Creepy Children

Have you ever been spooked by your own children? I’m wondering if this is a normal feeling, as it seams to happen to me every so often, prompting me to wonder if I’m just a wimp or my children really are creepy sometimes. (I am still scared of roller coasters, ATVs and Christopher Walkin – so maybe I am a wimp.)

Nathan tends to dabble in the paranormal. I get the feeling that he can see things that we can’t. Ever had a cat? You know when they sit completely still and stare intently at empty space in a room, prompting you to wonder whether or not they are watching some ethereal being? Well, Nathan will do this.

He’ll just be sitting at the dinner table, innocently telling you about how Danika at daycare asked him if chocolate comes out of his penis, when he’ll stop mid sentence and stare intently over my shoulder, eyes glazed. I turn and look, to find – nothing – of course. I do a little “hand wave” in front of his face – but it is to no avail, a small roll of drool running from the corner of his mouth.

Eventually he’ll snap out of it, and the conversation will continue like nothing ever happened. For the rest of the meal, I’ll inadvertently be shoulder checking, half expecting Freddy Kruger to jump out of the toy box.

So it is not like I expect Nathan’s head to start spinning one day while watching a fuzzy TV screen, but you have to admit, it is a little peculiar, right? The first time Nathan did something a little weird was just after he turned two. His dear Great Grandmother Cecile had passed away and for a long time after the funeral, Nathan kept picking up the phone and having conversations with her. “Hi Great Gramma. How are you? I’m fine. See you later!” After which he would cheerfully hang up the phone and continue playing.

At first it was endearing and cute, and never failed to bring a tear to my eye. But after this went on for a couple months, it became really creepy. Don’t get me wrong, we all loved Grandma Cecile, but the last thing you want to imagine is that your husband’s maternal grandmother is ever present in your home – it makes for awkward moments in the bedroom.

After Cecilia was born, the phone calls to Great Gramma stopped (she was little CC’s name sake, after all). Okay, so I’m going to get a little airy-fairy here, but part of me wonders if there was some kind of transfer going on there? Did Grandma Cecile find her happy place with her new Great Granddaughter? Maybe it was just that she happened to be around to witness the whole home birth thing, and that was enough to send her packing to the comforts of the pearly gates. Who knows?

The Hair Cutting Incident

Lately all my writing occurs during the nap hours of the weekend afternoon. 2-4pm, what a lovely time, Cecilia all snug as a larvae and Nathan happily entranced by Transformers. No – not the Michael Bay movies (I could hardly expect an intelligent four year old to be complacent watching a movie so clearly written by an intoxicated imbecile.

“Mommy, why did Starscream just walk out of the back of the Air and Space Museum into a desert?”

Okay, so Nathan hasn’t been to Washington, but Cecilia has, and I’m sure if she could express herself coherently she would be screaming in protest.)

What does this have to do with hair cutting? Nothing really. However, if I could find a Transformer to cut my son’s hair I’m sure he would prefer that to the Croatian barber we take him too. It is an experience not unlike Tooth brushing (see previous entry). Not even the enticement of a tooth rotting, carcinogenic Red Die Number #40 on a stick is enough to pull him through without much gnashing of teeth. So what did I do when my daughter’s pale brown locks began to brush the tops of her eyelashes? Did I take her to the dreaded Torture House (a.k.a. Kid’s Cutland)? No – I thought (stupidly), “why not cut these bangs myself?”

A little history here: for my mother, I am child number 5. In other words, by the time I had come along, mom had figured out the most efficient methods of parenting. Hair cutting was no exception. Mom’s method? Take a piece of scotch tape, plaster it across the offending bangs on the forehead of your seven-year-old daughter and then cut neatly along the top of the tape. Presto! Bango! Nice evenly cut bangs (think the well cut lines of a 1960s Paul McCartney ‘Do), and the scotch tape adheres to the falling hair. No mess to clean up - job done and humiliation provided in less than 5 minutes!

