Category: Parenting

Parenting Advice from Some Hippies

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop12 Comments

It occurred to me today that I should add something new to my children’s diets: dreams.

This suggestion did not come from my pediatrician, or Dr. Oz, or some celebrity chef who would likely scrutinize my sometimes questionable lunchbox choices on days when I hit the snooze button too many times or on mornings before the weekly grocery shopping trip.  In this case, my unlikely nutritionists go by the names of Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young. Wait, not Young. No, yes Young. Let me check….yes, & Young.

“Teach Your Children.” I have heard the song more times than I can count, mostly thanks to my father and his almost pristine taste in music. So when I heard it on the radio today, it should not have been any different from the thousands of other times. But then those voices in silken harmony began their sage advice: “Teach your children well. Their father’s hell did slowly go by. And feed them on your dreams…” BAM!

CSNY...parenting gurus?

It was as if I had heard those words, “and feed them on your dreams,” for the very first time. I apparently had never been listening before. But now I was. And all I could think was how beautiful that statement was. How poetic. How decadent in imagery. How representative of the generation of peace and love. How…wise and oddly practical. It was the best parenting advice I have heard in a long time. And it came from hippies.

Parenting is a competitive sport these days. We train prior to the big event. We scout experts and other parents, researching new approaches to the game. We are constantly adding pages to our playbook. We scrutinize every move we make. When we fail, we analyze where we went wrong; when we are victorious, we are awarded the right to brag about our “natural” skills and our abilities to outplay our children. And we are all working toward the same championship prize: for our well-rounded, intelligent, successful child to smoothly transition into a well-rounded, intelligent, successful adult.

That is what I have been told anyway. By whom? Pretty much the entire world, that’s who. Everyone has an opinion on parenting, and we are constantly bombarded by “experts” telling us how we should parent, how we should not parent, how much we should parent, all the things we are doing wrong as parents, and so on and so on. Are you a Tiger Mom? Are you a helicopter parent? Would you be a better parent if you were French? Is my child overweight because there are toys in Happy Meals? Are Disney princesses warping my daughter’s brain?

I am starting to think we are so busy reading about how to be parents that we forget to actually parent. Just pin that parenting tip on your Pinterest board labeled “Kid Stuff” and that’s all you need to do, right?

I am certainly guilty of all of this. I can be a bit of an over-analyzer when it comes to just about anything, my own parenting skills included. This is compounded by the fact that as a high school teacher, I was exposed to teenage behaviors on all points of the spectrum, thereby contributing to an irrational fear that every time I screw up in the parenting arena I have most definitely set my children on the path leading to the defiant, disrespectful, morally corrupt section of that spectrum. Maybe I should hover a little closer. No wait, maybe I should stop catering to my children’s needs like French parents. Or maybe I need to just nip this in the bud right now, pull out some Tiger Mom moves, and start calling my kids “garbage” until they start acting correctly.

Or maybe I just listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash, & Young and feed them on my dreams.

My dreams for my children are pretty simple. Love and happiness. Sure, I want my children to do well in school. Sure, I want them to have ambition and drive. Sure, I want them to be successful in life. Would it hurt if they ended up making nice, hefty livings for themselves so they could one day hook up their old crotchety parents with a sweet retirement timeshare in Florida? No, it would not. But deep down, I truly believe that everything I want for my children, everything I dream for them stems from love and happiness. If I feed them love and happiness everyday, that will nourish their spirits, their confidence, their minds, their hearts. It will grow them into beautiful people, and beautiful people do great things.

I know, I know…it sounds a little hippie dippie. But it is not as if I am never going to yell at my kids again, or tell them little white lies, or take away toys, or hold them accountable for their actions. I am still going to do all that. Maybe now I will just start trusting that the kind of parent I am is exactly the kind of parent I need to be, and that losing my cool after asking my children to stop using the couch as a trampoline for the twenty-fourth time is okay as long as it is accompanied by a large helping of love and happiness. Just like it is okay to have a Happy Meal every now and again, accompanied by a usually balanced diet. (That’s right crazy society, there ARE parents who do not need you take toys out of fast food meals. Some of us can make educated decisions all on our own. Shocking, I know.)

And because any view on parenting would not be complete without a healthy dialogue from  many perspectives, I am curious: what ingredients go into YOUR dream meals for your children? Or maybe you think this whole dream diet is just another fad? Or maybe you think I am plain crazy for taking parenting advice from hippies?

Or maybe you find it ridiculous that I just wrote a parenting blog post about how we over-analyze parenting?

Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop13 Comments

Chuck E. Cheese’s.

That is all you have to say to hear a collective, audible grunt from every parent within earshot. It may very well be the place “where a kid can be a kid,” but it is most certainly the place where a parent can get a preview of one of the circles of Hell. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But a place where your money gets you a mediocre pizza, a temporary tattoo and fun size Airhead candy for a mere 100 tickets, and a lingering sticky film over your entire body is not what I envision Heaven to be. Maybe Purgatory.

But I can deal with all of that. And I understand that in the eyes of my children, Chuck E. Cheese’s is the ultimate restaurant. After all, as a kid I felt the same way about its predecessor, Showbiz Pizza. So when faced with having to take my own kids to this pizza funland for a birthday party or fundraiser night (because those are pretty much the only circumstances under which we set foot in there), my audible grunt is not rooted in my disdain for the place. My distaste for Chuck E. Cheese’s comes from the mouse himself.

Yes, Chuck E. has scarred me for life. Let me take you back in time to the day it all happened…

The year was 1993. I was a sophomore in high school. For some reason completely incomprehensible to me now, but which clearly made sense to the idiot teenage brain, I went to Chuck E. Cheese’s with a few friends. Maybe we really wanted a neon pillow shaped liked an alien head and figured the best way to get one was to earn tickets playing Whack-A-Mole for an entire afternoon. Anyway, I remember it clearly. I was in the middle of one of my personal best rounds of skee ball when I felt a large, cartoonish presence next to me. There stood Chuck E., mimicking my skee ball maneuvers. Ha ha. Funny Chuck E. Now move along and go high-five some six-year-old. But he did not move on. He stood there for a little while, looking at me. I tried to ignore him and continued playing until he left. To my dismay, he did not stay away for long. He followed me, silently, creepily, from one game to the next. Don’t you have to go perform “Disco Chuck” or “Rockin’ Robin” with your band right about now? It was incredibly disturbing.

Finally, it must have been Chuck E.’s break time, because he scampered away behind a door, and I started breathing easy again. That is, until I turned around and found myself standing face to face with a Chuck E. Cheese employee – a human one this time. I thought maybe he was coming over to apologize for Chuck E.’s annoying behavior and to treat me to five free tokens for my inconvenience. I was mistaken. Here is how the conversation went down:

Employee: “Chuck E. wanted me to come out here and tell you that he thinks you’re cute.”

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: He’s a really nice guy. He wanted to know what you thought of his tail.

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: So when he comes back, you wanna hang out?

Me: I don’t date mice.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I WAS HIT ON BY CHUCK E. CHEESE. Of all the celebrities whose eye I could have caught, that was my one shining moment. Pathetic. Disgusting. And down right Creepy with a capital C.

And THAT is why I hate Chuck E. Cheese’s. Since that very unfortunate day, I shudder a little whenever I hear Chuck E.’s nasaly voice on a commercial. When we are at the restaurant, I get weirded out and have the urge to hide whenever Chuck E. starts walking the floor. But I grin and bear it, all so my kids can have their fun.

“Is that your tail or are you just happy to see me?” photo from arcadeheroes.com

And that is exactly what I did this past Thursday when Michael’s preschool had their fundraising night at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I bought my pizza and tokens like a dutiful mother. I helped Grace score extra points on the basketball game so she could earn more tickets toward junk I don’t want in my house. And I even alerted Michael when I saw Chuck E. sauntering among the customers (no doubt scanning the crowd for some unsuspecting female on whom he could work his “playa” moves). Michael loves Chuck E. Cheese, and when he saw the mouse, he ran up and gave him a hug. As I watched, a bit horrified, I had the thought, “Oh Michael. You have no idea. Chuck E. Cheese could have been your father.”

Then I threw up a little in my mouth.

(The Chuck E. Saga continued a few years later. For the next chapter, click here.)

•••

Don’t want to miss a post? Want to stay updated on my author events and news? Subscribe to my Weekly Mayhem Newletter HERE!

What I WAS Going to Write About

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop3 Comments
kid at the doctor
There HAS to be something wrong with him…right?

Last week I began formulating an idea for a blog post, born out of the frustration that comes with being the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. I have often said that the age of three should be declared a medical affliction. After all, there has been many a mother who has gone to the pediatrician with complete certainty that there will be a diagnosis of an ear infection, a sinus infection, an ANY infection to account for the increasingly whiny behavior of her child, only to have the pediatrician tell her he is completely healthy…he’s just three. True story. And if three is a medical affliction, then three-and-a-half is a chronic disease.

