A Bee Story

Does this creature belong in my house? I think not.







Jesse brought a pet home from camp yesterday. Unfortunately, I didn't realized it until 10 pm, when I sat down at my desk and heard a strange sound. Bzzzz. Bzzzz.

Yup, he brought home a bee, squeezed between two plastic cups--with one cup sitting in the other, so the poor little creature had about a quarter inch of space in which to move and breathe.

I was absolutely speechless.

"You brought home a bee? A BEE? Into the house? And carried it on the bus all the way from camp? (It's a 45-minute ride on a cushy, air-conditioned bus) WHO thought this was a good idea?"

Jesse didn't seem to get the incredible dopiness of bringing the bee home. Apparently, neither did three of his counselors. When I asked him if anyone knew precisely what he was transporting on the bus, he ticked the names off on his fingers: "Annie, Nelson and Abby."

I calmly (not really) explained to him that bees don't belong in New York City apartments, that they don't make good house pets, that they sting, that we had nothing to feed the bee with and that it would probably not make it through the night.

Noting penetrated. "Mom, why are you yelling about this? His name is Jackie Robinson," Jesse replied. "And he's cute."

Now, I knew Jesse had developed some bee-catching skills at his out-of-the-city camp, because he'd told me he'd become the bee champion of Group 41. I actually meant to call the camp and ask why the counselors were allowing such a dangerous pastime (especially when we're spending mucho bucks for Jesse to experience more, um, enriching activities), but apparently didn't get to it quickly enough.

So, here we were, exhausted and cranky, with a bee in a plastic cup. I packed the boys off to bed, put a couple of holes in the cup so Jackie could breathe and went to sleep.

The next morning, as expected, J.R. was suspiciously still. Jesse cried when he spotted the tiny corpse. "I'm a killer," he wept. "Poor little Jackie Robinson."

He made a cone out of paper and slid J.R. into it. "I'm bringing him to camp to bury him in the lake," he said. "I'll bring him back to his home. I should, because it's all my fault he died."

I really felt for Jesse as he learned this difficult lesson--that thoughtless actions can have life-altering (or life-ending) consequences. But he bounced bac quickly, his remorse short-lived.

Tonight, the paper cone--on which he'd written "RIP Jesse's Bee"-- was still on my desk. "I forgot," he said with a shrug. "Can I have dessert?"

Moral of the Story

So, you know how you try to instill good values in your kids?
In our house, the more sophisticated stuff is a bit beyond our grasp at the moment. But we're constantly working away on the basics of civility: be kind, be fair, take turns, share, say please and thank you, tell the truth, be a gracious winner and a good loser.
I'm thinking that the truth-telling aspect of this is not taking so well with Jesse.
He, Seth and I were sitting in their favorite fancy pizza place the other night (Dean's, where the wait staff brings thin-crust pizzas on big silver trays) when Jesse asked,"Do you think the boss here makes a lot of money? I mean, look at all these people!"
Indeed, the joint was packed with Upper West Side families, all chowing down on the yummy pizza and family-sized salads.
"I have no idea, Jess," I replied.
"Well, I'm going to sue this place," he said.
"For what?" I asked.
Jesse: "For throwing pizza at me."
Me: "But no one threw pizza at you."
Jesse, grinning: "I'm going to cover myself with pizza sauce, then call the cops.It's a trick."
Me: "Umm, but it's not true."
Jesse, grinning even more widely: "I know."
Me, trying to decide whether to pinch my child, scold him for thinking dishonestly, or try to explain the depth of the problems associated with frivolous lawsuits: "No one will believe you."
Jesse: "Why not? Would you tell them I was tricking them?"
Me: "I might, if you tried to be so dishonest. And you'd never be able to come to Dean's for pizza again."
Jesse: "No more Dean's? Okay, I'm not suing."

Randomness

It's been way too long since I've blogged, but with the holidays, work insanity (don't ask because I will tell you) and the onslaught of school-related stuff (chorus performances, holiday parties, and homework, homework, homework) I haven't been able to think straight.
So, just a couple of recent small moments:
Kyle's comment on my aunt's most delicious Thanksgiving repast: "This gravy is a work of art!" He was also quite thrilled with the crab salad appetizer and the marshmallow-topped sweet potatoes, as well as the turkey.
Jesse's happiness and NOT getting his name on the board at school for talking too much. He even gets stickers when he's particularly quiet. He's been dutifully pasting the stickers into his very own personal at-home notebook, so he can record for posterity the evidence of his self-control.
Jesse organizing the left-over Halloween candy (I brought most of it into work, but there's still a big bag hanging around the house). Every couple of days he takes the big bag out and sorts the candy by type (ie; mini-Butterfingers in one pile, mini-Peanut M & M bags in another), then places each type into its own Baggie. He is quite pleased with his organizational skills, though I'm not sure what this says about his future.
Seth getting annoyed with his teacher for some unfathomable reason: "Mom, when it's my birthday at school, Mr. R is NOT getting a cupcake!"
And, of course, endless holiday lists. Seth started his in September. Guess I better get on it.

