Two Ears and ONE Mouth

Sometimes I talk too much.  I often remind my kids that God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.  But, I don't always follow my own advice.  More often than not, folks just need a listening ear, but instead of following this logic, I too often try to encourage people with my words, rather than listening to theirs.  

My husband is good at talking to people.  It's an important part of his job.  What my husband does, that I often fail to do, is listen carefully, getting the full story.  Then he speaks.  He waits and makes sure that he understands the big picture of a person's situation. 

Not long ago, I found myself engaged in a conversation with someone who I knew had surgery fairly recently.  What I didn't know at the time, however, was the kind of surgery this friend endured.  When it was too late, I discovered, thanks to my knowledgeable husband, that it was bladder surgery.  My half informed conversation with this person went something like this: 

"How have you been since the surgery?" 

"Fairly good.  In fact, I had a good week, but then had an accident this weekend, kind of setting me back a bit." 

Again, being uninformed, I assumed this meant a car accident.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," and then tried to think of comforting words just for her and her situation.  "You know, I've had a lot of those and although it's been a while, just remember that it happens to us all."  And then I hugged her as if my words of encouragement would soar through her anxious spirit. 

At the time, I was glad to be able to give her cheer with my words. 

Only now, I wish I would have listened....

It's a Curious Thing

It's a curious thing to me.  My daughter decides to play "school" with her younger brother, and curiously he does every single thing she tells him to do.

When Ella deems it time, Jrod opens his workbook and does every page she puts out; no matter how long it takes him.  When it's recess time, he goes out in the 100 degree heat and runs laps until Ella tells him to stop.  And then, when it's time for music class, Jrod sits at the piano and works even harder when Ella raises her voice and exclaims: "that note is staccato not legato!"  She even asks him to do finger strengthening exercises (whatever that is) and....he does it. Curiously. 

It's interesting to me because my simple requests, such as putting dirty clothes in the hamper, get regularly ignored.  But Ella asks him to do finger exercises (telling him to "ignore the pain") and subtraction problems, and Jrod's working before she can finish her directions. 

Their "game" entertains them for an entire day, so I don't disrupt them until it's time to eat.  And these "school" lunch times are also curious.  It's the only time Jrod actually eats.  Ella comes upstairs, introduces me as lunch lady Louise, and explains that whatever gets placed in front of them is what they will eat.  Done and done.  Jrod will eat everything that lunch lady Louise places in front of him, a rare occurrence.  Maybe I need to change my name to Louise for dinner time. 

There are times when I find myself experimenting with Ella's little tricks.  Could it be that she's figured out the nuances of parenting at the age of eight?  I'm thirty-one and can't accomplish with Jrod nearly as much as Ella seems to be able to during their "school" time.  Maybe I could try growling (I heard Ella do this at one point during the morning). 

But then I considered something this morning.  My sisters "curiously" did the same thing as Jrod.  They used to do everything that I told them to do.

There were times that I'd be lying around watching cartoons and out of pure and utter laziness would ask one of my sisters to get me a cup of water.  The initial response was not only reasonable but completely deserved:  "No."

But then I would come back at them:  "I'll time you.  And if you get a really good time, I'll throw a carnival for you."

Before I could share with them the "fine print" on my offer, one of my sisters would be racing up the stairs gathering me a cold drink of ice-water.  When my sister would return, she'd fine a piece of paper taped to my door:  "Due to unforeseen circumstances, the carnival is canceled for the day."  They were never mad at me - only at the unforeseen circumstances.  Curiously, this kind of occurrence would happen over and over again.   

When we were younger, my sisters and I would have our own "school" days.  And, like Ella, I was always the teacher.  And, like Jrod, neither of my sisters would ever question my role.   Only we had the school at our fingertips.....literally.  My sisters and I would cross the street with my dad on Saturday mornings, and while he studied upstairs, we entered the world of make believe downstairs.  My game, though, was all too real.

There were times when my younger sister would actually cry when I didn't give her a good marking for the day.   She would be dismayed when my other sister would receive two stars on her "work" and she would only get one.  Bekah, my younger sister, was like Jrod.  Whatever I said, she did. 

This was an unfortunate reality for Bekah.  Once I realized she would not question me (Erin would always give me a little lip), there was no going back.  It was even better when I realized that Bekah had a fear of being sent to the Principal's Office.  So on one particular day, as her teacher, I decided she didn't listen well enough and off to the Principal's office she went. 

