Holpineville

Party Time

I panicked a bit yesterday when I thought I'd invited 45 people for dinner tomorrow night.  It turns out there are only 42 coming as of this minute, so it's cool. Now if I could just settle on a menu....

I dislike New Year's Eve.  I might hate the Fourth of July more, but it's very close.  It's the whole forced-revelry thing, the feeling you should have a date on the years you don't, your date getting drunk and acting like a jackass on the years you do, the prices suddenly doubling at your usual bar or restaurant, the I-have-nothing-to-wear issue, the drunken drivers, blah, blah, blah.  But, if I can't be left alone to quietly contemplate the passage of time, having some friends over is about the best way I can think of to spend it.

So the house is a big mess, and no, I'm not just saying that. If you walked in right now, you'd agree as you jump over the toys in your path and would have to shovel off a chair to be able to sit down. However, if we waited for me to have a clean house to entertain, it would never happen.  I realized a while back that my friends already know I'm a slob and if it bothered them, they wouldn't come, that most people are happy just to be invited anywhere (see above: 42 people coming on three days' notice), and that with a pack of kids running wild, the place would be a mess within 15 minutes of the party start time anyway.  So I focus on sanitizing the bathrooms, clearing the counters and tables, and sweeping up, and then I move on to worrying about the food.

Writing this, I have finalized my menu.  We're having black bean soup, potato soup, enough champagne for the court of Louis XIV, hot dogs for the kids, and whatever the friends bring.  It will be loud. Feel free to drop by!

Merry and Tired Out

We are still alive and happy.  It's just that I have a bit of writer's block, and I'm tuckered out from hostessing and celebrating.  The relatives have come and gone, the house is drowning in a new layer of toys and debris, I took Ruby to see the Nutcracker today, and somehow I just invited nine families over for a party on New Year's Eve.  So I'm a little busy, too.

I'll try to write a complete summary of all the revelry soon.  Hope your holiday season has been a happy one thus far.

Christmas is Coming

Bandwagons That I'm Not On:

Holiday baking: Okay, sometimes I am tempted to  get in on the whole cookies/candy/Chex Mix/weird breads thing, but I always end up regretting the impulse, so I’ve learned to resist.   Exception: on Christmas Eve, we’ll make a few cookies for Santa.  Otherwise, I think there are way too many baked goods in circulation this time of year, and here’s a secret: most of them are really not that good.  Or maybe they were good when they came out of the oven, but they’ve become less good while awaiting consumption. Either way, a lot of people are wasting a lot perfectly good sugar, butter, and time.

Holiday cards: I love getting them, but I don’t think we’ve sent any since 1995.  I try hard to keep up with everyone’s e-mail addresses, but I flunk mailing address tracking.  Plus, I can never get it together for a decent family photo.  I toy with the idea of a holiday letter every year, but it just seems like too big of a project.   Maybe there’ll be a holiday blog post instead?

Holiday Knitting: I’m too slow to be one of those people who knits a bunch of holiday gifts.  Plus, there’s no guarantee they’ll come out as wonderful as they seem in my head when I start.  Finally, my gift recipient list is, sadly, not heavily populated by those who cherish the handmade and woolly. 

What are we doing instead?  Well, we’re frantically house cleaning and de-junking.  The kids keep coming up with new craft projects to do.  We relented and let them watch Star Wars for the first time today. 

Shopping: I like giving people stuff.  And I’m almost to the end of this year’s decision on what to give to the People Who are Impossible to Shop For (you know who you are) to properly demonstrate our affection.  And I have some ideas to make future years better:  I hereby decree that every person shall have at least one official “hobby,” at least one official “collection,” even if you only engage in or think about them on gift-receiving occasions.  Furthermore, I require that everyone announce one or two pressing “needs” starting October.  It will not be greedy or weird to announce that you could really use some new socks, or bubble bath, or bird seed, or a sauté pan, or tongs, or a book with a specific title.  Absent a family –wide agreement that only the children get presents, you can’t get out of it by announcing that you don’t need anything.   Failure to comply with these rules will result in your receiving yet another tragically ugly coffee mug, wall plaque with cutesy saying, digital photo key ring, or massage implement. 

