MJSD, why must you rock my quasi-peaceful world?

It rolls around every January, and I'll say, with some embarrassment, that I dread receiving the notice in the boys' folders. It's TV turnoff week. Of course, participating is voluntary, but what kind of mother would I be if I didn't encourage the boys to sign the paper forsaking all screen time from Monday morning until Friday at 11:59 p.m. (yes, it actually states that)? Oh, they're one of those families that can't give up TV for even a week, I imagine the boys' teachers noting. (Really, I'm sure teachers have nothing better to do than monitor my family's moral compass.)

As I imagine it is with many parents, my relationship with the boys watching TV and playing video games is an uncomfortable one. I know I'm supposed to look askance at this pastime that so consumes most kids. At the same time, I, like many, have come to rely on the peace and quiet that allowing the kids to watch a show or two or play Wii can afford. A quick Google search reveals that the American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that kids older than 2 watch no more than one to two hours of quality television programming each day. So my kids stay well within the time limit, but the quality probably is more questionable. Somehow I doubt that Ninjago counts as quality programming.

The part of me that wants to justify my choices looks at it this way: I like to kick back and turn off my brain at the end of the day with a show or two. Why shouldn't my kids be able to do the same, in moderation, of course. We have no issues with failure to complete homework. They deserve this time. Besides, playing Wii or Playstation can count as physical activity. Sort of. Right??? Then the cynic speaks up: will one week of no screen time really get my kids to wholeheartedly embrace non-screen-based activities? Please.

Inevitably, though, guilt has its chance to talk. The part of me that's always looking at my parenting skills critically chimes in: are you serious with your lame attempts to sugarcoat your lack of willpower in letting your kids look at a screen each day? When I took Ben to his well child visit last fall, our doctor asked how we handle screen time. "I get two hours a day," Ben piped up before I could get a word in about how "we allow them a set amount of time each day." (See if you get to play today after embarrassing me, kid!) Our doctor then began to talk about his reservations about TV and video games. They offer a kind of instant gratification that he worries isn't beneficial to kids. Don't worry, he said, though, I know you're a great mom who makes good decisions. Boy, did I not feel like one at that moment. I won't be able to say this without sounding like I'm lying, but Ben really doesn't play two hours a day. It's more like an hour and a half, but still.

So I'm left living with my discomfort. Each January, I'll still greet TV turnoff week with a sense of dread, I'm sure. I don't think my cynicism voice* is right, though. It's good for the kids to be forced out of their routines from time to time, and it's good for me too.

*Lest you begin to worry about my mental health, let me clarify that I don't actually hear voices. Most days.

Decisions, decisions, preschool edition

Last week, I sauntered into Christian Co-op Preschool and enrolled Gus in the Monday-Wednesday-Friday class. Then I promptly began to freak out. Gus, you see, is not your typical child. His, let's call it spirited, personality has me concerned about how he'll fit into a structured (well, as structured as preschool can be) environment.

To make matters more complicated, my youngest has an August birthday, so we had a decision to make: sign up Gus for the 3-year-old class or the 4-year-old one, when he will have turned 4 just weeks before the start of school. Big G is at once bright and immature. He loves books, is brilliant at putting together puzzles, can identify the letters of the alphabet, upper and lowercase. On the other hand, he has a hard time sitting still. The one time I've put him to the test in a semi-structured setting, a tumbling class at the Y last fall, he didn't do so hot. He wanted to do his own thing, wasn't at all interested in participating in organized activities.

I have a little bit of a complex about this all. Mark and I want to make the right choice here. With Ben, we should have followed our instincts and had him tested to enter kindergarten a year early. My gut tells me that the right choice for Gus is to put him in preschool next year, 4K the following year, and kindergarten when he turns 6. But guts can be wrong, or can give you two divergent messages, as with Ben when we could tell he was gifted but also believed that boys overwhelmingly do better when they begin school older. Wonder of wonders: all kids are different.

