Monday, December 24, 2012

Two And A Half Women


It's a family picture. But the rest of us are nonexistent.
           Our house got decidedly more female a couple of weeks ago when my 18-year-old niece Riley came to stay with us for a while. Words can’t begin to express how excited Chris is to have her older cousin living with her. I’m pretty happy too since it relieves me of having to explain why she can’t have a sister or brother.
            One thing I have noticed is that I was quickly replaced as the cool older person in the house. Not that I ever dressed cool, but my clothes seem even more mom-like when Chris sees her teenage cousin’s wardrobe. Chris’ whole goal in life, right now, is finding the perfect game that Riley will want to spend hours playing with her.
            Now pretty much nothing I say means anything at all unless it’s given the Riley stamp of approval. I could beg Chris for days to clean her room but until Riley says in her party voice, “Let’s clean your room together!” does it ever get done. This phenomenon was proved recently at our Girl Scout Christmas party.          During the Secret Santa gift exchange Chris drew the last number and got to either open the last gift on the table or steal another girl’s gift. While she did love all the other gifts, I suspect she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings so she opted to open the last gift on the table which hadn’t been chosen yet because it was the smallest bag. In slow-motion, the mother next to me placed her hand on my arm and said, “I’m soooooo soooorrrrrryyyyy.”
            Before I had a chance to ask why, she was interrupted by dogs barking outside, car alarms pealing, glass shattering and girls covering their ears with cookie-stuffed hands. Turns out Chris really, really, REALLY liked what was inside – fake fingernails.
This is truly something Chris has begged for off an on for about four years. Yes, I know she’s only six herself but the obsession started early. We can’t walk through the pharmacy without the constant volleying of “Pleeeze? No! Whyyyyy? Because I said so!” I am so against these fake fingernails that this is one area where I have successfully been able to tune out the begging.
            When Chris called her father later to tell him excitedly about the gift, he got me on the phone and asked just “Why the heck would some genius braniac buy a six-year-old fake fingernails?” This is one area where we agree. But I did have to inform him I don’t blame the Girl Scout mother who purchased those fingernails. After all, she has two kids so I’m sure the constant barrage in stereo is even more difficult to resist. Besides, she probably figured it is better to give than to have her kid walking around looking like a chain-smoking cocktail waitress.
            So here we were, stuck with fake fingernails – albeit “child-friendly” ones with Minnie Mouse decorations – that Chris ripped out of the package on the drive home where they immediately stuck to the car floor mats. Correction, they stuck to the food particles and dirt ground into the car floor mats and guess who had to pick them out?
            Anyway, I staved her off for a few days, explaining that these were to be saved for a special occasion. I also reminded her that her teacher wouldn’t relish finding fingernails all over the classroom and she certainly didn’t want to find one in her lunch or lose one at the monkey bars. Each day, though, she asked me if it was a special occasion until I finally couldn’t put her off any longer and I had to allow her to wear them to a family get-together. What better special occasion could there be for a manicure than grandpa’s birthday?
            I figured at least we were among family and not out where the general public could judge me for hussying up my kid. Since there are no instructions for these dang nails, we applied what we could only assume were the correct nails to the correct corresponding fingers. Immediately Chris needed help pulling up her jeans and pushing the hair out of her face.
I told her right away I didn’t like them. They made her hands look like she was pushing 35 and I was having mini-nightmares about those long fingernails getting in the way of her holding onto a stripper pole.
            Soon my 19-year-old nephew and his girlfriend showed up and Chris greeted them with “the claws”, as she so aptly named her new fingertips. They screwed up their faces and Jacob told her he didn’t like those nails and they looked weird.
            She gave a humph and ran for the door where her precious Riley had just entered and showed her “the claws.” Riley gave a little laugh, looked at me strangely and said, “I thought you told her she couldn’t get fake nails until she was at least 18?” Yes, she had already told Riley about her obsession. I replied that they were a gift so I really didn’t have a say in it. But like a trouper Riley said loudly, “I don’t like those. She looks like she’s one of those…one of those….pageant kids. You know, the ones whose parents dress them up like creepy dolls?”
Creepy. Am I right?
            Yes. I am aware. And I agreed wholeheartedly. So here’s what happened next.
            Despite years of me telling Chris fake nails were creepy and that she couldn’t have them, despite her male cousin and her grandparents telling her they were weird, all it took was her cousin Riley to tell her they were strange. No less than five minutes later Chris asked to take the nails off because they were making her hands feel funny. She tried to play it off like some funky fungus was already taking root and making her fingertips itch, and to my credit I didn’t point out the obvious that she loved them until Riley said they were strange. I just thanked my lucky stars that Riley walked in the door at that point and saved the day.
Not sure who is giving makeup lessons.
            I guess one could look at the bad side of having a teenager around, but so far my liquor cabinet has remained untouched and I haven’t had to kick any boys out of her bedroom. So all is copasetic and frankly I’m thrilled that someone else will get off the couch to go outside and play so I can watch NCIS in peace. I’m going to ride that gravy train as long as I can.

Monday, December 17, 2012

Go Big or Go Home. No really. Go Home.





