This morning, I asked Luke what kind of yogurt he would like. All of a sudden, he turned into Carol Channing in "Thoroughly Modern Millie". He sounded just like this:
I can't wait till dessert tonight. "Luke, what kind of pudding do you want?" I'm hoping my dining room turns into my favorite scene from the same musical, minus the roofies, of course.
Darn that Mrs. Meers, with her secret roofie ring and her fun-killer whistle!
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
One-upmanship
A few weeks ago, my parents bought a grand piano. This was a very curious purchase, considering neither of them actually play the piano. I thought it was mostly an accessory for their home, but my mom proved me wrong and hired a piano teacher to come and teach the both of them.
Having had her first lesson Tuesday night, Mom called me yesterday and played "Jingle Bells". I was pretty impressed. I mean, she was using both hands. To my knowledge, she couldn't even read music before her lesson.
I just knew Luke would be excited to hear Cookie play a song on her piano, especially considering he loves anything having to do with Christmas. I put the phone on speaker and we listened to her play the song again. After she finished, she said, "What do you think, Luke?"
Luke quickly grabbed his LeapFrog Baby Counting Pal, put it next to the phone, pushed a button, and music started playing. And then he said, "You hear that, Cookie? That's Mozart."
Cookie, we refuse to be impressed by your little "Jingle Bells" song, or whatever it is. Call us back when you can play Mozart.
Having had her first lesson Tuesday night, Mom called me yesterday and played "Jingle Bells". I was pretty impressed. I mean, she was using both hands. To my knowledge, she couldn't even read music before her lesson.
I just knew Luke would be excited to hear Cookie play a song on her piano, especially considering he loves anything having to do with Christmas. I put the phone on speaker and we listened to her play the song again. After she finished, she said, "What do you think, Luke?"
Luke quickly grabbed his LeapFrog Baby Counting Pal, put it next to the phone, pushed a button, and music started playing. And then he said, "You hear that, Cookie? That's Mozart."
Cookie, we refuse to be impressed by your little "Jingle Bells" song, or whatever it is. Call us back when you can play Mozart.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Tameka-me-crazy
Saturday morning, I broached the subject of purchasing a new mattress to my husband. I felt really guilty about it, because the mattress we bought as newlyweds is still in great condition. It's just that every time my husband's big toe twitches, I bounce up and down at least three times. If he moves his whole foot, the aftershocks can be felt for two minutes and fifty-six seconds. He moves an arm, and I'm catapulted into the master bath. Bouncy: a great trait for a baby boy, but not so great in a mattress you share with someone else. I don't know how it is that I haven't snapped yet, but I came really close on Saturday morning.
Feeling bad, I started crunching numbers and justifying my desires, like I usually do with any big ticket purchase. The money I saved by nursing my children until they were a year old, and the fact that I don't get my nails done, have both already bought me something sizeable. I can't start using things more than once, or else I can't expect to be taken seriously. Wracking my brain for other expenses I don't have, I thought about my hair. I have never dyed it. I crunched the numbers: if I had dyed my hair every eight weeks at a rate of $X per treatment (I pulled a number out of thin air--like I know how much a dye job costs), that would have added up to $X over the last seven years that we've been married.
"We have a budget for our new mattress," I announced, and then explained how it's practically going to pay for itself since I only go to the salon for trims. Perfectly sound housewife logic, if you ask me.
We set out on Saturday night to test them out. The idea of laying on something in public that other people have laid on really gives me the willies. Putting my shoes on furniture makes me feel nervous, like my dad is going to walk in and I'll be busted...and then he'll open the freezer door and ask "Am I the only one around here who knows the recipe for ice cubes?!" We grew up without an ice maker. (Pitiful pregnant pause)
Also, dealing with hovering salespeople drives me nuts. Enter Tameka, stage left.
Tameka was dressed more like a pool party attendee than a furniture saleswoman. Other than that, I had no major problems with her at first. She left us alone for a bit and didn't hover while we tried out mattresses. But then she started brown nosing my kids, talking baby talk to them and whatnot.
Then she asked me, "How old is the baby?"
"Almost thirteen months," I told her.
"Does he walk yet?"
"No."
"What a lazy baby!"
Now, I don't think I'm overly-sensitive about my children, but there was something about the way she said it that rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps because she doesn't know me? I just don't think it's right to make jokes about a stranger's baby's development. Especially if you're trying to sell them something.
Tameka excused herself while Joe and I continued to take turns tossing and turning on the floor models. We settled on one that we liked, and Tameka came back into the picture, just as Luke started digging for gold.
