Here is my latest column in Philly Mag, about slutty Halloween costumes. And a little about Harry Potter. And a lot about me being insane.
The idea was sparked when a mom-friend of mine said to me on the playground, "I want to keep my kids as young as I can for as long as I can." Ever since, I think about that quote once a day. At least. I think of it even more so lately, because five-year-old Drew has taken to singing one particular song, over and over. And over. And not just at home. In the car. In the grocery store. On the soccer field, where it's usually punctuated by a cartwheel. Always loud. Lots of vibrato.
This is the song: "I'm sexy and I know it."
Friday, September 28, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Into The Lion's Den
I got an email yesterday morning from an editor at Newsweek's The Daily Beast asking if I wanted to write something for them about what it's like now to tell people I went to Penn State. Here was my first thought: "Are you freaking KIDDING? I am SO not getting into this."
I knew that, no matter what I wrote, there would be people attacking me, personally. That's what happens when you write about yourself. I know this. Well. And as much as I act like, "It's all part of the biz," it is hard to read. The more I write about about personal stuff, it gets slightly easier to hear that you're an "idiot" or to "Shut the fuck up." But this is a whole different ballgame, pun intended. This is kids being raped. This is a massive cover up by people I've met, people I've interviewed. This is my school, which I never really identified with, until now.
And that's what I wrote about: "I Went to Penn State, But Don't Pity Me."
Here's what some of the commenters are saying:
"I pity you as you could not get into a better school."
"This is a thoroughly idiotic and fairly insulting article."
"Get over yourself."
And, of course, that old chestnut: "Shut the fuck up."
People ask me why writing's hard. This is partly why. And this is also exactly, precisely, completely why it's important. And why, despite wishing often that I was back waiting tables where I was never told "you're NOT a victim," it's worth it to put yourself out there to say something that's true to you. As one of my friends once told me, "If people are hating on you, you must be doing something right." I hope so.
I knew that, no matter what I wrote, there would be people attacking me, personally. That's what happens when you write about yourself. I know this. Well. And as much as I act like, "It's all part of the biz," it is hard to read. The more I write about about personal stuff, it gets slightly easier to hear that you're an "idiot" or to "Shut the fuck up." But this is a whole different ballgame, pun intended. This is kids being raped. This is a massive cover up by people I've met, people I've interviewed. This is my school, which I never really identified with, until now.
And that's what I wrote about: "I Went to Penn State, But Don't Pity Me."
Here's what some of the commenters are saying:
"I pity you as you could not get into a better school."
"This is a thoroughly idiotic and fairly insulting article."
"Get over yourself."
And, of course, that old chestnut: "Shut the fuck up."
People ask me why writing's hard. This is partly why. And this is also exactly, precisely, completely why it's important. And why, despite wishing often that I was back waiting tables where I was never told "you're NOT a victim," it's worth it to put yourself out there to say something that's true to you. As one of my friends once told me, "If people are hating on you, you must be doing something right." I hope so.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Cupcake Wars
Okay. So I haven't posted in over a year. I had another baby, 'kay? Because that's what you do when you're almost 40 and can't throw away the baby stuff in your attic...you have a baby. Right?
Anyway...if I hadn't started writing a new column for Philadelphia Magazine called Suburbanista, this would totally have been a blog post. So...here it is...what happens when a no-cupcake-rule clashes with mothers-who-make-cupcakes. There was no blood shed...as far as a know.
http://www.phillymag.com/articles/food_nazis_invade_first_grade/
Anyway...if I hadn't started writing a new column for Philadelphia Magazine called Suburbanista, this would totally have been a blog post. So...here it is...what happens when a no-cupcake-rule clashes with mothers-who-make-cupcakes. There was no blood shed...as far as a know.
http://www.phillymag.com/articles/food_nazis_invade_first_grade/
Monday, February 14, 2011
I'm Gonna Cut You
The first time our three-year-old Drew said it, my brain shot into immediate rationalization mode.
In line, I convinced myself. She means, “I’m gonna cut you IN LINE.”
Because, really, what could be a worse offense to a three-year-old? There she is, at daycare, waiting by the door to march to her classroom, beaming because she’s the “line leader” (which is akin to being God), and then...some other three year old cuts in front of her, dashing her hopes, her dreams, her chances of sitting on the all-coveted “rainbow square with the pink stripe” on the circle-time carpet.
Of course, I decided. That explains it. That explains why, moments ago, when I told her that we had to turn off The Fresh Beat Band because it was time to eat dinner, she said, “If you turn it off, I’m gonna cut you!”
I decided this in the roughly 20 minutes that Thad and I stood there in the family room with our mouths hanging open, not breathing, picturing ourselves in 10 years visiting Drew on Saturday mornings at Juvy.
I leaned towards Thad and whispered, “She means ‘in line,’ right?”
“Right,” he answered in his “no, your butt doesn’t look big in those pants” tone.
What else could it be? As far as we know, there isn’t a gang problem at Tiny Treasures Learning Academy. We don’t sit down as a family, with popcorn and Capri Suns, and watch reruns of Prison Break. We don’t even let the kids hold the plastic knives in silverware packets from fast food restaurants, which themselves are barely capable of cutting a McDonalds pancake, much less a mother who has wielded control of a TV remote.
Then it happened again: “If you don’t get me chocolate milk, I’m going to cut you!”
And again: “If you don’t read me six more books, I’m going to cut you.”
And again: “If you don’t get me a face-to-face with Justin Bieber and his people, I’m going to cut you.”
Friends came over for dinner. Because they don’t have children, they laughed very, very, very hard as we told them about Drew’s threat du jour.
“We think she means ‘in line,’” I told them. They looked at me as if I was suggesting that the only thing wrong with Linda Blair was that she had a touch of flu.
We sat down to dinner. It was just after New Year’s, so we were eating pork and sauerkraut--“Nature’s broom,” as my grandmother used to say. That meant that the adults had knives on their very festive New Year’s napkins. I walked in from the kitchen with the kids’ plates in my hand to find Drew sitting in her booster chair, holding one of the serrated knives, waving it in the air as if she were a Ginsu salesman. Or a serial killer. One of the two.
I grabbed the knife out of her hand and started to laugh in that exaggerated way parents do when their kids do something terribly unexpected and terribly bad, like threaten to stab dinner guests.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” I said. “Ha, ha, ha...she’s so...I just don’t...I mean…ha, ha, ha!”
The next morning, I asked Drew. Finally.
“When you say, ‘I’m gonna cut you,’” what do you mean?”
“With a knife,” she said, then paused before she smiled in her “silly mommy” way. “Nooooo. Not a knife,” she corrected. I felt relieved. We wouldn’t have to buy her a straightjacket after all.
Then, she clarified: “With scissors.”
In line, I convinced myself. She means, “I’m gonna cut you IN LINE.”
Because, really, what could be a worse offense to a three-year-old? There she is, at daycare, waiting by the door to march to her classroom, beaming because she’s the “line leader” (which is akin to being God), and then...some other three year old cuts in front of her, dashing her hopes, her dreams, her chances of sitting on the all-coveted “rainbow square with the pink stripe” on the circle-time carpet.
Of course, I decided. That explains it. That explains why, moments ago, when I told her that we had to turn off The Fresh Beat Band because it was time to eat dinner, she said, “If you turn it off, I’m gonna cut you!”
I decided this in the roughly 20 minutes that Thad and I stood there in the family room with our mouths hanging open, not breathing, picturing ourselves in 10 years visiting Drew on Saturday mornings at Juvy.
I leaned towards Thad and whispered, “She means ‘in line,’ right?”
“Right,” he answered in his “no, your butt doesn’t look big in those pants” tone.
What else could it be? As far as we know, there isn’t a gang problem at Tiny Treasures Learning Academy. We don’t sit down as a family, with popcorn and Capri Suns, and watch reruns of Prison Break. We don’t even let the kids hold the plastic knives in silverware packets from fast food restaurants, which themselves are barely capable of cutting a McDonalds pancake, much less a mother who has wielded control of a TV remote.
Then it happened again: “If you don’t get me chocolate milk, I’m going to cut you!”
And again: “If you don’t read me six more books, I’m going to cut you.”
And again: “If you don’t get me a face-to-face with Justin Bieber and his people, I’m going to cut you.”
Friends came over for dinner. Because they don’t have children, they laughed very, very, very hard as we told them about Drew’s threat du jour.
“We think she means ‘in line,’” I told them. They looked at me as if I was suggesting that the only thing wrong with Linda Blair was that she had a touch of flu.
We sat down to dinner. It was just after New Year’s, so we were eating pork and sauerkraut--“Nature’s broom,” as my grandmother used to say. That meant that the adults had knives on their very festive New Year’s napkins. I walked in from the kitchen with the kids’ plates in my hand to find Drew sitting in her booster chair, holding one of the serrated knives, waving it in the air as if she were a Ginsu salesman. Or a serial killer. One of the two.
I grabbed the knife out of her hand and started to laugh in that exaggerated way parents do when their kids do something terribly unexpected and terribly bad, like threaten to stab dinner guests.
“Ha, ha, ha, ha!” I said. “Ha, ha, ha...she’s so...I just don’t...I mean…ha, ha, ha!”
The next morning, I asked Drew. Finally.
“When you say, ‘I’m gonna cut you,’” what do you mean?”
“With a knife,” she said, then paused before she smiled in her “silly mommy” way. “Nooooo. Not a knife,” she corrected. I felt relieved. We wouldn’t have to buy her a straightjacket after all.
Then, she clarified: “With scissors.”
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Slow and Steady My Ass
You’re going to throw up. You’re going to throw up.
I chanted these words to myself, praying that the mere Statement of Fact might somehow alter the inevitable course of events about to transpire as the girls and I walked up the ramp to our very first ride at Storybook Land near Cape May, New Jersey.
We’d driven an hour and a half to get here, filled with the promise of storybook princesses and strange animatronic storybook dwarves that, upon pushing a button, would sing and dance and repeatedly bend over from their strange animatronic storybook waists. What more could we ask for? It was just a tiny, wooded amusement park that catered to kids under six. I assumed there’d be a train, bumper boats, one of those airplane rides you make go up and down by pushing and pulling on a metal bar.
Maybe a carousel.
Maybe a very small Ferris wheel.
But not this.
Lord.
No.
Not … The Turtle Twister.
I tried to stop the kids, but it was too late. They’d already slid into the deep cove of one of the green cars shaped like a turtle head. They left a space between them for me, my thighs instantly becoming one with the black pleather, which smelled of oil, funnel cake, and the ghosts of vomits past.
“What if we need to stop?” I asked the 16-year-old who, between texting about very important matters like how she wields the awesome power of making people puke on themselves, lowered the bar onto our legs and locked us in.
“Just yell,” she said, and then pressed the big red button.
Immediately, I flashed back: Haggarty Park playground, circa 1977, that metal merry-go-round, that neighbor girl pushing the merry-go-round, those very orange BBQ potato chips. All of it going around. And around. And around.
Compared with The Turtle Twister, that merry-go-round was a Lazy Susan.
“This is sooooo funnnnnn!” I yelled, laughing way too loud as our turtle swished uncontrollably to the left, trying to convince the girls that this was, in fact, fun, and not what happens when people die.
“Yaaaay!” 5-year-old Blair yelled and, because she is her father’s daughter, she meant it. The car, at the time, was in a tail-spin, rotating 14 times, 15 times, 16 times at such speed that the centrifugal force pushed us against the back of the car. I swore my skull had started to expand. I let go of the bar and reached my arms out in a T, bracing my hands flat against the inside of the turtle’s cheeks, as if my arms alone could stop the pain.
“Wheeeeee!” I yelled, thinking about only two things: The very orange BBQ potato chips, and Drew. Because Drew wasn’t not yelling “Yay!” She was not yelling anything. She’d folded in on her little 3-year-old self, crouching into my right side, surely wondering how a mother who claimed to love her could possibly allow The Turtle Twister to exist in what she’d just discovered was a cruel, cruel world.
“Close your eyes,” I whispered to Drew.
“Soooo fuuuun!” I yelled to Blair.
