Penguins at the Feeder

All kids say cute things and mine are no exception. I've been told "write them down" more times than I can shake a stick at. Being someone who likes to write, I ponder this advice.

Where? is the first question. I'm not a scrapbooker. I think scrapbooks are neat if you're into that kind of thing, but I'm not. And I'm not going to get into scrapbooking- it'd be another expensive unfinished project category that I'd need to store somewhere. Between my knitting and my quilting I have plenty of that. Besides, I don't have that sort of eye- it's just not my thing.

Why? is the second question. The obvious answer is so that I don't forget. I'm sure I'll forget some things. The other day Ted was wearing just a t-shirt and a pair of underpants. He and Henry were discussing the location of something and Henry queried of Ted, ""In pocket?" Ted responded, "No, Henry, I don't have pockets in these underpants." I laughed at the time and smiled rewriting it here; next week it likely will be a distant memory. If I wrote it down would it be a diary for myself? Perhaps something to read when they're 15 and 17 and driving me crazy?

I don't write a diary. I tried keeping one and didn't like it. Writing here is different because I don't keep a schedule and don't feel obligated. If I get to the point where I feel done I can simply delete the whole blog- there will be no books to discard or for my kids to worry about.

I also like the idea that my memories are not cataloged, not confined rigidly to a book. It seems more natural and right to me- Ted went through a phase where all birds were "chickens." We'd go to the zoo and he'd point excitedly at the flamingos and shout "Chickens, mommy!" There were chickens at the bird feeder and on the wires next to the highway. I realized the other day that Henry's doing the same thing. We were looking at a book of animals and there was a picture of a peacock; Henry excitedly exclaimed, "Penguin!" Since then I have found that there are penguins in our trees and at the pond nearby.

In the future I may confuse who was "chickens" and who was "penguins," but does it really matter? I think I'd rather let my memories be my memories, foggy though they may become.

Besides, it will give Nate and me something to correct each other on when we're older.

And I'm Back

I'm not crabby any more.

I'll post again soon.

I get mad sometimes- I have a pretty quick temper, truth be told, but I'm disinclined to hold grudges.

So I'm not pouting any more and will probably turn out another entry within the week.

It was a tough afternoon though, so tonight I have a date with the couch and my knitting.

Ah, my knitting. Unfortunately, my husband is a man of very simple tastes. I am knitting him a sweater vest and so my knitting will consist of knit on the right side, purl on the wrong. Heaven forbid we have something outlandish, like a cable or some colorwork.

Knit on the right side, purl on the wrong side. In brown no less. Not aubergine or celadon. Perhaps if I came up with a more romantic name for "brown" it would make it seem more interesting. The good news is that he will wear it a lot, simply because I made it for him. It won't take long to make either because it's so simple, so even though boring at least it won't be long and boring.

So I'm off to the couch to knit a sweater vest in "Grizzly." (Did that sound more interesting than "brown?")

And She's Outta Here

I'm taking a break.

I enjoy writing. I really do. I'll miss it.

But I haven't been writing much lately. I think about it. I formulate entries in my head and don't post them.

I didn't realize when I first started writing how much critical analysis would follow- not just of my writing, but also of my parenting.

It is the fate of my children to have me as a parent. I'm not perfect, but I'm happy with my life; I'm happy (for the most part) with myself.

My kids aren't going to have a million friends through my social contacts.

I'm not perky.

My house is badly decorated and cluttered.

I don't see the need for kids to be taking four different kinds of lessons at the age of 3.

I think that tv is over-rated and most programs are garbage. I think that many books are too.

To me, a day spent at the park is a day well spent and a trip to the grocery store can be just as educational (and more practical) than a trip to many museums.

Play groups make me anxious- they feel like first dates and no one ever calls for a second date. I'm just not that great at small talk. I never have been and I never will be. I'm ok with this for the most part but people telling me that I need to go out and make more friends so that the kids have more social exposure is, frankly, unhelpful advice. Would I like to have more friends? Sure I would. But I would have answered that question the same way just about every year of my life.

