Banishment Works

We call this the Mormon Pantry. A lot of houses in Utah have a set-aside space for big-time food storage, in keeping with LDS doctrine. Ours is a luxurious concrete room all its own in the basement, complete with customized shelving. The previous owners (who were Mormon) had this crammed to the gills with canned goods sufficient to survive the second coming. You can see that we just have some paper towels in there. Actually, this is also where we keep the beer. You just can't see it - it's around the corner. Sometimes when there's surplus ketchup, that'll go there, too.

I'm bringing this up because my kids have been skating on thin ice with me lately. Particularly with the squabbling. And the way Nathan whacks Sara. And the way she provokes him to hit her. And the mouthy stuff. And they were such cute babies...

I know a lot of this is normal sibling stuff. They are actually not as bad as my younger brother and I were. No one has suffered any blood loss, after all. Simon and his brother were also at each other's throats. But now, I'm the parent.

Other signs that my kids are on the slippery slope to Hell:

1. Nathan was playing with Sara and one of his little friends in the back yard, and Sara would not help him climb into a tree. He screamed, "YOU BITCH!!" at her. Hooo, boy. I had to send him into the house. I let his friend stay and continue playing with Sara, though, hoping that it would rankle. Then Sara went and stood under his bedroom window and threw paper airplane at it, to taunt him.
2. I had a house full of guests and did something clumsy - spilt something or dropped something. Nate said, "Can't you do anything right?!?" As Si said later, "Great. Now everyone will think that I talk to you that way!"
3. The final straw was "A Prairie Home Companion", when Garrison Keillor was describing "Why Every Parent Should Buy the Children a Kitty Cat". This is what you will get from a child who is not given the opportunity to cuddle a sweet little kitty cat. The there was a voice-over of this obnoxious, rude, foul-mouthed teenager.

Oh. My. God. And Simon is allergic to cats. So there is nothing to be done except to bring the thunder.

So, the next day when they were fighting on the way to Target, I pulled the car over (remember the crunch of gravel that meant your mom had really pulled over and you were going to GET IT?) and gave them what for. I scalded them with my searing tongue (Actually, to a grown up, that might sound kind of fun...No! Minds out of the gutter and on the task at hand.) I was mean. And I told them that there was to be no time-out in their rooms. Rooms are too fun. The next time one of them needed to be isolated from the light of humanity, exile was to be in the Mormon Pantry.

A-hah! That did it! I could see the fear in their eyes. So I added that I would not be sweeping the spiders out beforehand.

Nate whispered hoarsely, "Of all the rooms in our house, Mom, the Mormon Pantry is my least favorite."

And you know what? It worked! I am reminded of my friend Mary who told her kids all the years they were growing up that she had a wooden spoon in her purse that she would use to beat them. She managed to keep that going for about a decade.

They have been little darlings. Of course, I was waiting to prove that I was serious. Finally, Nate got carried away and smacked Sara's bum. I marched him to the Mormon Pantry and made him sit in there for 7 minutes. He sat quietly (I was a little bummed that he didn't whimper), while I waited out in the rec room.

Afterward, he declared it, "not so bad." He told Sara that it was nice to sit there and look at the soda cans. Maybe I should turn off the lights next time.

Chocolate Requires Instructions?

We were sharing a chocolate bar in the office today. Chocolate so fancy it comes with rules of engagement. We followed them to the letter. We did not want to miss out on any subtleties due to crassness or insensitivity. Here are the instructions.

Breathe...Engage your senses. Take three deep breaths, quiet the chattering mind, (Chattering mind? What chattering mind? Who has a chattering mind? Why do they want to quiet my chattering mind? Is this a death panel?) and be in the present moment. (Huh? Oh. Right.)

See... Don't be deceived by the looks of this bar - it's a milk chocolate of a new variety, blended with a bit of dark chocolate and forest green matcha to deepen the flavor and color.

Smell...Take three deep breaths. (Someone asks if two breaths would be OK. She is shouted down.) Rub your thumb on the chocolate to help release the aromas. (This also helps to melt the chocolate, and no permission to lick fingers is granted.) Inhale deeply. (This is the third time we've been admonished about our breathing. Geeze.)

Snap...Break the bar in two places. Hear a crisp, ringing pop, which indicates a well-tempered bar of chocolate. (We leaned in to hear it. It sounded like any other chocolate bar when you break it. Pretty much inaudible.)

