Last night Basil asked me for paper and pen. He got busy scribbling. He happily told me, "I'm drawing a shark". The he excitedly pointed at the paper and squealed, "There is his dorsal fin!".
As a mom of six, all handrafted and raised with the same mate using the same methods, I have been blessed with top secret information on the nature vs nurture debate. Kids are what they are and they come here different. And while this may take some of the wind out of the sails of people who think their kids are great BECAUSE they are great parents it is important to remind parents who have kids who struggle that they really couldn't have changed much. Even with all of the evidence I've been presented with I still beat myself up with What If's.
Basil is two and will be three in the beginning of January. I've had two/three year olds who could not speak, who spoke in one word sentences, who could spell their name, who could sleep through the night, who had their nights and days confused, who could go for sleepovers, who couldn't handle having me in a different room than they were in, who breast fed, who were weaned, who loved outings, who could not leave the house, some who were afraid of sharks, and some who could identify a dorsal fin. Ariel and I raised all of them with equal access to extended family and community and resources. We didn't decide to make certain things easy of some of our kids and cripple some of them in certain areas. They just came out who and how they are.
The best we can do as parents is treat ourselves to really enjoying all of the good and extending a helping hand for the bad.
They other day Ariel teased me by calling me Tiger Mom. Tiger Mom is a woman who pushed her kids to excellence by expecting excellence of them. I argue that they were simply made that way and she lucked out that they were "good enough" for her exacting standards.
I am not a Tiger Mom. I'm not a good mom or a bad mom. I just gave birth to and fed and sheltered and loved six kids.
Monday, November 25, 2019
Thursday, November 21, 2019
Half and Half Mystery
Most of the mysteries I've solved have been for the same client, one Mr. Ariel Jones. I can't count how many times he has crawled into my office (I don't have an office) begging me to piece together some riddle he can't figure out: "Where are my winter hats?", "How did that dent get in side panel of the van?", "Am I the only person in this house who eats cherry tomatoes?","When is Israel's birthday?", "Are we out of butter?", "What is Basil's middle name?", "HOW MUCH did you spend on Christmas?", "Oh my God, you're not pregnant again, are you?".....the list goes on.
Usually my excellent detective skills are able to crack a case within moments. This week however, my client has presented me with a mystery that is taking some time to figure out. In fact, so much time has passed that Mr. Jones himself has started applying some of his own precious brain power to this difficult game of deduction.
Approximately four days ago Ariel was pouring his morning cup of coffee (decaf-so why bother? THAT is the true mystery) when he discovered the half and half container was almost empty. "The half and half is nearly gone!", he exclaimed. "The half and half is always nearly gone. I just bought this container yesterday! Where does it go?"
I adjusted my ridiculous Studebaker hat, took a long drag from my pipe, played a few notes on my violin, then answered, "Somebody has been drinking it". I already knew that half of the seventeen and under population at 48 Church Street preferred half and half to regular milk, having discovered this during the many times we found ourselves out of milk and unable or unwilling to walk five doors up to the convenient-mart to procure a fresh gallon of the stuff. Throughout the day I interviewed all of the possible suspects, including those who have not previously claimed to adore half and half, just in case they'd been turned on to the unfortunately expensive liquid in the adorable mini milk carton without my noticing. Not one person admitted to the crime of draining the container but a muscle twitch here and an averted eye there allowed me to narrow the list of suspects down from four to two. At this time I decided the best course of action was to start purchasing half and half by the half gallon because it became very clear to me that I did not give a fiddler's fart who was actually drinking the half and half or why.
This morning however, Mr. Jones informed me that he had taken on the role of chief inspector after I closed the case. He conducted his own interviews of all six, young residents of 48 Church Street. Numbers one through four all denied having ever tasted half and half but number five cheerfully admitted to being the person who guzzles the half and half daily. He practically bragged about his gluttonous dairy crimes.
As he told me this I looked at my husband and wondered how in twenty one years of co-residence I had not noticed he was severely mentally handicapped. I began looking closely at his face for any sign of a recent stroke or traumatic brain injury. I slowly asked him, "You are aware that he can't pour his own drinks, right?"
"After some time it dawned on me that he was just one of those people who confesses to a crime they did not commit because they want the fame and they glory that goes along with it".
Clearly.
I tried to convince the head of this household that it didn't really matter who done it- even though I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I proposed my half gallon plan. It was immediately refused on the grounds of being too expensive. So now I'm just sitting and waiting for elaborate booby traps and security cameras to be set up around the refrigerators (we have three-talk about wasting money!). Perhaps an all night stake out will be staged. Whatever the next step may be I can say two things for sure: middle age has done strange things to my husband and I'm definitely going to start drinking and serving as much half and half as I am physically able to from now on.
Usually my excellent detective skills are able to crack a case within moments. This week however, my client has presented me with a mystery that is taking some time to figure out. In fact, so much time has passed that Mr. Jones himself has started applying some of his own precious brain power to this difficult game of deduction.
Approximately four days ago Ariel was pouring his morning cup of coffee (decaf-so why bother? THAT is the true mystery) when he discovered the half and half container was almost empty. "The half and half is nearly gone!", he exclaimed. "The half and half is always nearly gone. I just bought this container yesterday! Where does it go?"
I adjusted my ridiculous Studebaker hat, took a long drag from my pipe, played a few notes on my violin, then answered, "Somebody has been drinking it". I already knew that half of the seventeen and under population at 48 Church Street preferred half and half to regular milk, having discovered this during the many times we found ourselves out of milk and unable or unwilling to walk five doors up to the convenient-mart to procure a fresh gallon of the stuff. Throughout the day I interviewed all of the possible suspects, including those who have not previously claimed to adore half and half, just in case they'd been turned on to the unfortunately expensive liquid in the adorable mini milk carton without my noticing. Not one person admitted to the crime of draining the container but a muscle twitch here and an averted eye there allowed me to narrow the list of suspects down from four to two. At this time I decided the best course of action was to start purchasing half and half by the half gallon because it became very clear to me that I did not give a fiddler's fart who was actually drinking the half and half or why.
This morning however, Mr. Jones informed me that he had taken on the role of chief inspector after I closed the case. He conducted his own interviews of all six, young residents of 48 Church Street. Numbers one through four all denied having ever tasted half and half but number five cheerfully admitted to being the person who guzzles the half and half daily. He practically bragged about his gluttonous dairy crimes.
As he told me this I looked at my husband and wondered how in twenty one years of co-residence I had not noticed he was severely mentally handicapped. I began looking closely at his face for any sign of a recent stroke or traumatic brain injury. I slowly asked him, "You are aware that he can't pour his own drinks, right?"
"After some time it dawned on me that he was just one of those people who confesses to a crime they did not commit because they want the fame and they glory that goes along with it".
Clearly.
I tried to convince the head of this household that it didn't really matter who done it- even though I was pretty sure I knew who it was. I proposed my half gallon plan. It was immediately refused on the grounds of being too expensive. So now I'm just sitting and waiting for elaborate booby traps and security cameras to be set up around the refrigerators (we have three-talk about wasting money!). Perhaps an all night stake out will be staged. Whatever the next step may be I can say two things for sure: middle age has done strange things to my husband and I'm definitely going to start drinking and serving as much half and half as I am physically able to from now on.
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