Category Archives: parenting

Over the River and Through the Woods

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

The holidays can mean different things to different people.

To the young child it may mean that their parents will dress them up and drag them all around town, and if they have been a good little boy or girl this year they might have a Hot Wheels wall track or a pink LeapPad Explorer waiting for them under the tree on Christmas morning, Santa willing.

Hey Santa! This is number one on my wish list... an inflatable remote control flying shark. Awesome, right?

To the young couple it means spending lots of time with each other’s relatives, usually with excess stress and excess food and excess alcohol, all the while making whispered promises to each other that their lives will never, ever resemble those with whom they share those inextricable genetic links.

To the parents of teenagers it may mean being able to enjoy the Christmas Eve church service without (as much) fear that it might be their child who drops the taper candle during the congregation’s rendition of “Silent Night,” thus setting a pew or a hymnal or an old lady’s wig on fire.

To the grandparents it may mean a renewed spirit, and seemingly new eyes through which they get to watch the next generation experience the innocence and unguarded joy of believing in flying animals and toy workshops and true, untainted Christmas magic.

I have been running around for the past month like a crazed (yes, even more than usual) lunatic, slowly but surely crossing things off my To-Do lists, which were constantly being extended and amended and created anew.  I have been planning and shopping and wrapping and baking and decorating.  Sheepdog has been traveling for work all month, right up until he flew home from California on the 22nd.  The kids have all participated in their classroom parties and team celebrations and gift exchanges.  Then yesterday the seven of us piled into the car and drove well over five hundred miles to be with Grandma and Grandpa in West Virginia.  We are all still swirling around, caught up in the glorious enchantment that reaches its pinnacle tomorrow morning.

This afternoon we will finally slow down as we come together to spend time with even more family.  Tonight we will watch a reenactment of the birth of Jesus at a family friendly church service in town.  Finally, when the kids are just about to burst with anticipation, Sheepdog will read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas and everyone will eventually fall into bed.

In theory, Christmas is supposed to be about simplicity.  It is about Jesus being born in a stable.  You don’t get much more unelaborate than that.

In reality, Christmas is complicated and stressful and expensive and anxiety-ridden, especially in the weeks and days leading up to it.  But, if you are really lucky, you will also get to experience those moments of calm and peace and love and true magic that make Christmas such a wonderful time of the year.

Here’s to you and yours.  May your weekend be filled with the people and things that make you happy, even amidst the crazy.  Make sure that you take the time to stop and smell the Christmas cookies.  Joy to the World!

Why I Don’t Bring My Kids to the Grocery Store

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I usually try to go to the grocery store while the kids are all in school.  Then there are days when I run out of something specific (usually wine) but my morning schedule does not allow for a grocery run, so I just take Kid E in with me after I pick him up from school.  Nick the Meat Guy, Bill the Deli Guy and all of the checkout ladies were shocked recently to hear that I have five kids.  They all thought I just had the one.  I was flattered at first (“NO WAY that you have five kids!”) but then I wondered who in the world they thought ate all of the food that I buy.  No joke that if Kroger had a Frequent Flyer program, I’d be going free and First Class to Fiji right now.

Anyway, attempting to the grocery store with one kid is not so bad.  I can even occasionally tolerate shopping with two kids in tow.  But three or more kids tagging along is clumsy and crowded and not ideal.  They all want stuff (“Can we puh-leeeeese get Lucky Charms?”) and try to push the cart (usually into a very tall and breakable display) and get all needy and have to go to the bathroom or lose one shoe somewhere along the way, thus wrecking my dream to ever get recruited by the Supermarket Sweep people.

So when I realized today that I was again out of wine I tried to go to the store early to stock up.  Unfortunately, I was at the salon all morning undergoing Step Two of a multi-step process by which I am becoming a redhead (a post for a different day), and I was unable to make it work.  I had to wait for Kids C and D to get off the elementary bus and then we all headed out for just a few things.

