“Ella if you behave, I’ll give you a cookie.”

“Okay!  I be good, Mama.”

And guess what?  She WAS good.

I walked around feeling like I had finally gotten this parenting thing down pat.  “I’m pretty good at this parenting thing!” I thought to myself and out loud to Tate.

“You know, Tate, I feel like our kids have gotten so easy.  They REALLY listen to me!  It’s been like, a whole week and neither child has been in time out!”

He looked at me like I was an alien with a palm tree growing out of my chin.  “What about that time you called me last week when they were wreaking havoc?  Or this morning when you told me that you had to put them in their rooms for their own safety?”

So maybe it had only been about six hours, but SIX WHOLE HOURS of my children behaving feels like a week.

It seems like we get on a roll where the kids are behaving, or at least their misbehavior isn’t that damaging to my psyche that I’m left scarred for months afterwards.  Right now, though, we’re on the Deluxe Triple Salchow of OUT OF CONTROL BEHAVIOR roll.  Damaged psyche ahead!

It’s awesome, as I’m sure you can imagine.

The mall and it’s germ-infested play area is where the downward spiral first began.  Ella, being Ella and very much three-years-old, threw the tantrum to end all tantrums.  It was the type of tantrum that had all the perfect parents judging me with their evil looks and perfectly behaved children.  She was screaming and thrashing and I was sweating and silently screaming the f-word in my head.

I wanted to ask the perfect moms, “How do you propose I get her to stop screaming?  Seriously!!  I’m politely asking her, I’m threatening to take away everything that was or ever will be meaningful to her, I’m kicking myself for failing to pack duct tape.  What can I doooooooo?!?”

Carson, who is four and who I was certain had passed the fall on the floor tantrum stage, threw his own mega tantrum within a few hours of Ella’s.  Luckily it was in the privacy of our home, not in front of other’s prying eyes.  BUT STILL, it was a tantrum that no amount of reasoning, ignoring, redirecting, or any other textbook behavior management technique worked to just make him stop.

It’s been like this for about two weeks now, with only a few hours respite and sunshine in between their outbursts.  I’m starting to believe there is something really wrong with my children.  Surely it’s not just my kids that act this way???  Please?

They are thisclose to getting shipped off to a far away land that’s FAR AWAY.

And I vow to never verbalize or even think any thoughts where I extol the virtues of my parenting skills ever again.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

“Mama, wait.  Don’t take a picture.  I don’t have all my Silly Bandz on.  I’m not cool yet.”  –Ella, Age 3 (going on 13)

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

She is not the daughter I expected to have. When I was pregnant with her, I’d imagine her in all the little girls I saw everywhere. I just knew she’d be blond, with long, straight hair. She’d carry a little purse and wear smocked dresses and bows.  My daughter would be dainty and clean.

That is not Ella.

She’ll wear dresses, but only if I beg, plead, and force her. Bows stay in her hair, on a good day, for twenty minutes. Usually I find them on the floor, minutes after combing through her nest of golden caramels curls.  Ella’s favorite accessory is dirt.

Princesses?  Ella thinks they are just pretty decorations on her underwear.  She doesn’t understand why she can’t have Thomas the Train panties.

I signed her up for a little dance class, but what she desperately wants to do is play t-ball. At Dollywood, she doesn’t understand why she can’t ride the roller coaster. Ella is my fearless baby.

I’m always having to tell her, “when you’re bigger, Sweet Pea, then it will be your turn.”

I don’t miss the daughter that I imagined her to be.  To me, she is perfect.

Ella, please always be who you are.  Walk your own walk.  Mommy and Daddy love you.  YOU.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

After a few hours of swimming, it was time for lunch and I pulled out the sandwiches I’d packed in the cooler.  Carson began eating his sandwich and exclaimed, “Mom!  This is a great sandwich!  Can you make these lake sandwiches again, sometime?!”  As he ate, he kept proclaiming the deliciousness of the “lake sandwiches” I prepared.

