My son did WHAT?!

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, January 31, 2012, 07:58 AM

“I wanted to share some info about your kids …” the email from our son’s teacher began.

I’m an iPhone addict, so when my phone beeped to alert me I had a message, I read it right away.

Upon opening the message and revealing who it was from I was immediately emotionally transported from our current location - a game night party with friends - to “Uh-Oh What Now? Land.”

I mean, if something is worthy of a message from a teacher it’s going to be: A.) embarrassing B.) worrisome C.) embarrassing or D.) not what you think.

“… do not be alarmed this is good news!” the message continued. Whew! And the answer is D!

Our second grade son’s teacher had been suffering from a bout of Frog-In-Your-Throat. She was having a hard time speaking loud enough for the students to hear her. Thus, the kids decided that speaking out of turn was OK. After all, the teacher couldn’t yell at them.

“Wednesday - they (my son and two others) did great throughout the day until the last 10 minutes or so of the day, as they were influenced by other students to talk.”

My blood pressure went up a little.

How many times do I have to tell him the teacher is in charge of the class room!? He is to listen to her, not his friends/peers? Oh, right. Calm down. Read the “good news.”

My son, and several others, ended up having his name written on the board which usually results in a consequence, but they were never told what their consequence would be.

Rather than rejoice - Yay, no consequence! - my son and two of his friends decided to impose their own.

Huh? I had to reread that part …

“After recess they came in from outside and told me they did not play.”

The kids explained to their teacher that they sat against the wall and denied themselves precious play time as a self-imposed consequence for talking during class the day before.

“I turned this moment into yet another teachable moment and praised each one of these students for having an outstanding set of morals and praised them for respecting me as their teacher,” the teacher wrote.

“As I shared with the class what these three had just done, applause broke out and the other students praised them as well.”

The teacher ended up rewarding them for showing such character.

Oh, how I relish these proud moments in child rearing. But, fellow-mom Heather said it best, “I am very proud of these three for actually understanding they were wrong! I am concerned though that this ‘self-imposed’ consequence does not carry through here at home!”

If only …

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

Toddler + out of eye-shot = MESS (will this mom ever learn?)

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, January 24, 2012, 08:59 AM

I am the mother of three children. THREE. I have been through the gamut of Toddlerhood twice.

The obvious lesson: toddlers cannot be trusted.

However, now running the toddler-gamut for the third time, I remain the Oh-she’s-fine!-mom; assuming my 2-year old daughter is off being mannerly, sweet and playing nicely. Yet she continues to prove that my toddler-radar needs some work; a lot of work.

For obvious reasons - ages 8, 6, and 2 - I enjoy the occasional time out of the house. And because I decided I needed more of this I joined a direct sales company that sounds something like “dirty nun.”

Said company also just opened a distribution center in our home town. So it was a win-win: a break from the kids, er, “daily norm” and supporting local jobs.

However, due to a scheduling conflict (my husband’s weekly hoops game) I had to take the kids along - with permission from the hostess (a friend, thankfully) - on a recent outing. It wasn’t five minutes after the Princess made her entrance (really, five minutes!) when I heard my son call from the other room, “Mom! Sissy’s naked!”

And that she was. Stripped down to her undershirt and diaper, she was offering to show the hostess’ son her “booty.” The child (hers, not mine) and I were both wide-eyed, speechless, stifling giggles and wishing the “Dirty Nun Company” had a Toddler-Tote I could stuff her in and sneak out the door.

Then last weekend we went to a party; it was a family event so other children were there, too. The adults gathered around to visit and play games, leaving the older children in charge of the younger children.

My daughter paired up with a little boy her age and went off to play under the guidance - or so we thought - of “the big kids.”

Our game came to a stand-still though, when my daughter appeared in the room soaking wet, her playmate missing.

All thoughts went the same direction - to the bathroom.

Water was all over the floor and toys floated in the toilet bowl; the two tots oblivious to the mess and the “Eeeewww!”

I was again left shaking my head, but still failed to take note of my child’s ornery antics.

As if cleaning up toilet water wasn’t gross enough, getting diaper rash cream out of carpet is a whole new level of impossible.

Just ask my mother, who now has a greasy, white stain on her living room floor compliments of her granddaughter who was “tanging her beebee” (changing her baby doll).

