Funny moment on Sunday:
On a car ride back from my cousin's wedding in San Marcos, the kids were doing something in the back seat that Eli and I weren't really paying attention to, until talk got a little louder. When we tuned in, Colin had just handed Hallie a single sunflower petal.
Her response was over-the-top gratitude, "Oh, thank you, that's so very kind of you!" She petted the petal, holding it to her cheek, murmuring lovingly to it.
Meanwhile, Colin had a double handful of petals, which he was muttering over in a voice that was half-Golem, half-crazy-prospector--"It's gold. Gold, I tell you!!"--while shaking his flowery fists to the roof of the car in triumph.
And the thing was, the petals had come from the wedding bouquet which the bride had bestowed on Hallie the night before. Colin was intensely jealous of this--being so keenly attuned to injustice as it pertains to things his sister gets and he doesn't--so he had ripped the heads off about four sunflowers, denuded them, and then, perhaps feeling a distant twinge of something vaguely like guilt, gave back a single petal. Which she adored beyond reason, because her beloved big brother gave her something (a tragically rare occurrence), never realizing that they were ALL hers by rights.
And when did he learn about crazy prospectors, anyway??
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Follicle Follies
I never did get back to the Tragedy of Hallie's Hair, did I? Well, it wasn't actually that bad, as it turned out...but in a nutshell, it was this:
Hallie woke up one day with the most colossally bad tangle I've ever seen hanging just off-center at the back of her head. I girded myself for battle with a comb and nearly-full bottle of spray detangler, and waded in...only to gape with dawning horror as every strand I untangled fell off her head and into my hand. If I can figure out the complicated machinations necessary, I'll include a picture of the large mass of escaped hair, because, really, it was hard to fathom. I thought I must have been causing this follicular exodus (insert pangs of terrified guilt), until I looked more closely, and saw that, instead of falling out at the root, these strands were leaving behind two or three inches still attached, mixed in with hanks of the correct length.
This was mystifying...as was the process of trying to get a definitive answer from a three year old who thinks--is not sure--but thinks she might be in trouble, and also is easily distracted by shiny objects. Especially mirrors reflecting her favorite image, herself. (Note to self: never interrogate Hallie in the bathroom, ever again.)
So...I may never know exactly what happened, because accounts vary depending on mood, person asking, and whether or not princesses are involved...but I think that Hallie was toodling around in her room in the dark again (she has stopped the nocturnal cleaning sessions, but nocturnal toodling is still hip), came across a contraband pair of scissors she had "borrowed" from Colin earlier that day, and just stuck them in her hair in random spots, snipping occasionally, causing the hair to fall only part way out, and then tangle. That's my theory.
End result: no bald patches, just weirdly thin places that defy styling of any kind, and straggle down looking like her mother doesn't brush her hair. This bothers me almost more than a shaved head would, that I might be perceived as letting my child out of the house with an unkempt head. I think my soul just died a little. Me, the Queen of the Well-Placed Bow (well, Arch Duchess...my mother's the Queen). And I thought broken bones were traumatic...
Hallie woke up one day with the most colossally bad tangle I've ever seen hanging just off-center at the back of her head. I girded myself for battle with a comb and nearly-full bottle of spray detangler, and waded in...only to gape with dawning horror as every strand I untangled fell off her head and into my hand. If I can figure out the complicated machinations necessary, I'll include a picture of the large mass of escaped hair, because, really, it was hard to fathom. I thought I must have been causing this follicular exodus (insert pangs of terrified guilt), until I looked more closely, and saw that, instead of falling out at the root, these strands were leaving behind two or three inches still attached, mixed in with hanks of the correct length.
This was mystifying...as was the process of trying to get a definitive answer from a three year old who thinks--is not sure--but thinks she might be in trouble, and also is easily distracted by shiny objects. Especially mirrors reflecting her favorite image, herself. (Note to self: never interrogate Hallie in the bathroom, ever again.)
So...I may never know exactly what happened, because accounts vary depending on mood, person asking, and whether or not princesses are involved...but I think that Hallie was toodling around in her room in the dark again (she has stopped the nocturnal cleaning sessions, but nocturnal toodling is still hip), came across a contraband pair of scissors she had "borrowed" from Colin earlier that day, and just stuck them in her hair in random spots, snipping occasionally, causing the hair to fall only part way out, and then tangle. That's my theory.