“It’ll be over soon,” I whispered to Drew.
“This is coooooool!” I yelled to Blair, certain that, since we'd been on The Turtle Twister for approximately 37 hours, barf was nigh. I calculated our speed, the spin, the likelihood of splatter.
Then I heard it…the clang of the engine turning off. The speed of the ride slowed. Our turtle did not. It kept twisting. And twisting. And twisting. Even when we came to a stop, the turtle refused to release us, twisting and twisting until the 16-year-old grabbed hold of the edge of its green turtle mouth and forced it to submit.
Blair didn’t want to get off.
I didn’t either, but for entirely different reasons.
Drew didn’t know what she wanted, not until the girl lifted the bar and reached in to grab her hand and help her climb out. Drew did not take the hand, but stared into her eyes, long and hard. She blamed the girl. I could see it. It was wrong to blame the girl. And I might have explained that to Drew, if I wasn't so happy that she was blaming the girl, and not me. Blame that girl! Evil turtles! Evil girl! But blame alone wasn't enough for Drew. She had a message to deliver.
“That," she told evil turtle girl, "was not fun.”
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Scorn on the Fourth of July
It wasn’t clear to me, really, how to prepare a two-year-old for sitting outside, on a blanket, in the dark of night, in a place you’ve never been before, with lots and lots of other people you don’t know sitting all around you, on blankets, waiting for someone or something—you weren’t sure which, exactly—to shoot explosives into the sky.
Poor Drew.
She didn’t understand. She didn’t think she needed to. We were her parents. We wouldn’t put her in harm’s way. We always brought a sweatshirt in case she got cold, a snack-bag filled with Chex Mix, a built-in lap where she could sit, which was where she was, safe and warm on Daddy’s lap, on the blanket, in the dark, in the neighborhood park, when she caught her first glimpse of the end of the world.
Ka-boom!
How would she know this gigantic noise at a volume she never even knew existed, which caused every person she could see to drop back their heads and stare stonerly into the black sky, was the start of something good?
“Wha dat?” she asked. No one answered. There was no time to explain. Everyone on our blanket—mommy, daddy, two grown-up friends, 4-year-old big-sister Blair—was already calculating a solution to the problem at hand: Enormous four-story-tall sequoia blocking view. Must move.
Ka-boom!
Drew covered her ears this time, then looked up at the tree, suddenly back-lit by firecracker light, making it look like a massive alien monster…that was on fire.
“Look there! THERE!” she heard Mommy scream, as I pointed to a small clearing—a clearing I knew that every mother on every blanket in the shadow of the sequoia from hell had spotted, and was strategizing a way to transport her brood to it.
Drew watched as Blair, like a 36-pound bullet in purple monkey jammies, sprinted off in the direction her mother was pointing. Toward the sound. Toward that glowing monster tree. For all Drew knew, she would never see her sister again.
“Go! Go! Go!” She heard her mother yell, as Daddy scooped her up under his arm, his other hand dragging the blanket like a wounded comrade. Mommy cut hard to the left, blocking out a family of five with an unnaturally small dog, then to the right, zipping past an old couple that couldn’t figure out how to fold up their portable golf chairs.
Ka-boom!
“Follow me! NOW” her mother yelled again. And we all picked up speed, sweaty and desperate, leaving our half-drunk water bottles, our snack bags of Cheese-its, our Bud Light Limes we’d snuck there in Styrofoam cozies, heading toward the clearing, as if running for the last helicopter out of Saigon.
Then Drew saw Blair, standing in a small patch of grass, looking up to the sky, her mouth hanging open, arms stretching out into a T, as if her tiny wingspan could save enough space for us all.
Daddy set Drew down, and she grabbed her blankie, which was truly the only thing she could count on in life anymore. She trotted over to her sister, and looked up. And she saw it. She saw it.
Her thumb dropped from her mouth and the word snuck out in a whisper:
“Wow.”
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Birthdays Are My Weakness
We had our first-ever birthday party for Blair last weekend. Her first real birthday party. At a place. That we paid for. With lots and lots and lots of money.
For the past five years, I’ve been feeling like a turd in a punchbowl, while Blair opened invitation after invitation, year after year, for the capital-B-Birthday Parties my friends were throwing for their kids. The first birthday at Gymboree! The second at Little Gym! Three at The Discovery Museum! Four in the Oval Office for a marbled quarter-sheet with Barack and Joe!
The most exciting thing I’d done? Invited kids to the house to decorate party hats with pipe cleaners. At least I made lunch. (The rainbow Jell-O mold took almost a whole day, but I couldn’t have looked at myself in the mirror if I’d skimped my little Blair out of having both a purple layer and a violet layer.) All along, I told Thad: “Five is a special year. We’ll make five special. We’ll blow it up at five.”
And blow it up we did.
The plan: Fourteen girls. Two hours. A place called Enchanted Dreams—Blair had never been there or even heard about it or even knew such a place existed outside of Orlando—where kids get to dress up in princess costumes, and not those crappy, flammable, dollar-store ones, but satin and silk flower-girl-level gowns with bows and lace and ribbon and sparkles that likely cost more than my wedding dress. Three staff—THREE!—would run the entire party, singing songs, teaching the hula, making a personalized necklace for Blair with beads that all of her friends “made wishes” on.
In the end, it would cost $500. But it would be epic.
When I sent out the evite, my friends wrote back, excitedly:
“Which princess are you getting?” I immediately felt turdlike again. Not only had their daughters been to parties at Enchanted Dreams before, but they’d been to parties where the parents opted to hire someone to dress as a Disney Princess for the low, low additional cost of $119.
“We’re not having a princess,” I said.
“Oh,” they said.
Turd mom. Mom turd. Turdy turdy turdy.
But, then, the day arrived. And Blair walked through the front door of Enchanted Dreams, past the huge sign, surrounded by balloons, that read, “Happy Birthday Blair!” And she put on a pink flowered dress with pink butterfly wings and a pink jeweled tiara. And her friends came and got dressed in ribbons and satin. I tried to help Blair into another dress, but one of the women on the staff said, “No no! You don’t have to do anything! Sit down! Relax!” Just before I walked to the back of the room where the other moms were snacking on cheese doodles, Blair whispered to me: “This is the coolest.”
I thought it was the coolest, too. For about a half hour. Then, as I watched my mother tiptoe around with the video camera, capturing "Blair’s Fifth Birthday Party" across the room, it suddenly seemed to be happening 100 miles away. Blair was over there, doing her thing. We were over here, not a part of it. That’s where our lives were heading. It was inevitable, I knew. It would happen soon. In five years. In three. In two. Sitting on the white lacquered chair, eating a piece of princess cake that I didn’t even cut, I thought to myself, Not yet.
“What was your favorite part?” I asked Blair as we drove home in the minivan.
“The cake!” she said.
“I mean, what was your favorite part of the party,” I asked.
“The presents!”
“What about the party part? The dress-up? The songs?”
“I wish it would have been funner,” she said.
Next year, I thought to myself, it will be. Cake. Presents. Pipe cleaners. The works.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Please Remove Your Child From My Pubic Area
My parents bought us a gift—a night at a ski resort--which was a very thoughtful thing for them to do. The plan was this: they would keep the girls, and Thad and I would drive a whole hour away and drink hot chocolate spiked with Baileys and sleep in a hotel room without a single princess sippy cup in it and then spend the next day skiing.
Strangely, I was far more excited about the hot tub. The resort’s hot tub wasn’t just any old hot tub. It was an indoor/outdoor hot tub. You stepped into it inside, swam through some plastic car-wash flaps, and then were outside, sitting on underwater benches with other resort guests, snow piled around you, stars overhead, your wet hair growing teeny icicles while you held hands under the bubbling water with your husband who you realized you hadn’t exactly looked at since he drove you home from the maternity ward on March 18, 2005.
So we got in. And we swam out. And we scored a cozy spot on the far side right in front of a jet. And we held hands. And we looked at each other lovingly. And Thad started thinking about getting lucky later. And, just as I was about to give him a peck on the lips … there was a human form in my lap.
“Hahahahaha,” said the human form, who I quickly discovered was a seven-year-old girl. “The water pushed me right into you. I can’t hold on. Hahahahaha!”
The seven-year-old girl was not wrong. The current in the hot tub was as strong as a category-five hurricane. It took much resolve for Thad and I not to float into the 84-year-old man with the Einstein hair and Speedo sitting to our right. But we did not. Not so for the little girl. Because eight seconds later—boom!—there she was again. Square in my lap. Facing me. Her legs spread and resting on either side of my hips. Her mouth no more than one centimeter from mine.
“Hahahahaha!” she cackled. “Mommy! I can’t hold on to you!”
Only then did I realize that the woman sitting with her back to the little girl was, in fact, the little girl’s mother. The girl’s mother was talking to a man I presumed was the girl’s father. In between them was an empty space that could have accommodated three “Biggest Loser” contestants.
Okay. So. Maybe I roll with different rules of engagement than mothers who frequent ski resorts with their children and bring them to hot tubs despite the fact that all children under 18, according to the “Hot Tub Rules” sign, were not supposed to even be in said hot tub after 9 o’clock at night. Maybe I’m more sensitive to the fact that I sometimes can’t tolerate my own children clamoring in my lap, much less the child of a complete stranger who is not only invading my personal space, but rubbing her naked, H1N1-infected thighs onto my naked thighs.
But, did the mother move over so that her daughter had more room? No. Did she say, “Get over here, Brittanyjolenerosemary! That nice lady doesn’t want you swimming in her lap! I am soooo sorry, nice lady?” No. The mother didn’t even turn around.
“Hahahahaha!” I heard, again, as Brittanyjolenerosemary circled back around, this time bracing herself by clawing my thigh—my inner thigh.
“Can you please not do that again?” I said, loud, intending to alert her mother to the fact that her child was in danger of being thrown.
“Hahahahaha!” The girl was now grabbing onto my shoulders, attempting to climb up my torso.
“Seriously…sweetie….um…ma’am?” I leaned in the direction of the mother, who didn’t hear me, probably because her daughter’s hair was in my mouth. “Excuse me? Ma’am?”
“Hahahahaha!”
I picked the girl up, fought the current with all my will, and placed her next to her mother. The father watched me do this. He did nothing. The mother finally turned, clearly realized what had been happening, then turned back around. These people, I thought, should be jailed. Brittanyjolenerosemary latched around mother’s neck in a strangle hold just as Einstein Speedo Man got up. Thad slid over. I slid over.
We are free! I thought. Free!
But, six minutes later, there was a human form in my lap. I was shocked to discover that it was a different child, the child of the man who had squeezed into the space between me and Brittanyjolenerosemary, the child whose back was resting on the father’s forearms, floating on the surface. And into me. Though not into my lap. This human form rubbed right up against my boobs.
Except this child was not a girl.
And he was roughly 18.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
The First Monday Morning of 2010
5:05 a.m.--Thad’s alarm goes off. Mommy wakes up. Mommy falls back to sleep.
5:57:--Thad leaves for the airport. Thad is flying to Las Vegas for work. Thad will not be home until Friday night...after bedtime.
7:08--Drew wakes up, yelling, “Mommy, I need you.”
7:15--Blair wakes up, yelling, “Mommymommymommymommymommymommy,” as if she was in her bed, and mommy was on the top of the Empire State Building.
7:16--Mommy turns on Blue Clues.
7:17 to 8:43--Mommy makes breakfast (for 2-year-old Drew, a bowl of rainbow Cheerios; for 4-year-old Blair, half a pancake, three bites of mommy’s peanut-butter-toast, a fruit roll-up, chocolate milk, pink lemonade, and water in her “special snowman cup”); mommy dresses children; mommy writes out enormous check for daycare; mommy packs two lunches (for Drew, chicken nuggets; for Blair, as requested, Lipton cup-o-soup with extra-wide noodles, one white chocolate-covered-mini-pretzel, one brown chocolate-covered-mini pretzel, apple sauce in a cup with a red top, and apple juice “not watered down”).
