JUDGEMENT DAY
There is a man I see everyday when I drop Sarah and Gabriel off at camp. He has two children in the same classes as them, and we often wind up walking the halls together from one room to the next, chatting pleasantly about nothing.
The other day as I was driving away after drop-off, a car began to pull out in front of me, setting us on a slow motion collision course. I issued a light warning honk and swerved. But the driver ignored me, peeled out and cut me off. I looked over to see who this asshole was, and IT WAS MY HALLWAY FRIEND. I’m pretty sure he saw me too, because the following day, as we passed in the hall, our smiles were significantly less friendly, and there was no idle chit-chat. I took this as a sign that he was either ashamed to have been outed as an asshole, or more likely, had hardened into a self-righteous stance in order hide from himself the fact that he is an asshole. Either way, he shall heretofore be known to me as Mr. Not-As-Nice-as-I-Initially-Thought.
ENABLING REQUIRED
Camp policy requires that parents sign their children in to class every day. I can understand this in a pre-school, or on the first day of camp, when children may not know where they’re going. But at this point, Sarah and Gabriel have seven years combined classroom finding experience, and they have a one-hundred percent success rate. I am decidedly in the pro-autonomy, anti-helicopter parenting camp, so boo to you, Working Advantage, for making my children take a small step back.
POTTY TIME
1. There have been several times in the past few weeks when I have used public restrooms, and the person in the stall next to me has left without washing their hands. It’s kind of interesting, in a social experiment way, to see the gap between self-reporting and compliance in action. I would like to give people the benefit of the doubt, and assume that if they’re not turning on the faucet, it’s because they carry their own bottle of hand-sanitizer. But still, as I tell my children, SOAP ALWAYS FOR NUMBER TWO. So for the sake of appearances, fellow bathroom going compatriots, couldn’t you at least turn on the faucet for a few seconds? I would be none the wiser, and it would make me feel a whole lot better.
2. Single occupancy restrooms in which the toilet is directly across from the sink, over which there is a large mirror, are an exceptionally poor design choice. The large mirror is good for fixing yourself up, but unless you scope out the joint in advance, and then remember the layout when you’re done with your business, you have the unfortunate experience of watching yourself wipe. I’m sure there are some fetishists out there who find this erotic, but I suspect, like me, the general populace does not.
On the other hand, props to single occupancy restrooms for allowing people to not wash their hands in privacy.
18 July 2011
05 July 2011
Scenes from a mall
Although I hate malls with an abiding passion, this year for Sarah’s birthday, I set her and two friends loose there with some spending money. While I waited for them, I sat in the bar in Ruby Tuesdays. The White Horse Tavern it was not, and I could not even finish a single beer without fear of imperiling my ability to drive home, but I brought my notebook with me anyway.
I was still getting over the effects of my horrible ear infection, so I tried, as best I could, to eavesdrop with my one good ear. I overheard this conversation between a twenty-something bartender with Luddite* leanings and a conspiracy theorist patron slightly ignorant of musical history.
Bartender: I still think the best generation’s music was 1965-72.**
Patron: I just want to be alternative from everyone else.
Bartender: I am anti-Kindle. I still prefer CDs. I sample things on-line, and then I go out and buy them.
Unintelligible mumbling
Patron: If only she had talent she might be a crazy stalker girl.
Bartender: What do you listen to?
Patron: Depeche Mode, REM, Country (sic) Roses***, the Cure.
Bartender: Is that 80s music?
Patron: Yeah. Back in the eighties they used to call it college music.
Patron: Wasn’t Michael Jackson big in the eighties?
Bartender: Yeah, but I’m not even that upset he died.
Patron: Elvis and Tupac died, but obviously there are still spottings of them.
Unintelligible mumbling
Patron: All that classical stuff, like Beethoven and all that, it’s public domain now.
Patron: Didn’t Sirius and XM merge?
Bartender: Yeah; they have a nineties station.
Patron: So there’s only one alternative.
Bartender: Have you seen the Westfield Mall app?
Patron: Give me a number 2, make it strong; pineapple, Jaeger, lager.
Bartender: With a kick?
Unintelligible mumbling
Bartender: It’s your sister, so she doesn’t have you on a leash like a girlfriend does.
Patron: Yeah, I can’t get rid of that bitch.
Bartender: I don’t like the Wii. If I play video games, I want to sit.
Unintelligible mumbling
Bartender, to me: What are you writing about?
Me: Oh, nothing, just taking notes.
Bartender: So you’re a writer?
Me: Not really, but I like to write.
Bartender: Have I given you any inspiration?
Me: Yes, you have.
