Tag Archives: kids

The High Powered Law Practice: Tricks of the Trade on How to Deal with Teens

So, it wasn't "LA Law" long ago, but a 80's pop culture reference is always nice.

So, it wasn’t “LA Law” long ago, but a 80’s pop culture reference is always nice.

Many moons ago I worked at a high-powered law office.   Long hours, doing anything and everything for the client, emphasis on family or work-life balance was actively discouraged,  there were glass ceilings, glass doors, and glass elevators, along with supervising attorneys or opposing counsel who were equal opportunity assholes.   Sometimes it seemed as though people took great pleasure in making junior associates’ work life miserable, and making sure they had no other life.   The money was good, though, so I can’t really complain.  Plus, I learned a lot.

I’ve left that particular practice behind, but now I’m dealing with teens.  Demanding, self-focused, pompous, teens.    I’m outnumbered.  Most of them weigh more than I do.  Some are taller than I am.   At times they behave as if  I couldn’t possibly offer anything of value while simultaneously requesting everything I have to give them.  Recently it occurred to me that some of the tricks of the trade I learned in my high-powered white shoe law practice can be transferred to how I deal with these large, smelly, mouthy people I grew in my womb and propelled from my hoo-ha (except for the ones that were surgically removed).

Sometimes, it seems, these once cute and cuddly balls of smiles and coos are quite simply, the enemy, trying to break me down.

But Mommy, Esquire, is used to dealing with the enemy, the big boys, the man.  These children don’t scare me.  I have life and legal experience behind me.   Here are a few tricks of the trade I learned from my law practice that I use on my children.

1.   Stand up.

To Kill A Mockingbird

To Kill A Mockingbird

When dealing with a difficult opposing counsel, client, or supervising attorney, it helps to stand up, even when on the phone.   It’s a power stance and works even if your opposition is taller than you are.

How I Met Your Mother, "The Chain of Screaming"

How I Met Your Mother, “The Chain of Screaming”

Once a senior partner stormed into my office to yell at me about an expense form.   This partner had a reputation of screaming at young associates for ridiculous things in order to break them down, hoping to draw tears.   He usually got them.   I was just waiting my turn, but I have a strict policy against crying at work.  It is one of my few rules.   Do NOT cry at work . . . but I digress.   Remember “How I Met Your Mother” the  Chain of Screaming episode?   When being yelled at is just part of the job?   Well, that stuff happens.  But when my number came up I was busy.  I didn’t have time for his crap.   So when he found me in my office sitting behind my desk and started to ream me out . . .

I stood up.

Marshall stood up to his boss, on "How I Met Your Mother"

Marshall stood up to his boss, on “How I Met Your Mother”

He was not expecting this physical display of strength from a first year, female associate. He actually sputtered like a truck with an empty gas tank going up a hill.    (I admit I was slightly taller than he, but still . . . )  I listened to his rapidly dying rant,  and while still standing I calmly explained why I had submitted the perfectly valid expense form, and he left — quietly.   He never yelled at me again.

It was a beautiful thing.    A beautiful thing.

I’ve tried the standing thing with my teens as well.  It works.  My son is seven inches taller than me, which I expected to happen.  But I have a daughter who is model tall — she’s got four inches on me, and I’m not short.   Still,  when any of them come at me with ridiculousness,  I stand up.  It unnerves them.

I will not have them standing over me.  I will not.

2.   Create a Paper Trail.

The Rainmaker

The Rainmaker

No matter what was said, what was agreed upon, whose “word” was given,  or whether there was a handshake,  it doesn’t count unless it has been memorialized in writing.    Opposing lawyers can amicably agree on the smallest or the largest of issues, but they always follow it up with a letter, “Thank you for meeting with me today.  The purpose of this letter is to confirm your agreement to produce  ABC documents to be by X date.”    Is it repetitious?  Sure.  But it’s better to have it in writing if there is a sudden memory loss down the line.

Works the same with kids.   It could be something simple like telling them what you expect, but also writing on a whiteboard an instruction, like,  “Empty the Dishwasher.”   Or it could be a matter of more importance like, “Curfew is at 11pm.”

Or an issue of public policy like, “I will not bail you out of jail or raise your child.

Equally effective is to request something in writing from the kid.   Then later, when the child inevitably forgets what he or she said, you can whip out the document and gently “refresh his or her recollection” of what actually transpired.

Me:  You’re late.

Kid:  You never said . . .

Me:   Yes, yes, I did.  I told you.  Then I texted you,  and you responded.

(Slowly pull out smart phone, begin to scroll.  Pause for effect.)  

