Common sense

12.28.06

The liquid soap in the bathroom has a panda bear attached to the pump stem.  I have no idea why there’s a panda in the soap, but there it is.  Tonight my daughter pointed to it and said, “That panda lives in China.”  Well, that’s pretty interesting, I thought, and asked, “How come it lives in China?”  The look she gave me was wise and all-knowing as she answered, “Because that’s where pandas live.  In China.”  Dang.  Where does she get this stuff?  And who are those people who say television is a useless brain stuck?  Surely they’re not watching what my kid’s watching.  “Do you live in China?” I ask her.  “Of course not, Mommy, I live in Superior.”

 

Well knock me over and steal my shorts.  Can this be the same kid that doesn’t let me brush her hair?  That puts her palm around the faucet and shoots water all over the bathroom (and her dry pajamas) and then screams that she’s soaked?  The mix of logic and lunacy that makes up the 3 year old brain is stunning.  Especially how the part that contains common sense seems to be completely absent.

 

Even that, I guess, is logical.  Just the term, “common sense” sort of indicates knowledge gained over time and through experience.   So I guess I have a theory:

 

Maybe some things are so much fun that excitement out-processes “experience.”  Like making the sink facet spray the whole room.  Maybe the water shooting with force across the room is an unexpected delight every time it happens, and therefore the realization that the pajamas are soaked only comes well after the fact.  Or the puddle in the driveway beckons with such irresistible shininess that it completely over-rules all memory of cold wet shoes and socks.

 

Sounds logical enough to me.

 

Some things are just Mommy-driven, however.  Like the whole issue with brushing the girl’s hair.  She gets furious with me for needing to brush it, and as soon as I finish (if not before I’m finished) she takes both hands and scrubs at her head to mess it all up again.  I’m frustrated because I can never get a cute photo taken of this little tyke, and because wherever we go it kind of looks like I never brush her hair.  Which isn’t true.  I brush it at least once a day.

 

Yet when she went to the beauty parlor yesterday she was a perfect little angel-client.  Now, admittedly, this is heresy, as I was not a first hand witness to the events at the beauty parlor, but my mother is generally pretty reliable in her reporting.  She said the girl who won’t have her hair brushed at home sat in the hot seat chatting happily away with the gal giving her a haircut.  And not only did she sit still and cooperate for the haircut, she sat like a princess while the beautician put her hair into two beautiful french braids.  Of this I have proof.  I saw them.  And I took pictures.  Lots and lots of pictures.  I haven’t been able to get a clear photograph of this child’s beautiful little face in months.  But I made up for it yesterday.

 

Of course today she went to school with two slept-in french braids, so it still looks like I don’t brush her hair.  Oh well.  It might be an ordeal to undo them.  But I’m pretty used to kid-mommy hair battles at this point.

 

I wonder at what age common sense becomes something you can expect from a kid?  I’m gonna say “no” for 3 year olds.  And, if I remember correctly, 8 year olds do some pretty aggravating things that you think they should know better… and we all know that teenagers don’t have any… so hmm, twenty-five?  Thirty?  Maybe.

 

Sometimes you learn from your mistakes.  Sometimes you have wet pajamas night after night after night.

Funny kid stuff

12.21.06

Kids do say the darndest things, that’s for sure.  Every night at bedtime while my girl and I cuddle, she plays with my ear and earring.  And every night she says, “Can you breathe, Mom?  Can you?”  This goes back to a time when she attempted to change the routine and play with my nose instead of my ear, and I couldn’t breathe.  So now it’s back to the ear but every night she checks my breathing status.

 

Her mastery of language continually surprises me, and her love of verbal routine.  About a year ago her Grandma C. started this with her… “How much do I love you?”  My girl replies, “I don’t know,” and her grandma tells her, “I love you sooooo much.”  So trying to get in on the game one day, I asked her the same question.  She didn’t miss a beat, “NOT so much.” 

 

It had, admittedly, been a tough week between us, and I laughed until my stomach hurt.  She laughed too, and said, “Grandma C. loves me sooooo  much.”  And to this day whenever I ask, “How much do I love you?” she tells me, “Not so much.”  I don’t think she understands the irony and the humor in it, but then again, I wouldn’t put anything past her.

 

We’re having a little issue with a certain part of potty training.  What’s aggravating is she only seems to have trouble with this at home.  I don’t understand exactly what the problem is, but I do know she’s mastered the skill elsewhere and is resistant to transferring it.  So I’ve told her she has to clean up her own mess and dress herself again.  No big deal, unless she’s tired. Then it’s a screaming, crying tirade of, “Help me!  You have to help me!” 

 

“I didn’t make the mess.  It’s your job to use the potty.”

 

“But it’s YOUR job to take care of me.  I’m your chi-ild.”  Child comes out in two syllables.

 

I don’t know where she gets these fabulous one-liners, but there I was, cracking up again.

 

This time of year lots of parents use Santa Claus as leverage to achieve good behavior.  So far that’s not working for me at all.  I say, “You better go to bed on time or Santa will put you on his naughty list and then he won’t leave you any presents.”

 

She assures me, “That’s okay, I have lots of toys, so I can be naughty.”

 

I can’t bribe her with Christmas at all.  Perhaps it’s her lack of experience with the holiday, the fact that she’s only 3 and doesn’t remember much about Christmas trees or Santa Claus.  As we decorated the tree today I asked her if she remembered doing this last year.  “No,” she said, “The only tree I ever put balls on was at school.”  And although she found the concept of bringing a tree into the house intriguing, when I set the tree on her “picnic rug” (the tree skirt) she was furious.  “Move that tree off my rug, Mom.  Put it back outside.  It’s ruining my picnic.”

