Picket Fence Post

And I laughed. And laughed. And laughed. “My head would explode if I gave up shouting for 40 days,” I told them today as I was driving the Picket Fence Post kids to the grocery store with me.

“You couldn’t do it,” The Youngest Boy said as he too chortled at the notion.

“I think I’d melt by day 20,” I agreed.

Instead, we agreed that I’d try to refrain from using bad words during the duration of the Lenten season, the 40 days leading up to Easter. When I’m in front of the kids I try, really hard, not to swear. But I’m not perfect. The ”s” word slips out of my mouth from time to time when I drop stuff or make a mistake. When I substitute “damn” or “crap,” they raise their eyebrows as well because I’ve told them those are bad words not to be used by kids. (For the record, I apologize when I slip up.) 

I think I’ll do what I did last year to incentivize myself to curtail my invocation of naughty words by putting a quarter in a jar each time I mess up, even outside of my kids’ presence. However it doesn’t always work. On one particularly bad work day last spring when the kids were at school, I put a $5 in the jar.

I’ve asked the kids to think about what they’d give up or what positive things they’d do during Lent. They’ve got until dinner tonight to come up with some good ideas, but having Mom cease with the shouting, ain’t happenin’ my pretties. No. Way.

How did the Picket Fence Post family ring in 2010? With a champagne toast for the grown-ups and sparkling cider for the kids? With a robust rendition of Auld Lang Syne? Fine food and good humored company?

Wrong. On all counts.

The new decade began with a trip to the ER, two broken bones and a kid running a high temperature.

We’d survived several days of Christmas and Hanukkah celebrations with friends and family highlighted by: A rather aggressive Yankee Swap, grown-ups developing a keen interest in a Spanish liqueur at a Christmas gathering, the kids receiving Wii(and quickly becoming addicted to it and annoyed by my desire to create weird avatars modeled after TV characters) and the Picket Fence Post puppy Max devouring a brand new Star Wars figure a half-hour after we finished unwrapping our presents on Christmas morning. A few days later, on the afternoon of New Year’s Eve day, I was quietly reading The Book Thief  by the fire while the Eldest Boy was sleeping his way through a cold (and a fever), The Girl was playing at the neighbors’ house and The Spouse was ice skating at an outdoor rink in a town park with The Youngest Boy.

Then the call came.

“I’m hurt. You need to come and get me and take me to the hospital.”

I dragged The Eldest Boy out of bed and drove to the rink to find The Youngest Boy shaken and in tears, while The Spouse’s left wrist looked gruesomely swollen and lumpy as his whole face was contorted in one big clenching grimace. Quickly dubbed “the Ice Skating Guy” by the folks at the ER, we were waiting to find out if The Spouse’s broken wrist (broken in two places) would require immediate surgery when The Eldest Boy said he had to go home, NOW, because he felt ill. I touched his forehead. He was burning up.

In full scramble mode, I pulled out the cell phone to find someone to watch The Eldest Boy at our house — his temp wound up being 101.3 — as I arranged for The Youngest Boy to join The Girl at the neighbors’ house. I abandoned the Ice Skating Guy and quickly drove The Eldest Boy home, got him settled in, brought The Youngest Boy to the neighbors’ house and got a lift from one of those ever-so-kind neighbors to pick up The Spouse’s car that had been left behind at the park.

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I’ve been blogging relatively lightly during the past 10 days in a (somewhat) vain attempt to achieve (or chase an elusive) Zen-like state of mind. Trying really hard not to get overly rattled by holiday stress (though, at times, I’ve failed and needed someone to tell me to chill), I decided to give myself the last two weeks of December off from full-fledged blogging as a gift. . .  which means I’ll be back in January ready to dish.

But, in honor of New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day and all of the resolution baloney you’ll be — or have been — treated to, in my January GateHouse News Service column I’ve created my own parenting anti-resolution list which involves trying to make “underparenting” seem cool, acting more like moms you see on TV and embracing the crazy.

Happy New Year.

It’s the day before the day before Christmas. Stress levels are high, particularly if you’re waiting for packages to arrive. (One of my blogging peeps tweeted today that she was praying to the FedEx gods for their divine providence . . . and on-time package delivery.)

I went to a grocery store in my area today and it was filled with angry-looking people who didn’t respond when I, wearing my cheery Christmas Red Sox baseball cap, smiled at them in an attempt to spread a bit of holiday cheer. Scowling New Englanders, all.

Fear not my Picket Fence Post readers, it’s my job to provide you with a laugh to help you remember that the holidays will be over soon and that the kids should soon return to their garden variety surliness, not the hyper-strain of surliness brought on by the Christmas/Hanukkah season.

