Who the hell am I?

When I first fell in love, I did what every future bride does with her groom to be. I checked if our names were compatible. Mrs. Ellen Stephanie S-k-y-w-a-l-k-e-r. It rolled off the tongue at the time. And when I double checked our destiny with AEIOU/12345 test (remember that?), I knew Luke was my future. Unfortunately, my beloved at 12 had other plans for himself --like kissing his sister and saving the galaxy—so I never did become Ellen Skywalker.

At 27, I did decide to go all out traditional and change my name when I got married. My grandmother did. My mother did. And, as I wanted nothing more than to meld my life with my then fiancée, I decided to do the same. The notion was a charming one. And I wasn’t alone in my thinking. Even today, some 70 percent of the respondents in a study conducted by the Center for Survey Research at Indiana University, felt they should take their spouse’s surname - and 50 percent said that it should be a legal requirement for a woman to take her spouse’s last name. Rush Limbaugh can do the happy dance.

It sounded simple enough but actually taking on another name and using it day to day kind of flipped me out. If after 27 years, I was no longer Ellen Stephanie Simon, who was I? Names are a big deal in Judaism. We name our kids after deceased love ones in the hopes that they will be imbued with that person’s positive traits. I was named after my great grandmother Esther, who was considered a very strong woman. I’d been told that my last name, Simon, was originally Siminovitz but it was hastily shortened by some lazy scribe at Ellis Island.

My name had meaning to me. If something that was such a big part of my identity, could be changed so easily (“sign right here”), who was I? I reasoned that nothing important was changing. It was just a label. And I started to think of myself, not as Ellen Stephanie Simon or Ellen Stephanie Pifer or Ellen Stephanie Simon Pifer or even Ellen Simon Pifer, though I tried them all on for size. I started to think of myself as simply “Ellen.” I figured, I’d follow in the footsteps of a long line of powerhouse women like Cleopatra, Cher, Madonna and Pink. Did they even have last names? Or did they change them seasonally?

Now with the dissolution of my marriage, I have the opportunity to change my name yet again and I find myself craving old me, wanting to shed this now ill-fitting name. It might be nice to symbolically slam the door on life as Ellen Pifer. But, as with most decisions there are other issues at play. Three big ones. My three sons have their father’s last name and I wonder how reclaiming my maiden name might affect them. I would never want them to feel I was leaving our family or rejecting them in any way. And Lord knows, I’m no longer a “maiden”. So, I’ve got a lot to think about in the coming weeks. And in the meantime, I’ll just be imagining my name up in lights “Ellen” On second thought, I’m shortening it to the much hipper “Elle”... Elle Skywalker. Yeah, I like the sound of that for my next great adventure …This is Red 5, I’m goin’ in.

Cage Fighting Mama

I read a great little inspiring article about a heavyweight cage fighter down on his luck. Patrick Berry was living on rice and ketchup before the cage fight that landed him a $120,000 prize. He credits his win to in no small part his being “hungry” –figuratively and literally. So, this got me thinking. I’m betting every motivated mother has a short list (ok, maybe a long one) of people they would love to beat the crap out of for a nice cash infusion. There’s the brat who told my son his cold sore made him look like a leper --that brought him to tears. There’s the parent who told my verbally advanced child that he was a bad influence on her pristine kid. There’s the “concerned” neighbor who called Animal Control when my dog jumped the fence. Not to mention the soccer coach who ostracized my son Ryan and made him feel like a total loser for the soccer season. In fact, I’d do the Knockout of the Night for free when it comes to Ryan’s soccer “coach.”

I put the word coach in quotes because this guy doesn’t deserve the title. He’s just a bad one-time bully. We put Ryan in a recreation league so he could have some fun and get some exercise. We had no Beckham-like illusions (I’m as likely to look like Victoria Beckham as Ryan is to play soccer like her hubby.) The first day of practice we had a bad feeling. The coach, who was no more than 25, decided to start things off with a nice game of keep away --him against all the kids. He whooped their 9-year old butts and clearly felt the better man for it. He followed that up with a nice race around the field so he could see who his fastest runners were, separating the men from the boys right off the bat. So much for teamwork; it was downhill from there. And Ryan hated it. So after way too many tears and being convinced that the experience was not an overall positive one, we pulled Ryan from soccer. The “coach” caught wind of our decision and sent me an email.