Party Planning:  We are only hosting a very few people whom I do not feel pressured to impress (hi, family!)  However, I do need to feed them and keep them busy.  Little kids celebrating Christmas expect special activities and treats.   And for myself, I demand a certain level of merriment and feasting or it just ain’t a holiday.  So what are we going eat? My time is running short, and my plan is still nebulous.  Among our number are: one plain meat and plain potatoes person, one spice averse person, a few adventurous semi-vegetarians, and the picky kids.  Also, I have not been in a mood to cook in quite a while, so it can’t be complicated.   Maybe we’ll just have a three day-long dessert smorgasbord?  

Family Time: Rod makes a major effort to take vacation while the kids are out of school and it’s just nice to be all together.  The kids have been doing their crafts, riding bikes, playing trains, and watching videos.  They’re both suddenly interested in playing cards and games, too, so there’s been some of that. 

 

 

Not As Bad As All That

Judging from some of the feedback, I wrote that last post wrong.  Carl is, for the record, much better behaved than most of the little boys I know, charming, brilliant, and gives great hugs.  His parents, and his mom in particular, do have their little faults and peccadilloes.  In general, though, they do a pretty good of job of setting and enforcing limits, of ignoring what should be ignored and noticing what should be noticed.  99.65% of the time, everything goes along like it should.  And they completely adore the little twerp.

It’s just that sometimes I feel a bit out of my league.  Little boy tantrums don’t much resemble the ones I remember my sisters and I throwing in the distant past.  The usual techniques don't always work like you'd think they would.

Over Thanksgiving, Rod’s mom showed me some of Rod’s school papers she had saved.  Included were some detailed notes by his preschool teacher.  I know it’s incredible to believe, but this teacher didn’t like Rod at all.  Among the highlights: she said he was disruptive and uncooperative and wondered if he had a neurological problem because he couldn’t hold still. Obviously she liked his twin brother a lot more, and compared the two.  I just want to go back in time and smack her!  First of all, no teacher should be that cranky and biased about any student.  Second, she’s talking about my man!  The nicest, sweetest, most brilliant person I know!  Who holds still just fine now!  Conclusion and tie-in:  if Rod can go from being the scourge of pre-k to the kind of guy most of my friends wish they were married to, then Carl will be fine.

Plus, I figure if I write all this crazy stuff down now, I’ll be able to better remember it later.  Maybe Ruby or Carl will have a kid who goes bonkers a few times a year, and I can at least empathize, and say, “oh, I have been there, really, how awful for you.  Remember when we had to stop the car on the highway in August for more than 45 minutes when Carl was almost four, because he wouldn’t stay buckled in his seat and was pulling Mommy’s hair and slugging her, while he screamed for something from the ice cream chest at a really dirty roadside store several miles back?  No? You don’t?  Well, the Nobel Committee wouldn’t believe me either when they were working his biography for that prize he got, but see, I wrote it all down on my blog at the time.  Never forget, Sweetie, change is possible! and most likely my grandchild won’t end up incarcerated, either.” [Note: I could tell a Ruby story, too, about her kind of tantrum.]

In other news, Ruby seems to have grown another foot lately.  She is practicing two holiday songs on the piano, except she has assigned one to me, so that we can have our own little recital for the visiting relatives.  {Don’t worry, if you were planning to be one of the visitors.  We have plenty of ear plugs and alcohol on hand.}  Ruby is concentrating on Up on the Housetop, and I am doing the one-note-at-a-time arrangement of Hark the Herald.  

This week, Ruby’s class is doing research projects.  She has a partner, a second grade boy, and they are jointly discovering all there is to know about Chinese alligators.  You would think the second grader would be running the show, but I suspect the poor kid is fending off Ruby’s project management efforts instead.  Ruby insisted she needed to call him over the weekend to discuss it, but unfortunately she wrote his number down wrong, and you would have thought the world had ended.  Luckily, she got it right on Tuesday and had a nice little phone chat with him. 