 

She was mildly impressed when I turned on the tree lights.  I was less than impressed when I turned from that task to find all of the ornaments, beads, and garland strewn haphazardly across the dining room floor.  Even the Woolworth’s antique glass ornaments had not been treated with the dignity they deserve.  My husband, from the other end of the telephone, was saying, “Maybe you should leave the antique glass ornaments for next year,” just as I surveyed the mess.  All I could do was sight, “It’s a little late for that.”  Within moments my girl was bored of putting ornaments on the tree.  She resorted to hiding them behind her back, “I have a surprise for you, Mommy, ask me what I have!”

 

“What do you have?”

 

“A-a-sk nicely,” (this is a phrase that gets used and, possibly, over-used, here in the house-of- spoiled-brats).

 

“Please show me what you have.”

 

A delicate antique glass ornament appears clutched in the not-so-gentle hands of my child.  “Do you want it?  A-a-sk nicely!”  The gleam in her sparking blue eyes sends a zap of irritability straight up my spine.  How did she manage to pick my favorite?

 

Five minutes later:  “Look at my new doll, Mom.  Isn’t she bea-u-ti-ful?”

 

It was the angel.  The one that’s supposed to go on the top of the tree.  Oh dear.  This could be a problem.  A big empty-tree-top sort of problem.  Ah… well.  Christmas is for the children, right?

 

Sometimes you have an angel on the tree.  Sometimes the angel sleeps in a child’s bed.

MyWhat?

12.14.06

Let me be the first to stand up and say, “Yes,  I could be a member of the IAA” (Internet Addicts Anonymous).  Hell, maybe I could be the founding member… It’s odd, really, how I’m pretty much the same amount of social as I am of shyness (Ahem.  Those of you laughing at me right now, stop it!)

 

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I love my computer.  I love the opportunity to get to know people via Instant Messenger, MySpace, email groups, and assorted blogs.  I love it.  Have an interest?  Have a hobby?  You can hook up with individuals and groups and instantly have something to talk about.  Oh, you have an obsession?  Other people out there who would love to chat with you about global warming until the world actually explodes. 

 

There’s a misguided notion out there that computer geeks are anti-social, but the truth is that the internet can be an incredibly social way to pass time.

 

I chit-chat with a lot of people.  Say “hello” to me and I’ll talk.  I tell stories, talk about life experiences,  my work… whatever.  So long as a person I’m talkingto doesn’t get grossly inappropriate or tediously boring, I’m more than happy to hold up my end of a conversation.

 

I do set some limits, though.  For instance: I don’t share photos.  Why should I?  I’m blissfully married and I want to stay that way.  I don’t need to see pictures, and I don’t want to send any.  Photos seem completely irrelevant to any conversation I’m having with a stranger.  After several months of gabbing with someone who regularly makes me laugh I might cough up a snapshot of my fully-clothed self.  Might.  Then again, I might not.  I also don’t give out my full name, address or my telephone number.  Heck, I shy away from even admitting exactly which city in the Duluth/Superior area I live in. 

 

I’ve made a couple of exceptions to these limits – my MySpace has one recognizable photograph of me.  But I don’t tell just anybody how to find me on MySpace, either, and certainly I don’t make it public information to the people I gab with on message boards, blogs, or yahoo messenger.  The other exception is group of nine women that I met on a message board in 2005.  We consider one another “real” friends and have sent gifts and cards to one another via snail mail, and talked on the telephone now and again.  Most of us will be meeting in New York City in January for a fun-filled crazy girls’ weekend.  I haven’t met any of these women in person but quite a few of them have met eachother.  And I’m bringing my husband.  I know they are real women and real people and not internet stalkers.  But I’m still bringing my husband.  Besides, he wants to check out NYC.

 

Be smart on the internet, and be safe.  If someone offends you, or acts bizarrely or doesn’t respect your limits of conversation, go ahead and X out of the chat window.  If  someone verbally abuses you, X out of the chat window.  It’s a simple click. 

 

It may sound crazy, but it’s not hard to invest your emotions in on-line friendships.  The computer offers a sense of safety and anonymity and for someone who likes to gab (and can also type) it’s easy to make internet friends.  Just remember to hold your personal information close.   And be aware that anything you type can be saved, printed, archived, etc. and your own words can be used to hurt you, if someone chooses to do so.  And it can hurt like you lost a real friend. 

 

And remember this, too… online chemistry is totally different from in-person chemistry.  Once in a while I meet people I’ve had fun internet conversations with and they’ve not been what I expected.  Most of the time I find I do not like them at all.  In fact, this has kind of happened to me often enough that for the past few months I’ve been talking to RL friends on this here machine and avoiding strangers.  And it’s been fun.  Talking via computer seems to accelerate the “getting to know you” process in RL friendships.  And let me tell you – it’s an absolute blast. The moral of this week’s column?

 

Sometimes it’s fun to talk to strange people.  But sometimes they turn out to be just way too strange.

Season of dread

12.07.06

It’s cold.  Ugh.  Way too cold.  And there’s (ick) snow on the ground.  And some days I don’t see the sun at all.  So many reasons to curl up in bed for the next few months, bury my head under the covers and wish wish wish for springtime.

