I'm ready to talk about this. I grew up loving cats. All I wanted was a cat. I cried for cats and envisioned the day when, free of my father's allergies, I would have a home literally crawling with felines. Then I grew up. Then I had children. I am no longer a cat person.
As childless newlyweds, my husband and I acquired a cat. As full-time employees with long commutes, we acquired a second cat to keep the first company. I can admit, with not too much guilt, that I've never been particularly fond of our behemoth cat Tibby. Yes, she was cute as a kitten (they all are). But as she grew, and grew, and grew, she developed some annoying, though tolerable habits. Yes, it was fun to watch her play fetch like a dog. She's not a bright cat--which was often humorous as well. But, when I was pregnant, bloated, uncomfortable and just wanted to be left alone, she just wanted to sit on me. The "must be in constant physical contact" with me thing continued and continued. Wherever I would sit, I'd suddenly find a paw on my shoulder. Cute huh? Unless it's you. She also liked to whine for any and no particular reason--incessantly.
We've gone through 8 years of this. After I had children, my caregiver bank was completely maxed out. I had nothing left for felines. I wish someone had explained this to me years before in explicit terms like YOU DO NOT REALLY WANT TO GET A PET. YOU WILL BE UNABLE TO EMOTIONALLY AND PHYSICALLY CARE FOR THIS PET ONCE YOU HAVE CHILDREN. NO ONE ELSE WILL CARE FOR THE PET BUT YOU, SO YOU WILL GROW TO RESENT THIS PET.
The only person with a somewhat remotely beneficial relationship with this cat was my husband. The cat loved me, I despised the cat. The boys loved the cat and she despised them. The cat tolerated my husband almost to the point of affection, and he tolerated her almost tothe point of affection. Yet none of this was so intolerable as to get rid of her. Until she began peeing on my rugs.
A line was crossed. I am not a cruel and heartless person (depending on who you ask). I took this kitten in and cared for her for 8 years, annoying habits and all. But, there is an invisible line drawn in the sand at peeing in inappropriate locations. For me anyway.
For others, there may not be such a line. Look it up online. You will find hundreds of suggestions and tips for retraining a cat who has strayed from his litterbox. And while your patiently redirecting his behavior by playing calming background music, and being oh so careful not to give kitty a complex by telling him he is bad, your rug is being pee-ed into oblivion. I don't have that kind of patience.
I tried, I really did. A friend suggested she may have a bladder infection (because the first thing I do when I get a UTI is pee on the floor). They were right. I spent $200 to diagnos and treat a kitty UTI (here kitty kitty, pee in this cup). Then I was told that I would now have to feed her exclusively $50 per bag special bladder health food. Um, you are aware this is a cat, right? I tried again. But, when she began to pee and poop on the carpet this time, not just the rugs, my secondary, back-up line was crossed into oblivion. Kitty spent several days between a pet carrier and my bathroom awaiting long discussions of my heartles cruelty and painful phone calls to no-kill shelters:
How old is she?
Eight.
No one really wants an 8-year-old cat with litterbox problems.
No kidding.
Have you tried playing calming music near the litterbox? . . .
So, I gave up. I threw in the towel. I even sprung for the expensive pet-hospital euthanization rather than dropping her at the shelter, just so I'd feel better about it. And no, I don't want to watch, nor keep the ashes.
The funniest thing about it all (I can laugh about it now) was that when I hauled this cat to the pet hospital for her last rights, I was a mess. I cried--quite a bit--for a cat I never really liked. Here's how it went down.
I steele myself and get my emotions all in check, drop the boys off with dad (it's okay mom if Tibby has to die--she used to scratch me anyway). I drive to the hospital, haul the cat inside and wait. and wait. Everybody and their dog was there. Loving pet owners, crooning over their sick animal. I was hoping the waiting room would clear out before I stepped up to the counter and stated Please kill my cat. Close, but not entirely. By the time I got up there, there was just one lady in the room, standing at the counter next to me with her lap dog.
Can I help you?
Yes, I need to have my cat seen.
What is the problem?
Well, I just need to have her, um euthanized (my voice quavers unexplicably).
Okay, here's a box of tissues. I'll get the paperwork.
And I started crying. The lapdog lady next to me puts her arm around me and says
I had to do the same thing last week.
I turn around with the paper work and a box of tissues and suddenly the room is full again. People leaning over to sneak peaks at the terminally ill cat in my carrier, wondering if she's contagious. I dunno, does mispeeing spread?
