With our two kids, ages 6 & almost-from-hell, you really really really you just have to believe me on this one really do not want to tell them in advance when they’re getting shots.

Why?

Because they will jump out of the car when it is going 60 miles an hour just to avoid that shot. (more…)

Hockey God, just now at the dinner table: “…because if that’s the way it’s going to be, then no effin’ way.”

Wacky Girl, helpfully: “Fuckin’. No fuckin’ way?”

Hockey God, chagrined: “Jesus.”

Kids really do say the effin’ darndest things!

I love this. I love this so much that I’m going to watch this clip each and every time I have a tough day. He is giving the keynote address to some 20,000-plus educators and fans for the Dallas Independent School District.

Dalton, thank you.

My kids now call all their stuff — ie, various trikes, Big Wheels, scooters, bikes, wagons, etc. — their “vehicles.” Very official.

As in: “We spent the evening riding our vehicles with the Nekkid Neighbors.”

That was quoted to me by one of my girlfriends at bunco. This friend had been gently chided by another friend for being too overprotective. I tend to be a little too protective here, I will admit, but mainly it’s because I was raised by wolves.

Although I survived — didn’t necessarily thrive, but survived — it’s always been important to me that my kids not have to experience the chaos I did as a kid. Some of it was unpreventable — it was the late ’60s and into the ’70s when I was growing up, everyone was over-reacting to the chilly childhoods they experienced in the ’50s, we were all, you know.

Peace, love and understanding.

Even if that meant turning your kids over to your freaky, stoned friends so they could “help” you.

“It takes a village to raise a child!”
— H. Clinton and others

Yeah, don’t I know it? So when people give me grief because I won’t turn my kids over to them (to stay the night, to go riding in cars with people I don’t know, to go to parties where drugs are being consumed), forgive me and kiss my foot, would you? These are my babies, my joy, my responsibility.

I ran wild in the streets as a child. I truly did. My kids will never know the joy and pain of that.

But this summer I’ve been trying to give my kids a little more freedom. My daughter, who turns nine next week, has been working some as a mother’s helper for our neighbors. I still don’t want to leave her home alone, but she’s readying herself for it. (We’re homebodies. She will never get to throw parties because her Dad and I are hitting the bars and she knows good and well we won’t be home much before 2:30 or 3.)

(If we get home at all.)

Anyway. They’ve both started helping out with more chores at home, and they get to stay up later. They get allowances, and we’re spending some time talking about community service, why their Dad and I do the work we do, what first- and fourth-grade will be like.

We’re working on crossing the street alone, riding bikes, riding skateboards, safety, safety, and fun, fun, too.

What are you comfortable with (and not) with your kids, at the ages they are at? Why?

You need to know more about the rainforest? Go check with Nan’s kids.

My family lives in the Pacific Northwest. This makes us Yankees. My mom’s family lives in Arkansas, Tennessee and Lousiana, which makes them Not-Yankees. You can really tell when my son has been spending a lot of time with my ma and with his best friend N’s ma (who hails from Texas). He comes home with a hint of a drawl and putting together sentences in a whole new way.

So when his dad told him just now to go find some pajamas? Wacky Boy told him: “Why Daddy!” (not “Why, Daddy?” but “Why Daddy!”) “Why Daddy! You know I sleep in mah underwear!”

Awww. Just like his great-grandpa!

Just finished reading Sharon Creech’s “Love That Dog” aloud to the kids. Wacky Girl had to take over when I started crying.

Have added “Love That Dog” to list of books (“Charlotte’s Web,” “The Yearling,” uh, “Bambi”) that I will not be reading aloud to my students.

Also I think I will skip “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret” and “Then Again Maybe I Won’t.” My sixth-grade teacher, Mr. Bell, bravely read both to us. I am not the man he was. Also, no “Wifey.” You’ve got to have some boundaries when reading aloud to students. “The English Patient”? Nope. Anything by Anais Nin? Nopey-nope.

No to “A Day No Pigs Would Die.” Ditto, “The Pigman.” Basically, no pigs. Nothing with “pig” in the title, nothing with a pig theme. Because even though Wilbur lives in “Charlotte’s Web,” it is not exactly a happy ending now, is it? Contrary to what my daughter would tell you.

Today’s books:

And:

And even more…:

Naw, it’s not really raining over here, just figuratively. I have a throwing-up kid, dear little Wacky Boy. Fever? Yes. Fever? No. Throwing up still? Yes. Then no. Then we’re better. Then we’re not.

Gotta blame it on something. And… Wacky Mommy out.

Edited to say:

“Why can’t I go to someone’s house? I’m not throwing up at the moment.”

That is classic 6-year-old logic for you.

Also:

“Shark Week isn’t on? Why do they call it ‘Shark Week’ if it doesn’t start ’til seven tonight? Huh?”

Discovery Channel, don’t mess with us.

Edited at 2 o’clock to say: Argh. He locked me out of the house!!!! I ran across the street to say hey to our old friend, who’s working in the neighborhood this week. Then came back to a locked front door. Outwitted!

me: Little pig, little pig, let me come in! (My friend is across the street, busting up. I’m thinking — aiiiiiiiiiiii…)
Wacky Boy: NO! (finally relents, unlocks lock. and pulls stool over to unlock deadbolt. Nice!)
me: Don’t lock me out again.
Wacky Boy, dismissively: Well. It’s your own fault for not taking your keys. (Next breath…) It is not FAIR that my sister gets to play at a friend’s house and I don’t. I’m not even SICK anymore.
me: (deep breath.)

Heh heh heh. Just got a note from one of the producers at Oregon Public Broadcasting about… “those moments people have in public when they decide to confront a stranger about behavior they find objectionable. I figure this is something that happens to parents at least once or twice in their parenting careers and thought you might have some interesting stories to share about either being scolded or doing the scolding. (more…)