While perusing Entertainment Weekly’s Pop Watch blog today, I realized that I’d forgotten to give a nod to the great modern American holiday called Festivus, which is today.

Time for you and yours to gather ’round the celebratory metal Festivus pole, air grievances to your own set of Ungratefuls and have the Mom or Dad in the house to be challenged to the feats of strength.

Fun for the whole family. After that, Christmas will be a breeze.

Thank you Larry David for the gift of Festivus.

Going into the last weekend before Christmas I know I need some major laughs, especially when I think about the To Do list:

– Gotta bake Christmas cookies. The Spouse thinks he has time to make two cheesecakes too. (*snicker*)

– Will face a pediatric insurrection if either I or The Spouse don’t again attempt to supervise the Picket Fence Post kids in building a gingerbread house (from a box with pre-baked pieces). When I tried to supervise this enterprise one night after dinner this week when The Spouse was out, I wound up sending the three kids to bed instead and putting the gingerbread house stuff away while I raged around the kitchen because they wouldn’t stop fighting.

– Need to clean the house.  (We’ve got people coming over.)

– Must bring the children to three sporting events, two basketball games and a hockey scrimmage.

– Attend a Hanukkah event to which we were supposed to bring a gift for a Yankee Swap. (Hate them!) I had no time to get a gift — despite the fact that I feel as though I now live at Target but I kept forgetting to get something for it – so I’m hoping The Spouse has this one covered, or else we’re going to have to grab some random item from the house and wrap it up.

– Bring the kids to church early on Sunday so they can get ready to appear in the Nativity play, where The Spouse is one of the parental supervisors. The kids are playing Innkeeper #2, Innkeeper #3 and a donkey.

– Between now and Thursday we need to finish the Christmas shopping. Or should I say The Spouse has to finish it (still some outstanding items left on his list), which is why I’m skeptical about the two cheesecake item. Or whether getting the last few gifts will even fit into the weekend.

– Wrap presents, though I suppose this can wait until later in the week despite the fact that not a single gift has been wrapped yet.

Busy weekend in the ‘burbs, eh? Really bustling . . . kind of like the type of weekend satirized by comedian Sally Brooks in her new uber-profanity-laced rap, “Weekend Rap.” Several months ago I posted her original “Suburban Housewife” rap here as a Friday Funny. (”. . .  put it in a cup, it looks like iced tea“)

Go to her web site and spend four minutes and change wathcing her “Weekend Rap” (but not with any kids or boss/supervisor types around) if you want to laugh about how suburban parental weekends usually feature trips to Target and Costco, soccer games where parents yell at the refs, visits from in-laws who criticize your lack of housekeeping, doing yard work, attending potluck neighborhood gatherings featuring organic meat which end at 9 so the kids can get to bed on time.

Item #1: Banning Kids’ Photos on Christmas Cards

Who amongst you, my dear readers, has sent out Christmas/Hanukkah cards with images of your kids on it? I’d venture to guess that if you have any children who are of grade school age, 99 percent of our holiday cards included some form of a photo of said kiddos.

After looking over the array of holiday greetings that  have been delivered to the Picket Fence Post family’s home, I couldn’t find a single one from a family with young kids that didn’t include a photo of said cherubs.

The Picket Fence Post’s family Christmas/Hanukkah card included photos of the kids and our dog Max, however they prominently featured anti-perfectionist snark. I included an image of the pillow fight the kids had in the middle of our disastrous Christmas photo session which was marked by tears, puffy red eyes (from the crying) and arguments over the fact that I was supposedly “torturing” my children with a cruel and unusual punishment of having the nerve of asking them to put on some nice duds and sit still on the sofa. They might as well have called it Gitmo-New England the way they were acting.

Anyway . . .  a former college newspaper colleague of mine at the Boston Globe penned a sarcastically funny column this week decrying the flood of generic, processed photocards with the “grinning moppets” on them that he’d been receiving, the kind you get from Shutterfly and the like (Full Disclosure: I got mine from Snapfish):

“I know this may come across as mildly offensive, but I am asking as nicely as possible: Please keep your kids off my Christmas cards . . .

Simply put, it’s a Christmas card, not an advertisement for your blissful existence. If I’m interested in seeing your children, your vacations or your dog dressed as an elf, I’ll look at your Facebook page, thank you very much.

. . . Before you paint me as a total ogre (I only admit to being half-ogre, on my mother’s side), let me say if you’d like to send a photo of your family inside an actual greeting card, along with a quick handwritten message, I’d be very happy.”

What do you think of the nearly unanimous use of photocards among families with young children? Do you think they should have something handwritten on them?

