Calvin Helps Around the House

Prick

Every so often when we get together with friends, our kids put together an art gallery. All of them contribute original works of art and they are put on tasteful display throughout the house. This is not for the contemplation of beauty in all its various forms. This is purely a money-making venture. Every piece has a price tag prominently displayed, and customers are expected to purchase at least one item before leaving the gallery.

To prevent us from missing anything, we are given guided tours. And there is so much artwork, that pieces are grouped by category. The categories differ every time the gallery is set up. A business has to keep things fresh, you know. Last Sunday, as we were taking the tour, we noticed a new category -- Comics. One in particular caught our eye.



The tour pretty much stopped there, with all the grownups congregating around this one piece. Rose was pleased, although somewhat puzzled, that her artwork was generating such intense interest. She and Calvin looked at each other and shrugged. They knew it was cute, but weren't quite sure why the grownups were laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes.

There was a bidding war, but I'm pleased to say that David won. We're adding it to the portfolio of the kids' artwork that we call the "Unintentionally Obscene" portfolio. If you ask very nicely, someday I may show you the "Don't Touch the Pumpkin," piece. But I warn you, it's not for the faint of heart.

David and I talked later that night, debating whether this was a "teachable moment" or whether we should let it go. I wasn't particularly keen on educating our kids on not-so-nice slang words. On the other hand, I would hate for them to get in trouble for using a bad word, albeit unintentionally. We thought maybe we'd leave it alone for now. It probably made far more of an impact on us than them. Why make them grow up faster than they needed to?

However, the next morning I awoke to Calvin running around the house yelling, "Prick, prick, prick!!" in a very cheerful and enthusiastic way. I had visions of the day ending in the principal's office with a conference about my son's potty mouth. That tipped the scales in favor of education, and I pulled Calvin aside.

"Um, Calvin? You really shouldn't be running around the house yelling that word."

"Why?"

"Well, it has more than one meaning. One of them is not so nice."

"What does it mean?"

I told him. He stared at me a while, turned to look at the counter (where the comic was), and then turned back to me, grinning.

I then thought, "In for a penny, in for a pound," and went up to talk with the girls. Rose just looked at me in a resigned way and heaved a sigh. "I knew I should have named him Prickle. But the L-E just wouldn't fit in the word bubble."

Time Management

I used to be the most prompt person in the world. As a matter of fact, I would arrive at any destination ages before the time everyone had agreed to meet. Then I would stand there checking my watch every thirty seconds wondering where everyone was, getting more and more resentful and cursing the thoughtlessness of so-called friends. How dare they leave me standing all by myself? And by the time they arrived (usually right on time) I was invariably grumpy having gone through every possible worst-case scenario in my head, convinced I would be stood up. Totally ridiculous? Of course. Yet I was unable to stop myself. And there was a part of me, a not inconsiderable part, that was inordinately proud of my of über-promptness. In some indefinable and mysterious way, this made me better than others. That and my teeth.

But as I've gotten older, the earliness of my arrival at events has been diminishing. It started, not surprisingly, with having a child. After I had my first child, I was no longer über-prompt. I was merely prompt. Even with two babies in tow I wasn't late to anything, but I was no longer special. My friends and family welcomed this loss since the decline in my specialness quotient also heralded a decline in my annoying quotient.

My third child really did me in and moved me squarely into the always late category. Getting anywhere on time with three children under the age of four is close to impossible. And it hasn't gotten any better as my children have become older and more able to take care of themselves. If anything, it's gotten worse. I can't really blame them, although I would like to.

There are so many things to do that I'm always telling myself I can fit in just one more task, which of course I can't. I have now become the person who is always the last to arrive. And the lateness of my arrivals at anything and everything is causing my annoying quotient to creep back up again. One day I was 20 minutes late picking up my kids from school. When I finally arrived, they were the only kids left, standing there looking forlorn. One was even on the verge of tears. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

I am no longer über-prompt. I am not even close to prompt. I am always tardy. I hate it. It drives me crazy. I hate that I can't estimate how much time it will take me to complete tasks. I hate that I blithely assume all stop lights will be green for me despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary. I hate that I have become the person that always annoyed me in the past. And I despair that the future holds nothing but me coming late to the party.

I am constantly drilling into my kids the virtue of promptness and haranguing them to get a move on. The other day as the time for piano lessons was getting closer, I decided that if we wanted to have even a hope of being on time, I needed to kick the kids off their video games. I asked Sabrina to tell her brother and sister to turn off the Wii. She yelled down the stairs, "Rose and Calvin! Turn off the Wii! Get your shoes on! Get your piano books! Make sure you have something to do in the car while you're waiting!" And then she turned to me, beaming, and said, "Above and beyond, baby! Above and beyond!" Maybe there's hope for the future after all.

