Spring Break: The Aftermath

Enjoying a chipper morning at the breakfast table on the day the boys returned to school after vacation

They Say it Takes A Village...

Unless the child in question is Benjamin.  

In that case, the villagers had better call for reinforcement.  Maybe even a S.W.A.T. Team.  

Yes, that is a big stick that he is brandishing in this photo.

It all started one balmy morning,  right after winter break.

When we arrived at school and queued up in the interminable car line, Benjamin simply announced that he was done with kindergarten.  He explained that he already knew everything he needed to know.  

I corrected him and said he would not know everything he needed to know until after he completed kindergarten.  And certainly not before he turned six.

He refused to get out of the car.  He would not budge even though he was by this time blocking an entire car-line full of irate parents.  (And you know they were irate after the long, long, winter vacation with no break in sight.) 

Anyway, the spectacle attracted a number of well-meaning bystanders. They all tried, one way or another,  to convince Benjamin to get out of the car and into his classroom.

He refused to budge-- notwithstanding the valiant efforts of :

• two kindergarten classmates
• one chapped big brother
• one random AV tech 
• one annoyed school receptionist
• one determined school librarian
• one sympathetic bystander mom
• one primary school principal
• one PTO president (quite skilled in the finer arts of bribery, I might add); and
• one pleading, threatening, and sweating biological mom--who was wearing ugly house slippers.

Finally, on advice of Benjamin's teacher, I resorted to brute force.  Yes, I am ashamed to say that I wrestled my son out of the car and dragged him into the classroom. He kicked, flailed and writhed while the other students gawked in horror as if they were watching the march to death row in the film Dead Boy Walking.

Or was that Dead Man Walking?  Whatever.

After school that day, both of us were utterly exhausted from the morning spectacle.  We took a long nap together on the couch, and while he softly snored on my chest, I marveled at the amazing determination of my little boy.  I wondered whether he was just too young for the rigors of kindergarten.  Was he trying to tell me that something awful was happening at school?  Was he getting bullied?  Was his teacher mean?  Or worse, were they serving crunchy peanut butter in the cafeteria?

The bottom line was, should I keep him home if his resistance continues? 

Sure enough, the morning-departure trauma did continue.  In fact, it became a regular part of our routine. Although Benjamin had no problem getting up, showered, dressed and fed in the morning, he would not leave the car once we arrived at school.

Over time, I stopped using the car line altogether to avoid the dismay and/or amusement of the other families.  Meanwhile, I watched the other kindergarteners bounce out of their cars and bolt into their classrooms.  My Benjamin was just not interested in following suit.

So I kept him home.

Initially, I had hoped he would be bored to tears with just his mommy and the strict electronics ban.  I made sure that he had plenty of homework to do. And I waited, day after day, for a sign that he was ready to return to school.

No luck. He did not seem to miss school one bit.  Worse, his big brother was now begging to be placed under house arrest with Benjamin.

So, back to school we all headed this morning.

And today...the drop off took on an entirely new twist. Although Benjamin had promised me he was definitely going to go to school that morning, he changed his mind once we reached the promised land at the apex of the car-line.  He scooted out of my reach as I tried to pull him out the car door.  I walked to the other side of the car and watched helplessly while he scooted away from me and back to the other side.

I engaged a new crew of  villagers to help extricate my child from the car.  No amount of persuasion was working.

Growing frantic, I quickly hailed two of Benjamin's favorite kindergarten buddies.  They assessed the gravity of the situation and were more than happy to help.  I watched as they raced over to my car, jumped into the back seat and buckled themselves in right next to Benjamin.  

Now I had three truant kindergarteners to deal with instead of one.

So you see, my kid is one determined five-year-old.  No matter what the village has in mind, Benjamin has his own agenda.

Someday, this might just be a good thing--if either of us survive his kindergarten year, that is.

Sweet. Shoeless. Surrender.

I have to laugh whenever anyone asks me how I manage to keep up with my two sons.  
The answer is:  I don't. 