End result: no bald patches, just weirdly thin places that defy styling of any kind, and straggle down looking like her mother doesn't brush her hair. This bothers me almost more than a shaved head would, that I might be perceived as letting my child out of the house with an unkempt head. I think my soul just died a little. Me, the Queen of the Well-Placed Bow (well, Arch Duchess...my mother's the Queen). And I thought broken bones were traumatic...
Monday, October 4, 2010
Catching Up
Hmm. It appears I have been lax in my blogging duties. Several weeks have gone by--several extraordinary weeks--and I have not blogged about them once. Perhaps this has been a case of living so intensely for this short while that I was unable to distance myself enough to write about it. I sincerely hope that's over.
For most of my life I've had this silent voice-over running through my head during any halfway-interesting occurrence, wherein I figure out how I would describe it in writing. I can't really help it; it just happens. But I do find that as I search for the right words and phrases to capture the moment, that moment becomes...a little blunted. Whatever extremes of joy or sorrow I'm feeling, the edges aren't quite so sharp after I've mentally written it down for posterity. Coping mechanism? Perhaps. Mental instability? Possibly. Although I prefer to think of it as "destined to be a writer". And I have actually been very surprised in my adulthood to find that not everyone has this voice--unless you're all lying to me?
But these last few weeks have been so very intense (at least at first) and then so very busy (up until this very moment--have to run Hallie to school, be right back) that my voice-over has been, for the first time I can remember, silent. It's a little eerie.
So, even though my helpful inner writer has not actually helped with these past weeks, here's what I've been up to:
Colin started Kindergarten. That was pretty emotional and overwhelming, but nothing compared to the moment when, an hour into his first day, I got the call that he'd broken his arm. So many panicky, chaotic moments jammed into that day...I don't even know if I can describe them. But here's the thing...from the safe distance of 3-plus weeks later, I can know, rationally, that a broken arm is not that huge a deal in the greater scheme, totally fixable, happens to tons of kids, perhaps even most. But those of you with young children, go look at their perfect little limbs that you've kissed since they were babies...that smooth, unmarred skin...and imagine seeing a bleeding wound, and an extra elbow in a terribly wrong place. At the time, it seemed pretty darn horrible enough--and not a single trauma-blunting voice to be found. I felt every particle...my baby was HURT. Weird how I can switch back and forth between that moment and feel it just as sharply all over again--I mean, I could let myself go and just sob--and then snap back to the day-to-day minutia of helping him do stuff with one hand. More coping mechanisms, I'm guessing.
So there's the emotional intensity, enough to last me for a while...and meanwhile, life goes on at blinding speed, and I'm struggling desperately to keep up with this whole school regime. Two kids on two schedules that I've barely got a grip on--and I know some other moms with three or four, which completely boggles my brain. Just getting up every day when it's still dark out is a near-fatal shock to my so-not-a-morning-person system. I feel like those letters should be capitalized: EVERY DAY. Then once I realize I'm really, truly, brutally awake, I have to fly into action, cooking and packaging and exhorting (but sweetly) and dressing flailing limbs when cooperation fails and then exhorting some more (less sweetly). I realize mothers everywhere have had to adjust to this same phenomenon for generations, but I still feel woefully unprepared, and like I want to shake somebody and say, "Do you get it?? Every day!!" Strangely, I get little sympathy with this approach. Huh.
I wonder just how long it will take to adapt to this new, exhausting way of life (it hasn't even been four full weeks yet). And I also wonder if I will still be able to hear that little voice-over in the midst of all this doing, or if it's been stunned into silence for good. Mental defect or not, I kinda miss it.
P.S.
My husband pointed out that I didn't include another hugely traumatic upheaval, and that I would spoil the chronological flow if I tried to throw it in later, but I am insisting that Hallie's Self-Applied Haircut is its own, free-standing blog entry. So I'm not talking about it now.
