Ewwwwwwwwwwwww, The Precious was in a mood yesterday.  I know I get cranky when it’s hot, but I didn’t realize The Precious had the same issues.  That is, until yesterday.  He showed up last evening with his pint sized body sweaty, and his galaxy sized attitude intact.  Buckle up….you know it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

I was sitting in my recliner, minding my own business…when I heard, “helloooooo….Emmy?”  It was the monkey man.  I am enjoying the air conditioning but I know that the chilled air is only temporary, because I am about to go outside and play.  Aunt vag. daughter held him off for awhile.  She’s always exciting when she’s here.  I think it’s the abscence making the heart fonder thing.  Anyway, about 15 minutes into the visit it’s, “Emmy, let’s go outside.”  He wanted to play on his swing.  He slid for a few times and seemed to be in an overall good mood.  Then he decided to swing.  We didn’t get him a fancy swing.  If Boppy had his way, The Precious would have had one of those log cabin gone wild swings.  You know, the ones with the rock climbing wall and a fort?  Well, I got my way and The Precious got a plain, old, 2 swings-slide-and glider swing.  The swings have the flat, hard plastic, swings that every child since the invention of the swing has had.  They were good enough for me and they were good enough for his daddy and they are good enough for him.  Right?…..Wrong!  The Precious has difficulty placing his round booty on the flat swing, and he panics when he feels that he might fall.  He wanted what he called a “diaper swing.”  Google “diaper swing” and see what you get.  I got everything from Pampers to sex swings.  What I didn’t get was anything that I would attach to the swingset currently residing in my backyard.  So after his slippery little ass fell off the swing (and before he could work up a good fit), I told him to come on we’d go to Toy-R-Us.  I told him we would get one toy.  “How many toys?”  “One toy.”  Groovy….so off we go.  “I have to buckle in.   Right Emmy?  Cuz’ we’re goin’ a long way.  Right?”  So I buckled him in, and off we went.

Have you ever taken a three year old to Toys-R-Us on a July day after telling them you can only get one toy and you mean a swing but they have a whole different idea in there heads?  Well, let me tell you…I have trouble keeping up.  We made it through the pool toys.  Although I was seriously worried that he was going to need a wading pool.  We made it through the Ironman, Spiderman section.  We barely made it through the sports equipment…he thought he might need roller skates…and a helmet…and pads.  This is the kid who broke his arm standing on a Sit-N-Spin, and he thinks I’m going to put wheels on his feet?  Please!!!!  I told him that he could barely walk through the house without falling when he has nothing on his feet.  He doesn’t need all the owwwies that would come with roller skates.  A lady next to me gasped.  Apparently telling a toddler they are clumsy is akin to beating them in public.  I know that, as of now, he has inherited my grace.  I’m not going to be irresponsible.  Anyway, having talked him out of roller skates, we went to an aisle that has blow up buildings that you can jump in.  I know that you have seen them at fairs and things.  This is the same thing on a smaller scale.  Kind of like the things you can rent for birthday parties.  Well he said, point blank, “I want it.”  I uttered that rarely heard word….No.  “But I want it.”  “No, it’s too big for Emmy to put in her backyard.”  “You said one toy.”  “Yes, but we already have a “diaper swing” that’s your one toy.”  “But I want the castle….”  “Yes, everyone does, but not every one gets it.  It’s too many dollars.” ($330 of them as a matter of fact)  “Come on and let’s pay the money and go to Emmy’s.”  Out comes the lip, and the head goes down….the corresponding shoulder droops as he turns his head away from you so that you are now viewing his back and the side of his head.  “I sad.”

