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Hey, I’ll Give You a Sticker!

So, we’ve enacted Reward Chart Protocol at Camp Bernaba. We were giving out stickers before, but found the preferred place to stick them turned out to be the bag of wipes, where they were quickly forgotten, and then thrown away.

I’ve offered every child in this house stickers, for doing everything from helping mommy to using the potty. I picked up construction-equipment stickers, 3D Cars stickers, Mickey stickers, Minnie stickers, ‘Great Job!” stickers, and silver-foiled monster truck stickers.

You’d think, with the preponderance of good behavior and the obvious surplus of stickers here, that our house would be plastered floor-to-ceiling, and my children would be making their own beds, sweeping the floors, and cooking their own meals by now.

Alas, this is not the case.

I created our first sticker charts on Sunday. As yet, Matthew’s has five stickers on it: two for brushing teeth, one for using the potty, and two for helping Mommy prepare breakfast. Not bad. Unless you start counting the five I owe him from last week, the two I promised Maggie for “being a good girl and playing with your brothers”, and the one Michael is owed for using the potty last week.

I’m bad at stickers and they’re bad at both guaranteeing themselves stickers and holding me to my lavish and empty sticker promises.

Sure, I’ve made offers. They’ve accepted. And I’ve tried my hardest to remember to hand out stickers in a timely and appropriate manner. They’ve also accepted and not come through, accepted and only partially completed the required task, and accepted, but completed a completely different tasks. So, who’s the slouch here?

I’m going to break it down for you, kids. Bribery doesn’t work. This is something I’ve known, but I needed  a way to manage three growing, independent little people, and decided to give this route a shot.

And we were holding this ship together quite well until I brought Matthew to check out the preschool. We came home. We talked about it. He was very excited about attending. Yet, he’s irresistibly fought me on most responsibilities since that very day.  Is it too much pressure? Is he not ready? I haven’t gotten to the bottom of that yet. But every victory is hard-won, and my teeth and nails have seen better days.

Sure, he enjoys receiving and placing the stickers, but this protocol does not appear to be guiding his behavior in any meaningful way. Is this working for Matthew? I honestly don’t know.

What I do know is this bloody house should be literally covered in stickers by now, but it’s not. They behave as much as one would reasonably expect a three-year-old and two two-year-olds to behave. They’re quick. They’ve found ways to help Mom and Dad. But I need to encourage this behavior to continue. And flourish.

Do I continue along this imperceptibly successful road hoping the practice gets permanent traction? Do I give up on the stickers entirely and move on to something else? Do I focus on modeling, so they can simply follow along?

Stick around.

Hopefully, I’ll find the answer.

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Jailbreak: A Guest Post by Colleen of The Family Pants

Colleen of Adventures of the Family PantsColleen Thoele is also known as Mama Pants. She is a child advocate, awesome wife, best mother ever, worst mother ever, greatest sister of all time and lover of sensible clothing.  She tries really hard to not wear sweat pants every single day, which is hard because sweatpants go the best with flip-flops, and flip-flops don’t require socks.  She spends her down time blogging about the awesomeness and not awesomeness of living with the two tiny people that she made. 

[Thanks for reading along. Come hang with me around the webternet. These are my haunts… The Family PantsFacebook and Twitter]

 

 

I dropped my keys in the parking lot. Shit. Bending down, gym bag on my shoulder and one kid holding each hand, he saw the opportunity to jump on my back and took it. She tried to make a break for it, but my vice grip proved strong enough, so she threw herself to the asphalt and screamed instead. One on my back, one in my arms and a gym bag. Did I mention it was raining? I was sweating before I even got in the door.

Covered in kids and dripping wet, I say an awkward “Heeeey” to the group of hot personal trainers all hanging out at the front desk before I drop the littles at the kiddie room (perk!) and head to the locker room.

That’s when I see her.  You know the girl I am talking about. Her gym clothes are like a second skin that someone painted on. Black gym shorts that stop right under her perfectly gorgeous butt and a hot pink top. Her hair is amazing-ness. Her skin, evenly tanned and kind of shiny. Even her shoes made her feet look sexy. She’s not a pound over weight. She smells like a sugar cookie. That girl.

Standing next to her, I smile to myself. Look at me. Mismatched socks, XXL church camp T-shirt, and a bun in my hair that’s been there since I showered 24 hours ago. I have a zit on my nose that you could see from space. I’ve got 83 pounds to go of the 100 that had slowly, but surely, jailed me.  That’s why I’m here, man. Jailbreak.

I smiled at her as she put her headphones on and floated walked out. She smiled back. And, as I sat down to stretch and focus for a few minutes before hitting the treadmill, it occurred to me that I don’t hate her. Good for her. She’s beautiful.