For most of my life I've had this silent voice-over running through my head during any halfway-interesting occurrence, wherein I figure out how I would describe it in writing. I can't really help it; it just happens. But I do find that as I search for the right words and phrases to capture the moment, that moment becomes...a little blunted. Whatever extremes of joy or sorrow I'm feeling, the edges aren't quite so sharp after I've mentally written it down for posterity. Coping mechanism? Perhaps. Mental instability? Possibly. Although I prefer to think of it as "destined to be a writer". And I have actually been very surprised in my adulthood to find that not everyone has this voice--unless you're all lying to me?
But these last few weeks have been so very intense (at least at first) and then so very busy (up until this very moment--have to run Hallie to school, be right back) that my voice-over has been, for the first time I can remember, silent. It's a little eerie.
So, even though my helpful inner writer has not actually helped with these past weeks, here's what I've been up to:
Colin started Kindergarten. That was pretty emotional and overwhelming, but nothing compared to the moment when, an hour into his first day, I got the call that he'd broken his arm. So many panicky, chaotic moments jammed into that day...I don't even know if I can describe them. But here's the thing...from the safe distance of 3-plus weeks later, I can know, rationally, that a broken arm is not that huge a deal in the greater scheme, totally fixable, happens to tons of kids, perhaps even most. But those of you with young children, go look at their perfect little limbs that you've kissed since they were babies...that smooth, unmarred skin...and imagine seeing a bleeding wound, and an extra elbow in a terribly wrong place. At the time, it seemed pretty darn horrible enough--and not a single trauma-blunting voice to be found. I felt every particle...my baby was HURT. Weird how I can switch back and forth between that moment and feel it just as sharply all over again--I mean, I could let myself go and just sob--and then snap back to the day-to-day minutia of helping him do stuff with one hand. More coping mechanisms, I'm guessing.
So there's the emotional intensity, enough to last me for a while...and meanwhile, life goes on at blinding speed, and I'm struggling desperately to keep up with this whole school regime. Two kids on two schedules that I've barely got a grip on--and I know some other moms with three or four, which completely boggles my brain. Just getting up every day when it's still dark out is a near-fatal shock to my so-not-a-morning-person system. I feel like those letters should be capitalized: EVERY DAY. Then once I realize I'm really, truly, brutally awake, I have to fly into action, cooking and packaging and exhorting (but sweetly) and dressing flailing limbs when cooperation fails and then exhorting some more (less sweetly). I realize mothers everywhere have had to adjust to this same phenomenon for generations, but I still feel woefully unprepared, and like I want to shake somebody and say, "Do you get it?? Every day!!" Strangely, I get little sympathy with this approach. Huh.
I wonder just how long it will take to adapt to this new, exhausting way of life (it hasn't even been four full weeks yet). And I also wonder if I will still be able to hear that little voice-over in the midst of all this doing, or if it's been stunned into silence for good. Mental defect or not, I kinda miss it.
P.S.
My husband pointed out that I didn't include another hugely traumatic upheaval, and that I would spoil the chronological flow if I tried to throw it in later, but I am insisting that Hallie's Self-Applied Haircut is its own, free-standing blog entry. So I'm not talking about it now.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Future Stand-up Comic
Looking back over my recent posts, I realize that 3 year old Hallie and her shenanigans are a recurring, perhaps even repetitive, topic.
I realize this, but I am helpless to stop it, because, I'm sorry people, she's just flat out funny!
Here's the latest proof:
Today as I was sitting at the computer, doing something desperately important like cruising around Facebook, Hallie wandered in. She drifted over to the window, and started aimlessly playing with the blinds, banging them around, trying to reach the pull-cord--basic low-grade naughtiness, generally employed to gain attention.
"What are you doing, Hallie?" I asked, a warning clear in my voice, giving her the chance to cease the borderline behavior. I asked this of my three-year old, you understand...little bitty girl, barely out of toddlerhood, cute as a button, limited three-year-old understanding.
The answer I got back, however, could have come from a thirty-year old, worldly, wryly ironic--it's all in the tone--aided and abetted by the sly, over-the-shoulder glance that said, I know you know the answer to that question, so I'm not even going to dignify it with the truth.
"What are you doing, Hallie?"