Really. 
You have no idea.

Take this morning for instance. 
All I had to do was wake, feed and dress two boys, not to mention tangle with a sleeping teenager who opts to stay in bed whenever a school project is due.  Yet, anyone that could peer inside the clothing and food-strewn battlefield of my house this morning, could plainly see that I lost all battles on all fronts...again.

Seriously, the school morning task is a monumental one.  It gives me nightmares.  
Plus, I think I am developing panic-attacks as I find myself panting about halfway through the breakfast mantra of "eat your pancakes, eat your pancakes, eat your pancakes."  
I just do not understand how the once sane woman I used to be was ever able to timely present innumerable witnesses and exhibits for trial. Today, I can't even get my three kids out the door and halfway dressed in time for school in the morning.  
That said, I am glad for the one simple task of my chaotic mornings:  Getting boys dressed in school uniforms is a no-brainer. However, since today is the last day of school before their holiday break, I quickly scanned school e-mails to see whether I needed to pack and make lunches, ie., throw some cereal in a baggy. 

Instead I was dismayed to learn that Paul must be dressed in all-white clothing today for some goddamned holiday thing.  He is even expected to wear white shoes. 
WTF? 
What 8-year-old child owns white anything? 
Furthermore, does anyone even make white shoes since Pee Wee Herman paid due homage to such in Tequila? 

   

Uh, excuse my daydream.
Anyway, I read the next week-old email.  
This one directed me to dress my kindergartener in holiday attire.  And I was instructed to "be creative about it."  
As if there were any other choice.

See, I just moved across the country and have not unpacked any holiday stuff except for half of my nine pet holiday stockings. So I grabbed these and quickly stapled four and a half of the hairy and slightly chewed stockings to Ben's uniform shirt. 
Why? 
Because ripping off Christmas tree branches to weave a crown of pine thorns was too formidable a project for me. 

My poor kid. 
He looked like a Salvation Army ragamuffin. 

When Paul asked him what exactly he was dressed as, Ben looked down at his droopy staplings and sorrowfully said "I just don't know." 
I had to pump the little guy up and tell him he was dressed as...as...wonderful Christmas expectations? 

That was enough to get him in the car at least. 

So, you see, I do not keep up with my sons. 
Or myself for that matter. 

At any rate, I am now sitting in my car decompressing after the frenzied school drop-off.  Of interest, I am wearing no shoes in our 50-degree weather.  I am looking at the five forlorn teacher gifts that I forgot to throw in the boys' backpacks.  
Or backpack, I should say.  
I have an uneasy feeling that I left Ben's pack on top of the car as we lurched toward school, chanting another morning mantra:  "buckle-up, buckle-up, buckle up." 

Okay, time to take a deep breath and head home to make another attempt to rouse the comatose teenager....

On second thought, I am instead going out for a coffee.  Any other frazzled moms care to join me for a cup of joe? 
Shoes optional.

Trouble! A Brief Study of Complex Reasoning in the Developing Male Brain

Shown here rejecting both the voices of motherly reason and basic Newtonian theories.

In the car tonight, there was one of those classic boy-to-boy exchanges that leave a parent feeling quite poorly equipped for child-rearing. And considering that this particular parent has been legally trained in the finer points of argument, this is a significant and humbling realization.  

And speaking of humility, I should have long ago given up on trying to instill any concept of reason into any member of the male species.

Back to tonight's drive. 

The winter holidays were approaching, and the boys and I were delivering a load of toys we had collected through a school-wide toy drive. Both boys were absolutely buried up to their necks in piles of new toys, which I admit, may have been an over-stimulating environment for any four-year-old boy--let alone one who had been kindly referred for a "Temperament Assessment" by his pediatrician at the ripe-old age of three. (Can you think of a nicer way to say "anger-management for toddlers"?) 
But I digress.

As the parent bestowed with the responsibility of safely transporting the generous collection of toys, I winced at the sound of anything that hinted that the highly vulnerable packages were being violated  in the back seat. 

