I didn't even know she was upset; she was chattering away as I was poking around in the paper bags my husband had brought in from their trip to the store.
Milk …
Orange juice …
Bread …
Eggs ...
She walked past me in her usual flair, with a kind of brisk pounding of feet and a dramatic flounce of hair as she trudged down the hall to her room.
"She's packing ... " my husband informed me a few minutes later as I was still putting away the groceries. "She says she wants to leave."
Before she stormed out I had heard her voice chirping away, flittering between octaves — "Ip ip ip ip ip ..." as I opened and closed the refrigerator door, "ip ip ip ip ip ip" as I folded another emptied bag and stowed it beneath the island with the other recyclables … "ip ip ip ip ip ip ip."
I really hadn't been listening.
I sigh and roll my eyes. It’s been a long day and I don't want to deal with another tantrum.
I finish stowing the food and found my way to her room. We bumped into each other at the door.
I was going in ready for a fight and she was coming out ready for flight.
She'd slung my old drawstring backpack over her shoulder, filled to the brim.
The bag was bigger than she was.
Her eyes will filled to the brim, too. The fight had gone out of me when I saw her eyes. She was earnest and upset.
I asked her to talk to me, to sit in her room and discuss what had happened. I took the pack from her shoulders when she tearfully agreed.
As we sat on her bed, a tiny lifetime of upset streamed out with her tears. Upset that seemed to go back as far as the hospital ... when she was born.
"I remember another mother — not you — a mother who was nicer to me. Who listened to me. Who didn't just SAY she was going to do something she DID it. That's the mother I'm going off to find."
I listened as the story brought her to my pregnancy with her brother, and how she really wanted a girl. ... How she wanted to share her room and her toys, and talk about girl things, and sing girl songs ... and how she got a boy.
"But I was happy because everyone else was happy. I wasn't happy though. I wanted a sister and YOU GAVE ME A BROTHER! My real mother would have given me a sister."
For a moment I felt sorry for her.
Poor unloved little waif who waits (somewhat) patiently for her mother to get up from behind her computer and get her a glass of milk, only to have to ask 13,000 times ... or 18,000 thousand, depending on whom you ask.
She was right. Everyone wants to hug The Champ.
They all say how cute he is, how funny, how patient, how loveable.
She feels invisible.
I look over at the bag she filled with clothes. There’s not a single toy. She's serious about leaving.
"I'm just a rotten egg," she wails.
It's difficult to assert yourself when you’re five.
I was five once, too. I even ran away twice. Neither time, however, did I get further than the mailbox on the edge of our lawn.
I wasn’t allowed to cross the street.
Ittybit isn’t as timid as I was. I suppose she’d find her way to Timbuktu if she has it in her mind to do so.
"You're not a rotten egg. You know that," I tell her ... hoping something brilliant will come to me as I'm feeling around for an answer that will make everything all right.
It doesn't. All I can tell her is I'm sorry she feels the way she does, and I'll try to do better. I remind her of how her brother lights up when he sees her ... not when he sees us but her. And I admit that she has every right to feel sad, and to even demand attention. Fair is fair.
"Why don't you come with me to the store. Your father forgot the lemons. You come with me. We'll get a special and some time to ourselves."
"O.K.," she said unsteadily. "I'll go, but what about my bag?"
"We'll just leave it for when we get back. I'll help you unpack."
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Home (show) is where the heart is
Sundays used to be all fun and games around our house. But to hear them tell it, the day had not gone well.
It had started out fine: She’d gotten up early to play computer games in the dinning room as her father busied himself with making breakfast and brewing coffee in the kitchen.
When I finally emerged, puffy-eyed from my down comforter-wrapped cocoon, at the late hour of 8 a.m. — drawn out by the dark, rich perfume of hot caffeine not the high-pitched shriek of excitement as computer animated teamwork had my husband and first born on the brink of breaking their all-time “Smooth Move” record — she had made a decision. She was going to spend the day with daddy.
But almost as soon as she’d decided to hang out with her dad instead of going on errands with me and her brother, things started to go downhill.
After all, her father wasn’t going to be sitting around the house all day playing games in Webkinz World or making mad scientist milkshakes from whatever was leftover in the refrigerator. He was planning on going to The Home Show to get ideas for the new house.
Still, he was optimistic. He thought the long trip from the parking lot to the arena would be made bearable by the promise of pizza and popcorn. He thought, as most men do, that toys big people like – such as car-tire sized shower heads – should have a magnifying effect on children.
“WOW! Ittybit ... LOOK at that flapper valve ... We’ll need a bigger flange to adequately address the inconsistencies in that flue baffle.”
But he is an adult who had been a child once, too. ... He could understand why her eyes might glaze over as they moved on to laminated flooring options, and why her voice slipped into a distinct whine as they passed one hot tub after another.
Father-daughter outings, especially if they are centered around home improvement activities, tend to have their bumps.
Both of them were disappointed, he hadn’t found the show useful in our endeavor to renovate a house … we didn’t need a hot tub or a high-end shower unit with surround sound and steam bath options. And the little miss didn’t really understand the joy of windows and gutter systems.
When they got home the complaints came fast and furious.
“It was boring.”
“She wasn’t cooperative.”
“They didn’t even have balloons.”
“It was packed with people.”
“He never took me to get pizza.”
“When I asked if she wanted pizza, she wouldn’t go.”
“Well I wasn’t hungry just then.”
“You were just being difficult.”
It was as if I wasn’t even standing there, pretending to referee.
“Well … was there ANYTHING about the day that you did like?” I asked, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
“I did like that pet.”
“What pet?”
“You know, that weird pet thing that was black and white and looked like a squirrel but that guy was holding?”
“Oh yeah … that was weird. Do you remember what they said that thing was?”
“I don’t remember, but it looked like a lemur.”
“It DID look like a lemur, but it had a crazy name that sounded made up.”
And as they were laughing about why people were trying to sell exotic pets at a home show, they forgot about the whining and the dragging of tiny feet through a sea of sales kiosks. They forgot about the forgotten junk food and the lack of balloons, and they fired up the old computer to end the day as it started: all fun and games.
It had started out fine: She’d gotten up early to play computer games in the dinning room as her father busied himself with making breakfast and brewing coffee in the kitchen.
When I finally emerged, puffy-eyed from my down comforter-wrapped cocoon, at the late hour of 8 a.m. — drawn out by the dark, rich perfume of hot caffeine not the high-pitched shriek of excitement as computer animated teamwork had my husband and first born on the brink of breaking their all-time “Smooth Move” record — she had made a decision. She was going to spend the day with daddy.
But almost as soon as she’d decided to hang out with her dad instead of going on errands with me and her brother, things started to go downhill.
After all, her father wasn’t going to be sitting around the house all day playing games in Webkinz World or making mad scientist milkshakes from whatever was leftover in the refrigerator. He was planning on going to The Home Show to get ideas for the new house.
Still, he was optimistic. He thought the long trip from the parking lot to the arena would be made bearable by the promise of pizza and popcorn. He thought, as most men do, that toys big people like – such as car-tire sized shower heads – should have a magnifying effect on children.
“WOW! Ittybit ... LOOK at that flapper valve ... We’ll need a bigger flange to adequately address the inconsistencies in that flue baffle.”
But he is an adult who had been a child once, too. ... He could understand why her eyes might glaze over as they moved on to laminated flooring options, and why her voice slipped into a distinct whine as they passed one hot tub after another.
Father-daughter outings, especially if they are centered around home improvement activities, tend to have their bumps.
Both of them were disappointed, he hadn’t found the show useful in our endeavor to renovate a house … we didn’t need a hot tub or a high-end shower unit with surround sound and steam bath options. And the little miss didn’t really understand the joy of windows and gutter systems.
When they got home the complaints came fast and furious.
“It was boring.”
“She wasn’t cooperative.”
“They didn’t even have balloons.”
“It was packed with people.”
“He never took me to get pizza.”
“When I asked if she wanted pizza, she wouldn’t go.”
“Well I wasn’t hungry just then.”
“You were just being difficult.”
It was as if I wasn’t even standing there, pretending to referee.
“Well … was there ANYTHING about the day that you did like?” I asked, hoping to change the direction of the conversation.
“I did like that pet.”
“What pet?”
“You know, that weird pet thing that was black and white and looked like a squirrel but that guy was holding?”
“Oh yeah … that was weird. Do you remember what they said that thing was?”
“I don’t remember, but it looked like a lemur.”
“It DID look like a lemur, but it had a crazy name that sounded made up.”
And as they were laughing about why people were trying to sell exotic pets at a home show, they forgot about the whining and the dragging of tiny feet through a sea of sales kiosks. They forgot about the forgotten junk food and the lack of balloons, and they fired up the old computer to end the day as it started: all fun and games.
Sunday, February 08, 2009
Motherhood magic: Being in two places at once
A small room in the Time & Space Limited warehouse contained all the magic a one-year-old could want: Crayons, markers, bottle caps, paper plates, wooden sticks, cardboard cylinders from spent toilet paper rolls and fistfuls of uncooked lentils that just begged to be tasted.
We were there to make musical instruments out of the recycling, however, not to play test kitchen.
For what seemed like hours, The Champ had been happily perched on a makeshift stool, drawing purple and red magic marker lines in an EKG-like pattern all over the paper-covered table in front of him.
When he’d filled his canvas, including the palms of both hands, he abandoned his instrument-making station — where his sister was still busy making guitars, kazoos and maracas — and moved into the corner where a handmade sand table offered tiny test drives of toy cars as well as fistfuls of fine-grain sand for the tasting.
With her own projects completed, Ittybit flitted from this room to the next, a larger open space where the band was setting up for its gig. She was so beside herself that she and herself were having some spirited conversation about what they would wear to the “rock show.”
Ittybit was still wearing tights and leotard from her dance class that morning, while Herself was itching to get into the pink flouncy dress, which had been packed for just such a special occasion. Though, neither could be still long enough to change.
I, however, was straddling both rooms, trying to take pictures and keep an eye on my progeny.
Her brother didn’t want to leave his little piece of heaven until he did leave it. When I poked my head into the room after snapping a few pictures of his sister waiting on the band, he was gone. I hadn’t seen him going past me so I head in the other direction: Toward out.
He wasn’t there either, thankfully.
I went back into the main space and stood staring blankly into the crowd of tiny jumping beans and their accompanying parents. It wasn’t until I looked above knee level that I saw somebody else’s mother raising her hand and pointing it downward.
She knew where he went.
As did the grandfatherly fellow who pointed in the direction of my little escape artist the next time I found myself without him.
I really miss the days when he’d happily hang out in the sling watching the world go by.
I digress.
Neither of my children want to miss anything these days, yet their interests never seem to be in the same room.
“When are the rockers playing,” Ittybit bleated impatiently as I tried to wrestle the popcorn away from her whirling dervish of a brother who is, in turn, trying to wriggle his way back to the floor and the trail of snacks that his sister accidentally spilled.
“Soon,” I tell her, using the word that has become my catch-all response for all queries beginning with WHEN.
I sweep the kernels into the box and hide it as The Champ moves back toward the sand table.
She sways back and forth when Uncle Rock bursts onto the “stage,” a cleared triangle of concrete in front of a bistro set-up of a dozen or so carpet remnants. She clapped her hands, wagged her hips and jumped up and down on her little piece of green shag.
Next Ittybit was up and running; out of the room and out of sight. When she returned she had her new best friend, a girl she’d met while I had been chasing her brother; the “Kitars” they’d made from a paint sticks and paper plates; and a desire to be center stage.
It’s a good thing the band didn’t mind sharing the limelight.
We were there to make musical instruments out of the recycling, however, not to play test kitchen.
For what seemed like hours, The Champ had been happily perched on a makeshift stool, drawing purple and red magic marker lines in an EKG-like pattern all over the paper-covered table in front of him.
When he’d filled his canvas, including the palms of both hands, he abandoned his instrument-making station — where his sister was still busy making guitars, kazoos and maracas — and moved into the corner where a handmade sand table offered tiny test drives of toy cars as well as fistfuls of fine-grain sand for the tasting.
With her own projects completed, Ittybit flitted from this room to the next, a larger open space where the band was setting up for its gig. She was so beside herself that she and herself were having some spirited conversation about what they would wear to the “rock show.”
Ittybit was still wearing tights and leotard from her dance class that morning, while Herself was itching to get into the pink flouncy dress, which had been packed for just such a special occasion. Though, neither could be still long enough to change.
I, however, was straddling both rooms, trying to take pictures and keep an eye on my progeny.
Her brother didn’t want to leave his little piece of heaven until he did leave it. When I poked my head into the room after snapping a few pictures of his sister waiting on the band, he was gone. I hadn’t seen him going past me so I head in the other direction: Toward out.
He wasn’t there either, thankfully.
I went back into the main space and stood staring blankly into the crowd of tiny jumping beans and their accompanying parents. It wasn’t until I looked above knee level that I saw somebody else’s mother raising her hand and pointing it downward.
She knew where he went.
As did the grandfatherly fellow who pointed in the direction of my little escape artist the next time I found myself without him.
I really miss the days when he’d happily hang out in the sling watching the world go by.
I digress.
Neither of my children want to miss anything these days, yet their interests never seem to be in the same room.
“When are the rockers playing,” Ittybit bleated impatiently as I tried to wrestle the popcorn away from her whirling dervish of a brother who is, in turn, trying to wriggle his way back to the floor and the trail of snacks that his sister accidentally spilled.
