Category Archives: Daily Dharma

Careless Whispers

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At dinner last night Sissy reminded us that we hadn’t decided on our family Lenten sacrifice. Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, so the clock was ticking. I’m pretty sure Sissy has wings hidden on her back somewhere. Here is the brainstorming session verbatim.

Sissy: TV? We could all give up TV.

Piper: NOOOOO.

Dad: How about beer and chocolate?  I’d be willing to abstain from those for 40 days.

Me: That totally doesn’t count. You’re allergic to those things, and I’m not giving them up.

Sissy: I know something that would really hurt? Our glasses.

Dad: But we’d all be blind.  We all wear glasses.

Me: Good point.  That might cause more harm than good.

Piper: How about board games?  We could give those up.  We waste half the night playing those things.

Sissy: True, but I’d miss family board games.

Dad: A lot of people give up meat for Lent.

Sissy: So we have to give up tofu?

Piper: We’d STARVE!

Dad: I’ve got it.  I’d be willing to give up underwear. Just think of all the laundry we’d save.

Me: No. Just no.

Piper: Gross.

Sissy: Eww.

Dad: How about mean words?

Me: It’s a great idea.  We could all work on not saying mean words to each other.

Piper: What if I forget?

Me: How about we all say three nice things to make up for the one mean word?

Sissy: We’re going to need a poster.  I’ll make a poster. Can I make a poster?

Dad: Sure.

Piper: Wait. Let me ask one question. Are potty words considered mean words? What if I whisper mean words and no one hears me? Does that count?

This might be a rough forty days.  I’ll keep you posted.

Snow Falling from Sissy

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Sissy was in charge today.  It was a holiday from school, so my partner and I split teams.  I had to teach, so he worked from home. Piper and Sissy came up with their own idea of fun.  It’s called an agenda:

Be still my Virgo heart.  Look at that tight scheduling.  Makes this neurotic mama proud. See, fun can be organized? Who needs spontaneity? Mixing up your chores with puzzles is a win-win. How else are you supposed to remember to pick up after playing daycare unless you include “pickup” as part of the activity?  I think Sissy may have already discovered the intoxicating pen stroke of crossing off a task from your to-do list.

When I came home from work, I was met with a full report.  The siblings got along swimmingly.  Apparently, only squabbles occur when the parental units are present.  We’re clearly the problem.  Piper’s assessment was bit more postmodern.

“I like it when Sissy reads better.”

“How come, Piper?”

“When Daddy reads it sound like thunder.  Mommy uses a mouse dream voice and everything always turns out okay.”

“And Sissy?”

“When Sissy reads it’s like snow falling.”

What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

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As you may have heard, unless you’re boycotting or hiding under a rock, last week was Valentine’s Day, which is really just another opportunity for Piper and Augie to engage in their ongoing soulmate love fest.  I vote yes for any occasion that let’s me just say I love you. I don’t need flowers although I won’t complain about them either. I definitely don’t want to brave a restaurant and/or wrestle someone for a babysitter on a Tuesday evening when much of the rest of the country is trying to do the same. But I’ll happily eavesdrop on your personal valentine messages and appreciate the truth about love.

The truth about a long distance friendship between four-year-olds is that it’s hard and it’s work.  You miss each other and you don’t know when you’ll be together again.  Your parents are entirely in charge of scheduling and they seem to be busy doing something called “work.”  You don’t have a credit card yet so you can’t just buy a plane ticket.  You don’t drive, even though you really, really want to, so you can’t just hop in a car. You don’t own a boombox so you can’t hold it above your head and blare “In Your Eyes” like John Cusack in “Say Anything”:

Oh, swoon.  That gets me every time.

As a four-year-old in love, you have to rely on Skype, video messages, and the postal service to keep the flame alive. So, you work hard to express yourself to your valentine with the only tools you have: markers, glitter, heart stickers, and foam beads. Here is what Augie sent Piper this week:

Swoon again.  That Augie is sweeter than candy.  That’s a lot of glitter hearts and you and I know clearly what that means.  Nothing says I love you like a purple pipe clean molded into a heart. And any man who understands the importance of dotting your “i” as a statement is a good man in my book.  Piper went a bit more of the clichéd route and relied on jewelry to express her feelings:

As a girl invested in anything rainbow, making and then giving away an awesome foam rainbow necklace is the ultimate sacrifice. And look at the layering of hearts.  Clearly, a metaphor. Let’s look inside:

Writing her name is not Piper’s favorite thing to do, but for Augie, she will.  Happily. Because when you love someone, you work at it.  You tell them. And you hold on tight.

What are Grandparents Made of?

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Here’s a question that Piper really wants to know the answer to:

“How come parents make you do all the stuff you don’t want to do and grandparents let you do all the stuff you aren’t supposed to do?”

Ah, the crystal clear logic of a four-year-old. Here are a few reasons Piper likes the grandparents better than the parents.

Grandparents buy you ice cream, even the blue and red flavors Mom won’t let you eat because of the food dyes.

