Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

Remember when you were a child and some kid with a really big mouth blabbed to you that there was no such thing as Santa Claus? Well, sorry, but that was me. I didn’t mean to ruin your Christmas fantasy, to make you cry, or bring you down on Christmas morning. It’s just that when I figured it out, I thought you’d want to know. I thought that “The Adults” were trying to pull something over on us and it didn’t seem right. At the time, I didn’t understand that Christmas was way more fun when you believed in the magic of Santa. Learning the truth so early made me a skeptical kid, and sadly, my skepticism continues today.  

I don’t remember the back story entirely–what made me question Santa’s existence–but somewhere around the first grade I got suspicious. Unfortunately, my mom wasn’t the best at hiding gifts or bluffing, for that matter. So when I stumbled upon an unwrapped Suzy Homemaker Oven in her closet, right in plain sight, I immediately smelled a rat. When I confronted my mother, she toppled like a house of cards. She didn’t even try to convince me there was a Santa. And I was only six years old! (The whole idea of sex she tried to hide from me but believing in the magic of Christmas? Forget about it!) 

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.

I wasn’t always so cynical. I do remember a time when I did believe in Santa. I remember staring out the window from my bed on Christmas Eve trying to search for Rudolph’s red nose. I remember heading to New York City and hoping I wouldn’t pee when I sat on Santa’s lap at Macy’s . I remember the nervousness on Christmas morning wondering if Santa had come and if we walked into the living room would we catch him in the act? In those days, Christmas time was always filled with whimsy and wonderment. 

I miss those days. 

But in life we do get a second chance to try and repair some of the faults of our own childhoods by doing things differently when we get to be parents. Since I’ve always felt bad that I was the neighborhood Scrooge I’ve gone to great lengths to keep the Christmas fantasy alive with my own boys, and as far as I can tell, it’s worked. 

Sure, I’ve used the usual bag of tricks like wrapping Santa’s gifts in different paper, and even having someone else write out the gift tags so my kids wouldn’t recognize the handwriting. And no one can hide a gift better than me, stashing many inside old suitcases that lay dormant in the garage. But if they were to give out an Academy Award for the Best Portrayal of a Parent Answering Kids’ Questions About Santa, I’d win hands down. 

Earnest and straight-faced, I’ve given a four-star performance as I’ve answered a barrage of questions like, “Why do some kids get way more gifts than us?” 

Easy. I send a note every year to Santa telling him about our family values and which gifts are appropriate and which ones are not. That also explains why my kids don’t receive the violent video games that they put on their yearly lists, too. 

But last year when my boys skepticism was rising, I had a stroke of genius. As we were heading out to mass on Christmas Eve, I pretended that I had forgotten something  in the house. When I ran back inside, I quickly placed Santa’s gifts under the tree (I had moved them from the garage into my bedroom that afternoon while they were off doing something else) and then raced back to the car. When we got home that evening, the boys walked into the room to discover that Santa had come! Their gasps of disbelief were audible. Totally priceless. 

Kids grow up way too fast these days. They see the harsh realities of life that we were immune to as children just a few decades ago. So if I can keep my boys believing in miracles and magic for just a few years longer, than I think my job as a parent has been well done. 

Merry Christmas.

Silence is Golden–Not!

It’s Friday afternoon and it’s so loud in my house that I literally can’t think. Number Three Son asked to have some friends over after school, and if I knew how loud they would be I would have said no. Or at least I would have requested muzzles before entering the front door. What a great idea! I should buy a bunch on Amazon of varying sizes and colors and keep them in a basket by the front door. As each child walks through the front door, he removes his shoes and choose a muzzle. Think that would fly with their parents?

I don’t want to be “That Mom.” You know, that one who always breaks up the fun by saying, ”Settle Down Boys!” But come on! Do they have to scream? (Did we scream like that when we were kids?) Do they have to constantly tackle each other? (My house is shaking.) And now that the weather is turning colder, they won’t go outside. So it’s PlayStation and Wii. All-afternoon-long.

Whatever happened to board games? That’s would make things a bit quieter anyway. When I suggest it, my kids counter with, “Mom! That’s why they call them BORED games!”

