Spring Cleaning: Spoiled Children Must Go

I am dying for spring to get here. My attention keeps wandering to plans for the garden. I long for blossoms to turn my fruit trees pretty colors. The sweet smell of pollen in the air and the buzz of the first bees - which I promptly run away from because I'm allergic to the suckers.

I miss going out to water my garden in the early morning and having The Cat chasing imaginary things in the grass. I would say she's chasing bugs, but I really think she's just nuts and it's in her tiny, walnut-size brain. Not that it matters, it's cute. 

Being able to enjoy sunrise and sunset at decent times of the day, remember that? And starting the epic battle to get The Boy away from his video games and outside behaving boyish. Wait, no, I'm not looking forward to that. Maybe this year the kids will mow the lawn or weed a bit more. Probably not, they're spoiled. 

I was just talking to Mrs. Patience, who lives with her husband - Gandhi reborn, I swear - and their four children a couple of houses down. We let our kids get away with so much now. She thinks it's innately ingrained in parents, mothers especially, to want to give their kids at least what they had as a child and preferably more.

Makes sense. My mother was raised with few money problems and generally spoiled. I was spoiled to the point of having few chores and given almost anything and everything I asked for. I never had to wait for Christmas or my birthday for things. Although wrapping paper was nice. Hubby's parents had a tight budget, but they somehow found ways to give their kids things that they didn't have when they were children. 

My kids are spoiled. The Girl is a good sport about it because I told her when she was younger about The Mother's Curse: All the trouble you give me, you'll get back with interest when you have your own kids. (I pointed to her little brother that she considers the bane of her existence as proof that I wasn't a perfect child). As good as she's being, I still wonder what that's going to mean for her kids when she tries to give them everything she had and more. How old will my grandkids be when they get their first cell phones (my kids were seven), or laptop (The Boy was five), or TV in their room (about four although The Boy doesn't have one anymore - he has to earn it back)?

Mrs. Patience complained that her kids are picky eaters. I'm on board with that one. We feed The Boy almost anything he asks for because the kid is underweight and we're desperate to get protein in him as he grows into his adult height. He knows this and uses it mercilessly. Except we won't feed him junk food. He's not happy about not being able to eat Goldfish crackers for every meal, but I'll get up in the morning and fry him a ham steak. Hubby will make a full breakfast on a school day without blinking. I ate cold cereal every morning before school. Where did this change come from? If we make spaghetti for dinner, and he doesn't feel like it, he'll ask for - and usually get - a different meal. Mrs. Patience reports her husband has taken on the skills of a short order cook, sometimes fixing each child a different meal at their request. 

When we were young, you were taking your life into your own hands to first: saying that you didn't feel like this or that for dinner - when it was already on the table - and second: requesting something different. Why do they get away with it? I know I would have gotten slapped or spanked, depending on how old I was, and that's not an option any longer. Send him to his room? Why? That's where his laptop, tablet, and phone are - all with video games and a lifeline to his friends to complain we're mean. Ground him? Yeah, I try. Enforcing it is a whole other problem. 

I told hubby I'm going to start changing the wifi password weekly and they have to earn the new password. That's a hassle and as annoying for us as it is for the kids. If they don't like dinner - from now on they can make their own PB&J or Ramen to have instead. That's more than I would have gotten. 

 This trend of spoiling the children has to end, or I fear for the world by the time my grandkids are grown.

I Know What The Fox Says

What does the fox say? “It’s cold out!” And it probably follows up that statement with “Where are my cat-dinners?” (See my blog post “Seven Cats Later . . .” from April of this year for why it would say that.) 

Yes, it’s cold. Yesterday it didn’t get above freezing. And it’s time to get serious about this Christmas thing because I was thinking about other things and helping the in-laws over the long weekend. So now I’m planning the cookie baking marathon, because I have to get those suckers baked and mailed soon. And the tree(s) have to go up and the outside decorations really should have gone up before it snowed (damn!) and there’s going to be some words over that one I’m sure. (Crossing fingers this snow melts even though I know kids are praying it doesn’t because they want to make snow marbles – you know, leave water balloons with food coloring in them out to freeze solid then remove the balloon? Yeah, neat mess.) At least The Boy is cool with earning Xbox time by shoveling the driveway and sidewalk. He likes doing it. Whatever, I’m so happy to reward that behavior.

The good thing about the snow, which the fox is discovering, is that The Cat doesn’t like it. That little black furball starts whining to go out when The Girl gets ready to leave for school at 0630. No. It’s still dark and she doesn’t get to go outside before sunrise. So we hold her back and The Girl slips out the door. She mopes around while The Boy gets ready for school and whines and generally makes our morning miserable as she shows her displeasure. Finally, 0730 comes around and The Boy is ready to go. The sun is up, Hubby is ready to drive The Boy and his cello to school.

They open the door.

The Cat leaps out into freedom. Crisp, cool freedom. White fluffy freedom. Frigid freedom.

By the time Hubby returns from dropping The Boy off ten minutes later, The Cat is tired of her damned freedom and is ready to come in to the warm confines of the house. I’m serious. She’s huddled by the front door on the mat, alternately picking up one front paw then the other to try to keep them warm. She’s such a spoiled baby.

So, apparently there will be no 'Black Cat Lunch' on the menu for the local fox this winter.