Have you ever gotten a phone call from the vice principal of your child’s school? It’s literally dreadful the way you might imagine getting fired from your job might be. I never want to answer the phone when I see it’s the school calling. No one from school ever calls with good news, do they? “Oh, hey, Mrs. Clark! I am just calling to tell you that Gavin single-handedly revived chivalry at school today and held the door open for the entire fourth grade after recess.” Nope. Uh uh. I mean, I don’t think Gavin would necessarily do such a thing to warrant such a call, but still…I have never heard of another parent getting such calls and I know there are some darn nice kids in this area. Mostly, our calls have been about sick Clark children. One was a bit more serious … a troubled child had threatened to “kill” Grace in retaliation for something another child had done to him. Poor Grace was just the first face he saw and was an innocent victim of the outburst. Everything’s fine. Everything was handled appropriately.
This year, however, I got the phone call that may just take the cake.
I was in the movie theater with Gavin, Grace and some friends when my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail, because, well…I was in the movie theater. I picked up the voicemail to hear a mostly cheerful message from the vice principal at Gavin’s school. “There was an incident on the playground at recess. Everything’s OK. I am almost positive Gavin’s on the periphery, but I did want to make you aware of the situation. Can you please call me back?”
Sigh.
I texted Kenny and asked him to call because…well, I was in the movie theater. He was delighted with the assignment. I am definitely a giving wife. Passing out the jobs that make me personally uncomfortable. Hahaha.
Turns out, our dear, sweet, loving, lovable, kind, brilliant, mature, confident son had stumbled off the path of perfection we’ve been so perfectly paving since late 2006. (Sarcasm! Sarcasm! Honestly, we’ll be happy if – as an adult – he’s happy and kind and has minimal therapy bills.)
In reality, though, it seems we’ve got quite the agreeable kid on our hands – you know, the kind who says yes to almost anything his peers might ask him to do. (Our parenting flash forwards are terrifying! Yea. Pass the vodka.) Like his parents, he doesn’t like confrontation or to ruffle feathers. Apple. Tree. Ground. You know…the kind of kid who, when asked if he wants to join a fourth grade ‘gang’ says, “Sure.” Now, I know that gangs are quite serious and nothing to joke about…but…but…
I can only sum it up like this: his assigned ‘gang name’ was FRUIT LOOP or FROOT LOOP… I don’t know which is cooler. None, really, if we’re being honest. He didn’t get to pick…apparently. His gang mates included Bubble Nugget, Waffles, Shirley Temple (Yea. Yep.), and more… these are only the ones we can remember.
Now, FROOT LOOP’s parents had to speak with the vice principal because the leader of the gang thought it was a good idea to “rough kids up” when they said “no” to being in the gang. Like would legit grab them by the shirt and shake them or something. Apparently, Gavin never went beyond saying “yes” to being in the gang and couldn’t even explain what a “gang” was, but that “yes” made him culpable. We explained to him what gangs are (in very clear terms), and set out on the road of some serious lesson learning – including an apology note to the principal and vice principal for disrespecting rules and other children. I suspect that most of the lesson will fade as time passes, but maybe, just maybe, he’ll think twice before saying “yes” to something he truly doesn’t understand – that’d be a major parenting (and kid!) win. And, if not, I am quite sure all Kenny or me will need to do is refer to him as FROOT LOOP, and it will come rushing back.
If your child happened to be caught up in FROOT LOOP’s peripheral gang days, we are truly sorry. Hopefully, these days are well behind us, and our son’s on a good path of being kind and inclusive.
Recently, I had the bright idea to make ‘breakfast for dinner’ for three reasons:
My kids love it, and we rarely do it. (More on that later.)
It was a great chance to use our first-ever waffle maker, which I had gotten on super-sale at Williams Sonoma after the holidays.
It was a “quick and easy”. (In my head. Not IRL.)
I planned a simple menu of Kodiak Cakes Power Cakes homemade waffles and bacon.
Easy. So easy. On paper.
Except, well, I had never made homemade waffles before.
And, apparently that shit is an art form – and I’ve managed to prepare an underground version of a waffle art gallery that may actually make my mother-in-law disown me. (She cooks perfectly gorgeous Belgian waffles for all major holidays like it’s her job. People would legit pay good money for those babies!)
Hopefully, waffle making skills come from the paternal side. Let’s take a look. (You can click the pictures if you want to see all the waffle gore – they got a little cut off in the gallery view below.)
All this? Not quick. Not easy.
In fact, by the time Kenny got home from a soccer board meeting, I was totally sweating. AND, I had already sent the kids to bed. Because despite actually eating the “waffles” I made, they also managed to pound, well…a pound of bacon while I was standing over this God-forsaken machine cooking the rest of their dinner. So there was none left for anyone else.