Did you want to keep the ashes?
Um, no thank you?
Do you want to watch?
What, are you nuts?--Not unless I have to
Okay, we'll bring the carrier back in a couple of minutes.
The room began closing in on me. I grabbed some tissues and stepped outside. After a couple of minutes the vet brought me my carrier and left with some final words:
Be careful driving alright?
Thanks. sniff.
And that was that. I went home and poured a whole box of deoderizer on the carpet, cleaned my bathroom and felt much better. I think of her every now and again and wonder if I did right by her, or if I'll have to some how do penance in the afterlife. I've also thought quite a bit about the meaning of the term "stewardship" and if I've been a good steward. I suppose it's all in who you ask.
I wish someone had said something to me before we got the fish. Oh, and the hermit crab.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Business & Travel
We left cloud 9 for a bit, but we're back now. For a bit. The boys actually did quite well with all the flights and layovers and such. Well, except for Elliot's rolling around, screaming tantrum on the floor at the gate of our initial return flight. So much for the idea of removing him to allow him to finish his tantrum where he can't disturb others. Sure, let me just grab his older brother, our 3 backpacks, the stroller and my carry-on and rush with the screaming child to . . somewhere, to finish his fit. Sure.
I expect, and do my best not to tolerate, some impatience and inappropriate social behavior from my children, but from grown men? Come on people. Let me explain. Near our departing gate (this was just prior to the fit described above), the men's restroom had been closed down for some reason. It was blocked off and a sign posted that said "Closed. Please use restroom near gate B10". Pretty simple instructions don't you think? It is an airport of course and I'm sure you'd run in to multiple men's restrooms on the way to baggage claim as well--choose your direction, you are bound to bump into a toilet sooner or later.
So, instead of patiently following those instructions, what did a whole host of gentlemen travelers decide to do? Use the family restroom of course. So, I stood there, with my carry-on baggage and stroller, breaking up fights between my two boys who needed respectively to pee and have a diaper change, waiting in line behind half a dozen men doing their business. Now, one would not assume that if the men's room is closed, that it would be appropriate to file on into the ladies room, right? So why is it okay to use the family room? Because men are allowed in there perhaps? Okay, point taken (men with their families however). But why, in heaven would you assume that, while justifying your use of the inappropriate restroom, you should have priority over those for whom the restroom is intended? I suppose I could have used the ladies room, but I've found that my 6 year old child, that looks like he's 8 or 10, is generally frowned upon in ladies rooms. And, I try to avoid sending him alone into a crowded men's room for obvious reasons. Come on people!
So, when my children began to complain about the wait and that they needed to do their business, I loudly explained that the men's room was closed and all these gentlemen, rather than walking to the one down the hall, have chosen to use the family room, so we have to wait behind them. That garnered me a couple of smiles from the men ahead of me, but not one of them budged. Two other parents came by with their children during all of this and loudly asked "Is this the line?" before moving on to other restrooms. Both of them however, had a same-gendered single child and a diaper in hand--obviously traveling with another adult with whom they could leave their luggage and such.
The guy in front of me commented that there isn't a bathroom down there by B9. I explained that it is down the escalator by B10, as the sign indicated. Rocket scientist. Finally, his wife exited the ladies' room, gave him a questioning look, and he left the line with her, explaining the bathroom closure and mumbling something about the big hurry I was in. Big hurry?!?! Have you ever traveled with two small children with small bladders and little patience? Obviously not. And so, we were finally at the top of the line. At which point, I noticed that not only were the men using the family room, but they, for some inexplicable reason, had been using it with the door open (the toilet being conveniently located outside of direct line of sight from the hallway). What, does it not count if the door is open? And, I noticed the light was off. Do I even ask what is going on in there? Maybe, while berating the last gentleman, the first exited without my noticing. "Hello, is anyone in there?" "Yeah! The light went out!" That's to deter men from going in and out of the bathroom with the door open--the light only stays on so long. Most people turn the light on and shut the door, idiot. So he comes rushing out, leaving us of course to flush away his pee. Nice touch.
Things got better, I worked out my annoyance with the male gender and we went about our flight home. I need to clean the house and unpack, but I'm thinking since we're leaving in just a few days for our family vacation in Chicago (we're taking the train, thank heaven), I may not bother to fully unpack.
