The Tidy Bed Fairies

Despite whatever dreams or hopes I have for Devlin for his future career endeavours, I suspect he’s got a path leading towards a role that involves finding ways to do the absolute minimum. Or perhaps that might be a trait of the XY chromosome.

For example, when I ask him to clean up the basement with his siblings, he makes sure to only put away the toys that belong to him, in a haphazard pile in one of his bins.

So, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to me his delight in learning that his bed got made by someone, other than his mom, while he was at his day camp session. No, we’re not staying at a hotel. Our accommodations while I am at this continuing legal education is by no means luxurious. Not by any stretch of the imagination. We’re staying at the university dorm, complete with stale beer scented carpets and uncomfortable twin beds with thin foam mattresses, not to mention the showers with the thin trickle of water. Of course, the kids think it’s great since they’ve gotten bacon every morning for breakfast in the cafeteria.

This morning, Ceilidh was not quite ready when it was time to head down to breakfast. I asked Devlin to see what was taking her so long.

Devlin: Hurry up! What are you doing?

Ceilidh: Making my bed.

I felt a sense of satisfaction that I was raising a responsible child who didn’t need to be nagged to do the simple everyday task of straightening the bed covers. Until I heard my son’s response:

“Don’t worry about it! There’s someone that comes everyday who makes your bed for you! You can leave it messy!”

Mean Mommy / Fun Mommy

In our household, I’m often referred to as Mean Mommy. Mostly because I enforce the rules, insist the kids eat their vegetables, make their beds, and veto calls for staying up late on school nights. Now I’m not saying that my husband is not a disciplinarian but let’s face the facts – Mommy is the one who’s in the background preparing meals, scheduling extra-curricular activities and medical appointments, going through the agendas, doing loads of laundry while Daddy is in the forefront playing with the monkeys, and taking them out so I can tidy the house and enjoy the tidiness for a few minutes before the orderliness is destroyed. Daddy is the one who takes them to the park, or plays hockey in the driveway. Daddy is always the one who is on board for an après-dinner walk to the ice cream store, and sporting events complete with junk food and a souvenir or two.

But for a brief couple of days this week, I am getting to be Fun Mommy. Somehow I got roped into bringing half of our brood with me to my annual, week-long, professionally required, continuing legal education course. I usually look forward to this work related duty as a reprieve from my parental duty. There’s usually a spa session booked for after class hours, leisurely meals at restaurants that have real tablecloths and not a television set in sight, nights spent reading books without pictures, and a glass or two of fine wine. This year, I brought Devlin and Ceilidh with me. While in class, those two are at day camp – sports for both, art for Ceilidh and science for Devlin. Both seem to be enjoying their stay, and have made friends at camp. Aside from the 5 minute walk to the camp drop off location which always seems to elicit much groaning, both have been behaving for the most part. I think I’ve only raised my voice twice.

As Fun Mommy, I’ve stocked our room with chips and cookies. I rewarded their willingness to try a new food item (yummy Mediterranean cuisine) with ginormous bowls of frozen yogurt topped with all sorts of candy, of which they only ate a few spoonfuls. This Fun Mommy hasn’t raised a stink about the lack of vegetables in their meals. They had dinner at the movie theater last night! Hot dogs and popcorn, all washed down with the forbidden drink – coke!

Fun Mommy sat down and watched the Avengers with Devlin and worked on puzzles with Ceilidh. Mean Mommy is still lurking underneath to ensure teeth are brushed and manners are on display. Reasonable bedtimes are still maintained. Clearly, piano practice sessions have been cancelled and I’ve given them a break on the daily homework assignments. I’ve encouraged some leisure reading, but agreed to letting them watch a movie on the laptop before bed instead.

I’ve revelled in the spontaneous hugs from my first born, sleeping with Ceilidh in a tiny twin bed because she can’t fall asleep on her own, and having the luxury of really listening to their silly jokes and their fantasies of having a unicorn for a pet. Sometimes, I wonder if this is what life would be like we stopped at two? A more sane pace of life? Probably not.  Alas, our week is ending, and I’ll be resorting back to my usual role of Mean Mommy. I’ve enjoyed these few days of reprieve from the daily drudgery of commuting and rushing to tackle laundry, meal preparation, cleaning, handing out household tasks, nagging the kids to brush their teeth and cleaning up the bathroom after bathing 4 kids. (Why can’t the water ever stay in the tub?)

