Behaving Badly for the Babysitter

My kids have been entrusted to the care of plenty of people in their short lives: grandparents, aunts and uncles, neighbors, and family friends. All of the individuals who have watched my children for short bursts of time have, up until this point, shared one common attribute: namely, they have all been adults. On Friday night, I charted new waters by asking a fourteen-year-old neighbor to babysit my three older children while my husband and I (and Cameron) went out to dinner with some good friends.

The babysitter's arrival was preceded by 45 minutes of role playing proper babysitter behavior. By the time the teenager arrived at our doorstep, my kids had practiced going to bed seventeen times.

My husband and I left the house with the hope that our children would keep their eye on the prize. If the evening passed without incident, everyone could invite a friend over to play the next day...and we'd talk about making New England Whalers for breakfast.

Just as dinner was being served, my phone rang. I could hear the problem before I was told about it. In the background, I could audibly make out a trio of gremlins swinging from the chandeliers.



"They all went to bed fine," the babysitter explained. "They just won't stay there."

I requested a conference call with Stripe and his crew. I couldn't think of any specific threat offhand, so I settled for something ambiguously scary.

"There is going to be a major problem if you get out of your beds again," I hissed and hung up the phone.

The night ended with the babysitter getting a big tip paid for out of three gremlins' allowances.

Needless to say, the next morning there were no New England Whalers.

****
Have your kids ever acted up for the babysitter? What did they do?

Off the Wagon

Yesterday, my kids fell off the wagon so to speak. Specifically, they went a whole four days--a family record--without indulging in their favorite vice. Ultimately, however, the temptation grew too strong for even the most self-disciplined to bear.

"Turn me on for just one minute," it begged whenever they passed by. "Maybe two."

"The driveway is thirsty," it pleaded a little louder after the initial invitations were ignored. "Give it just a little drink."

Over time, the commands grew more forceful and the consequences for disobeying more severe.

"Take all of your mom's Tupperware containers out of the kitchen and fill them up. Then dump them out. Then fill them up again.... If you don't, I won't be your friend."

I was making dinner last night when I heard my favorite combination of things: running water and dead silence.

When I went opened the front door to investigate, I found a roving typhoon.

"Watch out!" yelled Camber as she ran past me. The warning came just as I was hit in the face by a gush of water. Several gallons, or so it seemed, pushed past me, flooding the foyer floor.

"Oops," said Kellen. "That wasn't supposed to hit you," he explained.

I'll leave the rest of this story to your imagination.

R.I.P. Toys Left on the Driveway

Yesterday, Cortlen's skateboard bit the dust. He left the object outside overnight and I accidentally ran over it as I was backing out of the driveway on the way to swim lessons the next morning.

Sadly, this is not the first sacrificial offering that my children have made to a metal beast. Earlier this summer, Camber made the mistake of leaning her scooter against my bumper. A few weeks ago, Kellen left his favorite squirt gun at the base of our driveway and it was inadvertently crushed to smithereens by my husband's truck.

"You broke it!" Cortlen cried in my direction when he saw that his skateboard had two fewer wheels than it did the day before.

Things got ugly when I didn't readily agree to purchase a replacement.

I used to feel remorseful when I unintentionally ran over my kids' toys. That feeling ended several months ago when I stubbed my toe lugging two bikes, a hockey stick, and several soccer balls into the garage during a thunderstorm.

*****
Anyone else's driveway a path of destruction? Tell me what you've accidentally destroyed.

It's A Hard Knock Life

The first time that Cameron's physical therapist came to my house after school let out for the summer was the last time that my three older kids were allowed to make their own decisions about how they were going to spend that hour of the day.

Cortlen, who normally has to be forcibly extracted from his clothing three times a week to take a shower, decided to spend the time walking around the house totally nude.

The therapist had Cameron clinging to the side of an exercise ball when Cortlen leisurely strolled through the family room and into the kitchen sans clothing. Without acknowledging our presence, he opened the refrigerator door, retrieved and apple, and walked out.

"Excuse me for a minute," I told the physical therapist and jumped to my feet.

"What are you doing?" I asked my son, after cornering him in the hallway.
"Eating an apple," he said matter-of-factly.
I pointed to his exposed family jewels.
"I forgot to put clothes on," he explained.

Immediately after the physical therapist left for the day, I hauled my children to the nearest discount super center and purchased every G and PG-rated movie priced under $10.




The upside to my children watching classic kids' favorites like Gremlins and Annie so often: The flashings have ceased.

