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."

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.

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?

Dashed High Society Dreams

Won't ever wear it. Might as well eat it.

                If you had asked me right up until the time I found out the news, I would have sworn up and down I was having a baby boy. But when the doctor confirmed (99.9% - but don't sue me if you buy the wrong clothes) that Chris was going to be a girl, I immediately switched gears and started imagining all the joys a little lady would bring. I say little lady because, much like Kate Middleton's mother, it took nanoseconds for me to shift my childhood dreams onto my daughter. I was already planning our alignment with the royal family.
                But I’ve come to the harsh realization that it’s just no use.

                You see, we come from a very long line of people who, try as we might, always end up quite the opposite of royalty. Translation: we have very little class. Second translation: we can’t help it, we love our fart humor. Yeah, we’re a lot like teenage frat boys around this place and giggle about who is the loudest or stinkiest. Spoiler alert: it’s not me.

                I suppose I should blame myself that Chris didn’t break the uncouth cycle. I have never seen a baby nearly as gassy as she was. I didn’t understand that a farty baby is a happy baby because if that bubble of gas is stuck inside it causes baby intense pain and makes baby scream bloody murder.

But Chris was clearly a happy baby and earned herself the nickname “Toots McTooty Pants.” She knew instinctively she had to get it all out. And she learned quickly that if it’s accompanied by a funny face, or is done at the most inconvenient time around company I want to impress, adults can’t do much but laugh about it.

Guess what I probably just did.

                She also learned that the heaviest diapers earned the loudest, ‘Whooooo wheeeee!” and kicked her little baby legs in glee whenever she met the mark. I do have to say that some of the fascination with excavation is the fault of pediatricians who made us keep a diary of what time she pooped, how much she pooped, what the poop looked like, what she ate to make her poop, etc. New parents have no choice but to constantly talk about pants contents and, if you’re cool like us, joke about it.

                I will never, ever, in a million years, forget the screaming phone call I made to her father in which I had to tell him Chris had “dropped the kids off at the pool” during her bath time. Then screamed some more when I had to scoop out the floatie to flush it, then give her a second bath because she had bathed in poop water.

                The laughter backfired on us a few times. Early on at preschool we had to have “a little meeting” with the school administrator about how Chris kept trying to cause a ruckus by blurting out “poop” and “fart”. We had to drop the hammer quickly and declare all those words “bathroom words” that are only allowed to be used in the restroom. Lots of running to the loo with yelling out disgusting words immediately ensued.

                It wasn’t long before Chris began to try to lure me into the bathroom so she could shock me with her vocabulary. Recently she asked me to step inside and take a deep breath, promising that it smelled “fresh and clean.” I, in my stupidity, tentatively checked it out only to have my nose hairs confirm what I should have known was a trick. I yelled, “Oh my God! It smells like something died!”

                “I’ll tell you what died,” she countered. “My dignity. That’s what died.”

                Of course, she had no idea what dignity meant. She simply heard the phrase on TV and figured it must apply in this case. But I agree, there is no dignity in trying to kill your very own mother via gaseous poisoning.

The onesie says it all. Poops. I did it again.

                Her bathroom humor isn’t always intentional. Sometimes it’s the most innocent remarks that are the most hilarious.

                One morning, when Chris was around 3 years old, she crawled into the warm space beside me. She snuggled up, sighed horrible morning breath in my face, and admitted in a weary voice, “Mom. I have butt crust.”

                I wasn’t familiar with the term but tried to maintain composure.

 “Uh, do you think maybe you didn’t wipe very well last time you went potty?” I asked.

She seemed to consider this for a few moments and conceded that maybe “we” should go check.

Still half asleep, I followed her to the bathroom where she proceeded to pull down her pajama bottoms, bend over and spread her cheeks with both hands. Trust me. This is definitely not the first thing you want to see in the morning. I still have nightmares.

Turning away I handed her some toilet paper and told her to wipe again, frantically trying to make an escape. Alas, she followed me out of the bathroom with the toilet paper in her hand to prove to me that she missed nothing while wiping. I agreed there was nothing there and I’m afraid I yelled for her to get it out of my face and into the toilet.

Ignoring my disgust, she stared at the toilet paper in wonder for a few seconds. Finally, a light bulb must have gone off.

“Ohhh! That must be because it’s magic butt crust. When you can’t see it, it’s magic.”

Yes, our bathroom antics are simply magical! Cue the fairy music and glittery dust.

                I wish I could blame her father for the fact that Chris will probably never rise above her common roots. He does have a lot of friends who enjoy crude humor when they get together. Or probably any other waking moment because like attracts like, right? 

               I do have to take responsibility for a big portion of it though, and blame the failure mostly on my own crude roots. My grandfathers on both sides of the family loved to sing, “Beans, beans the musical fruit! The more you eat the more you toot! The more you toot the better you feel! So let’s have beans for every meal!” And we do like those beans.

                But I will say that I realized just a couple of days ago that her father’s influence did seal her fate. The other day I looked at my sweet girl, dressed in a pretty little dress, hair curled just so, eagerly helping me make supper. Suddenly she dropped the stirring spoon and announced, “If you’ll excuse me. I gotta go hit the can.”

                Yep, I doubt her crowned photo will ever grace a postage stamp.

Yet another crown we will never wear for reals.