Get Your Kid To Work Day

I’m fairly certain the McKendricks descend from a long line of aristocrats—well-heeled Scots dripping in diamonds, and above all, accustomed to having others clean up after them.  The diamonds have been lost to the roulette table, but the expectation that life comes with a butler and maid—that is still very much alive, at least in our home.  And when you add to this my cannot-do attitude about getting kids to do housework, what you end up with is a real mess.

After seven kids, I should be a pro at the chore thing, handing out assignments and making sure they get done, but I’m not.  Far from it.  I get stymied by their heckling.  Why do we always have to do chores!  Why isn’t he doing this!  Why does she get to do that!  This is so unfair!  We never have fun!  Worst day ever!  Where’s my yacht and polo pony!  The complaining drains me, makes me feel like giving up . . . or catching a plane to India.

Years ago, 60 Minutes did a story about child labor in India.  In it they interviewed kids who worked twelve hours a day in sweat shops for meager earnings.  The owner of one of the sweat shops was also interviewed.  He was a stern looking man, a man void of sympathy, and unmoved by complaints, and while disgusted by his heartlessness, I found myself wishing he ran a summer camp.  Nothing fancy, just a place where kids who don’t want to do their chores could come for a reality check.

Hi everyone, I’d say as we entered his workplace that violated every safety code known to man, this is Charlotte, and today she’ll be working alongside you on one of these pre-World War I sewing machines.  Okay, sweetie, I’d say, giving Charlotte one last kiss and prying her fingers from my waist, knock yourself out.  I’ll see you in twelve hours.  Be sure to watch out for those overhead sparks, and the vats of boiling dye. Wait, what’s that?  You want to clean your room and you’re willing to fold laundry.  Are you sure?  If you stay, he’s going to give you a twelve cents at the end of the day.  Okay, fine, let’s go home and do some chores.  I’m telling you, it’d be worth the price of the airfare . . . and the subsequent years of therapy.

Despite my daydreams of a drastic solution, just this past weekend we made progress getting our kids to do their chores, and, surprisingly enough, it didn’t involve a trip to Bombay.  My husband, Rich, is a fan of Dave Ramsey, a financial guru, known for his workshop series called, Financial Peace University, and his nationally syndicated radio show.   Last week Rich listened to Dave Ramsey, and Saturday morning when it was time to face the moaning masses and give them their assignments, Rich took charge and handled things differently.

“All right,” he told them, “you’ve got to get your rooms cleaned, and for every day it’s clean, I’m going to pay you a dollar.”

Charlotte’s eyes brightened.  “You’re going to pay us a dollar for every single day our room is clean!”

“That’s right,” said Rich. 

“Then let’s do this!” she said. 

And they went to work, even Peter.  All day they were at it, trying to get their rooms in order for their dad to inspect.  It’s been four days since Rich gave them this challenge, and so far he hasn’t handed out a single dollar.  And it’s not that he’s being tight fisted, although the man who insists we use expired toothpaste does have a tightfisted side to him.  Still, the reason he hasn’t put a dollar in the jars he had them decorate is that they haven’t yet met the standard he gave them.  When they do, he’ll pay them.  But here’s the great news:  their rooms have never been cleaner.  They still drop their clothes like Jeeves, dressed in a tuxedo, will be by in a moment to pick them up, but they’re making progress, which is great, because as it turns out, there are no cheap tickets to India.

 

 

Bad Opera

Rumor has it I once told my little sister, Laura, to quit breathing, which is a lie.  I told her that several times.  Her allergy-blocked nasal passages offended my tender teenage nerves, and after a stressful day at Corona del Sol High School, learning stuff and wheeling projectors to classrooms (my sole responsibility as media specialist) what I really needed was peace, a virgin margarita, and quiet, not my sister doing her best to stay alive. If I had known what cacophony awaited me in motherhood, the shouting matches over who wore what (You need to ask!  You weren’t around!), the endless piano practicing, the dog barking, the canned laughter from kid sitcoms, not to mention Peter yelling that he’s hungry AGAIN, my sister’s heavy breathing would have sounded as soothing to me as a wave machine.  I have mellowed over the years.  As our family has grown, my need for tranquility has lessened, and it’s a good thing since Scarlett, our sixth child, came into the world with a song in her heart—a joyful song, but also loud, screechy, and completely out of tune.  I like to refer to it as bad opera, and I happen to be a big fan.

My teenage self wouldn’t have seen the point in listening to bad opera.  She would have looked up from her homework, a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression on her face, and told (more like,

shouted at) Scarlett to knock it off.  And when Scarlett dissolved into tears, Teenage Lisa would have grabbed the car keys and headed for the library.  My young-mother self would have tolerated her for a while then asked her sweetly to try and see how long she could go without making a single noise, in the closet.  I’m joking.  Still, faced with bad opera, my young-mom self wouldn’t have lasted long.  But the experienced mom in me saw the beauty in bad opera, how it came from a cheerful place, followed no predictable melody, and was unfettered by worry about what others might think. Her song was music, at least to my ears, because of what it meant--Scarlett was happy. 