The Shy Boy--Not!

Several times a year, my kids' teachers throw what they call publishing parties, where the parents all gather in the classroom so the children can present their written work. The always quiet and reserved Jesse starts his, um, masterpiece off in typical style. Thanks to Rich for taking this!

The Young Dr. Freuds

The girls in Jesse's second grade class, or at least a couple of them, are light years beyond my guy in terms of emotional maturity. And they are using their wisdom to keep my little wild man in line.
Two girls, let's call them Bridget and Elizabeth to preserve their anonymity, are employing behavior modification techniques.
To wit, if Jesse doesn't yap too much in class each morning (and these young ladies know because big mouths get their name on the board), he gets a cookie.
So now, instead of asking Jesse if he behaved in Miss M's class, we only have to ask if he received a cookie.
Neat, sweet and perfect.
Today, Jesse chit-chatted too much, the teacher added his name to the list of boys' names on the board and did not, he reported sadly at 3 o'clock, earn his cookie.
Don't worry girls,  he'll learn.

Hippies and Mohawks

Do you not just love it when your kids get language and/or concepts totally wrong? Here are a couple of my guys' recent misadventures with words.
Seth: I want to be a hippie when I grow up.
Me: What does being a hippie mean? What do hippies do?"
Seth: They drink a lot of root beer. A lot, lot.
Me: And then what happens?
Seth, with a sigh: "Mom, root beer? They're drunked."

Next conversation, following Jesse's forced haircut--which itself followed Jesse's mangling of his bangs with kid scissors.
Jesse: My hair is too short. Why did we have to cut it?
Me: Because you cut your own bangs and they looked ridiculous.
Jesse: But now I look more ridiculous. I look like I have a mohawg.
Me: A mohawk?
Jesse: No, a mohawg, like a hobo has.
Me: I have no idea what you're talking about.

Punkd!

With three boys and two working parents, along with activities, doctors' appointments, playdates and middle-school tours for our big guy, our family schedules are always sort of ragged.

Yesterday, Angie, our backup babysitter, was on duty with the little guys after school, while Mick took Kyle first to the doctor (yes, he's coughing, but his lungs are clear) and then to Tae Kwon Do. Our regular sitter, Juana, was in Rhode Island, overseeing the delivery of her new furniture with her fiancee.

"Did you tell Angie that Jesse has flag football this afternoon?" I asked my hub mid-morning. "And does she know exactly where it is in Central Park?"

"Don't worry. Jessie knows how to get there," Mick replied.

A little warning bell rang in my head, but I foolishly ignored it and dedicated myself to editing the article on my computer screen.

Later that afternoon, Angie called Juana in a bit of a panic. "Why didn't you tell me they had soccer? I thought it was football! Now we're going the wrong way and we're late and I'm lost!"

"Soccer? They don't have soccer. Put Jesse on the phone," Juana said.

"Jesse. You know you have football. Why did you tell Angie you have soccer?" Juana asked.

The little imp giggled. "Oh, yeah," he said. "I do have football!"

That night, he literally crowed in triumph.

Jesse punked the babysitter.

Nerf Wars

My kids must be just about the easiest targets for marketing tactics around. When they find something compelling, they REALLY find it compelling.

A few years ago, Kyle, my 10-year-old, was obsessed with the TV ads for Floam--a sticky, icky low-rent version of Play Doh that's apparently made only in colors that are not found in nature.

Every time a Floam mini-informercial came on, he'd run to the phone and dial the 800 number.

But, of course, the poor boy had no credit card with which to pay.

When we finally gave in and ordered some Floam (suckered, no doubt, by the bonus of a free, extra-large container of chartreuse), it was a colossal flop. The stuff stunk so badly of some unidentifiable chemical that Kyle and Jesse ran from the room, crying.

The Floam ended up in the garbage.

Since Floam, we've been through the Bakugan thing, the Star Wars thing, the Pokemon card thing and about a dozen other...um, interests.

