Showing posts with label Caleb stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Caleb stories. Show all posts

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Violence in the Work Place

My children cannot play together without one causing another injury during the course of, say, an hour.  They’ll be sitting there, playing Legos, when one will inexplicably hurl a Lego at the other’s face.  The injured party becomes shocked, betrayed, and out for revenge.  Understandably.  I’m fortunate to have really good friends who don’t accidentally push me down the stairs round in their hurry to get by me.  My kids are not so lucky.  Thankfully, children do will grow out of this compulsive behavior. Otherwise, workplace scenarios like this would be commonplace: 

A corner office.  Mr. Kemp, the boss, is doing something busy and important when his employee, Kurt, bursts through his door.  Highly agitated, Kurt is clutching his right eye and breathing heavily.

Kemp:  Kurt!  What happened?

Kurt:  Brad just punched me!  Hard!  In the face!

Kemp:  Oh no.  Please, sit down!  Sit down.  Let’s have a look.

Kurt:  I don’t want to sit down!  I am very, very upset!

Kemp:  Naturally, naturally.  What happened?

Kurt:  We were just talking about the game last night.  He was getting all excited and he started swinging his arms around and then he punched me in the face!

Kemp:  Yes, but did he do it on purpose?

Kurt:  Does it matter?  He may have broken my nose.  I think I’m bleeding.  Am I bleeding?  I need a bandaid!

Kemp walks to the door and peers out.

Kemp: Brad!  Brad!  I see you, Brad.  Stop hiding behind your cubicle and get over here right now.

Brad walks into the office, his head hanging.

Kemp:  Brad.  Did you punch Kurt in the face?

Brad:  I didn’t mean to.  It was an accident.

Kemp: You know you have to be more careful when you’re talking to people.  Use your words, not your body.

Brad:  Yes sir.  It won’t happen again.  I’m so, so sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Well, Kurt, it sounds like it was an accident. 

Kurt:  Just like it was an accident when he karate-chopped Katie last week?

Kemp:  As I recall, Katie said some not very nice things to Brad.

Brad:  She called me a poopy head.

Kurt:  But you can’t just go around kicking people!  Mr. Kemp, you need to DO something!

Kemp:  And what would you have me do?

Kurt:  FIRE HIM!

Kemp:  That seems a little drastic, Kurt. I think you should calm down.  Have a seat.  Let’s get some ice for your eye. 

Brad:  I’m really, really sorry Kurt.

Kemp:  Thanks, Brad.  That was a good job telling Kurt you’re sorry.  It takes courage to do that.  You can go back to your desk now.

Kurt:  What?  That’s it? 

Kemp:  Kurt, I’m a little disappointed in you.  Brad feels very badly about the way he acted.  You should have forgiven him.

Kurt:  I can hardly open my eye!  I should not have to tolerate this kind of violence in the workplace!

Kemp:  Hey.  I know what would make you feel better.  (Kemp walks over to a jar on his desk.)  Here.  Have some Skittles.

Kurt:  Skittles?  Really?

Kemp:  Yeah, buddy!  Just for you!  And I’ll tell you what.  You can have Skittles after lunch, too.

Kurt:  I like Skittles.

Kemp:  I know you do.  Feeling better?

Kurt:  Yeah, I guess so.

Kemp:  Think you can go back to work?

Kurt:  Yeah. Yeah I think I can.

Kemp:  Good.  Good.  Let’s give Brad some space today, okay?

Kurt:  Oh, we’re going play squash after work. 

Kemp:  Okay.  Just be careful.

Kurt:  I will, boss.  I will.


I am sure Ben and Caleb, especially Ben, will behave better than this when they are adults.  And if not, may they have a boss who is understanding, and who stocks up on Skittles.  

Monday, January 14, 2013

Sore Loser



Married, over 13 years, and I’d never played Monopoly with my husband.  Now that we’ve spent an evening doing just that, I can tell you this:

My husband is a total a-hole when it comes to Monopoly.

Caleb received the game for his birthday, which was on Sunday.  Caleb was the car, John was the battleship and I, of course, was the top hat.  Because I look good in hats.

John greedily took Park Place and Boardwalk, was spiteful when I got a hold of Marvin Gardens, and had a look of utter glee in his eyes when I landed on his two-housed Indiana Avenue Also, he tried to trade Caleb one utility card for Connecticut Avenue, which would have given him a monopoly.

I quickly put a stop to that. 

The protective instinct is strong in mothers, even during games of Monopoly.  What I don’t understand is why Caleb, despite my allowing him to pay half in rent when he landed on Pennsylvania Avenue, still hooted when his father tried to financially bankrupt me.  After I stopped yet another shady deal between John and Caleb, I looked Caleb squarely in the eye:

“Say you don’t appreciate that, Caleb.”

“I don’t appreciate that, Caleb!” was his response.  He and John howled together.  I felt dumb.

It should come as no surprise to you that I lost. In the end, I had a house on Baltic and two “get out of jail free” cards.  We didn’t exactly finish the game as the board was destroyed by an encroaching Australian Shepherd.  As far as we can tell, Caleb, thanks to landing on the Free Parking spot several times, came in at a close second, and John, thanks to his shrewd business sense and lack of pity, won.

Toward the end, I considered Monopoly divorce just to get half of John's Monopoly cash and real estate.  Unfortunately, there are no “Monopoly divorce” guidelines.  They should probably add that in the next edition.  I bet fewer boards would be thrown across living rooms.