He liked his so much that he ate Tate’s sandwich, too.

Since Carson was such a fan, I thought I’d share the very special recipe for the Lake Sandwiches.

Sliced ham, swiss cheese, mustard, and bibb lettuce between two slices of whole wheat bread.  Pack in a cooler.  Swim in the lake for two hours and become ravenously hungry.  Eat the sandwich, but fail to recognize it as the exact sandwich you’ve eaten two to three times per week for probably the last three years.  Voila!

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I’m kind of family-ed out.  I’m particularly in need of a break from two small humans named Carson and Ella.  For a better part of the week we were gone, they drove me insane with their whining and crying and generally unruly, albeit typical, three and four year old behavior.

Now that we’re back home, I’m working on getting back to that mellow, grateful place where I don’t feel like locking them in a closet for a few hours.   As they kept acting like jerks last week and I grasped at the the tiniest thread of patience that remained, I kept thinking to myself, “I’m a much better parent when…”

I’m a much better parent when they aren’t sleep deprived.

I’m a much better parent when I’m not sleep deprived.

I’m a much better parent during the day than I am at bedtime, particularly when very tired children refuse to go to sleep.

I’m a much better parent when my children aren’t hopped up on fast food.

I’m a much better parent when the kids aren’t fighting.

I’m a much better parent when it’s not 1000 degrees outside.

I’m a much better parent when my children aren’t whining.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t been in a car for nine hours.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t listened to the same Thomas & Friends video for seven hours straight.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t slept in the same bed with one of my children for six out of seven nights.

I’m a much better parent when I haven’t taken a foot to the face in the middle of the night.

I’m a much better parent when I’ve had a few hours to myself.

Well, enough of this whining.  I have 27 loads of laundry to wash.  I also have 42,354 photos to edit, you know, to remind me of how happy and great my life is.  Ahem.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

When I was in elementary school, my parents knew (or had at least met) my friend’s parents.  If I were to walk to one of their houses, it was with the understanding that I would go straight there, I wouldn’t leave and go somewhere else without telling my mom, and while I was there, I’d be polite and respectful.

Mostly, I was a good kid, but I didn’t always follow those rules.  There were times that I remember leaving one friend’s house to go to another friend’s house, without calling to tell my mom, and feeling both exhilaration and the pit of fear in my stomach for breaking a major rule.  I’m sure that there were times I annoyed my friend’s parents by overstaying my welcome, or eating snacks, and drinking their juice boxes, but I can’t remember ever being purposely rude to a friend’s mom or dad.

We’ve become friends with a family in our neighborhood who have kids the same ages as Carson and Ella.   Down the street there is a family that also two kids the same ages as ours, but until recently we never saw them outside.  A few months ago, the five year old (I’ll call him Jared), whose parent’s we’ve never met, started coming down to knock on my neighbor’s door to play.  He would stay for several hours, only to leave when my neighbor would tell him it was time to go home.  Jared has also shown up in my neighbor’s fenced backyard, and tried to open their back door when they didn’t answer the front door.

My neighbors have also seen him roaming around the neighborhood alone on numerous occasions.

Jared has come over to my house a few times, usually with my friend’s son, Aiden.  Every time he comes over there is some sort of incident.  He ran over my son with our Power Wheels monster truck, literally RAN OVER him.  I know it was an accident, but I told Jared that he was no longer allowed to drive the truck because he couldn’t drive it safely.  When my husband dumped the water out of our baby pool because all of the boys were getting too rough, Jared threw a fit and kicked the pool, then sassed Tate when he told him that he wasn’t allowed to kick our things.

He’s told my neighbor and I to get him something to eat, or something to drink.  “…And be sure to put ice in it.”

These are just things that kids do.  The interactions between our boys are things that will happen, kids pick on one another, they’ll be too rowdy, accidents will happen.  I’d like to think that I’ve taught Carson to be polite to adults, but I can’t guarantee that he’d act like a model child if I weren’t there to watch…which is exactly the crux of this issue.