The downside: Recently, my children have taken to calling me Miss Hannigan.

Special Delivery

Yesterday afternoon, my elderly neighbor knocked on my front door.

"Did I do something to offend you?" Joan asked.

Other than hanging a plastic leg cast from her tree, nothing came to mind.


"I found these in my mailbox," she said, handing me a plastic grocery bag. Inside were three empty bags of chips, a matchbox car, and a box of half eaten raisins.

"So that's where they went," I said, with a sigh of relief.

Joan looked confused when I told her to think of the objects as tokens of endearment.

"Like when a cat kills a mouse and leaves its intestines on your front porch," I explained.


Joan twitched her face and held her stomach. She felt significantly better after I explained my children's current obsession with the mailman. "They only deliver packages to neighbors they like," I told her. I pointed out that Helen-Marie and Sandy (other neighbors) only find grass clippings, pebbles, and the occasional piece of scrap paper in their mailboxes. Half eaten food items and personal effects are reserved for their favorites.

"I would appreciate if they didn't do it again," Joan said.

I told her that I would try my best to limit the deliveries and would make a point to inspect her mailbox for illegal parcels on a regular basis, but that I couldn't guarantee that her VIP mail service would stop altogether.

"If you find a Barbie leg in your mailbox," I said, "You know where to find the cat."

*****
Do your kids put weird things in your neighbors' mailboxes or your own?

BTW: your comments on yesterday's post had me rolling on the floor! We had a sea salt salesperson over the holidays!!!! I totally forgot about her! So, so, so funny!

******

Hey! One of my awesome readers tipped me off to something cool; namely, that this blog is in the running for the Funniest Blog Award in the BlogLuxe Awards from SocialLuxe Lounge. Wow! Thank you for the nomination; I'm very flattered...but a little peeved that I'm not in the running to be the "blog you've learned the most from." Haven't I served you people well? What about my kitty litter cake? And my fabric-covered Easter eggs? Hmph!

I won't pester you too much over the next few weeks, but I sure would appreciate your vote. Here's the good news: You don't have to sign up for anything to vote and you can vote once per day through July 6.

To vote, click HERE.

Regardless of the results, what makes me most excited about all this is that there are a number of other nominees on the list who manage to be funny without being crass. Who knew that was even possible? What is the world coming to?!

Successful Parenting Tip # 234

Parents of toddlers: I know that it is hard to watch your baby grow up, but if I were you, I wouldn't get too sad. You will get your baby back when he/she turns five. I can tell you from experience that you have a lot to look forward to. The second time around is loads better than the first for a number of reasons: 1) your baby sleeps less 2) cries louder and longer 3) tells you things about his/her siblings that you don't want to hear.

"Kellen's frisbee hit me real hard and now I can't move my arm," whined one of my newborn twins yesterday. When fake sobs failed to generate the desired response, Cortlen lost all feeling in one leg and was left with no choice but make loud obnoxious noises as he dragged the left side of his body across the floor.

After listening to my son cry about non-existent injuries and the plight of child martyrs for ten minutes, I told him that if he was going to act like a baby, then I was going to treat him like one.

A laundry list of suggested punishments for his attacker forced me to retrieve a bottle and bib.

As you can see, my plan worked like a charm. Cortlen was appropriately mortified and shamed into acting his age.

The Shampoo Whisperer

Some people commune with God; others converse with shampoo bottles.

Last night, I overheard a disturbing conversation coming from the bathroom where my five year-old son was taking a bath.

Just a minute," Kellen said. "I'm going to get you out of there."

I pulled back the shower curtain just as the last drops of a fifteen-ounce bottle of V05 made their way into the bathwater.

"Why would you do that?" I asked my son, pointing to the empty bottle.

"Because it told me to," replied the shampoo whisperer matter-of-factly.

The hair products in my house must be very persuasive in their pleas for assistance because my kids routinely go to great lengths--to the point of risking life and limb--to free the contents of newly purchased bottles of shampoo and conditioner from their cramped quarters. Over the weekend, a large bottle of Garnier Fructis was rescued from the top shelf of my bathroom closet in a death-defying feat that involved a Spiderman costume, three stacked step-stools, and a baseball bat. Before liberating the bottle's inhabitants and washing them down the drain, my son the freedom fighter took a moment to bask in the glory of his impressive accomplishment.

I interrupted the press conference with a firm warning.

"If you waste any more shampoo," I told him, "Then you are not going to be able to take a bath by yourself anymore. I'm going to have to sit in here and watch you."

