This will be a short post to say, I'm not capable of a long decent post this week.
I'm laying in bed with a tummy ache. I'm on my back as I type and I keep making typos 'cause I'm at a weird angle and can't see the keyboard. Max is downstairs watching a DVD movie 'cause I can't even stand up. Gotta drag myself out of bed soon and collect yer man from school. I'm feeling totally woe is me. Yesterday afternoon Brendan had to come home early to mind the kids 'cause I just couldn't cope. Today shaping up similarly, but I doubt he can leave early again.
When you're a sick mommy, and you have no support (like me - no inlaws or grandmas or aunties nearby), it can be tough. As I laid in bed yesterday, about to puke, Zach and Max were hugging and kissing me. Cute, until Max started climbing on my stomach and Zach started screaming some song. What am I going to do today? Don't know. Any sick mommies out there gotta take care or young 'uns?
Boo hoo, gotta face snow and ice to go collect my 5 year old from school.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving Day
I’m an American living in Ireland. Thanksgiving Day comes and goes with great fanfare in the States, but I usually forget the date. (I had to ask my facebook friends when Thanksgiving was going to be.) This Thanksgiving, for example, my husband is taking a class in the evening, and I will be boiling pasta for the kids. Everyone, who has a job, is working today. Everyone is working tomorrow. Schools are in session. And we don’t have sales until January over here, so no “Black Friday” fun for me.
Yesterday, the Irish government presented an outline of a series of spending cuts and tax increases to be applied for the next four years. The cuts are severe, and sure to contract the economy. We have to accept these new financial restrictions, we are told, so that we can pay back the massive Irish government deficit, mainly incurred trying to prop up our banking system. The IMF and EU central bank was called in over this. They have, in effect, dictated the terms. My family’s financial circumstances are a reflection of the state of the nation.
But, this doesn’t mean I’m not thankful. I am. My kids are healthy. Well, one has a cough and the other an ear infection, but you know what I mean – they’ll get over it. We’re well fed. We’ve cut out filet steaks and pate, but I made a damn fine beef stew last night. The cars are running (more or less). The lights are on. My husband is in good health. I’m enjoying my writing projects of late. And, I’m falling slowly in love with Twitter. Life, financially, is fairly crappy. I say no a lot to the kids over sweets and toys in the supermarket when we’re out.
Oddly, as the economic downturn in Ireland has taken us in its grip, sunk its teeth into our flesh and started chewing, my mood has lightened. Through the emotional freefall of loosing work, pay cuts, tax increases, falling house prices, the lot, I have felt strangely liberated. I feel free. It must be all the time setting my own schedule (that’s a laugh; really my schedule is dictated by the kids). But...they’re napping right now, and I’m writing on the laptop. I look out the window and the sky is blue, the hills are green, the rooks are evacuating the farmer’s field across the way in favour of the trees behind my house. The cattle are in the sheds for the winter, but we occasionally hear their lowing drift on the wind from their winter shelter to our garden patio. The weather—cold and crisp—is dry.
Thanksgiving has come to Ireland.
Yesterday, the Irish government presented an outline of a series of spending cuts and tax increases to be applied for the next four years. The cuts are severe, and sure to contract the economy. We have to accept these new financial restrictions, we are told, so that we can pay back the massive Irish government deficit, mainly incurred trying to prop up our banking system. The IMF and EU central bank was called in over this. They have, in effect, dictated the terms. My family’s financial circumstances are a reflection of the state of the nation.
But, this doesn’t mean I’m not thankful. I am. My kids are healthy. Well, one has a cough and the other an ear infection, but you know what I mean – they’ll get over it. We’re well fed. We’ve cut out filet steaks and pate, but I made a damn fine beef stew last night. The cars are running (more or less). The lights are on. My husband is in good health. I’m enjoying my writing projects of late. And, I’m falling slowly in love with Twitter. Life, financially, is fairly crappy. I say no a lot to the kids over sweets and toys in the supermarket when we’re out.
