Lies and the lying liars that tell them

Oh, God, it's been weeks. Weeks! I want to write more often, I really do. It's just that lately people have been offering me money for tedious jobs that suck up all of my blogging time, and I like being paid. Of course, I haven't actually been paid yet. Never be a contractor.

So now, at 4 years plus 3 months old, Henry is waist deep into lying.

It started a couple of weeks ago, as we were reading William's Doll, a book written in the 70s about a boy who wants a doll, and although his neighbor and older brother make fun of him for it, his liberated grandmother--looking smart in an orange-and-brown plaid suit--finally buys him the blue-eyed baby he yearns for.

Henry was quiet for a few minutes after we finished the book, then said, "I told Theo I want a doll, and he laughed at me and called me a stupid-head." Henry's eyes were downcast, his voice tinged with sorrow. It was a very convincing story.

Except that I know Henry, and I know that despite years of me pushing dolls on him, he has never shown even a flickering interest in them. He likes real babies, he likes certain stuffed animals, and he likes dressing up like a princess. But if he were in a room of only dolls, he would simply run in circles to entertain himself. It is as if dolls do not exist for him.

So I was suspicious of his doll story. But he repeated it to Simon, and then to my mom, and I began to wonder.

Then a couple of days ago, after Henry had been stomping and growling all evening, I asked him if he was stressed out about school starting. Henry climbed into my lap, and said, in that same small, sad voice, "Well, the other day I was playing with this little school, and my teacher called me an idiot."

This I did not believe, even for a second, which was all it took for the story to change to the teacher grabbing the toy student from him. Then it was his friend Brighton grabbing the toy student and hitting him. Eventually we distilled it down to Brighton taking the toy student after Henry sent the student down the toy slide. No grabbing, no hitting, no teachers calling Henry an idiot.

I proceeded to explain the importance of telling the truth, how I can't believe him it he tells me things that didn't really happen, how other people could get into trouble. He nodded thoughtfully and asked, "Is Chewbacca a good guy or a bad guy?"

Last night my sister was babysitting, and Henry gave her an elaborate story about how I make him wear pull-ups at night because it is too hard for him to climb up and down the ladder to his bunk bed for nighttime bathroom visits. And, you know, Henry hasn't worn pull-ups in months. I didn't even know we still had any pull-ups in the house.

"But he was so convincing," said my sister.

So, fabulous. He's not just a liar--he's a very good liar. Can you imagine what this kid will be like as a teenager?

Poo-poo, the sequel

I know, I know. It's been weeks! I am getting blog lazy (blazy?). That's what happens when I have an actual work project to spend my time on.

I know I wrote about poop talk months ago, but it's returned to our house with a vengeance lately. This time it's not so much Henry as it is Amelia. Now that she's officially 2, there is nothing funnier to her than the word "poo-poo."

This is what it's like to read a book with her now:

Me: In the great green room, there was a telephone and a red...

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: Balloon. And a picture of... [pause to turn the page]

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: No, the cow jumping over the...

Amelia: Poo poo

Me: No more poo poo! If you keep saying 'poo poo,' I'm closing the book.

Amelia: OK, no more poo poo.

Me: Thank you. And there were three little bears, sitting on...

Amelia: Pee pee

And of course it's like hearing something funny at a funeral, right? It's not really that funny, but because you know you're not supposed to laugh, it is hilarious. So I set my face in a stern gaze, and then I snort, and then I guffaw, and soon I am crying tears of unadulterated mirth and Amelia is grinning in victory.

Science camp

I had really started to make peace with myself as a mother. Sure, I was a little moody, a little loud, a little insecure. But I was doing my best, and that counts for something, right? RIGHT?

The problem is that sometimes my best sucks.

For the past two weeks Henry has been attending afternoon camps at the Lawrence Hall of Science. The first one was about bugs and the second was about pond life. The camps are awesome--real bugs, real salamanders, real crayfish--and Henry loves them. They have been amazing learning opportunities for him, and just absolute showcases of parental ineptitude for me.

