Category Archives: WTF Moments

Being a mom is not how it looks on TV.

Mornings are Awesome (← lie)

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14

I made it easy.

Both kids can get $1 if they earn 25 points.

They want dollars.

They love dollars.

They can earn 5 points for simply brushing their teeth in the morning after being asked only once. An easy 5 points daily! Also, I created some big-ticket items where they can earn 10 points. And they’re a cinch. It’s like I’m dying to give them my cold hard cash. (I am.)

Big ticket item for Sally: Handle frustration without whining or crying from 7:30-8:00 AM. That’s 30 minutes. 30 minutes for 10 points. I am giving this shit away.

Big ticket item for Luke: Handle frustration without lashing out with your words from 7:30-8:00 AM. Again, 30 minutes. 10 points.

Guess if either of them has earned 10 points since I implemented this new system, which is practically a trust fund of dollar bills? Did you guess ‘Yes’? Did you guess that the children are able to NOT whine, cry, shout, or call names for 30 minutes in the morning? WRONG. They are apparently incapable of this. Which means that 30 minutes don’t pass in this house without whining, crying, shouting, name calling, shut-upping etc. FML.

Parenting or Biological Warfare?

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21

Few things are as terrifying and foreboding as the ever-growing threat of widespread antibiotic-resistant bacteria. I mean, antibiotics are all we’ve got. It’s our arsenal. And the bacteria are going to resist it? Yikes!

The antibiotics of parenting (bear with me) are discipline, rewards, consequences, etc. It’s our arsenal as parents as we face the confounding daily task of transforming wild, selfish, horrible little creatures into thoughtful, considerate, non-criminal, socially functional adults. Like the scary bacteria, Luke resists my arsenal. Yikes!

I’ve tried it all. My current method is a mix of panic, anger, rash decisions, overreactions, and merit points. Let’s focus on the points, as a post about Parenting by Rash Decisions sounds, well, actually that sounds funny. Makes note for future post.

It’s quite simple. The behavior we’re working on is ‘minding.’ If he follows a direction the first time he’s asked, calmly, then he gets a point. Points aren’t taken away or flaunted. If I ask him to get his shoes on and he throws a fit about it I don’t get to say, “Well I guess you don’t want any points, Motherfucker!” no matter how much I might want to. However, if I ask him to get his shoes on and he just complies I get all happy and pull out the chart and give him a point and talk about how freaking wonderful he is for getting his stupid shoes on without making a federal case over it.

It’s all about focusing on positive behaviors, while praying that our focus means a damn thing and hoping that those positive behaviors will begin to multiply like compliant rabbits.

Points are a currency that can be used to “buy” pre-selected items from a list titled Things Luke Loves. A piece of gum: 5 points. Computer time: 7 points. Going out to a movie: 15 points. Points are easily accrued since it’s really simple to comply with a directive. “Time to go. Let’s get in the car.” Luke gets in the car. Bam. A point. He gets points all day. The kid is rolling in points. He’s filthy with them. So it’s working?

No. He is bacterially minded – behavior-modification-resistant – remember? Just like I have to come up with new and creative ways to shape his behavior, he has to come up with new and creative ways to make all my efforts for naught. This time it turns out that he’s a miserly bastard. He will not spend a point. He wants to. He really really really really really wants gum, chips, ice cream, to play cards with me, etc. But he can’t part with the damn currency.

In other words, he takes after his father. (Rim shot)

Accruing points was exciting at first. It held promises of great rewards. He could cash in at any time for anything on the list (for that week). The possibilities! But they’ve lost their luster. After all, it’s not the piles of cash that are exciting about piles of cash. It’s all we can get with it, right? We might be excited by the piles themselves for a while, but eventually we’d realize that a vacation or a jet boat are more fun than staring at piles. We’d realize that because we are not annoying, frustrating, impossible people. But Luke is. Luke will not spend his points. He hoards them. And his piles of points aren’t fun anymore.

So, two weeks ago might have gone like this:

me: Luke, please go wash your hands; it’s time for lunch.

Luke: OK, Mom!

me: Wow! That was awesome! Great job! You did just what I asked the very first time I asked! Thank you! What a pleasure it is to have you around! Let’s get the chart! WOW! You’ve already gotten 12 points today! Add that to yesterday’s points and you can get a new Mercedes! Wow! Way to go!

Luke: Gee, Mom, I feel really good about myself and I am learning that simply by not being a colossal jerk all the time we all get along and good things happen to me. This is great! You’re a very good parent.*

*What?

Now it goes more like this:

me: Luke, please go wash your hands; it’s time for lunch.

Luke: No! I don’t have to. I don’t even have to listen to you. I have so many points I can have ice cream whenever I want and you can’t do anything. So HA!

me: Luke, I’ve simply asked you to wash your hands for lunch. Let’s try this again. Please go wash your hands.

Luke: You really need to take a good hard look at yourself and your failings. If you were a better mother I wouldn’t be saying any of this. Children of good mothers have clean hands anyway. So, how d’you feel now, Mom? Good? Gimme some freaking ice cream. Nevermind. I can’t spend the points!**

**This is what I hear, so it must be what he’s saying.

Parenting “Experts”: 0

Luke: All the Points. In the world. Ever. 

 

They don’t know that I know they know

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9

In my old town my blogger anonymity was of the Sandra Lee variety: I was semi-anonymous. People who knew knew, and people who found out found out. But to the world at large I was still cloaked in mystery. (Too much?)

New town, new chance at full-blown anonymity. No one will know! I will be honester and realer and obnoxiouser!

All was going well. For four weeks anyway.

Then, I was invited to a neighbor’s party. (A lovely neighbor, I might add.) Within minutes another partygoer I was speaking to said, “You remind me of a blogger I read. I can’t think of her name….” SHIT!

I played it cool by staring at her, blushing, and excusing myself to go to the bathroom.

There, in true superhero with a secret identity fashion, I sent secret messages (Facebook) to my blogger friends for advice and backup. I expected a rescue mission with capes, high boots, and masks. Mostly they just laughed at me and told me to run away. One recommended chloroform and a mind-erasing serum. I was on my own.

Luckily, the toilet didn’t flush properly and I got a chance to distract myself from one uncomfortable problem to deal with another. “Sorry, your toilet is clogged. I know I’ve been in the bathroom for a while, but I SWEAR I didn’t poop. I was having a super-hero delusion because I’m secretly a writer…. anyway, I just peed.” 

I spent the remainder of the party periodically checking my phone to see if any ideas better than, “Convince her you’re Gwyneth!” came through from my blogger friends (nope) while acting like the earlier conversation didn’t happen. I nervously waited for her to recognize me. In the end, she either didn’t (yet) or was discreet.

But I’m no fool.

Just like I came home and looked up the people I met at the party on Facebook, she probably went home to figure out which blogger I am. And, since she’s no fool, she likely sussed it out. If I were in her position the very first thing I’d do is call/email/IM/text my friend, the neighbor who threw the party, to dish about this new interesting factoid. Right? So I resigned myself to continue my Sandra Lee ways.

But here’s the thing: It’s days later now and still no word to me about this, despite plenty of opportunities for my neighbor to say something. Either they don’t know, or they don’t know that I know they know. Intrigue in suburbia. (Also possible: I’m a narcissist and nobody cares.)

To my lovely neighbor, if you’re reading this you can let me know that you know that I know that you know. And, to the (smart, beautiful) woman who figured me out because you’ve read my blog, you have excellent taste.