Gak

I got this idea from Lil' Luna's blog.

Gak. It's like Play Doh, but slimy and stretchy. I made a batch a couple weeks ago while the kids were watching tv, and to my amazement it worked. In under ten minutes I had a homemade batch of gak in a horrible shade of purple (my doing). I carried it triumphantly into the living room and declared, "I've made gak! Come play with it!"

The kids wrinkled their noses at me. And at it. They were highly suspicious of the gak.

When Jolly came home I tried again. "Look! Gak! Want to play with it?"

"Ew," he said.

So much for the gak.

Damn it, I made that stuff and I couldn't help being proud of it. More to the point, I made an effort to be cool and craftsy. I wanted some acknowledgment. I wanted someone to play with it. I kept it in a tupperware container on the kitchen counter, and whenever I found myself standing idly by I'd pull it out and squish it around. I became very fond of my gak... in a totally stubborn way that makes me think I should get out more, but fond nonetheless.

I've been trying, since then, to tempt the rest of the family with the gak. "Here, try the gak!" "Are you bored? Do you want some gak?" "Look at the gak! See what it can do?" Finally, Peanut gave in out of a combination of boredom and, I believe, exasperation. He played with the gak for all of five minutes before returning it to me with a sour expression on his face. "Did you have fun?" I asked eagerly. I swear I saw pity in his eyes as he contemplated my face. "I suppose..." he replied slowly, before backing away.

 Last night, I made one last ditch effort to engage the kids with the gak. As they ate their bedtime snack while listening to their father read Harry Potter, I enthusiastically plopped the gak onto the center of the coffee table. "Look, kids! Gak!" Everyone in the room, except me, stared with disgust at the purple blob that started spreading across the table.

"What's it doing?" Jolly asked disconcertedly.

"Being gak!" I replied cheerfully.

Jolly kept reading and the kids continued munching on their Froot Loops. The ignored gak oozed it's way to the edge of the table and strung over the edge like warm taffy - stretching and glopping to the floor, making little, gooey stalagmites next to the rug. Peanut suddenly sat straight and said in a warning voice, "Mom - look at the gak."

Insisting, once again, that the gak was just being gak, I watched the kids creep curiously to where it was spawning smaller, oozing blobs on the floor. They were timid of touching it at first. It's cold and slimy and squishes disturbingly when touched. But the boys were fascinated with how it dripped off the coffee table in long strands, and after a while they had organized the Great Blob Races of Summer, 2013. "Let's see who wins!" Peanut said excitedly to Beaner.

Over and over, the boys scooped their gak off the floor and molded it into piles along the edge of the coffee table, where it once again oozed to the floor. Each of the kids cheered for his blob to be the first to touch.

"Come on, Harry!" shouted Peanut.

"Come on, Hermione!" shouted Beaner.

Thus christened, the blobs now known as Harry and Hermione raced for the title of Fastest Ooze. The game kept the boys entertained for quite some time, and entertained me and Jolly even more. Perhaps I'll make more gak in other, lurid colors and we can have Harry duke it out with Voldemort in slimy style. As far as crossovers go, gak and Harry Potter seem an unlikely pairing, but that sort of thinking outside the box is what makes children's play so interesting.

Overall, I give the gak a thumbs up. It was easy to make, is easy to clean up, and kept the kids entertained for more than 30 minutes - which is as good as it gets around here. I don't know if they'll ever touch the stuff again, but the effort was worth it to hear Beaner struggling to pronounce 'Hermione.'

My Summer Vacation

I pretty much suck at summer. I never enforce summer reading and we don't do enriching activities. Generally, I'm not really awake before 10am, by which time the kids have been watching tv for four hours (I can't be held responsible for permissions I give while still asleep). By the time everyone is fed and if I bother to get them dressed it's already high noon - by which time I feel it's dangerously hot outside and we had best stay indoors huddled next to the AC vent. And since we're stuck indoors I might as well let them watch more tv, because doing anything else not only takes effort, but will be met with screechy protest. And I'm lazy.

I know this is a horrible pattern, but there's always an easy rationalization within reach and the kids aren't complaining. Still, I am inexplicably drawn to the SuperMom Blogs, which inevitably make me feel like the slackiest slacker mom who ever did slack. So I get these crazy ideas that I will clean up my act and become a totally different kind of parent - one who leads her children in educational, fun, relationship-building, self-esteem boosting, community-minded activities each and every day. But by evening I've had to settle for keeping them alive, which is all I ever really accomplish.