"Luke," I said quietly, giving him the look. He withdrew his finger from his nose.
"Ewwwww! Don't pick your nose in front of girrrrls!!!" Tameka teased.
We told her that we were going to spend some time thinking about the bed. We wrapped things up and started to head out. Tameka bent down over George's stroller and said, "Good night, handsome!"
"Good night!" Luke replied, not even noticing that she hadn't been talking to him.
"Wow," said Tameka, "someone sure is overly confident!"
Tameka didn't get the sale. We ordered directly from the mattress company over the phone.
The timing of this whole ordeal was impeccable--I found four gray hairs this morning.
Feeling bad, I started crunching numbers and justifying my desires, like I usually do with any big ticket purchase. The money I saved by nursing my children until they were a year old, and the fact that I don't get my nails done, have both already bought me something sizeable. I can't start using things more than once, or else I can't expect to be taken seriously. Wracking my brain for other expenses I don't have, I thought about my hair. I have never dyed it. I crunched the numbers: if I had dyed my hair every eight weeks at a rate of $X per treatment (I pulled a number out of thin air--like I know how much a dye job costs), that would have added up to $X over the last seven years that we've been married.
"We have a budget for our new mattress," I announced, and then explained how it's practically going to pay for itself since I only go to the salon for trims. Perfectly sound housewife logic, if you ask me.
We set out on Saturday night to test them out. The idea of laying on something in public that other people have laid on really gives me the willies. Putting my shoes on furniture makes me feel nervous, like my dad is going to walk in and I'll be busted...and then he'll open the freezer door and ask "Am I the only one around here who knows the recipe for ice cubes?!" We grew up without an ice maker. (Pitiful pregnant pause)
Also, dealing with hovering salespeople drives me nuts. Enter Tameka, stage left.
Tameka was dressed more like a pool party attendee than a furniture saleswoman. Other than that, I had no major problems with her at first. She left us alone for a bit and didn't hover while we tried out mattresses. But then she started brown nosing my kids, talking baby talk to them and whatnot.
Then she asked me, "How old is the baby?"
"Almost thirteen months," I told her.
"Does he walk yet?"
"No."
"What a lazy baby!"
Now, I don't think I'm overly-sensitive about my children, but there was something about the way she said it that rubbed me the wrong way. Perhaps because she doesn't know me? I just don't think it's right to make jokes about a stranger's baby's development. Especially if you're trying to sell them something.
Tameka excused herself while Joe and I continued to take turns tossing and turning on the floor models. We settled on one that we liked, and Tameka came back into the picture, just as Luke started digging for gold.
"Luke," I said quietly, giving him the look. He withdrew his finger from his nose.
"Ewwwww! Don't pick your nose in front of girrrrls!!!" Tameka teased.
We told her that we were going to spend some time thinking about the bed. We wrapped things up and started to head out. Tameka bent down over George's stroller and said, "Good night, handsome!"
"Good night!" Luke replied, not even noticing that she hadn't been talking to him.
"Wow," said Tameka, "someone sure is overly confident!"
Tameka didn't get the sale. We ordered directly from the mattress company over the phone.
The timing of this whole ordeal was impeccable--I found four gray hairs this morning.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Stick This
Things Luke has emblazoned with stickers today:
- His underwear
- Some area rugs
- The toilet seat
- His toys
- Some crystal candlesticks from Tiffany's, which he keeps referring to as trophies
- His brother
- The dog
- The kitchen floor
- George's high chair
- His lunch plate
- The coffee table
- The storm door
Things Luke has vehemently refused to put stickers on today:
- The craft we made today--a rain stick, which I expressly instructed him to decorate with stickers
Le sigh.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
This weekend, we did something we hadn't done as a family since our oldest child was born--visit friends and stay in their home. We packed up our minivan and headed to Arkansas, or as I've dubbed it, New Jersey of the South. I just lost half of my readers. Whatever, just don't be all, "YOU live in MISSISSIPPI! THAT'S the New Jersey of the South!" Because Mississippi is really just the Mississippi of the South. You know?
We stayed with Elle, who is one of my best friends in the universe. That kind of makes it sound like I have extra-terrestrial friends. Actually, I sort of do. I met them one night during that crazy season when I was taking Ambien to help me sleep, when my husband was in Iraq and I had just lost a baby. They came to a cocktail party at my home, where everyone was standing upside-down on my ceiling.
