Trust Me.

Ken and I happen to travel quite a bit for our work.  Recently, we were sent to give presentations at the coast—a good six hour drive from our home.  It also happened to be our weekend with the munchkins, so we threw them in the car with us and took off for one last summer adventure.

Imagine my surprise when I find myself having the following conversation with two crabby preteens:

Me:  Okay, we have reservations to ride the sand dune buggy at 4pm.  So that gives us a couple of hours to eat and play on the beach.

Princess:  Why do we have to wait until four?  (Wait, imagine her words again, but MUCH whinier than you did the first time.)

Me:  That was the earliest spot they had.  Other people have reservations before us.

Epiczord (collapsing onto the table in front of him):  But I don’t want to go to the beach. 

Princess:  Yeah, why do we have to go to the beach?

Me:  I’d like to go there and try out the new kites.

Epiczord:  I don’t want to fly kites. 

Princess:  We don’t want to go to the beach.

Me:  We drove six hours to the coast and you don’t want to go to the beach?!?

Princess:  Why can’t we just go shopping?

At this point, you could have knocked me over with a feather.  Every day of summer, I would ask my mom if we could go to the beach.  It’s all we talked about during the school year.  It’s what you did in southern California. 

You woke up, packed a lunch, grabbed the beach bag, played all day in the sand and sun, and got hosed down in the backyard afterwards.  How could I possibly have two kids here who didn’t want to go to the beach after driving in the car for six hours to get to the coast?

I’d love to say that I handled it like Mary Poppins and cheered those kids right up with a song, but I handled it like me and got pretty pissed.  There may have been some words thrown at them about gratitude or lack thereof…and demands for their very reluctant apologies.  Then I announced, “We’re going.”

The gloom attitude followed us all the way there, until we actually walked on the sand and saw the waves.  Within one minute, the beach worked its magic.  And it is magic.  The beach has power that must be experienced.  You slow down.  You look at things.  You dig.  You shout and squeal.  You laugh and splash.  You discover.  You relax.

We collected shells, dug in the sand for sand crabs, flew the kites, and listened to the gulls and the waves.  Within five minutes, the Princess stopped me and said with a huge smile, “Thank you so much for bringing us here.  This is awesome.”  And it was.

It’s hard being a parent.  It’s harder being a step parent.  I never quite know when to push and when to hold back.  Yet, Ken and I are realizing more and more that we actually know a little something about life and how to have fun.  And sometimes, the kids are just going to have to trust us.  We’re going.

The Slap Heard Round the World

We did it.  We stepped into the realm of true parenting by hosting a birthday sleepover.  It had all been practice up til now, but this was REAL baby.

20 years in the classroom for me, plus 13 years as a parent for Ken—we got this covered, right?  The thing was scheduled in 21^st century kid-sized time increments.  Food was free-flowing, games abounded.

But we forgot to tell the 7 kids to bring their own armor and battle gear. 

It started out easily enough—Ken blew through mass amounts of dough at the local carnival:  ride bracelets, food, games, prizes.  Epiczord, the birthday boy, went on the loop-de-loop.  It was the perfect milestone for 10 years.  The Princess and her friend could scam on the high school boys from a distance and Peapod scored mass tickets at the arcade simply by flashing his adorable smile at some passerbys. 

Back home, the kids wanted to film a Harlem Shake video down at the little park around the corner.  Taking their needed props (hockey stick, stuffed animals, Scream mask, etc), they headed out.  Not five minutes later, I’m getting a call from the Princess’ friend that there’s trouble in suburbia—older boys are stealing the kids’ stuff.  A skirmish has begun.  Ken blasts over there to sort it out.

Now here’s where the dilemma comes in.  Our kids sustained minor damage in the tussle--bruises and scrapes.  But vigilante justice was about to be had in the form of a ballistic Princess. 

Ken is grilling one of the middle school boys (the blond one with glasses) about why he threw our Epiczord to the ground, and our Princess is listening to his ducking and dodging the questions.  She saw him chase down her brother, grab him around the neck, and toss him onto the grass. 

She’s had enough.  She screams, “DON’T YOU EVER TOUCH MY BROTHER AGAIN!” and then hauls off and slaps him across the face so hard that the sound actually echoes in the air.  His glasses fly off.  He bursts into tears.  She bursts into tears.  Ken is stunned.  He doesn’t know whether to yell at her or applaud her. 

For Epiczord, it was the best present ever.  His sister loves him.

Needless to say, the three AM bedtime and the broken pinky toe (note to self, remove wrought iron chairs before having kids over) were minor in comparison to the slap heard round the world.

Over Voodoo donuts the next morning, all the kids had a meeting.  The results were decided.  The party was declared:  AWESOME.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DNXczIFqSBw

In Pursuit of Perfection

Peapod is a picky eater.  Not in terms of the KINDS of foods that he will eat, based on taste, but on the PRESENTATION of the food.  A purest of the worst kind. 

For example, he LOVES apples.  I used to be able to hand the kid an apple and he’d have a project for an hour.  Then he wanted apple slices.  We went from there to no skins.  Now the latest request:  Rebecca is to remove the VEINS from the apple.  He doesn’t want “The GREEN STUFF.”

