garbage mouth

BY JOHN P. SOUSA

I was helping my daughter Lily put her shoes on when she said, "Mom, did you just say Garbage Mouth?" My wife was sitting at her desk, across the room.

"What did Mom say?" I asked.

"Fuck," said Lily.

I turned to my wife. "Did you just say 'fuck?'" I asked her.

"Garbage Mouth, Dad," said Lily.

"No," said Ashley. "I said I was just logging onto the Angel Homepage to grade some papers for my online class."

"Before that," said Lily. "What word did you say before you said those words?"

"You might have," I said. "You know how frustrated you get with some of your students, because they're dumbasses." Whenever my wife, who is a community college history instructor, is grading her papers, she cusses like a sailor with Tourette's Syndrome.

"Garbage Mouth!" said Lily.

"I think I might have said 'crap.' Maybe," Ashley said. "But you know, Lily, what you can say if you don't want to say Garbage Mouth? You can just say the 'f-word.'"

"What?"

"Instead of that word, you can just say 'f-word,' because that word starts with 'f,'" I said.

"What word is that?" asked Lily.

"Fuck," I said. "Instead of saying 'fuck,' just say 'the f-word.' Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Lily.

"Okay, now go kiss your mother with that mouth of yours and let's get out of here."

I was not prepared for this. Garbage Mouth wasn't covered in any of the prenatal classes I attended, and it wasn't mentioned in the books I read. It also didn't occur to me until my daughter started talking, so I didn't know to ask anybody. How do you raise a competent, polite child when you still have the sense of humor of a fourth grader? Because when your toddler -- now a preschooler -- says or does something naughty, you're supposed to be an adult. But I have a near-Pavlovian need to laugh whenever my daughter calls the dog a "stinky butt club." Partly this is because my daughter is really cute, and because I love her, and so everything she does is amazing and wonderful. But deep down, I know that in my heart of hearts, I'm just a knucklehead who thinks poop jokes are hilarious, and loves to say cuss words, and so what I'm really doing is feeling at home in my natural demographic.

Thankfully my wife is slightly more adult about these things. When my daughter was 2, she loved to argue. And it was so adorable the way she would get mad and point her stubby little finger back at you and yell the opposite of what you'd just said. According to the experts, this is not good parenting, and so Ashley put the kibosh on me engaging in this behavior fairly quickly. But Lily's grandparents -- Ashley's parents, who are retired and spend a great deal of time with Lily -- are something else entirely.

For six months or so when Lily was 2, they had a running argument about my mother-in-law's watch. Lily would point to it and say, "Mama Adeline! Clock!"

Adeline would say, "No, honey. That's a wristwatch."

"Clock!"

"No, poopesh, that's a wristwatch."

"NO! CLOCK!"

My mother-in-law is in the beginning stages of Alzheimer's, so this could and did go on all day. As Lily got older and learned some astronomy, they had a similar, slightly more playful argument about the phases of the moon. "Half moon, Mama Adeline," Lily would say, knowing full well that outside the window was a full moon.

"That's a full moon," said Adeline.

"Half moon!"

And so on.

Ashley's dad, Papa Joe, would get into a much simpler and dumber argument with Lily. Out of nowhere he'd say, "Lily, you do it."

"No. You do it," Lily would say back.

Pointing this time, and jabbing his finger, he'd say, "No YOU do it." Lily would mimic this movement and inflection exactly a few times. (This is the adorable thing she did that I loved so much, and so I would start this argument with her occasionally, too). Eventually, though, Lily would get pissed and scream, "NO! YOU! DO! IT!"

All of this drove Ashley up the wall, and she was determined to stop it. Mainly she wanted it stopped because it's stupid and annoying for any normal person to have to sit there and listen to a grown adult
argue with a toddler. But more than that, despite our problems with blue language, Ashley and I want to raise our daughter to be polite and respectful, and to not argue with everything we ask her to do. It put us in an awkward position, because my mother-in-law's childcare was free, which was about what we could afford at the time. So we needed my mother-in-law to come over every morning and spend the day arguing with Lily about wristwatches and clocks and full moons and half moons. But we just needed her to do it without all the arguing.

And besides, Ashley has a theory about ending these types of arguments, which she calls the "Your Mama's Bush Theory." Early in our relationship, she explained to me that the ultimate argument-ender for arguments of this sort -- the back-and-forth/"Uh-huh!" "Nuh-uh!"/"Yes, you did!" "No, I didn't" sorts of arguments -- is for one of the arguers to say, "Your mama's bush!" The rationale is that there is no comeback to a non sequitur involving one's mother's pubic hair. It's one of the reasons I fell in love with my wife. And I think the main reason Ashley refused to engage our daughter in these arguments about clocks and moons and who is going to complete a task is that she was worried that she would say, "Your mama's bush," to her daughter, and all of existence would come to a sudden and furious halt.

As she got older, Lily became a prolific repeater of road rage language, 90% of which she got from Ashley. I can make this claim with confidence because for a year, they commuted together from San Francisco to Saratoga -- a one-hour drive each way, three days a week -- when Lily attended the preschool facility at the college where Ashley teaches. Not only that, but Ashley has a world-class vocabulary of curse words which can be mined at a moment's notice and deployed without warning on a driver who has cut her off, is tailgating, is going too slow, or has a bumper sticker expressing an opinion with which she disagrees. And don't ever, ever get her started on personalized license plates.

It got to the point where Ashley didn't even need to say anything. Once, the three of us were driving to the grocery store. There was heavy traffic on the street, and from the back we hear this little voice saying, "Come on, people. Fuckin' people."

"She didn't get that from me," I said.

Ashley, trying not to laugh, covered her face and said, "Is that what I sound like?"

"No, you're louder and meaner."

Just then, a guy cut into my lane and I had to slam on the breaks. "Aaaah!! What a douche bag!" I said.

Then from behind, like a parrot but much smarter, and with a much, much sweeter voice, we heard, "Doosh bag."

