Am I the Crazy One?

7.11.07

I will be the first to admit that I shelter myself.  I am uninformed, often ignorant, and altogether a lot happier because I avoid “the news.”  Television news, newspaper news, CNN, MSNBC – I tuck my chin and let it all zoom by over my head.  I figure that if anything really big and important happens someone will tell me about it.  I know this is true, because even without turning on the television I know that at the beginning of June Paris Hilton went to jail, then got out of jail, then went back to jail.  I don’t care a whit about Paris and I still know all about it.  That’s pretty sad.  If this is Big National News these days people in other countries must think we’re a joke.  Paris is cute and rich and that makes her newsworthy for days on end?  What kind of country are we living in, anyway?

 

Me, well, I guess I’m pretty okay with her going to jail if that’s the usual sentence for probation violations in California.  Rich people shouldn’t be above the law… but then again, we all know that those who can afford better attorneys do better in court, don’t we?  Maybe serving her time will stop her from becoming just another celebrity train wreck – I think maybe it’s not easy for these people to be alone inside their heads.  Being forced to pause for reflection and journaling might help her get to know herself.  Might make her a healthier person in the long run.  One way or another I’m sure even I won’t escape hearing all about it.

 

On the local front, I was catching up with Barb Olsen’s news of the city council on the “created” civil service position of Maintenance Helper Worker.  I’ll recap my understanding real quick… the city is creating a new position to fill with current workers whose drivers’ licenses have been suspended in jobs that require them to drive.  Have I got that right?  Where was I when this came up back in February?  Oh yeah, hibernating.

 

The current issue isn’t even WHY the position was created, so yeah, I’m out of date here but… am I the only one whose eyeballs just fell out?  Listen up, folks, city workers aren’t losing their drivers’ licenses because of something innocent like non-payment of child support (yes, I’m being facetious here).  Mostly I suspect they lose them when they get caught driving under the influence.  The good old DUI.  Maybe I’m a little too conservative in my thinking (my friends can stop laughing here) but I guess I figure having a drivers’ license is a privilege that comes with certain responsibilities, one of which is not to drive when you’ve been drinking.  If your job requires you to have a valid drivers’ license, that’s even more reason.  If you didn’t have a drivers’ license you wouldn’t have been hired for a job that requires you to drive, so losing your license should be grounds for being fired.  End of story.  You blew it, so now someone else gets a chance at a living wage. 

 

As a parent I am always telling my child that there areconsequences for bad behavior.  There are consequences for grown-ups, too, and we usually have a pretty good idea what they are well in advance.  Done deal.

 

So okay, I get that I’m probably responding to dead issues at this point, but because I shelter myself from news I tend to be a little slow on the uptake on some things.

 

Like the Veteran’s for Peace float being denied inclusion in a (Memorial Day?) parade in Virginia, MN.  Eh, maybe it was the Land of the Loon Parade – whatever.  I guess here’s my question… if a group high school girls in full make-up and dressed to show some skin arrived with a “Free Paris” float – would that float have gained entrance?  After all, Paris going to jail is national news.  Our boys dying for their country in Iraq just… well… isn’t.

 

At least this is what we tell the world.

 

Cindy Sheehan said something that struck me hard in the gut, but I don’t have it in front of me so I can only quote her very, very loosely:  How can I make an impact on a country that cares more about who will be the next American Idol than how many American soldiers have died in Iraq?

 

Sometimes I’m actually embarrassed to be an American.

6.28.07

It’s been about 5 years since I’ve rescued an animal, and twice today I realized how lacking my truck is in supplies.  The animal kennel, fish net, and leather gloves have all given way to beach blankets, sun block, and sand toys.  The absence of animal gear was glaring today

First, the baby weasel. On the way home from a playdate I this tiny ermine or martin running along the center line of the row being pecked at and harassed by a crow.  It was so small that at first I thought it was some kind of lizard.  Adorable like a miniature ferret, it was, but I expect a lot more vicious.

And yet - what do I do but pull the car over and stop, much to the confusion of my daughter.  The little weasel was in a panic.  So was I, because without gloves or a net there was not much I could do.  I settled for rousting the crow long enough for the li'l thing to escape.  Just call me Diego… We’re animal adventurers!

