Thursday, May 16, 2013
Exhaust, Fumes.
I haven't had more than 4 or 5 hours of sleep any night this week and it has been a rough week. Tonight I came *this close* to getting in bed early enough to get the sleep I need. Didn't happen. At least it's only a year until the next Mother's Day card will come around to let me know how valued I am.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Clean Up, Clean Up, Everybody, Every... fine I'll do it myself.
If your child ever complains that he or she doesn't have enough Legos, here's a fast fix: Take all of their Legos and dump them out on the floor, scatter them a bit, and force the child to pick them up. It will suddenly seem like he has more than enough of the damn things.
The one-year-old scattered a bucket of Legos in the play room a week ago, and I walked past them a hundred times, hoping someone else would pick them up. That didn't happen. (Imagine that.) So tonight I started picking them up, singing "Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere..." in hopes that the baby would help pick some up. He did-- for about five seconds. Then he decided it would be funny to knock the bucket over again. Which he did. And then he laughed. Because he's a turd like that.
With the bucket moved out of his reach, I got back to the task of picking up the bazillion tiny little pieces. I was so in my mom-zone that I didn't even notice the plunking noise that was happening ten feet away. As I dropped the last handful of Legos into the bucket, I looked up and realized that he'd spent the last few minutes taking each can of Play-Doh out of the bucket and tossing them across the room, one by one.
And the cycle continues.
The one-year-old scattered a bucket of Legos in the play room a week ago, and I walked past them a hundred times, hoping someone else would pick them up. That didn't happen. (Imagine that.) So tonight I started picking them up, singing "Clean up, clean up, everybody, everywhere..." in hopes that the baby would help pick some up. He did-- for about five seconds. Then he decided it would be funny to knock the bucket over again. Which he did. And then he laughed. Because he's a turd like that.
LIES!
With the bucket moved out of his reach, I got back to the task of picking up the bazillion tiny little pieces. I was so in my mom-zone that I didn't even notice the plunking noise that was happening ten feet away. As I dropped the last handful of Legos into the bucket, I looked up and realized that he'd spent the last few minutes taking each can of Play-Doh out of the bucket and tossing them across the room, one by one.
And the cycle continues.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Outrage, Rage, Repeat
The possibility that someone will mistreat our children is probably every parent's greatest fear, especially when considering whether to place them in daycare. When my four-year-old went from his part-time preschool to a full-time daycare a few weeks ago, I felt pretty confident that I had chosen a good place. There was a little voice in the back of my head telling me something wasn't right, but I chalked it up to my own irrational fear, telling myself that the same voice would be there no matter where they were. I paid close attention for signs of trouble while keeping in mind that I can see problems where there are none when it comes to trusting other people with my kids.
After the first day, he said he didn't want to go back. I knew the adjustment would be hard. He missed his preschool friends and was upset that he had to leave them. When things didn't improve after a few days, I wondered whether everything was okay, and asked him questions aimed at finding out how his time was being spent and how the teachers were treating him. Nothing stood out-- except that nothing stood out to him. He couldn't name any of the kids in his class except one. He didn't even know his teachers' names, even after two weeks. My impression was that the kids were being shuttled back and forth like cattle and that it was very impersonal. I called the director during the day a couple of times when Charlie cried at dropoff, and she reassured me that even though he was upset when I dropped him off, he was playing happily five minutes after I left. During the third week he seemed to be adjusting, and I thought it was going to work out.
I was off work the Monday after Easter, so I took the kids to daycare late and picked them up early. When I walked in that afternoon, Charlie's class was walking from the playground to a classroom for story time. The teacher, a middle-aged lady who hadn't seemed overly friendly the few times I'd spoken to her, was telling them to sit down in the tiny little room. As I approached the door, I heard her say, "Sit on your bottom with your legs crossed in front of you. Amelia! Is that what I said to do!? I said sit with your butt on the floor and your legs in front of you!" It seemed a little harsh, considering she was talking to a 3 or 4 year old little girl.