We walked out of Toys-R-Us with the swing.  And a box of 250 gumballs, and a Wally The Whale (which didn’t work at all).  We got home and I unplugged him from the car.  He grabbed the swing, leaving Wally (which was a bribe to keep him from whining about he castle) in the car, and the gum balls in the drink holder.  He dragged the swing across the lawn and into the house.  He briefly showed it to his mother and then he took it out to his swing.  “Do it Emmy!”  So I began to unhook the old swing, and put up the new swing.  When I went to get it, The Precious was sitting in it.  I told him he would need to move his butt before I could hang his swing.  “I want it!  I want to swing!”  I finally wrangle his toddler butt out of the swing and hang it.  I put him in it and lock him in when he begins screaming. “The other way…I want it the other way….behind me!”  “I am behind you.” “Not you…my swing…my swing, behind me!”  I stopped the swing and begin to take him out.  This set off another cacophony of screams.  He didn’t want to have to get out of his swing.  I tried to explain to him that I am unable to hold him by two ropes while attaching the swing to the swingset.  He is unmoved.  I finally get his bellowing butt out of the seat and get it turned around.  Finally.  His swing is now officially behind him.  I began to push.  Like every child since the beginning of time he begins to shout, “higher, higher.  I want to go higher.”  I’m pushing for all I’m worth.  I’m sweating like the pig that knows it’s dinner, and my shoulders are screaming with each and every push. “higher, higher…my daddy goes higher.”  I can do nothing to please the little darling.  I refuse to try and explain the physics of swinging to a toddler.  I also refuse to get a longer rope to get him to his desired altitude.  If I get a  rope at this point, it’s not going to be the swing that’s hanging from it.  After 3 to 5 minutes of taunting about how much better his dad is than me, I decide I will just stop the swing, remove the precious cargo, and take him and his little attitude into to the house to get his dad and his bulging, swing pushing, muscles.  Stopping the swing starts the  screaming again.  I’m hot.  I’m sweaty.  My shoulders are on fire.  I’m 50 years old and have no ability left to reason with little people.  I used all of mine up on my kids.   I leave The Precious buckled in the swing and head for the door.  I stick my head in the door and yell, “someone else needs to push this kid, and he would prefer his daddy.”

I’m not going to go into the fireworks display that occurred when it was his mother and not his father who walked out the door.  I’m not going to talk about the melt down he had when Wally The Whale didn’t work and he couldn’t catch the fish with his little net.  I’m certainly not going into the screaming match that happened when his foolish mother took him from the side of the pool and placed his writhing butt in the nice, warm, pool water.  Oh no….I won’t go into those things.  What I will say is this: as we were leaving the toy store The Precious was sitting in his car seat with his mouth full of gumballs.  He has one hand in the box of gum, and one grasps his swing.  His foot is on top of Wally.  With a slimy, sticky, mouth he says, “Thank you, Emmy.  I’m so happy!”  And that makes it worth it.  Nine out of every ten times he comes to visit he is absolutely a treasure.  On that tenth visit, he could wear the horns off of a Billy goat.  But the nine far out weigh the one.  His mother just called and asked if they could come back tonight.  I think she knows I was at the end of my rope last night.  Of course, I said that they could.  That tenth one is out of the way….odds are we are going to be having fun tonight.  Thank God!!!!!

 

I got a notice today that it is time for my semi-annual teeth cleaning from my dentist.  I like my dentist.  His daughter and my daughter were very good friends in high school which is why I chose him.  He has an easy going nature, and a keen sense of humor.  He also lets me have laughing gas at any time I choose.  Good man.  So the point I’m getting to is this: I don’t mind going to the dentist.  I know some people have phobias about the dentist.  Truth is, out of every hour appointment, I see the dentist maybe 2 minutes.  I walk in, and the hygienist takes me back to the chair.  She takes x-rays, and cleans my teeth.  When everything is done the dentist walks in and looks at the x-rays and picks at my teeth.  He proceeds to tell me that everything is fine and that’ll be $125. Did you hear and understand that my dear friends…2 minutes of work and $125!

Normally the dentist is the one doctor I can go to and be told that everything is fine.  I count on him for that, but the last time he let me down.  My teeth are good.  I don’t get cavities, but what I do is grind my teeth in my sleep.  All of my molars are crowns.  The last time I went to the dentist he told me that two of my crowns had cracked.  He said that they needed to be replaced, and suggested that it would be wise to go ahead and do root canals at the same time, since I was experiencing sensitivity.  Have you priced crowns in the last year or two?  The crown alone cost about $1000.  Add to that the $300 for the root canals, and multiply by two and you are talking about a nice little sum of money.  “There’s your house payment” I half jokingly said to him. “I should tell you that porcelain crowns are inferior to gold crowns.  Gold crowns last longer and are better for chronic grinders.”  Personally I don’t see how that can be true what with gold being such a soft metal, but a few years ago (15 or so), a dentist talked me into a gold crown with the same argument.  “No one will see it.  It is in the very back of your mouth.  It won’t show and it will last a lot longer.”  Well, it’s lasted alright…and it has shown up in every picture I’ve had made in the last 15 years.  I have a big smile, and apparently you can see every tooth in my head.  Every stinking picture that I have with me smiling my natural smile (unposed) has a glint of gold.  I feel like a gangsta in those pictures.  Yo, Yo…it’s Emmy D, O, double G up in the hizzouse.  Which would be fine if I was into that kind of thing….but I’m not.  I’m funny enough to think that teeth should be white.  Actually the whiter the better.  If (God forbid) I should ever have to have dentures, I would want those puppies so white you would need shades just to look at me!  I’d be like that episode of friends where Ross gets his teeth whitened and they go to a party with a black light and all you can see are his teeth.  That’s the smile I want.  I just don’t want to mortgage my home to get it. 

