by mayberry on August 27, 2010
This summer my kid tried out a new sport (at an informal, walk-on type of camp) and liked it. We were told the beginning team was less of a financial commitment than the more elite teams, and no try-outs were required. The team would practice in a town close to us; the camp was about a 45-minute drive away.
Email from me to coach: My child enjoyed the camp and wants to join the team. Could you give me the contact info for the parent rep so I can make the arrangements?
Email from coach to me, several hours later: That’s great! Please call me at …
Me (thinking): sigh … I have to pick up the phone?
The next day, dial. Exchange pleasantries.
Coach: OK, I’ll email you back with the parent rep’s email address!
Me (thinking): You’ve got to be kidding me.
I dutifully email the parent rep.
Me: My child enjoyed the camp and wants to join the team. Could you send me the paperwork (my address is below) and let me know where to send my payment?
Parent rep reply: That’s great! Please call me at …
Me: *headdesk*
When I called the parent rep, I learned that the team doesn’t have enough players to be eligible for competitions. BUT, I can enroll the kid in a “class” which would:
- cost the same
- meet in the faraway venue at 8 a.m. on Saturday mornings
- require us to join a club, which in turn would require paying dues and performing mandatory “volunteer” hours
- allow the kid to learn some of the skills of the sport or risk “falling more and more behind” (seriously, she said it)
My husband thinks this is a no-brainer. No team. Enroll in a local, group lesson in a similar sport instead, saving money and sparing a good deal of inconvenience. Next spring, let the kid try out for the team and hope for the best. I’m inclined to agree, since the squeeze I got from the parent rep was uncomfortable (not to mention the air of bait-and-switch around this entire experience; e.g., the summer camp was originally billed as free, and then suddenly turned out to cost $10/hour).
But the kid really likes the sport, and I get the sense that holding your nose and dealing with this kind of stuff is common in youth sports. We could postpone the hysteria, but only temporarily (and would they penalize the child later for the parent’s crime of not enrolling earlier?). I am torn.
by mayberry on August 2, 2010
Here is one Mommy Job I would like to quit: Bag packer and stuff rememberer. You start out with a tiny infant and a diaper bag that’s three times as big as said infant. Then as you and the baby grow you realize you don’t need most of the stuff you were carting around and you take it out. Eventually you have a potty-trained child and you grow confident enough to leave the house without a spare outfit, a large plastic bag, and a huge wad of baby wipes.
But the problem is that by then, there are extracurricular activities in the picture. And then, then, you are stuck needing all kinds of supplies and accessories for those activities. And so you–I–begin amassing a collection of bags. Pictured above: one for rollerskating. One for ice-skating. One for school (been sitting there since June 4). One for “water day” at child care. One for the Nintendo DS that comes along for long car rides to ice skating. One for day camp. Not shown: Lunch bag. Soccer bag (last time anyone played soccer was two years ago). Indoor pool bag. Outdoor pool bag. Other child’s school bag. Carry-on bag for air travel (kid 1). Carry-on bag for air travel (kid 2). Activity bag for car travel (x2).
In theory, having a designated bag for each kind of outing is a good idea; you pack once, and then you restock, and then you grab on your way out the door. But you also end up with scenes like this one in the corner of your guest bedroom. (Also not shown: karate clothes piled on guest bed.) And somehow only one person is responsible for finding the right bag, making sure the right stuff is in it, bringing it to the car, and bringing it back in from the car.
Sucker, thy name is Mommy.
by mayberry on June 9, 2010
I am ashamed to admit that my children don’t do chores. At least not on a regular basis. If I ask them to set the table or pick up crumbs with the handheld vacuum or shuttle something upstairs or down, they comply (with varying degrees of cheerfulness). But they don’t have assigned daily or weekly chores, mostly out of sheer parental laziness (and unwillingness to cede control).
They also don’t get an allowance. They take in so much cash from greeting cards (seriously) that they honestly don’t need much more. If we gave them a few dollars a week they would just spend it on mass quantities of gum and Nintendo points.
But they still like to earn money from time to time (like the times when I refuse to buy them any gum or Nintendo points). And I want them to develop a sense of responsibility for the household, as well as the basic skills they need to take care of themselves and their living space.
After a few random attempts where my husband or I promised totally divergent amounts for similar jobs, we’ve come up with a plan that I think might work. We’re making a list of prerequisite jobs, everyday tasks that don’t come with a paycheck: keeping their bedrooms picked up, putting away their shoes on the shelves expressly installed for that purpose by the back door, clearing their dinner dishes, and so on.
