Mitigating intermittent missing mittens

Before I had children, I naively believed the most difficult part of parenting would be weathering my children’s passage through the difficult developmental stages: teething, weaning, potty training, puberty, etc. But hands-on parenting has taught me that remaining hands-off (i.e. not resorting to bodily harm) during the childhood-long “phase” of losing things is a far greater challenge.

Nothing in my parent preparation pamphlets and child development texts addressed how to handle or counteract cyclical carelessness. Despite looking in the index under “highly annoying” and “major pissers,” I found no references to repeated winter clothing misplacement.

This winter season has been especially harsh, not from dropping temperatures, but from dropping accessories. At last count, Kate had lost two pair of mittens, a single mitten, a pair of gloves, a single glove and one scarf.  Connor is faring much better, with only two pair of gloves and a hat. Where they go, I don’t know. I do know I spend a lot of time and money replacing winter items.

“You should try mitten strings,” say well-meaning people. Do you think?! Of course I’ve tethered their mittens together. But when they’re out of my sight, they break or take them off and/or pull the length of string out of the coat sleeves. I’ve considered sewing the mittens to the ends of their coat sleeves, but it would make it difficult to dry a pair of wet ones while the child still wore the coat.

Equally important is how to consequate (a.k.a. “punish”) the child who repeatedly loses articles of winter clothing. This gets tricky. If a mitten were a favorite stuffed animal, the simple fact of not having it to cuddle would provide a natural consequence. But there are laws governing against the natural consequence of making children go to school without winter gear, no matter how much of a lesson it might teach or how satisfying it might feel to the mitten-poor parent.

So I settle for a frosty stare, some chilly commentary and a mad dash to outfit them with replacements. For you never notice until the school bus is outside honking its horn that said items are missing.

One night, though, I discovered upon picking up the kids at daycare that Kate was again mittenless. “What are you going to do?” she asked, fearful because I had all evening to plot vengeance. I settled for swift and immediate justice: Driving home with my left tires on the center line rumble strips, a bone-penetrating response usually reserved for breaking up backseat sibling fights.

Two years ago Kate lost her cherished leopard hat in Kohl’s out late night Christmas shopping. We trooped back into the store to search. Thankfully, someone had turned it in at customer service. Upon our returning to the car, Connor announced he had lost a mitten during the hat quest. Despite freezing weather, I stripped both kids of all articles of winter clothing (except boots) before going back for the glove. No sense taking any more chances. I hadn’t been so angry since Kate smeared a quart of black raspberries on the couch.

If only the clothing loss dissipated with the snow. But it continues year ‘round. Connor managed to lose both socks and underwear during a Community Unlimited outing to the Heritage Park swimming pool. Underwear strings, anyone? Someday, he and Kate will graduate to losing more expensive items, like cell phones, retainers, and the umbrellas their mother is fond of donating to coatrooms across southwest Michigan.

If you wait long enough, some losses become amusing. Twenty years ago, I forgot an entire dryer full of clothing at a Laundromat. Ideally, I would use several dryers in a row, but I was there on a busy Saturday and had to settle for dryers wherever I could find them.

My faux pas went undetected for several days until I demanded my husband surrender a pair of red shorts he firmly denied borrowing. “And you need to return my Gold’s Gym tank top and striped towel,” he said. Oh, no! I raced the 12 miles to the Laundromat and paid five dollars ransom for our laundry. I’d gladly pay 10 times that to stop this mitten loss business.

Work satisfying despite stress, low pay

Normally, I disregard pop online surveys, but CNNMoney.com’s recent “Stressful Jobs That Pay Badly” research summary by Jessica Dickler caught my eye.

Why? Because I have been employed in the top four of the nine jobs she cited. One or two wouldn’t have been a big deal, but having worked all four of the “worst” jobs warranted closer examination. More disturbing is that I have also performed aspects of jobs 5-9 during my career.

Ranked in order of combined overwork and underpay, the jobs mentioned were: 1. Social Worker; 2. Special Events Coordinator; 3. Probation/Parole Officer; 4. News Reporter; 5. Music Ministry Director; 6. Membership Manager; 7. Fundraiser; 8. Commercial Photographer; and 9. Assisted Living Director.

The first thing I noticed about the list of jobs was they all involved working with people. In my estimation, people are far more unstable than most elements, including radium. The unpredictability of people is what makes dealing with them so stressful.

The second thing I noticed about the list of jobs was they all involved working with people at highly emotional times in their lives. Face it, people aren’t usually thrown into the company of social workers and probation officers because they are doing well. No, they are there mostly due to unfortunate situations and screw-ups.

