Lemonade Life Lessons

K.,

Jamie has been hounding us this summer to open a lemonade stand. I always groan, discreetly roll my eyes and ask in return: “Do you know how much effort a lemonade stand takes? Do you have lemonade? Do you have a stand? Do you have a sign?” Of course the details do not faze Jamie; “Sooo… can we open up a lemonade stand?” I exhale slowly and pretend I don’t hear him. In some ways I am a hardworking mom, yet a lemonade stand reeks of effort and the thought of it makes me want to take a nap.

My Better Half last week decided that a lemonade stand was just the thing to do. Why didn’t I think of that before? Lemonade stand? Go ask your father. He set the boys up with all the sign making materials and supervised the lettering and painting.

Safety First.

Seeing all this hard work, I went and took a nap. Once the sign was complete, the boys decided that our red wagon with one of the rails removed would make a good stand. They could roll Headquarters directly to the action and keep business mobile– a low-rent food truck. The engineers figured out a clever attachment system for the sign, so all that was left was procuring their product. I was making a run to the grocery store, so we all climbed into the car to shop together. While I was finding my food items, Jamie, Kai and Leo tracked down ice, cups, and frozen lemonade concentrate. Once we had checked out, we discovered one of the frozen concentrates was a much higher-priced organic. Let me tell you, Jamie received a stern lecture in Aisle 5 about dwindling profit margins. My Better Half scanned the boys’ initial investment and estimated they owed him $8 from their first sales before they’d make a profit. (It was probably closer to a $12 investment, but Jamie was lucky his investor has a soft spot and is no good at math.) Feeling guilty about my lack of commitment to Jamie’s first foray into capitalism, I offered to make the lemonade, and as luck would have it, our sole Tupperware juice container was clean.

Before I knew it, the boys were all set up and ready for business at the end of our driveway. No business, however small and childish, is ever free of drama, is it? Just as the boys were putting the finishing touches on their stand, an 8 year old neighborhood friend appeared from around our house. Jamie claimed afterward that he offered a position to eager, young “Owen”. From my vantage point at the kitchen window, however, Owen executed a business coup even a B-School MBA would have called underhanded. I see a big future for Owen when he writes his best-seller: “Making Money the Fast & Easy Way: How to cash in on someone else’s good idea and hard work.”

Owen is standing just outside the photo. He’s already aware to avoid creating evidence for any potential litigation.

The four boys now positioned themselves at the end of our driveway, a veritable wasteland of lemonade drinkers. Ever the optimist and champion of small children and their big dreams, I predicted no sales on our small, residential circle. Had they done any market research? Where did they expect clientele to come from?  It was a slow Sunday and I hadn’t seen a car or even a person pass in front of our house in at least an hour. Yet, like ants to a picnic, thirsty lemonade drinkers began to drift over. Most of the sales came from kind neighbors with small children who had seen the new enterprise from their windows. They strolled to our driveway for a 25¢ Dixie cup of lemonade. Jamie quickly realized he had difficulty pouring lemonade from our large, unwieldy Tupperware container, so he happily appointed Owen the Official Pour-er and he himself became Head of Cups and Ice Cubes. After surprisingly brisk sales, the four small entrepreneurs decided to relocate to a busier street nearby. More sales followed, including a grandmother who drove by, turned around, bought a cup of lemonade, and took a picture of the boys to inspire her three year old granddaughter. Apparently the little girl’s work ethic is lacking. Another customer asked Jamie if he was saving up for something special? No, I need to pay my dad $8 for the lemonade and cups. The customer looked a little crestfallen that his pity cup of lemonade was actually going to line the pockets of a mercenary father who wouldn’t even float the start-up costs of his kids’ lemonade stand.

At the end of their first afternoon selling, it became quite awkward; Owen expected to be paid for his effort. Since Jamie had only netted $4 and Owen’s own mother had scolded him that he was not to be paid, I encouraged Jamie not to give away half of his profit. “I don’t know Jamie, it doesn’t seem fair. It’s been your idea all summer to start a lemonade stand. You spent all morning making your sign. You went to the grocery store. You bought all the materials. What would the Little Red Hen say? Owen shows up at the fun part and kind of took advantage of your effort. “ (Yes, Curmudgeon is my middle name.) Sweet Jamie insisted on sharing the wealth and paid Owen $1. “He’s 8 and can pour a lot better than I can!”