Oddly, as the economic downturn in Ireland has taken us in its grip, sunk its teeth into our flesh and started chewing, my mood has lightened. Through the emotional freefall of loosing work, pay cuts, tax increases, falling house prices, the lot, I have felt strangely liberated. I feel free. It must be all the time setting my own schedule (that’s a laugh; really my schedule is dictated by the kids). But...they’re napping right now, and I’m writing on the laptop. I look out the window and the sky is blue, the hills are green, the rooks are evacuating the farmer’s field across the way in favour of the trees behind my house. The cattle are in the sheds for the winter, but we occasionally hear their lowing drift on the wind from their winter shelter to our garden patio. The weather—cold and crisp—is dry.
Thanksgiving has come to Ireland.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Eye Gouging, Kicking, Biting and Other Activities for Boys
I often leave the living room to go to the kitchen to prepare a meal or wash a cup, only to hear hysterical screaming about thirty seconds later. I get about as far as the breakfast bar before I have to turn around, go back to the living room doorway, and say “What’s going on here?” Sometimes I don’t even bother returning to the living room. I just yell, “Stop that!” from the kitchen, blindly. They stop whatever it is they were doing which caused the ruckus. I don’t even care what it was--I just want a quiet, aggro-free life.
I never knew how much violence would come with raising two boys. My husband keeps saying, “Welcome to the world of boys”. (He has 2 brothers and three sisters; I have none.) My two kids are forever kicking, biting, scratching, knocking each other off of chairs, and pushing each other into doors.
Max’s eye was fine in the end, but Zach spent a LONG time on the naughty step, and was not allowed his cartoons that evening. While it was the best I had in my arsenal, I know it won’t stop the aggro. What will stop the aggro?
They fight over everything. Any little thing Zach has, Max wants, anything, even a broken piece of plastic. If Zach shows the least bit of interest, Max screams, “Mine!” Equally, if Max has something that peaks Zach’s interest, it could get snatched out of his hands. Only when they’re totally engaged in something that I’m supervising do they not attack each other. I literally have to stand there and say, “Zach, you kick the ball. Good. Now Max, your turn. Don’t hold it...kick it back...good, now, Zach, your turn...kick it back...great. Now, Max, your turn...” Clearly, I can’t do that all day. I try to keep them exercised: playground, scooter, bicycle, walks, “nature trails” (where we go down the lane with the nature book and try to identify insects – the only animals to which we can get up close and personal, aside from the cows and cats). I’m not sure if it keeps them from attacking each other, but it wears them out.
*Sigh* I don’t know what to do. Brendan is just like: get used to it. He’s probably right, but I still worry this will all lead to one or more visits to A&E.
I never knew how much violence would come with raising two boys. My husband keeps saying, “Welcome to the world of boys”. (He has 2 brothers and three sisters; I have none.) My two kids are forever kicking, biting, scratching, knocking each other off of chairs, and pushing each other into doors.
The worst came yesterday. I’m not entirely sure of the sequence of events (I was, of course, out of the room at the time pouring a cup of tea or washing something in the sink). I think Max, the 2 year old, tried to turn the TV off. Land Before Time was playing, one of Zach’s favourites. (It’s not the Land Before Time of our youth with the pylons and furry humanoids. It’s an animation with singing dinosaurs.) Zach, fed up trying to keep little brother from the TV set on/off switch, grabbed his head in his hands, and gouged his left eye with his thumb. I walked back into the room to find Max crying hysterically and Zach hiding behind the sofa. I took Max in my arms, and asked Zach what he did. Zach told the truth, then paled when he saw the look of horror in my face.