Taste...Place a small piece (or a large one) of chocolate on your tongue and press it to the roof of your mouth. Within thirty secondss, the chocolate square will begin to melt around your tongue.(Realize that this chocolate tastes bad, and no amount of ritualizing of the experience is going to change that. Rinse it down with coffee.)

Excuses, Excuses

I thought I had heard them all. Last night, one of my students called in to say that he would be absent that evening because he was fixing his accordion. That's new.

When Crickets Talk

Is it a sign of madness? That the crickets are talking to me? Maybe as long as I don't answeer back, I'm still OK.

Lately, they have been saying, "Do you want some Gatorade? Gatorade? Some Gatorade?"

No, not really. Could we talk about something else?

Last night, I couldn't sleep, and they would not stop gloating: "Kate's awake. Kate's awake. Keeping Kate awake. Awake. Kate's awake."

Do you hear things when you listen to crickets, or is it just me? I suspect it might be.

What do they say to you (you f***ing nut-case)?

Straitjacket

I am in the midst of a power-struggle with my new running bra.

I don't like it much. I have been wearing one of those "smash-'em-flat" running bras for 20 years, so maybe I am just being inflexible; but Dr. Perfect was very specific about the sort of bra I have to have if I want to start running again. No smashing the art installation he has created on my chest, please.

I went to Gart's, found this Valkyrie-style thing he wants me to wear, and took it into the changing room. My range of motion is still not quite recovered, and the bra has a bizarre design. Anyway, I ended up trapped in it, writhing like a fish on a hook with my arms pinned straight up in the air . Where the hell was Simon?! I whisper-yelled for him, but he was out of earshot. I was in a lather and about to cry with frustration when a woman whipped open the changing-room door, causing me to shriek like a...girl. "OH, MY GOD, I AM SO SORRY!" she gasped, goggling at my compromised position and Frankenstein torso. Damn! She was gone again before I could ask her to GET ME OUT OF THIS THING.

It really wasn't fair to be mad at Si. He was innocently wandering in the camping section and was confused when I emerged, pink and sweating, with Medusa-like hair and a homicidal expression. Poor guy. How could he know that I had not only exhausted myself getting the bra off, but the added exertion of whapping the bra-from-hell on the floor of the changing room about 15 times, in a rage.

I've moved on from this experience, which is why it really seemed unfair to be similarly stuck this afternoon. I am getting a little better at disentangling myself, but not much. I was just home from a workout, writhing and sweating my way out of the straitjacket when Sara came barging into my room without knocking to complain about something Nathan had done. Right behind her was her little friend, J., who froze in horror at my bare, scar-covered boobs. "Can't you see I'm busy fighting with my bra? Get out!"

No Clue

There. Mystery solved! It was Mrs. Peacock in the Ballroom with a knife. Can we just stop playing this endless, boring game? Nate had no daycare yesterday, so I stayed home with him. He loves this game. I would rather break rocks than play Clue. I would rather wake up with a pounding hangover. I would rather spend two hours looking for a minute error in a vast spreadsheet. I would rather sit in an ER waiting room, all day, with nothing to read. I would rather wear sand-filled tennies.

He Needs Dreadlocks

Simon bought seven-year-old Nathan a Real Salt Lake team jersey yesterday. I came home from evening class to find Nate asleep with it clutched in his little fist. As soon as he woke up this morning, he looked at me conspiratorially and said, "I got something really special yesterday." "Oh, yeah? What?" "I'm not going to show you, yet. Go wait for me in the kitchen." He came out wearing the jersey, so I called him Kyle Beckerman (Real Salt Lake's team captain). His ears turned pink.

Here's the real Kyle Beckerman.

As you can see, Nathan has a way to go. But he now has the shirt. That's a start. He is thinking that the hair would be the sensible next step. He is a bit shaggy at the moment; and he likes to mess it up in the privacy of his room, hoping it will form dreadlocks, a la Beckerman. If only we weren't going to Wisconsin to visit Grandma and Grandpa in a couple of days. Grandma isn't a big fan of dreads.

Sara just had to burst his bubble tonight. "You better start brushing your hair again, you know." "What for?" "If your hair looks like that when we get to Wisconsin, Grandma is going to...DEAL with it." "Deal with it?" "She's gonna take you to the Style-Mar. You'll get a lady hair-cut and she'll make you sit in one of those chairs that puts the plastic container over your head."