Mornings Part 2

We have a morning routine chart.

First it was a graph with pictures that I made in Word.  As Evan did his morning chores, I would put on a sticker to mark off his chore.  He liked the stickers, and the chart was cute and fun.  But with two little boys to get ready as well as a baby, placing stickers on the chart became more and more a forgotten hassle.

Back to the drawing board.

Then I made a larger chart.  This time I had both boys on the chart.  I had stickers for every chore.  Underneath the stickers, I had velcro.  As the boys each finished a chore, they would place a home-made pirate coin on the chart.  It worked well.  When we moved, I made a nicer chart with a pirate theme.

The problem was that the boys quickly figured out that they could do the chores all at the end of the morning before we left.  I still was nagging and scolding.  We were still barely making it out of the house on time.  Did I mention my boys are early risers, so we had a whole two hours to get ready?

Then I pleaded for help here and on Facebook.  Behold, one of my college friends, a preschool teacher now, suggested to have a morning playlist for the boys.  Each song would represent a chore. She explained how it taught the little kids about time and time management.  I was skeptical.  But since I had tried everything else, I was willing to try this.

That afternoon we sat with Evan and Sean, playing them songs from my collection.  They set up an eclectic mix.  Metalica and Beach Boys.  “I Will Survive” and “Barking at the Moon.”  Rammstein, Evanesence, Jimmy Eats World, Smash Mouth, Destiny’s Child.  It was a heart-pumping, head-bangng, feet-moving playlist.

The next morning the boys rocked as they ate breakfast.  Two songs were played.  They ran upstairs.  I moved the iPod to my room and cranked up the music.  It took two songs to get dressed.  The raced through their chores, dancing, jumping, moving.  We were done with an hour to go.

Every morning since, the boys have jammed their way through their chores with plenty of time to play a round of “Plants vs Zombies.”

And I am still in shock a week later.  And I like not nagging.  It’s nice.  Even if I had to give up my morning playlist.

Interviews

Me: (Holding the Flip) Sean, are you excited to go to school today on your first day?

Sean: No.  It’s not my first day.  It’s the weekend.

Me: No.  It’s Monday.  It’s the first day of school.  Yea!

Sean: No.  I’m not going to school.  I’m going to stay with you.

Me: You have to go to school.  You’ll have lots of fun.

Sean: No, thank you.

Ha.

Twenty minutes later we stood in front of the class.  I’m quite sure The Husband’s car ate the Flip.  (I better be getting a new car soon; I hate driving a trash can.)  The four-year-olds eyed each other from the comfort of their parents’ legs.  Nervousness and excitement filled the air. 

The teacher opened the door.  I gave Sean a hug and kiss.  He stared at the open door, watching other kids walk in.  Then he followed.  At least he didn’t run in like Evan.

I sighed and turned.  Nearly knocking over one of my friends’ from Evan’s class last year.

Other Mom: How are you doing?

Me: Hey!  What are you doing here?

Other Mom: Exercise class.  But I thought I would come early and see how you were doing.  So?

Me: It’s a little hard.  Another one growing up.  (I squeezed Aidan who sat on my left hip.)  At least Sean had the decency to walk in solemnly unlike Evan who ran in with a laugh.

Other Mom: (laugh) And how are you, Evan?

Enter five minute monologue.

***

 I placed Aidan on his feet as I waited in the hot sun with the rest of the parents.  He looked around, through the forest of legs. 

The teacher opened the door.  Aidan toddled in.  I went in to fetch him, returning to wait.  Sean bounded out the door.

Me: How was your first day of school?

Sean: It was so, so, so fun! 

Me: I’m glad.

Sean: Can I go back tomorrow?

***

 Evan: So Sean, how was your first day of school?  What did you do?

Sean: Um, we played on the playground!

Evan: Really?!  That was the playground I used to play on!  You’re going t have so much fun!

Sean: Yeah!  I stood on the top and was Dr. Zombot!

A good life

Young lady, you have your hands full.