Bartender: Alright! So if you can put something in your book about a really good looking bartender named Will, that would be great.
Me: I’ll do my best.
I was flattered to be taken seriously as a writer; apparently carrying a Moleskin, while pretentious, does connote a certain authority.
So Will, for you, here are your fifteen minutes.
*****************
*Although this is the common usage, I recently learned that the Luddites were not so much anti-technology as anti-poor quality technology, which, in modern terms, means they were PC, as opposed to Mac users.
**Given how I feel about classic rock, this especially chaps my ass. Of course you are entitled to your opinion, but you weren’t even alive during this era; was there no music made during your youth that was worth listening to? I think not.
***Stone, not Country, Roses. Youngsters, learn your musical history!
I was still getting over the effects of my horrible ear infection, so I tried, as best I could, to eavesdrop with my one good ear. I overheard this conversation between a twenty-something bartender with Luddite* leanings and a conspiracy theorist patron slightly ignorant of musical history.
Bartender: I still think the best generation’s music was 1965-72.**
Patron: I just want to be alternative from everyone else.
Bartender: I am anti-Kindle. I still prefer CDs. I sample things on-line, and then I go out and buy them.
Unintelligible mumbling
Patron: If only she had talent she might be a crazy stalker girl.
Bartender: What do you listen to?
Patron: Depeche Mode, REM, Country (sic) Roses***, the Cure.
Bartender: Is that 80s music?
Patron: Yeah. Back in the eighties they used to call it college music.
Patron: Wasn’t Michael Jackson big in the eighties?
Bartender: Yeah, but I’m not even that upset he died.
Patron: Elvis and Tupac died, but obviously there are still spottings of them.
Unintelligible mumbling
Patron: All that classical stuff, like Beethoven and all that, it’s public domain now.
Patron: Didn’t Sirius and XM merge?
Bartender: Yeah; they have a nineties station.
Patron: So there’s only one alternative.
Bartender: Have you seen the Westfield Mall app?
Patron: Give me a number 2, make it strong; pineapple, Jaeger, lager.
Bartender: With a kick?
Unintelligible mumbling
Bartender: It’s your sister, so she doesn’t have you on a leash like a girlfriend does.
Patron: Yeah, I can’t get rid of that bitch.
Bartender: I don’t like the Wii. If I play video games, I want to sit.
Unintelligible mumbling
Bartender, to me: What are you writing about?
Me: Oh, nothing, just taking notes.
Bartender: So you’re a writer?
Me: Not really, but I like to write.
Bartender: Have I given you any inspiration?
Me: Yes, you have.
Bartender: Alright! So if you can put something in your book about a really good looking bartender named Will, that would be great.
Me: I’ll do my best.
I was flattered to be taken seriously as a writer; apparently carrying a Moleskin, while pretentious, does connote a certain authority.
So Will, for you, here are your fifteen minutes.
*****************
*Although this is the common usage, I recently learned that the Luddites were not so much anti-technology as anti-poor quality technology, which, in modern terms, means they were PC, as opposed to Mac users.
**Given how I feel about classic rock, this especially chaps my ass. Of course you are entitled to your opinion, but you weren’t even alive during this era; was there no music made during your youth that was worth listening to? I think not.
***Stone, not Country, Roses. Youngsters, learn your musical history!
27 May 2011
Bad doggie treats
Everyone knows that positive behavior modification is the ideal method for motivating people and changing bad habits. The problem with this approach is that where children and annoying behavior are concerned, it’s more expedient, and satisfying to cut to the chase. If I say to Gabriel, “Stop X right now, or you will lose Y,” I have a roughly 50% success rate.
In the 50% of the time that this threat is ineffective, Gabriel loses a privilege, he often resorts to crying. And then I get angry that he can’t take responsibility for his actions, and tack a second day of privilege loss to the punishment, which makes him cry more. This is a masterful manipulation on his part; he is sensitive and empathic, and wears his emotions on his sleeve. Because he knows how he tugs on my heart strings, he goes for my emotional jugular. For years, we’ve been stuck in this vicious circle.
A few years ago, after we saw Dr Expensive, we instituted an elaborate positive behavior modification ticketing system. In hindsight, our system was ill designed, and generally a pain in the ass to administer, and within six months we let it fall by the wayside. Recently, Gabriel began clamoring for its return. I ignored this for a few weeks, until I realized that he was telling me he needed it. And so we re-instituted a new and improved system.
I have been trying unsuccessfully for years to explain to Gabriel that lying, and refusing to take responsibility for your actions is worse than the actions themselves, and only makes me angrier. With the new system, I began offering him a ticket to encourage him to fess up to his mistakes. It’s been working pretty well, and I was feeling very proud of both of us.