I don’t know if it was the full moon or that it is Friday or it is so close to Christmas or my kids are just weird, but it was complete chaos in the store and it ended with a fit of giggles on the car ride home.  It was actually a really fun time.  This is how they looked right before we unloaded our haul:

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

I Like Sir Mix-A-Lot

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I was cleaning off the kitchen table after breakfast on Saturday morning.  It was just me and Kid A and both of the boys.  Sheepdog and Kid B were at another soccer tournament in Tucker, GA, and Kid C had a sleepover at Nanny’s house the night before and hadn’t gotten back yet.  I was planning my day out loud.  I needed to schedule a run (even though when you run as slowly as I do it is technically called a “walk”) and I was trying to get myself excited about it.

“Well,” I began, “Yesterday marked exactly three months until Daddy and I go to Mexico on our vacation.”

“That’s nice,” said six-year-old Kid D.  At least somebody in the room was listening to me and my stream-of-consciousness ramblings.  Although he was very engrossed in NCAA football, so he may have been talking to the television and not to me.  Or his father has already taught him to always acknowledge the sound of a woman’s voice, even if it was in that “Sure, I’m paying attention to you” way.

I continued, “… and I am not planning on taking this big butt on our trip, so I need to fit in a run-slash-walk and then I’m going to do some P90X.”

Kid D was all of a sudden clearly paying attention to me (presumably because I said the word “butt”).  He put down the remote and came over to me in the kitchen.  “Mom, you have to bring your butt with you.  How else are you going to sit down?” he inquired.

I clarified, “I am still bringing a butt on the trip, just not this great, big one.  It will be a smaller version of my current butt.”

None of my other kids in the room said a word.  And either Kid D totally understood me, or his father has also already taught him how to navigate the DANGER! DANGER! that can often result when women are discussing their weight.

“Well, I already think you’re beautiful, mom,” said my loving, angelic, currently ranked #1 son.  I was both proud of his compassion and flattered by his compliment.

Then the dumb boy added, “But I think it’s great that you’re finally getting skinny because big butts don’t really fit on airplane seats.”

Then he gave me a hug and went right back to watching College Game Day live from Houston.  Oh, how quickly they can fall out of favor.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Nothing But Socks and Underwear

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

I know that I have been a little obsessed with sleep lately, but that is mostly because I was not getting a whole lot of it.  I liken it to the forbidden fruit.  Great, now I’m craving apples and a nap.  Fortunately, things seem to be moving in the right direction for us in the sleep department.  Finally.

As you know, I had tried almost everything to get Kid E to stay in bed.  His most recent major complaint was that the night “is a very, very, very long time” and he was “getting bored with it.”  Whenever I took the positive reinforcement route and said that I just knew he was going to have a good night, he would assure me that he planned to “try (his) best,” which of course was code for “see you at 3 a.m.”  This kid plays dirty and is wicked smart, so I finally decided that I was going to have to fight fire with fire.

I played the Santa Claus card.

Inspiration hit me last week when the Target Holiday Toy Sale catalog arrived in the mail.  Kid E started going through it page by page and he told me he wanted everything.  Except for the pink pages because, apparently, he is a very manly four-year-old.  He pointed to each and every boy toy in the book and said, “…and I want this and this and this.  OH!  And I want this too.  This is so so so cool.”  Even when I pointed out that we had one of the toys, just in a different color (not pink), he insisted that he needed it.  He was already becoming brainwashed by commercials and catalogs.

I started to remind him that Christmas is supposed to be about giving and not just gimme! gimme! gimme! and then I had a brilliant idea.

I mean, really, what kid is going to take the chance?

“That’s a great wish list that you’ve got going there so far.  We’ll have to be sure to write it all down and send it in a letter to Santa at the North Pole,” I began.  I noticed his eyes lighting up so I sold it even harder,”… and we can ask him about his reindeer and the elves and if he is ready for his long trip on Christmas Eve.  And then we can tell him how big you are getting and how good you have been lately.  We can tell him that you have been sleeping through the night and…”

Kid E’s face fell.  I knew that I had him.  I just had to bring it on home.

“Oh no,” I said.  “That won’t work, will it?  Since you keep getting out of bed, either at bedtime or in the middle of the night, we can’t really tell Santa that you have been very good this year, can we?  And do you know what Santa brings for little kids who aren’t very good?  No toys.  No games.  No treats.”