8:44--Blair runs into the kitchen yelling, “Drew locked herself in the bathroom!” Mommy charges to the bathroom to find that Drew has, in fact, locked herself in the bathroom. Mommy sprints to find a skinny Philip’s head-screwdriver to push through the hole in the doorknob that’s used for unlocking doors in emergencies. The hole in the doorknob that’s used for unlocking doors in emergencies does not work. Drew starts to cry. Mommy whispers through the door, “Drew, honey, turn the knob. Turn the knob until the button pops.” Drew tries. Nothing happens. Mommy remembers that it’s not a push-button lock. Mommy panics. Mommy slams the right side of her body into the door. Drew screams. Blair stares at mommy, clearly thinking, “Mommy, why don’t you just unscrew the doorknob?” Mommy feels silly. Mommy grabs the screwdriver and begins to unscrew the doorknob. Blair sits down on the floor next to mommy’s feet and begins to flip through a pile of photos she found on the nightstand next to mommy’s bed. She looks up and says, "Look at this one, mommy! It's me and you on the bike! Look mommy! It's Drew in her bumblebee costume." Mommy says, "Blair, please be quiet." Blair says, “Mommy! Here we are at Nana’s in the pool!” Mommy, finally, gets the doorknob unscrewed. When mommy pushes inside part of the knob through, Drew starts to scream louder, then picks up the knob and proceeds to push it back into the hole on the door. Mommy yells, “Noooooooooo!” Mommy pushes the knob through the door again. Drew ignores it. The door still will not open. Drew peers at Mommy though the doorknob hole. She is crying so hard that she’s no longer making sound. Blair says, "Look mommy! It's me and Drew on a carousel!" Mommy shouts, “Shuuuuuuuuut uuuuuuup!” Blair starts to cry, then runs to hide on the other side of the bed. Mommy knows she should feel bad, but doesn’t. Mommy shoves the screwdriver into the hole and jams it around until the locking mechanism breaks in half. Mommy opens the door. Drew crawls out as if she has just been released from a concentration camp. Blair calls mommy an “idiot.”
9:01--Mommy takes Drew and Blair to daycare. Mommy leaves them there.
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5:57:--Thad leaves for the airport. Thad is flying to Las Vegas for work. Thad will not be home until Friday night...after bedtime.
7:08--Drew wakes up, yelling, “Mommy, I need you.”
7:15--Blair wakes up, yelling, “Mommymommymommymommymommymommy,” as if she was in her bed, and mommy was on the top of the Empire State Building.
7:16--Mommy turns on Blue Clues.
7:17 to 8:43--Mommy makes breakfast (for 2-year-old Drew, a bowl of rainbow Cheerios; for 4-year-old Blair, half a pancake, three bites of mommy’s peanut-butter-toast, a fruit roll-up, chocolate milk, pink lemonade, and water in her “special snowman cup”); mommy dresses children; mommy writes out enormous check for daycare; mommy packs two lunches (for Drew, chicken nuggets; for Blair, as requested, Lipton cup-o-soup with extra-wide noodles, one white chocolate-covered-mini-pretzel, one brown chocolate-covered-mini pretzel, apple sauce in a cup with a red top, and apple juice “not watered down”).
8:44--Blair runs into the kitchen yelling, “Drew locked herself in the bathroom!” Mommy charges to the bathroom to find that Drew has, in fact, locked herself in the bathroom. Mommy sprints to find a skinny Philip’s head-screwdriver to push through the hole in the doorknob that’s used for unlocking doors in emergencies. The hole in the doorknob that’s used for unlocking doors in emergencies does not work. Drew starts to cry. Mommy whispers through the door, “Drew, honey, turn the knob. Turn the knob until the button pops.” Drew tries. Nothing happens. Mommy remembers that it’s not a push-button lock. Mommy panics. Mommy slams the right side of her body into the door. Drew screams. Blair stares at mommy, clearly thinking, “Mommy, why don’t you just unscrew the doorknob?” Mommy feels silly. Mommy grabs the screwdriver and begins to unscrew the doorknob. Blair sits down on the floor next to mommy’s feet and begins to flip through a pile of photos she found on the nightstand next to mommy’s bed. She looks up and says, "Look at this one, mommy! It's me and you on the bike! Look mommy! It's Drew in her bumblebee costume." Mommy says, "Blair, please be quiet." Blair says, “Mommy! Here we are at Nana’s in the pool!” Mommy, finally, gets the doorknob unscrewed. When mommy pushes inside part of the knob through, Drew starts to scream louder, then picks up the knob and proceeds to push it back into the hole on the door. Mommy yells, “Noooooooooo!” Mommy pushes the knob through the door again. Drew ignores it. The door still will not open. Drew peers at Mommy though the doorknob hole. She is crying so hard that she’s no longer making sound. Blair says, "Look mommy! It's me and Drew on a carousel!" Mommy shouts, “Shuuuuuuuuut uuuuuuup!” Blair starts to cry, then runs to hide on the other side of the bed. Mommy knows she should feel bad, but doesn’t. Mommy shoves the screwdriver into the hole and jams it around until the locking mechanism breaks in half. Mommy opens the door. Drew crawls out as if she has just been released from a concentration camp. Blair calls mommy an “idiot.”
9:01--Mommy takes Drew and Blair to daycare. Mommy leaves them there.
***A NOTE TO MY FAITHFUL SUBSCRIBERS: I have found that subscribing to a blog through the Networked Blogs option on Facebook pretty much stinks. (Since it doesn't alert you to when I've posted, I'm not sure what the point is. You?) I made it easier. On the upper right hand side of my blog page, you now have two options: 1. subscribe via e-mail (when I post, you'll get an e-mail) or, 2. subscribe via a reader, like Google or Bloglines or Yahoo or whatever you "do." I love you all.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Tao of Christmas Tree Decorating
In retrospect, I would have done three things differently:
1. Strung the lights the night before when the children were sleeping.
2. Had a very clear plan as to what the “Tree Decorating Teaching Moment” would be.
3. Said, “No way in hell,” when Thad asked if, in lieu of decorating, he could go to the gym.
And still, even without the benefit of hindsight, it seemed like such a good idea at the time: placing several three-foot high stools around the tree and stepping from one to the next while artfully arranging the lights at the top of the tree as my helper--4-year-old Blair--followed behind on the floor, carrying a nest of lights that was three times the size of her head.
“Can we hang up the ornaments?” she asked.
“After we finish the lights.”
Eleven seconds later:
“Can we hang up the ornaments?”
“After we finish the lights.”
That, of course, was a lie. Because after we finished the lights, we had to hang up the garland--a 10-foot long necklace of tiny silver balls--which wouldn’t have taken long, if 2-year-old Drew hadn’t secretly confiscated them for her first-ever attempt at jump rope. Under my breath, I cursed Thad and that gym. It took one-and-a-half episodes of Dora to untangle them.
“Can we hang up the ornaments?” Blair asked.
“Can hang hornmats?” Drew asked.
“Sure!” I yelled, loud with the joy of the season, gleeful with timeless beauty of this holiday scene--two loving little girls decorating the Christmas tree with their loving mother, who never anticipated what said tree would look like when decorated by people who are barely three-feet tall.
I found myself, yet again, at a maternal crossroad.
If I were the kind of mother who wanted to teach her children that there was no right and wrong when expressing oneself artistically, I would have simply let it be--six ornaments above waist-level, 67 below waist-level.
Unfortunately, I am not that mother.
If I were the kind of mother who wanted to teach her children that all good things come to those who wait, then, much like my friend Sally who waits for her kids to go to bed and then throws away all of their artwork, I would have waited until Modern Family was over before I reapplied and rearranged.
Unfortunately, I am not that mother, either.
I am this kind of mother: one who managed to convince herself later--after, in full view of the minors, I plucked some of the low-hanging ornaments and placed them in the higher branch zones, which led to two girls in tears, one biting me on my thigh, one time-out, and me, aloud, cursing Thad and that God-forsaken gym and all of it’s God-forsaken thin and toned patrons of avoidance behavior--that the best teaching moment of Christmas-tree-decorating was the art of properly decorating a Christmas tree. (In some cultures, this lesson might be translated, “You can’t always get what you want, unless you’re me.”)
I should, however, have thought this through beforehand. If I had, I’d surely have been gentler when passing on the wisdom. I’d clearly have avoided the shock, the fear, the residual trauma sparked by my spur-of-the-moment explanation: “Girls, it’s like this: If your ornaments aren’t evenly distributed on the tree, Santa won’t come.”
***A NOTE TO MY FAITHFUL SUBSCRIBERS: I have found that subscribing to a blog through the Networked Blogs option on Facebook pretty much stinks. (Since it doesn't alert you to when I've posted, I'm not sure what the point is. You?) I made it easier. On the upper right hand side of my blog page, you now have two options: 1. subscribe via e-mail (when I post, you'll get an e-mail) or, 2. subscribe via a reader, like Google or Bloglines or Yahoo or whatever you "do."
1. Strung the lights the night before when the children were sleeping.
2. Had a very clear plan as to what the “Tree Decorating Teaching Moment” would be.
3. Said, “No way in hell,” when Thad asked if, in lieu of decorating, he could go to the gym.
And still, even without the benefit of hindsight, it seemed like such a good idea at the time: placing several three-foot high stools around the tree and stepping from one to the next while artfully arranging the lights at the top of the tree as my helper--4-year-old Blair--followed behind on the floor, carrying a nest of lights that was three times the size of her head.
“Can we hang up the ornaments?” she asked.
“After we finish the lights.”
Eleven seconds later:
“Can we hang up the ornaments?”
“After we finish the lights.”
That, of course, was a lie. Because after we finished the lights, we had to hang up the garland--a 10-foot long necklace of tiny silver balls--which wouldn’t have taken long, if 2-year-old Drew hadn’t secretly confiscated them for her first-ever attempt at jump rope. Under my breath, I cursed Thad and that gym. It took one-and-a-half episodes of Dora to untangle them.
“Can we hang up the ornaments?” Blair asked.
“Can hang hornmats?” Drew asked.
“Sure!” I yelled, loud with the joy of the season, gleeful with timeless beauty of this holiday scene--two loving little girls decorating the Christmas tree with their loving mother, who never anticipated what said tree would look like when decorated by people who are barely three-feet tall.
I found myself, yet again, at a maternal crossroad.
If I were the kind of mother who wanted to teach her children that there was no right and wrong when expressing oneself artistically, I would have simply let it be--six ornaments above waist-level, 67 below waist-level.
Unfortunately, I am not that mother.
If I were the kind of mother who wanted to teach her children that all good things come to those who wait, then, much like my friend Sally who waits for her kids to go to bed and then throws away all of their artwork, I would have waited until Modern Family was over before I reapplied and rearranged.
Unfortunately, I am not that mother, either.
I am this kind of mother: one who managed to convince herself later--after, in full view of the minors, I plucked some of the low-hanging ornaments and placed them in the higher branch zones, which led to two girls in tears, one biting me on my thigh, one time-out, and me, aloud, cursing Thad and that God-forsaken gym and all of it’s God-forsaken thin and toned patrons of avoidance behavior--that the best teaching moment of Christmas-tree-decorating was the art of properly decorating a Christmas tree. (In some cultures, this lesson might be translated, “You can’t always get what you want, unless you’re me.”)
I should, however, have thought this through beforehand. If I had, I’d surely have been gentler when passing on the wisdom. I’d clearly have avoided the shock, the fear, the residual trauma sparked by my spur-of-the-moment explanation: “Girls, it’s like this: If your ornaments aren’t evenly distributed on the tree, Santa won’t come.”
***A NOTE TO MY FAITHFUL SUBSCRIBERS: I have found that subscribing to a blog through the Networked Blogs option on Facebook pretty much stinks. (Since it doesn't alert you to when I've posted, I'm not sure what the point is. You?) I made it easier. On the upper right hand side of my blog page, you now have two options: 1. subscribe via e-mail (when I post, you'll get an e-mail) or, 2. subscribe via a reader, like Google or Bloglines or Yahoo or whatever you "do."
Friday, November 6, 2009
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?