I expect, and do my best not to tolerate, some impatience and inappropriate social behavior from my children, but from grown men? Come on people. Let me explain. Near our departing gate (this was just prior to the fit described above), the men's restroom had been closed down for some reason. It was blocked off and a sign posted that said "Closed. Please use restroom near gate B10". Pretty simple instructions don't you think? It is an airport of course and I'm sure you'd run in to multiple men's restrooms on the way to baggage claim as well--choose your direction, you are bound to bump into a toilet sooner or later.
So, instead of patiently following those instructions, what did a whole host of gentlemen travelers decide to do? Use the family restroom of course. So, I stood there, with my carry-on baggage and stroller, breaking up fights between my two boys who needed respectively to pee and have a diaper change, waiting in line behind half a dozen men doing their business. Now, one would not assume that if the men's room is closed, that it would be appropriate to file on into the ladies room, right? So why is it okay to use the family room? Because men are allowed in there perhaps? Okay, point taken (men with their families however). But why, in heaven would you assume that, while justifying your use of the inappropriate restroom, you should have priority over those for whom the restroom is intended? I suppose I could have used the ladies room, but I've found that my 6 year old child, that looks like he's 8 or 10, is generally frowned upon in ladies rooms. And, I try to avoid sending him alone into a crowded men's room for obvious reasons. Come on people!
So, when my children began to complain about the wait and that they needed to do their business, I loudly explained that the men's room was closed and all these gentlemen, rather than walking to the one down the hall, have chosen to use the family room, so we have to wait behind them. That garnered me a couple of smiles from the men ahead of me, but not one of them budged. Two other parents came by with their children during all of this and loudly asked "Is this the line?" before moving on to other restrooms. Both of them however, had a same-gendered single child and a diaper in hand--obviously traveling with another adult with whom they could leave their luggage and such.
The guy in front of me commented that there isn't a bathroom down there by B9. I explained that it is down the escalator by B10, as the sign indicated. Rocket scientist. Finally, his wife exited the ladies' room, gave him a questioning look, and he left the line with her, explaining the bathroom closure and mumbling something about the big hurry I was in. Big hurry?!?! Have you ever traveled with two small children with small bladders and little patience? Obviously not. And so, we were finally at the top of the line. At which point, I noticed that not only were the men using the family room, but they, for some inexplicable reason, had been using it with the door open (the toilet being conveniently located outside of direct line of sight from the hallway). What, does it not count if the door is open? And, I noticed the light was off. Do I even ask what is going on in there? Maybe, while berating the last gentleman, the first exited without my noticing. "Hello, is anyone in there?" "Yeah! The light went out!" That's to deter men from going in and out of the bathroom with the door open--the light only stays on so long. Most people turn the light on and shut the door, idiot. So he comes rushing out, leaving us of course to flush away his pee. Nice touch.
Things got better, I worked out my annoyance with the male gender and we went about our flight home. I need to clean the house and unpack, but I'm thinking since we're leaving in just a few days for our family vacation in Chicago (we're taking the train, thank heaven), I may not bother to fully unpack.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Just Another Day in . . .
Wow, has it really been so long. I am sorry--and not just to the handful of you who read this, but to myself. Strangely enough, this blog is good for my soul. But then again, so are a great many other things--several of which have been occupying my summer. It's been a soul-soothing summer so far. When I dubbed FairyLand FairyLand, it all just sort of made sense. Here, in this rural paradise, I'm at a loss to capture and name it. I considered Never Never Land, but Michael ruined that context for me. Originally I gravitated toward Arctic Tundra, but to experience this magic land right now, the name would not fit. Perhaps you can help. Let me roll out a typical day in my life right now, just for a glimpse into my summer.
In the morning, I get up early and work for a couple of hours. When the boys roll out of bed, we make pancakes and plan our day. Mornings are lazy--maybe a little cleaning, maybe a movie or books for the boys. Ethan was working on his airplane in the play room this morning.
As lunchtime approaches, we decide whether to bike over to the dining hall, or drive, or pack up the bikes and swim bag to go with us. Today we drove and brought Ethan's bike and Elliot's tricycle. After lunch, I sat in a rocking chair enjoying the warm breeze while the boys ran around and talked to me on the walkie-talkie. Then we strolled out to the teen-camp with Matt, Ethan darting ahead on his bike. While Matt met with a co-worker, we strolled down to the waterfront, dipped our toes in the lake and walked on the dock watching for fish. We headed out exploring a new trail, stopped for a few minutes to pick sweet, ripe mulberries from an overhanging tree before stoping in a forest clearing to let the boys play FBI for a bit (hiting trees with sticks, throwing "bomb" sticks and so one). We then strolled back, jumped in the car and headed home for a little "down-time". I took a 20 minute power nap while the boys put the finishing touches on the airplane.