Special event coordinators, membership managers, fundraisers, and assisted living managers are usually trying to simultaneously please several privileged people who have serious amounts of money on the line. Everything had better go according to Hoyle or there’ll be Hell to pay. Along those lines, news reporters are paid to dish dirt on a deadline. More often than not, people hate to see them coming.

And music ministry directors? Talk about a thankless job! They answer to many, knowing they will likely please only a few. Rehearsing at all hours with diverse personalities and catering to diverse tastes for one-time performances, they only briefly savor the fruits of their labor.

While all positions have potential for frustration, the above-mentioned people professions are fraught with it. In my ideal world, people who work directly with people would get paid more than people who work with things or ideas. A lot more.

But do they? Nope. In fact, the opposite appears true. The further you distance yourself from people, the more likely you are to increase your profits, with fewer headaches along the way, too, for those who could afford to buy premium aspirin.

You’re probably thinking the jobs I’ve held explain a lot about me. My husband actually verbalized it, laughingly, from his engineering vantage point in a recession-proof industry. He suspects I’m strongly enough drawn to problem people and situations that I’d be willing to work with them for next to nothing.

He’s right. To me, there’s nothing more stimulating than a round of human chess with a worthy opponent, trying to check mate someone into doing the right thing for his/her own good. Nowhere did that scenario get played out more frequently than when I worked as a circuit court probation officer.

Operating on the theory that if people knew better ways of getting their needs met, they would likely use them, I used a combination of common sense, caring and legal leverage to assist people toward changing their lives for the better.

Most people were open to positive change, so that helped. Others needed a bit more “encouragement” to come around. And yet others either never got the point of self-improvement or didn’t care. I learned to take the good with the bad. However, the success stories outweighed the failures. I learned to celebrate incremental change because often that was as good as it was going to get, but still, it was something.

I’ve challenged my spouse to feel as good at the end of the day about perfecting the fit of a container lid as I do watching someone obtain regular employment, earn a GED, get their children back from foster care, or their health back following a debilitating stroke.

Stressful? Yes. Satisfying? Absolutely. Whether or not it’s been reflected on a check stub, the pennies and other change from Heaven nevertheless add up to a satisfying life.

Language guide a kilomoter off kilter

One of the first orders of business when things go wrong is to create alibis and scapegoats. So it wasn’t my idea and I blame my friend, Stan. If he hadn’t taught himself four languages in addition to the English and Polish he grew up speaking, I wouldn’t be in this gulasch (paprika stew).

Stan’s speaking in German to my children, combined with Connor’s obsession with WWII, recently upgraded to a must our learning of German. I knew I was in trouble when Connor asked the mall Santa for a book or CD on how to speak German.

My husband, who had spent an 18-month stint in Germany courtesy of the U.S. Army, offered to teach Connor essential conversational German. But when at dinner that night my son ordered a “dunkles Bier” (dark beer), I sensed the vocabulary a 19-year-old G.I. picked up on leave might contain phrases a tad colorful for a third grader.

So we went to a large bookstore the week after Christmas and perused the foreign language section. There, next to Italian for Idiots and Danish for Dummies was German for Jerks. “Hey, Mom,” Connor speculated. “They should sell one called American for A–” but I cut him off mid-sentence.

There were several German language books in stock, all either too advanced or too expensive. This frugal frau vetoed the CDs out of hand, not wanting to subject the whole household and our family car trips to a full-scale foreign phrase invasion.

Last summer, I had been in an upholstery shop where the owner was listening to a CD of Italian phrases in preparation for an upcoming trip. I didn’t pay much attention until one English phrase translation stood out, “My husband is not home right now.” What kind of extra-curricular itinerary did she have lined up for Europe? I cracked up, but my humor was lost on the store’s proprietor.

Back on the German front, I went to my favorite on-line used bookstore, abebooks.com, and ordered 100 Common Questions & Phrases in Large Flash-Card Format German for one dollar. This four-inch square, spiral-bound book boasted large-type phrases that could be shown to the German strangers at whose mercy you and your American ignorance would quickly find yourselves.

I assumed the book would cover ordinary words, like dog, car, coat, etc. But from “Ich brauche extra Handtucher” (I need extra towels) to “Mein Hotel-zimmer is ausgeraubt worden” (My hotel room has been robbed), it was exclusively travel-oriented.

More specifically, the book seemed like a travel companion for elderly Americans who were after the Deutsch experience on their own terms.

