–One of the greatest functions of the ER is to illustrate for your children why you do not pay for TV at home. Ninety nine channels, ’round and around and around you go. See, kids? There is nothing on. Nothing.
–If you are holding a catheter tube, and I say, “Careful, she is little, but she is strong,” then you should listen to me.
Read the rest at the Register.
PIC I’m a bad doctor
The other day, this appeared on the bathroom door:
It was written by my 12-year-old son, who is both very twelve, and very much my son.
Can’t quite make it out? You can either walk away in blissful ignorance, or you can read on, and prepare yourself for the next generation of Fishers. Here is what it says:
RULES FOR POOPING IN A STAIN-FREE MANNER
1. Open bathroom door and (using feet) walk in.
2. Close and lock bathroom door.
3. Walk to sink, reach across and turn on light.
4. Walk to toilet.
5. Open lid of toilet.
6. Pull down pants and underwear.
7. Place butt on toilet seat (commonly known as sitting).
8. Concentrate the muscles in the lower region (butt) until [redacted]. Repeat as many times as necessary.
9. Get wad of toilet paper and wipe away remaining poo. Repeat.
10. Reach for silver thingy on side and pull down (commonly known as “flushing”)
11. Walk to sink and turn on.
12. Rub hands with soap and put under sink until clean.
13. Wipe wet hands on pants.
14. Walk to door and open.
15. Walk out.
Congratulations, YOU POOPED!
TAKE ONE CERTIFICATE
IF YOU HAVE COMPLETED ALL ACTIONS[I POOPED AND I’M PROUD]
I am not sure what, in particular, brought this on. But I noticed that no one has taken a certificate yet.
Late afternoon finds me slaving over a hot Facebook page, gorging on a smorgasbord of tantalizing photos with captions like: “Here is my 8-year-old carefully chopping the chives she grew in her little garden! This is the second time this week she’s made pork medallions herbs de provence, but we’re not complaining, as long as her little brother provides those scrumptious grilled peaches with caramel bourbon sauce for dessert! They are so cute with their aprons. <3 <3 <3″
Yes, well. I believe in equipping a child for independent living, and if that education makes life a little easier for mom at the same time, all the better. At the same time, we’re talking about kids who sometimes miss their target while putting their own pants on. I’m not showing them where the knife sharpener is.
And we’re home from camping! Or, “camping.” Whatever, you tent-loving masochists. It was rustic enough for me. Nobody fell in the fire, nobody got permanently lost, nobody drowned, nobody got carried off by wildlife, we didn’t need to test whether our insurance covered out-of-state ER visits, and nobody even pulled anybody’s hair until we were – get this – two minutes away from reaching home. We managed to stretch a three-hour road trip into five hours, but we made it.
And guess what? I didn’t take a single photo! My husband took a few, but I haven’t seen them yet. There was just too much water and sand and dirt and moving around to mess with cameras much.
Here’s my seven wordy takes on our trip:
The happiest memories of my childhood are memories of the ocean, so I was absolutely ravenous for my kids to have the same experience. And they did! Miles and miles of sparkling blue ocean with waves big enough to toss you around; a buffeting breeze, thieving seagulls that made off with a whole bag of chips, the tugging of the sand away from your feet as the waves withdraw. They played and played and played, and the ocean played back, until our skin was glowing, our mouths and scalps were full of sand, our legs were like jelly, our fingers were salty and puckered, and our ears were full of the sound of the wind and the water. We staggered home completely sated.
Then, on another day, we tried another beach, closer to our campsite. I told the kids it was the same ocean, but it really wasn’t. This was the beach that made you realize why Poseidon was called “Earthshaker.” It was stifling hot, but the air was full of steam, so you could see past a few waves, and then . . . the abyss. There could have been anything out there, or nothing. The waves slammed on the beach with a cracking sound, and every wave threw pale, scrabbling crustaceans onto the sand. There were no shells to collect — they had all been pulverized into bits by the pounding sea. The water was purplish, and it hissed. We stayed for a few hours until we were defeated, and then went home to rinse off at the campground, where the fresh pond water felt as gentle and mild as a giant cup of lukewarm tea. Whew!
So, kids, that was the ocean! Now they know.
Then they announced that it was Elijah, and he was ten, and still unclaimed. And I thought, “Wow, I also have a son who is ten and who is named Elijah. What a coincidence! Well, it was a popular name that year.” I felt sorry for the mom whose son was missing.