Can't tell what this is? This was my day.
            Is it just me, or does anyone else get a little bitter when your kid takes credit for something you’ve done?
            At a recent Christmas cookie exchange I placed my gorgeous confections on the table for viewing. When everyone ooohed and ahhed over the reindeer cookies I had slaved over, Chris blurted out, “Those are mine! I brought those!”
            Oh really? You’re the one who was up to her elbows in flour at 11 p.m. as you peered through butter-smeared glasses at an egg-stained recipe card and said many, many bad words when you had to fly to the grocery store in your slippers because earlier you bought baking soda instead of baking powder? Cuz I could have sworn that was me.
Pre-Chaos.
            Like most of my stories, it started with good intentions. I had Norman Rockwellian visions of baking up some sugar cookie sweet memories with my daughter. She asked if she could invite her friends over for a cookie decorating party and in one insane moment I agreed. I mean, how hard could it be to invite over three or four little girls who will titter over gingerbread men and glittery sugar?
            Stupid. I am so, so stupid sometimes.
            Here’s how it went down.
            After spending the weekend lazing around at her father house while I slaved over the afore-mentioned cookies, cookies and more cookies, Chris came home refreshed and ready to party. She took one look at the kitchen table that was beginning to buckle with tasty goodness, rolled her eyes and had the audacity to say, “You went a little overboard on the cookies, don’t you think?”
            Where has she been the last six years? She should know I don’t do anything just a little bit. Besides, I usually don’t mind baking, mostly because I definitely don’t mind eating.
Don't be fooled. This is a staged photo. Chris didn't do anything close to this type of work. It was me. All me.
Anyway, only one out of eight kids RSVP’d that she would be attending. Her mother dropped her off precisely at 3 p.m. and exclaimed at the amount of baking I had done – she’s a mother, she knows who really does all the work. I assured her that we would have a lovely time and hopefully a couple of other kids would show up to join Chris and her daughter for the festivities.
Before she made it around the corner, the doorbell began to ring so often that we had our very own Carol of the Bells in the works. Soon there was something like 10 kids, even a couple who I had only briefly seen once or twice around the neighborhood, bellying up to my cookie table. Some were the male siblings of girls who had actually received invitations. Others I think blindly followed the line of kids hypnotized by the whiff of sugar in the air and were drawn to the frosting like moths to a flame.
Either way, I was a little overwhelmed as I turned around and handed out plates to swarming hands. My one intelligent move for the day was ordering Chris to usher her friends to the bathroom for hand washing. Judging from the brown sink I was left with, it was a necessity.
I wish the brown sink was the least of my worries. With so many kids it became a free-for-all with gel frosting dripping off tablecloths, red frosting knives shoved chaotically in white frosting containers, and glitter-sugar cookies being bumped to the floor. They elbowed each other and frantically grabbed at marshmallows, chocolate chips and snuck M&Ms.
And that still wasn’t the worst of it.
It didn’t take long before they tired of the tedium of decorating for 30 seconds or more. Then they didn’t even bother with the show of placing the candies on the cookies and instead placed them directly in their mouths and washed them down with squirts of frosting and giggles.
It all went downhill from there.
I made these adorable melted
snowman cookies and reindeer.
You think they appreciated them? No.
They just wanted the sugar.
The cookie table was abandoned. Kids ran upstairs and downstairs, slamming doors, tripping over dogs, screaming and chasing one another, throwing toys willy nilly into the air and jumping on beds. I had lost all control and I weakly repeated the only rule that seemed to be heard of the dull roar, “Stay out of my room.” I found a Rapunzel castle in the laundry room, a bowl of candy in the dog’s crate, a jewelry box under the kitchen sink, and I will probably find frosting in the tile grout for weeks.
            It seemed to me that hours passed in which I wrung my hands and wondered just how much the law would allow one to yell at another parent’s kid when the doorbell rang again and my fellow mother stepped into my house laughing. “Having fun?” she said with a snort, taking in my frizzy hair, smeared makeup, red and green floor, and cowering dogs. Plus, she could hear the screaming laughter coming from down the block so she knew the kind of hell of which I was currently in the midst
            Alas, it had only been about an hour since she had left me with only two sweet little angel girls.
            She drug her sugar-strung-out child out the door and I went about the task of trying to send the other demons back to their own parents. This turned out to be a Herculean task, as when kids learn that they have free reign of the upstairs along with all the candy they can jam into their chubby jowls, they aren’t too keen on giving it up. But I egged them out the door with the promise that they could take home all the cookies they decorated. One girl took home four plates and I was all too happy to ply her entire family with diabetes just to get her and a few other children of my hair. Other kids I had to literally sweep out the door with protestations that I needed my bed and they needed some non-glucose-based supper.
            As Chris cried in sadness that her friends were now gone, I looked around at the war-torn living room and reminded her that this was our very first and very last cookie decorating party and that she would not be playing with her friends until she cleaned up.
That kid, she’s no dummy. She gave me a big hug and called me the best mommy in the whole world. I smiled in relief while all the while her hand snaked around my backside to sneak a cookie.
“No! More! Cookies!” I screamed while she ran to the corner to shove in as many crumbs in as she could before I smacked it out of her hand.
I needn’t have bothered. By then she was beginning to crash from the sugar high and passed out on   the couch with half a cookie in one hand and a face covered in blue sprinkles.
I wasn’t far behind. Next time I have one of those Norman Rockwell moments will someone please knock some sense into me?
Dreaming of her next Party Of Terror.