Where are Jared’s parents?

My friend let her son walk down to the Jared’s backyard today to play with water balloons.  From her backyard, she could watch them as they played.  About five minutes later, Jared’s dad came outside and told the boys that if they wanted to play, they needed to go back to Aiden’s house.

Apparently my neighbor (and sometimes me) have been designated Jared’s babysitter.

There are so many things wrong here.

1.  Jared’s parents do not know us and have never attempted to meet us.  I don’t even know what their names are.

2.  Jared has spent entire afternoons at our houses, HOURS, and neither of his parents have come outside to check on him.

3.  My neighbor and I don’t appreciate the assumption that OH!  Sure we’ll babysit your kid, feed your kid, and give your kid drinks for hours on end.

4.  My neighbor and I are worried about Jared’s safety since nobody, besides us, seems to be watching him.  He regularly crosses the street without looking, because he’s only FIVE-years-old and doesn’t have the best judgment.

5.  Jared is FIVE.

I admit that I don’t really like Jared much, but I know that Carson and Aiden enjoy playing with him.  My knee-jerk response is to make a rule that Jared’s not welcome at my house simply because he’s kind of a jerk and because he ran over my kid.  My softer side, the one that doesn’t want to shame a child who is only five-years-old, is to make sure that Jared understands our rules and to send him home only if he breaks those rules.

My neighbor and I both are unsure how to handle the situation as a whole.  We don’t feel comfortable being responsible for Jared, we don’t want to become his default babysitters, but we don’t really know what we should say to his parents.  It’s not like we want to say, “Hey, we watch your kid for hours, you should take a turn and watch our kids, too.”  Um, no.

But what do we say?

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

It’s only been within the last few years that I’ve forgiven her for calling me a kindergartner when I was clearly in pain and I most certainly was not a kindergartner, but a a very mature third grader.

Now that I have kids, I try not to act like a giant sissy when I see a stinging insect ready to attack.   I probably deserve a trophy or monetary reward for my ability to remain calm in front of my kids, even with giant wasps and bees staring at me from behind their creepy hiding places.  My initial response is to run away, screaming with my arms flailing, but I don’t.  I act like an adult for the sake of Carson and Ella.

Unfortunately last summer, Carson was stung by a bee, oddly enough, on his pinky finger.   This has put a major cramp in my quest to create non-sissified children.

“BUG!” Carson screams like a girl, with genuine fright.  It’s a gnat, but he doesn’t care.

I have tried to reason with him, and have explained that he’s probably already received his quota of bee stings for a lifetime.

“Carson, SERIOUSLY.  I’ve been stung only once in my WHOLE LIFE and I’m really OLD.  I’m thirty-five!  You’ll probably never be stung again!”

We’ve been spending more time outside since it’s been so warm and I’ve probably had this conversation with the kids nearly everyday for the past few weeks.  It’s exhausting because there are bugs everywhere.  Most of these bugs are so minuscule NO ONE ELSE ON EARTH has ever even seen most of these bugs, except for my eagle-eyed, sissy children.

Today I was stung on my stomach by a bumblebee that somehow got stuck in between the layers of my shirt. (How random is that?  A bumblebee inside my the layers of my shirt???)

“So…,” Carson eyed me, obviously considering this very rare attack, “Now you’ve been stung twice, huh?”

If I ever plan on us going outside again I’m going to have to come up with some new material to reason with Carson now that statistics are no longer on my side.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

One of the tricks I pull out of my child wrangling bag of skills is to tell Carson and Ella that they have to stay behind me while I push the cart.  Trust me when I say that when this works, it’s genius.  The kids aren’t “helping” me push the cart, they aren’t standing beside or in front of the cart, I’m not running over them.  Of course, I have to turn around every 3 seconds to be sure they haven’t been abducted, run away, or broken a jar of pickles, but otherwise, GENIUS.

“Stay behind me!” I said/chirped/yelled/blurted out/spoke through clenched teeth….about eleventy billion times.