I let the restaurant door close behind me and did a head count.  One.  Two.  And.  Three.  I smiled at the man who sat on the bench outside the restaurant.  It was a forced smile, one given to strangers as I handled the boys. Tonight they were on the verge of rebelling.  It was almost bedtime.  They were tired.  They are not usually out this late.  I had fed them sugar to give them something to do.  Now I hustled them out of the restaurant to keep them from fighting, yelling, and flinging toys.

I looked across the cement courtyard at the man.  He leaned back, rolling a cigarette.  His hair was long and greasy. His voice held the giggle of someone who was that side of tipsy.  But I recognized what he was.  He was a cowboy.  His speech, his slouch, his manner gave him away.

The Cowboy: Three boys?

Me:  Yes.

The Cowboy: (chuckled) You do have your hands full.

Evan climbed a rock.  Sean sat on a bench swinging his legs.  Aidan stared at the man.  I shifted Aidan in my arms.

Me: Never a dull moment.

The Cowboy: I bet.  They keep you busy?

Me: Yup, but that’s life.

The Cowboy: Yup.  That’s life.  Handsome boys too.  They take after their mama.

Me: Thank you.

The Cowboy: Enjoy them.  They grow faster than you know.  All mine are grown, except one in high school.  And now I’m a granddad.  It’s a good life.  (I smiled)  But you’ll never be done.  They’ll always need you.

I gave a mocked groan.

The Cowboy chuckled and licked his cigarette.

The Cowboy: Yup, it’s a good life, young lady.  Enjoy them.

He stood up, sauntering passed us to go down wind.

The Cowboy: Boys, you take care of your mama.  That’s your job.

Recap 8/26

1. I can’t hit my goal of posts if I don’t write.

2. Sometimes you just need sleep to help put everything in perspective.

3. The boys keep messing up my bedroom.  Their bedroom is tidy.  That’s irony.

4. When I feel like I have no control, I clean.  Which I think that’s weird.  Is that weird?

5. You know how when you decide to diet, you keep a log to see where you’re bad habits are.  I’m thinking about doing that for time.

6. Aidan wants to be just like his brothers.  He will get dressed when they do.  He will brush his teeth when they do.  He will comb his hair when they do.

7. Evan wants me to walk him to the gate of his school and no farther.  At least he turns and blows a kiss.

8. Sean starts school Monday.  Someone hand me a tissue.

9. The boys have learned about build-your-own frozen yogurt places.  And I was so close to my goal.

10. Dear Postal Employee- Please stop removing the weekly flyer ads and coupons from my mail box.  I get it’s small, and I go once a week.  But I’m a single parent with three small kids, and the mailbox is three doors down, a walk with three young children that takes 10 minutes with much whining, crying, yelling, and scolding.  Since I’m a single mother, I need those coupons.  I would understand if by some chance I had a stuffed mailbox, but since I only had three things of junk mail, that wasn’t the case.  So leave my adds.  Take the bills.

The Poltergeist

Furniture is moving around my house.  Chairs mainly.  Sometimes a table or ottoman cube.

They are relocated to different rooms or down hallways.  They are placed in odd arrangements.

Like binkies, blankets, and mama shirts, sometimes I have to take time searching for them.

Apparently Aidan likes to push things.  He likes walking around pushing chairs.  At least once a day he pushes his high chair around and around the kitchen island.  He gets some sort of thrill from it.

Knowing this little off behavior, why would I leave the stroller up and far away from the wall that he could push it down the drive way and nearly into the street while I pulled one small weed from the front yard?

Kid, why don’t you move all the dining room chairs?  They’re all in the dining room around the table.  I just put them back.

Something about that room

The clanging of heavy metal jewelry and the whisper of wooden drawers being opened and closed are now my alarm clock.  Along with “Sssshhh, don’t wake, Mommy” and “Here, look at this one.”

One lesson I have learned while living with another adult is that I like things neat.

