Why You Shouldn’t Bully My Children

Aka: Someone called me a “bad***” and this is why:

There are a few things in this world that really make my blood boil. One of those things is bullying. I feel this way partly because I was bullied for almost all my years in elementary school. To this day I still remember the little girls that bullied me by name even though it’s been a good twenty years since I left that school. Although I no longer feel threatened by these girls, my heart still goes out to children who are teased, left out, and bullied.

Especially when bullying happens to my own children.

So you can bet how livid I was yesterday when an older kid slapped my Kindergartner in the face right in front of me after school.

My middle son, the Kindergartner, has always been sort of an awkward kid. He’s slightly immature for his age, but has come a long way since he first started school. My son is just now coming out of his shell and starting to make friends, but still sometimes he runs up to kids and yells something silly to child strangers which I am sure comes off as being weird to other kids.

Which is what happened yesterday afternoon.

Everything was going great after school. My middle son was giving me no problems walking to the crosswalk for the first time in two weeks. The crosswalk guard then told us it was time to cross the street. When we got out to the middle, my middle son ran up to an older kid (who happens to look like Dennis the Menace) and screams something unintelligible to the boy. Dennis the Menace then slaps my son in the face. My son just stared at him like what the heck just happened.

I don’t know what overcame me, but in almost a split second I grabbed Dennis the Menace by the backpack, turned him around in the middle of the street, raised my hand, and came this close to slapping the little brat across his own face. In fact, the only thing that kept me from slapping him was that he flinched as he watched my hand get two inches from his face. So I asked Dennis,

“What the heck just happened? Why did you just slap him?” (We were now on the sidewalk on the other side of the street.)

He replies, “I don’t know…um…he cussed at me.”

“What did he say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well you live on *** Street, right?” (I’m still holding onto his backpack; I’m not letting him go anywhere.)

“Yah…”

“Well, let’s go. We’re going to your house and telling your dad that you just slapped my kid.”

By now my blood is beginning to cool off. In fact, I didn’t even notice at that point that I was still grabbing the kid’s backpack while walking him over to his street. Once we got to his street, I let go of his backpack and I told him that the better thing for him to have done if he thought my kid was cussing at him was to tell me instead of hitting my kid. I told him that discipline is the parent’s responsibility and not his because he is a kid. I told him that under no circumstances should he ever hit another kid, especially not a younger, smaller kid.

Then I had him point his dad out who was sitting on his front porch waiting for his sons to get home. Dennis dragged his feet behind me.

Now to set the stage here: Dennis the Menace lives in the same 1970s neighborhood as me with large front yards and smaller backyards. His particular home has hardly any grass and the front yard is covered in children’s toys and bicycles. Dad is a much older man, probably somewhere in his late 60s. Before yesterday I even thought this older man was the grandpa. Dad is scruffy looking and very unkempt with a beer-belly stretching out like a ten month pregnant woman. Lucky me, at least he had a shirt on yesterday.

So, I tell dad what happened.

Dad turns to his boy and asks, “What did he say to you?”

Dennis the Menace says, “He called me an Effing A-Hole.” (Except he said the real words.)

Honestly, I still don’t think that’s what my kid said, but since I saw with my own eyes my kid say something to Dennis, I at least admitted that whatever my kid said that it was enough to upset the brat.

Then the dad thanked me for telling him what happened and that he would discipline his boy. I thanked him for listening and told him I’d do likewise. I then grabbed my three sons and told them it was time to walk home. We proceeded to walk off his front porch when the old man tries to bring up casual conversation with me:

“So, how old are your children?”

“Five, six, and seven,” I reply.

“Oh wow! You just popped out those kids…POP POP POP!!!”

And I’m telling you I came this close to slapping that old man across his face and calling him some choice words myself.

Jerkwad.

PS: For explanation of the above photo, please refer to Out of Context Morons.

How to Make Your Children BEG for Vegetables

I have admitted repeatedly (hoping confession is good for the soul) that I am not the world’s best cook.

Or even the world’s second best cook.