The boys set up the stand again the next afternoon and made a little more money. Starting to feel flush with cash, something needed to be done. You know where this is going, right? Can we go to the store? We want to spend our money! And what did they want to buy?

Please note Leo’s camel colored Coach clutch.

Sugary drinks. They spent two days selling sugary lemonade to earn a few dollars to buy excessive amounts of Gatorade, a sippy cup with 17% juice and a Captain America head, and a small, pathetic bottle of toxic blue liquid.

Jamie: “This is the BEST DAY EVER!”

Lucky for the boys, we practice laissez faire economics in our home, so I let them decide with only the gentlest of coaching what they might buy.

I hope there has been some learning through this whole process, but I have no idea what life lessons the boys will take away from this experience. Hard work pays off? It takes a lot of effort to make money, that’s why we don’t waste it? Trust no one, especially 8 year old boys? Their mom is a lazy bum and they should go to their father when they want something done?

Ugh. All this writing has made me thirsty. I need to go find 3 ounces of lemonade somewhere.

A.

With Silver Bells and Cockle Shells

K.,

If you don’t mind, I’d like to share with you the ancient farming wisdom of my Irish forefathers who settled in mid-coast Maine during the mid-1700s. Are you ready? You might want to get a pad of paper and a pencil. Don’t plant vegetable plants in pots. I don’t claim to be a master gardener, and I definitely don’t have a green thumb. In fact, I don’t know my petunias from my pansies. But whenever I try planting vegetables in a pot, the end result is laughable and sad. Seriously, my potted basil wouldn’t even make a single serving of tomato, basil, mozzarella salad, and the tomato plant in a pot has the same small green fruit from July.  I didn’t want to stare at it too hard for fear it might collapse under the pressure.

As kids we were goose-stepped to all sorts of compulsory 4H activities and classes, one of which was gardening. Every August we harvested our most impressive carrots and cucumbers and exhibited them in the 4H booth at the Union Fair. We then earned a few ribbons, and amazingly, a few dollars for our earnest, youthful efforts. At the time weeding and picking rocks out of our garden was a form of punishment, the summer sun beating down on our hunched backs. (My mom would weed in her bathing suit to improve her tan.) Now, however, I happily plant a garden in the spring and sit back in smug satisfaction while food explodes from the ground.

My Better Half and I plant modest gardens– just big enough to consistently supply us veggies to eat without slipping into RAGING HASSLE territory. What am I going to do with 14 cucumbers today?! Is cucumber cake a thing? Who’ll take a five gallon bucket of cherry tomatoes?? Please, anyone! When I show up at your house with a few veggies from our garden, I’m not actually trying to be a good guest. I’m off-loading food that might otherwise go to waste at our house. You’re welcome.

But back to my genetically ingrained agrarian knowledge. If you want to try Fancy Gardening, you can read the back of the seeds packets for recommended growing conditions. You can also go CRAZY trying to improve nitrogen levels, adding humus or loam, and introducing compost or manure. But really, the first and most critical step in successful vegetable gardening is finding a patch of dirt and scattering some seeds. The other day I discovered our only cucumber plant was so enterprising, it snaked it’s way through the chicken wire fence, behind the compost bin, and grown three massive cucumbers. Next to a litter of kittens.*

I’m approaching this parenting experiment with a similar philosophy. I try not to hover or overly constrain Jamie, Kai, or Leo. I encourage their interests, even when they deviate from mine, and even when it means Jamie brings his favorite stuffy to Pajama Day at school and is teased mercilessly for his 20″ Tinker Bell doll. The boys don’t know “girl colors” from “boy colors”. I hope I am giving them the same space and freedom enjoyed by the possessed tomato plant in the dirt patch beside our garage. And I hope that they will flourish for it.

My Pretty Maids all in a Row. (Monkey suit, helmets, and roller skates NOT required for bountiful garden. Surly children optional.)

-A.

*Not really.