And, of course, I was the principal as well as the teacher.  As we walked down the quiet hallway, I explained to Bekah what she did wrong and why she was going to the dreaded "office."  She was very apologetic, but I told her there was nothing she could do at this point.  With that, she began crying.

Once we reached the office, I quickly switched roles and put on my Principal face.  Sitting Bekah in a chair in front of me (picture Jack Bauer and his prey awaiting the torture that was inevitable), I simply pointed to a door in the back of the room:

"Rebekah," I used my Principal voice," do you know what happens to kids who get sent to the Principal's office?"

"No," she was totally shaking in her boots.  "I've never been sent here before."

"Well, Rebekah, when you get sent to the Principal's office, you go into that back room.  And in that back room, Rebekah, there is an electric chair.  They electrocute you when you get sent to the office."

"No, no, no....!"

I realized at this point that my sister truly did not know where the line between real and make believe existed, so I told her that she would not have to enter the closet room as long as she "behaved the rest of the day. "

She thanked me profusely and once I was her teacher again, I took her hand and led her back to the classroom where I gave her five minutes to complete the math problems I had written on the chalkboard.  And she did them.  Curiously.

Later that week, during real life school, my sister Bekah was practicing for a musical with her class.  One of the boys was being disrespectful, so the teacher sent him to the Principal's office. 

There was silence as the "real" teacher reprimanded the student.  Silence, except for my sister.  No one in the room could explain or understand her wailing and subsequent yelling, "No, please!  Don't electrocute him!"

I believe this experience had a profound impact on Bekah's view of me as her valiant, older sister.  She never did play my games quite like she did before the Principal's office experience.  In fact, she would come at me at times and say, "You're not my boss," something Erin learned earlier on.  Without a doubt, I thoroughly enjoyed the many years that passed before my younger sister actually figured out that indeed, I was not her boss.

So, enjoy it, Ella.  Enjoy the curious fact that Jrod will do whatever you tell him to do.  One day, however, he will have the same eye opening moment as your Aunt Bekah.  And when that comes....well....Lily, you better watch out.  

Teaching Tact

Most children are not socially graceful.  "Tact" is not something they come by naturally.    It's one of those areas that most parents don't think to provide instruction for until the opportunity presents itself.  And, unfortunately, when confronted with the urgency of teaching children how to say something in a graceful way, an uncomfortable situation has usually already occurred.  

My children do not merely lack social grace, they are, at times, just plain socially awkward.

Today, while jumping around at Monkey Joe's, Jrod made a friend who he thoroughly enjoyed playing with.  After a while, he lost his little buddy, so he asked if I would help find him.  I didn't know who in the world I was looking for, so I told him to spend a few more minutes looking.

He returned discouraged and told me that he "looked in every possible place there ever is or was."  So I told him that his buddy probably went home.  Jrod then pointed to a family sitting a few feet from us: 

"That's his mom and dad."

"Then ask them where your friend is." 

So Jrod meandered over to the couple and stood right in front of them.  "Excuse me.  I'm looking for your boy.  The one in the orange shirt, with brown hair, yellowish teeth, shorter than me, and he is of colored skin.  But he's not of the black kind, he's of the white kind."

It was one of those moments in life that you wish you could just pause and rewind.  I saw a commercial recently that portrays people in awkward situations.  They don't know what to say or do, so time freezes, they have a bite of a particular candy bar and, BAM!  The light bulb comes on and the situation is resolved in a smooth and satisfactory way. 

If only candy bar freezes were real in life.  But they are not.  So there I was starring at my boy confronting the adults, and I was desperate to think of a good way to explain my son's interpretation of their flesh and blood. 

I thought of three things I could do or say, knowing none of them were truly satisfactory.  My first option was to tell them that my son was definitely talking about another boy in an orange shirt.  Secondly, I thought I could just laugh and say, "Oh kids."  Pathetic; there's no doubt. 

I watched my son turn and skip away when he received no response from the adults.  So I went with my third option:  I pretended that I didn't know my child.  I walked in the opposite direction beckoning Lily to come and "jump over here" as if she was the only blood connection to me in the entire facility. 

Who would have thought that I would have to teach my son to not describe another child as having "yellowish teeth."  And when would I have ever considered to instruct him that it's not necessary to refer to races using the phrase "of the kind."  We're human beings, for heaven's sake, not aliens. 

