©Lisa Barker
I have another theory about why my youngest is so brash and demanding. He’s a celebrity.
I thought he couldn’t read, but he must have discovered his starring role in the Jelly Mom column and now he treats the whole family like we’re dim-witted assistants that he can just order around and fire at will.
“Here’s your breakfast, kiddo.”
“I said I want eggs!”
Oh, don’t worry. I don’t fry him eggs. I just take away his only option for breakfast. It makes him a little more courteous at lunch.
“Here’s a tuna sandwich.”
“I said!”
“Yes?”
“That I want peanut butter. Please.”
It’s a token please, tacked on the end after great personal struggle with himself, but now we’re finally getting somewhere.
Just about the time I think I’ve civilized him again and think he might actually ask for his snack in a more polite tone, his older brother comes home from summer school bearing gifts he earned for behaving all day. I can just read the youngest one’s mind: See ya, Mom, and all your stupid rules about courtesy. Big Brother brought me toys!
Well, soon enough the two boys are fighting. Big Brother has repossessed Little Brother’s toys because he can. He says Little Brother was rude to him, but I know that Big Brother giveth and Big Brother taketh. (Sometimes I wish he wasn’t so generous in the first place.)
Yet I take Big Brother’s side when Little Brother pops off with rapid-fire demands: You give me the toys! You play with me out back! You stupid idiot!!
He comes crying to me for justice. “Momma, no one will play with me.”
It’s not easy being the youngest in the family. All those promises about how great it is to be a big boy and you still don’t get your own way, still can’t make people do what you want them to do, still can’t do nothing!
He thought that when he turned five-years old he would start going to school the very next day. He packed his backpack, carried a book and told me he needed a lunch to go. But I said he had to wait until the fall, some mysterious other time that is still too difficult for him to fathom, sometime after an equally puzzling thing called ‘summer vacation.’
He gets up at the crack of dawn every day, just in case that’s the morning school starts. He can’t be late for the bus! He packs his backpack again and I tell him to wait some more.
I almost pity him. But when I give him grapes for his snack and he screams at me, “I wanted apples!” I pity the kindergarten teacher he will get.
For now, someone needs a nap.
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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!
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Not Big Enough
©Lisa Barker
I thought we had gone through the dictator phase with my youngest son when he was two-years old. He’s five now. There’s no more ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It’s ‘Now!’ ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ and ‘You stupid idiot! You’re not the boss of me anymore!’
You see that’s the problem. Everybody is the boss of him. He’s got four older siblings and two parents. Add to that some grandparents, aunts, an uncle and a few cousins and everyone in his world is the boss of him.
He’s railing at life. It’s not fair. He’s five-years old now; he’s a big boy. But he’s still not big enough.
“How come I can’t go to the park by myself?”
“You’re not eleven-years old like your brother.”
“How come I can’t play next door?”
“Because she’s fifteen-years old and friends with your fourteen-year old sisters.
Can you just see the black cloud that follows my son everywhere? It’s the great big boss cloud raining on the fun he wants to have.
So I extended his boundaries on our street. But he has no sense of stranger danger. He comes home with bags of chips and juice packs that people we don’t know give him. Why?
“I’m five-years old.”
“Yes, but these are strangers, kiddo.”
Oh, don’t call him that. It reminds him that he is small and the youngest. “I am NOT your kiddo!”
Ugh. That’s right. He’s five-years old.
Well, Mr. Five-Year Old decided to take a little ride on the bumper of the UPS truck as it left our street. Now he has no more front yard privileges. So he takes it out on his older brother, vainly trying to dominate him. He’s the runt of the litter trying to take on one of the bigger members. It’s futile and his demands fall on deaf ears.
“You watch me on the swing! You watch me play cars! You play pirates with me now!” Then, he cries, “Momma, no one will play with me....”
He is so hyped up trying to get all his Big Boy Rights fulfilled. Maybe I sold this age to him too well. Sure he’s not wearing diapers anymore, but he’s like a kid at a birthday party high on sugar. He’s a demanding, sassy brat.
He just wants to be like all the other big boys on the street, even if some of them are seventeen. And some days I think he will wear me down and I’ll actually give in and hand him the keys to the car. “Sure, you’re five now. Go for it.”
Which brings me to my next and most crucial point. I’ll put it succinctly. Someone make it stop.
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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 thought we had gone through the dictator phase with my youngest son when he was two-years old. He’s five now. There’s no more ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ It’s ‘Now!’ ‘How many times do I have to tell you?’ and ‘You stupid idiot! You’re not the boss of me anymore!’
You see that’s the problem. Everybody is the boss of him. He’s got four older siblings and two parents. Add to that some grandparents, aunts, an uncle and a few cousins and everyone in his world is the boss of him.