Monday, December 3, 2012

The Best-Laid Photo Plans Gone Awry





If it's not the hair, it's the facial expression. 
            This time, it was the dog that ended up with crazy hair.
            You see, when you say the word “short” at the doggie hair salon, they assume you mean “shaved within an inch of his life.” So our cute, floppy haired Viggo ended up looking like an overgrown Chihuahua.
            All in time for our Christmas photo.
I am saving your eyes from pee stains.
You're welcome.
            It’s a nice change of pace because usually it’s Chris who ruins my best-laid photo plans. It all started with one of her first baby portraits. I had seen gorgeous photos of serene looking babies wearing angel wings with light glowing all around that brought to mind a Hallelujah chorus announcing a gift from heaven. I took a couple of photography classes in college and was confident I could recreate the scene.
            Little did I know, babies take the first naked opportunity to pee everywhere as if they have horse-sized bladders that have stored up a week’s worth of urine. As I laid Chris down on a sweet blanket and arranged her glittery wings in the lazy afternoon light, she mewled like a kitten, turned her head and let it all go. So I got one – ONE – photo of her in the angel wings before I disgustedly threw the blanket in the washing machine and gave up.
Whew! It's tiring being a kid!
            Then she grew hair. Oh, does this kid have some hair! And when it’s styled the correct way, I am not bragging when I say perfect strangers gush about the state of her curls. It’s just a fact. When it hasn’t been styled (or messed with by a little kid who should know better than to touch her own hair without professional tutoring) it brings to mind more of a “finger in a light socket” scenario.
            I have learned through countless mornings of knots and tears that the best course of action is to brush said hair when it’s wet, throw in a dab of gel and DO NOT TOUCH. So, of course, when I send Chris to school on her very first kindergarten school portrait day it just makes sense that she would spend half the morning at school preparing by running a brush through the individual spiral curls until she made fuzz. There’s no other word for it – just fuzz. I wish I could show you an example but I’m sure the photographers posted it up in their hall of fame while laughing hysterically and sent us a note suggesting retakes.
            For the professional photos we took when Chris was 3, she didn’t mess with her hair. She posed perfectly like a practiced supermodel. Everything fell into place. Until she opened her mouth in a grin and the world was exposed to a graying tooth she had fallen on and killed a couple of weeks before. We were so close to the ideal photo situation, but were derailed by that one little dental hitch.
            When I flip through photo albums, I can find plenty of just-woken drugged-up looking pics. Others were snapped with Chris in the crib wearing a surprised expression that made it appear we shackled her in jail. And then there are the impromptu snaps I snuck while she chewed on her toes like a wild animal. None of those are wall-worthy, but they all serve their future blackmail purpose.
            But when I actually spend money to take a special photo, I want it to be one that people ooh and ahh over; one that makes us look like the type of family that actually has it all together, even if that’s usually pretty far from the truth.
            What I usually end up with is a new psychiatrist’s referral, a hoarse voice from yelling and pit stains from stress.
What a beautiful picture!
Just ignore the tooth area.
When I see those beautiful, plaid Christmas dresses I always buy them thinking, “This is the year we’re are going to get one of those pictures that look like they came right out of a portrait studio catalogue.” But my best plans are always dashed by something. It makes me want to yell out to everyone I see, “I promise! She looked fantastic before we left the house! I swear! You should have seen it!”
            So I give up. From now on I plan to play to our strengths – constant chaos. This year I’m just going to go with the flow and I figure if I set out to take an intentionally crazy Christmas photo I will either get one hilarious card, or the law of opposites will work in my favor and I’ll finally achieve the holy grail of beautiful Christmas pictures.
            It’s all set to go down this afternoon. This weekend I dug out the fancy camera bought to creating lasting memories but instead ended up gathering dust in a corner of the closet, and practiced up on lighting techniques. I’ve purchased cute outfits and accessories and have actually cleaned up around here in an effort to create a backdrop not filled with junk.
            All I can say is wish us luck.
Yum, toes! I think this may be the high school graduation picture.

Would have been a great summer picture except for the "duh" face and the upside down glasses.
See what I mean. We jailed her as we do with all our 4-month-olds.


Monday, November 26, 2012

How To Dress For the Attention You Probably Won't Get

I know you don't care, but this is how you do pretty shoes.