Really, the world screams “uncle” when I cook.

Aware of my one fault, I have attempted to make up for it in other ways so my family isn’t completely malnourished.

I watch what the boys have for snacks.

I pack healthy lunches.

I do what I can.

The boys like all those little packets of drink mix that you add to water bottles. As a treat once in awhile we choose a flavor…peach tea, pink lemonade, grape, etc. and shake, shake, shake for fun.

I was happy to find pink lemonade with added protein made by Special K that the boys drink with gusto. A little extra protein mid-morning seems to help dispositions.

I then found a drink with a full serving of vegetables! It is called “Veggies To Go”!

Be still my malnourished heart. What could be better than that? The boys are always a little light on the vegetables.

So we added it to the water.

We stirred.

And stirred.

And stirred.

It tastes as bad as it looks.

Using a goldfish glass might have been a little pond-water foreshadowing…

I Wish He Represented MY District

Ever since Ryan(8) started to talk we have suspected that he has a future in the legal profession. He has shown excellence in the field of debate.

He has a passion for justice.

He has a gift for finding the loophole.

Should we send him to third grade or law school?

I am now wondering if any sort of school is necessary…maybe we should just send him straight to Congress.

Why Congress?

He has placed earmarks in the Nirvana budget through creative interpretation of the law.

The law: The boys each get a weekly allowance according to age. On each birthday their allowance increases by $1 per week.

Ryan recently had a birthday so his allowance was increased.

My husband and I then overheard him calculating new allowance rates for both Reid(5) and Rhett(3) whose birthdays are in June and December. These calculations were made with plans for increased brotherly spending on his behalf.

Me: Ryan! Reid and Rhett’s allowances won’t go up until their birthday. Only yours goes up this month.

Ryan: *with a twinkle of understanding in his eyes* You said we get an extra dollar on EACH birthday.

At that rate he will be receiving a Congressional salary before getting out of middle school...

When Holly isn’t researching law schools for Ryan, she can be found hanging out here at Burb Mom or writing at June Cleaver Nirvana.

Pear Honey – Blue Ribbon Quality!

When it comes to my mad skillz in the kitchen, they are pretty much non-existent. My kids’ favorite meal is Hamburger Helper and my husband usually just looks at what I’m cooking, then fixes something separate for himself. And, to answer your question, YES I find that insulting but I am so used to it by now, I have become desensitized. At least he is doing the fixing for himself.

But, when it comes to canning, I’m not afraid to shine. In the summer of ’07, I won 5 first-place ribbons and one second-place ribbons for canned (preserved) foods at the Clinton County Fair. (I could only find 3 of the ribbons for the picture. I think I was using the other 3 for bookmarks.)

That fair, by the way, is exactly the stuff you see (or read about) in Charlotte’s Web. There is a parade, Fair Queen pageant, Kettle corn, all types of livestock judging, carnival rides, (local) celebrity cow milking contest, etc. 4-H has a booth selling Lemon Shake-Ups (If you’ve never had a lemon shake-up, you’ve never tasted summer.) And, of course, in the exhibition hall there are lots of submissions for judging, like quilts, canned foods, fresh foods, artwork, hand-sewn clothes, woodworking, etc. I submitted pickled asparagus, green beans, tomatoes, dill pickles, apples, and pear honey.That’s Texan Papa in the green ball cap. He was a “local celebrity” because he’s a pastor. It doesn’t take much to be a celebrity, I guess.

There’s Peppermint Patty, Charlie Brown, and Linus eating watermelon slices off of a frisbee after the very long and hot parade. (I walked with PP and Linus in the parade, 6 months pregnant, pulling a wagon and throwing out candy. Linus walked with the Cub Scouts.) See what I mean about it being a real country fair?