After thinking about what I said for a few minutes, I regained perspective of the situation and changed my mind. After all, my ultimatum punished me way more than it did my son.

***

Have YOU ever gone to squirt some shampoo on your head only to be doused with freezing cold water instead? Let's hear it.

Bad Words

My kids LOVE to say "bad" words...without really saying them. Their favorite and recently only topic of conversation is our family's forbidden vocabulary.

"We don't say 'jerk' around here...right?" asked Kellen on the way to Wal-Mart.
I confirmed for the tenth time in two hours that 'jerk' was on our no-no list.

"'Stupid' is also not a nice thing to call someone," added Cortlen.

"Neither is 'whatever major loser,'" said Camber.

I reminded them that anyone who said any of these things "for real" would earn a free meal at Taco Tim's, an in-house chili pepper bar.

Just thinking about the jar of jalapeños in the refrigerator caused Cortlen to claw at his tongue.

"I am definitely never going to call you a poop face," he said in my direction.

The entire back seat erupted in raucous laughter.

Taco Tim's complete collection of spicy condiments spent the rest of the day giving off threatening stares from the kitchen counter.

Drink Thieves

We are against stealing at our house. Thanks to a cartoon 10 Commandments DVD, we know that God and the ancient Israelites are against it too.

While we all understand (at least we do now) that stuffing a die cast Lightening McQueen car up one's shirt and walking out of Toys 'R Us with it is wrong, we're still working on not filling our water cups with soda at Burger King.

"I couldn't find the water spout, so I filled up my cup with Coke instead," explained Kellen.

When Camber returned to the table, her cup was covered with a lid.
"I got water," she said as she took a big sip. Orange liquid filled the straw.

At least Cortlen was honest.
"I didn't want water, so I got Sprite," he said.

You would have thought I was a suspect on America's Most Wanted the way that my kids looked at me when I ordered them to pour their stolen beverages down the drain.

"We just stole a little bit," whined Camber as she slouched to the drink dispenser and poured out her cup, which was mostly ice.

That was true of everyone except for Cortlen. Based on the contents of his overflowing cup, it is safe to say that he stole a lot.

***
I'm sure your kids have never stolen anything but if they had (hypothetically of course), what would they have taken and from where?

The Boy Who Cried Wolf

Cortlen woke up yesterday morning complaining of an earache. He didn't feel well enough to make his bed or put his cereal bowl in the dishwasher, but he did feel good enough to stare at his sister across the breakfast table until she got fed up and kicked him where it counts.

I let him stay home from school anyway.

When he didn't put up a fight when I called the doctor, I figured that he was telling the truth. It is because I trust my son that I got a babysitter for his siblings and drove to the pediatrician's office in a mini blizzard.

The doctor's office is a place of miracles because the minute that we got there, my deathly ill five year-old perked up and announced to the office staff that he was healed. His healing was so complete, in fact, that when the nurse asked him which ear hurt, he couldn't remember.

"How are you feeling today?" the nurse asked as she pointed to a chart covered with faces portraying varying expressions of distress.

Cortlen pointed to the smiling, definitely not sick face.

"I thought your ear hurt," said the nurse, confused.

"Just kidding!" he giggled.

My son's raucous belly laughs continued until he caught my gaze, at which point they abruptly stopped.

"There had better be something wrong with you or there is going to be a problem," I said unflinchingly.

My son's life was spared by the presence of a small amount of cloudy fluid in his right ear canal. The doctor mentioned several times during our short visit that he had never seen a patient so happy to have an ear infection.

"Relieved," I corrected.

The doctor smiled and chuckled warmly, not knowing how close he came to witnessing World War III break out in his exam room.

Any fakers at your house? Tell me all the details so I don't feel like such a sucker!

Second Seating

At the exact same moment that I summoned my subjects to dinner last night, Cortlen experienced a partial loss of hearing.

While he didn't hear any of my three incrementally more hostile calls to the dinner table from 10 feet away, my darling son could make out just fine what the space commander was saying on the computer game he was playing at the time.

After Cortlen's spaceship was inadvertently blown to smithereens by an alien warship, my son was instantaneously blessed with the miracle of healing.

"I'm ready to eat now!" Cortlen chirped as he sauntered into the kitchen.

He was about ready to plop himself into his seat when he noticed that there wasn't one.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Where's my chair?"

That's when I told him that because he was a no-show for his dinner reservation, he had been bumped to the second seating.

Cortlen had no idea what a "second seating" was, but he was smart enough to figure out that it wasn't desirable.