Recently I watched an episode of Modern Family in which a grocery clerk, played by Manuel Lin Miranda pitches a business proposition to the family patriarch, at the behest of his soft-hearted Latina trophy wife. His idea is a for behavior modification technique in which a dog receives a bacon flavored treat from the mouth end of a long dachshund shaped tube for good behavior, and a bland treat from the ass end for bad behavior. It was a spectacularly bad idea that backfired when the dog wound up preferring the bland treats.
Although it was very funny, as I watched, I had the uncomfortable realization that I HAVE BEEN GIVING MY SON BAD DOGGIE TREATS, and it was time to stop. And so I decided to just come down harder on his ass. As it turns out, since we are both a few years older and wiser, this also works pretty well.
In the 50% of the time that this threat is ineffective, Gabriel loses a privilege, he often resorts to crying. And then I get angry that he can’t take responsibility for his actions, and tack a second day of privilege loss to the punishment, which makes him cry more. This is a masterful manipulation on his part; he is sensitive and empathic, and wears his emotions on his sleeve. Because he knows how he tugs on my heart strings, he goes for my emotional jugular. For years, we’ve been stuck in this vicious circle.
A few years ago, after we saw Dr Expensive, we instituted an elaborate positive behavior modification ticketing system. In hindsight, our system was ill designed, and generally a pain in the ass to administer, and within six months we let it fall by the wayside. Recently, Gabriel began clamoring for its return. I ignored this for a few weeks, until I realized that he was telling me he needed it. And so we re-instituted a new and improved system.
I have been trying unsuccessfully for years to explain to Gabriel that lying, and refusing to take responsibility for your actions is worse than the actions themselves, and only makes me angrier. With the new system, I began offering him a ticket to encourage him to fess up to his mistakes. It’s been working pretty well, and I was feeling very proud of both of us.
Recently I watched an episode of Modern Family in which a grocery clerk, played by Manuel Lin Miranda pitches a business proposition to the family patriarch, at the behest of his soft-hearted Latina trophy wife. His idea is a for behavior modification technique in which a dog receives a bacon flavored treat from the mouth end of a long dachshund shaped tube for good behavior, and a bland treat from the ass end for bad behavior. It was a spectacularly bad idea that backfired when the dog wound up preferring the bland treats.
Although it was very funny, as I watched, I had the uncomfortable realization that I HAVE BEEN GIVING MY SON BAD DOGGIE TREATS, and it was time to stop. And so I decided to just come down harder on his ass. As it turns out, since we are both a few years older and wiser, this also works pretty well.
18 May 2011
STFU
MORNING EDITION
I like to wake at six o’clock, before my kids are up, so I can have quiet time with a cup of coffee and the news. If I only get halfway through the Daily Wrap before someone awakes, that constitutes a BAD NEWS DAY, which makes me very cross, because that is my only opportunity during the day to see what is going on in the world. And then I feel conflicted, because although I am happy to see my children, I can’t help but wish it was not quite yet.
Lately I’ve taken a harder line about their respecting my need for my quiet time. And though they try as best they can, of course they can’t, because they are children. So I close the computer, but can only pretend to listen, because my brain is shouting: SHUT THE FUCK UP*, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET MOMMY READ THE NEWS, which of course I would never say.
At least, not yet.
A friend of mine told me that one of her most liberating parenting moments came when her children were teenagers, bickering in the back seat while she was driving. She turned to them and without malice, said, “Shut the fuck up.” And they did.
I can’t wait for that day.
DRIVE TIME
During short trips around town, I keep the radio off, so I can talk with my kids. I am not very chatty, so mainly they talk, and I listen, and we have some of our nicest conversations this way, as I hear the news of their days, and their hopes and dreams.
Sometimes, though, I just can’t concentrate on safely piloting the car while trying to answer vexing questions, like “What is the difference between a prostitute and a whore,”** “How do cats decide who to marry,” or, as Sacha is fond of asking, “What are we having for dinner tomorrow?”
At these times, I impose a talk amongst yourselves policy, but because the habit of car chatting is so ingrained, I find myself instinctutally answering questions, and then remembering that I told them not to talk to me. And so I cut myself off mid-sentence, and sternly say, “Please don’t talk to me, I am DRIVING!”
When they are older, I hope they do not hold this confusing mixed messaging against me.
*How I wish this book had been around when my children were younger.
**In an eerie self-fulfilling prophesy, I was recently asked this, several weeks after pondering this very question in this space.
