Summer Conundrum

Summer should consist of two months of sending the kids out to play. (Well, really it should be three, but that's for the school district to decide.) They should be spending their time making daisy chains, swimming, creating elaborate plotlines in the woods with their friends, sitting in the shade eating popsicles, living in flip-flops, running to show me blackberry-purple fingers, turning the sidewalks into chalky art, sending bubbles into the atmosphere, lying in the grass watching it grow, running, biking, scootering and feeling the freedom that summer embodies.

After their chores are done.

I think it's only fair that if they contribute to making a household mess, they should learn to be responsible for cleaning it up. I feel that it's not a large expectation for them to spend a little time in the mornings completing their small chores on the job chart (30 minutes), making sure that their bedroom floors are tidied (10 minutes, they're not very dirty), keeping up on school skills (15 minutes) and practicing piano (10 minutes).

So why is it almost 4:00 and they're not close to going outside?

I've spent the last 5+ hours reminding them, steering them back on course and redirecting their Distract-O-Selves. That and breaking up fights. And trying not to listen to the tattling.

I'm completely irritated because I've got days of work to catch up on and they're screaming and fighting in the background. Do I give up my requirement that they contribute to the well-being of the household and send them outside so that I can have some quiet? Or do we spend the rest of the summer inside, attempting to teach them that it only takes a long time when you lie down and complain about it for 45 minutes. If you get up and do it, it should take about 10 minutes. If I send them outside, it sends the message that the prerequisites don't matter and don't listen to Mom because she'll cave anyway.

Mean Mom with children who grow up to be responsible, capable adults?
Fun Mom with entitled children who take for granted what they have?

How do other parents do it? How do you teach your children to just get their stuff done so they can play? Or do the whole of the household responsibilities simply fall on the parents?

Either way, summer ain't shapin' up to be fun for anybody!

Am I the Only One?

Today is Saturday. Thursday was the last day of school: the beginning of summer, the end of confinement and the commencement of freedom from homework, early waking and daylight bedtimes.

I'm ready to send them back.

It's been two days and I've already had my fill of bickering, fighting and wailing. I've overheard too many times:
"MOM! I ACCIDENTALLY BUMPED LEE AND NOW HE'S TRYING TO HIT ME!"
or
"YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE PLAYED WITH IT!"
"WELL YOU SHOULD HAVE PUT IT AWAY!"
"WELL IT'S NOT YOURS, YOU SHOULDN'T PLAY WITH IT!"
or
"ALEX I TOLD YOU TO GO LIKE THIS!"
"I ONLY WENT LIKE THIS!"
"GO LIKE THIS!"
"I WAS, BUT IN FAST MOTION!"
smack
"OW!"

That's my favorite. "Ow." We hear it a lot around here, because it's a direct result of the way that Lee processes his displeasure. By hitting. There are not words to fully communicate how tired I am of hearing, "Lee's trying to hit me with a stick!" Aren't they supposed so play nicely if they're outside?

A great indication of the frequency of verbally-expressed frustration around here is Cora. Her first word was "peekaboo" followed by "nonononono," "num," "Mommy" and her newest: "bobbip." Stop it. No kidding. No joke. No exaggeration. The child with less than 10 words in her vocabulary says 'stop it.'

Lee expresses everything in physical ways. Alex and Abby are tired of being pushed around by their little brother, so treat him less than respectfully. Abby talks to him like he's a germ. In turn, he pesters them more, pokes them oftener and hits them harder. He's mean to them, so they're rude to him in return. It's all a wicked downward spiral, and Cora's catching on. Ugh. One day (inabouttwentyyears) they'll realize that the golden rule really does work, and that he'll begin to treat them nicely when they're nice to him for more than 5 seconds. And he'll realize that hitting them isn't producing the desired result of obesiance.

And in the meantime, I'd like to enroll in year-round school. Starting Monday. Can Lee start kindergarten a year early?

Responsibility Tax

So we all know that the economy's been a bit thin...


Well, not that thin, but certainly less than robust.

When the going was good, I really wanted a house. Heck, I STILL really want a house. But even though we could've qualified, it would've been a really stupid thing to do, given our in-flow, out-flow, escrow, and all the extra things you don't know to prepare for before you own a house. So we didn't. When the housing bubble burst, the economy tanked and my husband lost his job, I was very, very grateful that we did not own a house. We would have been one of the sad statistics.

I could work outside the home. I've got a degree that would allow me that. And if I worked hard at it, I could be making some pretty decent dough! But we decided that the best thing for our children would be to take the financial hit and have me stay home to teach, raise, nurture and nourish them. I can work later. Now is the time for molding miniature superheroes.

We all know that using your credit cards when you don't have the money to pay the bill isn't a wise thing. If used correctly they can do good things, and if used in an emergency they can help keep us afloat for a short time. We've made some poor decisions, but have stopped using them and are getting close to having them paid off.

We've tried to be responsible.

And here's what I've learned: Responsibility Sucks.

The Goverment (taxpayers) gave the greedy banks and lenders kajillions of dollars.
Our commander-in-chief wants to pay working moms for childcare costs. (I clearly just sit on my tush eating bon-bons all day.)
I hear radio commercials for up to 50% relief for people who have over $10,000 in credit card debt.

So for being prudent, responsible and frugal my reward is to struggle alone? That stinks.

And I'm pouting.