In the late afternoon we threw the swim bag and an empty bucket into the bike trailer, buckled in Elliot, and biked on over to a friend's house with a more hospitable lake access (ours is all reeds and mud). I read a bit while the boys' played in the water. Then we spent an hour wading in the shallows under a low-hanging mulberry tree, filling our bucket with berries.
At the sound of the dinner-bell we loaded up the bikes, road over to the dining hall for dinner. After dinner I sat and rocked and read while the boys played in the field. After a quick good-night trip to Dad's office and a few final black raspberries, we got back on the bikes and headed for home. I watered my garden, pushed the boys on the tire swing, PJs and stories and bed. After a warm shower I find myself at the computer, a little Corinne Bailey Rae in the backgorund, ready for a little reading and my own bed.
I say it often, it is a rough life I lead . . . you should come visit.
In the morning, I get up early and work for a couple of hours. When the boys roll out of bed, we make pancakes and plan our day. Mornings are lazy--maybe a little cleaning, maybe a movie or books for the boys. Ethan was working on his airplane in the play room this morning.
As lunchtime approaches, we decide whether to bike over to the dining hall, or drive, or pack up the bikes and swim bag to go with us. Today we drove and brought Ethan's bike and Elliot's tricycle. After lunch, I sat in a rocking chair enjoying the warm breeze while the boys ran around and talked to me on the walkie-talkie. Then we strolled out to the teen-camp with Matt, Ethan darting ahead on his bike. While Matt met with a co-worker, we strolled down to the waterfront, dipped our toes in the lake and walked on the dock watching for fish. We headed out exploring a new trail, stopped for a few minutes to pick sweet, ripe mulberries from an overhanging tree before stoping in a forest clearing to let the boys play FBI for a bit (hiting trees with sticks, throwing "bomb" sticks and so one). We then strolled back, jumped in the car and headed home for a little "down-time". I took a 20 minute power nap while the boys put the finishing touches on the airplane.
In the late afternoon we threw the swim bag and an empty bucket into the bike trailer, buckled in Elliot, and biked on over to a friend's house with a more hospitable lake access (ours is all reeds and mud). I read a bit while the boys' played in the water. Then we spent an hour wading in the shallows under a low-hanging mulberry tree, filling our bucket with berries.
At the sound of the dinner-bell we loaded up the bikes, road over to the dining hall for dinner. After dinner I sat and rocked and read while the boys played in the field. After a quick good-night trip to Dad's office and a few final black raspberries, we got back on the bikes and headed for home. I watered my garden, pushed the boys on the tire swing, PJs and stories and bed. After a warm shower I find myself at the computer, a little Corinne Bailey Rae in the backgorund, ready for a little reading and my own bed.
I say it often, it is a rough life I lead . . . you should come visit.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Bubble Wrap
You shouldn't report me to CPS--at least I don't think you should. There have been moments this week when I have wondered. Am I a neglectful parent? Or is my child just plain accident prone? Here is my week in review:
Monday, 3rd degree burns: We're having guests over for a BBQ. I'm in the kitchen making a salad. Matt goes out to light the grill. Elliot wanders out a few minutes later. I assume Matt is out there. He is not, he has gone back inside for something. One of our guests brings Elliot in to me a few minutes later, screaming with blisters on four fingers. The upside is of course that he probably won't ever use his fingers to check the status of the grill again.
Tuesday, near drowning: I take the boys to the pool. I'm playing catch with Elliot while he stands at the railing on the ramp in water to his waist. He throws the ball way past my head. I swim 6 feet away to grab the ball and turn to watch as he swings himself under the rail and sinks into the 4 foot deep water. I reach him just before the lifeguard does and drag him to the surface sputtering.
Thursday, head injury: We're taking a couple of neighbor kids home, everyone is attempting to pile into the minivan. An older boy opens the auto door slider on Elliot's side just as Elliot rounds the back of the van at high speed, crashing noggin first into the edge of the slider. Fortunately just barely splitting the skin over a nice raised goose-egg.