Animal #2 on the very same day was a dachshund who’d got himself in a very bad place, trapped on a freeway median in the dark with rushing traffic on both sides.  “It’s a little dog,” I said to my husband, “STOP THE CAR!”

The mini-dog ran yapping from one lane of traffic to another, and my heart was in my throat as I crooned and clapped my hands, and begged and called it "Baby" and "Oscar." (Well what would YOU call a weiner dog?)

For five minutes we were at a standstill.  Me crouched on a grassy median between two directions of traffic, mini-dog about 20 feet from me barking and clearly indecisive.  My wild heart was bruising my ribs because my imagination kept inserting, "SPLAT." 

My husband, who I imagined at this point truly regretted pulling over in the first place, now approached the standoff and tossed something at the little dog, and I remembered the bizarre fact that we had hot dogs in the car tonight.  Yay!

I backed away slowly as my husband advanced.  A few throws later he had one very small and very angry dog by the collar.  It squealed and snarled and twisted and seemed quite determined to bite his fingers off.  I shrugged out of my sweatshirt and somehow we managed to blanket roll the pup. 

I held the snarling mini-beast on my lap for the next 5 miles, glad that I knew exactly where our old dog kennel was because I saw it just yesterday.  It was in the garage attic -  and could be reached only after a grimy, spidery climb through the labyrinth of junk that we own.  Haha.  Well, I know just who gets to go up there.  Mr. I'm-Not-Afraid-of-Spiders-Hot-Dog-Man, that's who.

Good thing, too, because when our boxer saw the weiner dog her eyes said to her brain, "Rabbit!  Rabbit rabbit rabbit.  Rabbit, right here in my kitchen.  Ooooh, yum-yum-yummy rabbit."  Apparently her ears are defective because those mini-barks didn’t manage to translate dog-speak to her over-stupified boxer brain.

Happy ending.  I called the police to tell them I’d picked a mean, stubborn little dog up off the freeway, and the little pup’s family had already reported him missing.  The little fellow was home by midnight.

We bonded with the mini-beast while we waited for the owners to come for him.  He was a whole lot cuter now that he wasn't snarling.  He was rather likeable.  and this made me like him more.  He seemed very suspicious of strangers, paranoid, even, but a few more hot dog pieces broke the ice and were quite good chums in the end.

He was happy to see his mommy and the tear-stained face of his little girl. The little girl would finally be able to sleep now that her bed-buddy was un-lost.

They said they were surprised he came to us because he's very suspicious of strangers.  We said, "Haha - yeah, we noticed that.  We had hot dogs."

They said, "Well that explains it - hot dogs are his favorite.  In fact, his name is Oscar."

Am I good, or what?

 

Imperfections

6.14.07

I like to think that I’m not the only parent without a plan.  I’m a “fly by the seat of my pants” kind of person – impetuous, spontaneous, and, unfortunately, inconsistent.  My kid does very well with structure and routine, and I suspect never knowing if I’m going to say “yes” or “no” to something is hard on her.  I’m trying to get better because I think my being a random mommy actually may increase the number and severity of her tantrums.  Which is just what everybody needs.

 

Routine and consistency are great for kids.  Heck, I proved it to myself with the whole bedtime thing.  Bedtime used to take hours and often involved shouting and begging and tears.  No more.  We’ve got an established, unwavering routine now, and I haven’t cried about bedtime for months.  Brush teeth.  Pajamas.  3 stories.  10 minutes of cuddle time designated by setting an alarm.  Sleeping child.  Yay!  Well, ok, it doesn’t always result in a sleeping child, but does result in a child who understands she has to stay in her room after the routine.  No extra stories, no extended cuddle time, no bugging mom and dad unless it’s a potty emergency.   

 

Anyway.  That’s about the only thing we manage to be consistent on.  My work schedule is random and I like it that way.  Which means her daycare schedule is random.  She’s in the habit now at bedtime of asking where we’re going in the morning, and if we’re going “early” or if we get to sleep in.  At least she’s smart enough to ask!

