Riding in Cars with Kids

Driving with kids is a trip.  (See what I did there?)

Because, number one, they are TERRIBLE backseat drivers. 

 Both in that they are annoying and the are NO GOOD AT DRIVING. 

“MOM!  The light is GREEN.  So GO.”

Okay, well, but the ten cars in front of me might have a problem with that.

“MOM! The light is RED.  So STOP or you’ll get a TICKET.”

It’s true, that light is red, but it is also, like, a mile away. 

“MOM!  Could you go FASTER?”

No.  Shut up. 

“MOM!  You went through that RED LIGHT!  You are going to get a TICKET.”

I DID NOT.  I turned right on red.  Which is PERFECTLY LEGAL.  Also, STOP THREATENING ME WITH TICKETS.  And how about, since none of the rest of you know how to drive, you let me, with my years of training in the nuances of red lights, take care of the driving. 

They also seem to have gotten the impression that they have somehow managed to board a personalized luxury transportation service, and I am the concierge.

“Can you roll down my window?”

“I’m hungry.  Can I have a snack?”

"Can you open my snack?"

“AHHHH!  I dropped my snack.  I need you to pick it up.”

“I’m thirsty.  I need a drink.”

“Mom.  MOM.  Look!  Look at that!”

“Mom, what does that say?”

“Hey, what is that?  Mom.  MOM.  What is that?” 

“Can you roll my window up?”

Excuse me, you may not have noticed this, but I’m trying to DRIVE UP HERE.  I've tried very hard to explain that this car does not drive itself.  My attention is required up here.  To keep us all alive.  So I can’t fulfill your every whim at this precise moment.  

“Well, you should probably stop anyway because that's a red light."

Details!

This year, Sam made an actual friend who actually wasn’t related to him.  I think.  I wasn't 100% sure because he kept asking things like, “how do you know if someone is your friend or not? If they run away from you are they your friend?” 

Umm . . . maybe?

So it seemed like maybe the relationship didn't have the real solid foundation you hope to build best-friendships on. 

Sam did bring home pieces of paper with a phone number and say that is was Mason’s and we were supposed to call him to set up a play date but I never did.  Who knows how he got that number?  Who even knows if it is a real number?  And what if Sam misunderstood the situation and he was just supposed to call to give him homework answers or something?  Anyway, who needs friends?  We have family!

It's possible that I'm passing a fear of rejection on to Sam.  We'll see.  

But then one day, Mason called us!  OMG!  It was very exciting.  Sam couldn’t even talk on the phone.  So Mason and I chatted for a few minutes and set up a time.  "I just made a date with a 7-year-old!" I shouted to Chris.  

Sam went over to Mason’s house and great fun was had by all. 

A few weeks later, it occurs to me, “oh, crap, we’re supposed to invite him over here now.”  So I say to Sam, “Sam, would you like to invite Mason over this Friday?”  And he looks at me like I’m a little bit crazy and asks, in that slow, suspicious, way of his, with squinty eyes and a tilted head, “Whhhhhy?”

“Well, because he is your friend and that’s what you do.”

“Well, how would you even call him?” 

“I have his number, Sam.  You gave it to me.  See, it’s right here in my phone – ‘Mason.’”

“Well, I just think that might be a little . . . weird.”

“Why?  You’ve played with him before and seemed to have a good time.”

“Mom?  Are you trying to talk me into having him over?”

Okay, now this kid is making me feel like a helicopter parent.  I don’t really know what is happening in this conversation, or why Sam is so hesitant, but I’m just going to let it go for now. 

A week or so later, I bring it up again.  “Hey, Sam, would you like to schedule a time to get together with Mason?

"I still don't really know how I feel about that, Mom."

"Well, did you have a good time when you played with him before."

"I mean, I guess, it's just that I don't really know how I feel about having him over to my house."

"It'll be a lot like ALL THE OTHER times you've played with him."

“Mom, I guess I just don’t understand why you want me to have Mason over.”