I don't know what it is about the camps. Maybe it's the fact that the Lawrence Hall of Science is 30 minutes away. Or that once I park, it takes another 5 to 10 minutes to unload everyone, descend the giant staircase, and circle the entire O-shaped building to get to the classroom. Maybe it's the mid-morning swim lessons that leave me with an hour and a half to kill before science camp--too much time to purposefully head to the classroom, too little time to go home or run any significant errands. Whatever it is, I am just a mess around the whole thing.

It took me two days to remember I was supposed to pack him a snack, and when I finally figured it out, all I had to leave him were some sandwich wedges bearing Amelia's tiny bite marks. One day we were at LHS an hour early, and he was still late because I realized minutes before class started that I had left my purse clear on the other side of the building.

This week I didn't even pack lunches, preferring to spend a small fortune in the LHS cafeteria, which was nice, but it meant his snacks consisted of either a free-floating banana with his name written in ballpoint pen on the peel (3 days) or pretzels from the vending machine (1 day). Sometimes I drew a heart next to his name on the banana peel to prove I care, however half-assed the snacks I provided.

Each day I'd see the other kids lining up with their snack bags, their parents looking all grown up and organized, and I'd send poor Henry in with his lone banana. Or I wouldn't see the other kids because we were late, and they would already be sitting in the circle, name tags on, and I would send Henry in and place the solitary banana beside their neatly-arranged pouches. I wanted to cry for my son.

So it has been a bad week, one in which I have been driving up to 70 miles a day to and from various summer activities, while an unfinished 20-page research report due at the end of the month sits neglected on my laptop. And yesterday at pick-up time it finally all came to a head.

I had one phone call to make yesterday--just one!--regarding a part-time job with my old company. I told the woman I'd call between 4 and 5 p.m. Amelia and I picked Henry up at 4, and then they both wanted to climb the giant DNA outside, and I said fine, seven minutes. I warned them at five minutes, and again at two minutes. I announced a one minute warning. Then I told them it was time to go.

"I just have to climb through once more," said Henry, starting in from the front end. It had taken him all seven minutes for him to make it across once.

"No," I said, firmly, "I have to get home to make a phone call."

By then Amelia had run off squealing, her greatest entertainment these days being to either run or hide when I say we have to go somewhere. It took two minutes to chase her down, and another minute to talk Henry off the DNA, and finally, my brittle patience barely holding together as we walked to the car, Henry said, "I have to go to the bathroom."

And I just...you know...grrrrrrrr. What could I say, "no"? "No, you can't go to the bathroom"? "Hold it for the 30 minute ride home"? Of course not. So instead I said, "Dammit!" and dragged the two of them down the giant stairs to the bathroom where Henry proceeded to tell me he had to poop. Poop! This kid can take 25 minutes to poop.

This was all very frustrating in itself, and then my loopy, child-addled mind decided to take it to the next level by declaring this event to be symbolic of the fact that I will NEVER get a job, and that, in fact, I have RUINED my life by staying home lo these many years. Then it pointed out with great indignation that Simon has NEVER, EVER had to choose between getting a child to the bathroom and making a business call.

I started audibly weeping, right there, in front of both children in the Lawrence Hall of Science ladies' room stall. I continued grousing all the way back to the car. I buckled the kids into their car seats while loudly declaring that it was absolutely unfair that Daddy never had to take on drop-off or pick-up responsibilities. As I drove away I saw that the lady on the bench in front of our parking space was one of Henry's teachers. So, you know, swell. I hope they give him an extra hug today.

Incidentally, I still made it home in time to make my phone call. So I further ruined my kids for nothing.

On giant stuffed animals and heartbreak

This is supposed to be Digit, the funny, Gilbert-Gottfried-voiced sidekick on Henry's favorite cartoon, Cyberchase.

But, of course, it is not Digit. It's not even Gilbert Gottfried. It is an unknown PBS intern wearing a large, hollow, stuffed-animal as a suit, peering out from a mesh grate in the mouth.