Grandparents tell you all their favorite things about you on your birthday. They always make you smile.

Grandparents take you on the carousel and let you ride as many times as you want. And they buy you your favorite rainbow dress.

Grandparents let you fall asleep on them in public whenever you need a nap.  Their arms are always open.

Grandparents kiss you, even when your face is covered in Sissy’s birthday cake.

Grandparents have lots of time to sit and cuddle. Their laps are more comfy because they know how to be still.

Grandparents don’t march you back to your own bed in the middle of the night.  They let you stay.  Piper says, “I like grandma and nana’s sides of the bed because that’s where the snuggling happens. But if you want the tickling, go to grandpa or papa’s side.”

When grandparents are around, you don’t have to eat vegetables or go to bed on time. That’s what parents are for.  I think I like grandparents better, too.

Partner Parenting Perils

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We have an authority problem in our house.  As in, I have all of it.  In addition to my role as general manager, I’m also the supreme ruler over the distribution of Gummy Tummies. Piper likes the penguins.

Here’s the conversation following dinner last night:

Piper: “Can I have a gummy tummy?”
Dad: “Sure.”
Sissy: “You don’t have the authority to decide. Mom gives out the treats.”
Dad. “What? Huh?”
Piper: “That’s right.  You’re not the responsibility around here!”

I don’t endorse nor do I desire all the authority.  It comes with too much “responsibility.”  My partner and I do a pretty good job of dividing the work load.  We each cook, clean, and care for the kids. We both work full-time. There are things I do better, like paying bills and managing the schedule, and there are things he does better, like taking the kids for shots and vacuuming. The split works for us mostly because we’ve each been home with the kids for extended periods of time and know, without a doubt, that the hardest job is staying.  It’s so much easier to put on my high heels and grab my lunch box.  But we both think it matters to be home, so we do a lot of tag team parenting.  We flip our work schedules. Somehow in the mix, though, my alpha nature has been misconstrued by Piper and Sissy. You’d think my partner would be upset about it.  His response? “I’m rising to my highest level of incompetence.”  True. Doing things poorly is one way to not have to do them at all.  Competence at the task does equal some amount of authority, doesn’t?

This partner parenting peril became apparent this morning when we discovered that the kids’ lunches hadn’t been packed.  We went to the chore chart immediately because it holds the ultimate authority in our house.

It was a Friday morning.  Clearly, he’s in charge of packing the lunches on Thursday evenings.  It’s his one night of the week.  Now, before you crucify him as I did…Thursday night was crazy.  He was shuttling the girls between ballet and piano and picking me up late from work.  We gave up at 7 o’clock and ate out.  It was an evening to be endured and survived.  You’ve had those, too, I’m guessing.  So, we were a bit off schedule. Understandable.  Even forgivable.  Logically, he should pack the lunches Friday morning, right? Enter Piper.  “Daddy makes the grody lunches.  He doesn’t pack healthy stuff.  And he forgets the note.”  Sissy confirmed his incompetence.  I suggested he was just doing it differently, not better or worse, and I think I then yelled something about them packing their own flipping lunches.  It’s fuzzy to me now. Potty words before 9 a.m. will do that to you.

So, how do we sort out our authority problem?  Which really means how do I diffuse power for the greater good?  The answer was in this simple question: “Who wants to go to the park?” I have no authority at the park.  In wide open spaces where metal bars are concerned, I’m that helicopter parent who insists on spotting every stray toddler as they descend the monkey bars. Piper and Sissy ran out the door with their dad. The world’s worst park mom was left behind.

And for the record, I did pack the Friday morning lunches but not because he does it better or worse. He had to be at work earlier than me.  I do pack a mean lunch.

Whole Wheat Pita Bread, Green Beans, Baby Carrots, Blueberries, Hummus

Sometimes even the general manager has to get her hands dirty.

Competitive Touching

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Boredom can be productive. Or not. In our house, when you run out of really good things to fight about, like whether Strawberry Shortcake is or is not totally lame (she is), Piper and Sissy invent new games. Like this one:

“First one to touch the chair wins!”

“First one to touch Mom’s hair wins!”

“First one to touch Mom’s eyeball wins!”

“First one to touch my foot wins!”

“First one to touch the door wins!”

“First one to touch this piece of paper I’m holding wins!”

“First one to touch my elbow wins!”

“First one to touch the couch wins!”

“First one to touch me wins! Wait, I’m already touching me! I win!”

Clearly, I’m raising creative children, capable of entertaining themselves.  Or at the least, competitive touchers. One time they stood at the window of a furniture store arguing about who was going to get which couch and/or loveseat. They verbally tagged each piece as they debated whether cushions count as one choice or multiple claims.

As if the only barrier to them acquiring expensive sofas at a boutique store in Georgetown was dibs.

A very wise friend recently told me that she thinks some sibling rivalry is good.  If you don’t truly care about each other, then why care about the outcome? And if you have to learn hard lessons in life, like the unfairness of not being able to afford $1000 ottomans, isn’t it best to learn it from someone who loves you? If that’s true, then Piper and Sissy in the category of sibling rivalry are clearly overachievers.

