Pizza for $499 - An Easter Bargain

We passed the marque for a new pizza place this morning on our way out for a drive (the only thing we can do with two of the three kids feverish and quite literally snotty), and saw the advertisement in bold letters, "Pizza $499!"

"Wow, expensive pizza," Dr. D said.

"Makes last night's dinner look like a bargain." And we both burst into something between giggles and weeping.

You see, last night we went to a party at some posh downtown restaurant. "It's covered," Dr. D insisted, saying that the hostess, who had just come into a huge inheritance, wanted to celebrate with her favorite friends in style. Well, who is going to pass up a bash in one of those restaurants you see on TV - the ones where the servers tuck your napkin under your chin for you and bring your meal out covered with a silver dome?

So, we went. "You said 'covered' right?" I asked as we drove to a distant parking lot (where we can park for free). "There's no way you misunderstood and we'll get stuck with the tab?"

"Oh, no. She was very clear. She wants to do this."

The restaurant was, indeed, a posh place. A bevy of servers escorted us to a table, shook out our napkins, offered menus, filled our water glasses. And I found you can tell the quality of a restaurant by the menu selection - i.e., more quality equals fewer options. There were eight or so dinner offerings, none of which were under $25. And all sides were ala carte. But the hostess again intimated that the meal was on her, and that no one should think about the dollar signs on the menu (she never exactly said this, however, not in so many words). So we ordered wine, and salads, and potatoes, and steaks. Not extravagant, but not the "budget plan" either. And the food, although not brought out with little domes, was delivered in perfect synchrony - six servers holding six plates, all bending to place them on the table at the exact same moment.

A new Olympic sport - synchronized serving.

My steak was lovely, but I'll admit, I've made steak au poivre before, and it tasted exactly the same. So a nice meal, good conversation, overpriced wine (Rosemont Cabernet at $10 per glass when I can get a whole bottle for $12? Please.), and an eerily choreographed serving staff - it would have been a good experience, for a party. But, then came The Moment. Our server asked, "Will this be on separate checks or one?"

This isn't MY steak. Just any old steak. They're all the same after a while...

One of the other guests, who'd been knocking back Scotch with gusto, quickly said, "Oh, separate of course!" The hostess said nothing.

And that was that.

The cost of two steaks, two salads, drinks and a side? $170, with tip. Compared to a $499 pizza, that is quite the bargain.

Who am I Kidding?

Yesterday I took the kids to the library. Easy enough, yes? A simple little trip: in the van, out of the van, in the library, look about a bit, back in the van, home?

Um, no. Not simple. Not at all.

I did not take any of this advice under consideration. Why should I? I've been to the library before. I've left the kids to play under Daddy's attentive eye and run off to pick up a book or two from the children's nonfiction section, and lived to tell the tale. So, I hopped in the car without a second thought.

Only, I did not have Dr. D with me. Oops.

Flashback a few months: the library system opens their much-anticipated brand new beautiful library. After a year of operating at minimum capacity out of a little storefront, they have a huge, sprawling building. Two floors! Elevator! A deck overlooking the lake! Quite impressive, I think, until my first visit.

Why are designers who have no children allowed to design children's sections of libraries? Why? There are a dozen lovely play areas. A little kitchen. A puppet theater. A huge aquarium. Climbing mats. A doll house. A baby enclosure. Did I mention the library is sprawling? I think so. And so, the play areas should have signs, "limited sight distance." Because if one child is in the kitchen, the baby in the baby area, and another looking at the fish ... there is no place for Mom to stand where she can see all at once. Where she can see even two at once.

That first trip to the library resulted in me coming home frazzled and in tears (Dr. D was out of town which always makes things worse). And since then, I'd been back many times, almost always with Dr. D. so the memory was no more than a shadow. Until yesterday.

Yesterday St. Nick attached himself to the computer, Little Fish went for the kitchen, and Mud Pie took up a seat at the doll house. But I didn't want St. Nick at the computers - he has a "problem" with computers. Screen time makes him fussy and it's very hard to get him away from them. So I told him to stay in the kitchen for "just a second" while I ran off (with Mud Pie and one of the doll house toys) to the other side of the aquarium to get some books for school (the nonfiction children's books are on the other side of that level).

