Life can be challenging when you are little. All the good stuff is stored just out of your reach. Would you like to go play in the basement? Sure, but who will turn the light on? You’d like to help yourself to some gum, but it’s tucked away up in cupboard. Thanks to the step stool, you can reach the sink to wash your hands, but what fun is that? If only that step stool was portable. Yes, if you could move it around to the location of your desire, life would be so good – all those things you’ve longed for would be attainable. It would be shining, shimmering, even, dare I say, splendid?
No one could tell you “no” or where to go. Or say you’re only dreaming. It would be a whole new world of possibilities. The new sights – did you know they have a candy jar up there? Indescribable feelings when you discover the pens and pencils that have been waiting for you. Probably one hundred thousand different things to see from your new vantage point.
I’m not sure who invented the portable step stool, but he or she is the hero of every child shorter than the counter top.
Stand amazed at my might. This step stool and I cannot be defeated.See how I deftly move it with just my foot. THE POWER!Nothing is out of my reach now. Bwahahaha.She now has a portable “thinking spot”. I did not think this through.
There’s a lot involved in raising children. We are responsible for teaching them social skills, personal hygiene, ABCs, colours, what not to lick and that you should not vacuum your brother. I thought we were doing a pretty good job getting all the basics covered with our fourth son, but somehow we’ve dropped the ball with communication.
No matter how we explain it, how often we repeat it, how we model its use in correct context, Little does not seem to know what “I’m hungry” means.
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Little, please put your cars away.
No, I hungry.
We’re not having gum right now.
Why won’t you give me back my marble when clearly I am wasting away here?
But I hungry.
Please leave your bib on.
I hungry.
You can watch a show later.
Please?! I hungry.
Don’t sit on your brother.
I hungry. Please.
We’re all done drinking pop.
But I hungry.
Do you need to use the potty?
I hungry.
We can do play doh in a minute.
But I hungry.
You can go get your own water bottle. It’s upstairs.
I huuuungry.
This is Mommy’s coffee. Hot. No touch.
I so hungry.
——–
We’re at the point now where I’m going to give up and just hope for the best. Maybe he’s on to something. This might be a genius tactic for getting out of undesirable things. Actually, I think I might try it.
When you recall fond memories it’s about something that happened, not a “thing”. Even if it’s a special gift, that Cabbage Patch doll you were longing for, there’s a story behind it. It’s not just the doll, it’s the story of how it became yours. The real gift is the story.
What matters is the story.
My friend and I have an ongoing conversation about how trips and events are special, but what our kids will remember is the time we spent with them. Vacations are great and can be the catalyst for memory-making, but it’s the time we are together that counts.
You know what our boys ask for the most? Aside from treats and screen time, they are kids after all. Our time.
Play with me. Read to me. Listen to me. Tell me I matter. Show me I am important, that I’m valued.
“Can we go to a movie just you and me, Mommy? As part of my birthday present?”
“Wrestle with me, me, Daddy.”
“Can we go on a breakfast date?”
“Will you take just me to the store?”
Time.
And stories.
“Tell us about the time you threw the carrot cake on the ceiling, Daddy.”
“Tell us the story of Uncle Rob running into the glass door.”
“Tell us again about the time your neighbour caught a skunk and Grandpa told you to throw pebbles at the trap to see what would happen.”
“Tell us again how Auntie broke her arm.”
Tell us again.
Stories. Remember? Remember that time?
We’re creating stories with every meal we eat together, with every crazy family dance time, with every time we patiently wait for an unsuspecting family member to exit the washroom so we can yell “Boo!” With every family movie night.
“Remember the time Big poked the kiwi?”
“I didn’t poke it!”
“We saw you!”
“It just looked like I did.”
“I watched you pick it up and your finger went right through the skin.”
“No, the hole was already there.”
I can recite this script verbatim because we have jointly retold it dozens of times. It even has a theme song. It’s become Moyer family folklore. It’s one of our stories.
Remember? Remember that time?
Time.
