by Lisa Curry
One hears how important the family dinner is to the wellbeing of children, especially during adolescence. We’re told that teens whose families make time to sit down and eat dinner together on a frequent, consistent basis are less likely to do drugs and get into trouble with the law.
Back in the days when I freelanced at home or worked part-time and spent lots of time with my kids (sometimes more than my mental health could bear), I didn’t think much about the importance of family dinners. But now that I work full-time and dinner is often the only occasion during the work/school week that my husband and I and our two boys, ages 8 and 10, are all together at once, I value that time to touch base, reconnect, and find out what’s going on in my kids’ lives.
At one recent dinner, I asked my younger son, Sean, about his day at school.
“Mrs. Cox hurt her back and had to leave, and guess who we got for our substitute,” he said. “Nurse Razzano. She’s mean!”
I’d never heard of a school nurse being called in to substitute for a teacher, but perhaps she’d been the best the school could do on little to no notice.
“She’s not that bad,” my older son, Griffin, said. “She loves my hair.”
Griffin has long, wild, curly locks, thanks to DNA inherited from yours truly and the fact that he’s refused to have it cut for the past year.
He added, “She tells me how much she loves my hair every time we have a head-lice check.”
Nice.
At another recent dinner, I asked Griffin about his day. “Did you go outside for recess, or was it raining?”
“The boys went out, but the girls weren’t allowed.”
“Did the girls do something bad?” I asked.
“No, they had to have a talk about menstruation.”
Probably another of Nurse Razzano's many duties, along with head-lice checks and occasional emergency substitute teaching, I thought.
“What’s menstruation?” Sean asked.
“I’ll tell you what it ISN’T —” my husband said, “— appropriate dinner table conversation!”
Sometimes he’s funnier than the kids. “We’ll talk about it later,” I said.
After we’d eaten and their squeamish father left the table, I explained the menstrual cycle to the boys and answered other questions they posed about the facts of life.
Sean, looking thoughtful, announced, “When I grow up, I want to have sex.”
What do you say to that? Myriad possible responses flitted through my mind.
So do most people…
I’m sure you’ll have plenty of it…
Good luck with that… ?
I settled for, “Well, good, that makes you normal.”
Since my boys aren’t adolescents yet, I can’t tell you if family dinners have kept them off drugs or out of trouble with the law. But in the meantime, family dinners can always be counted on for a laugh.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Friday, May 09, 2008
Friday, December 14, 2007
Santa Shops Victoriously
By Lisa Curry
My firstborn, Rainman, age 10, handed me his letter to Santa last week, all sealed up in an envelope addressed to the North Pole. I, of course, sent it on its merry way to the frozen arctic.
Santa Claus smiled when he opened the letter. Rainman is nothing if not specific. His Christmas wish list was typed, numbered, and included both sources and prices…
1. A customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey with name Curry and #22 on it. Size Youth XL. You can get it at nflshop.com for $79.99.
2. An Adrian Peterson Minnesota Vikings sewn (not screen-printed) jersey. Size Youth XL. You can probably get it at Champs for $70.
We don’t call him Rainman for nothing.
The list went on in that fashion with about a half-dozen less expensive items and ended with “and anything else you think I’d like.”
Santa sat down at his handy laptop to visit nflshop.com.
Uh-oh. They were all out of customized Steelers 75th anniversary jerseys. He alerted me, so I could discuss the problem with Rainman, who decided he would settle for a Troy Polamalu Steelers 75th anniversary jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course.
Santa dashed off to Champs Sports. They didn’t have that Polamalu jersey in stock, and they couldn’t get it in youth extra-large, but they could order an adult small, which was basically the same, and have it delivered right to his house. Oh, and by the way, the adult small cost $40 more than the youth extra-large.
“Good luck with Adrian Peterson. You’re not going to find that anywhere,” the Champs sales associate told Santa, who decided Rainman would receive a Brian Urlacher Chicago Bears jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course – instead.
When he got home, Santa felt terrible, though. Poor Rainman, who’d been a fairly good boy this year, wasn’t going to get his first choice on either of the two top items on his Christmas wish list. Santa sat down at his laptop and jiggled the mouse to wake it up. The web browser came up with eBay on it. One of those darn elves must have been surfing the internet. On a whim, Santa typed in the search box, “Adrian Peterson sewn jersey YXL.”
He found two of them – both from the same seller. The auctions ended in a few days, only 7 minutes apart, and the current high bids were in the $40 range. Santa wasn’t an experienced eBay shopper, but he guessed from what the Champs clerk had said – not to mention the time of year – that these jerseys wouldn’t go cheap. He sighed and put them on the elf’s “My eBay Watch List.”