 

My philosophy on requests from kids has long been, “If it doesn’t matter always say Yes,” because otherwise I tend to say “no” automatically to everything, and what fun is that?  But lately I notice that I tend to say one thing, such as, “We’re just stopping for milk,” but when she asks for a lollipop or juice or chips I let her throw it in.  It’s a quarter or a dollar so no big deal.  But she said to me a few days ago, “I’m spoiled.  You buy me everything I want, Mom.”  I noted the warning bells, but didn’t quite see the fire.

 

Until we’re at a rummage sale and she wants something totally ridiculous, like a bicycle she won’t grow into for 5 more years.  I say something reasonable like, “We don’t need that.  You just got a brand new bike a few weeks ago.”  She says, “But I want it.”  I say, “No.”  And here it comes – holy tantrum hell.  Totally misery.  Any fun I was having is over now because she’s determined to be peevish and bratty.  And it doesn’t end there.  Heading home I needed to put gas in the car.  She’s been utterly unpleasant for the past two hours, and as I pull into the gas station she perks up and says, “Can I get a treat, Mom?”

 

“No.  We’re getting gas and that’s it.”  Inside the store she picks up a Tootsie-Pop.  “Can I have a sucker?”

 

“No.  We’re getting gas and that’s it.”

 

“Pretty please?”

 

“No.”

 

“But I asked nicely.”

 

“But you’ve been a brat all morning.”

 

She made a face at me and put the sucker in her pocket!  I put it back on the shelf.  She screamed and carried on for the next 8 miles.  And I thought, yep, she really is spoiled, and I really need to be more consistent about making “no” mean “No!”

 

It’s becoming more and more clear.  My parenting style is imperfect.  The other day I was going to run into the grocery store to get milk, and my girl announced she was going to get her birthday cake.  Her birthday is in August.  I was laughing as I explained why now is the wrong time to get a birthday cake.  “August will take forever, Mom, I can’t wait that long!” And then came the  genuine sobs, tears, and devastated screams of “You won’t let me have a cake for my birthday!” 

 

Sometimes she is very astute.  And sometimes she’s an irrational lunatic.  That’s kids for you, I guess.

 

One Bad Day

5.31.07

It was just one of those days.

 

If you know of Alexander and Australia you know what I’m talking about.

 

The day kicked off when I tied the dog to the chain and she saw a rabbit that I didn’t see.  My sleep-slowed body couldn’t react in time to avoid being clothes-lined by a cable across the ankles.  It might have been funny to an observer seeing me face-down in the doo-littered, dew-wet grass… but my ankles were too shredded for laughter to be a feasible option. 

 

Slew of naughty words, however, well that was no problem.

 

My day ended when I reached the car moments before it started to pour.  And dug through my purse in a frenzy until I realized my keys were in my locker at work.  Three blocks away.  By the time I retrieved them the rain had reached downpour proportions, and you know what?  I didn’t waste a moment’s thought on waiting the storm out.  From the very beginning of this day I was meant to get pummeled by the pouring rain.  In fact, walking those three blocks for the third time I wouldn’t have been surprised by hail.  I do carry an umbrella.  Really.  I keep it in mycar.  Once again I didn’t find laughter to be a feasible option.  And I was too resigned to cuss.

 

I’m not even going to talk about the work day that occurred in between those two events, because and there’s not a darn thing I can do to make it funny, so really, what would be the point?

 

Suffice to say it was one of those days where nothing could possibly go right.

 

And believe me, I tried, I really did.  I bought an expensive gourmet coffee.  I ingested really great chocolate.  I smiled.  I laughed.  My internal attitude remained negative 10 on the scale of 0 to Rotten-to-the-core.

 

I had to pick up two prescriptions for Chantix at two different pharmacies.  They were, of course, supposed to be at the same pharmacy.  Ha-ha.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, my husband said, “Let’s start it on Saturday.”  Which equals NOT smoking a week from Saturday.  Gosh, sweetie, I was thinking more like the middle of June.  Ah well, in for  a penny, in for a pound, right?  I think that’s kind of what that saying means – just jump in all the way, go for it, git ‘er done, no holds barred.

 

7 pm found me asleep on the couch.  I woke up at 9 to put my child to bed.  I think she jumped on me to wake me up a couple of times in there, but perhaps my eyes betrayed my state of sheer defeat and mostly she let me sleep.  Daddy was home – that’s always good entertainment because daddies play differently than mommies.