We are just plain busy this week.  My mammogram took up most of Monday, because of a screw-up with the doctor’s order form, but apparently I passed, although the tech said I do have “complicated breasts,” and I don’t think that’s a compliment.  I told her I prefer to have them called ‘beautiful,’ or ‘lovely,’ or maybe ‘perky,’ but she didn’t laugh.  I will add that to my collection of weird medical news of the year: the “abnormal” EKG, my arthritic feet, strange rash, and all the rest.  Yesterday we spent a lot of time buying poster boards for Ruby’s Chinese alligator presentation, and shoes for Carl, who managed somehow, sometime in the past week, and no one can figure it out, to come home wearing someone else’s that are too small.  The kids’ have their holiday parties at school this week, and I am busy with all kinds of trivia: paying bills, forking over cash to people I should tip, going to neighborhood patrol training, getting my hair done, and starting to worry about my Christmas shopping and how to entertain my visitors next week.  My holiday spirit is starting to kick in, too.

Here’s a question for you.  Do you eat your gingerbread house, or not?  My friend thought it was weird and a little bit gross that we have taken to hot gluing ours together (they stand up much better!) and using the icing for the trim and candy gluing only, but then she realized we don’t eat the finished houses.  Apparently, they do eat the gingerbread house at her house, at least parts of it, which kind of grosses me out.  Think about it: this thing sits there for days or weeks, and gets dried out, collects cat hair and dust, the dough to make the thing is not exactly gourmet cookie material, the candy you get in the kits is third rate, and people touch it and breath their germs on it.  Anyhow, we didn’t really have a gingerbread house tradition when I grew up, so am I missing something? Is it more than symbolically edible?

     

Discipline: Chapters Missing from My Instruction Manual

Let me open with a good thing about Carl, before I admit to how clueless I am at managing the kid and ask the Intern@t for advice again:

Carl has been doing very well at school lately and he likes to do “work” at home.  I have never seen anyone quite so captivated by paper, glue, scissors, crayons, paint, string, whatever.  He does a lot of writing, which is impressive, although less so when you realize he doesn’t necessarily associate sounds with the letters.  He is also very excited about rhyming words, counting, and making maps.

And now, Problem No. 1: Psycho Fits

For the historical record, and perhaps out of hope that someone has some advice, let me tell you about Carl’s psycho fits.  They are rare, but beyond belief in intensity and focus.  Possible triggers include tiredness, hunger, and having his single-minded focus thwarted.  For instance, Friday night we were all at a party, and Carl was playing with friends.  He had eaten heavy snacks before, but no real dinner, and he wouldn’t stop playing to eat party food.  Finally, it was well past bedtime and time to go home.  Carl announces he is hungry.  The hostess offers him some party food (hot dog, which he generally would eat) but Carl asks for an apple.  Well, there are no apples at the party, so I explain that he can have one when we get home (less than five minutes away). 

Carl gets more and more agitated, repeating “I want an apple” at the top of his lungs.  We have to carry him out of the party shoeless and jacketless and in a hurry.  I put him in the car and he keeps going, adding kicking and thrashing to the mix. As we reach the driveway, he wriggles out of his seat belt.  In the garage, he won’t get out of the car; he just keeps screaming that he wants an apple.  So I bring one out to the garage and he gradually calmed down and eventually became capable of semi-rational speech.

A few months ago, there was the infamous side-of-the-highway hours-long ‘I want ice cream!’ psycho fit, and Rod still has the emotional scars from the all night hotel room “I need tape!” sob fest and subsequent 3 a.m. drive to the minimart to get some.  

So it doesn’t happen often, but it truly frightens me when Carl gets so unhinged.  Plus, as he gets physically bigger, it’s harder and harder to manage him during those episodes. Please, tell me there’s a magic phrase, or maybe a tranquilizer dart gun they issue to parents with this kind of child?  

Problem No. 2:

What is a suitable penalty for the following:

Yesterday afternoon the kids and I went to their friends’ house to play.  When it was time to go, after ample warnings, I went to the fenced backyard where Carl and his best and most incorrigible friend were playing. 