Then she said it again: "Doooosh bag."

And again, working the word around: "Doosshhh bag?"

And finally, because she hadn't tried it yet: "Dooosh BAG."

I couldn't really blame my daughter. She was, after all, 2 years old, and just discovering language. And "douche bag" is a marvelous combination of words to say. You have the hard "D" sound, followed by
that wonderful "ooosh" transitioning into the rough "bag" coming through like an axe to cut your victim down to size.

Then one morning, I caught her setting up her blocks and then knocking them down, saying, "Oh, Christ. Oh, Christ Jesus. Oh, my God. God dammit. Oh, God Jesus Damn."

This blasphemy was new and could have come from any of us: Me, Ashley, one of her grandparents. She could have gotten it from the TV for all I know. I have no idea what comes on after Teletubbies. But when she started getting on the phone with Ashley's mother and yelling, "Mama Adeline, FUCK!" we knew we had to start making some changes.

And that's when Lily starting learning about Garbage Mouth.

A partial list of words and phrases that are Garbage Mouth:

Shit
Fuck
Damn
Hell
Butthole
Asshole
Idiot
Stupid
Retarded
Pissed
Dickhead
Bitch
Son of a bitch
Goddamn
Goddamnit
Dick

This list is not comprehensive, and there are new words added every day. Some words, like "fat," for example, aren't officially on the list, but can be Garbage Mouth depending on the context. Context is
the hardest thing to teach.

Lily became the Garbage Mouth police sometime last year, when she was 3. It seems the only thing my daughter loves more than learning new curse words is enforcing rules with an iron fist. Any "damn" or
"shit" is met with a stern, "Garbage Mouth!" from Lily. We visited my aunt, who likes to read the letters from the editor in her local paper and sputter aloud about the "stupid fucking idiot" letter-writers. Lily, without even looking up, said, "Aunt Dian, that's Garbage Mouth."

"I know, sweetie," Dian said. "And there's a lot more where that's coming from."

This began the adults-get-privileges-kids-don’t phase, which Lily seems to have no problem with but makes me a little bit uncomfortable. In my family, my mother deployed a swift backhand slap to the back of the head whenever my brother or I let loose a curse word. Well into our 20s, if we happened to be in the kitchen with our mom and one of cussed, we did so while ducking.

Raising kids is complicated. You have to be on your best behavior in front of them because they're going to copy you. So when you're a knucklehead, like I am, you're constantly struggling to do the right thing. One time, Lily was in her bath, and she shouted, "Dad, I have to drop a deuce! I need you to light a match!"

She learned about "dropping deuces" probably from me, although there's also a good chance she picked it up from her Uncle Andy, who lived with us for a year. "Call me when you're done, and I'll come and light one," I said. The match in question was an incense match, a wonderful invention that clears the air of any foul odors emanating from the toilet after a bowel movement.

"OKAY! I'M DONE!" she yelled about 30 seconds later. I went into the bathroom and opened a new pack of French Vanilla scented matches.

"LIGHT IT!"

"Hang on," I said. "Did you wipe yet? Make sure you wipe." So, she grabbed some TP and wiped her front.

"No," I said, "you have to wipe the other side. You know, your..."

"My butthole?" It was here that I had to choke back a Pavlovian snort.

"Erm," I managed, still kind of snarfing. "Um, yes?"

"That's a Garbage Mouth," she said.

But here's the thing: my aunt had given Lily a book called The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts, which has a pretty awesome diagram of the digestive system. Because of this, Lily is well aware that the proper word here is "anus."

But because I'm a jackass, I can't say "anus" with a straight face, except when I don't mean to. The other day, Lily and I were putting together a puzzle of the solar system. I reached for a piece and said, "I think this is Uranus." Here I was, having a tender moment with my daughter, playing together.

"It's called "YUR-uhnis, Dad," she said."Because your anus is gross"

John P. Sousa is a dad and a writer. He lives in New Haven, CT, with his family. He can be reached at: johnpsousa@gmail.com.

vomit

By Meredith Bland

I am a stay-at-home mom to 3-year-old twins.

Vomit. Let's take a walk, shall we?

Let's talk about vomit for a second. The more squeamish of you should cover your eyes for this one.

I have a long history with vomit. My own and other people's. As a kid, I used to get horribly carsick and spent a lot of car trips puking into a plastic bag, upsetting the rest of the family. NOT as upsetting, however, as the time the cat emptied its bladder in its carrier, which was set on the seat between us. My sisters and I were sitting in a lake of cat urine as it filled the crevices of our leather seats. Ah, memories, like the corners of my mind...

When I was a teenager, I cleaned up multiple people's vomit at one of the few parties I was invited to in high school. No, no beer for me! I'll just pour everybody's vomit down the kitchen sink. Your mom won't mind if I use her pots for this, right?! Okay. Cool, guys! I'm totally cool!!!

And then there were my college and post-college years when I drank like it was my duty. High up there on my list of uncomfortable experiences? Puking into my lap while driving down the highway the morning after a particularly busy night. I was still about half an hour from home at that point, by the way. Yeeeeeeeeeaaaahhh. I was pretty hot stuff, my friends. Nothing says "I'm in the prime of my life!" like going 70 miles an hour down I-5, while wearing a cute outfit, smeared mascara, and a lap full of vomit.

Despite this close, intimate relationship with vomit, I am also someone who has a strong gag reflex. The sound of someone puking could make me puke. So, I had concerns about having children, which, from what I understood through myth and legend, involved a lot of chunk-blowing.

Boy, is it ever amazing what disgusting things stop bothering you when you have kids. I am pretty sure I could start work on a crime scene clean-up crew tomorrow, walk in on a bloated, rotting corpse, and say "Hmm. Anyhoo. Did I ever tell you about the time one of my kids spit up in my husband's mouth? Yeah. That was super gross." (True story.)

