Category: Beth

Yesterday morning I got a call on my cell phone. It was my mother-in-law calling from my house, where she was watching Beth and making sure she got off to school. She wanted me to talk to my daughter about her suspiciously sudden illness (right before it was time to leave for school).

I talked to Beth for about ten minutes and convinced her that staying home sick wouldn’t be much fun (I figure a day recuperating without going outside can be rather boring if you’re not really sick). So off to school she went. About an hour later my mother-in-law called me back to reassure me that Beth did get to school. We talked about Beth’s suspicious illness, and she allowed as how it was right after she took her medicine; but we both agreed that she took the same medication ever morning (for months) without getting sick.

“Yeah, she should be just fine as long as she takes it with food like she’s supposed to. She took it after breakfast, right?”

“Well, not right after, but I hadn’t been here all that long after you gave her breakfast.”

“I thought you were going to give her breakfast?”

“No, Cheryl usually gives it to her before I get here.”

“Oh crap.”

If you thought I felt guilty after being wrong about her “sudden illness,” imagine how much worse I felt being the cause. I’m an adult, I can be grown up about this, fast forward to the evening,

“Beth, I’ve got an important lesson for you here. Listen carefully to what I’m about to say, it’s something called ‘shifting blame’,. ‘Beth, why didn’t you tell me or Mem-may that you were hungry and needed to eat breakfast? You’re old enough to get something to eat if you’re hungry.'”

Here ends the lesson.

On the first day of second grade my daughter said to me: “I liked my teacher, but she asked me to stop raising my hand so much.” Now my curiosity was piqued. “What were you saying to your teacher when you raised your hand Beth?” “Well, one time I told her I liked her shoes.” It was like the fog cleared from the shore and I could see for miles. The image of Beth raising her hand to point out every whim of her imagination, and a frustrated little teacher, crystalized in my mind. (Beth’s new teacher is the shortest full grown, non-dwarf, human being I’ve ever seen.)

Later that day we received a message from her teacher (Cheryl had sent Beth to school with a note for the teacher, including our email address so she could communicate directly with us). Beth’s teacher informed us that Beth was a sweet little girl, but that we needed to reinforce that it was not O.K. to raise her hand to discuss topics unrelated to the lesson. She said that she had tried to deal with the problem by ignoring Beth and her raised hand.

Another image came to mind… I saw another soul fall victim to Beth’s determination.

Indeed, Beth’s teacher reported that her attempt at behavior modification by way of response control was a complete failure, thereby prompting her plea to us via email. Beth sat there with her hand raised for a good twenty minutes. The other students were apparently so awed by this display of iron will and determination, that the silent act of holding her hand aloft was more distracting to the class than simply calling on her and allowing her to ask her unrelated question.

I pity the poor lass.

I’m looking out the window that someone at my salary level has no right having. I’m looking at the sun peaking out from between the clouds, and it’s like being smacked in the face with a metaphor. This morning, unlike the mornings of the last three weeks, was a ’50s sitcom morning. The only missing image was me in a suit and tie. The only mismatched image was Cheryl’s Amazing Inflatable Womb. (Pregnant women suggest sexual intercourse, and the last thing the ’50s needed was a bunch of pregnant women running around corrupting the minds of America’s youths; that’s what the ’60s were for.)

It was like someone plugged Beth into my hot-sync cradle and synchronized her with Miss Manners (my sincere apologies go out to the Miss Manners family). No one lost their temper (we recently found them under Beth’s bed next to the missing T.V. remote control). No one needed to be reminded of what had to be done (I remembered to take out the trash the night before). No one spilled anything that required the intervention of a noxious cleaning solution (I just knew that straight jacket would come in handy). No one needed to lay an offering of sacrifice at the altar of the ‘one God’ (sorry, wrong entry).

Ah, John, don’t look now but the clouds are back.

Maybe if I close my eyes I’ll be immune.

Picture a large room with a heavy duty anchor in middle of the ceiling, a five foot long net hanging from this single anchor, and a new piece of furniture off to one side. How long do you suppose it would take a seven year old child to figure out this new piece of furniture would make a good launching point for a wicked cool Tarzan swing?

If you were the mother of this child, would you be angry if the child learned this trick from her father?

It’s a damn shame Cheryl didn’t grow up with a brother. She obviously never knew the thrills that could be had with a jogging trampoline, a long rope, a cathedral ceiling, and a napping parent. Picture the bastard child of a circus act and an olympic event… ah, those were the days. It kind of puts the Tarzan swing in perspective.

In an age where everything has a sub-category (new-born, infant, toddler, tweener, teenager, young adult, ad infinitum), I have no idea what to call to Beth. To me she is simply a child. Like children from sea to shining sea, her life is about as complicated as a Happy Meal toy. Why then is she singing along with the radio in the back seat with passion, “… why’d you have to go ahead and make things so complicated?”

It hardly seems like an appropriate anthem for the life of a six year old child, but I guess it could have been worse. She could have been singing “Gettin’ Jiggy Wit It.”

Everyone has their quirks. Me? I feel compelled to share my life with anyone who cares to read about it (which, admittedly, probably isn’t very many). By all accounts, Beth seems to be a budding conservationalist. Nothing she acquires, no matter how mundane or inherently disposable, can be thrown out without great deliberation. No resource, no matter how consumable or desired, may be finished off without gnashing of teeth. I don’t know how many times I’ve found cheap trinkets lying around, previously won for good behavior at a doctor’s visit. Then there is Beth’s love of M&M cookie ice cream sandwich treats. There are six such treats in a box, five of which disappeared in so many nights (they would have gone faster but her ogre like parents wouldn’t let her have more than one a night). The last one has been in our freezer for more than a week. Why, you may ask? Well, I asked Beth that question not too long ago. Her reply? “If I eat the last one then I won’t have any left.”

I am ashamed to admit that we have left Beth woefully unprepared for siblings. I am torn between my desire to respect Beth’s things and my sense of obligation to teach her the skills necessary to cope with a brother or a sister. If I don’t eat the last one, how will she learn that the early bird gets the worm, that if you snooze you loose, that the last one there gets a stale cookie for desert instead? Will she be the last kid her age on the block to learn that all important lesson: “the ice cube bin is always the first place they look.” Just what kind of example will she be for her younger sibling? Further complicating matters, that damn thing looks like it tastes REALLY good.