“Soon,” I tell her, using the word that has become my catch-all response for all queries beginning with WHEN.
I sweep the kernels into the box and hide it as The Champ moves back toward the sand table.
She sways back and forth when Uncle Rock bursts onto the “stage,” a cleared triangle of concrete in front of a bistro set-up of a dozen or so carpet remnants. She clapped her hands, wagged her hips and jumped up and down on her little piece of green shag.
Next Ittybit was up and running; out of the room and out of sight. When she returned she had her new best friend, a girl she’d met while I had been chasing her brother; the “Kitars” they’d made from a paint sticks and paper plates; and a desire to be center stage.
It’s a good thing the band didn’t mind sharing the limelight.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Holding back isn’t leaving behind is it?
February is an angst-ridden time for parents of the soon-to-be post preschool set.
In February, kindergarten registration looms large. It marks the beginning of a new era in the parental experience: The time when the real-deal school, now only two seasons removed, mandates its way into the lazy days of our lives. This new life will dump boatloads of homework on our kids’ (and, by extension, our) laps the weekend we plan on visiting the grandparents. It’s inevitable.
Our priority as a new human herder will shift from active learning to passive education.
Some of us were lucky and were able to stave off that initial march into the schooling factory because of a timely cutoff. Our kids just barely missed the arbitrary date of readiness. Others of us wrestled with the question and corresponding decision: Is my kid ready? Should wait another year?
We researched and researched. We stood, pencil poised, over checklists …
Can my daughter listen to stories without interrupting?
Can my son recognize rhyming sounds?
Do they understand actions have both causes and effects?
Does he understand there’s a morning, an afternoon and an evening?
Can she cut with scissors? Follow the rules? Share her toys? Manage the bathroom? Button and zip?
Do people understand when she speaks?
Can he look at pictures and make up stories? Identify the beginning letters of words? Sort by color, size and shape?
Does he recognize simple words like STOP and MOM when he sees them written out?
Can they count to 10?
We agonized over societal norms: Is it better to be older? Will they get bored? Am I holding them back? Am I coddling them? Am I giving them an advantage or am I pushing them out?
We parents also wonder if our kids are ready to be the one sitting on the bus or in the cafeteria alone? Will our kid be the one who gets tripped up by the outstretched leg of the bully? Will our kid be the one doing the tripping? Will our kid be forced to toe the line and color within them, or will they be allowed to use their imaginations? Will they be encouraged to question authority or kowtow to it?
Will we be THOSE kinds of parents who fight THAT unbeatable fight at every turn? Will we be the thorn in the side of the teacher? Will the teacher be one who has invested in her role or just playing a part? We’ve all had bad teachers. We know they exist in larger numbers than anyone cares to admit.
In these simple details do we hover? Do we let go?
We’ve all heard stories about members of the five-year-old set being reprimanded for not using green when they color in their trees.
I know. I know. The teacher has his reasons. There’s always reason. There’s always a test to gauge performance.
But it always makes me wonder what it is they’ve proved.
Kids seem to know better than most adults about rules and how to follow them even when they don’t. They have a strangely acute sense of fairness, even when they aren’t playing fair. They know tree leaves are usually green … unless they’re red or yellow or orange.
We are not the first parents to send our kid out into the world. Yet as I read through the checklist, I got the feeling that once our kids are ready for formal education, they’ve already learned all the things that Robert Fulghum explained in his book “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.”
Perhaps the revised version, which keeps being rewritten by my mind — “All I Really Need To Know I Learned Before ‘No Child Left Behind’” — is what really has me frightened.
In February, kindergarten registration looms large. It marks the beginning of a new era in the parental experience: The time when the real-deal school, now only two seasons removed, mandates its way into the lazy days of our lives. This new life will dump boatloads of homework on our kids’ (and, by extension, our) laps the weekend we plan on visiting the grandparents. It’s inevitable.
Our priority as a new human herder will shift from active learning to passive education.
Some of us were lucky and were able to stave off that initial march into the schooling factory because of a timely cutoff. Our kids just barely missed the arbitrary date of readiness. Others of us wrestled with the question and corresponding decision: Is my kid ready? Should wait another year?
We researched and researched. We stood, pencil poised, over checklists …
Can my daughter listen to stories without interrupting?
Can my son recognize rhyming sounds?
Do they understand actions have both causes and effects?
Does he understand there’s a morning, an afternoon and an evening?
Can she cut with scissors? Follow the rules? Share her toys? Manage the bathroom? Button and zip?
Do people understand when she speaks?
Can he look at pictures and make up stories? Identify the beginning letters of words? Sort by color, size and shape?
Does he recognize simple words like STOP and MOM when he sees them written out?
Can they count to 10?
We agonized over societal norms: Is it better to be older? Will they get bored? Am I holding them back? Am I coddling them? Am I giving them an advantage or am I pushing them out?
We parents also wonder if our kids are ready to be the one sitting on the bus or in the cafeteria alone? Will our kid be the one who gets tripped up by the outstretched leg of the bully? Will our kid be the one doing the tripping? Will our kid be forced to toe the line and color within them, or will they be allowed to use their imaginations? Will they be encouraged to question authority or kowtow to it?
Will we be THOSE kinds of parents who fight THAT unbeatable fight at every turn? Will we be the thorn in the side of the teacher? Will the teacher be one who has invested in her role or just playing a part? We’ve all had bad teachers. We know they exist in larger numbers than anyone cares to admit.
In these simple details do we hover? Do we let go?
We’ve all heard stories about members of the five-year-old set being reprimanded for not using green when they color in their trees.
I know. I know. The teacher has his reasons. There’s always reason. There’s always a test to gauge performance.
But it always makes me wonder what it is they’ve proved.
Kids seem to know better than most adults about rules and how to follow them even when they don’t. They have a strangely acute sense of fairness, even when they aren’t playing fair. They know tree leaves are usually green … unless they’re red or yellow or orange.
We are not the first parents to send our kid out into the world. Yet as I read through the checklist, I got the feeling that once our kids are ready for formal education, they’ve already learned all the things that Robert Fulghum explained in his book “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.”
Perhaps the revised version, which keeps being rewritten by my mind — “All I Really Need To Know I Learned Before ‘No Child Left Behind’” — is what really has me frightened.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
When the Golden Rule goes against the grain
It was a joke the adults got immediately. It was a novelty: a roll of toilet paper printed with the likeness of the 43rd U.S. President.
At nearly $10 a roll, it was an expensive bit of uncouth humor. But we come from a long line of Tax-and-Spend Liberals, most of whom were celebrating the end of the Tax-Cut-and-Spend Neo-Cons’ rule, so it wasn't terribly surprising to find this crass toiletry among our gifts this past Christmas.
And it might have remained merely a tasteless bit of memorabilia had we not run out of bathroom tissue."Mama? Who is that man on the toilet paper?"
And in one sentence a new era in our lives as parents barged into the room, not bothering to knock. She had cracked our code; and soon, I knew, the days of spelling things we didn't want her to understand would be behind us, too.
I looked around, exposed and embarrassed. I am confronted with the fact that my behavior is in direct opposition to how I want her to behave. This little joke, at this very moment, seems juvenile and mean-spirited.
"Well," I stammered, flirting for a moment with the idea of a lie. "That's our former president. To use his likeness as toilet paper is showing distain or disrespect."
"But he's not our president anymore,” she replied “Why don't we have images of Barack Obama?"
“We approve of him,” I stammered. “We wish to show him respect.”
She doesn’t understand. Everything she’s learned up until now has pointed her in the direction of The Golden Rule … an ethic of reciprocity … Do Unto Others.
It seems as if no other time in our history has the line between adult and child — prankster and parent — been so hard to distinguish.
Yet, it falls to me — a person of a certain age — to make sure that she is prepared to be an adult. It is my job to make sure she has the skills she needs to successfully maneuver through this life. She must learn how to play by the rules. She must learn the art of diplomacy and tact. She must understand what it means to care and how to turn the other cheek without allowing it to be slapped.
But she must also learn how to question the system. She must learn that being polite isn’t always preferred.She must learn that we live in a country where people have the right to live without fear of oppression, even if that right has morphed into a kind of crass protest. She should learn that with that right also comes great responsibility, and sometimes great personal harm, too. In making choices, we are not afforded the right to determine what people think of us. And we can’t always direct how they react.
So when I write about the little roll of toilet paper in my bathroom, stashed away now for emergency use, I know I run the risk of ruffling feathers, changing opinions and even incurring the wrath of harsh judgment.
I know I can handle that.
But what I never really counted upon was the fast work of Karma.
Let’s just say there’s a reason most people steer clear of harsh dyes and printing inks in their toilet paper.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Welcome to Hell ... social networking included
I’d like to introduce Jenny, Ittybit's virtual pet Webkinz.
Jenny's pseudo real-life counterpart, a stuffed dachshund toy, has been sleeping with Ittybit since we activated the plush pet.For those of you still blissfully unaware of this particular corner of hell; let me enlighten you:
These are -- for the most part (but not in Jenny's case, of course) – the crummiest looking stuffed animals ever manufactured. Many have stringy hair that protrudes in all directions, even if they’re supposed to be reptilian.
But the toy itself isn't the real draw; the $12-$14 you shell out for it also covers the cost of a secret code that allows entry into the Webkinz World, an online hub for video games that promote all that is wonderful and annoying about the interwebs including social interaction and consumerism.
All the things we love and hate about reality are realized in Webkinz World, too.
In Webkinz World you can get a job, earn cash to feed and clothe your little friends, and collect over-priced virtual stuff to decorate your intangible pet's imaginary house. You can play some games for hours on end, but other games are only available to players once a day. You can click on ads, shop in fake stores, put crazy-looking purchases in shopping carts and proceed to a one-click check out.
You can watch your imaginary money dwindle away as you buy $900 tables that don’t really fit into your pet’s tiny room anyway. You can work at the pizza joint for a few thousand hours and make enough dough to buy your pet an extra room.
You can even sell your pretend stuff back to the make-believe shop (which sold you the invented junk in the first place) -- no questions asked. You will have to resort to that once you get fired from your ghost job at the shoe store that the employment office set up for you because you aren’t terribly skilled at matching shoes, and you won't be making any tips in the replacement gig you got on your own by visiting the Arcade: It's hard to make pizza when the video game won't allow you to do two things at once.
Of course, you can't do two things at once in real life very well, anyway, so quit yer bellyaching.
There are benefits to living in an imaginary place.
In this virtual world you don’t have to deal with folks dressed in floral housecoats, wearing socks and sandals, trying to negotiate a lower price for the stuff you’ve dragged curbside for your twice annual yard sale. You can just get your money back for that apple you bought for $25 bucks regardless of when you bought it.
Of course, parents can learn a lot about their kids’ priorities when they activate an account and look over their shoulders as they go hog wild.
For instance, Ittybit isn’t terribly patient when the Web site crashes and I have to sign her in again (because she can’t read or spell her sign-in and passwords.
“MOM! I feel like I’m 25!”
“Why is that?”
“Because it’s taking so LONG!”
You also may find, as I did, that poor fake Jenny gets neglected. … That your precious little peanut barely even visits her online pal, or cleans her room, or puts her to bed at night. Instead she opts to head straight for the Arcade. And instead of buying healthy fake food for her pet she buys hideous furnishings for her already cramped room.
You may even find yourself going online late at night, trying to figure out what ails the poor pooch, whose icon is perpetually sporting an ice bag, by putting it to bed or feeding it some vitamins before you head to the arcade for a few rounds of Cash Cow yourself.
Not that that’s ever happened to me.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Perhaps I should skip riding that bike
In order to observe a clear example of what the opposite of athletic looks like, all one had to do was be standing on the top of a particular sledding hill, in a particular columnists’ home town, on a chilly Sunday in January and overheard the following conversation:
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Now … remember to steer.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, already seated in sled with snow-suited child: “Steer? How do you steer a sled?”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Are you kidding me?”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, holding on to the ground, trying to stop forward motion: “Well. There’s no steering wheel on this thing … there are no pedals I can see … Therefore I would say NO! I am NOT kidding you.”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Really?”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, becoming increasingly panicked: “Really! Now, listen you: I’m sitting here at the top of a very steep hill, ready to hurl myself and my first-born child forward at a rate of speed I’ve never been comfortable with and I’ve just explained to you that I don’t understand the concept of steering a overturned plastic lid. Could you for once stop mocking me and explain how it is I’m supposed to get down there before it’s too late?
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, fully laughing now: “OK, OK. Just use your rudders.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, now fully prepared to throw down the gloves: “Rudder? Rudder!? This is a sled not a boat … WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, now gesturing with arms outstretched: “Use your arms.”
This is where I prove that communication, even under the best conditions, is merely an exercise in futility, and push off with both hands dragging behind me as if to slow down the ride. Predictably we skitter off sideways, rudderless.
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, after dropping Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom’s expensive camera in the snow, nevertheless, saves them from an embarrassing collision in the trees: “I meant put your arm down in the direction you want to go. If you want to turn left, put your left arm down. If you want to go right, put your right arm down.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom, now mortified as the snickering from others gathered on the hill becomes audible: “Ok … OK. ..I’ve got it.”
And off we go …
To the left. …
I put my right arm down … and we still go to the left. ..