I’ve gone through braces, and rubber bands from back to front, retainers, and splints just to have straight teeth and non-aching jaws.  I can’t control the grinding…I’m asleep…cut me some slack.  I wear jaw splints at night (along with all the other splints and crap I have to put on before bed) which are supposed to prevent me from damaging my teeth.  I have about a half inch of acrylic between my top and lower molars each night.  I have gone through four sets of professionally made bite guards in the last 25 years.  That averages out to 6.25 splints per year at a  cost of about $300 each, or the cost of one root canal and crown.  They have to be replaced because I eventually crack them from the pressure in my jaws as I clinch my teeth.  So here’s the thing…if gold crowns last longer than porcelain, and porcelain apparently lasts longer than acrylic rather than trying to sell me on gold crowns, they should be making my splints out of gold.  If they did that then I would only have to replace them every 20 years.  Plus I could go out in public without looking like Mike Tyson. 

So in a couple of weeks I’m going in for my cleaning, and when the hygienist is through and the dentist comes in and tells me that I still need to replace those crowns, I’m going to smile my golden, gleaming, blinding smile, and tell him no thanks.  I’ll keep using Sensodyne, and praying for a miracle (maybe dental caulk), and hoping beyond hope that I can last until there is some light at the end of the tunnel.  Maybe by the time I have the money there will be a third option available…or a fourth, if you count the dentures!

My Dad loved life.  In my late twenties we became friends.  Dad had gone through some major life changes and I was in a better place than I had been.  We reached a place where we could sit and talk as equals.  I could discuss anything with Dad.  We talked pro football, college basketball, politics or his favorite subject…the weather.  The point here is that we talked.  Dad had two things that were pretty consistent: he called all of his daughters sis (kept the confusion to a minimum), and he told us “it’ll all work out.”

This was Dad’s life philosophy.  When I came to him to talk about my marriage being on rocky ground he told me it would all work out.  When my ex was making my life miserable I got the same phrase.  No matter what the situation was I was told “it’ll all work out.”  At the time I found it irritating.  I was looking for advice.  I wanted to hear sage wisdom not foo foo platitudes.  I wanted him to tell me that he would talk to him, or that he would help me in some way, but I never got that.  I got, “it’ll all work out.”  At the time it didn’t seem like it was any help at all, and I wondered why when we could talk about anything if I needed help this was all I got.  But you know, looking back, he was always right.  It all did work out.  Not always the way that I hoped or the way that I had planned but it did work out.  Whether the solution was for the better or for the worse it still worked itself out…probably in the way it was intended to. 

I’m going through some things now that I’m not happy with.  The other day I was seriously wishing I could talk to Dad about it.  After thinking about it for awhile I knew what he would say.  He would listen to everything I said and  after seeming to think about it he would tell me that it would all work out.  Only now I know that he’s right.  Whether it works out the way that I wish it would or not remains to be seen, but it will work out.  But here’s the clincher…I get it.  All of those times that he told me those tiny little words of wisdom I thought he was full of crap.  Now I am trying to live my life with the gentle ease of my father.  It will all work out.  There are usually only two options to this…it will work out for the best, or it will work out for the worse…but it will work out.  I get it.  Now I try to just go with the flow and hope that it works out for the best.  I know that if my kids come to me for advice I will use these words.  The difference between my dad and me is that I don’t always stop there.  That is why I have raised children who come to me for help instead of standing on their own two feet.  I know they are reading this, so I have to admit that a. they don’t always come to me for help and b. as they get older it gets better.  I think I should be able to fix things.  My dad thought I should be able to solve my own problems.  I think in some ways he just had more faith in me or in a greater power.  Him telling me that it would all work out probably forced me to find my own solutions or be willing to accept the outcome.

So it’s Father’s Day.  I can feel his presence smiling at the fact that I got it.  Dad had a great smile.  His life wasn’t easy, but he loved it.  He loved growing up on a farm with a ton of brothers and sisters.  He loved my Mom and he loved his daughters.  He loved God.  He loved life.  The best way we can honor Dad is to love life like he did…to smile like he did…to keep going on without him, not because we want to because we have to.  He didn’t waste a minute worrying about what would happen next.  He knew it would all work out!  Happy Father’s Day!

