Days of Whine and Roses

A short six weeks ago, I was giddy with anticipation. I was crossing days off calendars, looking forward to my days and counting each sleep like a Santa-junkie before Christmas Eve. One topic consumed almost every conversation I had. There were excited murmurs with friends, exasperated sighs shared with my husband, knowing laughter with my mother. I had one focus. One goal. One thing and only one thing mattered:

Surviving summer long enough to send the kids BACK. TO. SCHOOL.

Summer days had stretched interminably. Unbridled chaos punctuated with whines of, “I’m bored” combined with a shocking wine shortage in my house had me looking forward to the first day of school the way I had, as a child, looked forward to the last day of school. The first day of school glistened like a beacon on the horizon, a shining symbol of a time where I would regain my sanity, have time to put away the laundry and maybe fit in a pedicure.

Granted, I have not been at this sending kids back to school thing very long. My five year olds have been attending preschool for two years, but this has been my first formal-public education-the state requires you to make them go-back to school experience. And not only was I getting to send those little 5 year old heathens, um, angels to full day kindergarten, but their little minion of a brother was starting preschool five mornings a week. It would be nothing but days full of bliss. Bliss!

At least between 8:30 and 11:45.

The first day of school came – eventually, as it was held up by that witch Hurricane Irene – and I thought I had the whole thing wired. I made lunches the night before, I helped the kids set out clothes and shoes after their bath the previous evening, I made sure we were fully stocked with frozen waffles, boxes of Cheerios and Flintstones vitamins. Nothing could derail what I envisioned as our calm, morning routine.

Apparently, I failed to take into consideration the one element that could throw the entire thing out of kilter and send my mornings tumbling into near unimaginable chaos.

My kids.

The single hour it takes to get three kids out of the house and into the minivan is more stressful and more life-endangering than an entire week of summer vacation. And once they come home, the decibel level in my house reaches a level that even Pete Townsend in his guitar-windmilling days would find a little too loud.

How come I was not made aware of this? How come no one ever told me that no matter how nicely you tell your kids to hang up their backpacks on the special hooks in the kitchen and to put their shoes in the special box in the laundry room as soon as they get home from school that you will still be yelling at them, five minutes after you were supposed to leave in the morning, to find their backpacks and shoes?

How come no one ever told me that, in addition to there being a secret hideout in my house for the clean socks, that there is also a secret hideout for any papers or library books that MUST go back to school by a certain date? And how come although my kids can find that secret place to deposit said items, they cannot find it in order to retrieve said items?

How come no one told me that, while each and every teacher will tell me that my kids are beautifully behaved in school, they will act like they have been raised by wolves as soon as they get home?

And my mornings of bliss? They are nothing but a fiction, my friend. For in my quest to be a part of the school community, I volunteered to be a room mother. In two different schools. Instead of leisurely eating my bowl of Quaker Maple & Brown Sugar High Fiber oatmeal while watching Hoda and Kathy Lee get drunk and interview heads of state, I am designing class websites and typing up emergency contact lists and running back to the school because someone forgot it was gym day and didn’t wear sneakers and if I don’t bring them sneakers right now they will simply perish. Honest. They will.

This back to school chaos is not the fun and games that we naïve, first-time school moms think it is. You don’t have less to do with your kids. You actually have less time to do more stuff with your kids. And they haven’t even started getting homework yet.

We were at a friend’s house yesterday and they have a model globe. I pointed to Connecticut and asked my daughter if she knew what state we lived in. Without missing a beat, she replied, “A state of chaos.”

Someday they’re going to move out. And then?

Then there will be bliss.

I wonder how many sleeps until that happens?

I pride myself on being snarky and sarcastic. One of the proudest moments of my life was finding out that I had been selected as “Most Sarcastic” in my high school graduating class (I decline to mention the year in the event that it may incriminate me). Those who know me only through my blog or my online life may find those qualities a little off-putting. Or believe that I’m not grateful for all I have been given.

They would be wrong.

My vision for this blog is to make people laugh and point out matters of parenting common sense.

This time, I would rather get a little more personal and explain how I came to be a parent, or in other words, how R&B supergroup Earth, Wind & Fire saved my life.

Seven years ago, my husband and I were just another couple struggling with infertility. We were not the first and unfortunately, not the last, to face the problem of wanting kids and failing. No matter how many Barry White CD’s we played, how many romantic getaways we went on or bottles of wine we drank by candlelight, pregnancy the “old-fashioned” way remained elusive.