He’s railing at life. It’s not fair. He’s five-years old now; he’s a big boy. But he’s still not big enough.
“How come I can’t go to the park by myself?”
“You’re not eleven-years old like your brother.”
“How come I can’t play next door?”
“Because she’s fifteen-years old and friends with your fourteen-year old sisters.
Can you just see the black cloud that follows my son everywhere? It’s the great big boss cloud raining on the fun he wants to have.
So I extended his boundaries on our street. But he has no sense of stranger danger. He comes home with bags of chips and juice packs that people we don’t know give him. Why?
“I’m five-years old.”
“Yes, but these are strangers, kiddo.”
Oh, don’t call him that. It reminds him that he is small and the youngest. “I am NOT your kiddo!”
Ugh. That’s right. He’s five-years old.
Well, Mr. Five-Year Old decided to take a little ride on the bumper of the UPS truck as it left our street. Now he has no more front yard privileges. So he takes it out on his older brother, vainly trying to dominate him. He’s the runt of the litter trying to take on one of the bigger members. It’s futile and his demands fall on deaf ears.
“You watch me on the swing! You watch me play cars! You play pirates with me now!” Then, he cries, “Momma, no one will play with me....”
He is so hyped up trying to get all his Big Boy Rights fulfilled. Maybe I sold this age to him too well. Sure he’s not wearing diapers anymore, but he’s like a kid at a birthday party high on sugar. He’s a demanding, sassy brat.
He just wants to be like all the other big boys on the street, even if some of them are seventeen. And some days I think he will wear me down and I’ll actually give in and hand him the keys to the car. “Sure, you’re five now. Go for it.”
Which brings me to my next and most crucial point. I’ll put it succinctly. Someone make it stop.
---------------------------------------------------
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!
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Chores Are A Chore
©Lisa Barker
Does it make any sense to you why a child that's been responsible for a certain chore for, say, seven years suddenly can't remember how to do it?
Here and there I'd find a dirty dish in the cupboard, some crumbs on the floor or a cup on the breadboard that was forgotten. No big deal. Now, the garbage is overflowing and recyclable items are stacking up around the receptacle they go in which is also at maximum capacity. The stove looks like something blew up and died on it. Come on!
'Doing the dishes' mainly involves loading and unloading the dishwasher. But I also expect the sink to be cleaned, the counters wiped down and the floor swept. That's total child slavery, I know.
Does it get done? No. Not unless I tell them every single night that I expect these things to get done.
So now the kitchen and the rest of the house have this general 'scuzziness' feel to it because this laziness has bred and all chores by children have been infected.
'Pick up after yourself when you get up from the table' now means only pick up your plate, utensils and cup but go ahead and leave food and crumbs on the table and floor. In fact, ground it in. Then move one chair over for your next meal and repeat.
'Tidy your room' means create a large pile of dirty clothes and stuff the toys under the bed perhaps hoping that Momma will faint at the site of the laundry and not see the cat digging his way out from beneath the bed where you inadvertently buried him.
'Clean the bathroom' means.... I don't know what it means anymore unless it's code for go in there and stare at yourself in the mirror for thirty minutes, flush the toilet and then come out.
"You cleaned this?"
"Yes?" a forlorn child asks.
"With what? A sweaty undershirt?"
And then, every single child when held accountable gives me this completely blank stare. We just look at each other for a few moments not saying anything. And then I get, "Can I go now?"
"Newsflash! You actually have to use cleaning products and water to clean things in here and toothpaste is not a sink cleanser even if you can make bubbles with it. And you people out there rotating dirty dishes! I want them cleaned or I will take every single dish out of every single cupboard and you will wash them all by hand.
"And you, Crumb Boy. Here's a broom and dustpan. Get to it."
"But it's too hard!"
"So was giving birth to you. Now get busy."
Man, it's a chore getting these kids to do their chores.
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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!
Does it make any sense to you why a child that's been responsible for a certain chore for, say, seven years suddenly can't remember how to do it?
Here and there I'd find a dirty dish in the cupboard, some crumbs on the floor or a cup on the breadboard that was forgotten. No big deal. Now, the garbage is overflowing and recyclable items are stacking up around the receptacle they go in which is also at maximum capacity. The stove looks like something blew up and died on it. Come on!
'Doing the dishes' mainly involves loading and unloading the dishwasher. But I also expect the sink to be cleaned, the counters wiped down and the floor swept. That's total child slavery, I know.
Does it get done? No. Not unless I tell them every single night that I expect these things to get done.
So now the kitchen and the rest of the house have this general 'scuzziness' feel to it because this laziness has bred and all chores by children have been infected.