 

It seems like my attitude about winter gets worse every year, but probably not.  The sense of dread I feel today is probably exactly the same sense of dread I felt last year.  I’m cold all the time.  The idea that months will pass before I’m warm again seems unbearable, and I know I’ll have the heat bill to prove it.  But ah, well, this is where we live, isn’t it?   I know it gets easier as the skin and blood thicken, and the routine of warming up the car and pushing snow around becomes, well… routine.  For now I still hate having to grab a jacket, getting to work with numb toes, and never having enough time in the morning to be sure I’ll get to where I’m going on time.

 

I am still in denial, and still mourning the loss of warm weather and the end of a truly beautiful summer.  Was there a day when I thought, “Gee, I wish this dang heat would end?”  I suppose so, but I can’t imagine it now.  Give me the freedom of shorts and t-shirts, sandals and swimsuits, of running around outside in bare feet.

 

This may be a particularly stressful winter considering that I live with a high-energy 3 year old child.  I feel a little freaky at the thought of us being trapped indoors together for weeks without end.  I guess this means I’ll put a little more thought into what Santa’s bringing this year.  I think she should get games that I like to play ( read: no Barbie’s whatsoever, thank you).

 

Most of my adult life I have known people with kids.  Heck, I’ve known people who have 3 or 4 or 5 kids.  Yet it astounds me how hard it is to be a parent.  I never realized how completely one single little person could drive you out of your mind.  Needy, needy, needy.  Whiney, whiney, whiney.  Unreasonable.  Contrary.  Dawdling.  Impossible. 

 

And here’s what really gets me:  the people with 3 or 4 or 5 (or more!) kids don’t look or act insane.  I can’t fathom it.  I have one child, and I’m lucky to have clean clothes on some days, much less stylish ones and fixed hair and pretty make-up. 

 

How do they do it?  Is it possible that anyone can require less sleep than I do?  Maybe they use that hour after waking up in the morning for grooming rather than serious coffee mainlining?

 

Somehow nobody ever thought to mention to me how hard this was going to be.  I wonder all the time if I’m doing “the right thing.”  Is it cruel that she’s an only child?  Would her behavior be any different (read: better) if I’d dropped a sibling into her life when she was a toddler?  Have I created a monster?  If so, is there any hope of turning it around?  Will it get better when she’s 4 or is that just the empty hope of a wild-eyed lunatic who isn’t quite cut out for this parenting trip?

 

And then I stop obsessing for a few minutes to wonder if my crappy attitude lately can be attributed to the unmistakable beginning of winter in the Northland.

 

That’s probably it.  Well, that and the fact that my kid is smarter than me.  How the heck did that happen, anyway? 

 

Here’s the Christmas list so far, keeping in mind my kid’s incessant pleas to “play with me, Mommy!”

 

Perfection:  Remember this?  Odd little shapes stuck onto short sticks.  Dump out the shapes.  Press the base down.  Start the timer.  Then put the little shapes in as fast as you can before the bottom pops up and scares the bejeesus out if you.

 

JuniorCamping Kit:  Includes a tiny tent,a tiny sleeping bag, and eight tiny reindeer.  Wait a minute, that’s a different story entirely isn’t it?  I think the sleep depravation is catching up with me.  That or the cold medicine. 

 

Never mind.  Sometimes you’re stuck in this cold cruel world and spring seems a lifetime away from today.  Peace out.

 

The art of being a child

11.30.06

I think there must be an art to being a “difficult” child.  It can’t be easy to always be contrary, stubborn, and at odds with the whole world order.  There are time tables, expectations of behavior, and rules no matter where you end up.  It’s got to  take an awful lot of energy to constantly buck the system.  But my kid can handle it.  Nothing tires her out.

 

I just want to know where this “opposite of everything” child came from.  I was a sweet child, a people pleaser –  the teacher’s pet.  A little on the dramatic side, perhaps, but rarely contrary.  I agonized about getting in trouble and laid awake at night if I didn’t get my homework done. 

 

I wonder if I can toss her naughtiness into a basket labeled, “3 year old” and leave it there?  I read some research on the internet that claims 30 – 40 % of 3 year olds fight going to sleep and drive their parents to drink.  Yeah, yeah, ok, I’m paraphrasing, but you get the idea.  I’m not suffering alone, it just feels like I am.

 

What really blows my smokestack is my daughter’s uncanny ability to re-frame any consequence to her advantage.  What this means is even if I’m consistent, have follow-through, and never ever crumble, she still doesn’t learn anything MY way.

 

I say, “If I don’t finish this column we won’t be able to go to the library.”  She answers, “That’s okay, I don’t want to go to the library today.”

 

“If you turn on your light again after bedtime, I’m taking all your light bulbs.”  First she says, “Oh, Mom, you’re funny – you can’t reach the light bulbs.”  And when I prove that I can find a way to reach them, she tells me, “That’s okay, Mom, I like playing in the dark!”

 

“Get off the dog!  If that dog bites you she can’t live here anymore.”  Big smile.  “Give her away now, Mommy, because I want a cat.”  This conversation can continue all day.  Me:  I’m allergic to cats, they make me itch.  Her:  But I’m not.  Me: I can’t live with a cat.  Her:  Go live somewhere else.  Me: Daddy doesn’t like cats.  Her:  He’d like my cat.