“For Christmas I want to take you for frozen yogurt to that shop you said you wanted to try, Mommy. Can we go today? I can show you how it works, you make it all yourself. I’ve got enough money for both of us.”
And so we add another story to our collection.
It was delicious
Remember?
“Remember that time we went for yogurt, just the two of us, and I got coconut and gummi worms and you got two flavours?”
Having four boys means I have no real personal space. I’ve accepted that (mostly). We recently installed locks on our bedroom and bathroom doors which has given me the illusion of privacy. But no.
I’ve tried to claim the master bath as my territory only to have one of the boys politely ask me, “Could you please wash your hair over the sink because you leave so much in the tub that I have to rinse it out before I can take a bath.” “OK, deal – when you guys stop leaving poo deposits in there. That was not a Milk Dud I found on the ledge.”
This means YOU.
The boys will be playing happily together upstairs which is my cue to leave them alone. I busy myself with checking Twittercleaning the kitchen until the noise level reaches maximum volume. When they start coming down wearing my clothes, playtime is over. “Look, I’m a mom”, says the son wearing my bra overtop my favourite sweater as he clomps around the kitchen in my snazzy pair of flats. “Hey, I’ve been looking for those sunglasses!”
I have learned over the past years of the Boy Invasion to hide my Peanut Butter cups in a rotating locations so they never get suspicious. I’ve also learned how to eat M&Ms and convince them I’m snacking on some raisins. Those are mommy treats and I’m not sharing.
Even my purse is subject to their prying eyes and hands. “You’ve got gum? Can I have some?” “Hey where did you get this candy?”
I would like to use the laptop without little eyes peering over my shoulder. “Why are you laughing? Can I see? CanIcanIcanIcanI?”
This lack of boundaries became abundantly clear not long ago as I was gathering up materials and resources before I went to work to prepare for the new school year.
“Hey! Cheese strings! Cheese Strings?! Guys! Mommy has cheese strings. Mommy, why do you keep cheese strings in this pocket?”
“Those are not cheese strings. Stop going through my backpack. SOME STUFF IS JUST FOR ME.”
See? No boundaries.
Editor’s note: They were not cheese strings and I was not prepared to launch into the “talk” just then.
Leanne Shirtliffe is a humorist, writer, and teacher. You can find her on her blog, twitter, and on Facebook.
Today I am honoured to guest post for her regular feature, Whiteboard Wednesday: Things I Never Thought I’d Say to My Kids. While you’re over there, take some time to browse around – trust me.
Oh, and you should check out her book, Don’t Lick the Minivan. No, really, you should.
That will not stop a two year old from wanting to play Go Fish or insisting on playing Go Fish.
You will agree to it because a) he’s cute and b) you’re a good parent.
To play Go Fish with a two year old you will need the following:
– cards
– ibuprophen
– wine
– a whistle
– tissues
– bandaids
Once you’ve gathered up your supplies, it’s time to deal the cards. Five, seven, four, it doesn’t matter how many because you are playing against a toddler. The other opponent might care, so do make an effort to pretend to count them out.
Let the game begin!
Little, ask Big if has an eight. No? Ok, then go fish. Pick up a card. Yes, you. Just one card. One. ONE. The top one. Now hold it with your cards. In your hand. You don’t need to pile them, keep them in your hand. Hold them, hold them. HOLD THEM.
I might have an Ace. Let me check.
Mommy’s turn.
Little, do you have a four? Yes, you do. It’s right there. I can see it. You need to give it to Mommy. Yes. Yes. Yessss. It’s okay, you’ll get another card. No, not yet, your next turn. Just wait. Wait. Big gets to go now.
Big’s turn.
Mommy, do you have a three? Thanks.
Round Two.
Little, you have a pair. They match. Put them together. Yes, together on the floor. You make a pile. Oh, look! See? They are the same. Yes, they are. No, you don’t hold them now, they go there. Right there. Right. There.
Okay, Big does have them same card, but that’s his match. They stay in his pile. Yes, they do. No, not Little’s. You have your own, see? Those are Big’s. He keeps them.
Keep the bandaids within arm’s reach.
Round Three.