(I get a little emotional during board games, which is why we don’t play Scrabble any more.)

Here is a fuzzy picture of fuzzy Kiah before she went all Napoleon Bonaparte on our board game:   

Friday, June 22, 2012

On Bullying or A Humble Defense of the Town of Greece

I’ve been religiously following the story of Karen Klein, the bus monitor who was verbally abused and humiliated by a bunch of middle-schoolers from my hometown, Greece, NY. I have spent the last 15 years defending my hometown to those who live on the east side of the city. This story hasn’t helped my cause, much.

Why Greece should be cast in such a negative limelight is beyond me; it’s not as if bullying is limited to the boundaries of western New York, though it sometimes feels like it. Caleb was recently excommunicated from his lunch table by a bunch of bullies, who suddenly and inexplicably turned on him at the end of the year. He came home at the end of each day, eyes brimming with tears, with a story of a new name he was called. “Midget, little girl, midget lady…” And I was filled with righteous anger. Spankings were in order! We should line up these kids and berate them like drill sergeants! Their parents should be fined hundreds of dollars!

These kids are nine.

Instead of throwing a hissy fit and marching into Caleb’s school with purpose, I quietly reminded Caleb he was better than the way he was being treated, that kindness is always the best policy, and that summer was right around the corner. That he can’t control the way he is treated, but that he can control the way he responds. I read from the bible:

Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” To the contrary, “if your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink; for by so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”

“Burning coals on his head?”

Maybe that wasn’t the best verse to read.

In the interim, I have donated to Karen Klein’s “vacation” fund. I have cried. I cried for Caleb, and for kids who are too scared to speak up for what is right, and I cried for kids who are so weak that they spew evil things from their mouths in order to fit in. I cried because next year I have to put my babies on the bus, or rather, on the big yellow den of iniquities.

I threatened to homeschool.

I thanked God to be done with the public school experience, which wasn’t my favorite time of life.

I took courage in my faith, and in God’s word, which really has more wise words to say on the subject than the talking heads at Fox News, The Washington Post, and CNN.



2 Timothy 1:7


For God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.


Matthew 5:38-41


“You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.’ But I say to you, resist the one who is evil. But if anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if anyone would sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well. And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles.


Deuteronomy 31:6


Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave you or forsake you.”


Ephesians 4:29


Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.

Mark 12:31


The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”


1 Peter 3:8-9


Finally, all of you, have unity of mind, sympathy, brotherly love, a tender heart, and a humble mind. Do not repay evil for evil or reviling for reviling, but on the contrary, bless, for to this you were called, that you may obtain a blessing.


Micah 6:8


He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?

Romans 12:18


If possible, so far as it depends on you, live peaceably with all.

Power, love, self-control, strength, courage, generosity, tenderness, sympathy, humility, justice- peace. If my children can foster even half of these attributes, they will be blessed. 

Life is hard. And despite what those commercials say, it might not get better. But, if my kids live admirably and in accordance with the verses above, I believe God will bless them. If possible, so far as it depends on them, I will admonish my kids to live peaceably with all. And if they make the wrong choices anyway, then they will see the righteous anger. 

See? People from Greece aren’t all bad.  Also, we are a biodiverse community with many excellent Italian restaurants and lovely lakefront homes.  So there you have it.


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Baseball and Toads


Last night I was privileged to watch my oldest child play baseball.  My dad came to watch the game as well.

Baseball is more confusing than I had originally thought.  Apparently, the first foul ball you hit is a strike, but only if it’s the first or maybe second strike.  I think.  Also, if a runner is on second and there’s a pop up, he (or she!) can not progress to third until the ball is caught.  And if the catcher drops the ball after the pitcher throws it to him, the ball is considered in play and the runner can advance bases, but it’s not stealing.  Stealing is when the pitcher is holding on to the ball. 

No one, not even God, knows what a balk is.

“I don’t know as much about baseball as I thought I did,” I admitted to my dad.

“Quite frankly, I’m alarmed at how little you know,” he said. 

Caleb pitched for the first time last night, and during the second inning, he struck out three kids in a row.  I am proud as a peacock and a little hard to be around at the moment.  Caleb also hit a kid in the foot, but that kid never made it home, so it didn’t really matter.  I mean home in the baseball sense, not the physical embodiment of a dwelling place sense.  No harm, no foul. 

We came home, everyone had a popsicle, and went to bed.  I let Kiah out to go to the bathroom and then went out on the deck to escort her back in the house.  Kiah demands an escort.  She previously used her end-of-the-night bathroom break to play the “let’s chase me around the yard like a looney-bird” game, but although she can still gain speed when need be, the lack of her front leg has made sudden turns and playful bounds difficult for her.  She understands this and no longer waits for me to come within two feet of her before she laughs like a hyena and vanishes into the night.  Instead, she stands submissively and allows me to lead her back inside.  This new routine has honestly been a lot easier on my nerves.  My blood pressure has gone down and I swear a lot less. 

When it rains, all the toads come out, hopping around like they own the backyard.  In an effort not to step on one last night, I slipped on the deck and fell into a puddle as Kiah looked on and the toad hopped precariously close to the entrance of my house.  I blacked out for at least twenty minutes.

That’s not true.  I did not black out at all.  I added that for dramatic effect.  In fact, I was fine, although quite damp.  While I lay there, stretched out on the slick deck, Kiah galumphed over my legs, went into the house, and jumped with muddy feet onto the beige couch.

Sometimes I don’t like her. 

I don’t like toads lately, either. 