           A couple of weeks ago, Chris and I spent a day home from school and work babysitting a friend’s 3-year-old son. Despite the fact that he is three years her junior, Chris shot out of bed that morning and informed me she was going to wear a dress because she “wanted to look nice for Landon.” I know it’s fruitless to argue with her when she has the perfect outfit designed in her head - snowboots in August and tank tops at Christmas Eve dinner are the norm if she is out to impress someone.
Dressing up. As usual.
I texted my friend with the news that my daughter was already honing her skills of dressing for young men who probably won’t even notice. I hope Chris is prepared for the future of agonizing over her closet for the perfect date-night outfit when pretty much anything, including hole-ly sweatpants, is as good as the next thing.
I don’t really think it is the fault of the male sex that they don’t notice our attire, no matter how many sequins my mother thinks are necessary. Fortunately clothes aren’t the most important thing to everybody on the planet, especially boys who may only realize they’re wearing clothes when their mothers are yelling at them for covering them with dirt and holes.
I do believe, though, that for some girls an obsession with fashion is ingrained in our DNA. It’s possible Chris caught the fashion bug from me. But although I do like to clean myself up now and then I’ve never been known as the snappiest dresser on the planet. In Chris’ case, I believe her desire to dress up is only part Disney Channel advertising influence, and a larger part genetics.
I distinctly remember my niece Riley when she was about Chris’ age coming for a visit and talking me into taking her and my nephew shopping. While my nephew gravitated instantly towards a Spider Man t-shirt and shorts that could take a bit of rough-housing, my niece instead begged for the frilliest dress in the store. I tried to steer her towards a “play” outfit, but much like Chris my niece was able to hypnotize me with glitter until I whipped out my wallet and bought her that stinking dress.
Frilly skirt and glittery shoes and
you will get a high-wattage smile.
Once the fabric slipped over her head, Riley proceeded to twirl in front of everyone in the house and asked, “Don’t I look pretty?” Of course, everyone agreed. How could one not when it comes to a six-year-old in a fancy dress that lights up her face?
Well I could. Kind of.
When the “Don’t I look pretty?” question was asked of me, I stared Riley straight in her eyes and replied, “You look very smart.”
Crickets chirped in the background and her eyes rolled so high they nearly saw the back of her hairdo. Then my niece turned on her heels (the highest kid heels I could stand to purchase, of course) and moved on to the next adult who would fulfill her ego by telling her that her dress was nearly as beautiful as her.
With the right clothes, I will always look this cute.
I sigh every time my daughter asks me the same question. I sigh because I know that no matter how much I want to instill in her a self-confidence that doesn’t rely on a dress size or clear skin or flowing golden hair, shopping will drive those things far from her mind. She may not want to turn into a simpering idiot every time a cute boy comes around, but I can almost guarantee she will run to her room and throw on a more attractive outfit if she sees that cute boy nearby.
So back to Landon.
When he and his mother entered our house a couple of weeks ago, Chris could barely contain her excitement at showing off her new Hello Kitty dress. She preened in her chair at the breakfast table and batted her eyes as she asked him, “Do you like my dress?”
True to form, Landon chewed his pancakes thoughtfully as he looked her up and down. Then quietly came the answer, “Can we go to the park?”
What can you expect from a 3-year-old? Or I guess any man?
Don’t worry, Chris didn’t seem disappointed. She will just wear a more glittery dress next time.
The ultimate dress-up.

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Get to Work!


