Category Archives: parenting

November 13, 2013 · 1:45 pm

No

Sometimes, no means no.  Like, No, you cannot run through the parking lot.  Or, No, you cannot take off your seatbelt.  Or, No, I will not count to one thousand.  Or, No, you cannot drink Mommy’s wine.

Sometimes, no means: I’m too tired to make homemade air-popped popcorn, so you can have a bowl of Skinny Pop instead.

Sometimes no means: You can’t eat the popcorn in a “movie night” popcorn bowl from the party store from your brother’s 5th birthday party that’s sitting high up on the shelf in the laundry room and is most likely very dusty, but you can eat it in this plastic yellow bowl because it’s already in my hand and there are only ten minutes left until bedtime.

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Actually, it’s almost an hour past your bedtime, which is probably why we’re having this disagreement about which bowl is appropriate for popcorn consumption.  You want the bowl hidden deep in the laundry room (although clearly not hidden deep enough), and I want the bowl that’s in my hand, is clean, and can go straight into the dishwasher.

Sometimes no means: Why didn’t I just say yes, because then this conversation would be over and we wouldn’t be yelling at each other and your lip wouldn’t be curling and – here it comes, wait for it…wait for it – there wouldn’t be tears squirting from your big, blue eyes and the sound of your crying wouldn’t echo through the house and pierce my tired ears and convince young people within a one mile radius of our house not to engage in sexual activity out of fear of parenthood and I could worry about other things like mashed or roasted potatoes for Thanksgiving and the carpet in the family room really needs to be burned steam cleaned and I have to get a flu shot.

Instead, I must fight with you, and I must win, because as hard as it is to say “no” right now, it will be a lot harder to do when you’re a teenager who talks back to me and has – gulp – keys to the car.  Because if you can’t handle “no” now, you’ll grow up to be a person who’s easily disappointed and too fragile to handle the lemons that life will inevitably throw in your face.  Or, you’ll be an entitled jerk.

You can have Skinny Pop in this yellow bowl, or you can have nothing.

I wonder what it would be like to spend an entire day saying “yes” to you.  I have a feeling we’d end up on a container ship bound for Taiwan holding a “Happy Birthday” balloon from Publix and a plastic bag filled with shiny rocks.

This is your choice to make. You can have Skinny Pop in this yellow bowl, or you can have nothing.

Still, you cry.

It occurs to me that sometimes I say “no” when I should say “yes,” because there are so many really good – no, wonderful – reasons to righteously shout No! from the rooftop, like when your “helping hand” is in the direct path of your scissors or when you want to draw on the kitchen table with a Sharpie or when you ride your bike into the middle of the street.  But instead, I waste my “nos” on things like digging holes, playing with water inside the house, and eating popcorn from a dirty, hard to reach, “movie night” popcorn bowl an hour past bedtime.

Still, you cry.

And I surrender, because if I just say “yes,” which I probably should’ve done in the first place, this nonsense will end.  You will stop squirting tears and hurting my ears, and you will eat your popcorn while I recoup for our next battle, which will most likely happen as a result of: No, you can’t wait until tomorrow to brush your teeth and No, I won’t read another book.

Sometimes no means: For the love all that is holy, eat your popcorn in whatever freakin’ bowl you want, but don’t ask me for a refill because the answer is No.

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October 26, 2013 · 2:31 pm

Deal

Earlier this week, I took the boys with me to the animal hospital with Harry. It wasn’t ideal – I would’ve preferred not to take them – but the doctor only had late afternoon appointments, so I had no choice but to bring them along.  I made a deal with them in the car.  “Threat” might be a better word to describe when I said quietly and slowly with a finger pointed toward them for effect, “When I’m talking to the doctor and when the doctor is talking to me, you must be quiet. Or else.”  No exclamation point.  Threats are most effective with periods.  Occasionally questions marks work, too.  For instance, “Threat threat threat, blah be-dee blah blah.  Do you understand me?”  But, periods are best.

It worked.  They were quite good, actually.

We were at the hospital for an internal medicine check-up, and since Harry looked better and more energetic, I expected good news.  I could tell his back felt better, and I hoped the same would be true for his blood sugar.  If it was high enough, I also hoped they would lower his prednisone dosage because the side effects – extreme hunger and thirst, excessive urination, and weight gain in the abdomen – came on hard and fast.

I was right and wrong.  The doctor agreed that Harry’s mobility and coordination were better.  His blood sugar, however, was not.  Normal glucose levels in a dog are 75-120.  A dog with insulinoma after a successful surgery might find a “new normal” in the 50s or 60s.  Harry’s blood sugar was 29 that afternoon.  According to our doctor, a number that low almost a month after surgery indicated that the cancer had most likely metastasized.  While Dylan and Riley quietly drew pictures (for Harry) next to me on the couch, the doctor suggested an increase in prednisone and gave me the names of two well-regarded oncologists in the area that had some success with chemotherapy on insulinoma patients.

I was caught off guard.  I  couldn’t hold back my tears.

Girl wants a baby.  Girl gets cancer instead.

Girl can’t have baby.  Girls gets dog.

Girl desperately wants to save dog.  Girl can’t.

Riley kept coloring, but Dylan asked, “Mommy, why are you crying?”

I looked him and said, “I’m sad because Harry still doesn’t feel good.  His boo boo isn’t better.”

At the tender age of almost seven, this precious boy of mine doesn’t know what to do with the swell of emotions he’s capable of feeling.  As a coping mechanism, he hones in on something – anything – concrete. When Harry first came home from the hospital, it was the long line of black stitches down his belly.  He was terrified of them.

“Mommy,” he said, “I don’t ever want Harry to have stitches again.”

“Me neither,” I said.  “I promise you, he won’t.”

Now, it was his distended abdomen.  “Mommy, I don’t like Harry’s belly.”

“Dylan,” I said, “It’s the medicine that’s making his belly big, but no matter what he looks like, he’s still our Harry.”

On the car ride home, I cried quietly in the front seat.  In the back seat, Dylan began to sob.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m sad,” Dylan said.

“I know.  Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“I don’t want Harry to be sick,” he said.

I’ve never done this before – this having a dying pet with two small children thing.  Honesty seemed like the best – and only – strategy.  “I don’t want him to be sick either.  It’s okay to be sad,” I said.  “It’s okay to cry.  I’m sad, too.  I’m crying, too.”  We cried together as we sped down I-95 towards home.

Then Riley, who’s four years old and way less concrete and wants to turn into a unicorn after he turns five and loves Harry more than Kefir and all the way to the moon and back said, “Let’s make a deal.  No crying in the car or you will lose your Kindle at bedtime.”

Deal.

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