I really am doing the best I can as a parent, but there are basic things about my nature that make it impossible to transform myself into Donna Reed, June Cleaver or Claire Huxtable. I'm just not any of those people. My kids are going to have me as their parent, for good or for bad. I've tried many times to be someone I'm not because it seemed that other people were unhappy with who I am and the bottom line is that it doesn't work, it only makes me miserable.

Writing down the anecdotes has invited criticism of all kinds and it just isn't fun any more. I don't post because I don't want the inevitable phone calls and emails. So I'm taking a break.

I posted another entry this morning, one that had been sitting half-finished for a month or more. It'll be my last one for a while.

The Police Officer's Wife

I am a police officer's wife.

Most people have an emotional response to that. The response ranges from empathy to distrust, from compassion to even a little fear.

Sometimes current events evoke a response; such has happened recently.

About a month ago a suspect shot and killed three police officers outside of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. The suspect appeared to have no particular beef with the officers who responded to the call to 911; other than his killing the officers, he'd had no contact with them.

News such as this always makes me grateful that my husband is as careful as he is. It makes me appreciate my friends, some of whom offer their thanks when such news makes headlines. Although my husband had no connection to the Pittsburgh incident, we know that it's a possibility that he may be tomorrow's news story.

I don't often think about that aspect of his job. It is typical that an incident such as Pittsburgh's is random- it happens in response to a simple traffic stop, or while answering a routine call. Since it is so random, thinking about it serves no purpose- the chances are real but slim and I can't let them consume me.

When I was pregnant with Ted I was still working as a police legal adviser for the department he works for. When there was an officer-involved shooting, one of my tasks was to go to the scene and report back to my office- our office was eventually the office that would be representing the city in any subsequent lawsuit. When I was about 4 months along I was called to the scene of an officer-involved shooting.

The shooting happened in the district my husband patrols, during a preceding shift. The suspect was a paranoid schizophrenic who had the belief that police officers were actually space aliens who were going to steal his body. In a previous encounter with a different police department he'd blown his hands off with a hand grenade in an attempt to thwart the "alien." That police officer, a West Virginia state trooper, had saved the suspect's life.

In this incident the officer was responding to a domestic disturbance. The suspect was armed with a WWII era long gun loaded with armor-piercing rounds. The responding officer received a career-ending injury when a round penetrated his torso, just below his vest. The suspect fired several times but was eventually shot to death by the officers who responded. The primary officer involved was in the hospital for many weeks and returned to the job only for a short time- his injuries made it uncomfortable to wear his gear, even after a year of recovery.

Officers' wives pull together under such circumstances. I was one of many who made two meals for the family- we had a schedule that we followed so that they weren't inundated with too much food at once. I'd never met her before, but I knew that it could have as easily been me to get that phone call we all occasionally think about getting. The officer had done nothing wrong. He hadn't been sloppy. He was a good officer with a good reputation who was doing his job the way he was trained to do it. It happened anyway.

My husband and I have an agreement. If he's going to be more than a half-hour late getting home from work he calls me and lets me know. More than a half-hour late and I start to worry that I'm going to get that phone call. I think that maybe he's at the hospital and no one's thought to call me yet. I start to get anxious.

How he leaves for work every night is routine to the point of superstitious: He kisses me good night and tells me he loves me, I tell him I love him too. I tell him "Have a good night" and he walks down the hall and whispers at our children's doors that he loves each of them before heading downstairs and out the door. I have to tell him to have a good night. It's for me- he hasn't asked me to do it, but I feel like something's wrong if I say something different. He has his ritual, I have mine.

Every night for a fleeting moment just after he kisses me goodnight there lingers the the shadow of the prospect of getting that phone call. I expect that other officer's wives feel the same way when they see their husbands walk out the door.