Seriously?

The same thing happened the other day when he realized that they mixed some sprouts in with his pad thai noodles.  He expected me to go through and pick every sprout out of the bowl before he would deign to eat another bite. 

Now I get it.  I understand why at every school cafeteria they have peanut butter sandwiches for the kids that don’t want the school lunch.  Why my brother ate slice after slice of American cheese from age 4-10.  It’s the “Oh, you don’t like this? Well, you can always eat THIS,” standby.  One that requires no prep, no fuss, and still offers the kid some sort of nutrition.

 I’m leaning towards yogurt…and this morning, I’m grabbing a spoon with him.  

What were YOU fussy about as a kid?

The Boss of Me

I’ve spent most of my life telling people that they are NOT the boss of me.  But this morning, I’ve realized who is.  My wiener dogs.

Now if you are a wiener dog owner, this does not come as a surprise.  But for the rest of you, please let me explain how two dogs crept into being the boss of my life.

Who could say no to this?

Milla is the first dog I’ve ever owned.  Through my whole childhood, I begged for a dog, with the answer being “we are cat people.”  And we were.  We always had a couple of cats to snuggle or dress in cabbage patch kid clothes.  (ps.  THEY LOVE THAT.)

In 1999, I had just ended the first school year in my “real” job as a teacher, was on the verge of getting married and buying a house and finally could say, “HEY, no one is the boss of me!  I’m getting a dog!” And Milla joined our home.

 A year later, that little dog was lonely so we added Izzy.  I could then be one of those chic girls with two perfect lil’ dogs on a walk, oozing adorableness wherever we went. 

What they don’t tell you is that wiener dogs use that cute factor to be pushy and naughty.  Think Milla is trembling in the backyard because she’s cold and afraid?  Think again.  That little girl is waiting for you to let her in so she can pee on the rug, regardless of the fact that she’s been outside for 15 minutes.  And is Izzy snuggling up to Peapod on the couch because she just loves small children?  Nope.  She knows that the second he looks away, she can snag that quesadilla right out of his hand.  Their cuteness factor just keeps us from throwing them into the gutter afterwards.

You gots some snackies?

Which brings me to this morning.  It Saturday and the whole house is sleeping in.  Except two wiener dogs.  I let them out to do their business, bring them back in, shut the door to the bedroom and get back in bed with plans of drifting off in warm weekend happiness.  Until the scratching on the door.  Followed by the most pathetic whining. 

NO, I think.  I refuse to cave into wiener dog whim.  They don’t have to be in the bedroom.  They can suck it up and stay in the other part of the house.  I hold out for about ten minutes.  Now the whining is escalating to a half bark—which will is a wiener threat of “We will wake up the kids if we have to.” 

Ugg.  Hold my ground or have to start kid morning duty? 

 

They are now snuggled under the comforter with me, and they brought their cat friends. 

At least they are adorable bosses.    

The Dilemma

Ken and I moved in together in September 2012.  We had both started new jobs in Portland and, even though it was pretty early on in our relationship, we knew that we would want to spend time together when not traveling for work.  His kids were living in Wisconsin so it was just the two of us, plus the two pups and three cats.

Peapod getting to know Zen

The factor that I hadn’t considered on any real basis was his kids living in Portland with us.  Yes, I had told him that the kids were always welcome in our home, but I had imagined vacations—a stretch of a few weeks at the most.  What I didn’t imagine was that they would be moving in a month later.

At first my brain dealt with it logistically—where do they sleep, keep clothes, etc, etc.?  Rapid flurry of room rearranging and purchases.  Then the arrival:  we met each other for the first time standing in our living room at midnight—they had just driven down from Sea-Tac after flying with their dad across the country.  Epiczord didn’t sleep for 48 hours.  It was quite an induction for both sides.

Then we dealt with all the layers of transition:  new rules, their mom moving into town, sharing time, kids switching back and forth between homes, Ken and I figuring out our own relationship, figuring out our parenting style…it was a huge hill to climb and we had to do it FAST.  

But we got through the rough stuff and now we know the routine.  When the kids are here, we have a blast, we go through challenges, we work them out, we are a family.  Then we hand them off to their mom.  

Which leads me to tonight.  We had a no-kid weekend—which means that we could work on the yard for a stretch, organize the garage, do some work on the computer, lie around and watch movies, go out with friends.  All this in two days.  It feels like heaven.  Like a special privilege.  I love the crew, but I also love the honeymoon days with just the two of us. 

Here’s the thing, last year I decided (after going back and forth on the subject for most of my 30s) that I wanted kids.  And I still do.  But I think about Ken and I never having a weekend to ourselves and it makes me kind of sad.  Is it worth the compromise?  Should I find satisfaction in his three alone and value the coupledom days more than a child of my own?  Or will I regret missing out on a truly amazing experience...being a MOM?  

That’s going to rattle around in my brain for a while.  Maybe it will help to investigate what folks out there on internet-land say about it.  In the meantime—here’s a couple of the crew…

The Princess basking...with chipmunk

How cool can you get?