Bookworm-in-Training

K.,

Jamie spent the past year attending Half-Day Kindergarten, specifically 8 am to 11 am, or even more precisely, FOR NOT *#^$-ing LONG ENOUGH! I’m sure most of their classroom time during the months of December through April was spent struggling into or out of their snow-pants and boots. Unsurprisingly, Jamie’s otherwise excellent elementary considers kindergarten a non-academic year. Well, duh, what kind of academics can you teach during the remaining 15 minutes? The teachers focus on basic gross and fine motor skills (pasting, cutting, holding a pencil, walking, talking, wiping one’s own bottom), as well as letters, numbers, and simple math. (So simple Mr. Ed could stomp it out.)

When My Better Half (hopefully!) finishes up his PhD sometime this fall, we’ve been browbeaten by Jamie to move back near his grandparents in “Nohio”. I’ve warned Jamie that his future first grade classmates in Nohio will have attended all-day kindergarten and are probably already reading. However, he finds this less motivating than the computer My Better Half has promised him when Jamie learns to read. (Side question for My Better Half: when has someone learned to read? After Hop on Pop or War and Peace?)

To earn that $50 Craigslist computer, Jamie and I have been working through a book called Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. Boy, do I wish it were one easy lesson. After a sporadic few months effort, we are on lesson 28. Yesterday it took him about ten minutes and both of us near to tears, but Jamie read: “An ant is fat. It can sit and eat.” With each lesson there is a simple sentence or two to read, followed by a cartoon depicting the content. The cartoon in this case was a fat ant sitting in a wooden chair eating an ice cream cone. Jamie struggled over each and every word, finally earning a peek at the cartoon. His first question was “…but where’s the can?”

I find this business of teaching someone to read perplexing. It comes very easily to some kids (Thomas, My Better Half, etc), and they essentially teach themselves before even starting primary school. Others, such as Jamie and myself, must actually be taught to read. I’ve realized that yelling at someone repeatedly to JUST SOUND IT OUT, DAMNIT! is not effective teaching. The 100 Easy Lessons book was created by two early literacy experts who realized that most parents have NO idea how to teach someone to read. Their book explains exactly when and what to say. The process is so prescribed in fact, someone could probably write a computer code to recite the parent’s prompts. But then the book would have to be titled “Have a Computer Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons, You Lousy Parent.” 

Jamie will learn to read well sooner or later, and if his genetics win out, he’ll quickly become addicted to engineering books, Clive Cussler novels, or historical romance– or some weird genre involving all three. Perhaps he’ll even write them.

Judging by penmanship, a future doctor!

-A.

Peas & Quiet

K.,

I have finally crawled out from under the pile of food refuse scattered about the dining table to write back to you. Based on that, can you guess one of my biggest meal-time complaints? You’re right, Jamie is constantly using his seafood fork to eat his salad!! And don’t get me started on how he insists on drinking from his champagne flute rather than his water glass. It’s truly insufferable. Oh, and the dump truck load of food waste littering the carpet under the boys’ chairs is a bit tiresome.

Actually, mealtimes have calmed down considerably in the last few months. To be sure, the boys manage to drop half their meal on the carpeting and proudly wear a bowl’s worth of soup on their faces, but otherwise my complaints are minimal. There are probably two reasons for the peace. See if you can spot one of them:

At the advanced age of 3.5, Kai and Leo still eat their meals restrained. And honestly, I don’t see them sitting in normal chairs without these booster seats any time soon. (Middle school, probably.) I’m a huge proponent of delaying as many milestones (e.g., big boy chairs, beds, and car seats), as possible. An immobile child is a happy child. More importantly, it’s a Happy Me.

The other reason for our quieter meals is due to a behavior Jamie picked up at Kindergarten. No, not nose-picking. Jamie raises his hand to talk! While My Better Half and I catch up on our day over dinner, Jamie bounces in his chair, waving his hand in the air, impatiently waiting for his turn to speak. We quickly finish our sentences and give Jamie an opportunity to talk, lest the whole hand-raising charade falls apart. Kai and Leo, ever observant of All Things Jamie, have immediately fallen in line. We never asked anyone to raise his hand for a turn to talk, but, gosh darn, we’ll abuse it.

One milestone that I’m pleased to leave behind is the parent-directed clean-up process. For years My Better Half and I would carefully scrub the boys’ hands and face with damp cotton square recycled from old t-shirts. The dirty rags would pile up by the sink, eventually migrating through the laundry, and reappear for the next scrubbing– each cycle turning greyer and more revolting. Our new clean-up involves unhooking the booster trays and prompting them such:

“You’re going to go wash your…? Your hands and…?”