I am in awe of these SuperMoms. But it's a bitchy kind of awe, as in - I don't know how they do it and I suspect the devil must be involved. I've been posting to this blog regularly for just one week and I have yet to figure out how one manages to write about parenting while actually doing it. I also would like to know how the hell they manage to keep their kids occupied while they assemble the amazing activities that are supposed to keep our kids entertained for hours (like a dinosaur bones dig in the backyard. Ladies, if I had time to dig, I'd have a garden). And then, I'd like to know how they're measuring those hours - is that cumulative? Because I can't keep my kids engaged with anything for longer than 30 minutes. Less, if I happen to be trying to do something they can't take part in, like brush my teeth - then, no amount of crafty, enriching goodness will distract them. Last, I'd like to know who is taking those photos of the perfectly coiffed children playing calmly with colorful activities, while a perfectly coiffed mom looks on in proud, loving bliss. Who the hell are these people?

But I keep reading the SuperMom blogs. I'm obsessed with these women who are balancing successful internet careers with mothering. Do I aspire to be among them? Not necessarily, but for now mommying is what I do, so it's what I have to write about. Yet, I don't feel like I have much more insight now than I did when I first held Peanut nine years ago. It seems that merely keeping the kids fed and clean leaves little time for reflection. Maybe my brain simply doesn't work that hard. Maybe I take children too much at face value and focus too much on the daily irritations of parenthood. Whatever the case is, I don't feel like I can relate to the SuperMoms.

Summertime is one of the worst times to be a slacker mom among SuperMoms (the other worst times being every other season). It seems everyone has a long list of things to do with their kids this summer, ranging from cloud watching to high tech studio animations. Me? I'm taking my kids to the pool and making sure they don't drown, in between letting them watch more than the 3-hour average of screen time and then letting them do it again. This is the reality. My ambition is to be slightly, well, more ambitious.

So I'm dubbing this week 110% Week. I'm going to see if I can step up my game and give my kids things to do that don't involve a glowing screen. I will probably spend much of the week trying to quell sobs, screams, and tantrums. I will most likely spend an equal amount of time inwardly cursing the SuperMom blogger who swore her kids loved whatever activity I'm forcing down my kids' throats. But maybe I will also dub this week Have Another Cookie Week, and everyone will feel much better.

From the Top of the Ride

Last summer we made our first pilgrimage to Orlando, Florida, where we spent a week exploring Disney World and Universal Studios, splashing in the pool and trying on each other's mouse ears. It's impossible to count all the ways in which a Disney trip is special, for Disney is truly just as much a lifestyle as it is a theme park. We were blessed with minimal meltdowns, only one episode of heat exhaustion, reasonable souvenir expectations, and sunny weather. It honestly doesn't get much better than that.

What made the trip special for me, however, was the fact that for the first time in nearly four years I was neither pregnant nor nursing, which left me free to enjoy the wilder rides with Peanut. Jolly stepped up to commandeer the double stroller while I scampered off with our eldest child, who hadn't seen me do anything remotely fun since before he could remember. I let Peanut be our guide, going without complaint on anything and everything he wished to try. This is notable because Peanut isn't afraid of anything, and it had been over ten years since I'd braved a roller coaster.

Roller coasters haven't changed all that much since my heydey, but I have. Gone is the desire for wild excitement; the flight or fight response is a little too real. For Peanut, however, the world is still a safe haven where near misses and thrills are all in good fun. He bounced with anticipation where I withdrew in apprehension, whooped with glee as I nervously clung to the safety rails, and waved his hands in the air while I squeezed my eyes shut. I don't know if this dampened or heightened his fun - he seemed rather proud to be braver than his mum, but he missed out on having a companion with whom to weave tall tales of danger. Anytime he mentioned possible death or injury I felt compelled to monologue about safety features.

By the time we were standing in line for the Incredible Hulk coaster at Universal Studios I had come to rather sobering realization: I am no longer a woman who takes her child on rides, I am a mom who accompanies her son on rides. It's a fine line, but a solid one, demarcating the leader and the follower. Peanut was taking the lead.

This is how it should be. I'm not complaining nor am I sad. At some point - sooner than we expect - our children march out into the world and expect us to be the ones who toddle after them. We may wish to pull them back or holler at them to stop, but they'll keep going. The important thing is not to make them walk behind us, but to appreciate the time when they'll be content to have us walk beside them. As we waited in line for the Hulk, Peanut talked tough about how he would keep his hands up through all seven loops, but he still hugged me with excitement.