A day or two later, while getting ready for daycare (we refer to it as "school" around here because that's what we always called preschool), Charlie said, "Mom, I don't want to wear my blue jeans to school. I want to wear my stretchy pants with no buttons and zippers." I asked him why, and he said he had trouble unbuttoning his pants to use the restroom. I told him to ask his teacher for help with that, and he said, "I do, but she gets grumpy." I could just imagine that teacher being irritated at being asked to help him, and made a mental note to mention it to the director. The very next day, before I had the chance to talk to anyone about it, Charlie again begged me not to make him wear pants with a button because, in his words, "She gets so angry at me."
That day I called the director during my planning period. I told her what Charlie had said about the teacher not wanting to help. I was polite and didn't go on the offensive at all, although at this point I was really beginning to suspect the teacher in question was being impatient with the kids and probably didn't need to work in a daycare. I just told her that Charlie still needs help with his pants, and if they don't help (or if they get "grumpy") he is liable to not ask for help and wet his pants as a result. The director always got really defensive and began talking too much anytime I asked questions about how Charlie's days were going, and she definitely had that reaction this time. In the end, she said she would talk to the teacher. I reiterated that all I was asking for was for her to help him unbutton and re-button his pants. I wasn't out to get the teacher.
The next day when I picked Charlie up, the teacher told me my son had said his daddy gives him beer. She said he told another child that his daddy gives him beer, and the child had repeated it to his parent, and the parent had come up to the school "very upset about it." Then she said Charlie had mentioned his daddy giving him "vanilla beer." Well, his dad bought him a vanilla root beer a few days earlier. I laughed about it, but she didn't see the humor and was really making it out to be a big deal.
The following morning when I dropped Charlie off, he went apesh**. When I started to leave, he chased me down and jumped into my arms. I put him back down, hugged him, and told him to stay in his classroom. He began crying as if I was leaving him in a work camp, and as I tried to leave again a teacher was holding him and he was literally fighting them to get away. I quickly made my exit, but I worried all day. That was very unlike Charlie. His teacher had already demonstrated her ignorance and impatience a few times, and all signs were pointing to him being treated unkindly by her.
As I drove to work that morning, I was sick to my stomach. I considered calling in sick, picking him up, and spending the day visiting other daycares. If I hadn't missed a day and a half last week because of a stomach virus, I probably would have done that, but I went on to work, telling myself he needed to adjust, he didn't need me to rescue him, and I would be doing him a disservice if I didn't make him deal with situations he didn't like. But I knew there was something else to it. I called the director during my planning period, and she reassured me that everything was fine. Charlie was playing and everything was okay. I didn't believe her this time. There was always something in her voice when I asked questions, and after this particular phone call, I pinpointed it. Desperation. She was desperate. She was lying. She knew there was some kind of problem. When we hung up I called a few other daycares, including one I had considered before finding out they didn't open early enough for me to make it to work on time. They still had openings and were willing to let the kids start any day. I decided to talk to my boss, because I'd heard he was very understanding about situations relating to kids and had let another teacher come in a few minutes late every day for a year because she couldn't get her kids to daycare any earlier.
That afternoon when I pulled up to the daycare, Charlie's class was out on the playground. I went in and got Andrew first, then went outside to get Charlie. The mean teacher was sitting there all fat and slumped over with her curmudgeonly self, and Charlie was standing nearby. The first thing I noticed was that he looked tired and that he'd scratched his skin really bad that day. His eczema gets crazy in hot weather.
It also gets crazy with stress.
When I approached the gate, the teacher said, "Tell yo momma what you did!" Charlie began crying. "Stop cryin' and tell her what you did!" He couldn't tell me because he couldn't stop crying, and I wasn't impressed with the way she was talking to him. I asked what unspeakable crime he had committed. "He pulled another kid off that toy over there and almost broke his neck!" She was talking as though this wasn't normal playground behavior. I'm not saying he should be allowed to play rough, but he didn't need to be berated and belittled and humiliated over it. He's four. The appropriate response is to put him in timeout and never mention it again, or take away part of his playtime or some other privilege, not raise your voice at him and force him to recount his misdeeds later.