Item#2: Fluff-Eating Pup

I was on a tight deadline and was thisclose to completing a column. I needed some quiet and some major physical distance put between me and the three bickering kids, who’d still managed to maintain their near-constant arguements as they were cozily set up in the family room for their TV hour, though these days the definition of the word “hour” is more concept than reality.

“Please watch Max, I need to go upstairs to finish this column,” I said, referring to our now-7-month-old puppy who’ll still chew stuff up if he’s not watched carefully. Just this week, he’s killed a couple of Star Wars figures, gnawed on slippers and socks left within his reach, and has pulled kids’ backbacks off of kitchen chairs to root around for stuff inside.

The children all acknowledged that they’d heard me and acted as though they had it all under control, with Max curled up next to The Girl on the sofa.

About a half-hour later, The Spouse came home and I could hear his shouting from my upstairs bedroom to which I’d retreated with my laptop: ”What happened here? Argh!” Max had somehow eluded the TV-addicted children’s supervision, walked over to the pantry (which was open but I don’t know why) and found our big plastic tub of Marshmallow Fluff lying on the floor, its cover, as always, only partially snapped down. Then he’d proceeded to gorge on Fluff.

The Spouse came upstairs a few minutes later to inform me of the goings-on while I tapped away at the keyboard. “I don’t even want to see what he looks like,” I said. When I returned to the kitchen, I learned that The Girl decided it’d be easier to cut off clumps of the pup’s hair around his mouth covered with the sticky substance. Oy.

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There are some news stories that cross my desk and make me blurt out a variety of profanities or other exclamations. Like the story this week about how, despite the horrendous fall-out from the Jon & Kate Plus 8 debacle (where the Gosselins’ marriage fell apart in front of a national television audience while their kids continued to be filmed by a film crew), 47 percent of 1,000 moms surveyed by Parents Magazine said they’d agree to let their children appear on a family reality show. Is that about money? Fame? Cluelessness? I wondered.

Then there are stories like this one that I found out about from a friend via Twitter: A second grader drew Jesus on a cross while he was at school. His depiction (see the image above) sent shock waves through the school after officials declared it “violent.” Here’s how the Boston Herald reported it:

“An 8-year-old boy from Taunton was sent home from school and ordered to undergo a psychological evaluation after drawing a stick-figure picture of Jesus Christ on a cross.

. . . [The father] added his son drew the picture shortly after visiting the National Shrine of Our Lady of La Salette in Attleboro [MA] to see its Christmas display. He made the drawing after his teacher asked the children to sketch something that reminded them of Christmas, the father said.”

That sound you hear is my head hitting my desk.

Image credit: The Taunton Gazette via the Boston Herald.

“We’re gonna pass into legend, the parents who canceled Christmas,” Claire, mom of three, in Modern Family.

I’ve loving Modern Family, a freshman ABC comedy, more and more with each new episode.

In the recent Christmas installment (available free on the ABC web site) Claire and Phil, parents of a teenager and two tweens, find a burn mark on the arm of their sofa on Christmas Eve and demand that one of their three kids admit wrong-doing. If someone doesn’t step up and cop to the charge, Phil spontaneously decides that they’re going to cancel Christmas, something with which Claire is not entirely on board but silently supports her husband nonetheless.

The entire episode is definitely worth watching, particularly the “Inocente!” part.

Item #1: Teacher Gifts

I thought we were in a recession, marked by high unemployment and people cutting back as they try to ride out these days of TARP and discussions of another possible federal stimulus package as industries wither away (auto, newspaper, etc.). So why did I read in the Boston Globe that Massachusetts school districts feel the need to warn parents against giving their children’s teachers “pricey” gifts? The story began as follows:

“School superintendents across the region are penning letters this holiday season to parents, cautioning them against going overboard with gift-giving to teachers, principals, and other staff members.

. . . While acknowledging that parents’ gift-giving gestures may be well intentioned the superintendents say that the state’s new ethics laws forbids public servants, including teachers on public payrolls, from receiving gifts with value in excess of $50. Violations are subject to civil penalties, the superintendents warn.”

Some of the examples of previous parental gift-giving excess, according to the Globe, were: $200 gift cards, fine wines, sports tickets, Rolex watches and HD TVs.

Hold on a sec, I thought. Who in the heck is giving teachers gifts that go for $50, never mind the ones the Globe was calling “pricey?”

Are people at your kids’ schools dishing out major cash for gifts?