My non-vag. daughter was water boarded last night.  She wasn’t being held as a terrorist or anything along those lines.  She was swimming in the pool.  Not to minimize my role in this, while she was being assaulted, I laughed my ass off.  Please allow me to enlighten you…

Last night my oldest, his wife and The Precious came over.  It began with The Precious and me watering the plants out front.  That lead to The Precious shucking down to what nature gave him.  As we were coming  inside  I noticed that “Dave” had once again sprung a sprocket and was shooting water all over the place.  I made the comment that Boppy was not going to be happy.  Allow me to digress…Boppy hates pretty much everything pool.  He doesn’t enjoy it.  He doesn’t like paying for the chemicals.  He doesn’t like cleaning it.  He really hates repairing it.  However; because I can whine like an m’er f’er, he will (if he must) take care of “Dave” because Dave will keep the pool clean without paying or feeding him.  Today we had to go to the pool supply store and purchase a part for “Dave”.  The part was a little plastic connector for “Dave’s” hose, and it cost over $30.  Let me tell you, I got an ear full on the way home.  This man who will spend $40 a week on golf balls bitched for 15 minutes about the amount of mark up on this connector.  We finally made it home and he attached the part and soon thereafter he went golfing (insert gasps of shock here).  Okay…back to the story…so when I saw that “Dave” had sprung a sprocket again I knew this wasn’t going to be a great evening. 

Well, The Precious wanted to see what Dave was doing.  We went outside and sat on the glider and watched for “Dave” to surface so we could have a sighting.  Now you know it’s a pretty laid back life style when you get your kicks from watching the automatic pool cleaner break the surface, but that’s what we were doing when The Precious suggested that we take a closer look.  So I went to get my swimsuit on and we got in.  Within a few minutes we had navigated to the deep end to take a look.  Shortly his mama came out.  By this time we had “Dave” trapped and were playing with the loose hose.   The Precious was totally digging playing with the hose.  It is something to see a kid in a huge pool playing with the hose from a broken pool cleaner.  This was more fun than the pool had ever been, and the pool has been plenty fun!  Little did we know that far greater fun was minutes away because you see, when my non-vag. daughter got in the pool The Precious went to her…hose in hand…and accidentally sprayed her a little.  Well that was the funniest thing ever so he started doing it on purpose.  I’m going to try and describe this without missing anything.  He turned the hose on her on purpose.  Caught off guard she does the only thing she can think of to do…throw her head back to get out of his way.  Well this caused the water to go straight up her nose.  Now she has The Precious in the deep end of the pool.  She is hanging onto the edge with one hand and the baby with the other, meanwhile she is getting a full sinus irrigation and gulping gallons of water at the same time.  She can’t really make him stop because to do so could cause the kid to go under.  He definitely would if she let go of him, and he might if she let go of the edge.  I am doing my part.  I have a raft…maybe 2 feet away…and I am laughing my ass off…because I can see her face and she is utterly tortured!  He is laughing that hysterical deep belly laugh that totally tickled toddlers get, and she’s laughing a little too because it’s hard not to laugh when a baby is laughing that laugh.  She finally risks letting him go to put her hand up, and this causes some of the spray to fall back on him.  He’s done.  He drops the hose and quits laughing.  Not me.  I’m still laughing.  Writing this and thinking about the look on her face I’m still laughing.  Well, once she gets things under control she looks at The Precious and tells him, “…your Emmy is a very bad word.”  That’s enough to send me into further gales of laughter.  Before they had gone home, Boppy came in from golf and The Precious told him, “you’re not gonna be happy.”  He proceeded to drag him outside to look at “Dave.” That brings the story of the hose to my non vag. daughter’s attention once again.  Well she’s shooting for sympathy, which Boppy might have given her had I not erupted in laughter from the other room.  My son was never going to empathize because he has the same sick sense of humor that I do.  So while she’s telling the guys what a bitch I am  I told them my version of the story.  I told them the baby had water boarded his mother.  My son asked her, “was it torture?”  She said yes with a look on her face that had me rolling on the floor yet again.

Now…we had to have a brief explanation of why anyone would be in doubt (W.) as to whether or not this particular event would be considered anything other than torture, but I think…torture or not…I will do my level best to see to it that she never has the tail end of “Dave” while I’m holding a three year old in the deep end of the pool with one hand holding onto the side and no way of getting away from her, because let me tell you dear ones…she will drown my ass!