I do like baseball.  In the late hours of the evening, I changed into my comfy pajamas and climbed into bed.  I had just begun to read a book when I heard Caleb talking in his sleep.

“OUT!”

I can only assume he was having baseball dreams and was blissfully unaware of his mother’s close encounter with a brazen toad.  If he had been awake, he would probably have pronounced me out and Kiah safe at home.  Because that’s the way you think when you’ve got nothing but baseball on your mind. 


Don't tell me about the world. Not today. It's springtime and they're knocking baseball around fields where the grass is damp and green in the morning and the kids are trying to hit the curve ball. ~Pete Hamill

Friday, March 23, 2012

Women Be Crazy



Yesterday, I was watching Blues Clues. Sort of by myself. I really can’t explain. It was the episode where Steve leaves to go to college and announces that his brother Joe is going to take his place at the house. At the end of the episode, Steve starts saying goodbye to everyone. It was like the final scene in Oz in The Wizard of Oz. “Bye side-table drawer. Bye thinking chair. Bye Mr. Salt. Bye Mr. Pepper. Goodbye Blue,” Joe says, wistfully with a strong hint of melancholy. Then he turns to the screen, “Goodbye friends.”

I start bawling. “Goodbye Steve! You cute little green-shirted man child! Waahhhhhhh!”

It’s definitely the time of the month when I am prone to weeping, if you know what I mean.

Caleb is growing up, and while my crying still visibly upsets the other three, Caleb is very awkward about it. He kind of pats my shoulder and stares at me, with a mixture of wonder and fear, and tells me, “You’re being very weird.”

“I liked Steve,” I blubber. You’d think I was watching Steel Magnolias. The truth is, I never warmed up to Joe. He’s an interloper.

“I’m going to turn this off now,” says Caleb. “You’re too big to be watching this anyway.”

“What do you mean, big? Are you calling me fat?”

Caleb’s eyes grow wide. I assure him I’m just messing with him. But seriously, I say, what did you mean by big?

Caleb goes to his room. I continue folding laundry while watching kids’ television shows. The Wonder Pets is always good for a mood booster. Don’t get me started on that Ming-Ming, though. What a self-absorbed ducking that girl is.

Caleb cautiously ventures down later. I decide to have a heart-to-heart with him.

“Sorry I was crying,” I say. “I was just being silly.”

“It’s okay. You cry a lot. I’m getting used to it.”

“I don’t cry too much.” Caleb listed three recent occasions where I shed a tear or 60,000.

“You cry more than me,” he said, “and I’m a kid!”

“I’ll try to cry less.”

“It’s okay. I understand why you cry.”

"Why?”

"Because you’re a woman. Women cry more than men. That’s why I don’t cry a lot.”

“Why do you think women cry more than men?”

"Because,” whispers Caleb, “you’re emotional. And crazy. Women are crazy.”

I was going to protest, but he’s right. Women are emotional and crazy. Some (ahem) more than others. And my boys are going to have to get used to it. God help us when Ella gets to be a teenager. Talk about crazy.

An interesting interview with the guy who played Steve. 

Wednesday, February 8, 2012

"The Talk"





“How do babies get into their mother’s tummy?”

“Ask your father.”

This exact conversation has been going on since Caleb was 5. And I still refuse to have “the talk” with him.

I know. I’m a terrible, horrible parent. And it’s not that I’m a prude, but… Fine. I’m a complete and total prude. Not too much of a prude, obviously (4 kids in 4 years and all that),but let’s just say I don’t feel comfortable hearing about the ins and outs of your sex life and I’d rather keep the ins and outs of mine to myself, thank you very much. No pun intended.

Last week, we introduced Caleb to a guy in his mid-thirties who has a newborn baby at home. His first child.

“See Caleb,” we said, “we had you when we were really young. Some people our age are just starting to have babies!”

"Wait,” said Caleb. “You get to choose when you have a baby? What do you do, just say, I’m ready to have a baby and one just starts growing in your stomach?”

“Yes. Yes, that’s exactly how it happens,” I said.

I realize how wrong I am to do this. Yet I can’t seem to help myself. Case in point: I’ve never told Ella the proper name for her girl parts, so she refers to that area as her penis. Can you imagine how awkward it is for me in the little girls room with a four-year old who’s asking me to help wipe her penis?

Some parents choose to give their kids private parts silly names, like “pee-pee” or “pooter” or “woo-woo.” Others insist on using proper scientific nomenclature. I could never decide, so I opted out of calling Ella’s anything. And now I’m paying for it in a big way.

John’s no better. I told him it was time to have “the talk” with Caleb.

“No,” he said. Just no. End of discussion.

He is a horrible, terrible parent.

We have to have the talk soon, however, because any day now he could hear all sorts of weird, misinformation on the big yellow school bus, or, as I call it, the den of iniquities. 

"Mom.  I heard that boys need to stick their penises in a girl's belly button and a tiny baby shoots out and gets planted in her stomach.  Is that true?"

(I may or may not have heard that in the den of iniquities when I was in elementary school.)

