Let's Talk About Entitlement

(I started this post about ten days ago. Then I had to go to the bathroom, get something to eat, answer the phone, drive eleventy million places, and I'm just picking it up again because it's been on my mind. So, please pardon my tardiness.)

Chili over at Don't Try This At Home (btw -- love the Groucho glasses!) writes about teaching kids to save and appreciate money:

What about allowance? I'm torn here. I want to teach my kids NOW how to deal with money. I don't want them figuring out at 20 what happens if you make a regrettable purchase. At the same time, where do they get said money? From allowance? Should I be paying them for things that are necessary to the family's well-being? Shouldn't these chores be done simply because they need to be done? It's a catch-22 as far as I can tell.

Periodically Cleo and Robey try to finagle me into giving them an allowance, for what I can't be certain because they have everything they need, most things they want, lots of things they don't need, and I almost never require them to pay for anything themselves. Well, there was that Webkins...

They don't need money, but they still wish for piles of it to count and sort over and over. I think it's that childlike compulsion to squirrel away stuff and measure by volume instead of value. When I was about Robey's age I earnestly declared my intention to take all the money out of my savings account in nickels; my mother wisely rolled her eyes at me noncommittally. I haven't progressed much; if I could I'd stuff every dollar I own under my mattress.

I know some of their friends get allowances because their parents don't understand or accept the word "no." I know other friends receive allowances because they're expected to cover some of their own expenses, especially for indulgences. But neither of these issues seems to apply to my kids. First, I am the Queen of No, armed with an endless loop of speeches about how computer games rot your mind, Polly Pockets are a waste of money, and authentic baseball jerseys are outgrown so quickly that it simply makes more sense to buy the plain tee shirt. And second, I don't require my kids to pay for their own stuff. Well, there was that box of Pokemon cards...

So why should I give my kids an allowance? When I was a kid my parents tried bribing us to fulfill daily responsibilities by offering an allowance of a nickel a week (I'm not that old -- my parents were being stingy) with the understanding that our pay would be docked for not, say, getting out of bed in the morning (yeah, they set the bar pretty low). It doesn't take long to deplete a nickel; soon we owed them money, and in less than two months the allowance was just a memory.

Instead of offering a pointless allowance, whenever my kids whine for one (or even worse, compensation for good grades) I remind them that I won't pay just for the pleasure of their company but I will pay for an honest day's (okay -- quarter hour's) work. Vacuum the car -- get paid. Mop the floor -- get paid. Rake leaves -- get paid. Load the dishwasher -- get bupkes (I'm not crazy -- why should I have to do all the housework?)

It works, even though they still occasionally try to argue me into the allowance. They get paid for doing jobs, the jobs get done without my having to do them, and we avoid the resentment that would come from regular arguments over who owes what.

Single Parenting, In All Seriousness

Having come across this line of discussion on SoloMother, which referred to this thread by Cathy Arnst at BusinessWeek, I've been contributing some serious input regarding an issue that's part of my everyday existence:

I'm a single mother by choice to two extraordinary children, a ten-year-old boy and a seven-year-old girl (full biological sibs), through an anonymous donor. I’d reached an age where there was nobody special in my life (having divorced the World’s Worst Person) and had a deeply ingrained, I don’t know, assumption I guess, that I WOULD have a family. I never questioned it; in fact it wasn’t really a decision but more something I had to do that was as inevitable as needing glasses or being Jewish or reading books.

While enduring fertility treatments for my first (now there's a great irony: not only did I have to do it alone, but I needed help to get it done!) I spent a lot of time trawling Internet fertility support groups for encouragement and consolation. Most correspondents were supportive and probably couldn't have cared less that I was single, wrapped up as we all were in our fertility troubles, but a few attacked my "selfishness" in inflicting a fatherless life on some poor innocent child. In addition to foaming-at-the-mouth fury at their presumptuousness and arrogance, I felt frankly baffled that anyone could accuse of selfishness someone willing to give up freedom, stain-free (okay, relatively stain-free; I admit I’m a klutz) clothes and a full night's sleep in exchange for midnight vomiting (sorry -- too graphic?), homework help, car pooling, potty training and on and on and on. In fact, I felt it was one of the least self-centered goals I’d ever pursued.

Being a parent has been my life’s greatest achievement by far, and being a single parent is one of the world’s best-kept secrets. Although I must depend on my parents, friends and siblings for continuous advice and assistance (and thank goodness they’re always prepared to step up to the plate), I believe our lives are slightly smoother than some others’ since we don’t have to factor in parenting disagreements. Of course, I come from a background that offers me a great deal of support, in addition to which I’m mature, educated and financially secure. My situation is markedly different from that of an unexpectedly pregnant fifteen-year-old high school student. For an insightful comparison check out On Our Own by Melissa Ludtke.

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OMG! OMG! OMG! Can I Persuade This Woman to Come to My House?!