 

For many reasons, I love summer.  I love the lush countryside. I love the warm, even hot, temperatures.  I love the smell of water on hot pavement.  But mostly I love lying in the sun in the pool.

The pool is my sanctuary.  No one else gets to enjoy it as often or as much as I do.  My vag. daughter is in beauty school and is gone 5 days a week from 8:00 until 5:00.  And Boppy would rather eat glass than swim in the daytime.  Many long years ago, Boppy received a bad sunburn…one of the blistering kind.  He was at a water park with his cousin, and in typical little boys fashion they outlasted their sunscreen.  He has never forgotten.  And he extends his phobia unto others.  I am constantly reminded to use sunscreen.  Even-though, my moisturizer has sunscreen in it I rarely take a topless trip in my convertible without being asked, “do you have sunscreen on?’ It doesn’t help that we have no shade around our pool.  Around 5:00 in the evening the sun goes behind some neighboring trees and casts the deep end into shade.  For this reason, I always make sure to keep sunscreen for everyone who might swim.   I keep everything from a SPF4 to and SPF50.  When I was placing last years sunscreen in the cabinet I learned that we were out of several strengths.  So  Boppy and I headed off to Wal-Mart to buy sunscreen. 

We didn’t have to search to find it.  Luckily every store in Arkansas has a big kiosk of sunscreen available.   Finding wasn’t the problem…agreeing on what to buy was the problem.  I don’t like sunscreen that smells like coconut.  Love coconut, hate artificial coconut scent.  Boppy can’t smell the coconut, or he just doesn’t care.  I tend to buy Coppertone products because they don’t have “that” smell.  It is slightly more expensive so Boppy wants to buy Banana Boat products….they reek!  The intensely sweet smell gives me a migraine. I had to tell Diamond Jim to suck it up and pay the extra .50 because it was lots cheaper than my migraine prescription which our insurance doesn’t cover.  Reminding him of the cost of Treximet did the trick.  We picked Coppertone.

I am dark skinned.  Not Native-American dark, but olive toned enough to tan easily.  Boppy is opalescent.  He burns easily…he does tan, but you have to see his covered skin to prove it.  Trust me when I say that will not happen.  So I pick out a SPF8 for myself.  As soon as he saw the number on the bottle, Boppy told me that I would be just as well off putting on water (he tends to over exaggerate).  I reminded him that I am darker skinned than he is (so was our albino bunny, by the way.) He keeps it up. “I don’t know why you even bother…you’re going to look stupid when you get skin cancer…you’re not setting a very good example….” and so on.  Again, I reminded him that if I did indeed get skin cancer it would probably be from tanning when I was young and using butter on my body…or baby oil and iodine…or the fact that I nearly lived in tanning beds until 1990.  I also reminded him that my dermatologist checks my body yearly for skin cancer and that he told me that the sun protection factor number was less important than how often it was applied.  Now dear ones, I know you don’t know Boppy, but he gets a look that is hard to describe when he is faced with logical information that flies in the face of his beliefs.  It causes his brow to knot up and his eyes to narrow.  The irises change from a azure blue to a gray.   He becomes….his mother!   Ignoring all of his arguments, I purchase the sunscreen that I wanted.  Of course he insists that he must have a different one.  I agree because putting an 8 on him is likes putting oil on a chicken breast on an open flame.  I pick up a 50….it’s for babies.  It comes in a pink bottle with teddy bears.  The look returns.  I find a 70.  Now it has become a treasure hunt and the goal is to see who can find the highest SPF.  He finds an 85.  OMG!  I don’t see how in the hell I can beat that.  I look on the back side of the display.  Eighty-five after 85 appear on the shelves.  Then I hear a triumphant yell from the other side.  In typical Boppy fashion, he doesn’t speak but holds the bottle in front of my eyes so I can see for myself (it’s kind of a passive aggressive neener neener).  100!  Keeping in mind that the number reflects how much longer you can stay in the sun than you could without sun block…the one minute he has, has now turned to 100.  That’s almost 2 hours!  I ask him why he can’t just roll in mud like other pigs.  The look returns.  I’m laughing my ass off now, partly because of the pig comment and partly because of the look.  He turns to me and seethes, “skin cancer” and turns to go to the checkout.

Yesterday I got to lie in the pool.  I sunburned.  Life sucks sometimes! 

The Precious turned three this week.  In a fashion typical of our family, he had two birthday parties.  The first as a quiet little family event with about a dozen people…mostly adults.  The second was a pool party (at our house) with eight kids ranging from six to two (almost three).