Remember The Game of Life? One of my all-time favorites. Or, did you ever play Mystery Date? That’s an oldie but goodie! (Yikes, I am a geek!) As the box says, “Open the door to reveal your perfect match!” Not sure the boys would enjoy it but I sure loved getting the guy in the tux as my date! On cold wintery days, I remember building forts with blankets. I’d move my bed close to the wall and tuck the blanket under the mattress and then pin the other end of the blanket in a window sash. We’d sit under those covers for hours. What we did there I can’t remember but I’m sure we were quiet. That’s kinda a prerequisite for playing in forts–you have to be quiet and still otherwise it just won’t work.

The boys just left the Wii to play “School” in the other room. I remember playing that as a kid, too, but my sons’ version is a bit different. The object of their game is to see who can piss the teacher off royally. And, in return, the teacher is allowed to use corporal punishment to keep his students in line. Not much school work going on though, just lots of door slamming and more screaming. I don’t even want to look.

 Number One Twin Son has just suggested an iPod with ear buds. Great idea. I wonder how loud I can turn up the music without destroying my hearing?

What time did their parents say they were coming to pick them up?

A Tough Lesson to Learn

As soon as Number One Twin Son got into my car yesterday after school, I knew something was wrong.

“Today in six-period science class,” he began slowly, “Jonathan said, ‘Hey, I didn’t do the homework! Let me see yours.’ And against my better judgement, I gave it to him.”

As my son slipped his homework across his desk to his classmate, the teacher appeared and snatched it out of their hands. She sent them both down to the principal’s office where they not only got a stern reprimand and a review of school rules, but were both sentenced to Saturday detention where for two hours they will clean and scrub the bathroom walls free of graffiti and pick up campus trash.

“I feel so stupid,” my son whispered, tears welling up in his eyes. “I’m so humiliated.” He definitely needed a little motherly TLC but we’d have to wait until we got out of the school parking lot. After all, he is in middle school and you simply can’t be seen hugging your mom there!

As we drove home in silence, I began to think about his predicament. My first gut reaction was that the punishment didn’t fit the crime. My son has always been a rule follower and a great student. His only crime, as I saw it, was bowing under the pressure of his classmate.

These days with school officials facing growing school violence and vandalism, some have tipped the scales to such an extreme with their “zero-tolerance” policies. Remember back in September when a first grader faced 45-days of reform school for bringing a camping utensil that contained a knife to school? Thankfully the little boy received a reprieve and was allowed back to class but that wasn’t the first time where overly ambitious rules went too far. Yet schools have to be vigilant about student safety on all fronts and that includes cheating.

By the time we got home, I realized that my son will not only survive his two-hour Saturday detention but actually benefit from it greatly. Sure, he’ll have a great “war story” to share with his friends, but more importantly, he’ll never be tempted to cheat again. When the school sentenced him to detention, they actually gave him and other rule-followers who are afraid to speak up against the rule-breakers for fear of looking “uncool,” the greatest excuse or “out” of all: “Sorry, dude. The last time I gave my homework to someone, I got two hours of Saturday detention. I’m not doin’ that again.”

And that’s a school rule we all can live with.

All Kids Welcome at Our House

Early Halloween evening, there was a knock at the door. No, it wasn’t a trick-or-treater but one of my son’s 8th-grade classmates, Dan. He was meeting a friend who lived across the street to go out for the night but Dan was more than an hour early and his friend wasn’t home from soccer yet. Could he wait at our house?

Of course!

Dan was relieved and thanked me as he made his way to our den and the Wii. A half hour later, he was sitting at the table with my sons devouring a bowl of pasta before heading out. (I guess his parents not only got the drop-off time wrong but forgot to feed Dan as well!)

No worries. Over the years, the neighborhood kids have all learned that they can always count on a warm welcome in our house.

I’m just following what my mom did many years ago. When I was a teenager, my mom often encouraged me to invite bands of kids over on a weekend night. If a friend dropped by unexpectedly, they were welcome inside, too. Always. No questions asked. She wanted our house to be “The Place.” You know, that one house where all the kids want to hang out. To my mom’s way of thinking, she’d rather have a bunch of hungry, loud kids crowding her den messing up her couch than not knowing where any of us were. She figured that if she fed us good Italian food, we’d stay. And we did.

Smart woman. 

