Tag Archives: kids

Jimmy Kimmel is a Sadist

There.

I said it.

I’m sure I’ll catch flak for this post. Fine. I can take it. I put on my big girl panties this morning.

For those who missed it, late-night guru… couch jockey… whatever Jimmy Kimmel asked parents to tell their children, post Halloween, that they, the parents, had eaten their child’s entire Halloween candy stash. The resultant video, featuring much weeping and gnashing of teeth on the part of the kids, has been making the rounds on YouTube since it aired.

I watched it. Meh.

Was it funny? Not particularly. Kimmel admits at the beginning of the video he expected rather more outrage and rather less crying (for which he apologized). Since neither crying nor outrage are exactly novel at my house, I didn’t find the video all that entertaining and dismissed it as misfire late-night schtick: a bit mean-spirited but mostly harmless.

I guess that “apology” was all TV posturing because Kimmel decided to up the ante for Yuletide. This time, he challenged parents to wrap up some useless crap and tell their kids it was a Christmas present.

Few people who really know me would accuse me of being overly sensitive or deficient in  — admittedly dark — humor. But.

This crosses the line.

From Balloon Boy to Jon and Kate Plus Eight, we know some parents will do eh-nee-thing to get themselves or their kids a television show. Evidently, now it doesn’t even take a whole show. Even a twenty-second blip on a second-tier late night program will motivate parents to parade their children’s emotional trauma for the “pleasure” of the viewing audience.

Sick, depraved and illuminating.

If there is one thing that should motivate our compassion as a people, shouldn’t it be the tears of children?

In case you’re thinking that’s a rhetorical question, the answer is yes.

In fact, I’m going out a limb here and suggest the treatment of children is society’s barometer. The pathos of a crying child should be universal in this day and age. But all you have to do is skim the headlines or browse a few books of recent history to know it is otherwise. Between abusers, molesters, traffickers, genocide, abortion, famine, and people who blow themselves up in public places, I’d say our world is pretty nonchalant about the sufferings of children. Maybe that’s why I don’t find this stunt amusing.

Kids cry. And sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes I even laugh when mine are crying. Occasionally, I laugh because it’s the only way I can keep from falling on the floor beside them and crying my own eyes out. But I don’t coax my kids into crying so I can have a few yuks. Here we have a manufactured scenario, created for the express purpose of provoking a gut-wrenching emotional response in a child. For the amusement of strangers. On TV. And now YouTube. At the behest of a guy who gets paid for a ratings spike.

Why not just jab the kid with a sharp stick and film him while he bleeds? Hilarious, no?

Let’s say you call up a bride-to-be the week before her wedding and pretend you’re from the bridal salon. Tell her you knocked over a unity candle. Her dress burned to a crisp but, not to worry, you’re sending over a replacement picked out by her mother-in-law. Hang up the phone. And hide. Actually, change your name, dye your hair, ditch your cell phone and then hide. In a tiny motel that only takes cash on the outskirts of Temecula.

I give you about twelve hours before an angry bride is at your door with pliers and a blowtorch.

Adults don’t appreciate having their emotions toyed with. Why is it okay to do it to a child? Oh, right, because they can’t fight back. Where I come from, we call that bullying, which Jimmy Kimmel is apparently against.

And while we’re at it, what about privacy? If you’re in Target and the two-year-old flashes her panties to the entire crowd at Register 9, don’t you yank down the hem and tell her some things are not for public display? Should we be less concerned about our kids’ emotional privacy?

But, alas. Now we have YouTube, enabling us to milk our kids’ peccadilloes for web traffic. Even better, let YouTube put up a few ads and you’ve got a whole new revenue stream. In other words, monetize while you traumatize. As parents, we’re supposed to protect our children from exposing themselves (physically and otherwise) until they are mature enough to self-censor. Instead, we’re getting our licks in early, encouraging our kids to expose their emotions to the scrutiny and perhaps ridicule of the world.

Notice Jimmy Kimmel did not film his own children. No, no — a celebrity’s children are entitled to privacy. Instead, like a phalanx of mindless drones, his viewers manipulate their offspring and made sure to get in on film.