A few seconds later, over Mud Pie's protests about missing the doll house, I heard Little Fish screaming. I rushed back ... around the aquarium, through the floor-to-ceiling poles of the "lily pad", past the doll house (cue Mud Pie screamed again), past the computers where I found St. Nick ... and to the kitchen, where Little Fish was playing happily. ??? Some other child has a scream just as shrill as his. Good to know. I told St. Nick to GET OFF THE COMPUTER, left Mud Pie this time at the doll house and rounded the aquarium with the intention of really quickly finding a book on weather.

I found my book and rushed back again to find Mud Pie staring in horror at some other child who had taken all the doll house toys from her. The mother of that child fake-smiled at me and said, "Oh, we were WONDERING who she belonged to!" and St. Nick was AGAIN at the computer (not using it - he had obeyed that - rather sitting beside another boy, instructing him on how to play the game), and, thankfully, Little Fish was still playing happily at the kitchen. Despite having been shoved in the chest by another child right as I walked up.

Next up was checking out. So, I herded the brood to the self-scan (self-scan! at the library!) and Little Fish bolted out the doors and into the community center to the elevator. I dropped Mud Pie on the counter by the self-scan and told St. Nick to NOT MOVE from her (the same "I WONDERED" mom was at the other self-check and was glaring at me), and sprinted to the elevator before Fish could get on and end up who knows where. Then I ran back to scan books while I had Little Fish by the scruff of his jacket, had Mud Pie on the counter trying to grab the glaring-mommy's child's hat, and had St. Nick fighting me over how to scan the books.

More adventures on the way out of the building, including me having to leave Mud Pie in the entry way to run back and keep Little Fish from dropping his movie over the balcony to the ground floor.

I did not cry when I got home, I just popped in the movie, sat all three kids in front of it, and made lunch. I'll be honest, the Mom's Survival Guide wouldn't have helped me, not unless it recommended tranquilizers or a leash. I suppose it would have helped, had I truly taken to heart the "Know Thyself" dictum. Then I never would have gotten in the van in the first place.

About this time last year, we purchased a year's membership to the zoo, which gets me in for free whenever I want. I have not yet used it.

The mere thought of Zoo + Kids makes me want to break out the hard stuff.

Cheap Chocolate Saves the Day!

In the morning was a Mom.
A grumpy Mom.
And with that grumpy Mom were three kids.
Three noisy kids.
Three fussy kids.
Three grumpy, fussy, noisy kids.
Mom had a headache.
Mom had a to-do list with no check marks.
Grumpy Mom had a headache, a to-do list with no check marks, and three grumpy, fussy, noisy kids.

And then the mail came.
In the mail was a box.
The box said, "To the Kids."
In the box was newspaper.
In the newspaper were packages.
One for St. Nick.
One for Little Fish.
One for Mud Pie.
In the first package were toys and candy and chocolate Easter bunnies.
In the second package were bubbles and candy and chocolate Easter bunnies.
In the third package were cuddly peeping chicks and candy and chocolate Easter bunnies.

Kids ate chocolate bunny ears.
No more fussy!
No more grumpy!
No more noisy!

Ahhhhh. Happy Mommy and Happy Kids.
Thank You, Grandma!

On Workbooks

A blessing and a bane. I began relying on workbooks for grammar a month or so ago. Found a very nice Scholastic Success with Grammar that gave me confidence that we were actually covering things we should be covering. Only problem is, too many workbooks are boring. And whether St. Nick will do them or not depends entirely upon his mood and my fortitude. Not that I have to sit him down and force him to do a workbook page. He rather likes them, on occasion. But I, dumbly, planned three or four workbook pages (different subjects - math, grammar, spelling, something else) for today and he's not having a workbooky sort of day.

He's standing here pouting about having to trace numbers. But kiddo, your handwriting is atrocious! Okay, so is mine. It may well be inherited. But by golly I'm the teacher-mom and I need to at least try to have him surpass my shortcomings. Right?

How did commenting on workbooks get to this? I have no idea. I just feel the need to write something right now. But, alas, Little Fish is up from his Fire Fighters movie. No more Musings from me.