I decided right then that I was done. I wanted to tell her off, tell her everything I thought, tell her how horrible I thought she was, that she didn't have to talk to him like he was a dog, that she didn't deserve to work with kids, that if you can't get along with Charlie McWilliams, you probably can't get along with anyone. I wanted to tell her that my kid is smart, funny, and sweet. He's kind. He's loving. He learns easily, and he would do anything to please her-- if there was any hope of pleasing her.
Instead I picked him up, and the only thing that came out of my mouth, which seemed to be detached from my body at this point, was a quiet "Okay." I was shocked at my self control.
I turned to walk to the van with my crying, humiliated child, my mind already set on taking them straight to the other daycare to secure a spot for the next day. As I turned to leave, the lady said, "He been throwing sand all day too!"
Last. Straw. Bitch should've stopped while she was ahead.
What I meant to do was put Charlie in the van and then go talk to the director. What I did instead, because I apparently lost the ability to control my legs-- or my mouth-- was march straight into the house with Charlie in my arms and raise hell. I was seeing red. I was shaking. The director was in the kitchen, and she looked like a deer in headlights when I appeared in front of her.
I don't know exactly what I said. I was pointing and trying unsuccessfully not to yell. The first thing I said was, "That lady out there has a terrible attitude!" The rest is all a blur. I demanded that they get my kids' stuff together and said we wouldn't be back. The director, a 50-something lady with short, gray hair, put her hands over her mouth and began fake crying. Pathetic. I stormed out, put Charlie into the van, and went back in to retrieve the kids' belongings. Diapers, lunch boxes, snacks, nap mats. The short lady was apologizing between fake sobs. When I went back in, I told her what the lady had done, how I thought all these things Charlie had said and things I'd overheard the teacher say were indicators that she wasn't treating them right, and that she had just removed all doubt. Other parents were beginning to come in for their children at this point, and the woman just nodded and looked completely freaked out and ready for me to go before any more parents heard me.
I drove around the block to the other daycare, and five minutes later they had a spot starting the next day.
The owner of the daycare called me later that day. She said that there had been a similar incident with the same teacher a few months ago for which she had been reprimanded. This was the second problem they'd had with her, and she got fired this time.
When I approached the doorway of the classroom in their new daycare the next afternoon, I heard the teacher's voice. She was talking to them sweetly, encouraging them, and showing incredible love and patience for a bunch of wound-up kids who had been trapped inside all day due to the rain. I walked in and asked how the day went. Charlie and Andrew heard me and looked up. They smiled, but didn't run to me like they were escaping a prison and I was their ride to freedom. Charlie came for a hug, then went right back to his group of friends. Andrew never put down the toy he was playing with, just gave me a big, toothy grin and a "Momma!"
I haven't driven to work with a sick stomach or felt the need to call and check in since.
After the first day, he said he didn't want to go back. I knew the adjustment would be hard. He missed his preschool friends and was upset that he had to leave them. When things didn't improve after a few days, I wondered whether everything was okay, and asked him questions aimed at finding out how his time was being spent and how the teachers were treating him. Nothing stood out-- except that nothing stood out to him. He couldn't name any of the kids in his class except one. He didn't even know his teachers' names, even after two weeks. My impression was that the kids were being shuttled back and forth like cattle and that it was very impersonal. I called the director during the day a couple of times when Charlie cried at dropoff, and she reassured me that even though he was upset when I dropped him off, he was playing happily five minutes after I left. During the third week he seemed to be adjusting, and I thought it was going to work out.
I was off work the Monday after Easter, so I took the kids to daycare late and picked them up early. When I walked in that afternoon, Charlie's class was walking from the playground to a classroom for story time. The teacher, a middle-aged lady who hadn't seemed overly friendly the few times I'd spoken to her, was telling them to sit down in the tiny little room. As I approached the door, I heard her say, "Sit on your bottom with your legs crossed in front of you. Amelia! Is that what I said to do!? I said sit with your butt on the floor and your legs in front of you!" It seemed a little harsh, considering she was talking to a 3 or 4 year old little girl.