From: K (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Sent: Wednesday, October 28, 2009 6:52 PM
To: ellenpifer@comcast.net
Subject: Ryan

Hello Ellen, May I ask why you pulled Ryan from soccer? Anytime a boy quits I wonder what I could have done to make it a better experience for him. Is there anything you could suggest to either myself or my co-coach in the future?

Thanks and Best wishes,
K (aka Asshole Coach Name Withheld)


So, I wrote back and I was very careful to NOT point fingers or give ANY constructive criticism because my instincts told me his request was like his coaching –insincere.

From: ellenpifer@comcast.net
To: (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Subject: RE: Ryan Date: Tue, 3 Nov 2009 08:36:12 -0800

K: To be honest, Ryan's experience has not be a positive one. This was not his first soccer experience. He participated in a league back in Philly and then in the department of recreation league here in Los Gatos. Both these experiences were good ones and Ryan was a contributing member of the team. But for some reason, Ryan really never felt a part of your team. He seemed to have a hard time understanding the various positions and where he should be playing. While other kids seemed to aggressively attack the ball, Ryan avoided it. We tried to encourage him and assure him the game was for exercise and fun. It was more about working as a team than winning. But, that wasn't the message he was getting. And when he would run off the field he would ask us hoping it was almost over "How much longer?" When we would tell him its time for practice he would give us a hard time about going. He didn't connect with any of the other kids. Altogether, it just has not been a positive experience for our son. Ironically, he really enjoys playing soccer with his Dad and brothers. We signed him up to help him build confidence and we are pulling him out because it’s doing just the opposite.
Thanks,
Ellen

And HERE is what I got in response.

From: (Asshole Coach Name Withheld)
Sent: Tuesday, November 03, 2009 10:27 AM
To: ellenpifer@comcast.net
Subject: RE: Ryan

Ellen it seems all of your main concersn could have been simply addressed by bringing Ryan to practice with a good attitude. To be totally honest I did not appreciate the way your husband or you treated us and the fact that you held Ryan out of practices is the reason he never felt part of the team. Those kids spent three days a week with each other and grew together. You can't just show up on game day and expect magic to happen. I could go on, but in the future bring your kid to practice and put a smile on your face. The season isn't over, the next 2 weeks as a reward to the kids we are playing any game they want to play. Ryan is still welcome, but don't even attempt to show up to another game without bringing him to practice first.


Parenting often feels like Cage Fighting. Many days we are locked in the cage and left to use everything at our disposal to fight for our kids. We kick, punch, choke, bite and use every tool at our disposal to get them a good education, have them treated lovingly, ensure they feel good about themselves and grow into well adjusted, happy, adults. Some days it feels like a team effort but other days you really feel like the odds are against you. And those days, it sure would be nice to beat the crap out of someone and get $120,000 for it!

The Soccer Mom Phenom

I’m new to this. The truth is I’ve managed to skillfully dodge the soccer mom bullet for a good few years. My kids did give soccer a shot back when they were 6 and 9, and bursting with Beckham-like potential. But after one season, the boys decided to trade in the Pele-path for more practical pursuits and set out to become Bruce Lee. I thought it was a wise decision. At least kung-fu might keep you from getting a swift butt-kickin’ on the playground. Now we are living on the left-coast and apparently soccer is mandatory. The logic goes like this. It gets the kids exercising. It gets them outside in the sunshine. It teaches them a versatile sport that requires nothing but a ball. It teaches them teamwork. Ok. I buy off on all that. Let’s assume it’s a good thing for the kids. I still hate soccer.

As I baked in the glaring sun yesterday on a field that hosted five simultaneous soccer games, I was quite the newbie. I was proud that I remembered to sunscreen my son and myself. I even had a bottle of water with me. Still, I was woefully unprepared. I didn’t have my folding chair, my visor, or my cooler overflowing with organic snacks. And worse than all that, I didn’t have a genuine interest in the game.