 

The funny thing is even when she tries not to be contrary she has trouble.  Yesterday she was having a tea-party with her invisible friend, Maisey, who has recently moved into our house, and the dog was standing at attention and observing the proceedings with great interest.  I suggested to Little Miss that she set a place for the dog and get some doggy biscuits.  She loved the idea.  “Jazz,” she said, “please come and have some tea with Maisey and me.”  When the dog biscuits were all gone, my girl surveyed her table and said, “I am angry and I can’t have no more tea.”  She planted her hands on her hips and glared at the dog, “Somebody left spit all over my table. You can’t come to my tea party anymore, you have too much spit.”  I could see the meltdown coming in her tight little face and her rigid little body.  Mom-must-intercept instincts kicked into overdrive.  Washcloth time.  It’s all good.

 

For the time being I can’t get a moments peace even to write this column today, so I guess I’ll leave it short and sweet. Maybe she’ll grow out of this contrariness.  But even if she doesn’t she’ll eventually go to school five days a week, so there’s hope for my sanity yet.

Preschool Plans

11.23.06

I did it.  After months of talking about it, thinking about it, and knowing it needed to be done… I finally enrolled my kid in preschool.  I procrastinated a long time on this simple little task, for a variety of reasons.  One of them was summertime. There was a whole lot of beach and about a million parks to explore when we got on each others’ nerves.  And then she wasn’t quite potty trained and I wasn’t exactly sure what the pre-school guidelines were about that, but I suspected it was a prerequisite.  Third, and maybe the biggest reason for procrastination, was that the only pre-school I was familiar with was the Head Start program, and I just haven’t been up to the complete and total invasion of financial privacy required to enroll my Little Miss. 

 

We’re the working poor.  I know this, and I have certainly come to understand the implications.  It means we don’t qualify for daycare assistance but we can’t afford daycare.  We don’t receive any welfare benefits so our child doesn’t qualify for free Head Start, but you can be sure after baring our financial souls to some government employee we’d still end up at the top of any sliding fee scale they devised.  The other thing I “heard” was that if you have to pay for Head Start in Wisconsin there’s a waiting list (but if you receive welfare benefits there isn’t).  Do I need this?  I don’t have the energy to jump through these particular hoops.

 

So here’s what I did.  I opened the Yellow Pages to “Schools.”  There were several listings under “preschool and kindergarten services.”  I called them.  One was the YMCA.  A very helpful person answered and invited us to come for a tour. 

 

I asked my Little Miss if she wanted to go to school.  She didn’t.  There are a couple of unresolved #2 potty training issues and, as incentive, I have suggested to her that she can’t go to school until she gets a handle on this.  So she was a little freaked out about going to school, but when I said, “We’ll just go check it out,” she got into the spirit of things.  I think she said, “Mom, we’re just going to check things out at school today,” a hundred times during the 5 minute drive to school.  I laughed the whole way, because this summer we had a bear digging in our garbage cans and for weeks afterward Little Miss would open the back door, hang her head outside, and say, “I’m just checking things out, Mom.”

 

When we got there she was, of course, enthralled. 

 

Oddly enough for a high-energy kid she doesn’t jump right into things.  She hangs back and takes it all in, keeping to herself for a bit.  Even so, she thought their toys were pretty darn cool.  And when all the kids sat down at atable for lunch there was longing to join them written all over her little girl face. 

 

The gal giving the tour was full of great information.  My girl could come for preschool only, or we could sign up for a combination of preschool and daycare.

 

Which leads to the last reason I had put off the whole preschool thing.

 

My work schedule is random.  The only thing I always know for sure is that I will work every other weekend and have opposite weekends off.  I never know anything else until the schedule comes out.  So any ½ day preschool program would be a nightmare of transportation logistics. Sometimes I’d be scheduled off.  But sometimes I’d be working.

 

No problem at YMCA.  The pre-school hours are built right into their daycare day.  I can drop her off early if I have a day shift.  I can pick her up and take her to grandma’s if I work evenings.  And if I’m off, well, then I get the whole day all to myself (!).  Yay for that!

 

In the car after our tour Little Miss said, “Can I go to that school, Mom?  I wanted to sit at the table with those kids, but there wasn’t a place for me.”

 

“Next time there will be,” I toldher, relived to have it settled.  Kids, teachers, stuff to learn, and room to run 2 days a week.  How perfect is that?  And every once in a while (or more often) a day to myself.  Oh yeah.  Let’s do it.

Hotel Bliss

11.09.06

A week in a hotel room by myself, with maid service and in-room coffee.  Can anyone say bliss?  Of course it would follow that before the week was done I’d come down with a cold.   At home  I’m surrounded by lots of potential germ-carriers and don’t get sick very often, but I suppose hotel rooms are cesspools of disgusting germs.

 

Maybe the spotty internet connection at the hotel lowered my resistance to bugs.  Yeah, that’s it.  The cold symptoms are actually signs of www.withdrawal.  I wonder if there are any studies out about this?  Maybe I could be the first research subject.  Watch my blood pressure rise and my patience drop every time the disembodied computer voice says, “Goodbye,” and the box pops up that says, “You have lost your connection to the internet.”    This wasn’t happening every half an hour.  It was happening every 2 – 3 minutes.  It is an extraordinarily cumbersome way to check email, let me tell you.

 

Thank goodness I had a contingency plan.  I’ve never had real good luck with hotel wireless access to the internet, so as annoying as it was I had planned for such a horror by bringing a mess of scrapbooking supplies, downloading the podcasts of my favorite radio program from www.bobandsheri.com, and made dinner plans with a couple of different people.  So I wasn’t stuck moping alone in my hotel room all week.  I actually got a lot done.  Well, except for that one night I ordered room service and found Miami Ink on TLC.  That night was a waste.  This is why I rarely turn on the television.  I get sucked in and my day is done.