A day or two later, while getting ready for daycare (we refer to it as "school" around here because that's what we always called preschool), Charlie said, "Mom, I don't want to wear my blue jeans to school. I want to wear my stretchy pants with no buttons and zippers." I asked him why, and he said he had trouble unbuttoning his pants to use the restroom. I told him to ask his teacher for help with that, and he said, "I do, but she gets grumpy." I could just imagine that teacher being irritated at being asked to help him, and made a mental note to mention it to the director. The very next day, before I had the chance to talk to anyone about it, Charlie again begged me not to make him wear pants with a button because, in his words, "She gets so angry at me."
That day I called the director during my planning period. I told her what Charlie had said about the teacher not wanting to help. I was polite and didn't go on the offensive at all, although at this point I was really beginning to suspect the teacher in question was being impatient with the kids and probably didn't need to work in a daycare. I just told her that Charlie still needs help with his pants, and if they don't help (or if they get "grumpy") he is liable to not ask for help and wet his pants as a result. The director always got really defensive and began talking too much anytime I asked questions about how Charlie's days were going, and she definitely had that reaction this time. In the end, she said she would talk to the teacher. I reiterated that all I was asking for was for her to help him unbutton and re-button his pants. I wasn't out to get the teacher.
The next day when I picked Charlie up, the teacher told me my son had said his daddy gives him beer. She said he told another child that his daddy gives him beer, and the child had repeated it to his parent, and the parent had come up to the school "very upset about it." Then she said Charlie had mentioned his daddy giving him "vanilla beer." Well, his dad bought him a vanilla root beer a few days earlier. I laughed about it, but she didn't see the humor and was really making it out to be a big deal.
The following morning when I dropped Charlie off, he went apesh**. When I started to leave, he chased me down and jumped into my arms. I put him back down, hugged him, and told him to stay in his classroom. He began crying as if I was leaving him in a work camp, and as I tried to leave again a teacher was holding him and he was literally fighting them to get away. I quickly made my exit, but I worried all day. That was very unlike Charlie. His teacher had already demonstrated her ignorance and impatience a few times, and all signs were pointing to him being treated unkindly by her.
As I drove to work that morning, I was sick to my stomach. I considered calling in sick, picking him up, and spending the day visiting other daycares. If I hadn't missed a day and a half last week because of a stomach virus, I probably would have done that, but I went on to work, telling myself he needed to adjust, he didn't need me to rescue him, and I would be doing him a disservice if I didn't make him deal with situations he didn't like. But I knew there was something else to it. I called the director during my planning period, and she reassured me that everything was fine. Charlie was playing and everything was okay. I didn't believe her this time. There was always something in her voice when I asked questions, and after this particular phone call, I pinpointed it. Desperation. She was desperate. She was lying. She knew there was some kind of problem. When we hung up I called a few other daycares, including one I had considered before finding out they didn't open early enough for me to make it to work on time. They still had openings and were willing to let the kids start any day. I decided to talk to my boss, because I'd heard he was very understanding about situations relating to kids and had let another teacher come in a few minutes late every day for a year because she couldn't get her kids to daycare any earlier.
That afternoon when I pulled up to the daycare, Charlie's class was out on the playground. I went in and got Andrew first, then went outside to get Charlie. The mean teacher was sitting there all fat and slumped over with her curmudgeonly self, and Charlie was standing nearby. The first thing I noticed was that he looked tired and that he'd scratched his skin really bad that day. His eczema gets crazy in hot weather.
It also gets crazy with stress.
When I approached the gate, the teacher said, "Tell yo momma what you did!" Charlie began crying. "Stop cryin' and tell her what you did!" He couldn't tell me because he couldn't stop crying, and I wasn't impressed with the way she was talking to him. I asked what unspeakable crime he had committed. "He pulled another kid off that toy over there and almost broke his neck!" She was talking as though this wasn't normal playground behavior. I'm not saying he should be allowed to play rough, but he didn't need to be berated and belittled and humiliated over it. He's four. The appropriate response is to put him in timeout and never mention it again, or take away part of his playtime or some other privilege, not raise your voice at him and force him to recount his misdeeds later.