I'll never forget one particular day when my kids were less than 2 months old. I was at home with them, in the midst of my glorious run with postpartum depression, and Megan threw up down the back of my shirt. And you know what? I kept that shirt on all day. Yup. Thought about changing it, but then said, "Nope! I just...don't...care." Picture Mike's face when he came home that night and I said, "Excuse me, I need to go change my shirt. Megan threw up on me this morning." "This MORNING?!?!" That's how you keep the romance alive, people. Right there.

There is so much vomit with twins. So. Much. Vomit. Because when one starts puking, you can be sure the other one isn't far behind. There were many evenings when Mike and I were bringing each other towels to clean up the vomit that had soaked us to the skin. I remember one time Mike said, "I had to change my UNDERPANTS. That's how much vomit there was." Or you are rocking your babies to sleep, having a tender moment, and one baby projectile vomits all over the other baby. Babies hate that, FYI.

But anyway. I was thinking about vomit because Megan puked all over the car this weekend while on the way home from a birthday party. She puked A LOT. Three times. So I am glancing around during the 5-minute drive home, encouraging her to MAINTAIN, nervously eyeing the puddle of vomit on her party dress and tights, telling myself it was going to be fine...And then, we went downhill.

Oh, people. Oh, just………..mm.

Meredith Bland is the mother of twins. Her website is: www.pileofbabies.com. She can be reached at: meredithpileofbabies@gmail.com.

groundhog day

BY GRETCHEN ALLISON

So, just as I am gearing myself up to make a career decision, I get a phone call from the school nurse. I happen to like the school nurse, but I don't like getting phone calls from her.

"I have your son in the office," her voice message says. "He told me it feels like something is floating in his eye. I didn't see anything and I can't get a hold of you, so I am sending him back to class. Please call me when you get this message."

God forbid I missed the call! I was probably out walking one of the dogs. By the way, he did just have surgery on his eyes over a week ago, but as far as I could tell they looked like they were healing. This is the same kid who broke his arm and we didn't know for three days! He's not exactly one to complain, so when he does, I usually take notice.

I call her back, and in my concerned mother way I say, "What is floating in his eye, is probably the thought that he can't run around the playground with the rest of his friends. I'm sure that's what this is about, but if he comes back again, I will come and get him."

The phone rings 10 minutes later. It's the nurse again. I call the surgeon's office and he isn't in, but his partner is. "You should probably bring him in to be seen," the receptionist tells me, so I pick up my son from school, and then we drive to the doctor's office and pay for valet parking because they make you, even though I can see my car. This will be another short story.

Did I mention I had not eaten breakfast or lunch?

By the time I pick him up from school, it is 12:15. We go right to the doctor's office and have to see not one, but two doctors. I personally think this is the office's way of keeping patients occupied because they are so overwrought with them. The first one puts eye drops in and says he looks fine. The second doctor says the stitches have come loose and that is what he is feeling. Apparently this is normal. Normal, but gross, and accounts for your child saying something is floating in their eye. I go home with a cream for his eyes, an empty stomach, mother's guilt, and pull into the driveway with five minutes to spare for the bus.

The phone is ringing when I walk into the house. It's the school. "We have your youngest in the office.  He missed the bus."

I grab a cheese stick and head back to the school to pick him up. This is the argument for having a third child. Life was complicated with one, so we added a second. And then I decided a third would complete the madness, because I like to run at full throttle and see how much I can handle before I find religion and start spewing out expletives that are not fit for sailors, let alone children.

I can tell I've reached my limit when my oldest son starts in with his rendition of a rap song he wrote for me called "White Mom." It refers to my driving on the LIE to Flushing and how everyone else is a bad driver but me. He's now got the two younger ones singing it.

Flushing! Who would have thought I would be there three to four times a week so two of the little treasures can swim? The other one sits next to me with every electronic device known to man and a plate of food from the concession stand. I would bring the Wii if they had a television and Internet, as long as it kept him occupied!

The reason I mention swimming is because we are supposed to go that evening even though my middle guy can't swim for two weeks. "Does that mean I don't have to go either?" my oldest asked that morning. "No! One of you is going to swim!" I insisted, since we just wrote a check to the coach.

Wouldn't you know it! My oldest comes home from school and goes right to the freezer and grabs a bag of ice. "I think I broke my arm ice skating the other day. I was playing football today and it hurt when I bent it." He moans in pain. I pick up the phone and call Grandpa (he happens to be an orthopedic surgeon) and explain the symptoms to him. We decide (or at least this part of we decides) that the pain and break will have to wait until Friday when his dad can take him. We skip swimming, and I threaten no soccer the next day. Naturally the pain subsides.

The next day, my telephone rings at 2:30. It's the school. "Your youngest missed the bus again." The back door opens and my middle son walks in. "How come you weren't at the bus stop?"

"Because I just got in from Paris. I was missing it so terribly I went for the day." He looks at me like I might be telling the truth. "Your brother missed the bus and the office was calling me." I get back into the car and go pick him up.

Can someone tell me how a 6-year-old misses a bus? Is there no one at school to monitor him? I get a phone call the minute he has five dollars left in his lunch account, along with the threat that he will be denied a hot lunch. I also get four flyers and four emails about Dad's Night Out, and a half dozen memos on the social I never go to, but no one notices a 6-year-old boy sitting in a classroom after all of the busses have departed?

I go to bed at night and write it off as "one of those days."

Today, the nurse calls again. "Your son is here in the office again complaining about his eye."

I'm thinking: Didn't I just have this conversation with her? Is this Groundhog Day? No, it's my life! It's the Universe's way of telling me there's no way in hell I can take a job because I've already got one!  Shuffling these kids around!

So, I pick him and the youngest up, because it's now 1:30 and by the time we leave the doctor (which always takes an hour) my youngest will be getting off the bus -- unless of course he misses it and no one will be home to get him.

We wait in the office for no less than 30 minutes. Three kids I don't know have siphoned cookies off of me. Nothing bothers me more than a rookie parent! Don't they know to pack like they're never returning home again when they go to a doctor's office?

