Kickball December 10, 2012

On Saturday, my dear friend texted me to invite us to a family fun game of kickball to be held on Sunday.  First of all, I haven’t played kickball since I was maybe 14.  I am pretty sure I rocked back then, so of course I would still rock now, right?  I wrote her back an enthusiastic, “Hells to the yeahs.”

Sunday comes and I am in full PMS cleaning mode.  You know the kind, when suddenly you decide that the house has to be immaculate and you are angry about it.  It is a terrible habit of mine, but it happens from time to time and my lovely family has learned to just buck up and clean.  I was full of irritation and OCD when I get another text, an hour before we are supposed to meet: “Oh, by the way, the dress code is wacky.”  I tell my husband and he gets a twinkle in his eye.  Challenge accepted.

Shortly thereafter he yells for me from the bedroom.  I go in and he is hiding in our bathroom.  “Are you ready?” he calls out.

“Uh, yes?”

Out struts my beautiful husband in a one piece bright red long john suit- one of the ones with the butt flap, Captain America underwear over the top, my youngest son’s purple satin cape, legwarmers,  a bright blue wig, his motorcycle goggles and a handcuff on a chain around his neck.

PMS averted.

One thing I adore about my husband is his aggressive passion for making me laugh.  He will stop at nothing to crack me up.

Of course as soon as my oldest sees this display of goofy he gets in on the action.  Donning a grey-blonde wig wrapped with a bandana, boxers over sweat pants, a flannel left open with a “6-pack” drawn on his stomach with marker, my rainbow socks pulled over his sweats and two mismatched shoes.   I put my hair in a side pony, slathered on some hot pink lipstick and blue eyeshadow, a tie dyed shirt and legwarmers over leggings.

My youngest thought we were totally ridiculous and embarrassing and refused to participate.  But then, just as we were leaving the house he turned his shirt inside out and said, “Ok, there.”  Poor kid, stuck in this nut house with us crazies.

The game was epic.  Lighthearted fake yelling at each other, us old people realizing how far it is to run all the way around the bases, and the kids having a try at pitching.  I seriously can’t wait to do it again.  And of course, my husband was the highlight of everyone’s day.  I mean, who doesn’t want to watch a grown man prance around in a cape and undies?

Oh and by the way, I can still kick a mean ball.  The running part is not so fun, but at least I can kick it far enough to trot to the base!

 

 

Legos August 29, 2012

I took away all the Legos on Friday.  Every single last one of them.

Both of my kids love to play with the Legos.  My oldest builds amazing working things out of them, such as a gumball machine that actually takes change and drops out a gumball, a safe that he can secretly open and close.  My youngest loves to build the actual vehicles and buildings that come in the kits, using the directions to perfectly construct these items.  He also builds other unique items, using the Lego guys to play out scenes, talking to himself in various voices for hours.  It’s a multipurpose toy that I highly encourage the use of.

Until they are scattered throughout the house.  I see dollars all over, under the couches, on the counters, in my bed.  I pick them up, put them in the bucket and then find more.  They are coating the floor of my youngest son’s bedroom and often I step on them.  Which, by the way,  is a rare form of torture that is only known to parents of young ones.

So, on Friday they brought them into my office and dumped the whole huge bucket out on the carpet under the desk.  They wanted to watch youtube videos of how to create new, interesting builds.   None of this I have a problem with.  What I do have a problem with is hours later, when I went to sit down, my feet were buried in Legos, and much like standing on an ant hill, I swear I felt them crawling up my legs and biting my feet.   I asked the kids to clean them up.  They didn’t.  I asked again and said I would give them 10 minutes and started a timer.  My youngest lay on the couch and moaned that it was too hard.  A knock came at the door and it was our neighbor who wanted to talk to my oldest.  He went outside and decided to chat with her instead of cleaning up.

When the timer dinged I grabbed the Lego box and scooped them up all up.  Oldest was still outside.  Youngest was moaning with one eye open watching me do the majority of his job.  When there was a scattering of about 15 Legos left he jumped off the couch and tried to help.  I said to him, “I got this, buddy.  I don’t mind cleaning them up for you; I know it felt too hard.  So, I can do it for you, “  I refrained from sarcasm in my voice, just genuine understanding.  That sentence could come out either way, but I wasn’t aiming for martyr.  I wanted him to know I understood.  Sometimes things overwhelm me too.

So, I then walked into their rooms, calmly, and took all the random Legos off the shelves and floor.  I very carefully placed the built ones on the top of the bucket.  I wasn’t being mean, that wasn’t the point.

Then I put them on the top of the kitchen cabinet.  You can see the whole bin up there, but it is clearly out of reach.  Sure, they could climb up and get it, but they both know that is not a risk they should take.  I explained to each of them that their choice not to clean up the Legos left me no choice but to put the Legos on break.  They will get them back when they can show more responsibility for their toys.

They have asked me each day for the Legos.  My youngest has even dug some out from under his bed, but he is not sneaky, he built something and promptly showed me and I told him they needed to go with the other Legos, it makes no point if they still get some.

When will I give them back?  Probably in a few weeks, when my feet finish healing.

Clean Your Room! August 24, 2012

Have you ever watched the show Horders and thought, “Holy broccoli and cauliflower, how on earth did they ever let it get that bad?”

But if you think about it, the getting there is not so hard at all.  Days go by, ignoring the dishes and then stuff starts piling up and all of the sudden it is just too overwhelming.  Where to start?  It turns into a situation that is easier to ignore than just getting started.

Sure, to typical people, it may seem lazy or disgusting, but to people that horde it is like a mental block they just can’t get past.

Kids bedrooms can become a similar hording disease.  Things get shoved in all corners.  Toys pulled out, dirty clothes flung around, books scatter the floor.  Within a few days, the room is a total overwhelming disaster.  Hopefully there isn’t any food or dishes amongst the mess, but there is no guarantee of that, no matter how strict your eat-at-the-table guidelines may be.

Then, when the door no longer closes or you have to sign an injury waiver before tucking them into bed, it is time to clean.

“Ok, guys, you have to clean your rooms today.”  I might as well have said, “Please come over here and let me strap you into this handy torture device.”  Or better yet, “No treats for the rest of your life.  Muhahahahahahaha.”

Closing them into their rooms for hours on end result in catching them taking a nap or playing with legos.  Loads of tears and whining and then the occasional dirty item is tossed into the hallway.

They have seen me clean the house a million times.  They have helped.  I have gone into their rooms and “helped” them clean (typically doing it all myself, sending them on errands to grab a garbage bag or take a load to the laundry room.)They do chores.  I have yelled, bartered, begged, cried, and given up.

But I had never taught.

Sure, when they were little buggers I cheered them on when they helped collect blocks and put them in a bucket.  But actually sitting down and guiding them while they cleaned, for some reason, did not register.  Maybe it was easier to just do it myself.  Maybe I had expectations that were too high for their abilities.

Looking at a destroyed room and figuring out where to start is simply overwhelming.  Horders need guidance, so do kids.

So, just last weekend, after about two hours of tears and whining, I entered my 7 year olds room and sat on the bed.  “Ok, buddy.  Start with the books.  Stack them all up and put them neatly on the shelves.”  Then I read my book while he worked.  “Great!  Now collect all the clothes on the floor.”  Back and forth, leading him in a systemized cleaning of his room.  He worked happily with me there. And it only took him 30 minutes.