That WAS what I was going to write about in my post.

I WAS going to pepper the post with a slew of examples proving my hypothesis that the age of three-and-a-half is a chronic disease, examples from right under my own roof. Like last Saturday when Michael pouted that he didn’t want his dad to take him to the playground because he would rather sit in a gym with me and watch his sister’s basketball practice (yes, it is nice that he loves me so, but only a three-and-a-half year old could make going to the playground a bad thing). Or Monday when Michael noticed that I sprinkled just the tiniest dash of flaxseed in his mac ‘n’ cheese and would not eat it because it apparently smelled and tasted “ridiculous.” Or pretty much any time Grace has something worthy of being on video: every recording of her performances, recitals, or games has the sound of Michael whining in the background. And in the case of last year’s Christmas dance recital, he is actually physically IN the background. You can watch it here (listen for the cue around the 2:43 mark where I whisper “MICHAEL!” in horrified embarrassment at what I know is about to happen yet have no power to stop.)

I WAS going to post about all those things, until a series of good behaviors and heart-melting actions made me feel like a frigid mommy dearest for even thinking to disparage my sweet little boy. Like the fact that on Sunday we were in a church with no cry room for literally almost three straight hours (mass followed by a baptism) and he was a complete and total champ about it. Or the fact that on Tuesday, for pretty much the first time all school year, he walked right over and sat on the rug after hanging up his coat, instead of latching onto my leg and making the goodbye process a battle of wills. Or the fact that on any given day, at any given time, I can ask him for a snuggle and he happily obliges, usually throwing in a goofy little smile as he squashes my cheeks together with his little hands before planting a sticky kiss on my face.

So that is what I AM going to write this post about instead. About a little boy who pretends to be Santa and wraps up things around the house to give his sister. About a little boy who plays house with his four Batman figurines, designating a Dad Batman, a Mom Batman, a Brother Batman, and a Sister Batman who all throw a party in the Batcave for the “Terrible” Hulk so he will turn into the “Happy” Hulk. About a little boy who has me read Llama Llama Misses Mama over and over again because it helps him remember that his own mama might go away sometimes, but she also always comes back. About a little boy who, every day as soon as we drop Grace off at school, says “I miss sis.” About a little boy who calls the kitchen the “chicken,” thereby making it hysterical every time he scolds our dog by yelling, “Scout, get out of the chicken!” About a little boy who sounds like Forrest Gump when he says “ice cream,” and who makes us giddy by humoring us with the movie line we taught him to say for full effect: “Lieutenant Da-an…iiiiice cream!” About a little boy who still has the captivating sing-song voice of innocence, making me sometimes hang on even his jibberish ramblings just to listen to the way he says the words.

Yes, there is definitely a lot to complain about with a three-and-a-half year old. But fortunately, there really is so much more to love. And that is the best medicine for any chronic disease.

What I WAS Going to Write About: The Enigma of the Three Year Old

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop3 Comments
doctor pediatrician
“There has to be something wrong, right?” (photo modified from Flickr under CC by 2.0)

Last week I began formulating an idea for a blog post, born out of the frustration that comes with being the mother of a three-and-a-half year old. I have often said that the age of three should be declared a medical affliction. After all, there has been many a mother who has gone to the pediatrician with complete certainty that there will be a diagnosis of an ear infection, a sinus infection, an ANY infection to account for the increasingly whiny behavior of her child, only to have the pediatrician tell her he is completely healthy…he’s just a three year old. True story. And if three is a medical affliction, then three-and-a-half is a chronic disease.

That WAS what I was going to write about in my post.

I WAS going to pepper the post with a slew of examples proving my hypothesis that the age of three-and-a-half is a chronic disease, examples from right under my own roof. Like last Saturday when Michael pouted that he didn’t want his dad to take him to the playground because he would rather sit in a gym with me and watch his sister’s basketball practice (yes, it is nice that he loves me so, but only a three-and-a-half year old could make going to the playground a bad thing). Or Monday when Michael noticed that I sprinkled just the tiniest dash of flaxseed in his mac ‘n’ cheese and would not eat it because it apparently smelled and tasted “ridiculous.” Or pretty much any time Grace has something worthy of being on video: every recording of her performances, recitals, or games has the sound of Michael whining in the background. And in the case of last year’s Christmas dance recital, he is actually physically IN the background (listen for the cue around the 2:43 mark where I whisper “MICHAEL!” in horrified embarrassment at what I know is about to happen yet have no power to stop).

