The Ox and the Sheep

The quiet spot has been a bit of a bust. In the heat of the rage, it's hard to convince a 4-year-old to head out to his place of peace. I even tried locking him out once. That didn't work. What has worked? Bribery. Pure, shameless bribery. Someone once described bribery of children as paying them for doing their job. Well, if that makes us feel better about it. I look at bribery as short-term. Right now, I pay Ethan one dollar for every 10 dried beans he can put in his bean jar. How does he earn beans for his bean jar? By not throwing fits, hitting me, screaming at me and all other such nonsense. I used to offer to pay him for extra chores. I've decided that extra chores will come later and now take a back seat to communication without screaming, insults or physical abuse. My theory is that with time, he will learn to control his anger and the bribery will fall by the wayside. We'll see.

So far, it's working rather well. I'd say that perhaps 50% of the time, if I catch him in that moment before he completely loses it, he'll opt for the bean over the fit. And the best part about it is that he has been using his money to buy back from me the toys I confiscated during his last giant rage. We'll see how long that lasts.

Tonight we ate at a Chinese restaurant. My husband pointed out after reading our place-mats that while he (Snake) and I (Ox) are zodiac-ally compatible (considering we're 7 years into this deal, I'd hate to have discovered otherwise), the last line of the Ox's description says "Will have difficulty with Sheep (Ethan)." I did a bit more research into the Chinese Zodiac and also discovered that the Sheep "needs plenty of time alone in which to feed its Muse". Hmmm . . . back to the quiet spot perhaps?

The Wizard

Dear Dr. Oz,

I love watching you get excited about gory entrails and such. I love your sincerity and directness. I believed what you told that woman about soaking her stinky feet in tea. I listened to her testimonial and that of her roommate. I believed it so much that I took my Mormon self to the store and bought some "bad tea", explaining to my son in the grocery store that while it is against our religion to drink it, it is okay to soak one's feet in it. For the good of our entire little household. I believed it so much I have steeped a vat of tea almost nightly, in which my husband dutifully soaks his feet. I'm not yet prepared to bear testimony. His feet still stink. Yet, I'm not ready to stop making him tea. It's only been a few nights.

Please Dr. Oz, do not let your shining star fall from Oprah's galaxy. Her last doctoral liaison has come to such great disappointment. I was so excited to watch Dr. Phil jump to his own show. I watched episode after episode with so much enthusiasm. I found myself talking to him and all the strange people who chose to air their dirty laundry on that neutral-hued stage. It was many months before I realized that he'd become Jerry Springer. The calming decor and the gentle twang fooled me. Once bitten, twice shy Dr. Oz. Please, do not disappoint me.

Oh, and please don't be wrong about the tea.

Like mother . . .

My son is four years old. He is a delightful, intelligent and exuberant child. He also tries my patience to the utmost on a rather regular basis. He spent the better part of this afternoon yelling at me from my bedroom where he had been exiled in an endless and unfair timeout by a "mean" mom.

My husband and I regularly discuss how best to handle this strong-willed child. At the end of days like today, I have to remind myself that my grandmother always said that strong-willed children make wonderful adults. I am also reminded that these are precisely the characteristics which, if channeled and honed correctly, will safely carry him through the perils of peer pressure into adulthood ("hey Ethan, wanna do drugs?" "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! YOU'RE MEAN! YOU'RE STUPID!")

In today's conversation with my husband, he gently reminded me that Ethan is much like me in this area. I seem to remember my mother telling me of the days she would say to my father "I give up, her will is stronger than mine"--I think I've said that myself recently. Oh, and the time I was sent to my room by my ultra-patient mother, after which I posted a sign on my door that read "Mom is stupid!" Then, my brilliant father promptly revoked my door privileges by removing my door from it's hinges and storing it in the garage for at least a week (I need to have a good sit-down chat with grandpa about how to come up with such appropriate consequences).

Then, as my anger cooled, I began to think about the things which make me angry. The things which make me desire to be contrary, if only for the sake of being contrary. And the ways in which I have learned to cope with this generous helping of spit-fire in my life.

Then I left my husband with the boys, and made a late-night grocery run. I thought some more. I remember living in Florida and being angry at myself and at God. I rode my bike to the beach to walk in the moonlight and shout. I remember being calmed. I remember being angry at my brother and driving to a quiet spot where I could sit under a tree and think. I remember being angry at my husband when we were engaged, and running off to a deserted beach to walk and let the wind drive out my anger. I found a rock that was not perfectly shaped or colored, but it was beautiful. The very flaws and irregularities made it more so. I brought it home with me. I remember the last day I had like this--a couple of weeks ago here in FairyLand. I hiked down to the falls and sat and listened. I remember that I've always sought out solitude and nature at my most trying moments.

I've decided that I will help Ethan create his own quiet spot or secret garden where he can escape when all the expectations of good behavior seem just too much to bear. Here he can shout and scream, cry and sit. It will be his little piece of FairyLand.

Whiners Unite!

