We are three days into a very structured school schedule.  Trying my best to get us into a healthy learning routine before we head out again.  The beauty of this next trip is that it is just us… the miscreants, the husband and me.  No more family.  No more visiting.  Obligations that do not extend beyond just our five minds, bodies and souls.  So, the fact is, even though we will be on the road some, once we’ve settled in to our final destination, there will be little to stand in the way of us and a continuing routine of some degree of structured academic learning.

However, as these last few days will attest, getting to a place where we are comfortable with this whole new set of expectations will not be easy.  The free-for-all that has been summertime has set us up for some serious transition pains.  For example:

Day 1.  Middle child, Zip, upon being asked to read a list of words containing short vowel sounds, and after refusing flat out with bottom lip protruding, decides to close his eyes.  Sitting up at the school table.  For many minutes.  Despite cajoling, urging, encouraging, and then finally getting all up in his grill and bloody well commanding he get his act together, he remained seated, upright, eyes closed.  Removed, limp, from stool, he was tossed like a sack of potatoes placed on the nearby sofa.  Where he remained. Eyes closed.  For many, many more minutes.  I actually thought he fell asleep.  OK.  I could but stare in fascination.  Was this some out of body experience I was witnessing induced by profound aversion to words with short vowel sounds?!?  After standing confused, bewildered and taken aback, completely unprepared for acting out in quite such a fashion, I assigned other miscreants some independent work and sat down with him.  I gathered up his lifeless form and snuggled him up for a good long hug.  Well… I’ll be damned.  The child perked up as though to a first, fresh morning snowfall.  He jumped back onto his stool and got down to business. Little bugger.

Day 2:  Eldest miscreant, while not nearly as dramatic as his younger brother, pulled the scrunchy, red face, teary eyes with every activity.  Everything is “just so ha-aaard….”  Uh-huh.  ”Awwwwww-wwwww.  Do I have to do this?!?!”  Uh-huh.  Slam workbook.  Slam binder.  Flip pages so as to be sure they tear from their holes. “Unnnnghhhh-ghhhhh… whyyyy-yyyyyy?!?!”  Uh-huh.  Remind me again… why the hell am I doing this?!?

Day 3:  Today is why I am doing this.  While not eager little beavers, at least productive and far more receptive.  We did some interesting stuff mixed in with the onerous… and everybody stayed pretty much with the program.  It was a great day… until….

 Zip.  Darling Zip.  Decided, in his efforts to buy a Wii, that he would not give back the money he conned out of his younger sister the day before.  As I removed a couple of loonies and a toonie from his sweaty little palms, he let out the wildest of possible yowls.  Otherworldly, without a doubt.  From the depths of his tiny, wiry little body, coins gripped painfully in his tiny hands, he screeched for the heavens, every muscle tense sinew as his face contorted with agony… before he started his path of destruction.  Anything in his reach was thrown with reckless, disturbingly aggressive abandon as sister and elder brother ran for the hills…. sent outdoors in a complete fit, adding insult to his apparent injury, he dropped one of his precious, beloved coins in between the boards of the deck.  Ack!  

Six year old tantrums are a trip.  I’ve been a lucky parent in that I’ve never had to leave Wal-Mart with a banshee of a toddler.  Tantrums have never really been our thing.  Make no mistake, we’ve had other things… exhibitionism, for example.  But never really tantrums.  But now, at six… and they are wild.  And frustrating.  Because he knows better.  

Thankfully, upon frantic Googling this evening, I am relieved to find it is not abnormal.  Incredibly unpleasant… but not abnormal.

Day 4?  I do believe I’ve seen the worst… so bring it on! I’m ready….

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We head to town this morning. Bank. Library. Groceries. Pick up papers.

Meet with our liason with School District. The nice lady who ensures we are, in fact, teaching our kid something at home. The meetings always make me nervous. I find myself overcome with feelings of highschool inadequacy as I anticipate having to admit we haven’t completed our homework. I will have to present unfinished little workbooks confirming we haven’t been working diligently away on our ‘modules’… but likely she already knows this. I’ll feel compelled to list the things we are in fact getting formally (read: academically) accomplished, even though it might be a short list… but likely she has already determined that we aren’t a particularly structured bunch and already knows this.

