Superman Spankings: A no-spanking alternative for tantrums and stuff

We’ve hit the stage of this covid business where all of the cupboards and closets I carefully reorganized and Spring cleaned at the beginning of the quarantine now resemble a family minivan after a road trip (those of us with respectable vehicles of course never strew food wrappers, toys and mismatching shoes all over them...cough cough). 

A friend in a FB group asked what to do about young kids who are struggling with life right now and having tantrums. I meant to reply, but then I stepped in an abandoned peanut butter and jelly sandwich, got called to fish a small pebble out of a young child’s nostril and found that one of the year’s important school books mysteriously disappeared. 

We do superman spankings around here. (which is really confusing to people because there is no spanking involved, but I call them that because they accomplish the same purpose and the name makes my kids laugh). I discovered a long time ago that non-verbal boys don’t respond well to long talks about feelings and emotions. In fact, for some kids and personalities it may be more selfish than just giving them a spanking and being done with it. I went down a rabbit hole of child development research about why spanking works and how it developed. I came to the very intellectual and high-brow opinion that it’s proprioceptive and vestibular input that helps certain types of kids respond well to traditional discipline methods. (Did I word that ok?) That’s when I came up with “Superman Spankings”.  All of the proprioceptive, physical input needed to help reset and calm the brain, without the current social stigmas and trappings that I would love to really mull over and discuss with someone someday without triggering strong dichotomous opinions.  

Anyway, here’s a tutorial for “Superman Spankings”.

Step one: See child is having a meltdown. 

Step two: Ask said child if they would prefer to sit down and reason like diplomats or fly about the room with a superman spanking. (note: length of conversation and choices vary from child to child.)

Step three: If the answer is the latter, firmly grasp the child's forearms and swing in a circle until you a) risk losing the child to centrifugal force. b) risk falling over or getting motion sick.  (note: does not work on children who are almost as big or bigger than you.)

It doesn’t always work, but it’s a well loved tool. Sometimes it even works on an irrationally angry child (note: the stock picture above is deceptively peaceful looking… and also missing the beach nazi who would stop and tell you to keep walking).

Now if anyone can tell me the best way to remove objects stuffed up nostrils, I’ll be forever obliged.

Coffee, slugs and a homestead

When you have all boys (or girls too...I have no idea), you can play a game in the morning where you pour your coffee and then try to dodge all of the flailing limbs, hugs, fights, parkouring and what-not with your coffee intact. It could be a slightly dangerous game if the coffee were hot, but “mom coffee” is never hot because it takes 3 hours to drink. It’s a perfectly safe game if perhaps a little hazardous for decorative pillows and carpets.

I listened to a podcast today that was talking about how we often outsource things to avoid the pain of dealing with it ourselves, and I think that’s part of what I’m dealing with when it comes to gardening. I don’t want to grow my own food, I want it to magically show up in the supermarket. Now that I can’t stand going to the grocery store, I’m more tempted to face the drama of growing my own food (even if it’s 1/23848 of what we eat… it’s the principle of the matter). It’s not easy though, something was eating my garden, so I dug out the diatomaceous earth from the bowels of the pantry and went outside to sprinkle it around my plants. To my horror, the flashlight revealed a scene akin to something from Stranger Things. My precious plants were covered in hundreds and hundreds of slugs all twisted around each branch and stem leaving slime, death and destruction.  Jim, Jamie and I picked them all off by hand and drowned them with salt. I think the experience may win as the grossest thing I’ve ever done. Only a few plants survived, but thankfully, I have a growing addiction to buying seeds off of home gardeners on Ebay so I’ve got lots of backup plants in various stages of development (sitting in things like milk and egg cartons because I refuse to go to the store). I just need to figure out what to do about the problem lest I allow the small slimy sociopaths to destroy more of my sweet baby plants. The DE seems to help a little, but not enough to deter them completely. Maybe as it gets warmer and drier here it won’t be a problem? 

We started out this whole Coronu thing with one pet turtle. Now our urban farm has expanded to include chickens, a pet boa, a beta fish, and a foster dog. So far everything except the snake contributes in some way. The fish fertilizes an aquaponics garden, and even the turtle water goes into the compost bin. In fact, if you count super tiny farm animals, we’re also the proud owners of a kombucha SCOBY, sourdough starter and a worm farm (although honestly, I feel more attached to the pepper plants that finally decided to sprout). 