Kid:  . . .

Mom:  Shall I  print it?

3.  Some conversations should be had “behind closed doors.”

As an associate, nothing caused more fear than to be summoned into a partner’s office and told to “close the door.”    The partners knew what they were doing.  They were creating a power balance, or, more accurately,  they were reminding the associate that he or she is not in a position of power.   And the associate?   A sitting duck.

Philadelphia

Philadelphia

So, as a parent, I find it effective to summon a teen into a room, tell him or her to close the door, and invite him or her to sit down.  (And if you can pull off Denzel’s facial expression above, you’ve got it made.)  Pause, always pause before you begin to speak.  (I learned from depositions that the pauses are not reflected on the record, but they make people uncomfortable and the witness will have a tendency to fill the silence with golden nuggets of information.)  The teen might start to explain something you didn’t even ask about,  at the very least he or she will listen to what you have to say, and may be thankful that  he or she made it out alive.   Bonus, if you have more than one kid, the others will become deeply concerned that they will be next, and may be more likely to evaluate their recent behavior and/or any (written) lists of things to do.

In conclusion, end the meeting with, “Let’s keep this between us.”

Just Me With . . . lessons from a law firm. 

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My Kids Think I’m An Alcoholic

Drunk Bree on Desperate Housewives

Drunk Bree on Desperate Housewives

Yes, my children think that I’m an alcoholic.  It came up one night when my girls were in my bedroom.  I try to keep my bedroom nice, as a retreat for me.  I didn’t realize that it would attract my female offspring.  They keep their rooms like hoarders-in-training but come to my room to relax.  It’s just not fair . . . but I digress . . .

One night when they were lounging in my room one daughter told me she thinks I’m  an alcoholic.

“What?  Why?”  I asked, completely shocked.

“Well, a recovering alcoholic,” she clarified, and further explained,  “I’ve never seen you drink.'”  She pointed out that she’d seen my sisters and my best friend drink but, “You never do, Mommy.”

“Even Daddy drinks,” she added.   I must have made a face of some sort because she quickly said, “But not too much.”

She went on, “But Mommy you never drink so I figured  — you can’t.   And you never have alcohol in the house.  What grown up never has alcohol in the house?”

Well damn.   The kid has it all figured out.  Her sisters chimed in and agreed.  “Oh yeah, I thought that, too,” said one.  “Me too,” said another.  The one I call “The Quirky One” just smiled.

But I’m not an alcoholic!” I protested.

Recovering alcoholic, mom,”  she corrected me.

Crap.

Sooo.  My kids think I’m an alcoholic because I don’t drink.  Yup,  It’s very difficult to prove that you are not a recovering alcoholic if someone thinks you are.

Am I going to have to throw a few back at the dinner table just to show my kids I’m not a drunk? Bring a six-pack to the High School Football game maybe?  Down a Bloody Mary at breakfast?

Damn kids don’t know my life.

The truth is, except for the college years I’ve never been much of a drinker.   My ex-husband was absolutely and totally against drinking, see My High School Self and The Night I Became Cinderella.   I didn’t make my own decisions about it,  Instead, I followed his lead since he had very strong opinions that theoretically made sense.  He had come from a family that had been plagued by substance abuse.  Most of his siblings have had issues, serious issues.  Even his mother, her first  and second husbands, and his estranged father reportedly had bouts with addiction.    He’d seen some bad things caused by alcohol or drugs and feared the propensity for addiction might be hereditary.  I’d seen the effects on his family and vowed never to expose my own children to that lifestyle.   So he and I were going to be different.   I didn’t drink, except at college where I drank behind his back with my college friends whom he never really liked.    After we were married we only kept alcohol in the house for holidays.  Bottles of hard alcohol collected dust on top of the cabinets until they were wiped clean and set out at Christmas.   We were definitely  not a “wine with dinner” family.  My husband and I  shared a few drinks over the years, but by and large I completely missed the  typical partying or bar hopping of  youth and the happy hours of the young professionals.  Then came the pregnancy and breastfeeding years where I had to abstain anyway  —  so it’s been years since I’ve been any kind of drinker.

No matter,  after double-digit years of marriage and five children my husband left me.   I  could do whatever I damn well pleased.

Unfortunately, at the time that meant taking anti-depressants.

Fact: You’re not supposed to drink when taking anti-depressants.   So, I didn’t.   I follow directions, you see.  I’m  obedient like that.  No drinks for me while I was on the meds.

No matter, after a very difficult “discontinuation period”  (aka “withdrawal”),  I’m off the anti-depressants. Technically, or should I say, medically,  I can drink now.  Hooray, hooray!

