the good thing about having the only children in the city of memphis who have not started school yet is that i have the prolonged opportunity to test out my latest parenting hypothesis by way of an extremely unscientific, completely non-randomized study of one (myself). the theory, and the theme of my last couple of posts, is that parents say ridiculous things to their children because parenting invites a hailstorm of ridiculous situations.

here is a bit of my recently-gathered evidence:

please move your cape so i can bite off your hangnail.

i don’t know what else to tell you. yes, i am the only one in the family without a scrotum… no, i am not sad that i don’t have one… but you should be happy you have one!

and finally,

please stop biting the soap.

and then, there are all the things i dare not send out into the world wide web for fear that my children will bill me for their therapy in 20 years (can you imagine the cost of therapy in 20 years?). but trust me. the best and most ridiculous material is reserved for my own personal fits of hysterical laughter. who needs daytime television when i’ve got a monkey and a bird?

these are the kinds of conversations that happen after small children are playing by themselves all-too-quietly upstairs for 20 minutes:

me: bird, tell me where you tee teed so i can clean it up.

bird: on the blocks, at the top of the stairs, and in the monkey’s room.

me: where in the monkey’s room did you tee tee, exactly.

bird: the monkey’s room is upstairs, mom.

me: i know, but where did you tee tee?

bird: the blocks, at the top of the stairs, and in the monkey’s room. you’ll do a good job, mama.

tune in next time for another installment of authoritative nonsense!

they say that having children is the kiss of death to parents’ brain cells.

i now stand in the kitchen and think, “where do we keep the plates? why am i forgetting this? is it part of the aging process or because i am distracted by the naked bird who is drawing all over himself while standing on the kitchen counter? i guess i’ll never know.”

the very same adults who excel in the board room, the court room, and the classroom, people who have been forming reasonable sentances all of their lives, say the most ridiculous things to their children.

my friend who has a phD drew my attention to this phenomenon. it seems that no amount of schooling can prevent one from uttering words such as:

watch out for the broccoli on the stairs.

i have two (TWO!) friends who confess to having said to their kids with great authority:

do not lick the car.

in just a week of paying attention to my own absurd directives, i have been appalled as the following words have left my lips:

hold your sandwich so i can wipe your bottom.

if you are going to play with the fire, please use a different stick.

you may not hit your brother in the swimming pool.

and finally, in reference to the above mentioned kitchen counter escapades of the bird:

do not color your penis.

the good news is that all of this stuff made perfect sense in context. the bad news is that parenting presents the most preposterous series of contexts!

in the coming weeks, i’m going to be reporting on the wacko words that escape my mouth, and i hope you’ll do the same. send me your own personal versions of authoritative nonsense.

what we are losing in brain cells, we might just make up for in hysterical fits of laughter.

is there such a thing as military school for two-year-olds?

this is the question that began to plague me about ten days in to our mountain vacation. ten days seems to be the duration of time that the bird is willing to feign compliance and cooperation in a camp or school-like environment. he affords everyone just enough time to fall in love with him before his teachers report, with measured caution and disbelief:

[the bird] was a little agressive today.

i found myself having the same discussions with the bird’s clubs teachers that i had with his PDO teachers last year. i apologized. i asked for advice. i sincerely hoped that they could impart the key to managing the bird’s behavior and maintaining his magnanimous spirit. but in both cases, the teachers had no new ideas.

i think the moment that elicited images of boot camp and boarding school was when the bird’s teachers asked me how to deal with the bird. this felt very confusing. isn’t it obvious that i have no idea what i am doing?

somehow, and for no clear reason, things did get a little better. the bird did not get kicked out of clubs. maybe he won’t even be kicked out of every school in memphis before he’s ten. one can dream. as i was nursing these worries (as i am genetically prone to do), i shot a quick email to my friend sharon in pennsylvania, who has given me quite a bit of unimposing, sage motherhood advice over the years.

“does it every get easier?” i wrote.

within a few hours i was reading the following reply that was so encouraging i got permission to share it:

parenting gets easier when everyone can use the potty without help, no one is sleeping in a crib (but everyone stays in their bed all night more nights than not), and everyone has at least some ability (however rarely used) to verbalize what they need. it also helps if no one requires a stroller or pacifier or elaborate car seat (belt-positioning boosters are much easier than five-point harnesses).

and finally, parenting is easier when your family figures out a behavior management system that works for you (meaning the kids respond to it and the parents are able to use it somewhat consistently).  we use a significantly pared-down version of positive parenting with a plan (it’s for kindergarten and up, though). friends have had luck with the smart discipline approach (also for kindergarten and up). the point is…IT DOES GET EASIER.  you’re probably at a really difficult stage, i would guess, based on the ages of your little guys.  hang in there.

it’s helpful to know that there is hope (and a couple of new behavior management options) on our horizon. for now, the best i can do is maintain a sense of humor and strive for patience.