Kid E had heard something from someone before.  “Coal.  Santa brings coal to bad kids, right?” he said with despair.

I had told the older kids the coal story for years.  I even have a bag of coal that I keep in with the Christmas decorations so they run across it every year when we break out the boxes.  The story goes that Sheepdog was really bad one year (he was eighteen and the dummy went out and got an earring and a tattoo), so Santa brought him nothing but coal that Christmas.  The moral of that story: don’t be an idiot teenager.  But I was now dealing with a toddler and I needed more firepower.

I held a steady face and continued, “Sometimes Santa does not even bring coal.  Sometimes for the bad little kids he brings just socks.  Socks and underwear.  And not even the fun underwear with Nemo or Buzz Lightyear or skulls and crossbones on them.  He just brings tighty whiteys and tube socks.  And they’re not even wrapped.”

When I looked into Kid E’s horrified, big eyes, I saw fear like I have never seen before.  I had a twinge of guilt for causing him such panic, but I quickly remembered that he had brought it upon himself and I was slowly turning into a zombie.  The madness had to end.  I needed to sleep through the night.

Now, every night after Sheepdog reads him a book and tucks him into his comfy bed, I tiptoe in to kiss him and say goodnight and before I leave the room I whisper softly, “Socks and underpants, little man.  Stay in bed.  I love you.”

Mmm-mmm-mmm, this is a very good apple.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

More of an Indoor Girl

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Our family is composed of both extremes when it comes to the inside vs. outside debate.  I would live in a penthouse in the city if I could make it work with five kids; Sheepdog would live outside in a treehouse were it not called “homeless.”  Kid A loves taking pictures of things in nature; Kid B enjoys watching moving pictures on television.  Kid C leaps into the pile of leaves before she looks; Kid D wants to learn all of the facts about the tree on the internet first.  But both of them are up for almost anything in the out-of-doors, while Kid E complains about every last aspect of it.  Yet every once in a while the planets align and we nay-sayers cry uncle and we head out as a family to some remote place where the county flower is poison ivy but the views are spectacular and the air is piney (and DEET-scented) and we are all humbled by the awesomeness of nature.

This weekend we traveled to Tallulah Falls State Park for a picnic and some hiking and to watch the kayakers navigate the gorge.  It was perfect fall weather (sunny in the high 50s) and the leaves in northeast Georgia are experiencing extreme chlorophyll-deficiency, so the residual colors left us breathless.  An added bonus was that Georgia Power floods the dam every weekend in November so the crazies can ride the rush in their little boats of death (insane to do but extremely cool to watch).  The drive took over an hour and most of the kids watched “The Princess Bride” while Sheepdog and I talked uninterrupted like civilized people.  Almost before we knew it, we had arrived at a little cliff-side viewing spot/ antique store/ BBQ restaurant.

After a quick stop in the restroom, I was immediately approached by a bearded man holding a deep pot on the end of a five-foot pole.

“Bald penis?” he asked of me and the girls.  Sheepdog was still in the bathroom.

I protectively put my arms around the kids and moved them all behind me.  Simultaneously, my brain was calculating possible situational outcomes and I quickly realized upon looking into the pot that he was not some local pervert trying to harass the tourists.  He was offering us a soggy, cooked, traditional Georgia snack.

I honestly believe I might never figure out the whole deep-southern accent thing.  It throws me for a loop every time.  P.S.  Boiled peanuts are kind of gross.

The view from 1,000 feet

We checked out the view and decided to get back into the car so we could find the place where we could hike down the trails closer to the raging water.  It was conveniently just down the road as bellies were starting to grumble all around us.  We paid a minimal five dollars to park and soon set up our picnic lunch in a field next to some rocks.  They were perfect for sitting against or upon and also for having Kid E jump off and climb, thus guaranteeing that I would have indigestion for the remainder of the day.  Fortunately, no one got hurt during the meal and soon we were off, with nothing but a trail map, five kids, two adults, a backpack/kid carrier, a full water bottle, three pairs of extra sunglasses, sunscreen, bug spray, some light jackets, a packet of wipes, a couple of iPhones and a 35mm SLR camera.  Ah, the simplicity of nature!