We found ourselves the best fertility doctor in our area and put ourselves into her capable hands. After trying out all kinds of different hormone cocktails, we settled on injectable therapy and thus began the trust exercise of letting the man I love jab me in the butt with a needle every day. Good times, man. Good times.

When we finally got pregnant, we were ecstatic. A month later, when we found out that we were pregnant with sextuplets, we were, well, I still can’t find the right word to explain what we were. Stunned, gobsmacked, scared, exhilarated, nervous, nauseous, rapturous, disbelieving, thankful, terrified, tearful – pick up a thesaurus and we were pretty much every emotion in there.

We lost one baby shortly after that, and I carried quintuplets for 5 months. Then, on September 18, 2004, my water broke and on Tuesday, September 21, I gave birth to Samantha Ruth, Anthony Gerard, Dominic Vincent, Araina Dolores and Dante Lynch. They were beautiful and perfect and simply not ready for this world.

I spent weeks in a haze of grief and depression. I was angry at God, and felt abandoned by Him. I was a faithful Catholic and couldn’t figure out why He had blessed me with such an extraordinary pregnancy, only to take it away.

(Hold on . . . I’m getting to the part about how Earth, Wind & Fire saved my life. I promise.)

Weeks went by, and a friend’s mother-in-law passed away. I was still not pleased with God, but being the good Catholic girl that I was, I still wanted to have a Mass said for my friend’s mother-in-law. I went to my church and asked them for the next available date to have the Mass said. It wasn’t until I got in the car that I realized that the date they gave me would have been the due date for the quintuplets.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. I felt selfish about that date, and didn’t know whether or not I wanted to share that date with any other event. I called my best friend and asked her what she thought. Was I being unreasonable? Was I wrong to want to keep that date to myself? She told me that she understood how I felt, that I could change the date, but to wait a little while before I made a decision. God would show me what He wanted me to do.

I hung up the phone with her and turned the radio on. The song? “September” by Earth, Wind & Fire. This has always been one of my favorite songs. It was on the must play list at my wedding, it’s great to dance to and just hearing it has always made me smile. But it wasn’t until that very moment that I realized what the first line of the song was:

Do you remember the 21^st night of September?

September 21 was the day that my babies were born. I guess God was giving me my sign right there. Reminding me that He was still there. Reassuring me that He was still there, grieving with me for my babies. And that when I was ready to stop being angry, He would be there.

Now if the Earth, Wind & Fire references ended here, I think that would be a pretty good story. But they don’t.

When I finally was ready to try again to get pregnant, the song was on in my doctor’s office the day of my first appointment.

The song was on the radio the day of my first ultrasound, when we found out we were having twins.

I heard the song in the grocery store the day I found out we were having a boy and a girl.

The song was featured in a TV show the weekend before I went into labor.

The song was on in my doctor’s office the day I got pregnant with my third child. And for my first ultrasound. And countless other times during my journey to our family. Which leads me to this conclusion:

God speaks to me through the music of Earth, Wind & Fire.

Certainly, if God is going to speak to you through any musical group, picking one named after the basic elements is a pretty good idea.

So I say that Earth, Wind & Fire saved my life, and I still hear that song during moments when I need my faith the most. But it was really my faith that saved my life, that saved me from grief and depression and that brought me my kids, who, despite what I may write in this blog or complain about on Facebook, are the joy of my heart and the reason that God put me on this earth.

Tomorrow is September 21, the seventh anniversary of my babies’ birth. I say goodnight to them every night, and pray that one day, we will be together again.

Samantha, Anthony, Dominic, Araina and Dante – you are always in my heart.

Confession: I am a Facebook junkie. Ever since that first little thrill 2+ years ago when I got my first friend request, I’ve been hooked. Drama comes and drama goes, but for the most part, I like having a window on my friends’ lives, particularly those I’m close to emotionally but am far apart from geographically.

Last night, I saw a post from a good friend, “My daughter is currently crying herself  to sleep because I’m the meanest mommy in the world.” Like most moms on Facebook, I probably see 2-3 of these types of statuses a week.

“I’m a horrible mother because I made him eat broccoli.”

“She hates me because I won’t let her have an iphone.”

“They’ll never take care of me when I’m old if I make them clean up their rooms.” (This last one is mine.)