Saturday, double knee injury and near suffocation: I may have mentioned that bad knees run in the family. But it generally does not manifest itself until at least the teenage years. However, Elliot seems prone to twisting his knees constantly. Today we went to the Big Truck Event downtown to check out all the trucks the had on display for little boys to climb in and honk the horns--loudly and repeatedly. We were just about ready to go and I let the boys go in one of the blow-up jumping house things. All was fine until I heard crying and dragged Elliot out complaining of two twisted knees. As I was tending to him, someone pulled the plug out of the thing and the whole inflatable collapsed on the kids inside (Ethan included) as we frantically extracted them before they could suffocate.
I don't think they're too much worse for the wear. We wrapped both knees and he recovered enough to want to participate in the square dance tonight. Hopefully we've got all the accidents out of our system for a little while. Maybe I should wrap him in bubble wrap.
Monday, 3rd degree burns: We're having guests over for a BBQ. I'm in the kitchen making a salad. Matt goes out to light the grill. Elliot wanders out a few minutes later. I assume Matt is out there. He is not, he has gone back inside for something. One of our guests brings Elliot in to me a few minutes later, screaming with blisters on four fingers. The upside is of course that he probably won't ever use his fingers to check the status of the grill again.
Tuesday, near drowning: I take the boys to the pool. I'm playing catch with Elliot while he stands at the railing on the ramp in water to his waist. He throws the ball way past my head. I swim 6 feet away to grab the ball and turn to watch as he swings himself under the rail and sinks into the 4 foot deep water. I reach him just before the lifeguard does and drag him to the surface sputtering.
Thursday, head injury: We're taking a couple of neighbor kids home, everyone is attempting to pile into the minivan. An older boy opens the auto door slider on Elliot's side just as Elliot rounds the back of the van at high speed, crashing noggin first into the edge of the slider. Fortunately just barely splitting the skin over a nice raised goose-egg.
Saturday, double knee injury and near suffocation: I may have mentioned that bad knees run in the family. But it generally does not manifest itself until at least the teenage years. However, Elliot seems prone to twisting his knees constantly. Today we went to the Big Truck Event downtown to check out all the trucks the had on display for little boys to climb in and honk the horns--loudly and repeatedly. We were just about ready to go and I let the boys go in one of the blow-up jumping house things. All was fine until I heard crying and dragged Elliot out complaining of two twisted knees. As I was tending to him, someone pulled the plug out of the thing and the whole inflatable collapsed on the kids inside (Ethan included) as we frantically extracted them before they could suffocate.
I don't think they're too much worse for the wear. We wrapped both knees and he recovered enough to want to participate in the square dance tonight. Hopefully we've got all the accidents out of our system for a little while. Maybe I should wrap him in bubble wrap.
Seeing Double
Do you see the humor in the following items I happened into recently? Or do I just have a strange sense of funny?
A sign that reads:
"Cosmetic Surgery
The Vein Center"
An ad for an airline seat belt extender had this at the end of the ad:
"These extenders add an extra 24" of length. Rated to 3000 lbs and conforms to FAA TSO."
I'll post a comment explaining why I find these funny. Lemme know if you thought so too.
A sign that reads:
"Cosmetic Surgery
The Vein Center"
An ad for an airline seat belt extender had this at the end of the ad:
"These extenders add an extra 24" of length. Rated to 3000 lbs and conforms to FAA TSO."
I'll post a comment explaining why I find these funny. Lemme know if you thought so too.
Friday, June 5, 2009
My Happy Place
I've been occasionally attending an old-lady water aerobics class. At one point in the class we need to spread out and find a suitable depth to stay at for a bit. The instructor always says "Okay Ladies, find your Happy Place". I think I'm already there.
Do you ever feel guilty about being happy? I mean I hate to even mention it because there's a little superstitious bit of me that thinks that if I talk about how happy I am, maybe it'll all come crashing down around me.
Don't get me wrong, I have good days and bad days (case in point, I'm running on about 2 hours of interrupted sleep today due to a nasty cough), sometimes my children are very trying, sometimes I'm grumpy and things certainly don't always go my way, and sure, I could lose a hundred pounds or so, but all that stuff so doesn't seem to matter when I consider just how blessed I am.