I WAS going to post about all those things, until a series of good behaviors and heart-melting actions made me feel like a frigid mommy dearest for even thinking to disparage my sweet little boy. Like the fact that on Sunday we were in a church with no cry room for literally almost three straight hours (mass followed by a baptism) and he was a complete and total champ about it. Or the fact that on Tuesday, for pretty much the first time all school year, he walked right over and sat on the rug after hanging up his coat, instead of latching onto my leg and making the goodbye process a battle of wills. Or the fact that on any given day, at any given time, I can ask him for a snuggle and he happily obliges, usually throwing in a goofy little smile as he squashes my cheeks together with his little hands before planting a sticky kiss on my face.

So that is what I AM going to write this post about instead. About a little boy who pretends to be Santa and wraps up things around the house to give his sister. About a little boy who plays house with his four Batman figurines, designating a Dad Batman, a Mom Batman, a Brother Batman, and a Sister Batman who all throw a party in the Batcave for the “Terrible” Hulk so he will turn into the “Happy” Hulk. About a little boy who has me read Llama Llama Misses Mama over and over again because it helps him remember that his own mama might go away sometimes, but she also always comes back. About a little boy who, every day as soon as we drop Grace off at school, says “I miss sis.” About a little boy who calls the kitchen the “chicken,” thereby making it hysterical every time he scolds our dog by yelling, “Scout, get out of the chicken!” About a little boy who sounds like Forrest Gump when he says “ice cream,” and who makes us giddy by humoring us with the movie line we taught him to say for full effect: “Lieutenant Da-an…iiiiice cream!” About a little boy who still has the captivating sing-song voice of innocence, making me sometimes hang on even his jibberish ramblings just to listen to the way he says the words.

Yes, there is definitely a lot to complain about with a three-and-a-half year old. But fortunately, there really is so much more to love. And that is the best medicine for any chronic disease.

If It’s Not Popcorn Math, It’s Fuzzy Math

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop5 Comments

Today my first grader asked me to help her with her math homework. After staring at it for about five minutes, I had to tell her to ask her dad for help when he got home.

Wow. Pathetic.

I knew this would eventually happen. I have even admitted to my blogging public that most math is pretty fuzzy to me (see “Lock Your Doors“). But I expected to maybe make it to AT LEAST fourth grade math concepts before I needed to start turning over that portion of homework help to my enginerd husband. Maybe?

I suck at mathAside from being a tad embarrassed at myself, I am also incredibly impressed with the curriculum at my daughter’s school. Believe it or not, I remember a fairly good chunk of my own first grade experience, thanks to an incredibly cruel joke God played on me by blessing me with a brain that is a steel trap for most things useless (like the theme song to the 80’s television show Small Wonder) but a leaky sieve for genius-making material (like algebra). And from what I remember, things were pretty basic. I have very intense flashbacks to staring at a red felt grid, taking tiny popcorn kernels out of old margarine containers, and placing them in various columns to find the sum. My daughter brought home a worksheet on mode and range. Seriously? Granted, once my enginerd hubby told…um, reminded me what mode and range were, I could see that it would fall into the realm of concepts my daughter could understand. But the fact that she was sitting there having a discussion with her dad using those words, mode and range, while I am sitting here still trying to remember what you call the two numbers you add together to find a sum, well, it blows my mind a little. Apparently, I couldn’t even handle popcorn math.

(And speaking of other first grade memories, I wrote about one of my favorites in an earlier blog post. And it is a lot more entertaining than popcorn math. Two words: Michael Jackson.)

There are no big revelations here. Really this incident has just served to reinforce what I, every math teacher I ever had, and my dad (a.k.a. my math tutor and also an enginerd) already know: calculators were invented for people like me.

Even Stupid Has a Purpose

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop8 Comments

stupid question comicWhen I was teaching, I used to tell my students there was no such thing as a stupid question. But let’s be honest. There are stupid questions. But I could never say that to my students, lest I get an angry phone call from some parent about how I had forever damaged the delicate psyche of her daughter, who obviously had no concern for my delicate psyche when she slept through my class and told me that reading Twain was a boring waste of time. Just to be clear, this probably would have been the same parent who told me that she did not pay good tuition money for her daughter to get a “C” in my class. Well, maybe you should chat with your daughter about that, Mrs. I-Prove-I’m-A-Good-Parent-By-Bullying-People-Into-Giving-My-Child-What-She-Wants. Because I’m guessing that grade had a little bit more to do with the fact that she finds Twain a boring waste of time and less about my teaching skills.

