Bad Parenting Syllabus, Day One: Tell son he will be eaten by a lion

Day One: When your child is unusually naughty, read Maurice Sendak's Pierre: A Cautionary Tale, part of the Nutshell Library. Pierre is about a naughty little boy who keeps saying "I don't care" and is subsequently eaten by a hungry lion. The story ends well with the boy released and the lion staying on with the family as a weekend guest, but the little boy does spend part of the plot in the lion's tummy. Tell your boy that he will be eaten by a lion if he doesn't listen to mommy and daddy. Watch his eyes grow wide. Chortle with satisfaction. Learn to live with his subsequent fear of "wions."

More Bad Parenting tips arriving soon! Comes fully loaded with a healthy dose of remorse, self-recrimination, and extra savings coupons on future therapy for both child and parent.

Pelham Housewives Smackdown!

Last night I wrote this letter to the director of my son's school. She's a decent and nice person, so I was decent in turn. I thought, however, that I would edit the letter to illuminate my true and more heartfelt feelings about the subject.

Dear_____,

I appreciate all the changes you've made to make the parking at the school easier and safer--they seem to be doing the trick!

I thought I would bring up one concern, however. I'm not sure what you can do about it, but I see some rude behavior from the moms skinny, nouveau riche beeatches who drive the giant SUVs motherfucking, gas-guzzling, planet-wrecking, gargantuan pieces of shit that take up half the road. As my nanny was pulling out today from a parking spot, she paused to let someone ahead of her pull out. The mother in the SUV behind her leaned on the horn and angrily gestured at her to "get a move on." My nanny was shocked and appalled that another member of the school community this nasty bitch would be this rude. Perhaps a gentle reminder about courtesy public slapdown in the next newsletter school ampitheatre--come on, me and her, mano a mano--would be helpful?

Frankly--and this leads me into another rather difficult topic I have often thought of broaching--the behavior of some of the parents at the school saddens me sickens me and has made the town of Pelham a dark blot on the landscape forevermore. It is, in fact, the reason that we do not plan to send our son back next year, nor will we be sending his younger brother in the future. The school and teachers are wonderful, but many of the mothers are unfriendly, uncommunicative, and seem to belong to an exclusive club that desires no new members total freak-ass beeatches who have never worked an honest day in their lives and have nothing better to do than complain about "the help." Oh yeah, and I'll bet they have ostentatious, tacky gold fixtures in their bathrooms, too. And their husbands are old, bald, and have small penii.

It is a shame that at this point in my life, I should be sharply reminded of junior high-school cliques when this sort of thing has no place in a school community. Sadly, I am not referring to the children but to the mothers loathsome slagmounts to whom I alluded earlier. Last year, I attempted to set up several playdates for my son in order to extend his school friendships, as suggested by his teacher. In every instance but one, the mothers rebuffed me by not returning my calls and making no overtures of their own went back to picking out tacky shit for their oversized, repulsive homes. Eventually, I gave up--to my son's detriment. While he was invited to the birthday parties along with everyone else, only a few mothers even took the time to say hello to me. [Yeah, even the short, squat one with the glasses who has an extra Y chromosome. Yeah, her too. If you're gonna be a beeatch, says my husband, at least be hot. This woman looks like she just popped up from a groundhog hole. And her name is Donna. Yeah, I'll name names! Or maybe it's spelled DAWNA? Or used to be before she was found turning tricks in a Hohokus lesbian strip club. ] The lack of friendliness has been downright bizarre the source of my recent "I'm a-gonna go put human poo on the steps of the craphole Pelham Country Club" fantasies.

While this year it's too early to tell, I don't have high hopes based on last year's experiences. Seeing mothers in tennis skirts stand on the frontsteps and gossip about their nannies no-account trash who were no doubt scooped from the Bronx by some wealthy schmucks with extra money to spend on Botox doesn't make me feel like this is the right community for me makes me want to slap, slap, slap my sillies out--just like the kids' song!

I realize there is little you can do about people's attitudes, but I believe that a school should be a welcoming, loving community from child to staff to parents. This has a huge impact on my perceptions of the school as a whole. I find myself saying to friends who ask: "Yes,it's a lovely school, but the parents just aren't very...nice are complete, human shit. The community is cold. Therefore, I don't recommend it for your child stay the hell away!" Occasionally, I get the response from a fellow local parent that "the school has the reputation of being extremely snobby filled with people better served by being fed to carnivores in a Roman circus." It's unfortunate that this should be the case when my son adores the school and his teachers.