I like to wake at six o’clock, before my kids are up, so I can have quiet time with a cup of coffee and the news. If I only get halfway through the Daily Wrap before someone awakes, that constitutes a BAD NEWS DAY, which makes me very cross, because that is my only opportunity during the day to see what is going on in the world. And then I feel conflicted, because although I am happy to see my children, I can’t help but wish it was not quite yet.
Lately I’ve taken a harder line about their respecting my need for my quiet time. And though they try as best they can, of course they can’t, because they are children. So I close the computer, but can only pretend to listen, because my brain is shouting: SHUT THE FUCK UP*, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, LET MOMMY READ THE NEWS, which of course I would never say.
At least, not yet.
A friend of mine told me that one of her most liberating parenting moments came when her children were teenagers, bickering in the back seat while she was driving. She turned to them and without malice, said, “Shut the fuck up.” And they did.
I can’t wait for that day.
DRIVE TIME
During short trips around town, I keep the radio off, so I can talk with my kids. I am not very chatty, so mainly they talk, and I listen, and we have some of our nicest conversations this way, as I hear the news of their days, and their hopes and dreams.
Sometimes, though, I just can’t concentrate on safely piloting the car while trying to answer vexing questions, like “What is the difference between a prostitute and a whore,”** “How do cats decide who to marry,” or, as Sacha is fond of asking, “What are we having for dinner tomorrow?”
At these times, I impose a talk amongst yourselves policy, but because the habit of car chatting is so ingrained, I find myself instinctutally answering questions, and then remembering that I told them not to talk to me. And so I cut myself off mid-sentence, and sternly say, “Please don’t talk to me, I am DRIVING!”
When they are older, I hope they do not hold this confusing mixed messaging against me.
*How I wish this book had been around when my children were younger.
**In an eerie self-fulfilling prophesy, I was recently asked this, several weeks after pondering this very question in this space.
14 May 2011
Love bites
Everyone knows that a penis is a boy’s best friend, and Sacha and his have always been extra-special close. Lately he’s discovered the art of self-massage; after a recent bath, I watched him in a trance, with a dollop of cream having a good go at himself.
On Friday afternoon I asked Sarah to get Sacha for changed for karate and she came running into the kitchen.
“Mama, Mama, come look, THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH SACHA’S PENIS!”
Sarah can be a bit alarmist, but when I looked at him, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Holy shit.”
His groin, penis and balls were covered in angry red hives. Sacha wasn’t complaining about it, and it was four o’clock on Friday, so there was no point in calling my pediatrician, but it looked really alarming nonetheless.
I used my complete lack of medical training deduce these were some kind of bug bites. We’ve had a minor epidemic lately, and both Sarah and I are spattered with welts.
But still, given that Sacha is a bit precocious where masturbation is concerned, has mildly sadomasochistic tendencies, and his penis looked like it’d been scrubbed with steel wool, I felt it was time to call in a medical professional. I have a friend who is a dermatologist and I knew she’d be seeing Sacha the following morning at karate. Because I am a sensitive wife, and didn’t want to put David in the position of asking our friend cold if she could please examine our son’s balls, I sent her an email to give her a head’s up.
She confirmed my diagnosis, and advised that we treat the bites with antihistamine and cortisone. Just when I'd finally gotten to the point where I was completely out of the business of dealing with my son’s business, every evening, for medical reasons, I have to give him a genital massage.
Two steps forward, one step back.
On Friday afternoon I asked Sarah to get Sacha for changed for karate and she came running into the kitchen.
“Mama, Mama, come look, THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH SACHA’S PENIS!”
Sarah can be a bit alarmist, but when I looked at him, I couldn’t help but mutter, “Holy shit.”
His groin, penis and balls were covered in angry red hives. Sacha wasn’t complaining about it, and it was four o’clock on Friday, so there was no point in calling my pediatrician, but it looked really alarming nonetheless.
I used my complete lack of medical training deduce these were some kind of bug bites. We’ve had a minor epidemic lately, and both Sarah and I are spattered with welts.
But still, given that Sacha is a bit precocious where masturbation is concerned, has mildly sadomasochistic tendencies, and his penis looked like it’d been scrubbed with steel wool, I felt it was time to call in a medical professional. I have a friend who is a dermatologist and I knew she’d be seeing Sacha the following morning at karate. Because I am a sensitive wife, and didn’t want to put David in the position of asking our friend cold if she could please examine our son’s balls, I sent her an email to give her a head’s up.
She confirmed my diagnosis, and advised that we treat the bites with antihistamine and cortisone. Just when I'd finally gotten to the point where I was completely out of the business of dealing with my son’s business, every evening, for medical reasons, I have to give him a genital massage.
Two steps forward, one step back.
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