Picket Fence Post

Item #1: The Chew Monster (Otherwise Known as the Puppy)

Max, our mini-Wheat puppy, is smack dab in the middle of a rather nasty chewing phase and has been grabbing at anything within his reach and shredding it. Anything. Lego pieces. Pencils. Trash. Tissue boxes. Magazines. Soda cans. Shoes. You get the picture. Combine Max’s propensity for gnawing with the Picket Fence Post kids’ tendency to leave items lying haphazardly around the house and you’ve got the ingredients for my latest GateHouse News Service column.

Item #2: Co-Ed Sleepovers . . . Are They Nuts?

When I saw a Tweet this week from a Boston-based Fox TV journalist promoting her segment about teen co-ed slumber parties, she asked people thought about the notion. My immediate response was decidedly thumbs down. Putting hormonal kids together, with soft bedding, in the dark where parents will be absent for long stretches of time including in the middle of the night and a developmental lack of impulse control (plus teens’ brains aren’t fully developed) is patently crazy. Then I watched Sara Underwood’s piece on local TV and it only confirmed my initial thoughts. Please, tell me what you think about this trend.

Item #3: Pajama Diaries

So. Very. True.

Item #4: Modern ‘Like’ Family

Freshman ABC comedy Modern Family was unbelievably fabulous this week. It provided me with ample laughs just when I needed them. (You can watch the latest episode “Fears” for free at the ABC web site.) But the part that really had me rolling — aside from seeing the adorable Manny in his classic fisherman’s cap (I just want to hug that little guy) – was the scene where Claire Dunphy was driving her teenaged Haley and her friend around and could not, not for one more second, tolerate listening to her daughter continually and nonsensically invoke the word “like.”

Here’s what Haley said to her friend: “And then I’m like, ‘There’s no way I’m wearing that.’ And she was like, ‘Well if you don’t wear it then you can’t play.’ And then I was like, ‘Well, that’s fine by me.’ And then she was like . . .”

By this time, Claire, who’d been rolling her eyes as she listened to this, snarkily said the word “like” over her daughter’s conversation four times until her daughter objected. “Stop saying, ‘like!’” Claire shouted.

“Don’t embarass me!” the daughter shouted back.

“Ahhhhhh!” Claire shrieked as she gripped the steering wheel and violently shook her head.

This exact scenario – with slightly different wording and sans the guttural yell – occurred between my mother and me while she was driving me and a friend around when I was but a teenaged gal. I have a vivid memory of having what I saw as a perfectly pleasant conversation with my friend only to have my mother, seemingly out of nowhere, shout, “Meredith! Stop saying, ‘like!’”

I’m busily trying to stomp that tendency out of my own children before they become teens. I’m tryin’.

Image credit: Pajama Diaries via the Seattle Post-Intelligencer.

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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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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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.

The Picket Fence Post Family Christmas/Hanukkah Card Photos: Recent photo session with the three Picket Fence Post children was a disaster. Said session was punctuated by tears, parental threats, puffy eyes (still red from previous bouts of crying which delayed the taking of photos until children’s eyes were less red), forced awkward smiles (called to mind the web site Awkward Family Photos), an energetic (and slightly vicious) pediatric pillow fight and the labeling of yours truly as, and I quote, “the worst person in the world.” (No, the kid who said that does not watch Keith Olbermann’s declarations of who the “Worst Person in the World” is for each particular weekday. However the mere fact that I asked the children to put on nice clothing and brush their hair is clearly grounds for human rights violations. I should start planning for my trial at the Hague.) I’m contemplating actually using some of the odder, weirder shots and chronicling the photographic debacle for a bit of holiday humor, greetings for those with a sense of humor.

Mentos/Diet Coke: This summer I bought a six-pack of 16.9 ounce Diet Coke bottles and a six-pack of Mentos packets with the intent of reenacting the Diet Coke/Mentos explosion — the one you’ve likely seen on the internet – in our backyard. Long story short, I just — FINALLY — got the chance to do it this afternoon after weeks upon weeks of The Youngest Boy whining, “When are doin’ the Diet Coke-Mentos thing?”. What a bust. Maybe we did it wrong because it didn’t look anything like we thought it should. Maybe we should’ve used a two-liter bottle instead of those small ones. Completely anti-climatic.

Soccer’s Over. Hello Basketball: The final soccer games of the season for The Girl and The Eldest Boy were rained out on Saturday. (The Girl’s game was re-scheduled for Sunday, but we were at my niece and nephew’s combined birthday party. The Eldest Boy’s game has yet to be re-scheduled.) And just as I was starting to enjoy the fact that I didn’t have to race around delivering them to various fields for practices and trying to remember who had the game where and whose practice ended when, we’ve started receiving e-mails to alert us to the fact that basketball season starts in two weeks. (The Spouse is The Girl’s head coach and is assisting The Eldest Boy’s team so things’ll be insane around here in short order. Not many family meals together during the week I expect.) Meanwhile, The Youngest Boy just started a once weekly hockey scrimmage thing on Sunday mornings before church. (That doesn’t include his Saturday morning hockey skills sessions.) How is it that I was naively thinking about getting a break?