I imagine that having “the talk” is like jumping into a chilly swimming pool. It’s so hard to make that initial jump, but after you do it, you’re fine with swimming around for a bit. In other words, relaying the nuts and bolts of sex (no pun intended) seems terrifying. But after I take that jump, I can see myself having healthy, normal conversations about sex and relationships and all that stuff with Caleb. I just don’t want to take that initial jump. I really don’t. Especially when I read things like this was so-called professionals:

Dr. Berman says making them feel good about themselves is key. "Feeling good about their bodies. Feeling good about their genitals. Feeling good about their sexual function. Feeling empowered about who they are as people and as sexual beings. And then that makes the path so much easier when they're in their teen years."
Feeling good about their genitals? I’m suspicious of her whole thesis, here. I get where she’s coming from, but dear God. As if relaying the ins and outs (no pun intended) wasn’t hard enough, you want me to help my kids feel good about their genitals? I can’t even say genitals. I can type it, but just barely.

And if, in this poorly conceived analogy, my standing at the edge of a diving board for a good 20 minutes is akin to finding the nerve to explain the birds and the bees, when the day comes I’m going to stand looking dumbly at Caleb for a good twenty minutes before I sputter something like, “When two people have sex, here’s what happens (insert what happens here.  No pun intended.) Having a baby is a decision not to be taken lightly you need to know that there are ramifications to actions and that you should never have sex until you’re at least 30 and you should be married and you might have something called wet dreams and that’s okay and talk to your father about the rest. Glad we had this talk.” And then I’ll catch my breath and resume treading water. Because raising kids is exactly that: treading water for the rest of your life, hoping you don’t get too tired.

I really don't want to do this!  (The sex talk part, not the raising kids part.  Also, I lied.  All puns were intended.)

Sunday, January 22, 2012

From The Planet Mexico





“Mom. Is our planet called Earth?” asked Ben.

“Yes. We are earth. The blue planet.”

“Huh. I thought we lived on the planet Mexico.”

Sometimes I fear the public school system is failing him.

We were in the car, Ben in the back seat dressed in full Darth Vader regalia. He was speaking to me from beneath his black, shiny helmet. Honestly, he resembled Rick Moranis in Spaceballs more than the tall guy they got to play Darth in Star Wars.

Ben is trying desperately hard to be a good boy, which is really hard for people from the planet Mexico- not to be confused with the country in North America here on the blue planet, earth.

In my refusal to mention what racist thing Ben said the other day, I should have mentioned no pejorative terms were thrown about. I was told that because I did not relay what he said, people’s imaginations went to the worst possible places. Compared with the guesses family and friends made, Ben’s statements were almost inoccuous. Relief swept over faces when I told what had been said.

“That’s nothing. Listen to what my kid said about…”

In the car, we named all the planets.

“There’s Mercury, and the Venus, which is covered with a poisonous gas,” I said.

“Jupiter’s the gaseous planet,” John said.

“ALL the outer planets are gaseous,” I retorted. I know this from reading The Magic School Bus Chapter Book #4: Space Explorers, which is a scientific work on par with Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time.

“Caleb, do you know what color Mars is?”

“Blue and green,” he said with confidence.

“Nope. Mars is the red planet.” I was starting to feel smug about my space knowledge.

“I thought you said 'what color ours is.' Our planet is blue and green.”

Tonight, the husband is out watching the final playoff game; this week he travels. I am left alone here on the planet Mexico to discuss basic astronomical nomenclature with my kids.

“Mars people are called Martians,” said Ben proudly.

He is a good boy. They are all good boys. But sometimes I ache for grown-up conversation.

Tonight it is too cloudy to see Venus burning in the winter sky.

Wednesday, January 18, 2012

Nine Years Ago




Before Caleb was born, mommy looked like this:


After Caleb was born, mommy looked like this:



Was it worth it?








It surely was.

Happy Birthday Caleb!

Born 9:12 pm on 1/13/03

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Don't make me beg.

Love,

Holly

Sunday, January 15, 2012

That Awkward Moment When You Realize Your 6-Year Old is Racist: A Martin Luther King Day Post

The other night, and I don’t even remember how we stumbled upon this topic, Ben said something... a bit racist.  I can't even repeat it, I have so much shame.

To say that I freaked out would be an understatement.

“What? WHAT? What did you say? Why do you think that? Who told you that? Was it that god-forsaken public school system?” (Further freaking out commenced, and I turned to John and may have said things like the following):

“Why don’t we just call up the KKK and send him on over to Arkansas or wherever it is the KKK hangs these days.”

“I knew we should’ve sent him to the city schools for the first few years of his life. Then he’d know what it’s like to be the minority.”

I became irrational, which is what happens when freaking out goes unmitigated. Sometimes John just lets me go on:

"Why would you say that?  I need to understand the root of his statement right now or I'm going to totally freak out!!!

“This is what happens when you let kids watch too much television.”

“I failed! Somewhere along the way I failed.”

“YOU FAILED JOHN! SOMEWHERE ALONG THE WAY YOU FAILED!”

Ben: “Waaaaaaahhhhhhh! I don't want to go to a different school!"

And then, the voice of reason interceded. Caleb, who just turned nine on Friday, said the following:

“Ben, you’d better not say things like that or Martin Luther King will come out of his grave and get you.”

Stunned, both Ben and his guilt-ridden mother dropped the subject. I decided a lecture on pacifism would come later, after I could be sure Ben was no longer a racist.

I think Martin Luther King Jr. would want it that way.


MLK Jr.:  Racists, he's coming for you...

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Monday, November 7, 2011

His First Crush

Caleb likes a girl.

I figured this out on my own. I could tell he liked her by the way his eyes changed when he talked about her. They get all furtive and stuff. Caleb and “Alissa” are singing together in a small group for the forthcoming third grade Christmas chorus concert. Unlike some of the other girls in his class, Alissa is well-behaved, never rolls her eyes behind the teacher’s back, and has long hair. These are all important characteristics in a potential girlfriend, according to Caleb.