I lean toward the right. … and still we go left.
WHAT is GOING ON!?! I refuse to panic.
I look down and notice Ittybit’s arms and legs are off the sled and digging in to snow on the left side. She’s trying to help. I figure she’s processed the previous conversation and had decided to take steering into her own hands (and legs).
I bump her legs into the sled with my left leg and dig in with my right hand. Miraculously the sled rights itself and shoots down the hill, straight to the bottom, and slides to a smooth stop in the field.
Soon we’re climbing back up the hill for another turn, and to face the other smirking faces.
“It’s been quite a while since I’ve been sledding,” I say aloud to cheer myself up.
“It’s definitely not like riding a bike.”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Now … remember to steer.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, already seated in sled with snow-suited child: “Steer? How do you steer a sled?”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Are you kidding me?”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, holding on to the ground, trying to stop forward motion: “Well. There’s no steering wheel on this thing … there are no pedals I can see … Therefore I would say NO! I am NOT kidding you.”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls: “Really?”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, becoming increasingly panicked: “Really! Now, listen you: I’m sitting here at the top of a very steep hill, ready to hurl myself and my first-born child forward at a rate of speed I’ve never been comfortable with and I’ve just explained to you that I don’t understand the concept of steering a overturned plastic lid. Could you for once stop mocking me and explain how it is I’m supposed to get down there before it’s too late?
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, fully laughing now: “OK, OK. Just use your rudders.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom in down parka and rain pants, now fully prepared to throw down the gloves: “Rudder? Rudder!? This is a sled not a boat … WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?”
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, now gesturing with arms outstretched: “Use your arms.”
This is where I prove that communication, even under the best conditions, is merely an exercise in futility, and push off with both hands dragging behind me as if to slow down the ride. Predictably we skitter off sideways, rudderless.
Big burly man in Carhart overalls, after dropping Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom’s expensive camera in the snow, nevertheless, saves them from an embarrassing collision in the trees: “I meant put your arm down in the direction you want to go. If you want to turn left, put your left arm down. If you want to go right, put your right arm down.”
Stay Puft Marshmallow Mom, now mortified as the snickering from others gathered on the hill becomes audible: “Ok … OK. ..I’ve got it.”
And off we go …
To the left. …
I put my right arm down … and we still go to the left. ..
I lean toward the right. … and still we go left.
WHAT is GOING ON!?! I refuse to panic.
I look down and notice Ittybit’s arms and legs are off the sled and digging in to snow on the left side. She’s trying to help. I figure she’s processed the previous conversation and had decided to take steering into her own hands (and legs).
I bump her legs into the sled with my left leg and dig in with my right hand. Miraculously the sled rights itself and shoots down the hill, straight to the bottom, and slides to a smooth stop in the field.
Soon we’re climbing back up the hill for another turn, and to face the other smirking faces.
“It’s been quite a while since I’ve been sledding,” I say aloud to cheer myself up.
“It’s definitely not like riding a bike.”
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Sometimes all you need is one small change
Lately I’ve been feeling as if people around me are cheerleading in a kind of Paul Revere fashion as the hours close in on another year. Their excited chant: “The New Year is coming! The New Year is coming!”
These harbingers of all things hopeful are hanging their optimism on the next digit in time.
For me a new year is only a moment not unlike any other moment wherein a person looks to the future and wonders at its potential … and then makes a liquid-y air-letting sound with their mouths and gives up hope.
What’s the point?
I rarely wait for the end of one year so that, in a wine-addled haze, I can resolve to be a better person in the beginning days of the next year.
But I’m not a cynic.
I try to change the error of my ways as it occurs to me, whenever it occurs to me, lest I forget. Not that it matters. I don't really change.
My diet doesn't get better, my clothes don't become stylish. I don't keep up with the laundry or count to 10 before I snap angrily at a child who annoys without intent. I speak my mind even when my mind is telling me to shut up.
I'm the same person I was yesterday, and the day before that and the year before that day. So forth or hence, whichever applies. Even in the New Year, despite the fact that I quit smoking 10 years ago, I know it will be the same me who tips back the glass and toasts tomorrow, a little older but none the wiser. I’m still going to see the glass as half empty.
I'm also one of those persons who THINKS I let things go when I merely tie my grievances to the longest leash I can find just in case I need to haul them back in when it's cold or raining or otherwise inclement.
I'm not particularly proud of this. I know I am a mule with the stubborn.
“Fester. Fester. Fester. Rot. Rot. Rot.”
Still … I hear the cheer. I am drawn to it the same way I am drawn to the fresh glut of media snippets instructing us how to actually stick to the resolutions we make. Just like they reported last year … only the talking head is someone we’ve never met before, and she’s wearing a blouse that implies she's in the know. I imagine she’s also got a matching handbag and she owns the secret of accessorizing. She’s a professional.
She gives me hope that maybe this year I can put the festering rot away.
Maybe this is the year I can give up my status as the sometimes spokesperson for PLUM -- The People for Less Unrest in Marriage – an imaginary think tank that hasn’t really risen to the status it deserves anyway. It’s merely acquiesced, which is not to say it has truly found agreement.
Acquiescing rarely means that no matter what the person with whom you’ve aligned your opinion thinks. It simply means you’ve given in; you’ve compromised but not in a healthy or constructive way. You’ve thrown up your hands and said: “Fine, whatever.”
As a parent, I find this a lot in my responses as well.
For instance, when Santa bought Ittybit an unfinished dollhouse for Christmas I knew that she'd want to decorate it. I could have guessed she'd want to color the roof and door knobs in marker or crayon, and furthermore, that she'd get tired midway through and start scribbling blindly.
Had it been my dollhouse, I would have left it alone. I would have wanted it to be clean and fresh and new -- the opposite of how I see my life and everything in it.
At that person, I couldn't help but to try and dissuade her from slapdash decoration. But she is not me. She has no qualms about her abilities. She sees opportunity and beauty where I see only the indecision and imperfection.
Soon I stopped lobbying for tasteful colors and decorator paint swatches, and instead tried accepting the true beauty in her patchwork of scribbles. Not to acquiesce.
After all, Santa didn't bring the dollhouse for me. He brought it for her.
These harbingers of all things hopeful are hanging their optimism on the next digit in time.
For me a new year is only a moment not unlike any other moment wherein a person looks to the future and wonders at its potential … and then makes a liquid-y air-letting sound with their mouths and gives up hope.
What’s the point?
I rarely wait for the end of one year so that, in a wine-addled haze, I can resolve to be a better person in the beginning days of the next year.
But I’m not a cynic.
I try to change the error of my ways as it occurs to me, whenever it occurs to me, lest I forget. Not that it matters. I don't really change.
My diet doesn't get better, my clothes don't become stylish. I don't keep up with the laundry or count to 10 before I snap angrily at a child who annoys without intent. I speak my mind even when my mind is telling me to shut up.
I'm the same person I was yesterday, and the day before that and the year before that day. So forth or hence, whichever applies. Even in the New Year, despite the fact that I quit smoking 10 years ago, I know it will be the same me who tips back the glass and toasts tomorrow, a little older but none the wiser. I’m still going to see the glass as half empty.
I'm also one of those persons who THINKS I let things go when I merely tie my grievances to the longest leash I can find just in case I need to haul them back in when it's cold or raining or otherwise inclement.
I'm not particularly proud of this. I know I am a mule with the stubborn.
“Fester. Fester. Fester. Rot. Rot. Rot.”
Still … I hear the cheer. I am drawn to it the same way I am drawn to the fresh glut of media snippets instructing us how to actually stick to the resolutions we make. Just like they reported last year … only the talking head is someone we’ve never met before, and she’s wearing a blouse that implies she's in the know. I imagine she’s also got a matching handbag and she owns the secret of accessorizing. She’s a professional.
She gives me hope that maybe this year I can put the festering rot away.
Maybe this is the year I can give up my status as the sometimes spokesperson for PLUM -- The People for Less Unrest in Marriage – an imaginary think tank that hasn’t really risen to the status it deserves anyway. It’s merely acquiesced, which is not to say it has truly found agreement.
Acquiescing rarely means that no matter what the person with whom you’ve aligned your opinion thinks. It simply means you’ve given in; you’ve compromised but not in a healthy or constructive way. You’ve thrown up your hands and said: “Fine, whatever.”
As a parent, I find this a lot in my responses as well.
For instance, when Santa bought Ittybit an unfinished dollhouse for Christmas I knew that she'd want to decorate it. I could have guessed she'd want to color the roof and door knobs in marker or crayon, and furthermore, that she'd get tired midway through and start scribbling blindly.
Had it been my dollhouse, I would have left it alone. I would have wanted it to be clean and fresh and new -- the opposite of how I see my life and everything in it.
At that person, I couldn't help but to try and dissuade her from slapdash decoration. But she is not me. She has no qualms about her abilities. She sees opportunity and beauty where I see only the indecision and imperfection.
Soon I stopped lobbying for tasteful colors and decorator paint swatches, and instead tried accepting the true beauty in her patchwork of scribbles. Not to acquiesce.
After all, Santa didn't bring the dollhouse for me. He brought it for her.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
How do you spell fun? We spell it S.K.A.T.E.
“She certainly knows what she wants,” said the manager of the Skate Factory. Ittybit was standing in front of her, rearranging the order of the games.
“No … I don’t think we should do the lesson just yet. … Let’s play some games first,” she told the woman, the roller rink’s manager and MC, who was standing in front of her holding a microphone, bemused.
It seemed appropriate to me: we’re always going ’round in circles but Ittybit is nothing if not decisive.
She’s known for a year that she wanted to have a roller skating party to celebrate the big F.I.V.E.
No manner of reason (or deflection) could dissuade her. It didn’t matter that she’s not a terribly agile skater or even generally interested in the sport.
All that mattered was that she attended a skate party at this place the year before and decided it had to be spelled F. U. N.
And spelling is big on her list of all-important things these days, as are playing games set to music and walking around on shoes that could cause her untimely demise.
What five-year-old wouldn’t love to strap on a pair (or four) of wheels and take a spin around the floor?
Well ... Me. I’d have rather gone bowling. But I’m not five. Neither is The Champ, but he was happy with her choice. Although his feet were a tad too small for the toddler skates, he was thrilled to walk around with the big kids and climb on the lap of anyone who sat down at an arcade game.
From his joyful squeals, I could deduce that he’ll like driving fast. (Not going to worry about that right now ... I’ll give it another year or 14 before I panic).
Where was I?
Oh yes, a roller skating party.
I said it over and over in my mind.
“What were we thinking?”
“Ice storm. Christmas. Looming nor’easter.
“No one is going to come.
“We’ll be like a handful of loose marbles, rolling around a big empty tin can all by ourselves.”
To be honest, my husband was a little more concerned about this than I was. I knew Ittybit only needs a party of one to be happy. Still, we thought we should prepare her for the worst just in case no one showed up.
We let her know that even if it was only the four of us, it was going to be the best birthday ever.
She looked at us like we’d grown a third head.
“Don’t worry. People will come ... it’s a S-C-R-J-F-P party.”
“You mean S-K-A-T-E.”
Of course she was right. People did roll in, some even came from considerable distances. Others brought their own skates. From the moment the music started, the hours just glided by. We cruised the floor like it was 1984. We did the Limbo and the Funky Chicken. No egos were bruised even though everyone fell. ... They got up ... and then they fell again.
Another thing we fell for, looming large and well lit in the arcade, was The Claw.
No matter what you call the thing (my favorite term is “Brother, Can I Have All Your Quarters” machine) it is more addictive than sugar to the kids.
My husband, trend-spotter that he is, had seen it coming when we’d preemptively gone to check out the place the previous week, and had brought a roll of quarters to keep their addictions fed.
The screams of delight when the fuzzy blue panda got snagged, and then the silly poodle with the purple hat, were deafening.
I’m sensing next year we might just as well rent one of those things and let the kids take turns trying to hook some stuffed animals.
Of course, with our luck, The Champ would be one of those kids; the kind who climb through the collection flap and get stuck inside the box with the toys. Then we’d be getting our own visit from the fire department.
Now THAT would be F.U.N.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Holiday logic and Murphy's Law collide
I've been laughing at folks who tell me being without electricity for five days last week effectively put us back in the 1700s.
I laughed because my husband's generative powers -- with his Ranger 2000 and a few dozen gallons of gasoline -- it felt more like we'd effectively revisited the somewhat affluent '50s: Our refrigerator is running, but there wasn't much else in the way of amenities.
For instance:
We washed dishes by hand;
We watched television; but not cable;
We were able to cook on a hot-plate;
And, as a result of limited light, we turned in early.
Yet, it's not nostalgic or idyllic or even "romantical," as our firstborn would say.
The laundry is piling up but will have to wait until the power returns or we can schlep ourselves to the Laundromat, which mightn't be soon since I've had a sore throat for two days and The Champ got some vomity illness that is inconsistently realized (usually in the middle of the night when the generator has quit or run out of gas) as I'm fumbling around in the dark.
And this, for all intents and purposes, means I risk having to wear my prom dress to work (If I could muster the will to drag my sorry-for-my-Self out of bed again) because the aforementioned lack of clean clothes, combined with the growing pile of vomity duds are divided by no way to launder them (until the power comes back online or The Champ musters enough vim to make it through a trip to the local Sit and Spin).
But that's not the worst of it.
