Not in Front of the Children

I have recently moved on the parenting scale from mildly annoyed to appalled by older Disney movies. Violence. Drinking. Language. My kids' current favorite (and by favorite I mean obsession bordering on disturbing) is 101 Dalmatians. A family favorite, one might think. But, think again! The language is appalling. I had already noticed that in the first 15 minutes the parents use the word idiot at least four times! Then, at the dinner table the other night, Gee (who is 27 months old) yelled SHUT UP to no one in particular. It just sort of popped, very Tourettes-like, out of his mouth. For a few minutes I felt horribly guilty because my language is hardly pure, but I am pretty sure I have never told my two year olds to shut up, or even my husband for that matter. Watching 101 Dalmatians for the 1001st time, I noticed that the mean puppy stealers not only tell the puppies to SHUT UP, but also throw things at them while guzzling booze from a large glass bottle. At least I assume it's booze since it causes an appealing explosion when Cruella throws it into the fire.


[Aside: Yes, my children watch Disney movies. Almost every day. Yes, I am aware that if I didn't let them watch TV they would not be exposed to any inappropriate content, Disney or otherwise. Yes, I am aware that some wonderful parent out there is judging me sadly lacking right now in both parental skill and judgment. I don't care. They like Disney movies. But, far more importantly, I like Disney movies. For 90 precious minutes in my day, there is no whining, no tantrums, no repetitive song-singing or game playing. They are quiet and happy and I can feed the baby while reading a book.]

The new movies are fine. It's the classics that are a little seamy around the edges. Yesterday, I put in The Rescuers because we have a moratorium on 101 Dalmatians and I could not possibly watch Cars (KA-CHOW), Fish (Finding Nemo), or Elephants (Ice Age) one more time. Terrible. Mice drinking, people drinking, guns, language (shut up and idiot). It has been put away until they are fifteen. I had no idea - and no memory from childhood - that those old cartoons were so racy. Maybe some standards have changed for the better in the last 20 years! I wonder what word Marlin utters that will be considered horrible by some mother in 2027??

Meanwhile, any Disney contribution to my kids' delinquincy is far outweighed by my own foul mouth. We have all discussed at length that 'shut up' is not a nice thing to say. I have explained over and over for my little parrots that it is disrespectful and rude and the puppy nappers are not nice men. We have practiced saying "be quiet please" and "no talking right now please." All of which boils down to one phrase in their little minds - 'no shut up.' A phrase used so often and with such pleasure that I begin to think they have outsmarted me. (Who am I kidding, I KNOW they have outsmarted me.) Can I give a time out for telling me gravely and with a serious nod 'no shut up mommy, no say shut up.' Perhaps not the first time, but after the 400th repitition, even this deluded, outsmarted mother starts to smell a rat.

Then, last week a semi cut me off on a turn and as I slammed on my breaks to keep from driving beneath the trailer, the delightful human being behind me laid on his horn. Without thinking, I glared daggers into my review mirror and dropped the big one. F#$% YOU! Followed immediately by two little echos - 'no f#$& you, momma.' Sigh. Parent of the week award, right here. Yes, darlings, that's right, it's disrespectful and rude. Go ahead and tell momma to shut up.

I had already received a gold medal for my parenting last Wednesday before this incident. We went to the Jump and Bounce (LOVE the J&B, more on that later) and during the unloading fiasco Gee got ahold of my keys. I thought nothing of it until, two hours later, when I came downstairs after putting them down for naps and noticed that the van's tailgate was up. It operates remotely with a button on the keys so I just closed it from the kitchen and settled into the couch. After naps, I reloaded them all in the van for gymnastics, strapped them in, loaded their snack and diaper paraphenalia, and climbed into the driver seat. I started to back down the driveway and out of the corner of my eye I noticed something large and black and disturbingly furry on the floor in front of the front passenger seat. Apparently, my instincts for self-preservation are alive and running strong because I threw it in park and BOLTED from the van. I was outside in the snow and several feet away with my heart pounding before I realized that I had just abandoned my three small children to the mercy of whatever I was running away from in terror. Helpless, strapped in the danger zone, I heard my son call from the rear seat 'whatchya doin, momma?' Just saving myself son.