Only, they weren’t there. I looked all around.  I looked inside.  Friends’ mom started looking, too.  We checked closets, under furniture.  We decide they must still be outside.  We look at the fence they’d been climbing on.  Could they have gone over?  Could they have slipped through the little gap between the fence and the house?  I check the cars, the garage, the bushes, even the roof.  

Ten long minutes pass.  We get more and more worried.  The little girls start searching, too.  I am yelling Carl’s name over and over.  My brain starts thinking of improbable worst cases: kidnapping, stuck in a car trunk or an old refrigerator, accidental poisoning, a bizarre double accident rendering both boys unable to move or speak… what am I going to tell the police when we call 911 in a minute?  I can’t even remember exactly what he’s wearing.

The other mom asks her neighbor to check his adjoining backyard.  He does, and then tells her where they are: hiding in a very small sandbox with the lid on top, in her own backyard that we’ve been repeatedly searching. 

We pull the boys from their lair.  I am shaking and on the verge of tears.  Carl is giggling nervously.  I yell at him briefly, then plop him in the car and go home.  Carl is cold (he wasn’t wearing a coat in 40 degree weather) and hungry and it’s sinking in how angry I am and he cries all the way home.  I let him, as I phone Rod to give him some advance warning and so that Carl can hear me tell the story.

And after Rod comes home, we corner Carl for the Terribly Serious and Earnest Family Discussion about Never Ever Hiding from Mommy or Daddy, and what the correct thing to do when you want more time to play is, and by the way, when your friend suggests something stupid, we expect you to say no.  And Carl cried more, which frankly, I was pleased to see, because it means perhaps the message penetrated a little.  The official penalties are: no play dates with the other kid for a week (or until some date I mutually agree on with the other mom), and no “restaurant food” for five days (because he loves H@ppy Meal toys and was begging to stop for fast food tacos on the way home, and I told him Absolutely Not, because of what he did.  “Five days,” is because he doesn’t really grasp “week,” and anything over three sounds like a lot to him). 

So. Is that enough? Or too much? What’s a good, I-Mean-Business Consequence?   For the amount of emotional torture I went through, it needs to be serious.  If he can’t fully empathize with me, he can at least understand that some things Are Not Done, Ever.

Problem No. 3:

And then this morning, during the Daily Battle of the Sneakers, Carl spit at my face (thankfully, he can’t do it very well).  To be sure, he was doing it because he’d seen some other kid do it, he had run out of creative ways to say ‘no,’ and he didn’t understand quite how offensive that particular gesture is.  I am not positive the immediate time-out and lecture I gave him really conveyed the extent of my disgust. 

Problem No. 4:

Finally, what do you do about a kid who likes to follow along? I don’t want you to think that Carl would never do anything wrong if he didn’t have a pal to suggest it, but in general, his worst behavior happens when he has help in dreaming it up and executing the plan.  Also, he copies undesirable behaviors he sees his friend or classmates do, ranging from general rowdy cheekiness and babbling potty words, to the completely off limits (see, spitting, above).  I can so see my kid morphing into a little gang member or frat boy as time goes on.  One teacher suggested I find a younger kid for him to mentor, to try to get him to be the leader some of the time.  Anyone have anything else to offer?

More of Not Much

I have to say that the economy is nowhere near as bad off as everyone thinks, judging from the giant mobs at T*rget and Miche*ls  yesterday, the vast line of people at the post office, and the swarms of cars in retail land.  It just redoubles my love for Internet shopping.

Rod spent most of the last two days sleeping.  He has a cold and I think he needed to check himself in for treatment for mental exhaustion. Ruby came home from school early today, too.  I was helping out in her classroom and she may have been embellishing a bit for my benefit, but she was obviously not her usual self.  She was pale, her nose was running, and she kept pausing to rest her head against the furniture.  I made her stay and finish her math work and her spelling test, though; I'm not a complete cream puff.