Realistically, I don't want him growing up in a community where he has no outside contact with his friends other than the school hours. Nor do Iwant him to think that such rudeness and unmerited elitism are a good way to behave; I fear that his young school friends, given a few years, will morph into small versions of their parents [yeah, you know they will, and it's gross].

I don't mean to suggest that you can "do something" about this or even that my perceptions can be anything other than subjective are anything other than a priori fact, objective as gold bricks. I have never had a problem with the school staff or the teachers. I do feel that to keep silent about why we are not returning next year wouldn't be right; not only because you might make the faulty assumption that we're not happy with the teachers or academics. Of course, if there is anything that can be changed I would prefer it to be now, when my son is still in the midst of his school experience.

Although school should not about me and is about my son, my experiences there do make an impact on him. I do wish I had the experience that friends of mine have shared about their children's preschools, in which the community is nurturing, diverse has more than one token "colored" child in the ENTIRE SCHOOL, lasting, and inclusive. Perhaps there are
subtle things that can be done to coax the school parents in that direction beat the tar out of the motherfuckers? If you can affect the general climate in that regard, more power to you.

Thank you for listening. New Ro is in the house!

Cooking Class

Velveeta Loaf. One of the finest names in cheeses, and a snap to prepare.
Directions: Unwrap cheese, Insert fork. Display. Feeds: 6 refugees from a war-torn country of your choice.



Meat Plate. Your party will be a smash with this as its centerpiece!
Directions: Arrange raw meat on plate. Admire the beauty of many disparate cattle and piggies, come together in death as they never were in life. Dream of their melodic lowing and oinking as they meet one another within this circular ceramic heaven. Feeds: The Party Pony's meat-loving family.



Grape and Homemade Play-DOH Surprise. This delectable mix will have your guests clamoring for more.
Directions: Ask a parent to split the grapes in half with a knife, as they will present a horrible choking hazard for the unwary.
Smash in Play-DOH and stir vigorously. Feeds: one younger sibling.

Lexicon of Cute Toddler Food Names

In the " so cute" category. Herewith, my lexicon of healthy foods prepared for toddlers.

Purple Crunchies: Red Cabbage
Sunshine Sticks: Carrots
Dinosaur Trees: Broccoli
Bunny Food: Lettuce
The Pea Family: Peas on a spoon
Sunshine Nubbins on a Stick: Corn on the cob
Little Red Balls of Fun: Grape Tomatoes
Baby Trees: Asparagus spears
Turtle Shells: Halved brussels sprouts

AND

Pig circles: Pepperoni
Pig-circle pie: pepperoni pizza
Pig strips: Bacon
Mister Nuggets: Any free-roaming chicken, avec feathers
Gobble Meat: Turkey
Moo-Moo Cow: a burger
Flat cow: a steak
Silence of the Lambs: Mutton
Dead cow in the clouds, with the pea family in an exploded zeppelin: Shepherd's pie
Purple Crunchy Pig Strip Surprise: Red cabbage and bacon

Once, at a child's birthday party, Esteemed Husband went to the "adults' table" to suss out the sandwich offerings. He returned and announced :"Yeah, honey, they have turkey and cheese or PIG CIRCLES." People near us were visibly and deeply offended.

And the other night we were reading "Baby Animals on the Farm" (aka "Baby Animals on Your Plate") we asked our elder child, "Does it bother you at all that chicken nuggets come from chickens?" He said, "Mmmm, chicken!". When we explained that the chicken did not lay the nuggets like eggs, he got a funny look on his face. Hrhrmm. Not so much.

Then: "Mmmm, chicken!". Baby is an omnivore!

Bathroom Fun-o-Rama

Bathrooms are weird. We were shopping to renovate our bathroom and we noticed a toilet called the Swisher or the Swoosh or something like that. What this toilet does is remarkable. It dispenses with your fecal matter AND as a bonus feature, it also cleanses your nether regions much like a bidet! I don't know about you, but I don't want these things to happen within the same unit. I feel they should be kept reasonably separate. Even in the same room seems too close. The same UNIT is just much too close. What if the thing should backfire and shoot items formerly deposited up yer wing wang? How sorry would you be then? I will pass on the SWASH.