His First Good Idea

I am going to come right out and say it. My husband is a genius. You heard me, an absolute genius. Due to his brilliant suggestion, I am happily typing away at my computer and not sitting in jail for attempted homicide. Give that man a gold star.

Let me back up just a few hours. Our cupboard was bare. My family was starting to notice the lack of food in the house, and the noises issuing from our bellies were starting to interfere with our conversations. But it's a mini-week. Due to parent-teacher conferences, the kids only go to school a mere three hours a day. You may be familiar with my loathing of the grocery store and what happened the last time I took all three kids with me. It was not a pretty picture. I was trying to hold off until the weekend, but our recent diet of ice chips and bread crumbs swept up from the pantry floor was causing a mutiny.

We woke up this morning, and the first thing out of David's mouth was, "One of us needs to go to the store." That meant me since he hasn't stepped foot in a grocery store since 1975. I heaved a sigh, said no, and bleakly thought that if I had already had my caffeine I would have the energy to slug him. I had to use my few, precious kid-free hours to get a project in, and there was no way I was taking all three kids to the grocery store. I did not feel my fragile mental state could withstand a trip with kids whining, poking each other, and knowing that, "Fred, clean up in aisle three," was our fault.

But David said we couldn't wait until the weekend and told me to split the grocery list into three parts and have the kids shop for me. Make it a scavenger hunt. I opened my mouth to scoff at what a ridiculous idea that was . . . but wait. Why not do that? What an amazing idea! It was simple, elegant, and so obvious I don't know why I hadn't thought of it before.

So that's what I did. The kids had a blast while I sat quietly and enjoyed a coffee. I even got to take credit for David's idea when the produce guy said my kids were great, and I was like Super Nanny with my well-behaved kids and terrific ideas. The kids were thrilled. The store was thrilled. And I wasn't taken away in handcuffs.

I'll say it again. You're a genius, David. And I believe this totally erases that mistake you made way back when. You know the one I mean. But only that one, not the others.

Winter Blues

I hate this time of year. It has nothing to do with the lack of sun or dismal weather. It has nothing to do with the post-holiday letdown. It doesn't even have to do with the fact that every year around this time I find myself one year closer to Metamucil and pill boxes with slots for every day of the week. No, I hate this time of year because of two words.

Science. Fair.

For those of you who are parents out there, I am sure you understand why those two words evoke loathing and dread in my heart. Why do I hate the science fair? There are many, many reasons. Mostly it is because under the glossy surface it is simply the clever way teachers have devised to get revenge on "involved" parents. Science projects are entirely in addition to all the other schoolwork the kids have and -- they are done completely at home.

This means I have to teach the scientific method (again). It means I am involved in knockdown, drag-out fights over what constitutes a valid scientific question to answer by way of experiment, as opposed to "How many boogers can I pick in 30 minutes?" It means realizing that our parental division of homework (I monitor everyday homework; David helps with the projects) is a farce, and it's really only me all the way. And it means that for six to eight weeks I encourage, cajole, prod, push, nag, and finally downright drag our children toward the goal of having a poster board littered with information, glitter, and a photo of a dead plant displayed on science fair night. Good grief! It makes me sick to my stomach even thinking about it.

Then, the other day while I'm having a conversation with Sabrina, she informs me that she loves science fair, thinks it's really fun. And I will confess to you right here and now that my first thought was not, "How wonderful! All that hard work has paid off. She loves science and the science fair!" My first thought was entirely inappropriate for family reading or sailing vessels. But it roughly translates as, "That's not right. She should be miserable, too!"

My fear and loathing has pushed me over to the dark side of the force (and forever will it dominate my destiny). I have discovered that I do not really care that my kid likes science. In fact, I think if she truly liked science, I would not have to do all the prodding, pushing, and nagging, taking photos of dead plants, and applying glitter to the tri-fold poster board I bought at Target in the "School Science Fair seasonal display" for $19.99.

So I believe that next year we will do things a little differently. Sabrina can prod, push, and nag herself to the finish, and I will sit back and enjoy a margarita or two. She may not like science by the end of the project, and her plants may not be as dead as they would be with my help, but at least that will be a true negative rather than a false positive. And my mental health will be all the better for it. I believe that's what we call a win-win.