I laughed to myself like a crazy person, now alone in the locker room. Way to evolve, Colleen. Five years ago, I would have been so jealous of her. I would have tried to boost myself up by assuming she was shallow and dumb. Five years ago I would have been ashamed of my body. It  jiggles when I walk.  There is no mistaking that my belly housed some babies. My thighs rub together. And my chin? Sweet baby Zeus, my damn chins have neck roll friends.

Five years ago, I would have felt a cold sweat on my forehead and palms. A lump would have risen in my throat as I tried not to cry. The cold sweat would trickle down to meet the heat in my cheeks. I would have hidden in the bathroom stall to collect myself so no one would see me cry tears of shame and self-hatred. I would have hidden in order to stop hearing my heartbeat in my ears long enough to slip out of the door unnoticed by the beautiful people. Panicked. Paralyzed.

But not today. Not anymore.

I am beautiful, too. Fuck it, man. I had kids. I can’t hate my body for that.

So, as I lace up my clunky $14.00 Wal-Mart shoes, I make a mental note not only to buy some better freaking shoes, but to get out there and sweat my ass off. To keep going.  To own the shit out of that treadmill. Because I deserve to be healthy. I deserve to be strong. Because, dammit, I am not defined by my Hanes Her Way comfort yoga capris. I am defined by the fact that I am taking a stand for myself. Oh, and that I’m kind of a bad ass.

It’s been five years since my body was just mine.  Five years of growing people or feeding them. Having babies and breastfeeding – it was exactly what I wanted to do. And I did it. My youngest is still nursing. But things are changing.  There will be no more babies. When my girl weans, there will be no more breastfeeding. My body will once again be mine.  All mine. And so I stride on out of that locker room with my chins up and my determination face on. I’m ready.

I don’t need to be that girl in the hot pink top, she gets to be her. And she is clearly rocking it. Me? I get to be me. And I really fucking like me. Stretch marks and all.

Deeper Than Skin Deep

I sat in the hairdresser’s chair, furtively eyeing the woman to my right. She looked a rather well-preserved fifty. Her lashes hung thickly and heavily over her close-set eyes. I imagined she had to strain to blink. It was too much lash for that much lid. Eyelash extensions? Latisse? What were people doing for eyelashes these days, anyway? Whichever the situation, her baby doll lashes were clearly out of place on her small face.

I noticed a rolling shelf beside her. Her stylist was painstakingly attaching blonde hair extensions to the back of her head.

Sad, I thought to myself. What is stopping her from aging gracefully? Why does she want to look like that? Doesn’t she know how fake that all looks?

I turned my attention back to my own mirror, my own stylist, and was fairly comforted by the fact that malodorous chemicals would be strangling my scalp in a matter of minutes.

InStyle

InStyle (Photo credit: Andreanna Moya Photography)

I listened, as always, to inane salon chatter, the gross majority of which was my own, until I was brought to the dryers to ‘develop’. I grabbed this month’s edition of InStyle from a rack on  the wall. It looked pretty hefty, and the cover was splashed with shades of fuchsia. That was obviously enough for me.

I opened the cover (which is something truly fantastic, isn’t it? The ability to still open a cover of a printed material?) and saw several permutations of a well-defined and perfectly made-up face courtesy of Lancôme. It’s all in how you do itI convinced myself. I could probably do the same with my Clinique, no problem.

I thumbed enthusiastically further into the tome until I reached an ad for a Tiffany & Co. pendant. Hmm. Tiffany. I like it, I thought. I ran my finger over the pendant’s diamond filigree design, imagined it on my neck, imagined the pleasant blue presentation box in my palm. Yep. Like that, I decided.

The next page - Bam! Matching earrings. A little long for my taste. If someone were to give these to me, though…

Yves St. Laurent. Chanel. Bulgari. Guess. I quickly accepted the realization that were these items gifted to me, I’d snatch them up faster than a starving frog eyeing a fly.

I paused briefly on a two-page H & M spread and quickly concluded that I was neither a) young, b) tall, c) skinny, or d) pouty enough to pull off any of that mess.

Ten minutes passed whilst I pondered women lying on the ground clutching bottles of perfume, smiling for professional-looking photographer-slash-models, and sitting on plastic cubes, awkwardly displaying jewelry normally kept in tamper-safe vaults.

I fingered through two more pages. Louis Vuitton. I attempted to determine mathematically which child I’d have to put into hock in order to bring one of those home. The bag was a less-than-attractive turmeric, but the women holding them were so mesmerizing, one leaning her 6’8″ frame on a taxi. Plus, they were standing on the Brooklyn Bridge. New York chic.

Sandals. Sunglasses. Professional hair care products. More Lancôme. A full forty pages of ads before the actual text began.

And once the text began, I read about what and who people were wearing, their shades-du-jour, their spring highlights.

