Cleaning House

When it comes to parenting, I am (and probably always will be) a bit of a hard ass. I like to think of it as holding my daughter accountable; Morgan, on the other hand, likes to think of it as me RUINING HER LIFE. Yes, I understand the implications of this dynamic and I am fully aware that this means she may always like David better than me. He's also the one who puts chocolate chips in her lunch and has promised her 5,693 ponies.  But we all know I will be the shoulder she cries on when none of those damn ponies show up.

In the midst of our holiday decorating, much of our daily housekeeping went by the wayside, including most of Morgan's toys and crafts. I will spare you any photos of the chaos, as they may be deemed too graphic for children.  In summary, our family room looked like we had been ransacked by a herd of buffalo or the victims of a rare indoor tornado. It was time for clean up.

I announced to Morgan play time was over and that it was time to put our house back together. I gave her the standard 5 minute warning to wrap up what she was doing and told her I would be in to check her progress. I went back to my own housework, less than confident in her ability to meet my deadline. When I returned 5 minutes later, I found Morgan laying on the floor, surrounded by a sea of Barbie carcasses. "It's just too much!" she wailed. I calmly (yes, calmly) explained that she made the mess and she needed to clean it up. This is not a new revelation for my child, but one that she has a really hard time accepting. 

I gave my daughter two choices: either she cleaned up her mess, or Mom does it for her. And if Mom got involved, clean up was going to consist of garbage bags and toys that would be banished to the garage...or the landfill. My stubborn, stubborn daughter then decided to call my bluff. Thanks to some help from Hefty, the joke was sadly on her. I went to work, gathering up everything from Cabbage Patch Dolls to bits of crayon. Nothing was spared. In mere minutes, the family room was immaculate, its beauty only slightly compromised by the profuse sobbing that filled our house. I was also having none of that. Off to her room she went, with the strict instructions that she could not emerge until she was done crying. In terms of her toys, those could only be earned back if she cleaned her bedroom the way she should have cleaned the family room. My terms were clear and non-negotiable. 

Within a few minutes, the house fell silent. I quietly peeked into her room, only to see Morgan hunched on the floor, scribbling furiously. I crept back to the kitchen, mostly just enjoying the quiet. As I began loading the dishwasher, I heard her door open, her feet shuffling down the hall. I turned to greet her, only to see this note on the floor next to me:

I went back to my dishes, only for the same scene to repeat itself several times over the next 20 minutes.  Note Number 2:

Note Number 3, written only after not getting a response to note Number 2:

Note Number 4 (at this point I was pretty sure she was trying to tell me her room was clean):

And finally, note Number 5, the meat of the matter:

I waited a few minutes, trying to suppress the grin that kept creeping onto my face. This was a serious parenting moment, not to be undone by my daughter's keen negotiating tactics. I knocked on her door and swung it open, only to be greeted by a tear-stained face and one spotless bedroom. She looked at me expectantly, trying to read my reaction.

I walked around her room, noticing her bed was made, her stuffed animals were carefully arranged, and her dirty laundry actually in the hamper. With a silent nod, I signed off on her efforts. Morgan squealed and immediately recruited Dad (who again stepped in as her personal hero) to retrieve the garbage bag from the garage. We unpacked it together, Morgan careful to place each toy in its proper spot.

It's been two weeks, and the family room remains relatively clean. I'd like to think she learned a little life lesson from this experience, but I am pretty sure she's only putting away her toys because I very subtly left the garbage bag sitting next to the TV.

Together

In lieu of a family gift exchange this year, we are sponsoring a family in need. I don't know why it took us so long to have this epiphany, as I am pretty sure the same chenille throw has been re-gifted among households for the last five years. As we talked about our plan with Morgan, I tried to explain that we have much to be thankful for this year, and that some families are just not as fortunate. I shared several stories of people I know, people who work hard every day just to make it from one paycheck to the next. These are rarely the people who ask for help; rather, they struggle quietly, never sharing the intimate details of daily hunger or the fear that comes each month when the rent is due.

As she often does when we talk about hard things, Morgan sat in silence for a few moments.

"Mom, can I talk to you in private for a minute?" (Morgan likes to ask me this when she feels uncertain or uncomfortable with something she's processing.)

"Sure, punkin." we stepped into the hall and she began breathlessly whispering into my ear.

"I just don't think it's fair."

"You don't think what's fair?"

"Well, if people are working just as hard as you and Dad, why do we have more than them?"

"That's a good question, one that I don't have the answer to. And it's not fair, because there are lots of families who will be cold and hungry this year, and there will be some kids who don't get anything for Christmas. But that is why we are going to try to help make Christmas a little better for one family."

"Maybe, Mom, maybe we could help more families. Maybe we could give them some of my clothes or my toys. Do you think that would help?"

I nodded. And then my heart burst. Because life is complicated and messy. And the older she gets, the more she understands that. And the more she wants to help.  And that makes me want to be a better mother, a better wife, a better friend. Because we are all in this together. 

To those of you fortunate enough to share today with people you love and cherish, relish these moments. To those of you tortured by the prospect of having to pass potatoes and cut turkey, be grateful you have potatoes to pass and a turkey to cut. And to those of you who are alone today, either by choice or circumstance, know that we are thinking of you. And we are doing our small part to make the holidays just a little brighter. Because, indeed, we are all in this together. 