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| Photo: Sky Sports (on http://www.telegraph.co.uk/ site) |
They fight over everything. Any little thing Zach has, Max wants, anything, even a broken piece of plastic. If Zach shows the least bit of interest, Max screams, “Mine!” Equally, if Max has something that peaks Zach’s interest, it could get snatched out of his hands. Only when they’re totally engaged in something that I’m supervising do they not attack each other. I literally have to stand there and say, “Zach, you kick the ball. Good. Now Max, your turn. Don’t hold it...kick it back...good, now, Zach, your turn...kick it back...great. Now, Max, your turn...” Clearly, I can’t do that all day. I try to keep them exercised: playground, scooter, bicycle, walks, “nature trails” (where we go down the lane with the nature book and try to identify insects – the only animals to which we can get up close and personal, aside from the cows and cats). I’m not sure if it keeps them from attacking each other, but it wears them out.
*Sigh* I don’t know what to do. Brendan is just like: get used to it. He’s probably right, but I still worry this will all lead to one or more visits to A&E.
Monday, November 8, 2010
What is Poetry? A Judgement Call
Dave Lordan and I were messaging back and forth recently around the topics of writing and why you write – is it for yourself? Is it for readers? Publishers? If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound? If a writer writes and no one is there to read it, does it make a difference? This led me to thinking of when I was young, and wrote alone, in my bedroom, with no intention of showing any of it to anyone.
I bring this all up in context.
Zach walked up to me recently and asked, “What is a poem?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Me, the lady who studied fiction and poetry in grad school, and likes to talk. I’m kind of staring at him.
He looked at me, “Mom?”
I had to think about it for a minute, “Uhm...its words...”
“Yeah?”
“Like a story...but not...not as many words on the page. Also, there’s not necessarily a beginning, middle or end like a story...but there could be. Sometimes it does tell a story, and is really long...Sometimes it rhymes...but not always...it could be really, really short...it has rhythm like a song...beats...but there’s no music playing when you read it...it doesn’t always make sense the way a story does, but you figure out what it’s saying by listening to the words and making a picture in your head...” I was struggling, pitifully. Ms. Manrique, I hear Marilyn Hacker in my head, you get an F.
Zach’s staring at me.
“Uh – let’s go to your bedroom and get the STORIES AND RHYMES FOR BOYS book. I think I have to show and not tell on this one.”
I was wondering why the sudden interest in poetry, then I found out. I picked Zach up from school subsequently, and the teacher handed me a note. It asked my permission for him to participate in a poetry reading competition. The teachers would prep him in reading and interpreting the piece. It would be my responsibility to drive him into town, to an auditorium, where he would stand, on a stage, in front of judges and other children and adults, and read his poem, with expression. He could win or lose or get honourable mention, or whatever it is kids get these days when they’re good but not the best. He would be judged.
He’s 5 (as of yesterday).
That seems awfully young to be standing up in front of crowds of adults who will judge you. Maybe he’s judged all the time. The teacher – he’s always trying to please her. His mother and father – we’re always observing, hovering, encouraging, whatever you want to call it. This child – has he been performing the whole time? He performs when he says he didn’t hit his brother, and I know that he did because of the way Max is crying and the way Zach is looking at me (the slight curl up one side of his mouth and the questioning glint in his eye, which asks: “will she buy this?” No, I won’t. I have eyes like CCTV cameras, strategically placed throughout the house. I know when a baby has been pushed from 2 rooms away).
My husband and I signed him up for the competition. I consoled myself, thinking: I can always pull him out of this later if he’s not happy, if it isn’t working out, if he can’t stand up in front of people...
In the face of the judgement, will he lose his interest in what poetry is, and turn away? Maybe I need to leave him alone to just like poems. If Zach one day writes and no one reads it, it’s still worth something. It’s worth Zach writing it. It’s worth Zach.
I bring this all up in context.
Zach walked up to me recently and asked, “What is a poem?”
I opened my mouth and nothing came out. Me, the lady who studied fiction and poetry in grad school, and likes to talk. I’m kind of staring at him.
He looked at me, “Mom?”
