We were at the library the other day and Silvia was sitting at the little kids computer they have set up there. I was next to her, squished up at the kids table in a tiny chair and flipping through my book. Then my tiny, darling girl looked at me and said sternly, “Get out of my office, Mama. This is my desk, GET OUT.”

Oh, my.

I admit that I am possessive of my desk area. I have to share the playroom with the girls and there is a standing rule they are not allowed to come around and crowd into my “office”. What usually happens, though, is that while they play, I sit at my desk and work. Of course, they view this as an immediate challenge to see if they can get my attention. I end up saying, “Get out of my office” quite a lot.

Hearing it from my 2-year-old’s mouth, though, is an unsettling reminder of how distracted and dismissive I tend to be while I am at my computer. And, coming clean, when we’re all up there there “playing”, I am almost always at my computer. Worse, while I do get work done at those times, it’s pretty hard to concentrate with all the noise and interruptions, so for the most part I’m actually checking Facebook or writing emails or surfing the net. Is that really worth a tartly delivered, “Get out of my office”?

This line of thought, otherwise known as this parental boot the head, has also given me some insight into the girls SO ANNOYING behavior lately. Acting out does not cover it. Defiance, unapologetic rudeness, disobedience and publicly OBNOXIOUS fits are on the rise. I’m not new to toddlers and chalk more than a little of this up to 2-year-old temper and sibling rivalry, but I have to admit that at least some of it is a blistering display of MOMMY PLEASE STOP IGNORING ME AND COME PLAY PRINCESS. It’s time for MY time out.

I hate board games and crafts and can only read two or three stories in a row before yawns overtake words, but I am a mom of preschoolers. This may not be the most important thing I do in my life (SHOCK! OUTRAGE! HOW DARE SHE SAY THAT! WHAT A TERRIBLE MOTHER!), but it’s certainly in the top three. I’d like to note here that I’m not saying I never play with the kids or read to them or make bizarre paper sculptures with glue and Popsicle sticks. I do.

That small blue-eyed and blond little parrot has reminded me, though, a little more time doing THAT instead of computing aimlessly can do more harm than good. I’m instituting Turn-Off Time– playtime with no computer or TV. It’ll vary day to day with school, naps and activities, but I’m determined to make it as much a priority as any deadline (or, too my shame, Facebook update).

Maybe next time we’re at the library Silvia will absolve my guilt and say to her Dolly, “Come here and read a story with me, just like mommy”. And, hey, if she can do it while lots of other people are around who can say, “Awww, how cute, what a great mom she must have!”, all the better!

I should never give parenting advice (not that anyone’s asked me for any lately), but here’s why:  I have the mentality of a 5-year-old. 

This week the girls are attending day camp at the zoo!  (How fun is THAT??).  While walking Eva to her class this morning we managed to catch a whiff from the elephants’ pen. 

“Hey Eva, ever heard this one?”  “Mama Mia, Papa Pia, Baby’s got diarrhea….***pbbbbt pbbbbt*** diarrhea….****pbbbbt pbbbbt***…”

Eva belly-laughed for a good five minutes straight.

When I picked her up at the end of the day, the zoo teacher (strange job title) mentioned Eva’s potty humor, and to leave THAT type of talk at home.

Poop-head.

Well, I heard it.

It took 9 years and just shy of a month, but it happened.

I got told by an offspring that I basically suck. That I’m no fun. That life is worse for him than it is for any other kid in the entire universe. That I

“Never let me do anything fun, EVER!” complete with the slamming of a bedroom door.

And you know what? It hurt.

I don’t mean it hurt my feelings. Logan wanted it to hurt my feelings, but he lost that battle. It didn’t make me sad or guilty or frightened that he was someday going to look back on his life and tell his wife or his frat brothers or his coworkers  that his childhood was especially unfair and cold hearted.

No, that wasn’t the hurt that I felt.

