Birds: Two, Stones: One
So, there I was, sitting on my deck, scowling at my children. They stood thigh deep in our inflatable wading pool, frozen in a tableau of cartoon violence.
My oldest had one arm wrapped around an innertube, her other arm raised overhead, hand in slapping position.
My son had one leg inside the innertube, and pointed a water noodle menacingly at his sister.
My youngest was sitting on the inflatable seat inside the pool, barking like a dog.
I had ordered a freeze to assess the situation. The kids, used to being ordered to stop, shush, stand, sit, hurry, and wait were puzzled by the sound of their mother, bellowing FUH-REEEEEEEEZE!
So there they were, mid-fight, and there I was, shooting optical daggers, and the only sound was the rustling of the leaves and the barking of my three-year-old.
I broke the silence. "What is the problem here?" I demanded, fists on my hips.
They both hurried to tattle at once. "He took..."
"She took..."
"I had it first"
"It was mine..."
I raised my hands like a conductor, and made the CEASE! hand motion. They fell silent.
Awesome.
"Arf! Arf! Arf arf arf arf!" added my three-year-old.
"Everyone out of the pool!" I announced, and threw them towels. "Dry off. You do not bicker and complain and tattle. No."
Outside the pool, they started up with the "no fair, jt's not my fault, I didn't do anything, he started it" baloney, and I reared back and roared "Fuh-REEEEEEEEEZE!" once again. I added a "SIIIIIIIIIII-lence!" to the routine, and they stood there looking put out, but quiet.
"Arf! Arf! Arf!" added my three-year-old.
I searched my pea-brain for some sort of climax to this parenting display. Aha! Carmen gives her kids sentences.
"You will each write sentences!" I declared.
They seethed in relative silence while they dried off and got dressed, and then I set them up at the table with a pad of paper each and a sharp pencil. I was feeling quite proud of myself, because hey, these kids of mine are naughty enough that they will have excellent penmanship by the time the school year begins.
"I will not fight with my brother." I announced for my daughter.
"I will not fight with my sister." I announced for my son.
From the living room, my youngest announced "arf! arf arf arf!"
After the first sentence, my daughter kicked my son under the table. My son scribbled on her paper. I seperated them, and started loading the dishwasher.
I got one plate and one fork loaded before my son started to giggle. "I tooted!" he whispered.
"Keep writing, young man."
"Ppppppft." said my daughter.
(Arf arf arf trickled in from the living room.)
I hid my smirk valiently, and loaded another plate into the dishwasher.
"Ppppppft." said my son.
My daughter lost it. My son lost it. Their shoulders shook with silent mirth as their foreheads bopped above their notebooks. My three-year-old crawled in on all fours and sat beside the table, barking.
I sat my 'doggie' up at the table and handed her a notebook and crayon. I headed around to check the work of my daughter and found that she had written I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother. I will not fart with my brother.
My son had drawn a very nice stegosaurus, with a cloud emerging from under its tail.
Next time, I'll enforce the sentences with more gusto. This time, with the "wind" beneath my "tail" I couldn't keep a straight face, nor make a point. I made them clean the floor instead. Pffffting the whole time.
Arf, arf, arf.
Comments
I don't know who posted this and how old your children are, but I REALLY appreciated it. My son is six and the fart humor is a "cloud" resting over our house, our dinner table, every car ride, etc. It is nice to know that someone else lives in that same smelly cloud! HA!
Posted by: Steph. | July 9, 2006 5:29 PM
This is a very funny post! Isn't it wonderful to have that kind of power? Love it!
As a former elementary teacher, just something to think about: do you really want writing to be considered a punishment?
Posted by: Rachel | July 10, 2006 11:56 AM