Then, on the first full day of parenting the children, he took them camping. They got to the campground 15 minutes from our house in the early afternoon. They climbed willow trees, rode bikes, roasted marshmallows over an open fire that only claimed one wayward sock, ate Little Ceasar’s pizza, and were sound asleep by 7 pm.

I asked what he had planned for breakfast and he said they’d be home early.

This morning before I left, Tom and I were, uh, indisposed. Actually, he was amorous, and I was acquiescent despite my growing whale-like proportions for the aforementioned reasons (helping around the house really is sexy). Susan and Spot were playing legos in their room and Sally would be home from school at any moment. (It was her last day so she had an important hour-and-a-half of education before summer officially began).

Suddenly our locked door started rattling. Sally was home, and asking if Daddy was still asleep. (I had told her she would probably be home before he even woke up, and that I’d probably be gone by then). I said, “Yes he’s still asleep, go play with your sisters.”

She persisted. I insisted he was still asleep and she should go play with her sisters.

Finally she gave up and we were able to concentrate. Afterward, I asked her if she didn’t remember that talk we had a few months ago, about how if mommy and daddy’s door is locked, you don’t want to come in anyway. And she said,

“Well I knew you weren’t doing that.”

And how did she know that?

“Because you already have one.”

“One what”?

“A baby in your tummy.”

—–

When I could speak again, I told her that we still love each other and that married people sometimes do that for no other reason.

*Yet another reason I need an iPhone, so I can take pictures like Steph’s, on the go.

Me: You maybe want to wait until you have a husband to do that.

Susan: {chortling} Daddy’s my husband!

——

*I don’t think I knew at five that you had to “try” to get pregnant.
**We had The Talk with Sally a couple weeks ago; I didn’t think Susan was ready, but maybe I was wrong.

I’ll be the first to admit that all children can be quite problematic under the right circumstances (three hours of church being a prime example), but I took exception to three of the kids thusly labeled. All boys, they were also all willing and enthusiastic participants in the roadshow that Chrysanthemum directed and I scripted.

Have you ever been in charge of a church theatrical production? Turns out most people would rather postpone a desperately needed root canal (it’s the pain beforehand that slaughters sanity, not the root canal itself = never fear appropriate dental work) than sing and dance in a silly fifteen-minute patriotic skit that entails simples costumes, props, and the occasional rehearsal.

And while we’re on the subject of the roadshow as Mormon phenomenon, I’d like to point out that you can have either a family-friendly, low-key production that encourages comraderie and embodies the “wholesome recreational activities” thing, OR you can have a Broadway-ready American Idol-themed showpiece with imported dancers, expensive wardrobes and elaborate sets, and high-strung directors that inspire parents to withdraw their children, but not both. — And that if you as a stake activities committee ask for the former and then privately and posthumously wish that every ward had followed the latter’s example, you’re not going to make many friends. (But I’m not bitter.) (And American Idol is a great idea for a roadshow skit.)

Anyway, I stood up to my fellow church ladies of the primary with a “Don’t you bad talk my roadshow boys. Nobody puts baby in a corner.”

Then yesterday afternoon, a little boy from two houses down knocked on my door. We’ll call him Tommy, and note that he is apparently a bit of a challenge sometimes and that he also has gorgeous shocking blue eyes and those long eyelashes that always seem to go to the boys in the family. He’s seven. And he sang his heart out in our roadshow, bless his heart.

He knocked, holding a serious-looking shovel and an open bag of rock salt. He asked if he could shovel my driveway. I hesitated. He said he did a really good job on his own driveway, I could take a look at it, and he would like to shovel mine too. I asked him how much he charged and he looked surprised, confused.

Sally and Susan and Spot were huddled around me at the door. “What do you want to get paid for the job?” Blank stare. “How much do you want us to pay you for doing it?” “Oh,” he said, finally. Thought about it, considered. “Twenty cents?”

Sally said should give him more than that — like fifty cents at least. I was feeling generous, so after half an hour of hard work we slipped him a big one.

Finding two (2!) whole bananas in the trashcan. Normally I would just pick them out, but they were peeled, and sitting directly on top of a clump of kitty litter, which Spot apparently carried over from the litter box oh-so-helpfully, in the slotted shovel (get it? It’s slotted so you only scoop the dirty litter) across the living room, across the dining room, across the kitchen.

Yet another make-your-life-with-pets-easier invention I could do with out.

(More on why I caved about getting a pet in the first place, later.)

Dangerous pigs from Australia are coming here to give us a disease. Never go to Australia. If your teacher takes a field trip to Australia, Ali, don’t go on it. Pigs want to give it to people…on purpose. If you don’t want the disease you have to wash your hands every day. If you get sick you have to get a shot before three days or you will die. When my teacher told me this tears came down my eyes because I was so scared. They’re coming today, tomorrow or the next day. Are you scared?

(I stole this from my sister, as her blog is private, and wouldn’t we feel really bad if keeping this information to ourselves endangered all our Australia-bound loved ones?)

I wish I could attribute the following pictures, but they have gone so viral (especially the first) that I have gotten them on Facebook and Twitter and email and if you have not seen them, you should probably turn in your internet connection.