"His eyes are healing nicely. Look at that! Do you see how straight they are?" The doctor who did the surgery asks me. I nod at him. "Wow! They look great!" I smile and look bedazzled. "Come here and take a look." I love my son more than anything in this world, but I can't stand to look inside someone's eye. He pulls back the lid and shows me the stitch left in one eye. "Do you see it?" "Yes," I say, but I am lying. I hated the movie Clockwork Orange, and quite frankly what he is showing me looks like pulverized tissue and I want to retch. "The sensation he is feeling is very common. Just continue with the drops and I will see you in two weeks."

I'm thinking, that's what you think! My son is milking this for everything there is! I'm already out a Lego set, those new Skylanders, three days off from school, lunches eaten out, and two extra trips to the doctor! If I were real savvy, I would have bought him the Death Star that he asked for and would have saved myself a lot of stress. I'm not above bribery, but this kid drives a hard bargain!

From tae kwon do to drums, to Flushing, to school, the doctor, the grocery store, soccer, and our latest venture -- auditions in the city for a talent agency -- I don't know how I would have the energy to go to a real job and then come home and do this one.

"I'm thinking about going out for the drama club," my oldest son told me last night. "Does it involve driving?" I asked.  "No!" "Great! Hope you break a leg!"

"I would like to take rock climbing," my middle guy says. "Me too!" my youngest chimes in. "Do either of you have a driver's license?" I ask. And they look at me as though I'm kidding.

Gretchen's website: www.ohshiksa.com. Gretchen's blog: www.ashiksagirl.wordpress.com. Gretchen on Twitter: @ashiksagirl. She is the author of Oh Shiksa!

a family tradition

BY SARAH BANSE

The only upside to Christmas encroaching upon Thanksgiving is that you get to play the Santa Claus card. At the first sign of a Boy Scout tree, pine cone wreath, candy cane, or red-berried holly, it is time to make jolly St. Nick -- your ally. A gentle reminder when voices are raised, "Remember. Santa is watching." Fisticuffs avoided by the simple prompt, "I'd hate to see a lump of coal in your stocking."

I fondly remember my eldest, now 13, as an impressionable 3-year-old promising to behave better, nervously declaring, "I don't want a lumpa."

"Lumpa what?" I'd say.

"Coal, no coal."

Likewise, my daughter Claire proves to be her most alluring between turkey day and the big guy's birthday. Cunning and shrewd, she decided old Kris Kringle couldn't possibly be watching all year long. Free reign on demeanor until December 1, then model child. It's crunch time for God's sake.

Then there is the matter of my two little boys, Tom and Hugh, now 7 and 6 respectively. They have never been fobbed off by the Fat Man. I'd remind them that Santa knows when you're sleeping and when you're awake.

"That's just creepy!" says Hugh.

"Santa is definitely a creeper," agrees Tom.

"Everyone loves Santa. What are you two talking about?"

"Oh, please," Tom argues. "Have you ever been to the mall? They make kids sit on his lap and get their picture taken with the guy. Everybody's crying."

This year, Tom and Hugh received a gift from their grandmother at Thanksgiving -- The Elf On The Shelf: A Christmas Tradition. A white cardboard box decorated with a small elf sitting on a shelf with an impish grin. The left side of the box holds a picture book. On the right sits a pixie elf behind clear plastic. There are, of course, two air holes so the small sprite can breathe.

Upon receiving, Tom and Hugh picked up the box, turned it over, and examined the contents. They looked at each other in disbelief when they realized the implications of the imp.

Tom surreptitiously placed his hand over the air holes while he read aloud: "At holiday time, Santa sends me to you. I watch and report on all that you do. My job's an assignment from Santa himself, a friendly scout elf."

Tom looked at Hugh and said: "We have got to get rid of this thing."

"Whoa," I said. "Have you two been so good this year that you're willing to mess with the elf?"

Hugh looked at his feet and then the box and then to his brother. "I hate that elf," he said.

"We are so putting this in Jack's room," they said together.

They sat in the kitchen perplexed. Their cousins received the same gift and the boys were disgusted by their delight in the pixie, thinking up names for it and wondering aloud where it might show up first.  Tom turned to Hugh. "We could throw him off the airplane on the way home."

"Nah, he must fly if he's reporting back to Santa. Suffocating him was a pretty good idea."

"What about we blow him up!" said Tom.

"Hey, I heard that," I said. "You're not supposed to touch the elf. It says so in the book."

After a few more minutes, they thought they'd just forget the elf on purpose. In other words: Thanks but no thanks, Gram.

We did bring the box home, and I didn't think much of it. Certainly not enough to take the elf out of the box and hide it from room to room. I thought Tom and Hugh would be relieved to not see it appear day after day. The other day, however, I found the empty white box in their room. The book sat on Hugh's bedside table, open and creased, the elf not a trace. I looked under the bed, checked in dresser drawers, rifled through the laundry basket; nothing. Finally, I looked to the top of their bookshelf. The footless legs of the pixie peered out from under a cloth. The nameless sprite lay face down with the shiny red ties that bound him to the cardboard box still wrapped around his waist and neck. Left there like a noose and lead weight. Perhaps a reminder to the snitch, what can happen to a rat.

Sarah Banse is the mother of four and muddles through in the western suburbs of Boston. She is an Assistant Editor at Ploughshares and her work has been published in the Boston Globe, The Sun, Meetinghouse, and Motherverse. She can be reached at sarahbanse@mac.com.

burning man

BY JILL SHULMAN

My son, the computer game junkie, loves a game called Minecraft in which he builds things with virtual blocks that look like Legos to me. He would play this game 24/7 if left to his own devices. The day before his eleventh birthday, he called me over to the computer where a Lego-derivative, "entirely flammable," giant man he had built was displayed on the screen. The plan was to burn that man before an audience of his friends at his sleepover birthday party the following day.