“She’s too quiet,” said my husband. “What is she doing?”

“Playing in the living room with her toys,” I ignorantly replied.

By the time I went to (double) check it was too late. The carpet was streaked with Desitin, the baby doll - and her “mommy” - were covered head-to-toe in white paste.

Conclusion: Toddler + out of eye-shot for more than a half-second = MESS

You will have to forgive me for cutting this abruptly short, but I have a lot to clean up …

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC.

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

Dad saves toddler from crib’s grasp, mom shunned

By Darci Jordan | Monday, January 16, 2012, 07:28 PM

Winter break is over and the kids are back in school; welcome back, Routine.

Although we did enjoy the kids all staying up later with us, we really enjoyed them sleeping in much later in the mornings. But all good things come to an end.

It’s time to get back to business, back to school and back to bed at a decent hour. It’s time to reclaim my evenings of enjoying a good book, Words With Friends, an adult conversation with my husband (not necessarily in that order).

All went well with our first back-to-school-night routine. No major meltdowns, no “I can’t sleep” and no trouble waking in the morning; too good to be true.

Even our 2-year-old daughter, who tends to be … uh… obstinate, went to bed with little hassle (maybe because I denied her an afternoon nap?).

The next night was the same. All were in bed, sleeping soundly - or so we thought - by 8:30 p.m.

Engrossed in the Sugar Bowl, my husband suddenly heard a noise (amazing!).

“I think she’s crying,” he said, turning the TV down.

I listened, heard her little muffled cries, and like the good mom I am, remained seated in the recliner. “She’ll go back to sleep.”

Her cries though, increased in intensity and volume.

I sprang from my comfy seat and sprinted to her room, hurdling the deadly coffee table, rounding corners with precision; all the while thinking, “Oh-no! She must be sick! I hope there’s no puke to clean up!”

I braced myself for the worst only to find my daughter sitting up in her crib, struggling to move and crying in pain.

It took a minute for my eyes to register the fact that she was stuck. Somehow, she managed to get her leg wedged between the “safety slats” of her crib. And it wasn’t moving.

The more I pushed, wiggled and maneuvered her leg, the louder she cried.

After several tries to free her from the grasp of the crib, I began to panic. Did we have any Crisco? It works if you have a ring stuck on your finger, why not a leg stuck between crib slats? A saw maybe? How do I get her out of this one?

Thankfully, I didn’t have to. Daddy - always her hero - was able to wiggle her leg free from jaws of the crib.

But, because I was unable to, I was shunned and given the “you-did-not-save-me” slanty-eyed-glare from our tearful child.

It wasn’t the first time I was reminded she’s a Daddy’s Girl, and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

Maybe it’s time though, for a big-girl bed.

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC.

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

Cleaning up Christmas: back to reality

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, January 10, 2012, 08:57 AM

I’m reveling in the, albeit temporary, quietness that has descended upon our home as I write this.

The fan on the fireplace gently hums, the washing machine begins its first cycle of “Oh-no, I’m out of clean underwear!” and snowflakes gently fall outside.

Even my 2-year-old sleeps soundly at this hour (wonders never cease).

The boys went back to school today after what loomed ahead as the longest winter break ever; and now it is has suddenly ended.

Another season of making cookies, memories and sleeping-in is over.

The stores are already stocked up with heart-shaped chocolates and plastic roses.

Now that I am not refereeing sibling squabbles over the new Squinkies from Santa, I have no reason to procrastinate any longer.

It is time to face the aftermath of another holiday that was.

The Christmas decorations must come down, the laundry must be caught up, and the once exciting new toys must find a location appropriate for now collecting dust.

Looking around at the many jobs I started, but never finished, leads me to wonder: What on earth have I been doing for the last three weeks?

The stockings are piled carelessly on the fireplace hearth, the garland falls limp and uneven on the wooden hand rails, the holiday dishes are stacked on the counter (at least they are washed), the no-longer-scented pine cones hide in places I can’t remember, rolls of wrapping paper are scattered about, thank-you notes are written but sit waiting for stamps that were used up sending holiday cards, and my kids’ rooms look like a tornado blew through Toys-R-Us.

I think I prefer watching college football and playing Sorry! and Operation. Again.

I did manage to talk the boys into helping me put away some of the decorations. Once the Christmas tree becomes a target for couch-catapulting, it’s time to put it away.

