Abduction Issues: A Play in Three Acts

I recently enrolled Camille in an acting class at a nearby theater. Have you met Camille? She is always acting. I thought this would be perfect. However, as the weeks have gone on, I've been wondering what she is actually doing in class that relates to acting. She consistently reports they watch Peter Pan, play tag, and tell jokes. I'm thinking if this is the curriculum for an acting class then why am I not charging $25 per month for every kid that comes in my house? I decided to attend the class myself to check things out. When the instructor arrived looking suspiciously young and pimply he informed that parents are never allowed to observe. "Why?" I asked. He responded (you're gonna love this), "Because we've had abduction issues." Call me crazy, but that sounds like a very good reason for me to stay and watch. Maybe even bring a concealed weapon. I'm going to do my best to recreate the conversation I had with the young instructor, his higher-up (she was also hormonally challenged) and her higher-up.

Act I: Confusion in the basement of the Theater
Teenager: Yes, parents are not allowed to observe. That is our rule because, like, we've totally had problems.
Mother: Problems with who?
Teenager: Like, well, we have, like, foster kids in the class.
Mother: [with furrowed, concerned brow] So, the foster kids cause problems?
Teenager: No, we don't have any now, but there have been, like, problems so, like, parents are never allowed to observe. Do you want to talk to the Director about it?
Mother: That would be great.
Mother exits stage left

Act II: I'm definitely not the Director OR a lawyer but I hope to play one on tv
Note, Not-The-Director-Teenager is abbreviated NTDT.
NTDT: [perky] Hi!
Mother: Hello.
NTDT: The Director is in a meeting right now. Is there, like, something I can do?
Mother: Yes, I just found out that it is against your policy to allow parents in the class?
NTDT: Yes, that's, like, because there's these laws that have been put in place, like, some laws about foster kids and stuff so, like, we have these laws that you can't observe the class.
Mother: I'm not really aware of any laws that say parents can't observe their kids in a class. I pay for the class, so I want to see it.
NTDT: Well, the CEO has, like, these laws, so it's the CEO's laws for the classes here.
Mother: Okay, is the CEO available?
NTDT: [still perky] Oh he has, like, meetings all day. All the time.
Mother: [developing nervous tic] Is he in a meeting right now?
NTDT: I can go check!
Mother: That would be great.
NDTD exits stage left then suspiciously promptly returns
NDTD: He's not available right now. Would you like to talk to the Director?
Mother: Sure!
Mother follows NDTD both exit stage right

Act III: Things a Director shouldn't tell parents of children in the acting program
Director: [frazzled] Hi!
Mother: Hello. I was just here for my daughter's class and I've been informed parents are not allowed to observe.
Director: [apologetically] Yes, that's because, well, you're not gonna believe this. It's like something out of a movie. A while back we had a student in class whose father was in prison in California. He hired a private investigator to come to the class and film it for the father so he could see the kid. The guy just kept showing up to the class and said he was the student's uncle. So, since the instructors don't know who the parents are, we just have to say no one is allowed in class.
Mother: Wow. Okay, thanks.
Mother exits stage right, Director exits stage left.

The final act to this play is almost complete. My formal letter of complaint is written. I have to deliver it to the theater and get my money back. I'm sure you understand that my complaint is not that the "Uncle" showed up to class. It's that my three-year-old is smart enough to make the distinction between a random stranger and a parent so I would hope teachers and CEOs could, too. Because of the idiocy of the staff, I apparently have no hope of observing the class and getting my concerns about curriculum resolved. I suppose I'm also bugged because I'm a mother and, HELLO! What mother would actually find a "no parents allowed" policy acceptable? Seriously. Camille is already enrolled in another acting class somewhere else. Hopefully there won't be an Uncle Creepy standing in for the incarcerated dad, troublesome foster kids, or law-making CEOs to keep me from watching Camille do a stirring rendition of something, like, fabulous.