"Bobbing for apples, of course."
Of course, once she saw my reaction (i.e., gales of laughter), the thirty year old left the building, and the three-year old was back. She wanted to recreate the scene over and over, and I think now believes that the phrase "bobbing for apples" is the Great Punchline of the Century, no set-up required, slays 'em in the aisles every time. So her comedic sense comes and goes...but just wait till she's four!
I realize this, but I am helpless to stop it, because, I'm sorry people, she's just flat out funny!
Here's the latest proof:
Today as I was sitting at the computer, doing something desperately important like cruising around Facebook, Hallie wandered in. She drifted over to the window, and started aimlessly playing with the blinds, banging them around, trying to reach the pull-cord--basic low-grade naughtiness, generally employed to gain attention.
"What are you doing, Hallie?" I asked, a warning clear in my voice, giving her the chance to cease the borderline behavior. I asked this of my three-year old, you understand...little bitty girl, barely out of toddlerhood, cute as a button, limited three-year-old understanding.
The answer I got back, however, could have come from a thirty-year old, worldly, wryly ironic--it's all in the tone--aided and abetted by the sly, over-the-shoulder glance that said, I know you know the answer to that question, so I'm not even going to dignify it with the truth.
"What are you doing, Hallie?"
"Bobbing for apples, of course."
Of course, once she saw my reaction (i.e., gales of laughter), the thirty year old left the building, and the three-year old was back. She wanted to recreate the scene over and over, and I think now believes that the phrase "bobbing for apples" is the Great Punchline of the Century, no set-up required, slays 'em in the aisles every time. So her comedic sense comes and goes...but just wait till she's four!
Monday, August 23, 2010
"Don't make me do this..."
Yesterday afternoon, Colin engaged in his favorite activity of terrorizing his sister. This has many forms, but on this occasion was manifested by threatening her with his replica of a Napoleon-era pistol, straight from Paris, France, folks. It's not supposed to be a toy, but any time he picks it up to "just look" at it, the urge to brandish it at someone overwhelms him. So that's what he was doing, before Mommy and Daddy intervened and repeated our mandate of not pointing guns at people, not pretending to wound, maim, dismember, eviscerate, or otherwise do violence to living creatures, even if it happens to be your little sister. So there's the back story.
Several minutes later, Hallie wanted something to drink. I was deep in the throes of painting something, so I referred her to Daddy. Daddy was deep in the throes of computing something, so he asked her to wait a minute. Apparently she had a thirst the likes of which has never been seen, so she waxed impatient within seconds, and the polite, singsong-y "May I please have something to drink" turned abruptly to a screechy "Give me something to drink right now!!"
Suddenly she had our undivided attention.
"Hallie, that is not the way you talk to people," said Eli. "It is not okay to yell at Daddy like that."
"But I wanted something to drink!"
"And I said I would get you something, in just one minute. You need to be patient."
Silence. Then, in a tone implying that this was the only possible outcome for withholding beverages, and it was on our heads and we had only ourselves to blame, Hallie declared:
"I don't like those words. If that's what you're going to say to me, I'm just going to have to go shoot Colin."
Exit, stage right!
Her whole demeanor was so "hey, I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice," that Eli and I couldn't even respond. Basically, we just got schooled. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and if certain parties of siblitude have to pay the price for parental malfeasance, hey, that's just spreading the karma out a little more evenly, isn't it?
Several minutes later, Hallie wanted something to drink. I was deep in the throes of painting something, so I referred her to Daddy. Daddy was deep in the throes of computing something, so he asked her to wait a minute. Apparently she had a thirst the likes of which has never been seen, so she waxed impatient within seconds, and the polite, singsong-y "May I please have something to drink" turned abruptly to a screechy "Give me something to drink right now!!"
Suddenly she had our undivided attention.
"Hallie, that is not the way you talk to people," said Eli. "It is not okay to yell at Daddy like that."
"But I wanted something to drink!"
"And I said I would get you something, in just one minute. You need to be patient."
Silence. Then, in a tone implying that this was the only possible outcome for withholding beverages, and it was on our heads and we had only ourselves to blame, Hallie declared:
"I don't like those words. If that's what you're going to say to me, I'm just going to have to go shoot Colin."