I thought I’d convinced myself--thanks to the recent swirl of requests from Facebook friends to vote for their various children in various cutest-child-on-earth contests (The cutest baby smile! The most-cutest-ever GAP kid!)--that I’d not stumbled into the Gosselin circle of hell for pimping my kids’ cuteness on a TV show. I mean, it wasn’t like they got paid. Or that I forced them to pretend they were trapped in a flying object.
All I did was write an article for Philadelphia Magazine. It was about Sprout, the new preschool channel for kids based in Philly that runs live shows and uses local kids in promotional spots. When the head of Sprout e-mailed to tell me he liked the story, I responded with a P.S.: “If you ever need any cute girls for promos, I have a couple.” As it turned out, they did.
The shoot? A promo for Thanksgiving to air during Thanksgiving week.
The instructions? “We'll be asking the girls about the Thanksgiving holiday and what they are thankful for.”
Sitting around the dinner table last Monday, I posed my first prep question: “What are you girls thankful for?”
“My little sister,” Blair said. A tear bubbled in the corner of my eye. My first thought: She is the sweetest four-year-old who ever walked. My second: Sprout will eat that shit up. But, then, Blair went on: “And my fork. I’m thankful for my fork. And my chicken. And my salt shaker. And my rug. And my door….”
“Drew,” I said. “What are you thankful for?”
“My poppy,” she said. Again: the bubbling mommy tear. Unfortunately, only three people on the planet could translate what Drew had just said, and they were sitting at this table. When she said it on national TV, the world would hear, “Ma poopy.”
Against my better judgment, I decided not to read aloud to them from Stanislavski's An Actor Prepares.
A few days later, the afternoon before the shoot, I called my mom. I was driving home from Marshalls, where I’d gone to look for shirts for the kids to wear on TV, since I wasn’t satisfied with the two shirts each I’d bought for them to wear on TV at Kohls the day before.
MOM: “Have you coached them on that they’re thankful for?”
ME: “I’m SO not doing that. I want them to say what they’re thankful for, not what we told them to say that they’re thankful for.”
MOM: “But what if that means Sprout doesn’t use them?”
ME: “Then, Sprout doesn’t use them.”
(Long pause.)
MOM: “I hope the shirts you bought are fall colors, at least.”
On the morning of the shoot, the girls and I left the house at 9:36, which meant we were already six minutes behind schedule. I was drinking my sixth cup of coffee. The girls were in their car seats—Blair wearing a Kelly-green shirt with an abstract apple design on the front, Drew in a purple shirt, which complimented the thin purple stripe in the abstract apple. Hanging on hangers, were an additional five shirts for each of them, two sweaters for Drew, and one for Blair. In a bag on the passenger seat--since the producer told us to bring any specific items the girls were thankful for--were their blankets (a.k.a. “cakeys”), a pair of drum sticks, and a ukulele with a hot pink pick.
I took inventory in my head. Outfits? Check. Things they are thankful for? Check. Factoids about the Thanksgiving holiday? Um….
Crap.
ME: (deperately) “Blair? Where do we eat Thanksgiving?”
BLAIR: “Turkey.”
ME: (more desperately) “No, where do we celebrate Thanksgiving?”
BLAIR: “After Halloween.”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
ME: (like a woman in need of lithium) “Who is coming to our house for Thanksgiving this year?”
BLAIR: “To our house?”
ME: “To our house.”
BLAIR: “Nana and Poppy, Grammy and Pappy, and Barack Obama.”
And, with that, suddenly, I transformed. Hearing that line--imagining Blair delivering that line...that most-honest, most-perfect, most-marketable line...on a Sprout Thanksgiving promo--extinguished my soul. Immediately, it was replaced by the spirits of the Holy Trinity of Vicarious Living--Dina Lohan, Kit Culkin, and Mama Rose Lee. (“Sing out, Blair! Sing OUT!”)
“Blair...tell me again...what are you thankful for?”
“My sister. My cakey. My thumb.”
“Brilliant! Say it again! Say it again!!!” I wondered how long it would be before she was cast in a major motion picture movie as the charming and wise-beyond-her-years daughter of Bob Saget. No, of Bradley Cooper. No...of Brad Pitt! “Who is coming to Thanksgiving dinner, Blair? Who? Again! AGAIN!”
We arrived at the shoot. There was a producer, a director, a camera-man, a grip. Blair and Drew were instructed to sit at a table that was covered in very-carefully placed craft items--crayons, construction paper, pipe cleaners, mini pom pom balls. In the middle was a little turkey, made by tracing a hand on a piece of paper and cutting it out. The director pointed at it: “That’s what you’ll be making, girls. You need to trace your hands.” And the camera started rolling.
Drew was far more interested in trying to consume the mini pom pom balls. Blair grabbed a purple crayon. She flattened her little hand on the paper. She traced. She proved to be a very serious tracer, unaware of the cameras, of the crew, of anything but what was right there in front of her.
“Look mommy!” she said, holding up her traced hand. “Look!”
“Perfect.” I said, seeing, too, what was right there in front of me. "Perfect!"
Only after the shoot was over, after we left, did I realized it: the girls weren’t asked to recite a single word.
All I did was write an article for Philadelphia Magazine. It was about Sprout, the new preschool channel for kids based in Philly that runs live shows and uses local kids in promotional spots. When the head of Sprout e-mailed to tell me he liked the story, I responded with a P.S.: “If you ever need any cute girls for promos, I have a couple.” As it turned out, they did.
The shoot? A promo for Thanksgiving to air during Thanksgiving week.
The instructions? “We'll be asking the girls about the Thanksgiving holiday and what they are thankful for.”
Sitting around the dinner table last Monday, I posed my first prep question: “What are you girls thankful for?”
“My little sister,” Blair said. A tear bubbled in the corner of my eye. My first thought: She is the sweetest four-year-old who ever walked. My second: Sprout will eat that shit up. But, then, Blair went on: “And my fork. I’m thankful for my fork. And my chicken. And my salt shaker. And my rug. And my door….”
“Drew,” I said. “What are you thankful for?”
“My poppy,” she said. Again: the bubbling mommy tear. Unfortunately, only three people on the planet could translate what Drew had just said, and they were sitting at this table. When she said it on national TV, the world would hear, “Ma poopy.”
Against my better judgment, I decided not to read aloud to them from Stanislavski's An Actor Prepares.
A few days later, the afternoon before the shoot, I called my mom. I was driving home from Marshalls, where I’d gone to look for shirts for the kids to wear on TV, since I wasn’t satisfied with the two shirts each I’d bought for them to wear on TV at Kohls the day before.
MOM: “Have you coached them on that they’re thankful for?”
ME: “I’m SO not doing that. I want them to say what they’re thankful for, not what we told them to say that they’re thankful for.”
MOM: “But what if that means Sprout doesn’t use them?”
ME: “Then, Sprout doesn’t use them.”
(Long pause.)
MOM: “I hope the shirts you bought are fall colors, at least.”
On the morning of the shoot, the girls and I left the house at 9:36, which meant we were already six minutes behind schedule. I was drinking my sixth cup of coffee. The girls were in their car seats—Blair wearing a Kelly-green shirt with an abstract apple design on the front, Drew in a purple shirt, which complimented the thin purple stripe in the abstract apple. Hanging on hangers, were an additional five shirts for each of them, two sweaters for Drew, and one for Blair. In a bag on the passenger seat--since the producer told us to bring any specific items the girls were thankful for--were their blankets (a.k.a. “cakeys”), a pair of drum sticks, and a ukulele with a hot pink pick.
I took inventory in my head. Outfits? Check. Things they are thankful for? Check. Factoids about the Thanksgiving holiday? Um….
Crap.
ME: (deperately) “Blair? Where do we eat Thanksgiving?”
BLAIR: “Turkey.”
ME: (more desperately) “No, where do we celebrate Thanksgiving?”
BLAIR: “After Halloween.”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
ME: (like a woman in need of lithium) “Who is coming to our house for Thanksgiving this year?”
BLAIR: “To our house?”
ME: “To our house.”
BLAIR: “Nana and Poppy, Grammy and Pappy, and Barack Obama.”
And, with that, suddenly, I transformed. Hearing that line--imagining Blair delivering that line...that most-honest, most-perfect, most-marketable line...on a Sprout Thanksgiving promo--extinguished my soul. Immediately, it was replaced by the spirits of the Holy Trinity of Vicarious Living--Dina Lohan, Kit Culkin, and Mama Rose Lee. (“Sing out, Blair! Sing OUT!”)
“Blair...tell me again...what are you thankful for?”
“My sister. My cakey. My thumb.”
“Brilliant! Say it again! Say it again!!!” I wondered how long it would be before she was cast in a major motion picture movie as the charming and wise-beyond-her-years daughter of Bob Saget. No, of Bradley Cooper. No...of Brad Pitt! “Who is coming to Thanksgiving dinner, Blair? Who? Again! AGAIN!”
We arrived at the shoot. There was a producer, a director, a camera-man, a grip. Blair and Drew were instructed to sit at a table that was covered in very-carefully placed craft items--crayons, construction paper, pipe cleaners, mini pom pom balls. In the middle was a little turkey, made by tracing a hand on a piece of paper and cutting it out. The director pointed at it: “That’s what you’ll be making, girls. You need to trace your hands.” And the camera started rolling.
Drew was far more interested in trying to consume the mini pom pom balls. Blair grabbed a purple crayon. She flattened her little hand on the paper. She traced. She proved to be a very serious tracer, unaware of the cameras, of the crew, of anything but what was right there in front of her.
“Look mommy!” she said, holding up her traced hand. “Look!”
“Perfect.” I said, seeing, too, what was right there in front of me. "Perfect!"
Only after the shoot was over, after we left, did I realized it: the girls weren’t asked to recite a single word.
Monday, October 12, 2009
She Talk Pretty One Day
When I pulled the note out of Blair’s folder at school, I decided that the future of human civilization was crumbling right before my very eyes.
Here is what it said:
“This is a reminder that all children must get there Flu Shot by the end of December.”
I tried to convince myself that it was merely an innocent typo. But then, I read on: “Please bring in there immunization records with proof of there flu shot.”
I knew that my gasp of horror (because I gasped in horror) was slightly unfair, for several reasons:
1. I am a writer. And, before that, I was an editor. And before that I was an English major. And before that, I took No-doze to properly cram for spelling tests. If I didn’t know the difference between “there” and “their,” I should be forced to parade through the Acme wearing nothing but pages ripped from Strunk and White. Or something.
2. Even spell-check can’t tell the difference. And spell-check is God.
3. I figured out “that” and “which” only last year, though I suspect that I use a rule--“which comes after a comma and that doesn’t”--that I made up.
4. I needed an ex-boyfriend--a college-drop-out, stoner, ex-boyfriend--to explain to me when to use “it’s” and when to use “its.” (“Think of the apostrophe as replacing the ‘i,’” he said. And I do that. Every time. For example: “It is hard being so smart and important” can contract into “It’s hard being so smart and important.”)
5. Words I write are typically copyedited. By professionals. So there will never, ever be proof. Like in a note. From a school.
But this was in a note! From a school! And not just any school--the school where my kids go daily! To be schooled! Okay, it’s technically a “learning center.” But we pay big bucks for the learning center’s learning. I may be able to look beyond some of the things Blair brings home, things that are wrong on far more complicated levels. (For example, “Firecracker, firecracker, boom boom boom! The boys got the muscles. The teachers got the brains. The girls got the sexy legs. And we won the game!”) But I can not sit idly by while my child (who, incidentally, can't yet read such notes) even breathes the air where such affronts to the English language are left unproofed and unfettered and unabashedly written on notes to the very parents who are writing the checks.
The larger question was this: what should I do about it? In fact, I was puzzling out this very issue--my best plan, so far, was to write a note about it to the owner, though unsigned, perhaps using letters cut out from magazines, in order to protect Blair and Drew from any “their mom is a total bitch from hell” retribution--when I got an e-mail from a friend. She was passing along a note that one of her friends had just received from a preschool teacher:
“E. has not been wanting to participate in Music--she removes herself and set out when she decided she is not like the song. M. follow her. I spoke to them early on--telling them this was not an option and that if it happened again not only would Mom’s be told be them would be remove from Music. So yesterday the teacher brought both of them to the class room where they laid their heads down until the class returned. E. also lost her job. In taking her job I'm hoping she understands her actions had consequences.”