The entire premise gave me pause for a variety of reasons. First, it was hard even for me to fool myself into believing that there was any educational merit to this game. Secondly, I couldn't help but wonder what inspired my son's impulse to burn a man, and if it had anything to do with my parenting. Finally, it was a sleepover birthday party. I envisioned the boys awakening at 2 a.m. from fiery nightmares, calling their parents to come pick them up, and the accusatory glares (and potential therapy bills) that could ensue. I feared this "burning man" activity could cause psychological harm, gossip, or worse --  playdate boycotts. Playdates are crucial because every mother needs a break from her beloved child now and then -- especially if he has pyromaniacal tendencies.

On the day of the party, birthday cake was consumed, and then my son announced: "It's time to burn the man." The boys gathered around the computer where my techie husband had aided and abetted my son by rigging a device to record the event. What follows is a recap of that recording. My annotations appear in parentheses.

Ominous music is hummed by a slightly off-key child. Towering over a snowy landscape: the giant man. He is smiling. (Little does he know.) Boogledoo, my son's virtual character, ignites the massive man's sandals (From Greek mythology, I am told.). As the legs burn, they disappear, yet the torso of the man stays afloat. ("The physics in Minecraft are terrible," my son explains to me.) On the recording, excitement mounts. Five boys souped up on sugar comment wildly. "The right leg is completely obliberated!!" (Laughter at mispronounced word, as well as obliteration of leg.) "He is maimed slightly, but there's a chance of recovery!" (More laughter. There is no chance of recovery. Funny?) "The place where his heart should be is technically burned away. He seems to have heartburn!" (Clever, but at the expense of a man's incinerated heart.)

Boogledoo enters the man and weaves through a maze of flaming passageways. One child sounds nervous -- "Get out, get out!" Someone changes the subject to the shapes of the snowflakes falling into the flames. (Perhaps for the benefit of the fearful child.) A thoughtful moment. (I am hopeful.
These boys are not monsters after all.) Then my son says: "We're getting sidetracked! We're about to die by fire, and we're talking about snowflakes!" (Hopes dashed.) Another child: "Argh! Smoke! Everyone fly away!" Boogledoo flies away through the top of the man's head, which is hollow. "I don't think he's very smart," says one astute party guest. "He's got a little something on his lip," says another. (That would be a flame.)

Toward the end of the recording, my son adds blocks of TNT inside the remains of the burning man for a dramatic finale. (Spirited commentaries indicate that death by combustion is the ultimate way to go.) All that remains of the giant burning man is a singed skeleton. Boogledoo is blown up in the process. (My son tells me not to worry about Boogledoo. "In this game, whenever you die, you respawn." How does this translate into 11-year-old reality?)

The activity is a resounding success. The boys progress to a Nerf gun war followed by my son's favorite movie, which featurs fire, war, and of course, fatality. The party theme, it turns out, is violence. I miss the days when the party theme was Winnie the Pooh. The boys sleep well after the mayhem.

The next morning, I feed them more sugar in donut form and then hand them off to their parents, who thank us profusely for the night of free babysitting. Little do they know what has been seared in their children’s brains in their absence. However, by noon, I have received a phone call inviting my son for a playdate. Despite the death and destruction that went down the night before, there is no playdate boycott. Boogledoo has respawned, my son is one year older, and all is right with the world.

Lesson learned: Our future generation is anesthetized to fire, war, and parents' insistence that books can be just as stimulating as computer games.

Jill Shulman lives and writes fiction and essays in Western, MA. She maintains the blog, The Luddite Chronicles, in which a technophobic mom masters the technology of everyday life.

not room parent material

BY SARAH BANSE

I like to think of myself as the literary type, so whenever I volunteer in my children's classrooms, I always offer to read a story -- forgoing the snack and craft options. As we all know, your mom helping out at the Halloween party is a sure sign she loves you. It is particularly competitive to secure classroom time in my son Tom's grade. Since kindergarten, the room parent gatekeepers have been selective in handing out classroom appointments. There seem to be secret sign-up sheets that I am not privy to, or I miss the class coffee where assignments are made. Tom is my third child out of four. Despite my present apathy, I attended nearly 20 class coffees before he even entered school. Tom reminds me, however, that Mrs. Taylor goes on every field trip and I have not gone on one.

My boys' school is one of the few politically-incorrect institutions that still has a Halloween parade. I proudly send my two little men off in dresses. Second-grade Tom in a tunic, shield, and rubber helm as a Spartan warrior. And first-grade Hugh in a kilt, red Tam o' Shanter, and fur sporran as a Celtic warrior. I endure the parade as each boy in kindergarten through fourth grade announces what his costume is to a large audience of parents. After the pageant, the boys wrangle to get back to their classrooms for parties.

Tom knows I am coming to his class and informs me: "You know we're not babies anymore. We don't want a silly picture book. No Arthur, got it?"

I got it. I go to the town library and get Pam the Librarian in the children's room to pick out some scary stories. A preview of the book never gets crossed off my to-do list, but on the day-of, I scan it in a corner as the boys make popsicle stick spider bookmarks. While Matthew Douglas's mother doles out hand-crafted pumpkin cookies and apple juice boxes, I pull a stool into the open end of the horseshoe desk formation and turn off the lights.

The first story, is nothing but the classic ditty,

Do you know the ghost of Tom?
Long whites bones with the flesh all gone
Wouldn’t it be chilly with no skin on?

I sing as spooky as I can and teach the song to the class and have them sing along. So far, so good. I'm a hit. Next, I wow them with a bunch of riddles -- they're loving me! They should let me in here more often, I think. I get them sitting on the edge of their seats, and then I smack them with the iconic tale of a toeless ghost haunting a house demanding the return of his digit. "Who has my toe?" I moan. Wide-eyed, the boys listen. My son Tom sits at one end of the desks, Teddy Salomon on the other. I think about jumping out at Tom, but too predictable, right? So, after a few more repetitions of "who has my toe," I jump out at the unsuspecting Teddy -- the biggest boy in the second grade who's dressed as a storm trooper.

