spongebob's last stand and other stories
spongebob’s last stand
T is sick of football and never wants to play again. Last week, we allowed him to just go to the game and not play. Tonight, I thought I would try to teach him a little bit about commitment and make him wear his full uniform, even if he didn’t get out there and play. The problem is, he thought he would teach me a little bit about choosing my battles wisely.
We were late arriving at the field, so I dropped T & J off with S while I went in search of a parking spot. The minute he was ejected from the car, Mr. Squarepants decided to put up a thorough fight, and glued himself to the side of the minivan. S did manage to peel him off, and I informed the child that he was to go to the field with his brother. I did let him know that I would be there as soon as I parked. Upon turning my vehicle around, I noticed S attempting to push a very stubborn five year old up a hill. With my verbal admonitions, the progress became slightly less sloth-like in velocity.
I found a parking spot, hoisted the portable chairs to my back, grabbed the pink one’s hand, and headed off to the field. Waiting for me, set apart from the rest of the team in a heap on the ground was a sobbing T. He was determined not to play, and equally determined not to talk about it. I set up all of the chairs, at which point, the boy relocated to a spot which would allow his siren wails to pierce the eardrum of my right ear from behind. The low wail continued for five minutes before I finally asked him what was wrong. I knew better than to expect an answer. When he has decided to make a point, he refuses to state his case, preferring instead to make you do so for him. Fool that I am, I chose to wait for him to talk. Mothers are supposed to have the upper hand in matters of control after all.
Twenty minutes later, when the dear spouse arrived, the sobbing lump could still be found, slightly in front of me along the sidelines where I had placed him until he could calm down enough to talk about it. Ten minutes after that, conditions had not changed but for the number of available ears to be damaged by his pervasive moanings.
Everyone learns, at some point in their lives, that five year olds are part noodle. The fascinating aspect of this phenomenon is that the doughy gluten travels so rapidly from one body section to the next, thereby hindering any attempt to support the metamorphosing frame. The dh tried several methods of planting the child. Feet, knees, and behind all quickly succumbed to the rubberizing influence. He considered placing T helmet down due to the unyielding strength therein, but the roundness quotient defeated his purpose. Eventually, the blubbering sponge was left in his heap.
Some around us perhaps thought us cruel parents for letting the child wail for these forty-five minutes. They know not the nature of the beast! Finally, realizing that a migraine was approaching, I called the child over to me and simply asked, “How long do you plan to keep crying?”
His tear-free reply came without hesitation, “Until we get home.”
Alas, mommy dearest found leverage! He had been told he would not get his drink until he stopped crying. He knew the Gatorade was already purchased for him. Mommy had a plan. “Okay, right, well, if you don’t stop crying before we get home, you won’t get to have your Gatorade when we get there. You will only get water.” It was as if someone turned off a breaker. Not a whimper, moan, or gulped breath followed. Blessed silence reigned. He got his sweet nectar; I got my peace.
Five minutes later, my darling spouse decided to make the boy sit with the team for the halftime chat. I hope I can be forgiven for my defection; it was at this point that I suddenly realized I had dropped something on the baseball diamond last spring.
and why I can’t even go christmas shopping, let alone out of state
Returning home after the wondrously relaxing football game, I muttered something to the hub about headaches and darkness, and needing just a moment in our room. There was no dissent, so I proceeded to plop onto the waterbed and embrace the fluffy blanket and body pillow. I guess he took the request literally. A moment later, he was stationed beside me informing me that M had spilled his iced tea accidentally by launching a ball into it, and oh, by the way, he is out of iced tea now, so he has nothing to drink. The iced tea thing - a constant in our marriage for seventeen years - all hail tradition!
the cat catches stupid-itis from the mom
So, I step out onto the back porch to accompany the dog on his nightly cleansing of the intestinal tract, and I notice the cat is perched upon the garage roof with every appearance of imminent jumpage. His target is obvious, the slim edge of the slimy, green, above-ground pool. I hate to admit that part of me was hoping he would miss.