Peanut's enthusiasm did not dampen as were warned by an eerie voice of danger ahead, nor as we were locked into the lime green coaster. He kept his hands up, as promised, and I half-heartedly did the same. As we clacked up the initial incline I reminded myself that I'd been braving coasters all week and that this one would be no worse. But as we reached the crest the coaster did not descend into a gentle fall as expected - we shot forward at 60 miles an hour, pushed down the hill and into the first loop before I could catch my breath. Peanut's hands never stopped waving in the air.

The time will come when Peanut no longer wants me at his side, and it's going to happen just like that roller coaster - he'll shoot forward into a great adventure while I cling to the safety harness. With that in mind, I hope for a couple of things. I hope that I stay motivated to keep up with him while I can. I hope I have the sense to fall back when it's time. And I hope that I never stop touting those safety features, just in case he ends up needing them. It's not often that a parent has the chance to view the horizon of their child's future, but the top of a 150 ft roller coaster is a pretty good place to do it.

Underoos

I still remember getting my first pair of Underoos at the tender age of four. By the time the car's engine had cooled from the trip to the mall I was suited up and fighting crime on our quiet street. I didn't realize that Underoos were underwear until a kindly neighbor lady informed me that I was running around the block in my skivvies. It was one of the most deflating moments of my life, and not because I was embarrassed to have been half naked in public, but because my Wonder Woman outfit got demoted before I'd managed to lasso so much as a rock. I couldn't take refuge in my lair or mansion - Wonder Woman's main digs was an invisible jet. Even if I'd had one the neighbors would still be able to see me. There was simply no getting around the 'don't play outside in your underwear' policy. That pretty much ruined Underoos for me.

I suppose I had more of Tony Stark mentality when it came to being a super hero: none of this mild-mannered, alter-ego stuff for me. What is the point of wearing super hero clothes if no one can see them? I'm super and I want everyone to know it. Fortunately, it's not too late for me to get my girl-empowered geek on.

Of course, a grown woman running around in her underpants is likely to attract undesirable attention, so this time I'm wearing the Underoos over my clothes, a la Super- and Bat- mans. I can practice lassoing the cats and use the empty cardboard box from the new water heater as my (not) invisible jet. Oh my goodness, this is going to be so much fun.

By the Power of Isis!

Splash

For most people, summertime invokes a myriad of good feelings and memories. Everyone is just a little more laid back, a little more fun. Unless you're a SAHM, in which case summer is a seemingly endless, hot, uncomfortable and hectic struggle to keep the tv turned off. When the kids are suddenly home all day, every day, keeping them entertained is an art form. Unfortunately, I'm not the artsy type. I'm also not the field trip type, or the DIY crafts type, or the educational activities type. I'm the type of mom who picks her battles, and preventing the kids from watching too much tv on summer days is a battle I long ago quit waging. But, like any loser, I perpetually feel the sting of defeat.
This feeling is not at all helped by browsing the Kids board on Pinterest, where it seems every other mother has pinned 101 Ideas for Summer Fun. I checked out a few, and many of them are things I will flat out not do. Like teach my children to cook, or build elaborate pillow forts using my cherished sofa cushions, or mix various oils together to teach the kids about density. Screw all that. I like my house tidy, my kitchen child-free, and my oils drizzled on freshly baked bread. Needless to say, I don't often get what I like.
There is one thing, however, I am pretty good about doing with my kids, and that's taking them to the pool. Each summer, as I've juggled different ages and swimming abilities, has been an adventure in heart palpitations and neoprene baby holders. I'm the anxious type, which makes activities involving mortal danger a whole lot of fun. My first summer at the pool I literally counted the seconds between taking a head count of the children, and I did not stray more than two feet away from my youngest. Miraculously, no one drowned that year. Or the two years after that. So you might think I'd have calmed down by now - but alas, no. Going to the pool is the same old ultra-speed aging process of fear and anxiety, punctuated with cold splashes of water to the face.
Today was our first, official pool day of the summer, and it was the same old stress-inducing outing. I plucked Tank off the bottom of the baby pool once or twice, and caught him by the ankle as he took a head dive off a picnic bench onto concrete, but those were the only notable accidents. Beaner's swimming quite well with his Puddle Jumper, and Peanut is a total fish. Which means, with only one potential drowning vicitm to follow obsessively, I was actually able to talk to other moms. And I made a wonderful discovery - I'm not the only crazy one.
Turns out that most moms of very young children feel themselves age several years each time they take their kids to the pool. This was such a relief to learn because, for years, other people have suggested to me that going to the pool is a relaxing activity. These people are not helpful. They know nothing of the heart stopping anxiety of looking up to discover that one's child has disappeared from sight, and not knowing whether to start looking at the bottom of the pool or the edge of it. It's not a mentality - it's biology. When danger is nearby, even in the form of man-made chlorinated goodness, our flight or fight response is triggered. We literally can not relax; relax and someone dies.
Okay, I might be dramatizing it a bit, but I'm not off base. I took a quick poll of moms around the baby pool today and I have anecdotal evidence that I'm right. Anecdotal, people! That's good enough for Fox News, at least.
The good news is that the feeling goes away as the kids get older and pass their swim test. Which means I only have five more years of poolside terror before I can do that relaxing thing I've heard so much about. I'm not sure why I'm willing to weather the pool but can't be bothered to prepare homemade flubber for the kids to play with, or to teach them how to make no-bake cookies. Apparently I'm still more afraid of messes than I am of death.