While other parents were screaming from the sidelines, my heart was aching for my 8 year old son, who clearly does not know how to play soccer (because of his neglectful parents no doubt.) He made it his job to stay as far from the ball as humanly possible. And as I watched him, I could feel his anxiety as if it were my own --remembering that horrible feeling of incompetence, not fitting in, being clueless and sticking out for it. He came off the field at half-time fighting back tears. “I don’t want to do this Mom,” he said. “The other kids are yelling at me and the coach is not nice. It’s just not fun.” I know, I said thinking, “I don’t want to do it either.” Of course, I didn’t say that. Instead, I handed him the bottled water and called in reinforcements –Dad.

Fortunately, Dad is a full-fledged graduate of sons who suffer soccer academy. In fact, he claims he could have qualified for a soccer scholarship had he not gotten completely burnt out on the sport. “Most soccer coaches suck,” he said. “But it’s just a game and he’ll get the hang of it. I’ll spend some time teaching him about the positions.” That brought me some relief as did the realization that we only have nine weeks left of soccer.

My distaste for soccer goes beyond my Jack Kerouac desire to be a creative rebel. It even goes beyond my hate for “shlepping” back and forth and back and forth. It’s rooted in a genuine global, socio-economic concern for our world . There actually are many reasons soccer sucks.

Kiddie soccer is big business and a financial burden. Leagues charge anywhere from $250 to $1000+ for an 11-week season. That doesn’t include equipment, uniforms, team sign, photos, snacks, etc. The better your kid is at soccer, the more you pay. If your son makes a competitive travel team, expect to shell out big bucks for hotel and travel expenses. To give you a sense of the depth of the investment, I have a friend who told me he was only able to afford to finally leave his wife, because his son took the season off from soccer!

Soccer speaks its own language. The first soccer glossary I found had over 300 entries from assist and banana kick to wingers and zone. I rather use my brain cells to master Spanish (at least then I might have a shot at getting the landscaper to haul out the dead branch in the backyard.)

Soccer is making us more dependent on Middle East oil. The sport requires relentless practice. For me, there are four practices a week plus two games. We have a soccer activity 5-6 days a week. Every practice and game requires a drive to a faraway field (younger siblings in tow.) Simply put, soccer guzzles gas.

Soccer is un-American.It just never caught on as a professional sport in the states. Maybe the rejection is rooted in Britain, which exported the game to its colonies some 150 years ago but any way you cut it, it’s never really caught on here.

We’re impeding soccer’s growth. The more soccer remains the sport of middle/upper-class suburbanites, the less likely it will become a part of popular culture. In order for a sport to gain popularity, it needs to appeal to all classes. Rich men’s folly, like lacrosse, will never make it big here. Think stickball and urban basketball courts. Perhaps I am hurting the sport by letting my kids play.

So, with Socratic sass, I think I’ve systematically proven there is no reason for me to be a Soccer Slave, I mean “Soccer Mom.” Are you with me or agin’ me?!

p.s. Bruce Lee would kick David Beckham’s pretty boy butt.

SPF 100 = Super Parent Factor

My 12 year old son Ethan was blessed with his mother’s peaches and cream coloring. And while this pale palette of milky white skin and crystalline blue eyes might offer a vampire advantage, it doesn’t defend very well against the constant California sunshine.

So, with horrible childhood memories of my own sunburns, I looked over the cherry red skin on Ethan’s chest, shoulders, and back and felt horrible pangs of empathy pain. This was the kind of burn that makes anyone who has experienced it shudder. It hurt him too much for me to waste time discussing why he didn’t reapply sunscreen. I was certain that the pain would be his teacher. So, I was his sympathetic fair-skinned mom and doctor. I pulled out everything in my bag of tricks.