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Fun Mom Points

I'm resigned to my reputation as the unfunnest person in the western hemisphere aside from Dick Cheney. Spontaneity assuredly is not my middle name (I used to aspire for "sartorial splendor" as a middle name, but that didn't work out either. What do you think of "better late than never"? Or perhaps simply "klutz".) Still, I try to be a cool mom, but there's always an ulterior motive: I aspire to accrue sufficient "Fun Mom" points to offset my general aura of stick-in-the-mudness.

For example:

Why does any beverage, even water, seem to taste better when sipped through a straw? And what do I care if they use four straws a day?

What's so darned attractive about food coloring? We've had green eggs, purple milk, pink mashed potatoes...

Did you know you really can fry an egg on the sidewalk if it's hot enough? Takes more than three minutes but there's no hurry because you're not going to eat it anyway.

What's so darned cool about paint? When the kids were small enough to shower together I'd give them paintbrushes and bottles of mushy, goopy paint of indeterminate colors, let them paint each other (in the bathroom of course) and then have them wash it all off in the shower.

More than once we put on raincoats and boots and sloshed every puddle in the street.

The lawn guy has a standing order not to plow our rather steep driveway; after all, when else would we be able to use all-wheel drive?

Fascinated by the plastic one-piece chopsticks we'd found at the children's museum, Robey and Cleo insisted on using them that night to eat their dinner, which happened to be pot pie. To this day pot pie requires chopsticks.

I sure hope they're paying attention.

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WHERE HAVE I BEEN??!!

Has anyone missed me? Has anyone even noticed I've been gone? Anyone out there? Come on -- I can hear you breathing.

So did I ever mention that when my mother has a big birthday she likes to throw a big wingding party, and when my father has a big birthday he likes to take the whole family on a trip? So this year was my dad's turn and my mom spent an entire year planning a Mediterranean cruise for ten people, ranging all the way down to Cleopatra-Queen-of-the-Nile, who's seven. We flew into Rome, where we spent a couple days acclimating and touring, and then we boarded a ship for a ten-day cruise. We stopped in Monte Carlo (lovely!); Barcelona (extraordinary and surprising); Malta (a not-well-known gem); Tunisia ("Whoa! American lady! Special price just today, just for you!"); Naples (enough already with the ruins, but great pizza); and finally back to Rome and then home from Rome.

Let me tell you, there is nothing like touring European cities with kids you love and showing them all sorts of things and experiences and places they'd never dream up in their own sheltered suburban minds. Five Jewish kids aged 17 to 7 were enthralled (even the grumpy ones) by a tour of the Vatican arranged by a grandmother who had the presence of mind to call a Catholic friend to set up entry through the exit doors so as to avoid standing in the four-hour-long admission queue.

More to come, including the shocking saga of the supposed grownup who remembered to check her kids' passports but neglected to look at her own and thus learned only three days before departure that her passport was expired and had to be replaced posthaste.

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Running a website is the only exercise I get

In 2006 my father referred me to me a personalized gift web site called PhotoGiftPlace.com that puts your photos on almost anything, like mugs, purses, plates, clothing, mouse pads, balloons. The site was created by a group of web designers to show off software that displayed a mockup of the finished item in three dimensions, but since these guys are technical engineering dudes, the site looked like it was put together by a bunch of twelve-year-old boys in somebody's basement. The web designers wanted to sell PhotoGiftPlace so they could focus on their core business, so my dad suggested he and I buy it and whip it into shape.

I thought: "Yeeha! I get to play online without having to make up some lame and transparent excuse, I can use my valuable shopping background for good instead of evil, and I get to redecorate something!" Write a few customer service emails, add some new products, send marketing email campaigns once in a while, lounge on the couch and snack on bon bons, rake in a few mil by 2009, sell to Google, buy a racehorse, a Porsche and a big honkin' sapphire, and everybody's happy.

Uh huh.

So I learned about Google advertising on the fly (Want to know what I learned? That Google cost more than it generated because there is so much competition.) I researched new products and worked with designers to bring the site a new look and feel. I created marketing and mass email campaigns; what I know about marketing I really don't know, but I guess I'm as qualified as anybody since I do most of my shopping and research online these days. I hired Cleopatra-Queen-Of-The-Nile and Robespierre as subcontractors to help choose graphics, clip art and color schemes. I issued coupons, rewrote product descriptions, flogged the site to all my friends and blogged the site to everyone else. I also learned (as if I hadn't known already) that the laptop has some distinct and not-so-pleasant similarities to a slot machine, as it entices me to press those buttons just one more time because I'm certain to hit the jackpot.

What was supposed to be a no-brainer turned into a very-much-of-a-brainer, and while I'm not exactly complaining (okay, I am complaining), what I thought would be a joyride on the superhighway to riches and stardom has turned into more of a wagon train trip up the Oregon Trail, and I'm still in Independence, Missouri.

Still, I love it and my kids love having a family business, especially since I pay them for their consultations.

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Self Indulgent Bragging on My Son the Creative Genius

In the car on the way home from school last week Robespierre volunteered: "I just invented a new recipe. Wanna hear it?"

Robey's poems, stories and other narratives are frequently endless, convoluted and filled with blood, gore, lasers, rockets, colossal extinct reptiles and questionable bodily functions.