The best thing about my discovery is that I have been sworn never to discuss Caleb’s secret with John. As Caleb talked animatedly of Alissa’s spectacular solar system diorama, I nodded and smiled and tried not to gush about how cute he is. I promised not to betray his confidence to his tactless father who, and these are Caleb’s words, “will tease me and ask me if I want to smooch her.”

Naturally, I had to share this with all of you.

I told Caleb of my own first crush, which is a heartbreaking tale of unrequited love that lasted from kindergarten through third grade. “Tommy” used to chase me around the school’s courtyard. Once he gave me a purple plastic bracelet because, and I remember his words exactly, “I’m never going to wear this.” Unlike Alissa, Tommy was not well behaved, and spent a lot of time in the corner. The days I was not chased around the courtyard and tackled like a football receiver because Tommy wasn’t allowed to participate in recess were the worst.

We were unfairly separated after the third grade when my family moved from the city to the suburbs.

Caleb: “Did you ever smooch?”

“No. We never smooched.”

“Does Dad know about this?”

I asked Caleb what his intentions were.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think you’re still a little young to have a girlfriend. It’s fine to like a girl, but it’s probably best just to be friends.”

“What, are you afraid I’m going to marry her or something? Come on, mom. I’m only eight. I still have to go to college. I don’t think they allow F.B.I. agents to even get married. And Alissa wants to be a dolphin trainer when she grows up.”

Of course she does.

I’m left wondering how long Caleb will continue believing that a life in the Federal Bureau of Investigation equals a life of bachelorhood. Because I think I can work with that…

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

A Little Shakespeare Humor

Tonight, my dad and I sat watching a King Lear Shakespeare in the Park video starring James Earl Jones. Caleb sat on a chair beside us, drawing on a magnadoodle while paying minimal attention to the drama unfolding on the screen. Then came the last scene in Act 1, which contains witty banter between Lear and his fool. Actually, Lear was being his usual curmudgeounly self; the Fool, however, was witty. 

Backstory- thought it’s not terribly important for the context of this post- King Lear banishes youngest daughter Cordelia because she refuses to suck up to him. His two older daughters, who are adept at sucking up, are revealed as selfish you-know-what’s after receiving their inheritances, and coldly turn their backs on their aging father.


King Lear’s fool, aka “Fool,” tells the king “I told ya so” by lauding the wisdom of slimy creatures like oysters and snails:

Fool: Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

KING LEAR: No.

Fool: Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

KING LEAR: Why?

Fool: Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

KING LEAR: I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?

Fool: Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

KING LEAR: Because they are not eight?

Fool: Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

KING LEAR: To take 't again perforce!

CALEB JENNINGS: (Without looking up.) The fooorce…

(ACT I Ends shortly thereafter.)

HOLLY: If you can’t trust your daughters, who can you trust?

DAD: Your fool.

HOLLY: I should get me a fool. Oh wait… (Certain individuals can fill in the blank there.)

Friday, August 12, 2011

The Nighttime Visitor

Four children, and not one of them had ever crawled into bed with us in the middle of the night. Nor have they bounced on our bed on Christmas morning; they howl from their rooms, as if we’ve imprisoned them in there, “Waaaake uuuup!!! MOM! DAD!” Most consider us lucky, but I always felt like I was missing out on something. I like cuddling.

Two weeks ago, Daniel woke up in the middle of the night screaming. I walked in his room and he started blubbering about a weird noise, the rain, a bug, the rise of China and the threat of global warming. He was bereft. So I gathered him in my arms and brought him into our bed. He burrowed down into the covers and lay completely still, like a warm loaf of bread. He let out a tiny sigh, went to sleep, and stayed perfectly still until 7 in the morning.

It was glorious.

My other three children are cuddling failures. Caleb slept for the first four days of his life and then took up a hobby: screaming at the top of his lung until he turned purple for large portions of the day and night. He adamantly refused to go asleep on his own. He required to be moving in his swing at about 80 mph or bounced on my knees for a good half hour before he would drift off. Forget about trying to set him down. The moment he felt that easy drop toward his crib, he would wake up and passionately recite a speech by Benito Mussolini. My life had been taken over by a 10-pound fascist dictator with no teeth and a penchant for drooling.

For the first four months of his life, I ended up curled up on the couch with Caleb, where I lay perfectly still and came in and out of uneasy, murky sleep. Living a life in perpetual fear of waking your dictator child is not really a life at all; I had to break Caleb of his habit. Which was like trying to unseat Mussolini, minus the hanging bit.  Since then, Caleb has been a restless, twitchy sleeper who gets about seven hours of shut-eye a night and is not one for cuddling.

Ben’s a good sleeper- has been since day one. He’s squirmy, though. We shared a bed once, and I woke up in the middle of the night with his heel in my eye. I gently moved him back into position and woke up 20 minutes later with no covers and his other heel in my eye. I pity his future wife.

Ella is too social to cuddle. She wants to talk. And sing. And discuss plans for her birthday, which is seven months away. She wants to jump on the bed and tickle feet and recite a monologue by one Dora the Explorer. She wants to dabble in Spanish and make animal shadows on the wall. She wants to giggle, randomly, for no apparent reason. She wants to know where her twin is; she sleeps well next to him. She refuses to be still with the rest of us.

A few nights ago, Daniel came into our room and tapped me on the forehead until I woke up. I couldn’t make out what he was saying. He was upset about something. I grabbed him and he molded into the side of me and stayed there until the morning. He’s so squishy and soft.