“Konnten Sie etwas empfehlen, das wenig Cholesterin enthalt?” (Can you recommend something that is low in cholesterol?) and “Wo finde ich Ein Mittel gegen Verstopfung?” (Where can you find constipation medicine?) was followed by the requisite, “Gibt es einen Senioren-rabatt?” (Is there a senior discount?)

Connor interrupted my rude reverie. “Wo ist das Badezimmer (where is the bathroom)?” he asked. When I commented on his urgency, he flipped to the illness translation chart at the back of the book and said, “Ich habe durchfall” (I have diarrhea). To which I responded, “Wir mochten ein Zimmer mit zwei Betten.” (We want a room with two beds.)

We collapsed in laughter. But it got better. Another page said, “Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe, oder ich rufe die Polizei” (Leave me alone or I will call the police). Now mind you, the premise of the book is to be able to hold up a page like a flashcard to someone who can potentially help you.

I pictured myself fighting against an attacker while feebly thrusting my mini travel guidebook into his face so he could read that page with its empty “I’m calling the cops” threat. And what if Herr Attacker stole the book along with my purse and I no longer had the “Rufen Sie sofort die Polizei!” (call the police immediately!) page to display to the good Samaritan who stopped to help?

“That’s it,” I announced. “Connor, you’re going to have to travel alone. I’m far too old and Germany is far too dangerous for my flash-card wielding esel” (silly butt).

Watchless week improves sense of time

My kids took the collar off our dog Sousa the other night. They were concerned she never got a break from it. As Connor observed, she’d worn it for so long the fur around her neck was permanently matted down and there was a slight groove circling her neck.

Despite my explaining the need of collar, the rabies vaccination and dog license validating “charms” adorning it, plus the necessity of the dog wearing it so we could tie her outside during nice weather, they remained unconvinced.

“How would you like somebody doing that to you?” they asked. I glanced at my watch, something I’m habitually prone to do dozens of times per day.

“I would never let someone do that to me,” I said. “I beat them to it.” Removing the watch, I held up my arm to display a left wrist that looked remarkably similar to the dog’s neck, with only slightly less hair subject to matting. Nearly 40 years of watch wear and tear had made it a half-inch smaller in circumference than my right wrist. I know because I measured.

“What’s so special about watches?” Connor wanted to know. Truthfully, I couldn’t tell him. But to a geek like me, getting my first watch at the age of eight had been akin to a teenager sneaking a cigarette. It seemed like proof of something. But proof of what, bondage?

My first watch was a Charlie the Tuna watch my mom obtained by mail order in exchange for $1.95 and several Starkist tuna can labels. I proudly wore my tacky timepiece, mistakenly believing it somehow made me a bigger fish in the little pond of elementary school.

The blue plastic band coated with clear nail polish so my skin wouldn’t break out and the “Sorry, Charlie” message dangled in front of the famous cartoon fish remain imbedded in my mind as deeply as the groove in my wrist from a lifetime of watches. I faithfully wound Charlie every morning, glowing with pride of ownership.

Then came the fateful day I ruined my poor Charlie by scratching his glass face along a textured plaster school hallway wall on the way to gym class. I hung onto my fatally flawed friend for months, as unable to part ways as I was lax to admit responsibility to my mother for his ruination.

Thus began my love affair with watches. I have had relationships with many over the years, favoring dual silver and gold adorned, Roman numeral-faced, masculine-styled models. Except for the ultra-feminine gold Anne Klein bangle I picked up during Jacobson’s closing sale. On the two occasions I forgot to wear a watch to work, I went out and bought new ones, feeling too naked without.

With my fetish for watches, you would think I’m obsessed with timeliness. But you would be wrong. While I’ve grown progressively better, you should definitely not set your watch by me.

My husband quit wearing his watch three years ago. This followed noticing that if he had six minutes left to do a four-minute task (before needing to be somewhere else), his watch falsely gave him permission to waste the first two minutes, potentially making him late for whatever came next. Watchlessness helps him better manage his time. He suggested I try it.

But my pathological attachment to my watch made the idea inconceivable. Give up the security of my watch for the frivolous pursuit of timeliness? Unthinkable! Until the winter day I forgot to don it following my shower. I was headed to a workshop in Grand Rapids on icy roads when I discovered my error. It’s a wonder I could still drive, but there was no turning back.

Surprisingly, my inability to clock-watch made me a better listener to what was said during the seminar. It was very liberating. Just for kicks, I didn’t wear my watch for the next week. Turns out my husband was right: Being unconscious of time had the effect of helping me make better use of time. I worked faster and more efficiently.

So I’ll soon be relinquishing my watches? Not on your life. It would make way too much sense. Sorry, Charlie.