Fortunately, the unidentified fur ball was only my neighbor's cat, taking a little snooze out of the cold. I am not sure what I thought it was when I first saw it, but it definitely didn't occur to me to throw myself between it and my offspring. Survival of the fittest, surburban style.

We leave for Mexico at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow. Two planes, two adults, three babies. Wish us luck!

Falling Behind

Seventeen days into the new year and I have already failed with resolution 10 (write in blog), mostly because I am failing miserably at resolution 8 (go to bed early). [For the record, though, I am doing an excellent job with resolution 7 (Starbucks guilt is gone).] In my defense, the baby is either part vampire (definitely possible on my father's side), an alien life form that doesn't require sleep (ditto) or he just doesn't like me very much.

Last night, for example, I dutifully restrained myself from watching American Idol, not that big a burden yet as I don't care for the try-outs, cleaned the kitchen and climbed into bed at 9:00 p.m. Baby had been sleeping blissfully in that cute baby surrender pose, hands stretched above his head, for two hours. Granted he was in the middle of our bed where I had nursed him to sleep at seven, but he was out. Attempts to move him to his crib or really any other local for sleeping in the last few weeks have ended in sad parental defeat and screaming baby triumph. The moment I climbed in, he stirred, stretched languorously and rolled toward me with little sucker lips already going. Perhaps he is Irish because he feels the need for a little nip every 60-90 minutes through out the night and woe be it to the shirt or mother that stands in his way. I tried ignoring him for about 30 minutes and he pecked my back in aggressive outrage until I gave in. I wasn't sleeping anyway because who can sleep, really, with the world's smallest vampire pecking your back?

I know this is a common problem. I've read about parents who make the "mistake" of on-demand feeding and create little monsters (vampires?) who can't self-soothe and insist on nursing every time their eyes flutter. I avoided this with Gee via the simple miracle that he did not ask to nurse. He pretty much slept through the night from six weeks. Now here I am, tired, pecked, and for the most part stuck because I am unwilling (although absolutely not judgmental of others, rather jealous) to let my five-month old cry it out. At nine months, it will be a different story, but for now, he wins.

I blame HSSH. I do. It makes sense at 3:00 a.m. after the fifth feeding, I swear. You see, he is good at fixing things and as a result we bought a beautiful, but old and uninsulated, 1920s house, which we have slowly gutted and made our own. I absolutely love it and would never move, even for more sleep, but I would never have lived in such a challenging house without him. And, it's cold at night. And, the baby wakes up with cold hands. I'm convinced that's why he doesn't sleep as well as Gee. Hence, HSSH's fault. Perfectly logical.

Recently, I read about how sleep deprivation shortens your life span. As, I am sure, do red wine, chocolate and chai tea obsessions. I don't know if I am losing years off the back end because of sleep loss, but I am certainly able to justify many other life-limiting habits when I am tired. For example, junk food. Coming home from gymnastics at the YMCA last night, I could think of many, many rational justifications for feeding myself and my two-year-olds hamburgers and french fries for dinner, including that I was too tired to think of anything else. What obesity crisis??

First, I have to say that toddler gymnastics is really cute, Ess and Gee have been basically cooperative and Cue has so far been an angel. I have now just jinxed myself and next weeks' class will be a complete disaster involving a screaming baby and several toddler meltdowns. But, given the exhausting process of getting all three of them into and out of any place, dinner fell through the cracks. I stopped for burgers, put my big, delicious bag of junk on the front seat and promptly had to slam on the brakes when I barely noticed a stop sign in time for the requisite stop. I watched in sad slow motion as the bag flew from the front seat and landed upside down on the floor, spilling french fries and nuggets into the mess of trash and wet shoe junk. I then had to take a moment to mourn. I then had to take several moments to scoop it all back into the bag. I freely admit that it took me no time at all to get over it and when we got home I happily fed them fuzz covered french fries and nuggets. I did feel a little guilt that my burger was spared by the wrapping. They found it lip smacking good, fuzz and all, but recall that Gee will eat other children's cookie crumbs off of public floors and I caught the tail-end of Ess eating something unidentified off the floor of the Y gym as we left. So, let's just say their discriminating taste is still under development.

Now, I should say good night. It's after 9, the vampire temporarily sleeps and, ironically, I am wasting precious sleep time complaining about being tired!