Meanwhile, back at our house, Rainman came running. “They have the customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey back on nflshop.com. They must have got more of them!”
I alerted Santa, who sighed again and put in the order for the customized jersey with name Curry and #22 on it.
Now he would have to return the Polamalu jersey – which UPS had tried to deliver that day while he was out and wouldn’t leave without a signature.
Last night when the eBay auctions for the Peterson jerseys ended, Santa was poised at his laptop. He had calculated how much money he’d get back from returning both the Polamalu and Urlacher jerseys, deducted the eBay seller’s $10 shipping and handling charge, and decided that would be his highest bid.
As the first auction came to an end, someone ran the price up to $135 at the last second. Santa muttered a few bad words, made a mental note to put that dirty sniper on the naughty list, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The second auction was his last chance. Santa clicked the refresh button again and again while the seconds ticked down. 10…8…4…1…
“Congratulations!” his screen read. “You won this item!”
And for $20 less than his maximum bid. Santa exhaled and smiled – victorious, but a little weary at the thought of fighting the holiday crowds to return the Polamalu jersey, which UPS had just finally managed to deliver that day, and the Urlacher jersey to Champs.
He would really have to look into teaching those lazy, internet-surfing elves to sew.
My firstborn, Rainman, age 10, handed me his letter to Santa last week, all sealed up in an envelope addressed to the North Pole. I, of course, sent it on its merry way to the frozen arctic.
Santa Claus smiled when he opened the letter. Rainman is nothing if not specific. His Christmas wish list was typed, numbered, and included both sources and prices…
1. A customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey with name Curry and #22 on it. Size Youth XL. You can get it at nflshop.com for $79.99.
2. An Adrian Peterson Minnesota Vikings sewn (not screen-printed) jersey. Size Youth XL. You can probably get it at Champs for $70.
We don’t call him Rainman for nothing.
The list went on in that fashion with about a half-dozen less expensive items and ended with “and anything else you think I’d like.”
Santa sat down at his handy laptop to visit nflshop.com.
Uh-oh. They were all out of customized Steelers 75th anniversary jerseys. He alerted me, so I could discuss the problem with Rainman, who decided he would settle for a Troy Polamalu Steelers 75th anniversary jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course.
Santa dashed off to Champs Sports. They didn’t have that Polamalu jersey in stock, and they couldn’t get it in youth extra-large, but they could order an adult small, which was basically the same, and have it delivered right to his house. Oh, and by the way, the adult small cost $40 more than the youth extra-large.
“Good luck with Adrian Peterson. You’re not going to find that anywhere,” the Champs sales associate told Santa, who decided Rainman would receive a Brian Urlacher Chicago Bears jersey – sewn not screen-printed, of course – instead.
When he got home, Santa felt terrible, though. Poor Rainman, who’d been a fairly good boy this year, wasn’t going to get his first choice on either of the two top items on his Christmas wish list. Santa sat down at his laptop and jiggled the mouse to wake it up. The web browser came up with eBay on it. One of those darn elves must have been surfing the internet. On a whim, Santa typed in the search box, “Adrian Peterson sewn jersey YXL.”
He found two of them – both from the same seller. The auctions ended in a few days, only 7 minutes apart, and the current high bids were in the $40 range. Santa wasn’t an experienced eBay shopper, but he guessed from what the Champs clerk had said – not to mention the time of year – that these jerseys wouldn’t go cheap. He sighed and put them on the elf’s “My eBay Watch List.”
Meanwhile, back at our house, Rainman came running. “They have the customized Steelers 75th anniversary jersey back on nflshop.com. They must have got more of them!”
I alerted Santa, who sighed again and put in the order for the customized jersey with name Curry and #22 on it.
Now he would have to return the Polamalu jersey – which UPS had tried to deliver that day while he was out and wouldn’t leave without a signature.
Last night when the eBay auctions for the Peterson jerseys ended, Santa was poised at his laptop. He had calculated how much money he’d get back from returning both the Polamalu and Urlacher jerseys, deducted the eBay seller’s $10 shipping and handling charge, and decided that would be his highest bid.
As the first auction came to an end, someone ran the price up to $135 at the last second. Santa muttered a few bad words, made a mental note to put that dirty sniper on the naughty list, and wiped the sweat from his brow.