Then we’re making another list of money-earners: folding and putting away laundry, weeding, watering outdoor plants, unloading the dishwasher, etc. These will each have a predetermined fee. The catch is that all prerequisite tasks must be done before the child may take on an extra chore for extra cash.
What do you think? How do you handle chores/allowance/spending money with your kids?
by mayberry on May 7, 2010
Silly is funny. Subtle is funny. Snarky is funny. Even puns can be funny.
But saying, even as a joke, that adoptive parents are lying alcoholics (and social workers are downright dumb)?
Not funny.
Not ever funny, which is why I don’t understand how Hallmark could print this card, or how anyone would ever buy it (except me. I bought it so I could show you).
Are you kidding me, “tiny little division of Hallmark“? You may be tiny, but this is hugely offensive. And I’m okay with pointed humor. I regularly send someecards.
I wasn’t adopted as a child. I’m not an adoptive parent, although there’s a chance I might be one someday. I’m not a social worker, but I believe them to be, for the most part, extremely caring and hard-working people who do often thankless work. A adoption social worker’s job is to make sure children find safe, loving homes. They ask tough questions because they have to. And because they represent children who don’t have a voice of their own, they deserve to hear the truth–which is what the vast majority of adoptive parents will tell them.
The image on the card also implies that this is a single woman trying to become a parent through adoption. Add another group to those that could and should be horrified by this card.
Tell me if you think I’m making too big of a deal about this. But words matter, and these words are unacceptable.
I did register my disgust with Hallmark, by the way. I sat on this post for awhile waiting for an answer. If one arrives, I’ll let you know.
by mayberry on April 1, 2010
I truly am grateful for
- A big work project
- Two children celebrating birthdays
- The opportunity to fix my child’s crooked jaw and teeth
- A holiday featuring yummy food, fun traditions, and one of my favorite hymns
- Family coming to visit
- Days off from school
- Stunningly amazingly beautifully gorgeous weather
I would be EVER SO MORE grateful if all this were not happening simultaneously.
by mayberry on March 15, 2010
My recent trip was a rather in-your-face reminder of my lack of cool. Hanging out with a group of twentysomethings who love to snowshoe into the back country to snowboard, carrying ice picks and “avy” beacons, did not do wonders for the ego of this suburban mama.
My jeans are not cool. I only have one pair that doesn’t have a hole in the knee, and they are just a smidge too short and too light of a wash.
My snow pants are not cool (how could anything called “snow pants” be). I have the big, baggy, kiddie kind, not the sleek, stretchy, sexy kind.
My winter boots are so not cool that I left them behind in Colorado (they were also six years old and the zipper was starting to break).
My everyday winter coat is not cool. It’s as baggy as the snow pants and a really blah shade of gray. It’s also six years old and wasn’t even new when I got it. (My spring/fall coat, however, is cool. It’s turquoise with a Paul Frank monkey print lining the hood.)
My hair is not cool. I am starting to worry that it’s less “layered, longish bob” and more “mommy mullet.”
My car is not cool. I drive a dented station wagon.
I know nothing of the latest music or movies.
Even my phone is not cool (as Binkytowne will be happy to confirm). White, flip open, pay as you go, tap out a text message in 10 minutes, no data plan, for emergencies only.
But guess what? I’m moving into the ’00s. Yep. I got a smartphone. And you can read all about it.
And if you want to tell me how cool I am, or how uncool you are, that’d be cool, too.
by mayberry on February 10, 2010
(or, just another mommyblog post)
10:47 p.m.: Decide I’ve done enough even though project is not complete; sleep more important.
11:03 p.m.: Actually shut down computer. 16 minutes: Possibly a record.
11:04 p.m.: Contemplate starting load of laundry. Determine that is crazy talk.
11:05 p.m.: Arrive upstairs to discover child in my bed. Haul 50 lbs. of resistant kid across hall to designated sleeping environment.
11:07 – 11:21 p.m.: Brush, floss, moisturize, NY Times Sunday Magazine.
11:22 p.m.: Bed.
11:27 p.m.: Suspicious retching sound. Did dog just barf? Get up to check.
11:28 p.m.: Nope.
11:31 p.m.: Enter child (35-lb version), stage left.
11:32 – 11:41 p.m. Impassioned debate with self. Return child to bed (requires getting out of bed) or defer to apathy? Child’s knees pinning my right arm against my body; child’s flannely arm thrown across my throat.