Sally will confirm what lady already knows by stating casually, ‘nothing’, when she asks what we’ve been doing. I will flush, and kick him frantically under the table give him a look, silently reminding him of what we have been doing over these past two months and in my eyes he will read, ‘tell her about:

the garden… the camera… chess… camping… your first triathlon… baking… cleaning up after baking… how, after so many years HATING it, how much you absolutely LOVE reading… THE READING!’

And he will not understand my pleading stare, no matter how hard I will him from the depths of my corneas, and he will sit, his feet casually kicking the legs of his chair, as we all hang on the word, ‘nothing’.

And then I will begin to babble… as though negotiating frantically for our lives.

But, as with meetings past, she will finish by saying, we’re doing great, give us a few ideas and bid farewell. I will breathe a huge sigh of relief and as we walk out to the van, I will ask, incredulous, “how can you tell her we do nothing?”

He’ll look up at me with a mischievious grin, and as it grows into a downright evil smile, reply so very knowingly, “I dunno….”

Little shit.

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Three days down.  Halfway through my week as a single parent.  So far, so good… despite last night’s tete a tete with young Zip.

There’s something about being on my own with these miscreants.  I amp it up a few- strangely organized and no afternoon snoozes- and am strangely capable of handling more than usual.  I’m also surprisingly productive. I don’t know how sustainable this pace would be, if I were to find myself a full-time single parent, but it is a good experiment in proving to myself that I can manage things solo.  Even last night’s conflict got resolved with all of my hair intact.

Between finishing the garden, morning school and getting my ass kicked in chess this day will be pretty much kid-focused.  Particularly after reading this morning, I feel immensely fortunate and blessed to have the opportunity to share a care-free day with all of my beauties.  Camera in hand of course… in an effort to keep a piece of each and every precious day with them.

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I have no favourites. The parental mantra. And for the most part, it’s true.

But in the deepest, darkest place alone in the night, or here announcing throughout the blogosphere- assuming anyone’s reading, upon honest reflection, I have to admit it’s the one that drives me the craziest, that holds perhaps the softest spot in my heart.

He is my second child. My second son. My middle child. The child for whom, out of each of them, inspires my greatest cause for concern. Emotional. Energetic. Creative. Rebellious. He challenges me. He is bold. He’s brazen. He’s beginning to blatantly disobey me and, recently taunting me with his disregard. Laughing at me as I scold. Giggling, albeit nervously, but giggling nevertheless, as I get up in his precious, beautiful little face and demand his submission. It is immediately apparent he will not and his outright disobedience leaves me fucking unhinged. And fearful. For if he feels he can pull this off at six… how does this all go down when he’s sixteen…?

I hold him by his slender shoulders. Space shrinking to mere centimetres between our faces. Our eyes. I can see the tease of a smile glitter in their mischievious depths. I grit my teeth. I feel my nostrils expand for air. I can see his intent. And it will not be that which he knows I am requiring of him. I have no control over the situation. I don’t know to laugh or cry. When I turn my back, exasperated, I do both. I want him just to do what I ask. What I am now demanding- irate. Yelling. To absolutely no frigging avail. He’s proving stronger in his resolve than I.

I. Don’t. Know. What. To. Do.

But in the end. I submit. In the end all I can do is gather up his slim, strong little self, whether he wants to in that moment or not.  Within seconds I feel him soften- surrender into my arms. I squeeze hard. Wringing all the frustration and what’s left of resolve from both of us. I just want to absorb him back into me, where he won’t hurt. Won’t feel overlooked. Won’t feel lost, invisible, between the responsible ahead and the beautiful behind.

I don’t know if it’s his capacity to push me away that creates a bigger space for him in my heart… or if it’s the fact I know he has to fight harder to make himself heard… understood… known.