I had to think about it for a minute, “Uhm...its words...”
“Yeah?”
“Like a story...but not...not as many words on the page. Also, there’s not necessarily a beginning, middle or end like a story...but there could be. Sometimes it does tell a story, and is really long...Sometimes it rhymes...but not always...it could be really, really short...it has rhythm like a song...beats...but there’s no music playing when you read it...it doesn’t always make sense the way a story does, but you figure out what it’s saying by listening to the words and making a picture in your head...” I was struggling, pitifully. Ms. Manrique, I hear Marilyn Hacker in my head, you get an F.
Zach’s staring at me.
“Uh – let’s go to your bedroom and get the STORIES AND RHYMES FOR BOYS book. I think I have to show and not tell on this one.”
I was wondering why the sudden interest in poetry, then I found out. I picked Zach up from school subsequently, and the teacher handed me a note. It asked my permission for him to participate in a poetry reading competition. The teachers would prep him in reading and interpreting the piece. It would be my responsibility to drive him into town, to an auditorium, where he would stand, on a stage, in front of judges and other children and adults, and read his poem, with expression. He could win or lose or get honourable mention, or whatever it is kids get these days when they’re good but not the best. He would be judged.
He’s 5 (as of yesterday).
That seems awfully young to be standing up in front of crowds of adults who will judge you. Maybe he’s judged all the time. The teacher – he’s always trying to please her. His mother and father – we’re always observing, hovering, encouraging, whatever you want to call it. This child – has he been performing the whole time? He performs when he says he didn’t hit his brother, and I know that he did because of the way Max is crying and the way Zach is looking at me (the slight curl up one side of his mouth and the questioning glint in his eye, which asks: “will she buy this?” No, I won’t. I have eyes like CCTV cameras, strategically placed throughout the house. I know when a baby has been pushed from 2 rooms away).
My husband and I signed him up for the competition. I consoled myself, thinking: I can always pull him out of this later if he’s not happy, if it isn’t working out, if he can’t stand up in front of people...
In the face of the judgement, will he lose his interest in what poetry is, and turn away? Maybe I need to leave him alone to just like poems. If Zach one day writes and no one reads it, it’s still worth something. It’s worth Zach writing it. It’s worth Zach.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
SLEEP? WE DON’T NEED NO STINKING SLEEP!
Earlier this week
Max (2 years old) comes into our bedroom at 1:20 am saying, "I wet, mammy, I wet, mammy, I wet..." I’m so drowsy I don’t know what’s going on. I just say, “What? What?” repeatedly.Brendan (husband, age undisclosed) finally interprets: "He says HE'S WET."
So, I get up and change Max’s diaper, then try to put him back into his own bed—a futile effort. The diaper change has roused him. I bring him into our bed, stick him in the space between our pillows. This usually works.
Toss, turn, toss, turn. No one sleeps.
Around 2:30 AM, Zach, the almost 5 year-old, shows up from out of nowhere on my side of the bed. I mumble: "Go to daddy's side of the bed." He does.
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| Still from - Treasure of The Sierrra Madre |
Over on that side, I hear Brendan say, "There isn't room for four people!" Zach gets into our bed, and Brendan goes down the hall to Zach's bedroom, to sleep under the Diego comforter and John Deere tractor blanket.
My head sinks deeper into my pillow thinking: ‘I’m sleeping with my children instead of my husband. I don’t care. I just want to sleep.’
Twenty minutes later, Max sits bolt upright, crying: "My bed, my bed!" I lift Max, start leaving the room.
Zach lifts his head, groggy, off Brendan’s pillow: “I’m really tired.” I pat his head, tell him to close his eyes, go to sleep; I’ll be back in a few minutes after I settle Max into his bed.