Most of these posts are followed by comments about how awful it is when your kids are mad at you, or they think you’re mean, or how much it hurts when they say they hate you. And yes, I am the first to say that it does sting when your 5 year old tells you you’re the meanest person in the whole, wide world and she will never forgive you for your gross indiscretion (like failing to buy the sparkly pink sneakers, which have no foot support and cost four times as much as the perfectly nice not sparkly pink sneakers). But you know what else I feel when I hear my kids say things like that to me?

Confirmation.

Validation.

Recognition.

If my kids are mad at me because I’m setting limits and denying them foolish extravagances, it means I’m doing the right thing as a parent. Limits should bother them initially. Limits should show them that sometimes they have to deny themselves what they want at the moment in order to learn to be a stronger person with a firm, moral center. Limits should teach them that I know better than they do what is right for them and that I will enforce what I believe is right until they can be trusted to know what is right for them. This shouldn’t go over well.

I’m not saying that every limit has to be a fight. I’m saying that if a limit set starts a fight, that’s not necessarily a bad thing. My children are still young, and I’m still in the benevolent dictatorship phase of parenthood. I am in charge and if they don’t like it – tough noogies. I don’t have to explain my rules or decrees. They are what they are.

When my children have established some degree of maturity (probably about the time they stop eating crayons and sleeping without a nightlight), I have no problem explaining why I do what I do. Why can’t you go to the party where no parents will be home? Because dozens of teenagers alone in a house can lead to underage drinking and drug use and sexual activity.

And if they don’t like the reason, it won’t change my decision. If they want to hate me, they are free to do so.

My parents raised 5 children. No alcoholics, teen pregnancies or rampant drug use in the bunch of us. And my mother had a saying:

“I’m a very successful parent. All my kids hate me.”

I didn’t get into this mothering gig to make friends with my kids. They can hate me all they want while they’re young. I’m betting they’ll forgive me by the time they’re in the 20’s and see how the limits we’ve set have set them up for a successful life. Then we can be friends.

I can wait.

Hold the presses – there’s been another study! 

If you’ve been a parent for any length of time (say, 5 minutes or more), you know that every time you turn around, there’s another “study.” The anti-vaccine community finances studies to support their views, which are then contradicted by a study financed by the pro-vaccine community. Co-sleeping proponents tout studies that co-sleeping promotes better attachment and deeper sleep. Those who believe in separate beds for kids and parents flout research that supports the idea that independent sleep is safer and leads to more confident kids.

Hell, over the last 5+ years I’ve been conducting my own independent study on how much better my parenting is when I’ve gotten a few glasses of wine in me. Alas, no publisher yet, but hope springs eternal.

Now, the “experts” have published a “study” crucifying that poor sponge who lives in a pineapple under the sea. Apparently, watching “Spongey” (so dubbed by one of my 5 year olds) shortens a 4 year old’s attention span. Which leads me to my first observation about this study:

Do 4 year olds really have an attention span?

My twin 5 year olds were recently 4 year olds, and I like to think that they were pretty typical for their age group. And their attention spans were about .44 seconds long. They bopped from coloring to wrestling to snacking to beating each other senseless to whining to tattling to racing around like monkeys on speed all day long.

Isn’t a short attention span a hallmark of the preschool age? They handled themselves well while in preschool, but when they were home, in a more unstructured environment, chaos almost always reigned. I don’t think this is something to fight or guard against – I think this is something to fight for and protect. By flitting from thing to thing, my children are learning what they like, what they want, what they don’t like and what they’re willing to live with. They’ve only had a little more than 5 years on this planet to figure themselves out. Of course their attention spans are short – there is a lot for a kid to cram into a day!

Another observation regarding this study – it was based on 60 white middle- and upper-middle-classed 4 years olds. They were randomly divided into 3 groups. One group watched the sponge, one group watched a slower paced (frankly, more annoying) cartoon, and a third group colored. Each group did their chosen activity for 9 minutes. So these “experts” are basing their “study” on the responses of a miniscule number of children, all of the same background, after 9 minutes of an activity.

I call shenanigans. You can’t run a study with a so-tiny-you-barely-know-it’s-there, homogenous group doing any activity for only 9 minutes.  If that were the case, I would be getting my wine and better parenting study published (I’m certain I can get more than 60 moms like me to agree to participate – I’d hate to be in the placebo group, though. I really do like my wine.)