"Is it YOU?!?!" I shout at the gentle giant nibbling his pumpkin. His big brown eyes open wide and his jaw drops and starts to quiver. Before I know it, he is crying huge alligator tears. The other boys look at Teddy and then back to me accusingly. I read another story so Teddy can pull himself together. The boys have a hard time concentrating, however, because Teddy's tears have turned into uncontrollable, red-faced, snot-dripping sobs.

Ms. Keller, the young second-grade teacher, kneels at his desk trying to console him, but he waives her off. I read faster, wanting the whole mess to be over. Mrs. Douglas looks me up and down. As soon as I finish the story, I go to Teddy.

"Teddy, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm so sorry I caught you off guard."

He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his polyester costume and takes a deep breath. I bite my lip and step back a little. "First, you scare me out of my wits," he says. "And then you make me look like the biggest baby in the whole second grade."

"Oh, no. No one thinks that," I say. He shakes his head and gives me a "yeah, right" look that says: you don't know jack about second grade, Lady. Ms. Keller rounds up the boys and ushers them out to the playground so everyone will stop staring.  I stay behind with the other moms to clean the room. Mrs. Mayo giggles over the episode and suggests that a cocktail might be appropriate even if it is only 9:30 in the morning. Mrs. Douglas says nothing.

As we wipe down the desks and pack up the supplies, Tom comes running back into the classroom.

"Hey, Tom. What's going on?"

"I just wanted to come back in to tell you that Teddy says he's okay."

"Oh, thanks Tom. I'm so relieved. That makes me feel so much better. I didn't mean to make him cry."

"I know," he says. "Teddy says, he knows you're just that way." Tom runs back to the playground.

"What way?" I yell after him.

He shrugs and then raises his arms in the air without looking back. "You know," he yells.

I smile at the other mothers and gather up my scary stories, then I make for the door secure in the notion that I won't need to rearrange my schedule for the holiday party.

Sarah Banse is the mother of four and muddles through in the western suburbs of Boston. She is an Assistant Editor at Ploughshares and her work has been published in the Boston Globe, The Sun, Meetinghouse and Motherverse. She can be reached at sarahbanse@mac.com.

longaberger baskets

BY BRUCE ADERHOLD

America is currently struggling with many problems: crime, global warming, threats of terrorism, etc. But a new issue has slowly been weaving its way into the lives of married men and their kids. The Longaberger basket is overtaking the homes and financial well-being of men at a rapid pace. I have experienced this tumor-like growth in my own home and want to offer insight on what can and will happen when you lose your home to the witches of wicker.

The conception of the problem is a party. This develops when a friend of your wife gives an invitation to a Longaberger Basket gathering. Oh, it seems harmless enough: finger food, box of wine, and an overly excited hostess demonstrating the use of wicker baskets. But the uses of these different baskets are similar to duct tape -- there are hundreds of them. There are baskets for recipes, magazines, car keys, loose change, toys (adult & kid), dentures, hubcaps, prosthetic arms and legs. They even have a basket which is a purse. Women open their basket to get money to buy more baskets. It never ends.

As the wine flows, so does the ink on the order forms. Women get wound up about what they've seen and all the uses they've learned for the baskets and start picking everything in the catalog.  Credit card numbers are written down and forms are collected by the wicker barker. Get it? (Bark)er? Of course, what's a female gathering without gossip. Gossip is so prevalent that Longaberger considered designing a wicker fence that party goers could stand and talk over like neighbors.

Roughly two weeks after the party, the hostess shows up at your door with boxes in tow. Inside these are the spoils of your wife's one night stand with the Longaberger lady. As she begins to remove the baskets you notice something. These things are three-ply. First you have the basket itself. Then there is a decorative liner followed by a plastic cover to protect the liner. When it's all put together, it resembles your grandmother's sofa. But now you have another problem. The seeds have been planted and they germinate quickly. Much like the speed of creeping ivy, your rooms and hallways will soon be covered in wicker. Even our kid wasn't safe as he and GI Joe found out when the action figure (not doll) collection was placed in a basket shaped like a giant vase. Emasculation was a word I didn't think I was going to have to define to my child until the night before he got married. Anyway, this process leads into other issues for man and child.

First, your wife is now obligated to host her own Longaberger party. This has a double effect. Not only will she order more baskets but earn points toward free baskets. This is her reward for hosting the party.

Secondly, each friend at the party will eventually host one themselves. Your wife will attend and order more baskets. By this time, you know the UPS driver by name, and he's now comfortable enough to babysit your kid. After each time the driver leaves, you look around your living room and you begin to feel like Captain Kirk in the Star Trek episode, "Trouble with Tribbles." I remember standing there once and my kid just looked at me as if to say: "Grow a pair."

Thirdly, as more baskets arrive, the more your wife will search for things to put into them.  Recipes, pens, books, pets, and bills go into a designated basket. The reed from the increasing wicker wonderland reeks of cedar chips. You may get the urge for sunflower seeds and to run on a giant hamster wheel. But just when you feel you've lost your mind, something snaps you back into reality.

You wander into your living room and see something that, as a man, you know is morally wrong. There, in a Longaberger basket, is your television remote. You stare and let one lone tear run down your cheek like the American Indian in the littering commercial. Your wife has crossed the line and you begin to have visions of a giant wicker bonfire. Carefully, you remove the remote with the care you'd give a newborn bird. You put the remote where it rightfully belongs -- in your underwear waistband. Maybe if Longaberger made a basket with Fruit of the Loom elastic around it, you may think about using it; until then, the remote stays with you.

The thoughts of the bonfire fade and instead you grab the basket and your Big Bertha Driver and head outside. Teeing up the wicker, you waggle the big dog and gleefully swing away. Wicker strands and shards explode like a balsa wood shuttle on bad re-entry. You've just won a small battle. Looking over, I see my son standing at the sliding door. He's clutching the GI Joe basket in one hand and giving me a thumbs up with the other.

