Boy Wonder | Evidently

Rites of passage

Apr 27, 2005 | Boy Wonder

For a brief moment, I became my mother. Upon coming home from work on Saturday, I discovered our child had managed to “color” on my favorite tablecloth. One look at this child’s bedroom suggests I can’t have anything nice for very long. But I’m an optimist. I don’t think a house should be a museum or that you should save the good stuff for when company visits. So, I
foolishly draped our table with a lovely red bark cloth tablecloth covered in white roses. Our child foolishly colored with markers that have a tendency to bleed through paper–in this case right onto a 1940’s vintage piece that was a gift from my adorable sister-in-law. Both the fabric and decent sister-in-laws are hard to come by–which means the artistic genius probably shouldn’t have been left unsupervised anywhere near it.

I’m not going to ask where his father was–since this particular child is eight and has been
told since before inception that, “If you are going to color at the table you have to USE A MAT.” But did he follow the parental wisdom he has been so privileged to receive for the past eight
years? No. He did not. No, instead he hauled out his markers and proceeded without caution. All that prenatal coaching down the drain. That’s when I became my mother.

I stamped my little feet. I scrunched up my face and through glinty eyes I uttered those bone chilling words all children come to dread, “HOW COULD YOU?” This was followed by a five minute tirade about taking more care, not being so selfish, being more responsible, and USING A MAT, FOR PEET’S SAKE! I then huffed, “Go ahead, jump on the couch, trash the house, color on every available surface. I don’t care anymore. And when your friends come over and ask why
you live in such a pit you can tell them it’s because we are WHITE TRASH.” I then stomped up the stairs to seethe in my room.

IZ, getting the distinct feeling he should back me up, spent another five minutes calmly explaining to boy wonder the importance of taking care of your things and other people’s things within reach of your markers.

I know what you are thinking. And I was thinking it too about three minutes into my seething. But, it’s not just a tablecloth. This child has a long history of “decorating” things that do not belong to him. Take the time he decided my china would look better with his artwork on it. Or the time he drew a map to Disneyland on his bedroom wall. Or when he gilded the edges of an expensive
Interlinear Bible with markers. Or grafitti-ed the foam interior of his father’s Palm Pilot case. No, this child has a penchant for making things more colorful and I have to admit it gets me thinking about my parenting skills. In comparison to my eight year-old self I realize this child is responsible for very little around this house. I don’t think it’s too much to expect him to put away his toothbrush or hang up his wet towels. It’s hardly abuse to suggest he respect our home–even if I was giving him the “look” in the process.

No, there is something about my childhood that makes me loath to nag him into responsibility. My mother’s standards for clean included the holy grail of domesticity: You could eat off her floors. And she had a bad habit of nagging that often escalated into all-out war. And while I can understand her desire for clean, having done my fair share of picking up after a very messy boy–I can’t bring myself to become a nag or a yeller. Instead, I seem to be content to follow behind
the child picking up after him. Hanging up towels, putting away toothbrushes, until that moment when I pick up my cherished tablecloth to find it covered in black marker. Then, then I become my mother.

But, I’m not my mother. Despite my tantrum, it’s not my style to stay mad. Besides, I think you have to parent for the long haul–if the house isn’t perfect but you raise a responsible child, who really cares? Which gets me at the core of my frustration–in the process of being a tolerant parent, in an effort to not be a nag or a ranting lunatic, somehow I’ve coddled my child. I’ve done too much. I’ve expected too little. In the long run this is a recipe for disaster. After much talk and brainstorming, IZ and I decided that it was time for a rite of passage.

Note to the eight year old: Yes, you too can become a responsible human being. And you get to start now, lucky you!

In a word, we bribed him. We set up a schedule of chores he is expected to accomplish (with gentle reminders) on his own. If he completes these things then he can be paid for the extra chores available. If he doesn’t–then he gets to do the other chores without any financial gain. We reminded him about all the things we had to do for FREE when “we were his age.” We told him he was a really lucky kid to have parents who loved him enough to recognize when they needed to
make a course change in their parenting approach. And then we gave him the cold hard facts. Funny how he can calculate his projected earnings for the year but can’t seem to hear me when I
suggest he pick up his shoes. So, I’ll let money do the nagging for awhile.