Selling Crack

Dane's Spanish teacher approached me a few weeks ago to suggest that he start wearing a belt to school. I almost laughed out loud. Obviously she doesn't know that she's lucky if Dane is wearing socks and underwear which have been changed in the last 48 hours. Of all the things to be worried about as the four of us are trying to get out the door at 7:42am with the last scraps of breakfast toast in our hands, a belt is not high on the list. Can you imagine me yelling, "Do you have your coat? Homework? Backpack? I don't care if you don't like burritos, it's too late to pack a lunch! Library book? You didn't brush your hair! Spanish books? Gloves? Hat? We'll talk about that after school! Dane, are you wearing a belt?" Ya, right.

She explained that when he sits on the floor his butt-crack is showing and that she is worried about the other kids making fun of him. I just nodded my head and said, "Okay. I'll let him know" and walked away rolling my eyes. Don't get me wrong, I don't want my kid to be the laughing stock of the school or picked on by bullies. However, I think some problems take care of themselves without parental involvement and this type of concern is exactly why we are raising a nation of wimpy, indecisive, and helpless people.

The interaction with Dane's teacher reminds me of an "incident" we had a few years ago. We live in an awesome neighborhood that has frequent gatherings and parties. At the end of every school year we all pitch in to rent a bouncy-slide with a hose so the kids have fun all day getting wet and eating snow-cones. Another mom approached me to explain that Dane had just mooned some other neighborhood kids. I was mortified. I quickly found Dane and asked what was going on. He explained that the kids were making fun of him in his swim suit, since his bum crack was showing. I have to interject here and explain that try as I might, this is just something Dane struggles with. It's a simple fact of his body type; long torso, short legs, toddler belly, Wittusen genes. I'm constantly telling him to pull up his pants but within moments they are slipping back down. Anyway, Dane was tired of the kids making fun, so he just pulled down his swim trunks and showed them the "full moon." At first I was upset, but over time I came to realize that this wasn't such a terrible solution to the problem. I mean, he didn't punch anyone, get angry, or come whining and crying to me, all of which may have resulted in him missing out on the fun. By giving the kids a good look at his bum, there was no more reason to make fun of the little peeking crack, right? Everyone carried on, business as usual.

I can appreciate the teacher's concern for Dane. She's just trying to be kind and considerate of his feelings. But I also appreciate a bit of well-timed peer pressure. I'm pretty sure it's the reason why Dane finally stopped sucking his thumb. Someone else must have said something to him that made him want to quit, because nothing I said worked. I suppose if a peer at school told him his bum-crack was showing and Dane was embarrassed, he would find a solution. I've given him the tools; there were two new belts in his stocking for Christmas. I think sometimes you just have to let kids suffer a little embarrassment (just a little) in order to become adults who can manage the crevasses of life.

The Birds and the Bees

I'm getting lots of questions from my kids lately. I thought I was prepared but they spring it on me when I'm least expecting it. Driving home from school the other day Dane asked me, "Mom, what does 'make-out' mean?"
"It means kissing a lot," I replied.
"Can you only do it when you're married?" Thinking about my teenage and college years I STILL decide to answer...
"Yes, only when you are married."
"Then you and Dad must make-out a lot." I promise we keep it clean in front of the kids...
"Well, it's okay because we are married."
I know I mentioned before my belief that parents should tell kids the truth when they ask these types of questions. Now I'm doubting that belief. I'm finding out that this practice usually just leads to more questions.
"Do all animals make eggs?" Camille asked.
"No." I replied.
"Do we make eggs?" Relentless!!
"Yes, human girls make eggs." Please let this be the end. Doorbell, telephone, fire alarm. Please!
"What do human boys make?"
With a gulp I respond, "Sperm."
For a moment a scene from a movie flashed across my mind where this little boy's dad has died so his mom takes him to the doctor to learn about the birds and the bees. Except the doctor has this thick British accent and so in the next scene the boy is telling all his friends it's called "Spam."
I've heard that age 8 is a good age to explain to kids where babies come from. I'm just not sure where to begin. Drawings? Too graphic. Hand gestures? Inappropriate. Even blogging about this is making me squirm. It's not that I'm totally uncomfortable talking to my kids about it, I just want to be ready for any questions or dialogue. I've had some book recommendations from a friend, so I think I'll look into that. If you have any other ideas feel free to post them here!

