Should we cut it off?

My boys are quick to cry over injuries. Sometimes, admittedly it's for attention. Sometimes I really just think their pain threshold is extraordinary low.

Ethan, 5, walks into my room as I am working on my paper with big tears streaming down his face.

Me: Oh my goodness! What happened sweetie?

Ethan: I DON'T want to tell you!

Zach is also in the room. He is grounded from video games, television, and the computer. So, he sits in front of me most of the day bugging me.

Zach: Then why did you come in here?

Ethan: STOP! Growl. Crying continues.

Me: Ethan, just tell me what happened? What hurts?

Ethan: NO-Thing! Which is my absolute most favorite word he says.

Zach and I look at each other, biting our lips and trying not to laugh.

One of the things I say to my boys, when the injuries are minor and they can't stop the drama is, "Do you think we need to cut it off?" This really annoys them.

So, when one of them comes in limping and shows me a scrape, undetectable without the aid of a magnifying glass... I say, "I think we'll need to cut it off." They realize they are not going to get much pity from me and they go away.

After Ethan continued to show off his dramatic skill for about five minutes, I finally said, "I think we'll need to cut it off."

To which he responded with a bigger cry: Why do you always want to cut off parts of my body!

Holey Moley!

Last week was a bit intense in our household.

Zayd, our 8-year-old, came to our bedroom to ask whether he could watch the latest King Kong movie. We decided it was a bit too violent for our over-imaginative son who each night before bed needs to ask us, "What should I think about tonight" in order to avoid nightmares. By the way, after 4 years of this, it becomes increasingly difficult to come up with new material. Lately my response has deteriorated to topics like orange juice and grass.

Zayd is also quite the passionate child - I think today's psychological term would be "strong-willed child."

So, when I said: No, that movie is not appropriate for you. It's very scary." I knew what I was getting myself into - I just didn't know EXACTLY what I was getting myself into.

The pleading began, and with each "no" came a elevated response. So much so that a full-blown tantrum had begun. I then informed my son calmly but firmly that if he would not stop, he would lose a day of television. That sent him to a new level.

Me: No television.

He went ballistic.

Me: You are going to lose two days of television if you don't stop.

Is there word for a level beyond ballistic?

The meltdown in now into its 20th minute.

Me: No television for a week.

All hell broke loose and I took him by his arm and with great determination (and strength) walked him into his room and said, "You will sit here until you calm down. I am not interested in listening to you right now."

I walked back to my bedroom and laid on the bed with my husband. Both of us on our backs, staring at the ceiling and probably thinking the same thing: What the hell did we do to create this child? Well, I mean, we know what we did... but I mean after that... what did we do?

A few minutes later - along with the screaming, we hear a loud bang, followed by another loud bang, followed by another loud bang.

Then we hear a very, very, loud bang. Then silence.

Still staring at the ceiling, I say: Huh. That doesn't sound good.

Paul goes to check things out.

Paul: He punched a hole in the wall.

Wow.

The commotion brings the other boys into our room. They are used to these meltdowns and normally find other things to do, far away from the noise. But even they knew something new had happened.

First, the 5-year-old, who shares a room with his brother and is not afraid at all of his meltdowns. We hear him run directly up the stairs in into their bedroom.

Loud scream from Zayd.

Then Ethan comes marching into our bedroom with his eyes the size of half-dollars.

Ethan: Mom. Zayd just pumpched a big hoe in de waww. Is a weewy weewy big hoe.

Then the other two run in. What was that!

Ethan: Zayd pumpched a weewy big hoe in de waww. He was quite proud that he was the first brother on the scene.

The other boys run into Zayd's room. More screaming - from Zayd. They run back.

Evan: Oh my God mom! I can't believe he did that! What are you going to do?

Me: I'm not sure what your dad and I are going to do.

Leave it to Zach to sum it all up.

Zach: You know, you gotta admit - that's pretty impressive. He didn't even break his knuckles. I mean, come on, that's amazing.

Pause

Zach: Huh..I wonder what he'll do next time?

Caught Red-Handed

This is a "chat" conversation between my 14-year-old and I that just occurred on Facebook. I was upstairs, he was downstairs.

Me:

how is it that you are on the computer?

you are not supposed to be on it my dear.