First, we walked up from the information center to a place called Inspiration Point.  I was hopeful that this was more of a spiritual moniker as opposed to a carnal one.  I mean, hadn’t the peanut guy contributed enough depravity for one day?  Fortunately there were just a bunch of other people with cameras and dogs and walking sticks up there.  While at the point we got to see the remains of one of the towers that Karl (“The Great/ Flying”) Wallenda used to tightrope walk across the quarter-mile-wide gorge in 1970.  Crazy.  But the views were phenomenal, especially with my family safely behind the protective viewing fence.

After that we hiked down the mountain back past the main parking area and then continued on our downward trek toward the suspension bridge that sits just 80 feet above the rocky bottom, providing spectacular views of the river and waterfalls below.  To get there you have to climb down a little more than 300 grated metal stairs.  And unless you want to live out the remainder of your days like a troll under the bridge, you also have to climb back up.  Easier said than done.

By this point in the day we had hiked quite a way and some of the kids were getting tired.  But we didn’t drive all the way out here to hike just the easy part!   Kid E had toughed it out with minimal complaining and walked most of the trails so far, but he was definitely ready to ride in the backpack carrier for the remainder of our excursion.   Being no dummy, I offered to wear/ carry him down the steps.  It was no big deal except that after the first few sections I had to ask him to please stop chanting, “We are going DOWN the steps.  WE are going down the steps.  We ARE going down the steps.  We are going down the STEPS.”  He did not.

I then felt zero guilt when I asked Sheepdog to take his turn carrying Kid E on the way back up.  Even without a person on my back those steps were hard.  I refused to stop on the little resting benches.  I was panting like a dog.  To add insult to injury, Kid D ran the whole way back up.  Show off.  At least I beat most of the old people.  I considered it a great day all around.

If you pick 'em up, O Lord, I'll put 'em down. - Author Unknown, "Prayer of the Tired Walker"

The whole family had a fantastic time.  I even look forward to the next time we get back to the woods.  Maybe Sheepdog can make a nature lover out of this indoor girl yet!

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Happy Birthday to Me!

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Yesterday was my birthday.  It was also a Monday, so it was laundry day, grocery shopping day and Kid A had an interview in midtown at 7PM, so she and Sheepdog were not home for dinner.  Best birthday ever, you say?  Wait… it gets better.

The day started around 12:15AM when Kid E moseyed into our bedroom and asked to cuddle with me.  As I took him by the hand and led him back to his own room, I cursed him silently for waking me.  This back-and-forth routine continued over the next three hours.  The silent cursing did not last long.  Every time I would start to fall asleep again, Kid E would tap me on the shoulder.  By the hundredth time I felt like I was being tortured.  On one trip back to his bed I told him congratulations on giving me the worst birthday present ever.

His confused response was, “But I didn’t even get you a present.”

If somebody is up during the night I always try my best not to disturb Sheepdog, because he has to get up early and go to a real job.  By 3:45AM I was exhausted, infuriated, desperate, and on the verge of tears.  I no longer cared about Sheepdog and his stupid job.  So the next time Kid E came in I ignored him.  Sheepdog finally heard him (“Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom, mom…”  Seriously, how does the man NOT wake up?) and he jumped out of bed.

“WHAT?” whisper-yelled Sheepdog.

“I have to pee,” said Kid E, very matter-of-factly, with a hint of “What would you have me do…urinate in my bed?  I’m no savage!”  So Sheepdog took him to the bathroom and then back to his room.  At last, the kid was sleepy enough to stay in there.

“Happy Birthday, ” Sheepdog whispered to me when he came back.  “I’m sorry you’ve had a crappy night.”

“I’m thinking of moving out,” was my very serious response.  I don’t remember if I dreamed over the next three hours, but if I did it was probably about locking myself behind multiple doors with heavy deadbolts.

I wish for world peace. And for skinny thighs.