Right now, my mother is dialing my number to ask me if I could please hold my cards a little closer to my chest. Joe is searching our cabinets to see if there are any prescription meds he should be flushing down the toilet. Nothing to worry about, folks. I'm getting all the help I need these days from calcium and magnesium supplements.
Anyway, we went to go see Elle, whose husband, Ted, is deployed right now. Elle is nothing if not practical and straightforward. Ted has told me that at any point if I don't want to be her friend anymore, I should just triple talaq her and make a clean break. He's been gone for five months, and we've made numerous plans to get together, but every time, I have canceled at the last second due to a feverish baby or a throwing-up husband. Elle was starting to question my honesty and wondering if I was trying to break up with her, but couldn't bring myself to say, "I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee." Fortunately, nobody got sick this time and we made it up to her house, Elle's security in our friendship in tact.
The thing about being in such close quarters with your peers is that your kids spend most of the time embarrassing the cooties out of you. For example, Luke initiated a game wherein he and Elle's oldest son, Max, sang the theme song to "Bob the Builder" THE ENTIRE WEEKEND. But instead of the word "builder", they came up with alternative words. Racy words!
"Bob the DIAPER, yes we can!" "Bob the STINKPOT, yes we can!" The second I heard the first round, I knew it was the brainchild of my offspring. This isn't the first time he's Mad Libbed a song with potty talk. There was intense giggling and subsequent hiccupping that went along with this game.
There was the time Luke kicked his shorts off to go to the bathroom, and they flew high into the air and landed in the toilet. There were the kazillion times George threw his sippy cup on the floor with all his might, leaving tiny droplets of milk all over the rugs Elle bought when she lived in Turkey, and on her walls and cabinets.
Having planned this last-minute trip for a holiday weekend, we were unable to get a kennel reservation for our dog. Even she tried to do me in. She chewed up one of Elle's younger son's dirty diapers. And then, as the neighbors wereattempting to set Elle's bushes on fire setting off fireworks, Dolley became frightened and piddled on the kitchen floor.
Monday morning, as I walked in on Luke pulling scabs off of his arm and artfully arranging them very close to the spot where Dolley defiled the floor, I was a bit relieved that we had arrived at the end of our visit. Don't get me wrong--we had a wonderful time in Arkansas attending the famous Wagnon Fourth of July Party, sitting and gabbing for hours with Elle and another dear friend, Brooke, and holding my friend Shannon's eleven-day-old baby. But it's true what Benjamin Franklin said, that fish and visitors smell after three days. If there's anybody who I'm not afraid to show my family's true colors to, it's Elle. But I'm afraid my family was stinking to high heaven.
I'm sure we'll plan some more trips to a city near you sometime. Don't screen your phone calls yet--we'll travel again as soon as we're empty nesters.
We stayed with Elle, who is one of my best friends in the universe. That kind of makes it sound like I have extra-terrestrial friends. Actually, I sort of do. I met them one night during that crazy season when I was taking Ambien to help me sleep, when my husband was in Iraq and I had just lost a baby. They came to a cocktail party at my home, where everyone was standing upside-down on my ceiling.
Right now, my mother is dialing my number to ask me if I could please hold my cards a little closer to my chest. Joe is searching our cabinets to see if there are any prescription meds he should be flushing down the toilet. Nothing to worry about, folks. I'm getting all the help I need these days from calcium and magnesium supplements.
Anyway, we went to go see Elle, whose husband, Ted, is deployed right now. Elle is nothing if not practical and straightforward. Ted has told me that at any point if I don't want to be her friend anymore, I should just triple talaq her and make a clean break. He's been gone for five months, and we've made numerous plans to get together, but every time, I have canceled at the last second due to a feverish baby or a throwing-up husband. Elle was starting to question my honesty and wondering if I was trying to break up with her, but couldn't bring myself to say, "I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee." Fortunately, nobody got sick this time and we made it up to her house, Elle's security in our friendship in tact.
The thing about being in such close quarters with your peers is that your kids spend most of the time embarrassing the cooties out of you. For example, Luke initiated a game wherein he and Elle's oldest son, Max, sang the theme song to "Bob the Builder" THE ENTIRE WEEKEND. But instead of the word "builder", they came up with alternative words. Racy words!
"Bob the DIAPER, yes we can!" "Bob the STINKPOT, yes we can!" The second I heard the first round, I knew it was the brainchild of my offspring. This isn't the first time he's Mad Libbed a song with potty talk. There was intense giggling and subsequent hiccupping that went along with this game.