Me (not in the mood but game for anything that might not involve hitting, screaming, food spilling, pulling over to the shoulder of the road, tattling and general sibbling on the ride home): "Okay."

Robey: "Grind up an apple, a potato and an onion and fry it like a pancake."

Me (ears perking up at the mention of actual food and now paying attention): "Wow. That sounds good. Where did you see that?"

Robey: "I made it up."

Apparently he did make it up, as further interrogation turned up no evidence of eavesdropping, plagiarism or the influence of television, comics, classmates or the internet.

When we got home Robespierre took out the food processor and made potato apple latkes. They were delicious! Here's the recipe, as he wrote it:

ROBESPIERRE’S LATKES (POTATO PANCAKES)
Ingredients
3 potatoes
1 onion
1 cut up apple
2 spoons of soy flour
6 shakes of cinnamon
1 carrot
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 shakes of salt
How To Make
1. Process (grate) all ingredients in a food processor
2. Mix together with hands
3. fry
4. enjoy

He was so proud of his recipe that he submitted it to the school newspaper; in his deeply earnest way he's wondering how many of his friends ran home the day the paper came out and tried it.

Oh Yeah! I Can Blame It All on the Kids!

I swear my car's not even a year old! Here's my excuse: Mom My Ride

Character Shines Through

Two weeks ago one of the kindergarten teachers at our school was hospitalized for problems related to uncontrolled high blood pressure; he died of kidney failure two days later, at age 42. He had taught pre-k, junior-k and senior-k in his nine years on the faculty.

For the past two weeks the student body has been encouraged to write letters or draw pictures in Mr. L's memory. Last week's newsletter, filled with wonderful and touching reminiscences, was dedicated to him, and an enormous bulletin board at the entrance to the school has been filled to the edges with affectionate tributes. Some of the kids made remarkably lifelike drawings of him, complete with broad smile and dreadlocks pulled back into a ponytail, and decorated with math symbols. Classes created enormous wreaths, easily four feet wide, made from cut out handprints, memorial notes and tissue paper flowers in every color. Saturday's funeral, filled with joyous music and celebration of a life that touched so many, lasted nearly three hours.

Yesterday the entire school participated in a memorial service. When I arrived all the students and faculty were lined up neatly outside the entrances to the gym, standing perfectly still and completely silent. Nobody twitched, nobody moved, nobody even whispered. When I saw Robespierre I waved and he slowly put his finger to his lips to warn me not to speak. All the kids wore earnest and solemn expressions; clearly they'd been coached in appropriate behavior but not threatened, as the teachers stood quietly beside them showing no evidence of the hypervigilant severity you'd see on the faces of adults who expect troublemakers to erupt at any moment. We stood nearly ten minutes until every class had arrived and taken its place in the line; then the doors were opened and several hundred adults and children solemnly entered, starting with the youngest classes, and stood silently in the areas marked out for each grade with traffic cones. Mr. L's family were seated at the front of the room, to one side of the stage.

Once everyone had entered, the students and faculty sang a song that everyone learns from the youngest grades, with new lyrics added (at the suggestion of one of the students) to celebrate Mr. L. After a stirring gospel song called "If You Could See Me Now," and a poetry reading by one of the parents, all the kindergartners were given white helium balloons to release, which floated to the ceiling.

The entire time there was not one giggle, not one reprimand, not one inappropriate movement or comment from any of the children. Even children who had no reason to know Mr. L, who'd never had him as a teacher or who'd come to the school after kindergarten, and children with a limitless supply of ants in their pants, behaved more politely than some adults I've seen at funerals.

I see this sort of behavior all the time at my kids' school. Students hold doors for adults and each other, and if you hold a door for a child he or she will thank you pleasantly. Behavior at school assemblies and performances is much more civil than you might expect from kids so young. I love what this school does for my kids. We are so lucky to have landed there.

Today is Pi Day!

Okay, without any hinting, how many of us know what "Pi Day" is? Anyone? Anyone? Put down your hands, math people -- let somebody else have a turn.

Nobody?

All right, I'll tell you.

Today is March 14, or 3/14, or Pi, that is, 3.1415 blah blah blah. Robespierre's fourth grade class is celebrating Pi Day with ... pies, of course (I love this school!) Parents were encouraged to bring in whole pies, which the class, who are studying fractions, will practice on and then eat; in other words, they'll divide and conquer (do you love the puns? I'm full of them! If you don't care for puns you might as well unsubscribe right now.)

We made a chocolate meringue pie. Before baking it I placed a Pi-shaped stencil made of parchment paper on top and sprinkled dark cocoa over it. Robey was completely mortified; I suppose I was toeing the line between cool and profoundly nerdy, but as soon as he walked in to class he regaled one of his teachers with a minutely detailed description of the Pi on his pie. A few other pies were similarly decorated, thank goodness.

Maybe we'll bring a pizza when Cleo reaches 4th grade. Meanwhile, the meshuggenah French teacher is planning a party for tomorrow in advance of Spring Break, so we've been asked to bring in French food for the class, and French fries don't count.