Golly, this kid is socially inept.  He makes ONE pretty good friend and now he’s all skittish and weird about having him over to our house.  And the worst thing is that he literally doesn’t seem to GET why he should even WANT Mason to come over here.  Like this most basic reciprocal relationship is escaping him.  He goes over to this kids house, and now it's like he honestly doesn't understand why I think he should invite him over.  

“Sam, it’s just that you went over to his house, and if you don’t invite him over to your house, it’s basically like saying you don’t want to be his friend anymore.  And it’s okay if you want to say that, but you just need to understand that that is what you are saying.”

“When would I go over to his house?”

“Sam, you already went over to his house, it’s your turn to have him here.”

“Well . . . I just . . . I mean . . . I remember when we were at Fairfax and Mason’s mom said there was a kindergarten get together . . .”

Yeah, I remember that too.  Kind of irrelevant to this conversation, but, yeah, we were at Fairfax and this lady came up and she said she was Mason’s mom and I was like, weird, I’ve met Mason’s mom, and you are not her and . . .

Wait. 

“Sam?  Your friend from school?  His name is not Mason, is it?”

“No.  It is Marcus.”

 "Is there a Mason at school?"

"Yes."

"But he is not your friend?"

"Not really, Mom"

Now go back and read those conversations with Sam with the new understanding that Sam is the normal one and I am socially inept.

Facts of Life

"Mom?" Owen says, "How do trees get bigger?"

"I don't know, buddy.  The same way people do I guess."

And then there was some quiet time.

 I thought to myself, "surely I can do better than that answer."

And then I thought, "It makes no difference.  There is a squiggly part in Owen's brain that does not respond to logic."

But hey, I'm trying hard at this parenting thing, so I start to scrape together what I know about trees and photosynthesis and what not.

"Owen, actually, trees grow a little differently than people . . ."

As I'm talking, Owen lets out this huge sigh, like he's been holding his breath.

"BAH!  RIGHT?!  Trees can't grow like people because they don't have birthdays!"

Clearly he had been sitting in the back seat, concerned about his poor stupid mother, who doesn't even know basic life facts like trees don't have birthdays.  He's surprised I can dress myself in the morning.

It is kind of interesting, though.  Trees don't really have a birthday, do they?

Also, apparently, this is why 5 AND A HALF has been so important to Owen.  He believes that the extra, previously undisclosed HALF BIRTHDAY, will help him grow more.

He also has a FIRM belief that the sun follows his head.  Not him, but his head.  And I have argued, but he has very little faith in me at this point.

Are you chicken?

I read an article a few weeks ago about backyard urban chicken farming.  And it struck me as the right balance of "pet" and "egg factory."  I know the kids would love to have a pet, for a MINIMUM of 48 minutes, but the thing is, I don't actually like animals all that much.  I respect their place in the world and all, but in close proximity, I'm just kind of scared they will all bite me.

So, chickens.  How fancy would that be?  I will name them Hester and Ethel and we will be soooo hippy.

Chris said, "okay."  But now he's saying "not okay."

This kids are on my side, though.

Various offers of help were made:

"I will use half my piggy bank to pay for the chicken." (Sam)

"I will collect all the eggs." (Sam)

"I will wash the chickens." (Owen, with accompanying scruba-scruba motions)

"I will take the chickens on a walk."  (Owen)


It has rather taken over their thought process.

When I got home yesterday, Chris greeted me with news about a bad thing that had happened to Sam at school.

 I went to talk to Sam, and he said, "Dad told me I could have anything I wanted that would make me feel better.  Well, anything that wasn't a chicken."

And for a minute I was all, "Jeez, the kid gets assaulted at school and we can't even spring for some KFC?"

Today, our new swing set was delivered to the backyard in a huge cardboard box.  The children's first guess about the contents?  A chicken.  "Well I knew it probably wasn't two chickens," Sam says.  "Because it needs space to run around."

Tonight, when Lilly was talking about chickens again I said, "You know, guys, we're probably not going to get chickens.  That might just be a little too much."

"Okay."  Lilly said, "We can get a turkey."

T.V. kids vs. real life kids

Children on TV don't have food on their faces nearly as often as mine do.

