Mommy’s Car or Toys R Us Boutique?

I am no neat freak, just ask my mother. However, a new trend has started among my children that is turning my car from the grocery getter to a traveling toy chest.

I’m not sure how this kind of thing starts. I think it’s a compromise made in an effort to take less than 10 minutes from door to driving. “Can I take a Wii game?” “No.” “Can I take this very small lego man that I will cry after losing?” “No.” “MOM, can I please take Moosee?” “Sure, whatever it takes to get out of this door and into the car.”

So, now my car has become the resting place of many past-favorite toys. Past, because once they are lost in the pit of the car, they are out of sight and out of mind. There seems to be a necessity among my children to bring a bit of home with them into the car. Perhaps it’s a transitional item that helps them as they step into the great big world. Perhaps it’s a desire to have something that brother or sister doesn’t. Perhaps it’s a new way to stall the ever-impending reverse down the driveway.

Whatever it is, it’s a mess. So at least once a week, I demand that each child, particularly Sam, take his backpack, McDonald’s puppy, dirty socks, crayon drawing, and empty cup out of the car and into the house. “But Mommmmm,” I hear in the distance, “I can’t carry all of these things by myself.”

“Well, you carried it all out here, so figure it out. Maybe it will take more than one trip.”

Despite the messy process of cleaning up the mess, they are no less motivated to eliminate the carriage of extra items into the car. I think the only possible remedy is removal of all toys from their possession or the removal of their hands. Neither seems acceptable, so I’ll just start budgeting that additional 15 minutes on Thursday nights to clean it out. Again.

Now, I’m not sure who I can blame for the mess outside of the car….

Me and My Big Mouth

I was feeling pretty sure of myself last week, however, when we had a special speaker talk to us about discipline. The speaker had read a book called Don’t Make Me Count to Three, and was sharing her experiences trying it out. We all laughed and lamented the joys of being the lead enforcer around the house, but all in all I was feeling pretty good about myself. My kids, though strong-willed (Kate) and sometimes a little too smart for their own good, are generally such good kids. So in control. I even told an example about how I just talked to Sam about how we handled an argument a few months ago, and he took it all in and we decided to make some changes. Problem solved.

I went home that night and thought about how to incorporate some of the ideas she had, like working on the root issue instead of reacting only to the specific event. For example, instead of only teaching kids to take turns with the Wii remote that just got thrown across the room, you use scripture to talk about how people are more important than the things that we have and how God wants us to love each other. Good stuff.

As the aura from the evening’s good discussion was just beginning to fade, my son lit into a huge tantrum about bedtime. Huge. Not only did he cry and throw a fit and say he didn’t want to go, he flat out REFUSED to go to bed. After a few minutes, my patience went out the window and I banished myself to my room mid-sentence to cool down before my yelling awoke Kate. I could tell you the blow-by-blow, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly the textbook example that was given at our session.

I will give myself credit for ending fights well, and we always apologize and hug and talk about how to do better next time. So I went to bed feeling silly about my professed successful discipline methods, but no less secure in my parenting.

Queue the rest of the week: Sam has gone into a complete testing period where he wants to see just exactly where the boundaries are and see how far back he can move them. He has tried every technique in his arsenal, and I’ve used all of mine. The result? Frustration, exhaustion, and embarrassment. Who was I to think that I was some sort of parenting success story? I was blessed with good kids. I am blessed with a God who cares about them and cares about me, and who I believe can undo any of the damage I happen to do to them. Am I the success, or is God?

After a week of enforced bedtime, time spent in the “safe spot” at school, and a little help from Dad, Sam is starting to morph back into the well-behaved child I know. I am glad to know that he’s unleashing some of his craziness on his teacher as well, and it’s not solely for my benefit. (I told Stuart that Sam’s “not listening” trait was inherited from HIS side of the family.) I think I’ll live to fight another day.

One of the “experienced” mothers in the group asked last Wednesday, “Isn’t this all kind of exhausting?” Oh yeah.