Strong Like Bull

Morgan recently had her annual well check. In scheduling her appointment, I had a brief argument with the doctor's office as to whether Morgan was eligible for her visit. Like most insurance companies, we can only schedule well checks every 12 months. After several moments of haggling, I was able to convince the scheduler that Morgan hadn't actually been in for almost 2 years, not the 11 months she was suggesting. This little nugget of information was actually quite significant, as I knew it meant my kiddo was healthy enough that we hadn't checked in with our pediatrician in nearly 24 months, which is practically unheard of in the land of small children, where ear infections and runny noses often reign supreme.

Morgan was much less impressed with this victory, as she knew that this visit was also going to include a flu shot. We talked about it a lot on the way over there (I am not much for the bait and switch) and I tried to assure her that, at the very most, she would feel a slight pinch. She wasn't convinced.

When we arrived, the nurse was great. She showed Morgan all of the equipment they would be using, even giving her a paper gown to allow for the most legitimate medical experience. Not surprisingly, my child was not buying any of it. She can be a real tough sell.

I, on the other hand, thought this was the perfect time to stage a quick photo session. Despite her anxiety, she looked adorable, and like such a big kid. I reflected on how much time we had spent on that table when she was an infant, the insane number of calls I made to the pediatrician every time my daughter had a hair out of place. 

And here we were, 6 years later. Morgan is strong and healthy, smart enough to speak for herself when her doctor started asking questions about how many fruits and vegetables she eats and whether she plays outside regularly. And when it came time for her shot, she was a champ. Not only did she not shed a tear, she watched the needle the entire time, proudly announcing that she was now braver than any of the kids in her class. Not even a little bit true, but I let her have her moment.

I left the office that day feeling grateful. I called David, giving him the same glowing report I had received. We complimented each other on our good genes and went about our day. Our kid was healthy as a horse. Until early Wednesday morning, when I was abruptly awakened by desperate yelling coming from her room. "Mom!!!  Hurry!!!"

I flung the door open and switched on the light, only to be greeted by the sight (and smell) of Tuesday night's dinner. "Sorry, Mom. I didn't make it," she said, so matter of fact. There were no tears, no panic, just the annoyance that she was going to have to get out of bed. Even that was short lived as soon as she realized she got to set up camp on the couch and start watching cartoons in the middle of the night.

Fortunately, she was only sick for two days. David generously stayed home with her, using that time to both nurse her fever and map out potential hunting spots. By Friday, she was back to herself and ready for school, only to have the good fortune of this year's first snow day. It was a win all around.

As Morgan heads off to school tomorrow, I will never again take for granted my healthy child. Unfortunately, I may also never again be able to eat hot dogs. I will spare you the details, but if you've ever had a sick kiddo, I know you feel my pain.

House Rules

David and I were raised on coffee. He used to have a cup each morning before school to wash down his multivitamins (no wonder he's only 5'6") and my grandma used to set me up at her farmhouse kitchen table with a cup of coffee, the bowl of sugar, and a stack of ginger snap cookies (no wonder I've been chubby my whole life). 

The sight, smell, and taste of coffee are now ingrained in who we are. Not to mention, David has a tendency to grunt and walk around in circles until he's had his first cup of day. As a result, coffee cups are often littered throughout our house. David will often mindlessly set them down as he goes about his morning, only to make a panicked yell for everyone to stop what they're doing and go find his mug. I have found mugs in the laundry room, Morgan's room, and even the bathroom. No place is safe. 

I recently went in to Morgan's room one morning to wake her for school, carrying my own cup of coffee with me. As Morgan rolled over, she slowly opened one eye, wincing at the day ahead. Suddenly, she shot straight up, eyes wide.

"Mom, I have to tell you something."

"What?" (Those words always make me nervous, as it usually means she has broken something and hidden the evidence.) 

Remember how we got new carpet in my room last year?" (It was two months ago, but children clearly have their own sense of time.)

"Well, I've made a new rule. There is no coffee allowed in my room now. I'm gonna need you to take that back to the kitchen."

"Fair enough." I walked my mug back to the counter and returned to her room.

"Now hold out your hands."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I need you to show me that you actually put it down."

I held them out for her to assess, chuckling not only at her new rules, but at her commitment to enforcing them. The rules I write - a jumping off point for negotiation. The rules she writes - the law of the land. Her future college roommates are going to love her so much.

'Merica

I am pleased to report my daughter knows every syllable of the Pledge of Allegiance. Listening to her recite it warms my heart, bringing me back to my own elementary school days, when we began each morning with a unified chorus resonating down the halls.

Alas, despite her true patriotism, Morgan is struggling a bit in her U.S. history.  Her first grade class recently finished a unit on the Statue of Liberty. Morgan not only brought home her own hand made flag (don't count the number of stars, she may have cherry picked the states that align with our family's political views), but also a silhouette of the one and only Lady Liberty. She was beaming; they've been on our fridge for weeks.

It was only when David shared with me what happened in class that I began to question our daughter's commitment to our country. 

You see, Morgan's class was having lengthy discussion about the history surrounding the Statue of Liberty and how she came to be such a central figure in America. One of the key parts of the story is how the U.S. acquired the statue. Morgan's teacher asked if anyone knew where we got the Statue of Liberty. Hands shot up, and Morgan's was no exception. She waved her hand wildly, confident in her answer. 

When she was finally called on, she took a deep breath before exuberantly exclaiming, "Vegas! We got the Statue of Liberty from Las Vegas!!!!"  France, Vegas, whatever. Maybe she's right; maybe not everything that happens in Vegas stays there after all.