©Lisa Barker
My youngest has been playing school with his older siblings and now he feels ready to start kindergarten.
“Whoa! You need to be five first.”
“But I’m ten.”
“Not quite.”
He recites his ABCs and counts to 100. He spells his first name and sometimes his last name. He likes rhyming and opposites. When I cook dinner and he plays school with me, I better do it right.
One night I was distracted and he started screaming at me from where he sat at a safe distance on a stool while I fried, poached and maimed dinner and myself.
“You say IT first!”
“Cat?”
He looked at me like I was an idiot. “No! You say IT and then I say it.”
“Do you mean rhyming? Cat sounds like...” I made squeaky rat sounds and I swear I saw his blood pressure shoot through the roof.
His older sister figured it out. “He means roll call, Momma.”
I turned my back and then slowly looked around the kitchen, but not at him directly. “Aiden?”
“HERE!” he said with the biggest grin and his hand shot straight in the air.
Oh, boy, here we go again, I thought.
Every single child of mine was so ready to start school and so practiced at home in great anticipation that the closer it came to the first day of school, the more regimental they got about school and how it’s supposed to be. Unfortunately, this little caboose of mine is no different.
“Momma! Vee must practish zee proper vay every day!” says my little man and I must salute and fall into a goosestep behind him.
Now his father has him reading words by sight as he learns letter sounds. This means it won’t belong before the rest of us can no longer spell things in front of him. We’ve reached the pig Latin stage.
“Momma, can we av-hay some ake-cay?”
“Not until your other-bray goes to ed-bay.”
“OTHER-bray?” He might not be able to spell that, but he’s smart enough to be suspicious.
I bought him a ‘school book.’ It has all the wonderful stuff kiddos do in kindergarten and first grade. He needs practice using a pencil, and I know he’ll master it within six months, but by then he will be more than done with the book because he gets it all now.
We sat down one day to practice the letter ‘A’ and the sounds it makes...and mowed right through the book to letter ‘M’. “I think we need a break, kiddo.”
“Yah, vee take a break!” His idea of a break was counting, adding and connecting the dots for another hour. Look out kindergarten here he comes!
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Parent To Parent™ and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters. Here's all the info you need to publish Jelly Mom™.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
He Is A Boy Therefore He Eats
©Lisa Barker
My oldest son is a large boy and will definitely be tall when he’s older. For now he’s a ten-year old garbage disposal with legs.
I don’t know why I’m talking. I’m a two hundred pound woman that eats like a garbage disposal. I’m not fat yet, but I am fluffy.
Still, I can’t keep up with the boy. When he comes home from school he hoovers down a snack tray that would make a full-grown man proud due to the quantity: one bagel, an apple, some pistachios, some cheese, a soup cup, celery with peanut butter and a Popsicle.
“You know a snack is supposed to just get you from lunch to dinner. It’s something to tide you over,” I told him.
“Oh,” he laughs mildly as if I’ve told a real bad joke and he’s humoring me. “Can I have another piece of celery with peanut butter?”
Well at least it’s not McDonald’s.
I’m glad he’s ten-years old. I don’t have to nurse him. I don’t think they make a bra that large for the milk I’d have to produce. I’d be known as the three-headed woman.
I almost earned that title when he was but a wee nursling. I had to give him a relief bottle just so I could be unattached for an hour a day. He thought it was dessert.
He’s never been a picky eater. He just never wanted baby food. It didn’t matter if it was homemade. He wanted what was on my plate. So I had to mash that right in front of him and give it to him. And how dare I eat anything from my own plate. If looks could kill...
That is probably when I developed the habit of eating in the shadows of the kitchen at night with the lights turned low, ducking behind the counter. I had to make up for all of my meals given to him. No doubt he smelled my indulgence on my breath when I kissed him good night. Maybe that’s why he refused to speak until he was two years old. He was giving me the silent treatment.
So now he’s in a growth spurt that will last him, oh, thirteen years or so. Yikes. I already spend more time at Super Max than I do in my own kitchen. Thank God for rotisserie chicken. When I shop I’m the mad woman buying up things that can be eaten right from the grocery sack.
“How was your dinner, son?”
“Great! But the outside was a little dry.”
“That’s called paper.”
He gives me that mild laugh again.
“No, really,” I say, following him to the freezer for dessert, “You just ate the grocery sack....”
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
My oldest son is a large boy and will definitely be tall when he’s older. For now he’s a ten-year old garbage disposal with legs.
I don’t know why I’m talking. I’m a two hundred pound woman that eats like a garbage disposal. I’m not fat yet, but I am fluffy.
Still, I can’t keep up with the boy. When he comes home from school he hoovers down a snack tray that would make a full-grown man proud due to the quantity: one bagel, an apple, some pistachios, some cheese, a soup cup, celery with peanut butter and a Popsicle.
“You know a snack is supposed to just get you from lunch to dinner. It’s something to tide you over,” I told him.