I woke up later to Kid D screaming that his stomach hurt as he was running past me into my bathroom.  “I don’t feel so good,” he sighed as he crawled in bed next to me.  I didn’t even care if he had washed his hands first.

As I was zombie-walking down the hall to put Kid C onto the elementary school bus, I realized that Kid B had overslept and she would need a ride to school.  This keeps getting better.

Actually, it did get better.  Kids A, B and C went off to school.  Kid D felt fine, so I dropped him off as well when I was taking Kid E to preschool.  Then I went home and collapsed until I decided to make my own birthday cupcakes for dinner.

Sleep is a funny thing.  I am a girl who needs a good nine hours, so I rarely hit my mark.  I make up for it by sleeping in on the weekends (Shout out! Sheepdog for helping me do that) and taking occasional naps.  You’d think I would be used to interrupted rest after having five babies, but I never adjusted.  The cumulative effect of sixteen years of sleep deprivation has left an indelible mark on my personality.  I’m meaner and even more sarcastic.  I have even been known to growl on occasion.  I have to use more under eye concealer.  It is not a good thing.

It is a good thing that Kid E has some sixth sense thing happening, because he was one more sleepless night away from being put up for auction on eBay.  Last night he went to bed without incident and then slept through the entire night.  I am a different person today than I was yesterday.

Today I feel like I can take on the world.  Today I feel like I am a Disney Princess and everyone around me is a singing animal.  Today I am She-Ra, Princess of Power.  Today I feel like Wonder Woman and Laura Croft and Buffy the Vampire Slayer all rolled into one, except not all fit and and wearing some sexy ass-kicking costume because I’ve just been too tired to work out lately.

But today I have the energy to fix that!  I’m gonna go work out right now.  Then I’ll probably take a nap, because who knows what tonight will hold.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

What’s Scarier Than One Teenage Girl?

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Why two teenage girls, of course.  And that’s just what we got a few weekends ago when Kid B turned 13, joining her older sister in the official years of life-affecting decisions, crazy, unpredictable hormones, and angst.  Lots of angst.  Oh, and the texting while they are doing just about everything else.  Don’t forget that.  Maybe some eye rolling, door slamming and foot stomping too.  But it does not all have to be bad.  I think that teenagers have gotten some bad press because some of them can be really cool.

In fact, most of Kid A’s teenage years to date have not been horrible.  I would even go so far as to say that they have been quite pleasant.  She is still talking to me and we rarely fight.  She is sometimes sullen and moody, but I always ask her what is going on and we usually talk about what is bothering her.  Some things get resolved and others go on festering, but I don’t do better than that now with my own mother and I’m forty.  My teenager teaches me all kinds of teenage things so I can continue to stay in touch with the youth of America.  We talk openly and often about relationships and sex.  She’s already smarter than me in math, but she doesn’t make fun of me for it.  She teaches me how to navigate Prezi and Spotify, and I teach her what dirty slang words mean when she asks about them.  So I can only hope that Kid B’s teen years are half as good as her sister’s have been so far.

A few weeks prior to Kid B turning 13, she presented Sheepdog and me with a packet of sorts.  It was an “All I Want for My Birthday” kind of thing.  So I laughed out loud, but she said it was serious so I read through it with an open mind.  She asked for a new purse from zappos.com, some posters for her bedroom, a neon soccer ball, an Angry Birds iTouch cover, and a week off from making school lunches.  But in lieu of all of these presents what she really wanted was a weekend trip to Atlantic City.

Seriously… Kid B wished to go to Atlantic City for her 13th birthday.

You have got to be kidding me.

Now you have to understand that her favorite person in the world (her Pop Pop, who is my dad) lives there, so her big draw to Atlantic City is (hopefully) not lucky craps tables at the Borgatta or even my cousin’s 70% manager’s discount at Lacoste.  She wanted to spend time with her Pop Pop and her Nanny and just chill with no sisters or brothers and no scheduled activities.  She wanted to sleep in every day, walk down to the docks to get some breakfast, then wander over to the boardwalks to maybe play a round of mini golf (in Ocean City) and get her tarot cards read by a gypsy (in Atlantic City).  As a bonus she got my undivided attention, a visit with 3 Pops at the VA Home, Primo pizza for lunch one day, and both a t-shirt and a sweatshirt as souvenirs.  It was a fantastic weekend.