 

I think she went right to sleep, but I can’t be sure because the whole evening is a blur in my memory.  I went right to sleep after reading her stories and tucking her in.  I do remember that. 

 

At 5:30 the next morning I sat in the kitchen drinking coffee, fiddling my cell phone like a worry stone, and reviewing my body-systems.  Head: check.  Stomach: check.  Clock: check.  Double-check – it’s too late to call in sick even if I could think of a good excuse.  I mean, flu or food poisoning… well, I’d have noticed those before now – like maybe in time for them to find a replacement for me.  Damn, damn, damn.  Am I allowed to call in with a bad attitude?  Ah, wait a minute… Sense of Humor: Check!  Oh yeah, now I can go to work with gusto.

 

It’s amazing how miserable a person can be when they lose their sense of humor.  I’m glad I found mine again – it makes the days so much more fun.  My sense of humor was apparently buried under a pile of “lack of sleep.”  I’ll try to watch out for that before I have a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

 

Sometimes you can laugh.  Sometimes you realize you stuffed your ability to laugh in the glove compartment and then locked your keys in the car.  But don’t worry, you can always call Dave’s Towing.

Survivor's Guide

5.17.07

Day 1,374

 

It’s Mother’s day again.  SHE got a new bike.  I got… cramps.  Daddy figures… if the kid is happy, mom is happy, right?  Especially walking up and down the block 89 times in 45 degree weather. 

 

But honey, isn’t exercise good for cramps?

 

No, darling.  Midol is good for cramps.  Which is how we came to be at the store that sells both Midol and bicycles in the first place.

 

I am a tortured soul. 

 

The child is surpassing me in intelligence, wit, and wile.  I think I will be in big, big trouble when she learns to read.  She already recognizes some words, and just the other day I realized she has somehow, in her spare time, learned to “point and click.” 

 

Sitting next to her I can see our reflections in the monitor screen, her eyes wide with delight as she points and clicks, clicks and drags, my eyes wide with shock and awe and... astonishment -  that I’m going to be fighting yet another human being for quality time with my computer.

 

Let’s see, where was I going with this?  Oh yeah, she’s smarter than me.

 

She’s going to preschool now, and they teach her things.  Really smart things like… smoking cigarettes is bad.

 

Let’s talk about all the places a person can no longer smoke.  Restaurants – that’s a done deal in Duluth and a lot of other places.  bars and clubs soon enough… we always thought cigarettes and alcohol go together.  Well, not for long the way things are going.  And let’s not forget Work -  ahhhh, yes, the smoke break at work.  Uh-huh.  Come July 1st that’s no longer an option.

 

In the house – well, that’s been a given for awhile now considering that a kid with nice shiny pristine lungs lives here.  The same child who has recently announced that there will longer be  smoking in the car.  It is bad for her and it makes her cough (it does not – she’s a total liar – that’s a fake cough if I ever heard one).  But even if it is a fake cough, of course cigarette smoke is bad for her – how can I even argue about it?

 

The work problem, hmm, I had planned to find a way around it.  Nicotine patches or gum or something would get me through an eight hour workday.  I certainly wasn’t going to quit because my employer thinks they can make me.  And when I realized that even smelling like cigarettes was prohibited (sniff patrol?), well, that was over the line, and I felt even more stubborn about the whole idea.

 

Then the other day my kid asked, “Mom, will you die from smoking?”

 

Dead silence.  Is there any way to answer that and not look like a complete idiot who doesn’t love her kid?

 

Oh fine.  We’ll see the doc, get prescriptions for Chantix (Dad, too, because I’m not doing this all by myself) and quit smoking, if only to get the child to shut up about it.  You can’t smoke a cigarette in peace ANYWHERE anymore, so we might as well just give up.  I’ll keep you posted on how that goes.

 

There’s a time to be a rebel, and a time to get with the program.  But don’t get me wrong, I’m not quitting because my employer says I should, or even because child says I have to.  I’m quitting because these days when I cough I wet myself.