I suppose I’m not really angry at Jimmy Kimmel. I can’t blame the sideshow clown who gets paid for making people, um, cry. I can, however, take serious umbrage with the complicit idiots who treat their kids’ emotions like a banjo to be played for popular amusement.

But forget society, forget bullying, forget privacy. Here is my real problem: this kind of machination compromises the integrity of the parent.

Being a parent is a sacred trust.

Trust doesn’t have to be earned from our children: we receive it, lock-stock-and-barrel, the first time our son or daughter is placed in our arms. Look into the eyes of your newborn baby, feel her little fingers clenched around your own, listen to her sigh as she sleeps against your heart and you will hear her say, without a single word, two things. First, “I am completely dependent on you.” And second, “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Absolute trust.

The tragedy is that in every moment to follow, we have the opportunity to chip away at that trust. Most of us don’t mean to. But it happens.

We promise a trip to the zoo and then the phone rings. We say shots don’t hurt. We exaggerate. We make empty threats. We generalize. We tell polite fibs. We get angry and say things we don’t mean. Sooner or later, kids start to realize their parents don’t always mean exactly what we say. A wise parent manages to teach good manners and flexibility without compromising our dedication to telling the truth. But it’s hard — one of the many highwire acts of parenting.

So why, by all that is holy, would anyone want to hasten their child’s discovery that mom and dad don’t always tell the truth? More importantly, that Mom and Dad will casually lie in order to trick them for a TV stunt? Because if Mom and Dad will lie, who won’t?

You are, in a way, everyone your child will ever meet. Your interactions with him tell him what to expect of other people. Should he expect truth and integrity or manipulation and trickery? Our living, daily example also trains our children what to expect from God. Will they see Him as a loving and sacrificial father or a heartless trickster ready to laugh at their misery?

“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give what is good to those who ask Him!”    — Matthew 7:11

Do you think those children will ever open a Christmas gift again without wondering if they will find another half-eaten sandwich inside? A pinprick in their innocence and sense of wonder may seem small now, but that hole doesn’t close: it only widens as they grow.

I am outraged by I pity the parents who casually undermine their child’s trust. Or innocence. Or sense of wonder. Or even the excitement of Christmas.

Someday my little ones will be mature, experienced adults who sleep soundly on Christmas Eve, don’t mind waiting to open presents if it means they can have a second cup of coffee, and appreciate the boring underwear and gift cards they find under the tree.

I know I will be proud of them. And I know I’ll find myself wishing they had stayed children just a little longer.

That’s the way it should be.

It’s The End of the World (As We Know It)

Yes, it’s been awhile.

If this post had musical accompaniment, it would be REM’s “It’s the End of the World as We Know It.”

Except I don’t feel fine. I’ve had every symptom in the book.

And it’s hard to blog with your head in the toilet. (Bad wi-fi signal in there.)

Meet The Bean.

I’m not sure why, but each of my children developed an in utero nickname.

Griffin was Ruprecht. As in Ruprecht, The Monkey Boy.

That’s no reflection on him, I swear. As first-time parents, we were a little alarmed by the, er, simian profile of our darling offspring during the ultrasound. I’m relieved to say the resemblance ended at 18 weeks’ gestation. Whew.

Tristan was dubbed Twitchy because the little punk never stopped moving. Some personality traits are apparent from conception.

As for The Bean, the first BabyCenter description I read of our latest addition’s developmental stage posited that the baby was about the size of a lima bean so that’s how I came to refer to our little expectation — in my head, at least.

For reasons of common sense in this degenerate age, I won’t be sharing certain pertinent bits of information such as my due date. Even if I don’t have a deranged stalker lurking out there, I get a little annoyed by the incessant badgering of well-meaning people. (When I was almost full-term with my first child, the sweet old lady from down the street asked me: “Are you sure you’re still pregnant?” Um, pretty darn. True story.)