My Trusty Unikitten

Earlier today I was reflecting upon my favorite cartoon from my childhood years, She-Ra, and trying to draw parallels between myself and the eponymous heroine of the show. I got nothing. She's a super-strength, enchanted princess of power (whose alter-ego is also an enchanted princess of power. Lucky bitch) and I'm a... housewife. With oxyclean power. Oh yeah - I got the grape juice stain out of the couch. For the Honor!

So I settled for a more apropos cartoon title: Mom-Ra and the Masters of the Universal Remote. This fits. I can't seem to escape being a mother no matter how hard I try, and my kids (the masters) are obsessed with controlling the remote. It's self-explanatory, really. But I decided that if I get to have a super hero name I deserve a super hero steed. But all I've got are cats. Hence I thought of the talking, flying, Unikitten. Again, self-explanatory.

I'm shocked by how few returns I got in my google images search for this. The Unikitten is seriously underrepresented on the internet. I expected it to be a meme. Instead it's a minor thing. A few photoshopped images, a few crochet patterns, a whole bunch of annoyed cats... but no centralized realization of the Unikitten. This is sad, people. Normally, we do not shy away from excuses to put ridiculous crap on our cats' heads for photo ops. We need to step up our game! I, for one, will be rolling construction paper horns all weekend. And I will put those horns on the head of my cat. And for the short but glorious moment in which I am standing next to my trusty Unikitten, I will forget all about the dishes and the whining and the jeans that don't fit. And then my cat will bite me and it will all come rushing back. But hey, moments are what we live for.

Ode to an Angry Mum

We've all witnessed the public meltdown of a child. It can be embarrassing, trying to carry on like nothing is happening, while nearby a child is screaming as though her head is on fire. And often, in these situations, it's the parent whose behavior is most appalling. We've all had those moments when we're not sure if we should walk away or call child services, the judgements and dismay that well up inside us, and the blatant annoyance at another adult for making things so... unpleasant. We simply assume we'd do better, be more patient, or more kind, or have the good sense to whisk our child out of sight and earshot of the general public. Even those of us who have been that parent will judge, because - let's face it - parenthood is competitive, and the shortcomings of others bolsters our confidence in ourselves.

So I was feeling like the Queen Mother a few days ago, when outside of Beaner's school I witnessed a mother yelling at her son. She said really horrible things like, "shut up!" and "stop your crying!" and "it's your fault!" and there may have been a swear word in there. And we all know that these are things one should never, ever say to one's children. Doing my duty as a Better Person, I gazed sympathetically at the child while giving his mother the cold shoulder. Someone needed to show the poor child some love. Inwardly I despaired for the child's future, and wondered how on earth we're to fight the war on drugs/poverty/terrorists/devaluing of the dollar/LOL cats/corrupt Olympic judges when there are parents such as that in the world. And doesn't that woman know what she's missing? All the love and joy of being a parent, total bliss she can hold in her arms - if only she'd stop screaming at it.