But I digress. And I am starting to worry that it is not so healthy to harbor such bitterness after being out of the classroom for six years now.

So let me get back to the real reason for this post: stupid questions. Lately (and by lately I mean the past four years since Grace has been able to hold a conversation) I have been feeling as though a good 45% of my day is spent fielding questions from my kids. And considering the rest of my average day is spent in a combination of doing laundry, washing dishes, picking up the same revolving clutter, driving in my car, and tripping over my dog whose only real talent is knowing the absolute worst place to lay down, all with the frequent background noise of PBS Kids, these questions frankly annoy the crud out of me most of the time. Because they are stupid.

I know, I know. I am being harsh. Certainly the teacher in me can appreciate the honest curiosity in my kids. An inquisitive mind is a highly valued characteristic which most parents wish for their children. It is one of those things you hear moms on the playground boasting about: “Dakota is just so curious about the world. The other day he was completely enthralled with knowing all about how caterpillars turn into butterflies.” But that is just code for the reality that little Dakota drove his mom to the edge of insanity by asking a barrage crazy inquiries like “Does the caterpillar poop out the butterfly?” and “Can a caterpillar turn into a Power Ranger?” along with loosely related questions such as “If I turned into a monster would l still need to take a bath?”

Sometimes curiosity kills the cat…or the very last thread of patience the cat was playing with.

So what, do you ask, are the specific question marks that have been pestering me so much that I felt compelled to “blog it out?” Here are the ones that make the most frequent appearances:

Michael is heavy into the what’s this? phase. But he has categories. There is the what’s this? when he genuinely does not know what something is. The answer is usually followed by “but what’s this?”…in reference to the EXACT SAME THING he just asked about, which means he apparently did not like my first answer. I have learned not to simply give him the same answer a second time. That just ends up in a vicious cycle of “what’s this – it’s a can opener – but what’s this? – it’s a can opener – but what’s this – it’s a can open-oh for the love of all that is holy and sane! IT’S A THING THAT OPENS CANS!”

Then there is the what’s this? he asks even though he knows what it actually is. I think he does this because, even at the age of three-and-a-half, he enjoys feeling as if he knows better than his mother:

“What’s this?”

“You know what that is buddy. It’s a Tyrannosaurus Rex.”

“No, mom. It’s a T-Rex.”

Oh. Well, excuse me.

There is also a subcategory of this particular what’s this? where he asks the question about what he THINKS he knows the answer to:

“What’s this?”

“It’s a mango.”

“No, it’s an apple.”

“No, it’s a mango buddy.”

“I think it’s an apple.”

“Fine. It’s an apple.”

I’ll have to remember this particular habit of his when he is in high school, and I am tempted to threaten his teacher with the statement I’m not paying all this tuition for him to be getting a “C” in Biology. Because he likely earned that “C” by insisting a chromosome was actually a Cheeto.

You would think my three-and-a-half-year-old would corner the market on annoying questions, but Grace may just have him beat. Her six-year-old mind has obviously been grappling with intense moral questions. I know this because on an almost daily basis I am treated to a host of “Would you rather (fill in the blank) or kill me?” questions.

Would you rather be blind or kill me? Would you rather shoot a police officer or kill me? Would you rather break our car or kill me? Would you rather pick up a crumb or kill me? 

I kid you not; these are all questions that came out of her mouth. After entertaining her for about two or three of these, I always look at her and say, “Grace, the answer will always be whatever is NOT killing you.” Although one time I did catch her off guard by answering that I’d rather kill her than eat her brother’s boogers in hopes it would stop the questions. No luck. She didn’t believe me.

The last question that really gets my goat is one both of my children just LOVE to ask me, in the car, usually in traffic or other perilous driving conditions : What’s this song about? I can usually satisfy Michael with a simple answer like “love” or “dancing.” Though sometimes he will start with, “What’s love?” in which case you can refer to the previous paragraphs. But Grace’s relentless inquiries make me realize that even the songs I think are rather innocuous are about subjects I would rather not discuss with my six-year-old on the way to her Catholic school.

“Mom, what’s this song about?”

“Love.”

“But she says it’s a bad romance. That’s not very nice. Why does she say that?”

“Um, I don’t know. Lady GaGa wears meat for a dress. Why would you expect her songs to make sense? Hey, I bet you can’t find ten yellow cars.”