When I was able to get a few minutes away to run a cart up and down the aisles at the grocery store with Ittybit, I somehow managed to lose the car key between the shopping and the buying and the pushing of a full cart out to the parking lot.
Yep. Lost.
Which means I had to get the husband to pack the vomity kid into the car and drive me the spare set.
Yep. He did.
After we got home, put away the groceries, I promptly found the keys in my sweatshirt pocket.
Yep. Found 'em. ...
Right where I'd jammed my panicking fists about a half-dozen times.
Still, I was hanging on to the corners of my smile. "One more day," I told myself. "We'll get the electricity back and the bad luck will turn on its heel and march back where it came from."
Should have known better.
Enter regularly scheduled doctors' appointment, wherein I learn that my insurance isn't of the variety they accept any more.
Turns out I had to pay the full boat right there and then and submit the claim myself. Even the lady in the checkout area looked shocked for me when she whispered the total: $180.
So much for health insurance.
I almost laughed when I got to work and learned our struggling company will - as of January - stop contributing to our 401Ks (that are only two years old) in order to get itself in better fiscal standing. Almost. Laughed.
So much for retirement.
There's more, but I won't bother you with it. It'll just make me wish I were home with my vomity boy and my silly husband and my ice princess daughter.
I'll just try and count the one blessing this week had in store for me: I filled the gas tank up from empty (for the first time in I can't remember how long) for under $20.
Let's just say, with the luck I've been having, I'm not going to be taking any long trips ... not even with an $18-fill-up.
I laughed because my husband's generative powers -- with his Ranger 2000 and a few dozen gallons of gasoline -- it felt more like we'd effectively revisited the somewhat affluent '50s: Our refrigerator is running, but there wasn't much else in the way of amenities.
For instance:
We washed dishes by hand;
We watched television; but not cable;
We were able to cook on a hot-plate;
And, as a result of limited light, we turned in early.
Yet, it's not nostalgic or idyllic or even "romantical," as our firstborn would say.
The laundry is piling up but will have to wait until the power returns or we can schlep ourselves to the Laundromat, which mightn't be soon since I've had a sore throat for two days and The Champ got some vomity illness that is inconsistently realized (usually in the middle of the night when the generator has quit or run out of gas) as I'm fumbling around in the dark.
And this, for all intents and purposes, means I risk having to wear my prom dress to work (If I could muster the will to drag my sorry-for-my-Self out of bed again) because the aforementioned lack of clean clothes, combined with the growing pile of vomity duds are divided by no way to launder them (until the power comes back online or The Champ musters enough vim to make it through a trip to the local Sit and Spin).
But that's not the worst of it.
When I was able to get a few minutes away to run a cart up and down the aisles at the grocery store with Ittybit, I somehow managed to lose the car key between the shopping and the buying and the pushing of a full cart out to the parking lot.
Yep. Lost.
Which means I had to get the husband to pack the vomity kid into the car and drive me the spare set.
Yep. He did.
After we got home, put away the groceries, I promptly found the keys in my sweatshirt pocket.
Yep. Found 'em. ...
Right where I'd jammed my panicking fists about a half-dozen times.
Still, I was hanging on to the corners of my smile. "One more day," I told myself. "We'll get the electricity back and the bad luck will turn on its heel and march back where it came from."
Should have known better.
Enter regularly scheduled doctors' appointment, wherein I learn that my insurance isn't of the variety they accept any more.
Turns out I had to pay the full boat right there and then and submit the claim myself. Even the lady in the checkout area looked shocked for me when she whispered the total: $180.
So much for health insurance.
I almost laughed when I got to work and learned our struggling company will - as of January - stop contributing to our 401Ks (that are only two years old) in order to get itself in better fiscal standing. Almost. Laughed.
So much for retirement.
There's more, but I won't bother you with it. It'll just make me wish I were home with my vomity boy and my silly husband and my ice princess daughter.
I'll just try and count the one blessing this week had in store for me: I filled the gas tank up from empty (for the first time in I can't remember how long) for under $20.
Let's just say, with the luck I've been having, I'm not going to be taking any long trips ... not even with an $18-fill-up.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Sugared snow dusts the houses of tradition
She was all ready to get started. She’d cast off her coat, hat and gloves and was eager to take a seat next to one of the fragrant gingerbread boxes dotting the centers of tables set up throughout the bakery.
“Which one is ours, mama?”
“Have patience, little might. They will tell us.”
It had been a long week of questions and concerns since some friends had signed us up to attend one of Zachary’s Pastry Shoppe’s gingerbread house workshop.
“When are we going to build the gingerbread house?
“Is it going to be just you and me?
“Can we invite more people?
“Can daddy come, too?”
“Are we really going to be able to take it home?
“Can we eat it?”
“How are we going to build it?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.
Though we’ve lived in various states of housing renewal during the past five years, none of us had any inkling of how to manufacture a confectionary cottage. And since I generally view consistency as the hobgoblin of baking, I felt it was probably best to go where the professionals can be on hand should a roof collapse or a wall cave in.
After all, weekend warriors such as myself, should never attempt heavy lifting –- even of the gingerbread variety -- without a spotter; safety first.
You can imagine my relief when I saw the houses had already been constructed, their sugared masonry perfectly cured, awaiting only finishing touches.
When I saw the bag of candy and the area of space needing to be spackled and shingled and decorated, however, I began to doubt all over again.
“We’ll be here all day,” I thought as my husband leaned back and cracked his knuckles, heaving a deep sigh of contentment. “This is what I’m talking about,” he says with confident bravado, no doubt assuming his years of home improvement with stand him in good stead.
I wasn’t convinced. I’ve lived in a renovation zone for nearly a decade without taping or trim.
When our friends arrived we were shown to our seats, at which point Ittybit started to sob inconsolably.
Turns out, no one answered her question about which house was “ours,” and when her friends sat down – one in front of each kit -- she assumed the answer was neither.
In moments that seemed like hours I was able to clarify the situation. Soon we were sitting, puffy-eyed but happy, next to one of the houses and a sweet little gingerbread girl, who’d quietly appeared next to Ittybit’s chair during the turmoil.
She opened the bag of building supplies and started looking through its contents as the bakers brought parchment-paper funnels of icing glue and specialty candy accouterments to our table. Carefully, she lined up all of her materials and asked if I might please spread some icing so she could get started.
Soon she was lost in her work, occasionally looking up at me with a polite request for more mastic.
She says please and thank-you a lot these days, keenly aware that Santa is watching.
She didn’t even mind that much when her father built a picture window out of pretzels on his wall, throwing off the symmetry she’d constructed on her side.
She never complained when her baby brother stuck a soggy gumdrop to the roof. She just handed him something he could unwrap and kept her nose to the grindstone.
She selected chocolate buttons for a chimney stack, and peppermint sticks for door jams. She’d carefully shingled the roof with Smarties and licorice whips.
She planted Marshmallow Christmas trees next to the doors as a landscaping feature, and affixed flower boxes made of chocolate truffles under the windows. She crushed up pink ribbon candy and sprinkled it on the roof … presumably ice that had formed from lack of proper insulation. She even cemented together a pile of pretzel sticks, presumably to feed the woodstove that she imagined to be inside.
She turned to look at the bakers’ example after she was a few candy pieces from finished, having barely tasted any of her building supplies.
“Oh, wow. Look at THAT chimney, daddy.”
“Yes. … but our house doesn’t have a fireplace inside … only a furnace. We don’t really need such an ornate chimney as that,” her father answered defensively.
“Well, after Christmas we should eat this house, move into a house WITH a fireplace, and then next year we can build another house that has a chimney like THAT one.”
“Let’s just finish this house for now,” her father tells her, licking a smear of frosting from his knuckles and eyeing the chocolate chimney, perhaps wondering if anyone would notice if it was one or two Kisses shorter.
From the smile on his face I know we’ll be back next year, probably armed with blueprints and an extra bag of chocolate, (for energy).
As holiday traditions go, I suppose eating the cost of a gingerbread house really isn’t that hard to swallow.
“Which one is ours, mama?”
“Have patience, little might. They will tell us.”
It had been a long week of questions and concerns since some friends had signed us up to attend one of Zachary’s Pastry Shoppe’s gingerbread house workshop.
“When are we going to build the gingerbread house?
“Is it going to be just you and me?
“Can we invite more people?
“Can daddy come, too?”
“Are we really going to be able to take it home?
“Can we eat it?”
“How are we going to build it?”
I just shrugged my shoulders. I had no idea.
Though we’ve lived in various states of housing renewal during the past five years, none of us had any inkling of how to manufacture a confectionary cottage. And since I generally view consistency as the hobgoblin of baking, I felt it was probably best to go where the professionals can be on hand should a roof collapse or a wall cave in.
After all, weekend warriors such as myself, should never attempt heavy lifting –- even of the gingerbread variety -- without a spotter; safety first.
You can imagine my relief when I saw the houses had already been constructed, their sugared masonry perfectly cured, awaiting only finishing touches.
When I saw the bag of candy and the area of space needing to be spackled and shingled and decorated, however, I began to doubt all over again.
“We’ll be here all day,” I thought as my husband leaned back and cracked his knuckles, heaving a deep sigh of contentment. “This is what I’m talking about,” he says with confident bravado, no doubt assuming his years of home improvement with stand him in good stead.
I wasn’t convinced. I’ve lived in a renovation zone for nearly a decade without taping or trim.
When our friends arrived we were shown to our seats, at which point Ittybit started to sob inconsolably.
Turns out, no one answered her question about which house was “ours,” and when her friends sat down – one in front of each kit -- she assumed the answer was neither.
In moments that seemed like hours I was able to clarify the situation. Soon we were sitting, puffy-eyed but happy, next to one of the houses and a sweet little gingerbread girl, who’d quietly appeared next to Ittybit’s chair during the turmoil.
She opened the bag of building supplies and started looking through its contents as the bakers brought parchment-paper funnels of icing glue and specialty candy accouterments to our table. Carefully, she lined up all of her materials and asked if I might please spread some icing so she could get started.
Soon she was lost in her work, occasionally looking up at me with a polite request for more mastic.
She says please and thank-you a lot these days, keenly aware that Santa is watching.
She didn’t even mind that much when her father built a picture window out of pretzels on his wall, throwing off the symmetry she’d constructed on her side.
She never complained when her baby brother stuck a soggy gumdrop to the roof. She just handed him something he could unwrap and kept her nose to the grindstone.
She selected chocolate buttons for a chimney stack, and peppermint sticks for door jams. She’d carefully shingled the roof with Smarties and licorice whips.
She planted Marshmallow Christmas trees next to the doors as a landscaping feature, and affixed flower boxes made of chocolate truffles under the windows. She crushed up pink ribbon candy and sprinkled it on the roof … presumably ice that had formed from lack of proper insulation. She even cemented together a pile of pretzel sticks, presumably to feed the woodstove that she imagined to be inside.
She turned to look at the bakers’ example after she was a few candy pieces from finished, having barely tasted any of her building supplies.
“Oh, wow. Look at THAT chimney, daddy.”
“Yes. … but our house doesn’t have a fireplace inside … only a furnace. We don’t really need such an ornate chimney as that,” her father answered defensively.
“Well, after Christmas we should eat this house, move into a house WITH a fireplace, and then next year we can build another house that has a chimney like THAT one.”
“Let’s just finish this house for now,” her father tells her, licking a smear of frosting from his knuckles and eyeing the chocolate chimney, perhaps wondering if anyone would notice if it was one or two Kisses shorter.
From the smile on his face I know we’ll be back next year, probably armed with blueprints and an extra bag of chocolate, (for energy).
As holiday traditions go, I suppose eating the cost of a gingerbread house really isn’t that hard to swallow.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Retailers may feel Scrooged, but the kids won’t notice
I’m standing under the warm glow of our new, seven foot-tall Blue Spruce Christmas tree, cursing.
The Champ just ran over my foot with the back wheel of his ride-on car. As the ache subsides I realize I should really be thankful he careened into me and not the newly festooned tree with its many breakable baubles.
The dressed up house, just one day before December was official, is not the norm for our family. Ittybit insisted we decorate as soon as the first flake of snow floated down from the sky. She’s got the Christmas bug, and, evidently, only miles of twinkle lights and crinkled tissue paper can cure it.
And although I agreed to open the door to a tree (Ittybit can be persuasive) I wasn’t prepared to be ushering in the Christmas spirit so early.
I knew this holiday season was going to be a tough one.
I watched nearly half of my 401k swirl down the drain with a stiff upper lip. I laughed this week as people in-the-know finally announced the recession that the rest of us had already known about for months. We’re all tightening our belts, even those of us who are still wearing our “fat” jeans.
Sometime last summer I vowed to start living a more frugal life: I pledged to buy fewer things, leave my plastic money at home and do more with less. It didn’t really happen. My monthly Visa bill hovered at the same balance every month. Even when gas prices dwindled something else -- usually small trinkets, purchased on a whim throughout the year -- filled the gap in the balance sheet.
Nevertheless, I stashed the stuff away like a squirrel stashes nuts.
“Oh, maybe my sister would like that?”
“That would be fabulous for my mother-in-law.”
“What is that? The kids will LOVE it.”
I thrifted and crafted though I am neither thrifty nor crafty; I visited Goodwills from Maine to Connecticut, and looked for treasures tucked in among the Target overstocks. Sometimes I got lucky. Other times I took the loss, returning the items in another donation bin along my travels.