Alas, it was my turn to be rinsed, and as I leaned back considering the surreal view of steam, fingers, and exposed beams, I fully realized just how one becomes that woman. I realized how I had already enveloped the spirit of that woman, dutifully attending my 6-week appointment to be trimmed and colored.

“You look nice,” the stylist said. “Any plans for today?”

“Not really,” I answered. “Just shopping.”

My Kind of Bucket List!

I’m not a huge fan of ‘bucket lists’. I’m not a fan of widely-ingested and promptly regurgitated catchphrases in general. Don’t get me wrong; I love Morgan Freeman. Not many elderly male actors can rock a freckle quite like he does, or deliver public service announcements with such eloquence. That said, I don’t need (or care) to know the inner yearnings of every Joe off the street.

I swore to myself I’d never make a ‘bucket list’. I also never had a need or desire to create a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list, either. But I did decide that if I ever did, I’d prefer to keep it a Things I’d Like to Do Before I Die list. It sounded more noble.

Last night, however, as I was watching Shaun of the Dead for the third time with my husband, I decided I might create a bucket list after all.

So, without further ado, here’s my (cough) Bucket List:

 

Sell my college degrees on eBay

Park my car in the middle of a busy Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru and walk away

Go into Abercrombie & Fitch and open all the blinds

Be a zombie extra in a movie

Buy a wedding dress and wear it to the supermarket

Unapologetically consume gluten, on an Italian piazza, at dusk, in May, with a glass of Sangiovese

Proposition a cop

Walk into a Korean nail place and yell, “I know you’re talking about me, ASSHOLES!”

Plan and execute a hostile takeover of the E! channel, using Daniel Tosh as my mouthpiece

Dress up like a drag queen (I haven’t really thought this one through yet)

Go back in time and punch Frank Sinatra in the face

Let all my gray grow out

Chop down a tree with a tiny axe

Bring sexy back. And not Nicki Minaj sexy, Donna Reed sexy

Change my name to Wonder Woman

Go to Taco Bell and ask for two free-range beef tacos with non-GMO lettuce, locally-sourced tortillas, and organic Fire sauce

 

What do you think? Doable?

Lovin’ Mom of Boys: A Guest Post by Danielle of Things Carter Says…

DanielleJeffersonDanielle Jefferson is a tell-it-like-it-is kind of mom who knows that parenting is hard…but tequila helps. When she’s not looking for her next margarita, she stays at home and moms the heck out of her kids (sometimes more successfully than others).  She blogs about the less glamorous side of parenthood over at Things Carter Says… You can also join the fun on Facebook page or follow her on Twitter @CandGsMom.

 

300 matchbox cars

21 fire trucks

15 police cars

11 dump trucks

4 backhoes

3 big rigs

And one truck that seems to be some sort of ambulance with a claw thing in the front, twelve sirens, and monster truck tires…also, it turns into a robot.

If my children receive any more cars or trucks, we’ll have to move to a bigger house where we can dedicate a wing to anything on wheels.

What the hell does a mom have to do to get a Barbie up in here?

Oh yeah, she’d have to have girls. Which I don’t. I have two boys. I have a husband. I even have two male dogs. Mine is the sole vagina in this house.

When I got pregnant, I was going to have a girl. I knew it. In fact, I was only going to have girls. I was just meant to. I love doing hair and nails and going shopping. I am one big package of girly girl wrapped up with a huge bow… a pink one, of course.

And then the baby came out. And it was a boy. And I was shocked.

Oh my god! Who am I going to go wedding dress shopping with?

But it was okay, because this was only my first baby. My next baby would be a girl. My husband promised me my next baby would be a girl (He’s a lying bastard, by the way).

My second child was, of course, another boy. And then I was surrounded. I was drowning in blue.

There went my dreams of ever getting mother/daughter manicures. I will never own the Barbie dream house. And I will forever have to slow down for a better look if I’m driving by a construction site.

And guess what? I love every second of it.

Well, except for that second when the boys smeared an entire tube of diaper rash cream on the mirror in my bedroom. That second sucked. But , I mean, other than that? Love it.  I love their energy and dirty little faces and their backwards baseball caps. I love that they pick flowers for me and play tag with me and ask me every night to sing them, ”Summer Wind” by Frank Sinatra, because that is our song.

I am absolutely amazed at how fully content I am being a mom of boys.

There are some things you can only experience with little boys.

Just the other night, they called me into the bathroom excitedly yelling “Look, Mom! We’re making an X!” And they were, in fact, making an X. Into the toilet. With their pee.

See? That is something moms of girls will never get to witness.

I no longer think boys are wild crazy mud magnets. I KNOW they are. And I think they’re awesome little guys.

Plus, I can still borrow the daughters of my friends and take them shopping for doll accessories and braid their hair…and return them when they start to get crabby.

And that’s what I like to call the best of both worlds.

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