But I still don’t drink.

First, I’m a complete lightweight.    After not drinking for years, I can’t hold my liquor.   Half a drink and I’m  tipsy, and not in a good way.

Second, since I roll solo most of the time, I’m always my own designated driver so . . . can’t drink.

Third,  now is not the time to start having alcohol at home, not with a house full of teenagers.

And fourth,  I’m the custodial parent of five children.  I’ve got responsibilities, I can’t sit at the local bar with friends every night.  That ship has sailed.   I missed it.  Damn it.

The gang hanging out at Mclaren's on "How I Met Your Mother"

The gang hanging out at Mclaren’s on “How I Met Your Mother”

So yeah, I’m free to do what I want now — except that I’m not, not exactly, not really.   Story of my life . . .  but I digress . . .

But this is what kills me — my formerly anti-social, teetotaler, judgmental ex-husband is now the life of the party.    After years of telling me that  drinking was wrong, that he was afraid of addiction, that he didn’t think kids should be exposed to alcohol — now  he drinks and to our kids, he’s the normal one  . . .   but me? Me?

Hello, I’m Mommy and I’m  an alcoholic.

Just Me With . . . a drink in my hand.   It’s coffee. 

It begs the question:  If my girls think that because they’ve never seen me drink I must be an alcoholic, what do they think about the fact that they’ve never seen me date?   I mean, their Dad has found love and remarried.  I, on the other hand, have not.  I abstain, or so it may seem.  The girls probably think I don’t occasionally enjoy the company of a man (or keep one in the house)  because I’m either:  (1) still heartbroken about their Dad,  or (2)  have herpes.

Humph.  Offensive, either way.

Related:  Getting Off The Meds

A blank expression, a blank screen, “The Computer Won’t Wauk”

Carrie's Computer Crash on Sex and The City

Carrie’s Computer Crash on Sex and The City

“The computer won’t wauk.”

The teen-aged girl, whom her mother affectionately refers to as “The Quirky One” among her online friends, led with this.  Years of school provided speech therapy had almost eradicated her “speech impairment” —  so much so that sometimes she possessed an aristocratic lilt, sounding almost British.  Other times, that pesky and slightly out of reach interior “r” sound, reportedly often the last of the identified “impairments”  to be corrected, makes a surprise appearance.  When it does, suddenly this teen girl, a young woman in training who wears women’s size thirteen shoes, sounds  just like a little girl.

The computer won’t wauk.

She simply stared at her mom, who had just returned from getting coffee and who was planning to sit and just read.  The other  kids were on a visit with their dad, The Quirky One had missed this visit in order to attend to her cat sitting job, for which she was paid well .    The Quirky One had been misdiagnosed for years — was it depression?  Was it some kind of learning disability we can’t identify?  It’s not dyslexia? No?  Her reading is behind yet  her comprehension is very high.  She’s frustrated with the books she can read easily so she started writing her own, or at least she starts to, along with short stories and poems.  But something is, has been,  wrong  — or just —  off.

Now, finally there was a diagnosis that made sense,  The Quirky One is on the Autism Spectrum –sounds so pretty in the abstract — like the diagnosis should come with a colorful painting or butterflies —  but it’s so, so complicated.   This diagnosis explained why the girl would often announce distressing news in the same manner that another child would simply state his or her age.   “She does not read social cues,”  is how it is described.  But to an outsider it looks like  laziness or limited mental capacity or lack of empathy.  It’s none of those.  It’s just the way she is, Roxanne thought, but with the right therapy, thank goodness,  she’s gotten so much better — and happier.

Roxanne had learned to expect these dead-pan announcements over the years.  Now that she understood the cause of these and other odd behaviors, she was learning how to deal with it.

The computer won’t wauk.

Ahh, Roxanne thought.  This explains why The Quirky One had  perched in front of the desktop watching Anime when she returned from feeding the cats.   The laptop was out of commission. The Quirky One just stared at her mother, expressionless, waiting for a response.  Defeated, Roxanne forgot about her coffee and postponed her reading plans.   She walked over to the laptop and turned it off.  Then, after waiting the required 30 seconds, she turned it back on, practicing the well-worn ritual of the computer-repair-challenged.  She was met only with a blank, black screen.  She clicked random keys:   Enter,  Esc, Space Bar, and Enter again. Then she sighed, turned the useless device off again, closed it and walked away, without saying a word, except in her head, “I can’t deal with this now.”

The laptop was only three months old.  School would resume in just over a month and a half.

Don’t get upset now.  Just read your book, she told herself.