Soap In My Mouth...Part Deux

I was hanging out with my son in the kitchen the other day while he so sweetly and obediently loaded the dishwasher. He turned to me with his cute round face and baby blue eyes and innocently asked, "Mom, is f**k a bad word?" I almost hit the floor but managed to stay on my feet and pick my jaw up instead. One of my goals as a parent is to try to maintain an environment where my kids can come to me with questions. I suppose in setting this goal I didn't really consider all the possibilities. I was thinking more along the lines of, "Where do babies come from?"

You will be proud of me for two reasons. First, I never use this word. Seriously. My swears have their origins in the Bible (that's my story and I'm sticking to it) so the f-bomb is not part of my vocabulary. Second, I didn't over-react. I explained to Dane that on the scale of swear words this one is the worst and he shouldn't say it. This led to a discussion about taking the Lord's name in vain, which he argued is the greater crime since it's actually a commandment in the Bible. Good point, but I clarified that while not everyone thinks the Ten Commandments are important, everyone knows the f-word is a serious vernacular violation.

I know you're wondering when I'm going to get to the part about asking him where he heard it. "It was...Schwartz!" Just kidding (name that movie). Well I did ask and he rolled and I wasn't totally surprised at the answer. Honestly, I don't think it matters much where he heard it (except that his play-time with that kid will be limited). I mean, our kids are going to hear and see all kinds of things and what they need to know is how to process and ultimately avoid the bad stuff. I can only hope our discussion enhanced his view of language. Even though I don't like hearing my 8-year-old drop the f-bomb, I look forward to more questions.

Funny, I just re-read this post and it made me think about my own hypocrisy. It seems like what I have taught is that a little bit of swearing is okay, as long as you don't say that word. This is not how I explained it to Dane, but it's certainly what I've taught by example. Hmmm.

On Why I Don't Have Nice Things...

Something happened this morning that inspired me to explain why I don't have nice stuff in my house. We'll get to that point of inspiration in a moment, but first a tour...

The Sharpie-colored chair in my living room



Green paint on the carpet



And some red paint (mixed with lead from pencil shavings dumped from a pencil sharpener)




Smashed-up wall in the playroom. Alright, I admit this "oopsie" is kinda my fault. I thought those swing chairs from Ikea were so cool, and so did the kids (even the neighbor kid who went home and puked after a bit too much spinning). If you buy the swing just don't be an idiot and hang it too close to the wall.



Melted crayon on a desk lamp which looks like the experiment of a certain 8-year-old



Dry-erase marker on the wall in the guest room. The worst part about this graffiti is that it isn't even the work of my own kids.



Descriptive label, in case you were wondering to whom the book shelf belongs. It says, "Poprde of Dane." Cut the kid some slack, he was only four and just learning to spell. OKAY?! Geez.



Now for the inspiration that set this blog in motion...my watch in a vat of hot wax.



I'm always impressed when moms of young children can keep their houses so clean and tidy. Even more impressed when their kids don't break everything they own. Are my kids just destructive? I know what you're thinking, but this demolition is really not due to a lack of supervision. Most of the defacement and damage occurred in slow-motion like a scene from Nightmare on Elm Street with me running and screaming, "NNNNNNOOOOOOO!!!!!" The perpetrator responsible for the watch is taking a nap, which is the safest thing I could think to do right after she pointed to her work and said, "Look, Mommy!"

Soap In My Mouth...

I know I have a little "Quote of the Week" section here, but I had to post these separately since the kiddos have been simultaneously cracking me up and making me cringe all week.
A conversation with Dane:
"Damn it, Dane!!" yelled Libby
"That's your fault, Mom," Dane replied.
"What's my fault?"
"The swearing."
"I know." (picture my eye roll)
"I think we need to do something about this," Dane advised.
"Dane, people have strengths and weaknesses. One of my weaknesses is swearing. I'm really trying to do better."
"I couldn't tell."