I shouldn’t be so shocked.  In my college days, I had a movable pile of jacket, jeans, books that moved from bed during the day and chair at night.  It was my only mess on a regular basis.  My text books and notebooks were piled in a milk create.  My art supplies tucked neatly into a tool box.  The piles of papers looked suspicious, but I knew what each one was.  In high school, I would destroy my room with art projects and getting ready.  But as soon as the project was done, everything went back.  Any mess was organized.

I looked forward to a bedroom where clothes weren’t strewn about, that shoes didn’t trip me in the middle of the night, that my socks didn’t disappear.

Now I have a bedroom where costume jewelry is strewn about by pirates, Star Wars characters attack my feet in the middle of the night, my favorite rings disappear, carried off for booty.  My dresser, no longer a holding pen for random men’s shirts, has become a battle field of jewelry boxes and figurines.  My poor crystal penguin has a lost an arm that no one can remember when and who done the heinous act. . .

Me: . . . And it’s all completely annoying.

I was sprawled on my parents’ bed next to my mom.  She had a book in her hand and that impatient look of get-out-of-here-so-I-can-read look.  I, doing as I had for the last 31 years, ignored the look and handed Aidan the remote control as he sat between us.

The Friendly Giant: Mom!  What’s for dinner?

He crashed on the bed, across the foot, hanging over on both sides.

My mom sighed and opened her mouth.

Face: Ahhhhh!  They’re after me.

He jumped onto the bed, taking up what little remained of the bed.  Evan and Sean came barreling after their uncle and clambered up to pile on top of them.

My dad walked in.  He turned his head and looked out the bedroom door.

My dad: The Bride, they’re all in here!

My dad unloaded his pocket.  I expected him to unclip his holster and badge, but they haven’t hung on his belt for a couple of years.  Now he removed his company badge.  The Bride walked into the room and leaned on my mom’s dresser.

My dad: I have to change.

My brothers and I blinked back.  My boys were trying to jump into their beloved Papi’s arms.

The Bride: I’m sure your parents’ want their privacy.

My brothers and I blinked at her.

My dad: Get out or I start making out with your mother.

My brothers and I scrambled off the bed.

Me: Boys, let’s go.

We all exited the room with more speed than grace.

The Bride: I still can’t believe you guys go in there and hang out like that.

The Face shrugged.

The Friend Giant: We’ve been doing that since we were little.

The Bride: But you sprawl on their bed.

Me: We’re like a pride of lions.

Well, at least, I have a bigger bed.

Mornings

Unlike most of my friends, my boys are morning people.  They are up to greet the dawn, happy, energetic, ready for the day.  They wake up between 6:00 to 6:30.

I am a night owl.  I barely deal with morning people.

Both boys’ schools start late.  Sean’s starts at 8:30; Evan’s at 8:50.

On any given day, we have nearly two hours to be ready and at the school.

Today Evan barely squeezed into class before the bell.  He had to leave his backpack and water bottle at home because we were running late.

WTF.

I make lunches the night before.  I have all the non perishable breakfast materials out on the counter.  We have a morning routine chart with pictures that they can check off the chores as they go.  Any toy touched is taken away for the day.  My own morning routine is 15 minutes.

But Evan and Sean will just lay on the stairs, on the floor, staring at nothing.  Or they will jump from couch to chair and back again.  They will get toys out that are immediately taken away.

I don’t want to nag them every step of the way.  Take off your pull-up.  Take off your pull-up.  Take off your pull-up for the love of God!

I’m not to thrilled with the take-them-to-school-and-let-them-get-dressed-in-the-car method.  The boys were completely ok with that and only washed their faces and brushed their teeth at night.  Ew.

To make matters more stressful, I hate, hate, hate being late.  After years of breathing exercises, I’ve learned to let go when it’s another adult, but my kids, my kids, I should have enough control over the situation to not be late.

So what do you do?  My parents suggest swatting.  Um, thanks, but no thanks.  My baby brother (why is the Friendly Giant weighing in?  He doesn’t even have kids.) suggests just nagging them through one chore to the next.  A friend just facebooked me saying to be completely organized.  Got that, except we don’t lay out clothes the night before.  (I tried it with me, but I always changed my mind the morning of.  But then maybe that’s a good tool on Evan.  He hates me picking out his clothes.)

