, watch the clip. You just have to watch the first minute.

 

(And as a side note totally unrelated to the rest of this post. My summer camp uniforms were almost identical to those. Does that make me old?)

I have watched that movie enough that any time I am trying to come up with a punishment for my kids, I hear her voice in my head, "Let the punishment fit the crime." I think her voice was hardwired into my brain after watching it so many times.

So, this week when Nina decided it would be funny to throw a friend's jacket into our garbage can and then not fess up to her crime when the friend's mother came by looking for it, causing that mother to drive to the movie theater in search of the lost jacket, that camp director voice in my head was repeating her line over and over once I found out.  "Let the punishment fit the crime. Let the punishment fit the crime." I asked Nina what she thought her punishment should be. Her answer was a month of no TV or videos. That would definitely be a punishment, but it didn't exactly fit the crime.

We made Nina go apologize to the girl's mother and return the (freshly laundered) jacket. To truly fit the crime; however, she needed to understand what a disgusting choice she made for a hiding place for her friend's pricey REI jacket. She needed to think about how she would feel if someone had thrown her jacket in there.

She needed to share the experience of the jacket. We made her clean the garbage can.

 

She spent all afternoon hosing down, soaping up, and scrubbing that nasty, stinky, vile container, and she hated every second of it.

The camp director in the back of my head was proud. Nina will definitely think twice before pulling a stunt like that again. In this case, I'd say the punishment truely fit the crime.

Channeling my Inner Tiger Mother

Before I read Amy Chua's book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, I had preconceived ideas about her from reading her Wall Street Journal article and hearing clips about her on the news. I was convinced I was going to think that she was a harsh, demanding, overbearing, abusive mother. I was sure that I would not agree with any of her parenting tactics. Then, I read the book. As I read, I immediately recognized myself as fairly typical of the "Western parents" that she criticizes. I praise my children if they try hard, regardless of the grades or outcome. I let my children choose their own activities and quit when they tire of them. I encourage my children to work hard in school, but I do not demand it. Conversely, the tiger mother chooses activities, forces hours of practice, and demands nothing less than A's in school. While I can never picture myself following in Amy Chua's footsteps, I did begin to realize there could be a happy medium between the two parenting styles. I agreed with her that perhaps some of my Western parenting ways let my children "off the hook" too easily. I could think of times when I could have pushed them harder or given more of a critique rather than praising the effort.

I made the decision that I would channel my inner Tiger Mother. I wasn't going to ban sleepovers and playdates. I wasn't going to make them practice a musical instrument for hours every night. I wasn't going to call my children "garbage" or "fatty" like Amy Chua has done. That said, I knew I could bring a little Tiger into our home, and I thought it was worth a try.

A couple months ago, Nina told me that she wanted to go to ice skating camp for all three weeks of track-out camp. I love that she enjoys skating. The rink is a bit out of the way for us though, so it isn't the most convenient place for camp. I knew there was a holiday ice show coming up, and that campers had the opportunity to do a group number in the show. Nina had said very vehemently that she had NO intentions of doing the show. As much of a ham as Nina is at home, she is very uncomfortable performing or being in the spotlight. I had asked her about the show several times, and she had always refused. I thought the show would be a good experience for her though. So, WWTMD?  (What Would Tiger Mother Do?)  Well, Tiger Mother would already have her skating six hours a day with the toughest coach at the rink, so I'm already behind on that one. Tiger Mother would definitely force her to do the show though. In my not quite so forceful way, I said, "Nina, I will only sign you up for two weeks of camp if you do the holiday show." She thought about it for a minute, and then said, "OK. I'll do it."  She later told her dad, "Mom is forcing me to do the show."  I gave myself a little Tiger Mother pat on the back for making her to do something she really didn't want to do because I thought it was best. Tiger Mother would be proud. Maybe.

As Nina started preparing for the show, she was just a bundle of excitement - the costumes, the jackets, the rehearsals, the spotlights, the routine - she was loving it. She came home from camp every day with a big smile on her face. I thought to myself, "This Tiger Mother thing is the way to go. If I hadn't made her do the show, she wouldn't know what a great experience it could be."

Nina skated in the show last Friday, and she was beaming through the whole performance.

She was the youngest in her group, and the most beginner of the four, but she skated her heart out. Of course, the real Tiger Mother's child would have been doing triple lutzes. I'm still a Western mom at heart though, so I was quite proud of her bunny hops.