…and send the bird to clubs in this carefully selected, organic cotton shirt:

lest you be misguided by yesterday’s blissful notes on camp, i must add the following observation about traveling with small children:

vacations are not really vacations. they are simply the act of schlepping all of one’s stuff, one’s kids, their stuff, and all of the responsibilities related thereto, to an alternate location of one’s choice. kids still hit each other, wake up in the middle of the night, refuse to eat growing foods, and stack chairs in the kitchen in pursuit of chocolate. it’s just that on vacation, parents have the pleasure of looking at the mountains or the beach while they are dealing with the aforementioned issues.

however, july in montreat offers a bit of a vacation from the vacation in the form of “clubs,” a kids’ day camp that meets on weekdays from 8:30 to noon and 2:00 – 4:00 in the afternoon. this is the first year that both of my children have attended both morning and afternoon clubs, which officially makes july of 2011 the most time i’ve had away from my children since they were born. i was musing to my friend, anne, about how this absence was affecting  me, and she (the mother of two grown children and three grandchildren) summed it up well.

it’s all about energy. the more energy we have, the better parents we are. when we don’t have energy, we are simply muddling through.

having my children in other people’s care gave me more energy for the times that i was with them. for example, on the saturday when the bird tee-teed all over the dining table and the monkey promptly covered the rest of the table in glue, i reacted with an uncharacteristic sense of calm likened to that of the dalai lama.

when the bird spent thirteen solid days clamoring for his daddy, who was in memphis, i was able to laugh and not get my feelings hurt as i usually do.

the kids did eventually wear me down though. by the end of the trip, even with the added childcare, i was muddling through. the grand finale, marked by two sleepless nights hovered over a croup-plagued bird, returned me to my familiar listless state.

if only there were a couple of extra hours in the day for sleeping or a couple of extra parents in the household for trouble shooting! in the absence of these wish list items, i can offer you only this: my recipe for muddling through in style (adapted from design sponge):

summer elderflower cocktail

ingredients

• st. germain licour
• club soda
• lime
• mint
• gin

directions:

• muddle mint and juice from half of lime in the bottom of a low-ball glass.
• add ice and throw in the squeezed lime.
• add the desired amount of alcohol (about half st. germain and half gin).
• top with soda and stir.

you might want to purchase one of these.

every muddler needs a muddler.

a few years ago, ira glass dedicated an entire episode of “this american life” to exploring the phenomenon of camp. in his words,

no one back home understands it, none of their friends, nobody. there is just a gap between camp people and non-camp people.

when glass interviews a teen-aged girl camper at an upscale camp in the northeast, she confirms his assertion:

…it’s also like little stories you tell, and you think they’re so funny, and everyone in your cabin understands them, and then you tell them to your friends back home, and they’re like, “that’s stupid.”

our family does camp a little differently than most in that we allgo to camp for a month. the week-long church retreats andy and i attended as teenagers apparently did not satisfy our desires to be part of a small sub-culture of nature-loving people. but though our camp model isn’t traditional, some of the universal camp themes apply.

first, there are bizarre traditions at montreatthat make perfect sense to those who have been part of them since they were in diapers. my children, for example, will probably never question the normalcy of the greased pole competition on the fourth of july, wherein a smooth 20+ foot wooden rounded plank is cemented into the ground, adorned with u.s. currency of various values, thoroughly greased, and scaled all day long by daring contestants as an emcee narrates the events to spectators scattered on picnic blankets all around.

and then there is the fourth of july parade, complete with bagpipes, makeshift family floats, and saved seats along the route for onlookers, whose families have occupied those particular patches of bag-chair-real estate since before bag chairs were invented.

these are the kinds of things that carry a certain meaning that can only be adequately translated by virtue of experience.

the monkey and the bird attend a day camp at montreat called “clubs,” which entails morning and afternoon activities led by college-aged counselors, who bring a necessary coolness to the imparting of silly songs, dances, and story telling that goes on there. the monkey would return to our rental house during lunch and, with eyes dancing, relay tales of how his counselor, ryan, wrestled a troll in the deep end of the pool at the conclusion of a treasure hunt. this event, by some sort of camp logic, resulted in the distribution of stickers to all of the campers. all of this made perfect sense to the monkey and the rest of the “blues,” as his group was called. even at age four-and-three-quarters, the monkey is already what glass calls “a camp person.”