Yet, when I cleaned out my closet last week as part of my usual “let’s make way for the excesses of our Christmas presents by donating the excesses of our Christmas pasts,” I found the evidence of my Christmas future in the small bags filled with tiny puppets, pencil sharpeners, slippers and socks. There are sparkly shoes and story books, toy cars and drawing pads. There are change purses made in exotic places by people who were paid a fair wage. There’s even a set of wooden blocks I couldn’t buy in a store for a small fortune let alone the pennies I paid at salvage.
No one could be more surprised than I was to realize that not only am I prepared for Christmas morning, but by the time the 24th page of December is peeled off the calendar I will probably be simultaneously hiding eggs for Easter.
I’m not trying to gloat. My holiday organizational skills this year are purely accidental.
After all, it doesn’t take a lot of planning to decide you’re going to attend Christmas morning dressed as a modified Ebenezer Scrooge.
There will be no big ticket items and no expensive gadgets. There will be nothing of the must-have gift varieties under the tree. Santa isn’t visiting anyone over the age of 12 this year in our house, and he’s not bringing anything that requires batteries or an electrical outlet. He’s only bringing things that require an imagination.
I look though the bags wedged in between my shoes and handbags, and immediately make a mental inventory of their contents. I smile. In my imagination, I fill the stockings and stack the boxes under the now, very real tree standing in our front room.
There is more than enough, and there’s more than meets the eye.
There will be no more trips to mall. We’ll spend the rest of our weekends sledding if the snow permits or baking cookies.
It may not be a good Christmas for retailers, but I’m sure it’s going to be a good Christmas for the family.
The Champ just ran over my foot with the back wheel of his ride-on car. As the ache subsides I realize I should really be thankful he careened into me and not the newly festooned tree with its many breakable baubles.
The dressed up house, just one day before December was official, is not the norm for our family. Ittybit insisted we decorate as soon as the first flake of snow floated down from the sky. She’s got the Christmas bug, and, evidently, only miles of twinkle lights and crinkled tissue paper can cure it.
And although I agreed to open the door to a tree (Ittybit can be persuasive) I wasn’t prepared to be ushering in the Christmas spirit so early.
I knew this holiday season was going to be a tough one.
I watched nearly half of my 401k swirl down the drain with a stiff upper lip. I laughed this week as people in-the-know finally announced the recession that the rest of us had already known about for months. We’re all tightening our belts, even those of us who are still wearing our “fat” jeans.
Sometime last summer I vowed to start living a more frugal life: I pledged to buy fewer things, leave my plastic money at home and do more with less. It didn’t really happen. My monthly Visa bill hovered at the same balance every month. Even when gas prices dwindled something else -- usually small trinkets, purchased on a whim throughout the year -- filled the gap in the balance sheet.
Nevertheless, I stashed the stuff away like a squirrel stashes nuts.
“Oh, maybe my sister would like that?”
“That would be fabulous for my mother-in-law.”
“What is that? The kids will LOVE it.”
I thrifted and crafted though I am neither thrifty nor crafty; I visited Goodwills from Maine to Connecticut, and looked for treasures tucked in among the Target overstocks. Sometimes I got lucky. Other times I took the loss, returning the items in another donation bin along my travels.
Yet, when I cleaned out my closet last week as part of my usual “let’s make way for the excesses of our Christmas presents by donating the excesses of our Christmas pasts,” I found the evidence of my Christmas future in the small bags filled with tiny puppets, pencil sharpeners, slippers and socks. There are sparkly shoes and story books, toy cars and drawing pads. There are change purses made in exotic places by people who were paid a fair wage. There’s even a set of wooden blocks I couldn’t buy in a store for a small fortune let alone the pennies I paid at salvage.
No one could be more surprised than I was to realize that not only am I prepared for Christmas morning, but by the time the 24th page of December is peeled off the calendar I will probably be simultaneously hiding eggs for Easter.
I’m not trying to gloat. My holiday organizational skills this year are purely accidental.
After all, it doesn’t take a lot of planning to decide you’re going to attend Christmas morning dressed as a modified Ebenezer Scrooge.
There will be no big ticket items and no expensive gadgets. There will be nothing of the must-have gift varieties under the tree. Santa isn’t visiting anyone over the age of 12 this year in our house, and he’s not bringing anything that requires batteries or an electrical outlet. He’s only bringing things that require an imagination.
I look though the bags wedged in between my shoes and handbags, and immediately make a mental inventory of their contents. I smile. In my imagination, I fill the stockings and stack the boxes under the now, very real tree standing in our front room.
There is more than enough, and there’s more than meets the eye.
There will be no more trips to mall. We’ll spend the rest of our weekends sledding if the snow permits or baking cookies.
It may not be a good Christmas for retailers, but I’m sure it’s going to be a good Christmas for the family.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
An Ittybity Gift Guide
If you spent Black Friday as I did — hunkered down over my computer screen, wishing the fairies of consumerism would just kill me already and put me out of my misery - you still have some shopping to do.
I mean, what are you to do when the last of the must-have toys was sold from the assembly line six minutes after the company manufacturing it leaked to news sources "Junior will likely revolt if it's not under the tree?"
Why, you improvise, of course.
So in the spirit of holiday giving, what follows is a list of gift alternatives that will probably break the bank, but who cares? The bank is already broken and you need to cover you posterior. And anyway, the kids and grandkids need to see something when they rub the sand from their eyes come Christmas morning.
Knitted Lab Rat, $62
The Crafty Hedgehog — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
Your little scientist will be dazzled with this knitted curiosity. The white rat is hand knit from an acrylic mohair blend, and his little innards are needle-felted by hand out of 100 percent wool. He comes pinned into a framed corkboard. As he is not glued down he can be easily removed for cuddling. Poor thing. If you throw in an additional $18 your knitted biology project will arrive in an actual lab tray.
Also available in Frog. Makes the perfect gift for the pacifist biology student on your list.
The Tickled Pink
Deluxe Nursery Set, $300
FAO Swartz
www.fao.com
You know what this means right? Now when you leave the house with your new little mother, not only will you have to schlep your kid's coat, hat, books, backpack, snacks, extra shirts, pants and various and sundry things … you're going to be toting double for your new plastic grandchild, too.
Because, this is the ULTIMATE doll set, and includes a custom made "Newborn Nursery Baby," stroller, diaper, backpack, four-piece dish set, piece hat and bootie set, snowflake snowsuit, comb and brush set, bed/changing table, bedding set, fleece gown and cap, fleece blanket, clip-on bunny pacifier and bunny rattle. And you thought real babies don't even need that much gear.
Wooden Cinderella Coach, $1,100
Woodentoys.com
www.woodentoys.com
This limited production rocking chair will be hours of pretend fun (as opposed to real fun) for your little Cinderella. And it will only set you back a couple of weeks' pay. Don't be cheap. It is an heirloom piece that will live on forever in the heart of a child.
It includes rockers, gourd seating and clocks. You can speed through any fairytale story and still get nowhere, but at least you'll know when it's bedtime.
Penny Pony Ride-On, $350
FAO Swartz
www.fao.com
Just drop the jumbo penny into the slot and hold on. The mechanical horse you know and love from visiting K-Mart will make clip-clopping and neighing sounds while swinging its head and tail.
It's a good investment, really. You'll never again have to empty your pockets of quarters and wait in the wind and rain to get to your Blue-Light Special.
Reborn Baby of the Month Club, $1,200
ShamrockLady — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
Are your snarky teenagers driving you nuts? Do you miss the days when they were cute and cuddly and didn't speak? I think at least one major news outlet has done a feature story on these eerily creepy dolls and the collectors who love
them.
Made to look like real newborn infants, these dolls have weighted bodies, micro-rooted wigs. You get a baby a month for six months: a newborn, a preemie, a micropreemie, at least one boy, one girl, one with open eyes and one with closed eyes. Just don’t let the kids tote these dolls around by their hair. You don’t want a visit from Social Services.
Makes the perfect gift for the kid who has dreams of running an illegal daycare.
Broken Bones X-rays, $27
Roylco
www.roylco.com
For kids who just can't wait for spring - when they'll fall out of a tree, necessitating a trip to the emergency room and will wind up with a set of their very own. Or for the more girly-girls on your list who otherwise may NEVER have to have any part of their bodies set in a cast.
X-rays are also available in animal anatomy for all those kids who plan on becoming veterinarians.
Deliverance Van, $260
Stephen Fabrications — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
The "sculpture" of a truck is just a rusty metal box with a deer antler on rollerskate wheels. I don't think I can improve upon this blurb, however: "I intended this to be a toy and halfway through building it, I realized it was dangerous and went with the danger thing. Delivery vans (vans in general) are creepy. So is this one."
Come to think of it, it's perfect toy for your least favorite nephew.
Lunch Lady Action Figure, $11
Archie MacPhee
www.macphee.com
Can't you just smell the fish sticks and Tater Tots? Nutrition may soon be coming to a school near you, but the lunch lady who serves it will always have a hairnet and see-through plastic gloves. Anything else would be un-American. The only thing that would make this toy better would be if the food choice stickers you can apply yourself had Scratch-n-Sniff technology.
Mmmmm. ... Lime Jell-O with mystery bits. Mmmmm.
Zorbit Double Wall Inflatable Ball with Harness, $2,000
The Kids Fun Company
www.unbeatablesale.com
It's a human hamster ball, folks! Even the ad copy says words like "maximize the thrill while eliminated unnecessary risks," just not in that particular order (or with the same spelling). It's perfect for any child with an overprotective parent, or anyone who just wants their kids to go play in traffic ... safely.
What if your kids prefer water play? You don't want to risk drowning do you? For the bargain price of $800, you can get Aqua Ball. (The company originally named the device Water Walker … but you know … sales were probably sluggish and Aqua Ball just sounds so much more entertaining.) After all, the Aqua Ball is guaranteed fun. (I'm not sure it's the money-back kind, though.)
I seriously doubt you'll be needing to look elsewhere for that perfect gift this year, but I'd still like to invite you to join me on Christmas Eve as I do my last-minute holiday shopping at the liquor store. I'm just going to ask for something in the back - something, say, among the recycling? The kids will be happy. They'd rather play with the box, anyway.
I mean, what are you to do when the last of the must-have toys was sold from the assembly line six minutes after the company manufacturing it leaked to news sources "Junior will likely revolt if it's not under the tree?"
Why, you improvise, of course.
So in the spirit of holiday giving, what follows is a list of gift alternatives that will probably break the bank, but who cares? The bank is already broken and you need to cover you posterior. And anyway, the kids and grandkids need to see something when they rub the sand from their eyes come Christmas morning.
Knitted Lab Rat, $62
The Crafty Hedgehog — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
Your little scientist will be dazzled with this knitted curiosity. The white rat is hand knit from an acrylic mohair blend, and his little innards are needle-felted by hand out of 100 percent wool. He comes pinned into a framed corkboard. As he is not glued down he can be easily removed for cuddling. Poor thing. If you throw in an additional $18 your knitted biology project will arrive in an actual lab tray.
Also available in Frog. Makes the perfect gift for the pacifist biology student on your list.
The Tickled Pink
Deluxe Nursery Set, $300
FAO Swartz
www.fao.com
You know what this means right? Now when you leave the house with your new little mother, not only will you have to schlep your kid's coat, hat, books, backpack, snacks, extra shirts, pants and various and sundry things … you're going to be toting double for your new plastic grandchild, too.
Because, this is the ULTIMATE doll set, and includes a custom made "Newborn Nursery Baby," stroller, diaper, backpack, four-piece dish set, piece hat and bootie set, snowflake snowsuit, comb and brush set, bed/changing table, bedding set, fleece gown and cap, fleece blanket, clip-on bunny pacifier and bunny rattle. And you thought real babies don't even need that much gear.
Wooden Cinderella Coach, $1,100
Woodentoys.com
www.woodentoys.com
This limited production rocking chair will be hours of pretend fun (as opposed to real fun) for your little Cinderella. And it will only set you back a couple of weeks' pay. Don't be cheap. It is an heirloom piece that will live on forever in the heart of a child.
It includes rockers, gourd seating and clocks. You can speed through any fairytale story and still get nowhere, but at least you'll know when it's bedtime.
Penny Pony Ride-On, $350
FAO Swartz
www.fao.com
Just drop the jumbo penny into the slot and hold on. The mechanical horse you know and love from visiting K-Mart will make clip-clopping and neighing sounds while swinging its head and tail.
It's a good investment, really. You'll never again have to empty your pockets of quarters and wait in the wind and rain to get to your Blue-Light Special.
Reborn Baby of the Month Club, $1,200
ShamrockLady — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
Are your snarky teenagers driving you nuts? Do you miss the days when they were cute and cuddly and didn't speak? I think at least one major news outlet has done a feature story on these eerily creepy dolls and the collectors who love
them.
Made to look like real newborn infants, these dolls have weighted bodies, micro-rooted wigs. You get a baby a month for six months: a newborn, a preemie, a micropreemie, at least one boy, one girl, one with open eyes and one with closed eyes. Just don’t let the kids tote these dolls around by their hair. You don’t want a visit from Social Services.
Makes the perfect gift for the kid who has dreams of running an illegal daycare.