 

I suppose I could have socialized more with the people from my conference.  But you know, I’m pretty darn anti-social, and I don’t know from hanging out in class with people if I want to hang out with them outside of class.  What if I naively got sucked into an unhealthy or irritating friendship?  Better to stay in my room sorting and gluing pictures to paper than to invite an emotional vampire into my life.  There’s always that risk with strangers. 

 

There was a guy in my class who stood 6 feet 9 inches.  Do you know that’s 21 inches taller than me?  Oh my god.  We went to lunch once, and he’d have liked me to stop off somewhere for a beer with him after class, but I didn’t think it was a great idea.  He told me he’s heading for the big D, and he didn’t mean Dallas.  Umm… Detroit?  Dog-pound?  I know one thing for sure;  I don’t have the patience or emotional resources to provide healthy emotional support to someone I barely know going through a nasty divorce.  How about we just not go there?  Great class, good job, congratulations you got your certification.  Now have a nice life.  There’s really no need to keep in touch.  Do I even need to mention that it’s difficult for me to have a conversation with someone 21 inches taller than me?  It’s a neck strain.

 

By Wednesday night I had the sniffles and my head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.  Thursday I was a miserable lump of humanity sitting in class feeling sorry for myself.  Until my cold medicine kicked in, and then I was a hyperactive lunatic, which was a good thing because I was learning all about non-violent physical crisis intervention, and it was a “get up and move” kind of day.

 

Anyway, I survived the week that wasn’t exactly utter bliss.  I don’t think my child missed me very much.  But the dog did, so there is that.  Instead of coming home rested and relaxed I came home sick and crabby.  Daddy and Daughter claim they had a wonderful week together.  And judging from the state of the house I’d say they are absolutely telling the truth.  All play and no work makes a big mess for Mommy.  I don’t even know where to start.  Maybe with the laundry.  Or the garbage can that’s overflowing. 

 

The best laid plans and all that.  Sometimes bliss leaves a lot to be desired.

 

Let's get political

11.02.06

So my editor said he wanted us to write about politics, this being election week and all, and I said, “Guh?  You’ve got to be kidding!”

 

You have to understand… I don’t watch television because it all seems more or less pointless.  And I don’t read any newspaper regularly (except the Reader Weekly, of course) because there’s hardly any good news to be found there.  So pretty much the only news I’m subjected to is that provided by the AOL welcome screen.  How scary is that?

 

So I’m sitting here eating Cheetoh’s puffs in a fancy hotel that’s way out of my league, trying to think politics.  Haha.  Yeah, I’m a bit off balance tonight.  Ah well.  We’ll figure something out. But it’s going to have to be quick because I have in-room coffee and I need to go find a gas station for some creamer.  What?  You think I’m going to ask the snobs at the desk for milk?  Ha!  You should have seen the looks on their faces when I wanted to pay cash for the room but didn’t have an extra $200 for a deposit.  They’d probably charge me $8 for a lunchbox size carton of milk.  And $3 service/inconvenience fee on top of it.  No thanks.

 

Anyway.

 

Politics.  Elections next week.

 

Get out there and VOTE.

 

The end.

 

PS:  Think about the cost of war and the cost of fuel (heating your house will surely bankrupt you this winter – well, it will me, anyway) and the supercilious smirk of our President that basically seems to say, “Wow, I’m the leader of a bunch of dimwits,” or “I don’t care what you think, I’m right.”  And don’t vote Republican.

 

I guess you can if you really want to, but I wouldn’t.

 

Here’s my plan:  I’m going to research the Democratic and Independent candidates for my local district and then I’m going to vote as hard Left as I can.

 

I would have never believed this country could go to hell in just two Presidential terms, but now I know better.  And this is what I know… Americans have opinions, and values, and believe in fairness and justice and the (old) American Way.  Liberty and Justice for All.  Damn straight.  We believe in a government held accountable by a system of checks and balances.  We believe in Habeas Corpus.  We believe in our Constitutional right to free speech, and that right absolutely includes the right to speak out against our Government.  It includes the right to criticize our President and his decisions.  It includes our right to question the cost of war, and to question the strategy and goals of that war.  It includes our RIGHT to wear a t-shirt depicting the current American death toll in Iraq.  Come on, folks, can a t-shirt possibly be a threat to Homeland Security?   Sure, it can be offensive, insulting, or even supercilious.  Might even embarrass someone.  But can it possibly be a crime?

 

Think before you vote.  Think about the things you believe in.  Take a couple hours to research the candidates of your district so you know not only who you’re voting for, but what they stand for.  And then VOTE.

 

The problem I see is that we’re working hard to survive from day to day in America.  It takes two incomes to support a family, and between working, carting our kids from place to place, and trying to keep our house in order, nobody has energy for activism anymore.  Do you think that’s an accident on the part of our government?  Do you really? 

 

But you can vote.  Even when you hate everyone and everything you can still vote for the candidate you think is the least bad.  So get out there and do it.

The (bedtime) battle continues

10.26.06

Although I truly love her with all my heart, I am desperate for time away from my child.  How desperate?  Let me tell you… I have installed a hook and eye style lock on the OUTSIDE of her bedroom door.  I know she’s safe because I am sitting on the other side of  that door writing this. 

 

Thank goodness for laptops and wireless internet.  My conscience is clear. 

 

Every 2 minutes she yells, “Mommy, I need you!” and I yell back, “Go to bed!”

 

Here’s the problem:  she has decided not to sleep anymore.