However, it was eerily similar to putting the decorations up for the season: “Can I eat this old candy cane?” “Who made this one?” “Will this break if I drop it?” “Where is the step stool? I can’t reach the top.” “Who moved baby Jesus?” “Were there really pine cones where Jesus was born?” “Sissy’s chewing on the camel!”

There is always excitement for the holidays. When else is it acceptable to bake (eat) 19 dozen cookies and drink Bailey’s in your morning coffee?

But, it is also nice when the holidays are over; when the daily routine you were “stuck” in graciously returns marking only the beginning of a long, cold, trapped-in-the-house-with- three-energetic-kids winter.

I’ll be out at the curb with the Christmas tree …

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

Mom accused of tying shoes, zipping coat

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, January 3, 2012, 07:24 AM

Sometimes moms do things without realizing they are doing them. I don’t mean the audible conversations with ourselves or hiding in the bathroom for a few minutes of peace and quiet.

I mean things like tying our kids’ shoes for them.

I’m guilty of that. I was convicted by my son’s Kindergarten teacher.

“He really needs to know how to tie shoe laces.”

“But, his shoes have a Velcro closure…” I said, temporarily confused.

If he doesn’t have to learn cursive writing, why bother with tying shoe laces, right? Wrong.

Quite honestly, it never crossed my mind. My son always just slipped his shoes on and ran out the door. We actually had to purchase him a pair of shoes that required laces in order to accomplish this task assigned to him (us) by his teacher.

After some practice, my son was tying his shoes with no trouble, although he prefers now forcing them off and on without taking the time to tie them up correctly.

This same teacher now has my younger son in her class. Again, she had to convict me of my unconscious wrong-doing in order for me to realize I was doing it.

I received an email with a subject line: Zipping of coat

Referring to my precocious 6-year-old, she wrote: “Your son and I have an ongoing joke. He keeps saying he can’t (zip his coat) and I keep telling him he can. He says he is not going to practice and I told him I would email your parents. He told me today, ‘You said that the last time and you forgot. I bet you forget this time too.’ So here I am emailing you about helping him learn to zip his coat. Make sure you mention this to him. (I would love to see his reaction.)”

After I lifted my jaw off of the floor, appalled by the gall of my dear, sweet lovable child to say such a thing to his teacher; I perched myself in a kitchen chair and waited for him to walk in the door, home from school.

As he strolled in and began removing his unzipped coat, I said, “Leave it on.” and gave him my best death-ray glare.

“Oh-no! Did you get a note from my teacher?” he asked.

We spent the next hour zipping and unzipping his winter coat. We even practiced on other coats and jackets until he had it down to a fine art and could virtually do it with his eyes closed and his hands tied behind his back (well, maybe not that.)

This lesson in coat zipping - another thing I had been doing without giving it a second thought (because we are usually scrambling to get out the door to the school bus) - was followed by a lesson in “how to talk to appropriately your teacher.”

I’ve been paying more attention since this happened, trying to make my kids be more independent and not do all of the little things for them.

Next up on the life lessons list: fingers are not utensils.

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

Many (recycled) birthday wishes to my son!

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, December 20, 2011, 08:51 AM

I’m not a good birthday-person/wife/mom.

My problem isn’t remembering birthdays; it is the pulling-everything-together-and-making-that-person-feel-special that is my problem.

My husband is a high-maintenance-birthday-guy and I fail miserably every year.

I seem to relay my “blah” for my own birthday on everyone else. I don’t want to be surprised and I don’t want a party or anything else (really). Therefore, no one else should expect a big ordeal on their birthday … except for my kids.

I do my best to make them feel special on their birthday because the other 364 days of each year they are competing with their two siblings for our attention.

But my oldest son was cursed with a December birthday. Talk about extra pressure!

Just like every year, this week he asked me, “Mom, what day are you bringing treats to school for my birthday?”

I stood and stared, completely baffled by this question. “Huh? Oh. Oh!” My eyes popped wide. “Uh, I will have to email your teacher. I don’t know yet.”

I forgot. The most integral detail in children’s birthday party celebrations and I completely overlooked it (thank you, Christmas).

While I sent a message to my son’s teacher - thankfully I wasn’t too late - I decided I should also find a creative person who can bake a Lego cake so it will actually look like a Lego and not a lumpy, lopsided box.