And before all you naysayers out there start pointing out that cash is not a proper parenting tool. Consider this: boy wonder did ask if he could earn enough money to replace my tablecloth.

PSA

Apr 4, 2005 | Boy Wonder

From the eight year-old: “You know, Mom, wearing your hair that way makes you look stressed.”

Brave Heart

Feb 8, 2005 | Boy Wonder

Next Monday is St. Valentine’s Day. I’m sure this hasn’t escaped your notice–not if Hallmark has anything to say about it. But just in case it escaped my attention, in the Young Man’s (I’ve been told, and I quote, “STOP! calling me Little, MOM”) homework was the a very terse announcement Monday is Valentines Day! Please have your child bring in valentines for their classmates

Are we feeling the love yet?

So the Young Man and I headed out to our local chain drug-store to acquire said valentines. Our little borough is small enough that you have to get a jump on these things when the homework dictum comes down on Tuesday afternoon. Or, Lord help you, your kid will be sending out the Strawberry Shortcake Valentines–and that’s if you wait until Wednesday. Any later and you are relegated to handing out tiny boxes of the “OOP’s Conversation Hearts.” Evidently, spelling counts in these matters. You can just imagine the outcry when some kid hands his mother a small candy heart and says, “Mom, What does ‘Good F/*/C/K’, mean?” Or the confusion that would be created by the ever popular, “Be Dine” heart. No, no, one must not procrastinate.

On our journey to the store I was informed that not only were we in the market for official valentines, “With Candy!” for his class, but the Young Man would also be purchasing a gift for the lovely and oh, so unattainable fifth grader, Chloe. Yes, that Chloe!

Really?” I inquired. “What brought this on? Last I heard you were only giving out Valentines to your classmates.”

â€œI don’t really want to get that deep into it,” he mumbled from the backseat.

Uh-huh, I bet. “Well, Ok, I guess that’s not a problem.â€ We spent a few minutes wandering the aisles looking for appropriate Valentines for the class. In eight-year old boy speak that means Valentines devoid of hearts and flowers but inclusive of some form of sugar, preferably the sort that creates a real mess. Once we picked out a suitable box and ascertained that there were plenty enough for left-overs (also a crucial requirement for “appropriate”) the real pondering began. What to get Chloe?

He finally settled on a heart shaped box of Ferrero Rocher truffles and a nice but not too gushy card. “What made you change your mind about giving Chloe a Valentine?” I asked.

“That falls under not wanting to go too deep into it, Mom!â€

My kid never ceases to amaze me. He has managed a way to say, “I love you” without uttering a word to a girl he has admired for two years and who will probably always be way out of reach (and so she should be–he’s only eight!). That takes courage of the
rarest form: the kind that risks being made a fool by the one you love. And I can’t help but think about all the lost opportunities in my life to risk, all the times I wished I had stepped out in faith, knowing full well the odds were against me. If you can’t risk for love on Valentine’s day, when can you? You know, and I know, and even he knows he’s going down in flames. But he bought the Valentine just the same.

All I can say is that Chloe is a lucky girl.

Bad Parenting Award

Feb 4, 2005 | Boy Wonder

As if life wasn’t complicated enough. It turns out that I can add “Bad Parenting” to my list of growing accomplishments.

You see, it all started decades ago when I was eight. Like my eight year old son I was a budding herbalist. I had a bad habit of “eating off the land.” I lived at the base of a dormant volcano and spent a great deal of time wandering up and down the mountain side. Alone! Something, I might note, I would NEVER let my child do now! What kind of mother do you take me for? I ate anything that wasn’t nailed down or classified as a
vegetable. I had enough sense to stay away from mushrooms and the odd red berry but my favorite and the favorite of every kid in the neighborhood was the small purple flowers that grew in abundance on the hill-side. We called them Periwinkles. We spent hours hunting these things down to pick off the purple flowers and suck out
the “nectar.” Ignorance is bliss.