Finally earning her keep.
           Chris was hit with the enterprise bug this weekend. According to her father, she had the brilliant idea that she would make bracelets and sell them to strangers passing by on the streets. She set to work feverishly creating a cardboard billboard and cut strings for 15 bracelets, but inevitably she ran out of steam and finished only two of the masterpieces. After all, ‘Drake and Josh’ was on Netflix.
            You know how the rest of the story goes. The materials will sit for months, maybe even forever, until someone gets disgusted and throws it all away. That’s when Chris will throw herself on the ground and declare she could have been a bazillionaire if only evil, lazy adults didn't stand in her way.
            I suspect her enterprising spirit was awakened last week when Chris’ school decided to have a “Coins for Turkeys” fundraiser in which they asked students to bring in money to help buy Thanksgiving turkeys for the needy. True to her roots, Chris decided everybody needed food for the holidays and went about a quest to find as many coins as possible to donate.
Someday Mommy can retire while Chris
actually earns allowance for something other
than just being cute.
Since most of the coins from the bottom of my purse soon end up in her piggy bank, it was a no-brainer for her to donate her own money for the cause. But problems soon identified themselves when she realized if she donated all her hard-earned allowance, she would have no funds left for much-needed toy shopping.
It’s a conundrum for an only child who has spent most of her life having everything handed to her. It’s a fine line we walk in giving her all the things we always wished for as a child, and trying to teach her about compassion, independence and the value of manual labor. 
Although her father and I have talked extensively about the fact that we want her to have a job as a teenager so she can learn to save and pay for the things she really wants, this past weekend has me thinking a lot about the logistics of the whole thing. City life is vastly different than where he and I grew up as teenagers and in what is technically a completely different century.
She can’t walk home late at night like I did after a shift at the pizza restaurant, despite the fact that she is certain she will karate chop anyone who tries to hurt her. Mind you, this feat will be attained without one single karate lesson because she’s just that good. But in a big, bad city sometimes it’s not good for young girls to walk alone at any time of the day, even if you are a ninja in your own mind. And forget about a bus in the middle of the night – you know what kind of people are on the bus at midnight! (Haven’t you learned yet that I’m a continual stereotyper?)
So this leads us to either getting off the couch at very inconvenient times to deal with Chris’ work schedule in order to teach her about the value of promptness, or buying her a car of her own. Somehow I think this defeats the purpose of getting a job in the first place.
I don’t know why I’m so focused on it all right now since we have a good 8 to 10 years before it all becomes a serious issue, but pretty soon she’ll age out of the “ask Santa for it” stage and move into the “you will have to save up your allowance for it if you want it that bad” stage. Right now she only earns a dime every time she remembers to feed and water the dogs - which let me tell you must be supplemented or we’d be on a first-name basis with animal cruelty police. This doesn’t cut it anymore past the Coins for Turkey’s stage because there’s nothing left over for fun.
Chris is slowly starting to realize that just because they feel heavier and you have more of them in your hand, nickels aren’t necessarily as great as quarters or even dollars. Already it’s turning into a negotiation to fork out more of the real, cold, hard cash for chores she has to be nagged incessantly to perform.
I promise I didn't make her do this. She was one
of those weird babies who liked to clean.
Sometimes even when she does scrimp and save, the money mysteriously disappears. Sometimes it’s stuck at the bottom of the gumball machine with gumballs that are probably 18 months old. Sometimes I’m pretty sure the tooth fairy has to “borrow” funds from it whenever Chris loses a tooth because she hasn’t had time to go to the bank either and isn’t it all about the excitement of the dollar, not where that dollar has come from? That’s what I tell myself at 3 a.m.
The lack of funds is why, I suspect, that Chris has decided she needs enter the jewelry-making business. Her crudely-made beads on a string come at the low, low cost of $1 each. And the overhead, I’m certain, was covered by Daddy who was happy to have his kid involved in a craft that lasted all afternoon long. So it’s all pure profit!
Now the problem is that she assumes the world will be clamoring to beat down her door for the pleasure of owning one of her priceless designs. I asked her if she would be sad if no one that she asked wanted to buy what she was selling. After all, think how many people ask us outside the grocery store if we want to buy something and sometimes even when we do want it, we still have to say no.
Chris looked at me incredulously.
“Why wouldn’t my friends and family and everyone who knows me want to buy one of these? They are awesome!” she said.
Spoken like a true spoiled only child.

If you add feet, it looks like you have more money.


Sunday, November 4, 2012

Yay! I'm not an embarrassment!


To 'bee' honest, Chris is currently excited about our theme Halloween.
            The back of the package of striped Halloween tights reads, “One size fits all.” I’m here to tell you this is not true. One size does not fit all – unless your all is a size 6.
            Nevertheless, I struggled and strained and mostly sweated trying to pull those lying tights on to ready myself for Chris’ school’s “Fall Spooktacular” the other night. And let me tell you, when you’re sweating, those tights have an even more remote chance of truly becoming ‘one size fits all’.
            I have to admit, I said a few bad words while trying to dress that night. Then I threw the stupid tights across the stupid room and yelled that I might as well just wear stupid regular clothes if I had to go to this stupid Halloween party.
            You would have thought I casually mentioned that I was going to blow up a small country. The outcry was immediate, and I have to say a little flattering.
            “Nooooooo!” Chris cried in horror. “You HAVE to wear your costume! I already told all my friends that you are the queen! They’ll think I’m a liar!”
            Yes, I was the Queen Bee for Halloween this year. Chris was my little honey bee and the two dogs were our little worker bees. Grandma kept us all in line as our beekeeper.
            But I digress.
Right now Chris is thrilled this photo is on my desk at work.
The point is that my child was incredibly upset at the thought that I might don regular, everyday, normal clothes in front of her peers. Get it? She was not upset that I was wearing a costume in public. She was upset that I might NOT wear a costume.
            Somehow I pictured this inevitable conversation about my wardrobe going in a completely different direction. So far, miraculously, Chris does not appear to be embarrassed by me and my sometimes unconventional clothing choices – like the animal print my brother swears covers nearly half my closet. Like most six-year-olds Chris proudly points out, “That’s my mom” to strangers from across a crowded room. Even the good-looking strangers she meets on days when I have big pimples and a bloated stomach.
            Almost on a daily basis she begs me to allow her to invite her friends over. Really! She doesn’t even cringe that I’m ‘so lame’ when I tell her friends they can help decorate cookies or when I try to snap pictures of them playing Barbies together.
She eagerly points out the family pictures of us all in Renaissance Festival gear instead of ushering them immediately to her room. She even tells her unsuspecting guests excitedly that said room was decorated in surprise for her and isn’t it sooooooo beautiful? Not that isn’t it soooooooo dumb and what were her parents thinking?
            Not long ago, I had to laugh as I discovered Britney Spears’ “Baby One More Time” on Chris’ Disney CD that she forces me to listen to in the car pretty much every time we leave the driveway. I turned up the stereo and sang along to all the words I remembered a friend singing back in our single days when we regularly did karaoke. I refrained from the dance moves ol’ Britney did in her ground-breaking video – partly because I didn’t have the proper space in the front seat of the car and partly because I’m not smooth enough to move that way anyway.
I am THIS cool right now. 
            But the point is, Chris didn’t beg me to turn down the stereo or try to shrink down in her car booster seat at the thought that neighboring drivers might catch a glimpse of me. And she didn’t think my uncool was showing either! I swear her voice was tinged with awe when she asked how I knew the words to that song and could I teach them to her.
            It’s amazing to me because I’m currently so old that I don’t recall the early days of my childhood when I might have actually been proud of my family. I only remember the days when I wished to sink directly into the floor when encountering a fellow family member and didn’t know most of my friends were equally ashamed of their own families.
Right now, Chris doesn’t seem to care that I’m not the youngest or thinnest mother on the block. Right now, she doesn’t seem bothered by our familial quirks and eccentricities that make us, uhhh, unique. Right now, Chris is so thrilled by visits from her cousin even that she told me it makes her shy and she has to hide behind my butt.  
I’m not naive enough to think this admiration of her extended family will continue forever. One day, we are going to wake up and Chris will sneer at my comfy jammies and roll her eyes in disgust at my annoying habit of decorating the downstairs bathroom in holiday themes. There will come a day when she will swear up and down to perfect strangers that she has no idea who that old lady is waving from her car as I call out to her and wipe away a tear of nostalgia for the old days when I was a goddess in her eyes.
In light of the crazy skeletons in our closet, I anticipate that Chris’ opinion of me is going to be changing very soon. I know this like I know that when she glimpses me during her dance recital she will scream ‘Mommy!’ and knock down three other children while running to hug me as if I’m Justin Bieber. Yeah, I’m that cool right now.
So for now, I will struggle with stupid Halloween tights because that’s what Chris wants and she is still thrilled that someone who loves her showed up to represent.
When the day comes that she no longer wants to admit I gave birth to her and that physically she can’t deny our lineage, I will still struggle to wear those stupid Halloween tights because that’s when it will become fun for me. I’m already planning my wardrobe for maximum embarrassment.
The day will come when you will wonder why I can't take a normal picture. Or BE normal.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Don't yell it out. Write it out.