When the show was over, I said, "Nina, aren't you glad I made you do the show?" She agreed, and the next morning, she even said it was sad that it was all over.

Imagine my surprise when a couple days ago Nina said, "Mom, I want to stop skating. I want to do
gymnastics instead." What? What happened to that smiling child who wanted to go to skating camp every day and was sad when the ice show was over? What happened to that child who wanted skating pants more than anything else for Christmas?

More importantly, WWTMD? Well, Tiger Mother would simply tell her "no", lace up her skates, and push her out on to the rink. Hmmm.. this Tiger Mother thing is hard. J.C. and I both talked to Nina for a while to find out exactly what was going on. (Tiger Mother would not approve.) Basically, she just wanted a little break to do something different for a while. She doesn't want to stop skating completely, but we only let her do one sport at a time, and she was ready for a change. It sounded reasonable to us. So, as a stereotypical Western parent, I cancelled the next session of skating and called a gym about gymnastics lessons. 

My poor inner Tiger... she didn't last long. At least I know I can call on her when I need her.

 

Don't You Wish You Were Me?

 

Come over to help me nit pick, and I'll let you borrow the groovy headlamp. Enticing, eh?

The Invasion

No time to blog. No time to sleep. I'm too busy picking nits, combing through hair, boiling hair brushes, washing sheets and towels on hot, combing through hair, braiding hair, vacuuming, combing through hair, spraying hair with lice repellant, washing hair with lice shampoo, combing through hair, spraying furniture with lice repellant, bagging up stuffed animals, and combing through hair. You'll hear from me again when the lice have been defeated.

This Can't Be Good

I just returned home from book club, came upstairs to the office, and found several clumps of cut hair about four inches long lying on the floor. They are too long to be Elise's hair. The color looks about right for Nina, Addison, or any number of American Girl dolls. It really doesn't feel like doll hair to me though.

J.C. was home with the girls, so I asked him who cut their hair. He said, "Elizabeth". (Yes, he knows the American Girl dolls by name). He said clumps of her hair were coming out while they were brushing it. These aren't clumps though. They are undeniably cut hair, and Elizabeth's hair is curly. These are not. There is no way Elizabeth was the source of this hair.

The girls are all asleep, so I guess I'll have to wait until morning to see who gave themselves (or their little sister) a trim. I don't have a good feeling about this. I may be making an emergency trip to the salon tomorrow. I'll post tomorrow morning when I find out the source of the clippings. Stay tuned...

I am Rocking the Single Parent Thing

Seriously, I am so smooth, calm, and collected. I should teach classes or something.

Last night, we went out to eat at Chick-Fil-A. Chicken is healthy, right? The kids were all playing in the play area, and I was sitting at a table. Addie came running out of the play area barefoot in a complete panic and said, "I need to go potty!"  From the look on her face, I knew there was no time to get her shoes, so I just scooped her up and ran to the bathroom. While there, I realized that my purse was sitting at our table, completely unattended. Nice. The last thing I needed was to have my purse stolen. I said to Addie, "Stay RIGHT HERE. Do NOT move. I will be RIGHT BACK. Just STAY HERE."  I ran out the 20 feet to our table, grabbed my purse, turned around, and saw Addie standing barefoot outside the bathroom with her shorts and panties down around her knees.  I'm sure all the other Chick-Fil-A customers eating dinner loved that. What happened "Stay RIGHT HERE"? Was I not clear with my instructions?

Then this morning, I completely ignored my own advice and put Nina in charge of breakfast again. I came down to find Addie sitting at the table with THREE half-eaten Pop Tarts on her plate. Who gives a kid that size three Pop Tarts?  Oh yeah... a seven year old.  Really, you would think I would learn. At least she was eating in the kitchen this time. That's an improvement, right?

So, if you were at Chick-Fil-A last night... that was me with the half-naked preschooler. I was totally in control. Really. I was.

Riding the Crazy Train

J.C. is out of town, and my kids are out to destroy any last thread of sanity I thought I had. This is my rant for today. Maybe I can blog out my frustrations, and tomorrow will be better. (Fingers crossed).

1. When I say "Go wait for me outside by the car", I do not mean "Run outside and leave the front door wide open, air conditioning the entire outside world."

2. You are three. You need a nap. NAP! Seriously, you have no idea what an out-of-control maniac you become when you don't nap. The way you run around in circles babbling nonsense because you have absolutely no control over your mind or body is not cute. You look like a three year old on drugs. Stop it. Just NAP.