Then I wondered where my son was. Yarr.
There is staring at a TV screen and thinking about nothing for an hour, and there is staring at a campfire and thinking about nothing for an hour. Not the same kind of staring, and not the same kind of nothing.
PIC campfire
If you are living with nine children in what is essentially Dirtville, and are taking sojourns into Sweat-and-Gritsville, with a sidetrip into World of Soot, with occasional sorties into the Land of Grime and Itch, you may find that you want to take a shower. You may discover that the state park charges you $1.25 for five minutes of hot water. PAY IT.
We visited the Mystic Aquarium, where a “family membership” price doesn’t mean “two adults and as many as two children, if you are so gauche as to have as many as two children.” They also let you go out for lunch and come back in without paying again. And they had great fish and whatnot to look at! We got to pet sharks, and one of their three Beluga whales did something no one else could manage over the course of the whole trip: it made Benny stop shrieking for a minute. This whale was drifting back and forth in front of the glass where the dear child was having tantrum #897,932, and it was clearly watching her very closely. She didn’t like the look in its eye, and whacked the glass. It stopped right in front of her, and it tried to eat her. Or at least it popped its toothy mouth open right in front of her face.
PIC beluga mouth
And lo, there was quiet! Good one, whale.
I’ve been to aquarium shows where the creatures are impeccably trained and the trainers are unflappable, and clearly in charge. This was not one of those shows, and it was utterly charming. The sea lions mostly did what they were told, but sometimes they acted like big dumb stubborn dogs who were confident that their trainers loved them anyway. Then there was one sea lion who just refused to participate at all, because it’s mating season, and he had better things to do. That’s what I liked about this aquarium in general: they had really neat stuff to show us, but they didn’t take themselves too seriously.
They also had something I’ve never seen before: three “mermaid purses” in special display cases, so you could see the developing embryo inside. They were about an inch across, and you could see the tail waving back and forth like a metronome, and that little shark waited and waited, just biding its time and growing. If you looked closely, you could make out one skate’s beating heart.
We saw an ice cream parlor called “Gelato Fiasco.” We did not stop there.
GIF nope nope nope octopus
I love sheets.
***
Happy Fourth of July to all my American friends! We’re rained out here, which means we get an extra day to unpack and desandify ourselves before our family cookout and explodyfest tomorrow. Don’t forget to check out the other Seven Quick Takes at Conversion Diary.
As I write, I may have nothing packed, nothing purchased, and nothing planned, but I do have a very tidy and detailed list of the things I am sure will go wrong on our trip. They are as follows:
- We will run out of food and we will starve, because obviously we won’t be able to get into the car and drive to a store and buy more food. This is camping, and we are going to have to make do with sand tea and acorn kabobs.
- Sharks. Okay, there are not going to be any sharks, but I’m afraid my kids, who somehow wore us down and got to watch Jaws, are going to be so afraid of sharks that their little brains will actually explode with anxiety. And do you know who is attracted by brain matter in the water? SHARKS.
- We will be surrounded by such awful, noisy, inconsiderate people that we won’t be able to enjoy our awful, noisy, inconsiderate family.
What will she be?
What happened was, a compassionate friend sent me a “There, there” bottle of Tanqueray, and my five-year-old immediately got a fork and pried off the red seal. Benny wanted one, too. So she muscled open the fridge, found a bottle of wine and a fork. When I asked what she was doing, she struck this pose.
I feel like there is . . . something . . . in the future for this kid. But what? Will she be a pirate? Scourge of heretics? Doctor of the Church? Crazy fork lady? All of the above?
Changing over the winter clothes.
It’s not just a matter of scooping up the cold-weather clothes out of their drawers and replacing them with hot-weather clothes, or even a matter of making a million little emotional decisions, like, “Do I throw away this ratty but beloved shirt while no one’s looking?” or “Do I pack away this baby sweater in case there is ever another baby?”
It’s a matter of going up into the little girls’ room, which is unaffectionately known as “Tinkle Town,” and facing the horrors that have been allowed to propagate over the last few, dark months. And it’s not just a matter of clean laundry not put away, or dirty laundry on the floor, or people who have guilted me into buying them pants because they don’t own any pants except those awful itchy gray ones, but it turns out that they have pants — LOTS of pants — but which they have been dropping on the floor, mashing elderly Easter eggs into, and then packing into old gift bags — GIFT BAGS! — and stuffing into the closet. That’s all true, and dreadful enough.