Now I really never get to drink my coffee in the morning. 

3 Ways To Spark Your Kid's Imagination

I actually shouldn’t be writing about this, I should be reading about this. Somewhere in my desire to not raise kids as legalistically as I was, we developed an electronics addiction in this house. I need a step by step AA level-esque game plan to kick the habit that doesn’t include never using electronics, and isn’t full of inspirational quotes. I need it to be practical and pragmatic. Does it exist?

In the meantime, this is what works thus far.

1. Put them to work. Trying to lure my children off of electronics never works. All of their toys are boring, there’s nothing to do and it feels like they sort of wade through life waiting for the next opportunity to get on electronics…even if that’s five days away. But if I assign mopping the floor, scrubbing the toilet and raking leaves in the backyard, they all do their jobs and then magically find plenty of things with which to entertain themselves.

2. Play by yourself. Adults don’t usually sit on the floor in a batman mask and start building a giant zoo out of magnatiles and play animals. It’s like catnip. (see previous post on how I get my children to eat their vegetables.) The same mom radar that allows babies to sense when a parent is trying to lay them down in a crib, is still alive and kicking at older ages. If you build it, they will come. Good luck trying to sneak away.

3. Turn off the router. Preferably have your husband turn off the router remotely from an app for the best Deus Ex Machina effect. If they start to read the instruction manual for the router, crawl under the house to see if the Cat5 cable is still intact, and hypothesize with each other on ways to fix the internet, then at least they’re getting language arts, PE and Socratic discussions done.

I wish these were my kids, but it will never be that green here. Ahem.

Pineal Gland, Repentance, and Smooth Moves

Or as I screw up and say it “Pineleal gland, repenitence and smeeoooth moves, which is totally unintentional, but in my opinion an improvement. (despite my husband dying of laughter every time I say stuff like this).

When I found out a few of my kids have legit auditory processing issues, I realized that it probably comes from me. Somehow I sidestepped the more difficult parts of an auditory processing problem by burying my long-skirted, homeschooled, nearsighted self in books where everything makes perfect sense (or not…but at least it’s all clear cut).

So take this with a giant grain of salt, but I had an epiphany the other day: What if listening to music or watching something on a screen is the same difference as watching somebody eat vs ingesting food, or watching someone have sex vs actually having it? There is absolutely no comparison between listening to a symphony (even if it’s on $300 headphones), and being in a symphony hall. Listening to an old message of a loved who has passed away is never going to be as good as actually having them in front of you. What if we’ve been sold so much on listening devices (I blame the inventor of the phonograph) that no one can actually play instruments in their home? Live?

I read a book(ish) on the the pineal glad (i.e. the intersection of ancient thought and modern thought, which is my kind of book, you can buy it here). Your pineal gland (located in your brain) has always been called the 3rd eye, but the only real thing we know about it these days is that it regulates melatonin and other circadian rythym things, but they think it’s very sensitive to music. Also, calcification is bad.

There’s an interesting study on it here.

They say organ music opens the pineal gland because of the vibrations. As I cried through a hymn in church today, I wondered if that’s why we have organs in churches the same way some churches have amazing stained glass.

Whatever the case, an open pineleal gland really helps with the repenitence.

The healing tank, 9 boys & a girl, and an overgrown playhouse

Tall pine trees, a sturdy three story house riddled by woodpeckers and the only thing that’s missing are all of my siblings saying goodnight like the Walton’s. My parent’s home is like a Star Wars’ healing bacta tank…although it maybe shouldn’t be since my dad broke his hip on a broken beam over the garage when I was eleven, and my sister Liz and I raised and schooled our younger siblings in the overgrown playhouse in the backyard while our parents worked at building a house from the ground up like Ma and Pa Ingalls. (I’m trying to see how many of my favorite childhood movies I can fit in.)

It’s currently inundated with a zoo of boys (and one adorable girl who gave me my first Disney makeover). When Jim and Kevin were college roommates, I don’t think either one off them pictured this one day.

Beethoven and Migraines

Nothing kicks off a migraine like Beethoven’s 5th symphony.