So Roxanne did what she had planned to do before The Quirky One announced that the recent $700 purchase had failed them.  She would read, a novel.

Roxanne hadn’t been reading much in recent months, at least not novels, but she’d  found a book that did what books are supposed to do — make her forget everything else.  Previously she’d been nursing a popular comic novel that everyone else seemed to love,  but she couldn’t quite finish.  Then the realization, actually a reminder, “I’m not a student.  I don’t have to finish it if I don’t want to.”   So when buying books for the kids, Roxanne decided, not without the requisite guilt for spending $14.99 on herself,  to buy a book.

It did help her forget.  Wasn’t it just four days ago when one of the other kids, The Anxious One, having just been told to carry her phone in a purse or wallet at the pool, dropped said eighteen day old phone, shattering the screen?

It was four days after the return date, insurance doesn’t cover physical damage to the phone.  And now . . .

The computer won’t wauk.

It still echoed in her mind.  What now? A visit to the computer store? A diagnostic test that will cost $80 in order to decide what it will actually cost to fix the computer?  And the phone?  

Roxanne couldn’t help it, but thoughts of  her ex-husband and his new family crept into her mind.  His new kids are little and presumably cute and do not require computers or phones . . . yet.  Oh, his time will come, if this marriage lasts.  But then again if this marriage lasts he won’t be doing it alone the second time around.    Then Roxanne had thoughts of  her  children as babies, remembering the smiles, the hysterical cries and the smiles again a few minutes later.   Back then, if their toys broke, it didn’t matter.  She could hide them, replace them, or distract the child with another shiny object or a song.   The good old days were  filled with bodily fluid control and clean up, tantrums and no sleep whatsoever.  The good old days, when providing for and educating a child did not require a $700 purchase, though she knew she’d spent much more than that in diapers alone.   But the diapers did what they were supposed to do, and she didn’t have to spend $700 at one time– only to have them fail.   The good old days — when she could teach the alphabet by singing it, could provide a hug, a song, a breast or two, and simply hold  her babies, shifting weight from one foot to the other.

Back then, Roxanne thought, I could do what they needed, and they would smile back.   Though the Quirky One never smiled as much as her twin, Roxanne remembered.  She often seemed like  she was deep in thought.  Still, she could make them all smile.  She taught them things. They were so cute and everybody said so. “Oh they’re still cute now,” Roxanne thought,  “but that’s frankly a little scary in a teen girl.”

Back then, they needed me.  Now, they still need me, just as much,  but they also need a  $700 computer they treat like a recyclable  magazine and they need phones with two-year contracts that they carry like a balls when running through a parking lot.  And they complain that their friends all have smart phones?   I don’t think so.  Not happening.

With these thoughts running through her mind, the worries, the fears, frustration and jealousy . . .  the tears almost came, right behind the bitterness.

But instead of crying, instead of attempting to fix the computer or finding someone who could, instead of interrogating The Quirky One on who and how the computer had last been used,  Roxanne grabbed her book and sat down, outside.  The Quirky One hates the outdoors, or more precisely, she hates bugs and sun and heat and fresh air, to name a few.  Consequently, the outdoors is where Roxanne knew she could be alone.   The Quirky One still had use of the desktop computer, after all.

Roxanne  opened her book —  an actual book that required no battery life,  no “on” button, and no screen.  The book would work.

So Roxanne read . . . and actually forgot everything  for a little while.  The book had worked.   The tears retreated, the bitterness dried up.

After a bit Roxanne went inside and wrote . . .

in longhand . . .

because . . .

“The computer won’t wauk.”

Just Me With . . . a story.   Not sure why I wrote this in the third person, except that I’m reading in the third person.

I’m currently reading , “Admission” by  Jean Hanff Korelitz

Coincidentally, after I wrote the above, I got to a point in the book where a secondary character said the following:

When you’re a single mom, and everybody talks about how hard it must be, what they mean is the little-kid stuff.  Getting up in the middle of the night all the time because there’s no one else to do it, or having to take on all the doctors’ appointments and parent-teacher conferences yourself.  But I’m telling you, that was nothing. This teenager stuff is hard.  This is, like, crazy hard.

Admission, Copyright 2009 by Jean Hanff Korelitz

"Admission" by Jean

It was also made into a movie, which I haven’t seen.

Admission

Admission

The Computer Literate Youth, Maybe Not So Much

Zuckerberg's bad date

After getting dumped, Zuckerberg goes back to his dorm and . . . eventually creates Facebook.