 

I was 32 years old when I gave birth to this incredible human being.  So I am dead honest when I say that 6 hours of “alone” time per day is not too much for me.  Actually, as a writer it’s not nearly enough.  And if I continue to get zero hours of alone time I will go mad.

 

We’ve reached a point where I am desperate to win.  I can picture some parents I’ve known who have given up the battle.  The child clearly runs the household and the parent miserably does what she is told.  These adults seem to live to appease their children, and the children tend to be, in my opinion, completely out of control.

 

This can’t happen to me.  It just can’t.  So at naptime and bedtime Little Miss needs to stay in her room whether she sleeps or not.  Until now this has been accomplished with a gate across her bedroom doorway, and she’s been content enough to play on her own when there is no other option.  But  this week she figured out how to climb over the gate.  She is over that gate and down the stairs every 2 minutes, and then needs to be “tucked in” 30 times an hour.

 

This isn’t working for me.

 

She is… busy and intelligent and determined and good humored.  She manages to make a game out of every type of discipline and consequence I can think of.  To put her on time-out is to hold her fighting on my lap until I am exhausted.  I came up with one consequence that I thought was brilliant –  “Every time I have to tell you to go to bed I will take one of your toys and put it in the shed outside.  You may earn them back by staying in your room at naptime and bedtime.”

 

I explained this while I was taking her collapsible dollhouse outside, and she cried.  “A-ha!” I thought to myself, “this is going to work.”  Yet in less than 10 minutes she was gleefully pulling toys out of the closet, “Put this in the shed, Mom!  Now put my trains in the shed.  And my horses!”  This is the child who, when I yell in the Mommy’s-had-absolutely-enough voice “GO TO BED,” responds by placing her hands on her hips and saying, “It’s not polite to yell, Mom.”

 

I am confounded.  What on earth am I going to do with this child? 

 

Well this week I’m going to try the hook-lock.  I can use the computer or work on her scrapbook just as well upstairs as down, so I’m really not losing any Mommy Time.  And once she falls asleep I’ll unhook it.  What I’m hoping for, I think, is to get her accustomed to at least staying in her room when she’s supposed to be sleeping.  Heck, I don’t even care if she sleeps.  That’s not an issue for me whatsoever.  But for a couple of hours a day I need her to leave me alone. 

 

Yeah, okay, what I’m really hoping for is to finally win a round. 

 

She challenges me in a lot of ways.  But she is also my joy.  She has beautiful manners, both at home and in public.  She’s having fewer tantrums.  She’s mostly potty trained.  And she’s getting better about sharing and playing with others.  Well, sort of, a little bit.  She can learn to go to sleep before I totally blow my top.  I know she can.

 

Sometimes tough love is in order.  And locked doors.  Cross your fingers for me.

Imaginary delusions?

10.19.06

So my kid makes it through 2 and a half minutes of Story Time at the library before she starts jumping off furniture trying to catch the Halloween decorations hanging from the ceiling.  The other little kids her age are sitting quietly and paying attention to the librarian.  Mine is distracting everyone by literally climbing the walls.  So I pull her out.

 

It occurs to me that I have the “disruptive” kid.  The one that doesn’t sit still, that flits from one activity to another, has lots of energy and very little ability to focus.  Oh dear.  I’d like to get her into preschool pretty soon, but I have to wonder if they’ll even take her.

 

While I look picture books I can read to her without being bored to death, she climbs on top of the wooden book bins and walks from one to another.  I tell her to get down, but her channel is set to “Mommy Ignore.”  When I physically pull her down she climbs back up the moment I’m not looking.  I wonder how much of this behavior is acceptable and how long it will be before we’re asked to leave?

 

When I look for books for myself she literally scales the shelves.  I am mortified.  I end up grabbing a handful of books fromthe paperback racks and head for the checkout.

 

“We are leaving now because you are being naughty.  And we’re not coming next week.”

 

“No!” she shrieks, “I’ll be good!  I promise!”

 

“Too late.  You’ve already been rotten.  You don’t listen to me and you are climbing everything like a monkey.”

 

She cries and carries on until we get to the car.  And then another shriek, “My Panda!  I left Panda in the library!” She’s on her way to total meltdown.  But here’s what I know about Panda.  Panda is a girl.  Her name is Matilda.  She is big enough to dress herself and use the potty by herself.  And last, but certainly most important… Panda is invisible.  So it seems both ludicrous and fruitless to attempt to find Panda in the library.  Besides, if you have an imaginary friend, then can’t it imaginarily appear right beside you?  So this is what I say, “Oh, look!  Here’s Panda!  She followed us outside, and now she needs a hug from you because she thinks we forgot her.”  Whew, meltdown averted.

 

As I drive home I work myself damn near into a panic attack thinking, “Oh my god, I have the disruptive kid.”  I have the kid that’s so wound up she ruins everything for all the other kids.  She climbs the walls, destroys the room, standing, running, yelling, singing.  Egads.

 

At home I do a web search on 3 year olds whose behavior is disruptive.  Now anyone who’s ever done this sort of research knows it’s not very reassuring.  I find all kinds of freaky stories about hyperactivity, ADD, ADHD… the whole gamut.  I read the blog of a woman who’s 3 year old is on an unbelievable regimen of anti-psychotic drugs.  Are you kidding me?  These are major drugs we’re talking here, not baby aspirin. 

 

So I wonder what behavior is being medicated?  Is having an active imagination considered the same as being delusional?  Are imaginary friends now equal to visual and auditory hallucinations?