These little hands will grow to write some funny, funny things. Not always on purpose.
          As you may have gathered, our house is currently filled with females, save for one male dog who is obviously confused since he acts as if he is part cat and part goat. This means there are plenty of dresses, doll excitable giggling as our constant companions.
          As you can also imagine, this means we are subject to a lot of emotional bickering amongst one another as girls have been known to do.
            Yesterday after a failed bike ride due to a flat tire, we spent a long walk home sniping at each other. To demonstrate her anger, Chris reached into her pain purse and pulled out the phrase she often uses when she wants to show just how horrible I am: “I wish you weren’t my mom.”
            You would be proud of me. Instead of retaliating like my grade-school heart wanted, I clenched my fists and spat out the ultra lame retort, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
            We stomped home and slammed the doors to our respective bedrooms, Chris to pout and me to take an angry and exhilarating shower. Before I finished bathing and fuming, though, Chris appeared and told me she left a little something for me in my towel. I had visions of broken glass or poison or some equally evil item.
I was surprised to find, instead, a heart-shaped cut-out. I was even more surprised to read it and find that it was not a letter of apology, and was more than a little impressed at a six-year-old’s use of sarcasm when it read, “I am sorry Mommy that I heart you.” Wow. Pretty savvy to admit that ‘I’m sorry I ever loved you as you have thrown me into the depths of despair’.
            So imagine my surprise when she threw her arms around me in a hug and kissed me on the cheek. Twist the dagger a little more, why don’t you?
            I must have looked confused since Chris then took the note from me and read it aloud. “I am sorry Mommy that I hurt you.”
            Oooooohhhhh, that makes more sense. And it makes me feel better.
            “I’m sorry I yelled too,” I told her, laughing, and as nicely as possible told her that she had spelled out heart instead of hurt and it was unintentionally funny. Phew!
            The instance did remind me that Chris has already learned that sometimes it’s good to write out her feelings. And sometimes it’s pretty hilarious, especially because she’s so earnest about her subjects.
This was a three-page card! Note that once again Chris
and I are both wearing crowns. Some kind of theme here.
            I recall that one of my favorite bits of her kindergarten homework was one in which Chris was asked to create her own planet. Her description read like this, “This is my planet Isabella. It is made of glitter and feathers.” It was accompanied by a shiny pink orb with rays of happiness emanating from it. What else can you expect from such a girlie girl?
            My favorite note to date, though, was delivered to me by a haughty child when I returned from work one night last year. I had skipped most of the morning of work that day to attend a vocal concert at Chris’ school but slaved the afternoon away shoving eight hours of work into a five hour day. But during the morning I watched her with pride from across a gym filled with about 200 parents and kids. I laughed as she grinned a toothless smile, bounced her curly pig tails and waved at me no less than 30 times.
            After her portion of the concert was over and her class sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the stage for endless announcements, I took my queue from other parents and snuck out the door. Apparently that was the wrong thing to do since I received the following note at the end of the day. I will translate for you with slightly better spelling and punctuation, but please note that for a kindergartner Chris was already accomplished at making a serious situation a hilarious read for her mother.
            “To Mom from Chris Brown,” (in case I forgot which of my only children might be writing). “When you were at the concert, I cried because you left without doing anything to me.”
            Her later explanation told me that I left her school without telling her goodbye, because my 30 waves from the audience weren’t quite enough. When she cried all the way back to her classroom that I cared more about my job than my own child, her teacher told Chris to draw a picture about what she was feeling. I especially love how the picture depicts her (labeled ‘me’) with a frowny face and tears. It also shows me (labeled ‘Mom’) underneath a smiley sun, a huge grin plastered on my face and my arms raised as if to say, “Yes! I can finally go to work as I have dreamed about all morning instead of spending time with my kid!”
Chris "Kride". Mommy Laughed.
            Her father, grandparents, extended family, friends, Santa and even teachers have been on the receiving end of one of Chris’ notes of love/anger/irritation/congratulations/etc. at one time or another. Fortunately for all of us, they have often been unintentionally funny and worthy of recording for future laughs. I am doing my best to continue to antagonize her so that I will have a novel full of hilarity with which to torture her in her teen years. After all, she deserves to feel the dagger at one time or another too, and I plan to make title my dagger ‘Embarrassment’.
"Dear Mom. I love you because you olwas make me dinr. And you prite. Love Chris"
Translation: "Dear Mom. I love you because you always make me dinner. And you are incredibly, awe-strikingly, so very gorgeous."