We finally made it to the symphony this week for the first time in a year or so. We’ve gone with our homsechool group for years (to the field trip version which randomly includes refrigerators, beat boxing and 40 yr old women play acting as children). Migraines aside, Beethoven this week was perfect. Sometimes I can’t relate to the music they play at the symphony (although I always enjoy it), but who can’t relate to Beethoven? He’s the original full range of feels.

Once, when I was super postpartum with one of my kids, we all went to the symphony… during that stage where the ergo is permanently tattooed to one’s hips, and all of the tears and things are still flowing like the opposite of the land of milk and honey. I couldn’t go in because the sweet, rule following ancient ushers didn’t want the baby to be inside the inner sanctum. I completely understood and so pawned my older children off on friends and listened to the music from the lobby. About halfway through, a kind extra ancient gentleman usher had pity on me and let me go sit in the back. I vividly remember sitting in the chair, jiggling the ergo (hoping the baby didn’t realize I’d sat down), not really paying attention to the music, but something snapped. Sometimes when you’re not paying attention to the music, the music is still paying attention to you. I don’t even know what piece it was, but nothing compares to hearing a live symphony. It wraps around you, and comes up the bottoms of your feet. It’s nothing like listening to the same piece on even the most expensive sound system., and so I started bawling. Every phrase and line was like balm to my poor, traumatized post partum self.

I’m passed that phase (thank goodness), but the magic of the symphony never ceases. My more musical kids were almost frozen (the boy version of frozen) with the awe of it.

Beethoven wasn’t to blame for the migraine (luck of the draw), but I’m seriously at my wit’s end with these things and will try anything if anyone has any suggestions. So far I’ve got a pantry full of different prescription meds. I’ve tried acupuncture, chiropractic, various forms of magnesium, supplements and cbd topical cream. They all help in varying ways, but not enough to make a dent. I end up wearing sunglasses, puking in the random trashcan and praying I don’t decapitate a student for clicking their pen off and on or breathing too loudly.

I’d blast Beethoven’s 5th at anyone who dares misbehave if that wasn’t super counterproductive.

Cranky children, French intensive gardening in the dark, and the moon

When I imagined having children, I was (am) naturally pessimistic enough to skip over the standard issue dreams of straight A students, star athletes and whatever else one hopes for when you see two lines on a pregnancy test. I did maintain a few visions perhaps of chubby, rosy cheeked toddlers with striped shirts, overalls and blonde curls (which coincidentally I got), but for the most part I’m hard to surprise.

So I wouldn’t say I was surprised by any of my children’s behavior today, but it did remind me that even though I may have passed the diapers and sleepless nights stage of parenting, there are plenty of new stages. Every time someone stops me at the grocery store and tells me to savor these moments because they go quickly, I want to stop and hug them for being one of the few people left who haven’t read the articles on Facebook and aren’t afraid to tell mothers that. I’ve considered passing out thank you notes to anyone who tells me I’ve got my hands full, or that I’m blessed…or cursed…. or that my child just ran over their foot with a cart, because I’m glad they’re not scared to say it (even though I’m somewhat scared of strangers). I like to live in a world where people notice children…. sometimes.

• One of my children ripped a reading book and evoked the berserker death glare that I’m sure is the fault of some Scandinavian grandfather nine generations back.

• One of my children didn’t earn his gummy bear in math, and proceeded to sneak the whole bag into the car where he was caught and burst into guilty tears and prostrations of penitence.

• One of my children is at camp this week and I miss him. He’s currently my only perfect child.

• All of my remaining children wouldn’t wake up today which made me think they might all have the Corona virus since early risings have been a lifetime achievement for all of them. They were so grumpy. I meant to check if the moon is waxing or waning although I’m not sure which one causes crazy behavior.

Speaking of the moon… I wasn’t into the whole moon thing until I couldn’t get a hospital room when the 3rd child was born and the nurses calmly explained it was because of the full moon. Now I blame almost everything on the moon. Your keys were found in the knife drawer? Can’t remember what a passive subjunctive verb is? A new pack of socks is mysteriously missing? All definitely caused by the moon. I’m only half joking, I read this study a few years ago that just solidified for me that all things can be blamed on the moon (or maybe just sleep patterns, I dunno).