There is no round three.
——
Ever try to play games with young, ego-centric children? How did that go? Was it a glass or a whole bottle of wine experience?
Once you’ve had kids for a while you can tell the difference between their cries of distress and yelps of pure joy. However, there are some things that no parent wants to hear coming from the basement while the children play. A good mom would intervene or at the very least investigate in that situation.
I’m telling.
Yeah! No pants!
That was your own fault.
Shhh, you’re okay.
This is war!
Don’t tell Mommy.
No, YOU let go.
Hold still.
Well, I didn’t give him the marker.
My turn with the handcuffs.
CANNONBALL!
Uh oh.
You deserved it.
I’M NOT PLAYING.
Are you breathing?
FINE.
A responsible mom would hear those raised voices and rush to check on the little darlings. Then there’s Option B: Carry on and hope for the best. After all, they will definitely come upstairs to find you if there is any blood.
——
What’s the most frightening thing you’ve heard your little cherubs say. And yes, sometimes silence is the scariest thing of all.
I can’t seem to convince our family to enjoy curry (aside from our second born), but we do have a varied and mildly adventurous menu. Our boys enjoy shrimp and seafood, olives, and I do not shy away from adding a little extra heat to the main dish. We regularly try new recipes, and some have become favourites. Gnocchi with pesto is always popular with our crew.
A few years ago our toddler was quietly finishing his lunch, content in his highchair. He was always a jolly little guy, so when I heard a small voice say, “Uh, oh” I turned quickly to see what was wrong. He held up a chubby little hand and repeated, “Uh, oh.”
Poor little guy. He got pesto on his hand.
I grabbed a cloth and wiped his hands and fingers. Then I carried on with folding laundry and he continued his lunch. Or so I thought.
A moment later, “Uh, oh,” and the chubby pesto-covered hand. I wiped it off again.
Sheesh, he’s really make a mess of it today.
Laundry-folding and lunch-eating ensued again.
Two seconds later he held up his hand and beckoned for help.
Where is all this pesto coming from? Poor little guy keeps getting in on himse–wait a minute. I didn’t serve him pesto today. Where is all this pesto coming from? It’s not pesto. IT IS NOT PESTO.
——
When was burning a wash cloth your only real option?
Today our second oldest and his two neighbour friends started playing a new game: Terry Fox.
One boy would run down the sidewalk with his foot rigged up in a skipping rope to simulate Terry’s prosthetic leg.
Don’t pull too hard, we’re going for authenticity
When he got close to our house “Terry” would call out, “I’m in Thunder Bay, ohhhhhh” and do a slow collapse to the ground.
The second boy would act as his support crew and call for an ambulance. Now it was time for the third boy to jump into action. He zoomed down the street on the kettle car, frantically peddling in the interest of saving Terry. He would jump out and rush to the scene asking, “who are you?” at which point the main character groaned and replied, “Terry Fox.”
Together, they loaded “Terry” onto the makeshift ambulance and brought him back to home. Roles were swapped, and the game began again, with a new “Terry”.
Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you, Terry.
At first I was little bit horrified. I stopped myself from interfering and decided to watch how it all played out and I’m glad I did.
These boys were acting out a piece of Canadian history. It is a story that is familiar to most of us, but they are experiencing and beginning to understand it for the first time. I chose not to say anything, but rather stood back and took it all in. However, I wondered about some of the liberties they took with their reenactment – I doubt Terry drove his own ambulance.
Terry Fox is a Canadian icon. He is a real life hero. I’m actually glad they were playacting someone who inspired and encouraged so many people with his Marathon of Hope. They weren’t mocking Mr. Fox, they were putting him up on a pedestal, among the ranks of Transformers, Superman, and Batman. This is what parents long for and I almost shut it down.
As we honour and commemorate Terry Fox this September with the run in his name, it was good to see things through the eyes of some six year olds. My oldest sister went through a very similar battle with cancer just after Terry passed away, but survived. She is a hero, too.
“Even if I don’t finish, we need others to continue. It’s got to keep going without me.”
Tough Bananas 