I took Libby to the Lehi pool for a little mommy-daughter fun time this week. We were in the locker room with about 50 teenage girls (shouldn't they have been at school??). I wasn't listening to their chatter very closely but apparently Libby was. When we walked out to the pool she turned to me and in her best teen-impersonating voice said, "Mom, I'm like...totally freaking out right now." Now that I think about it, this makes sense. She obviously listens to conversations...hence the swearing problem.

Camille told me over breakfast this morning that she "is going to obey all the time now."
"What brought about this decision?" I asked.
"Cause it seems to make you pretty mad when I don't. So I just think it would be better to do what you say."
"Sounds like a plan."
This conversation actually made me a little sad. I've been hoping that my kids would learn to make good decisions because it's the right thing to do, not because they are afraid of me. Well, I guess it's not that bad. You have to start somewhere, right?

Camille's revelation reminds me of something Dane said to me a few weeks ago. I can't even remember what he wasn't doing that I had asked him to do. All I remember is yelling, "Dane! I just want you to do what you're told!!" To which he wittily replied, "And is that how you get kids to what you want...by yelling at them?" Dane = 2, Mom = 0.

The most important thing my mom taught me...

"...is not to punch my friends in the nuts." You can imagine my horror when I read this statement in my son's writing journal at school tonight. We had SEPs (Student-Educator-Parent conferences) and Dane's teacher opened his journal to a random entry. Now that I think about it, maybe it wasn't so random. Maybe she wanted me to know that if by some tragic accident I go to my grave tomorrow this lesson will be the coup de grâce of all motherly lectures my son will remember for a lifetime. Good grief. I hope she understands that this kind of open-ended question directed to openly-opinionated kids is risky. I learned that I need to attend these conferences with a prepared list of excuses, "His father's family..." or "The babysitter let him watch..." or "Those neighbor kids have such filthy mouths!" Just for the record I have never referred to THOSE body parts using THAT word in front of my kids. I've always been a firm believer in teaching kids the correct names for all body parts, both boys and girls. This idea only backfired once when three-year-old Camille announced to a random stranger that she had a "vagenis." Despite that slip-up, I still think kids should have the correct information from parents since they will probably learn the slang terminology no matter what you do. Dane's journal entry proves this point. I have no idea where he learned that. Seriously.

Camille's teacher informed me that Camille wanted to move to a new spot in the classroom this week. A boy she sits next to was invading her space and in private she told the teacher, "He's also NOT so great to look at." Sounds like a reasonable explanation to me. I mean, who can get all that coloring done with a kid that doesn't tie his shoes and who never combs his hair staring you in the face? Gracefully, the teacher asked her to keep that little tidbit to herself and allowed her to move her desk.

I'm lucky my kids have such great teachers this year who handle things so appropriately. Their diplomacy mitigates my embarrassment at these conferences. I think my kids need a lesson on the golden rule. Dane needs it because he should have a better topic for "the most important thing my mother ever taught me" and Camille needs it because she will have to deal with many "not so great to look at people" in her life. Ahhh... the joys of parenting.

It's my kids' party and I'll cry if I want to...

I won't even start this blog with an explanation of why I haven't been blogging. Sorry.

I don't know what has come over me the last few days. I have been a blubbering mess. It all started with Libby's birthday on the fourth. My sis-in-law said to me, "So, you're baby is 3 now!" and I immediately started crying. What?! She's out of diapers, very sassy, sleeping in a big-girl bed, almost ready to give up naps, and totally hilarious. She also still wants to "hold you" and every time I return from being gone she tells me, "Mom, I missed you! I was so worried about you!" Don't worry. I'm not sending Brad to have his little snip-snip unsnipped. But the reality of how limited my time is with her at this stage just kills me. Dang! I'm crying again!!

Today is Dane's birthday. I don't know what it is about this age, but I just adore him. Okay, so he has his super-obnoxious moments. But he's also so observant, sweet, loving, and really funny. I can't believe he is already 8. So cliche, but I seriously remember the very moment they put him in my arms as a newborn like it just happened. And of course I've forgotten all the pain that got me to that moment (hence the 2 more kids). What have I been doing for 8 YEARS? It's gone by in a flash. It's so crazy to listen to him talk sometimes and realize he has his own little life that mostly has nothing to do with me. Again with the crying!


