Thoughts on my pre-teen

I was told I had to write a letter about my daughter and send it with her to school:

Alison is a curious creature of unknown origin. She has confounded modern science and her parents since the day of her arrival on our planet. No one can argue that Alison cuts her own path through uncharted territory and her creativity and originality delight her family. Her parents have had enough sense to realize early on that Alison does what Alison does, the way SHE does it, and to get in her way is to court disaster. (I must add that her parents do maintain the right to reign her in as needed during the teen years.)

When Alison was very young, she would plague her parents with inventions. They would find three-dimensional creations all over the house and be treated to daily demonstrations of all types of new machines. Her parents nearly went bankrupt keeping enough tape, string and scissors around to quench Alison's insatiable thirst for creativity. She even invented her own country (where the men had the babies) when she was four. Alison's science experiments were unrelenting, as she was constantly mixing things together, using planes and fulcrums and levers, prisms and all manner of other paraphernalia. When she was three, her mother, exasperated, yelled at her to get to bed. “But I want to LEARN!!!” was how she replied. She got to stay up another ten minutes to play school. Alas, Alison abandoned science when she turned nine, announcing that science was no longer “cool”. She replaced her love of science with a love of literature and knitting. JK Rowling replaced Bill Nye the Science Guy as her all-time hero.

Alison's smile and delightful conversation are always welcome in the Ireland household. She has strong opinions on religion, politics, the environment and what her mother should and should not wear. Although she often seems to think her mother has a very low IQ and is almost completely clueless, nevertheless her mother knows a wonderful daughter when she sees one.

Alison is passionate about many subjects including but not limited to saving the whales, evicting humans from Madigascar to make way for the lemurs, keeping litter off our highways and making sure little brothers are seen and not heard. Her mother overheard Alison at age four, telling someone that she was going to join Greenpeace and “crush ships that bother animals”.

Although Alison as of late has adopted somewhat of a shy demeanor at school, she is anything but shy at home. She rules her brothers with an iron fist and expresses her opinions in no uncertain terms. She keeps her parents in line, as all ambitious eldest daughters should. Her parents get away with nothing. Her mother is no longer allowed to ride the shopping cart, even under the cover of darkness, whether or not Alison is in her presence. The last time she tried such a ridiculous act, she was loudly admonished and flogged with a shopping flier by her horrified daughter.

At home, Alison has shown herself to be quite responsible. She gets herself and her dog up at the ungodly hour of 5:45, gets herself and her brothers ready for school, and even occasionally wakes her mother up -although often begrudgingly- with a fresh cup of coffee before she trudges off to school with her unruly brothers in search of the school bus. She does her own laundry and homework, and occasionally washes some dishes. She makes lunches for herself and her brothers for subsistence wages. Alison proves to be very frugal, and surprisingly non-materialistic. She makes do with what she has, spends her money wisely and thinks before she makes a purchase. Alison has a highly-developed ability to roll her eyes. She thinks her mother doesn't notice. But she does.

Alison is a wise and wonderful young lady and her parents are incredibly proud to share a household with her. We love you, Alison!

Fall foliage in Vermont

My fall scene may look serene, but behind every picture there's a story, and it's not always as pretty as the picture. I took a similar picture when the trees were green. In an attempt to re-create the scene with fall foliage, I dragged the kids up the hill a week or two later. It was coldish, and the sun came out for 20 seconds every 8 minutes or so. When the sun came out, I yelled at the kids - and I mean YELLED - to throw off their coats, stand there with their sticks and stop wiggling. I was horrified to turn around and find a very friendly couple standing two feet behind me. I don't know how long they had been witnessing a crazy lady yelling at kids who were standing on the edge of a cliff. (the cliff was rather innocuous, in reality).

Summer

The Summer of my Childhood


Get up! The cows are out! The cows are out!
So much for my stolen solitude; hidden in the recesses of the farm house or the hay loft. A few golden, precious minutes... gone for today.

We all run out like firemen to a rescue, responding to the air of emergency, jumping into our boots, although complaining and groaning. Snapped to attention and organized for the event ahead. The cows are out!

Back when I was seven, when haying was a glorious, fun-filled experience. Riding on top of the wagon, when it was new – watching the strapping sixteen-year-old hired boys, muscles glistening under a sheen of sweat and hay seeds. When I was sixteen myself, and able to heft a bale to the top of the wagon, the hired boys long gone, the job of haying less a romantic venture and just sheer, hard work.