11:42 p.m.: Dude, talking in your sleep = automatic eviction.
11: 47 p.m.: Back in bed, sans child.
12:01 a.m.: Crying. Yeah, I heard it even before my husband elbowed me in the back.
12:01 – 12:17 a.m.: Impassioned debate with self. Wait one or both of them out? Get out of bed (definitely faster)?
12:18 a.m.: Guess which one I picked. It was the “please *whimper* come here *whimper* Moooommmmmmy” that finally got to me.
12:31 a.m. Back in bed. Notice it is now nearly two hours after I decided I should go to bed “early.”
P.S. I know exactly why this happened. The night before, I said, out loud, that bedtime had “gotten much better for us recently.” Kiss. of. death.
by mayberry on January 4, 2010
alternate title: I Was Under the Impression that the Craptasticness Would Be Confined to 2009
At the end of the summer, my one-month-old netbook had to be sent back to the manufacturer for repair. I got it back, fixed, for free, but not in time for a business trip (which is the whole reason I bought the netbook).
Right before Thanksgiving, the hard drive on my regular, workhorse laptop died. I limped along for a week or so on the netbook and my husband’s laptop, then rebuilt everything on my old laptop when I got the new hard drive. You know, re-finding all my favorites, reinstalling all the software, downloading stuff like Tweetdeck and Adobe Reader, restoring all my files from my (thank god) backup. (Shout out to Mozy.com, by the way.)
A week or so after that, the hard drive on Jeff’s laptop died. So then he had to order another one, and go through all the restoration process, accompanied by much gnashing of teeth. He is still convinced that I caused the failure by downloading Firefox. Which, no. And, he was running IE6! I couldn’t function!
Saturday night, I spilled, like, a tablespoon of tea into my laptop.
Yup. Dead hard drive AGAIN. Another $150 and another two days of my life, gone.
2010, so far I am not impressed.
(P.S. This a.m., I am not able to comment on Blogger blogs, for some reason … sorry)
by mayberry on December 1, 2009
When I lived in France, I often lunched with a family that included twin four-year-old girls. Their mother spent quite a lot of time during each meal issuing the reminder “Les deux cuisses sur le tambour!” (Both cheeks on your stool!)
Similarly, meals with Opie involve a lot of reinforcing, reminding, and pleas to use utensils and keep his butt in his chair. I figure this is par for the course for age four, and he is slowly learning decent-enough manners. We can take him to a restaurant and he can be trusted to sit fairly quietly and not make a huge mess or spectacle.
Still, he doesn’t have a great track record for Big Family Dinners of the Turkeyish Kind (or other special occasions). I think that he can sense his father’s nervousness (and, in my opinion, unreasonable expectations) about his behavior, and he also sometimes doesn’t like to be in the spotlight–this is why he refused to trick-or-treat, because he didn’t like people looking at him.
We were quite pleasantly shocked when on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, he sat at the table with nine other guests and politely, beautifully, neatly ate soup and salad. It was a thing of beauty–and this was after being in the car for nearly eight hours that day.
So is it any wonder that on Thanksgiving itself, he arrived at the table naked from the waist down, growling “i hate you i hate you i hate you” at anyone that glanced in his direction?
Eventually, I ate with him in the kitchen and then later he did reappear at the table and was perfectly charming. And the next day, we went to a football game at Grandma’s school with a bunch of VIPs and he voluntarily shook hands with strangers and said “Hello, Mr. Howard” politely and stayed until halftime without a single complaint.
Oh four. You are a mystery. A growly, adorable, ear-pinching mystery, and I am thankful for you every day.
by mayberry on November 9, 2009
1. Good news follow-up from my last post: Both children are at school today. All day (if my phone rings I am not going to answer it). I had a celebratory egg sandwich from Starbucks.
2. Bad news follow-up from my last post: Day 11 of the migraine. Have tried three potent drugs (one of which was delivered by jab where the sun don’t shine) which didn’t work and am now on a course of steroids. And yes I do feel just! a bit! hyper!
3. Apropos of nothing follow-up from my honesty post: Because of #7, if you use pseudonyms for your children on your blog, I am deadly curious to know their real names. Not for any nefarious reason, though.
4. Not a follow-up, but a prelude: If you consider your blog “small”–in readership, reach, presence or absence on PR radar screens, however you want to define it; and if you think you might be going to BlogHer next summer (in New York City, August 6-7), would you raise your hand? In the comments or by email, mayberrymom2006 at yahoo.
