Category Archives: discipline

We’re Making Plans For Nigel

 

At some point I’m going to get a phone call from various defunct 80’s bands demanding some sort of restitution for all the titles I’ve stolen after a morning listening to Sirius XM’s First Wave.

I like to use the drive back from drop off to think about what needs to be done during the day and to formulate a plan of attack for whatever bizarre circumstances or unforseen disasters will fall in my lap thanks to my smallest child.

You see, despite the best laid plans and extensive help from all the most expensive professionals he still has some issues that prevent him from being ready for prime time.

Like the Saturday Night Live players but with less parody and more physical pratfalls.

So here I am, the grown up, struggling to hack my way through the thick brush surrounding the path back to normality for this kid.

Never have I been so confounded by another human being.

I lie in wait for the ramifications of each decision I’ve made on his behalf  dreading the large casualty laden explosion that is clearly imminent. Nothing is clear-cut and never have the stakes been so high.

Imagine if laid before you are a deck of a thousand cards and you must pick five or six to determine the path that someone takes at various important crossroads in their life.

Now take a look at the possible outcomes.

Steven Hawking or the Unibomber.

Churchill or Mussolini.

Yes, perhaps I’m exaggerating his potential but his propensity for extremes is legendary and being in his service for these long five years has taken its toll on the staff here.

It would be accurate to say we live in fear.

Fear of the next step.

Fear that the wrong choice will cause everything to go up in flames (don’t laugh, it’s happened)

Usually I have these things set up far in advance of the actual decision-making event but I happen to be in the middle of a long period of wait and see fence-sitting that’s really starting to hurt my ass.

And so, as I perch here and think about making plans for Nigel I’m still frozen with doubt and remorse over things I’ve not even done yet.

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Starts With B, Rhymes With Witch

Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.

What do you get when one and three go to war? Lot’s of flying fists, hurt feelings and exhausted referees.
 

Into every new year a little profanity must fall and who better to give it to you than Il Duce? The shock value of naughty words spilling forth from tiny lips never lessens, but  even I drew a sharp breath upon hearing his newly acquired profane utterance. 

If you want an extreme reaction, make sure to call me a bitch. 

If you want to make me cry watch my five-year old learn and use that word. 

Number one and number three are forces of nature that suck the air out of every room they enter creating a vacuum that few escape. Sandwiched between these two is my gentle sweet heart who has learned to weather the storm and keep his head down. 

Powerful personalities battle it out over Tokyo

Today I listened to all three call each other that word and waited for the piss poor parenting paddy wagon to pull up and cart me off. 

Good work mom. 

One too many viewings of the housewives of whatever county happen to be on and the word became legend over here where potty mouth is far too prevalent and three bars of lye soap are in demand now. 

Little assholes.

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Things are Not as They Appear.

This Sunday I had myself a true Judas Iscariot moment.

I denied knowing my own children at the grocery store.

Then I stopped after reading that last line and asked myself  “Hey girl who spent her whole life chained to a pew in parochial school! WHO was it now that denied Jesus three times?” “Why YES you moron that would be Peter.”

Judas sounds so much more theatrical though, so I’m keeping it even thought it is not historically accurate.

While waiting patiently in the checkout line my two boys began to act a little squirrely.

They were redirected to the front of the store near the exits brought there by my beleaguered mother who was lacking her usual sharp tongue and was hanging there like a limp dishrag due to a debilitating migraine.

 This means that the boys were running in circles, screaming about having a girlfriend, punching each other, jumping off the bench my mother was passing out on, smashing the video machine with the dollar rentals and accosting the automatic lotto dispenser.

Two über uptight couples with pursed thin lips were starting to shake their heads in disbelief and exchanging disgusted looks with each other at the volume and sheer audacity of the two unruly boys and their comatose caretaker.

“So rude and disrespectful” noted one.

“Why isn’t she doing anything to control them?” asked the other.

Then Il Duce let loose with a rank profanity followed by a roaring hysterical cackle and I watched them gasp with horror.

They were truly disgusted.

“CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?!” they croaked, looking at me.

I thought for a moment. There were thousands of ways I could go here but I opted for betrayal.

“I know!” I commiserated, as I lugged the rest of my fresh produce onto the belt.

I didn’t feel nearly as bad as I know I should have but it was just so much easier to cut and run regarding knowing this lot than to try to explain them to someone who wouldn’t care.

After scooping my mother up off the bench and driving her back home so she could suffer her mind exploding agony alone on her couch I spoke briefly to the boys about minding their behavior in public. But my pleas fell on deaf ears as they were both fast asleep in the back.

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You’ve Got Another Thing Coming

Il Duce at the farm. See the weapon?