Right now? For Seth, it's all about Nerf Guns. He knows every model and price, apparently, and talks with great insight about the differences between them. For those who care, the newest and most coveted Nerf is the Rapid Fire-Raider SC-35, and Seth is excited enough about this one to stop begging for the Nerf Tommy 20. (He's been talking about that one at least three or four times a day--literally--for months. It's a bit hard to take.)

Seth has taken to watching Nerf gun videos on You Tube, making his own Nerf-fascimiles out of toilet paper and paper towel tubes and drawing his own vision of a Nerf-filled future.

There are flowers, apparently, and many, many Nerf guns.

Yesterday morning, I woke up to a most peculiar noise: the sound of a soft little Nerf dart hitting a piece of paper.

I peeked into the living room to find Seth, wearing his goggles and shooting at a paper target he'd drawn and taped up on the bookshelf. Luckily, he missed hitting our wedding photo.

His latest idea is a Nerf party, where all the kids (27 of 'em) in his second-grade class will come to our New York (read: small) apartment and attempt to whack each other with Nerf darts. Seth has it all set up in his mind:

"Mom, we can turn the table on its side and some kids can hide behind the table and shoot," he told me as I rushed the boys to school this morning. "Some kids can be in our bunk beds and shoot into the living room. I'll be under Kyle's desk, blasting. We'll have goggles for everyone and bags of extra ammo!"

He hasn't brought up the idea of a Nerf birthday cake yet, but I'm thinking that's next.

Of course, next month, we'll be on to something else.

Where Do Babies Come From?

Question of the day from Jesse: "Did we come out of your bellybutton?"

Now that Seth and Jesse are seven years old and in second grade, I can't dissemble anymore when it comes to the topic of babies and their origins, right?

So, here's how skillfully (not) I handled it.

My reply: "Um, no."

Jesse: "Where, then?"

Seth (whispering to Jesse): "I think it's her privates."

Jesse: "Did we come out of your privates?"

Me: "Um, yes."

Jesse: "Did you have to pull your pants down?"

Me: "Um, yes."

Jesse: "Now I'm going to faint." Falls on floor in a heap.

Conversation over.

I'm off to Barnes and Noble to get the right books. Then my hub can take over.

The Thing About Ants

So, we have a rule. If an ant gets inside the house, it's dead meat. Ants that are outside, bothering no one, get left alone. So, a recent invasion of ants had my kids trying to pinpoint exactly what in and out mean and what the rules of ant-killing are.

Jesse: "What about ants on the porch?"

Mom: "If it's only one or two, leave them alone. If there are tons, call me and I'll spray them with the vinegar bottle."

Jesse: "Can I spray them?"

Mom: "That's a grownup job."

Jesse:"Please. I really, really want to spray them."

Mom: "Why? It's not like it's a fun thing to do."

Jesse (jumping in the air): "It is! It is fun! They stop moving!"

Mom (wondering if she should call a therapist): "Just let it be."

Jesse: "Well, what about if I think an ant is on the porch but wants to go in the house?"

Mom: "If it's not in the house and there's only one or two ants, LEAVE THEM ALONE."

Jesse: "What if it's walking toward the door?"

Mom: "ALONE! ALONE! ALONE! What is so difficult to understand?"

Jesse: "What if I accidentally (on purpose is what he really means) bring one inside in my pocket?"

Mom: "Ants don't just accidentally get in your pocket. Do not bring ants inside!"

Jesse: "OK. But what if an ant is on the screen? It could squish itself through and get inside. Can I kill it?"

Mom: "Go upstairs. You're giving me a migraine."

Better Left Misspoken

You know how kids sometimes get phrases wrong? And how cute that is? Here are couple from my seven-year-olds:
*Seth: "Mom, can I have more spaghetti and neatballs?"
*Jesse: "When can we go to Toys Near Us?"
*Jesse: "Is Kyle going to Twai Kon Do (Tai Kwon Do) today?"