'Pick up after yourself when you get up from the table' now means only pick up your plate, utensils and cup but go ahead and leave food and crumbs on the table and floor. In fact, ground it in. Then move one chair over for your next meal and repeat.
'Tidy your room' means create a large pile of dirty clothes and stuff the toys under the bed perhaps hoping that Momma will faint at the site of the laundry and not see the cat digging his way out from beneath the bed where you inadvertently buried him.
'Clean the bathroom' means.... I don't know what it means anymore unless it's code for go in there and stare at yourself in the mirror for thirty minutes, flush the toilet and then come out.
"You cleaned this?"
"Yes?" a forlorn child asks.
"With what? A sweaty undershirt?"
And then, every single child when held accountable gives me this completely blank stare. We just look at each other for a few moments not saying anything. And then I get, "Can I go now?"
"Newsflash! You actually have to use cleaning products and water to clean things in here and toothpaste is not a sink cleanser even if you can make bubbles with it. And you people out there rotating dirty dishes! I want them cleaned or I will take every single dish out of every single cupboard and you will wash them all by hand.
"And you, Crumb Boy. Here's a broom and dustpan. Get to it."
"But it's too hard!"
"So was giving birth to you. Now get busy."
Man, it's a chore getting these kids to do their chores.
---------------------------------------------------
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!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Mom Desperate For a Break
©Lisa Barker
A reader sent me a tip recently. She said, when she is ‘eating healthy’ she allows herself to have a spoonful of chocolate syrup each day as a treat. It staves off that chocolate monster without breaking your diet.
This sounded like a great idea to me. I asked her if I could use a serving spoon, though I’m positive a soup ladle or shovel would be even better.
Then I started thinking about those days when my youngest child really ages me. I can see me drinking straight from the bottle. In fact, knowing me, I’d get a paper sack to hide the bottle and carry it with me at all times.
When people do this with wine, they’re called winos. Does this make me a choco?
“Hello, my name is Lisa and I am a chocoholic.”
It’s true. When my most special child starts acting up, I need a hit—just a piece of dark, dark chocolate. It goes right to the brain. It restores calm. The trouble is, eating chocolate adds calories to my daily diet, and with this kiddo I’ll weigh three hundred pounds before he leaves home.
So I tried weaning myself off by hugging my cats whenever I am stressed instead of popping chocolate in my mouth. My poor cats’ eyes are all bugging out now and they flee whenever they hear the ‘special one’ screaming. They know I’ll be coming around for a squeeze and soon their eyes will be bulging again.
So now I’m working on just petting the poor creatures. They could deal with that just fine at first...until they stared to develop bald spots. Poor things. They all look like they’ve been given reverse Mohawks.
They must have placed an urgent call because now there’s this wonderful group stepping in to give me some respite care. They take my little headache makers out for the day and I get to relax and live a normal life for a few hours.
When they interviewed me for these services it took little persuasion to convince me I needed them. I told them that I was fine turning my kids over to someone else so I could catch a break...because I am now at the point where I will gladly gnaw off my own leg to break free and I truly understand why some animals eat their young.
I’m tired of being held hostage in my own home. Bring on the babysitters! Momma is ready to fly the coop like lazy Mayzie who left poor Horton alone with her egg. I used to think she was a cruel self-centered mother bird. But now, I really understand.
And I’ll bet she had a bottle of chocolate syrup stashed in her purse, too.
---------------------------------------------------
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!
A reader sent me a tip recently. She said, when she is ‘eating healthy’ she allows herself to have a spoonful of chocolate syrup each day as a treat. It staves off that chocolate monster without breaking your diet.
This sounded like a great idea to me. I asked her if I could use a serving spoon, though I’m positive a soup ladle or shovel would be even better.
Then I started thinking about those days when my youngest child really ages me. I can see me drinking straight from the bottle. In fact, knowing me, I’d get a paper sack to hide the bottle and carry it with me at all times.
When people do this with wine, they’re called winos. Does this make me a choco?
“Hello, my name is Lisa and I am a chocoholic.”
It’s true. When my most special child starts acting up, I need a hit—just a piece of dark, dark chocolate. It goes right to the brain. It restores calm. The trouble is, eating chocolate adds calories to my daily diet, and with this kiddo I’ll weigh three hundred pounds before he leaves home.
So I tried weaning myself off by hugging my cats whenever I am stressed instead of popping chocolate in my mouth. My poor cats’ eyes are all bugging out now and they flee whenever they hear the ‘special one’ screaming. They know I’ll be coming around for a squeeze and soon their eyes will be bulging again.
So now I’m working on just petting the poor creatures. They could deal with that just fine at first...until they stared to develop bald spots. Poor things. They all look like they’ve been given reverse Mohawks.
They must have placed an urgent call because now there’s this wonderful group stepping in to give me some respite care. They take my little headache makers out for the day and I get to relax and live a normal life for a few hours.