I decided right then that I was done. I wanted to tell her off, tell her everything I thought, tell her how horrible I thought she was, that she didn't have to talk to him like he was a dog, that she didn't deserve to work with kids, that if you can't get along with Charlie McWilliams, you probably can't get along with anyone. I wanted to tell her that my kid is smart, funny, and sweet. He's kind. He's loving. He learns easily, and he would do anything to please her-- if there was any hope of pleasing her.
Instead I picked him up, and the only thing that came out of my mouth, which seemed to be detached from my body at this point, was a quiet "Okay." I was shocked at my self control.
I turned to walk to the van with my crying, humiliated child, my mind already set on taking them straight to the other daycare to secure a spot for the next day. As I turned to leave, the lady said, "He been throwing sand all day too!"
Last. Straw. Bitch should've stopped while she was ahead.
No jury in the world would convict me.
I don't know exactly what I said. I was pointing and trying unsuccessfully not to yell. The first thing I said was, "That lady out there has a terrible attitude!" The rest is all a blur. I demanded that they get my kids' stuff together and said we wouldn't be back. The director, a 50-something lady with short, gray hair, put her hands over her mouth and began fake crying. Pathetic. I stormed out, put Charlie into the van, and went back in to retrieve the kids' belongings. Diapers, lunch boxes, snacks, nap mats. The short lady was apologizing between fake sobs. When I went back in, I told her what the lady had done, how I thought all these things Charlie had said and things I'd overheard the teacher say were indicators that she wasn't treating them right, and that she had just removed all doubt. Other parents were beginning to come in for their children at this point, and the woman just nodded and looked completely freaked out and ready for me to go before any more parents heard me.
I drove around the block to the other daycare, and five minutes later they had a spot starting the next day.
The owner of the daycare called me later that day. She said that there had been a similar incident with the same teacher a few months ago for which she had been reprimanded. This was the second problem they'd had with her, and she got fired this time.
When I approached the doorway of the classroom in their new daycare the next afternoon, I heard the teacher's voice. She was talking to them sweetly, encouraging them, and showing incredible love and patience for a bunch of wound-up kids who had been trapped inside all day due to the rain. I walked in and asked how the day went. Charlie and Andrew heard me and looked up. They smiled, but didn't run to me like they were escaping a prison and I was their ride to freedom. Charlie came for a hug, then went right back to his group of friends. Andrew never put down the toy he was playing with, just gave me a big, toothy grin and a "Momma!"
I haven't driven to work with a sick stomach or felt the need to call and check in since.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
You Know You've Been a Stay-at-Home-Mom When...
You know you've been a stay-at-home-mom for four years when your first three weeks at a new job involve the following slips:
You tell another teacher you'll be glad to watch her duty post for a few minutes if she needs to go use the potty.
You almost call your boss "dude."
You're so excited to see adults that you walk in waving and saying "Hey!" to anyone you pass in the hallway.
The cafeteria feels like it's missing something. You realize there are no high chairs.
Happy Meals for dinner becomes a weekly routine because you haven't yet figured out how to work "cook dinner" into the mile-long list of things to do after work.
Your high school students are misbehaving, and you start counting. "One. TWO!... Oh, wait. Sorry."
Your employer asks for a photograph of you to put in your file. You don't have a single one of you without your kids.
You ask a coworker when nap-time is.
You tell another teacher you'll be glad to watch her duty post for a few minutes if she needs to go use the potty.
You almost call your boss "dude."
You're so excited to see adults that you walk in waving and saying "Hey!" to anyone you pass in the hallway.
The cafeteria feels like it's missing something. You realize there are no high chairs.
Happy Meals for dinner becomes a weekly routine because you haven't yet figured out how to work "cook dinner" into the mile-long list of things to do after work.
Your high school students are misbehaving, and you start counting. "One. TWO!... Oh, wait. Sorry."