We found that around full moon, electroencephalogram (EEG) delta activity during NREM sleep, an indicator of deep sleep, decreased by 30%, time to fall asleep increased by 5 min, and EEG-assessed total sleep duration was reduced by 20 min. These changes were associated with a decrease in subjective sleep quality and diminished endogenous melatonin levels. This is the first reliable evidence that a lunar rhythm can modulate sleep structure in humans when measured under the highly controlled conditions of a circadian laboratory study protocol without time cues.

One of my other New Year’s goals was to spend more time doing physical things and not abstract things, so when I got home I promptly went out to the backyard and worked on digging my garden (after I nearly put everyone in a worse mood with my own bad mood). I don’t think I’m cut out for gardening, but I like it so I’m going to stick to it even if it takes me months to dig up a 10’x10’ square of dirt. I hate jumping on the shovel and then hitting something so solid I either need to see a chiropractor or it is the chiropractor. I think there may be some leftover cement underground in my backyard… or maybe an old septic tank… or maybe a coffin. Who knows, but it’s square, and large and cement, and like I said, there’s nothing wrong with my imagination. I blame the moon.

When Life Gives You Capuchins...

If you haven't read Cialdini's Influence and Pre-suasion then do yourself a favor and go get yourself on the library waiting list.  

I was in the car today trying to find a station that at least pretends to play Christmas music, and I heard a Cox commercial that was trying to win a prize for worst radio commercial ever...  It wasn't well written, the voice actor kept stumbling over his words and mispronouncing stuff, and it felt super cliche.  

Except think about that for a minute, the biggest internet service provider what...couldn't hire a decent advertising team or reader?  Not likely.  The word "switch" was used so many times my brain started filling it in like a phone's auto corrector.  About halfway through the commercial I thought it might be fun to start counting the word "switch" and got up to eight before I got distracted by the sudden appearance of a shoe thrown from the back seat (maybe they didn't like the commercial either?).  

Repetition is effective...even really stupid repetition (clearly, since I remembered this one commercial). I know this from teaching CC... we all know this just from television commercials of food. But I've made it a point lately to try to pinpoint some of the more insidious repeat tracks in my life. 

Today's breakthrough: Making dinner. 

I always get really pissed off in the late afternoons.  I don't know if I think I deserve a break from all of the homeschooling, or if I finally give up and realize I'm not going to be able to accomplish everything the day required, or if I only have a patience gas tank of 12 gallons and I'm more of a gas guzzlin' truck kind of woman. 

I dropped off some books at the library that had been renewed so many times the kids had forgotten we didn't actually own them.  Robbie wanted to pick out some new books (Jehoshaphat have mercy) and somehow between me saying no to a Monster Truck DVD and yes to a dinosaur pop-up book I hear a woman say

"Oh sweetie...oh no....someone help...where is your mommy!?".  

As a parent who tries really hard to raise free range kids, I hear the where's-your-mommy thing a lot, but it's never a good sign to hear it in a library.  Sure enough, I turned around to see my youngest child had scaled a bookshelf and was perched on top like the Lion King looking mightily pleased with himself.  

Getting him down wasn't the hard part, we have a well practiced climbing-retrieval-protocol. Getting him down while trying to impress upon him the importance of library quietness was a bit more challenging.

So by the time I got to the "making dinner" portion of the day, I was already pretty willing to sell my particular little Capuchin to the zoo (this is the same child who escaped his brand new $100 sleep tent by ripping it open hulk style).  I normally spend my quality kitchen time trying to chop and hold Will back with one foot while I holler for someone to come get him.... or snatch him from the stove while I holler for someone to come re-get him... or try to keep him from ransacking the ketchup and chocolate syrup in the fridge while again hollering for someone to come get him.  

But this is not a post about how stressed out I am...there are already so dang many of those.  You can't throw a cyberspace rock without hitting a mommy blog telling some hilarious tale of woe. Plus all of the articles/memes about motherhood... all of the uber sciency studies about moms and depression/staying home/equal partners.  I guess I appreciate it in a way, but I'm also kind of over being validated. It's not helping.