Evidently, the “eat strange things that grow” gene was passed on to my child. And, due to a tip from his mother, one of his favorite pastimes is hunting periwinkles. He’s been told to stop eating flowers. He, unlike his mother, is not as sensible. We do not trust him to avoid mushrooms and the odd berry. We have suggested that people do not appreciate small boys climbing into their gardens to inspect what he might consume. We have lectured that picking other people’s flowers is both rude and technically
theft. We talk. He is eight.

Enter the dramatic knock on the door. Oh, you think you see this coming, but you have NO idea. IZ answers the door to find our neighbor, the mother of one of the Jr. Herbalist’s friends, just dropping by to let us know that the boys have been eating vinca minor and that she was so concerned that she called Poison Control. POISON CONTROL. She just wanted us to know that while the flower wouldn’t cause serious
harm, it still shouldn’t be ingested in great quantities and it probably wasn’t a good idea for them to be eating them in the first place.

Yes, not only was our child ingesting poisonous flowers, an outrageous behavior he learned from his mother, but he was caught red-handed in the act of corrupting other children. And he had to choose the kid with the most protective parents on the planet. Joy, joy. Yes, I can just hear it now, “But my mother said she used to do it all the time when she was a kid!” I’m sure that when that little detail makes the presses the next phone call will be to DCF. So, maybe the kid does have as much sense as his mother.
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Barricade

Nov 29, 2003 | Boy Wonder

Barricade

Sadly, I was in no condition to write yesterday. Which means that I am about to be barricaded at my work space for the next 8 hours pounding out the Polity take-home exam. More tedious than difficult… I’m still smarting from the last exam. Historians can be so… picky!

So, yesterday I tackled the other pending reality (read fiasco) in my life: party for the little man. He is turning seven (yes, I was a teenage mother… heh) and frankly, I think I deserve a party for making it this far. But alas, I doubt anyone is going to be bringing me presents for surviving 2800 days of parenthood. (I can hear it now, all the J’s out there are saying, but seven years is only 2555 days! Yes, well, you trying puking on the hour every hour during the first half of your pregnancy and see if you don’t count those days too!) So, a party for the little man it is.

I called the bowling ally first. If you are going to be in charge of 10 kids for two hours you might as well keep them busy, right? Why not arm them with miniature cannon balls and let them loose? However, it turns out that the day after Thanksgiving is National Drop the Kids off to Bowl While I go Shopping Day, here in the US and getting someone to talk to me was no simple chore. After three phone calls and no real help I pulled out my secret weapon. (have you noticed all the violent imagery I’ve been using? hmmm…) Yep, I put IZ on the phone. He lasted 45 seconds. Flat. He did manage to get vital information from the bowling ally, however. Hang on to your wallet, this gets good. As it turns out, to let 10 kids bowl for two hours it costs a mere $240. American. GASP. Now, with that you get a table to put all the food you bring in. And shoes. That’s it. Needless to say, the Bowling Ally just rolled a gutter ball.

At this point, you are probably wondering why not have a party at home. That would be oh so feasible if Little Man’s birthday was say… May. They could play outside, eat Ice cream… have a water balloon fight. Pinata… the works. But since the little bugger decided to be early and come three days before Christmas, this parent has to be far more clever. If you throw a party after school lets out… no one comes. Evidently, people celebrate Christmas around here. Who knew. As well, our tiny Seminary house hardly holds the three of us, so… no indoor party here. And then there is the little matter of finals for me–I can either plan and throw a party or take exams. Trust me, I’d rather party. Which leaves us with little choice but to hold this shin-dig off site. And that raises the issue of just where.

I guess what gets me most is I’m hardly cheap. I’m not loaded with cash… but I’ll spend when I can. To take my kid bowling at any other time is under $7. I’ve always wondered how those businesses stay in business. The answer is: desperate parents. You want to throw a party in Marin, be prepared to be held hostage! It’s not just the houses in Marin that are over-inflated. Evidently, the price of bumper bowling is too!

So, we are on to plan two. We found a place. Same money, but the kids at least get cake and balloons and they get to paint and make art work. I don’t have to do anything but mail out invitations (done) and show up and supervise. It’s worth all the money in the world to see the kid happy on his big day…or, so I’m going to tell myself when the Visa bill comes in.