I can't say I've come up with an answer to this obsessive and financially scary behavior, but as a person living in a wicker world all I can do is offer the warning signs. Help your spouse say no, because a world without Longaberger baskets is a world without lattice barriers.

Bruce Aderhold is a writer, reader, runner, husband, father and ultimate smart ass. He works in the audiovisual field, but his full-time job is debating the devil on his shoulder in an attempt to keep from saying the wrong thing. He has an 11-year-old son who continually keeps his brain filled with writing material and a wife who loves to shake her head at all his antics. Bruce's writings vary from humor to social and political. But his favorite thing is to make people laugh whether it's verbal or written. He can be reached at: bkjordan@aol.com.

lift off

BY AMY RODRIGUEZ

"There's nothing to fear but fear itself." -- Franklin D. Roosevelt

"…Or flying with small children. " -- addendum by Amy Rodriguez

For years, I had a monstrous fear of flying. I thought: "Now why exactly should I feel safe hurtling through the air in a metal tube crammed full with hot, sweaty people?" I once escaped a plane before it took off because the flight attendant told me there was going to be turbulence. My luggage went to Boston, but I was in Atlanta, forcing me to take a series of trains from Georgia to meet my suitcase in Boston. The next time, I disembarked at a layover in Greenville, South Carolina and didn't get back on the plane. After I rented a car to drive to Atlanta, I dedicated myself to finding ways to cope with my fear.

Attempts to deal with fear of flying:

1) Denial. I refused to acknowledge that I'd be getting on a plane anytime soon. Upside: I wasn't anxious until final hours before departure. Downside: I was totally unprepared for trips because I couldn't pack or plan for trip until last minute. This rendered me unable to talk with friends or family about plans, causing frustration for everyone. On the plane, I was an absolute and total wreck after frantic morning spent packing and getting ready.

2) Alcohol. This was the main form of coping recommended by the general public. I drank one glass of wine on plane. Upside: Wine is always good. Downside: I was unable to drink more than one glass because drinking involves swallowing (and talking to flight attendant), which were two things I could barely do on plane. This rendered any possible effects of wine non-therapeutic.

3) Drugs. I took one prescription Klonopin before flying and carried one more in sweaty palm. Throughout flight, I nibbled away at tiny yellow pill. Upside: I felt extremely relaxed after landing when stress was over and the two pills had kicked in. Downside: There was no decrease in anxiety during flight, but I looked like a crazy addict, nibbling at pills behind the headrest, yellow Klonopin crumbs scattered on my seat.

4) Meditation. I brought "Inner Balance" meditation CD onto plane. I didn't talk to anyone or move from seat. I refused to eat or drink. I was not in a meditative trance but rather in full panic shutdown. Upside: This somehow allowed me to survive the flight. Downside: My travel companions hated this tactic. I had awkward non-interactions with flight attendants which required my travel companions to speak for me as if I were mentally challenged.

5) Therapy. I restructured thoughts. I changed, "I am never going to make it!" to "Most likely I will make it, even though I feel like I will not make it. Statistics show that I probably will!" Upside: It sounded great. Downside: I didn't believe a word of my restructured thoughts.

6) Hypnotist named "Mad Russian." I believed in the miracle! Hollywood stars saw him and reported success for all problems. "Courtenay Cox no longer smokes!" "Mother-in-law saw him and no longer smokes!" "He cures addictions and assuages fears." His assistant assigned me to "fear of flying/addicted to smoking" session. I questioned the relationship between the two since I don't smoke. She informed me that it's the same underlying issue. Mad Russian told me to stop smoking. When I redirected him to flying problem, he told me I'd end up in an insane asylum if I did not stop being afraid of flying. He told me to call him on day of flight. When I called, he clapped hands and said, "No fear!" Upside: None. Downside: Not only was I terrified of flying, but I was now scared to death of imminent stay in insane asylum.

7) Children: I had a baby and traveled alone with her. I was so busy schlepping her carseat, stroller, binkies, bottles, and blankies while trying to keep her from screaming that I did not have time to freak out about terrorists, turbulence, or crashes. I was too busy playing pat-a-cake and bouncing her on my hip to notice any suspicious activity, such as people lighting their shoes on fire. As the years passed, I had another baby and began to travel with two children. My worries focused instead on my toddler's guaranteed tantrums and the subsequent wrath I'd incur from passengers, which seemed far more frightening than a possible plane crash. I was too busy stopping my son from drumming on the head of the man in front of us and stopping my daughter from kicking the chair of the lady in front of her. Upside: I no longer fear the metal tube of the air. Downside: I now have a greater fear-traveling with my children.

Amy Rodriguez is a mom of two who writes about her latest parenting snafus on her four-sentence blog: Parenting on the Loose. Although she no longer fears flying itself, she would rather go through labor again than fly with her children.

recorders

BY DAVID CRAWFORD

Mean Judge: "I sentence you to 20 minutes of having two children practice their recorders in your car."
Me: "Nooooooooo! Please! Mercy! Whip me instead! Hang me! Waterboard me! Not recorders! NOT RECORDERRRRS!!!!"

(Prisoner, foaming at the mouth, is escorted from the court).

The torture instrument known as the recorder (an ironic name in that it has never been recorded without attendant ear pain and screaming), is one of the more popular contrivances inflicted upon parents by sadistic music teachers. Technically, the recorder, or "Annoying Large Whistle," is the musical interpretation of what a badger being run over by a five-ton truck might sound like.

The sweet melody produced by these instruments (we really need a sarcasm font, don't we?) always brings back memories I thought had been erased by many years of therapy. It all started in elementary school, where I was sentenced to several years of musical instruction by my juvenile parole officers (called "parents" in some areas).

My first music teacher was a charming French woman named Mrs. Boehnert (pronounced Bo-nair). "Mrs. Boner," as we instantly and maturely called her, was a charming and matronly woman who was deaf as a post (no doubt from prolonged recorder exposure) and unable to speak English terribly well. Her favorite (perhaps only) English phrase was "vey fine!" (very fine). Everything was "vey fine" -- no matter what transpired.

