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.