And, with that, I suddenly felt better about everything--our learning center, “their vs. there,” the future of human civilization. Because, now, I knew one thing for certain: Thirteen years from now, Blair and Drew would totally kick E. and M.’s asses on the SAT.
Here is what it said:
“This is a reminder that all children must get there Flu Shot by the end of December.”
I tried to convince myself that it was merely an innocent typo. But then, I read on: “Please bring in there immunization records with proof of there flu shot.”
I knew that my gasp of horror (because I gasped in horror) was slightly unfair, for several reasons:
1. I am a writer. And, before that, I was an editor. And before that I was an English major. And before that, I took No-doze to properly cram for spelling tests. If I didn’t know the difference between “there” and “their,” I should be forced to parade through the Acme wearing nothing but pages ripped from Strunk and White. Or something.
2. Even spell-check can’t tell the difference. And spell-check is God.
3. I figured out “that” and “which” only last year, though I suspect that I use a rule--“which comes after a comma and that doesn’t”--that I made up.
4. I needed an ex-boyfriend--a college-drop-out, stoner, ex-boyfriend--to explain to me when to use “it’s” and when to use “its.” (“Think of the apostrophe as replacing the ‘i,’” he said. And I do that. Every time. For example: “It is hard being so smart and important” can contract into “It’s hard being so smart and important.”)
5. Words I write are typically copyedited. By professionals. So there will never, ever be proof. Like in a note. From a school.
But this was in a note! From a school! And not just any school--the school where my kids go daily! To be schooled! Okay, it’s technically a “learning center.” But we pay big bucks for the learning center’s learning. I may be able to look beyond some of the things Blair brings home, things that are wrong on far more complicated levels. (For example, “Firecracker, firecracker, boom boom boom! The boys got the muscles. The teachers got the brains. The girls got the sexy legs. And we won the game!”) But I can not sit idly by while my child (who, incidentally, can't yet read such notes) even breathes the air where such affronts to the English language are left unproofed and unfettered and unabashedly written on notes to the very parents who are writing the checks.
The larger question was this: what should I do about it? In fact, I was puzzling out this very issue--my best plan, so far, was to write a note about it to the owner, though unsigned, perhaps using letters cut out from magazines, in order to protect Blair and Drew from any “their mom is a total bitch from hell” retribution--when I got an e-mail from a friend. She was passing along a note that one of her friends had just received from a preschool teacher:
“E. has not been wanting to participate in Music--she removes herself and set out when she decided she is not like the song. M. follow her. I spoke to them early on--telling them this was not an option and that if it happened again not only would Mom’s be told be them would be remove from Music. So yesterday the teacher brought both of them to the class room where they laid their heads down until the class returned. E. also lost her job. In taking her job I'm hoping she understands her actions had consequences.”
And, with that, I suddenly felt better about everything--our learning center, “their vs. there,” the future of human civilization. Because, now, I knew one thing for certain: Thirteen years from now, Blair and Drew would totally kick E. and M.’s asses on the SAT.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
If You Must, Bite Your Sister
When I arrived at school to pick up the girls on Drew’s first day, the teacher immediately gave me the dreaded Teacher Look--a cross between “You’re lucky I didn’t kill your children today” and “You’re a bad mother.”
“Drew bit,” she said, her voice filled with such reproach, I fully expected her to complete the sentence with “...somebody’s nose off” or “...into a live electrical wire” or “...her tongue clean through...and here it is” as she handed me a bumpy, bloody napkin. But she did not. She simply let the words--“Drew bit”--hang in the air, like fart.
Drew, as if to prove she wasn’t entirely maladjusted, began to embrace me so tightly it felt like she and my leg were reenacting the kissing scene in The Notebook. I have never before witnessed her so happy to see me, and I might have appreciated it had I not been momentarily paralyzed by the words running through my mind: Please let her have bitten Blair. Please let her have bitten Blair. Please let her have bitten her big sister and not the little boy whose daddy is an attorney.
In this brave new world of parenting, I have discovered one inalienable truth: biting is bad. It is bad enough at home, where Drew does it quite a lot. But amongst the children of others, biting is worse than all other offenses: hitting, spitting, touching bathing-suit parts. It is the preschool-version of first degree-murder. And now, in just a single day, Drew had been cast as the two-year-old Hester Prynne of Tiny Treasures Learning Academy, emblazoned forever (or at least until she left for kindergarten) with a scarlet letter “B.” The Kid Who Bites. The Biter. The Bad One.
“Look Mommy,” Blair said, as she crossed the room, lifting up her dress to reveal her new Ariel big-girl panties and a circle of dark red tiny teeth marks. On her back. “Drew bited me.”
“Oh...you poor thing,” I said (though I was really thinking Thank God) as I leaned down and examined her wound. Drew hadn’t been messing around. Skin was broken. There would be a significant bruise. Blair looked up at me with her big blue eyes and shook her head in four-year-old disgust. I looked down at Drew who was still melding with my thigh.
“There is no biting, Drew. We don’t bite people,” I admonished, using the pronoun “we,” which has become my odd parenting habit. (“We don’t eat Doritos for breakfast.” “We don’t put My Little Pony in the toilet.”)
Drew looked up and me. Then at Blair. Then at me.
“But I bite Blair,” she said. And then she grinned, which made one teacher put her hand to her mouth in alarm. I didn’t wait around to see her reaction to what Drew did next.
Because, next, Drew growled. Like a dog. An angry dog. And then--as if she hadn’t quite made her point--she pretended, with her teeth, that she was yanking beef off of a bone.
“Drew bit,” she said, her voice filled with such reproach, I fully expected her to complete the sentence with “...somebody’s nose off” or “...into a live electrical wire” or “...her tongue clean through...and here it is” as she handed me a bumpy, bloody napkin. But she did not. She simply let the words--“Drew bit”--hang in the air, like fart.
Drew, as if to prove she wasn’t entirely maladjusted, began to embrace me so tightly it felt like she and my leg were reenacting the kissing scene in The Notebook. I have never before witnessed her so happy to see me, and I might have appreciated it had I not been momentarily paralyzed by the words running through my mind: Please let her have bitten Blair. Please let her have bitten Blair. Please let her have bitten her big sister and not the little boy whose daddy is an attorney.
In this brave new world of parenting, I have discovered one inalienable truth: biting is bad. It is bad enough at home, where Drew does it quite a lot. But amongst the children of others, biting is worse than all other offenses: hitting, spitting, touching bathing-suit parts. It is the preschool-version of first degree-murder. And now, in just a single day, Drew had been cast as the two-year-old Hester Prynne of Tiny Treasures Learning Academy, emblazoned forever (or at least until she left for kindergarten) with a scarlet letter “B.” The Kid Who Bites. The Biter. The Bad One.
“Look Mommy,” Blair said, as she crossed the room, lifting up her dress to reveal her new Ariel big-girl panties and a circle of dark red tiny teeth marks. On her back. “Drew bited me.”
“Oh...you poor thing,” I said (though I was really thinking Thank God) as I leaned down and examined her wound. Drew hadn’t been messing around. Skin was broken. There would be a significant bruise. Blair looked up at me with her big blue eyes and shook her head in four-year-old disgust. I looked down at Drew who was still melding with my thigh.
“There is no biting, Drew. We don’t bite people,” I admonished, using the pronoun “we,” which has become my odd parenting habit. (“We don’t eat Doritos for breakfast.” “We don’t put My Little Pony in the toilet.”)
Drew looked up and me. Then at Blair. Then at me.
“But I bite Blair,” she said. And then she grinned, which made one teacher put her hand to her mouth in alarm. I didn’t wait around to see her reaction to what Drew did next.
Because, next, Drew growled. Like a dog. An angry dog. And then--as if she hadn’t quite made her point--she pretended, with her teeth, that she was yanking beef off of a bone.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Mommy Goes to The Dark Place
It seemed like such a good idea, going to a real Italian restaurant in South Philly where the waiters and waitresses sing opera. Our 17-year-old niece was in town, and we wanted to take her some place Philly-y. We'd already done the Pats/Genos cheesesteak stand-off for lunch, plus pasta was the one foodstuff that both Blair and Drew actually ate (provided it had no sauce, no spices, and nothing "slippery" on it, like butter). Victor's Cafe had pasta. And entertainment. And white tablecloths. And wine. Lots of wine.
I thought it was very wise of the hostess to seat us in a corner, as if she knew what I knew: that my 4- and 2-year old, upon hearing music of any kind, were accustomed to singing along. And making up their own words. And occasionally shaking their butts a little. But wasn't this what it meant to be good parents? To expose our offspring (including our niece from the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania) to the world? To fine dining, and culture, and cloth napkins? To make sure they knew that there was more to music than "Big Red Car"?
When the girls first heard the bell ring--the signal that someone was about to sing--they got so wiggly and bubbly I thought they they might knock over their Shirley Temples. Throughout the entire aria, they stared at the waitress singing, completely still and quiet, totally awed but the very fact of it all. When the waitress hit the ridiculous high note at the end, Blair turned to her cousin and made a face that I can only describe as, "Holy Jesus!" I was proud.
And then he came in.
I thought it was very unwise of the hostess, in a room filled with empty tables (besides one four-top of gray-haired ladies who were exchanging gifts) to seat The Man, his wife, and their two friends next to us. But they seemed grandparent-y enough. They were my parents' age--in their late-60s. Or, at least, he was. They saw us there. They knew what they were getting into.
But, the next time the bell rang (and our meals had still not arrived), Drew was growing a little tired of her crayons (which I'd brought), and her Shirley Temple (which she'd spilled half of), and her bread (which I was feeding to her like it was Valium). She started whining.
The first time during the song that The Man turned around and gave Drew the stink eye, I ignored it. I decided he was looking over to see the sweet sisters dressed in sweet twin sundresses, inspired by the wonder that is a child experiencing something for the first time.
The second stink eye pissed me off. Granted, Drew was now fake-crying and trying to climb onto me, but not very loud. I knew she'd calm down in a second, once the food came. She leaned into me and started talking. I shushed her. She wouldn't be shushed. Finally, I translated what she was saying to me: "I want sing, mommy! I want sing!" Unfortunately, at the exact same time she was saying this, the man was stink eye-ing her, straight on, while simultaneously shaking his head. I should have controlled myself. I did not.
"Stop shaking your head," I whispered to him. The Man turned and looked at me as if he just discovered I was topless.
"Why don't you take your kid for a walk?" he whispered back, spitting on Drew a little.
"Why don't you go f@*k yourself?"
[Note: When I relayed this story to my friend April the next day, she said, "Boy, you went there fast." She was right. I knew it even then, at that moment, as the words were coming out of my mouth. But, no matter how many times in the days after The Opera Incident that I come up with comebacks that were far more eloquent and biting (i.e. "I brought my kids here to learn about opera but it seems they're learning much more about crotchety old men"), the words were already coming out of my mouth.]
"Wha..." the man said, his mouth literally hanging open, looking around the room, as if he was trying to find someone who had heard me so he would have a witness. There was no witness. "You are such a lady," he said. The first thing I thought? This is the first time in my life anyone's ever called me a lady.
After the song, as he was regaling his dining companions with the play-by-play (which ellicited at least one, "No she didn't!"), I turned back to him and said: "I'm sure the hostess would be more than happy to move you to another table."
"You can go to hell," he said.
Thad (finally) piped in: "Sir, our daughter's only two."
Man: "Exactly!"
Me: "Are you saying that we've done a bad thing by bringing our children here to hear opera arias?"
Man: "You really are quite lovely."
Me (in my head): "Don't make me have to kill you...you son-of-a-bitch, bastard, poopy-diaper, jerk-man."
And that was the end of it. The Man stomped to the hostess, she moved them to a completely different room, and I sat there for the rest of the meal, dazed. What was wrong with me? Why was I so angry? How did I accelerated so quickly from "zero" to "homicidal?" What kind of lesson did that teach my girls?