Now, there are many adages and cliches to describe how I felt twelve hours later. Pride comes before the fall. Hoist by my own petard. There but for fortune. Karma's a bitch - and so on. As I stood facing my children, enraged and utterly spent of patience, telling them to shut up and leave me alone, I felt a swelling of regret for being so harsh on that other mother. Suddenly, I wanted nothing more than to meet her for drinks and gripe about how annoying our kids are. Because if anyone else saw me at that moment, they'd have despaired for the fate of the world. But not her - she'd get it. She'd understand that my Good Mommy persona had been under attack for days, how children push and scrape and eat away at our nerves and our sensitivities until we're so exhausted with turning the other cheek that we'd give anything just to be left alone for 70 seconds. And that's exactly what pushed me over the edge.

After a long, difficult day of balancing work and child care, trying to get stuff done while enriching the children's environment, keeping everyone fed and clean while overseeing homework and housechores, I was at the end of my reserves. It was not an atypical day. There might have been slightly more whining than usual, or more resistance to direction, but all in all it was a day like any other. Which is to say that the children created a constant assault on my senses. They never shut up. They need constant supervision. They want to be in constant contact with my body. They make it impossible to do simple things, like count to ten or use the bathroom. It's a little bit like being tortured by cute, lovable mercenaries. At any rate, by 9pm - when the kids should have been in bed, but were, instead, turning my dining room into a cross between a hurricane tragedy and an art studio - I needed some relief. 70 seconds. That's how long it takes to heat up a bottle for the baby. I clambered over the baby gate into the kitchen, calling as I went, "I'm getting a bottle ready. No one talk to me until I come back." In that 70 seconds, Tank hurt himself - twice. Beaner decided he wanted crackers - no, applesauce - no, yogurt - no, where's Daddy?! And Peanut had a brainstorm for a new board game about which he was simply bursting to talk, and nothing was going to stop him.  Before the timer for the bottle beeped, my quiet time had been interrupted seven times. And I snapped. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the dining room, my battle aura casting a pall over my now terrified children, as I yelled at them to "LEAVE ME ALONE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU THAT CAN'T LEAVE ME ALONE FOR ONE STUPID MINUTE?!" My poor boys cowered and whimpered in my shadow, staring at me with fear and shame in their eyes.

For about five seconds. Then they resumed pestering me. I'm not proud that I regularly lose my temper with my kids. I'm not saying it's okay. But it happens, and I can either beat myself up about it or I can accept that I am a normal, flawed person. There are a couple of lines I've never crossed: I've never sworn at my kids, called them names, or blamed them for making me unhappy. Even in my worst moments I feel protective of them, even from myself. But the fact remains that sometimes I can't help but get angry and yell, and no matter what is said, an angry parent is an ugly parent. Surely, there are horrible parents in this world, but the angry outbursts we all witness in public aren't necessarily representative of a parent's overall tone with his or her children. For all we know, that parent has simply had more than he or she could take, and that pressure has to come out somehow. Does that make it okay? No. But it's not the worst thing a parent can do, either.

I ran into the other, yelling mother the next day. She and her son looked perfectly happy. I have no right to assume that she's a bad mother, no right to judge, or blame her for the horrible state of the world. The main difference between us, as far as I know, is that my angry outbursts are slightly less colorful. I don't condone her behavior any more than I condone my own, but I can be sympathetic. Parenting is hard. It takes everything we've got, and more. We are constantly at the breaking point, and children have no sensor that tells them when to back off. If the occasional, angry outburst is the worst of it, then the kids are going to be all right. If only we were encouraged to believe that, instead of living in constant awareness of others' opinions, we might not feel so much pressure in the first place. I wish I could say I'll never judge another parent again, but I will. I'm human, and scared that I'm failing at parenthood, so I'll always take note of parents who make me look better by comparison. But it's crucial to remember that, in our best and worst moments, most parents look pretty much the same.

Concerto in Combat Mode

Yesterday was the first day of spring, heralded by chilly weather, long lines at Rita's, and Peanut's annual spring concert. Traditionally, the spring concert is themed - Barnyard Moosical or The Amazing ABCs! This year was Recorder Karate. In case you've forgotten, the recorder is that instrument that looks like the abandoned love child of a flute and a clarinet. They're generally cheap, plastic, and dysfunctional. They have a bunch of holes, yet it's impossible to get any of them to change the pitch. But not for the kids of Recorder Karate! They can actually make those things play real music. Hi-ya!