Ben sneaking rats into the grocery store against better advice.

In due course, Benjamin cracked.  It was too much to bear.
With lightning speed, he grabbed and forcefully clasped a large board game to his chest. As his big brother sounded a shrill wail, Benjamin screeched that the game was "MINE!"
An eery silence followed.
I glanced behind me.
It was clear that Ben would not be relinquishing that toy while there was still breath left in his little body. 
And believe me, I know; I have been on the losing end of that death-grip before.

Contemplating my next move, I warily eyed the crime scene from my rear-view mirror. While I calculated the length and effectiveness of my reach, I noted with despair that the pirated board game was called "Trouble!"

Not wanting to engage in open warfare amidst rush-hour traffic, I reverted to reasoning.  A waste of time.  A big waste of time.
Alas, Benjamin did not care much for my tiresome explanation that the toys had been donated by Paul's classmates for the migrant workers' children. 
As usual, he rejected all my efforts to teach empathy. He sullenly ignored my well-calculated appeals for the "poor migrant children...who may not get much else for Christmas... other than the very toys...we were delivering... in this car... at this moment.... Like, right now?"

Instead, Benjamin bellowed that the game was "MINE... because...because... we never had one before!" 

Oka-a-a-y. 
Now I was beginning to understand the depths of the skewed sense of male logic I was up against. Considering this and still looking for a painless resolution, I actually contemplated whether anyone would really notice that one board game was missing from the holiday cache. 
This dangerous reverie was abruptly halted by my older son. 

A hard to break habit of sitting in the freezer at two.

Awash in all the wisdom his seventh year of life afforded, big brother Paul expressed his disgust with the whole exchange. 
He loudly retorted: 
"So?! We never had an octopus before. 
We never had an atom bomb before. 
That doesn't mean we get to keep one!"
Quiet ensued.

Another furtive glance into my rear-view mirror detected a sort of softening in Benjamin's demeanor. 
Slowly and quietly, Benjamin released his grip on the game. He turned away to silently gaze out the window.

At this point, one might like to think that my little hellion was deciding it was, after all, better to give than receive. 
Perhaps, he was finally learning the thus-far wholly elusive concept of sharing?

Not a chance. 
I am quite certain he was instead wondering how to spell "atom bomb" so he could add it to his Christmas wish list....

See above for rare footage of male primate courtship practices.

Halloween Sluts and One Bare-Legged Moth

Halloween is over, and the boys are gnawing away.  As I helplessly overlook the conglomeration of colored powders, chocolates, and random goo they ingest by the handful, I can practically hear the sound of their overwhelmed tooth enamel surrendering.  Their little nippers will undoubtedly resemble one porous sponge by the end of the week. 

Of note, Halloween is traditionally our annual dental check-up week.  I deliberately schedule it this way so the boys will become terrified when the dentist has them chew those tasty but tricky "scum-identifier" tablets.  
Oh, there will be scum this year all right.  
Of course, I will bear the brunt of the dental scolding, but that is easy enough to deflect...once the dentist is out of hearing range.* 
Anyway, I think Benjamin's bare legs jutting out of the moth-suit really makes for a fetching costume.  What do you think?  
The suit came with little black leggings, but he opted for the fleshier look.  Could this be the kindergarten version of the slut costumes that every single female trick-or-treater over the age of one seems to wear these days? 
And what is THAT about anyway? Do they really get more stuff when they dress like mini Paris Hiltons...in drag? 
And if so, how come no one ever told me about turning that trick when I was a kid?
Regardless, I too had to throw together a last-minute costume to appease my two (already jacked-up) candy addicts.  So I joined my sons while wearing a robe and huge red curlers.  
Okay, so maybe I was already wearing the robe and curlers.,
Anyway, I carried one of those reusable cloth grocery bags.  You know, the one with the six empty wine compartments.  And in case that was not obvious enough, I even carried an empty wine glass. 