Now, in case you don’t know what pear honey is, I am happy to tell you: It is a wonderful sweet spread, much like the consistency of marmalade, but with a taste of honey. However, the honey does not taste sugary-sweet, but rather fruity-sweet. I found a recipe for Pear Honey when I was given 2 bushels of very ripe pears and had no idea what to do with them. Well, as it turns out, pear honey is best made with overripe pears. It’s SO simple to make. If you have pear trees or if you get pears from a neighbor, I highly recommend making it. It is so unique and your friends and family will gobble it up! I even made some and put it in small half-cup or half-pint jars and then gave it out with a mini loaf of pound cake at Christmas time. It was a perfect teacher gift and also for the church secretary and organist.

Pear Honey:
8 cups very ripe pears, peeled and crushed
1 cup Pineapple juice
8 cups sugar

Put pears and pineapple juice in a large stock pot. Add sugar. Bring to a full boil and reduce heat to medium for a gentle boil. Cook, stirring constantly, for 30 minutes. Pour into prepared jars*. Process in boiling water for 10 minutes. Makes 6-7 pints.

When you first pour the mixture into the jars, it will seem a little thin, but it will thicken while the jars are processing in the boiling water. And, once cooled, it will thicken even a little more.

*Prepared Jars are canning jars that have been washed thoroughly and warmed in a canning pot with simmering water. The jars are kept in the simmering water until they are ready to be filled. Processing in boiling water means, once the jars are filled, and new caps and rings are screwed on (tight enough to close but not TOO tight), then the jars are returned to the simmering water with at least 1 inch of water above the caps. The water is returned to a boil. This is NOT using a pressure cooker.

When Texan Mama isn’t taking the County Fair by storm, she is raising her four…almost 5 (yes, I said 5) children and writing at her blog, Who Put Me in Charge of These People??

History Repeats Itself

History Repeats Itself

When I was in first grade, I went to a Catholic school where we had to wear uniforms every day. One precious day a year, all the kids were allowed to wear whatever they wanted for the grandest day of all…picture day. One boy? Got to wear a turtle neck and LOVE BEADS . He was totally the coolest 6 year old in all of 1971. But not me, nope….my mom put me in an itchy green dress with an ugly scarf to go with it. I did have some pretty rockin’ white patent boots though so it offset my otherwise middle aged attire just a little bit…but not much. It didn’t help that I was sort of a chubby kid with no athletic skills that people picked on.

I got to school on picture day and after enduring an awful lot of laughter over my stylish dress green polyester frock, I looked around and realized all the “popular girls” had bangs while I did not. My mom prided herself on not having given in to cutting my bangs despite my begging her…I had long wavy brown hair that she could do all sorts of things with to make me look even more like a middle aged 70′s housewife. (And not that there is anything wrong with housewives, but honestly, do any of you want to look like your Mom did then? Hip and cool were so not in vogue then in middle America…)

Well, I showed her a thing or two. Everyone, please meet Stiletto Mini, the 6 year old version of The Stiletto Mom.

See those crooked bangs? Yep, those were clipped by yours truly in Sister Mary Catherine Francis Angelica Margaret Elizabeth Anne Catherine’s (because you can’t have too many Catherine’s) class with a pair of little kid safety scissors. Look at that uneven line…but more importantly, look at that evil gleam in my eyes. VICTORY! I may be dressed all wrong but man…I showed her….I totally jacked my hair 5 minutes before pictures…take that! Also? While it looks like I have a missing tooth? I don’t…it’s a SPIT GAP. Ok, so let’s put all this together, chubby kid, dressed like a 1970′s polyester wearing forty year old, uncool hair plus spit gap equals??? You got it, six year old meltdown with safety scissors. Granted, it could look worse but there was a good four minutes spent trying to make them appear even for the picture with tremendous amounts of nun spit and I believe Elmer’s Glue…though I can’t be sure.

When my Mom came to pick me up that day, the nun stoically marched me out to the car and handed me over to my horrified Mother. I’m not sure, but I think they could hear her scream all the way up in Oklahoma, “OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR????” And what did I say? “I fixthed it Mommy.”