And for the deranged stalkers among you, should you be tempted to make an unannounced visit with wicked intentions, please note:

  1. I am armed.
  2. I’m also protected by a ravening duo of vicious preschoolers who are always looking for a fight. (If only I were joking.)
  3. Finally, not only have I enrolled in Master Ang Roy Da’s Prenatal Ninjitsu, I’ve been fast-tracked into his advanced class. We’ve already learned how to strangle the enemy with a Bella Band. Next month: Weaponized Estrogen or Making Hormones Fight for You.

I will, however, announce with enthusiasm and trepidation that The Bean is, in fact, a She-Bean.

I’m excited. And nervous. I’m not sure I know how to mother a girl. Poor kid.

I imagine all the arguments we’ll have about… oh, everything. Modest clothing. (Will they even make one-piece bathing suits sixteen years from now?) Calling boys. Or not calling, I should say. Acting like a lady. Reading good books and not fluff. Being independent but without carrying a chip on your shoulder. Accepting your physical flaws. Living life with a sense of humor, even when you yourself are the latest joke. Being confident. Embracing a Biblical standard of womanhood. Coping with hormones. On second thought, poor me.

I had a great teacher in my own mother. On the other hand, I’ve slept since then.

Why is it so hard to remember how I was well-parented? It’s easy to recall times I thought I’ll-never-be-the-kind-of-mother-who [insert teenage grievance here] — although I’m willing to bet the farm most of us are exactly those kinds of mothers, and sometimes even on purpose. Why, then, do the good moments seem so effortless when you were on the receiving end? I know they weren’t without blood, sweat and tears on my mother’s part. But I can’t seem to distill them down to “how-to lessons” for myself.

I feel like a pretty well-seasoned mother of boys (at least, boys up to the age of six). But a few days of packing away rompers and jeans and polo shirts and button-downs and hanging tiny, pink, fluffy, flowery, girly little outfits — bona fide outfits, not separates — in their place, I am becoming aware: we are headed for uncharted waters.

I suppose I have to hold fast to the lesson that God uses each of our children to teach and mold and shape us. Each little life, in his or her individuality, strengths and weaknesses,  is another opportunity to be molded more closely into His image. It’s for our sake as much as for theirs.

Which begs the question, what does this little girl have to teach me?

I wonder. And wait.

Ming-Ming Must Die

I’m too puny today to write a “real” post. Just when I thought I was in the clear from the sinus/cold/allergy/tuberculosis/plague that dominated my house last week and turned my kids into bitter, clingy, gun-toting monsters. I spent all last week cajoling them to buck up and stop being so crabby. Mean mommy. Now I know. Sorry, guys.

Anyway, this is a pseudo-post. If you’ve come to rely on the effervescence of original, if snide and self-important, commentary emanating from my blog, I’m sorry. I can’t help you today.

Instead we turn to the delightful, ineffable, incorrigible Anthony Bourdain, against whom I stand in diametric opposition in regards to politics, personal history, lifestyle and seafood. Which is probably why I love watching his show and think he’s freakin’ hysterical.

Bourdain happens to have a small child of his own, who happens, as some do, to watch her share of Nick Jr. And Papa Bourdain just happens to have some entertaining and strangely simpatico views on the shows she’s watching.

Including my arch-nemesis, Wonder Pets:

Is it possible to hate an animated character? Personally hate them? Because my loathing for guinea-pig Linnie and turtle Tuck is exceeded only by my fervent hope that one of these days, the disgustingly cute duckling, “Ming-Ming” will get sucked into a lawnmower or a fan, ending her reign of terror over my household. And if my little girl grows up pronouncing her “l”s as “w”s–as the disgusting Ming Ming insists on doing in a misguided attempt at cuteness? I will hunt down the producers of this show and do them terrible violence.

If you’re a parent of wee uns, read the whole post here. Please.

See you all when I emerge from the fog.

Out With the Old

If your catching the scent of something crispy on the breeze, don’t worry. It’s only my hard drive.

Tomorrow, I’ll begin my day with trips to Office Depot and Best Buy, trying to replace my right arm computer equipped with nothing but a long list of limitations borne by anyone whose computer has unexpectedly gone nuclear right in the middle of a hectic week.