 

Maybe we’re in for trouble.  After all, there is a new imaginary friend around here every day.  It turns out we were only babysitting Panda, and now she’s gone home to her mommy.  Kitten takes her place.  Kitten is a special cat, one that doesn’t make Mommy sneeze (invisible cats are hypoallergenic, you know).  In a few days Kitten will move on and a new friend will take her place.

 

But maybe all will be well.  I found plenty of child development resources that claim a lot of 3 year olds are not ready to sit quietly in circle time, and that it certainly isn’t a sign of anything except being a normal, high-energy, inquisitive little kid.  I choose to believe the same about the presence of Panda and Kitten.  Besides, I’m not about to complain about new pets that require absolutely no maintenance.  Maybe we can practice sitting still and listening….?

 

Echo of the Sublime

10.12.06

It might be the last truly warm day of the year – although perhaps we’ll be wonderfully graced with another, or better yet, a few… but you never know in these here parts.  So my husband and the dog met my daughter and myself at the end of Wisconsin Point for one last wet sandy fling in the wind and the waves.  Today, no one got hurt.  Our previous trips to the beach have included a head injury, a toe injury, and a hospitalization for heat exhaustion or something else never exactly identified. 

 

It’s funny how it feels like the whole summer was a string of long lazy days basking in the heat with good friends and adorable children.  I think we actually only made it to this beach five times.  Yet in memory it feels like the heart of this summer.

 

Everything was new to my Little Miss this year.  The beach, the depot, the zoo, the boat tour on Lake Superior.  New and scary in that exciting kind of way.   I’m hoping I’ll get one more chance, next year, for it all to be new again.  Is it too much to hope that the things that were brand new to an almost 3 year old can be new again when she’s almost 4?  I don’t know.  She lists off the seasons… “Summer’s over, now it’s fall and I’m going to be a pirate for Halloween!  Winter comes next and snow and… Santa Claus comes and brings presents!”   I wasn’t sure she’d remember the Santa thing – shows what I know.  I guess we’ll wait and see what next summer brings for memories.

 

It’s driving home with a tired, quiet kid in the back seat, and a tired, wet dog in the pick-up truck a half mile behind that the sadness typical of summer’s end drifts over me like a cozy fall blanket. 

 

Time to hibernate, and soon.

 

The autumn leaves have formed an arch over the ruined but passable pavement on which I drive.  Warm sun leaks through the dappled canopy of dead and dying foliage to light the forest with a fragile glowing beauty.  For a moment my heart leaps to my throat and I know I will not visit this place again.  Not this year, at any rate.  Part of me wants to weep as I bid good-bye to the sublime summer.

 

It’s amazing how much can change in a year.

 

This time last year I was nearing the end of an incredibly long period of grief over the loss of a friend.  I could see the end of darkness and was running full-tilt towards light and laughter, yearning to feel joy again, to love and be loved.  I was ready to open my self and my heart to new people and new experiences, heady with the thrill of discovery, half-terrified I’d end up emotionally smashed to bits.  All the parts and pieces of widening my social circle beyond family and those few, but precious, friends I’ve known for a lifetime.  Stepping away from the safety inherent in isolation.

 

Here I am!

 

Today I have 4 friends I hold close in my heart who were strangers, or nearly so, just one year ago.  We start conversations that have no end.  We talk about the intricacies of marriage, partnership, dating, and parenting.  We share time and writing and laughter and love.  Some days I feel like my life is amazing – that I am the luckiest woman in the world.  And I have to say… it’s good to feel that way again.  I’ve been missing myself for an awful long time.

 

It’s human nature to reach your heart out, and human complexity is endlessly fascinating when you meet someone who draws out your truth, who seems to share theirs… when there appears to be no hidden agenda, no building to something more than this, no pressure and no consequence.  Moments of paranoia – “is it real?” are followed by moments of shrugged shoulders because if it’s real, it’s worth the risk that it isn’t.

Driving Beta

10.05.06

It’s 8:30 pm and it’s fully dark outside.  Part of me is really unhappy about this because I am a winter-hater and I can feel like it’s time to hibernate.  It would be nice to plan a trip to Mexico for next January or February.  So why am I planning one for New York City?  Oh, yeah, because I am a lunatic.  Sometimes I forget that.

 

There’s a mommy part of me is really happy that it’s dark at 8:30 pm.  Because I get to lie like a dog about the time and tell my kid, “Whoa!  Look!  The moon is shining in the black sky.  That means it’s waaaaay past your bedtime!”  For the past month my girl has been staying up until nearly 10:00 at night – which puts a HUGE damper on “mommy unwind time.”  No more.  8:30 last night, 8:15 tonight.  I’m doing the happy dance.  Somebody told me today, “You’re lucky that works.  Mine can tell time.”  Ha-ha, I say, I expect that when my kid can tell time she’ll also be able to read, so she can go to her room anyway.

 

The thing is, I can’t really blame her.  I hate to go to bed.  In an ideal life I’d work until 10 at night, then suck down a lot of coffee, write until 2 in the morning, and sleep in until 8 or 9.  Novels get written in the middle of the night around here.  Unfortunately I work more day shifts than afternoons, which means I have to force myself to go to bed early several times a week, and even when I manage to do it I’m exhausted all the next day.  Staying up late energizes me.  I recharge my batteries writing down all the crazy, silly, humorous, or melodramatic thoughts in my head.  Middle of the night-time is my creative time.