When I told Henry we were going to meet Digit, I'm not sure what he expected. I don't know if he thought Digit would still be a cartoon, or if maybe he thought he would become a cartoon, too. He may have imagined the two of them solving math problems and fighting the evil Hacker together.

Whatever he was expecting, I could tell by the look on his face when the real-life Digit came back from her bathroom break that it wasn't this awkward, Digit-ish fat suit.

"It's Digit!" I said. "Say hi to Digit!"

Henry slowly walked up and let Digit engulf his tiny hand with her giant, four-fingered wing. He smiled politely as Digit danced.

Digit's KQED representative friend did most of the talking. "Digit is so happy to be here!" she said.

"Henry loves Digit," I grinned wildly, trying to make up for Henry's lack of enthusiasm. Most of the other kids at the science museum didn't appear to have even heard of Digit, and I felt bad for both Digit and the KQED lady. "Cyberchase is his favorite show," I added anxiously, suddenly fearing that this lukewarm reception for Digit could lead PBS to pull the plug on the cartoon.

We snapped photos and took the free activity books and stickers, then said goodbye. But Henry lagged behind as we headed for the roller coaster exhibit.

"Was there something you wanted to say to Digit?" I asked him.

Henry looked thoughtful, then nodded. "I want to ask him what it was like to live with Hacker."

It was a good question. It was, in fact, a New York Times caliber question, and was a testament to Henry's extensive knowledge of the character's backstory. But this Digit had no voice.

"I don't think Digit can answer that, honey," I told him. "He's probably lost his voice talking to all those kids as he toured the country."

Henry took one last, longing look back at Digit. "Yeah, probably," he said.

When you're 4, anything is possible. The real Digit could show up and take you on a cyber adventure. Tyrannosaurus Rex could come alive and roam the Museum of Natural History. A fat man with flying livestock could slide down a blocked chimney and deliver a new Lego set.

But, alas, Digit is just one in a long string of overstuffed costumes that will show up when he's expecting an animated hero. Is this what growing up is? A long stream of disappointments as magic, hope, and eventually your very soul fade to gray? Or is that just me?

Now I have cats

Last week I went and adopted two cats, because what I really, really needed were two more creatures depending on me for their welfare and nourishment.

The acquisition of these cats was the result of a skillfully executed emotional blackmail campaign on the part of my children. It started with our visit to Cleveland, and Henry's deep infatuation with Roy, my cousin's boxer. "I love Roy," Henry sighed, over and over again. "Can we get a dog like Roy?"

"That's so sweet!" I said. "And NO." We had this experience adopting a dog about three years ago, also immediately after returning from a vacation. The dog, despite a misleading show in the socialization yard at the SPCA, did not like small children. She did, however, enjoy rolling in dog and cat feces. Frequently. She was also incontinent, literally leaking pee around the house as she walked. The dog was not, to put it politely, a good fit for our family.

But I saw how much Henry loved Roy, and I recognized that however cheerfully I may talk them up, our goldfish will never fill that fuzzy, cuddly place in his heart. So the idea of cats came about as a compromise. Furry and nuzzly, but not so needy. That was my thinking.

They are lovely cats. Four-year-old siblings (brother and sister) who were surrendered because their owners lost a job and had to move to a no-cat location. They are friendly and pretty and have yet to swat or bite, even in the face of Henry and Amelia's aggressive attempts at affection.

We are still in the "adjustment period," which, according to the SPCA literature, can last from one week to several months. Our adjustment period involves a great deal of plaintive howling and knocking things off tables in the very small hours of the morning. It was irritating the first night, infuriating the second night, and by the third night I was sobbing and calling them "monstrous pieces of sh*t." (Have I mentioned that I have some mood issues related to lack of sleep?) Now I lock them in the downstairs bathroom when the howling begins, and we are all happier as a result.

Oh, and their names are Jessie and Woody. Like from Toy Story. I had some wry, clever names lined up for them, references that would have made me smile when I called them, and maybe have helped endear these quadrupeds to me. But apparently, my kids were the last things in my house I got to name.