Well, why should kids be the only ones who come home with treasures on Halloween night?
Sure, the boys scored big, as you can see in the photo.  As for me, I did not fare so well.  Not one neighbor filled my six gaping, empty wine bag slots with a bottle of wine.  Not one offered to pour so-much as a drop of hootch in my empty wine glass.  
Worse, no one seemed to "get" what my costume was all about.  Even after I explained in detail that I was not exactly looking for candy, they simply stared blankly at my get-up.  
By the end of the night, my eight-year-old was telling the confused neighbors that I was dressed as "an embarrassment." 
Right in front of me.
Later, as I dejectedly watched the boys count, sort, switch, and fight over their huge trove of candy, a brilliant thought occurred to me: Next year, I get to wear the slutty bare-legged moth suit for Halloween.  

*Note, for other tooth-preservation strategies, please consult Lesson 2 at the following post:  

http://kinderwarden.blogspot.com/2010/11/ninny-free-cooking-class-lesson-2.html

Rigorous Family Entertainment for all at Fishing Hall of Fame

A picture of mommy and daddy enthusiastically enjoying the Fishing Hall of Fame.

Slugfest: Insurgent Infiltrates Local Prep School

Al-Pokemon camp broken up; Paul captured

Yesterday my phone rang mid-day. It was the director of the boys' new school asking me to pick up my son...promptly. He explained that Paul had been suspended because he had been in a "fist-fight." 
I told him he must have the wrong number. My eight-year-old? A fist-fight?

As I sped toward the school, many questions raced through my mind: 

• Was he hurt? 
• Does Paul really know how to make a fist? 
• Were there steroids in those organic pop-tarts I packed in his lunch? 
• Does the word "fist-fight" still get a hyphen?

I could not begin to imagine my mild-mannered son in a physical fight. In fact, I could not even imagine him spitting on an adversary. 
Unless... it was very, very dark... 
and the other child's back was turned, 
and the other child was in handcuffs, 
and the other child was already completely surrounded by a S.W.A.T. team.

I raced over to the school to find my dejected, tear-streaked boy softly crying on a lonely school yard bench. He confessed that he had indeed punched a classmate in the stomach. 
When I asked him why, he explained that the classmate had grabbed his finger and twisted it backward because Paul had not listened to him. 
I noted with interest that the incident had occurred during lunch right before the school's peace day celebration.

I carefully and thoroughly thought this one through before responding to my forlorn son as he sat there looking tinier and more frail than ever on that bench. I wanted to make sure that whatever I said to him at this crucial moment did not undermine the school's legitimate interest in ensuring that neither the lives nor limbs of its third-graders were in jeopardy. I wanted my son to grow up to become a good world citizen and learn that impulses must be controlled. 
But I also wanted my gentle son to know it was okay to defend himself. Especially in a dangerous world of third-grade finger-twisters.

After duly considering how critical my next words were going to be, I took a deep breath and plunged right in. I looked into Paul's sorrowful eyes, and said that I was taking him in for his first tattoo. It would say: "Twist my finger, and I'll kick your ass."

Paul was not remotely amused. 
In fact, he blushed and threw up his arms as if to say that this world of intermeddling adults was just too much to bear. Then he thought a bit and quietly muttered to himself: "I have a strange mom."

End of conversation.

That night, I spoke to Paul's father about the details of the brawl and the school's swift and certain response. 
And did I fail to mention here exactly what that response entailed? Well, not only did they send both boys home in tears, the two boys had to do the following: 

1. Hug and apologize to each other. 
2. Then they had to apologize to their entire class, the headmaster, and the elementary school director. 
3. Then they had to visit the school counselor to write and sign a behavior contract promising to never hit again. 
4. And, worst of all, they had to ask their parents to also sign the contract... and I did not even get to hit anyone first!

So, as I said, I told my husband about the day's events and the consequences imposed. His response? He said they should have just tasered the two boys.

Above, Paul shown watching insurgency training videos at Al-Pokemon camp, circa June 2010.

.

Shown in cave hideout shortly before his capture.