People sometimes tell me that they couldn't do what I do- live with that specter. But I love my husband. He's been a police officer for his whole adult life. It's what he does. I don't want to change him- he's good at his job and those rare occasions when he gets to truly help someone he's reminded why he does it. When he tells me those stories he positively *sparkles*.

I don't think I do anything special just by being married to my husband. I'm happy with my life and I think I have it pretty good. As long as I never get that call.

The Trouble with PBS

When the thorny subject of television comes up, that is how much and what type of television I allow my children to watch, it is often assumed that I only allow my kids to watch programs on PBS. My kids aren't interested in Sesame Street- they are Elmo impervious, so that's not an option.

The truth is that I don't like most of the PBS programs. Everything has a message- that is true with most kids' programming from what I can tell, but the messages that I often encounter on the PBS programs are messages I don't agree with. The episodes are too watered-down, too politically correct, too sissified I guess. When I explain this, I am met with raised eyebrows.

We just came back from vacation. Normally, I let the kids watch a couple of programs on Noggin or Discovery Kids but neither channel was available, so we watched a little PBS while we were there. I took note of one of the episodes so that I could give an example of what kind of message I take issue with.

The episode was a re-make of The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

The original goes something like this: A boy is charged with watching the prized sheep for a village in the mountains. He is lonely and bored with this task and at one point calls out that there is a wolf threatening the flock. The villagers all come running to help and discover that there is no wolf. The boy is chastised, but the excitement has given him some relief to the boredom. Despite his instructions to not "cry wolf," he does so again, purely for his own amusement. The villagers again come. The boy is again warned. The third time he cries "wolf" there really is a wolf, but the villagers do not believe him. The wolf decimates the flock of sheep. The message is that the alarm should have only been sounded when the threat was actual; sometimes one has to put the needs of the village above one's own amusement.

I don't think there's anything wrong with this story. I think the message is an important one. (And yes, I understand that the wolf is probably unfairly villianized in the original version.)

The PBS program version goes like this.

A boy makes friends with a wolf. He cries "wolf" so that the townsfolk can come and meet his new friend. The wolf has gone off to the bathroom when the townsfolk come. The townsfolk leave before the wolf returns. The boy and the wolf throw a party for the townsfolk so that they can meet the wolf. When the townsfolk arrive the wolf has gone off to retrieve a ball and so the townsfolk don't believe the boy that there really is a wolf. The boy tells the townsfolk that it "makes him feel bad that the people don't believe him. It hurts his feelings and they should trust him." The townsfolk agree and await the return of the wolf. The wolf returns and they all have a party. The townsfolk apologize to the boy for not believing him and hurting his feelings.

In the PBS version we were supposed to find the "super word" from the story. The word had 5 letters, among them were T R U _ _. I was convinced that the "super word" was going to be T R U T H because it was so important to tell the truth. I was wrong- the "super word" was T R U S T because the townsfolk should have trusted the boy.

The program that followed had the message that if you should be unfortunate enough to win some kind of physical challenge such as a race or contest of strength your first thought should not be one of personal pride, but rather of how to make the losers of the contest feel better about themselves. There was even a song to help drive this message home.

Not all of the programs are as offensive to me as the two highlighted above, but there is enough of that type of programming that I am disinclined to turn on PBS for my kids to watch. My kids watch the programs that I can deal with. If it's too annoying for me, they don't get to watch it.

They don't watch what I consider to be a lot of television, but I do use it as a tool to change moods or distract or to give myself a break during the day. I truly wish there was better programing out there for the kids. I don't find it on PBS. Life is hard and you don't always get to win. Sometimes you have to do things that are boring, difficult or painful. Not everyone will be nice all of the time. I give my kids a lot of positive reinforcement, but I don't think that I'd be doing them any favors if I set themselves up to believe that life was going to be rainbows and ponies all the time.

That's my trouble with PBS.