I'm trying to remind myself not to get too worked up about this (you can tell it's working, right?). It is, after all, only preschool. Ultimately, we decided to put Gus in the 4-year-old class, and we'll see how it goes. We could always move him to the 3-year-old class. My hope is that Gus will adjust to it, even if it's a little bumpy at first, and then his teacher, whom we know and trust, can help us make the right decisions from there. I've been a parent long enough to know that kids can be completely different at school than they are at home. I was, after all, the girl who was mouthy and difficult at home, while all my teachers told my parents I was "cooperative and courteous." Gus may just surprise me after all. If not, though, I'll be the one slipping out of preschool red-faced.

If I could put time in a bottle ...

One of the struggles we face as parents is the conflict between a wish to hold on to each memory and a debilitating lack of time and energy to record said memories. Add this to my list of motherly shortcomings: I have failed utterly at the task of recording milestones. And those are just the biggies - I've been even worse about the small, precious day-to-day happenings. I'm sad to say no height-tracking hashmarks adorn any place in our house. I have three baby memory books that are, at best, half filled out.

I know many people are great at this, compiling gorgeous scrapbooks or writing in a journal each day. Somehow I just have not found it in myself to commit to these. Like so many, I take for granted that my memories of my children will be indelible. I must not lose sight of the fact that if I don't make more of an effort, my remembrances just may evaporate like so many childhood tears shed. My desire to preserve memories is a big part of the reason I like to write this blog, but it still doesn't feel like enough. 

Amidst my once-in-a-while wish that time would just speed up so I could get past this really demanding part of parenting is an even bigger yearning to be able to stop time and really take in my boys just as they are right at any given moment. I wish I could bottle the scent of the tops of their little boy heads. I want to memorize the fact that Ben cannot watch a movie or TV show without being on his feet and tossing around a ball. The times that Paul takes out his Pokemon cards and asks me endless questions: which one is cutest, what's your favorite fire type Pokemon? The bajillion hilarious things that Gus says and does, like the other day when we were playing Zingo and he gave me a piece I needed and said in his 3-year-old voice, "Here Mom, you deserve this."

I've tried to journal in the past and have gotten bogged down writing pages and pages about my feelings. Inevitably I burn out and stop doing it. That's why I liked this idea I came across in Good Housekeeping: keeping a one-sentence journal. It's that simple. You write a one-sentence remembrance of your day. So I haven't been able to keep myself to just one sentence, but I'm all about keeping it simple, so two to four sentences is all I need. I think I can maintain that. In addition, I'm going to commit to taking out the video camera more often. I can't stop time, but I want to do a better job of preserving those precious moments big and small.

Evidently a maid is the only thing that can save this place

Last week, we took our annual trip to Chicago to visit my mom's side of the family. As we walked into our hotel room, Ben took in the immaculate space and declared that he wished our house looked this clean. Oddly, this wasn't the first time one of my kids had such a comment. Upon seeing our living room unusually and especially clean one day, Paul said that it looked like "a hotel room in Chicago." Please, I wanted to tell them, hotel rooms really only look clean anyway. I mean, I'm not a major germaphobe, but these places must be crawling with all kinds of nastiness.

All of this is somewhat amusing to me, seeing that at home, my kids show no interest whatsoever in maintaining neatness. Then it clicked. Part of the reason they love the hotel experience is that you leave your room and go do something fun for a few hours, you come back, and your room is magically clean. You don't have to bother with actually helping tidy up or having your parents preoccupied for hours. Having neatness is only worth it if you don't have to make any sacrifices to achieve it!

So, this attitude isn't particularly shocking to me. I'm sure I was exactly the same way as a child. I guess I'm a little sensitive every time the boys notice the orderliness of other places. I'm not what you would call a gifted housekeeper. A friend of my mom's once came over to my house to drop off something and taking in our abode commented that she liked my house, that it looked "lived in." This friend is a lovely person, and I know she meant it kindly: that houses with young kids are supposed to look like mine does. That pretty much sums it up, though: lived in.

I would love to have a house that is neat and organized, but add in the possessions of five people in one fairly small house and one little person who seems especially bent on disorder, and I'm quickly overwhelmed. I just kind of shut down most days. I know this is the time of year for making resolutions, but I'm going to pass on making any kind of sweeping pledge to become more organized. Instead I'll aim to take small steps toward getting this place looking better and try to be at peace with the times I fail. I'll have to be content with that, because a maid is out of the question.