“Oh,” he laughs mildly as if I’ve told a real bad joke and he’s humoring me. “Can I have another piece of celery with peanut butter?”
Well at least it’s not McDonald’s.
I’m glad he’s ten-years old. I don’t have to nurse him. I don’t think they make a bra that large for the milk I’d have to produce. I’d be known as the three-headed woman.
I almost earned that title when he was but a wee nursling. I had to give him a relief bottle just so I could be unattached for an hour a day. He thought it was dessert.
He’s never been a picky eater. He just never wanted baby food. It didn’t matter if it was homemade. He wanted what was on my plate. So I had to mash that right in front of him and give it to him. And how dare I eat anything from my own plate. If looks could kill...
That is probably when I developed the habit of eating in the shadows of the kitchen at night with the lights turned low, ducking behind the counter. I had to make up for all of my meals given to him. No doubt he smelled my indulgence on my breath when I kissed him good night. Maybe that’s why he refused to speak until he was two years old. He was giving me the silent treatment.
So now he’s in a growth spurt that will last him, oh, thirteen years or so. Yikes. I already spend more time at Super Max than I do in my own kitchen. Thank God for rotisserie chicken. When I shop I’m the mad woman buying up things that can be eaten right from the grocery sack.
“How was your dinner, son?”
“Great! But the outside was a little dry.”
“That’s called paper.”
He gives me that mild laugh again.
“No, really,” I say, following him to the freezer for dessert, “You just ate the grocery sack....”
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Monday, April 14, 2008
You Can Always Count on Jelly Mom
©Lisa Barker
I’m thinking of changing my name to Gladys Knight, not because I can sing—poodles can sing better than I can—but because I’m surrounded by pips.
On his own, Pip Number One is perfectly content to focus on one thing (eating or building or reading or watching television) and give me a minute-by-minute report of his experience—even if I am doing it with him.
I can handle this by mentally shutting down half my brain. It makes my left eye droop slightly but it raises the right eyebrow and makes me look interested. From that point on a simple “Uh-huh,” from me every now and then keeps Pip Number One quite happy.
Pip Number Two is Pip Number One’s very quick understudy and is so determined to grow to be as old as Pip Number One that he multitasks to speed up the growth process.
While Pip Number One will keep a steady pace with his amusements, Pip Number Two runs at warp speed running from the table where he has painted eight watercolors, to the door where he displays all his letter and number magnets in nonsensical sentences, to his room where he plays with monster trucks, to some empty boxes where he plays with the cats. This takes all of ten minutes.
I cannot turn off half my brain with this Pip. I must chug-a-lug a Diet Coke. This makes my eyes water and a facial tic emerges, but it works. I now have the mental energy to keep up with Pip Number Two and several mice on speed. So while he takes the time to reload his energy tank, I pull something interesting out of my purse that I found on the street. Trust me, boys like this.
A clip from the end of a dog leash can keep Pip Number Two busy long enough for me to rummage for stickers and scratch paper, an old egg carton, some uncooked fat round noodles and a piece of colored chalk. I put them in a shoebox on the table and make it look like something I don’t want him to get into. Sure enough he finds it and that keeps him busy for almost forty minutes.
I savor the moment because in two minutes Pip Number One will arrive and the peace and tranquility in the house will arc and distort like a heat haze and the two Pips will collide in an instantaneous bickering brawl...the kind that lasts roughly two hours, with them following me around tattling every fifteen seconds until my dear husband arrives home.
So there you have it. I hope this peek into my life gives you a chuckle. That's what friends are for.
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Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
I’m thinking of changing my name to Gladys Knight, not because I can sing—poodles can sing better than I can—but because I’m surrounded by pips.
On his own, Pip Number One is perfectly content to focus on one thing (eating or building or reading or watching television) and give me a minute-by-minute report of his experience—even if I am doing it with him.
I can handle this by mentally shutting down half my brain. It makes my left eye droop slightly but it raises the right eyebrow and makes me look interested. From that point on a simple “Uh-huh,” from me every now and then keeps Pip Number One quite happy.
Pip Number Two is Pip Number One’s very quick understudy and is so determined to grow to be as old as Pip Number One that he multitasks to speed up the growth process.
While Pip Number One will keep a steady pace with his amusements, Pip Number Two runs at warp speed running from the table where he has painted eight watercolors, to the door where he displays all his letter and number magnets in nonsensical sentences, to his room where he plays with monster trucks, to some empty boxes where he plays with the cats. This takes all of ten minutes.
I cannot turn off half my brain with this Pip. I must chug-a-lug a Diet Coke. This makes my eyes water and a facial tic emerges, but it works. I now have the mental energy to keep up with Pip Number Two and several mice on speed. So while he takes the time to reload his energy tank, I pull something interesting out of my purse that I found on the street. Trust me, boys like this.
A clip from the end of a dog leash can keep Pip Number Two busy long enough for me to rummage for stickers and scratch paper, an old egg carton, some uncooked fat round noodles and a piece of colored chalk. I put them in a shoebox on the table and make it look like something I don’t want him to get into. Sure enough he finds it and that keeps him busy for almost forty minutes.