T is sick of football and never wants to play again. Last week, we allowed him to just go to the game and not play. Tonight, I thought I would try to teach him a little bit about commitment and make him wear his full uniform, even if he didn’t get out there and play. The problem is, he thought he would teach me a little bit about choosing my battles wisely.
We were late arriving at the field, so I dropped T & J off with S while I went in search of a parking spot. The minute he was ejected from the car, Mr. Squarepants decided to put up a thorough fight, and glued himself to the side of the minivan. S did manage to peel him off, and I informed the child that he was to go to the field with his brother. I did let him know that I would be there as soon as I parked. Upon turning my vehicle around, I noticed S attempting to push a very stubborn five year old up a hill. With my verbal admonitions, the progress became slightly less sloth-like in velocity.
I found a parking spot, hoisted the portable chairs to my back, grabbed the pink one’s hand, and headed off to the field. Waiting for me, set apart from the rest of the team in a heap on the ground was a sobbing T. He was determined not to play, and equally determined not to talk about it. I set up all of the chairs, at which point, the boy relocated to a spot which would allow his siren wails to pierce the eardrum of my right ear from behind. The low wail continued for five minutes before I finally asked him what was wrong. I knew better than to expect an answer. When he has decided to make a point, he refuses to state his case, preferring instead to make you do so for him. Fool that I am, I chose to wait for him to talk. Mothers are supposed to have the upper hand in matters of control after all.
Twenty minutes later, when the dear spouse arrived, the sobbing lump could still be found, slightly in front of me along the sidelines where I had placed him until he could calm down enough to talk about it. Ten minutes after that, conditions had not changed but for the number of available ears to be damaged by his pervasive moanings.
Everyone learns, at some point in their lives, that five year olds are part noodle. The fascinating aspect of this phenomenon is that the doughy gluten travels so rapidly from one body section to the next, thereby hindering any attempt to support the metamorphosing frame. The dh tried several methods of planting the child. Feet, knees, and behind all quickly succumbed to the rubberizing influence. He considered placing T helmet down due to the unyielding strength therein, but the roundness quotient defeated his purpose. Eventually, the blubbering sponge was left in his heap.
Some around us perhaps thought us cruel parents for letting the child wail for these forty-five minutes. They know not the nature of the beast! Finally, realizing that a migraine was approaching, I called the child over to me and simply asked, “How long do you plan to keep crying?”
His tear-free reply came without hesitation, “Until we get home.”
Alas, mommy dearest found leverage! He had been told he would not get his drink until he stopped crying. He knew the Gatorade was already purchased for him. Mommy had a plan. “Okay, right, well, if you don’t stop crying before we get home, you won’t get to have your Gatorade when we get there. You will only get water.” It was as if someone turned off a breaker. Not a whimper, moan, or gulped breath followed. Blessed silence reigned. He got his sweet nectar; I got my peace.
Five minutes later, my darling spouse decided to make the boy sit with the team for the halftime chat. I hope I can be forgiven for my defection; it was at this point that I suddenly realized I had dropped something on the baseball diamond last spring.
and why I can’t even go christmas shopping, let alone out of state
Returning home after the wondrously relaxing football game, I muttered something to the hub about headaches and darkness, and needing just a moment in our room. There was no dissent, so I proceeded to plop onto the waterbed and embrace the fluffy blanket and body pillow. I guess he took the request literally. A moment later, he was stationed beside me informing me that M had spilled his iced tea accidentally by launching a ball into it, and oh, by the way, he is out of iced tea now, so he has nothing to drink. The iced tea thing - a constant in our marriage for seventeen years - all hail tradition!
the cat catches stupid-itis from the mom
So, I step out onto the back porch to accompany the dog on his nightly cleansing of the intestinal tract, and I notice the cat is perched upon the garage roof with every appearance of imminent jumpage. His target is obvious, the slim edge of the slimy, green, above-ground pool. I hate to admit that part of me was hoping he would miss.
Labels: family
posted by atypical at
12:35 AM
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