"Please is My Co-Pilot"

I decided to give the gym a rest this morning as I looked forward to spending the day with my kids. It was Shane’s birthday weekend, technically it was last Tuesday, I allowed him free reign to golf and boyishly juvenile behavior. I extended the leash for a twenty four hour length. Meanwhile, I baked a ham, rosemary, and cheese scone. Ever since Hunter's baked us a delicious Christmas bundt cake at his preschool, he’s transformed into this curious helpful little ball of wonder. My patience at the forefront, I hone the little assistant in him, “Momma, like this,” he proudly mixed the egg wash as if he scrambled eggs in the bowl. He then proceeded to lift the egg wash and incorporate it with the dry ingredients, “Hunter, don’t do that! I mean, please don’t do that.” It took all the strength of the Greek gods to hold me back from raising my voice. Stevie Day, the daredevil crawling machine, circled the kitchen, batteries not included, at top speed. “Momma whatcha doing,” Hunter the inquisitive master, climbed up on the chair and observed in wonderment. “Momma’s baking,” I smiled, “eat your breakfast?” I kindly pleaded. “No,” he clamored, “Momma watcha doing?” Our conversations were like a dog chasing his tail, repetitive and never ending.

Shane excited for his twelve o’clock tee time was prepping for his day of boys, balls, and beer. As I was left to paw off the kids, minus my morning caffeine, could prove perilous. Instead, he was upstairs changing collared t-shirts and slacks to make sure today’s outfit was hip, yet made to look effortless like he didn’t spend twenty minutes finding the perfect wear, “Shane, can you come down and help me out?” I teetered on the edge. Ever since he shed twenty pounds, merely by diet, he’s been obsessed with his reflection in the mirror. Was it too early for his midlife crisis? I’ll wait for the mother load, trading his truck for a bitchin’ camaro. Until then, I can’t say that I didn’t see the signs.

Shane came down stairs, in his argyle gray cashmere sweater and his gray slacks that he purchased at the vintage shop at upper height for eight bucks. I, on the otherhand, teeth unbrushed, hair aghast, and flannel Christmas pajamas needed my caffeine stat, “Seriously? Your tee time is in three hours. Lame.” Not to mention, that I was a bit jealous that he had allocated twelve hours free from kids and wife. “It smells good in here,” he scooped Stevie Day from her circling race, “come on Stevie Day let’s go in the playroom. Come on Hunter, let’s go play with your trains.”


Now that the savory scones were in the oven, I tackled the cherry and pecan scones. My pantry overflowed with ingredients from my over ambitious attempts to Christmas cookies. In my short stint as a cook, I discovered the spoils of a dishwasher. In a restaurant, I didn’t have to worry about cleaning my pots, pans, or utensils. This, in result, was a downfall for my performance at home that was easily mistaken as slobbery, “Jesus! You use every utensil and pot when you cook.” My husband suffers mildly from OCD and the thought of a messy kitchen threw him into a high blood pressured tizzy fit. Plus, everything that I couldn’t cram into the dishwasher was placed in the sink which Shane usually handled from there. A slob falls for a dashing obsessive compulsive, seemed like a good idea at the time. A huge oversight.

“You know the perfect chef is the one that gets through service with out a splash on his chef’s jacket. Imppecable. Jean Gorges worked in Prada shoes and a crisp white jacket which was spotless through out service.” My former chef and mentor would ramble before, during, and after service. Obviously, I couldn’t afford Prada and if I did, I wouldn’t be flaunting my pair in a kitchen like a pair of house slippers. I'm a cook, not a chef. Alas, my jacket was always blotched with sauce and reductions and wreaked of cigarettes.

Motherhood proved more of the same, I was disheveled in my parenting skills. Hunter spoke in demanding order, “Momma, I want milkie. Momma, crackers. Momma, books. Momma, I want juice. Momma, I watch choo choo.” He demanded with out the special password that was the key to the magical kingdom of praise, "Hunter please, you have to say please. Always say please. What's the magic word Hunter?" In which he would respond softly, "please." A product of his environment, please didn't come naturally to his vocabulary. I was guilty. Shane was guilty. We were guilty.

Why isn't he saying please? I had come face-to-face with the quandry. His preschool teacher prefaced that he was very cordial and always said please and thank you. Was my son just running a gammit? Was he milkin’ us for all we've got? Naturally, I pondered parenting seminars on potty training and manner and etiquette. Formerly, I scoffed at the idea of these seminars that proved too lenient. I rolled my eyes at the idea of a sleeping therapist. Flagitious. Now I find myself at a dead end with my free style parenting skills, wishfully thinking this is just a result of his terrible twodome. A dear friend mentioned, “Kids are a product of their environment.” Therefore, confirming that I was the culprit all along.

There are parents that are too hog-tied to set rules or boundries. You know the kids that effortlessly terrorize the dog and castrate the cat, but the parents traipse along as if the world was flat, “oh honey, please don’t dump that ice cream cone on your little brother that’s not very nice. Now, this is your third warning, now come here and give me a hug.” Then there’s parents that are cool as kittens with a ball of yarn, “Son, you dump that ice cream on your brother and you’ll be seeing stars,” brief and concise, straight to the point; desist. Me, I strive to be the latter.

It’s been two days, since the new implement and I’m mentally crippled, “Shane Stevie pooped, please change her diaper. Hunter please don’t throw your toothbrush in the toilet bowl. Darling, please pass the peas? Shane, please pass the grey poupon.” I thought my head would explode and a fountain of blood would gush from what was once my head. In good time, it will come naturally, like an involuntary muscle. As of right now, it feels like open heart surgery without being put under. Ouch.


It wasn’t too late. My little sponge that is Hunter will make me proud. His preschool boasts of his complaisant behavior, I’m bewildered. Are we referring to the same beast that flings his trains across the room when he is instructed to share? Or the stubborn master that refutes that he pooped in his diaper, “no it was Stevie momma.” I’m determined. I’m motivated to bring my son back to square one. As he embarks on the triumphant threes which I’ve been warned is worse then their twos. Huff.

This is Shellie, “Now that we’re cruising at an altitude of thirty five hundred feet and the seatbelt light has been turned off. I wonder who is flying this plane?” Back to you Bob at the studio!