First line of defense: Ibuprofen, Tylenol, and white vinegar --a trick I learned from a wise Mexican waiter one painful summer when I fried the tops of my ears to a nacho crisp. The waiter tucked vinegar soaked cotton balls behind my ears and while I smelled like a salad, I could feel the heat being drawn away. Ethan felt it too. Mexican magic. But the affect didn’t last long. When he still complained of pain on day two, I brought out the big gun -- fresh aloe vera, which I scraped directly from an aloe vera plant.

Getting the aloe vera plant leaves, which house a well respected healing and moisturizing agent, entailed driving 25 minutes to the pediatrician’s office. Mind you, I didn’t actually see the pediatrician, but I did steal two huge aloe leaves from the plants that line his parking lot. People looked me sideways, and the kids were concerned I was breaking a law somewhere. But, I whipped out my knife with the confident entitlement of a ranger who knows the power of healing herbs and a patient who has invested enough co-pays to earn two aloe leaves. Heck, I’m a brazen east-coaster who believes it is easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And more than that, I am a mother whose son was in pain. So, with two precious leaves in tow, I headed home where I peeled the leaves, smashed the pulp and spread the gelatinous magical healing liquid across Ethan’s skin. He felt better and slept on day two.

Day three is where things went out of control. Ethan was still a glowing orb and he decided to smash another aloe leaf himself and spread it across his chest. A few minutes later he seemed to have some sudden allergic reaction. His chest was itching horribly and because of the urn he could not scratch it. This wasn’t annoying itch, this was tortuous, won’t let up itch. The kind of itch that causes you to draw blood. So, I practically threw him in the shower and lathered him up with a moisturizing wash. I told him he could use the tips of his fingers to ease the itchiness and let the water ease his discomfort. It didn’t. The itching seemed to get worse. Ethan was now crying in the shower. I gave him a dose of ibuprofen, an ice pack, and left him for a moment to call his dad, who happens to be a doctor. His dad advised me to give him a dose of Benadryl and wait a bit. The waiting was torture. Ethan was now inconsolable as the itchiness seemed to get worse and worse with each minute.

“Help me Mom,” he cried. “Please, make it stop!”

Nothing we did seemed to help. And as he rubbed his infernally itchy chest, it reddened with Dante’s inferno like pain. Scratching raw sunburn is never a good thing. After consulting again with Dad, I decided to take Ethan to the Emergency Room. It was after 5pm, the pediatrician’s office was closed and I had nothing left in my bag of tricks. So, I packed up the siblings and headed off to the ER.

If you’ve ever brought your car to the mechanic to finally have that troublesome clunking fixed, you know where this story is going. Deciding to go to the ER is never easy. ERs are filled with long lines, sick people, irritable/jaded/overworked staff and germs. They are a great place to get sick and not one of my favorite places to bring my three kids.

We got into the ER and as the triage nurse questioned Ethan, I realized he wasn’t crying any more. In fact, his eyes didn’t even look red. When she asked him to rate his pain on a scale of 1 to 10, he said about a 3. The nurse looked at me curiously.

“He was dying just 15 minutes ago,” I said.

Ethan was taken back and seen by the ER doctor who asked the same series of questions and gave me the same curious look. Now I was feeling defensive. I’m not a novice here. I am an experience mother of three. I don’t overreact as a rule. It takes a lot to get me shaken and even more to get me to the ER.

“He was hysterical in the shower,” I added.

The doctor didn’t even look back at me.

Do you think I came here because I wanted to? Do you think I enjoy having to keep my other two kids from using your cot as a skateboard? Do you think I wanted to shell out a $50 co-pay?!

All these thoughts raced through my head as I said calmly, “I’m not a histrionic mom.”

He stopped for a moment and looked at me as if to say “This is what I went to medical school for?” But he actually didn’t say anything, which was worse. He just asked the nurse to get Ethan another Benadryl and then explained to me very slowly like that reactions to things you put on your skin are never life-threatening. Ethan could not have gone into anaphylactic shock. If I had waited 15 more minutes, the Benedryl would have taken effect. Then Dr.Smartie Pants left. I felt like a total fool. And I was almost angry at Ethan for feeling better!