Most importantly, we got to spend time together.  We were adding to an already strong foundation just by having this shared experience.  Then we watched “Bridesmaids” together, and we laughed until we almost peed our pants.  I reminded her that I am her mother first and her friend second.  Teenagers can get caught up in their own heads pretty easily.  It is my job to make sure that mine don’t get lost inside there.

For now I’m just going to continue winging it with my teenagers.  With communication and a lot of luck I hope we can make it through these years with more laughter than tears.  I’ll continue to remind them that they are not perfect and neither am I.  And even when they do stupid teenage things I will love them unconditionally, for ever and ever.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Tell Us a Story

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

It is important that Sheepdog spend as much time with our daughters as possible, else they are more likely to become meth addicts or end up headlining at Delilah’s Den.  Without even being aware of it they are setting their own relationship standards for the future, and they are learning mainly by watching him.  So, technically, if one of them ends up grinding one-night-stands on the dance floor or is referred to as the girl who knows how to “hook a steak up,” it would be all Sheepdog’s fault.  No pressure there, right?

As I am acutely aware of this, I encourage any and all father/ daughter interaction.  Over the years they have tried many activities together.  They have done the standard dinner and a movie date many times, but it does not really allow for enough quality conversation.  They have also gone the more active route of biking and running, but those sports require that the parties be on at least similar skill levels in order for everybody to have a good time (you can’t really talk if you are constantly panting and on the verge of passing out just to keep up).  Hiking was a great alternative until the girls had to go in the woods and got all freaked out over squatting in public and wiping with leaves (they get that from their mother).  So on to other activities they went.  We are not giving up.

Recently Sheepdog has been taking Kid A out to practice driving.  I don’t care if your daughter is Danica Patrick, teaching a girl to drive is fraught with peril.  And frankly, Kid A is not exactly a natural behind the wheel.  She and Sheepdog did not do well together in an enclosed vehicle, especially after he yelled at her (in his defense, she almost ran over two pedestrians).  After I went out to practice with her a few times (promising myself that I would not raise my voice or clench or cry while sitting in the passenger seat, so as to not derail her already wavering confidence), I was so scared that I actually called the local driving school anonymously.

Instructor:  “Good afternoon, Johns Creek Driving School.  How may I help you?”
 
Me:  “Hi.  I am not going to tell you my name on purpose.  My kid has been practicing her driving for a while now and she is still really bad.  I mean REALLY bad.  Just awful.  I don’t even want to let her out of the neighborhood yet.  Actually, I don’t want to let her out of our driveway.  She took your class this summer and she only has three months in which to complete her six hours of behind the wheel.  I don’t think that’s gonna happen.  What should I do?”
 
Instructor:  “It is okay, ma’am.  This actually happens a lot.  We can certainly give you an extension.  But maybe you should have her start her behind the wheel lessons and let one of our qualified instructors work with her.”
 
Me:  “You don’t understand.  I would feel responsible if she hurt someone or crashed one of your cars.  And I feel fairly certain that would happen.”
 
Instructor:  “It’s really okay, ma’am.  The instructors have brake and gas pedals and they have no problem taking the wheel if need be.  I’m sure she’ll be fine.”
 
Me:  “I don’t care if Jesus takes the wheel.  This kid is high risk.”

Sheepdog decided he was going to try again to teach our daughter to drive.  He figured that he should get her driving in a more relaxed atmosphere, so he took Kid A and Kid C (Kid B was at dinner with her soccer team) to the Andretti Speed Lab in Roswell.  This place is as cool as the name implies.  They have rock climbing, video games, a ropes course, pool tables, bowling, basketball, a comedy club, and the main attraction – extreme SuperKarts, complete with 9 hp Honda GX-270 engines in them.  And it was a twofer in that he got to spend some quality daddy/ daughter time together with the girls.

Is it too much to ask Kid A to wear this while driving a regular car too? Cause I'm certainly gonna be wearing one in the passenger seat.