The fact that it is featured in Home Expo as an innovative new device just goes to show that we are obsessed with anything that seems to save time and/or space. If this is so, why not install terlets at the dinner table? Or, we could retire in private to feast all we liked and then poo in a convivial fashion in a party-like setting, with toilets arranged in a circle. The going-in of food is such a social event, but the coming-out of food...not so much.

Speaking of Not So Much, I would like to lay claim to this phrase here and now. Many months ago, my elder child coined this statement. He would say of a birthday party with creepy strobe lights and wailing children "Um, not so much." Or of a dish didn't care for: Not so much. Now, the phrase is in constant usage, and where are the royalties?

About the younger child, a prediction: He will be a soccer star. He is the most deft two-year-old with a soccer ball that I or any of my acquaintances have ever seen. He is starting to handle and dribble the ball and now shouts "goal!" as he kicks it into the goal we bought him for his birthday. It's just plain weird, especially since soccer was not one of daddy's sports and I am more inclined to twist an ankle while kicking than actually move the ball anywhere. Baby Pele isn't fazed by this uninspired genetic history. He kicks that ball with an unparalleled glee. To watch him go is like watching a real athlete revel in the glory of the game; when you just gape at the sheer physical prowess of the person. He gets red-faced and sometimes screams with pleasure as he moves the ball down the field. I am wondering if pee-wee soccer is available for a two-year-old, and if shin guards come in size xxxxs. Do you know what this makes me? A soccer mom. Fark! Do I have to move to the midwest now and drive a mini-van?

Little Poo-Poo Snowballs With Wheels

On Sunday night, my youngest child flung himself out of his crib and landed on the floor with a heavy thump, which I did not hear since I was on my porch tossing eggs at speeding cars. I know, however, that there was a thump. Revered Son # 1 came to fetch me with the news.

The poor little mite must have addled his brains because the very next day, at precisely 1:30 p.m., he removed his diaper during his nap, pooed wantonly and prolifically all over the cribsheets and rails, smeared the poo on himself, and then...he molded poo snowballs around two wooden choo-choo trains that he had inside the crib. The trains were barely visible inside their doody casings, except for their little wheels that poked out. With said wheels, he had run the trains energetically around the crib, no doubt with "puffa puffa" noises and various other sounds familiar to train enthusiasts.

For those who were worried, Stinky Teddy escaped completely unscathed.

The very odd thing was is that I at first intended to "save the sheets and trains." Maybe this is some deep-seated frugality I inherited from my mother, who saves five peas left over from dinner in a small Tupperware item in the back of the fridge, until they are discovered months later. I tossed the objects in the sink, poured a bunch of Dr. Bronner's magical peppermint Castille soap over the lot, and filled it with water. This was a very bad idea, as poo chunks rose to the surface and bobbed about. No matter, I was busy running the tub to bathe both boys. Did I mention that the older one also had a nasty poo in his pull-up? No?

As I scrubbed the wee urchins free of faeces, I kept glancing at the clock. It was now 1;40. At 2:00 p.m. I had a Very Important Appointment at the Sunoco Station in Larchmont to get the car inspected. That morning, as I left the "Let's Pretend" class at the New Rochelle Public Library, I spotted a police officer in a miniature car pulling away from my parking spot. I accosted him and it was soon revealed that not only had I fed the "wrong" meter (the one that was inside the white lines within which I parked---hello??) but that my inspection was expired. I pleaded, I wept. He was cold-hearted. As he went to pull away, I said to my children "Now there's an example of a not nice person!"

Something within the man cracked. He hesitated. He returned. Very reluctantly, he took back the ticket for the expired inspection (75 bucks) but left me with the parking ticket (10 bucks, if paid immediately).

I always knew, like Anne Frank, that people are genuinely good. Bless that kind, fat fellow!

After an arduous and sweaty trip to the police station, during which my children were run through a metal detector, the ticket was paid and I was on my way to a more successful day. But now, with the clock ticking and a small almost-two-year-old wearing "poo kneesocks" and a "poo hat," I was in quite a panic. I fear the cleansing was not quite as thorough as I would have liked, but I arrived at my appt. with a minute to spare. All was well. Our car passed! We played "Squirrel Family" in the Pinebrook Park across the street, as well as "Fire Truck Crew Putting Out Fire in Pizza Parlor," and went down the slide many a time!