You may think that inviting your childrens’ friends over is a no-brainer but I never saw the inside of many of my childhood friends’ homes. Ever. Just as my mom encouraged me to invite kids over for casual, weekend get-togethers, many of my friends’ parents forbade them to have anyone over, best friends included, and even after school. I always thought that it was odd but many parents just don’t want to be bothered. They figure the kids will sneak in booze or pot, or that someone will do something crazy like jump from the roof of the house into the backyard swimming pool (sadly, that has happened several times to my neighbors). The liability is just too great, they think, so many pass on the parties.

Sure, it’s down-right tiring having a house full of teenage boys. (Some kids simply won’t leave until you open the front door and tell them it’s time to go.) And they do mess your house and are sometimes careless with your furnishings no matter how many times you ask them to use a coaster or take their shoes off. But the pay off to all this work is immeasurable.

First, I get to know my kids friends. I know which ones have a bit of mischief in them and need a little more watching over as well as the ones who are turning into positive leaders and role models. I hear their conversations, too (no, I’m not eavesdropping per se but teenagers are LOUD), and learn what’s important to them (right now mostly electronics but the topic of girls does creep in every now and then). By most importantly, I’m building a stronger bond with my own boys. They know that they can trust me and count on me to help them navigate the world their about to enter–adulthood.

Go Ahead…Make My Day

Some days I like to torture my kids. Not literally, of course, just figuratively. It’s usually when they’re naughty and push just about every one of my buttons. They leave me no choice but to pull out the big guns. Either I have a little fun with them or I pack my bags and leave.

Take today, for instance. As soon as they got home from school the trouble began. No one would quiet down and do their homework. Regardless of how many times I poked my head into their study room and told them to settle down, they continued with their school-boy pranks until I finally exploded and separated all of them–one boy at the kitchen table, one in the living room. Number One Twin Son won “rock, paper, scissors” and got to stay at his desk. 

By the time they got to their tennis lesson at the public park an hour later, they were in rare form. When their coach wasn’t looking, they lobbed tennis balls at one another or pretended their rackets were swords, jabbing each other in the stomach. They were disruptive to the class. They were loud.

It wasn’t pretty. In fact, it was down-right embarrassing. The other moms gave me the “I can’t believe she let’s her kids get away with that” look. I didn’t blame them really. My kids were getting their kids into the act! The younger boys in the class love my sons and flock to them like rock stars, practically throwing their jock straps at my sons’ feet. 

I walked over to the fence and called Number Two Twin Son over to speak with me. With my teeth clenched, I quietly hissed, “Knock it the hell off,” and walked away. That did little good for within minutes he and Number Three Son were hitting tennis balls straight up trying to hit the flood lights.

What had gotten into them?

When we got home, I calmly walked to the front door trying to keep my cool as they chased each other around the car. I unlocked the door, walked inside, closed the door and locked it.

Finally, peace and quiet. It felt good. They were locked out and I didn’t care. Now it was my turn to be naughty. 

Within minutes they were knocking on the door asking to come in out of the cold. I ignored their pleas and walked into my bedroom to get changed. I could hear them discussing what to do next. The three of them ran around to the back door just as I was entering the kitchen to start dinner. I could see their little faces pressed up against the back door window as I entered the adjacent pantry to get supplies.

“Open the door! We have to pee!” they cried. I pretended I didn’t see them (they knew I could) as I grabbed a box of pasta and headed back to the kitchen.

They continued to bang on the back pantry door. I walked in again pretending to need something. “Mom, we really have to pee!” they pleaded. Again, I pretended not to see them (of course they knew I did), turned and walked out. Now I was really having some fun!

After a few minutes, I opened the door slightly, and spoke. “Here’s the deal,” I said. “You can come inside but you can’t speak for one hour. If you do, you’ll lose TV time tomorrow.”

“An hour?” they scoffed.

“Take it or leave it,” I said slowly closing the door. They quickly relented and quietly came inside. 

But within moments they each had a pad of paper and pen in hand, feverishly writing notes, following me from room to room.

“Do grunts and animal noises count as talking?” Number One Twin Son wrote.

No.

“Did he just talk?” wrote Number Two Twin Son. “I thought he talked!”

“Tattling is not allowed,” I said.

Number Three Son stepped up shoving a note in front of my face. “Make him loose TV time for ratting people out!!”

“Don’t you mean lose?” I said pointing to the misspelled word. This is great, I thought. They don’t get to speak and get to practice their spelling at the same time! It’s a win-win.