But there’s more. Let’s just say that what sounded like wild, coke-fueled parties after bedtime was actually wild, Coke-fueled parties after bedtime. 36 cans of Coke. Also a bowl of sugar. Bad children! Bad! So bad!!!
Anyway, with a job as big as this, there is no such thing as a system. The only system is to dive in head first and resign myself to sheer misery and a marathon workout for the washing machine and dryer for the next 72 hours. Pray for me. And the first person to say “First World Problems” is gonna get a gift bag from me.
I’ve seen this picture here and there online, and I like it. I like it a lot.
Of course, this would only work with kids who can read. Or, let’s face it, this would only work with kids who are not actively campaigning to drive you out of your gourd. But it should work. It’s a good idea in theory, and some days, that is the best you can get.
However, it needs expanding. For instance, here is a version for my two-year-old (who, admittedly, has never been bored in her life):
Here is one for the dog:
And here is one for my husband:
Well, that should keep ‘em busy.
Oh, it feels good to be on the cutting edge.
The other day, I read about a new sort of free-form playground in Wales, where kids apparently play with garbage and light fires, with adult approval. It’s meant to correct modern parents’ tendencies to shelter their children from every possible bump, bruise, and tumble, and to teach them to assess risk on their own. It’s called “The Land.” According to an article in The Atlantic:
The ground is muddy in spots and, at one end, slopes down steeply to a creek where a big, faded plastic boat that most people would have thrown away is wedged into the bank. The center of the playground is dominated by a high pile of tires that is growing ever smaller as a redheaded girl and her friend roll them down the hill and into the creek …
It’s still morning, but someone has already started a fire in the tin drum in the corner, perhaps because it’s late fall and wet-cold, or more likely because the kids here love to start fires. Three boys lounge in the only unbroken chairs around it; they are the oldest ones here, so no one complains … Nearby, a couple of boys are doing mad flips on a stack of filthy mattresses, which makes a fine trampoline. At the other end of the playground, a dozen or so of the younger kids dart in and out of large structures made up of wooden pallets stacked on top of one another.
Here’s a picture of The Land:
PIC The Land
Despite not being in Europe, we’ve been experimenting with something similar on our property. At the risk of appearing pretentious, we refer to it as “The Yard.” Here’s a recent photo, featuring one of my courageous and confident children:
I don’t tend to hover over her, suppressing her natural inquisitiveness, because I’m afraid she will stab me.
Speaking of cutting edge: seriously, give that kid some space. She will cut you.
The Yard isn’t the only area place where we allow children to naturally innoculate themselves against adult phobias. Most modern bathrooms. monitored by paranoid, over-anxious helicopter parents, are unnaturally sterile and barren places, where cleaning happens daily and natural playthings such as toilet paper, wet toilet paper, and turds, are discarded, rather than cherished as the instruments of adventure. But our bathroom — “The Crapper,” we’ve dubbed it — was shaped by the children who attend it. Which is why I hold it in all day and use the gas station bathroom whenever I can.
One popular feature in The Crapper is a set of three broad planes (some refer to them as “walls,” but we think of them as “canvases”) where children can express their creativity in tactile and olfactory ways. The commercial colors of the toy aisle are banished in favor of the time-honored palate of yellow and brown. In The Crapper, our children also learn about physics: will the toilet flush when there is a copy of This Rock in the bowl? How about all the copies of This Rock? How about your little sister? Yes, here is a place of learning.
We also have an area called The Boys’ Room. I don’t want to talk about that, though.
The only drawback is that we are having a hard time keeping the professionally trained playworkers around. They show up all bright-eyed with their gum boots and their sweaters with wooden toggles on them, ready to let children be children; but within hours, they’re nowhere to be found, leaving only a small pool of blood behind them. I ask the kids what happened, and they say they didn’t know. One kid did hear a hoarse cry that sounded like “such a thing as bad kids after all,” but other than that, it’s a mystery.
Overall, we are pleased with the results. Our children show no sign of being hobbled by phobias about hygiene or safety. On nights when Daddy works late, they are hardly even appear human. And we have our philosophy of unstructured play and child-led inquisitiveness to thank. I can only hope that other American parents will follow our lead. Or at very least, drop some of those lawsuits.
What is the deal with these people?
We wonder, too, Mr. Mailman. We wonder, too.