Are all these questions stupid? No. I realize it is just one of the vehicles my children are using to navigate through the world. And I guess on the positive side, they are looking to ME for the answers, not someone else…because when they look to me, I can control the answers. So despite how annoying the constant questioning is, I better keep providing answers so they do not go looking elsewhere when the questions become more hard-hitting.  Maybe reassuring Grace day after day after day…after day…that I would rather do anything else in the world but kill her will help her realize that I would do anything for her, and that she can turn to me when she has questions she can not answer.

So bring on the questions, you little rugrats. Even the stupid ones. If having the answers to the stupid questions convinces them later on that I will have the answers to the tough questions, then I did something right. The right thing isn’t always easy, and the easy thing isn’t always right.

So what does a good mom do? Well, that’s a stupid question.

Customers who like this blog also follow me on Facebook, Twitter (@RYouFinishedYet), and Pinterest.

 

“I Smell Poop”…and Ten Other Things I Rarely Said When I Was 24

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

A few weeks ago I was recounting a potty training story to some friends over frozen yogurt. (This is how you know we are all moms: we could comfortably talk of poop while eating a smooth frozen treat covered with chunks of chocolate). I was, and still am, having issues with Michael not wanting to do #2 in the toilet. During this particular incident, he had pooped in his pants and then tried to clean it up himself. I guess I should give him props for TRYING to amend the situation; however, his version of cleaning up ACTUALLY meant making a bigger mess. A poopy mess…on the vanity of the bathroom, on the walls, on the floor, on the couch, even on his face and in his hair. All this took place while I was in the shower (because that’s when it always happens. I’m considering trying out the European method of bathing in order to head off more home disasters). As I emerged from my room, the aroma hit me with my first step into the hallway. “I smell poop,” was what I said. At this point in the story, my friend Niki started laughing and said, “Now THAT’S a blog post. I Smell Poop.” Well, Niki…I kindly thank you for the idea.

“I smell poop.” A simple phrase. Yet it represents how vastly my life has changed in the last ten years. (Though I might confess I uttered these words in college at some point, but surely with MUCH less frequency than I do now). The lexicon of my life has taken on different tones and subjects since my days as a twenty-four year old. And it got me thinking about other things that rarely, if ever, tumbled across my lips in those carefree days of my young adulthood:

1. Double coupons AND it’s on sale? YESSSSSS!

2. I’m not a very big fan of “Super Why.” I think “Word World” is much more creative. And have you watched “Sid the Science Kid”? That’s some good TV. But yeah, “Yo Gabba Gabba” is totally whacked out, yet I’m mesmerized by it at the same time.

3. Excuse me, I need to go pee-pee.

4. You get what you get and you don’t get upset.

5. I’ll just bring it to you at carpool pick up.

6. I have a wet wipe in my purse if you need it. Or I have sanitizing wipes…or hand sanitizer. Take your pick. Are you hungry? I also have a snack bag of pretzels.

7. That is a nice looking mini van. I’m so jealous.

8. Let’s go eat someplace where there is a playground…or some video games.

9. I am soooo gonna try that crock pot recipe.

10. I think I’ll spend my night off at Target. Then maybe Kohl’s or Michael’s, if I’m not too tired.

I could probably go on, but I have a big night ahead of me. I am going to try that aforementioned crock pot recipe and I am late for a big time art show. It is displayed on the walls throughout my house and consists mainly of pages out of a Barbie coloring book, but I hear it is very cutting edge.

A Worthy Price to Pay

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop3 Comments

Before my daughter started kindergarten last year, my husband and I had the discussion that I am sure a lot of parents have: whether to send her to public school or to a Catholic parochial school. In many ways, it was an agonizing decision. But truth be told, I think we both knew what our answer was going to be before we even started the discussion.

I would like to start by saying that first and foremost, I believe in SCHOOL…whatever form it takes. Education is one of the most important tools we parents can give our children. And my husband and I knew we were in a good position for this. We live in a fantastic school district AND our parish parochial school is very impressive as well. So this really was not a question of where our kids would get the best education. We knew we would be happy with the curriculum and standards of either school. Besides, learning is just as much about what the student and the parents put into it as it is about what the school offers.

But there is that little issue of tuition. That was really where our biggest stumbling block occurred. When you make a side by side comparison of free education with an education that comes with a fairly sizable price tag, it is hard to ignore the difference. Catholic school tuition meant sacrifice for us. The question became, is that sacrifice worth it? When it really came down to it, we thought it was.