 

The King and Queen

4.19.07

I didn’t set out to be a redneck.  I don’t listen to country  music.  I don’t watch NASCAR,  and, in fact, I’m not even sure if NASCAR is the title of something or an acronym for something.

 

I have specific rules in place for how many non-running vehicles are allowed on the homestead (that would be zero).

 

And yet… as the snow melts for real I notice the junk around here has gotten a little out of control and I find myself thinking, “Damn, redneck central at our house.”   It’s not cars, just other stuff.

 

It’s amazing how attractive the little snow-covered hills and valleys in the driveway and backyard were.  And not so much now that the thaw has revealed a pile of brush and logs left over from the tree we had to cut down to build the deck last fall, some lumber left over from the actual building of the deck, and an old shaky ladder that didn’t get put away after building the deck because, “somebody might break their neck on that thing.”

 

In my defense, these items either don’t fit in the garbage can or I’m not allowed, per the city, to place them there. 

 

And as for the acre of dog-doo laden used-to-be-lawn, well… it’s been cold outside.

 

I’m not the only slacker around here.  If left to his own devices I’m pretty sure most of Foxworthy’s redneck one-liners would apply directly to my husband.  He’s lucky he has my positive, east-end-girl influence in his life orthings around here would be total chaos.  Our history together has included motors and other car parts finding their way into the bathtub, a vehicle or two hidden in long grassy areas, and owning more non-running automobiles than running ones.

 

What can I say?  I married a “really-darn-close-to-redneck” kind of guy, and it’s only by the grace of god and sex and no time whatsoever for television that I’ve managed to keep him from going all the way.  And considering he doesn’t like to do things half-way, he’d be the Super-supremo, granddaddy of them all, my mess is bigger than your mess, Redneck King.  I’m sure of it.

 

Okay, for the sake of fairness and the possibility that he may read this, let me admit that I might be exaggerating.  And, while I’m at it, divulge that I am perhaps not the ultimate Queen of Neat.

 

The winters are cold and the summers are hot, work is calling, the kid wants to play… for all these reasons junk gets piled up and ignored.  We’re talking a washing machine with a fried motor, bits and pieces of drywall and wood scraps and pallets, large cardboard boxes, broken vacuum cleaners, and a burning barrel full of stuff so soggy it’ll never burn.  And this is just a fraction of the stuff in the open carport.  I can’t even begin to explain what’s in the two-and-a-half stall garage… except to say that a whole car probably wouldn’t fit in there right now.

 

I survey my domain of junk on this fine spring morning and feel a massive surge of, “Oh my gawd, I need a nap.”

 

Maybe we’ll get a dumpster.  I’m pretty sure I’ve had this idea before, but maybe this will be the year it happens.  After all, I have tikki-parties to plan, and people to invite over to entertain me this summer while my child is sleeping and my husband is busy with the ever-growing, used-to-be-small business.

 

But my girl and I are catching a plane to Florida this week, so clean up will  have to wait for our return.

 

Sometimes we feel like the masters of all we survey.  Unfortunately our kingdom is a mess.

Going Places

4.5.07

Some days getting out of the house is a miracle.  Take today, for example.  Little Miss and I were going to visit a new baby in our family.  She was excited about this both because she loves babies and because she helped shop for the presents.

 

We had three hours to get ready.

 

Three hours seems like an awful lot of time for one woman and one small girl to shower, get dressed, and get into the car.

 

Mm-hmm.  You’d think, wouldn’t you?

 

It started with she couldn’t get in the shower because she was watching something, and then she couldn’t get in the shower because she had to tell me something… “I never met my brother and sister before that first time, Mom.  I never met them before so I was shy.  And a little nervous, too, Mom.  You know, I was nervous.”

 

It’s probably not polite to laugh when a little girl tells a serious story, but I was choking back the giggles.  Nervous?  Where on earth did she learn that word?  And how does she know to apply it to an experience she had last September?  Her vocabulary amazes me at the same time it cracks me right up.

 

Anyway.  After finally showering there’s the whole matter of getting dressed.  For her I’d picked blue jeans with adorable decorative stitching and a matching belt, along with a fluffy pink sweater.  But… “I want to wear shorts.”

 

“It’s not shorts weather, silly, it’s pants weather.”