Most of the time, hay fever kept me out of the fields and in the kitchen – relief- although not so much. Picking and freezing broccoli, miles of it spread along the counter. Sometimes the neighbors stopped on their way down the hill and took us off to the pool, my mother reluctantly letting us go. By brother, seething, and rightfully so, watched from the tractor seat as we sped away in the neighbor's Volkswagen bus. We paid later in blood, sweat and tears.
Long days, long hours, lots of complaining, followed by a precious half-hour at the swimming hole before dinner – if the work was done in time. More stolen solitude, sometimes with a book at the top of a tree or the barn roof, always waiting, waiting for my name to be called for one chore or another.

Anne of Green Gables my most negative influence, along with Pipi Longstocking. Anne inspired me to walk the ridge-pole, Pippi to pick up our pony (at least I am told).
Ah, the pony. The wild little pony who used to take me galloping up the road and throw me off on the way back down. Later I learned always to walk down and run up.

My sister and I used to put on old dresses and pretend to be the Ingalls girls, running by the banks of the creek, and driving our wagon which was a large gray rock.

When weeding the garden or scrubbing oven racks, she and I used to pretend we were indentured servants, my mother the domineering land owner.

Five in the Bed (2006 or 7?)

FIVE IN THE BED...

“You could be divorced quite comfortably in a king-sized bed,” my dad announced to me one day. “Your mother and I slept in one at a hotel on the way back from your sister's, and we felt like we were miles apart.”

I have heard that kids can be a barrier to intimacy. I would say they are more like ten-foot stone walls topped with barbed wire. Nature has it's way of making sure that children are sensibly spaced in a family. My husband and I have gone through three bed sizes during our ten-year marriage. We upgraded with each new addition to our family. We now have a king-sized bed so that six elbows can jab us in the ribs even though in theory there is plenty of room for morning snuggles. It's hard to even hear your own thoughts while hearing “scootch over!” “No you scootch over!” “Mommmmyyyyyyy...he won't scootch over...” “OUCH! Watch the family jewels there, son!” Never mind hearing sweet nothings whispered from the other side of creation.

We got a cheap bed for half the price of a fancy no-flip brand, so we can truthfully say that our sex life is in a rut. We just have to decide “will it be my rut or yours?” In addition, at least one of us has to have the desire and the wherewithal to ascend the growing mountain of mattress between the ruts in order to make any intimate contact whatsoever. To a childless couple that may seem easy, but to tired parents it can be as daunting as ascending Mount Everest. All the right conditions have to be met before any mountain climbing can be done. The kids have to be in their own beds, ASLEEP. It can't be too late. It will NEVER be too early. It is always better if the dishes have been done, preferably without argument, because even the slightest tiff can ruin the mood for a tired couple. Even if all the right circumstances are in place, in fragile harmony, if one of the parties is nursing, all bets may be off for the next year or so.

Just in case anyone is wondering why we don't just flip the mattress more than once a year - well, first of all, we're just too tired. Plus, last time we flipped it I had a raging backache the next morning and every morning after that until we re-flipped it. Besides, let's face it - sometimes it's just more comfortable to stay in a rut.

The last time we spent the night at my parents' house, the kids and I brought them their morning tea in bed. Well, what a coincidence. Turns out my parents are in a rut also, although their's is smack dab in the middle of their full-sized bed. There they were, sleeping, arms wrapped around each other; I don't know if a chisel could have separated those two. It was a very endearing scene. One that not too many of us get to see any more. It all ended too soon. The threat of the next course of porridge in bed got them up in a hurry. No need for a chisel.

Rebel Without a Brain

This is unedited, written a few years ago...
JUST CALL ME A REBEL WITHOUT A BRAIN

Having worked in the mental health side of the education field for over a decade before I had any children, I heard lots of rules about parenting that I fully expected to put into practice when I became a parent. With every passing year, I seem to find myself breaking them more and more. There are certain rules that are unfortunately tried and true that I follow, like “don't let your children play in the road”, but there are others that I question. For instance “don't use the TV as a babysitter”. Pre-children, I would have said “why would any good mother do that?” Now I ask myself, “well why would anyone use the television for anything other than as a babysitter?” I remember when my daughter was about 18 months old I guiltily put the only video we owned in the VCR. It was an old Easter special that I had picked up at a yard sale, and I used it only out of desperation in order to get the dishes done. My heart would leap when it was time to do the dishes and my daughter would start asking for the movie. As my husband was upstairs doing his schoolwork and I had no hope of a human babysitter, I knew this video was a gift from God that allowed me half an hour to clean the kitchen unencumbered. Like any bad mother, sometimes on rare occasions I put the movie on twice. My sons didn't develop an interest in TV until well into their two's, and believe me I celebrated when the long-awaited miracle finally happened. Of course, now I'm dealing with the long term effects of my short-term relief and fighting with them to turn off the damned TV.