So when Oklahoma heard these very words come out of my mouth some 37 years later this weekend, they should not have been surprised. None of this should be a shock to me either because Miss G is a carbon copy of me. (Wanna know what she looks like? The picture above, with blonde hair….evil gleam in eye is the same)

Keeping in mind that Miss G’s circumstances are totally different…she has a the tiniest bit of a spit gap, is very fit, wears super cool clothes and is generally popular, the thing I learned this weekend is bad hair happens to all of us.

Apparently, it went down like this. She had a headband and put it in her hair. Her hair, however, did not want to cooperate and would not form the perfect swoopy on her forehead. So doing what any logical 6 year old girl birthed by me would do…she got out the scissors and went to town. While she did not create the full bangs like I did, she managed to take a huge chunk of hair out of the middle of her face and elected not to tell me but to tuck it into the headband (you know, because I’d never figure it out right?)

Well I did figure it out. While I was on the phone with my cousin (who knew my mother all too well) all of a sudden Oklahoma heard from a crazed Catholic Mom from Texas one more time…“OH HOLY MOTHER OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY!!!! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO YOUR HAIR????” And what she say? “I fixthed it Mommy.”

Well, of course you did. And now, Miss G, you have bangs just like Mommy did in first grade. You enjoy growing those out honey.

Trials of Motherhood

I don’t know exactly how it started, but when Rhett was 2, he started associating gum with medicine.

When his older brothers ask for gum and I agree, Rhett starts pleading for medicine. I am sure at some point in the history of Rhett I must have doled out Tylenol for teething pain in the same hour that his brothers received gum. For some reason the connection stuck.

Really stuck.

Rhett has always had a complex about how mean I am for now allowing him gum at his tender age. In his mind he is five…so what is the big deal? I think that his revenge is this medicine plea which quite honestly may require my mental institutionalization in the near future.

This is a sample conversation. Please remember the child was 2:

Brothers: Mom can we have gum?

Me: yes.

Rhett: Gum?

Me: No.

Medicine?

No.

My mouth hurt. Medicine?

No.

My toe hurt. Medicine?

No.

My arm hurt. Medicine?

No sweetie, I am not giving you medicine today.

I fell at Target (points to head). Medicine?

No. We didn’t go to Target today.

I fell at Peter Piper Pizza (points to toe). Medicine?

No. We haven’t been to Peter Piper Pizza for a month.

I fell at Chuckeee-Cheeeeeee (points all over). Medicine?

No. I told you that I am not giving you medicine today. You are fine.

Ryan hit me (big blue eyes looking up with tears pooling). Medicine?

No. Your brothers are in the other room. No one hit you.

Reid kick me (lower lip trembles). Medicine?

NO! Rhett, your brothers haven’t hurt you. I repeat. I am not giving you medicine. For any reason. Anytime today. None.

*pause*

Gum?

On a Bounty Search

I was recently at the Highland Village Wal-Mart to pick up paper towels.

When I got to the bright and shiny aisle, I looked around.

And around.

I needed white, large rolls of Bounty in a big package for the best price.

Is that too much to ask?

Yep, there is over 20 feet of Bounty bulk paper towel packages. I felt a bit lost in the Bounty department.

Let’s find large white rolls of paper towels for the best price!

Please stop pushing your brother! You boys need to stay with me here.

Let’s find large white rolls of paper towels for the best price!

No one should be hitting any person or thing! Brothers are nice to each other.

Let’s find large white rolls of paper towels for the best price!

Stop wrestling! No one should be touching a brother.

Let’s find large white rolls of paper towels for the best price!

All boys need to behave or we will be skipping the toy aisle!

Let’s find large white rolls of paper towels for the best price!

*screech*
*stop*

OK. I am going to stop right here. I want off this crazy train.

I have two solutions for this overwhelming Bounty paper towel choice problem:

1. Bounty could make large white paper towels in big packages – if they search their line carefully, they might find they already produce such a product.

2. Wal-Mart could move a portion of the toy aisle – I suggest Transformers, Legos and toy guns – to allow frazzled moms a moment in peace to figure out which is the right product. It would give us a chance to solve the Where’s Waldo paper towel search.

Until one of my solutions are adopted, I am boycotting paper and pulling out the old fashioned, cloth…*gasp*…towel.