I just need to wait this cartoon study out. In another week or so, there’ll be another study promising that short attention spans in 4 year olds are the goal of parenting and I will be on the correct side.

Until the next study comes out.

Welcome to the “Wonder Wednesday” Blog Hop!

We all Welcome You!

Zelma’s Workshop ** Mama.Mommy.Mom ** A Grande Life ** My Pixie Dust Diary

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Our honored guest host this week is:

Meredith from Days of “Whine” and Roses

If you would like to GUEST HOST – please email me at lomargieatgmaildotcom!

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This afternoon, as I was flipping channels between the cloying annoyance of The Fresh Beat Band and the never-ending loop of Phineas & Ferb, I happened upon the local news. I hesitated just a moment on that channel before the whining reached a fever pitch, but that was enough to find out something astonishing. Something I was totally unaware of. Something that caused me to stop in my tracks and rethink my entire existence.

It is National Relaxation Week. 

What genius decided to schedule National Relaxation Week during back-to-school chaos?

Doesn’t this rocket scientist realize that I have 3 kids to outfit for school and just the thought of dragging all three of my minions to Stride-Rite for school shoes is enough to have me wondering if those fancy white jackets with all the straps and buckles come in my size. (Is there a hotline for the men in white coats?)

How am I supposed to relax when I haven’t yet mapped out my route to get the 3 year old to preschool and my 5 year olds to kindergarten all at the same time? And did I mention that the preschool is on the other side of town from the kindergarten, and there is no bus to either?

Who could relax when there are 16 long, interminable days left before the beginning of the school year and camp is no longer in session? You know, my parents didn’t send me to camp and I’m 99% sure that my mother spent almost no time at all planning activities for us to keep us occupied during the hot summer months (unless, of course, you count yelling, “Go outside and play” every time one of us dared pop our heads in the house a planned activity). And yet, here I sit, debating which amusement park to drive to, which zoo to explore and whether or not we can squeeze in a road trip to Hershey Park (because at least they have chocolate).

Any attempt at relaxation is going to have to wait until my daughter and I decide between which of the 17 outfits she has picked out (some of which include pajama tops or skirts she outgrew 2 years ago) will be appropriate for her first day of school.

There will be no de-stressing until I’m sure that my brand-spanking-newly-potty-trained three year old is not going to embarrass himself in his preschool class by attempting to pee-pee in the bush on the playground.

I won’t be able to stand down until I hear from my son’s own mouth that he did not have to sit by himself at lunch and that he didn’t get lost on his way to the boys’ room.

And once the back to school rush is over, there is no time to rest on my laurels! There are school pictures (why does the school photographer make my son look like a serial killer?), fundraisers (how much wrapping paper do I really have to buy?), holiday gifts for the teacher (class gift or individual gifts – discuss), PTA politics (maybe there’ll be wine at the meetings), not forgetting to cut out all those stupid little Box Tops for Education. There is no rest for the weary.

I do think about relaxing. I think about it a lot, as I’m chauffeuring one kid to swimming at the same time I’m dropping another off to dance class, which is conveniently located one town over from the third kid’s gym class. I have big plans for relaxing. Plans that involve a spa week, really good wine, quality romantic time with my husband and sleeping through the night without interruption. I even have it penciled in on my calendar.

September, 2029.

Until then, I think this year my only celebration of National Relaxation Week will be an extra glass of wine with dinner. Or two.

The male mind is an extraordinary thing. Despite years of evolution and progress, there still exists a strong “hunter” instinct. The urge to defend what is yours. It’s what drives men to provide for their families, protect their homes and chant “not in our house” during their home team’s goal-line stand.

It is, apparently, what also drives my 2 boys to defend their Lego creations with enough force to draw blood.

It never ceases to amaze me what my boys can turn into weaponry.

The shade umbrella that came with the sand table? Hidden in the garage after the 5 year old used it to try to remove the 3 year old’s spleen after the 3 year old had the audacity to lay a pinky on the 5 year old’s Iron Man mask.

The toy golf clubs my dad bought them, hoping to turn them into the next Tiger Woods? Banished to the closet when they started beating each other over the heads with them in a cage match duel over who was entitled to the green base Lego piece. (Based on reports that Tiger’s wife beat his car with a golf club when she found out he was cheating, perhaps this behavior isn’t limited to boys.)

