Snide Reply

Category: Parenting

  • Things That Go Beep In The Night

    My sister and I loved to play “cars.” We would draw an elaborate town on a large blackboard with roads, houses, a police station, a pet store, a grocery store, a toy store. Each of the stores had its own parking strip. We lived in the suburbs, after all. Then, we would take our brother’s cars and drive around, blowing noises through our lips to simulate driving and saying, “Beep, beep” for the horn. I’m pretty sure we didn’t let our brother play with us while we were playing with his cars. At the very least, we probably made the rules so complicated that he gave up. One day, my dad found him banging away on his cars with a sledgehammer.

    There was a lot more horn honking when I was a kid. Noise pollution became a big issue and ordinances were passed. Overnight, it became illegal to honk your horn in frustration. Overnight, irritated drivers went from honking their horns to flipping their birds. Cars stopped beeping. I wonder, do children still “beep” their horns when they play cars, or do they flip each other off?

    Now, lots of things beep. I have a timer that beeps until it’s reset. I use it to force me to do things I really don’t want to do. Say, for instance, that my basement looked like a haz mat dumping ground. Anyone with any amount of brain would be reluctant to enter such a basement. Anyone with any amount of dignity would not want to be the owner of such a basement. Let’s assume I have some small amount of dignity, therefore, the basement must be detoxified. I set my alarm for 15 minutes, then I enter the basement and begin detoxification. The alarm beeps and I am done. It will probably take me a year of 15-minute increments, but eventually my basement will only be nasty instead of downright scary.

    I use my timer to allow me to do things I want to do, too. Like napping. I really like naps and science supports me in the value of napping. Left to nap unperturbed, I would nap for hours. Of course, if I nap for hours, there will not be fifteen minutes left in the day to detoxify the basement. So, I set my little timer for 25 minutes and I nap. Then, I get up and have a cup of tea. Then, I see that the mail has come so I go get the mail. Then, I realize I have to pick up my daughter. Then, I realize we have no milk, so we go to Target. Two hours later, we go home to make dinner. After dinner, I need to spend quality time with my family. Eventually, I realize that I have somehow forgotten to spend fifteen minutes in the basement and vow to descend to the pits the next day.

    Lots and lots of helpful devices beep, besides alarms. Smoke and CO detectors beep. When we lived in Chicago, our CO detector started beeping in the middle of the night. I was relieved to find that it did, indeed, beep loudly enough to wake us. We pushed the little “shut up” button. It didn’t stop beeping. We called the fire department. The Chicago Fire Department is an awesome thing. They arrived quickly and in full dress. Two of the firefighters, dressed in their helmets and their big yellow coats, went through every room in our house. It was a four-year-old boy’s dream come true. They found no CO leaking anywhere. They did find a dead battery.

    We have brand-new smoke detectors in our Naperville home. Every one of them is new, replaced just four years after moving here. You may wonder why we replaced all of our smoke detectors. We had to; they all went bad all at once. Naturally, they did it in the middle of the night. We determined that there was no fire. We reset the alarms. Two hours later, they all went off again. We reset them. One hour later, they all went off again. We reset them. Another hour went by, they all went off again. Then, in the morning, they mysteriously stopped. A very nice electrician charged us only a little bit extra to come that very day and install brand new detectors.

    The new detectors don’t just beep; they also scream. They may even be cancer detectors. Whenever I broil meat, which has been shown to produce cancer-causing agents in food, the kitchen detector starts beeping and screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” Because all of the detectors are linked, the ones in the upstairs hall and all four bedrooms start screaming, “Fire! Fire! Fire!” as well.  Needless to say, I don’t broil meat very often. I bet they’d let me broil eggplant.

    The new detectors scold as well. Recently, they began beeping and saying, “Low battery.” The first time this happened was in the middle of the night. I didn’t hear another admonishment for at least eight hours, then, “Beep. Beep. Low battery.” Another few hours went by. “Beep, Beep. Low battery.” As all of the detectors speak with the same generic woman’s voice, it is impossible to figure out which one is scolding you unless you are standing right next to it when it scolds. So, I gathered all the nine-volt batteries I could find and started changing batteries. When I ran out of batteries, I went to Target for more. Please tell my husband that it is not ridiculous to pay $150 for nine-volt batteries.

    I felt secure and safe in the knowledge that my smoke detectors were backup-powered for another year. Then, I heard, “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I had no idea where it came from. I stood very still and silent, waiting for another scolding. Nothing came. Enough minutes passed that I grew impatient and noisy. “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I was sure it was coming from the upstairs hall, so I went up there. I waited. Nothing. I got busy and noisy. “Beep, beep. Low battery.” I was convinced it was coming from the first floor, so I went down there. Nothing. Then, it started beeping more frequently.