 

These last few days of working day shift have been insanely frustrating.  Oh, I’ve put myself to bed on time, and even managed to haul my butt out of bed on time… but my husband (a.k.a the Heat Miser) hasn’t approved use of the furnace yet.  So what happens when I crawl out of a warm toasty bed into a cold heat-less house is… I spend way too much time in the shower.  And standing under the soothing pound of scorching water daydreaming makes me late.

 

And because my imagination has been sparked, wound up, and set free, the daydream continues the moment I pull out of the driveway.

 

Driving while deeply immersed in beta brain waves is interesting.  Often I arrive at my destination with absolutely no recall of the trip.  Generally not a problem.  It’s early, there’s not a lot of traffic, I know where I’m going.  Whatever.

 

The trouble this weekend is that the exit to south 35 from the Blatnik Bridge is CLOSED.  So I have to grab the Garfield exit to get to grandma daycare.  And when I’m driving in beta I forget to do that, so I end up in Downtown Duluth which is totally NOT where I need to be.  When it happened the first time last week I said a really, really bad word.  Really loudly.  My daughter repeated the really bad word the next day.  I, in my infinite Mommy-wisdom, ignored it. 

 

It wasn’t missing the exit that made me say the really, really bad word, however, it was that I turned UP 5th Ave W from Michigan Street (by the library) and that street is actually a one way DOWN.  I got to the top and my brain said, “Umm, there’s a stop light here, but it’s not facing you.”  Hence the really, really bad word as I realized I had to back down the hill. 

 

This weekend I was already leaving the house later than I should, and I KNEW my exit was closed.  I knew it, yet because of long hot showers, daydreams, and “driving in beta,”  I managed TWO DAYS IN A ROW to forget to take the Garfield exit.  I might have said some bad words, but they were all muttered quietly under my breath, and I didn’t say the really, really bad one.  The worst part is this: when you’re having great beta brain activity and you’re jarred out of it suddenly you lose all those amazingly profound ideas.  So essentially, I’m pretty sure I completely missed out on writing two best-selling novels because of road construction.  Not to mention I was late for work twice.  And let’s not even get into how the parking ramp at work was closed.  I had a very real thought that if it’s this difficult to get to work maybe it’s not even worth it.

 

Sometimes you get to dream… but maybe it’s not such a good idea while driving, huh?

Brave Ones

09.28.06

I have always admired the mavericks who have their own style, their own ideas, and their own way of getting through life.  I’ve never been part of the “in” crowd and never wanted to be – I was always more like a sideline observer.

 

So.  When my step-teenagers showed up with blue hair and black hair and wristbands and skulls and crosses and heavy metal blasting in their ears… well, I thought they were kind of awesome.  There is a bravery in displaying individuality that I have always admired.

 

It’s been a while since we’ve seen these kids.  Okay, it’s been a long, long while.  Years.  The specific reason for that pretty much boils down to rotten communication skills between parents.  I’d say all the adults involved need to accept their share of blame and fear and misunderstanding, and how about we leave it at that?  Perfect.

 

I’d recognize my step-daughter anywhere.  She looks like herself and acts like herself.  Bright and organized and knows her own mind.  Even the blue hair didn’t trip me up.  I suppose I did blink a time or two and think, “Whoa, that’s really blue!”  This is  a girl with a plan.  Smart girl.  She knew what she needed at the mall, where to find it, and how to make the most of her money.  But even still, you know she’s got to be fun, I mean, with blue hair and all.  And brave.  I think it takes a certain amount of courage to run around your life with blue hair.  Oh!  Did I mention she’s tall and slim and self-assured… and quite beautiful, really.  Even with blue hair.

 

My step-son – whoa!  I’d have never recognized him in a million years.  And not because of his clothes or his hair or even his height… just that some boys change so much as they grow – it’s rather astounding, really.  More than once I caught myself staring at him thinking, “Wow, where’d my little blondie go?”  He’s tall and lanky, black hair in his eyes, black wrist cuffs and half-fingered gloves, crazy pants big enough for five of him, with pockets and buckles, and a wallet on a chain.  All accessorized with skulls and silver crosses.

 

The first thing he asked me, with excited expectation was, “Do you like Korn?”  Oh, how I wanted to say, “Yeah, they rock!” but I was so busy looking for the little boy I used to know in that face that what I really thought was, “What, on the cob?”  I think I clued in before he realized I was a complete thirty-five-year-old-mother-kind-of-person.  The truth is Korn sort of gives me the nervous jitters.  Flashback to my own mother saying, “Ack!  Turn that music down – I’m having an anxiety attack!” 

 

We’re all new at this.  In fact, visits are so few and far-between that it seems like we’re always new at this, always working on getting to know each other again, and that makes my throat all tight and achy.  And it’s not that they’re difficult to like – it was such a happy rush to have them here that I had trouble falling asleep.  My heart just wants to explode with love for them, and it’s when they’re here that everything we’ve missed feels so terrible and real.

 

Now I bet you’re wondering what Little Miss thought of her older brother and sister, hmm?  Well, she thought they were the best.  The nights they were here she stayed up until almost midnight, afraid that if she went to sleep they’d disappear.  On Sunday, when the teenagers were getting ready for Dad to take them home, she had a melt-down.  A regular old tantrum with tears and sobs and begging for them to not leave.  Would that it were that simple, right?  I think my husband, in his careful way of keeping his emotions buried, was having a silent tantrum right along with her.

 

Being apart sucks. 

 

But anyway.  Here are my golden words of wisdom for these beautiful young people:  Stay in school.  Don’t do meth.  Oh yeah… and come back soon, k?