I commented on someone’s blog once that had Facebook been around while Zuckerberg was in school on that fateful night when his girlfriend broke up with him, instead of going back to his dorm and creating what later became Facebook, he would have gone back to his dorm, logged onto Facebook, maybe posted some nasty things but probably wouldn’t have  created anything.  He wouldn’t even had needed to blog about it.  A vehicle for his coed hotness comparison campaign would have already been there, all of their pics would have already been in front of him, and a way to reach all of his “friends” would be a click away.   (All of this is based on the movie, The Social Network, by the way.)   When I suggested this, the blogger disagreed, saying that Zuckerberg may have created something else.   While that may be true, especially  given Zuckerberg’s  immense talents, for most people it is not.

I have a teen son.  He’s quite a good student, an honor student, actually, and has plenty of extracurricular activities.   But when he’s free he logs on Facebook or plays video games, and probably finds other things to look at online . . . but I digress . . .

After our shared laptop was serviced and consequently wiped clean of all software, I asked my son to reinstall Word and the printer’s software.  After all, he hogs that computer the most (and I actually wanted to see if he would do it).  He didn’t.  I realized later that he didn’t know how, and lost interest in trying to  figure it out, because, in the meantime, Facebook and school websites were  still accessible.  When he needed to print something, instead of installing the software he simply printed it from a different computer.

In the end, I installed the software.  Pain in the butt, but certainly do-able.

So here’s a teen boy –and according to the GoDaddy Superbowl commercial, we know that it’s the boys who are computer smart, but I digress (and gag) . . .  here’s a teen boy, my oldest child, who didn’t have the patience or immediate need to figure out software installation, yet he spends hours on the computer.

Has my son ever built a website for fun?  I think not. Oh, he’s quite comfortable finding his assignments and teacher’s notes online, researching, and posting and emailing school papers to the appropriate people, but he doesn’t try to create much, except when he finds something funny to put on his Facebook page or  Facebook group.  In other words, he’s proficient at communicating over the internet, but not creating or problem solving.

Unlike Zuckerberg, who said, what if we made this . . .

Zuckerberg decides to create a ranking system of the women on campus, based on looks, of course

Zuckerberg decides to create a ranking system of the women on campus, based on relative hotness, of course.

It makes one wonder.

If there was no Facebook or the like as a ready-made distraction, would my kid would have taken an extra fifteen minutes to click– next, continue, next, continue and gotten a sense of satisfaction from “Congratulations, Software Installation Complete.”

software

I don’t know, but I do know that he does take great satisfaction in the number of “likes” he’s received on a recent photo of himself that someone else took and posted on Facebook.  And I recently became aware that he doesn’t even think to empty his recycle bin — an omission that caused him some embarrassment, by the way.

Years go it seemed somebody usually knew a kid who could fix your computer when it crashed or edit or back-up your family photos and videos, or find a document that you mistakenly deleted.  Now, it seems — not so much.   I guess there’s no need to be comfortable with basic computer maintenance or programming when the internet works — or you can just log onto another computer, or phone or tablet.

The Zuckerberg’s of today might have a bad date, go home, spend a few hours on Facebook (instead of creating it), maybe watch a movie on Netflix,  and go to bed.

I suspect when my kid gets his heart-broken for the first time that’s what he’ll do.

I’d rather he write a song.

Songs About Jane

Maroon 5’s
“Songs About Jane”
One of the best break up albums, ever.

Just Me With . . .  software installation complete, no thanks to the youth of today.

Next time I’ll get one of the girls to do it.

Five Kids, One Table, Rope, Six Chairs and a Plan

I had five children in just under three and a half years.  I had to improvise on some things.

Thankfully, my kids have all been healthy.  Their gross  motor skills developed early.  Translated, that means as toddlers they were (are still) runners, climbers and jumpers.

Plastic Play House

Isn’t she cute? I don’t think my girls ever went inside.

Once somebody gave me one of those big plastic houses kids are supposed to play house in.  I had space  inside so I put in it the family room.  Not once did my girls play house in it.  No, no.  They did, however, stand on top of it and jump off, repeatedly.  Had to get rid of it.  That cute little house  was a safety hazard for my twins, two of whom I call Thelma and Louise . . . but I digress.

We had a long informal dining table, also given to us.   With the leaves attached it sat eight people.  It was just the size we needed.   However, according to my Olympic monkey children it was also long enough to run across.  Again, a safety hazard.  The table wasn’t that long and  once the  toddler runs and reaches the end?    BAM!   No, this was not going to work.  I’d caught  the kids right before  falls on previous table running attempts but sooner or later my luck would run out.   My daily goal back then was just to stay out of the Emergency Room (and off the Six O’clock news).