Round and round the track they went.  Sheepdog had a blast.  Kid C didn’t drive by herself because she was afraid at first, but she and Sheepdog have another date planned there so she can learn to drive soon.  Kid A apparently acquired some decent driving skills on the track, although she still has a way to go before we release her on GA-400.  All in all, it was a great plan.  Way to go Sheepdog!

On the drive home the girls were pestering Sheepdog to bond with them some more.

“Tell us a story,” they begged.  “Tell us a story like mommy does.” 
 
“I don’t know any stories,” answered Sheepdog.
 
“Tell us about your first girlfriend, ” prompted Kid A.
 
“Well… define ‘first girlfriend.’  Do you mean the first girl I took on a real date or the first girl I made out with or what?”
 
Always looking for the more salacious details, both girls responded, “The first girl you made out with!”
 
Sheepdog though for a minute.  Then he began, “I don’t remember the details, but I guess I was in fifth or sixth grade…”
 
From the backseat Kid C (who is in fifth grade herself) yelled, “Well, I’m certainly not ready for THAT!”

I don’t know if Sheepdog is going in the right direction with this whole father/ daughter bonding thing.  He may need a little more coaching first.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Your Kid is a Bully

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Ugh.  This might get ugly.

Yesterday Kid D came off of the school bus on the brink of tears.  Again.  The same kid who has been picking on him off-and-on all school year was now telling him that he was going to beat him up.  This time another kid (who is supposed to be Kid D’s friend) joined in.  Kid D was really upset.  So am I.

There is no easy fix for this problem.

Most of my kids have always been tiny in stature, right up until about 5th grade.  Then they shoot up like magic beanstalks.  But until then they are tiny.  And tiny attracts bullies and harassers.  Kid A (a girl) got punched in the face by a boy in 2nd grade.  Kid B had a girl in her third grade class who just would not leave her alone… petting her hair and constantly poking her to get her attention, calling our house nine or ten times in a row and asking if she had gotten home from school yet.  Kid C endured two bullies last year  – one boy then one girl.  The girl was actually much worse.

Fortunately my kids came to me and let me know what was going on from the start.  Even though I instinctively want to fix things for them I know it is important that they learn to handle stuff on their own, so I always start by reminding them of a few things.

Bullies are not born.  They are created.  Usually by other bullies.  Have a little compassion, but not too much.  People – even kids – are responsible for their actions.

Stand up for yourself.  Most bullies will back down if you challenge them. (Except the boy who punched Kid A in the face.  He was just a jerk.  What kind of boy hits a girl?)  Look them in the eye, say their name and tell them exactly what you want them to stop doing.  Right now.

If they don’t stop, tell a grown up.  Now, this is where I kind of straddle the fence.  I don’t think that parents or teachers need to get involved right away, but I do think it is important that they be informed and aware so that they can keep an eye on the situation.  And somebody needs to get involved if the bullying continues.  I really think that kids need to be empowered and learn to stand up for themselves when they are being wronged.  If they don’t assert themselves then they could suffer from confidence issues, anxiety, irrational fears and end up letting people walk all over them later in life.  Nobody wants that.  But nobody wants their kid to be picked on either, so sometimes it is necessary for an adult to become involved and to guide them through.

In the past I have tried to have the kids handle the situation on their own.  Sometimes this works, but sometimes it doesn’t.  A few times I have called the teacher and/ or the bullies’ parents.  It is uncomfortable for everyone, but I felt it was necessary in each circumstance.  One parent was extremely helpful and compassionate, got involved and the bullying stopped right away.  Another parent was completely defensive, even though the teacher had observed her child harassing mine on several occasions.  Not such a great outcome that time, but the teacher put an end to it quickly.

I don’t know yet how I’m going to proceed with the current situation.  Kid D just came off the bus again and said that the bullying continues.  The second kid didn’t join in this time, but one is all it takes.  I don’t want to watch my confident, vibrant son turn into someone who is scared of his own shadow.  I don’t want to watch him be the victim.  But I also do not want him getting into a fist fight at six years old.  This is not “kids just being kids.”  It is wrong and I want to do something about it.