“Hands and TOES!!”

“Okay, your hands, toes, and FACE! And you’re going to use…? Soap and…?”

“Soap and PEE!!”

“Okay. How about soap and water?”

While I’m not going to encourage washing with urine, their faces would at least be significantly cleaner than when they walked into the bathroom.

One lingering complaint, which I admit is minor, is with Jamie. He loves to eat with his fingers. He will have a full array of our nicest silverware, yet he’ll clutch a fork in his left hand and pick at his food with his fingers. Jamie, you are not a raccoon– though a raccoon eats more neatly than you do– USE YOUR FORK!! I shared my frustration with a friend. She told me when her son was young, he would take it a step further because he knew it pissed her off. He’d put his entire face in his plate of food and make loud Cookie Monster noises. I’ll demonstrate when we visit this weekend.

A.

The Magic of Christmas

K.,

What do you mean Santa is just a character in a story? We saw him at the Mall two weeks ago and he looked fantastic. Jamie, who believes in Santa so deeply and passionately, paced back and forth in front of Santa raising his hands to the heavens in baffled wonderment:“I can’t believe it. I mean, I just… I can’t believe it. This is AMAZING.” Jamie, believe it and tell Santa what you want for Christmas before he has to get back to work! He was so awestruck by meeting the actual Santa, he was almost paralyzed by the experience.

Santa was equally shocked by Jamie, Kai, and Leo

Perhaps when he’s older, we’ll have to give Jamie some contrived explanation that Mall Santas are the Real Santa’s helpers while Real Santa is busy finishing his toys before Christmas. But for this year, Jamie accepted that Santa took a day off from his work to fly down to New Hampshire to meet us at the Mall to discuss what Jamie would like for a present. (Pirate Ship with pirates.)

This deep and abiding love for Santa started with an off-hand comment in December by My Better Half when Jamie was two. “Santa is going to come and bring you some toys for Christmas!” That was pretty much all that was said, but two year old Jamie glommed onto that idea like a pit bull on a labradoodle. It quickly spiraled into a year-round infatuation. In the middle of the summer Jamie will ask us questions like: What is Santa doing with his time off? Has he started on the toys yet? Does he go on vacation? What kind of car does he drive? Does he have friends? Is Santa lonely? To be honest, life would be easier if Jamie didn’t believe in him as much or as often. We must maintain an elaborate ruse fraught with numerous pitfalls with very specific details to remember. If Jamie asks you, Santa drives a bright red Hyundai Sonata hatchback. (We saw him cruising around downtown in Strongsville, Ohio in October.)

Our ruse also involves a lot of lying. Jamie is obsessed with the idea of magic and receiving the gift of magic from Santa as a Christmas present. In a moment of parental desperation I told him that magic isn’t real and that it’s just pretend. Jamie quickly deduced that this was contradictory to the previous tales we told him of Santa, mass toy delivery, and the magic required to make all the world’s children happy Christmas morning. If magic is not real and I cannot receive it for Christmas, then how can Santa have magic? he asked us. Okay, so what I said was mostly true. Magic isn’t real except for Santa’s magic and he can’t share it with anyone else. Sorry, that’s how it works. Now stop asking me so many questions!!

It would be nice if Christmas were more like Thanksgiving– just a time to show love and appreciation without the gimme! gimme! gimme! and subterfuge. (I personally circumvent this reality by giving many handmade gifts– things that the recipients neither need nor want.)

You’re right, though, there is a lot of useful leveraging of Santa’s impending visit in the hope of better behavior. Christians who celebrate the birth of Christ don’t get to enjoy this emotional blackmail. We successfully correct Jamie, Kai, and Leo’s misbehavior for approximately two minutes when we ominously remind them: “Santa’s WATCHING! He sees you fighting right now!” Whereas, this threat falls flat: “Our Lord and Savior might not be born this year and save us from eternal damnation if you don’t stop shoving Legos up your nose!” It doesn’t exactly ring true. But, I do smell another Josh Groban Christmas hit.

A.

