Sunday, March 20, 2011
He knows every crack in the dirty sidewalks of Whineville.
Yes, I will admit this is an inherited trait.
My parents have regaled me with tales of my never-ending whining. So as the cycle continues, now it is my turn to hear the whiny-whine-whine that comes with snack requests, bedtime stalling, fears, don't-want-tos, etc.
Whining is the name of his game.
We tried some traditional tactics like pretending not to hear him when the first syllable whines its way out of his mouth. It worked sometimes but was really hit or miss. And his frustration from feeling as though he wasn't being heard would overcome any thoughts about actually stopping the whine.
So then we tried mapping out a plan and explaining thoroughly that "every time you whine, we are going to ignore it." He agreed. But again the strategy to de-whine the boy was never consistent.
There's been a load of compromising. It's almost as though he can't help it. He doesn't even realize he is doing it.
So during most whine-isodes I would just stop him and say "I can't understand you," until the whining would stop and the request would start again at a much better pace.
This was still hit or miss. And frankly not really fun for anyone.
So we have a new method.
Dare I even blog about it lest it jinx our wonderful new plan?
I have to.
Its awesomeness must be shared.
I'm not sure how it even came about, but one day we were listening to some music on youtube and Eric was just selecting a few oldies when he started to play a little of fellow-Arkansan Glen Campbell.
Suddenly the classic Rhinestone Cowboy song came belting into the room.
Jackson was memorized with the song.
What's not to like? Weird strolling cowboy, beautiful white horse, a rose-embroidered rodeo outfit and a chorus everyone loves to belt out.
And speaking of belting, we love to randomly belt out in song regularly in our house. Sometimes as a response in any conversation or sometimes for no reason at all.
Can you see where this is going?
After all that being silly and singing stuff, later in the evening Jackson began to request for something. I don't even know what it was because all I could hear was whinewhinywhine. So I broke into his sentence with a little: Like a rhinestone cowboy!
And suddenly the whining transformed itself into a normal conversation. He restarted his request with a normal tone.
It was like that white horse had just star-spangled its way into my kitchen and waved a magic wand.
I tested out my Glen-Campbell-hypothesis a few more times.
It worked. Every time.
The best part: I didn't have to be the bad guy.
Now, all I have to do is belt out a little Whinestone.
No whining and highly entertaining for myself.
Really a parenting win-win.
Who knew Glen was so good with kids?
Extra credit: How many Rhinestone Cowboy lyrics are in this post?
Friday, March 18, 2011
Yes, it's dead. Got too cold for it.
Yes. We'll have to pull it up.
Yeah. My friend Carlos's dad died.
Yup. He died.
Do you know what that means?
Yes ... What does it mean?
It means to be gone forever. So be careful saying that about people, ok? It's not nice to just toss around about people if it isn't true.
It's true. He died.
Ok then, how did he die?
He got killed.
Uh .... UPS?
Sidenote: Jackson has no friend named Carlos. He does however, have enemies in the postal industry.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Once there was a boy who had asked me out many times but we were always in the wrong place: geographically and emotionally. So when things finally did get lined up I was excited to get this party started. He took me to a fancy spot for dinner. It was a Swiss-Italian restaurant that had an ever-changing menu.
During conversations at parties or over the phone or even through mail, we always clicked and shared the same interests and sense of humor so I felt this would be an evening of good conversation.
A major dating plus.
Things were off to a good start. Lots of chatting, Lots of witty repartee. He was polite, chivalrous yet smart and funny.
And then we perused the menu.
One seasonal menu item that sparked some dialogue was a meal of kangaroo.
Yes, Kanga. Roo.
I realize people around the globe eat kangaroo. But, I was dismayed. As an animal lover, I expressed distaste for such an item. While not a vegetarian, I thought the beastly choice was over the top.
I said as much.
My date laughed and began to tease about ordering the dish and so forth.
I really did not want to sit across from Miss Kanga and think about her baby Roo wandering the Outback alone.
I said as much.
This continued until the waiter arrived to take our order.
“May I take your order, sir?”
"Uh yes, I'll have ... The Roo," he said.
So yeah….it didn’t really work out.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Well ... I guess ... uh ... really, God made the whole body all together so he just added bottoms, too.
Yeah but how does he do it?
Like how does he make them? On a table or a floor or a rug or a couch or outside or on a porch?
Friday, March 11, 2011
While I love the overall message and the endearing characters, I'm not thrilled with the name calling.
But who doesn't love Toy Story? I swear, I cry every time we watch it.
I also love the fact that Jackson has a Woody cowboy (also from Niki and Tim) and a Buzz Lightyear (garage-sale find) that he pals around with.
The other night, while tucking Jackson in for bed I picked up Woody and tucked him under my arm to put away.
Jackson was most concerned.
"Mama! Woody does not like being in your armpit!"
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
I really do.
But everybody knows some things just fly from your lips before your brain can calculate the damage. Especially in the middle of an elaborate tale or heated discussion.
Who doesn't love some colorful language every now and then?
We are, and have been, pretty careful around Jackson. So much so that really the only word he catches me with is "freakin'."
I say "catches" because Jackson has declared himself The Boss of Bad Words, The BBW.
The BBW runs a strict program. His tight regimen includes checking to ensure we aren't saying "weird" or "kill" or "dead" or "shoot" and so forth. It seems our efforts to keep him from name calling or using not-so-nice phrases with his friends has started to backfire.
However, when you get down to it, a three-year-old has so little power in the household, we allow The BBW his rule.
But I'm beginning to worry there has been a coup d'état.
The BBW is overtaking the county and he is wielding a bar of soap.
While I have mostly dropped the last remnants of my salty language, the other night after a lively birthday dinner I was regaling my mother-in-law with a tale or two and let it slip. It was a quiet slip - but those little ears are like bats picking up on the tiniest echos.
Immediately, after the bat-eared BBW busted me dropping the Shirley-Temple-side-of-the-F-bomb, the boss man went to work.
Mama! We don't say freaking.
You're right Jack. I shouldn't have said that.
Mama and Daddy, I am going to have to sleep in your bed tonight just to make sure you don't say any bad words in your sleep.