At this point I'm sure you're wondering what karate has to do with the recorder. Unfortunately, the answer is not that recorders make excellent weapons. Even though they do; I can attest that the recorder, in the wrong, little hands, can deal a cracking blow to one's head (add it to the list of 'improvisational weapons one can buy at the dollar store'). Except for acknowledging the kids' progress with "belts", Recorder Karate has nothing to do with martial arts whatsoever. It is merely a senseless comparison between musical achievement and fighting. It's obvious why this would appeal to kids, but it doesn't jibe at all with the no-tolerance, anti-violence environment of the school administration. In a culture where kids are suspended for wielding vaguely gun-shaped pastries, one might think that these branded curricula would avoid references to combat sports. Now, I'm sure there are people out there who will disagree and defend karate as self defense and a study of discipline and inner balance, etc. But please. No kid takes karate to find his chi. It's a fighting sport and we all know it.

That's not to say that I have a problem with karate - quite the opposite. I believe that self defense is a critical part of any person's education, whether they learn how to out wit a bully or clock him in the nose is all a matter of preference. I'm merely annoyed that someone thinks music needs to be partnered with fighting to make it interesting to kids. It seems gratuitous - music is not something we should have to dress up in costume. Music appeals to nearly everyone in its own way; it is part of the human soul. It doesn't need to be equated with The Karate Kid to be relevant to today's youth.

Granted, I have not seen an uptick in Peanut's combative tendencies since he started Recorder Karate. And I'm probably getting my knickers in a twist for nothing. But since we are forced to live in constant fear of violence in schools, and to a great extent the dire consequences that innocent mistakes can have for our children - like bringing a butter knife to class to cut one's birthday cake - I think it's worth pushing back when schools go against their own zero-tolerance policy. Damn it, if kids have to mind how they eat their Pop Tarts, our music programs should be free of martial arts references.

As much as I'm glad that my children are less likely to suffer the kind of bullying that was common during my elementary school years, I miss the days when a good kid could throw a good punch and solve a world of problems, where bullies could get what's coming to them instead of getting hugs.
The Brady Bunch. I miss the Brady Bunch.






Peanut's a black belt in recorder, by the way. Don't mess with him.

On the Road. Again.

Every morning I load my family into our safety rating sweetheart of an SUV, strap the children into their five point harnesses, check all my mirrors, and do the most dangerous thing a driver can do on the highway: drive the speed limit.

It takes a great deal of psychological fortitude to be the slowest car on the road. I had to ease my way into it. I started by setting the cruise control at 65, and have over the course of a year ticked the setting down to 56. And I'm pretty sure people want to murder me. I'm constantly checking the rearview mirror for the enraged driver who's going to plow into me rather than go around. Tractor trailers have, on more than one occasion, flashed their lights to warn me that they have no intention of slowing down. The stream of cars passing me is so dense I often feel more like a parade spectator than a driver. I actually feel pity for the people who get stuck behind me; I want to hang a sign in the back that says, "Sorry! I'm a stubborn safety whore."

I endure all this drama just to set a good example for Peanut, who watches my driving like an anal retentive, bureaucratic hawk. If I break the rules and drive above the speed limit, then all hell breaks loose. Homework won't get done, chores will be ignored, and the tv will mysteriously turn itself on long after I call for screens off. I wish I was one of those parents whose authority was absolute, but I'm the type who leads by example. I'm also incredibly tight fisted and don't want to waste money on gas. It's a horrible combination that's pissing off commuters throughout New Castle County.

Sometimes, when there's a particularly long line of cars stuck behind me, I pretend that I'm starting a movement. The Slow-Down-And-Relax movement. People must be waking up to the fact that speeding causes undue stress and poor gas mileage. I am a leader among the lost, bringing a message of good economy and low blood pressure to the people. Stop rushing through our lives. Make getting there half the fun again. And that sort of thing.

But, within a few miles, I'm reminded that this line of thinking is utter bullshit, and I'm really just annoying someone who left for work two minutes late. So, along with setting a good example for Peanut, I'm teaching him the various ways in which people express road rage. And he sagely reminds me, "Mom, stop yelling back. They can't hear you."

I'm sure the overall message to the kid is a mixed bag of safety and self-righteousness, plus a few colorful insults to use on the playground. This is a prime example of how what we think we're teaching our kids is not at all what they're learning. Peanut can add this to his growing list of "Ways Mom might kill me." At the very least, being the most infuriating person on the road livens up our commute. If we went with the flow of traffic it would just be dull.