Wondering if singing bad opera could make you happy, I once tried my version of it in a grocery store and was quickly shown the door.  Apparently it is an art form intended only for adorable little girls, and that’s okay.  I’m just glad I got to hear it with Scarlett, but it leaves me wondering what arias I missed while my older girls were little.  I remember once sitting in our front room, a strained smile on my face, talking pleasantries with an out-of-town guest.  I was doing my best to appear at ease and happy, but truth was I was overwhelmed by the work of having four kids, particularly at a time when finances were slim.  When he gestured toward our four small children and said, “This looks like fun,” I was stunned.  Did it look like fun?  Was anything fun about four little kids in a tiny rental?  Of course there was, but the sweet music of that era sometimes sounded like noise to me.  I’m older now. All but one of those four children have left home for college, so you’d think I’d be a bad opera connoisseur, but sometimes still I can let worry, stress, fatigue, and even People magazine rob me of my “music” appreciation skills.  In the past this might have caused me to lose my cool, but I’ve learned from my mistakes.  Now I just down half a bottle of gin.  Again, I’m joking.  True, bad opera is an acquired taste, but appreciating it enriches parenthood.  After all, they’re only little once. 

The Wisdom of Ages

It was time for Charlotte to turn five and she was having none of it.  She hadn't balked at other birthdays.  Three had been lovely, four a treat, but as she approached her fifth birthday, Charlotte was resolute—there would be no celebration.  No party hats, no piñata, no clown twisting balloons into animals.  Like a middle-aged woman in Malibu, another birthday held no thrill for her.  She understood her fifth year was coming whether she like it or not, and she would greet it, but stoically, like the American people saying hello to tax season.  What had brought about this dramatic transformation?  What had sucked the fun out of a day meant to be a celebration of her?  I’ve got one word for you: Pops.

My husband’s father, known to all as Pops, is a happy guy.  He’s known for his explosive laugh, his jolly disposition, and for dispensing nuggets of useful knowledge like, If you get in trouble, keep on walking and talking.  If all of his grandchildren attempted at one time to sit on his lap, he would be crushed under their weight and given a quick eulogy.  We’re talking prodigious progeny, and to his credit, he’s pals with all of them.  So it’s not surprising that Charlotte and Pops would have chatted about her turning five.  Over the years they’d had all sorts of chats, the main difference about this particular chat was that it scared the pants off of her.  I wasn’t there, but from my understanding it went something like this:

 Hey, Pops.

Hey, Kiddo, go get me a Diet Pepsi, easy on the ice.  And while you’re at it, a little ice cream.  Whatever you’ve got.  I’m not picky.

Pops, are you kidding?  I’m only four!

[Takes off baseball cap for a second to rub his head]  Four?  You’re getting up there, kid.  Next thing you know you’re going to be five, then six, then seven, then one day one-hundred, and then you’ll DIE!

[All the spit in Charlotte’s mouth is suddenly gone, but still, she gulps]  Die?

[Leans back in recliner]  Yep, it happens to the best of us.  Marilyn, the Kennedys, Johnny Carson.  They’ve all bit the dust, cashed in their chips, bought the farm. 

[Charlotte’s expression is blank]  So I’m going to die.

[Points the remote at the TV]  Fraid so.

  That was all it took.  No longer did Charlotte view her fifth birthday as a day that should be celebrated.  Instead it was a marker indicating her steady advancement toward the grave.  She couldn’t be tempted by suggestions of bowling or bounce houses.  There would be no party, no hoopla.  Just a little get-together with the Ivey family and that was it, which worked out great for me.  I’m not a party thrower.  The lower key it is the better, which is why I need to schedule a heart to heart between Peter and Pops.  Peter’s turning five in March.

Farewell, St. Tropez

It seems the older children in our family can’t help occasionally feeling robbed.  If only our parents, they’ve all bemoaned, had had the good sense to stop having children sooner, life would have been so different.  And by different they mean awesome.  Quiet car rides, no babysitting, vacation homes in Hawaii and Vail—all of it could have been theirs, along with piles and piles and piles of money, if only we’d stopped having kids.

Don’t misunderstand; they love their younger siblings.  They’d just like the option of trading them in for vacation points.  As our family has grown, they’ve concluded that kids cost money and require sacrifice, and they’re right.  It costs roughly 200,000.00 to raise a child in a middle-class family to age 18, if you don’t hit Baskin Robbins after baseball games, and only watch movies on Netflix.  Times that a few times over and you’ve got a lovely cottage in Costa Rica.  What have we done!

When faced with this dreamy interpretation of life without little siblings, we like to counter by telling them they’ve got it all wrong, that we’re only motivated out of necessity.  If we’d had one or two kids, Dad and I would be taking pics at the DMV, occasionally scoring a gig on the weekends doing weddings, but mostly just putting in our time, heading home, and reconnecting with our avatars.  We tell them, as we hand them the keys to the beater car we’ve given them to drive, that we’re better off because we chose to have a big family.  And to this they blow raspberries.

They’re convinced that skiing in Switzerland, elk hunting in Montana, and cliff jumping in Mexico would all be checked off their bucket list were it not for our abundance of fertility.  And maybe they’re right, but one thing is for sure—the younger ones provide endless entertainment.  They are:
 

 talented

 

dapper



 

 

lovers of history

 

rough and tumble

 

style conscious

 

 

nutritionally conscious

 

 

And our family wouldn't be complete without them.