Not to mention I’ll be making these trips with children in tow. Imagine taking two young boys to a store filled with gadgets, buttons, cords, outlets, remotes, the hum of hardware and the scent of burnished silicone. Then imagine yourself repeating: “Don’t-touch-that-leave-that-alone-not-that-either-keep-your-hands-to-yourself-don’t-hit-your-brother-don’t-hit-me-can’t-you-leave-that-alone-for-fifteen-bloody-seconds-excuse-me-sir-does-Best-Buy-serve-alcohol?”

Tomorrow is going to be a fun day. I can feel it.

So right now, I’m using my husband’s computer — and his crazy Internet Explorer, which doesn’t show my blog header which really irritates me but isn’t remotely important enough for me to worry about this century — to post an explanation for why I don’t know when I’ll be posting again.

Because I may not survive this trip tomorrow. After the 653rd recitation of the above speech about not touching those tempting buttons, my two sons will probably jack me with a sock-full of pennies, steal my car keys and leave me for dead.

On a brighter note, I was delighted that Joni Cohen Webb of Cote de Texas has given me new reasons to love the gray marble for the bathroom. Too bad all my decorating bookmarks got cooked with the hard drive and I’ll never be able to find my inspiration photos again. I may never finish the bathroom now. But I guess since I’ll be lying in the dumpster at Best Buy tomorrow, it won’t really matter for very long.

Highlights from Our Fourth

We spent the 4th of July in Arkansas with my Dad’s family and had a wonderful time catching up with the many branches of our large and far-flung tribe.

My paternal grandparents were married on Independence Day some sixty-plus years ago and it has been “O” family tradition for my Dad and his three brothers, mit familien, to congregate over the 4th. Grandpa passed away almost three years ago and my grandmother has since moved to a “senior living community,” but my mother was gracious enough to host a gathering of our peeps from Colorado, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Arkansas, Iowa and Tennessee.

My parents live in a semi-rural neighborhood and we kicked off our Saturday morning with a little harvesting at a nearby berry farm. We use to pick blueberries every year when I was growing up, so it was fun to introduce my kids to something I hope will become a tradition in our household.

As you can see, my eldest son was a quite studious picker. His little brother (who evaded the camera) was more interested in picking green berries and attempting to hotwire the berry farmer’s tractor. Ah well.

We came away with a gallon or so of blueberries and several hard-won cups of blackberries. All exertions were deemed well-spent once the blackberries were converted to Blackberry Cornmeal Cake. (I should point out that I prefer blueberries in this recipe but used blackberries in deference to my lord and master. Which said deference did not stop me from adding a couple teaspoons of lemon juice to the batter — a truly appaling omission on Martha’s part, if you ask me.)

Between the consumption all manner of heinous, waistline-killing food, we relished the quietude of the intimate family circle — all four generations and twenty-seven persons of us. Chief among the delights were the great-grandchildren: eight kids ages five and under. Including my two newest nephews, ages four months and two months. Baby buzz.

If you read this blog, you already know my children are cute. That would be a brag if I had anything to do with it, but take these pics as proof I get zero credit. We just have “adorable baby” genes by the truckload in my family. See?

We somehow managed to sleep both my sons and my two nieces in the same bedroom, which defies the theorem of critical mass but still worked. The kids divided their wakeful hours between the inflatable pool and the Toy Story DVDs I brought — both ideas for which I congratulated myself amply. Our boys tend to be a little, uh, destructive if left to their own devices for too long.

On Sunday night, we made a pilgrimage to the minor league baseball park to see the post-game fireworks display. Theoretically a brilliant idea with morphed into a disaster when both of my terrorized children shrieked through the entire show. Oh, and my youngest peed me. Whether it was fright or revenge, he hasn’t ‘fessed up yet. Maybe next year.

My cousin, her husband and their two sons (almost the same age as my boys) are about to depart for eighteen months of language school in Costa Rica before entering the mission field in Columbia; I was thrilled we got to see them before they set out on a remarkable journey of living out God’s will for the sake of the lost. Our best wishes and prayers follow them overseas.