“This is fun,” Number Three Son wrote. “Can you make us not talk until Dad gets home?”

Now that’s music to my ears.

Male-Pattern Blindness

We’ve all heard of male-pattern baldness, but have you ever heard of male-pattern blindness? You know, that genetic mutation that blocks men from seeing something, even when it’s right in front of them?

How many times, for instance, have you heard your husband yell, “Honey, where’s the mayonnaise?” You roll your eyes because you know darn well that the mayonnaise is right where it’s been for the past 10 years–on the top shelf of the refrigerator. So you call back, “On the top shelf of the refrigerator where it always is!”

“Nope. Not there!” he replies. Then you come into the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, reach up to the top shelf, move the milk, and viola, the mayonnaise suddenly appears!

Well, let me tell you dear readers, this condition inflicts even very young males. As the mother of three sons, I deal with it every day. Furthermore, the disease takes many forms. For instance, my young studs never see when something is out of the ordinary or out-of-place in our own home. There could be a dead body lying on the living room rug and my guys would simply step over it and ask, “What’s for dinner?” 

As this is an ongoing problem in my home, I decided to conduct an experiment. I’m trying to see how many times my husband and three sons walk blindly by an article on the floor without picking it up. One day? Two days? A week? A month? Who knows but won’t it be fun finding out? (I’m guessing three days minimum but you can place your own wager.)

If you saw this lying on the floor, I bet you'd pick it up!

The said ”article on the floor” is a blue and yellow postcard that my youngest son brought into our home yesterday afternoon. Somehow the postcard got left on the hallway floor last night. I noticed it immediately and was about to pick it up when I thought, “No. I won’t pick it up. I want to see how long it will take them to pick it up.” Now a postcard may get lost sitting on the floor in some homes but in ours it stands out. Although I’m not a fastidious housekeeper, we don’t leave piles of things of things lying around. Trust me, the postcard is noticeable. If another woman were to walk into my house right now, I’m betting she’d reach down and pick it up.

So I wait and wonder, and yes, even snicker, as not only my boys but my darling husband pass it by time and time again.

Stay tuned.

Sunday, October 25: The Results of My Experiment

It’s been awhile since I posted about my little experiment but I did keep notes nonetheless. The postcard remained on the floor for a total of six days. At one point it got kicked into the livingroom and managed to wedge itself halfway under the area rug. And still no one picked it up. After a day or so of half hiding there, I decided to move it six inches to the right where it would be in full view of everyone. As Number Three Son came walking through the living room later that day, I noticed his eyes briefly glancing down at it but there was no recognition on his face and he certainly didn’t pick it up. It was only on Day Six that I saw the postcard in question sitting on the coffee table. I turned to my husband and asked if he had picked it up.

“Yeh,” he said. “I saw it just lying on the floor. I didn’t know what it was so I put it on the coffee table.”

I still don’t know if that shows a sign of hope. He did pick it up after all (albeit after six days of lying on the floor), but would it have killed him to drop it in the trash????

Nobody Ever Says, “I Want Three Boys.”

As my fiftieth birthday rapidly approaches (six months and counting), I have been wistfully remembering the days of my care-free twenties. (Remember those?) My husband was then my boyfriend, sex was sweaty and a-plenty, and kids were the furthest thing from my mind.

Sidebar: I honestly don’t remember exactly what I thought about on a daily basis back then, but it certainly wasn’t kids! Obviously I had a deep thought every now and then. But what was it?? These days, kids are ALL I can think about. (Where are they? When do I need to pick them up? Are they doing their homework? When will they stop driving me crazy?)

Don’t get me wrong. I loved babies when I was in my twenties. They’re cute. They smell great. They never rudely talk back to you. It was kids I could have done without. They ask way too many questions. They’re always sticky. And they love to put their fingers in places that they shouldn’t. So back then, my boyfriend (a.k.a. “the husband”) and I did everything to avoid them.

I've always loved babies--they never talk back!

For instance, I remember traveling together in Italy. (My God, that was so romantic.) We stopped for several days at the seaside villages of the Cinque Terre (Google it–it’s gorgeous). We rented a room in a hilltop apartment with a vast view of vineyard-covered hills cradling the Mediterranean. In the other bedroom of the apartment was a young couple, not much older than us, from Germany.  They were quiet, polite, and spoke perfect English. They tried to be friendly. They even invited us to dinner. We declined. Why? THEY HAD A TODDLER. Every time we saw the three of them, we smiled, turned and walked away–fast! (Talk about the “Ugly American.”)