Another rule about TV is “always watch television with your kids”. Well, the kids only watch public television or educational videos (mostly) in my house, and I figure the people who put on these shows know more about education than do I so I toss all my trust in their direction. When my preschoolers are asking me how to spell “molecules”, I bask in the false security that television is somehow good for them – in reasonable doses, of course. Once when I suggested to my three year old son that because it was late he could skip brushing his teeth just this once, he became panicked and said “but if I don't brush I'll get bacteria on my teeth”! It said so on TV, I guessed. However, in one valiant attempt to be a good mother, I did decide to follow the rules a couple of times and settled in dutifully to watch Caillou. After about ten minutes I started feeling terribly depressed and inadequate. Not only that, but I felt that my husband was also inadequate. Caillou's house is always cheerfully colored and clutter-free. Although Caillou is one of the biggest brats I have ever seen, his parents are proverbially, sickeningly NICE. Sure he gets consequences when he breaks a plant pot and then lies and says his imaginary friend did it, but the patient parents take the time to explain and make a lesson out of it – delivered with an even temper and loving tone of voice. They back each other up always (at least when I've seen them). Of course they have the time, because they are always HOME! Once Caillou broke a doorknob, and the dad fixed it right then and there! Not next week, or next year, with Mrs. Caillou nagging and swearing at him to fix the damned doorknob that he broke two years ago. What's more, he knew right where to find the screwdriver. He didn't even have to search the kids' bedrooms to find it. I was so shocked I almost dropped the dish I was washing (no multitasking mother is going to SIT and watch TV by the way – that would be breaking my own rule). Not only was it always Saturday at Caillou's house, or they were trust-funders or whatever, but they live in a wonderful neighborhood where there is a sledding hill and a forest in the back yard, yet there is a well-maintained sidewalk out front and it is a short walk to the park, the post office and stores, but no traffic. I can't believe I was comparing my life to a cartoon! I finally said that I'm either going to have to stop watching PBS or else talk to my doctor for a prescription and a referral for therapy – in that order. Maybe I can get some of what Caillou's parents are taking (or smoking). Maybe they're drug dealers and that's why they're home and happy all the time. That's it – No More PBS! But then who would babysit and teach my kids to brush their teeth twice a day and remind them to remind me to read to them fifteen minutes a day?(although that doesn't seem like much to me)? Never mind. A little TV will keep them connected to the world. It's all about balance (my new mantra). Just about anything goes, as long as it's all about balance and degree. It's more fun to make up my own rules. (in case anyone is interested, four rolls of toilet paper appeared next to the computer right in my line of sight, and I know not how they got there.).

Premenapause Might Not be the Time to Start Camping...

There must be something wrong with me, as I am a person who sees vacation as something to be endured, and if it is enjoyed, it is a bonus. After days of packing, two 12-hour days of working and one day of driving, I'm toast by the time we get to our destination. Camping. There are two reasons for camping. One is for it's own sake. We are supposed to get sufficiently bored and thereby be forced to commune with nature, our own family, and board games. The second reason to camp, for lack of funds for a hotel, is so we have a relatively cheap place to stay while we run around seeing the sights or hang at the beach. (However it will take a couple of years to balance the cost of the camper. ) Well, there's a third, and that is for the sake of the children. Therefore most pleasure gained is of a vicarious nature.