Still, I needed a table, so it could not  suffer the fate of the play house.   The table and the children must learn to co-exist safely.    But the children were still little, they were at that age where I could really only chase behind them.  They had no concept of consequences, danger, or any real responsiveness to my voice — they were all,

Oh I can run, I can climb.  Therefore, I will run and I will climb — all the time.

And all  my parental, “No, Stop! Wait!!”  and all that jazz — meant nothing.

Absolutely, nothing.  Say it again, y’all . . .

Back to the problem.  How to keep the girls off the table?   (Later it’ll be how to keep them off the pole, but I digress again.)  They could only get on the table by first  climbing on the chairs, but simply moving the chairs away from the table had not worked.  These minions simply pushed them back to the table and climbed up, then a sibling would follow and in a blink of an eye, I had a line-up of  miniature Village People looking toddlers on a table.

The Village People

No, no.   I needed something more secure.

I think it started with a jump rope.  No, I didn’t tie the children up (not then, heh heh heh).

But after every meal, I would push the chairs in, grab a rope, thread  it through the chairs  around the table and tie them up in a nice knot.

The children’s fine motor skills had not developed enough to untie the rope.   They weren’t (yet) strong enough to pull the chairs  away, though they tried.

Success.

I didn’t realize how weird it was until a friend from out-of-town came to visit.   We sat at the table together, ate,  fed the kids.   When we were finished I cleared the table, got out the rope and proceeded to tie the chairs around the table while we were chatting away.

She stopped talking and said, carefully, slowly,  like talking to a crazy person:

“What are you . . . doing?’

Oh snap, sometimes you don’t know how strange and dysfunctional you are until there is someone to see it. 

Me:   “You mean you don’t tie your chairs together after every meal?”

Just Me With . . . a rope after every meal.  

Sometimes the kids did listen to me, even when I didn’t want them to.  See, “Momma said, No!

“Momma Said No!”

Here’s a fun fact:   As children grow they develop fine  motor skills.

One evening my then three-year-old discovered, to my horror, how to unbuckle his car seat.  He’d unbuckled it and gotten out himself.   And he knew what he was doing.   He was so proud.

So I did what everybody does, I told him, scolded him really:

“Do not ever unbuckle your car seat.  It is not safe.   Do you understand me?   You will get a time-out for that!  It is very, very, very  important.  Do you understand? ”

Him:  “Yes.”

Me:  “Are you sure?”

Him:  “Yes, Momma.”  He still called me Momma then.

He could tell when Momma wasn’t messing around.  I was using my stern voice, my serious face and my angry eyes.  Mission accomplished.

But my little Houdini is not my only kid.   I had had  five kids in all.  The three-year-old was just the oldest.  Twin girls, twice, came after.   Yes, They are Twins, Yes, they are Twins, Too.   Consequently, we didn’t get out much.  Taking a preschooler, two toddlers and two infants to any store — well,  this was not an outing that a person takes lightly.   So sometimes  when I had to run errands and my mother was with me we would buckle the kids in the car and my mom would stay with them while I would run in and out of stores.  It got us out of the house, sometimes the kids would get their naps using this method, and it gave me a little  break.

The very next day after the car seat unbuckling incident and lecture,  my mom and I decided to load the kids and run some errands.   We pulled into the local pharmacy and I ran in.   As per usual,  my Mom stayed with them in the car.  I was gone only a few minutes.

When I came out, my mom was standing outside of the car, all five  kids were still strapped in — inside.

Huh.

The doors were closed.

Huh.

This can’t be good,” I thought.

My mother was distraught.  Almost in tears.

“I can’t get in.”   She said.  “The babies started to cry and I got out to calm them down.  I — I — I —  closed the door . . . and now it’s  locked.”

We, the adults, were locked out.  The children were locked in.   Turns out I was right.   This wasn’t good.   The keys were in the car.

I tried not to panic.   After all, the  car was running and the air conditioning was on, so they wouldn’t cook in there  . . . but still,  it’s not good to leave five children alone in a car and I didn’t know how much gas I had.

Options:  I could run home and get an extra set of keys.    But that would take too long,  and my mother was losing it.  I didn’t want to leave her alone with the kids.  My husband was never really available during the day and worked too far away, anyway.   I could call my Dad to do it, but he’s hard to get a hold of  . . . so  . . . I guess I’d have to call the police to break into the car.    This was not a proud moment.  “Why?  Why, do I ever leave the house?” I wondered.

Well, hello there, Mr. Panic.