As I sat in the car ready to drive my three healthy monsters home, I texted a close friend who said, “Your son is ok and that is a happy ending. Don’t care what anyone else thinks. You are a great Mom.” I read that a few times and then thought to myself taking it to heart would protect me --almost as much as the SPF 100 sunscreen I would be buying Ethan would protect him from future burns.

Who Says Only Angels Wear Halos?

It was the first time I actually got to see my son play the video game he’d raved about playing at his buddy’s house for months. We were visiting my brother and like every 30-something year old male suffering from terminal arrested development, my brother had a gaming system or two ‑an X-box 360 and Playstation. The kids were in hog heaven since I don’t have one of these boxes of evil at my house. Uncle Matt was a kindred spirit. He could burp, fart, stocked massive quantities of fruit roll-up, and had a huge video game collection. My 8- and 12-year old sons, Ryan and Ethan, sunk into the black leather sofa and set out to make the world a safer place for mankind by machine-gunning down each other in a game called Halo.

For those of you that don’t know what Halo is, let me enlighten you. It’s not your typical shoot-em-up video game. What makes Halo so different is that it is an on-line multi-player game. People from all over the world can play and interact. But Halo isn’t exactly the United Nations of video games. This isn’t where the elite meet for some cultural exchange. Playing Halo, people of all ages, educational backgrounds. and warped beliefs, are able to interact with –in this case, my kids.

As I was wrapping my head around this rather scary notion, my eldest, a rather sweet-natured musician, machine-gunned down his younger brother, my intuitive-artist. The two of them screamed like testosterone drunk silver-back apes. As my little one’s character laid flat waiting to revive, my victorious older son, stood over the now dead soldier body of his brother and made his own soldier do some sort of victorious happy dance. Only this wasn’t the kind of prideful display you see on a football field. The winning soldier appeared to be humping his dead victim in humiliating glory. That struck me as odd.

“What are you doing to him?” I asked.

“Tea-bagging him,” he said without hesitation.

My brother almost lost his lunch in a fit of hysterics that set in with the suddenness of a herpes flare-up. He asked if I knew what the expression meant. No one in the room did. Not even my sons, who used it. So, my brother enlightened us all. Tea-bagging is the act of dipping one’s testicles into the open mouth of another person, kind of like dipping a tea bag in and out of a cup of water. I shot a look of horror towards my sons as they groaned in perfect synchronized disgust “Ewwwwww!”

“Did you know what that meant?” I asked Ethan

.

“Heck NO!” he said.

“Well, who taught you the expression?” I asked, realizing my son’s real world education is largely beyond my control.

Here is where the plot thickens. Apparently, this gem of enlightenment came from his buddy Ben, who is the hyperactive, somewhat dorky, and completely innocent son of one of my most conservative mom-friends ‑the very same friend who was horrified when Ethan mooned her pure children in their pool. The perfection of my son’s tush escaped the church lady and his act of kiddie porn necessitated several conversations as well as new pool rules to prevent such scandalous horrors in the future. So, imagine my chagrin when I learned, the source of Ethan’s latest vocabulary word. This called for an email.

Dear Cynthia…I am sure you are as shocked at the info Ben has picked up on-line as we were. There is limitless supply of inappropriate info in these online games. Apparently prejudiced terms are also used frequently. This is why we don’t allow them in our home. I know that you run a somewhat conservative household, and I felt that you would want to know what Ben has picked up on Halo. After the mooning incident, I know you were offended and now I can totally relate.

I sent the email and then did my own happy parent dance gloating over yet another lesser-Mom. True my son might be a flasher, but at least I didn’t leave his sex ed to teenagers playing Halo. My son was no tea-bagger! Polly Puritanical’s response was surprisingly appreciative and got to the heart of the matter rather succinctly.

Dear Ellen…Thank you for keeping the lines of communication open. We have discussed this with Ben and will inform the parents of his friends who play Halo as well. We no longer allow him to play Halo without supervision. But, the one question that remains is…what is the difference between tea-bagging and a simple blow job?”