Toddler Talk

From time to time, my kids ask for another sibling. With a pack-rat husband (hi honey!) and three boys already inhabiting our too-small New York City apartment already, the likelihood of another child joining the mix is about as great as the chance that Bernie Madoff will be lauded with a parade in Palm Beach.
Lately, they've been asking for a toddler, instead of a baby. I'm not sure why, but perhaps they're thinking that a toddler will be less trouble and more fun.
So, this morning, Seth cuddles up to me and whispers in my ear, "Mommy, I hope you're adopting a toddler soon because it will be so much fun to play with."
For the record, I have no idea where he learned about adoption, or got the idea that we'd be adopting anything other than a fish.
"What's a toddler?" I asked.
"I know," said Kyle, my almost-10-year-old, with great authority. "A three or four year-old."
"No way," said Seth. "Toddlers are three."
"Toddlers are babies, silly," retorted Jesse. Except he used a more objectionable word than "silly."
My hub patiently explained that toddlers are kids who have recently learned to walk and that they need a lot of care and attention.
"He can sleep in our room," Seth said. "You'll have to get a little bed."
"And little pillows and blankets," Jesse said.
"We'll give our toddler all our old clothes," Kyle added.
Before this toddler talk went any further, I felt like I had to put the kibosh on the bigger-family fantasy.
"Umm, yeah, there's not going to be a toddler, guys," I explained. "We just don't have the room. Just not going to happen."
The boys stared at me for a moment, silent. Then Jesse shrugged. "So can we get a pet lizard?" he asked.

Tony Hawk is the Bestest Skateboarder

We went shopping for spring/summer clothes yesterday. Mostly for my big guy, since the littles, Seth and Jesse, have more hand-me-downs than they can handle.
Somehow, Seth, happened upon a line of clothing from Tony Hawk, skateboarder extraordinaire.
Seth has never talked about skateboarding or been on a skateboard.
Yet he was drawn to the skater-boy styles like moth to the proverbial flame.
"Tony Hawk," he whispered in awe. He picked up a black T-shirt awash with red swirls (20 bucks before the 30 percent off) and hugged it to his chest. "I love, love, love this, Mama," Seth crooned.
My skinny little non-skater was beside himself with joy. He grabbed a pair of brown baggy knee-length shorts, pulled a bright crimson T shirt laden with skateboard graphics off the rack and held tightly them both, along with his original choice."Please, please can I?" he begged.
Given the 30 percent off, I plopped them all in the shopping cart. It was, however, a little mystifying, this sudden turn toward clothing consumerism.
Seth happily modeled his cool new duds for us at home this morning, then informed me of his future shopping plans. "Mom, can we go back to the Tony Hawk store today? I want Tony Hawk hats and shoes, and definitely Tony Hawk underwear (marketers, are you listening?)"
"So Seth," I asked. "Who is Tony Hawk?"
"Oh, Mama," he replied dreamily. "He is the bestest skateboarder ever. I love him."

Bizarre Things Kids Say

Overheard a couple of days ago:
Jesse to Seth: "Wanna go out on a date? You look hot."
Seth to Jesse: "Eww. Gross."
Both collapse on floor, laughing.

Meet our High Emotions

Emotions run high in our house much of the time, thanks to our three rather excitable boys: Kyle, Seth and Jesse. Hence the blog name. They're excitable in different ways, which I'll get to later, but all three of them seem to me to be unusually highly emotional. So my husband and I, who I dimly remember being pretty mellow BK (before kids), are pretty excitable ourselves much of the time. Except when I'm using my fake-soothing voice to try to calm everyone down. It's amazingly effective, but I can only sustain the forced sonorous tones of "Let's all relax and discuss this in a family meeting..." for a short period of time. A brief description of the trio:
Kyle, 9 years old and hyper-sensitive and hyper-aware of everything around him (sounds, smells, people), except when he's completely oblivious to what I'm saying. Which he always is when I'm asking him about homework, picking up dirty underwear and finishing his peas. On the flip side, the kid can make Lego creations that are twice his size. And he loves his mama.
Jesse, almost 7. Not a sensitive bone in his body. He'll make a great MBA someday. As our babysitter, Juana, likes to say, "I hope Jesse will be kind to the people who work for him." Clearly, she's got his number. Jess, by far the shortest one in the family--which he complains about endlessly--may not be sensitive, but he can whine with the best of them. And his whine? Think of a gnat buzzing in your ear all night. Yeah, THAT annoying. Still, he's got the gift of keeping us all laughing.
Seth, Jesse's twin, is the sweetest of them in many ways. Artistic, creative, loving...all good stuff. But should he lose a board game or stub a toe, it's weepy time. Profound waterworks. And his response to frustration of any kind, from being unable to complete a puzzle to dropping a baseball, is usually "I'm a big loser; I can't do anything right!" Sigh.
I love 'em, couldn't live without them, can't imagine what the heck they'll be like as grownups. But whew. It's a mighty big job keeping all the feelings under control. And that's what this blog is about. I think