Who could think of such brilliance other than an experienced parent?

Of course, like much abuse, it is passed on generation to generation, so hence I would apply the same technique to my daughter; strapped her into the highchair, threw a few cheerios down, on with the scotch tape – snip, snip. Done! (Do you think the CEOs of 3M ever would think of such an application?)

This process was all taken in under the watchful eyes of young Mr. Nathan. Nothing was said at the time, but little did I know what was running through that Red Head – I was soon to find out.

Next day we arrive, as per usual, 5 minutes late, to pick up Cecilia and Nathan from their beloved “May’s Daycare”. On this particular day, faces were solemn.

“We’ve had an incident,” says May. “Nathan, do you want to tell mommy what you did today?”

I looked at Nathan, my mind instantly imaging the worse; hitting, swearing, throwing, or (heaven forbid), ultra conservatism (if you know Nathan, you would understand why I am concerned). Nathan didn’t speak. He slowly blinked his eyes, lowering his chin - an expression I knew all to well – guilt. I looked to May, anxiously awaiting her explanation.

That afternoon, May left Nathan and Samantha, working alone on their construction paper cut outs, while she went to put the babies down for naps. When she returned, she found Nathan hard at work, carefully cutting foot long chunks of meticulously grown brown hair from Samantha’s head. He was extremely surprised to find himself in trouble, citing that he was only cutting Sam’s hair at her request (Nathan’s turn was next).

One might ask - why were two four year olds left alone with scissors? I’m not one to point fingers here – I’m just happy that Samantha’s mother laughed when she saw the 1980’s punk look that Nathan had applied to her daughters head (and didn’t threaten exclusion from future play dates).

My only concern now is that the whole hair cutting experience has now been elevated to new levels of anxiety in Nathan’s mind. Not only is it an extremely stressing and fearful a process, but now it will bring back overwhelming feelings of guilt. So, my suggestion? Hasbro – get on making that haircutting Transformer! Perhaps you can team up with 3M, use a patented scotch tape process, and all will be good.

WARNING: Toothbrushing Sucks

So when you were happily pregnant with your first baby, were you at all considering that you might have to brush the teeth of your soon to be progeny? This is a concept seriously missed in prenatal classes. Why do we spend so much time on breathing exercises that NO ONE ever does? Really, what they should do is say, “hey, forget all this crap, what you really need to know is that someday you are going to have to brush the teeth of a small, slippery gremlin, without loosing any fingers in the process. Here – take this brush and get to work on this warthog.” Now that would be training I would pay good dollars for.

As you can probably tell, tooth brushing time has been a bit of trying time for our family.
Lately I’ve resorted to alcohol (no, not for my children, for me). I’ve found that if I approach the process slightly intoxicated, I don’t mind getting bitten, screamed at, punched and cried upon. According to my husband, wine makes me teeth turn blue. To which my son will comment, “Mommy, you’re teeth aren’t blue, they’re nice and yellow.” Thanks kid.

If I get my son’s head into a sideways vice grip, that seams to work best (see attached). That way I can angle his mouth open with one hand while brushing with the other. And to note, the bar has been raised. Our parents never had to FLOSS our teeth, but now that is considered necessary. Why not take a piece of string and attempt to thread it through a combine? You would probably be as likely to succeed, and would not have to succumb to the mental agony that your offspring will put you through. “Mommy, you’re hurting me! Mommy, stop! Mommy, why do you hate me?” At which point you undoubtedly get bitten.

This is not to say that I don’t agree with dental hygiene. I personally brush and floss dutifully each and every day. And I also go through this terrible process multiple times per day (did I mention that I have TWO children, both with razor sharps fangs?) I know it is best for them, for everyone (who wants the dreaded cavities?) It is just that I think I would have been better had I been at least slightly prepared for this, at least warned. All you parents out there knew, but yet no one said anything. So – consider yourself warned.