Item #2: Decade of Overparenting

As part of its ode to the decade of the 2000s that’s about to come to a close, New York Magazine has a piece by writer Sandra Tsing Loh describing this past 10 years as a period of time when “Everybody Else Knows Best,” at least when it came to parenting, as parents have felt under siege by the volume of child-rearing advice. Tsing Loh focused on an anecdote involving her friend, the mother of a 9-month-old who won’t sleep. The friend didn’t know what to do about her son’s sleeping issues and fretted that she would make a mistake. Tsing Loh put a stake into the notion of relying on so-called parenting “experts” to tell us what we should do at every moment of our children’s young lives. Worth the read.

Item #3: Pregnancy Discrimination on ‘Housewives’

Desperate Housewives has had an irritating Lynette Scavo-centric storyline this season, one in which the fortysomething mom of four — who’s pregnant with twins, whose husband has gone back to college and she’s the only breadwinner — is being discriminated against by Carlos Solis, her boss/neighbor/friend, so much so, that after she was unjustly fired, she felt compelled to sue him.

She didn’t tell Carlos — who openly told her that he’d discriminated against another woman and not given her a promotion because she was pregnant and instead gave the promotion to Lynette —  immediately after she found out she was pregnant, but made arrangements, trained an underling and landed a big account so that she wouldn’t leave Carlos in the lurch. But when he found out (not from her) he acted as though, by getting pregnant, she’d let him down and hurt him, and that he was justified in forcing her out of a job.

This fictionalized version of pregnancy discrimination is the focus of my Mommy Tracked column this week, where Lynette’s situation is being played for laughs. I also asked readers what a woman in Lynette’s situation could/should do. (See video from the latest episode below for an example of Lynette being treated shabbily by Carlos’ wife Gabby.)

By the way, after this past week’s plane crash on Wisteria Lane, I began to wonder if this particular (fictional) street in Fairview is the most dangerous street in America. The results of my curiosity can be found here, where I documented every violent/criminal act that I could find that has occurred on Wisteria Lane over Desperate Housewives’ half dozen seasons. If I’ve missed any, please feel free to let me know.

The call came in at 5:41 a.m.: No school today because of the morning snowstorm.

Contrary to my constant carping about the kids being home all the time (illness, half days, vacation days, etc.) making working from home difficult, I considered this morning’s news to be a good thing.

Allow me to explain:

The Spouse had been away all weekend (went to the Patriots game in Miami while I carted The Ungratefuls around to various sporting events, to church services, to packed stores in search of snowboots after the first snowfall and to a sports-themed birthday party). His schedule over the past few weeks has been rather tight and hasn’t afforded us much of chance to go out as a family and select a Christmas tree. When he got back from his tough weekend — of watching his favorite professional football team lose, eating nice meals at swanky restaurants where no one openly farts at the table or asks for cereal instead of roasted chicken, swimming in the ocean and reveling in tropical weather — he and I examined the calendar and decided that right after school was the best time to get a tree. We’d give the tree’s branches time to warm up and fall a bit and plan to decorate it after dinner.

Now when you tell your kids that you’re going to go buy and decorate your Christmas tree, you expect an outward expression of excitement, not complaining.

The Eldest Boy, who did some of his homework when he came home from school, objected when we loaded everyone into the Picket Fence Post family vehicle to go and look for a tree. Why? He hadn’t yet completed his assignments and he, a Type-A kind of student, couldn’t stop thinking about the remaining work he had to do. It was stressing the kid out.

His lamentations continued as we commenced with the decorating of the tree after dinner, with Christmas tunes blasting in the background as I held Max the puppy to prevent him from gobbling up the ornaments. (Last week Max gnawed a few Star Wars action figures and has been teething quite a bit lately so we’re going to have to watch him closer than the Secret Service watches uninvited attendees of White House dinners to make sure that he doesn’t destroy the Christmas tree.)

At one point during the decorating, The Eldest Boy was curled up on the sofa fretting about the lateness of the hour and how he’d never get all his homework done, bellowing, “I have homework!” The kid’s 11 for God’s sake.

“It’s not like you’re going to flunk out of fifth grade because you decorated the Christmas tree with your family tonight,” I, the sometimes-Grinch, responded. We told him that he could get up early and finish up his work (he didn’t have THAT much more to complete) in the morning because family time decorating the tree came first. “You can tell your teacher that I said that.”

Thus when the call came this morning alerting us that school was canceled, I actually welcomed it so that The Eldest Boy could chill.

After breakfast this morning, the three Picket Fence Post kids charged outside in the snowstorm with Max — who has to hop through the snow like a rabbit because he’s got such short, stubby legs — and had a blast in the snow . . . until tree branches started cracking and falling to the ground. At that point, I pulled the puppy into the house and told them to stay away from the trees until the wind died down.

Now that it’s started to sleet, the kids are starting to come indoors one by one. Hopefully The Eldest Boy will just finish the damned homework so I don’t have to listen to him fret about it anymore. Until tomorrow.