The second auction was his last chance. Santa clicked the refresh button again and again while the seconds ticked down. 10…8…4…1…
“Congratulations!” his screen read. “You won this item!”
And for $20 less than his maximum bid. Santa exhaled and smiled – victorious, but a little weary at the thought of fighting the holiday crowds to return the Polamalu jersey, which UPS had just finally managed to deliver that day, and the Urlacher jersey to Champs.
He would really have to look into teaching those lazy, internet-surfing elves to sew.
Friday, November 09, 2007
The Reluctant Volunteer
By Lisa Curry
The message was on my answering machine when I arrived home from work one day last month. “Lisa, this is Kim. I’m organizing the Fall Fest at school on the 31st, and I was hoping you could help me out that day by running one of the stations. It’s a Wild West theme this year. Give me a call.” Beeeep.
The Fall Fest at my kids’ elementary school is an all-day extravaganza with various ongoing arts, crafts and other activities for students in kindergarten through fourth grade.
Kim was a friend, and God bless her for taking on the Augean task of running the Fall Fest, but I had a multitude of good reasons to say no. At work, I was in the middle of producing a catalog that was already behind schedule, and I couldn’t afford to lose a day’s progress – not to mention a day’s pay.
Besides that, there’s a reason I became a writer instead of a teacher. I love my own kids, and I can deal with other people’s in small numbers. But spend the entire day surrounded by 200 screaming 5 to 10 year olds? Gee, thanks, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out with red-hot pincers. The mere idea gave me a twitch.
“Are you going to help at the Fall Fest, Mommy?” my younger son, Sean, asked with an eager smile.
“I really can’t, honey. I have to work.”
He drooped. “But can’t you take a day off?”
I was about to say no when my older son, Griffin, asked, “Yeah, why can’t you take a day off? Please, Mom?”
They’re 8 and 10. They still like me. They still want to show me off to their friends at school. How much longer will that last? I figure I have maybe 2 or 3 years before I morph into the biggest dork on earth, and they won’t want to be seen in public with me, let alone have me show up at their school – a fate worse than death.
All my good reasons to say no fled in the face of the two best reasons to say yes.
“Okay,” I groaned. “I’ll take the day off.”
October 31st – the day of my Halloween horror – arrived in the blink of an eye. How time flies when you’re dreading an event.
I sent my children off to their classrooms and reported to the school cafeteria for duty with the other PTA moms and dads.
“You’re outside in the OK Corral with Ted and Mike,” Kim said, pointing to her husband and another dad. “You’re going to have the kids shooting buffalo.”
How P.C. Considering that the school’s weapons policy considered expulsion a suitable punishment for carrying a pocket knife, I presumed we weren’t shooting the endangered species with BB guns.
The buffalo turned out to be painted plywood cut-outs propped up with 2x4s. The weapon was a catapult sort of affair made of stretchy rubber tubing with a nylon pocket in the middle. Someone told me it was designed to launch a water balloon, but we used Nerf balls as ammo. An adult held each side of the catapult, while a child loaded the Nerf ball into the pocket, pulled back the catapult as far as possible, and then let it fly. The object, of course, was to hit the plywood buffalo, but everyone got a little prize whether they succeeded or not.
I started the day as part of the catapult-holding duo with Mike, while Ted fetched the Nerf balls. Watching the kids shoot was so much fun I forgot I didn’t really like being around children. When the first graders – led by a substitute teacher and chaperoned by someone’s kindly grandma – dissolved into anarchy, stole all the Nerf balls, and chased each other around the field screaming like wild Indians instead of shooting buffalo, then nearly mobbed me over the prize bowl, I only twitched a little.
About mid-morning, Mike accidentally – I think – let go of his end of the catapult when it was stretched to maximum capacity. It snapped me on the butt, which stung. Right before lunch, he did it again, and it snapped me on the left breast, which stung even more.
After lunch, I decided to be the Nerf ball chaser and let Ted hold the catapult with Mike the untrustworthy.
When my kids’ turn at the OK Corral came, they yelled, “Mom!” and ran up and hugged me.
The day was sunny, warm and beautiful, and at the end of it, I realized I hadn’t thought about my languishing catalog – the one that frequently keeps me awake at night – even once.
The next day, Griffin brought home a thank-you card his class made for me and all signed. On the front, someone had drawn a decent likeness of one of the plywood buffalo, along with three misshapen people pulling the catapult.
“That’s you,” Griffin said, pointing to one of the people. “And that’s me shooting.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I should have recognized us by our curly hair.”