    I played Marco Polo with the scolding smoke detector for an hour before I finally figured out that it was in the toxic waste dump. I decided that I needed a nap before I could face the basement. I set my timer, closed my bedroom door and snuggled under my covers. Just as I was drifting off, my daughter pounced on me saying, with gritted teeth, “You must fix the siren right now, before I go insane.”

    So, I changed the battery. Now, the only thing waking me up in the middle of the night is my daughter.

    Copyright © 2010 by Janice M. Lindegard. All Rights Reserved.

  • When good parents act like bad children

    Recently, I began running. None of my family and friends could believe it, but not because I am a slovenly thing. My tribe couldn’t believe I began running because I hate to run.

    Why would I decide to do something I hate on a regular basis? I blame my bones. Cycling and swimming are more my style, but they aren’t weight-bearing exercise. Bones, apparently, need a regular jarring in order to maintain their integrity. So, when a friend mentioned C25K, an iPhone/iPod app designed to turn the willing from a couch potato to a 5K runner in just 9 weeks, I thought I’d give it a try. (I confess to finding out how many miles are in 5 kilometers before truly committing.)

    I did it. I made it through the whole nine weeks. I went from a couch potato to a runner. I can run more than 3 miles without needing a three-day hospital stay. I’m way past nine weeks now and still running.

    As promised, running has made me more fit, more confident, more energetic. It has also made me more immature.

    I shall explain. Early in my running adventure, my son would brag about his own running prowess whenever I mentioned some gain I’d made.

    “I run a mile every other day at school, Mom,” he would say in that “God, you’re such as loser” tone reserved for teen-parent communication.

    “You’re 14,” I would say. “I am 52.” It did nothing to end the taunting.

    Then, he ran with me. Actually, he ran next to me. He was on one treadmill, I was on the next. I ran slower; he ran faster. I ran a full half-hour. He bailed at about 15 minutes.

    At first, I was simply amazed.

    “Well, I can run faster,” he said. Hm….I thought. No pat on the back. No “Gee, Mom, you’re really doing great.” Not that he’s ever said, “Gee, Mom” to me about anything. So, I gloated.

    He will no longer run with me.

    Am I proud of gloating? No! Of course, not. Can I stop myself? No, of course not.

    This is not the first time I’ve behaved like a bad kid instead of a good parent.

    When my son was young, I would tell him that McDonald’s was closed as we drove past it at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. When he got a little older and a lot sassier, I would stick my tongue out at him behind his back. Now that he’s a teenager, I might admit that maybe, once or twice, after he’s really pushed me to the wall, I might have used an obscene gesture behind his back. Was I proud of myself? Of course not.

    I am not alone. I know many parents who act like children.

    One of my dearest friends assuaged my guilt by admitting that she, too, has used the obscene gesture behind the back coping strategy. I stand behind her on this (without using an obscene gesture). I know her daughter.

    Another friend notes that her husband, when he can’t get his children’s attention, says, “Well, I guess you never want to drive the car.”

    My own husband has said, “If you don’t put away your things and take care of them, you will never have anything you want ever again.” Of course, I will be the one responsible for enforcing that decree, but that’s another story.

    When we were children, my sister and I would hide behind the bathroom door laughing while our brother was being reprimanded. I know parents who have to hide in the laundry room while their children have a tantrum because they can’t keep themselves from laughing. Admittedly, a child hopping up and down with anger can be a tremendously funny sight.

    There are parents who tattle on their kids. When Mom asks who broke the lamp, for instance, Dad answers, “Your son.”

    Finally, I am in awe of the mother who, after telling her children they can have no more cookies or candy, sneaks out of the room to eat just one more cookie.

    Why do we do these things that make us say, “Bad mommy, bad mommy”?

    Parenting is hard and it is, at least for many years, a thankless task. Neither of my children has ever thanked me for making them go to bed, denying them a toy or coercing them to eat just one bite of vegetable. There are days when they don’t even thank me for some little thing I did that I wasn’t asked to do, like straightening their rooms or occasionally doing their chores.

    There are days when I feel like I’m an ok mom. There are days when I feel like I’m a great mom. And there are days when I can’t take another minute of whining, ignoring homework, begging for toys or electronics or candy or privileges. Those are the days I want to throw a tantrum, get down on the floor flailing my arms, kicking my legs and screaming about how unfair life is. Because I know that would be really bad, I do something a little less bad, like lying about McDonald’s being closed.

    My son has given up bragging about how fast and how often he runs. He has made friends with a kid who runs cross-country. Now, he brags about his friend’s accomplishments. But I know how to respond.

    “Mom,” he’ll say. “My friend says he can run 13 miles.”

    “Fine. That’s great for him,” I say. “But how many miles can his MOM run?”

    Am I mature or what?