Car doors befuddle my kids.
Actually, any doors that require the foresight to stand back because
they open outward.
It’s not from lack of experience. We make it a point to
physically leave the claustrophobic cavity of our home at least once a day to stimulate
their sprightly synapses and save my sanity. And that usually means all piling in the old
CRV.
And it’s not from lack of practice. Every time my kids line
up directly in front of car doors, screen doors and heavy wooden front doors, I
gently convey that if they don’t move back they will simply be plowed over like
corn stalks.
And yet, still, with astonishingly brainless muscle memory they
continue to stand in the perfectly wrong spot like a pair of turkeys in the
rain. Since it typically takes every
last festering fragment of my patience to lovingly corral them back a few steps
while I dig out the keys and juggle 18 grocery bags, I often wonder…. When the hell will they finally get it?!
And then it dawns on me.
What they need, and not just for basic fundamental entryway practice,
but for the myriad of other habits they get away with throughout the day –
Jillian Michaels. My kids need boot
camp. Some no-holds-barred, highly
concentrated, intense training for squirts to root out the nonsense and reinforce
cooperation. And if that’s not a thing,
it should be.
Most boot camps, by design, encompass strenuous drills and
training to help reprogram new behaviors. (I
looked this up since I have zero personal experience with them). In my world, rising at 5am to perform lunges
and jumping jacks is the very definition of torture, and likely supreme
humiliation, given the current state of my pelvic floor. But just because I have never subjected
myself to such vile treatment doesn’t mean I wouldn’t offer my kids up on a
platter to be molded into more gracious and empathetic little runts.
I envision Pee Wee Boot Camp going like this:
Mornings start off chipper and efficient, reeking of Mary-Poppins-sweetness with genuine smiles and serenading robins. There are no audible grunts or throwing
stuffed unicorns at me when I come in to rouse the troops.
Without prompting, my five-year-old then miraculously
dresses herself without feigning that she has somehow forgotten overnight how to
put her hands through sleeves.
I am actually granted fifteen blissful uninterrupted minutes
to shit and shower without voyeuristic bystanders or a picket line forming on
the other side of the glass door.
My girls eat something, anything, wholegrain for breakfast
without discriminating against the raisins and gingerly place their dishes in
the sink.
My toddler sits dutifully on the stairs to put on her shoes
and heartily agrees that her socks are in perfect order inside her gym shoes
and are not bunched up in the slightest fashion or require any urgent
adjusting. Even after standing up.
My family leaves the house ahead of schedule with brushed
hair, minty breath, the day care check in-hand, and the most cerebral and
unique show ‘n tell item the preschool teacher has ever witnessed to honor the
letter of the week.
My girls professionally stand clear of all car doors upon
entry. At this point, preschool boot camp has paid for itself.
After work, I pick the kids up and they lovingly rehash all
the playful moments from their day. With actual details. Minus shrugging.
While I cook dinner, my girls sit patiently on the bar stools
across from me, munching on carrot sticks, with their legs swinging, asserting
that they absolutely, under no circumstances, want the TV to be on during
mealtime and, by the way, the kitchen smells absolutely divine.
My children sample everything on their plates and eat pasta
with actual, real-life, red sauce on top, making direct contact with the
noodles. We are talking, full on touching. They use silverware, are 100% satisfied with
the color of their sippy cups, and refrain from regurgitating unsavory items into
my hand. In fact, there is not one
frantic demand to remove a disgusting green item from their plate and have the
area wiped clean of all revolting residue.
After squatting behind the front curtains post-meal, my toddler is not remotely interested in investigating her soiled diaper in attempt to identify all the digested components of her smelly ball of turd.
My girls do not throw themselves on the floor in protest of
taking a bath and then sob barbarically thirty minutes later when it is time to
drain the tub. They even affectionately
agree to trade off who gets to sit near the faucet and fondle Ariel’s mangy, mildew-smelling,
mermaid hair.
Bedtime takes twenty minutes. My kids curl up like obedient mollusks after
reading books that aren’t bent and insist that it would be silly to ask for
water or a different pair of pjs now.
Like magnets on a fridge, they stay put in bed, without getting up to
inform me of a burp or a mysterious closet creak or a pang of hunger that would
likely resolve itself if they could please have the raisins they picked out
during breakfast because they were really just trying to save them for later.
And how do all these new boot camp behaviors become ingrained, do you ask? Of course, I’m not
expecting the Milgram shock treatment exactly, but perhaps…. something
close. Look, I’m reasonable. I understand that they’re kids and there’s over-arching
social pressure to ensure any punitive action is a bit more humane than conducting
a hair-raising current through their nervous systems. But,… I don’t see how
getting pelted between the eyes with a miniature plastic shopkin, let’s say,
every once in a while would cause any irrevocable harm.
And if it gets them a few feet away from my car doors, I’m more
than willing to pay the therapy bills later.