About a year later, while camping at the beautiful Jenny Lake campground in The Grand Tetons National Park, we had the misfortunate of choosing a site directly across from a family with three boys! THREE BOYS?? As you can imagine, their campsite was lively. Noisy. Energetic. With every yelp or raised voice, we’d roll our eyes at each other and whisper, “Why can’t these parents control these kids?”

Fast forward thirty years….here we are the parents of three boys. Ironic, huh? Now when we hike the National Parks with our brood, I can’t help but notice the young, childless couples that pass us along the trails. They never make eye contact. They never smile. They stare down at their feet. They’re not thinking of kids…they’re thinking of sweaty sex.

Ah, to be young again!

Dear Liza Minelli

Dear Liza Minelli:
Sorry we missed your performance last night at the Hollywood Bowl but we had to evacuate our home due to the Station Fire in the Angeles Nat’l Forest. You must have smelled the smoke. I hope it didn’t affect your voice!

What a difference a day makes, huh? Sorry, don’t mean to quote a really bad song from the 1970s considering you’re an expert and all, but the last thing I ever thought I’d be doing on Saturday afternoon was running around my home deciding what stays and what gets shoved into the trunks of my two, really small cars. (Darn you, Global Warming! Why didn’t we keep that Ford F150 pick-up truck? That sure would have come in handy.)

When I first got that reverse 911 call from the city ordering us to evacuate, I did what any person would have done in my situation. I ran in circles with my hands in the air for about ten minutes shouting, “What should we take? What should we do?”

OK, I panicked a bit. My kids will attest to that. Instead of hugging them and reassuring them, I pulled them into their rooms, swung open their closet doors, pulled out their suitcases and yelled, “Pack three days worth of clothing, and anything you think has sentimental value!” I went into General Patton mode. Not very becoming of a mother. Like I said, I panicked.

Yet it didn’t take me long to realize that we had a bit of time before the flames would reach our home. Quite a bit of time actually. Still, the police quardined off our neighborhood–no more residents allowed in and once you left, you couldn’t get back until the evacuation notice lifted. So we slowed down. We took our time loading the cars with photo albums, artwork, family heirlooms…the usual. I calmed down, too, and was able to direct my attention to my kids. Number 3 Son kept asking if our house would burn down. I felt pretty confident that it wouldn’t and reassured him that we’d take his mice with us when it was time to leave. I noticed what he packed, too. His favorite sweatpants, three pairs of underwear, and photos of our cat that he barely knew. He took his snow globe collection, a U.S. Airforce patch, and a small ceramic dog that he got for Christmas from his brother.

He knew what was important to keep. I, on the other hand, wasn’t so sure. As I wondered through the house I realized quickly that there were very few things that couldn’t be replaced. Of course I grabbed all the photos thankfully sitting in a pile waiting to be organized into albums. (See? Procrastination does have its virtues.) I also packed everything associated with my late mother including a small ceramic plate from Capri as she loved visiting Italy. Yet everything else surprisingly meant little. I stared at my living room furniture thinking what it would be like if it burned that evening. Morose but not that farfetched considering the circumstances. I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe it’s time to redecorate.”

TV? Wii? PlayStation? Never liked them in my house anyway. Nothing but mindless noise. When it was time to pack a suitcase, I was stymied. As I flipped through my closet, I was totally unimpressed with my wardrobe, and found myself saying, “Nah, don’t care if that burns. Ugh, never liked that shirt anyway.”

Funny how a raging wildfire can help you clarify your sense of style.

My lesson from all this? Slow down. Take it in. Hug your kids.  And if the house were ever burning down, grab the mice. The rest is just filler.

Singing the Road Trip Blues

Why does any marginally reasonable American family ever consider taking a road trip? It’s a question I’ve been mulling over in my mind for the past several hours while motoring north along Interstate 15 towards Zion National Park. The kids in the backseat, as you can imagine, are like caged cats, ready to bolt or at least swipe the face of their seat-mate if only they could get away with it. It’s your typical sibling behavior.

Grumpy Passengers

 “Move over.”