There was the time Luke kicked his shorts off to go to the bathroom, and they flew high into the air and landed in the toilet. There were the kazillion times George threw his sippy cup on the floor with all his might, leaving tiny droplets of milk all over the rugs Elle bought when she lived in Turkey, and on her walls and cabinets.
Having planned this last-minute trip for a holiday weekend, we were unable to get a kennel reservation for our dog. Even she tried to do me in. She chewed up one of Elle's younger son's dirty diapers. And then, as the neighbors were
Monday morning, as I walked in on Luke pulling scabs off of his arm and artfully arranging them very close to the spot where Dolley defiled the floor, I was a bit relieved that we had arrived at the end of our visit. Don't get me wrong--we had a wonderful time in Arkansas attending the famous Wagnon Fourth of July Party, sitting and gabbing for hours with Elle and another dear friend, Brooke, and holding my friend Shannon's eleven-day-old baby. But it's true what Benjamin Franklin said, that fish and visitors smell after three days. If there's anybody who I'm not afraid to show my family's true colors to, it's Elle. But I'm afraid my family was stinking to high heaven.
I'm sure we'll plan some more trips to a city near you sometime. Don't screen your phone calls yet--we'll travel again as soon as we're empty nesters.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Entertainer
I like to think of myself as a performer. I never did any serious performing, unless you consider my role as Chacha Digregorio in Grafton High School's spring production of "Grease" serious...I do like to think I brought the house down that weekend...
What were we talking about? Oh, right. I like to think that I'm kind of a star that got away from the industry. Or maybe a talent that hasn't yet been discovered, in a Lucy Ricardo sort of way. I like to sing and dance, and I have a ready made audience of two at my disposal all the time. Unfortunately for me, one of them is a real critic.
This morning, we were making our way down the stairs, a bleary-eyed trio, and Luke noticed that it was storming outside.
"That's right," I said, and then I belted out, "It's a rainy day, it's a rainy day. We can't go out. We can't go out and play. Why does it have to rain anyway?"
"Mommy, your singing makes me chilly," he said.
Hm. "Well then, we'll just have to warm up," I said. I love a good play on words.
A few minutes later as we were playing with toys, Luke started to hum a song. "What song am I singing?" he asked. He really enjoys a good round of Name That Tune.
"Are you singing this one? Ri-ise, and shi-ine, and give God the glory glory..." I sang it out.
Luke twisted his face into a nasty grimace and shuddered. "I DON'T WIKE YOUR SINGING!" he shouted. I gave him a little space for a while. Some people just need to ease into the day.
We started to talk about breakfast. He told me he would like some apple slices, no, a banana, no, apple slices, no...I thought about the song "I Like to Eat Apples and Bananas", but then thought again. Too obvious. Too Barney. Not mature enough. And most importantly, not enough razzle dazzle.
I did a quick browse of my mental catalogue and came up with a little ragtime. Luke likes a jazzy tune, and I might even get a clap out of George if I can add a Charleston kick or two. "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today," I sang. And Charleston kick I did! I felt radiant.
Luke folded his arms and put his head, face down, on the table.
Some people just don't recognize talent when they see it. Nevertheless, I'll be rehearsing during nap time. I want to nail my new theme song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones.
What were we talking about? Oh, right. I like to think that I'm kind of a star that got away from the industry. Or maybe a talent that hasn't yet been discovered, in a Lucy Ricardo sort of way. I like to sing and dance, and I have a ready made audience of two at my disposal all the time. Unfortunately for me, one of them is a real critic.
This morning, we were making our way down the stairs, a bleary-eyed trio, and Luke noticed that it was storming outside.
"That's right," I said, and then I belted out, "It's a rainy day, it's a rainy day. We can't go out. We can't go out and play. Why does it have to rain anyway?"
"Mommy, your singing makes me chilly," he said.
Hm. "Well then, we'll just have to warm up," I said. I love a good play on words.
A few minutes later as we were playing with toys, Luke started to hum a song. "What song am I singing?" he asked. He really enjoys a good round of Name That Tune.
"Are you singing this one? Ri-ise, and shi-ine, and give God the glory glory..." I sang it out.
Luke twisted his face into a nasty grimace and shuddered. "I DON'T WIKE YOUR SINGING!" he shouted. I gave him a little space for a while. Some people just need to ease into the day.
We started to talk about breakfast. He told me he would like some apple slices, no, a banana, no, apple slices, no...I thought about the song "I Like to Eat Apples and Bananas", but then thought again. Too obvious. Too Barney. Not mature enough. And most importantly, not enough razzle dazzle.