3. If I go to the trouble to pack you a lunch before school, making a sandwich and slicing up cucumbers, TAKE THE LUNCH TO SCHOOL. Not taking it is a waste of money and more importantly a waste of my time. This offense makes me more crazy than it really should, but this is your warning. Don't do it again.

4. If you decide to paint your arms and legs at a friend's house, please take a shower when you come home. Do not try to clean up in the powder room where you get paint on the wall.

5. Stop fighting. STOP. FIGHTING. Stop pinching. Stop hitting. Stop yelling. Stop scratching. Stop kicking. Stop grabbing. STOP IT!

6. If I find toothpaste one more time on my bed, or a wall, or a chest of drawers, I am throwing out all the toothpaste. Your teeth will rot, and you will not be prom queen. Leave the toothpaste in the bathroom, please.

Tomorrow will be better, right? Maybe? Please?

A House of Estrogen Morning

Today started out the same as every morning. I was lying in bed half comatose watching Matt Lauer on the Today Show, putting off getting up as long as possible. Nina came in asking me to open a container of fingernail polish, knowing full well that I am completely incapable of rational decisions before 8 a.m.. I opened the polish and sent her on her way, lest she interrupt too much of my time with Matt Lauer. When I finally rolled out of bed, Addie modeled her new look, courtesy of Nina - metallic blue toenails, pink sparkly fingernails, bright pink cheeks, topped off with glossy purple lips. Nice. My three year old looks like a hooker, and I'm still not quite awake. I got dressed, told Nina for the 18th time to get herself dressed, and shuffled downstairs to start making lunches.

We have jelly issues in this house. I don't do grape. I'm a Trader Joe's cherry preserves kind of girl. The rest of the family likes boring old grape for reasons I'll never understand. I have been banned from buying their jelly though because I buy jam instead of jelly or jelly instead of jam. I can't keep them straight. They are both jars of purple glop...what's the difference? Anyway, that is just a little background into the jelly situation. J.C. used to buy the ginormous 8000 oz jars from Sam's Club, but by the time we would get to the bottom third of the jar, the lid would be so glued to the jar that we couldn't get it open. Recently, he switched to squeeze jelly, thinking it would be easier for the girls to use. Have you ever tried squeeze jelly? It isn't like toothpaste or ketchup or mustard that works well in a squeeze container. The purple glop adheres itself to the bottom of the container and is impossible to squeeze out. I worked on making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, cursing the squeeze jelly all the while. J.C. strutted over to defend his jelly saying, "I'll fix it. You just have to shake the jelly down." Then, in one powerful shake, jelly was EV.ER.Y.WHERE....on the ceiling, on the walls, on the floor, on J.C.'s back, on the cabinets, on a wall hanging. I don't think he could have sprayed jelly farther if he was trying. Then Addison burst in to tears, wailing, "I don't like jelly on the ceeeeiiiiillllliiiinnnnggg."  J.C. started cleaning up his sticky purple goop while I consoled the poor jelly-terrified child. Then from the upper level, we heard screams of "OWWW!! Don't kick me!", "You kicked me first!" "But I didn't kick you hard." When I finally calmed Addie down, assuring her that her Daddy would get all the jelly off the ceiling, it was time to get her dressed. That can't be accomplished without tantrums (from both her and me), but I came out victorious, managing to dress her in everything but shoes.

Fortunately, I had a well-timed morning meeting, so I got to race off to work, leaving J.C. to get everyone off to camp and preschool with lunches, blankets, jackets, snacks, water bottles, assorted necklaces, coins, rubber frogs, and other necessary paraphernalia.

Can you see why I'm not a morning person? Do your mornings resemble ours? Or are we the only ones with sticky ceilings and three year old hookers in the mornings?  Why does every day have to start with a morning?

I'm heading off to bed now, where I plan to stay until noon. No more mornings for me. I just can't take them any more.

 

Letter to Addison, Age 3

Dear Addison,

I am a month late with your birthday letter this time. Sadly, with a birthday the week before Christmas, the most hectic time of year, I'm sure this will not be the last time this letter is late. The chaos of the holidays are not my only excuse though. I've been thinking about this letter since then, thinking about all the things I want to tell you. I'm having a hard time accepting that you are three. You are no longer a baby, no longer a toddler. You are all big girl, and you remind us daily with your very adamant, "I BIG GIRL! I in PRESCHOOL!" I'm just not quite ready for you to leave the baby and toddler phase behind, and that translated into my putting off writing this letter. You are three though, whether I like it or not, and I really am enjoying three. I just need to find a way to put a little closure around the baby/toddler time.

