May, 2014

Lack Of Planning On Your Part Does Not Constitute An Emergency On Mine

It's hard—almost impossible—to break a kid of the habit of interrupting. They're stuck in "now" mode—hungry NOW, I want to do this NOW, I want to go there NOW—and they're very Id-oriented. It's like having a taller, bipedal cat with slightly better communication skills.

If I had a nickel for every, "Mommy, Mommy!" – "Lexi, you need to wait and not interrupt" exchange, I could retire. Well—take Ducky out to a nice dinner, anyway. But, on the up side, I could see that Lexi was improving. Slowly… very slowly… but improving.

If I saw her pelting toward me at warp speed, I'd try to catch her eye and send a SLOW DOWN AND WAIT POLITELY vibe. I was at the point where I was successful about 50% of the time. She'd scamper up, stand there dancing in place until I finished my conversation and acknowledged her, then:

"The ice cream truck is at the corner!"
"My Halloween chocolate in the freezer looks dusty!"
"Grandma spilled glitter all over!"

Truly earth-shaking news.

"When the truck gets to our corner, you may get an ice cream. Please remember to ask Suzy and Grandma if they want ice cream, too. You may get money from the envelope in the whatnot drawer, make sure to write down what you spent."
"The chocolate is still safe to eat—and, no, not until after diner."
"What, you forgot how to use the Dustbuster or something?"

Ducky reported similar heart-stopping moments. Over and over we stressed 'urgent,' 'emergency,' 'important' versus 'it can wait.' (Ice cream truck would never be 'it can wait,' of that I am certain.)

One Saturday in May Ducky and I were in the back yard, deeply engrossed in a discussion with Mrs. McKirk and Max Dickenson. Max had been called in to replace our joint fence that was in danger of falling down into a pile of sticks. (It seemed like every termite in Virginia had taken up residence in that fence. My theory was that it had only remained standing because they were all holding hands and singing "Kumbaya." Fortunately the fence was so yummy, they'd left the houses alone—but now that we'd killed them off, one good sneeze would knock that sucker over.) Neither Ducky nor Mrs. McKirk had ever liked the original-issue fence (original to them, anyway, probably built in the 50s) and were working with Max to find a design that would work well with both houses.

Thus far Max's conversation had been pretty scant. After his introduction, he'd listened to our tales of termite treatment and tentative ideas. "Brick and wrought iron?" (Four words.) "Got pets?" (Two words.) "Go with solid." (Three words.) Then he started sketching and gave us several designs from which to choose. He came highly recommended and does no advertising, relying on word-of-mouth. Words from other peoples' mouths, I guess.

We'd narrowed the field to two and were debating the pros and cons when Lexi barreled out of the kitchen door. Sill talking to Mrs. McKirk, I caught her eye and ESP'd, Stop—Wait politely—Be quiet.

She stopped just behind Max and stood, fidgeting. I continued my discussion, deliberately not hurrying. Ducky had caught sight of the guided missile and wasn't rushing his part of the conversation, either. Lexi really needed to learn to wait and if we had to drag out a conversation to make a point, so be it. Every minute or so, she'd start to wind up again and I'd send another "Chill out and wait" waggle of the eyebrows. She chilled. She waited.

Conversation over, contract signed and deposit given, I turned to my dancing daughter. "Thank you for waiting so patiently, Lexi!" I gave her a big smile and a bigger hug. Reward good behavior if you want it to continue. "What's up?"

Very politely, very respectfully, she said, "Mommy, the washing machine is peeing really badly."

Ducky and I almost ran each other over getting to the basement door.

Mother was standing in the doorway, watching the slowly rising tide. "Donald! You bought an indoor pool! How charming!"

"Yeah. Charming." It was a muttered growl. Lexi gave him a fretful look and Ducky quickly squatted down to eye level. "Don't worry, Allie-oop." The old nickname made her smile and relax. "It wasn't your fault." He gave her a hug, looking over her head at the lapping waves below—at this point, the delay of a couple of minutes for a hug wouldn't make a lick of difference—and then looked up at me. "But we really need to clarify what is and is not an emergency."

I took Mother's arm (she was happily chattering about buying a bikini for the pool) and gently pulled her away. "Agreed!"

Bikini. Poor Gibbs.