I did a quick browse of my mental catalogue and came up with a little ragtime. Luke likes a jazzy tune, and I might even get a clap out of George if I can add a Charleston kick or two. "Yes, we have no bananas. We have no bananas today," I sang. And Charleston kick I did! I felt radiant.
Luke folded his arms and put his head, face down, on the table.
Some people just don't recognize talent when they see it. Nevertheless, I'll be rehearsing during nap time. I want to nail my new theme song, "You Can't Always Get What You Want" by The Rolling Stones.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Checking In
Well, I've been on a two-week insomnia bender, rendering me thoughtless and mostly speechless. The humor of my son staring at the plumber who came by to fix our toilet and saying to him, "I don't want to talk to you" passed me by completely. You'd think I'd be able to come up with a good story after, an hour later, two painters came by to do some caulking and painting, and Luke screamed the entire time they were there, "They're scary! Mommy, don't make me go near them," all the while climbing up my legs and pulling my skirt down. Talk about humiliating. My writing thrives on humiliation! But no, I haven't the energy.
Boy, am I tired of being an insomniac.
GET IT? TIRED!...Insomniac humor. Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha...
Anyway, I've worked really hard to get all nine of you, including both of my grandmothers, who get a hard copy in the mail, to read my beloved weblog, and I don't want to lose you, so how's about reading something I wrote five months ago and never published? A delicious tale that is sure to make you cringe at my lack of parenting skills. It's all about bribery. Here you go:
Well, I've opened one of the Pandora's Boxes of parenthood, and that is bribery. Specifically, I have been bribing Luke with treats. I had honestly never even thought to bribe him until his two-year well baby exam. His doctor gave me a suggestion to help Luke sleep through the night without his usual wee-small-hours-of-the-morning tantrums. He said that I should make a reward chart, and after two nights of no interruptions, Luke could have something special, not food-related, but something that Luke would want to work toward. But not food-related.
We went home and made a chart. Luke filled it up with smiley faces, and enjoyed watching YouTube videos as rewards for two cumulative nights of sleep. It worked so well at first, I decided to use the tactic to slay another dragon of Luke's--the Sunday School tantrums. Luke would go in every Sunday, and as he approached his room, would start crying. As he was peeled off of our legs by evil Sunday School volunteers and pulled through the door, he would throw himself on the floor, scream, convulse, kick the door, throw punches, and do anything in his power to let everybody know that he did not intend to sit in this Baptist Concentration Camp and eat goldfish and make crafts for the next hour.
We had a little meeting of minds one afternoon and I proposed that on Sundays, if he could walk in without a tantrum, he could watch TWO FULL-LENGTH MOVIES on Sunday afternoons. He sat and thought about it, the wheels in his head turning, and then that little son of a gun pushed the envelope back. No deal.
I thought about what else we could do. A trip to the park? The library? But the weather and baby brother might not always cooperate. And, those things should be a regular adventure at any opportunity, so I nixed that idea. "Candy it is," I told him.
We held up a packet of "Spiderman Treats" (fruit snacks) every Sunday morning as we left for church. We explained the operation to him repeatedly as we drove, and then walked into the building. When he behaved, he got the treat. When he didn't, we ate it in front of him on the way home and talked about how good it tasted while Luke scowled in his car seat. Was that a little bit cruel? Perhaps. Effective? You betcha.
Ever since, I've been bribing that kid with treats left and right. "If you get through the tour of the football stadium without talking, we'll buy you an ice cream at the end." Consider it done. Last night, I told Luke that if he would sing fussy George songs to keep him happy while I cooked dinner, I'd pay him one Skittle per song. That boy sang like a canary until dinner was on the table. This food-related bribery thing works like a charm.
This morning, I took the boys out so George could get his shots. Luke munched on more Skittles while we sat in the waiting room, a reward for sitting on his bottom. After the shots, we made our way back to the car, and Luke was informed that the only way he was going to get more Skittles was if he held my hand the entire way through the parking lot. Am I a Patsy, or what? Skeptical of my steadfastness, Luke ceased and desisted with the hand-holding in favor of jumping in some puddles.
When we got back to the car, he demanded his treat. "I'm sorry," I explained, "you didn't hold my hand like I told you." He argued with me, begging for more Skittles. He must not have understood me. Chock it up to the fact that when I told him no, I sounded like I had a mouth full of marbles. In truth, I had a mouth full of Skittles. "I want some Skittles!" he kept shouting as I drove. "I'm so sorry," I repeated, popping more candy in my mouth the entire way back home, "but if you stop fussing about the Skittles, I'll let you have a hot dog for lunch." Talk about a huge dangling carrot.