Sadly, it hasn’t happened since, so I’ve been telling him some slight untruths. Like the following:

1. The book “There’s a Nightmare in My Closet” by Maurice Sendak is based on a true story.
2. So is “Where the Wild Things Are.”
3. Sharks swim in oceans, but occasionally make it to Lake Ontario. Occasionally.
4. The buzzing sound in his room is probably a nest of bees in between the rafters, but they won’t get in unless they find that tiny hole in the corner.
5. I don’t think his stuffed animals came alive at night and gave him that bruise on his leg, but I can’t be sure.
6. Sometimes mommy forgets to lock the front door, but bad guys only rob yellow houses. Our house is yellow? Well, I guess mommy should start locking the doors!
7. Sometimes dogs turn into werewolves in the middle of the night, but only dogs who live in yellow houses.
8. Come to think of it, yellow also attracts aliens. Maybe we should get new siding?
9. Did I ever tell you the story about when an alien stole me from my bed and took me to his planet and made me eat copious amounts of peas?
10. Yes, that’s why aliens are green. Because they eat a diet solely consisting of peas.

Any night now…



Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Summer Commenceth

So. Summer vacation.

Yay.

I love my kids. Really. I do. I love them. And I love spending time with them.

But sometimes, they are irritating little poops.

This actually came out of Caleb today, a dramatic litany spoken in but a single breath:

“I don’t want to go outside any more because I lost my two best hitting balls and my bat is dented and when I swing, Kiah tries to bite my feet and Kiah won’t chase the ball or the Frisbee, she only does that with dad, and I get too hot and there are wasps by that bush and my boomerang always gets stuck in the tree and also the neighbor says bad words when he’s on his phone and I’m afraid he’s going to drop his phone into his pool when he’s in there and get electrocuted and also… you really need to pick up the dog poop.

"Can I play Wii?”

And this is only day #2. I’m screwed.

Caleb also has a developed a tic- not of the lyme disease variety, but of the Inspector Dreyfus in the original Pink Panther movies variety. He compulsively looks upward, almost like he’s rolling his eyes, which has gotten him in trouble with some of his friends. I’ve looked up childhood tics on the old internet. To gain an understanding of people who have uncontrollable tics, one child health site said to imagine keeping your eyes open and willing yourself not to blink. As time goes by, it gets harder and harder to keep those eyes open. Eventually, you just have to blink. This is what it feels like to the child (or adult) who blinks uncontrollably, jerks their head, or has some other compulsive movement.

Caleb’s cool about it- not that self-conscious. He will gladly explain to you why it happens, with a shrug and a “that’s just what I do,” kind of pragmatism. I worry, of course. I mean, he’ll be fine, but society in general is not generally kind to those with neurological hiccups.

I’m hoping that a nice, long, relaxing summer of bugging me to play Wii will help. After all, Caleb is an introspective sort of person; very serious, very thoughtful. When he’s completely relaxed, there are fewer tics. To be honest, and I don’t mean to get braggy, the tics are probably a sign of genius.

Society is also not kind to the four-year old who talks in gibberish and still isn’t quite potty-trained. (We’re SO close!) Or rather, they are confused. In their round-a-bout ways, curious observers want to know: “What is WRONG with your child?”

I don’t know. I don’t know why, when I ask her what she had for breakfast this morning, she answers: “Breakfast. Yeah.” Why she can’t say, “I had a waffle.” As I write this, she is shredding a napkin at the table. If I don’t get up and intervene, soon the napkin will be all over the kitchen. And, there it goes. My homemade confetti machine at it again.

Lovely chaos.

Wednesday, June 1, 2011

A Taste of Honey

I started spontaneous storytelling during Caleb’s baseball game two weeks ago.

It was cold. Ella was cranky. Ben wanted to go home. Caleb was hitting doubles and looking generally adorable on the field. I stuck the younger three in the car and turned on the latest craze in the Jennings’ minivan: the Beatles’ debut album Please Please Me.

It is Beatlemania all over again. My four-year old son can sing all the words to “I Saw Her Standing There.”

Everyone’s favorite song, however, is “A Taste of Honey.” Every time Paul belts out the title lyrics, they laugh hysterically. Personally, I don’t get the joke. Apparently I lack their refined sense of humor.

The baseball progressed slowly, and after the CD had looped through 1 ½ times, the car battery died. I guess I only turned the ignition half way. And lucky for me, John was out of town and my cell was… that’s not really important. Suffice to say, it was not on me.

It started to drizzle.

My plan was to look pathetic and ask the parents of Caleb’s teammates for help once the game was over. In the interim, I had to find a way to amuse my demanding children with the refined senses of humor since the fabulous four had left the vehicle.

So I told them a story, one I made up off the top of my head. And they sat there, quiet, for twenty minutes, and took in every word. And the coach of the team had jumper cables. On the way home, I sang “Do You Want to Know a Secret,” and they sang the background vocals, which consist of “oooh oooh oooh” and “ohhh ohhh ohhh.”

Overall, I deemed the evening successful.

Tonight, on the way home from my dad’s, Ben demanded another story. And let me tell you, it is hard to think up a plot on the spot like that. I took inspiration from their favorite song and told a story about a world without… honey.