Monday, October 22, 2012

Holiday Happenings

I'm here! Bring on the holidays!
It was just about this time last year when Chris, Grandma and I were taking a walk in the “cool” fall weather, which in Phoenix means mid-80s, to look at Halloween decorations. Among the blow-up ghosts and witches who can’t fly straight, we ran across a neighbor who had a fake skeleton half-buried in their yard. Chris stopped in her tracks and said, “That is literry a whole skeleton.”
            “Don’t you mean ‘literally’?” I asked. I explained to her that litter is trash and that literal is probably the correct word she was looking for, although maybe the bones were trash that someone just threw on the ground.
            For my English lesson, I received a haughty stare that clearly said I know nothing at all. Then Chris flipped her ponytail and said in the iciest voice she could muster, “You are littery driving me crazy.” When Grandma and I started to laugh, she stopped again in her tracks and reminded us that, “It’s not nice to mock kids, you know!”
As a side note, I think it was just luck that she got the usage right, because like most Americans she uses the word “littery” literally all the time, even in the wrong exaggerated context. Often, it’s when she claps her hands, jumps up and down and says she “littery” can’t wait for the holidays. OK, I admit that she says literally now like a grown-up kid. But it doesn’t change the fact that we are starting to gear up for all the wonderful holidays.
Miss Piggy Meets Tinkerbell (AKA Mommy & Chris)

First comes Halloween, of course, where Chris will tell me no less than four times that THAT is the house where the boys scared her two years ago. “And,” she will rant, “What kind of teenager would try to scare a little kid? They are not nice boys.” But she will get over it as soon as that candy is in her bucket.
Soon, we will head into Thanksgiving and the house will be packed with hand-shaped turkey pictures. Least year our Thanksgiving motto was brought home from kindergarten by Chris. As we walked by frozen turkeys at the grocery store she looked at me seriously and said, “My friend Maddie told me that you smack a turkey on the butt. I told her that’s not nice. You’re not supposed to smack people…..Or turkeys.”
I don’t really know what Maddie meant, but from here on out whenever the turkey comes out of the refrigerator on its way to the oven, it should expect a big ol’ smack on the hindquarters.
Ready for 'Chris'-tmas

In our tryptophan haze we will head directly into the Christmas season. For a good three or four years, our only child was certain that Christmas was a holiday created specifically for her. After all, try as we might we couldn’t convince her that there is a ‘T’ in ‘Chris’mas. And she does have the most presents of anyone under the tree. Now is the age when she finally is starting to understand the true meaning of Christmas and is very excited to get to that story about the baby Jesus in her children’s bible.
Meanwhile, she isn’t ready to give up her childhood dreams of Santa Claus. When discussing the tooth fairy (who had to make an emergency visit and was probably glad to give up four heavy, slightly lint-covered quarters instead of a crisp dollar bill), she told me that she’s not quite sure she believes in things like that anymore.
Those were her exact words: “Mom, I’m not quite sure I believe in the tooth fairy or Santa Claus or anything like that anymore.”
When I asked her why, she offered the dreaded explanation that she’s “heard things” at school and on TV. She tried to trip me up by asking what I believe in, but I stood firm, telling her I still believe in all the wonderful holiday mascots – Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy and all the rest. I did have to dance a little when she asked me about ghosts and witches and turkeys and I don’t think she believed my concession that I just believe in the good ones that are nice to kids. In fact, I think she was already, sadly, pretty skeptical about the whole holiday situation.
She was quiet for a while and I assumed she was trying to come to some sort of decision about how she would react to holidays in the future. She knows, deep down, that they’re not real but she isn’t ready to give up the magic quite yet.
After a while, she sighed and said again, “Hmmmm, I’m just not sure what I believe anymore. But, I’m just going to forget about it for a while. At least until Christmas is over.”
She’s no dummy, that kid.
Bring the presents and nothing changes. Yet.