So do I bribe them with donuts and chocolate milk?  Do I bribe them with extra play time in the morning?  Do I threaten them with dire consequences?

Parenting is hard.

Recap 8/19

1. Evan survived his first day of school and continues to want to go back.  But we haven’t had homework yet, so we’ll see.

2. I’d like to thank Jane for making me all super worried about it because I never went to see the school or any other school or did any other research than, “hey, it has P.E., art, and small classes; perfect.”

3. With the start of school, all my friends want to get together and hang out.

4.  My two little dudes were awesome, coloring, eating, politely talking while their mama had breakfast with three other friends.

5. I’m debating doing a lunch discussion once a week on the blog.  I need a lunch discussion.  I’ve already exhausted all lunch ideas.

6. Still trying to figure out how to organize the office and all that craft stuff.

7. Oh, right.  I have to take writing and math assessment tests.  I really need to be studying.  I’ve systematically erased all knowledge of unuseful math from my brain.  To make way for movie quotes.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.

8. I think Sean got the slap-stick gene.

9. I am finally learning that wearing cute, cheap flip-flops (no matter how cute) all the time is very bad idea.  You’d think I would have learned this lesson when I was young, but I had a penchant for hiking boots back then.  Unicorn, any ideas on how to make hiking boots cute?

10. It’s probably a bad thing that the crack in my phone’s face has spiderwebbed and I’m now losing pieces of it, right?

It’s all in the delivery

Me: Thanks so much for using your blinker.  Oh and thanks again for getting in my lane and slowing down.  Much appreciated.

Evan: Mommy, why are you thanking him?  You’re not happy.

Kid, Mommy has road rage issues.  And if I can’t use sarcasm, you would have an impressive adult vocabulary.

Me: (sigh) I’m not happy with the driver in front of us.  So I am using sarcasm.  I should just let it go.

Evan: Mommy, what’s sarcasm?

The parenting teacher would say it’s Latin for little cuts.  Every time you use sarcasm you are nicking the person’s soul with a word like a razor to skin.

Me: Well, it’s a device for humor.  You say one thing, but you really mean another.  Like how I thank this person  when I want to tell this driver that his driving stinks and is dangerous to us.

A pondering silence.

Evan: So if I say, “yum, this broccoli tastes good,” and I don’t like it, is that sarcasm?

Me: Only if you mean it as a joke.  And if it’s at home.  You have to tell Grandma’s and Grandma-Great’s cooking is yummy even if you don’t like it.  They worked hard to cook for you.

Evan: I know, Mommy.  What if I say, “sitting in the backseat is fun?”

The force is strong in this one.  He will fit perfectly in our clan of jokesters, pranksters, storytellers, and tricksters.

Me: Yes, that’s good.

***

Me: Pick up your toys.

Evan: Oh, good.  Picking up toys is fun.  Mommy, that’s sarcasm.

Me: I got that.

 

Hide the boots

My mom is doing great.  She finished radiation a couple of weeks ago. (Let the people rejoice.)  She went to Vegas for a trade show.  She and my dad went to San Diego last week.  (Yea!)  She’s planning for the future.  She has her energy back.  She wants to start teaching country line dancing again.  (Horrah!)

Wait!  What? 

I support my mom in her decisions that make her happy and healthy.  She needs to get out and be with people.  She loves dancing, country music, and cowboy boots.  She’s a great, dedicated teacher. 

But she has to rebuild her class back.  Which means (deep  breath) I’m obligated to attend.  Sometimes it really sucks being the only girl.  Remember last time?  You know how I got out of it last time.  I got knocked up.  Sure, I had to put in a few months of time, but as soon as I grew weak with morning sickness (the only time I was thanfkful for morning sickness), I was off the hook.  And then I was too big.  And then I had a baby.  And I was happy not going.

Now, I have no excuse.  Just a mother who survived breast cancer.  Though morning sickness did get me out of it last time . . . .  No, that won’t work. 

But still . . . .