The few family members absent from the reunion were sorely missed but it was a fabulous weekend and I feel fortunate to have such a precious family with whom to spend holidays.

Hope you had a fantastic 4th of July!

It’s All in How You Say It

It only takes having a four-year-old to learn how key enunciating your words can be.

For example, my four-year-old has the tendency to drop a lot of “R”s. Mostly harmless. Except when saying at least one word.

Today’s lesson:

I was in the kitchen fixing the kids a sandwich after church. Griffin was battling with the buttons of a collared, button-down shirt — his nemesis. After a few minutes of struggling, his annoyed and plaintive request:

“Will you get this sh-t offa me?”

Say what???

For the moment before I could put it together, I was horrified. Then I got it.

Shirt. He said: “shirt.”

Whew.

I know a lot of you parents have a list of “no-no” words your kids aren’t allowed to say. Butt, stupid, hate, shut-up, etc. Maybe you can help me out with this one.

Exactly how do I ask him to never say the word “shirt” again?

Wishful Thinking

Like so many others, I’ve had my own private yearnings for a set of Tolix tabouret stools.

Tolix Stool

But golly. The Conran Shop wants $325 each.

I need four.

Let’s see: $325 x 4 = There is No Way in God’s Green Earth.

Trust Robert Redford to fight for the little people. Tolix stools can be had from the Sundance Catalog for a mere $245.

Luckily, I shared my private yearnings with a friend. Someone I could trust. Someone with whom I share both an aesthetic and a modest budget.

Days later, she sent me a link to Overstock.com, and I flipped. And then I begged. “Please, honey. Pleeeeeese…”

Bargain stools plus $2.95 shipping? Get out. [Insert shove, Elaine Benes-style.]

Incidentally, should you ever need a properly-sized box in which to ship a 2- to 4-year-old child to the furthest reaches of the planet, I highly recommend ordering these stools. Although I suspect shipping to the furthest reaches is more than $2.95. Not that I would ever even consider such a thing. At least not long enough to find the packing tape.

Besides, they love the stools.

Granted, these stools are not the authentic Tolix, galvanized steel version I would have preferred. But I guess having very nice, powder-coated knock-offs and keeping both my kidneys is a reasonable compromise.

Naturally, adding something I love makes me start looking around my house and noticing all of the things I un-love. Yellow kitchen cabinets, for example. The gray tile backsplash. And the bare spots in my living room.

When I had no children — and an actual income — I bought a fantastic antique trunk to serve as a coffee table. The dealer told me it was from Nantucket and over 100 years old. (Not sure I believed her but I loved it, so why quibble?)

As my sons have gotten older, I’ve begun to realize how very impractical this piece of furniture, once purely decorative, has become. At least if I want to keep it in one piece.

My kids think “antique” is a synonym for “jungle gym.” It’s a stage. It’s a hideout. It’s a launch platform for Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles.

It’s one false move away from becoming a pile of expensive toothpicks.

Sometimes I wonder why I have closets filled with assorted objets d’art instead of putting them on display where they can be appreciated. I might even take out a few of my favorite treasures and imagine where I’ll hang them. And then I hear a series of bangs and a muffled crash and I come to my senses. I’m not bitter. I’m just resigned.

This weekend, the boys finally ripped a hinge out of the trunk and Scott moved it into the bedroom. And now I have a hole.

I kind of like the idea of a large, square coffee table. Maybe even a huge, tufted ottoman with nailhead trim.

Only time will tell how it gets filled. Not to mention this one.

Two smallish upholstered stools or low chairs? Or maybe one long table or buffet to replace the current one?

Of course, whatever I find, it must be cheap. And durable. “Kid-tested, Chernobyl-approved” kind of durable. Which is another thing I love about my knock-off stools. They’re heavy-duty metal. How much damage can two small boys possibly do?

Bang, bang, bang.

Crash.

I must go.

I think I hear my sons trying to stab each other with stool legs.

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