One of the women from the table across the room started walking towards our table. She was older than The Poopy-Diaper Man. She was wearing a pink shirt. And she was clearly prepping to say something to us, probably about the fact that Blair was moaning, loudly, about how she wanted Drew's pasta (which was exactly the same pasta she had). I steadied myself. I would not attack her. I would not scratch her in any way. In fact, I would not say anything at all. I would just nod. And smile. Pleasant and neutral,Vicki. Be pleasant and neutral.
"I have to tell you," pink-shirt lady said, "your girls are so well behaved. They're just delightful."
I should have felt vindicated. Instead, I immediately formed a fantasy in my brain, in which I picked up my plate, walked into the next room, located The Poopy-Diaper Man, and poured the remains of my Linguini with Clam Sauce on his lap while simultaneously giving him the finger.
I thought it was very wise of the hostess to seat us in a corner, as if she knew what I knew: that my 4- and 2-year old, upon hearing music of any kind, were accustomed to singing along. And making up their own words. And occasionally shaking their butts a little. But wasn't this what it meant to be good parents? To expose our offspring (including our niece from the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania) to the world? To fine dining, and culture, and cloth napkins? To make sure they knew that there was more to music than "Big Red Car"?
When the girls first heard the bell ring--the signal that someone was about to sing--they got so wiggly and bubbly I thought they they might knock over their Shirley Temples. Throughout the entire aria, they stared at the waitress singing, completely still and quiet, totally awed but the very fact of it all. When the waitress hit the ridiculous high note at the end, Blair turned to her cousin and made a face that I can only describe as, "Holy Jesus!" I was proud.
And then he came in.
I thought it was very unwise of the hostess, in a room filled with empty tables (besides one four-top of gray-haired ladies who were exchanging gifts) to seat The Man, his wife, and their two friends next to us. But they seemed grandparent-y enough. They were my parents' age--in their late-60s. Or, at least, he was. They saw us there. They knew what they were getting into.
But, the next time the bell rang (and our meals had still not arrived), Drew was growing a little tired of her crayons (which I'd brought), and her Shirley Temple (which she'd spilled half of), and her bread (which I was feeding to her like it was Valium). She started whining.
The first time during the song that The Man turned around and gave Drew the stink eye, I ignored it. I decided he was looking over to see the sweet sisters dressed in sweet twin sundresses, inspired by the wonder that is a child experiencing something for the first time.
The second stink eye pissed me off. Granted, Drew was now fake-crying and trying to climb onto me, but not very loud. I knew she'd calm down in a second, once the food came. She leaned into me and started talking. I shushed her. She wouldn't be shushed. Finally, I translated what she was saying to me: "I want sing, mommy! I want sing!" Unfortunately, at the exact same time she was saying this, the man was stink eye-ing her, straight on, while simultaneously shaking his head. I should have controlled myself. I did not.
"Stop shaking your head," I whispered to him. The Man turned and looked at me as if he just discovered I was topless.
"Why don't you take your kid for a walk?" he whispered back, spitting on Drew a little.
"Why don't you go f@*k yourself?"
[Note: When I relayed this story to my friend April the next day, she said, "Boy, you went there fast." She was right. I knew it even then, at that moment, as the words were coming out of my mouth. But, no matter how many times in the days after The Opera Incident that I come up with comebacks that were far more eloquent and biting (i.e. "I brought my kids here to learn about opera but it seems they're learning much more about crotchety old men"), the words were already coming out of my mouth.]
"Wha..." the man said, his mouth literally hanging open, looking around the room, as if he was trying to find someone who had heard me so he would have a witness. There was no witness. "You are such a lady," he said. The first thing I thought? This is the first time in my life anyone's ever called me a lady.
After the song, as he was regaling his dining companions with the play-by-play (which ellicited at least one, "No she didn't!"), I turned back to him and said: "I'm sure the hostess would be more than happy to move you to another table."
"You can go to hell," he said.
Thad (finally) piped in: "Sir, our daughter's only two."
Man: "Exactly!"
Me: "Are you saying that we've done a bad thing by bringing our children here to hear opera arias?"
Man: "You really are quite lovely."
Me (in my head): "Don't make me have to kill you...you son-of-a-bitch, bastard, poopy-diaper, jerk-man."
And that was the end of it. The Man stomped to the hostess, she moved them to a completely different room, and I sat there for the rest of the meal, dazed. What was wrong with me? Why was I so angry? How did I accelerated so quickly from "zero" to "homicidal?" What kind of lesson did that teach my girls?
One of the women from the table across the room started walking towards our table. She was older than The Poopy-Diaper Man. She was wearing a pink shirt. And she was clearly prepping to say something to us, probably about the fact that Blair was moaning, loudly, about how she wanted Drew's pasta (which was exactly the same pasta she had). I steadied myself. I would not attack her. I would not scratch her in any way. In fact, I would not say anything at all. I would just nod. And smile. Pleasant and neutral,Vicki. Be pleasant and neutral.
"I have to tell you," pink-shirt lady said, "your girls are so well behaved. They're just delightful."
I should have felt vindicated. Instead, I immediately formed a fantasy in my brain, in which I picked up my plate, walked into the next room, located The Poopy-Diaper Man, and poured the remains of my Linguini with Clam Sauce on his lap while simultaneously giving him the finger.
Monday, August 17, 2009
When It Comes to Having Babies, People Lie
You know what's extrasuperfabulously cool about Laurie Puhn's website for parents-to-be, expectingwords.com? That it's for BOTH dads-to-be AND moms-to-be. (Because, contrary to popular belief--translated: the millions of new MOM sites out there--we are in this together. Right? Right????)
Laurie asked me to post a guest blog today, which you can check out on her site, or right here:
The Top Five Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me BEFORE the Baby Came
1. Embrace your maternity clothes
Six weeks in with new baby, I decided to go out in public officially to a Baby and Me meeting at the hospital where I delivered. I pulled out a pair of shorts, previously known as my "fat shorts." I couldn't squeeze one thigh into them (then proceeded to blame my husband for drying them all the way in the dryer). I tried a skirt with a drawstring waist--no go over my hips. I tried a beach cover-up--nursing boobs too big. After trying on just about ever item of clothing I owned, which left my bedroom looking like it used to the night before a high school mixer, I opened the drawer with the maternity clothes. I wore those clothes for the following six months. SIX months. My mother reprimanded me for complaining: "You know why your body is beluga whale-ish." Yes. I knew why. I wouldn't have traded that baby for anything. But, two months in, when you're still hoisting in your gut with eight-inch-wide elastic bands, it can feel like the end of the world.
2. Babies cry
Like, a lot. You will try everything—feeding, sleeping, finger-sucking, binkies, bouncing, rocking, baby-wearing, placing car seats on the dryer. And, sometimes, nothing will work. And you will feel like something is wrong with you, because parents are supposed to be able to calm their babies, to stop them from crying. Well—there is nothing wrong with you.
3. You will want to kill you husband
Here is something I learned last year, when my older daughter was three: studies show that the first year with new baby is the hardest on a marriage. Well, that would have been a helpful bit of intel. Because I thought there was no place to go but divorce, what with me needing him to help more, and him not knowing what I wanted him to do because I didn't know what to do myself, and me listening to him sleep while I nursed half the night away every single night for almost a year, and him thinking it was still okay to go to the gym after work everyday. I threatened to leave him. Literally. Packed bags and everything. (I never intended to go. Just wanted to get the point across.) I'm certain we would have been easier on each other had we known this.
4. All the time, people will say to you, "Call if you need anything." Call them.
Repeat this to yourself: "asking for help is not a weakness, asking for help doesn't somehow prove you're a bad mother, asking for help may actually get you a home-cooked meal, brought to your door by a neighbor, who will hold the baby while you eat it." This is good.
5. You are not alone
You will wonder if you might be the only person on the planet who doesn't have the parental gene. You will watch other parents and you will think, "Why do they have it together, and why am I sucking?" Here's the secret: all new parents are freaking out. This is the biggest-ever transition in your life—yesterday? No baby. Today? Baby. It's big for everyone. If they say they aren't freaking out...not even a little...they're lying.
Laurie asked me to post a guest blog today, which you can check out on her site, or right here:
The Top Five Things I Wish Someone Had Told Me BEFORE the Baby Came
1. Embrace your maternity clothes
Six weeks in with new baby, I decided to go out in public officially to a Baby and Me meeting at the hospital where I delivered. I pulled out a pair of shorts, previously known as my "fat shorts." I couldn't squeeze one thigh into them (then proceeded to blame my husband for drying them all the way in the dryer). I tried a skirt with a drawstring waist--no go over my hips. I tried a beach cover-up--nursing boobs too big. After trying on just about ever item of clothing I owned, which left my bedroom looking like it used to the night before a high school mixer, I opened the drawer with the maternity clothes. I wore those clothes for the following six months. SIX months. My mother reprimanded me for complaining: "You know why your body is beluga whale-ish." Yes. I knew why. I wouldn't have traded that baby for anything. But, two months in, when you're still hoisting in your gut with eight-inch-wide elastic bands, it can feel like the end of the world.
2. Babies cry
Like, a lot. You will try everything—feeding, sleeping, finger-sucking, binkies, bouncing, rocking, baby-wearing, placing car seats on the dryer. And, sometimes, nothing will work. And you will feel like something is wrong with you, because parents are supposed to be able to calm their babies, to stop them from crying. Well—there is nothing wrong with you.
3. You will want to kill you husband
Here is something I learned last year, when my older daughter was three: studies show that the first year with new baby is the hardest on a marriage. Well, that would have been a helpful bit of intel. Because I thought there was no place to go but divorce, what with me needing him to help more, and him not knowing what I wanted him to do because I didn't know what to do myself, and me listening to him sleep while I nursed half the night away every single night for almost a year, and him thinking it was still okay to go to the gym after work everyday. I threatened to leave him. Literally. Packed bags and everything. (I never intended to go. Just wanted to get the point across.) I'm certain we would have been easier on each other had we known this.
4. All the time, people will say to you, "Call if you need anything." Call them.
Repeat this to yourself: "asking for help is not a weakness, asking for help doesn't somehow prove you're a bad mother, asking for help may actually get you a home-cooked meal, brought to your door by a neighbor, who will hold the baby while you eat it." This is good.
5. You are not alone
You will wonder if you might be the only person on the planet who doesn't have the parental gene. You will watch other parents and you will think, "Why do they have it together, and why am I sucking?" Here's the secret: all new parents are freaking out. This is the biggest-ever transition in your life—yesterday? No baby. Today? Baby. It's big for everyone. If they say they aren't freaking out...not even a little...they're lying.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Other Uses for Everyday Household Items
It woke me up at 2:30 in the morning two Saturdays ago. I shot up in bed, tears instantly spilling out of my eyes, and stared down at my right shoulder where a sudden, burning, debilitating pain emanated out of some deep dark place. In the core of it. Or the heart. Or something. I half-expected to see a spear pierced thought it. Or a hot curling iron. Or Eric from True Blood biting me, which would be…you know…the good kind of hot.
It was not Eric.
It was, however, like no sensation I’d ever felt before (and I’d had two babies naturally…though…um…not by choice). It was constant. It was angry. And, no matter how I moved, or didn’t move, it would not subside. I woke up husband Thad. (I’m a firm believer that, if I can’t sleep from agonizing shoulder pain, no one should sleep).
Thad fed me Advil. It didn’t work. He massaged my shoulder. It didn’t work. He grabbed the laptop and began diagnosing me from Web MD—a pinched nerve, we decided.
The next morning, pre-coffee, I’d speed to the chiropractor. And he’d tell me that I was too stressed. That I’d finally pushed it over the edge. That the stress had no place left to go but into my shoulder and lodge there, like a tick. Or, maybe, eventually, shoot down my right arm. Maybe make my hand numb. And limp. And useless. The chiropractor would give me a neck brace to wear, which would elicit much sympathy from Thad, my mother, and the four houseguests from France who were arriving that afternoon. (Because of course you have houseguests from a foreign country coming the day you get a pinched nerve in your shoulder and have a freaking lasagna to make, else everyone will starve and you’ll never get invited on a reciprocal visit, which you already planned on taking advantage of in the spring, without kids…and maybe, just maybe, with husband.)