The jump ropes that came in one of the multitude of goodie bags they’ve received this year? Thrown in the garbage after the 3 year old tried to use it as a choke collar on the 5 year old after the 5 year old dared to look at one of the 18 Lightning McQueen cars that the 3 year old is currently obsessed with.

I have removed anything in the shape of a stick, gun, or sword from my house, and yet, they still manage to turn the most innocuous items into WMD. Play-Doh is easily turned into bullets, cars are palm-sized projectiles and meatballs are delicious little hand grenades.

I am constantly on alert for the next offensive in the battle of 3 year old versus 5 year old. Don’t assume that the 3 year old is automatically at a disadvantage; he may be younger, but he’s wily. And built like a lineman. (I’ve already taught him how to wave and mouth, “Hi, Mom” to the camera for his inevitable Monday Night Football debut.) The 5 year old is skinny, but agile and quick. They’re pretty evenly matched.

And I am outmatched.

I was awakened the other morning just after dawn to the sound of the 3 year old screaming, “he hit me” and the 5 year old yelling, “I didn’t do anything.” (I really need to invest in ear plugs). I came into the kitchen to find the 3 year old with a bleeding scratch on his face, and the two of them standing at 10 paces, pretzel rods held like fencing swords. Did you know that a broken pretzel rod is sharp enough to draw blood? Well, you do now.

I know boys will be boys. I know that beating each other silly is a fundamental part of being brothers. And I know that this is just a phase, like most parenting crises, and when the day comes that they no longer feel the need to attack one another over whether we watch “Despicable Me” for the 118^th time or “MegaMind” for the 129^th time, I will raise a glass of wine to my accomplishment, namely, getting them through childhood alive and with as few scars as possible.

Until then, Constant Vigilance!

Being a mom means:

* Sometimes you walk into your living room to find that it has been toilet-papered like a tree at Halloween.

* You end up taking your kid to the urgent care at 8:00 on Saturday night because you can’t be sure whether or not he swallowed a piece of Lego.

* At least once a day, you will touch something sticky. It may be a kid, it may be a kitchen counter – doesn’t matter, as long as it’s sticky.

* You will never have enough clean socks or string cheese in the house.

* Sleeping in until 7:30 am feels luxurious and somewhat decadent.

* One day you will find yourself in line in a crowded restroom with your preschooler and they will loudly ask, in front of that crowd, whether you need to poop. They will not accept “be quiet” as an answer.

* You may one day find your 60” LCD television covered in purple crayon. That same day, all of your children will find themselves in bed for the night at 6:00 pm.

* Looking at your children most days and thinking, “Damn, they’re cute.” It also means that there will be some days where you look at your children and think, “Damn, they’re lucky they’re cute.”

* Telling someone to stop picking your nose. That’s right – your nose, not their own nose.

* The mere thought of taking 3 kids to Stride-Rite for school shoes will make you break out in hives

* You sing along with Laurie Berkner. In your minivan. Loudly. Without shame. Even when there are no kids in the car.

*  You’ll pay a babysitter $12 an hour just so you can go grocery shopping by yourself.

*  The amount of “wine” you drink is in direct proportion to the amount of “whine” in your house.

* You will know the theme song to every show on Nick Jr. You will get only the most annoying ones stuck in your head for days on end.

* Someone will always want to sit on your lap, but never so much as when you’re wearing something white and they’ve just eaten chocolate.

I love bedtime. I live for bedtime. In my world, bedtime makes the rest of the day worthwhile.

And each night, bedtime comes. Children are put in comfy pj’s featuring any number of popular Disney/Pixar characters. Approximately 412 bedtime stories are read, again featuring any number of popular Disney/Pixar characters. Sippy cups of water are left on nightstands. “Babies” are tucked in. There are prayers, kisses, trips to the bathroom, more kisses, hugs, tuck-ins, another kiss and then the husband and I are free.

Free! Free to watch what we want on TV! Free to eat our dinner without little raccoons trying to pick food off of our plates! Free to have an adult conversation without interruption! Free to use words like “shit” and “stupid” and “dummy” without the “We don’t say those words in this house” police reprimanding us!

But about fifteen minutes after the husband and I slump in front of the TV, patting ourselves on the back for another successful parenting day (if by “successful” you mean, all the kids are still alive, which I do), kids start wandering out of their rooms.