Broken Bones X-rays, $27
Roylco
www.roylco.com
For kids who just can't wait for spring - when they'll fall out of a tree, necessitating a trip to the emergency room and will wind up with a set of their very own. Or for the more girly-girls on your list who otherwise may NEVER have to have any part of their bodies set in a cast.
X-rays are also available in animal anatomy for all those kids who plan on becoming veterinarians.
Deliverance Van, $260
Stephen Fabrications — etsy.com
www.etsy.com
The "sculpture" of a truck is just a rusty metal box with a deer antler on rollerskate wheels. I don't think I can improve upon this blurb, however: "I intended this to be a toy and halfway through building it, I realized it was dangerous and went with the danger thing. Delivery vans (vans in general) are creepy. So is this one."
Come to think of it, it's perfect toy for your least favorite nephew.
Lunch Lady Action Figure, $11
Archie MacPhee
www.macphee.com
Can't you just smell the fish sticks and Tater Tots? Nutrition may soon be coming to a school near you, but the lunch lady who serves it will always have a hairnet and see-through plastic gloves. Anything else would be un-American. The only thing that would make this toy better would be if the food choice stickers you can apply yourself had Scratch-n-Sniff technology.
Mmmmm. ... Lime Jell-O with mystery bits. Mmmmm.
Zorbit Double Wall Inflatable Ball with Harness, $2,000
The Kids Fun Company
www.unbeatablesale.com
It's a human hamster ball, folks! Even the ad copy says words like "maximize the thrill while eliminated unnecessary risks," just not in that particular order (or with the same spelling). It's perfect for any child with an overprotective parent, or anyone who just wants their kids to go play in traffic ... safely.
What if your kids prefer water play? You don't want to risk drowning do you? For the bargain price of $800, you can get Aqua Ball. (The company originally named the device Water Walker … but you know … sales were probably sluggish and Aqua Ball just sounds so much more entertaining.) After all, the Aqua Ball is guaranteed fun. (I'm not sure it's the money-back kind, though.)
I seriously doubt you'll be needing to look elsewhere for that perfect gift this year, but I'd still like to invite you to join me on Christmas Eve as I do my last-minute holiday shopping at the liquor store. I'm just going to ask for something in the back - something, say, among the recycling? The kids will be happy. They'd rather play with the box, anyway.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Twitter may really be for the birds
I was probably knee-deep in laundry or inspecting the insides of my eyelids last weekend when the social-networking site known as Twitter exploded into a frenzy of “tweets” decrying a new ad by Johnson & Johnson for its pain reliever, Motrin.
The hubbub was over the script in which a “hip” mom was complaining (in a chatty, conversational way) about the aches and pains associated with babywearing.
The transcript is as follows:
“Wearing your baby seems to be in fashion. I mean, in theory it’s a great idea. There’s the front baby carrier, sling, schwing, wrap, pouch. And who knows what else they’ve come up with. Wear your baby on your side, your front, go hands free. Supposedly [insert air quotes here] it’s a real bonding experience. They say that babies carried close to the body tend to cry less than others. But what about me? Do moms that wear their babies cry more than those who don’t? I sure do! These things put a ton of strain on your back, your neck, your shoulders. Did I mention your back? I mean, I’ll put up with the pain because it’s a good kind of pain; it’s for my kid. Plus, it totally makes me look like an official mom. And so if I look tired and crazy, people will understand why.”
The self-dubbed #Motrinmoms were reacting mostly to the tone of the piece, which was sort of valley-girl meets Dr. Sears devotee. (If you have access to the internets you might want to peruse Youtube for “Controversial Motrin Moms Commericial” to get the full experience.)
What they were ranting against was the perception that the makers of Motrin were calling attachment parenting admirers fad-chasing, whiners more interested in appearances than in mothering.
As a babywearing mother myself, I have to admit I was a little intrigued by the responses. Here are some of them. …
BethBader: Wearing the kid was as much as fashion statement as dark circles eyes, c-section scar and spit up. I was a GODDESS, I tell you.
JenKaneCo: if Motrin was smart they'd release a new spot where mommies are popping Motrin to deal with the strain of their corp. pandering
samrolken: #motrinmoms are missing the point. The big deal is: it makes #babywearing seem "too hard," it discourages future moms with misinformation.
Even after the company apologized and pulled the ad, the viral Twittering persisted; hundreds of posts continued to log criticism of both the company’s response and the media-crushing outcry of parents.
I suppose it was just too difficult to slow that train down once it had left the station.
The posts then turned to bask in the power of the Tweet -- a 140-character line of text you can upload from the internet or your wireless phone.
I’m not even sure why this has fascinated me so, to tell you the truth. I know there are more important things to rant about than what some company, whose goal is to sell me its $8 product that I can buy generically $4, says about parenting (as if anyone really has the corner on that market anyway).
I know there are more poorly executed ads. Remember the Snickers commercial that aired during the Super Bowl, which showed two men accidentally kissing while eating from opposite ends of a Snickers bar?
I could drone on for days about how much is marketed to children; how the cartoon packaging is always placed at kids’ eye level at the grocery store, making that much harder to get through the store without being THAT person who can’t control their kids’ outbursts. And how the “Iwant-Iwant-Iwants” that come as a direct result of this type of marketing, eventually wears away the resolve of even the most disciplined of parents.
But I won’t. I know when I say black someone else says white.
I’ll just say: Twitter might really be the best research tool for marketers yet. Or it may just be for the birds.
The hubbub was over the script in which a “hip” mom was complaining (in a chatty, conversational way) about the aches and pains associated with babywearing.
The transcript is as follows:
“Wearing your baby seems to be in fashion. I mean, in theory it’s a great idea. There’s the front baby carrier, sling, schwing, wrap, pouch. And who knows what else they’ve come up with. Wear your baby on your side, your front, go hands free. Supposedly [insert air quotes here] it’s a real bonding experience. They say that babies carried close to the body tend to cry less than others. But what about me? Do moms that wear their babies cry more than those who don’t? I sure do! These things put a ton of strain on your back, your neck, your shoulders. Did I mention your back? I mean, I’ll put up with the pain because it’s a good kind of pain; it’s for my kid. Plus, it totally makes me look like an official mom. And so if I look tired and crazy, people will understand why.”
The self-dubbed #Motrinmoms were reacting mostly to the tone of the piece, which was sort of valley-girl meets Dr. Sears devotee. (If you have access to the internets you might want to peruse Youtube for “Controversial Motrin Moms Commericial” to get the full experience.)
What they were ranting against was the perception that the makers of Motrin were calling attachment parenting admirers fad-chasing, whiners more interested in appearances than in mothering.
As a babywearing mother myself, I have to admit I was a little intrigued by the responses. Here are some of them. …
BethBader: Wearing the kid was as much as fashion statement as dark circles eyes, c-section scar and spit up. I was a GODDESS, I tell you.
JenKaneCo: if Motrin was smart they'd release a new spot where mommies are popping Motrin to deal with the strain of their corp. pandering
samrolken: #motrinmoms are missing the point. The big deal is: it makes #babywearing seem "too hard," it discourages future moms with misinformation.
Even after the company apologized and pulled the ad, the viral Twittering persisted; hundreds of posts continued to log criticism of both the company’s response and the media-crushing outcry of parents.
I suppose it was just too difficult to slow that train down once it had left the station.
The posts then turned to bask in the power of the Tweet -- a 140-character line of text you can upload from the internet or your wireless phone.
I’m not even sure why this has fascinated me so, to tell you the truth. I know there are more important things to rant about than what some company, whose goal is to sell me its $8 product that I can buy generically $4, says about parenting (as if anyone really has the corner on that market anyway).
I know there are more poorly executed ads. Remember the Snickers commercial that aired during the Super Bowl, which showed two men accidentally kissing while eating from opposite ends of a Snickers bar?
I could drone on for days about how much is marketed to children; how the cartoon packaging is always placed at kids’ eye level at the grocery store, making that much harder to get through the store without being THAT person who can’t control their kids’ outbursts. And how the “Iwant-Iwant-Iwants” that come as a direct result of this type of marketing, eventually wears away the resolve of even the most disciplined of parents.
But I won’t. I know when I say black someone else says white.
I’ll just say: Twitter might really be the best research tool for marketers yet. Or it may just be for the birds.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Living in another city of brotherly love
Ittybit loves her brother.
Sometimes she loves him a little too much.
Sometimes I have to exile her to her room for a little while so she can do a little reflecting on pushing him with her feet (until he falls).
"I was just trying to tickle him."
Sometimes I have to break up their hugs (before she squeezes the last breath from his little body) ...
"I was just trying to kiss him."
Often I have to ask her to lower her voice when she sings his praises.
“I was just trying to tell him I love him.”
All this loving comes with lots of admonitions:
“Please don't hold him back. Please don't take ALL his toys. Please don't try and pick him up. Please don't crawl on top of him. Please stop yelling at him. Please don't pull on his clothes. Please stop grabbing at him. ...”
"I was just wanting to play with him."
I've tried explaining to her that he won't be little for long. One day he may even be taller and bigger than she is. She doesn't believe me. She puts growing older and growing bigger in the same category.
"How old are you going to be on your next birthday? ... I bet when that birthday comes you won't even be able to fit in your car!"
She can’t comprehend that he could ever be bigger than she is since he will never be older.
She can't imagine (the way I can) that her brother may some day wrestle her to the ground and hold a droplet of spittle an inch from her nose until she screams for mercy and he sucks it back into his mouth like a strand of spaghetti.
All she knows is that when he pulls her hair or scratches her arm, in addition to reminding her that he's just a baby – a toddling baby but still a baby – that he’s getting a little admonition, too.
“Champ, Please don’t pull the dog’s tail. We use gentle hands. Uh oh; no climbing on the table … no throwing food … we don’t throw toys into the toilet.”
She beams with delight whenever he is told to be easy on his sister or to hand back the toy he ferreted from her grasp. She wants to know all the particulars about when he’s removed to another room for a little time away from the most recent trouble.
“I told him not to jump on the couch. He’s getting a time out, isn’t he?”
“Never you mind about that, Eddie Haskel.”
“Who’s Eddie Haskel?”
I suppose I was ready for the rivalry.
I was ready for the hair pulling and the complaints about pilfered toys and overstepped borders. I was aware that entire battles would be waged over the perception of one more teaspoon of ice cream in the other’s bowls.
But I wasn’t ready for the shock of that other thing that happens, too: sibling camaraderie.
I was stunned into silence when he first clawed his way past me to wrap his arms around her in a bear hug. I was almost moved to tears when she smiled and hugged him back; gently this time.
I still kind of stand in the background with my head cocked a little like Nipper, the RCA dog, when she’s barreling down the hallway on her Plasmacar yelling, “Let’s head ’em off at the pass,” and he follows along behind, pushing his own car with his tiny legs, happily yelling something just like it in unison.
It’s a joyful noise.
Sometimes she loves him a little too much.
Sometimes I have to exile her to her room for a little while so she can do a little reflecting on pushing him with her feet (until he falls).
"I was just trying to tickle him."
Sometimes I have to break up their hugs (before she squeezes the last breath from his little body) ...
"I was just trying to kiss him."
Often I have to ask her to lower her voice when she sings his praises.
“I was just trying to tell him I love him.”
All this loving comes with lots of admonitions:
“Please don't hold him back. Please don't take ALL his toys. Please don't try and pick him up. Please don't crawl on top of him. Please stop yelling at him. Please don't pull on his clothes. Please stop grabbing at him. ...”
"I was just wanting to play with him."
I've tried explaining to her that he won't be little for long. One day he may even be taller and bigger than she is. She doesn't believe me. She puts growing older and growing bigger in the same category.
"How old are you going to be on your next birthday? ... I bet when that birthday comes you won't even be able to fit in your car!"
She can’t comprehend that he could ever be bigger than she is since he will never be older.
She can't imagine (the way I can) that her brother may some day wrestle her to the ground and hold a droplet of spittle an inch from her nose until she screams for mercy and he sucks it back into his mouth like a strand of spaghetti.
All she knows is that when he pulls her hair or scratches her arm, in addition to reminding her that he's just a baby – a toddling baby but still a baby – that he’s getting a little admonition, too.
“Champ, Please don’t pull the dog’s tail. We use gentle hands. Uh oh; no climbing on the table … no throwing food … we don’t throw toys into the toilet.”
She beams with delight whenever he is told to be easy on his sister or to hand back the toy he ferreted from her grasp. She wants to know all the particulars about when he’s removed to another room for a little time away from the most recent trouble.
“I told him not to jump on the couch. He’s getting a time out, isn’t he?”
“Never you mind about that, Eddie Haskel.”
“Who’s Eddie Haskel?”
I suppose I was ready for the rivalry.
I was ready for the hair pulling and the complaints about pilfered toys and overstepped borders. I was aware that entire battles would be waged over the perception of one more teaspoon of ice cream in the other’s bowls.
But I wasn’t ready for the shock of that other thing that happens, too: sibling camaraderie.
I was stunned into silence when he first clawed his way past me to wrap his arms around her in a bear hug. I was almost moved to tears when she smiled and hugged him back; gently this time.
I still kind of stand in the background with my head cocked a little like Nipper, the RCA dog, when she’s barreling down the hallway on her Plasmacar yelling, “Let’s head ’em off at the pass,” and he follows along behind, pushing his own car with his tiny legs, happily yelling something just like it in unison.
