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.

Candy Critic

In case you're interested, Jesse told me last night that "personally, Milky Ways are my favorite candy."

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.

Wishful Thinking

Seth: "Kyle, come here! You've got to see this! I'm getting underarm hair!"
Kyle, examining Seth's hairless and pale underarms. "I don't see anything there."
Seth: "No, there's a hair! Really! It's awesome!"

The Shoe is on the Other Foot

I've spent years trying to get Kyle to get out of bed in the morning, get dressed and to school before the bell rings, and complete his homework in a timely manner. So I know all too well the stomach-churning stress of dealing with a practiced procrastinator.
Suddenly, Kyle's become oddly responsible. Hence, I suppose, his latest habit, which is bugging me endlessly to fill out trip forms, submit fund-raising money and check off his Scholastic book club choices the moment such requests come home in his backpack.
Since my schedule is a tad overfilled, I do these things when I can--generally before the deadline.
But Kyle, who has never before had any seeming awareness of time passing or of deadlines, doesn't find that acceptable.
After asking me three times last week if I submitted the orders yet for the fifth-grade gift wrap fundraiser (which is not actually due until early next month), he sighed and shook his head.
Then he turned into me: "Mom," he asked. "Why do you always put things off?"

Punishing the Unpunishable

I have no idea if most pairs of seven-year-old twins are as ungovernable as mine, but a story my sister Deb told me does make me feel better about my wild things.
A friend of Deb's, with adorable little boy twins, took everything out of their bedroom except for their beds, bedding and one dresser outfitted with kid-proof drawer locks. And the remaining heavy items--beds, dresser-- she nailed to the ground.
Otherwise, the little guys would simply go wild when left to their own devices, turning the room into a maelstrom of toys, clothes and, um, dresser drawers.
I remember those days, when my then-preschoolers would rip the mattresses from their toddler beds and turn them into bouncy slides, when they'd remove every item of clothing from their drawers, when they'd empty the contents of the big wooden toy box on the ground and then crawl into it. Sometimes in the morning I'd find a twin asleep inside the toy box, clutching a blanket.
One day, in a stunning example of teamwork, S and J pulled over a bookcase, spilling their board books everywhere and trapping a howling Jesse underneath.
Not our finest hour.
They're in second grade now and reasonably mature, at least in comparison to their preschool days. But there's something transformative, apparently, in being alone together in their bedroom at night that can, on more occasions than I'd like to admit, turn Seth and Jesse into screaming demons.
So, long after bedtime last night, when their fort-building, Nerf-wielding, stuffed-animal hurling energy was inexplicably not yet spent, my husband and I simply lost it.
After threatening the boys with: loss of Game-Boy time, loss of TV privileges,  and no dessert for three days, Mick resorted to the unthinkable: removal of all the stuffed animals from their beds.
That changed the tone immediately, setting off cascades of tears and deep, shuddering sobs. "No daddy, no! You can't take our stuffies away. We can't sleep without them! We'll be good! We promise!"
A few minutes later, with the boys flat on their backs and covered by blankets, we had a discussion. "You don't like to get yelled at our punished, right?" I asked.
Seth shook his head woefully. "No, mommy," he said.
Jesse shrugged. "I don't really care," he replied.
Doesn't care? What seven-year-old says he doesn't mind discipline?
"But it makes you sad and upset when Daddy yells or takes things away, right?" I pointed out. "You cry."
Jesse pondered this. "Well, when I lose TV or Game Boy, I get a little sad, but it's not a big deal," he explained. "I know I'll get it back. But when I lose them for a few days, I get more sad and then I cry. But I'm not a lot, lot sad. Plus, we're only bad at night, so we're good a lot."
"Not the point, Jess," I said. "But you guys were so bad tonight that you almost lost your stuffed animals. That seemed to make you sad."  By now, Seth was asleep.
Jesse shook his head and actually rolled his eyes a bit, as if to suggest that I was badly misreading the situation. "Taking my stuffies? Mom, that's just wrong."
I surrender.