On the way home, the offending child said from the back: "I go poo in my crib! I'm a-gonna do it again!" I feared the truth of his words.

And when I got home later, there was the difficult problem of the bathroom sink. Why on earth had I thought these items were worth saving? The poo was so encrusted in the trains' wheels that only a high-velocity fire hose could remove it. The sink was sadly damaged, a clear case for Soft Scrub with Bleach. I bundled the whole lot into a plastic bag and left it for our friendly garbage crew. Then I finished the awful job of "finding the bits of poo poo that I'd missed earlier."

Today, our babysitter reported that another attempt was made during naptime. Had the wee mite not been wearing shorts, he might have succeeded in his evil task. As it was, he only managed to scoop out some of his doody while still retaining the diaper. I may have to purchase several sets of new sheets at this rate.

"This is disgusting!" said his brother, and I have to agree. What next? I live in fear and trepidation!

ADDENDUM: While I was writing this my husband went up to check on the boys. The older boy had poo nuggets in his pull-up. During the removal, two nuggets fell out. My husband stepped on one and the child stepped on the other.

Throwing Food at the Moon

And now for something completely different.

A heartwarming blog entry "mom style" about the pleasures and rewards of parenthood! First of all, there's my German child, whom I will call Wolfgang on account of the fact that he has vampiric-like fangs where his eye teeth ought to be. Today we gave him a water bottle in the car and he gnawed it with the sound of a jackal guffawing and schkgnurfling as it tears the flesh off an antelope. Not yet sated with these guttural, horrible noises, he began to shriek with great glee and volume. The more we protested, the more his evil laughs and screams resounded through the car. This was an improvement on yesterday's car ride home from a birthday party, during which the liebchin vomited undigested grapes, chicken chunks, and a good part of a Carvel ice cream cake, the latter of which came pouring out his nose.

The elder child I will call Thieving Crow Deux, his Indian name, due to his early propensity for poaching food off a parent's plate. (Wolfgang also goes by the name "Thieving Crow Trois.") Thieving Crow Deux is a.k.a. Repetito, Casper, Lil Dubya (in honor of our esteemed leader), and Scooter-Pie. Pale as white on milk, he cannot go outside without a sunscreen "dip" which I hope to patent in the near future.

He is a charming child who behaves most impeccably when around strangers, and then transforms into a wild, flailing ball of pent-up angst when within the safety of his own home. Blessed with more than a touch of OCD, Thieving Crow Deux has been known to line up Clementine pieces, curve bending inward to opposite curve, until--finding that he does not possess the last piece to complete the pattern--collapses in a tragic rage. His uvula is a common sight around the dinner table.

Thieving Crow Deux likes to play doctor, applying Band-Aids to limbs for a headache and suggesting that the patient's head is full of monkeys and elephants, which can be coaxed out by a tune played on the harmonica. When accused of being a quack and a charlatan, he says "he can't do nuffink for you!" He also conducts a practice called "whacking," in which he lays a stuffed animal patient out on the kitchen floor and whacks them hard with an object. My son the doctor! The younger one plays the nurse and brings the patient varieties of birthday cake constructed out of Legos.

They are both wonderful and I will kill anyone who menaces them in word or deed.

One day the three of us had a picnic out on our back yard, which we affectionately call "the back 40." After eating his fill, the little one noticed the crescent moon in the sky, an orb of which he is quite fond. "Da moon is hungry," he announced, and began tossing food up toward it. It rained down on our little picnic blanket. We joined in, tossing food at the moon in an effort to fatten it. Planes passed overhead and we threw food at them, too. "This is not so sane," said Thieving Crow Deux who, like his brother, has an unusual vocabulary. We laughed, and apple slices, bread chunks, and cheese bits sailed up to the heavens. We rolled and tumbled and the two boys sat on my head, and the sun lowered past the Post Marine and the Toyota dealership in the distance. The moon waited, placid and waxing. "Naughty Tomato-Eating Squirrel" and his brother "Thieving Rodent Quatre" waited in the wings expectantly, and a flurry of birds passed overhead and shat on our car, parked in the driveway.

That's what writing this is like, at times. A happy exercise in throwing food at the moon.