In the midst of planning my son’s birthday party, we attended a birthday dinner for a family friend (I didn’t plan this one either…)

It wasn’t until her cake was brought out - a 3-shape and 8-shape candle gleaming - that I realized I would be needing candles for my son’s cake, too.

“Hey! If you aren’t going to need those candles again, we can use the 8 next week …”

My friend, her sister and her mother all gasped. I had confirmed their suspicion: “She really is no good at this birthday thing!”

They, apparently, are “good-birthday-people;” re-using candles means recycling a birthday wish.

“No! You can’t do that! He needs new candles!” they said in unison. The candles were quickly swept away and put out of my reach.

I don’t think my 6-year-old or 2-year-old has ever had a new birthday candle. What is wrong with reusing candles? I have a drawer full of used candles and even managed to put a recycled 6 and a 1 on my mom’s cake this year (sorry, Mom).

After some finagling around (and maybe a little bribing of my friend’s sneaky daughter), I managed to get my hands on the once-used candles that were doomed for the trash can.

I happen to believe they have many more birthday wishes in them and my son will be happy to blow-out the 8-candle this week.

After all, he’s lucky I remembered to plan his party; having a candle is icing on the cake!

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/motherhoodCTC.

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column

A Mom’s Letter to Santa

By Darci Jordan | Tuesday, December 13, 2011, 08:01 AM

My cousin Amanda is like my evil twin sister. OK, maybe not evil - though she has her moments - but she’s definitely my total opposite.

Well, she was, until she became a mom.

She was the City Mouse; I was the Country Mouse.

I’d visit her in Chicago where she would scoff at my wardrobe and promptly take me shopping at stores I’d never heard of, nor could I pronounce the name. I once came home wearing a green “pleather” jacket.

She would come to Ohio and I would drag her to the Clark County Fair and make her wear rubber boots and help me wash my pigs and horse. She was thrilled (not really), and yes, I took joy in watching her gag reflex kick in while mucking stalls.

Then we grew-up - so to speak - began our careers, and even married. Shockingly, both of us married international men: our first thing in common. Ever.

But, I jumped on the Mom-Wagon first … and second … and third.

When Amanda joined me on the Motherhood journey, she was a career-driven Marketing Queen living in South Florida.

By the time my daughter came along in 2009 I had gone from full-time, to part-time to “working from home.”

Amanda, like me, continued working after her son was born. Admittedly, although I wouldn’t change a thing now, I envied her and her daily work routine; the “adult time” and getting to “use your brain” for something more than deciding between PB&J or a hotdog for lunch. I mean, I did go to college hoping to have a career afterwards.

When her husband’s job required them to move, Amanda decided to stay home with their son. I worried, remembering my own transition to stay-at-home-mom; major adjustment.

But, then she humbled me with these words in a Mom’s Letter to Santa she wrote herself.

“Dear Santa, Now that I’m a mommy at home, please stuff my stocking with the items below:

I no longer need nail polish remover, I’m not painting my nails, I’m cleaning up boogers. So instead of Red OPI, please stuff my stocking with toys that stop tantrum cries.

I traded my high heels for Pumas and flip-flops, now I need lots of Tide pens for cleaning my tops. Anything created by Procter and Gamble that I can shove in my purse; too bad you can’t stuff my stocking with a nurse.

I remember small boxes with diamonds or pearls, this year Santa it’s a whole different world— instead of studs, I’d really love some killer earplugs.

Forget Mac lipstick, please replace with eye-concealer and a new diaper-wipe case.

I hope you don’t take my new list the wrong way; I really do love staying home every day.

My nails aren’t filed and my hair’s a mess, but of all my jobs this is really the best.

After the boogers are gone, I get kisses from my baby and he sings me love songs.

Never after a rough meeting was I ever consoled with the loving hugs I get from my 2-year old.

So this year Santa I’ve already got the best gift —- to spend my days watching my little boy grow, and seeing him play in his first Christmas snow.”

Though Amanda’s sweatpants are much more stylish than mine, I’d say we officially (finally) have a few more things in common. Next week: My personal letter to Santa

Contact this contributing writer at Motherhoodcolumn@yahoo.com or facebook.com/MotherhoodCTC.

Permalink | | More: Motherhood Column