The population of honey bees has disappeared. A fabulous foursome including Caleb, Ben, Dan, and Ella, live at the edge of a great forest, because every good children’s fairy-tale starts at the edge of a great forest. The gist of the story is as follows: Children find the world’s last remaining beehive, and it’s as big as a Buick. It’s the middle of July, but the children need protection from the bees in order to extract honey from the gigantic hive, so they sneak into their own house as their mother is doing something domestic and important.  The put on snow pants and winter jackets and buckets with holes for eyes over their head so that the bees won’t sting them. The children climb a great oak tree and successfully extract the honey without getting stung.

Little do they know that a lone bee follows them home, and when the children remove their winter gear and feel the cool breeze come in over the trees of the great forest, the angry bee stings Caleb on his hand. He is so startled that he spills some honey. The honey lands on his hand, and his wound is immediately healed. Not only is it the last honey on earth, but it’s magic honey.

The children rush into the house to tell their mother about the magic honey. Instead of being happy, she is angry they sneaked off to do something so dangerous. She tells them all to go to their rooms, but to leave the honey with her. While they are upstairs sulking, she makes herself a peanut butter and honey sandwich, and eats it alone.

I thought the ending was funny. Caleb didn’t like the ending.

“I don’t like how you got mad. It wasn’t fair. We brought you honey and you put us in time-out. Why did you do that? Did you even save honey for the rest of us?”

Daniel added an epilogue.

“I KILL all the bees.”

“But then you would never have honey again,” I said. “So I don’t think you should kill all of the bees. You wouldn’t want to run out of magic honey, right?”

"I kill them, he whispered.

Ben fell asleep.

Ella broke out into song: “A TASTE OF HONEY! Doo doo doo doooo!!!”

Caleb sulked, Daniel schemed, Ben slept, Ella sang.

Mom fell asleep early. She had a lovely dream about 1960s Paul McCartney.

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

April is Wet and I Don't Like It

On Saturday, I was granted an entire day all to myself.  One whole day.  I slept in until an unseemly hour and then guess what I did? 

If you guessed that I scrubbed and cleaned the first floor of my house in my underwear while singing the part of Mimi from La Boheme as it blasted from my iPod, you are correct. 

Then, Kiah and I took a stroll.  (I put on clothes.)  It was a rather lovely day.  As I walked by, my neighbor asked if everything was okay, because she had heard shrieking noises coming from the house.  Apparently, she doesn't clean her house to Puccini. 

I uploaded some pictures from the month of April.  Blogger is uploading pictures sideways- Blogger and Canon are incompatible or something or other.  I could not fix it, so some of the pictures are presenting themselves in a jaunty fashion.

We spent Easter Sunday at the in-laws, where all of John's brothers were accounted for.  I also have pictures of Ella's first experience at a bowling alley, fun times and frosting at my mom's house, a pic of John growing older right before our very eyes, and sideways Ben being cute at the swimming pool. 

The first pic is of Kiah and her bff Edelweiss, who were digging in mud puddles on a particularly soggy day.  They got the hose. 


Kiah knows digging in mud puddles is strictly forbidden.  Oh she knows.

John is 34!

Ben is a fish.

Ella finds the fan at the bowling alley. 


Ella helps me bowl and no joke- we got a strike. 
My mom hid Easter eggs around the house for the kids.  They were each allowed ten.  If there weren't limitations on egg procurement, there would be unbalance and unrest.
My kiddoes.

There was also cookie decorating and eating of icing off straight out of the bowls.  Caleb told me to quit it- that it was gross. 

Celeste finds an egg in sideways land.
Celeste helps Ella- such a wonderful big cousin!


Uncle Richie visits sideways land to help Ella.

Ben!  My boy Ben!


All the cousins.  I wanted to put Michelle's belly in the picture, but she just laughed at me and then disappeared.  Which was irritating.

Caleb!  My boy Caleb!

Lisa! My girl Lisa!

Someone decided the world wasn't paying enough attention to him, so he donned a neon green shirt.
 
Trying to take a picture for my website.  (This did not make the cut.)  WHY didn't anyone tell I've grown chipmunk cheeks?  I really don't need this in my life right now.


Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Caleb's Birthday Eve Post

Caleb will be eight in t-minus seven hours.  And since tomorrow I will be running around like a looney-bird, I thought I'd do his birthday post tonight. 
This post will come in two parts:  Part 1: the sniveling and complaining part.  Part 2:  The nice homage to Caleb part. 

Part 1.  Ahem. 

First of all, I would just like to say that no one took be aside before I had kids and told me they would grow up.  I mean, I knew they would grow up, I don't believe in Peter Pan or anything, but no one told me that the hair on their head would turn from downy soft to coarse adult-like hair, and that they one day might say, "Mom.  Please don't call me cute.  Babies are cute.  I am NOT a baby."

These are things no one can be prepared for.  You have to learn them on your own.

And how many times has it been said by countless moms around the globe- it goes by so fast.  Last night, I was driving down the highway in the snowstorm and as the flakes were flying at the window I said, "Look!  I just put the car into light speed!"  Which, by the way, they thought was really cool. 

It's been like light speed- memories blurring together in long streaks outside the window of my mind. 

Snivel. 

Part 2:  In which I pay homage to Caleb through a poem I wrote on his first birthday seven years ago.  It's not Rilke- more like something you might read on a greeting card.  But it is heartfelt.

To Caleb
I want to say something about you that has never been said before.

It has already been said that you have perfect toes,
Your father’s eyes and your mother’s hands.
That angels dance when they hear your laughter,
And are frozen when you cry.
That your hair is softer than fine sand
And your baby words sound like a babbling brook.
That enough prayers have been prayed about you to fill a canyon.