Superglue to the Rescue

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Does this look like a place Piper should be playing?

Is it the steep, winding stairs or the potential to plunge to one’s death that attracts Piper? Probably both. How about this?  Does she need to do this?

Why can’t we just visit her sister’s classroom without Piper climbing into a hallway locker? Because she’s Piper.  She’s a risk taker. A brave and crazy soul sent here to test my sanity. She spends most of her day inventing ways to hurt herself.  I spend most of my day keeping her alive.  I’ve lost count of the number of black eyes she’s had.  She’s so banged up and bruised most of the time people give me funny looks in public. I’d have more pictures but I’m busy catching her.  I’d like to stuff her in a little bubble but I know she’d figure out a way to escape or to burst the whole thing.

Rather than running her to the ER for stitches once a week, I bought this:

Now I just superglue her boo boos.  I keep some extra in the car for on-the-go death plunges. But I still have to ask.  As if it’s going to help me much.

“Piper, why do you hurt yourself? Can’t you try to be a little more careful?”

“Well, you see, there’s lots of things in the world and I like lots of space so I can twirl around.” She danced straight into a wall to demonstrate. “And one more thing. I’m little. And I think stuff jumps out at me.”

The Stink Eye

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Perhaps the only thing easy about parenting a Piper is that you never have to wonder how she feels.  Most of the time, Piper is joyous.  She bounces about leaping from room to room. She laughs at herself and goes to great lengths to amuse us. She cuddles constantly. She did wait almost two full years to say a word, yet she still managed to get her needs met.  Although she learned sign language, her most effective means of communication was of the nonverbal variety.  If baby Piper didn’t like your answer, you got the stink eye:

It hurt.  The stink eye could burn right through your heart. Ouch.

These days, of course, Piper is all talk all the time.  But if almost big girl Piper doesn’t like your answer, you still get…

…the stink eye. At least she’s consistent.

I’ll Raise You a Lalaloopsy

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Saturday morning in our house means chores.  I’m known as the general manager, which is a kind of chore, right? Sure it is.  The negotiation of chores in our house is one effective way to avoid the actual doing of chores. It goes something like this:

Magnets get moved until there is shalom in the home.  Or until the general manager declares the negotiations over and begins shouting about doing the actual chores. This week, though, the girls brought an old grievance to the family meeting: allowances.  I’m not opposed to allowances.  Kids can learn a lot from money management. I just can’t remember to give them regularly and I never have actual cash in my purse.  I’ve asked, but these kids won’t let me swipe my debit card. So, we asked how much allowance they thought was fair.

Piper opened the negotiations. “$400 sounds reasonable.”

Laughing all around. “How about $1 per week?” Her dad countered.

Piper let out a loud sigh. “$100 is enough.  That’s fine.”

“I’m willing to raise my offer to $2 per week.”

“No.”

Dad tried to rationalize. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere. You’re supposed to suggest a number closer to ours.”

“No.”

“So, you don’t want an allowance?” I asked.

“Wait,” Piper said, “how much does a Lalaloopsy cost? That’s how much I want.”

I shook my head. “I don’t even know what that is.”

“I think $5 is a good amount for me,” Sissy suggested. Ever the voice of reason. “Or maybe we should get $1 for our ages.” Did she just up her own offer?

Piper, who claims she doesn’t know her numbers, did the math and came up immediately with the difference. “That’s $4 more. Why does she get more than me? What’s up with that?”

“I do more chores,” Sissy said.  “I get more money. I’m older. That’s fair.”

“Fair? What’s up with that? How many Lalaloopsies does she get?”  Suddenly, Lalaloopsy  became our currency and we were stuck in a Seinfeld episode.

Clearly, the general manager is going to need a raise.

The Feel of Trash

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Piper may very well grow up to be a trash collector or a professional recycler or a bag lady. The jury is still out.  The kid will pick up anything, anywhere.  Chewed gum. Discarded napkins if they are shiny in any way. Rocks. She hoards trash in her closet in baskets. And tonight, she picked up this in a parking lot.

It’s plastic.  It’s dirty.  It’s broken on the back.  To Piper, all of that equals perfection.  It’s not as if we don’t buy this kid plenty of real toys.  She doesn’t really need to troll the parking lot looking for things to play with.  But this thing she just couldn’t resist. As I tried to wrestle the filthy football from her hand, Piper protested, “It’s sure dirty but it doesn’t feel like trash.”  I didn’t ask what that meant.  I don’t think her explanation would have been convincing. I did what any semi-rational mom would do.  I took her newly coveted trash to the bathroom to sanitize it.  For the rest of the night, the broken plastic football was her best friend.  He (yes, the football declared its gender) talked to her in the backseat.  She introduced him to Pinky, her lovey. And when her sister climbed into the car Piper used her best manners.  “Sissy,” she said, “I’d like you to meet my new friend.  Football.  He’s in my shoe.  With my foot.”