None-the-less, the opportunity awkwardly presented itself this morning, so I did some instructing on the way home. 

Directionally Challenged

For me, simple is never simple.  An “easy” recipe turns into hours of nightmare and clean up, and there’s usually never much to show for it.  As I wrote earlier, the birthday cake, made especially for my two year old, was ruined in a massive way.  After careful review, I discovered that I left out the sugar and did not bake it for the appropriate amount of time.  The result was a doughy, bland, something or other.

I have an instruction- following problem.  My husband has suggested that I might benefit from some sort of a group therapy:  “Hello.  My name is Katie and I can’t follow directions.” 

This fact, however, has been my reality before a husband and children. And for each failed attempt through the years, there has been what I might have considered a good and descent explanation. 

As a child, I did not follow directions well in school. There wasn't a report card sent home that did not criticize my choice of social hour.   I tried to defend my behavior to my parents by explaining to them that God made me talkative.  I needed to be the person He wanted me to be.  That pretty much went nowhere.    

 I went through purgatory in a ninth grade classroom during my first year teaching.  There is no doubt that I was purposefully given the chattiest children in the entire school.  Each day I would publicly apologize to my teachers through the years while simultaneously giving my “if you talk again when I’m talking” speech, trying my hardest to put the same fear into them that the teachers tried to put in me.  I was about as successful that first year as my former teachers were with me. 

When I was ten, we visited my grandmother during a holiday vacation.  She instructed me to “trim the tree” on one particular day while she was gone shopping.  I heard that part of the directions, but missed the part when she told me where to find the ornaments.   I did just what I thought she asked. I followed my own version of her directions and turned her nicely framed artificial tree into something quite different using the shears I found in the garage.  I argued with my parents telling them that I heard MOST of the directions. 

During the end of my sophomore year of college, I stayed up all night cramming for an exam for which I was not prepared.  While shoving information into my brain minutes before the exam was passed out, I missed the all-too important announcement that anyone with an “A” was exempt from the exam.  I didn’t listen carefully and spent an unnecessary three hours on a written exam. 

When my professor asked me why I stayed, I just looked at him bewildered.  He then went on to tell me what I missed three hours before.  I told him I didn’t hear his instructions because I was trying to learn as much as possible.  He told me that I didn’t hear his instructions because I had procrastinated.  He was right. 

And then it wasn’t long ago that I purchased two bookshelves for my daughter’s room.  I wasn’t picky, so I chose the ones that seemed the easiest to put together.  Instead of taking the much needed time to follow the instructions, I threw them away and went with my constructional “gut.”    

What my husband would have put together in less than an hour, I completed in three hours.  And when presenting my accomplishment to the family, there was no hiding the large hole in the back of the first bookshelf and the chipped wood on the second.  These happened only after I put the first shelf together backward. 

The end result of this project was nothing short of ridiculous.   I tried to explain to my husband that the instructions were more difficult than they needed to be, and for that reason, I had decided I would be better off without them.  He said nothing.   All he had to do was point to the hole. 

A few days ago, I discovered a cultural phenomenon with directions that even a person like me can follow.  It’s called Red Box.  Stick your bucks in, walk away with some movies for a night, and stick them back in any Red Box the next day.

When it was time to return my DVD's, I went to a convenient location, walked up, pressed “return,” and let the machine suck in my first movie.  It was taken without a problem.  The second DVD was taken in the same way but almost immediately a warning came up on the screen:  “This box cannot read this DVD.  Please remove from below.” 

I blamed the machine for being insufficient and stuffed the second DVD back into the machine.  The same message came back up.  I literally began hitting the machine when I noticed something.  The machine was blue.  Red Box boxes were….red.  I backed up and saw the title, “Movie Cube,” strewn across the top. 

I declared Movie Cube unsatisfactory for stealing my first DVD.

Impatiently I got in the car and slammed the door.  Ella asked me what was wrong, so explained the whole situation and how ridiculous it was that Movie Cube would take my movie and not return it.  I was willing and ready to keep going on my rampage, but Ella interrupted me:  “Mom?  Aren’t YOU the one who put the wrong DVD in the wrong box?” 

And there you have it.  I was brought back to reality through my eight year old daughter.  No excuse here, folks.  Simple things are only simple… if you follow the directions.