Exit, stage right!
Her whole demeanor was so "hey, I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice," that Eli and I couldn't even respond. Basically, we just got schooled. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and if certain parties of siblitude have to pay the price for parental malfeasance, hey, that's just spreading the karma out a little more evenly, isn't it?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Bigotry in a parking lot
Last night on KCET was a showing of "South Pacific", live from Lincoln Center. Aside from being a terrific show, this was especially significant because I actually know--or rather, knew--one of the cast members. Eric Anderson and I sang and performed together way back when my mom ran her children's chorale, and now there he is, mugging it up as...Stew Pot? Two Pots? Not sure, have to watch more closely...but wow, what an amazing thing, to see someone I grew up with, living out his dream on Broadway. He's so, so good.
So that's why I tuned in (and why it's recorded on my DVR), and I still haven't watched the whole thing, just bits and pieces. But I saw enough to remind myself of some of the subject matter, and to be surprised all over again at the honest portrayal of racism, particularly coming from that era...it just always takes me by surprise, and makes me wonder how shocking and provocative that was when it first opened, because I guess I have this notion that it just wasn't talked about, or at least certainly wasn't present in mainstream culture. Clearly, a mistaken assumption, at least to some extent.
So the song that stuck in my head was "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught"...it just kept spinning around and around in my brain as I was getting ready for bed, and I was idly musing about my grandparents, particularly my deceased grandfather, the opera singer, the musical theater man, the pretty darn bigoted guy, and wondering...did he ever sing that song? What did that mean to him? Did he know he was a bigot? Did it make him challenge that mindset, or was that just the way it was? I'll never know.
But then I suddenly remembered a disturbing incident I'd witnessed that very day--how it slipped my mind, I have no clue. I had pulled into an Albertson's parking lot with the kids--not a store I usually go to, but I was looking for something particular. As I parked, I noticed a group of three people--two men and a woman--in the next aisle, talking together next to an SUV. I don't even know why I took note, except that the woman had her head covered, and that drew my eye, and so I guess I made an automatic judgment of "Muslim", even though, head covering aside, nothing about her or either of her companions shouted any particular kind of thing other than "regular person". It looked like one man was showing the other two a piece of paper that seemed to have a picture on it, and the look on the woman's face was attentive and inquisitive. The other man wore sunglasses, so I couldn't read his expression.
The kids and I were getting ready to get out of the car, and as I opened my door I heard a raised voice, and glanced up to see the paper-bearing gentleman gesticulating and sounding angry, although I couldn't hear the words. I sat for a moment, wondering what was going on, as the woman's companion made some comment, finger raised--my take was censure of some sort. Here the angry man got even louder, shook his paper, and yelled, "I'm not the one who cut this woman's nose off, and put her picture on Time magazine!" He started to walk away, and then turned to deliver one last zinger: "There is only one Islam, and it's EVIL!" Then he turned and stalked into the store.
I sat there staring after him, holding my children back, wondering if I wanted to even go into the same store that this man had entered, to expose them to that level of hatred, and belatedly wanting to see if the other couple were all right, but they had already gotten in their car and driven away. I was awash with so many emotions: alarm, confusion, embarrassment for the way this man represented...I don't know what...America? Christians? White people? I don't know who he thought he was representing, I just didn't want it to be me.
And I could not stop thinking about how that whole exchange might have occurred, even though I had very little data to put together a hypothesis. But why was he carrying that picture? Why was he so prepared for a confrontation? Did he leave the house intending to find one? Was it some sort of evangelical campaign, to show Muslims the error of their faith? Or was he targeting Muslim Americans, holding individuals accountable for the actions of Muslims around the world? I'm certain that he thought he was on the right side...and maybe his intentions weren't all that misplaced, maybe he is truly moved to horror by the plight of women in the Muslim world, a position I applaud...but his methods...