Potty Training- Dante's Forgotten Circle

We finally got through Dante's Forgotten Circle of Hell- potty training the stubborn pre-schooler. I knew that timing was going to be pivotal with Ted- pushing him too early was simply going to make him intractable and it's not as though one can actually force a child to produce. My bigger problem, however, was going to be Henry.

Henry is a force of nature. He is part hurricane, part tornado, part earthquake and part flood. Leaving Henry alone while giving Ted the time and attention that potty training was going to demand was something I occasionally contemplated and I saw no solution to. I was disinclined to involve family due to the scope of the favor I'd be asking. Henry is tiring. Asking someone to come and watch him for 3-4 days while I worked with Ted seemed a monumental favor.

Then opportunity knocked.

Henry turned 2 on February 12. He received a train set and one of the engines from the "Thomas and Friends" tv series- "Henry." Henry the train is a fine, green engine with a smiling face and a coal tender. Ted coveted Henry the train. Ted would take the engine from Henry and I'd give it back. Ted would take it again and again and again. I'd give it back. Finally I said, "You know what, Ted? If you poop in the potty, I'll take you to the store and you can pick out whichever engine you want."

Henry, upon hearing this, jumped to his feet, marched upstairs and pooped in the potty.

The next day, February 14, I put them both in underpants and didn't look back.

Ted's totally potty trained and about 2 weeks into the process he decided he wanted underpants at night instead of a Pull-Up- he's been completely dry at night. Henry got an ear infection and went on antibiotics. Any mom who's had a child on antibiotics knows what that can do to a child's digestive system and I'll just say that I was glad we went back to diapers for him. He'll probably train again this summer- I'm not worried about Henry. Henry will do it on his own, when he's ready. Henry's a force of nature.

The Battle of the Fish

Sibling rivalry has begun.

We have gotten little glimpses of it, but the events of Wednesday evening were a very clear picture of what we have in store.

On Wednesday evening Nate and I had errands to run. I wanted to go to World Market to pick up some dishes for Thanksgiving; Nate needed new thermals from Dick's. The stores are next to each other, so we each took a kid and went our separate ways. I took Ted because Henry + fragile sparkly things = disaster but Ted is much more cautious and respectful. While we were there, Ted fell in love with a fish. The fish is a bright plastic clown fish with a green worm-on-a-string at his mouth and when you pull on the worm, the fish's tail flaps back and forth. "He's wagging his tail, Mommy!" I heard over and over while my dishes were being wrapped.

Nate caught up to me and we all got in the car. I'd purchased the fish for Ted and hadn't thought to get anything for Henry. (I thought that Nate, upon seeing Ted with the fish would divine that I expected him to let Henry pick something out too. We don't normally let the kids pick something out just for going along, but I was feeling indulgent.)

The whole way home Ted flapped the fish's tail. "He's wagging his tail, Mommy!" Henry grew more and more desperate in the adjacent car seat. Two-thirds of the way home he was weeping "FSH FSH FSH" and pointing to the toy.

When we got home I needed to make dinner, a task much more easily accomplished without monkeys trying to climb up my leg, so we sequestered the kids. I convinced Ted to let Henry have a turn with the "fsh" while Ted watched a video in his room. This involved a couple of tears, but the toy was surrendered without huge amounts of protest and I took the fish to Henry, still crying with grief in the family room.

Henry giggled and cooed at the fish. He pulled the worm and watched the tail flap. "FSH!" When he'd thoroughly examined it, he went up the stairs to Ted's room.

He opened the door, brandished it at Ted and took off running down the hall. Ted was in hot pursuit, "Give it back, Henry!" Henry, realizing that Ted was gaining on him, threw the fish down the stairs, giving me the opportunity to pick it up and squirrel it in a closet.

Henry often surprises up with his resourcefulness and cheek. Considering that he's not even two yet, we expect we will have many Henry stories to tell as the years pass.