If someone finds those observations and anecdotes helpful, I'm certainly not going to argue the science or legitimacy of them.  But I'm an easily influenced person and I caught myself falling into a frustrated cycle that just confirmed I had every right to be frustrated, which in turn made me more frustrated.  I'm sure any mother over the age of 50 is rolling their eyes at this whole run-down, and would tell me I need to set boundaries with discipline and things would get a lot easier for me. I'm sure they're right. Good point. But mostly what needed to change was my way of looking at it (and not in an obnoxious Pollyanna, glass-is-half-full kind of way, but a re-frame... or a rewiring of the repetition I was accustomed to telling myself).   

For my Nanowrimo novel, I've been eyeball deep in Medieval history and while mankind has forever had its fair share of attitude and despondency, it appears the majority of women in the Middle Ages were capable of chopping vegetables, stirring a pot, and keeping their offspring in check without assistance.  Soo.... I poured myself a glass of wine, whipped an apron on the Capuchin, and gave him a sink full of (non breakable) dishes to wash.  

Everyone lived happily ever after. Problem solved.  

...until he dumped a cupful of water on the floor and Robbie slipped and hit his head. 

But oh well, at least the wine was good. 

Thoughts On Kids Starting School

If I got a nickel for every time someone stopped me in a store, surveyed my passel of man-cubs and told me to “enjoy this stage...it goes so fast”, I would be a wealthy woman.  But apparently unlike the rest of the interwebs, this phrase doesn’t bother me in the least. In fact I always thank the person while agreeing profusely and sometimes...when you know they’re of the race that knows Joseph...we see something in each other’s eyes and we nod.  It’s like a secret handshake.  We know.  

(this was just a year ago!)

What is it we know?  I have no clue.  But it’s all of those indescribable things that go into parenthood and can never be summed up no matter how many scarymommy or huffpo articles we all share.

I like to blame my parents (in a good way) for this.  As someone with siblings 16 years younger, I was a parent myself while my parents were (are) still parenting.  And while older sister status is definitely not the same as mom and dad status, it’s definitely a front row seat...on a roller coaster...in the splash zone.  And I would happily, happily add gnawing-limb-from-bear-trap to the usual getting up every night with a teething baby, a puking toddler and a nightmare ridden grade-schooler over dealing with some of the stuff my parents have.  Any day. In some ways, I’m sort of like a pre-loaded pessimist for teenagerdom and so please do stop me and tell me your best parenting advice because I love all of the thoughts and feedback from the women who have gone before me.  

But really I just wanted to say. I’m loving all of the back-to-school pictures, it’s one of my favorite seasons on social media. Your kids are all freaking adorable. And so I say this seriously and yet somewhat tongue-in-cheek… Enjoy this stage.  ;-)

A Mom's Minimalist Guide To The Beach

Frankly I knew it was inevitable. Life is always a Faustian trade of evils (or joys...depending on how rose colored your glasses are). When the two older kids left for their very Parisian-esque rural outsourcing of summer (see Bringing Up Bebe), I was tempted to think of all the amazing things I was going to accomplish. It’s hard to get anything done when you’re doing your best impression of zookeeper/professor/therapist twentyfour-seven for nine months of the year and I was much looking forward to the break.  

Well I got it. Truly. From everything. No violin, no sports, no therapy, no school meetings, no staying up until midnight trying to grow rock crystals on a toothpick. I traded the busy life of four kids where I couldn't keep the house clean, but did accomplish important things (like how to take a booger out with tissue), to a the slower easier life of two kids where the house stays clean but not accomplish anything big. Mainly because you belatedly realize the younger two are stuck to you like glue without their built in entertainers and playmates. But going backwards in family size (temporarily) does have its fair list of perks. The laundry stays only one or two loads behind, the kitchen is almost always in a mildly presentable state (the fruit flies are suing for breach of contract), and the house actually gets vacuumed regularly.    But I was kidding myself to think I could get any big mind-blowing projects accomplished. Thus it was with great difficulty I let go of my pipe dreams and resigned myself to sleeping in every morning, putzing around the house teaching my preschooler how to fold washcloths before finally going to the beach or pool.