The Christmas Quilt Picture Story of 2007

At my first baby shower (pre-three boys) my mother-in-law gave me a Christmas quilt. Each year my children are subjected to posing with it for holiday photographs.

Last year my mom and I once again took the boys into Sears Portrait Studio at Golden Triangle Mall. I was relieved when I noticed the studio was deserted. The one photographer on duty did not seem pleased that we had made it to our appointment.

I explained to her that I brought a quilt to use for background. I then went on to explain how previous photographers had attached it to the Sears’ portrait studio equipment for the last 6 years. I need ONE portrait 5 x 7 to match the 6 I have at home from previous years.

She took the quilt and started what turned out to be a 15 minute process of quilt arrangement. I tried to be helpful, but she was a bit hostile.

Finally, she called that she was ready.

She arranged the older boys kneeling behind a chair where the baby was to sit.

The baby freaked and we spent 5 minutes bribing, cajoling and tricking the baby into the chair. It worked. We are picture ready!

1, 2, 3…POP! I pop the binky out of the baby’s mouth for the picture…
AND
*silence*
Nothing.
No picture.
No series of flashes.
Nothing captured on film.

I turned to the photographer and said, “I am going to pull the binky out so you can get a picture.”

Meanwhile, she is fussing at the older boys for moving despite the fact that they have been amazing little statues for the last 8 minutes kneeling.

1, 2, 3…POP!
AND
*silence*
I yell, “OK, we are ready!”
*one flash:*

A flurry of post-picture movement ensues.
*Get everyone settled down*

1, 2, 3…POP!
*pause*
*crickets*
*silence*
and finally as if in slow motion…
*one flash:*

By this point the older boys are legitimately complaining and needing to move.

I ask if we can switch poses.

No.

NO?

Nope. This is the ONLY way she can get the portrait 5 x 7 I requested.

That is weird. I guess all portrait 5×7 pictures in the entire universe of 3 boys have two on their knees and a baby in a small, white wicker chair in front of them.

I calmly suggest that they all sit.

That won’t work!

At this point she is saved by a phone call.

While she is out of the room answering the phone I arrange the boys on several red blocks I find in the room.

She returns.

I announce, “we are ready!”

1, 2, 3…POP!
*silence*
*more silence*
*continued silence*
*yep, more silence*
*one flash:*

The boys are off in 3 different directions.

I say, “OK, we are finished”.

She says, “I have to get individual pictures”.

“I am not going to buy individual pictures”.

She sets up for individual pictures.

Boy #1: Sitting by himself. Almost in tears.

She is yelling, “Smile! I can’t take the picture until you smile!”

It was ugly.

So ugly that grandma stepped in and said, “here lets take a picture on grandma’s lap” so she got positioned and flash:

Whew. One down.

Boy #2: Sitting on grandma’s lap. Traumatized by recent photographic events. Fidgeting. Grandma gently rocks to calm him.

She yells, “stop moving! I can’t take the picture if you move like that!”

The rocking continues because boy #2 is upset.

“Stop moving!”

“Take the picture!” I scream.

*flash:*

That is enough!

I say, “we are done”.

Grandma takes the boys and heads to the mall play area.

The photographer starts to chase them into Sears.

I say, “what are you doing?”

She says, “MA’AM, I CAN’T EVEN SHOW YOU THESE PICTURES UNTIL I HAVE 6″.

We have been there for 30 minutes and she only has 5 shots.

“TAKE MY PICTURE NOW!”

And then she poses me.
Sideways to the camera, looking over my shoulder and with both thumbs in the back pocket of my mommy jean capris.

*flash:*

And that is how I ended up with a picture of myself with a pleasant “mommy about to make the 6 o’clock news with violent attack on photographer at local department store” expression on my face.

She had her 6 shots.

I bought ONE portrait 5×7 of the first shot.

Holly wrote this story last year for June Cleaver Nirvana. It is one of her favorite stories and she has vowed to post it yearly…

WHO THREW THE ANVIL?