Then I remembered —  my son —  the big boy, the one who has motor skills!!!    The boy can get out of his car seat and  unlock the door!!!  He has the ability.  He has the manual dexterity.    I’ve seen him do it —  just yesterday.    “It was worth a try,”  I thought.

And so . . . one day after having scolded the boy for unbuckling his car seat and making him promise never to do it again —

I begged,  “Honey,” I spoke kindly but loudly through the closed window, “Momma wants you to UNBUCKLE  YOUR CAR SEAT and UNLOCK the door!”

He looked away from me.  “Clearly,”  his three-year-old mind must have reasoned, “This is some sort of test and I’m not going to fall for it, nope nope.”

I cooed, “No Honey, it’s okay, it’s okay, really, Momma says it’s okay, PLEASE  get out and let us in.  Please, you won’t be in trouble!!!!  I promise!!!!”

I saw him roll his eyes toward the ceiling, away from me.  His hands stayed at his sides.  He was more still than any three-year-old could possibly be.  It was impressive, really.

My mother was crying by this time and apologizing, she felt really, really badly.  But  I had to get to the kids.

Me to my statue-like son, “Honey, please.  Please!!!!!!  It’s okay, I promise.   Get out of your car seat.  Momma needs you to get out of your car seat!  PLEASE!!!”

This child would not even acknowledge that I was talking to him.  Again, it was impressive.  And comical.   I had literally just made him promise never to get himself out of his car seat and here I was begging him to do just that.   It was like a sitcom.

“Pleeeeeeease!!!!   Momma says it’s okay.”   But that boy was NOT going to fall for my obvious trickery.  “Momma said no,”  he must have thought, “Momma said no.”  

We had started to draw a crowd.  I was beginning to tear up, too.   The girls were useless, too young to manipulate their car seats, arms to short to reach the locks.  And . . .  they’d started to cry again.

This was not good.

In the end, my obedient son never unbuckled his car seat.   Some nice gentleman drove me home (I wasn’t far, and thankfully I’d left the house unlocked).  I got my spare  keys and everybody was fine.

—-  Except my mother.   It took her a long time to recover.

We didn’t go out for a while after that and when we did, no matter what the kids were doing, my mother never got out of the car again.

Just Me With . . . five car seats, a mom, and a son who had learned his lesson,  damn it.  

I Was “The Nanny” When my Ex-Husband Got Married

My Ex-Husband remarried recently.   We had been married many, many years, had  five children together, a prolonged separation, and the nasty divorce was final only a few months ago.  The announcement of the pending nuptials was made to the children and then to me just last month.  Then things seemed to take on a life of their own.  And someway, somehow, I was  relegated to the Nanny in this whole wedding scenario, a Nanny who is not treated very well, unpaid, and forced to work and/or be on-call on  her days off.

—  Have the children ready and send them out  no later than  x o’clock am  on Friday  because they have hair and nails  appointments at y.

—  So and so will pick the children up  in time to get to wedding  [unnamed location] by x time, they will be brought back around y time by different so and so’s.

—  They’ll be brought home  “sometime in the  evening” because it is an evening wedding [no time provided]

—  Make sure they don’t mess up their hair and nails before the wedding

— Make sure they don’t mess up their hair and nails before the wedding, and again

–Make sure they don’t mess up their hair and nails before the wedding.

In the weeks preceding the above I was hit with:

We want to take x child shopping for  wedding clothes on x date (even though it was not during the visitation times),

We didn’t find anything so we’ll be back tomorrow  to take the child out again (even though it was not during visitation times), he said you don’t have any plans.

Well, well, well.

I had decided that since it is their father’s wedding, the children should of course be allowed to attend  (even though the wedding did not fall on a “Daddy” day).    Accordingly,   I would be flexible and allow some inconveniences.  Because, how often is he going to get married?

( Seriously, I’m taking wagers). 

However, that said, and although it is true that I no longer love him, and I have no jealous or romantic feelings about his getting married, etc.,  it turns out that my being an indirect participant in the wedding festivities by providing my assistance with the children and scheduling was a little too much to take.

The day before the wedding was grooming day.  I had to have the kids up and out at a very early hour for Summer.  I had no idea what time they would return.  On the wedding day itself, though the children were not going to dress for the wedding at home, they still had to be showered and ready to go by a certain time.   This responsibility fell on me  . . . and it pissed me off.  The children did not rush to get ready.   I had to ride them about it.

“C’mon, get up, start your showers.”

“You cannot be late, please get in the shower.”

“You cannot wait until the last minute, PLEASE, get ready.”

Damn.