A Very Merry Birthday

K.,

Yesterday was My Better Half’s birthday and our 9th anniversary. He once again reminded me why I refer to him on our blog as “My Better Half” and not “My Lesser Half” or “My Merely Adequate Half” or most dramatically “My Biggest Mistake.” He reminded me why, in the words of my father to my husband on Father’s Day, he (My Better Half) is the best thing that’s ever happened to me. A little weird and creepy coming from my dad to my husband, but true nonetheless.

For My Better Half’s birthday, I sewed him a neck pillow (per his request), allowing him maximum ergonomic comfort and proper spinal alignment while I knee him in the ribs at 3 a.m. And for our anniversary I gave him a whetstone (again, per his request) because nothing says “I love and trust you” like a massive block for sharpening one’s knives.

For his anniversary present to me, My Better Half has been feverishly building us a new bed. He thoughtfully designed it around my inability to walk within six feet of a piece of furniture without stubbing my toe. The mattress overhangs a wooden platform by 3″ which overhangs the wooden base by 10″. To stub my toes on this bed will require true acrobatic contortions. Though don’t put it past me.

While My Better Half has been fashioning this bed, he’s also been prepping for Kai and Leo’s third birthday in a few weeks. He acquired a free wooden play-set from a local listserv. We live just close enough to the play-set’s original location for us to seriously consider hoisting it up and launching it to our house, log-toss-style. Ever responsible, My Better Half rented a truck and some itinerant workers and hauled it to our neighborhood to be reassembled.

Rent Us Hourly

Needless to say, the boys are thrilled by this early birthday present and new addition to our backyard. You’ll notice the kitchen window directly behind Kai’s head, so now I can parent from the comfort of the house. The set needs a few additional stabilizing bolts and the fireman’s pole to be installed, but I’m sure it’ll be ready just in time for the twin’s 3rd birthday and someone’s first visit to the ER.

Training for Mt. Everest

– A.

Downside

K.,

Kai and Leo have been enjoying great success at potty-training this spring and summer. They spend all their waking time in cotton training pants and usually wake up in the morning and from naps with dry diapers.

However, there’s a dark, seedy underbelly to potty-training. I mean, not literally. Poops generally make it into the potty and not on their underbellies, but there is a downside to a diaper-less existence.

This evening My Better Half was in our neighborhood’s small grocery store with Kai and Leo in their stroller. Out of nowhere Leo loudly announces: “Penis!” My Better Half looked over the stroller’s canopy to discover Leo had pulled aside his training undies and was fondling a jutting baby erection, the taut center strap of the stroller further accentuating the highly disturbing sight. “OH MY GOSH! PUT THAT AWAY!”, My Better Half frantically implored. Inspired by Leo, Kai began digging around in his own training pants. My Better Half hastily tried to stuff his sons’ privates back in their clothes.

I’m thrilled that Kai and Leo are becoming familiar with and more in control of their bodily functions, but not THAT familiar. Yeesh.

-A.

p.s. This post shall remain photo-less.

p.p.s. You’re welcome.

 

Finland Has It All

K.,
In answer to your question: how does it feel to be thousands of miles from my kids? I present you with this photo from our hotel…

Divine solitude.

My Better Half and I had a great time in Finland. Disregarding the seasonal alcoholism, the Finns have got their shit together.  Helsinki and the neighboring suburb of Espoo are overrun by bike paths and walking trails. Public transportation gets you everywhere. The food was delicious, the people were kind and absolutely fluent in English and happy to use it, and if the sun ever set at night, I didn’t see it.

We sauna-ed, biked, shopped, dined, slept, milled about on our schedule, and happily forgot for a few days that we are parents. After about a three hour stretch of not thinking about my kids, it was actually a shock to my system to realize: “Holy crap, we have three kids at home!” I was amazed to find out how easy it was to not think about Jamie, Kai, and Leo for days on end.

I’m sad to say, though, that the boys were inconsolable without us.

Sobbing into their bath.

Miserable to embark on a hike with their aunt and her new beau.

So very, very sad.

 

In fact, their tears made it nearly impossible for the paint to adhere to the wood of these birdhouses their grandfather hand-built this winter in anticipation of babysitting.

Finally missing the boys at the end of our trip, the homecoming was not exactly as I imagined. Jamie did joyfully run to me, yelling: “Mama! Mama! Mama!” Leo ran around me to get to his father, yelling: “Dada! Dada! Dada!” And Kai refused to leave his aunt’s new boyfriend’s lap or even look at us, angrily muttering: “No.” Later My Better Half reasoned that Kai, in his own complicated way, was showing us his frustration at our extended absence. At 11 pm that night, when Kai woke up crying, I finally got to hug him, but only because the aunt’s boyfriend had gone to bed.