I have noticed that every once in awhile I have “yelled” something unusual at my kids.

And by “yelling” I mean a hasty order with a slightly raised voice out of pure exasperation.

I first documented this phenomenon almost two years ago with the following phrase.

“Take the baby’s shoes out of the fridge!”–Holly, November 21, 2007

Yep, that is pretty unexpected, but I think I have topped that with this:

“Who threw the anvil?”–Holly, November 2, 2008

I might even dare to say that no one in the history of the world (outside of maybe an ACME cartoon character) has ever said those words.

Why does Holly own an anvil?

I don’t own an anvil. It is Ryan’s anvil.

Why does Holly’s oldest son own an anvil at the ripe age of 7?

He got it for Christmas a few Christmases ago.

Oh. What?

Yep, when Ryan was 5 he got an anvil for Christmas. He opened the gift and said, “Oh good! Just what I wanted!”

It was true. The anvil topped Ryan’s Christmas list that year. He was really into breaking rocks into smaller pieces with a hammer. He was sure that if he broke enough stones he would find a diamond.

When you use a hammer on stones, it is best to have an anvil. His anvil arrived from grandparents who also included protective eye wear. Overall it was his favorite gift.

So back to the anvil flying through the air…

Me: Who threw the anvil?

Ryan: Uhhhh…it was an ACCIDENT!

No one accidentally throws an anvil.

I did.

How?

I was holding it above my head and my arms got tired.

Alright. I think there is a new house rule that anvils stay on the ground.

It just occurred to me that strange phrases yelled at my kids often result in even more absurd rules…

Suburban Legend

Awhile back Ryan(7) had worked on his school work well all morning so I decided to take the three boys out to lunch as a treat.

I didn’t have the energy to endure pizza and games so I decided to take them to Life’s a Beach (a local restaurant that has a beach outside).

The boys were excited to see the sand. Ryan and Reid ran for the sand. Rhett sat down with me on the patio to order food and watch the fun.

Rhett tried for a few minutes to tell me that he didn’t like sand, but the temptation was too much and he was soon out playing with his brothers. The restaurant was very empty with just four other tables of moms watching their little ones play on the “beach”.

All was going smoothly until Reid(5) started screaming at two other boys that looked like they were 4. I ran over to ask him to stop and he informed me that these boys were bad.

Very bad.

They didn’t look all that bad.

I looked over to the table where the bad boys’ mothers sat. The mothers smiled and waved. The bad boys’ mothers didn’t look all that bad.

I decided this might be a bit of an over-reaction on Reid’s part and that I would watch how this scene played out.

The bad boys decided interactions with Reid were too noisy so they turned to Rhett(2) who looked like an easier target.

The bad boys started chasing Rhett and holding out scary hands and screaming.

Rhett ran.

The bad boys mothers got up immediately. I told them not to worry Rhett has two older brothers and I think he could handle himself (this action of concern by the bad boys’ mothers proved to me that neither the boys nor their mothers were bad…).

Rhett got a bit of a distance from the bad boys chasing him, turned, put up his hands and screamed at the top of his lungs, “STOP!”

Ryan and Reid ran to his side.

What happened next was a scene out of Westside Story

There was two lines of boys facing each other.

The bad boys vs. my Nirvana boys.

There was walking forward.

There was walking backward.

There was trash talking.

Unfortunately there was no singing.

Unfortunately there was no snapping.

It was an intense battle there on the sand.

An intense battle over turf.

Turf worth fighting for…

The turf was a very large puddle in the sand.

The turf was boy heaven.

The Nirvana boys had the bad boys outnumbered.

The Nirvana boys had the bad boys outattituded.

The Nirvana boys had the common blood of brotherhood on their side.

It wasn’t even fair.

I don’t think anyone will mess with the Nirvana boys after this suburban legend is told…

*snap*
*snap*

Holly is a Flower Mound mom of three boys.  She has been known to play out musical theater numbers in her head.  She writes here at Burb Mom and on her personal blog, June Cleaver Nirvana.

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