Day one. Misty rain. 8 am. I'm already at my breaking point. Not a good sign. My boys' voices seem to be reverberating throughout the campground. I fear our friend in the next campsite will awaken, even though his music kept us up 'til 2 am. After several pleas for quiet, I, the psychotherapist, with years of experience helping others to raise their kids, cannot think of anything more creative to hiss between my teeth other than: “shut UUUUUPPPPPPPP!” I feel a pang of shame as I hear myself. Then I hiss it again. Louder this time. The only thing that gives me a shread of comfort is that minutes ago I heard a woman admonishing her kids in the bathroom. I thought she was a bit harsh. Now I feel as if I'm her soulmate. Then I enter the camper, which yesterday looked rather roomy and comfortable, is a veritable tossed salad of clothing, toiletries, books, cooking utensils and people. I spend half an hour looking for my toothbrush and can't remember in which compartment I stuffed the towels. By 11 we are off to the beach. Just in time for everyone to get hypoglycemic. I prefer cold and rain to searing heat, but even two coats and a snuggie cannot keep me warm. I can't believe I brought TWO books. What was I thinking? I settle myself on the beach to read about parenting rather than partaking in it. Fortunately the book is about kids under pressure, and says that kids should be left to their own devices to play with minimal adult input. Perfect choice! Thank goodness I didn't grab something off the shelf that touted consistency and routine. The kids have a ball. So does Russ. I have a pretty good time and would like to be warm, but who's complaining. I'm READING!!!!!!!

Day two: 1 am. I wake with a start to a strange noise, and I know instantly what it is, even before I hear the whining from the other child. It's the sound of Johnny puking. All over the sheets. We all get up, lights come on (thank goodness for lights) and assess the sheets as terminal. Also the mattress. I put a towel down and turn the mattress over and discover that the flip side is waterproof. Nice to know that now – for later. The upshot of the night of puking is that I get to spend the whole afternoon reading in the laundromat. About parenting. While not parenting. It turns out that the kids in Taiwan and Korea have to go to cram schools after regular school. They'll either self-destruct or take over the world. It will be interesting to see how it turns out. Meanwhile I'd sign my kids up for Chinese classes if there were any around here, but the whole point of the book is not to.

Day three , four, five, six, seven:
The weather gets better, I have most of a warm-but-not-hot day reading on the beach, we do a little crabbing, have a glorious dinner with relatives, have a campfire and smores. The rest is a blur. I remain tired, but plod along appreciating Russ for just feeding me coffee every four hours and not complaining that I look as if I'm about to faint at any moment. He even suggests I take a nap, which I attempt, but then I martyrishly get up to play mini-golf, to which I have previously been given an invitation to abstain by my dutiful husband. But motherly guilt has a hold on me.

On the day we leave, unbelievably, I have energy. Thank goodness because we have to pack up. I'm even in a fairly good mood. After fumbling with the trailer hitch for an hour and finally lubricating it with margerine, and then losing the brake-light plug and driving to the next town, fearing a collision, to buy a new one, we arrive at the Maine diner just before all our blood-sugars plummet to the center of the earth. On the way home we discuss future camping trips. Maybe to the state parks, or Arcadia. How romantic. Maybe we'll use some of the board games I bought.

Lessons Not Learned

Lessons Not Learned

These lessons seem to play out over and over again. When am I going to learn?

Since my knee is injured, I did not respond to the construction noises downstairs. Had I smelled smoke or heard screams, power tools, or heavy things falling, I would have hobbled down the stairs to investigate. However, I hoped it was just two young boys building, and to my knowledge I was correct. Later, however, I did respond to the giddy cries of “we're making a volcano!” that were coming from the kitchen. I snapped a few pictures, decided that they couldn't do much damage in the sink, and left the two boys to their own devices. I regrettably did not swipe the open container of food coloring that was sitting on the counter at elbow's reach. I can blame it on my knee, or the fact that I had to make an important phone call, or even the hope that all this time I've had ADD and not known it, but for whatever reason the bottle remained untouched. Until I heard “there's red food coloring all over the floor and I didn't do it!” The kitchen looked like a murder scene. There was, in fact, red food coloring all over the floor, and a little black dog was playing in it and licking it up. There were red paw prints all over the place. I had to get “the man upstairs” (my husband) to stop working and come to the rescue as I couldn't kneel down to wipe up the mess. I put the dog in what looked like a bloodbath, and before long everything was fine except for the permanently stained linoleum. At least the stains detract from the duct tape holding it together.

The boys have since been fed peanut butter bagels, told how many times I have previously told them not to play with the food coloring, and are now safely watching The Magic School Bus. I should use the term “safely” with a pinch of salt, as Ms. Frizzle and her Magic School Bus are partly responsible for all this volcano stuff in the first place.

I can't believe that people still want to send their kids over here, then again, it's not their kitchen floor...