I take Max down the hall to his bedroom. Now, Zach is in our bed alone; Brendan is in Zach's room; Max is in his bed; and I am on the sofa in Max's room. I’m only around 5’3” tall, and the sofa is too short, even for me. I don’t care, I’m lying down. I close my eyes. Sleep approaches me, gives me the once over, considers enveloping me in its sweet oblivion. It then recedes, rejecting me, because--
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| http://www.whme.com/Admin/images/greenacres1.jpg |
--Max won't sleep. Toss and turn, toss and turn. He gets up and joins me on the sofa. The two of us are now scrunched together. I don’t care: I’d sleep in a cage, loaded on the back of a flatbed pickup as it went down the road at 50 miles an hour, kicking up dust, blasting the theme tune to Green Acres repeatedly from its speakers, if that was all I had. I’m a mother of two boys under the age of five; I know about sleep deprivation. I try to drift off despite the discomfort (baby legs in my belly, no pillow under my head).
That’s when Zach gets up. I hear him leave our bedroom and go down the hall to his own room. He evicts Brendan from the Diego bed. Brendan doesn't realise I’m in Max's room with Max--so instead of going back to our bed, he goes down to the living room and crashes on the sofa, with no pillow.
So, now, to recap: Brendan is on the sofa downstairs; Zach in his own bed: Max and I are on the small sofa in Max's room; the marital bed is empty. Our big, lovely, comfy, memory foam and spring combination mattress is empty.
People start falling asleep. Zach sleeps in his own bed. Brendan, downstairs. Max finally falls asleep around 5 AM, in his bed (having decided the sofa wasn’t for him). I tip toe back to my bedroom and fall asleep by 5:30 AM--praying to the gods of baby sleep that these people I gave birth to crash out until 9 AM.
At precisely 6:59 AM, Max comes back over to my side of the bed (where this all started 6 hours ago), asks me to come back to his bedroom. I take him back to his bed. He tosses and turns and can’t sleep.
Zach wakes up around 7:30 AM. The circus starts again with the bed hopping, except now it's time for Brendan to go to work. I give up on sleep and everyone is downstairs in front of cartoons by 7:45, and I’m staring at the kettle, blurry-eyed, nauseous from lack of sleep, willing it to boil.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
The Script of My Life: Act One
And, no, this is not in proper screenplay format...thanks to blogger
INT. BEDROOM IN A CONTEMPORARY IRISH COUNTRY HOME – DARK BEFORE DAWN
All is still. LORY and BRENDAN, a couple approaching middle age, sleep peacefully in their bed. Only occasional SNORING lets us know that the lumps under the sheets are human. The digital alarm clock reads 5:45.
In between SNORES, tiny, footie-pyjama FOOTSTEPS are heard approaching from the hall. The door is slammed open, reverberating off the wardrobe. MAX, a small, gorgeous toddler of 2 years and some odd months, scrambles into the bedroom and over to Lory’s side of the bed. He slams the side of her face repeatedly with his pudgy little fist.
MAX
Wake up, mammy! Wake up, mammy! Wake up, mammy!
CUT TO
INT. KITCHEN – SAME HOUSE – STILL NOT DAWN
Lory leans against the kitchen counter, drinking coffee. She is dishevelled, yawning and puffy eyed. RADIO 1 is on in the background. ZACH, almost 5, enters from the hall. He has just woken. He squints in the bright glare of the kitchen spotlights.
ZACH
Mom, I’m huuungry. I’m huuungry. Can I have a chocolate biscuit?
LORY
No
ZACH
Why?
LORY
It’s 6:30 in the morning. No biscuits in the morning.
ZACH
Why?
LORY
Because.
ZACH
Because why?
LORY
Because, I want you to be healthy.
ZACH
Biscuits aren’t healthy?
LORY
Not so much.
ZACH
Then what can I have?
LORY
Breakfast.
ZACH
Can I have biscuits for breakfast?
Lory rolls her eyes. Max runs in from the living room, blankie in one hand and half empty Avent bottle of milk in the other.