But I can’t begin to tell you about how much I miss the other half of my off-spring. It’s been a nice vacation parenting two instead of four, but I am an incomplete mother this week.  Just remind me of that when I’m cursing under my breath about the whining, squabbling, and the frenetic chaos of my life.

Delegation by Devlin

One summer evening, after cleaning up the dinner detritus and starting a load of laundry, the kids and I rode our bikes to the tennis courts. Daddy was playing a match and I thought it would be nice to cheer him on. However, the older kids had a different idea. They begged to be allowed to play at the nearby park. I agreed, on one proviso.

“Devlin, you are in charge of your sisters. You are to keep an eye on them. Mommy and Quinn will be at the tennis courts, and I’ll come get you after Daddy’s game,” I instructed.

Devlin nodded and his sisters agreed to be supervised by him.

(For those of you parents who are outraged that I left the kids alone, the park was less than 250 metres from the tennis courts, and within hearing/shouting distance.)

Quinn and I continued on to the tennis courts. Fifteen minutes later, while I was watching Quinn chase after a wayward tennis ball, I spied Devlin coming towards me on his bike.

“Devlin!?!? What are you doing here? Where are your sisters? You were supposed to be watching over Ceilidh and Aisling!”

Very nonchalantly, he replied “Don’t worry Mom. I left Ceilidh in charge of Aisling.”

That’s a sure sign of maturing, I guess. Learning the ability to delegate.

No child slave labour here!

In the days of yore, rural families had large numbers of children. All to serve one purpose – to share in the grueling demands of the farm chores without having to pay the labour. While we don’t have a farm, we certainly try to model that idea of free labour. There’s no such thing as allowance in our home. Probably because with four growing kids, one of whom is a bottomless pit, their constant need for bigger clothes and shoes, and the various extra-curricular activities the said four are involved in, there’s not much left-over to pay an allowance, even a measly one. So, instead we ascribe to the true spirit of communism, where each individual is assigned a certain role in the household, and all is done for the better good or health of the larger family unit. In other words, our children have chores, and they don’t get paid for it. When they complain about having to clean up a mess that wasn’t created by them (shocking!), I remind them I didn’t wear their dirty clothes, but I washed them. If the table isn’t set, then dinner isn’t served. Clean laundry is folded by an adult, but the wearer of the articles of clothing as tasked with putting them away. Soon, folding laundry will be added to their to-do list. Even Quinn has a job – putting his dirty laundry in his hamper and tossing his soiled diapers in the garbage.

And it makes sense to me that they don’t get paid to do this. After all, I don’t get paid to prepare their meals and clean up. Their dad doesn’t get paid to haul out the garbage and recycling. So these costly dependents shouldn’t get paid to make their beds in the morning. As you can tell, I view allowance as payment for the everyday tasks that we should all do without expecting compensation. Some might argue that allowance teaches children money management and responsibility at a young age. Maybe that’s a valid point seeing as how my kids like toss their tooth fairy coins around the house. In fact, I’ve managed to buy a few coffees simply by sweeping up the loose change around their piggy banks. Finders keepers, right? Okay, I’m not cheap. I usually just chuck the change into the nearest piggy, but I think that’s how Aisling (who still has all her teeth) has gotten rich recently.

I think I’ll leave the money  management lessons to later in their childhoods, like when they’re teenagers and earning some dollars with after-school jobs. It’s always way more meaningful when they’ve actually worked outside the home (not employed by Mom and Dad) for it.

Last night, Daddy decided to put the extra hands we have around our zoo to use. He brought down a large bag of loose change and some coin rolling paper.

Daddy: Who would like to help me count all this money and roll it up? It’ll be fun!

Aisling: Okay! (very enthusiastic)

Devlin: No way. That sounds boring. And you’re just trying to get us to do your work.

Daddy: Well, how about if I pay you one dollar after all the coins are rolled?

Ceilidh (face all wrinkled in disgust): One dollar?! No way! Maybe if you gave me two dollars, I’d do it.

Daddy: Well, you drive a hard bargain. But okay, I’ll give you each $2. That’s some great negotiating.

Aisling: How about five?

Daddy: No way. I’m holding at two.

I finally looked up, after wiping the tears from eyes, and wondered, “Will you have any money left to deposit in a bank after paying out for the labour?”