both children look forward to the friday night circle mountain dancing and are committed to mastering the motions to novelty dances such as “the hampster dance” and “agadoo.”

the bird has chosen the car as the ideal place to practice the verses of “i’m bringing home a baby bumble bee,” a song that his older brother helps him with when he forgets the words.

about this kind of camp vocabulary, glass remarks

the special songs and ceremonies are part of so many american camps… these traditions bring kids back year after year….you let them know about all the extra rights and privileges the kids are going to get if they return as older campers. it is using all of the stage craft that all of the world’s religions have always used. the ceremonies, the chanting, the repeated words, the official honors and offices, but for an entirely different reason: to thrill children, to make them feel a part of something big and special.

i’m not going to lie. our annual sojourn to montreat is not just for the kids. i enjoy being part of an alternative, smaller world. my children are in someone else’s care from 8:30 – noon and 2-4 on weekdays. and like an older kid at traditional camp, i have the freedom to choose my own activities. i spent many hours last month in the pottery studio and hiking my favorite mountain.

but my favorite part about julys in montreat really is as glass describes. i love that my children are thrilled. it means the world to me that they get to be a part of something big and special… even if they will never be fully able to convey the meaning of it to their friends back at home.

there are good things about returning home after a month in the western north carolina mountains. chief among them are things like air-conditioning and laurelwood pediatrics.

but mostly, i am sad that our montreat month is over. below is a little preview of the blog inspiration i’ve got up my sleeves for the coming days. but who am i kidding? i don’t have on sleeves. it’s too hot. the ideas are stuck to me like sweaty toddler legs grip a vinyl seat. nevertheless, here is the “amuse-bouche” as they say…

hiking

ridiculously good food and drink

barn dances, cloggers, and the fabulous red june band

a variety of textiles

stay tuned!

the feedback i’ve received about the reality project falls into two categories. the first resonates most with me and goes something like,

“i love the reality project! it makes me feel better about the domestic disorder that hacks away at my sense of well-being.”

the second category of folks confess,

“i truly do not have alcoves in my home that are messy. messes make me crazy. i have to clean them. i have always been this way.”

today’s submission is from kathi, who seems to somehow fit into both of the above categories. she explains,

i do not function well in disorder. that  does not mean the disorder does not exist – it just merely gets moved around a lot.

who knows what separates those who put things away from those of us who simply step over the crap on the way to something else.  i cannot ponder this right now though because i am debating what is funnier — kathi’s picture below, or her cooresponding narrative.

kathi writes,

there is one corner of my house that doesn’t get moved around a lot. it truly is a “still life.” it contains:

• loose screws
• a vac steam machine that i fell in love with for two weeks and now never use
• a mannequin with a smart tote bag over her shoulder ready to go to town, except she lost her hair
• in the mannequin’s tote bag is a knitting project that i entirely forgot that i had started
• a clean air machine that never gets plugged in (we live in the los angeles area so we certainly could use this)
• a dustbuster that i have never used but it is plugged in and draining electricity
• a tool bag that i never returned to the garage after a project completed in november of 2010
• each of the four black attache cases (on the shelf above the floor) is from a different stage in my career. i will not be returning to any of these stages, so it’s silly to save the bags
• a magazine organizer (next to the attache cases) holding nine issues of architectural digest from 2008, all dog-eared with ideas i intended to recreate in my home – as if i (a) had time to read them a second time or (b) there were a chance in hell that these ideas could actually work in this life as we know it
• and last but not least, a hot glue gun, because i am always trying to keep things “together” despite the gravitational pull toward chaos

that poor mannequin! she has ideas, she’s creative, she’s handy, she has old identities tucked into little cases, she simply cannot finish all of the projects she’s started, she’s losing her hair, and despite her craftiest hot-glue-gun attempts, she can’t seem to fix those loose screws!

i love her. she is me.

the reality project  is coming to a close (just a few days remaining), even though reality goes on forever and the clutter never ends.

personally, i like the approach that courtney has taken with her ever-propagating toiletry items: 

i think the boxes have something to do with a bathroom renovation, but just think! if you ever want to pawn your wedding ring to pay for an impromptu two-day hotel nap (a la vivi abbot walker in the divine secrets of the ya-ya sisterhood), your toiletries would already be packed and ready to go!