But, at 2:30 in the morning, that appointment was still many hours away.
I spent the night lying on my stomach in bed, wide awake and crying in that sobby way you see in war movies and think “no one really cries like that," with a heating pad duct-taped around my shoulder and--because where I really needed to be was on a massage table--my head, face-down, in the hole of my daughter’s Dora the Explorer potty seat.
It was not Eric.
It was, however, like no sensation I’d ever felt before (and I’d had two babies naturally…though…um…not by choice). It was constant. It was angry. And, no matter how I moved, or didn’t move, it would not subside. I woke up husband Thad. (I’m a firm believer that, if I can’t sleep from agonizing shoulder pain, no one should sleep).
Thad fed me Advil. It didn’t work. He massaged my shoulder. It didn’t work. He grabbed the laptop and began diagnosing me from Web MD—a pinched nerve, we decided.
The next morning, pre-coffee, I’d speed to the chiropractor. And he’d tell me that I was too stressed. That I’d finally pushed it over the edge. That the stress had no place left to go but into my shoulder and lodge there, like a tick. Or, maybe, eventually, shoot down my right arm. Maybe make my hand numb. And limp. And useless. The chiropractor would give me a neck brace to wear, which would elicit much sympathy from Thad, my mother, and the four houseguests from France who were arriving that afternoon. (Because of course you have houseguests from a foreign country coming the day you get a pinched nerve in your shoulder and have a freaking lasagna to make, else everyone will starve and you’ll never get invited on a reciprocal visit, which you already planned on taking advantage of in the spring, without kids…and maybe, just maybe, with husband.)
But, at 2:30 in the morning, that appointment was still many hours away.
I spent the night lying on my stomach in bed, wide awake and crying in that sobby way you see in war movies and think “no one really cries like that," with a heating pad duct-taped around my shoulder and--because where I really needed to be was on a massage table--my head, face-down, in the hole of my daughter’s Dora the Explorer potty seat.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wouldn't You Like To Be A Pooper, Too?
Thad and four-year-old Blair traipsed around in the twilight two nights ago, catching fireflies in a mason jar.
It was very cute.
It was so cute, in fact, that I decided not to be a firefly-party-pooper and point out that the breathing holes Thad had hammered through the metal cap on the jar seemed rather large.
It was a huge accomplishment for me to restrain from being a firefly-party-pooper since, when it comes to Thad’s initiatives with the kids, I am often a pooper—a chocolate-chips-for-breakfast-pooper, or another-new-outfit-from-Target-pooper, a teach-them-all-the-lyrics-to-For-Those-About-To-Rock-We-Salute-You-pooper. Don’t be a pooper, I said to myself, as Thad and Blair and I sat on her bed, in the dark, and watched the 10 fireflies they caught light up their little firefly butts. Blair wanted to sleep with the firefly jar. We compromised by setting it on her dresser.
“You two were sweet to put the blades of grass in there,” I said, noticing that there were some really tiny fireflies in that jar. Like, really tiny. And thin. And agile. Likely a special species of contortionist fireflies that can wiggle through small spaces in the dark of night. Don’t be a pooper.
Of course, the next morning, Thad had already left for work when Blair started yelling. Screaming. Like she was under attack. I ran down the hall, burst through the door into her room, and found her with her head under her rainbow kitty pillow. I was not surprised to see the firefly on her ceiling, the firefly on her wall, and the firefly clutching to the inside of the pink canopy netting surrounding her bed. There were three fireflies still in the jar.
This left four fireflies unaccounted for. I immediately felt itchy.
“Get them, mommy,” Blair said. “Get them!” She wasn’t afraid, she explained. She was simply concerned that they’d been separated from their firefly mommy who, she said, was still in the firefly jar. I, on the other hand, was very much afraid. I did not want to touch them. But, in this new anti-pooper phase of motherhood I'd entered, I didn’t want Blair to know I didn’t want to touch them. I wanted her to see that I thought fireflies roaming free in our home was the coolest thing since teaching her how to hold down her middle and ring finger with her thumb and shout, "Rock on!"
Which became less convincing when the firefly on the wall took off and buzzed by my head, causing me to squeal and flail and clap my hands over my ears to, presumably, protect my brain from being invaded.
“What’s wrong mommy?” Blair asked.
Your father made the holes too big and now there are bugs loose in the house, hiding in corners, waiting to attack us because they are SO pissed that they had to spend the night in a glass jar with a blade of grass and they’re probably going to summon all their firefly friends to suicide-bomb the screen door so we’ll never be able to leave the house again, ever!
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” I said instead, as calm and non-pooperly as I could. “Nothing at all.”
It was very cute.
It was so cute, in fact, that I decided not to be a firefly-party-pooper and point out that the breathing holes Thad had hammered through the metal cap on the jar seemed rather large.
It was a huge accomplishment for me to restrain from being a firefly-party-pooper since, when it comes to Thad’s initiatives with the kids, I am often a pooper—a chocolate-chips-for-breakfast-pooper, or another-new-outfit-from-Target-pooper, a teach-them-all-the-lyrics-to-For-Those-About-To-Rock-We-Salute-You-pooper. Don’t be a pooper, I said to myself, as Thad and Blair and I sat on her bed, in the dark, and watched the 10 fireflies they caught light up their little firefly butts. Blair wanted to sleep with the firefly jar. We compromised by setting it on her dresser.
“You two were sweet to put the blades of grass in there,” I said, noticing that there were some really tiny fireflies in that jar. Like, really tiny. And thin. And agile. Likely a special species of contortionist fireflies that can wiggle through small spaces in the dark of night. Don’t be a pooper.
Of course, the next morning, Thad had already left for work when Blair started yelling. Screaming. Like she was under attack. I ran down the hall, burst through the door into her room, and found her with her head under her rainbow kitty pillow. I was not surprised to see the firefly on her ceiling, the firefly on her wall, and the firefly clutching to the inside of the pink canopy netting surrounding her bed. There were three fireflies still in the jar.
This left four fireflies unaccounted for. I immediately felt itchy.
“Get them, mommy,” Blair said. “Get them!” She wasn’t afraid, she explained. She was simply concerned that they’d been separated from their firefly mommy who, she said, was still in the firefly jar. I, on the other hand, was very much afraid. I did not want to touch them. But, in this new anti-pooper phase of motherhood I'd entered, I didn’t want Blair to know I didn’t want to touch them. I wanted her to see that I thought fireflies roaming free in our home was the coolest thing since teaching her how to hold down her middle and ring finger with her thumb and shout, "Rock on!"
Which became less convincing when the firefly on the wall took off and buzzed by my head, causing me to squeal and flail and clap my hands over my ears to, presumably, protect my brain from being invaded.
“What’s wrong mommy?” Blair asked.
Your father made the holes too big and now there are bugs loose in the house, hiding in corners, waiting to attack us because they are SO pissed that they had to spend the night in a glass jar with a blade of grass and they’re probably going to summon all their firefly friends to suicide-bomb the screen door so we’ll never be able to leave the house again, ever!
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” I said instead, as calm and non-pooperly as I could. “Nothing at all.”
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Just Throw Me In Front Of A Train
This is what my mother’s been telling be lately, as she and my dad juggle a slightly-demented uncle in a nursing home, his spunky wife in assisted living who insists on going home and, now, my grandmother—my dad’s mom--92, suffering from congestive heart failure and recovering from intestinal surgery at a nursing home, sharing her room with a women who has been on a feeding tube for 17 years and yells out, periodically, “Help me!”
“Just throw me in front of a train,” my mother says.
“Right,” I say.
“I mean it,” she says. “Really.”
I flew to my hometown, Erie, PA, last weekend to see my grandmother. It was a last-minute trip, after several updates from my dad that made it sound like there wasn’t much time. My grandmother wasn’t eating. I knew what that meant, only because we’d gone through this whole thing last spring, with my mom’s mom. Her Hospice nurse explained the eating thing early on—before my mom’s mom left the retirement home she’d lived in for decades, before she moved into the nursing home with all of her clothes marked with her name and her cassettes of the music she’d taped off of the oldies station and a bulletin board filled with photos of all of her 13 grandchildren. It was before she moved from that place after barely two months, and went to the Hospice house where, two weeks later, she died. The Hospice nurse told us that not eating is a sign.
When I got to the nursing home in Erie, my grandmother was sleeping with her mouth hanging open, an oxygen tube in her nose attached to a machine that hummed so loud it sounded like it might just up and take off. She looked better than I thought she would look. She had color. Her hair was done.
My cousin Melanie was there, sitting in the Lazy Boy beside our grandmother’s bed. She and her family had flown in from Texas. Melanie immediately began to describe, in detail, what my grandmother had eaten for lunch: a few bites of her applesauce, some of the pork chop, a whole glass of the Boost nutrition drink that she loves.
“They forgot to bring her the Boost at first,” Melanie said. “So I told her I’d only ask for it after she ate two more bites of her pork chop.”
“Smart,” I said.
I felt sad for both of them—my grandmother having her granddaughter cajole her into eating as if she were one of Melanie’s kids, and Melanie believing that, if she could just get Grandma to eat, everything would be fine. The surgery scar would heal. The swelling in her legs would go down. She would get better.
I vowed, when I stopped by to see Grandma the next day, I wouldn’t do this, I wouldn’t coax her to eat, I would let it be what it was. Whatever it was. A sign. Or not a sign. Here was what I knew for sure: A 92-year old woman could decide for herself if she wanted to eat. Out of nowhere, my grandmother’s roommate shouted: “Help me! Help me!” I wondered what she meant. I wondered what “help” was in a place like this. Did she want the food in that IV of hers? Or was she wishing she’d told her daughter what my mother’s been telling me? I wondered if, maybe, I didn’t want my grandmother to force herself to eat anything at all, but just let this life of hers run its course. Let it go.
She slept almost all of the three hours I was there, and I found myself sticking around because dinner was going to be served. She shouldn’t eat alone, I thought to myself. That’s why you’re staying. And then, the sweet nurse who’d earlier brought be a pack of Lorna Dunes, brought my grandmother’s tray. A potato pancake. Cottage Cheese. Canned pineapple.
“Grandma, why don’t you sit up a little, so you’re closer to the tray,” I said.
“Okay, honey,” she said, as I pressed the button on her bed that raised up her torso.
“What do you think of this?” I asked her, pointing to the tray.
“Looks good.”
“It does?”
“Yeah, honey.” She reached for the Boost. I watched her. I watched hands all gnarled with arthritis wrap themselves around the little plastic cup. I watched her twist her hips a little to alleviate that constant pain in her back. I watched her eyes almost start to doze off again, right in the middle of a sip. I knew what I should do. I knew what I wanted to do. But I was too selfish.
“Grandma,” I said, picking up the fork, “how about you take at least three bites of that cottage cheese.”
“Just throw me in front of a train,” my mother says.
“Right,” I say.
“I mean it,” she says. “Really.”
I flew to my hometown, Erie, PA, last weekend to see my grandmother. It was a last-minute trip, after several updates from my dad that made it sound like there wasn’t much time. My grandmother wasn’t eating. I knew what that meant, only because we’d gone through this whole thing last spring, with my mom’s mom. Her Hospice nurse explained the eating thing early on—before my mom’s mom left the retirement home she’d lived in for decades, before she moved into the nursing home with all of her clothes marked with her name and her cassettes of the music she’d taped off of the oldies station and a bulletin board filled with photos of all of her 13 grandchildren. It was before she moved from that place after barely two months, and went to the Hospice house where, two weeks later, she died. The Hospice nurse told us that not eating is a sign.
When I got to the nursing home in Erie, my grandmother was sleeping with her mouth hanging open, an oxygen tube in her nose attached to a machine that hummed so loud it sounded like it might just up and take off. She looked better than I thought she would look. She had color. Her hair was done.
My cousin Melanie was there, sitting in the Lazy Boy beside our grandmother’s bed. She and her family had flown in from Texas. Melanie immediately began to describe, in detail, what my grandmother had eaten for lunch: a few bites of her applesauce, some of the pork chop, a whole glass of the Boost nutrition drink that she loves.