I had to laugh at the response and the whole experience. It’s true we need to monitor our kids’ activities on the Internet with care. We never know what they might learn or not learn. Heck, without proper adult guidance, they could grow up not knowing the critical difference between tea-bagging and a blow job (see: www.urbandictionary.com –to settle the great tea-bag/BJ debate)

The Calculated Risk of Joy

Your first kiss. Getting your driver’s license. The thrill of that first roller coaster. So very many firsts are unforgettable. Yesterday held such a magical moment for my 8-year old son Ryan. Because yesterday, after completing a grueling week of physically demanding and oh-so-globally aware –indeed gloriously green, Rock Climbing Camp (here it comes), I indulged Ryan in a life-altering first. His first Big Mac.

The drive-thru lady handed me the fragrant paper bag, and as I balanced it on my lap while trying to clear my cup holders, the entire car was perfumed in eau du French fries. Forget lavender and eucalyptus, this is the intoxicating aroma of carb-kings everywhere. Ryan must have sensed his booty was at risk.

“Pass me the bag,” he demanded.

“I’m making room for the drinks,” I said, clearly getting high off the fries.

“Pass it to me now!” he insisted.

I put my small diet coke (yes, that is all I ordered for myself) firmly in the cup holder and pulled away from the window.

“Can I have it NOWWWW?” Veruca Salt whined from the back seat, desperation mounting.

“Absolutely,” I said with complete calm as I stealthily stole five fries from the bag. “Here you go!”

And then there was silence. You could have heard a fry drop in the car. A few minutes went by and then the Roger Ebert of fast food said, having dissected his two all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun, “Wow Mom, it’s like two burgers in one.” His voice trailed off into mmm’s. And when I figured he was done, I said “Ryan, this was your first Big Mac, so can you describe it for me in one word?”

He paused and then said simply, “OHMYGAWD!”

In my defense, I waited eight years to introduce Ryan to the “gateway drug” they call the Big Mac. I prepared him for this day by feeding him healthy food, teaching him the value of exercise and making him watch “Super Size Me” –the documentary about the impact of eating fast food on your body. By the time Ryan downed this first Big Mac, he was wise enough to ask me “Mommy, is this as bad for me as it is delicious?”

Knowledge is power when it comes to all things, including food. It’s always good to know when you are making a poor decision and the consequences, right? So, it was with great joy (and horror) that I learned California is the first U.S. state to force fast-food restaurant chains to post calorie information on menus.

"This legislation will help Californians make more informed, healthier choices by making calorie information easily accessible at thousands of restaurants throughout our state," Governor Schwarzenegger said.

Can’t you just smell the avocado on his breath?

According to the California Department of Public Health, Californians have gained 360 million pounds over the last decade. One in three children and one in four teens are overweight or at-risk, while obesity is listed as the second deadliest cause of preventable death among Californians after tobacco.

So, while my son was “lighting up” his first Big Mac, I decided that life is too short to always make the wise decision. Sometimes we have to take calculated risks in the name of blissful yet fleeting joy. Ryan’s first Big Mac was one of those moments. I am glad I was there to be his drug/joy dealer.

On The Golden Rule & Raising Kind Kids

Karl Malden died yesterday. And so, this blog is dedicated to the man with the incredible, memorable nose.


The nanny could not catch her breath. I could tell it was her on the phone, because even through the sobs, I could make out her Aussie accent. But, this was not a Russell Crowe moment. More like Nicole Kidman weeping with all appropriate pale frailty.

“The kids are so mean to me,” was all I could make out.

Five minutes later she had regained her Aussie-composure enough to tell me in some detail how my kids were demonically insensitive and mean. And I say that with no sarcasm. Apparently yesterday morning, the sweet nanny, took Damien and Freddy to brunch at the bagel joint. While awaiting bagel and a schmear, bad seed #1 made comment that the good nanny had a big nose. She poo-poo’d him.

“Big noses rock!” she said playfully.

Humor is often a good technique with children but my monster would not be deterred. “Yours is really big though,” he chided. She tried distraction.

Then his older brother leaned in to take a gander and agreed.

“Yep it’s pretty darn big,” he offered.