MAX
It’s Dora! It’s Dora! The purple bear chase Dora!
Lory picks him up and plants a kiss on his check.
INT. HALLWAY MORNING
An hour later, Zach is dressed in a school uniform, clutching a lunchbox. Brendan is by the closet, looking for his coat.
ZACH
What did you put in my lunchbox?
LORY
Cheese cubes and crackers and a fruit smoothie and water.
ZACH
(Whining)
But I wanted a toasted sandwich.
LORY
Toasted sandwich? I’ll make you one tomorrow.
ZACH
But I wanted one today.
LORY
It’s too late. I’m not making another lunch, honey. Just eat that one.
ZACH
But Carl got a toasted sandwich yesterday.
LORY
Who’s Carl?
From downstairs, LOUD YELLING:
MAX
JUICE! Hey! Hey! JUUUUUIIIICE! Mammy! MAAAAAAAAAAAAM! JUICE!
LORY
I gotta go. I’ll pick you up at the usual time. Tomorrow, I promise, toasted sandwich, just like Carl.
INT. BATHROOM – MIDDAY
Max lies on the changing mat on the bathroom counter. He smiles, big and wide. Lory undoes his diaper. Her eyes water and she wrinkles her nose.
LORY
Jaysus, what have I been feeding you? The stink...
MAX
I make the poo.
LORY
Yes, you do...and lots of it, too.
EXT. THE DRIVEWAY - LATER
Lory is trying to get Max in the car. He is clinging to the frame of the back seat door, ripping the rubber seal off the edge with a firm little grip.
MAX
No!!!!
LORY
C’mon, Max. We have to go get Zach from school. Let go of the door.
MAX
No!!! Outside I go outside!!!
LORY
(Struggling to pry his fingers off the door frame and buckle him into his car seat)
Max...please....we’re going to be late to collect Zach from school
MAX
(Throwing the blankie onto the driveway)
NO!!!! Blankie!
(He cries, capitulating. Lory straps him into his seat and hands him the blankie)
Oh, no, mami, the blankie is dirty...
LORY
That’s because you threw it on the floor!
Max cries. Lory takes the blankie and brushes it off.
LORY
Look, it’s OK. Mammy cleaned it.
She hands it back.
EXT. SCHOOLYARD – AFTERNOON
Lory is walking Zach across the parking lot and to the car.
LORY
What did you do in school today?
ZACH
Nothing.
LORY
You must have done something.
ZACH
I can’t remember
LORY
You just walked out of the classroom.
ZACH
We coloured
LORY
Just colouring? What else? You were there for 4 hours.
ZACH
I don’t know...is there a snack for me in the car?
LORY
You and the food
They arrive at the old hatchback. Lory opens the door, Zach gets in and she buckles him in.
INT. CAR - SAME
Max is sleeping in his baby seat. Lory gets into the driver's seat, buckles her seatbelt, puts the key in the ignition, turns it, and...nothing.
LORY
Shit.
ZACH
What did you say??
She purses her lips.
LORY
Shasta
END ACT 1
INT. BEDROOM IN A CONTEMPORARY IRISH COUNTRY HOME – DARK BEFORE DAWN
All is still. LORY and BRENDAN, a couple approaching middle age, sleep peacefully in their bed. Only occasional SNORING lets us know that the lumps under the sheets are human. The digital alarm clock reads 5:45.
In between SNORES, tiny, footie-pyjama FOOTSTEPS are heard approaching from the hall. The door is slammed open, reverberating off the wardrobe. MAX, a small, gorgeous toddler of 2 years and some odd months, scrambles into the bedroom and over to Lory’s side of the bed. He slams the side of her face repeatedly with his pudgy little fist.
MAX
Wake up, mammy! Wake up, mammy! Wake up, mammy!
