Running with Scissors

I recently finished reading Running with Scissors by Augusten Burroughs.



Minimally, the book was disturbing.

The book chronicles part of Burroughs' childhood. I survived the narrative only because Burroughs tells the story in such a composed manner. Throughout, I felt like I was reading a letter written by a close friend about his experiences at summer camp. His tone and writing style spoke to me in an every-day manner, but the sum of the words amounted to shocking accounts.

I was struck by his descriptions about feeling trapped by too much freedom as a teenager. The guy basically had zero authority figure in his life and virtually no limits placed on him by anyone, let alone an adult.

Burroughs wrote, "Freedom was what we had.... So why did we feel so trapped? Why did I feel like I had no options in my life when it seemed that options were the only thing I did have?"

No one gave this guy any direction. If he wanted to skip school for 21 days straight, no one cared but the school district. And even, then, they don't care either until an underage child misses 30 consecutive days of school. No one cared if and when he went to bed. No one cared if he got drunk and puked his brains out on the living room couch.

Honestly, I can't imagine spending my teenage years like this. However, this freedom is what nearly every teenager claims he or she desires most.

Burroughs continues, "More than anything, I wanted to break free. But free from what? That was the problem. Because I didn't know what I wanted to break free from, I was stuck."

The author finishes the chapter with, "The problem with not having anybody to tell you what to do, I understood, is that there was nobody to tell you what not to do."

So, for as much flack as I receive from loved ones about the rules I have set in our home, this memoir gives me solace that my kids have some structure and some limitations in their lives. The limits give them a sense of control over their sheltered world. Once they have independent lives in their own homes, they can have all of the freedom they want. Until then, it's Daddio and my house and our rules!

Indian Dinner Fiasco

Last night, we were invited to the home of the parents of Teacup's friend from school. They are Indian and vegetarian. Daddio and I relished the idea of being served a tasty meal and of conversing with adults.

At first, the children played together in the toy-room transformed from a garage. Being kids, they will play anywhere and with anything given the obligatory parental consent.

After appetizers slithered down our throats and filled our swelling bellies, we encouraged the kids to take a break from their amusements to nourish their little bodies. I settled each of my children into their seats and sniffed the air.

Did I smell a horrible sulfur-type odor emanating form my youngest daughter's behind?

As I casually moved my hand toward her rump, I felt the all-knowing warm lump through her clothing. Politely, excusing ourselves to the restroom, I quietly and quickly cleaned my daughter's underwear. Tossing around the various options in my head, I determined that her panties could not be salvaged. Having not brought extra undergarments, Scooter was forced to wear her pink tights, sans panties for the remainder of the evening.

Returning to the kitchen, I discreetly tossed the soiled panties in the garbage compactor. However guarded I tried to be, Teacup loudly asked, "What are you throwing away, mom?"

To which I responded, "Trash, honey. I'm throwing away trash." Noting the raised eyebrows among the rest of the group seated at the dinner table, I added, "And trash isn't polite dinner conversation."

Relieved that the crisis was averted, I triumphantly sat in my chair to enjoy the rest of the evening.

Within minutes, the kids decided they were no longer hungry and wanted to continue playing. To maintain harmony, the parents endorsed their decision and excused them from the table.

Just as the conversation began to roll smoothly among the adults, the host's housekeeper ran into the room announcing, "Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor! Your daughter make pee-pee on the floor!"

Having just taken a bite of my dinner, I looked over my shoulder, praying she wasn't talking to me. When it comes to kids and their problems, why do people always look at the mother? Why couldn't she have run into the room seeking Daddio?

I stumbled out of my chair to follow the trail of urine from the bathroom. At the end of the trail, Scooter stood frozen in the center of a pool of tinkle holding her dress above her waist.

"Holy Shit!" was all I could think. Externally, I smiled and asked for some cleaning products and paper-towels. There was no way to discreetly deal with this potty faux-pas. It was now a public humiliation, mostly for me.

After cleaning Scooter and the hosts' soiled hallway floor, our hostess graciously offered an essential pull-up.

Eventually, the adults returned to the dinner table, encountering cold food and lost appetites. We politely stayed for coffee and dessert. As we bid our new acquaintances good-bye, I wondered if they will accept a return invitation to our home.

Tiny Cracks

Only moments ago, I discovered my youngest daughter pushing her lunch into a tiny crevice in one of our kitchen chairs.