I wasn’t there to offer a life preserver, but apparently I was in spirit because the Nanny countered with, “Your mom’s nose is as big as mine!”

Both my genetic anomalies disagreed vehemently. “Nope, yours is much bigger. In fact, yours looks kind of like a pig nose. Doesn’t it?”

“Yep it’s definitely a pig nose,” his evil twin agreed. “Definitely piggish.”

They did all but start oinking and digging for truffles. The nanny was flustered. And where as I would have probably oinked at them and told them they looked like jackasses, she’d been dealt a fatal blow. And my little jackasses sensed weakness. The farmer had lost control of the animals. Kids can smell it, ya know. If you are tired or burnt out, they may just knock you on your butt and, as they did in Lord of the Flies, grab the conch and take over.

Likewise, if you have an Achilles heel and they are lucky enough to stumble across it –good luck. They can be relentless. I remember how it would drive my mother nuts when my brother would yell at me venomously “I wish you were dead!”It horrified her and he knew it. So he would say it constantly! I often remember that when my monsters spew evil nonsense.

To hear it from the nanny, the imps were uncontrollable. She told them they could not talk to her like that, it was mean and hurtful. They had to stop. They were upsetting her. It was not permitted. And then, completely exasperated, she shuttled them off to camp, had a flashback about being teased as a kid about her honker, broke down, and called me in tears.

When my kids behave horribly and are called on it, I am flooded with emotions. Anger, shame, embarrassment and a good dose of defensiveness. After all, these guys are a reflection on me and my life’s work –raising them (or maybe one day writing about raising them!) At least, now that I have three births under my belt, I’ve learned to not react immediately and to get the entire story, which can take a good deal of time to unfold (makes me wish they were equipped with video cameras when they aren’t with me sometimes.)

My demon seeds are actually sweethearts and often demonstrate sensitivity and thoughtfulness. So, they seemed genuinely shocked that their teasing hurt the nanny so much. And their father and I sat down with them to discuss The Golden Rule and the concept of Respect. Treat others how you would like to be treated, we explained. You can’t get much simpler than that.

“It was just a joke,” Thing 1 countered defensively.

“Yeah, she is awfully sensitive,” added Thing 2.

They were missing the point. This required bringing it closer to home.

“How do you think I would feel if you teased me for having a big butt buddy?” I asked. He shrugged. “You do have a big butt Mom.”

ARGH. This was not working! Ok, plan B.

“Your feet get pretty Stinky and your hair is usually not brushed, right?” I asked.

Rosemary’s baby nodded, his big brown eyes doe-like.

“Well how would you feel if someone made fun of your stinky feet and knotted hair?”
The parallel hit home.

“Badly,” he said. Bingo!

Then came a mini-lesson on respecting your elders and those in positions of authority. Nannies, teachers, policemen, moms, dads, grandmas and grandpas. These people deserve your respect and you must speak to them politely whether you like them or not. Damien and Freddy looked like our words were actually getting through to them.

Next came the consequence. A technology moratorium. No TV. No computer. No playstation. As soon as the punishment was handed down a protestor’s wailing “Noooooooooooo!” filled the room and tears began to flow. (Silly, huh? This wasn’t Guantanamo Bay and clearly the only one about to be tortured --with constant whining-- was me!)

“We are sorry we have to punish you,” we explained (more sorry than you know!) but it’s the only way we can teach you how to be better kids.

The good news was that the Evil Twins could earn back their technology by completing any of several activities that demonstrated kindness, respect and good citizenship. They spent the remainder of the evening: writing the nanny an apology letter, taking out the trash, reading to their baby brother, loading the dishwasher, organizing the toy room, and taking the dog for a walk. Today, they will be on doggie poop pick-up duty. And by this evening –after delivering their letters to the nanny and apologizing in person—their debt will be paid. Their lessons learned (at least for a week or two.) And I will have survived another precious parenting challenge.

It was a rough day, and when I retold the story to a dear friend who is also a parent, she reacted with the empathy that only another parent in the trenches could give. She said with rare sensitivity, “So Big Butt, what are you going to do about Pig Nose?”