CUT TO
INT. KITCHEN – SAME HOUSE – STILL NOT DAWN
Lory leans against the kitchen counter, drinking coffee. She is dishevelled, yawning and puffy eyed. RADIO 1 is on in the background. ZACH, almost 5, enters from the hall. He has just woken. He squints in the bright glare of the kitchen spotlights.
ZACH
Mom, I’m huuungry. I’m huuungry. Can I have a chocolate biscuit?
LORY
No
ZACH
Why?
LORY
It’s 6:30 in the morning. No biscuits in the morning.
ZACH
Why?
LORY
Because.
ZACH
Because why?
LORY
Because, I want you to be healthy.
ZACH
Biscuits aren’t healthy?
LORY
Not so much.
ZACH
Then what can I have?
LORY
Breakfast.
ZACH
Can I have biscuits for breakfast?
Lory rolls her eyes. Max runs in from the living room, blankie in one hand and half empty Avent bottle of milk in the other.
MAX
It’s Dora! It’s Dora! The purple bear chase Dora!
Lory picks him up and plants a kiss on his check.
INT. HALLWAY MORNING
An hour later, Zach is dressed in a school uniform, clutching a lunchbox. Brendan is by the closet, looking for his coat.
ZACH
What did you put in my lunchbox?
LORY
Cheese cubes and crackers and a fruit smoothie and water.
ZACH
(Whining)
But I wanted a toasted sandwich.
LORY
Toasted sandwich? I’ll make you one tomorrow.
ZACH
But I wanted one today.
LORY
It’s too late. I’m not making another lunch, honey. Just eat that one.
ZACH
But Carl got a toasted sandwich yesterday.
LORY
Who’s Carl?
From downstairs, LOUD YELLING:
MAX
JUICE! Hey! Hey! JUUUUUIIIICE! Mammy! MAAAAAAAAAAAAM! JUICE!
LORY
I gotta go. I’ll pick you up at the usual time. Tomorrow, I promise, toasted sandwich, just like Carl.
INT. BATHROOM – MIDDAY
Max lies on the changing mat on the bathroom counter. He smiles, big and wide. Lory undoes his diaper. Her eyes water and she wrinkles her nose.
LORY
Jaysus, what have I been feeding you? The stink...
MAX
I make the poo.
LORY
Yes, you do...and lots of it, too.
EXT. THE DRIVEWAY - LATER
Lory is trying to get Max in the car. He is clinging to the frame of the back seat door, ripping the rubber seal off the edge with a firm little grip.
MAX
No!!!!
LORY
C’mon, Max. We have to go get Zach from school. Let go of the door.
MAX
No!!! Outside I go outside!!!
LORY
(Struggling to pry his fingers off the door frame and buckle him into his car seat)
Max...please....we’re going to be late to collect Zach from school
MAX
(Throwing the blankie onto the driveway)
NO!!!! Blankie!
(He cries, capitulating. Lory straps him into his seat and hands him the blankie)
Oh, no, mami, the blankie is dirty...
LORY
That’s because you threw it on the floor!
Max cries. Lory takes the blankie and brushes it off.
LORY
Look, it’s OK. Mammy cleaned it.
She hands it back.
EXT. SCHOOLYARD – AFTERNOON
Lory is walking Zach across the parking lot and to the car.
LORY
What did you do in school today?
ZACH
Nothing.
LORY
You must have done something.
ZACH
I can’t remember
LORY
You just walked out of the classroom.
ZACH
We coloured
LORY
Just colouring? What else? You were there for 4 hours.
ZACH
I don’t know...is there a snack for me in the car?
LORY
You and the food
They arrive at the old hatchback. Lory opens the door, Zach gets in and she buckles him in.
INT. CAR - SAME
Max is sleeping in his baby seat. Lory gets into the driver's seat, buckles her seatbelt, puts the key in the ignition, turns it, and...nothing.
LORY
Shit.
ZACH
What did you say??
She purses her lips.