We are attempting to reconfigure or fix up our "family room," that awkward space where people watch videos, eat breakfast and play. It is also a dumping ground for all kinds of transitory debris and the pathway to the back door.  I don't feel brave enough to spend much money, but the seating is our biggest problem.  So we spent a couple of hours today looking at smallish sectionals at the salvage/resale shops, a designer knock-off studio, and that little circle of Hell called Ik@a.  Rod is firmly convinced we need leather upholstery to best withstand the wear the little gremlins inflict.  I would kind of like cushions that Carl can't remove and scatter around the room four times a day.  And I am paralyzed by my lack of taste and entirely-too-flexible style convictions.  Choosing is nearly impossible for me.  So far, my favorite is this one (But I'm not paying that much!  It's way cheaper at this salvage place, but there's not much choice in components there.) Is it too Italian bachelor pad?  Will I hate it tomorrow? In five years?  Ten?  Rod likes another salvage one better (maybe possibly it's this one but with a chaise) , Ruby is a big fan of an Ikea model that Rod and I nixed because the floor model looked all worn out already. She is not happy to be losing the battle.  

This weekend, I hope to get a grip on Christmas.  We haven't decorated, and we are anxious to go chop down a tree.  I haven't shopped at all.  I have some craft projects in mind.  If nothing else, I need to get the giant mountain of mending out of the dining area before Christmas dinner. 

What else?  Carl is sick, but not too sick.  Ruby is learning a couple of Christmas carols to play on the piano for our holiday guests. She finally made me finish tying the quilt she and her grandma made over Thanksgiving weekend.  She made it sound like we were taking turns, but really it was my job, and we eventually got it done.  Ruby's excited to make more quilts; it's very sweet, except I'm not so interested myself. I like to look at them, but not make them. I went to the gyno for my much-delayed annual reunion visit.  That place was a lot more fun when I was pregnant, but I still love my doctor, who says I should go to France for my birthday and that I have the hardest job in the world, and never, ever tells me to go on a diet or exercise (I think he figures that's my other doctor's job).  And this time, I got to be a training patient for his medical student, too!  That poor girl.  She was so afraid she was going to hurt me or do something stupid in front of the doctor.  I thought appearing in court was hard the first few times...acting like you know what you're doing as you're sticking a speculum up some stranger's vagina has got to be way worse.  

So, send me those decorating tips. What's the most attractive, affordable, childproof thing we can lounge on? No chintz, no beanbags, no vinyl!

Hey Look, It's Next Week Already

Well, hi there, people in the computer!

There are some things I should write down soon, but frankly, I don’t feel like it.  I am tired, crabby, in the throes of PMS or coming down with a virus, and maybe tomorrow will be a better day for writing.  In the meantime, here is our Visit to Santa photo.  Neither of my kids is scared of the guy this year.

 

Also, here is the first part of the Advent calendar I made them, to start tomorrow, because I couldn’t get my act together until now.  Thankfully, being little heathens, the kids have only the vaguest notion when Advent is supposed to begin. They do need something to help them understand how many days until Christmas, though.

Finally, thanks to the maiden aunties, there’s this creepy little elf hanging around the house, supposedly reporting on the kids to Santa every night.  They’ve named him Marshmallow Peanut Lily.  This is all very exciting and mysterious to the kids. (Carl, pondering how it all works:  “Maybe it’s a curse, Ruby.”)  Ruby, Little Miss Suspicious, knows the story doesn't quite check out, but nonetheless is working hard at keeping the magic and lies going in her mind this year.  She’s talking it up to Carl and keeps reminding him that the elf is listening.  She has strictly forbidden me from touching the elf, and wonders every morning if I’ve moved it (the elf shows up in a new place every day, so you can see that he’s gone to talk to Santa during the night).  “Me?”  I scoff.  “Ruby, I really don’t need another job right now.  I have way too much to do to have to worry about moving some weird little elf around every night.  Besides, the book clearly says not to touch him, remember?”  Oh, but the bill for psychotherapy is going to be ridiculous one day.

That's all for now.  I have to go show a certain doll his next landing place.