©Lisa Barker
It's antelope season at my house again. Another child has reached the age where he can print and sound out some words so writing letters to Grammy and Auntie are high on his list. So are antelopes.
"Momma, I need an antelope for my letter."
Aw. It takes me back. Little does he know that his older siblings needed antelopes as well or the even more rare ombilope a direct cousin of the antelope.
Antelopes are fascinating. They have a strip of glue on them that, when wet, makes a perfect seal securing the letter safely inside. Unless you're a five-year old and drool like a Saint Bernard.
"Don't worry. Momma's got a hair dryer and lots of tape. It'll dry completely before it reaches Grammy's."
The next step is to cover the back of the antelope with stickers. It doesn't matter if they are from the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes or if they are Mom's special stationery stickers, each antelope needs at least three stickers. The more stickers you find on the back of an antelope, the more love there is inside.
The card inside harkens back to caveman days. There are hieroglyphics of square people with stick legs and a message written in a strange language that, if read from left to write reads:
I LOV
EYOU FROm
A TO GRAmmY
IDEN
The best part is running to the mailbox and stuffing your antelopes inside. Now begins the slow agony. Every day for the next week it will be, "Did I get an antelope?"
"No, not today. Maybe by Friday."
"What's today?"
"Monday."
"Is tomorrow Friday?"
Sigh. Antelopes come and go. Most of them are from Bill. Why does he keep writing to Momma? She doesn't like his antelopes very much.
At last an antelope arrives with my son's name on it. But he doesn't tear right in. An antelope from Grammy or Auntie Jenny requires careful dissecting with mom's antelope opener because we don't want to accidentally tear any stickers.
Older Brother enters the room. "What did you get?"
"I got an antelope from Grammy. If you send antelopes to people, they send antelopes back!"
"It's not 'antelope.' It's 'EMBALOPE.' It's the illiterate leading the illiterate.
Still this is all good practice. Soon enough the children will be writing letters to Santa again. The older ones will ask for world peace, the middle ones will ask for every high priced item ever conceived by the elves and the youngest will still ask for a lollipop, some cake and a book.
"If you behave, Santa might send you a letter back."
"Does Santa have antelopes?" I can just hear the youngest ask innocently only to be swiftly corrected by an older sibling: "No, Santa has reindeer."
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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. See www.JellyMom.com for details.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
The Miracle of The Tack
©Lisa Barker
My eleven-year old son is given to outrageous temper tantrums and will stop at nothing to up the ante. One day he swallowed a tack to spite me. I showed great concern.
"Why, what will happen?" he asked.
"I just saw a show where this guy was scraping tacks off a ceiling and accidentally swallowed one. Later when he was eating dinner he started throwing up blood." (This is true. It was on one of those medical mystery shows.)
On and off over the next couple of days my son asked what could happen. I didn't think much of it, but my attitude remained unchanged. “It’s would be a pretty stupid thing to do because you can tear your esophagus, puncture a lung or tear your intestines,” I told him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you will have blood come up out of your mouth or out the ‘other way.’"
I soon discovered that the boy does have a conscience and it worked on him real good for two days until he couldn’t take it anymore and came running to me in a panic. “Momma, I swallowed a tack and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be mad, but now I just don’t want to die!”
Something clicked inside my head. Without missing a beat, I said, "No, no! Don't do that! You don't want to tense up, you could cause a tear!" He immediately calmed himself—a miracle.
So my husband and I decided to milk this for a while. As far as my son knew it would take up to two weeks to pass anything. Meanwhile, he was to tell us as soon as he saw any signs of blood from anywhere and no matter what, “DO NOT TENSE UP. Because the tack might catch and tear you somewhere."
He said, "I think I can do that. I don't want to die!"
"Yeah," I said. "You don't want major surgery either."
Now I know it was a calculated risk, but I had questioned him in great detail. It wasn't a pushpin; it was a metal tack that was bent in two. Of course, I panicked inside because if something terrible did happen to him it would all be my fault, yet it was a stupid thing for him to do, and I didn’t want to spend $800 taking him to the emergency room for x-rays for nothing. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it?
So I prayed for his safety and the chance to prove to himself that he can get through life without the histrionics. He made it three weeks. I am calling this the miracle of the tack. God works in mysterious ways.
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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 eleven-year old son is given to outrageous temper tantrums and will stop at nothing to up the ante. One day he swallowed a tack to spite me. I showed great concern.
"Why, what will happen?" he asked.
"I just saw a show where this guy was scraping tacks off a ceiling and accidentally swallowed one. Later when he was eating dinner he started throwing up blood." (This is true. It was on one of those medical mystery shows.)
On and off over the next couple of days my son asked what could happen. I didn't think much of it, but my attitude remained unchanged. “It’s would be a pretty stupid thing to do because you can tear your esophagus, puncture a lung or tear your intestines,” I told him.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you will have blood come up out of your mouth or out the ‘other way.’"
I soon discovered that the boy does have a conscience and it worked on him real good for two days until he couldn’t take it anymore and came running to me in a panic. “Momma, I swallowed a tack and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to be mad, but now I just don’t want to die!”