The grandparents seemed to handle the 5 days of babysitting without too much stress. As we hugged them goodbye a few days later, they even showed willingness to do this kind of thing again. Great, how’s your July?

-A.

 

Let’s Get Physical

K.,

Your devotion to lap swimming reminds me of my devotion to complaining about running. In my quest to lose the last 10 pounds of baby weight, I have been compulsively running and working out since November, after two years of relatively focused exercising.

Nobody but me thinks I need to lose weight. Thankfully, My Better Half somehow seems to love me at whatever weight I top out at. As I waddled into the hospital ready to bust out Kai and Leo, I was a disturbing 194 pounds. At only 5′-5″, I’m sure there were a few European nations that were smaller than me. I looked like a cross between Honey Boo Boo’s mom and a manatee in a maxi dress. Oh my god, did I just write that? I’m so mean. My apologies to the manatee.

I’m very fortunate that my husband only wants me to be happy with my own weight and he will love me whatever size I am. But for me to be satisfied with myself, I need to be at my pre-children weight of 130. Nothing crazy, right? It’s not like I’m angling for Gisele’s job. The arrival of these boys has completely bulldozed my life, so reclaiming my body will help me feel like the Old Me.

What’s really frustrating about the exercise this time around is the effort to lose any weight is ten times what it’s been in the past. Losing poundage for our wedding? Like taking candy from a baby. Losing the weight after Jamie’s birth? Like taking candy from a toddler– just a few more tears. After Kai and Leo? Aside from giving birth to them, I’ve never worked harder or with more focus on anything, which is a sad commentary on my efforts in college and graduate school. With that intensity, you would think I’ve seen dramatic, thrilling results. Hello, Sports Illustrated? Yes, I’d love to be featured in the swimsuit issue. I’ve only lost TWO pounds since Christmas.

Maybe we should lay off the chili dogs?

I know in a flash you’ll be swimmin’ in the fast lane or runnin’ with the big dogs or whatever metaphor you crazy swimmers use, so keep up the good work. I’m going to try a paradigm shift and turn my work-outs upside down. Hopefully soon I’ll be sweatin’ to the oldies.

(photo courtesy of richardsimmons.com)

A.

Let’s Get the Potty Started!

K.,

My Better Half and I have started potty-training Kai and Leo, two boys who are quite content to soil their diapers rather than do their business in a plastic potty in the kitchen. We’re trying not to let this deter us.  Some milestone needs to be reached by their second birthday next week besides the ability to walk, right?!  They don’t talk yet, so we might as well focus on bowel control. It’s something for which Leo, in particular, seems to have no talent. It’s like that kid INVENTED pooping.

We routinely spend half an hour each morning with Leo diaperless in the kitchen, putting him on the potty, bribing him with chocolate chips, and throwing ticker tape parades if something should happen to land in the plastic bowl. Usually nothing happens, except a lot of excited pointing and exclamations of “Poop!” Yes, Leo, that’s where poop goes. How about you put one of your many daily poops in it? “No,” he informs us, as he flees bare-bottomed into the carpeted living room. Thus, with great resignation and trepidation, we diaper him. Moments later he, you guessed it, poops.

Kai is a bit more wily. To great fanfare and treats he accidentally pooped once in the potty, but he usually won’t sit on it long enough to reproduce those first heady results. He will, however, produce three molecules of pee to earn a few chocolate chips. He will never ask to sit on the potty to avoid peeing in his diaper, but when given an opportunity to receive a bribe, Kai can manage a wee wee-wee.

I don’t know how you feel about bribing children, but we had great results with this method when potty-training Jamie. Some parents don’t agree with using candy as a motivator for influencing their child’s behavior. I personally think those parents must have a secret diaper-changing fetish. I realize we’re on a long and stinky road by starting this process so early. If parenting is war, then this bout of potty-training is only a battle. Leo and Kai may be packin’ heat, but I’m armed with M&M’s. And I know, sooner or later sugar always wins.

Don’t be so melodramatic, Leo. It’s a potty, not an electric chair.

A.