2:55pmZach

o.....really?

2:55pmNajla

yes. you know that.

2:56pmZach

or r u just joshin me?

2:56pmNajla

grounded from computer, tv, video games...

no. you'd better get off...

or I will come and hunt you down.

2:56pmZach

thats unfortunate....

Najla

lol

2:57pmZach

i dont find it funny....

2:56pm

Forger

Oh my God. My 14-year-old thinks I am stupid.

He shows up at my bedside tonight while I'm writing my paper and hands me a blank piece of computer paper.

Zach: Will you sign this?

Me: Huh?

Zach: Will you sign this?

Me: Why do you want me to sign a blank piece of paper?

Zach: Because.

Long pause. We stare at each other.

Me: Uhmmm.... no.

Zach: Why won't you just sign it?

Me: Because.

Pause

Zach: Fine. I forgot to bring my permission slip home for a field trip. I need to bring the permission slip in tomorrow or I can't go.

Me: Ooooooo-kay. Sooooo... why am I signing a blank piece of paper?

Zach: So I can see how you sign your name and I can forge it on the permission slip tomorrow.

Is he kidding me?

Zach: I'll tear it up right after I forge it!

OK. High marks for me on open communication with eldest son. Low marks on ethical standards.

Add another man to my list

As if worrying about five men weren't enough. Now I get to add my 76-year-old dad into the mix.

Papa and Nana (my mother and father) live down the street from us. Right down the street. Ten houses down the street - same side of the street. Are you with me? They moved to town when Papa retired from 25 years in higher education as an engineering professor.

Last year we were thrilled when Papa agreed to come over to the house everyday at 3 pm to watch the three younger boys until their 14-year-old brother got home from school. This means Papa is responsible for a 5, 8 and 11-year-old for one hour.

My 14-year-old has been telling me for months that Papa doesn't really watch the boys. As Zach puts it, "Papa is merely present."

Today - Zach had some supporting evidence to that effect.

As I walk into the house today at 5:10 pm, I am greeted with a pungent odor. Zach is sitting at the computer in the kitchen.

Me: Why does is smell like poop in here?

Zach: (Slowly and deliberately turns his head to me) I've been trying to tell you for forever that Papa doesn't watch them.

Me: (pause) Oh my God. (pause) What happened?

Zach: So, I get home and I walk in and the place smells like it is burning down. Ethan is in the family room and has vacuumed up half a quilt. He can't pull it out, the vacuum cleaner is hot, and smells like it is going to explode.

Me: And where is Papa?

Zach: Papa is in the kitchen watching TV.

Note: The kitchen is open to the family room. It is impossible to be in the kitchen and NOT know what is going on in the family room. That is, unless you are Papa.

Me: So what did you do?

Zach: Well first, I stopped the impending house fire by turning off the vacuum cleaner and yanking the blanket out of it. Then I got Ethan and Zayd outside doing something else. THEN I asked Papa if he noticed that Ethan almost burned the house down.

Me: And...

Zach: He said, (insert heavy middle-eastern accent here) "Yeah... I guess I noticed something smelly..."

Me: And...

Zach: And then he said "Bye Zeki" and left.

OK. So maybe Zach's right. Papa isn't watching them.

He obviously isn't smelling them either.

Jedi Mind Trick

My 14-year-old introduced me to the "Jedi Mind Trick" the other night. Apparently, with the swoosh of your hand in front of the face of your victim, you can get them to do whatever you want them to do.

Zach: Mom. Do you want to take us to Culver's after dinner for ice cream?

Me: No.

Zach: Completely straight faced. Swoosh. Yes you do.

Me: What are you doing?

Zach: Jedi Mind Trick.

Me: I look over at his father. What is he doing?

Paul: Jedi Mind Trick.

The rest of my men folk at the dinner table nod their head in agreement. This includes 5-year-old Ethan, who I am pretty sure has no idea what a Jedi is... let alone the concept of a "mind trick."

Me: I am not taking you to Culver's.

Zach: Mom. Swoosh. You are taking us to Culver's and you are so excited about it.

I turn to Paul.

Paul: Swoosh. Yeah.

I turn to Zach. This time, I "Swoosh."