We moved to Fairyland for my husband’s job. He works with children. He in fact manages staff that work with children. Much of his staff is not much more than children themselves—and they act like it. At the risk of sounding old and out of touch (“ Back in my day . .“), I have to say that the rising generation of young adults are a big bunch of whiners. Perhaps this is just the vocal minority (we can only hope), but I am appalled at their careless, excuse-ridden behavior as employees, and as role models to children. Granted, I don’t get much detail. My husband is terribly professionally tight-lipped about these things, but since we live here, I pick up a bit of what’s going on. And I have to say that a portion of his young staff are worse than my 4-year-old when it comes to whining and temper tantrums. Somehow I don’t recall anywhere in my employment history (“Back in my day . . .”) where I felt I was in any position to whine to my employer about the basic rules to which I was asked to adhere. Sure, you might not like it, but suck it up or find another job! Now, I’m not talking about accepting unsafe or ethically improper practices in the workplace. In fact, I’m talking about rules that are designed precisely to protect employee and client safety, or to enforce ethics.

Let me provide a couple of examples. No flip-flops are allowed in the workplace for obvious safety reasons. “The flip-flop rule is stupid!” “Let’s have a flip-flop protest day.” Yeah. I’m thinking the Great Flip-Flop Protest will go down in the annals of history next to the great strides made by the union movement in protecting the rights of workers everywhere.

And how about this one folks—today’s big shake-up: drug testing. I’m no lawyer, but as far as I understand it, illegal drugs are still illegal—even the drugs that you think shouldn’t be illegal. They are still illegal. I also understand that your employer has the right to expect you to be a law-abiding citizen and that you can lose your job for breaking laws even on time-off. Particularly if you have signed a waiver agreeing to all this—I don’t know, maybe the up and coming generation really can’t read. Which, of course, is entirely not their fault. My second example follows.

Every person hired here in fairyland is required to sign a drug testing form which states (I’m paraphrasing) that they are not allowed to use illegal drugs during their term of employment and that random drug tests can and will occur throughout this term as well. They have the right to refuse to take the test, but such refusal will result in termination of employment. I may just be old-fashioned, but generally when I sign something, I read it and only sign it if I agree with the terms.

Back to my example “but, you should have given us warning.” “This isn’t fair.” And so forth. What part of “you are not allowed to use illegal drugs during your term of employment and we will test you or you will lose your job” is not fair warning? What a bunch of whiners. And, to top it off, some of the leadership staff is whining about the unfairness of all this and how these bozos are some of the best staff. Boy, if this is the cream of the crop, I’d hate to see the whey—maybe the rest of them do drugs in front of the kids they’re supervising, not just on their time off.

Oh, and what about "if they have it all out of their system and are able to function and do their jobs when they're on duty, what's the problem?" What's the problem?!!? As a mother, if I entrust you with the care of my child (as an employee of an organization that boasts in it's mission building healthy minds and bodies nonetheless), I expect you to expect my child to follow the rules. I therefore expect you to MODEL ADHERENCE TO RULES be they big or small or whether or not you agree with them. Regardless of whether my child ever discovers what specifically you do or do not do in your time off, they will get the message loud and clear, somehow, some way, that you do not believe that rules are worth following. Therefore I DO NOT WANT THE CARE OF MY CHILDREN ENTRUSTED TO THE LIKES OF YOU!

So, the result of all this is that, rather than submitting to the testing, most of them decided to up and quit on the spot, dropping their responsibilities and supposed commitment to the children like a hot potato (“good riddance to bad rubbish” as the saying goes). Doesn’t that just speak volumes about character and commitment? (and no, you can't win for losing . . . )

And oh, the victim and martyr performances were astounding (listen, is that Les Miserables in the background? . . . Do you hear the people sing? Singing the songs of angry men). As if it’s someone else’s fault that they do drugs and as such are being forced to quit a job that expects them not to do drugs (It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again). And then, in a true act of solidarity (Will you join in our crusade? Will you be strong and stand with me?) Several of their friends quit too (boy, that’ll show ‘em, way to take one for the team, nothin’ like chaining yourself to a sinking ship). As if somehow, like a big kum-ba-ya sit-in we’re gonna force those big, mean, drug-free, child-safe workplace enforcers in their close-toed shoes to shut up and listen for a change. (When the beating of your heart . . .). “We’re not going to take it! It’s a free country for heaven’s sake and we can use all the drugs we want and still be morally fit to care for children. (Echoes the beating of a drum . . .) We can nurture the rising generation! We can show them that they too have the right to make stupid decisions that may drastically affect their future for worse. WE ARE TODAY’S ROLE MODELS! WE ARE TOMORROW’S HEROES!!” (There is a life about to start, when tomorrow comes!) Quit your whining already will ya?

One leadership staff member was heard to say “you should have anticipated this.” Anticipated what? That in one fell swoop, many of the offenders up and took themselves out of their positions of responsibility? I would have to say that immediately removing themselves from the influence of children is perhaps the single most responsible act they have performed since employment. It seems to me that the drug testing was far more effective than anyone could have hoped for—and no one even had to pay for the test!