Now before I go further let me say The Precious is sick.  He is recovering from an ear infection.  His allergies are giving him fits, and as if those things weren’t enough, he also has hand, foot, and mouth disease.  That presents as tiny little blisters in the back of his throat.  He had this once before, but it presented as blisters on his hands and throat.  It apparently begins as a fever, feeling lethargic, and then the blisters.  Needless to say, he wasn’t feeling well.

We live in Arkansas.  A typical Arkansas summer has temperatures in the nineties with 90% humidity.  Saturday was no exception.  The children were seriously doused with sunscreen, placed in their life vests and floaties and plopped in the water.  They paddled around like little top  buoyant dolphins.  There was a slip and slide for them to bust their tiny little butts on.  And, a “bouncy thingy” was blown up and ready to go.  It was kid heaven.

The adults, on the other hand, were dying.  The mommies and grandmas were watching the little ones.  Occasionally they would get in the water, but their could be no conversation with other adults while they were in the pool.  Children in pools demand 100% of your attention.  They will climb you as if you are ladder.  They splash you.  They want you to throw a ball for them to catch while they jump off of the diving board.  It is crucial that you time the throw just right, because any missed catches will be blamed on you.  It is also imperative that you respond to the constant cries of, “watch me!” 

The party was from 1:00 to 3:00 pm.  This had me concerned, because of it falling in the middle of nap time.  I wasn’t as concerned that children would be sleepy as I was that they would be cranky.  I needn’t have worried.  The only crankiness came when parents announced that it was time to get out of the pool.  Children who hate taking baths will scream to stay in a pool.  Now remember dear ones, the Precious doesn’t feel well.  On the best of days he doesn’t like sharing.  His toys are his and only he can decide who plays with them.  It is also important to remember that all the toys are his.   As an example…a few days ago he invited his BFF who lives 2 houses down the block to swim with him.  The kiddos were playing in the pool with water guns.  These are water guns from last year, and one worked pretty well and the other hardly at all.   His friend wanted the gun The Precious had, because it was the better gun.  The Precious knew this and was guarding the gun with his life.  As soon as The Precious put the gun down his friend jumped on it like a duck on a June bug.  This did not go over well.  Once the friend put the gun down The Precious performed the June bug manouver and grabbed the gun.  The Precious came to me and asked if he could go inside.  Thinking he probably needed juice or to go to the bathroom, I got up and opened the door.  He went inside and promptly hid the good gun under a beach towel and announced, “I’m through.”

So, here are all these kids and they are playing with his toys…and his mommy and Emmy.  Many times we looked around and found him inside (with all the daddies and Boppy).  He barely got into the water.  His little cheeks were beet red, and he was very sweaty.  He did show up for presents…although his friends wanted to play with his new things and that wasn’t cool.  He also blew out his candles, but he didn’t eat much cake.  He just felt crummy. You could just tell that probably what he needed was air conditioning and a nap.  I know that’s what I needed.  Yet when his mommy said it was time to go, he gave her the usual fuss.

Now, I have written all of this to make this point.  I don’t think kids really care so much whether they go or not.  I think it’s about the fuss.  They knew coming in that at some point they would leave.  Yet each and every well-behaved little munchkin was upset when it was time to leave.  I think they are testing the waters.  I think they know they will have to leave, but if they can set that back for 10, 15, or even 30 minutes, they win.  Little kids don’t get to win much.  Their parents get to win a lot.  So any small victory is a huge win to them.  I understand this.  I don’t get to win a lot either.  I get really excited when I get to put a W in the results column.  Who doesn’t?  And this is what sets grandparents apart from parents.  We let them win.  A discussion about whether or not  he can have a cookie before dinner results in a cookie before dinner.  “I need a new ______”, results in a trip to which ever store can provide the necessary item.  In theory, this can continue until the child can provide for himself.  It’s a pretty sweet deal…for the kids…and the grandparents (because they come off looking like heroes), but the parents are always the villains.  So my advice to parents is this: let them win occasionally.  Pick your battles.  If an extra 10 minutes has you as the hero instead of the villain, isn’t it worth it? 

Maybe I’m just old and tired.  Actually, there is no maybe about it.  But I just don’t have the fight in me anymore.  It’s easier just to give him the win.  If it’s not illegal.  If it’s not immoral.  If it’..s not going to result in death…just give in.  I tell my kids all the time, “give him what he wants and he won’t cry.”  It’s sound advice.  It has always worked for me!