Are We Cheapskates?

Our tooth fairy is cheap. Jack, the resident second grader, only gets 50 cents per tooth. Other tooth fairies are shelling out between 2 and 5 dollars for their charges’ teeth. Five dollars? Really? For something over which happens to everyone and they have absolutely no control?

In addition, we aren’t giving our kids an allowance yet. Other parents generously shell out dough to their kids each week, while our underprivileged waifs must make do with not having any money to buy for themselves what they want. We have friends whose kids actually buy presents for each other with their allowance. How old are the children, you ask? Five and three. I can’t decide how I feel about that.

I did recently purchase and read a book called The National Bank of Dad, which is very quick and easy to get through. It’s written by a dad of three kids who came up with what seems to be a realistic and simple way of teaching kids about money. So I guess Hubby and I are going to bite the bullet soon and start the weekly doling out of dough. How much to give them was quite a topic of discussion. Apparently, the general rule seems to be that each child receives the amount each week that is equal to their age. So my six-year-old should receive six dollars each week? Are you serious?

We finally decided to start with $3 per week for the six-year-old and $2 for the four-year-old. Those amounts still seem like a lot of money for kids that young. Maybe our tooth fairy will win the lottery so that our poor children can start earning real money.

Second Child Syndrome

I should know better. I am the second child. My baby book has exactly two pages filled out, while my elder sister’s (curse her!) book even has her first curl in it. I remember having an assignment in 3rd grade to write my autobiography. Hmmm, would’ve been a lot easier if I had something other than Mom’s (faulty) memories to help me out.

So I always vowed that, were I to have two children of my own, I would not let the same thing happen to the child whose only mistake was to be the second-born. Alas, my best intentions fell flat. My neighbor recently reminded me of that fact. We have a picture wall in the space below the staircase. Chris was looking at it and grinned – “You can hardly tell that Jack has a little brother here” and proceeded to count that Jack has five pictures on the wall, while poor Sean warrants only two. Now, to be fair, two of Jack’s pictures were put up before I was even pregnant with Sean, and another was given to us by a friend. The frame happened to match all of the others – how could we not put it on the wall? And one of Sean’s pictures is actually 3-in-1, so isn’t the tally really 5-4?

The photo albums (yes, the old-fashioned kind) tell the same story. My sister was born with the Creative Gene (curse her again!), and made a beautiful 21-page album for Jack 0that includes pictures of me each month while pregnant, baby shower cards, and the like. Poor Sean’s album pales in comparison – only thirteen pages. It’s also gorgeous, but putting the two of them side by side tells a pitiful tale.

Of course, don’t get me started on the hand-me-downs. At least Sean won’t be cursed with second-hand bras. . . .

Ahhh, Mother’s Day!

I’m not big on holidays. Growing up, they tended to be boring affairs, as I come from a small and reticent family. I don’t care for Valentine’s Day. Independence Day, Memorial and Labor Days are all just days when most folks have time off from work. Even Christmas doesn’t hold many fond memories. Not bad ones, mind you, just nothing memorable. But I do love days that are all about, well, me. Now, I’m not typically a narcissistic or self-involved person. But I’ve always loved my birthday. Part of it could be the fact that I just turned 40 in January and I got carded at Super Target the other day – she insisted that I couldn’t be a day over 30.

Mother’s Day is similar. From May 2001 when I was four months pregnant, to now with two wonderful children, I love having a day for me. I don’t do dishes (although I usually do cook at some point during the day) or laundry. I do whatever the heck I want. I don’t expect grand romantic gestures from hubby or a $420-dollar spa day. But to have a day that I can just say, “Hmmm, I’m going out to the hammock to read for an hour” is simply divine.

I do occasionally harbor some feelings of guilt a day or two after Mother’s Day. They usually come around when I hear that other moms are celebrating by doing something fun with their family. Hmmm. Am I a terrible mother because I would rather get my nails done on Mother’s Day than take the kids to the playground? I guess we can just add it to the ever-growing list of things I do that will scar my children for life. . . .

Dinnertime

I Conquered the Dinnertime Yuckies!

I’m sure you’ve all heard it at dinnertime. The “Ee-uw, this is disgusting and I’m not gonna eat it” refrain. Fantasies abound of a good neck throttling. I always think, Just wait ’til they’re older, and I can tell them that they can cook dinner tomorrow night. Yeah, that sounds great in theory. Any of you who have actually tried it, feel free to comment and let me know the results.

But I did it – I beat my 4- and 6-year-olds at their own game. I cooked a homemade pasta sauce that had (gasp!) spinach in it. I was able to separate the spinach out of the kids’ meals, but made sure that hubby and I had plenty. Jack was the first to notice. “What’s that green stuff you and Daddy are eating?” he asked. “Oh,” I said, ever so casually, “you wouldn’t like it. It’s seaweed. A specialy type called argyle.” (Hey – it’s the first random word I could think of that I knew neither of them would have ever heard.) And then, the magic words: “I want to try it!” So they both tried it. And LOVED it. HA! I say it again – HA! Gotcha, you no-spinach-eating midgets! They even asked for seconds!

Now, if only I could think of a way to implement this new strategy for, well, every other challenge I face with them. . . .

 

 

No More Questions!

“How do you know, Mommy?” This question is the most predominant one in my house these days. My six-year-old is bright and inquisitive, qualities that any parent should look upon with pride. But jeez louise, how I hate that my general I’m-an-adult-and-I-just-know knowledge gets questioned every day by a short person who can’t even wipe his bum effectively half the time. “Is that really true? I don’t believe you!” is another favorite. Yes, Sweetie, Mommy is lying to you about the fact that people really do eat duck. So sorry to crush your non-duck-eating dreams.

And, really, it’s not just these types of questions. Both of my kids are in a phase where they must know everything about everything right this very minute. Bedtime stories take on the length of a dissertation when at least three things on each page must be questioned as to how, why, or what – even if we have read it before. And it’s soooo difficult to not become frustrated and answer questions like so: “Yes, it really can happen and just wait until you’re in 5th grade because it will happen to you too!”

Okay, so I’m not that bad. But I’m sure that the kids can hear the frustration in my voice when we’re reading the first book of the evening but I’m answering the fourteenth question. And of course I feel, once again, like the terrible parent that I am, wondering why I can’t have more patience when all they want is to learn and understand.

Is this phase worse than the “Why?” which we’ve all experienced? Maybe. It’s definitely worse than the “What does ‘xyz’ mean?” At least for that one you can consult a dictionary. We even bought a kid’s dictionary for my then 5-year-old to help him (and us) get those questions answered. Now if I can just have three hours every day devoted to a question-and-answer session with my kids, everything will be just peachy.