“They forgot to bring her the Boost at first,” Melanie said. “So I told her I’d only ask for it after she ate two more bites of her pork chop.”
“Smart,” I said.
I felt sad for both of them—my grandmother having her granddaughter cajole her into eating as if she were one of Melanie’s kids, and Melanie believing that, if she could just get Grandma to eat, everything would be fine. The surgery scar would heal. The swelling in her legs would go down. She would get better.
I vowed, when I stopped by to see Grandma the next day, I wouldn’t do this, I wouldn’t coax her to eat, I would let it be what it was. Whatever it was. A sign. Or not a sign. Here was what I knew for sure: A 92-year old woman could decide for herself if she wanted to eat. Out of nowhere, my grandmother’s roommate shouted: “Help me! Help me!” I wondered what she meant. I wondered what “help” was in a place like this. Did she want the food in that IV of hers? Or was she wishing she’d told her daughter what my mother’s been telling me? I wondered if, maybe, I didn’t want my grandmother to force herself to eat anything at all, but just let this life of hers run its course. Let it go.
She slept almost all of the three hours I was there, and I found myself sticking around because dinner was going to be served. She shouldn’t eat alone, I thought to myself. That’s why you’re staying. And then, the sweet nurse who’d earlier brought be a pack of Lorna Dunes, brought my grandmother’s tray. A potato pancake. Cottage Cheese. Canned pineapple.
“Grandma, why don’t you sit up a little, so you’re closer to the tray,” I said.
“Okay, honey,” she said, as I pressed the button on her bed that raised up her torso.
“What do you think of this?” I asked her, pointing to the tray.
“Looks good.”
“It does?”
“Yeah, honey.” She reached for the Boost. I watched her. I watched hands all gnarled with arthritis wrap themselves around the little plastic cup. I watched her twist her hips a little to alleviate that constant pain in her back. I watched her eyes almost start to doze off again, right in the middle of a sip. I knew what I should do. I knew what I wanted to do. But I was too selfish.
“Grandma,” I said, picking up the fork, “how about you take at least three bites of that cottage cheese.”
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
We Are Unclean
There are ants in my kitchen--twenty or so of them. No matter how many times I murder them, they will not go away. They seem to send reinforcements, daily, on some late-night express-train from the yard, apparently wearing teeny-tiny haz-mat suits in order to penetrate the Fresh Linen-scented Raid I’ve sprayed along the edges of the doors and windows, like a toxic moat. And, still, they risk their lives, the Raid, the bottom of my flip-flops, me swearing at them, to search out the one thing that ants (and me, for that matter) are powerless to resist--a Cheeto.
When I woke up this morning, that was exactly where they were, crowded on top of a stale orange nub left on the floor overnight, all 20 of them, humping a Cheeto. I knew that the real problem was that there was a Cheeto left on the floor in the first place. And a fingerprint of Nutella. And a splotch of Raspberry Ice Crystal Light (which they loooooove). And various other crumbs and drips, which proved that, as a housekeeper, I was a lazy sow. While I wasn’t exactly okay with that title, I’d not quite evolved to the point where, after the kids went to bed at night, I’d roll my lazy sow butt off of the couch and pull out the Swiffer.
Until this morning. When my four-year-old woke up and, upon dragging her blanket across the kitchen floor—the blanket that she carries everywhere—invented a new game: Ant Spotting.
“There’s one, Mommy!” Blair shouted, proudly.
“There’s another one,” she shouted, even more proudly, as if two ants were better than one.
The time had come. I needed to open up a big can of Whoop Ants.
The trick, I learned by googling “Kill Ants,” was to locate their source, which I knew was a patch of dirt under the kitchen window that contained what I decided was, roughly, 834 million ants. To destroy the hill, I had to destroy the queen. But destroying the queen wasn’t so easy. There were many suggestions online, ranging from dousing the hill with the hose, to pouring undistilled white vinegar all over it, to setting it on fire. I liked the idea of setting them on fire best, but I thought it wouldn’t be wise. And, while there were remedies that involved products like Boric acid, I didn’t have Boric acid on hand, and thought that walking three blocks to the Ace Hardware would take too much time. I wanted them dead. Now.
“What are you doing, mommy?”
“I’m boiling water.”
“Why?”
“To kill the ants.”
“How will boiling water kill the ants?”
I paused. I thought about being honest about the sure-fire method I’d read about online, which included the phrase “scald them to death.” I thought about explaining that I didn’t plan to stop after pouring bubbling, boiling water on them, that I would then sprinkle grits all over the dirt, which the hangers-on would pick up and eat and carry to their queen, if she wasn’t already vaporized, for her to eat. Then, the next time they took a sip of water, the grits would expand in their ant-tummies and they would explode. Pop.
“Oh sweetie,” I said, instead. “The ants will just float away.”
It took me one hour, six pots of boiling water, two splashes onto my right ankle (leading to a 2nd degree burn), one full can of quick-cooking grits, and seventeen F-words, but I did it.
Or I thought I did it.
The next morning, as Blair and I sat on the couch watching Blues Clues, she pointed toward the sliding glass door and screamed: “Ant! Mommy! ANT!” I leapt up as if I was a vampire frenzied for blood, practically levitating over to the door, where I began to stomp. And swear. And stomp. And swear.
“Did you dead it?” Blair asked, after the crazy left my eyes.
“Yes, I dead-ed it.”
“Can I dead the next one?”
I paused. Again. Debating which might be the more valuable lesson. Then, I answered her:
“Only if you put your shoes on.”
When I woke up this morning, that was exactly where they were, crowded on top of a stale orange nub left on the floor overnight, all 20 of them, humping a Cheeto. I knew that the real problem was that there was a Cheeto left on the floor in the first place. And a fingerprint of Nutella. And a splotch of Raspberry Ice Crystal Light (which they loooooove). And various other crumbs and drips, which proved that, as a housekeeper, I was a lazy sow. While I wasn’t exactly okay with that title, I’d not quite evolved to the point where, after the kids went to bed at night, I’d roll my lazy sow butt off of the couch and pull out the Swiffer.
Until this morning. When my four-year-old woke up and, upon dragging her blanket across the kitchen floor—the blanket that she carries everywhere—invented a new game: Ant Spotting.
“There’s one, Mommy!” Blair shouted, proudly.
“There’s another one,” she shouted, even more proudly, as if two ants were better than one.
The time had come. I needed to open up a big can of Whoop Ants.
The trick, I learned by googling “Kill Ants,” was to locate their source, which I knew was a patch of dirt under the kitchen window that contained what I decided was, roughly, 834 million ants. To destroy the hill, I had to destroy the queen. But destroying the queen wasn’t so easy. There were many suggestions online, ranging from dousing the hill with the hose, to pouring undistilled white vinegar all over it, to setting it on fire. I liked the idea of setting them on fire best, but I thought it wouldn’t be wise. And, while there were remedies that involved products like Boric acid, I didn’t have Boric acid on hand, and thought that walking three blocks to the Ace Hardware would take too much time. I wanted them dead. Now.
“What are you doing, mommy?”
“I’m boiling water.”
“Why?”
“To kill the ants.”
“How will boiling water kill the ants?”
I paused. I thought about being honest about the sure-fire method I’d read about online, which included the phrase “scald them to death.” I thought about explaining that I didn’t plan to stop after pouring bubbling, boiling water on them, that I would then sprinkle grits all over the dirt, which the hangers-on would pick up and eat and carry to their queen, if she wasn’t already vaporized, for her to eat. Then, the next time they took a sip of water, the grits would expand in their ant-tummies and they would explode. Pop.
“Oh sweetie,” I said, instead. “The ants will just float away.”
It took me one hour, six pots of boiling water, two splashes onto my right ankle (leading to a 2nd degree burn), one full can of quick-cooking grits, and seventeen F-words, but I did it.
Or I thought I did it.
The next morning, as Blair and I sat on the couch watching Blues Clues, she pointed toward the sliding glass door and screamed: “Ant! Mommy! ANT!” I leapt up as if I was a vampire frenzied for blood, practically levitating over to the door, where I began to stomp. And swear. And stomp. And swear.
“Did you dead it?” Blair asked, after the crazy left my eyes.
“Yes, I dead-ed it.”
“Can I dead the next one?”
I paused. Again. Debating which might be the more valuable lesson. Then, I answered her:
“Only if you put your shoes on.”
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Poop, There It Is
I don’t think I will ever fully understand the lure of the toilet as a plaything.
I get the water part. And the associated splashing. And the way the toilet paper, upon stirring it around with your Elmo toothbrush, disintegrates into a kind of flaking cloud of slop and paste and pee residue. Especially when you put lots of toilet paper in there. Like, say, 13 or so feet of it. And then pull it out and fling it, dripping, onto the wall behind the tub where it sticks. And hardens. Into something wholly unnatural.
I mean, I get that. But does a two-year-old girl have to do it every day? Right after I dress her? In both bathrooms?
I remember the first time Drew discovered the toilet. Actually, it wasn’t the toilet toilet. It was the training toilet, the one that took up permanent residence next to the Sit ‘n Spin in the family room, the one her big sister was getting applause and standing ovations for just sitting on. Toilet equals joy! Toilet equals M and Ms! Toilet equals parents doing happy dances!
Looking back, I can see what a confusing time it was for little Drew, learning to crawl, discovering a whole new world that exisited eight inches off the ground. Like the bottom drawer where we keep the restaurant menus that needed to be removed hourly. And the shelf in the pantry where we keep bottles of booze. And the training potty.
Had I been a sharper mother, I probably would have seen it coming. But Blair was so elated, jumping around with her pull-ups around her ankles, pointing at her biggest accomplishment yet—poop in the potty! There was much rejoicing. I think we may have pulled out a few musical instruments. And had a small parade.
Which made it all the more disconcerting when, upon returning to the family room, we found Drew there, sitting in the middle of the floor, clapping along, and chewing on something. I tried to convince myself that it was a Tootsie Roll. In fact, I went so far to rationalize how she could have gotten a Tootsie Roll, from the ceramic bowl, on top of the red cabinet that is five feet tall.
It was not a Tootsie Roll.
There were no happy dances.
And, yet, she doesn’t seem to remember. She keeps going back to the toilet. For fun. This I do not get.
I get the water part. And the associated splashing. And the way the toilet paper, upon stirring it around with your Elmo toothbrush, disintegrates into a kind of flaking cloud of slop and paste and pee residue. Especially when you put lots of toilet paper in there. Like, say, 13 or so feet of it. And then pull it out and fling it, dripping, onto the wall behind the tub where it sticks. And hardens. Into something wholly unnatural.
I mean, I get that. But does a two-year-old girl have to do it every day? Right after I dress her? In both bathrooms?
I remember the first time Drew discovered the toilet. Actually, it wasn’t the toilet toilet. It was the training toilet, the one that took up permanent residence next to the Sit ‘n Spin in the family room, the one her big sister was getting applause and standing ovations for just sitting on. Toilet equals joy! Toilet equals M and Ms! Toilet equals parents doing happy dances!
Looking back, I can see what a confusing time it was for little Drew, learning to crawl, discovering a whole new world that exisited eight inches off the ground. Like the bottom drawer where we keep the restaurant menus that needed to be removed hourly. And the shelf in the pantry where we keep bottles of booze. And the training potty.
Had I been a sharper mother, I probably would have seen it coming. But Blair was so elated, jumping around with her pull-ups around her ankles, pointing at her biggest accomplishment yet—poop in the potty! There was much rejoicing. I think we may have pulled out a few musical instruments. And had a small parade.
Which made it all the more disconcerting when, upon returning to the family room, we found Drew there, sitting in the middle of the floor, clapping along, and chewing on something. I tried to convince myself that it was a Tootsie Roll. In fact, I went so far to rationalize how she could have gotten a Tootsie Roll, from the ceramic bowl, on top of the red cabinet that is five feet tall.
It was not a Tootsie Roll.
There were no happy dances.
And, yet, she doesn’t seem to remember. She keeps going back to the toilet. For fun. This I do not get.
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