There was one particular woman that I kept running into (not literally, but almost) in nearly every aisle I tried to navigate.  We both happened to be shopping for the exact same items in the exact same aisles.  I admit that I felt a tiny seed of irritation because she just always seemed to be where I wanted to be and I was already on edge (my children! were with me!  while I was trying to grocery shop!).  As I waited for her to choose her oatmeal so that I could choose my oatmeal, I didn’t huff or clear my throat or seem impatient at all.  No, really!  I was as kind and patient as one who was in my predicament could have been (my children! were with me! while I was trying to grocery shop!)  I didn’t even let her beady, I’m-just-out-to-annoy you eyes affect me.  Or maybe I just imagined her eyes to be mocking me, I tend to imagine that everyone is out to get me when I’m on heightened alert.

“Stay behind me!” I said for the eleventy billionth and one time, as I attempted to reign in the children.  My eyebrows furrowed, my I mean business face firmly set, I made ever so slight eye contact with the woman.

“I’ll stay right here,” she said, looking slightly frightened.

It took me several minutes and aisles, free of my shopping buddy, to realize that she thought I was yelling at her to, “STAY BEHIND ME.”   (In my defense, I’m not sure how she missed me saying this over and over to my kids.)

I panicked out of embarrassment.   I raced the children up and down the aisles, looking for the woman just so I could yell at my children in front of her to “STAY BEHIND ME!” with an added, “I keep telling you two children (KEY WORDS right there, folks) to STAY BEHIND ME.”

Or I guess I could have just found her and explained the misunderstanding, but I’m only just now realizing that was even a possibility.

Please enjoy this completely unrelated photo!

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

Firstly, I failed at wishing those of you who are mothers a Happy Mother’s Day yesterday.  Please forgive me, I’ve been busy being a MOTHER, so certainly you understand.  I want you to know that _I_ know just how hard you work as a mom and just how little recognition that you get.  I know all about the doctor’s appointment that you remembered to make for your kiddo (an appointment you made while you stirred dinner on the stove, broke up a fight, and changed a load of laundry).  I also know that you can find almost any lost toy/lovey/umbrella/lunch box/shoe.  I know that you remembered to pick up another gallon of milk and that you know that the macaroni and cheese most certainly cannot touch the strawberries OR ELSE.  I know that you lose it sometimes and that sometimes you feel like you’re overwhelmed.

I’m really just trying to say that I KNOW about all the things you do and I’m totally impressed with your awesomeness.

Sin, the second, is a crime so heinous, I pray the mommyblogging police don’t come after me.

Three years ago yesterday, I gave birth to a five pound, seven ounce baby girl, which means that I didn’t write the obligatory birthday post yesterday for my baby, who ISN’T A BABY ANYMORE.

She’s my little girl, without whom, the world wouldn’t be as bright, my sides wouldn’t be so sore from laughing, and my family would be woefully incomplete.  I cannot find the words to type in a single blog post that could even come close to conveying how much I adore my beautiful girl.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.

I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before, maybe because I’m a little slow sometimes, but instead of begging and pleading for them to PLEASE JUST LOOK CUTE WHILE MOMMY TAKES SOME PICTURES, I decided to make it a game.

“Hey guys!  I have an idea!”

Both Carson and Ella’s ears perked.  “What Mommy?”

“Let’s play a game called ‘Photo Shoot!!’  All you have to do is look really cute and I’ll take your pictures!  YEAH!  And then!  Whoever looked the cutest for my pictures will get some m&m’s!”

Sophie’s choice, I KNOW, but obviously I knew going in that they’d BOTH be the cutest, but they didn’t need to know that.  Bring on the competition!

It’s amazing what my children will do for the delicious candy that melts in your mouth and not in your hand.

They were paid five m&m’s each.

You’ll have to trust me, but Ella got her candy, too. I guess she figured that since she’d been paid, she didn’t need to model anymore for my camera.

©2010 Playgroups are No Place For Children. All Rights Reserved.