Monday, October 15, 2012

Lies. All Lies.

"Belle, do you know what it means when you point your middle finger at someone?"
"No, I'm sorry sweetheart. Princesses don't talk of such things."
As a single mother, my mornings usually resemble a marathon run at a break-neck pace from the bed to the office desk. They usually start with calisthenics at 4 a.m., which consists of hurdles jumped over dogs desperate for the back yard, stretches from trying on eight different outfits to find the least-fattening attire, and vocal stair-mastering in which I run up the steps no less than three times to yell at the kid to get out of bed.
            It’s no wonder that last Friday, as usual, I had no choice but to blast the air conditioning full blast on our short drive to school. Even in the 6 a.m. dark, I could feel two big blue eyes observing me.
            “Mommy,” she finally says. “Why are you always so sweaty every morning?”
            My voice vibrates from pressing my face as close to the AC vent as possible while still keeping one eye on the morning traffic. I answer, “Probably because I have to run around like a chicken with my head cut off.”
            “What does that mean? Chicken with its head cut off?” Chris asks.
            “Oh, you know the chickens on the farm? When they chop……..”
            Uh oh. Wouldn’t you know. For once she is actually listening closely to my words. Being a city kid such things are not a matter of course and she honestly has no idea what it means.
I frantically wonder if I should really be telling a 6-year-old how nuggets are created? I have a feeling she would be the type of kid who would then refuse meat on principle alone, and I know her tastes mean a vegetarian lifestyle would consist of black beans and Sunny D.
I don’t want to have this conversation ever - let alone at 6 a.m. So, two hours into the morning, I tell my first lie of the day (unless you count the one I tell myself about exercise).
            “I don’t know why they say that,” I backtrack. “I guess it’s just one of those weird things that people say and nobody knows why.”
I add a quick plea in my mind, “please, please, please let it go.”
Tattoos are taboo.

            It’s not that I want to lie to my kid. Call it the desire to preserve childhood innocence. Or blame my inability to stare confrontation in the face without stuttering or breaking down in tears. Whatever the reason I find myself lying to her a lot.
            Often my lies revolve around money and me telling Chris that we don’t have enough of it to go out to a restaurant for supper or to buy her the newest toy. Sometimes it’s true. Sometimes it’s not. It never stops her from asking exactly how much money I do have in my wallet so she can calculate on her own and me screaming at her to leave my purse alone. I can see no earthly reason why a grade-schooler should know how much money I make and when that paycheck lands in my checking account unless she’s going to take over my car payment.
            Most recently Chris has exasperated me with her nearly daily request to know what the middle finger means when you point it at someone. If she had been paying close attention she might have deduced the meaning from the time that one guy cut me off on the freeway. That day she must have been oblivious to me like most of the others. She has since begun trying to break me down with consistent begging to know the gesture’s origin.
My answer of, “It’s something very, very bad that even I’m not supposed to say and you should never, ever do that to someone,” only seems to fuel her curiosity.
            “But what does it really mean?” she pleads. Then she gasps. “Does it mean poop? Or stupid? Idiot? Oh no. Is it …is it…butt?” she asks and covers her mouth.
            “No, it’s worse than all of those,” I tell her. “It’s so bad that we never, ever say it.”
            I feel a little like a Hogwarts teacher.
We'll have to have the big talk before this happens.

            I always hoped for a smart child and by most accounts so far I have gotten my wish. But I guess since I’m not as smart, I never thought about the practical side to a child’s intelligence. She doesn’t ask why the sky is blue, but rather focuses on all the difficult matters that shouldn’t be on a first-grader’s agenda.
It didn’t take long before I could no longer lie to her and tell her that, sorry, Hannah Montana isn’t on TV right now because it’s not on the TV listing. Now that she can read and run the remote control herself, and is allowed out in public with her peers, the questions are coming faster and faster.
            Thinking about all the things I DON’T want to tell my kid about wears me out.
I believe the whole “where do babies come from?” conversation won’t be played off easily with the stork theory. We have discussed at length why she must stay where I can always see her, but I dread the day she wonders just what could happen to her if a stranger snatched her. Having conversations about important issues like abstinence and racism gives me a headache.
I can just imagine the endless streams of “why” that will follow when I try to bumble out an answer to any of life’s serious issues.
I’m sure I’m not the only one stuck with this problem. So here is my business proposal for someone who is not as faint of heart as me. If someone has acceptable answers to a child’s uncomfortable questions I believe he could have a lucrative career by being on-call – at usually the most inconvenient times - when those questions arise. I guess it would be like those people hired out by large corporations to fly around the country laying people off. It’s the delivery and the readiness in which the explanation is accepted by said child that really makes all the difference.
I will need said services very soon as I am fairly certain that Chris’ middle finger will be exercised in the hopes that someone else will tell her what it means, since I’m obviously trying to put one over on her. She’s on to my lies.

But what does it mean?