More it was that, well, I had this burning pain in my chest that made me consider standing up and shouting “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME!? WHAT DO YOU THINK I DO WITH 18 OF THE 24 HOURS THAT MAKE UP AND HAVE MADE UP EACH AND EVERY DAY OF THE PAST 9 YEARS AND 1 MONTH! DO YOU THINK THAT I ENJOY EATING AT MCDONALDS WHEN INSTEAD I COULD HAVE CHOSEN PANERA BREAD?! DO YOU THINK THAT IT WAS MY IDEA TO GO ON THE ROCK AND ROLL ROLLER COASTER AT HOLLYWOOD STUDIOS AFTER STANDING IN LINE FOR ALMOST 2 HOURS! OH, AND SO SORRY FOR MAKING YOU GO TO THE POOL SO MANY TIMES THIS SUMMER! I KNOW THAT GOING DOWN WATERSLIDES AND JUMPING OFF THE HIGH DIVE WAS PROBABLY REALLY ROUGH…OH AND ONE MORE THING, IT’S SUPER FUN TO HAUL MY REAR UP AND DOWN THE FREEWAY 30 MINUTES EACH WAY SO YOU CAN ENJOY YOUR $275 ENRICHMENT CAMP!”

I didn’t shout that, though. I wanted to, but I didn’t. I simply asked him to elaborate on why he felt that he had life so bad, why everyone else was livin’ the dream, yet he could only imagine it, why he had the audacity to tell his mother that I never let him “do anything fun, ever”. And after listening, I said something to the effect of “well, sorry, but it is what it is.”

To tell you all the “anything funs” that I’ve done for him and his two younger brothers over the past 9 years would make this post so long, it would most likely cause my computer to crash.

So I won’t elaborate. But Logan could. The offense?

I wouldn’t let him go on a late night (almost 10), spur of the moment run with some neighbors to Sonic for shakes.

I’m not going to go into detail about why my husband and I vetoed the idea. Basically, it just wasn’t going to happen. No. Forget it. Sorry, dude.

And I was prepared for some fallout, but not yet quite ready to hear those words, words that it seemed just yesterday I was saying to my own parents.

What else hurt?

The fact that I saw those words for what they were: meaningless crap from a ‘tween. Which meant that soon I’d enter that world where I could do nothing right, where I’m the bad guy (girl), where basically, Logan’s going to think he’s getting screwed right and left by his parents, the very ones who live and breathe to make his life fun, easy and, you know, good.

So I guess all I can hope for is that he’ll always deep down know that I’m on his side and that while I could scream the above bold- faced paragraph at him for emphasis, I won’t because… Logan, as your mom, I will go to bed each and every night hoping and praying that you had a great day and you’ll just have to trust me to know when to reign in the fun, even if it’s just for the night.

Right? What else can you do but just know you’re doing the best you believe is right.

Even if the ones who benefit don’t agree.

We have put off cleaning our carpets for 5 years.  They’re spotted, worn and generally gray rather than the original cream color.  Now, I’m not ashamed to say my house is pretty nice upon general inspection.  I (and my twice monthly visiting angel cleaning lady) keep it fairly clean and neat. As a family, we do not lean towards clutter, in fact I’d say it’s more exactly the opposite. 

But the carpets are a disaster, one that nags at us though we struggle daily to ignore it.  Why all the denial? Because I still have a potty-training toddler. 

And in most cases, the potty plays a rather minor role as receptacle when it comes to the “training” part. Last week, Silvia stood up and declared that she MUST wear her big girl panties, making the decision I had been putting off.  I agreed, but with trepidation.  It’s not that I don’t want her to be potty-trained, quite the opposite.  But the actual process is just misery. I’ve successfully managed to block out nearly the entire procedure with Anna, leaving me only with a vague memory of her crying and spending weeks on my knees scrubbing out the carpet, couches, beds and floors. 

I know it’s cowardly, but diapers are just EASIER. With diapers I can leave the house on a moment’s notice and stay out for more than two hours without trouble. Silvia can sit on the couch unattended and play in the next room without my constant hovering.  As it is now, she doesn’t even want to wear pull-ups half the time.  I got those cloth trainers, but they still don’t contain the majority of the flood,which leaves me in a state of near-constant awareness to catch her before she forgets to catch herself.

It’s not like she’s having no success.  She’s got a definite awareness of what’s going on– it just seems to come more often AFTER the deed is done.  Actually, she does better in pull-ups, but those panties are so much cuter and happier and more wonderful and JUST LIKE ANNA’S, her most important criteria.  Another month or two, she’ll be on her way, there’ll be less accidents, I’ll be able to go out more often. 

For the moment, though, I’ve just resigned myself to a questionable carpet and dropping everything to run to the bathroom 37 million times a day.  If nothing else, I’m getting my exercise, right? I could only wish that it was a little less…damp.