When they interviewed me for these services it took little persuasion to convince me I needed them. I told them that I was fine turning my kids over to someone else so I could catch a break...because I am now at the point where I will gladly gnaw off my own leg to break free and I truly understand why some animals eat their young.
I’m tired of being held hostage in my own home. Bring on the babysitters! Momma is ready to fly the coop like lazy Mayzie who left poor Horton alone with her egg. I used to think she was a cruel self-centered mother bird. But now, I really understand.
And I’ll bet she had a bottle of chocolate syrup stashed in her purse, too.
---------------------------------------------------
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, September 1, 2008
Someone Needs a Time-Out
©Lisa Barker
I took my son to the post office today. Little did I know that we had somehow stepped into a parallel universe. Apparently, the same scene was taking place at the University of Florida.
My son didn't want to abide by the rules. A number of times I had to pull him to my side and remind him what they are.
He didn't like it. He didn't like the rules. He didn't like that mom said "Enough," and that was to be the end of it. He had his own agenda and he wasn't about to abandon it.
So I grabbed his arm to keep him from running off and into traffic and he started screaming. He wrestled with me. He cried out. I had to restrain him. People gave me looks...especially when he started howling.
And I told him to be quiet. That's right. I revoked his freedom of speech because he wasn't following the rules, he was out of line and he was making a scene.
No kid of mine is ever going to grow up and get tasered by the police.
That's where the parallel ended because some people have made it to adulthood and they still don't get it.
What mother didn't cringe when she heard Andrew Meyer screaming "Ow, ow, ow, ow!" on the radio and television when police tasered him after he wrestled with them and refused to cooperate? Meyer ("Don't tase me , bro!") stole the show on September 19, 2007 at the University of Florida where John Kerry was speaking...by throwing a tantrum.
Mothers around the world have now lost a bit of power over their children whom they had, until this point, been carefully molding into responsible men and women. It used to be that a mother could use a bit of guilt. There was shame in making such a scene.
But thanks to the indiscretion of the media, children are bound to hear this guy and he'll sound just like they do when they don't want to do what their parents say. How will that encourage them to obey their parents? I can see mine now, waving picket signs in the front yard claiming I have killed their freedom of speech. "What did we do? What did we do?"
But if children don't respect their parents and the house rules, how will they respect the police and the rules of society when they grow up?
After our trip to the post office my son went to his room (in-house arrest). Then we talked.
"I didn't behave."
"What are the rules?"
"No running around."
"And?"
"Listen to Momma."
"And?"
"No talking back."
"That's right."
My four-year old gets it. Why doesn't Andrew Meyer?
Somebody needs a time-out.
---------------------------------------------------
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 took my son to the post office today. Little did I know that we had somehow stepped into a parallel universe. Apparently, the same scene was taking place at the University of Florida.
My son didn't want to abide by the rules. A number of times I had to pull him to my side and remind him what they are.
He didn't like it. He didn't like the rules. He didn't like that mom said "Enough," and that was to be the end of it. He had his own agenda and he wasn't about to abandon it.
So I grabbed his arm to keep him from running off and into traffic and he started screaming. He wrestled with me. He cried out. I had to restrain him. People gave me looks...especially when he started howling.
And I told him to be quiet. That's right. I revoked his freedom of speech because he wasn't following the rules, he was out of line and he was making a scene.
No kid of mine is ever going to grow up and get tasered by the police.
That's where the parallel ended because some people have made it to adulthood and they still don't get it.
What mother didn't cringe when she heard Andrew Meyer screaming "Ow, ow, ow, ow!" on the radio and television when police tasered him after he wrestled with them and refused to cooperate? Meyer ("Don't tase me , bro!") stole the show on September 19, 2007 at the University of Florida where John Kerry was speaking...by throwing a tantrum.
Mothers around the world have now lost a bit of power over their children whom they had, until this point, been carefully molding into responsible men and women. It used to be that a mother could use a bit of guilt. There was shame in making such a scene.
But thanks to the indiscretion of the media, children are bound to hear this guy and he'll sound just like they do when they don't want to do what their parents say. How will that encourage them to obey their parents? I can see mine now, waving picket signs in the front yard claiming I have killed their freedom of speech. "What did we do? What did we do?"
But if children don't respect their parents and the house rules, how will they respect the police and the rules of society when they grow up?
After our trip to the post office my son went to his room (in-house arrest). Then we talked.
"I didn't behave."
"What are the rules?"
"No running around."
"And?"
"Listen to Momma."
"And?"
"No talking back."
"That's right."
My four-year old gets it. Why doesn't Andrew Meyer?
Somebody needs a time-out.
---------------------------------------------------
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!
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