Bratty Kids

The phrase "Zero Tolerance" is thrown around a lot. Schools use it in their policies about guns, drugs, etc. Sports organizations use it regarding drug testing or other forms of cheating.

I use it too. I have zero tolerance for bratty children. I do not blame the children, although they annoy me, but I want to slap the parents.

Before you think I'm jumped over the cliff into serious oldieville, I am not talking about babies with colic or a child in pain. I'm talking about the child on the airplane that is allowed to climb all over the seat, kick total strangers and throw the sippy cup (filled with sticky juice) in my hair. I'm talking about the child that interrupts adult conversation with some inane request -- only to divert the attention. I'm talking about parents who tolerate it.

In my childhood, my mother was usually the disciplinarian. But my father absolutely, positively refused to put up with whining. He is the most low key and calm man you would ever meet but this would send him reeling. Like all good parents, he didn't have to say a word. One look and I stopped. If a child can master a simple sentence, he can learn manners.

Maybe my next career will be teaching a course. I'll call it, "Mastering the Look."

Last night we had dinner and then played games. I don't remember what the baby said but he's old enough to know how to rib me. I shot him the look. The husband said, "And Mean Mom enters the party." (In his defense, it wasn't anything bad, I just like to know that I still have a sliver of power.) Now that he's grown, he just shoots the same look back to me which makes me laugh. He's mastered it.

When the baby was little, we did not hesitate to take him to restaurants. He loved to go out to brunch or dinner. Our little ritual was to sit in the car and remind him of the rules of proper behavior. No raised voices; no threats -- just a little refresher course.

Maybe I have plopped into oldieville. My mother asked me why we always prefer to eat in the bar of certain restaurants. It's not for the alcohol. It's because you have to be 21-years old. I refuse to spend my weekly allotment for dining out dodging sippy cups and listening to a screaming child.

Bed Hopping

The husband works very hard. He also plays (golf) very hard. Sometimes he falls asleep in his chair in the evenings. I used to be the sweet wife: "Come to bed, Honey." Then I realized that he wakes up with such a shock that I refuse to be responsible for a heart attack or a stroke. If he's sleeping comfortably, I leave him there. He'll wake up eventually and crawl in bed.

Sometimes we get cranky. You're thrashing! You're snoring! Get your knee off of me.

We both like to fall asleep with the television. Unless it's one of those great Discovery/History/Court TV Channel stories that captures my interest, I'll find another room.

Our cable went out the other day. It was only the digital cable -- basic cable was still functioning. I couldn't find him. I finally found him in the baby's room, watching some sports.

We hop around. I'll take this sofa and this tv. Then, we act like 12-year-olds and sneak up on each other. "What are you watching?" We're stealth bombers with the remotes. If I think he's dozing, I'll grab it. The other night, I put the bedroom remote in a drawer. When he asked for it, I said, "No, you are not sharing so it has gone away for a while."

Last night he was watching sports in our bedroom. He fell asleep. I crawled into bed and changed the channel.