Then they were picked up by the Ex’s  relatives, at least one of whom has  disrespected me in ways she doesn’t even know I know about and in other ways she does.    This  person was sent to my house to fetch my children.  She’s never been to my home before and under any other circumstances would not be welcome.

I was never actually given a location for the wedding and had to specifically ask for the  time of the wedding and a time frame in which I would expect the children home.   Not an unreasonable request, one that shouldn’t have had to have been made.  I mean I did need to make sure I was home or near home when the kids got there.

I was to have the children ready for the Captain and the Baroness’ party and put them to bed afterward.

That night, though some of the children have phones, I was texted by the Ex himself to tell me the children were on their way home (no time frame provided, and still since I was not given the location of the wedding, their being on their way home didn’t mean much).  When I didn’t respond to my Ex’s text in a timely manner I got a subsequent text asking me to  confirm my receipt of his original text.  Upon confirmation, I received a “Thank you.”    I guess that meant his responsibility for the children was now over.   The Nanny (that would be me) was going to be home, the evil half sisters (actually only one of them is evil)  could drop them off and leave.

Well, well, well.

And as the children came in,  dropped their bags of clothes, shoe boxes, flowers all over the  house, it was up to me to make them clean up after themselves or do it for them.   And when one of  my children presented me with a box of leftover boutonniere roses, it was up to me to respond with the appropriate thank you.  (Ugh)  Adding insult to injury,  another child asked me why I didn’t come.   I responded, a bit too matter of factly, “To my Ex-Husband’s Wedding?” And another, older child, added simply, “It’s self-explanatory.”  I’m sure I was so much more useful to them in the capacity to which I was  assigned anyway.  The children were exhausted, they left half of their mess strewn around our little house and they went off to bed.

It was so nice for the bride and groom that  the nanny could repeatedly present the children on a timely basis to be made up so beautifully for the wedding day and that the nanny could stand by and be available to receive the children  when their appearance for and celebration of  the happy occasion was over.

Well, well, well.

As it turned out, it didn’t feel so nice for me. I am human.

This is what led to my not having such a good day on the day after the wedding.  No I didn’t feel like having a big blow out party or night out on the town on his wedding day, but I unwittingly facilitated everyone else having a grand old time while I rushed around and then waited around.  This, after the tears, complaints, uncomfortable silences and tantrums from the kids  in the six weeks from announcement of the wedding to the wedding itself.   All things I had to deal with.

In the end, though,  the kids were fine.  But the whole ordeal was taxing on me, from worrying about them generally ,and dealing with their initial ambivalence and despair “I don’t want to go to the wedding at all,”  cried one child,   to changes in schedules, and  being ordered about without common courtesy.  and having to literally clean up after the affair.

It shouldn’t have been like this.    Damn.   My Ex and his Bride  have not proven to be the most sensitive people (this is the man who sent his kids home to tell me he was getting married ON MOTHER’S DAY).  So I don’t expect much, but damn.

Hindsight.  Should I have said that he must take the children for the whole weekend?   Perhaps.   But he never has them for the whole weekend and it was not even his weekend.  Who would have taken care of them while the bride and groom honeymooned or were consummating  their marriage or when they simply weren’t needed?  The evil half-sister?    Some other random relative the kids don’t know (but I do) ?  I was convinced that if I’d said, “Well you take the kids for the whole thing” it would have been harder on the kids.   Maybe I was wrong.    And had we switched weekends and days around, which is not our norm, it would have interfered with some activities the kids and I already have planned for later in the Summer.

All in all, at the time I was concerned about trying to keep the whole thing as drama-free as possible and keeping the children from being dragged around any more than necessary.  Plus, I didn’t want to force  technicalities  just to  flex my muscles or to purposefully, spitefully inconvenience the bride and groom.  I didn’t want to play the “you don’t have a right to take the kids” card — it just would have made everything nasty.

Perhaps, however,  I should have been more concerned about myself.   Well, lesson learned.

The next time he gets married . . . things will be different.  Ha!

Consequently,  I have been in a complete funk ever since  the wedding.  I provided assistance and patience and in return, I was a recipient of their rudeness.   I know I allowed it, but it still pisses me off.   Note to self:  develop more backbone (despite years of being accommodating to him).   See My High School Self.

I  feel like I should get something for my trouble, my stress, my time, my child counseling — all the things I suffered as a result of the Ex’s decision to remarry in a hurry.

No, I don’t want a “Thank you.”

*Humph*

I’ll take a check.

Wait, no I won’t.   Cold, hard, cash.     It’s the least they could do. 

Just Me With . . .  nothing to show for any of this crap, but leftover dying wedding flower boutonnieres in a sugar jar.