It’s a joyful noise.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Of politics and preschool
Ittybit didn't like our selection at the polls. She didn't want to vote for "Rock the Bama" on Election Day.
And just knowing that drove me crazy.
Sure, she really doesn't have an understanding of politics as it applies to the presidency and she couldn't legally vote even if she did. But it's not as if she doesn't comprehend politics in general.
Like all children, she fully understands that positioning herself a certain way can affect a desired change. For instance, she knows that if she asks politely she can have Halloween candy after breakfast. She also knows that if she asks the right people (Amah and Papa) she can have cookies BEFORE dinner.
Yet when we talked about voting for Barack Obama and she became a four-foot wall of protest, I was at a loss.
She didn't want to vote for "Rock the Bama," she told me, because she didn't like his name.
I'm not sure what came over me, but I immediately went on the stump as if I were Move On Dot Org and she were the choir.
"Well, of course we're voting for Barack Obama. Disliking his name IS NOT an acceptable reason to disqualify him," I responded, reeling with the vision of my own daughter one day lambasting her parents to Rush Limbaugh for once - way back before the primaries -- putting an Obama pin on her pint-sized t-shirt.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Had the weight of that metal button tipped the balance toward rebellion already?
I launched into lectures of all the reasons her father and I wanted this man in office. I spoke to my four-year-old audience in much the same way I've spoken to friends: I spoke about decency and fairness and ideology and change. I talked about beliefs and goals and ideals. I even spoke about passion: "He gives me hope, and I think hope is what we need."
She was not swayed.
"I just want Yaya," she said, invoking the name of her beloved babysitter.
"You told me we could write-in a name," she argued after she left the booth with her father, having just pulled a lever on the top row. "I didn't see any pens."
I laughed, still feeling unsettled knowing that I, in my zealous liberal way, am probably destined to raise ultra conservative children who will likely cancel my vote starting in 2024.
"When you're 18 you can vote for whomever you like," I tell her, adding that maybe it would be a good idea for her to have her own voting booth made of cardboard and decorated with stickers so she can practice. "You can campaign for Yaya, or Mickey Mouse or Pluto if you like."
"Well, I've changed my mind. I think it's time for change, too. I'm voting for Minnie Mouse. She's the one for me. After that I'll vote for Rock the Bama."
Maybe she understands more than I thought.
Maybe she understands, in her own way, that we are probably more alike than we realize. No matter who we voted for, in the end, we are all Americans. Maybe from now until Inauguration Day parents around the country should start reading the book, "Everyone Poops," at bedtime as a simple reminder of that fact.
Perhaps we all should.
And just knowing that drove me crazy.
Sure, she really doesn't have an understanding of politics as it applies to the presidency and she couldn't legally vote even if she did. But it's not as if she doesn't comprehend politics in general.
Like all children, she fully understands that positioning herself a certain way can affect a desired change. For instance, she knows that if she asks politely she can have Halloween candy after breakfast. She also knows that if she asks the right people (Amah and Papa) she can have cookies BEFORE dinner.
Yet when we talked about voting for Barack Obama and she became a four-foot wall of protest, I was at a loss.
She didn't want to vote for "Rock the Bama," she told me, because she didn't like his name.
I'm not sure what came over me, but I immediately went on the stump as if I were Move On Dot Org and she were the choir.
"Well, of course we're voting for Barack Obama. Disliking his name IS NOT an acceptable reason to disqualify him," I responded, reeling with the vision of my own daughter one day lambasting her parents to Rush Limbaugh for once - way back before the primaries -- putting an Obama pin on her pint-sized t-shirt.
I felt a twinge of guilt. Had the weight of that metal button tipped the balance toward rebellion already?
I launched into lectures of all the reasons her father and I wanted this man in office. I spoke to my four-year-old audience in much the same way I've spoken to friends: I spoke about decency and fairness and ideology and change. I talked about beliefs and goals and ideals. I even spoke about passion: "He gives me hope, and I think hope is what we need."
She was not swayed.
"I just want Yaya," she said, invoking the name of her beloved babysitter.
"You told me we could write-in a name," she argued after she left the booth with her father, having just pulled a lever on the top row. "I didn't see any pens."
I laughed, still feeling unsettled knowing that I, in my zealous liberal way, am probably destined to raise ultra conservative children who will likely cancel my vote starting in 2024.
"When you're 18 you can vote for whomever you like," I tell her, adding that maybe it would be a good idea for her to have her own voting booth made of cardboard and decorated with stickers so she can practice. "You can campaign for Yaya, or Mickey Mouse or Pluto if you like."
"Well, I've changed my mind. I think it's time for change, too. I'm voting for Minnie Mouse. She's the one for me. After that I'll vote for Rock the Bama."
Maybe she understands more than I thought.
Maybe she understands, in her own way, that we are probably more alike than we realize. No matter who we voted for, in the end, we are all Americans. Maybe from now until Inauguration Day parents around the country should start reading the book, "Everyone Poops," at bedtime as a simple reminder of that fact.
Perhaps we all should.
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Ittybit's visiting pen pal parcel post
Ittybit was pleased with herself. More accurately, she was pleased with the paper doll her teacher at the Marilla Cuthebert Academy for Unspeakably Charming Children had given her to decorate, which she promptly named after herself and painted pink.
"Look, mama! It's me. Only I don't have a sheep. And I don't have blue eyes. And my hair's not that long. ... But it's ME!"
Having an artwork doppleganger is not easy, though. These characters are incredibly hard to work with; you can't hang them on the wall with the other artwork (that would be uncomfortable) and transportation - since they must travel wherever we go - is an issue because they are incredibly fragile and prone to tears and creases.
But trek with her we must as the Flat Ittybit - like her literary cousin, Flat Stanley - enjoys looking out of the car window while we run errands.
"What?!? We can't leave her in the CAR when we go shopping! You never leave kids in the CAR!"
Thus Flat Ittybit has gone grocery shopping with us; she's gone to the park and to play dates. Sometimes she's had to stay in the car but we've been diligent in checking in on her and never straying too far.
When the mother of her pen-pal (a nice little girl named Jaylene in Taiwan) saw a recent photograph of Flat Ittybit and suggested we mail her overseas for a visit, I knew it was going to be a tough sell.
"I don't want to send her away. I want to keep her here."
"I know. ... But don't you think it would be fun to send a Flat Ittybit for a vacation? She could pretend to be you and then your pen-pal friend will take her to all the places she loves and send you pictures.
"No! It would NOT be fun. I do NOT want to send her away."
With that she began to cry.
"Ok, ok. Don't worry. We won't send Flat Ittybit away. ... In a few years, when you understand, maybe we'll send her sightseeing."
She stopped crying.
"What don't I understand?"
"It's a project," I say, emphasizing the magic word. "It would be like YOU were traveling and seeing the sights. Your friend could even send you a Flat Jaylene, and we could take her to all the places YOU like to go."
"Like Hoffman's Playland?"
"Well, Hoffman's is closed for the season."
"How about the zoo?"
"Well, we won't be near a zoo for a while."
"This doesn't sound very good, mom."
"How about the state museum? We could take Flat Jaylene to ride the carousel."
"That would be fun."
"We could bring her to your dance class."
"That WOULD be fun. Let's do it. Let's send her to Wantai."
"Taiwan."
"Oh, right." >
And with that we agreed to send Flat Ittybit to Taiwan. The problem now will be making sure she has comfortable accommodations for the trip.
"Let's make a hole in the envelope, mama. Then she can have a window seat."
Stay tuned. ...
"Look, mama! It's me. Only I don't have a sheep. And I don't have blue eyes. And my hair's not that long. ... But it's ME!"
Having an artwork doppleganger is not easy, though. These characters are incredibly hard to work with; you can't hang them on the wall with the other artwork (that would be uncomfortable) and transportation - since they must travel wherever we go - is an issue because they are incredibly fragile and prone to tears and creases.
But trek with her we must as the Flat Ittybit - like her literary cousin, Flat Stanley - enjoys looking out of the car window while we run errands.
"What?!? We can't leave her in the CAR when we go shopping! You never leave kids in the CAR!"
Thus Flat Ittybit has gone grocery shopping with us; she's gone to the park and to play dates. Sometimes she's had to stay in the car but we've been diligent in checking in on her and never straying too far.
When the mother of her pen-pal (a nice little girl named Jaylene in Taiwan) saw a recent photograph of Flat Ittybit and suggested we mail her overseas for a visit, I knew it was going to be a tough sell.
"I don't want to send her away. I want to keep her here."
"I know. ... But don't you think it would be fun to send a Flat Ittybit for a vacation? She could pretend to be you and then your pen-pal friend will take her to all the places she loves and send you pictures.
"No! It would NOT be fun. I do NOT want to send her away."
With that she began to cry.
"Ok, ok. Don't worry. We won't send Flat Ittybit away. ... In a few years, when you understand, maybe we'll send her sightseeing."
She stopped crying.
"What don't I understand?"
"It's a project," I say, emphasizing the magic word. "It would be like YOU were traveling and seeing the sights. Your friend could even send you a Flat Jaylene, and we could take her to all the places YOU like to go."
"Like Hoffman's Playland?"
"Well, Hoffman's is closed for the season."
"How about the zoo?"
"Well, we won't be near a zoo for a while."
"This doesn't sound very good, mom."
"How about the state museum? We could take Flat Jaylene to ride the carousel."
"That would be fun."
"We could bring her to your dance class."
"That WOULD be fun. Let's do it. Let's send her to Wantai."
"Taiwan."
"Oh, right." >
And with that we agreed to send Flat Ittybit to Taiwan. The problem now will be making sure she has comfortable accommodations for the trip.
"Let's make a hole in the envelope, mama. Then she can have a window seat."
Stay tuned. ...
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Not your average chilling goat story
I didn’t really want to go into the “petting zoo” at the apple orchard. It never even occurred to me that I might have to despite the fact that it was I who suggested that our play date companions meet at the farm precisely because it was so kid-friendly. “It even has a petting zoo,” I believe were my exact words.
I live in a world separated from reality by a mind swirling in fog. I can admit it.
In my defense, however, I had taken many a dear friend to this particular farm to pick apples and play on the playground equipment (not to mention gawk at the one thing that makes this particular apple place unique in all the region) and it had always been enough for our tender charges to look at the barnyard critters through the chain-link fence. No one had ever actually wanted to pet one.
This trip, however, it was immediately apparent things would be different. Ittybit had made a shocking discovery at the farm stand: a little tray of paper cups filled with feed.
Otherwise it had been an ordinary visit: We had stood in line at aforementioned stand in order to fork over $11.50 for an empty bag. We had walked forever to get to the wrong place and had to go back. We found the right place, dragging boneless children behind us, and picked our peck of apples. We even walked between the potty and the playground more times than I have fingers to count.
That’s when Ittybit remembered the paper cups. She’d seen people her size cajoling people my size into buying them. Now, as we were on our way out, she wanted to feed the animals, too.
“Please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-plea-zah?”
What could I do? I had gone to Rome.
Not only did we have to walk through a mine field of goose grease to get to the pasture containing the sweet little rabbits and chickens and pigs and pygmy goats, but we also had to pay a buck and a half for the pleasure. This and nary a bottle of hand-sanitizer in hand or even attached to the fencepost -- where, arguably, a goat could have gotten into it and wound up either drunk or poisoned (I’m fairly certain goats will eat a tin can if you let them).
But I digress.
It’s not that I think having pint-sized farm animals eating out of the palm of one’s hand isn’t worth the price of a tiny disposable cup filled with grain. And it’s not as if the farm, an autumnal destination spot for folks just like us, was without a restroom where we would be able to wash our hands in warm soapy water later on. It’s just that I was ready to move on to the lunch portion of the program. I wanted my little cup filled with warm mochaccino not woody pellets.
Ah well, I put on a smile and marched the kids right up to the petting zoo gate and proceeded, in my unearned confidence, to release two goats.
Woosh.
Woosh.
Gone.
Only, the goats didn’t actually disappear. The petting zoo inhabitants stayed nearby, munching on the lowest leaves on some apple trees and mostly ignoring our efforts to lure them back to captivity with our tiny cups of grain.
I was mortified.
Now mingling with the fog in my brain is a chorus of angry farmers singing (in unison and with four-part harmony) “WHO LET THE GOATS OUT?”
“They must be used to this,” said my friend, trying to console my guilty soul by pointing out there was no one in authority tending the zoo or assisting stroller-driving visitors safely past the gate and the wily goats.
“Maybe if I had that mochaccino I could have lured the goats back to the pen,” I tell Ittybit, reminded of a movie we’d seen lately in which an animated deer had a thing for frothy coffee drinks.
“I don’t think so, mama,” she told me, having herself taken a sip of one of my caffeinated beverages recently. “It really isn’t anything like ‘freedom in a cup’.”
I live in a world separated from reality by a mind swirling in fog. I can admit it.
In my defense, however, I had taken many a dear friend to this particular farm to pick apples and play on the playground equipment (not to mention gawk at the one thing that makes this particular apple place unique in all the region) and it had always been enough for our tender charges to look at the barnyard critters through the chain-link fence. No one had ever actually wanted to pet one.
This trip, however, it was immediately apparent things would be different. Ittybit had made a shocking discovery at the farm stand: a little tray of paper cups filled with feed.