Rachel is the same age as my Susan (4) and Jacob is the same age as my Spot (2). Rachel is the most placid kid I’ve ever met. Even in the minivan, where she’s exiled to the lonely middle seat while the others ride in the back and watch the movie, Rachel is content.

But Jacob is another story. That boy is not quiet or incurious or eagerly agreeable, if you know what I’m saying.

Things are fine on Tuesdays and Thursday mornings though, when Sally is busy negotiating the social structures of the second grade.

On a fine Saturday morning, however, when we are babysitting while Chrysanthemum and her husband dress rehearse for the church Christmas program, it’s a whole new dynamic.

(And it’s almost enough to make me wish I were at bit more musically inclined.)

Sally is used to being the leader of the little people. She objects to being lumped in with “the kids,” but she condescends to being known as the leader of the little people, despite my sweet mother-in-law’s objection that this might be offensive to the persons in TLC’s Little People, Big World reality TV show.

(I think if you’re willing to be filmed for a reality TV show, you probably won’t get your knickers in a twist over a seven-year old calling her sisters “little people”). (Because reality show stars are big-hearted like that).

This morning Susan shared her paints with Jacob, who refreshed his muddy water at a rate consistent with his fascination for the water that comes out of the door of the fridge. Spot did some hard time in the laundry room after slapping Rachel for breathing on her dolly stroller, and Sally decided, after repeatedly expressing her gratitude, loudly, for not having any brothers, that the fort in the loft is now a Girls Club.

Dick objected.

Dick is, after all, male. Also, his ears were being pierced by the screams emitting from the other male person in the room.

Sally said she would make a separate Boys Club for whenever Jacob is over to play.

This satisfied no one but Sally, Susan, Spot, Rachel, and me. Which is to say that it satisfied everyone but the two male persons who found that to be rather discriminatory. Or, in other words, the screaming from the short male person was not stopped by Sally’s campaign promises of equal facilities and equal opportunities for hiding from the grown-ups.

And I guess I can’t blame Jacob. It probably wouldn’t be any fun to hide out in a Boys Club by yourself. For one thing, one of the main components of a club is the other members, so how could a club of one be even remotely equal to a club of four?

I thought about taking Sally aside for a quick rundown on Civil Rights, beginning with the War Between the States and Brown v. Board of Education and continuing on to Rosa Parks and Caroline Kennedy, who deserves that senate seat even if her husband didn’t cheat on her because DANG she wears pearls well.

But by the time I had prepared to fight this threat to justice everywhere, Jacob had agreed to Sally’s suggestion that they go string bracelets from the plastic bead collection.

Because, you see, there are no girl toys and boy toys, no Girls Club and Boys Club. Only love and harmony and SHARING, at our house.

My homemade macaroni and cheese is legendary, thanks to Betty Crocker (the Worcestershire sauce is very important, and the sharper the cheese the better).

But certain short people prefer the orange kind. Only, it won’t be very orange, WILL IT, if you use the calcium-rich powder to season the couch.

Jane

Happy Wordless Wednesday!

Mama Bear, on the other hand, is shown as the fount of all wisdom and motherly goodness, which I have no problem with, in theory. But her Politeness Plan goes against everything learned from behavior modification studies, being a system of punishments for bad manners with no reward for good manners. (Good manners are their own reward.)

So it’s no surprise that a sound Theory of Teaching Manners is based not on the parental units, but on the actions of Brother and Sister Bear, who scheme to subvert the Politeness Plan by being overly polite, hoping this will irritate Mama into scrapping it altogether. Instead, as Brother and Sister enjoy the happier, sunnier, all-around celestial harmony that is greater politeness, they gradually forget to be overly polite, and, of course, the over-politeness never bothered Mama in the first place.

Game Plan: Overly Polite

It’s really quite easy to teach manners. Simply model good language. For example:

“Please, Sally dearest, say May I have a glass of milk, Mommy dearest? or you won’t get anything to drink all day.”

or

“Please, Susan dearest, put your freakin’ boots in the closet right this second or I’m throwing them away.”

or

“Please, Spot dearest, sit your tookey down before I come whack it so hard.”

Simple.

Take it to the Next Level: Thank You

After you’ve taught your kids to say “please, xxxx dearest,” you’re ready to move on to possibly the most important phrase in any language: Thank you. Learning and using “thank you” in a foreign country is the best thing you can do to promote cross-cultural understanding and world peace. That and “I’m sorry”/”Excuse me”/”I’m just a clumsy tourist; please don’t judge all Americans by my cluelessness.” In Japan, for example, we used “sumimasen” liberally, to great effect.

Imitation: the Easiest Form of Parental Abuse

The Overly Polite Politeness Plan is highly effective. Sally, Susan, and Spot now often say “Please, Mommy dearest.” However, we’re still working on the “Thank you, Mommy dearest.” Here’s how it comes out as of today:

Sally (7): “Thank you, Mommy dearest” (snark, smirk, eye roll).

Susan (3): “Gank you, Mommy dearest” (sweet smile, syrupy singsong).

Spot (1): “dat do” (get the video camera: SPOT CAN TALK!).

Teaching manners by the book is what works for me this week. Head over to Shannon’s for the most amazing list of every tip you ever needed, and many you never could have imagined.

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