It is sometimes hard to explain to people who do not understand why we would choose to pay for Catholic education when we could send our kids to a wonderful public school for free and supplement their religious education with PSR (Parish School of Religion) classes once a week. But it is the same reason I chose to take a teaching position at a Catholic high school over a better paying one at a local public school. It just felt right.

It felt right for the development of my children’s spiritual lives to be a natural part of their education, that God can be part of the equation in any subject matter. After all, He is part of the whole equation in our home life. Does it not make sense that He be a part of their educational life? I am not going all “creationism over evolution” here. But I do believe that God can be found in science. And it is nice to know that my kids will be able to discuss that in a classroom setting.

And there are other things that make me happy about sending my kids to a Catholic school. I had one of those little reminders just yesterday. As I pulled into the parking lot for pickup, I noticed Grace and her classmates were encircling the statue of Mary outside the church with a bunch of blue balloons. They were having a prayer service in honor of Mary’s birthday. And like any good birthday party, they all got goodies at the end, in the form of fruit snacks. Then the students dispersed to find their parents and head home. Grace walked over to me with her friend Sarah and I said, “It looks like you guys were having a little party over there.” They both smiled and replied, “Yeah! Mary’s birthday!” Then they high-fived each other. That’s right…they were giving each other some skin for the Holy Mother’s big day. The phrase “you know you go to Catholic school when…” popped into my head. But it was really just too cute for words.

Now that we have started our second year of Catholic education for my daughter, do we ever second guess our decision? I have to admit there are times when that tuition bill comes around and I literally grunt, and times when I drive past our public elementary school and envy all that free education happening behind the doors. But other than that, I can wholeheartedly say we have been so happy with the decision we made. Grace’s school has lived up to every expectation we had,  and I feel good that I am giving her (and eventually Michael) a similar educational story to the ones my husband and I had…which we actually really loved and appreciate to this day.

Grace's First Day of Kindergarten 2010

Oh, and I have not even BEGUN to sing the praises of those plaid uniforms. Let’s not even mention how adorable Grace looks in it. The fact that I can avoid the battle of the wardrobe every morning might just be worth the tuition alone…we certainly have enough battles to fight without that one rearing its head. Oh, how my gratitude to the Catholic school system swells…

“The Real Housewives” Parenting Class

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop2 Comments

I have a confession. I am a Real Housewives junkie. It is a bit shameful, I admit. But I can not stop. It has all the sweet and salty elements I crave. But more than anything, I think I watch it because it is great for my self-confidence. Sure, they are all beautiful women living in swanky pads wearing the latest designer duds. But watching them tear each other to shreds over trivial issues that would make even a high school clique cringe with embarrassment makes me feel, well, very mature and balanced. And they certainly prove that money can not buy happiness…or class (yes, Countess LuAnn, my finger is pointing ironically at YOU. I hate to break it to you, but claiming to have class and singing a song about class does not mean you actually have it. Neither does using the word “darling” or your incredibly annoying overuse of its Arabic counterpart, “ya habibi”).

The Real Housewives of New York City

But as I watched The Real Housewives of New York City reunion special this week, I realized that this show may actually make me a better parent. And I say that with no sarcasm in my typing fingers. We’ve all heard that parents should model the behaviors they WANT to see in their children. Well, the reunion special was a wide open, freshly Windexed window into a big, giant house of crazy, full of every behavior I do NOT want my children to exhibit. Name calling, blatant disrespect, and lying, not to mention so much talking over one another that the decibel levels must reach that of a wailing siren (but more grating). And these were GROWN women! I don’t know how host and fellow St. Louis native Andy Cohen stomachs it…he must get a hefty paycheck.

But what disturbed me more than anything was the total lack of willingness to take responsibility for any slimy thing that was said or done throughout the season…despite the fact that it is ALL DOCUMENTED ON FILM! Anytime one of the women was asked about a snide remark, backstabbing action, or just plain mean intention, she would immediately blame someone else or divert attention by bringing up a time when someone else wronged her. Not that this has never happened before on one of the many Real Housewives episodes, but it just seemed that much more prevalent this time around.

Maybe that is because my daughter is getting older. She is weeks away from entering first grade, and it amazes me how already I am seeing very clear and vivid glimpses of the young woman she will become. Her wheels are turning, trying to figure out the world, where she fits into the world, what society finds acceptable, what her mother and father find acceptable. And more than ever, she is trying to discover what she can get away with and what she can’t.