And upon reflection here, perhaps it’s not the extra space in my heart that he needs. It’s extra time, attention and love shown before the shit hits the fan.

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I’m a child of the 70’s. I was raised by young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded parents.

But I HAD to eat what was tossed at me through the grate offered to me at suppertime. We had some good stuff: spaghetti, mashed potatoes, meatloaf, fried chicken even an occasional lobster (thanks, Granny). But we also had: liver and onions, blood sausage and cabbage rolls.

Despite parents being young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded they were no pushovers. When supper was served, there were no alternates. No choices. No catering to the dietary whims of a six year old. Hell, no. And I had to eat it… I had to at least try it. Eat… however many bites. Before being let from the table.

On liver and onion night, I often slept at the table. Not all night, of course. Parents were young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded, but not heartless.

Fast forward, the new millenium… to me, nearly forty, stable, selfless (OK, not so much), so very mature (mmmm….) and maybe more than only slightly retarded, mother of three, having long ago vowed never to ever force organ meat upon my own children. I have never had a child fall asleep at the table over uneaten shitty food. I am thinking this may, in fact, be a mistake. It appears that my children expect every meal to be perfectly adapted to their very singular palates- a party for each and every individual little taste bud. Or they refuse to eat. Because here I am, fighting over food.

I am not, nor have I ever been the short order cook type of mother. And until recently, issues regarding mealtimes have been fortunately few and far between.

However, lately… typically at least one night a week and most certainly this night, I listen to middle child, dear Zip, whine about what’s being served for dinner. He raises a total stink. Tonight, case in point. The dreaded stir-fry. Vegetables, shrimp, noodles… does this sound like friggin’ liver and onions?!?

I say, exasperated, clearly not in the mood for his BS, “Fine. This is dinner. You don’t eat this. You don’t eat.” Hah. Tough tittie, little man. Try them apples! You don’t know who yer dealing with, dearest middle child.

“Awwwww-uuunnnnnngh!” Him. Clearly not concerned about my mood. And making no move to serve up what was apparently a totally wretched meal of firm, ripe fresh veggies- cooked to crunchy perfection- plump, juicy shrimp and crispy Chinese noodles- torture!

Moments later I have to run to neighbors for a five minute errand. I kid you not. Five minutes. No more.

I come home to find him in front of toob with an open can of peaches. Little shit.

I am such not a hard ass… Maybe there’s a thing or two to learn from what were once young, restless, self centred, largely immature and only slightly retarded parents. And maybe there’s also something to be said for an occasional meal of liver and onions. Kids today apparently have no accurate frame of reference….

Edited to add: I now completely adore cabbage rolls. In fact, catch me mid-January and chances are pretty good, my teeth are laden with cabbage bits and I’m covered in sour cream stains. They are the absolute comfiest of my comfort foods.

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If I had to sum up my Mother’s Day weekend… this would do it.

Happy, happy, happy like fuscia; stripey… and completely unwound.
Despite the wretched weather. It started cold and sleeting and then warmed up, evolving into very, very cool and raining. For 72 straight hours. However after watching Friday’s ‘local’ news, I was able to implement a little exercise in gratitude as I watched our compatriots over the mountains… dig out from under one full metre of snow!!

But as I always say… if you want to rape and pillage our Great, so very embittered, Mother… and then brazenly pave your streets with gold, encrust your SUV’s with diamonds and eat poor folks babies for breakfast… well, you take your lumps.

I digress…

The positively shite weather did allow for complete and total sloth-dom. Movies. Food. More food. Naps. Yes, the entire weekend was a total write-off for getting anything done… ie. load of new soil needs allocated to new beds… new beds that are still waiting to be built… blah. blah. blah.

This weekend, thanks to Our Dear Underappreciated Collective Mother, was just about hanging with the maniacs, hanging with mi Filipes and doing a whole lotta what you don’t often get an excuse to do… absolutely nuttin’!

Oh… except for outing with the miscreants on Saturday night.