I would like to say that I’m so organized that going to the beach is a painless affair, but instead it’s the opposite, I’m so unorganized going to the beach is a (mostly) painless affair. Of course I’ve got “science” to back up all of my justifications for this, and I thought I’d share them in case someone else is looking for a way to spend more time having fun and less time trying to get out the door. 

Disclaimer:  (If you are one of those uber prepared types that has a ziploc baggie for your ziploc baggie, then please close your eyes and don’t read this.  The world needs more of you and less of me.  In a Darwinian experiment I’m the first to die out i.e. I’m more than grateful for the times I’ve been helped by the preparers)

Don't bring sunblock or snacks and only bring a limited amount of water (or none if you know there's a drinking fountain)

I say this somewhat tongue in cheek because I do actually have a thing of sunblock that stays in my beach bag, but it usually takes us the whole summer to get through it. And the logic is this. Your body is an amazing machine that knows when it's hungry, tired, and had too much sun. Things like pretzels, doritos and sunblock override this built in safety mechanism which means you end up at home exhausted bloated, overly slathered with chemicals and cranky from the combination of artificial cheese flavor and that sunburned spot behind your knees you missed. Trust the human body to go “ugh, I’m really hot and hungry and I swear I can feel cancer cells forming on my body right now.” That’s when you know it’s time to load up the kids and head home. On the plus side, this usually means everyone gets their naps (or have gotten their naps), and you have time to plan dinner, paint your toes and eat bon bons.  ( here is a harvard medical publication advocating the health benefits of moderate sun exposure).

Don't bring a picnic blanket, chairs or umbrella

In the book “Blue Mind” Wallace Nichols talks about the science behind going to the beach or even just being in water. Dopaminergic pathways, neuro plasticity, auditory cortex physiology, textural and vestibular input are all scientific ways to say the ocean is really good for you. The chemical makeup of the salt water, the minerals, the ebb and flow of the waves, and the sand are all incredibly soothing and healthy for your brain and body. I like to think of a little beach trip being like a soft reboot. Between all of that and the vitamin D, I also try to take my kids to a deserted beach when they’re under the weather. But back to the packing list… most of those things don’t work if you’re sitting on a chair, on a blanket, under an umbrella, with water shoes, rash guard and sun hat on. If you have kids who are low threshold on the sensory spectrum then they likely won’t want to budge out of the little fortress of protection against the dread elements and will take any suggestions to the contrary as torture of the highest degree with you as the grand inquisitor. It may take awhile, but they'll be happier in the long run. (note: ignore this if you have kids with severe processing disorders)

Don't load and unload the car

There’s no scientific theory behind this one, unless it’s Newton’s first law of motion (An object at rest remains at rest until mommy decides the towels are starting to smell). I use a big green plastic container from IKEA and that’s where the sand toys, floaties and towels live in the back of the car. The baby carrier also lives in the car so literally all that needs to be done to go to the beach or pool is getting in the car and leaving. (which if you have kids, you know is a feat in and of itself)

Do pack a magic sand eraser

There’s only one gimmicky item that’s made it into my super lazy...er minimalist beach container and that’s a bamboo swaddle blanket. I discovered this black magic entirely by accident last summer.  West coast sand has these gold flakes in it that stick to skin like glitter (which isn’t nearly as pretty as it sounds). Anyone who has tried to get four kids rinsed and sand free before they get in the car, knows it’s on the same level as completing a triathlon (one armed with a wet cat zip tied to your leg). Once, in desperation I yanked the blanket off the weakest member of the tribe in an assuredly futile attempt to get at least some of the caked wet sand off…. and Lo and behold it worked! So the swaddle blanket earned itself a permanent spot in the beach bag. I have considered getting myself a booth at the county fair “Step right up and let me show you the one and only MAGIC SAND ERASER for a low low price of $49.99 today only!!”. If however you decide to get yourself three for that price on Amazon, it does have to be the bamboo one. The cotton ones don’t work as well for some reason.  

And that’s it. Simple! Easy! (I’m kidding, we all know it’s never easy). And sometimes I do pack all of the foods and huddle under my friends umbrella and lust after all of the cool beach stuff everyone else has. But hey do whatever you gotta do. (and if you’re a preparer and you’ve made it to the end of this, then here’s a Valium and some wine, thank you for loving me).  

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