Your employer asks for a photograph of you to put in your file. You don't have a single one of you without your kids.
You ask a coworker when nap-time is.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
We Went Viral, and I Don't Mean YouTube
Nothing is quicker to remind you that human beings are basically disgusting animals than seeing one of your kids suffer from a gut-wrenching stomach virus-- the kind that sends you to the store for more Huggies days before you should've run out. And if you need a reminder that we're all in this human experience together, just grab a garbage can and wait near the toilet. Odds are, you're next.
Yesterday afternoon I breathed a sigh of relief because the baby seemed to be over his weekend stomach bug. If my stomach wrote Facebook statuses, this morning at 5 a.m. it would've said, "Something doesn't seem right." At 5:45 it would've been more along the lines of "DEAR GOD GET THIS TOXIC SOUP OUT OF ME!" My body went into panic mode in an attempt to rid itself of whatever invasive organism made its way into my system, and I spent the next several hours hovering close to the bathroom and debating whether it was safe to eat a few crackers.
The baby had it, then my husband had it, and now me. Usually when we have a bug of some sort, one person escapes it. I escaped the Great Puke Festival of 2012, so I was due this time. Charlie has escaped this one so far, but tonight as we were preparing for bedtime, Tim asked him how his day was. He said, "It was okay, but Abby puked on her mat during the nap."
We may go four out of four this time.
Yesterday afternoon I breathed a sigh of relief because the baby seemed to be over his weekend stomach bug. If my stomach wrote Facebook statuses, this morning at 5 a.m. it would've said, "Something doesn't seem right." At 5:45 it would've been more along the lines of "DEAR GOD GET THIS TOXIC SOUP OUT OF ME!" My body went into panic mode in an attempt to rid itself of whatever invasive organism made its way into my system, and I spent the next several hours hovering close to the bathroom and debating whether it was safe to eat a few crackers.
The baby had it, then my husband had it, and now me. Usually when we have a bug of some sort, one person escapes it. I escaped the Great Puke Festival of 2012, so I was due this time. Charlie has escaped this one so far, but tonight as we were preparing for bedtime, Tim asked him how his day was. He said, "It was okay, but Abby puked on her mat during the nap."
We may go four out of four this time.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
A Boy Story
You wipe their noses, you tie their shoes, you teach them the good places in the yard to find worms. And sometimes you respond to a cry for help from the bathroom and find one of them sitting on the sink, naked from the waist down. Further investigation reveals that he pooped, and then-- because little boys are vile creatures-- he wanted to look at his butt in the mirror. Naturally. But he kicked the step stool away in the process of climbing up and then couldn't get down.
Tip: When responding to a cry for help from the bathroom, take the Lysol wipes with you.
Tip: When responding to a cry for help from the bathroom, take the Lysol wipes with you.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Pure Gold
The boys started daycare Friday, and I started my new job. When I picked him up Friday, Charlie told me he met a kid named Flex. I pictured a muscled four-year-old with a prison tattoo, and had to know more about this Flex. Today I was torn between relief and disappointment when I learned that the child's name is actually Fletcher.
As we prepared for bedtime, the following exchange took place in the bathroom:
"Mom, why do I have to brush my teeth?"
"Because if you don't, they'll fall out."
"Well I want them to fall out so I can get a gold tooth!"
Looks like daycare is providing some real world encounters. I hope he didn't ask one of the assistants about her gold tooth, but I'd bet you a diamond-encrusted grill he did. They always say just enough at home to give you a window into the horrifying things they're saying at school.
As we prepared for bedtime, the following exchange took place in the bathroom:
"Mom, why do I have to brush my teeth?"
"Because if you don't, they'll fall out."
"Well I want them to fall out so I can get a gold tooth!"
Looks like daycare is providing some real world encounters. I hope he didn't ask one of the assistants about her gold tooth, but I'd bet you a diamond-encrusted grill he did. They always say just enough at home to give you a window into the horrifying things they're saying at school.
Friday, March 22, 2013
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