I savor the moment because in two minutes Pip Number One will arrive and the peace and tranquility in the house will arc and distort like a heat haze and the two Pips will collide in an instantaneous bickering brawl...the kind that lasts roughly two hours, with them following me around tattling every fifteen seconds until my dear husband arrives home.
So there you have it. I hope this peek into my life gives you a chuckle. That's what friends are for.
---------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker, mother of five and author of "Just Because Your Kids Drive You Insane...Doesn't Mean You Are A Bad Parent!" and is syndicated through Parent To Parent™. To publish Jelly Mom, buy the book or leave comments, please visit http://www.jellymom.com. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT!
Friday, April 4, 2008
Not The Birds And Bees!
©Lisa Barker
My son was fidgeting and pulling at the fly of his pants. He’s four-years old and, although he’s potty trained, I don’t want to take any chances.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“No, I’m just playing with my pieces.”
“That’s not your ‘pieces’ that’s your (insert proper name of body part that may not be suitable for a family newspaper).”
“No it’s not,” he laughed, and skipped away shyly.
“Yes, it is,” I told him.
“Well, I just like touching my pieces.”
“Well, if you want to touch it, go in the bathroom. That’s for going potty. So if you have to go potty, please go to the bathroom.”
“No, Mom! My PIECES,” he said and picked up the large blocks he was playing with on the floor and waved them at me.
Don’t you love it? You think, “Okay, here we go—a ‘birds and the bees’ topic,” only to find out that your kiddo is on a completely different planet...and you’re a pervert.
After four other kids I should know by now to first always ask: “What do you mean by that?”
When I was four I asked my mom where I came from. Before she launched into an explanation about the creation of life, she wisely asked, “What do you mean?”
I said, “Did I come from New York or California?”
Some upfront information from those darling kidlets can make a world of difference.
Teenagers on the other hand are a little different. Ask them what they mean and you’re liable to get, “How much do you want to know?” Even if they are being smart alecks and playing with you, they can easily shave ten years off your life.
I don’t know about other parents, but deep down inside I have to steel myself. I try to talk calmly and casually about...life, but inside I want to run screaming from the room. They grow up so fast!
My oldest son has informed me that he is not going to get married when he grows up. He made that declaration when he was four and has kept that vow for six years. If he can do that until he’s grown and lives on his own, I think I just found my new favorite child.
On the other hand my youngest, the four-year old, wants to marry one of his older sisters. There’s just no rulebook for kids. They all grow their own way.
They’re also greatly influenced by society. I’ll never forget the day one of my kiddos came home from first grade (the first week!) and asked when she was supposed to have a boyfriend. Six-years old and already the pressure was on.
I’m not ready for this!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Parent To Parent™ and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters.
My son was fidgeting and pulling at the fly of his pants. He’s four-years old and, although he’s potty trained, I don’t want to take any chances.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?”
“No, I’m just playing with my pieces.”
“That’s not your ‘pieces’ that’s your (insert proper name of body part that may not be suitable for a family newspaper).”
“No it’s not,” he laughed, and skipped away shyly.
“Yes, it is,” I told him.
“Well, I just like touching my pieces.”
“Well, if you want to touch it, go in the bathroom. That’s for going potty. So if you have to go potty, please go to the bathroom.”
“No, Mom! My PIECES,” he said and picked up the large blocks he was playing with on the floor and waved them at me.
Don’t you love it? You think, “Okay, here we go—a ‘birds and the bees’ topic,” only to find out that your kiddo is on a completely different planet...and you’re a pervert.
After four other kids I should know by now to first always ask: “What do you mean by that?”
When I was four I asked my mom where I came from. Before she launched into an explanation about the creation of life, she wisely asked, “What do you mean?”
I said, “Did I come from New York or California?”
Some upfront information from those darling kidlets can make a world of difference.
Teenagers on the other hand are a little different. Ask them what they mean and you’re liable to get, “How much do you want to know?” Even if they are being smart alecks and playing with you, they can easily shave ten years off your life.
I don’t know about other parents, but deep down inside I have to steel myself. I try to talk calmly and casually about...life, but inside I want to run screaming from the room. They grow up so fast!
My oldest son has informed me that he is not going to get married when he grows up. He made that declaration when he was four and has kept that vow for six years. If he can do that until he’s grown and lives on his own, I think I just found my new favorite child.
On the other hand my youngest, the four-year old, wants to marry one of his older sisters. There’s just no rulebook for kids. They all grow their own way.
They’re also greatly influenced by society. I’ll never forget the day one of my kiddos came home from first grade (the first week!) and asked when she was supposed to have a boyfriend. Six-years old and already the pressure was on.
I’m not ready for this!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jelly Mom™ is written by Lisa Barker and syndicated through Parent To Parent™ and is available for newspapers, websites, e-zines and newsletters.
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