And here was an uncomfortable thought...how did he know what faith that couple held, unless he, like me, made a snap judgment based on the woman's head cloth? What did that mean about me? And even the fact that I wanted to go apologize to those people, did that mean that I felt I was automatically in the crazy man's camp, abhorrent as I found him, and needed to apologize for my compatriot's actions, which meant that those people were...other? Or maybe I just wanted to distance myself from him, to say to them, "we're not all like that", except that that's still an "us & them" statement, isn't it? How do I escape that? How do I keep from passing that to my children?
And now here's that song again, "You've got to be taught to hate and fear" going round and round my head...
Weird how events can converge, sometimes.
So that's why I tuned in (and why it's recorded on my DVR), and I still haven't watched the whole thing, just bits and pieces. But I saw enough to remind myself of some of the subject matter, and to be surprised all over again at the honest portrayal of racism, particularly coming from that era...it just always takes me by surprise, and makes me wonder how shocking and provocative that was when it first opened, because I guess I have this notion that it just wasn't talked about, or at least certainly wasn't present in mainstream culture. Clearly, a mistaken assumption, at least to some extent.
So the song that stuck in my head was "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught"...it just kept spinning around and around in my brain as I was getting ready for bed, and I was idly musing about my grandparents, particularly my deceased grandfather, the opera singer, the musical theater man, the pretty darn bigoted guy, and wondering...did he ever sing that song? What did that mean to him? Did he know he was a bigot? Did it make him challenge that mindset, or was that just the way it was? I'll never know.
But then I suddenly remembered a disturbing incident I'd witnessed that very day--how it slipped my mind, I have no clue. I had pulled into an Albertson's parking lot with the kids--not a store I usually go to, but I was looking for something particular. As I parked, I noticed a group of three people--two men and a woman--in the next aisle, talking together next to an SUV. I don't even know why I took note, except that the woman had her head covered, and that drew my eye, and so I guess I made an automatic judgment of "Muslim", even though, head covering aside, nothing about her or either of her companions shouted any particular kind of thing other than "regular person". It looked like one man was showing the other two a piece of paper that seemed to have a picture on it, and the look on the woman's face was attentive and inquisitive. The other man wore sunglasses, so I couldn't read his expression.
The kids and I were getting ready to get out of the car, and as I opened my door I heard a raised voice, and glanced up to see the paper-bearing gentleman gesticulating and sounding angry, although I couldn't hear the words. I sat for a moment, wondering what was going on, as the woman's companion made some comment, finger raised--my take was censure of some sort. Here the angry man got even louder, shook his paper, and yelled, "I'm not the one who cut this woman's nose off, and put her picture on Time magazine!" He started to walk away, and then turned to deliver one last zinger: "There is only one Islam, and it's EVIL!" Then he turned and stalked into the store.
I sat there staring after him, holding my children back, wondering if I wanted to even go into the same store that this man had entered, to expose them to that level of hatred, and belatedly wanting to see if the other couple were all right, but they had already gotten in their car and driven away. I was awash with so many emotions: alarm, confusion, embarrassment for the way this man represented...I don't know what...America? Christians? White people? I don't know who he thought he was representing, I just didn't want it to be me.
And I could not stop thinking about how that whole exchange might have occurred, even though I had very little data to put together a hypothesis. But why was he carrying that picture? Why was he so prepared for a confrontation? Did he leave the house intending to find one? Was it some sort of evangelical campaign, to show Muslims the error of their faith? Or was he targeting Muslim Americans, holding individuals accountable for the actions of Muslims around the world? I'm certain that he thought he was on the right side...and maybe his intentions weren't all that misplaced, maybe he is truly moved to horror by the plight of women in the Muslim world, a position I applaud...but his methods...
And here was an uncomfortable thought...how did he know what faith that couple held, unless he, like me, made a snap judgment based on the woman's head cloth? What did that mean about me? And even the fact that I wanted to go apologize to those people, did that mean that I felt I was automatically in the crazy man's camp, abhorrent as I found him, and needed to apologize for my compatriot's actions, which meant that those people were...other? Or maybe I just wanted to distance myself from him, to say to them, "we're not all like that", except that that's still an "us & them" statement, isn't it? How do I escape that? How do I keep from passing that to my children?
And now here's that song again, "You've got to be taught to hate and fear" going round and round my head...
Weird how events can converge, sometimes.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My daughter is missing the point.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
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