This bribery thing makes me feel like we're on a runaway train, headed for disaster. This is not good parenting. I've got to stop, I told myself as I pulled into our apartments. And at that point, I decided that if I can go a whole week without bribing Luke, I can buy a cute new outfit. Two weeks, and I can buy some new impractical shoes to go with the outfit. Three weeks calls for a purse...
Boy, am I tired of being an insomniac.
GET IT? TIRED!...Insomniac humor. Ha ha. Ha ha. Ha...
Anyway, I've worked really hard to get all nine of you, including both of my grandmothers, who get a hard copy in the mail, to read my beloved weblog, and I don't want to lose you, so how's about reading something I wrote five months ago and never published? A delicious tale that is sure to make you cringe at my lack of parenting skills. It's all about bribery. Here you go:
Well, I've opened one of the Pandora's Boxes of parenthood, and that is bribery. Specifically, I have been bribing Luke with treats. I had honestly never even thought to bribe him until his two-year well baby exam. His doctor gave me a suggestion to help Luke sleep through the night without his usual wee-small-hours-of-the-morning tantrums. He said that I should make a reward chart, and after two nights of no interruptions, Luke could have something special, not food-related, but something that Luke would want to work toward. But not food-related.
We went home and made a chart. Luke filled it up with smiley faces, and enjoyed watching YouTube videos as rewards for two cumulative nights of sleep. It worked so well at first, I decided to use the tactic to slay another dragon of Luke's--the Sunday School tantrums. Luke would go in every Sunday, and as he approached his room, would start crying. As he was peeled off of our legs by evil Sunday School volunteers and pulled through the door, he would throw himself on the floor, scream, convulse, kick the door, throw punches, and do anything in his power to let everybody know that he did not intend to sit in this Baptist Concentration Camp and eat goldfish and make crafts for the next hour.
We had a little meeting of minds one afternoon and I proposed that on Sundays, if he could walk in without a tantrum, he could watch TWO FULL-LENGTH MOVIES on Sunday afternoons. He sat and thought about it, the wheels in his head turning, and then that little son of a gun pushed the envelope back. No deal.
I thought about what else we could do. A trip to the park? The library? But the weather and baby brother might not always cooperate. And, those things should be a regular adventure at any opportunity, so I nixed that idea. "Candy it is," I told him.
We held up a packet of "Spiderman Treats" (fruit snacks) every Sunday morning as we left for church. We explained the operation to him repeatedly as we drove, and then walked into the building. When he behaved, he got the treat. When he didn't, we ate it in front of him on the way home and talked about how good it tasted while Luke scowled in his car seat. Was that a little bit cruel? Perhaps. Effective? You betcha.
Ever since, I've been bribing that kid with treats left and right. "If you get through the tour of the football stadium without talking, we'll buy you an ice cream at the end." Consider it done. Last night, I told Luke that if he would sing fussy George songs to keep him happy while I cooked dinner, I'd pay him one Skittle per song. That boy sang like a canary until dinner was on the table. This food-related bribery thing works like a charm.
This morning, I took the boys out so George could get his shots. Luke munched on more Skittles while we sat in the waiting room, a reward for sitting on his bottom. After the shots, we made our way back to the car, and Luke was informed that the only way he was going to get more Skittles was if he held my hand the entire way through the parking lot. Am I a Patsy, or what? Skeptical of my steadfastness, Luke ceased and desisted with the hand-holding in favor of jumping in some puddles.
When we got back to the car, he demanded his treat. "I'm sorry," I explained, "you didn't hold my hand like I told you." He argued with me, begging for more Skittles. He must not have understood me. Chock it up to the fact that when I told him no, I sounded like I had a mouth full of marbles. In truth, I had a mouth full of Skittles. "I want some Skittles!" he kept shouting as I drove. "I'm so sorry," I repeated, popping more candy in my mouth the entire way back home, "but if you stop fussing about the Skittles, I'll let you have a hot dog for lunch." Talk about a huge dangling carrot.
This bribery thing makes me feel like we're on a runaway train, headed for disaster. This is not good parenting. I've got to stop, I told myself as I pulled into our apartments. And at that point, I decided that if I can go a whole week without bribing Luke, I can buy a cute new outfit. Two weeks, and I can buy some new impractical shoes to go with the outfit. Three weeks calls for a purse...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)