"Basically," I explained as I took a big, delicious bite of food, "It means that you can eat whatever is left over after everyone else is finished eating...that is, if I still feel like feeding you then."

"I COULDN'T HEAR YOU!" Cortlen screamed as he marched down the hallway to pout.

"Yeah right," whispered Camber under her breath.

"I HEARD THAT!" yelled the spaceship captain.

P.S. Cortlen had to wait 10 horribly long painful minutes, but rest assured, he got his dinner in the end.

Boxed Wine

This weekend, we attended a Labor Day party at a neighbor's house. Before we left home, my husband and I reviewed the list of rules with our kids. Due to an unfortunate oversight, we forgot to include "Do Not Consume Alcoholic Beverages" on the list of no-nos.

As the only adult party guests who were not either wearing t-shirts that said "One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor!" or acting out the behavior described on them, my husband and I were relegated to the kitchen, where we were immediately converted into wait staff. Tim was put in charge of grilling an assortment of Italian meats that he could neither name nor identity, while I was asked to carry a number of peculiar salads to the serving table. I decided to arrange the salads alphabetically, just for fun. Just as I was aligning the serving spoon for what appeared to be a beet salad with the tongs wedged amongst a mound of overcooked broccoli, I caught of a glimpse of my three preschoolers filling up their cups at the beverage table. That they were getting their tenth drink in ten minutes wasn't the problem; what they were drinking, however, was.

"Ah!" I screeched, batting the red plastic cup out of my five year-old daughter's hand. "Don't drink that!"

It was too late. Cortlen and Kellen's cups were nearly empty as well.

"How much of this did you drink?" I asked them, pointing at the boxed wine. The estimates I received varied from the volume of shot glass to the volume of a swimming pool.

"The kids are drunk," I announced to my husband. After we congratulated ourselves on being such good parents, my husband and I decided that the only appropriate thing to do was ask our neighbors where they got their inspirational t-shirts, and if they came in children's sizes as well.

Chubby Bunny

When I asked a friend how he got his twin boys to not view Level 1 readers as medieval torture devices, his answer was simple: "A five pound bag of Mike & Ike candy."
"So you give your sons a piece of candy after reading each book?" I asked.
"Try every page," he said.

After doing some quick math, and adjusting the results to fit my kids' personalities and attention spans, I figured that if this plan was going to work, I would need at least 20 pounds of Mike & Ike candy.

On the way to the store to purchase said candy, I came up with the great idea of letting each of my children pick out their own treats. When we reached the candy aisle, Camber went straight for the jumbo Hershey bars.
"Smaller," I said.
She held up a bag of orange peanut-shaped candy.
"Something a little less gross, please."

Camber quickly settled on a bag of Starburst, while Cortlen chose a large bag of Skittles. Kellen, however, had a more difficult time deciding what kind of candy he would get to pop into his mouth each time he sounded out a monosyllabic word.
I tried to move things along by validating each of his selections.
"M&M's are a very good choice." "Oh yes, Smarties are good too."

Unfortunately, all of my positive reinforcement was being undermined by the two critics hanging out in the shopping cart.
"Eeew!" barked Camber, holding her nose, "M&M's are disgusting!"
"Don't get Smarties," warned Cortlen, "They are hard to bite."

"Ignore them," I told Kellen, pushing the shopping cart down the aisle with my foot.
"What do YOU want?" I asked.
"Marshmallows."
"That's a wonderful idea," I responded, leading Kellen around the corner to the baking aisle. I tried to forget about the contents of the shopping cart in the next aisle over, but the loud screams emanating from it ("AHHHH! She's going to leave us in Wal-Mart forever and ever!") made that impossible.

Next to the bags of regular miniature marshmallows was an unexpected prize: a bag of multi-colored mini-marshmallows. The moment that Camber and Cortlen laid eyes on the fruit-flavored nasties, their own selections became downright repulsive.

"I want one of those," said Cortlen, pointing at the bag of marshmallows with one hand and tossing his bag of Skittles on the nearest shelf with the other.

Sadly, there was only bag of colored marshmallows left. And Kellen had it in his hands.

"Too bad!" I said, tossing the bag of Skittles back into Cortlen's lap. "Take it or leave it."
Camber and Cortlen looked at their brother, who by now was gripping the marshmallows to his chest. Fear was rising in his face.
"If you touch his marshmallows," I told Camber and Cortlen, "You are going to have a serious problem."

I am sad to report that they both chose to have a serious problem.