I have to admit that earlier today when I caught Grace very intentionally throwing a toy at her brother and defending herself with, “It’s not my fault. Michael yelled at me, and the toy slipped, and he was just standing in the way of where I was throwing it,” (as if to cover all her bases of motive and accidental scenarios), I flipped. I suddenly saw housewife Kelly Bensimon lounging on my couch denying some catty comment she made about Sonja (again, despite just seeing the clip where she said it) then claiming it wasn’t her fault if anyone was offended by it.

“You WILL take responsibility for what you do!” I chided, as my daughter looked at me a bit bewildered. “Now say you did it. Say you threw that toy at your brother!”

Her little voice quietly parroted me. “I threw that toy at my brother.”

“Thank you,” I said. I breathed a sigh of relief that I had made her take responsibility.Then I walked out of the room…completely forgetting to punish her for hurting Michael in the first place. But that is okay. I will just blame my poor parenting moment on The Real Housewives of New York.

Damn Is for Beavers

Published on by Kelly Suellentrop4 Comments

With every milestone a child reaches, there are joys to look forward to as well as fears to dread. When a child begins walking, a mother will look forward to a whole new world of activities they can do together. She will also dread skinned knees and searching for her child who has wandered off in Target. When a child loses her first tooth, a mother will look forward to spinning tales of the Tooth Fairy and seeing the excitement when her child wakes up to a dollar under her pillow and “fairy dust” on the floor. She will also dread the future payments to the orthodontist when her child’s permanent teeth come in crooked right off the bat (this one is hitting close to home at the moment). When a child begins to drive, a mother will look forward to a little freedom from carpool duty and pick up from practice. But she will also dread speeding tickets, fender-benders, or something worse. And when a child begins talking, a mother will look forward to finally hearing the words I love you, along with all the other wonderfully charming things kids say. She will also dread all the not-so-charming things that will inevitably accompany them. Like “damn it.”

Michael is a few weeks into being three years old. I think by now it has been well documented that three is the new two…in terms of being preceded by the adjective “terrible.” A few months ago, Michael went through a tremendous language explosion, and almost overnight, he started sounding more like a “kid” than a “toddler” when he talked. And as it must surely go, he now also has the humor of a kid, and we all know what that means: potty humor. Oh , the number of times a day the child inserts the word “poop” into a sentence is staggering, and it is always followed with hysterical laughter. My new catch phrase has been, “Excuse me, but poop is for the bathroom.” Of course that has not stopped him in his potty talk. Now, every time he says the word “poop” in a random fashion, he just adds, “poop is for da baffroom.” Apparently he sees it as more of a disclaimer than a deterrent.

christmas story soap in mouth
“Oooh Fuuudge!” What punishment is worse than the guillotine? Hanging? The chair? The rack? The Chinese water torture? Soap in the mouth, of course.

But I can handle the poop talk. It’s part of being a kid. I get it. And I can also handle his driving need to make people laugh (namely his sister) by saying, “Shakin’ my boooooty.” What I can not handle is that he has started saying, “damn it” when he is angry. I would like to blame the indiscretion on “kids at school,” but let’s face it. Preschool has been out for two months now. I hate to admit it, but I know he has heard it come out of my mouth…never at him or his sister, but there have been times it has freely fallen from my lips. And now I’ve created a problem for myself to fix.

Grace also went through a small “damn it” phase around the age of four. Overall, I’ve been lucky with her. She’s never been much of a potty mouth. So I thought back to what I did when she suddenly found a fondness for this “bad” word. I did not want to make a big deal about it and give it more power than it had, but I also wanted to make sure she knew it was not an appropriate thing to say. So I figured I would give her a funny alternative that would surely be more enticing. Very casually I said to her, “You know, how about instead of saying ‘damn it,’ we say ‘oh pickles.’” Well she seemed to like that, but it was not always so easy to remember. I recall one time I could hear her in the kitchen. She had spilled some water, and she whispered, “Oh damn it…I mean, pickles.” A minute later, she came up to me to confess: “Mom, I said ‘oh pickles,’ but I was thinking ‘damn it’“. Before I knew it, “damn it” just kind of disappeared from her vocabulary.

I am hoping the same will happen with Michael. In some ways, he seems a bit more stubborn than Grace, which I did not think was possible. But I know it is just another small battle a mother must fight, and hopefully if I teach my kids what is right enough times, they will eventually choose wisely. All in all, I guess a little “damn it” is not so bad, especially considering most of what comes out of Michael’s mouth is worth smiling over.