Vacation

We have just returned from our two-week sojourn to Cleveland and New Jersey. I know what you're thinking--the glamour, the excitement. Please, your jealousy is unbecoming.

But here's the thing with small children: it doesn't matter where you take them. The Great Lakes Science Center is just as interesting to them as the Louvre. More interesting, even. Besides, I haven't seen my Cleveland relatives since my wedding, 6 years ago, when I was too anxious and emaciated to talk to anyone.

I'll spare you the day-by-day details of the vacation. Instead, here are a few thoughts:

1. Cross-country travel with small children is the most effective way to dispel the fear that they're growing up too fast. I mean, I love these little babies, but I will love them just as much when I can read a book on the airplane without having to repeatedly apologize to the flight attendant for false alarms with the call button.

2. The good citizens of Cleveland are seriously upset over LeBron James going to Miami. So much so that the evening news identified him only as "The Traitor" on the onscreen tag.

3. I have more cousins than I realized who were secretly given up for adoption decades ago. It's not a closet of skeletons with that family, it's a freaking clown car.

4. The guards at the American Museum of Natural History know that if you are visiting with children under 5, you're looking for "Gum Gum," the Easter Island head in Night at the Museum. They will approach you and offer directions to Gum Gum without even asking if that's what you want to see.

5. The Morris/Essex line of the NJ Transit does not run from Penn Station after midnight, at least not from the NJ Transit area I was waiting in, even though the schedules all say it does, and there are no NJ Transit employees there at that hour. Oh, and a cab from Penn Station to Summit, NJ, will run you about $150 with tip. FYI.

6. We spent more than $200 for our day in NYC visiting the Museum of Natural History (not the same day as the $150 cab ride, clearly). We spent $10 the next day getting iced coffee and Munchkins at the Dunkin' Donuts and hanging around a New Providence playground. Our kids were just as happy, proving my original point that it doesn't matter where you take small children.

One more thing I've been chewing on these past couple of weeks. My cousin Kathleen pointed out that although my blog makes it seem as though I am constantly overwhelmed with parenting, I am not a bad parent in person. She even said I have a "calming effect" on my kids, which she would probably take back if she had witnessed the argument between Amelia and I this morning about the fact that her new battery-operated Hello Kitty toothbrush IS NOT A TOY.

But Kathleen is right. I may be feeling my way through the dark with this parenting stuff, but I'm not doing such a bad job. (Cut to 15 years later, where I sit sobbing and apologizing during the family sessions with my kids' therapist, finally knowing for certain that I was so, so wrong about the toothbrush.)

Bees

For months I have been reminding my children to wear shoes when they are running through our back lawn, which, thanks to a field of flowering clover, has become a festive gathering place for honeybees.

My kids usually refuse to put on shoes, and I have stopped trying to make them, because, Christ, they're not my feet. I have better things to do than chase down preschoolers as they yell "hide!" and race away at the sight of me holding their sneakers. (I don't always do those better things, but I could be doing better things. It's more the principal of the thing.) My thinking is, a good sting might persuade them to listen to me in the future.

But it's been dozens of hours of bare feet and bees, and no one has gotten stung. Until I slipped my shoes off the other day. My feet were bare for about 45 seconds before I felt a slight pressure on the underside of my right foot. Thirty seconds later the pressure had turned to agony, and it was all I could do to resist unleashing a string of profanities that would have made my grandmother cry.

Instead, I grinned tightly, told my kids I was fine, and hopped into the kitchen for some ice. I suppressed my own sobbing for fear that I might frighten the babies. It felt like a good parent moment, putting their need to feel safe above my need to roll on the ground shouting, "Oh, f***," over and over again.

And then Henry came in.

"Mom?" he asked, his eyebrows scrunched in concern.

"Yes, honey," I said, rocking back and forth as I held the sandwich bag of ice over my arch.

"That bee spent all day collecting pollen so it could make honey for the baby bees, and you killed her," he said, crossing his arms and scowling in condemnation.

Now I'm thinking I could start a career of talking about my kids to teen pregnancy prevention classes.