If you see me at the grocery store or the bus stop, don’t bother asking as I will not tell you who this bully is.  What I will say is that every one of our school-aged children has now experienced different forms of bullying and it is not pretty.  We will continue to discuss ways of coping with our kids.  We will also teach them how to defend themselves and do what is necessary in threatening situations.  Hopefully they will come out relatively unscathed.  But realize that bullying happens and you shouldn’t assume that your kid isn’t involved.

Maybe everyone should talk to their kids about bullying.  Let them know that is not something that they should suffer through in silence and it is certainly not something that is acceptable from them or their friends or their siblings.  Ask them if they have ever been bullied or if they have ever been bullies themselves.  You just might be surprised at their answers.

" I got a message for you, Roth! LEAVE EMMA ALONE! Look at me - if you don't, I'm gonna rip your f-ing head off!" - Peyton, The Hand That Rocks The Cradle (1992)

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

My Cousin Kid E

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

My kids speak a language that I sometimes do not understand.  I am not talking about the aforementioned Spanish, French, or even Chinese.  I mean they speak some sort of abbreviated half-language hybrid that I, even as a native – and pretty successful if I must say so myself – user of the English language, find it difficult to comprehend.

From what I have observed, it is a language of shortened forms.  “Movie” becomes “move.”  “Sandwich” is “sand.”  “Orange juice” get shortened to “orange jew.”  “Butter” becomes “butt” (you may begin to understand the appeal).  Otherwise, this made up language serves no purpose.  It only serves to confuse and confound me because I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IN THE HELL THESE KIDS ARE SAYING half of the time.

Do you remember the movie “My Cousin Vinny?”  It stars Joe Pesci as Vincent Laguardia Gambini, an inexperienced lawyer who goes down to Alabama to represent his cousin who was mistakenly accused of murder.  Pesci employs an exaggeratedly thick New York accent throughout as he plays the fish-out-of-water role.  One of the funniest lines from the movie stems from his inability to be understood by the members of the Good Ole Southern Boys Club who run the show…

Vinny Gambini: It is possible that the two yutes…
Judge Chamberlain Haller: …Ah, the two what? Uh… uh, what was that word?
Vinny Gambini: Uh… what word?
Judge Chamberlain Haller: Two what?
Vinny Gambini: What?
Judge Chamberlain Haller: Uh… did you say ‘yutes’?
Vinny Gambini: Yeah, two yutes.
Judge Chamberlain Haller: What is a yute?
Vinny Gambini: [beat] Oh, excuse me, your honor…
[exaggerated]
Vinny Gambini: Two YOUTHS.

Oh yeah, you blend.

So this morning Kid E gets up before the sun and he stumbles into my bedroom.  He still sits for his morning pee, so I drag my sleepy self out of bed for the assist.  In the dark I fumble for a light switch.  It is not my first time, so I know not to turn on the bright overhead light because that will assuredly lead to a meltdown of epic proportions.  Kid E can only tolerate gradual exposure to bright lights in the early a.m.  I turn on my closet light, which manages to shed just enough lumens that we may both watch as his stream manages to inevitably miss the bowl, yet not so much that it causes retinal damage before our pupils can adjust.

This light issue has been cause for fights in the past.  It does not matter that Kid E may be telling the truth and he may have actual light sensitivity, I keep telling him that he is a whiner and everything seems to bother him and he should just rub some dirt on it and move on.  He keeps complaining about things and I sigh and mumble under my breath how he is worse than any of my girls.  But then sometimes he overcomes and he mans up.  This was one of those mornings.

Kid E: “Mommy, I’m yoost!”
Me: …Ah, you’re what? Uh… uh, what was that word?
Kid E: Uh… what word?
Me: You’re what?
Kid E: What?
Me: Uh… did you say ‘yoost’?
Kid E: Yeah, I’m yoost.
Me: What is yoost?
Kid E: [beat] Oh, excuse me, Mommy…
[exaggerated]
Kid E: I am USED to the light.  My eyes adjusted.

Of course.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…