 “No, you move over.”

 “Shut up.”

 “No, you shut up.”

“Mom! He’s touching me!”

“Am not!”

I’ve whipped my head around flashing clenched teeth so often that my neck has a permanent kink in it. At least at home I can get away from them when they begin to drive me nuts. I can grab a glass of wine and close my bedroom door. Here I simply can’t. Oh, how I wish we had rented that minivan. That extra row of seats would have been a welcome respite. But here in our cramped Toyota Camry, I can only ignore them for so long before I verbally explode all over them.

“Mom! Tell him to get his snotty tissues off my side.”

“At least I don’t pick my nose!”

I whip my head around, again. This time my stern words literally pin them against the backs of their seats. Their eyes widen. They shut up. I feel better. We drive on. But the peace doesn’t last long and soon the whining begins.

“How much longer?”

“Can we stop and get some ice cream? P-L-E-A-S-E??”

By 4 pm it’s 114 degrees and my husband has threatened to drop the kids off in Valley of Fire as we pass the exit. “That’ll show ‘em hot,” he laughs of the beautiful swath of barren desert so deserving of its name. “Here’s some water. We’ll pick you up in three days.”

It’s the first time I’ve smiled all day.

Yet this whole scene is nearly identical to the last road trip that we took in April, or like the one we took in Februrary, and even like the one we took last summer. Our record is 1,200 miles in 10 days. Pure Interstate misery. It seems we don’t learn our lesson. So why, why do we do it?

Beats me.

The Beauty of the Road

I’ll Give You Positive Reinforcement…Right in the Nose!

As Number One Twin Son made his way into my bathroom to take a shower this morning, I reminded him to wipe down the shower door when he was done. (He rarely does and the droplets leaves horrible water spots as it dries.)

When I walked into my bathroom after he was done, I came to a parenting crossroads. Although he did a great job cleaning off the shower door, he not only left the lights on but the exhaust fan running as well. Oh, the penguins! Oh, the polar ice caps! Oh, my escalating electric bill!

I stood there for a moment deciding which road to take. Either, A) I could thank him for doing such a great job on the shower door, or B) I could reprimand him for neglecting to turn off the light and the fan. (Yes, I know I could go with option C) do both, or even option E) say nothing but….) 

I bit my tongue (hard) and chose “A.”

As a parent trying to teach her young boys to be responsible men, I feel I’m always giving directives. “Please take your feet off the chair,” “Please stifle that burp,” and even, “Kindly close the bathroom door when you’re peeing.” Yet all parenting experts agree that when it comes to getting the best out of our kids, try to ignore the little stuff and focus on the positive instead. 

It’s not always easy for me. For instance, yesterday after his snack, I asked Number Two Twin Son to wash out the empty salsa jar and put it in the recyling bin. He did but then left the crusty lid sitting on the counter instead of tossing it in the trash.

Oh, so close!

So do I nitpick about his lack of follow-through or do I throw the lid out myself?

Given the nature of young boys to do most things halfway (or half-assed, depending on your point of view), I often find that I’m straining to catch them doing something good! A full day can go by without my giving them the thumbs up, and by the end of the day I’m desperate. Sometimes the best I can do is, “Uh, thanks for putting the toilet seat down.” (Hey, in a house with four males, that is an accomplishment.)

And when it comes to imparting positive reinforcement, don’t get me started on their behavior. I realize that middle-school twins are desperately forging their relationships outside of their own twinship, and that for some twin pairs, the early teen years bring on a lot of verbal wrangling, but enough already! I can’t take any more of the bickering and name calling. It’s getting harder to be the patient onlooker, the impartial referee.

“Number One Twin Son? Do you understand why Number Two Twin Son is feeling angry with you?”

“You don’t? Well can you tell him why you feel hurt by his behavior?”

“No, no, no. Let’s try to use positive words to express ourselves, shall we?”

This can go on for only so long before I close my eyes and visualize slapping their heads together like one of the Three Stoogies and yelling, “Knock it the hell off and get along!”

I keep telling myself that right now they’re on a personal journey (eyes rolling), and someday they will grow up to be responsible and caring men. I just need to be consistent with the rules and try to keep my cool.

There. I feel better now. But if you’ll excuse me, someone forgot to put their breakfast dishes in the dishwasher.

Crap! Another parenting crossroads!