LORY
Shasta
END ACT 1
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
On Bullies and Saints
Max attacked a kid on the playground the other day. I was standing there with a mother-friend and the kids were playing. Max was standing near the slide with another toddler, someone we don’t know. Max and the boy were staring at each other in what I now know was some sort of a baby stand-off. A split second later, the boy was screaming, Max holding on to his face with a vice-like grip, digging his fingernails into the boy’s cheeks. The boy’s dad separated them, telling Max, “Get away, you!” The toddler had scratches and torn skin and blood on his face. I hadn’t clipped Max’s nails in over a week, he’d been digging in the soil that morning, and the combination meant ragged uneven, germ filled scratches on the other child’s face. I was humiliated. I apologised profusely, and made Max do the same.
Am I the mother of a bully? I fear this – this lack of control over them. I can discipline them and do my best to curb the baser instincts, help their personalities to express their best selves—but their personalities are their own. I can’t make brand new personalities for these guys... well, actually, I did once, in the womb, but what I mean is now I can’t change them.
My older boy, he’s quiet. Always was. When he was a toddler, if he spied a child on something he wanted to play with in play group, or on something he wanted to climb in the playground, he either waited patiently, or cried. Max, he just pulls the other child off the equipment. I worry, thinking: how will these personality traits be amplified into the future? I have visions of Zach becoming a lawyer, his father and I watching proudly as he accepts his degree from the Dean of Harvard Law. He will pass the bar with flying colours. This is useful, as in my fantasy future he will need to act as Max’s defence attorney, after Max gets embroiled in that wild money laundering scheme at the investment bank. Oh, Max, we told you to accept the scholarship to Yale Med, but you didn’t listen, did you?
OK, I know I’m exaggerating, exhibiting online maternal histrionics. Max will probably be an artist, a non-conformer, someone confident enough to plough his own furrows in life. His work will be shown in MOMA and the Tate. Zach, he’s the quiet and conscious one, so he’ll be a vicar, helping people...maybe a missionary to war torn countries. He’ll be awarded the Nobel...
Back to reality: Max is two. He is not a bully. He is just two. I need to consistently discipline him in a firm but fair manner so that he doesn’t turn into a bully. Zach is not quite five. He’s not a saint, he’s just quiet. They’ll decide what they’re going to be, and I bet they’ll surprise me. I need to just relax and stay supportive, but not intrusive. (Note to self: must sign Max up for art lessons starting this Friday at the community centre. Check on availability of LSAT prep materials for pre-schoolers.)
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My older boy, he’s quiet. Always was. When he was a toddler, if he spied a child on something he wanted to play with in play group, or on something he wanted to climb in the playground, he either waited patiently, or cried. Max, he just pulls the other child off the equipment. I worry, thinking: how will these personality traits be amplified into the future? I have visions of Zach becoming a lawyer, his father and I watching proudly as he accepts his degree from the Dean of Harvard Law. He will pass the bar with flying colours. This is useful, as in my fantasy future he will need to act as Max’s defence attorney, after Max gets embroiled in that wild money laundering scheme at the investment bank. Oh, Max, we told you to accept the scholarship to Yale Med, but you didn’t listen, did you?
OK, I know I’m exaggerating, exhibiting online maternal histrionics. Max will probably be an artist, a non-conformer, someone confident enough to plough his own furrows in life. His work will be shown in MOMA and the Tate. Zach, he’s the quiet and conscious one, so he’ll be a vicar, helping people...maybe a missionary to war torn countries. He’ll be awarded the Nobel...
Back to reality: Max is two. He is not a bully. He is just two. I need to consistently discipline him in a firm but fair manner so that he doesn’t turn into a bully. Zach is not quite five. He’s not a saint, he’s just quiet. They’ll decide what they’re going to be, and I bet they’ll surprise me. I need to just relax and stay supportive, but not intrusive. (Note to self: must sign Max up for art lessons starting this Friday at the community centre. Check on availability of LSAT prep materials for pre-schoolers.)
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