Pee Wee Boot Camp

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.