The short of it: Scholastic "Success for..." workbooks are great. I bought (at Bargain Books) the big bound set for 1st and 2nd grades which are even in color. Cool! Not that I'll use all the sheets, but it's nice to have something fun to toss down on the table that I know will advance learning at the same time. If anything, it's useful to me as a reminder of what I should be teaching. "Oh, yes. Nouns are Naming Words!" It's been a while since I was in 1st grade.

Straining

"Only boring people are bored." That's the quip my mother used to blast me with every summer when I spent most of my day being bored and complaining loudly about it. Why, oh why did she have to give me the mother's curse? St. Nick has been flopping from one piece of furniture to the next, bored bored bored bored.

He wants to use the computer.

I want him to break his digital addiction.

I'm the parent. I need to win.

On another note, this is how my morning went with Mud Pie...

me: (taking her out of snowsuit) Do you want your shoes?
her: shoes! shoes!
me: (trying to put shoes on her)
her: WAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
me: ok, no shoes. I see.
her: SHOES SHOES SHOES!!!
me: you want your shoes?
her: shoes shoes.
me: (approaches with shoes)
her: shaking head "no" and WAAAHHHHHH!
me: (puts shoes away)
her: SHOES SHOES SHOES SHOES!!!!!
me: (approach again)
her: NOOOOOOOO!
me: (backs away quickly)
her: SHOOOOOOOOOOOOOSSSSSS!
me: (puts shoes on floor beside her) Here, shoes.
her: nononononononon! WAAAAHHHHH!

Wailing continued for several minutes while she thrashed on the floor. I at last picked her up (my shoulder is a dried snot slick now), "What is it, Baby?"

"COOOOKKKKKIIIIIEEEEEEE!!!!!"

Gave her a banana, all is well. Still trying to connect this to shoes.

All of December

We potty trained Little Fish.

It went well.
It was hell.
He's done now.

School just didn't happen very much.

As of today, back on track.

What Freud Never Told Us: Potty Envy

I am coming out of week one of Potty Boot Camp. This would be with Little Fish. I’ve done potty before with his older brother, so I should have been prepared. But as with all big changes, like having a newborn, that first week is horrible. Nothing but emotion, adjustment, exhaustion. I’d forgotten about that.

Come to our house for a Christmas Potty!

There was one thing I could not have known because I’d never done it before. St. Nick was an only child when he went through PTBC, and he switched from diapers to puppy pants (his phrase, I have no idea why) with little complication. But Fish, with St. Nick and the baby? Complication, indeed.

The baby is as reasonable a seventeen-month-old as one can expect. Slightly jealous when I hold a friend’s baby, but not yet in the terrible twos. Until Potty Day.

Mud Pie cannot get over the potty. It is her throne, her private chair—strange for a child who is not yet walking and who ignored the potty for the past six months, when I had it out “in preparation.” Whenever her brother sits on it, she throws herself on her face and wails. He has taken to grabbing her around her little middle and hauling her away so he can do his job. All the while saying, “No baby, NO Baby!”

And St. Nick, whom I expected to be excited and helpful with this task (I mean, this is a kid who lives for talk of poop and pee pee, for all things gross and stinky), morphed into a toddler when Boot Camp began. Fish would get a treat for having dry pants, and St. Nick would demand, “Where’s mine? I have dry pants too!”

“Well, yes. You do. But you already know how to use the potty.”

For some reason, this answer didn’t cut it with him.

Most of the stress of Potty Week did not come from fear of accidents or the constant hawkish watch I kept for “signals” (you moms who’ve done this will know what I mean), but from the other two kids. And it wasn’t about the potty, not at all. It was about Fish and the extra moments of my attention he received.

The thing that bothers me most: Fish is the happiest I’ve ever seen him—has he been shortchanged in the attention department these past years? And what of his siblings? They had grown so accustomed to him getting less, that now they bristle at the praises and treats showered on him.

The week was a full one, but an important one as well. Despite my intentions not to do so, I see now that I have been treating my middle child as, well, a middle child. And it took a potty to open my eyes.