This evening, I was sitting in our big plastic primary colored Ikea chairs (we need to invest in some outdoor furniture) with my boys, eating the pizza we'd made together and relishing in the gorgeous lake view, our lovely big grassy, tree lined, yard, discussing just how blessed we are. I feel compelled to remind my children that this life we lead is not typical. I want to somehow make them realize just how lucky they are so maybe they'll cherish their childhood more. Although really, it'll probably be well into their adulthood before it truly hits them. I don't mean to beat them over the head with it, but I suppose I do.
Do you boys realize that not everyone gets to live on a beautiful lake and roam around a camp all day?
Yeah.
Do you know that lots of kids don't have moms that can stay home with them, but have to go to work?
Yeah--we're lucky because you can do your job on the computer.
Do you realize . . .
Lately I've been having many gratitude days. You know, where you just sit around and count your blessings (The Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ, a beautiful place to live, a righteous husband, the peace that comes from living within our means, my children, my children, my children, lilacs, tomato plants, Indian food, a good job, and on and on). It makes me want to sing praises from the rooftops. But I suppose that would be a bit gratuitous wouldn't it?
It also makes me wonder what challenges lie in wait, but then I remind myself to enjoy the present and deal with the future when it gets here. It also makes me feel a little bit guilty, that perhaps I should have more children with whom to share this. But not guilty enough to consider pregnancy and infancy in any real terms--as if that were still feasible. But it does make me take more notice of ads for foster parents. But then I selfishly wonder if my idyllic days might come to a crashing halt if I were to upset the balance in such a dramatic way. And then I feel a little bit guilty about that.
But those little bits of guilt and wariness are swallowed so wholly in gratitude as I watch my children laugh out loud as they run through the sprinkler on the eve of summer. Right now, I think I'll just enjoy it.
Do you ever feel guilty about being happy? I mean I hate to even mention it because there's a little superstitious bit of me that thinks that if I talk about how happy I am, maybe it'll all come crashing down around me.
Don't get me wrong, I have good days and bad days (case in point, I'm running on about 2 hours of interrupted sleep today due to a nasty cough), sometimes my children are very trying, sometimes I'm grumpy and things certainly don't always go my way, and sure, I could lose a hundred pounds or so, but all that stuff so doesn't seem to matter when I consider just how blessed I am.
This evening, I was sitting in our big plastic primary colored Ikea chairs (we need to invest in some outdoor furniture) with my boys, eating the pizza we'd made together and relishing in the gorgeous lake view, our lovely big grassy, tree lined, yard, discussing just how blessed we are. I feel compelled to remind my children that this life we lead is not typical. I want to somehow make them realize just how lucky they are so maybe they'll cherish their childhood more. Although really, it'll probably be well into their adulthood before it truly hits them. I don't mean to beat them over the head with it, but I suppose I do.
Do you boys realize that not everyone gets to live on a beautiful lake and roam around a camp all day?
Yeah.
Do you know that lots of kids don't have moms that can stay home with them, but have to go to work?
Yeah--we're lucky because you can do your job on the computer.
Do you realize . . .
Lately I've been having many gratitude days. You know, where you just sit around and count your blessings (The Restored Gospel of Jesus Christ, a beautiful place to live, a righteous husband, the peace that comes from living within our means, my children, my children, my children, lilacs, tomato plants, Indian food, a good job, and on and on). It makes me want to sing praises from the rooftops. But I suppose that would be a bit gratuitous wouldn't it?
It also makes me wonder what challenges lie in wait, but then I remind myself to enjoy the present and deal with the future when it gets here. It also makes me feel a little bit guilty, that perhaps I should have more children with whom to share this. But not guilty enough to consider pregnancy and infancy in any real terms--as if that were still feasible. But it does make me take more notice of ads for foster parents. But then I selfishly wonder if my idyllic days might come to a crashing halt if I were to upset the balance in such a dramatic way. And then I feel a little bit guilty about that.
But those little bits of guilt and wariness are swallowed so wholly in gratitude as I watch my children laugh out loud as they run through the sprinkler on the eve of summer. Right now, I think I'll just enjoy it.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Be Nice
I have always struggled in getting through Alma in the Book of Mormon. Which is unfortunate considering that Alma constitutes a very large portion of the book. Why Alma you might ask? Well, there are obviously some very good bits throughout there, but when you get into the latter chapters there is just so much war and carnage that I begin to become dismayed and disinterested. Not so for my children however. The blood and carnage portions are their favorite parts. Perhaps Moroni included all this with the understanding that the Priesthood of the latter days may be more readily persuaded to study the scriptures in their youth with a heavy dusting of violence. Just a theory.
