I encourage the girls to spend time playing either on the own or together. Usually after a busy day of school, some kind of after-school activity, miscellaneous running around and the like, we get home in that magical witching hour of post-homework/pre-dinner. It’s a crap-tastic time filled with whining, huffing and puffing, and eye rolling. And then, there’s the routine that the girls go through. I kid (no, not really. No, really).
In any event, once all the school related stuff (making lunches, homework, assorted notices filled out or filed), has been taken care of, I need to move onto the next phase of the day: dinner time. Usually, I have a plan in my head of what’ll be on the menu. If I’ve really been on my game, I’ve already got some kind of protein defrosted or some vegetables in various stages of being cut up. It’s when I’ve got my hand up a chicken’s keister trying to take out the giblets when Mo and Co tromp into the kitchen to announce how bored they are.
They’ve got book — theirs and the ones from the library.
They’ve got dolls.
They’ve got markers, crayons, colored pencils and pads upon pads of paper.
They’ve got LeapFrog reading systems that will READ.TO.THEM.
They’ve got sidewalk chalk, jumpropes, and bubbles so that they can GO.OUTSIDE.
But no, they don’t want any of that. They want me to entertain them. Oh, and did I mention that they’re hungry?
Here, watch Mommy do some soft-shoe while she de-bones a chicken and blanches some asparagus.
Anyway, in order to distract them from oogling what I’m making and then issuing proclamations of “I’m not eating that!”, I told them to go upstairs and play.
Cue the girls going boneless, sinking to the floor as they strike up a chorus of “Do we have to?” and “I don’t want to” and “Why do you get to watch TV all the time and we never get to do anything fun.”
I’m not really interested in outlining the ways in which they live a cake-walk existence, but I do want to nip this rudeness in the bud. So, while they pause for breath between rants, I very firmly, but very gently remind them that I’m not one of their little friends that they can talk to any which way.
“And for the record,” I tell them, waving chicken parts in the air to emphasize my point,” I know that you would never talk to your teachers that way, being all rude and disrespectful, so please don’t do it here.”
“Now, go upstairs until I call you for dinner. And work on those disrespectful attitudes.” As they stomped up the stairs, I called after them, “Oh, I know! Go play school and practice in your workbooks!” Yeah, they’ll love doing that.
Some how, oh miracle of miracles, they stayed upstairs busily entertaining themselves. Dinner got made, the table was set, the plates put in the places. When I called them down to eat, they came enthusiastically without complaint. As they headed to the table, Morgan handed me a piece of paper and said, “Oh, here. We were playing school. It’s a note from Co’s teacher.”
I’m going to need a straight-jacket and a rubber room before they’re out of elementary school.