Yesterday I needed a momentary break from my service to the emperor. Doing his bidding all day every day can really wear on a person so after re-fixing his chocolate milk three times to get it just right and head off that epic screaming fit that we all could have suffered through, I sat down to catch up on some blog reading. I’ve got a list of fantastic mommy bloggers who I follow regularly because, well, I guess we have at least our reproductive abilities in common. God, it’s depressing though. After scrolling through all these upbeat, inventive tales of their funny and sweet children with the love they have for them coming across in every word they type I just got cranky. Especially one gal who posted an angelic pic of her smiling tot with goodness that just emanated from every pore in the child’s body.

Then I look at Il Duce. Every photo I have of him he’s either sneering, giving me the finger or brandishing a weapon. This filthy little animal has ruined nearly every family photo I’ve tried to take in the last two years. Not even his make-believe games come close to normal. Last night I heard him using his Diego plastic marsupials in a jungle adventure, except he kept calling them “sex monkeys” and putting them in jail for kissing. What the fuck does that mean? Don’t even start pointing the finger at me, because the phrase “sex monkeys” has never passed my lips. Even my ten-year old was scandalized.
We got his weirdly inconclusive test results back from the world-renowned three thousand dollars a pop Neuro/Psycho/Edu testing dude and he’s all like “what a funny kid! He’s super smart but not so good at being told what to do huh?” Yes, super expensive rip off artist, I could have pooled the collective resources of every  idiot who’s ever come in contact with him and come up with a more comprehensive plan of action than scratching my head and suggesting meds if he doesn’t calm down in a few years. Better yet, I’m gonna steal those meds and help myself to a big heap of mother’s little helper during the afternoons when it’s too crazy to deal with here. Okay?
Uggg. So anyway, I’m off to chauffeur Palpatine to his next engagement that takes place right after his school day ends. Let’s hope he’s not suffering from his usual fit of distemper and all goes smoothly. But realistically, probably not.

He got along REALLY well with the goats. Must be the horns.

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Filed under 1, bad parenting, boys with serious attitude, busy days, difficult child, difficult kids, discipline, education, foul language in preschool, kids, kids and parenting, kids that like cursewords, kids with potty mouth, kindergarten options, mothers, my kid the scapegoat, odd behavior, parenting, things to do today, things we shouldn't be thrilled by

ICS

Can you believe it took me an hour to find a nun picture? She doesn't look like any nun I ever knew.

Knee socks, itchy wool plaid jumpers, hem measuring checkpoints, nail inspections and being dragged down the hallway by your ear. What do these things have in common? They are all rites of passage (or cruel indignities if you choose) of the Catholic School goer from years past. I know I shouldn’t complain since I came of age in the late 70’s and early 80’s when the perfectly acceptable practice of using various educational tools as weaponry started to go out of fashion. Pointers, rulers, nuns orthopedic shoes, all of them had come cracking down on my skull or flown down the hall hurtling toward my hastily retreating body at some point . Sister Angelica, who had the power of an olympic shot putter and the aim of a professional archer could remove her shoe with laser precision and speed even though she waddled down the hallway with a slow and uneven gait. Sister Janine kept her ice-cold brand of terror a surprise so that when you least expected it- BAM you were hauled away kicking and screaming like you would have if the creature from Ridley Scott’s Alien had impaled you and taken you to the nest to be cocooned. Good times.
Nowadays things are far different. Two of my three go to Parochial school and they love it! It’s a jovial nest of goodwill and kindness towards your fellow-man. They are now called Christian Scholars (as opposed to terrified prisoners like we were) and encouraged to do their best academically and spiritually. There are some serious positive vibes going on.
Yesterday, the syllabus for the Saint project came home. For anyone not having had the priviledge of twelve years of Catholic education, this involves finding one out of a millions saints (all of whom seemingly suffered and died horrific deaths) to draw on a piece of poster board and write a paragraph about. My daughter chose St. Lucy and presented a sketch of a screaming woman with gauged out eye sockets carrying her own bloody peepers on a silver platter. In other words a woman suffering the appropriate amount of pain and anguish to receive praise and recognition from the church. I remember being on the playground as we would act out the various tragic endings to each Saint’s life. One memory that really sticks out is being tied to the trunk of an enormous oak feigning horror as pretend flames licked my heels in the “Joan of Arc Case Scenario” snuff out. Sadly, I’m pretty sure Joan of Arc isn’t even a saint, but whatever, you KNOW some saint went out that way so who cares. Burned, tortured, eyes removed, etc. we had it covered.
Sometimes I miss the drab lifeless concrete buildings and the unhinged nuns. It created kids with bold imaginations (how many hours did we spend dreaming up clergy revenge schemes?) and steely resolve. However, I would never want my kids to endure some of the harsher life lessons learned back then. I’m glad to see that the peace, love and happiness theme has taken a foothold and that her school philosophy is all about educating the whole child while nurturing, supporting and loving them for who they are. The uniforms and  hemlines  remain mostly the same but the attitude is a whole new ballgame.

nuns

That's more like it.

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