I had this brilliant idea to make Dane a Lego cake for his birthday. Like most of my ideas, it was really only brilliant in my head. I made a regular cake. When I turned it out of the pan parts of the middle stuck to the pan. I had to scrape out chunks of cake and just smash it back into the holes. Then I had to flip the cake over to cut off the uneven top, at which point it broke. I cut it in half so that it had the right shape, but this left the middle exposed which was nothing but smushed up cake chunks. The connector parts of the Lego are just cupcakes turned upside-down. I baked them a few days ago and cut the tops off so they would sit flat on the cake. I think I have single-handedly eaten every cupcake top which I'm figuring adds up to about 6 pieces of cake. Now I'm crying about that, too. Assembling the whole thing was ridiculous and I just kept thinking about how much time I would need to run to the store and buy one instead. It turned out okay, but I guess I was picturing it looking much nicer. Much to my surprise I overheard Dane's friends saying, "Wow! That's a cool cake!" and "Hey! It looks just like a Star Wars Lego!" But the icing on the cake was hearing Dane reply, "Yeah, my mom makes the best cakes EVER!"

Camp out

Tell me he isn't an awesome Dad. Yes, that's our back yard.

Ibuprofen, Please

Yesterday I had my first high-speed crash on the bike. In my four years of riding I've fallen down plenty of times, but this was my first moving crash.

I was descending through a neighborhood in Orem, going about 25 mph. I came to a sort of long blind corner. As I started to turn I realized it was sharper than I thought and the road was a bit gravelly. The bike started to slide. Normally I would just slow down and turn a bit wider to keep from falling, but unfortunately there was a big BULLDOZER parked on the side of the road. It was taking up all the road space I needed. Once my brain registered the bulldozer I instantly knew I was going down. In 1 second I had to make a choice...

A)Lay the bike down in the gravelly road.
B)Smash into the bulldozer at 25mph.
C)Aim for the sidewalk and hope for the best.

If you've ever had your bare skin skid along gravel you know that A is not a great option. As for B, I'm sure most of you know that even a low-speed fender bender can do quite a bit of damage. Colliding with a piece of construction equipment in a car would be bad. Can you imagine on a bike? So, I chose option C.

I don't remember much after that. I know I hit the sidewalk...with my head...hard. I have no idea how the rest of my body came down, or how my bike landed 5 feet away from me in someone's yard.

When the light came back my first thought was "OH NO!! MY BIKE!! Please don't let anything be broken on my bike!!" I crawled over to it and checked it out. Besides the right shifter being pretty dinged up and crammed full of grass she looked okay. I really don't remember but I must have flipped or skidded into the grass and I'm assuming my bike did the same.

I guess I wasn't thinking clearly (shock? concussion?) because it was then I decided to ride home, even though I had my cell phone and could have called Brad to come and get me. About 3/4 of the way home I got a bit shaky and started to realize I was really hurt. Every tiny bump in the road was agony to my head. It still didn't fully register until I walked in the house. Brad looked and me and said, "Oh! You're back early!" Then I started to cry. I couldn't even bend over to take off my own shoes. I went into the bathroom to inspect my injuries. My right butt cheek was skinless, I had road rash on my right thigh, my right knee was cut up, my right hip and tail bones were pretty bruised. The worst part was my head. I showered and then Brad had to bandage up my behind. Fantastic.

I'm very sore today and I have a slight headache. This morning I discovered a 4-inch bruise on my left hip, so I must have hit my handlebars or something on the way down. I drove by the scene of the accident and sure enough there were cones AND barricades set up and men working on the road. That explains the gravel and the bulldozer. I'm mad there were no cones on the blind corner to warn me of the danger last night! I think I'll take a picture of my butt and tape it to the bulldozer, or send it to the city office.

If I've learned anything from this experience it's thank goodness for helmets. If you're not familiar with modern bike helmets, well, they are super strong. It takes a serious amount of force to actually break the hard interior. Mine is broken in three places. Below is a picture and I tried to mark where it's busted. I always wear it and I'm so grateful my brains are still inside my skull. I'm convinced it saved my life!