Children on TV have better haircuts.  In that they have haircuts.  Ever.

Children on TV know how to use utensils.  Unless they are TV children who were raised by wolves.  Those kinds of TV kids are actually pretty realistic.

On TV, when kids dress themselves, its always a sassy mix of prints and some adorable rain boots.  Today I was in public with the kids and I did that thing where all of a sudden, you see what your life looks to outsiders.

And I saw Owen.

Owen dresses himself.  I let him, with almost no censorship (we believe in small government in this house).  Because who cares, right?  He's a five year old boy!  Nobody sees him except his family who already loves him, and his fellow classmates in the most nurturing school environment ever.  So, whatever, knock yourself out.

But now we're in public and I notice - really notice - what he is wearing.

1) Nike athletic pants, on backwards, as per usual.  Also, as per usual, butt crack.  Soon, nobody will know what "mooning" is, because everybody will call it "Owening."

2) A pajama shirt.

3) Ratty, old, disgusting, winter boots.

It was not adorable.  

So I zeroed in on my least favorite part and said, "Owen.  You have GOT to stop wearing boots.  It's 75 degrees out here.  Snow boots are not appropriate."

With a smile on his face, and a song in his heart, Owen says to me "I will NEVER wear shoes instead of boots!  Unless they are GOLDEN!"

"You want golden shoes?"

"Yes!  And they should be BOOTS!"

Oh, okay then.  Apparently, I just need to get him golden boots.  That won't be weird at all.  And at least then he'll stop wearing boots.

Golden boots.  What the hell is that about?

Queen Mother

I just read an article - one of those ones that talk about princess culture and how terrible it is and how it is eating out daughters and teaching them to sit around and wait for a prince.

And yes, I get it and, wow, man, I could talk all day about beauty culture and misogyny and female empowerment, but you know what?

I think they may be wrong about this one.

I don't know for sure.

Here's the thing, when I was a little girl, I loved princesses with a mad passion.  And it had not one blessed thing to do with anything LIKE a prince or getting rescued and EVERYTHING to do with:

1)  Beautiful.  Poofy.  Dresses.
2)  Being in charge of everything.

I think we may be over-thinking the anti-princess thing.  Is it realistic to pretend you are a princess?  No.  But I'm not sure you can require children to be realistic.  My living room floor is not actually hot lava, but it makes life more interesting for my kids to PRETEND that it is.  So, hey, pretend away.  Life is hella boring sometimes.

There is a whole heck of a lot of shit to be worried about for our daughters as they grow up and have to start relating to boys in a world that is not always kind to women.  So maybe we should just let them be little girls for a while.  Let them enjoy the glittery dresses and the tiaras. The princes and the passiveness?  I think that's just our own baggage.

Surely, there is space in our understanding of the world to get that there is an inherent pleasure in beautiful dresses and gorgeous castles and magical things.  And, holy cats, I'd rather have my daughter wearing a polyester princess dress than a tube top that says "hottie" and high heels (I have actually seen this).

Which is all just to say that not only will I allow Lilly to HAVE princess dresses, I will allow her to WEAR princess dresses even in front of judge-y people at the ice-cream store.

That's my name. Don't wear it out.

I took Owen to the eye doctor recently.  A special fancy-dancy one that probably won't be covered by insurance and is located an hour away.  We drove there, Owen and I, and chatted along the way.

"Mom?  What does that sign mean?"

"It means you can't turn left at this street right now."

"Mom?  Why do some people think that green is red and red is green?"

"Um.  You mean with the streetlights?  I guess maybe they weren't paying attention."

"But they were."

"Well then I don't know."

"Mom?  Who would win in a race between the sun, rain, and snow?"

"What?  I don't . . . even understand that question."

"Mom? Sometimes the snow falls into the rain, right?  Right?"

"Mom?"

"Mom?"

"Mom?"

"Hey, buddy, you know what?  You don't have to say 'Mom' every time you say something.  Because it's just you and me in the car.  I'm going to go ahead and assume your are talking to me."

"Okay." 

. . . 

"Mom?"