Then, as the quitters drove off site with tears in their eyes and big frowns on their faces, honking their horns (that’ll show us), didn’t it just make the big meanies all feel so bad; as if this is all somehow everyone else’s fault. There was a time (back in my day . . . ) when people were taught to take responsibility for their actions—even their misdeeds. And that consequences dolled out were received penitently, the offender, having learned something very important, likely commits themselves to changing their behavior and making a better future for themselves. That is when, as they part, one feels a sense of sympathy for them, and hope for a better future. This however, makes you just want to shake your head and mumble to no-one in particular (because they certainly aren’t listening) “quit your whining already.”

McMussels

My son loves mussels. My son is four years old. I find this to be very cute. I also find it unfortunate that mussels are not on the kiddie menu. They generally reside on the appetizer menu, which isn't as bad as the main course. I also find it cute, if a bit disconcerting with regards to their college funds, that my one-year-old seems to like to share his brother's mussels.

The last restaurant we went to, Ethan ordered the mussels and then we watched all the wait-staff pass by pointing and giggling as he practically stood on his chair with his little mussel fork, digging out the goods.

Many adults to whom I've told this story have told me that they won't eat mussels themselves--they look gross. So, why is it therefore so difficult to believe that a small child loves them? Case in point--I don't like McDonalds food. I think it looks gross. But my child and many others seem to love it. Or at least my child loves the interactiveness of the whole McDonalds experience (the little packages, the dipping, the playground). It would therefore stand to reason that mussels are a perfect kid-food. They are unique, highly interactive (little shells, sharp tool used for extracting the protein-nugget from it's packaging) and messy--especially if you're 4.

Oh Brother Brigham

As I sat down this evening to write the primary sacrament meeting program, I was reminded of an experience a few years ago, of being asked to write the ward Road Show. We met one evening to get the scoop and have the theme unveiled. There was a heady sense of excitement in the air as a roomful of rather reluctant, relatively creative types gathered together.

After the obligatory mormon meeting moments (prayers, introductions, much expression of gratitude and faith), it was time. And the them is . . . . "Church History . . . LIVE!"

What?--

No, you read correctly: Church History. Live!

I don't know about you mormons out there, but my experience with road shows has been that of taking a rather silly theme, putting it to silly music and silly language, wrapping it up in some feel good, generally gospel based ideal, and a good time is had by all.

I began wracking my brain for anything very silly about church history . . . the cricket plague? nah, Mountain Meadows Massacre? nope. Martin Handcart Company? nuh-uh. Polygamy? well, now we're getting warm.

Trouble was, we were asked to submit two ideas to the stake president for approval before we began script-writing. So, I boldly submitted "Seven Brides for One Brother" and "Church History--LIVE!" (a series of silly loosely historically based vignettes with musical guest in Saturday Night--LIVE! format). Both were destined to be hilarious--if somewhat controversial. Both were also destined never to be . . . they didn't make it past round 1. ("Have you seen Saturday Night--LIVE!"? I was asked. Surely that's where the theme was taken from . . . but alas.)

Back to the drawing board. In the end, this was a great exercise that forced my creative juices to their utmost limit and I came up with something even better than the original provocative ideas: The Game. Church History ala Jumangi. (Of course, I did NOT mention Jumangi in the proposal--have you seen Jumangi!? Oh, the violence!). Basic plot is this, Dad finds an old dusty boardgame in the garage and decides to play it for FHE. Kids are not so thrilled, and then suddenly the game gets real. Little brother who unfortunately selected the Brigham Young playing piece is chased off stage by a bear (really happened--Church History). Older brother with Joseph's playing piece has to avoid being killed by the mob that appeared at the door after the gold plates appeared in his lap, and so forth. And of course, the crowning glory, the moment when seagulls descend upon the audience demanding crickets from them (ala Finding Nemo--"Mine! Mine! Mine!). It was brilliant!

Someday I'd still like to write Seven Brides for One Brother.

Now back to the primary program . . .

Modernity

My grandmother had this funny dishwasher that she would roll over to the sink every night and plug in to the faucet. Weird. Finally, she remodeled her kitchen and had a real dishwasher built in.

Funny thing is that here I am, 20 years later, in search of a "portable dishwasher" to roll over and plug in to my sink. Did you know that the portable version is generally at least 2 times the cost of its immobile counterpart. Weird.

Portable: Easily carried or conveyed by hand: a portable typewriter.

In Italian the verb "portare" means "to carry". I heard many an American in Italy ask another American in Italy to "port me that chair (or book, or whatever)".

Funny, I never thought of a dishwasher, in any form being "easily carried". Yet, here I am, every night, gratefully porting my dishwasher over to the sink to plug it in to the faucet.

There are many modern conveniences I am happy to do without. When we moved to Fairyland, I'd thought perhaps a washer/dryer and dishwasher in the home were among them. I have since decided they are not. I have a lovely stacking washer/dryer unit sitting in my Everything Room. And a wonderful, if a bit silly, affordable (thanks craigslist),portable dishwasher sitting by the fridge--just waiting for me to port it on over to the sink.