Job one for Kenny going forward? To remind me – emphatically – that breakfast is best when it’s made and served on a rainy Sunday morning when we have nothing to do and all day to clean up the kitchen carnage that only a homemade breakfast can leave behind.
And Diane Clark, kudos to you and your amazing waffles. You may just get a second waffle maker (very slightly used) for Mother’s Day this year – hahaha! (Just kidding. I will try again. Maybe. On a Sunday morning. Or…maybe not.)
Finally, Mom – good call with whatever the ShopRite brand of frozen waffles are called. Good call indeed.
A recent series of events has confirmed that, without a doubt, the Clark family is officially and forever and always an all-mint, all-the-time toothpaste family.
Over the past two weeks, we’ve been on poor Gavin about his seemingly absent oral hygiene. His breath has been otherworldly. Honestly, at one point, I thought to myself, “Dear God. This is EXACTLY how I imagine Creed smelled.” You know the episode – the one where you permanently checked mung beans off your grocery list. No? Then watch this.
We couldn’t figure out what was going on – especially because the stench was new.
Listen, I know. We all have bad breath at various points, but this was LEGIT. We’re talking green waves of stank coming out when he opened his mouth. Kenny and I have been tap dancing down a careful line to flag the issue to Gavin while not making him self-conscious, but really…I’d hate to add ‘smelly’ on top of the trials Gavin sometimes faces because of his (ahem, adorable) red hair and freckles. I can’t say I’ve successfully tap danced, though. After reading below, I think you’ll agree … it was pretty much a C for effort. His breath has been so bad that:
We quizzed him about mouth or tooth or throat pain.
We then started sending him back in to re-brush his teeth after he just brushed them because the smell hadn’t diminished after the first time.
This escalated to me standing there and watching him to make sure it was done and done well enough when it was particularly stinky.
And that escalated to me literally taking out my iPhone flashlight and inspecting his teeth to see if there was something funky going on in there. More than one time. (Yay, joys of motherhood). There wasn’t – to my untrained dental eye, things look as they should.
This all culminated with me cleaning my own Sonicare, popping on a new brush head, using some Colgate and getting in there myself to see if I could help alleviate the problem. I did the same for Grace, too, so as not to cause a complex in Gavin. (Germophobes, don’t panic, they each had their own brand new brush head – just a shared handle!) This seemed to help – temporarily.
Ok, fine. I failed. I basically left my tap dance shoes at the discount dance store and went to TOWN trying to fix this. But, despite all my crazy, it wasn’t until last night that I had my AHA! moment. I finally found the culprit. I think. I hope.
Dude’s been using fruit-flavored toothpaste. A tropical citrus blend to be exact.
Remember a few years back when designer toothpastes were all the rage with mainstream manufacturers? Things like vanilla mint and cinnamon and citrus? Some lasted – like vanilla mint and cinnmamon. Some didn’t…like citrus.
I’m thinking there’s a reason for that.
I shared my theory with Kenny last night as we were lying in bed. (Such a temptress with my bedtime conversation topics, I know.) “Do you think Gavin’s breath smells like someone stuffed a dirty dishrag in there because he’s been using mango toothpaste?”
Laughing, he said, “Oh my GOD! Is that what he’s been using?”
“Apparently. I just realized it tonight. His other kind must have run out, and that tube was in the drawer,” I said. We typically buy bubble mint or some other flavor popular with youngsters, but this particular brand was on sale and I had a coupon, so…mango toothpaste for Gavin and Grace.
Kenny said, “Aw, man, that poor kid. On the way to futsal on Sunday, I asked him three times if he brushed his teeth because all I could smell was his rotten breath. He kept laughing and telling me, “Yea, Dad! I brushed them! Twice!”
Dear Lord.
I said, “So you think that’s it?”
(Those of you who have ever seen Kenny go on a rant before will appreciate how hilarious the delivery was here. It’s a rare scene, but rich when it happens.) He said, “How can it not be? Seriously, why is that even a thing? What outcome does the manufacturer expect when you are jamming fruit into a tube to rot before you spread it on your teeth twice a day? What should we expect when they use it? Cross our fingers and hope their teeth will be clean? Hope they have fresh breath after we let them scrub rotten fruit across them? We are done with natural toothpaste for them. They are graduating to mint. Adult, mint toothpaste like us. Starting now. I don’t care if they don’t like the taste. I can’t handle their rotten fruit breath.”
Hahaha. HAHAHAHA. Hahaha. Obvs, we’re not scientists. And, no, Kenny really doesn’t believe they jam fruit in toothpaste tubes. But, we’re minted, and not looking back. The dawn of a minty fresh-breathed Gavin has arrived. #colgate
This is not to say that all kids who use fruit-flavored toothpaste will have / have this breath issue, and I am sure these toothpastes are just fine! Maybe Gavin has weird mouth chemistry. If tropical citrus toothpaste is your thing, go for it. But we are firmly on #teammint, and have declared oranges and mangoes are for consumption only.