Since seeing Grease not too long ago, Zip has had an unnatural and oh-so-aggravatingly inappropriate fascination with mooning… anytime… anywhere.
Much to the delight of Zip and gaggle of young, neighborhood maniacs he got the opportunity to share his fascination with pretty, done and so very teased and stuck up neighbor teenage girl. Around the fire. There she sat… innocently twirling a black marshmallow over the low flames, lost in thoughts of Zack Ephron… his tongue and other select body parts, discount designer clothes, and how she’d really rather be elsewhere smoking a big fattie… than hanging with a bunch of snot-nosed kids and old fogies, Zip squared up… only a mere nose length from her fresh, pretty, young face… bent over and let her marvel… he even did her the pleasure of spreading his skinny little cheeks.

OK… before you go and say it. I know very well this deranged expression of exhibitionism is a direct reflection of my own inadequacy as a mother….

Particularly apropos only hours before Mother’s Day… I consider myself effectively honoured!

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“Jrinxed!”

I cannot speak… damn.

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A wonderfully productive day, where I achieved even more than I thought possible this morning, sipping my beloved brew, contemplating how things would shake out today.

Only catch: it was a day that involved very little interaction or time with my kids. Oh God. Oh no. I feel it. Ugh. Here it comes… here it comes, oozing from the sloppy, odiferous depths of my soul….

Mommy guilt.

Productivity. Children. Why must these two concepts be so completely and utterly mutually exclusive?

Why can’t I have a wonderfully productive day, where I feel like I am swinging the world around by it’s long, fuzzy tail, AND have been attentive to my kids?
But, I am woman… and my mother! Hear me roar! I will not succumb! Back… back! Back from whence you came… you… you… you, maternal soul devouring monster, you!

I wash my hands… I steel myself…
All I know is that today’s been one helluva day. Where’s me durn kids?

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It’s been a great week. Despite, or perhaps because of, HIS relations having to cancel their travel plans, we have been uber-productive. Work, on top of. Both of us. School, for a few different reasons, is going like gang-busters. Both of us, as well as Zip when it suits him, are making serious progress in addition to staying really quite motivated.
No doubt taking this new opportunity to get shit done before next batch of visitors arrival. Next Friday. Seven days.

This string of nice weather has probably helped. I was even able to get myself and the kids out for little adventures a couple of afternoons.

Speaking of Zip: Loveable. Zany. Sensitive. Middle child. And therefore, by his estimation, utterly unloved with no one EVER who wants to do ANYTHING with HIM. EVER. Earlier in this, a week for the recordbooks in fantastic, attentive mothering, as Sally, Fidge and I watched photos downloading from camera to laptop (OK, wha?!?!?), Zip… feeling rejected, dejected and stuck in the pit of middle child ignoredom, jabbed me hard in each temple with his little thumb.

Jab. Jab. “Hmmmph!”
Looking up from screen, “OK, Zip. That was just weird.”
Averting mindless gaze back at screen, I hear from somewhere under my lovely chenille sofa blanket,

“My thumb was just up my butt.”

“………………..,” I’m still speechless.

Fearing potential of deep seated emotional middle child issues, have made a firm pact to be sure to spend special Mommy-Zip time with my dear, nurturing early psychotic tendencies, Zip.

It must be working. I have not had butt infused thumbs jabbed into my temples since.

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Sally, “I’m gonna make some money.”

Dad, “Oh, yeah? How?!?”

“Lemme show ya.”

Into our local grocery store. Sally sidles up to the till, “Can I have a Lucky 7’s, please?”

Cashier, “Is your mum or dad here?”

“Yup.” Points to dad.

Dad approaches. “What are you doing?”

“Makin’ some big money. It’s pretty easy.”

Dad shrugs, daring the angelic new gambler and allows the purchase of the scratch ‘n win.

They head out to the van. A coin for scratching somehow materializes in Sally’s hand.

Nuttin’. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.

“Rats!”

“Hmmm-mmmmmm…..”

He won two bucks on Monday when I bought him his first one…. OOPS!

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