Me: Zach. You are so excited to clean up the kitchen, sort all the socks that have been piled in the laundry basket in my room for the last week, and clean all the pee around the toilet upstairs.

Zach. Uhmm. No. Mom. Jedi Mind Trick only works on the weak-minded.

Right.

A little later in the evening, we are all outside enjoying the warm weather when I catch Ethan on his hands and knees about to pick up a pretty dang big branch off the lawn with his mouth.

Me: ETHAN! DO NOT put that BRANCH in your MOUTH!

Zach: Giving me a smug look. See Mom? Jedi mind trick. It really works.

It's a burrito!

Last night we all went out for Mexican food. My 14-year-old insists on ordering from the adult menu because he is 14. Most of the time, the food weighs more than him.

On our way home, a moan comes from the backseat of the van.

Zach: Oh my God Mom! They are about 10 seconds apart. 

Me: What?

Zach: The contractions... Oh the contractions! They hurt so bad. They are 10 seconds apart. I think I'm having a super burrito.

Oh my God.

Now his 8-year-old brother, who is sitting next to him in the backseat, joins in...

Zayd: OK-  Zach... just breathe. Pant... like a dog.

I have GOT to cancel our cable.

Zach: (panting). Time them Zayd. 

Zayd: (pause) Oh no! 8 seconds apart. OH MY GOD! I think your water broke!

That's it, I'm getting rid of all the TVs in the house.

Zach: Oh yeah! I'm having it... the burrito is on it's way!

Followed by more panting and grunting sounds. 

Chorus of boys: It's a burrito! Oh... it's a super burrito! It's so cute! (laughter)

Contraction envy. That's what this is.  

Raising Feminists

Yesterday, my 11-year-old gave his dad a rousing lecture on equality.

Evan: Dad, I know you are the man of the house, but mom is the woman of the house and she gets as much say in things as you do. Just because you are a man, doesn't mean you get to decide everything.

Dad: Yes, Evan, I understand that.

Evan: No, Dad, I don't think you understand. Why is it when you want to do something or get something, you just do it. But when mom wants to do something or get something, she asks you first. She shouldn't have to ask your permission. She should get to do whatever she wants.

Dad: That isn't true Evan. Your mom does and gets lots of things and does not ask my permission.

Evan: Dad. Come on. Do you really think I believe that. I've seen it Dad. She asks you but you do stuff all the time. You bought the flat-screen TV while she was gone and it costed a lot and you didn't ask. But I know she would've asked you. So why is that? Why is that? I don't understand.

What in the hell has brought this on? All the talks we have had about gender, sex, and sexuality; all the talks about feminist history and equality; all the discussions about "boys can wear pink underwear with flowers too;" My GOD. They have paid off. What an great partner he will make. I am so proud.

Dad: (pause). That's different Evan. A TV is not a living thing.

Evan: So if we want to have a living thing, we have to ask permission?

Me: Ferns are living things.

Note: My husband has ferns all over the house and is fully aware of my utter hatred for them. I feel like I am living in a damn nursing home. The one that appeared in our bedroom two months ago is massive. It sheds all over the carpet and has infested our room with these annoying little bugs -- like fruit flies- but I don't know... they must be fern flies. They fly in my face all the time. I hate the goddamn ferns. No one asked me about the ferns.

Dad: Fine. (frustrated sigh) Do you want me to get rid of the ferns?

Me: Actually...

Evan: So, if mom wants a dog, we should get a dog. Because mom wants one and she is the woman of the house.

Huh. This sermon is about a dog. Well, feminist thinking has to start somewhere.

Damn it. Just swatted another goddam fern fly.

Brain Dead?

My 5-year-old and I are home sick today.

He is watching TV and calls to me in the next room:

"Mom, I want to watch more TV, but I think my brain is going to die."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

MediaMania

We've gone from NajMania to MediaMania at our house.

My 11-year-old posted a report to CNN's i-Report online. He talked about Fargo's flood, blizzard, and being stuck at home for almost 2-weeks.

16,000 hits on his video later (in less than one day)... he has become a celebrity. CNN Headline news interviewed him on the air... so did local radio... and now a producer for a national talk show host called.

hummm...

Oh - and the Penguin girlfriend? She totally likes him now.

Here's the video he submitted.

http://www.ireport.com/docs/DOC-237937#postComment