They need a toy. Or a book. Or a wooden mixing spoon. Or a roll of toilet paper. (Go ahead and laugh – in the last week, my kids have brought all of these things to bed. Pick your battles.)

So I tell them, “Go to bed!”

No response.

My voice is getting louder. “I mean it. Go to bed.”

“But I just need one thing . . . “

And now I’m pissed. “If I count to 3 and you’re not in your bed, you will not (insert fun activity planned for the next day) tomorrow.”

“OK, I’m going, in a minute when I get this one thing . . . “

I did not have these kids so I could be ignored. “That’s it! 1 . . . 2 . . . if I say 3, you’re not going to be happy.”

“But moooooooooooooom . . . “

I’m done. “1 . . . 2 . . . 3!”

Cue screaming and 3 sets of feet running back into bedrooms.

Fifteen minutes later, we do it all again. The sequence repeats 3-4 times a night, until about an hour after “bedtime,” and they are all finally in their beds for the night.

Why won’t these kids just go to bed?

In the interests of full disclosure, bedtime is less of a struggle than it used to be. When the twins were about 22 months old, my son started climbing out of his crib. Since we didn’t want him to fall out and crack his skull wide open, we took off the side of his crib, turning it into a toddler bed.

For reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, we also took the side off of my daughter’s crib, even though she showed absolutely no interest in climbing out. Our mistake.

This one simple act ruined bedtime at our house. My previously perfectly bedtimed trained kids became monsters. They went from a 6:30pm bedtime to running around at 10:00 at night.

It was like a party at the Playboy Mansion with all the nudity (theirs), bedhopping (theirs) and drinking (mine, all mine). This went on for months until my hormone addled brain (I had a newborn during this time) figured out that these kids needed separate rooms. (At which point I gave myself an “I shoulda had a V8” smack in the head.)

When compared to the Playboy party days, I suppose I should be grateful that everyone remains dressed, and the only bed they try to jump in is mine. And I should be grateful that by 8:30, the husband and I are indeed free for the evening.

I am even more grateful for wine.

Bless me, Parenting Police, for I have sinned.

It has been forever since my last confession. Well, technically, this is my first confession. Here goes . . . Since I became a parent, I have committed the following indiscretions:

• I don’t let my kids win at board games. I have a few reasons for this. Number 1, I am highly competitive. I get itchy when I think someone is going to beat me. Number 2, Chutes & Ladders, Candyland and the like bore me. To tears. The only enjoyment I get out of the hours that I’ve been required to hop from blue square to double orange square or sliding down those stupid chutes (why do I always land on the big slide at the end?!?!) is playing to win. I know, oh powerful and judgmental Parenting Police, that I am irreparably harming my children’s self-esteem and that this flies in the face of t-ball games where no one keeps score and classes where no one gets a real grade, but I think (and call me crazy if you want) kids need to learn how to lose and how to be a good sport (it’s easy to be a good sport when you win, but I know adults who can’t keep it together when they get beaten at the bowl-o-rama on a Saturday night). I do draw the line at trash-talking. It’s kind of hard to make “Yo mama” jokes, when I am in fact, their mama.

• I don’t explain myself to my kids. I’m the grown-up. They’re the kids. This is not a democracy. It’s a dictatorship. A benevolent dictatorship, to be sure, but a dictatorship nonetheless. If I decree that there shall be a green vegetable at each meal, baths every night and clean fingernails in my kingdom, then it shall be so. And if I decide, in my infinite wisdom, that I am allowed to eat Oreo cookies for breakfast while my minions are forced to eat a healthy breakfast of Cheerios, yogurt and a banana then (in the immortal words of Yul Brynner in “The Ten Commandments”) so let it be written, so let it be done. I’m the boss. I don’t have to explain myself.

• I ignore them. I mean, not when they legitimately need something, like if they’re bleeding or if there’s a bone sticking out of their leg. But when they whine, I simply refuse to listen. They could be explaining the solution to the NFL lockout or reciting the preamble of the Declaration of Independence, but if they do it in Whinese, then I will not listen. I don’t care what they have to say if they can’t say it in a normal tone of voice. Nothing grates on my nerves like the whining, and I will be a monkey’s uncle (or aunt, as the case may be) if I am going to reward whining by paying attention to it.

Now it’s your turn. Fess up. What sins must you confess to the Parenting Police?