I hung the card on the wall in my cubicle at work, right over my computer. Sometimes when I’m tearing my curly hair out over that catalog – which is still behind schedule and still costing me sleep – I look up at the card and think of my day in the sun as a PTA mom.
Ever do something you really didn’t want to do, and end up really glad you did?
The message was on my answering machine when I arrived home from work one day last month. “Lisa, this is Kim. I’m organizing the Fall Fest at school on the 31st, and I was hoping you could help me out that day by running one of the stations. It’s a Wild West theme this year. Give me a call.” Beeeep.
The Fall Fest at my kids’ elementary school is an all-day extravaganza with various ongoing arts, crafts and other activities for students in kindergarten through fourth grade.
Kim was a friend, and God bless her for taking on the Augean task of running the Fall Fest, but I had a multitude of good reasons to say no. At work, I was in the middle of producing a catalog that was already behind schedule, and I couldn’t afford to lose a day’s progress – not to mention a day’s pay.
Besides that, there’s a reason I became a writer instead of a teacher. I love my own kids, and I can deal with other people’s in small numbers. But spend the entire day surrounded by 200 screaming 5 to 10 year olds? Gee, thanks, but I’d rather have my fingernails ripped out with red-hot pincers. The mere idea gave me a twitch.
“Are you going to help at the Fall Fest, Mommy?” my younger son, Sean, asked with an eager smile.
“I really can’t, honey. I have to work.”
He drooped. “But can’t you take a day off?”
I was about to say no when my older son, Griffin, asked, “Yeah, why can’t you take a day off? Please, Mom?”
They’re 8 and 10. They still like me. They still want to show me off to their friends at school. How much longer will that last? I figure I have maybe 2 or 3 years before I morph into the biggest dork on earth, and they won’t want to be seen in public with me, let alone have me show up at their school – a fate worse than death.
All my good reasons to say no fled in the face of the two best reasons to say yes.
“Okay,” I groaned. “I’ll take the day off.”
October 31st – the day of my Halloween horror – arrived in the blink of an eye. How time flies when you’re dreading an event.
I sent my children off to their classrooms and reported to the school cafeteria for duty with the other PTA moms and dads.
“You’re outside in the OK Corral with Ted and Mike,” Kim said, pointing to her husband and another dad. “You’re going to have the kids shooting buffalo.”
How P.C. Considering that the school’s weapons policy considered expulsion a suitable punishment for carrying a pocket knife, I presumed we weren’t shooting the endangered species with BB guns.
The buffalo turned out to be painted plywood cut-outs propped up with 2x4s. The weapon was a catapult sort of affair made of stretchy rubber tubing with a nylon pocket in the middle. Someone told me it was designed to launch a water balloon, but we used Nerf balls as ammo. An adult held each side of the catapult, while a child loaded the Nerf ball into the pocket, pulled back the catapult as far as possible, and then let it fly. The object, of course, was to hit the plywood buffalo, but everyone got a little prize whether they succeeded or not.
I started the day as part of the catapult-holding duo with Mike, while Ted fetched the Nerf balls. Watching the kids shoot was so much fun I forgot I didn’t really like being around children. When the first graders – led by a substitute teacher and chaperoned by someone’s kindly grandma – dissolved into anarchy, stole all the Nerf balls, and chased each other around the field screaming like wild Indians instead of shooting buffalo, then nearly mobbed me over the prize bowl, I only twitched a little.
About mid-morning, Mike accidentally – I think – let go of his end of the catapult when it was stretched to maximum capacity. It snapped me on the butt, which stung. Right before lunch, he did it again, and it snapped me on the left breast, which stung even more.
After lunch, I decided to be the Nerf ball chaser and let Ted hold the catapult with Mike the untrustworthy.
When my kids’ turn at the OK Corral came, they yelled, “Mom!” and ran up and hugged me.
The day was sunny, warm and beautiful, and at the end of it, I realized I hadn’t thought about my languishing catalog – the one that frequently keeps me awake at night – even once.
The next day, Griffin brought home a thank-you card his class made for me and all signed. On the front, someone had drawn a decent likeness of one of the plywood buffalo, along with three misshapen people pulling the catapult.
“That’s you,” Griffin said, pointing to one of the people. “And that’s me shooting.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, “I should have recognized us by our curly hair.”
I hung the card on the wall in my cubicle at work, right over my computer. Sometimes when I’m tearing my curly hair out over that catalog – which is still behind schedule and still costing me sleep – I look up at the card and think of my day in the sun as a PTA mom.
Ever do something you really didn’t want to do, and end up really glad you did?
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