Developmentally, she is at that exploratory learn-about-my-surroundings stage. Perhaps a child psychologist would tell me how wonderful it is that she's learning about spacial relationships in our world.

All I can see is how she shoved pasta particles from her soup into an unreachable spot. These small pasta bits dissolve as easily as stale crackers turn to dust. It will be impossible to clean. Could a dog help to lick it out of such a tight spot? Will it take years before it hardens and falls to the ground in specs unseen by the naked eye?

Some parents may be more lenient, but they don't live in this house. That move was just plan disgusting. So, Scooter, please, PLEASE don't do that again!

Forgetting So Quickly

Scooter was awake last night between 11:30pm and 12:30am. At first she complained of a tummy ache. I fetched the "bucket" to prevent her purged her tummy contents from landing on the floor or bed.

At her insistence, I laid on the hard, but carpeted floor next to her bed, offering her support, "just in case." I listened to her toss and turn.

I indulged her. Maybe she didn't feel well.

So, I accompanied her to the potty a couple of times. No success on either end. I got her a tissue and a drink of water. Each time, I returned to my post on the floor, struggled to find a comfort zone and closed my eyes. Within moments of closing my eyes, a little voice whispered, "Mommy! Mommy, I need..... "

Next, she needed her Duke-bear from the toy chest at the foot of her bed. I satisfied her desire because everyone could use a supportive friend when they hork, right? I stayed. I listened. I waited.

My flexibility waned when Scooter requested "a friend" from her toy-box for the third time. My doubts of her needing to hork rose. She was yanking me around, but it took me an hour to figure it out. It was a critical hour, too.

Today, I'm a mess. In the blink of an eye, our newborn babies learn to sleep through the night. How quickly we forget how physically tired we once were.

A Room Mom's Predicament

For Teacup's class Valentine's party at school, I organized the festivities with the help of the other room mom. We carefully planned out the games (something developmentally appropriate), the craft (something that wouldn't require "drying" time) and snacks (something to accommodate everyone's allergies). We carefully called extra moms to volunteer their time to help.

Asking for parent volunteers is always a balancing act. On the one hand, I can't ask for too many volunteers because the teachers don't like the parental intrusion (understandably for many young kids, a mom's presence or absence can be awfully emotional). On the other hand, given the young age of these kids, nearly every parent wants to volunteer. Being as reasonable as possible, I try to be fair, rotating the parents among events. As expected, there are more volunteers than there are opportunities.

There's always at least one parent in every group who seems to think they're above what's "fair".

One, unnamed mom, tends to be a continual thorn in my side. She complains about everything - the order of activities, the quality of the craft, the lack of drink options appealing to her son, etc. The list seems endless with her. In my mind, I remind myself that I'm the room mom, not a social director or a cocktail waitress. I'm volunteering my time to be with the kids, show my support to the school and help my child to enjoy her education. Furthermore, this unnamed mom was given her chance to volunteer previously.

At the Valentine's party, the unnamed mom appeared unexpectedly. As she helped myself and the other teacher-approved volunteer moms set up for the party, I battled internally. How should I handle this situation? Clearly, she's not supposed to be here. What should I do? My fear was that the moms who were scheduled to be there would be "boxed out" of the activities.

I approached each mom and doled out assignments. She finally asked, "What do you want me to do?"

Given the lack of diplomacy I sometimes (okay, often) have, I blurted out, "Well, I don't have an assignment for you because you've already had a chance to volunteer and these other moms haven't. I'm sorry."

Huffy, she eventually departed. As I recounted the story to Ken, he assured me that I've made a school enemy who will probably be out to get me for the remainder of our children's school years together.

Sadly, I know he's right.

Where Babies Come From

I was alone with Valerie in the car recently. The time spent together, alone, is such a great treasure. With each passing day, our conversations grow a smidgen deeper.

Surprising me, she recently asked, "Mommy, where to babies come from?"

Thinking how well I could nail this, I carefully explained, "Babies grow inside mommies' tummies." Sometimes, less is more!

Looking for more, Valerie probed, "No, before that, WHERE do babies come FROM?"

Not sure what she was getting at, I offered, "Mommies and daddies love each other a lot and decide to have a baby. Then, the baby grows inside the mommies' tummy." I worried, how much does my soon-to-be-five year old know about the birds and the bees?

Growing irritated, Valerie slowed down so I could catch up, "NO mom, what STORE do you go to, to get a BABY?"

Imagine the population problem we'd have on this planet if we could buy babies at the store!