Going on Month Four of Working at the Kitchen Table: The Picket Fence Post family puppy Max, now 6 months old, is still not completely housebroken yet. Whenever he sets his paws on a carpet, he acts as though it’s the grass outside and he pees. So that means he spends his days in our kitchen on its hard wood floors (on which *knock wood* he hasn’t had an accident in a very long time). But since he’s a puppy who’s still teething, Max needs to be monitored or else he’ll gnaw on the furniture and get into stuff. (That’s when he’s not in his crate whining about the fact that I had the nerve to leave the room.) Guess who’s been doing the monitoring? That’s right. I’ve been working on my laptop at the kitchen table or the kitchen counter for almost four months so that I can allow Max to run around when the Picket Fence Post kids are in school. (Once they get home and heap their stuff atop mine, the kitchen looks like a Superfund site.) We recently had our backyard fenced in and that’s taken some of the pressure off because I can let Max out to romp around (and tire out) like the little maniac he is, but the world starts feeling mighty small when you spend most of your days confined to one room. Kind of feels like I’ve been grounded. Then again, maybe I deserve to be grounded, what with being the worst person in the world and all.

Item #1: Anxious Kids

Do you have a child who seems tentative, bothered or frightened by new things? Are you worried that the child will grow up to be an anxious adult?

The recent New York Times Magazine cover story about anxiety said that some people are born worriers. While many nervous children are able to successfully channel their nervous energy productively as they grow older, others deftly cover up the anxiety roiling beneath the surface. “. . . [W]hile temperament persists, the behavior associated with it doesn’t always,” the Times reported. It’s a long piece, but if you have a child who you think might be considered “anxious,” it’s worth the read.

Item #2: Mommy Penalty

If you’re a woman and you have a kid, there’s a good chance that in the workplace you may suffer from what researchers have dubbed, “the mommy penalty.” The Boston CBS affiliate, WBZ ran a segment this week based on a Cornell University study which found that “mothers suffer a substantial wage penalty” while “. . . [m]en were not penalized for, and sometimes benefited from, being a parent,” the study reported.

What kind of penalty? Five percent less pay per child than a childless woman receives, WBZ reported:

“A recent ruling handed down by the First Circuit of Appeals in Boston, could have an impact on the way working mothers are treated. The case involves a mother from Maine who says she was denied a promotion and told ‘You have the kids, and you just have enough on your plate right now.’

The ruling stated, ‘. . . the assumption that a woman will do her job less well due to her personal family obligations is a form of sex stereotyping . . . and that adverse job actions on that basis constitute sex discrimination.”

Here’s the link to the video segment.

Item #3: The Puppy Cut

I finally relented and agreed to bring the puppy to get his hair trimmed. I’d been fretting that the groomers would make him look like a rat if his hair were trimmed too closely, that he’d lose his fluffy cuteness. But he doesn’t look like a rat. Other than the fact that you can now see that his legs aren’t as stocky as they appeared when his hair was longer, he looks pretty much the same. Look at the “before” photo followed by the “after” photo:

The 4-month-old Picket Fence Post family’s puppy, Max, almost made an old adage come true today when he got hold of The Youngest Boy’s saffron yellow reading homework packet for the week that was on the refrigerator held there by a magnetic clip.

Apparently the 10 other dog toys strewn around the kitchen floor — including balls, a rope toy, a squeaky plush dog bone thing, a squeaky faceless guy that squeaks — weren’t enough to keep his interest. He wanted to tackle some reading comprehension exercises.

Luckily, I was able to snag the packet away from Max before any significant damage was done. The corner’s a little mauled though.

Wonder if, when The Youngest Boy hands it in on Friday, I should write a little note explaining that the dog nearly ate the homework. Or maybe that’s too cliche.

Item #1: Tossing Back the Foul Ball

Ever wondered what would happen if you took the kids to a ballgame and a foul ball headed your way?

A dad of a 3-year-old girl found out this week when a foul ball was hit in their direction during a Phillies-Nationals game. Thrilled that he caught the ball, he triumphantly handed it to his daughter . . . who hurled it back onto the field. Giving the ball back to the rightful owners, she must’ve thought. How sweet. Even sweeter was Dad’s reaction.

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The Picket Fence Post’s Havanese/Wheaten Terrier mix puppy, Max, is now four months old. He’s been residing in our home for a little more than a month now and we’re all still adjusting to the little fur-ball’s presence.

Despite two of my three children’s initial enthusiasm about getting a puppy (one kid was on the fence about the whole thing but now says he loves the pooch), they’ve proven the common wisdom that once the newness of having a dog wears off, they’ll stop helping out, or at least moan about how hard it is to help out. Despite the fact that they are now starting to whine and complain when we ask them to take Max out and clean up his business, The Spouse and I are still making them do it — arguing that we’re on one big team — plus we’ve been asking them to feed the puppy, no matter how badly they think his food smells. 

In the month since Max has joined us, we’ve realized that getting a puppy is indeed similar to taking care of a small, needy child in many ways.

First of all, he’s not verbal and had no eating/sleeping/going outside schedule when he came to live with us. We’ve been trying to get a read the clues which indicate he needs to go out, but they’re not consistent and, because he’s a puppy, he frequently makes mistakes. I’ve been trying to put him on an eating/sleeping/going out schedule since the kids have returned to school — per the advice of the puppy training books – but that hasn’t been working out exactly as I planned as he’ll sometimes pee in the house immediately after being allowed to linger outside. I’m being patient though, ever so patient.

Second, Max gets into everything, so we need to limit the trouble he can get into by removing everything that might prove troublesome. Thus far, he’s beheaded a frog toy, done a fine job gnawing at the spindles on the bottom of the kitchen chairs and tried to eat his dog bed. I looked in his crate the other morning and found that the metal zipper to his dog bed had been removed and was sitting between his paws, as though he was poised to eat it. After noticing that several teeth from the bed zipper were missing, I removed the zipper entirely from the bed . . . which just made it easier for him to climb in between the bedcover and bite at the bedding insert, so I just took the damned thing away.

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