That you are loved.

I want to tell you that the day you were born
I broke.
(Before even the sleeplessness, the post-partum depression,
the swollen breasts and haggard arms)
I was broken.
Because never had I felt a part of me take on a life of its own
And never could I have imagined you would come,
Rip apart from me and
Destroy any possibility that I
Would ever be able to look at the sky,
Would ever be able to walk in the warmth of the sun,
Would ever be able to plant a flower, give a kiss,
Sing a song,
Write a poem,
Hear a child cry,

Without thinking of you.


Caleb's newborn feeties.  Snivel.

(Caleb's birthday falls the day after my Dad's, whose birthday might be overshadowed a bit.  So if you see or know my dad, be sure to wish him a happy fortieth birthday.  Ha ha.  That would mean he had me when he was seven.  Today is Caleb's last day of being seven.  See how it all comes back to Caleb?)

Monday, October 25, 2010

Don't Worry Be Happy

My kids are sick. They have goop dripping out of them. I think they might be melting. When they cough, Kiah perks up because she thinks they are barking dogs.

I kept Ben home today but sent Caleb in, even though (and this is horrible) I wish he had been sick enough to keep home.

Caleb hates school.

He doesn’t like his teacher. She is too serious, she inexplicably raises her voice at him, and she is impatient. Every morning is a struggle with Caleb, but Monday mornings are the worst. He sulks all morning and, with tears brimming in his big blue eyes, comes up with worst case scenarios in the form of “what ifs”:

“What if I had homework that I didn’t know about? What if she yells at me because I have to go to the bathroom? What if I don’t understand the math and she tells me she won’t help me?”

“Caleb,” I respond, “You are ruminating again.” (I have been picking up self-help lingo from a book I’ve been reading: The Depression Cure by Stephen S. Ilardi.) Caleb now knows what it means to “ruminate.”

“It’s really hard not to ruminate,” he says.

You got that right, kid. Especially on cloudy Monday mornings when you’ve got to face a grouchy 8-month pregnant teacher whose ankles have recently melded with her calves. Of course she’s grouchy! Her boobs are about to be ruined forever. (I don’t tell Caleb this.)

The past few Monday mornings, I’ve vacillated between being Caleb’s energetic cheerleader and being visibly annoyed about the whole Monday-morning production. (Those are mornings I’m not proud of.)

This morning, I was feeling especially sympathetic, so I made all sorts of promises and grand gestures: We’ll make cookies with frosting when you get home! I’ll come have lunch with you once your brothers and sister have stopped dripping with ooze! I’ll bring pizza! We’ll read THREE chapters of Pippi Longstocking tonight!

This is probably the incorrect way to handle the situation. I don’t want Caleb to associate negative rumination with rewards. But acting nonchalant about his concerns trivializes his… life. This is his life.  And he’s so unhappy! And I know, from experience, that stuffing your face full of cookies will only dull the pain for a while.

So, I’m developing a “life strategies for Caleb” plan. It involves memorizing an inspirational bible verse every week, dwelling on the positive aspects of the day, taking baby steps out the door and onto the bus, wearing a goldfish around his neck, and receiving a giant kiss on the hand that he can hold up to his cheek any time he wants.

Now, I just need someone to make such a plan for me. Excuse me- it's time for my morning ruminations.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Summertime... and the living is easy (ish)

So I haven't seen a fireworks display in seven years, which is too bad, because I enjoy a good fireworks display.  My children have hyper-sensitive hearing.  They hide when the garbage truck comes around, so you can imagine that fireworks do not go over well.  This is strange to me, because on a daily basis they all make noise that puts a fireworks display to shame and are yet seemingly unbothered.  (It bothers me, however.  I'm just saying.)

Every year we go to our friends' house for the 4th.  They live across the street from the park where their small town sets off what I hear is a really terrific fireworks display. Each year we have dinner, hang out, wait until dusk, and inevitably leave right before the fireworks start because one of the children panics and goes into hysterics.  So, we drive home, which isn't so terrible because we catch glimpses of various displays as we travel through each little town down route 31.

Summer is going by too fast.  So far: countless baseball games, 2 bee stings, 1 near death by drowning in a kiddie pool, 1 month of extremely frizzy hair, 1 graduation, 1 very good end-of-year report card, approximately 100 mosquito bites, 4 stubbed toes,  20sh barbecues, 0 road trips.  We will rectify the 0 road trips this Friday. 

A review in pictures:


The Graduate
One word:  Plastics.


 After Caleb's piano recital.



He's my sweet baboo.


Ben opened his gifts shirtless this year.  Well why not.  He's five now.


  There is nothing Ella loves more in the world than her aunt Joyce.  Except perhaps decorating herself with markers.



That's the last time I show her any Batman films. 



Hop on Pop.


We went to a parade.  Ben was unhappy with the loud noises.  Which is also why I haven't seen any fireworks in five years.  That's my friend Kim.  She's a sport.

We ventured off to Browns Berry Patch :
Ben is more interested in guarding the berries than picking them.  His little friend Ryan is Ella's fiance.  Yes, really.  And I will fight anyone who gets in the way of my plan.


Note the "Silly Bandz."  I hate those things.


My sweet baboo.  Did I mention he made the Chili All Star baseball team?


Ella, who still occasionally eats her oatmeal with two fists, is surprisingly adept at raspberry picking.



Our now annual 4th of July family pic at the Casa de Fisk. 
(Thank you Katie for these pictures.  I'm having an extremely bad camera year.)