Me (raising hand): "Mrs. Boner? MRS. BONER! May I please go to the washroom?"
Mrs. Boner: "Vey fine!"
Me (after an hour of wandering the halls, committing random acts of vandalism and truancy): "Mrs. Boner? How do I play this recorder thing?"
Mrs. Boner: "Vey fine!
Me: "Mrs. Boner? What's the fastest way from The Bronx to Calcutta?"
Mrs. Boner: "Vey fine."

Over time, I hor-moaned along from the small, childish recorder on up the instrumental food chain to a large and manly saxophone. Incidentally, if you've ever wondered why sax players use a neck strap with their instruments, you'll be pleased to know it is because a sax holds many more cans of beer than, say, a piccolo.

I will never forget the sound of our high school band, winning music competitions with sweet melodies like "Overture for Puberty," "Variations on a Theme of Zits," and "Concerto for Vey Fine Dorky Uniforms."

Band tours were common. We routinely inflicted ourselves on unsuspecting communities where families, who had upset the local school authority in some way, were forced to take us in.

People not only had to let us stay in their homes ("Back away from my daughter or I'll play this recorder!") but, prodded by the bayonets of their local militia, were also forced to listen to us "perform" in local gymnasiums. Ears bleeding and faces twitching, their piteous whimpering drowned out by our squawking, these unwitting patrons of the arts endured random acts of our note-playing for up to an hour, depending on how upset their sentencing judge had been.

These and other warm memories come flooding back to me as I observe my children beginning their musical odysseys.

I observe only, of course, since I am wearing earplugs.

David is a syndicated columnist in Canada and has won the America's Funniest Humor Writing Contest three times. He can be reached at: funnycolumn@gmail.com.

i miss the terrible twos

BY DAVID OZAB

No.

The word that ends the relative bliss of the first two years of parenting. The word that is a child's declaration of independence. The word that I'm going to hear over and over until I am laid in earth:

No.

It's not like I wasn't warned by every parent I met: "Oh, she may be a cute little baby now, but just wait 'til the Terrible Twos. Every other word's gonna be 'no.' She'll drive you crazy." And they were right. My daughter's fascination with "no" infected every conversation:

"Hey Anna, you want to go to the park?"

"No."

"Want to play with your toys?"

"No!"

"Want to just sit there and say 'no?'"

"NOOOOO!!!"

But the Terrible Twos only lasted a year. I made it through with my sanity intact, and I figured that from here on it had to get better.

Right?

No.

What those "helpful" parents didn't tell me is what I'm going to tell you now: It gets worse. Much, much worse. The Terrible Twos are just the beginning.

Next come the Repeating Threes. This is when children begin to explore the nuances of language and story. They revel in the sounds and the meanings of the words they learn and want to luxuriate in them again and again. At this age, Anna loved to watch the same videos, hear the same stories, and say the same words, phrases, and sentences. Over and over and over...

Until I pounded my head against a wall. Over and over and over...

"Hey Anna, you want to go to the park?"

"Go to the park. Go to the park. Go to the park..."

"Stop repeating, Anna, or we won't go to the park."

"Go to the park. Go to the park. Go to the park..."

"Stop repeating, Anna."

"Go to the park. Go to the park. Go to the park..."

"Fine. No park."

"NOOOOO!!!"

The Repeating Threes are followed by the Questioning Fours. This is when children begin to wonder how the world around them works. I was surprised and delighted by many of the insightful questions Anna asked at this age. Other times, I questioned why I'd decided to have a child at all. Why didn't I get a cat instead? Cats are quiet, they keep to themselves, and most importantly, they can't talk.

"Hey Anna, you want to go to the park?"

"What park?"

"The park by our house?"

"What house?"

"The house we live in."

"Who lives in?"

"Enough, Anna. Do you want to go to the park or not?"

"What park?"

"Fine. No park."

"NOOOOO!!!"

And just when you think it can't get any worse, the Questioning Fours give way to the Contradicting Fives. Anna turned 5 last January, and like all 5-year-olds, she's ready to go to out into the world and she wants to make her own decisions. If those decisions happen to be the opposite of what I want -- and they always are -- too bad. It's enough to drive me to drink, but all I can find is the opposite: water, milk, and juice. Too bad I got rid of all the alcohol when the kid came along.

"OK, Anna, clean up your room and we can go to the park."

"Let's go to the park!"

"Anna, you have to clean your room first."

"I don't have to clean my room first."

"Clean your room or no park today."

"We're going to the park today. Yay!"

"Fine. No Park."

"Park!"

"Time out!"

"NOOOOO!!!"

As crazy as it sounds, I miss the Terrible Twos. It was such a simpler time. And the worst part of all is that the questioning doesn't replace the repeating, and the contradicting doesn't replace the questioning. They all gang up together with the shared goal of putting me in a mental institution.

And it's only going to get worse. Much, much worse. The repeating, the questioning, and the contradicting are just the first few ingredients in a wonderful, infuriating stew that's going to simmer on low heat until puberty. Then, and only then, when teenaged Anna is grabbing for the car keys and the credit card while walking out the door in either a pair of jeans cut too low or a skirt hemmed too high will I think: "She was such a good kid. What happened?"

But I take solace for two reasons. One, she's still years away from being a teenager so I've got plenty of time to hide the car keys, hide the credit cards, and buy a baseball bat to scare potential boyfriends. And two, come the fall she's going to Kindergarten which means that for a few blissful hours each day she's somebody else's problem.

David Ozab is a freelance writer and stay-at-home dad from Eugene, Oregon. When he's not wrapped around his 5-year-old daughter's little finger, he's a Contributing Editor at About This Particular Macintosh (www.atpm.com), a Guest Contributor at MyEugene (www.myeugene.org), and an opinionated loudmouth on his blog (www.fatherhoodetc.com).