Otherwise it had been an ordinary visit: We had stood in line at aforementioned stand in order to fork over $11.50 for an empty bag. We had walked forever to get to the wrong place and had to go back. We found the right place, dragging boneless children behind us, and picked our peck of apples. We even walked between the potty and the playground more times than I have fingers to count.
That’s when Ittybit remembered the paper cups. She’d seen people her size cajoling people my size into buying them. Now, as we were on our way out, she wanted to feed the animals, too.
“Please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-plea-zah?”
What could I do? I had gone to Rome.
Not only did we have to walk through a mine field of goose grease to get to the pasture containing the sweet little rabbits and chickens and pigs and pygmy goats, but we also had to pay a buck and a half for the pleasure. This and nary a bottle of hand-sanitizer in hand or even attached to the fencepost -- where, arguably, a goat could have gotten into it and wound up either drunk or poisoned (I’m fairly certain goats will eat a tin can if you let them).
But I digress.
It’s not that I think having pint-sized farm animals eating out of the palm of one’s hand isn’t worth the price of a tiny disposable cup filled with grain. And it’s not as if the farm, an autumnal destination spot for folks just like us, was without a restroom where we would be able to wash our hands in warm soapy water later on. It’s just that I was ready to move on to the lunch portion of the program. I wanted my little cup filled with warm mochaccino not woody pellets.
Ah well, I put on a smile and marched the kids right up to the petting zoo gate and proceeded, in my unearned confidence, to release two goats.
Woosh.
Woosh.
Gone.
Only, the goats didn’t actually disappear. The petting zoo inhabitants stayed nearby, munching on the lowest leaves on some apple trees and mostly ignoring our efforts to lure them back to captivity with our tiny cups of grain.
I was mortified.
Now mingling with the fog in my brain is a chorus of angry farmers singing (in unison and with four-part harmony) “WHO LET THE GOATS OUT?”
“They must be used to this,” said my friend, trying to console my guilty soul by pointing out there was no one in authority tending the zoo or assisting stroller-driving visitors safely past the gate and the wily goats.
“Maybe if I had that mochaccino I could have lured the goats back to the pen,” I tell Ittybit, reminded of a movie we’d seen lately in which an animated deer had a thing for frothy coffee drinks.
“I don’t think so, mama,” she told me, having herself taken a sip of one of my caffeinated beverages recently. “It really isn’t anything like ‘freedom in a cup’.”
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Llama Llama wedding mama
My right hand was hurting. I could feel the uncomfortable pull of muscle in the meat of the palm along its outer edge.
I started to worry a little. I am a worrier. That’s what I do; I worry.
“What is this?” I ask myself, wondering what injury could have happened as my attentions were focused elsewhere. “Why does my hand hurt?”
Then I notice the readout of my camera’s data card: “1,300.”
“Thirteen hundred photographs!” I blurted as my husband stealthily slipped a third piece of cake from the serving table. “Holy crow, that’s the most I’ve ever shot at one event in my entire life!”
He was a little startled by the outburst but managed to save the creamy slice of Persian Love Cake — garnished with sugared rose petals — from toppling over and falling to the ground.
“Don’t do that,” he chided drolly. “You could have made me drop the cake, and that would have been a REAL tragedy.”
We were at the wedding of a friend. It was the first time we’d been alone together – without children – for an entire day in years. But we were still kind of separate. I was “working” as the official photographer and he was “working” to ensure as many morsels of food were tested for possible contamination as courteously possible.
“I want to make sure there’s enough for everyone,” he joked as he sampled the rich dessert from my plate. “Mmmmmmm, cake.”
I laughed and plucked a petal from his plate with my good hand.
I’ve been photographing weddings semi-professionally for years, but I never really thought about how different each one is from another, especially since most of the circumstances that bring two people together seem identical. Even the progression of events from first blush to old hat seems utterly predictable:
Boy meets girl; boy loses girl; boy gets girl back; boy proposes; girl rejects him; boy ignores girl, proposes again; she accepts; they set the date … and then all hell breaks loose.
Because in between the moment that true love is understood and the moment in which an officiate declares them to be husband and wife there are so many tiny details an otherwise happy couple can trip over. The whos, wheres, how muchs not withstanding, there’s also the whos will sit wheres; and the what colors will we use for the thing-a-ma-jigies on the tables; and the where should we registers, and how do we tell people where we registered once we have; not to mention the who’s going to catch the llamas if the flower girl drops the lead line as she pilots the wooly beast down the aisle?
Ok. Most folks don’t have to worry about that last one, but it was a logistical concern this couple had to figure out.
Months of stress over one day can rock any relationship. And, put in those terms, perhaps one might understand, if not applaud, the desire of some couples say their wedding vows in Vegas.
I’d always thought that’s what I’d do if the lie I always told myself — that I’d NEVER get married; that I’d NEVER have kids — didn’t pan out; I’d elope.
But I didn’t elope and I’m glad my friend didn’t either.
It just seems weddings, for all their headaches and expense, are the surest sign of hope we can share with hundreds of our closest friends and family.
Of course now with 1,300 captured moments to whittle down to a manageable number, I have to spend the next year processing my gift to the happy couple. Ah well, at least the llamas will keep it interesting and I’ll always remember that cake.
I started to worry a little. I am a worrier. That’s what I do; I worry.
“What is this?” I ask myself, wondering what injury could have happened as my attentions were focused elsewhere. “Why does my hand hurt?”
Then I notice the readout of my camera’s data card: “1,300.”
“Thirteen hundred photographs!” I blurted as my husband stealthily slipped a third piece of cake from the serving table. “Holy crow, that’s the most I’ve ever shot at one event in my entire life!”
He was a little startled by the outburst but managed to save the creamy slice of Persian Love Cake — garnished with sugared rose petals — from toppling over and falling to the ground.
“Don’t do that,” he chided drolly. “You could have made me drop the cake, and that would have been a REAL tragedy.”
We were at the wedding of a friend. It was the first time we’d been alone together – without children – for an entire day in years. But we were still kind of separate. I was “working” as the official photographer and he was “working” to ensure as many morsels of food were tested for possible contamination as courteously possible.
“I want to make sure there’s enough for everyone,” he joked as he sampled the rich dessert from my plate. “Mmmmmmm, cake.”
I laughed and plucked a petal from his plate with my good hand.
I’ve been photographing weddings semi-professionally for years, but I never really thought about how different each one is from another, especially since most of the circumstances that bring two people together seem identical. Even the progression of events from first blush to old hat seems utterly predictable:
Boy meets girl; boy loses girl; boy gets girl back; boy proposes; girl rejects him; boy ignores girl, proposes again; she accepts; they set the date … and then all hell breaks loose.
Because in between the moment that true love is understood and the moment in which an officiate declares them to be husband and wife there are so many tiny details an otherwise happy couple can trip over. The whos, wheres, how muchs not withstanding, there’s also the whos will sit wheres; and the what colors will we use for the thing-a-ma-jigies on the tables; and the where should we registers, and how do we tell people where we registered once we have; not to mention the who’s going to catch the llamas if the flower girl drops the lead line as she pilots the wooly beast down the aisle?
Ok. Most folks don’t have to worry about that last one, but it was a logistical concern this couple had to figure out.
Months of stress over one day can rock any relationship. And, put in those terms, perhaps one might understand, if not applaud, the desire of some couples say their wedding vows in Vegas.
I’d always thought that’s what I’d do if the lie I always told myself — that I’d NEVER get married; that I’d NEVER have kids — didn’t pan out; I’d elope.
But I didn’t elope and I’m glad my friend didn’t either.
It just seems weddings, for all their headaches and expense, are the surest sign of hope we can share with hundreds of our closest friends and family.
Of course now with 1,300 captured moments to whittle down to a manageable number, I have to spend the next year processing my gift to the happy couple. Ah well, at least the llamas will keep it interesting and I’ll always remember that cake.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Covert redemption: Escaping - one toy at a time
Sometimes I feel like Andy Dufresne from the movie Shawshank Redemption, only without the dank prison walls or the murder conviction. I certainly lack his look of perpetual calm as he strolls through the "yard."
My prison walls have a fresh coat of paint and new trim. And our "yard" is littered with toys and weeds and other objects a more genteel writer might avoid mentioning at all. While I don’t have shackles or chains, I do have a dog and an ever-expanding array of consumables that don’t seem to ever get fully digested.
Not only is our lawn a mess of unmentionables, our house is cluttered with the damage of nearly six Christmases, six birthday parties and just as many years' worth of weekly trips to the grocery store and the local discounters during which some little plastic something always wound up coming home with us.
It's almost too painful to survey the wreckage because of guilt, or, more specifically, my inability to resist the ubiquitous two-part question: "Wow, that-looks-cool, mom. Can I have that?"
Some people look around in the spring and try and rid themselves of winter excess; but fall is when I look to fatten up the Army of my Salvation.
I am reminded of the "Shawshank" protagonist not entirely because I feel trapped in a prison of things, but also because of how Morgan Freeman's character, Red, speaks of him during that crucial point in the film where we realize Dufresne has done the impossible: he engineered his escape while under the careful watch of his captors.
He says: "Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big God-damned poster. Like I said, in prison a man will do anything to keep his mind occupied. It turns out Andy's favorite hobby was totin' his wall through the exercise yard, a handful at a time."
So in some strange way, It's Red's voice I hear in my head as I sweep the broken crayons off the floor and into the dustpan, silently dumping them into the trash whenever my tiny jailors are looking the other way.
I am reminded of the crinkle of the pin-up girl posters Dufresne toiled under late at night, and the tiny rock hammer that should have been futile, as I tiptoe through my ittybity warden's bedroom late at night, extracting clothes and toys she's outgrown to hide them away.
With respect to time and pressure, I am cunning. A trip to the park with her father offers enough precious time to rid the tub of moldy, soap encrusted toys and line the bottom of the recycling bin with precious, albeit quickly scribbled, coloring book pages.
Each time I drag a small piece of the growing pile of belongings out of the house unnoticed, I feel a little lighter. In that instant when I drop bag of last year’s shorts and sundresses into the donation bin, I feel — as the character, Dufresne, must have when he let the bits of his cell wall fall through his fingers — that much closer to freedom.
I've even learned -- through other mothers in partnership of such crimes -- to cover my tracks with only a fresh face and a little slight of hand whenever the spotlight glares upon my deeds.
"Mommy, have you seen my little doll (that I haven't ever played with but because it's now missing I've somehow remembered having owned it).”
“Oh, dear. I don't know," I say with my hand spiraling into the air, signaling toward the considerable clutter still remaining. "It must be around here someplace."
When she looks in the direction of my airy wave, shrugging her shoulders satisfied with my answer, wouldn't you know … the calm I've been waiting for washes over me.
My prison walls have a fresh coat of paint and new trim. And our "yard" is littered with toys and weeds and other objects a more genteel writer might avoid mentioning at all. While I don’t have shackles or chains, I do have a dog and an ever-expanding array of consumables that don’t seem to ever get fully digested.
Not only is our lawn a mess of unmentionables, our house is cluttered with the damage of nearly six Christmases, six birthday parties and just as many years' worth of weekly trips to the grocery store and the local discounters during which some little plastic something always wound up coming home with us.
It's almost too painful to survey the wreckage because of guilt, or, more specifically, my inability to resist the ubiquitous two-part question: "Wow, that-looks-cool, mom. Can I have that?"
Some people look around in the spring and try and rid themselves of winter excess; but fall is when I look to fatten up the Army of my Salvation.
I am reminded of the "Shawshank" protagonist not entirely because I feel trapped in a prison of things, but also because of how Morgan Freeman's character, Red, speaks of him during that crucial point in the film where we realize Dufresne has done the impossible: he engineered his escape while under the careful watch of his captors.
He says: "Geology is the study of pressure and time. That's all it takes really, pressure, and time. That, and a big God-damned poster. Like I said, in prison a man will do anything to keep his mind occupied. It turns out Andy's favorite hobby was totin' his wall through the exercise yard, a handful at a time."
So in some strange way, It's Red's voice I hear in my head as I sweep the broken crayons off the floor and into the dustpan, silently dumping them into the trash whenever my tiny jailors are looking the other way.
I am reminded of the crinkle of the pin-up girl posters Dufresne toiled under late at night, and the tiny rock hammer that should have been futile, as I tiptoe through my ittybity warden's bedroom late at night, extracting clothes and toys she's outgrown to hide them away.
With respect to time and pressure, I am cunning. A trip to the park with her father offers enough precious time to rid the tub of moldy, soap encrusted toys and line the bottom of the recycling bin with precious, albeit quickly scribbled, coloring book pages.
Each time I drag a small piece of the growing pile of belongings out of the house unnoticed, I feel a little lighter. In that instant when I drop bag of last year’s shorts and sundresses into the donation bin, I feel — as the character, Dufresne, must have when he let the bits of his cell wall fall through his fingers — that much closer to freedom.
I've even learned -- through other mothers in partnership of such crimes -- to cover my tracks with only a fresh face and a little slight of hand whenever the spotlight glares upon my deeds.
"Mommy, have you seen my little doll (that I haven't ever played with but because it's now missing I've somehow remembered having owned it).”
“Oh, dear. I don't know," I say with my hand spiraling into the air, signaling toward the considerable clutter still remaining. "It must be around here someplace."
When she looks in the direction of my airy wave, shrugging her shoulders satisfied with my answer, wouldn't you know … the calm I've been waiting for washes over me.
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