Something clicked inside my head. Without missing a beat, I said, "No, no! Don't do that! You don't want to tense up, you could cause a tear!" He immediately calmed himself—a miracle.
So my husband and I decided to milk this for a while. As far as my son knew it would take up to two weeks to pass anything. Meanwhile, he was to tell us as soon as he saw any signs of blood from anywhere and no matter what, “DO NOT TENSE UP. Because the tack might catch and tear you somewhere."
He said, "I think I can do that. I don't want to die!"
"Yeah," I said. "You don't want major surgery either."
Now I know it was a calculated risk, but I had questioned him in great detail. It wasn't a pushpin; it was a metal tack that was bent in two. Of course, I panicked inside because if something terrible did happen to him it would all be my fault, yet it was a stupid thing for him to do, and I didn’t want to spend $800 taking him to the emergency room for x-rays for nothing. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it?
So I prayed for his safety and the chance to prove to himself that he can get through life without the histrionics. He made it three weeks. I am calling this the miracle of the tack. God works in mysterious ways.
---------------------------------------------------
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, January 5, 2009
Give Me Peace And Quiet
©Lisa Barker
A reader introduced me to a quote recently that completely expresses my point of view. “Raising children is like being pecked to death by a chicken.” Amen!
Little by little, day-by-day, they wear you down. “Momma, she’s touching me. Momma, he looked at me. I don’t like sauce on my noodles! How come HE gets to stay up late and I don’t? I don’t want to pick up my toys.”
I used to try to reason with them. “Don’t sit so close to each other and then you won’t touch. You look out the left window and you look out the right and then you won’t look at each other. Okay, if you don’t want sauce on your noodles, just move them over to the side of your plate. Etc., etc.”
Now I just say: “Shut up.”
I know, real mature of me. But I don’t care about fairness anymore. I don’t care about setting a good example. I don’t care about teaching them something. I just want peace and quiet.
Now this has nothing to do with the number of kids I have. It has everything to do with the fact that these people think it’s their job to break me. They won’t let up until I am a bent old woman, with hazy eyes and silver hair. That’s how they know it’s time to stop picking on me and start having grandchildren.
Thank God for osteoporosis. I know that when I start slumping over my torture is complete. Until then, I must endure.
“I don’t want to pick up my toys. It’s too hard. I don’t want to eat my dinner. I’m allergic to it. I don’t want to fold my clothes. It takes too long.”
If they’d just do what I ask of them, we’d all get along much better. But my expectations place restrictions on their pleasure and yet when I leave them to themselves all I hear is how bored they are.
“There’s nothing to do!”
“This basket of clothes needs to be folded.”
In my day this was my cue to leave the house immediately and find something else to do beyond the scope of my mother’s radar so that I would not have to do any chores. The logic is simple. If she can’t see me, she can’t think of something for me to do that I don’t want to do.
My kids don’t get that. In fact, they think I’m making humorous suggestions. My son laughs and counter suggests that I take him to the store and buy him some snacks.
“Hello? No, son, really. Fold these.”
“But it takes too long!”
“And so does raising you. Now hop to it.”
A reader introduced me to a quote recently that completely expresses my point of view. “Raising children is like being pecked to death by a chicken.” Amen!
Little by little, day-by-day, they wear you down. “Momma, she’s touching me. Momma, he looked at me. I don’t like sauce on my noodles! How come HE gets to stay up late and I don’t? I don’t want to pick up my toys.”
I used to try to reason with them. “Don’t sit so close to each other and then you won’t touch. You look out the left window and you look out the right and then you won’t look at each other. Okay, if you don’t want sauce on your noodles, just move them over to the side of your plate. Etc., etc.”
Now I just say: “Shut up.”
I know, real mature of me. But I don’t care about fairness anymore. I don’t care about setting a good example. I don’t care about teaching them something. I just want peace and quiet.
Now this has nothing to do with the number of kids I have. It has everything to do with the fact that these people think it’s their job to break me. They won’t let up until I am a bent old woman, with hazy eyes and silver hair. That’s how they know it’s time to stop picking on me and start having grandchildren.
Thank God for osteoporosis. I know that when I start slumping over my torture is complete. Until then, I must endure.
“I don’t want to pick up my toys. It’s too hard. I don’t want to eat my dinner. I’m allergic to it. I don’t want to fold my clothes. It takes too long.”
If they’d just do what I ask of them, we’d all get along much better. But my expectations place restrictions on their pleasure and yet when I leave them to themselves all I hear is how bored they are.
“There’s nothing to do!”
“This basket of clothes needs to be folded.”
In my day this was my cue to leave the house immediately and find something else to do beyond the scope of my mother’s radar so that I would not have to do any chores. The logic is simple. If she can’t see me, she can’t think of something for me to do that I don’t want to do.
My kids don’t get that. In fact, they think I’m making humorous suggestions. My son laughs and counter suggests that I take him to the store and buy him some snacks.
“Hello? No, son, really. Fold these.”
“But it takes too long!”
“And so does raising you. Now hop to it.”
| 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™. Sign up for the complimentary Jelly Mom™ weekly newsletter and receive a BONUS GIFT! If you like Jelly Mom™... Tell your friends and family! |
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