Last night I was reading the scriptures with my boys. Ethan likes the pictures in the Book of Mormon Stories, but I like reading the actual scripture to them. They like to flip through the pictures, select the most interesting (read most bodies, blood and carnage) ones for me to read. Then, while they looked at the pictures, I read aloud from the actual book. We discussed the Lamanite army destroying the city of Ammonihah and Elliot points at the picture.
Is dat da army?
Yes, the Lamanite army.
Do dey have missiles and bombs?
No, this was a long time ago before missiles and bombs.
Do dey have bullets?
No, they didn't have guns or bullets either.
Mom, you're wrong and I'm right. Dey have missles and bombs and bullets.
Okay.
So how does my three-year-old know so much about armies and missiles and bombs? Oh yeah, I did take them to the air zoo after all. I do have to admit that gratefully, either by nature or by constant maternal vigillance, my boys are very nice--relativley speaking.
We wento the park yesterday and it seems we were constantly surrounded by boys of all ages being rude, inconsiderate or downright mean. I even had to break up a physical fight between a group of kindergarteners--me being the only parent on the playground. I am happy to say that my children were not involved in the fight. Hopefully this is not just due to my presence. On our way home we had a conversation:
Is Nathan always that mean?
No, he's pretty nice at school.
Really, so he's just mean at the playground after school?
How do you feel when kids are mean?
Bad.
Does it make you want to play with them?
No, I just walk away and play with someone else.
Good. Do you think kids would want to play with you if you're mean?
No, I'm nice.
Glad to hear it. Is it just me, or does it seem that it's somehow become acceptable for boys to be mean? I hear it, I sometimes think it--boys will be boys. And that is true. Boys are rough, boys are sometimes rude and inconsiderate. But this does not mean that becaue it is natural, this behavior is acceptable. This is also not something they will learn on their own. Someone must stand up and correct inappropriate behavior, not just excuse or discount it. My Grandfather's advice to my husband and I on our wedding day was Be nice to each other. There is infinite wisdom in this counsel. I'm doing my darndest to teach my boys to be nice. And to their credit, they are. Most of the time. Even though they like to read about people not being nice.
Last night I was reading the scriptures with my boys. Ethan likes the pictures in the Book of Mormon Stories, but I like reading the actual scripture to them. They like to flip through the pictures, select the most interesting (read most bodies, blood and carnage) ones for me to read. Then, while they looked at the pictures, I read aloud from the actual book. We discussed the Lamanite army destroying the city of Ammonihah and Elliot points at the picture.
Is dat da army?
Yes, the Lamanite army.
Do dey have missiles and bombs?
No, this was a long time ago before missiles and bombs.
Do dey have bullets?
No, they didn't have guns or bullets either.
Mom, you're wrong and I'm right. Dey have missles and bombs and bullets.
Okay.
So how does my three-year-old know so much about armies and missiles and bombs? Oh yeah, I did take them to the air zoo after all. I do have to admit that gratefully, either by nature or by constant maternal vigillance, my boys are very nice--relativley speaking.
We wento the park yesterday and it seems we were constantly surrounded by boys of all ages being rude, inconsiderate or downright mean. I even had to break up a physical fight between a group of kindergarteners--me being the only parent on the playground. I am happy to say that my children were not involved in the fight. Hopefully this is not just due to my presence. On our way home we had a conversation:
Is Nathan always that mean?
No, he's pretty nice at school.
Really, so he's just mean at the playground after school?
How do you feel when kids are mean?
Bad.
Does it make you want to play with them?
No, I just walk away and play with someone else.
Good. Do you think kids would want to play with you if you're mean?
No, I'm nice.
Glad to hear it. Is it just me, or does it seem that it's somehow become acceptable for boys to be mean? I hear it, I sometimes think it--boys will be boys. And that is true. Boys are rough, boys are sometimes rude and inconsiderate. But this does not mean that becaue it is natural, this behavior is acceptable. This is also not something they will learn on their own. Someone must stand up and correct inappropriate behavior, not just excuse or discount it. My Grandfather's advice to my husband and I on our wedding day was Be nice to each other. There is infinite wisdom in this counsel. I'm doing my darndest to teach my boys to be nice. And to their credit, they are. Most of the time. Even though they like to read about people not being nice.
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