 

One day recently, your dad said to me, "Were the other two this cute at this age?"  Neither of us could remember. I'm quite sure they probably were, but it makes me sad that I don't remember. You guys are growing up too fast, and it is hard to remember all the little things. This letter will be about remembering... all the things I don't want to forget about your being three.

 

You say so many things that make us smile. Every time you say a word that ends with "ing", you make a funny little clicking sound with your tongue. You are completely unconscious of it, so I guess you just think it is part of the word. "Mommy, what you reading <click>?" "Daddy! Look! I sledding <click>!"  It cracks us up, but I know some day you will probably lose the click. I don't want to forget it.  I love the way you count too... "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 11, 8, 9, 10, 11, 8, 9, 10, 11..."  The eleven serves as both a seven and an eleven, so you never get past it. We probably should correct you more often than we do, but it is just so endearing. I know you'll count correctly eventually. I'm in no rush for it to be perfect.

 

Then there are all the words you can't quite get right yet. We will forever call Goofy, "Doofy" after our recent Disney trip for your birthday, and Elise's poor American Girl Doll Ruthie is "Roofy". The word "your" is always "ors". You use that one so much that your dad and I have started using it as well. "Mommy, I play ors iPod?" "Daddy, you put on ors shoes." Once again, we should probably correct you, but we just love the sweetness of it. I don't think you'll drive off to college in "ors" car. You'll figure it out before then.

 

You are still in a very independent phase wanting to control as many things in life as you are able. When we go up the stairs, you tell me to wait at the bottom. Then, when you get to the top, you yell, "ONE, TWO, FREE, COME UP!" to grant me permission to continue up. Jackets, pants, socks, and shoes are all put on by you alone. You set your place at the table, get your own water, and serve your own food at meal times. You insist on opening and closing all doors which usually results in a big bottleneck in the doorway every morning as we all try to get past you with backpacks, laptops, and jackets.

You like to test how far you can push the control thing. Invariably, if you've asked me to help you with something, as soon as I start, you will say, "No! Daddy do it!" If you tell your dad that you want Cheerios for breakfast, as soon as he pulls the box out, you will yell, "No! I don't want that! I want Kix!" We don't let you rule the roost, but we do try to let you take that control in simple situations like going up the stairs one at a time. You get such satisfaction knowing that you were in command. You definitely like to consider yourself in charge 24/7 though.

 
You are a third child in every way. At age three, your sisters loved listening to the Wiggles, Laurie Berkner, or Roger Day. You, on the other hand, are a huge Beyoncé and Black Eyed Peas fan. Every time we get in the car, you request, "Mommy, I want Single Ladies. I single lady Addison." Then when I play your beloved Beyoncé , you yell, "Turn it up!", and you sing right along. You started preschool this month, and one morning, you packed up a tiny backpack with all your favorite books, blankets, and cars. Then, you put it on, walked up to Nina and said, "Look Nina! I got a pack-pack just like you guys!"

You are much more adventurous than your older sisters ever were, and that can be scary. Twice recently, we have caught you walking around the inside edge of the railing that goes around the top of the staircase. Both times, we didn't find you until you had walked all the way around and were probably 14 feet off the ground. None of the baby books tell you to babyproof the one inch wide ledge that goes around the stairwell. Who knew? Clearly, you have no fear of heights!

 

This month, you started both preschool and soccer. You are completely in your element with both. You love every aspect of preschool - the painting easels, the computer, the dramatic play area, the preschool playground. The transition was so simple for you, and I think you were really ready for a more challenging world around you. You are rarely ready to leave when I arrive in the afternoon to pick you up. We all miss seeing your old teachers, Mike and Mimi, each day. Mike still babysits for us a lot though, and you run by Mimi's room every morning to give her a hug.

You are having a blast playing soccer. Your sisters never played soccer this young, and I hadn't realized how cute three year olds look playing soccer! You love it.

You still have a fiery temper and can throw a wicked tantrum, but for the most part, we're finding three to be a fun age. We don't always have the patience to let you do everything by yourself, and we don't always give in to your controlling demands. This sets you off, of course, screaming until you are red in the face, but we get through it.

 

You are my sweet little muffin (or as you would correct me, "NO! I BIG muffin!"). Happy third birthday! I love you.

Love,

Mama