 

“I want to wear a skirt.  Do we have new tights yet?”

 

“No.  We don’t have tights.  And it’s pants weather.”

 

“Are these easy jeans?  They don’t look like easy jeans.  They have a zipper and a snap – Mom, that’s not easy jeans.  I want to wear shorts.”

 

Go ahead and loop this conversation as many times as you’d like because it never actually ends.

 

I finally talked her into the jeans and finished getting myself ready.

 

Dang, it’s socks and shoes time and I think we’ll be walking out the door on time for once.

 

“Okay, Mom, okay.  But I have to pick out my own shoes.”  She proceeds to line up two pairs of shoes. 

 

“The pink ones fit better,” I offer.

 

“Shh – I have to count them.  1, 2, 3, 5.  Oh!  There’s one missing.  I have to count them again.  1, 2, 3, 5.”

 

“Four,” I say.

 

“What?  What did you say?  Huh?”

 

“Four.  You forgot the number four.”

 

“Oh, yeah, right.  1, 2, 3, 4.  Four shoes!”

 

In the middle of all this I’m trying to sneak the socks over her toes.  “No socks while I count!  You’re messing up my counting!”

 

She counts again, decides four is a good number, then chooses the acceptable pair of shoes, and allows socks, shoes, and sweater to be put on her body.

 

As I grab my own sweater she slips past the gate that’s keeping the dog (read: mudball) in the back porch.  “I’m going outside, Mom.  Don’t worry, I don’t need my jacket,” and she’s out the door.

 

I hurry into my boots and coat figuring I’ll catch up with her in the driveway.  But too late.  Daddy pulls up to the house in his truck.  Fast forward to every waking nightmare that one of us runs over our own child.  Stop tape when I hear, “What are you doing outside without your jacket?  Does your mother have rocks in her head?”

 

Chaos ensues as child rushes into the house, dog dashes out, husband sighs in exasperation, and I say, “Ha-ha, listen to you sigh.  I’m on aggravating moment #58 already today.”

 

Little Miss says, “Oh no!” and runs outside after the dog.

 

Of course it’s inevitable… wipeout… wailing… mud from head to toe.

 

I know my relatives would like to see her because it’s been awhile.  But I’m already exhausted.  I don’t think I can stand another argumentative change of clothes.  Or another fifteen minutes counting shoes.  I decide to leave without her.  I called after putting gas in the car to see if I should give her another chance to come, but after I left she had a colossal tantrum during which she rolled off her bed and struck her face on the open nightstand drawer.  The result was a goose egg, a black eye, and a bloody nose.  Wow, that’s a tantrum, all right.

 

Sigh.  Sometimes you bully your way through, but sometimes it’s best to  just give up.

 

Growing Every Day

 

3.22.07

There’s a loud slurping sound coming from the kitchen.  It sounds an awful lot like someone is trying to suck up a lone droplet with a straw.  Then a little voice floats from the doorway, “That’s a sad, sad sound.”

 

Oh, she has the power to crack me right up.

 

“Mom, do you know why that’s a sad, sad sound?”

 

“No, Miss, I have no idea.”

 

“Because that sound means my pop is all gone.”

 

Pop.  Soda.  Sugar in a can.  Kid Crack.  Whatever you like to call it, we limit its consumption around here.  We have problems enough at bedtime without sugar overload.  So… one can of caffeine-free pop is allowed on any given day that we actually have some in the fridge.  She’s learned that at eight o’clock in the morning I’ll say yes, but at six o’clock at night it’s a no-go.

 

“Mom, it’s morning.  Can I have some pop?  Because I can only have pop in the morning – it’s not a bedtime drink, you know.”

 

She will nurse that can of pop all day long, my little darling.

 

The “sad, sad sound” is just the kick-off of funny things she says and does lately.  Every day I swear there’s something new.  Fairly recently she said, referring to her bedroom, “I’m moving to the other room, Mom, because this room is a baby room.”  And sure enough, she started sleeping in the guest room.  Hey, so long as she’s going to sleep, I guess I don’t care.

 

I’m a little sad that her room with the fish border, walls sponge-painted to look like water, and stenciled fish is “babyish” to her already.  I worked hard three and a half years ago to make it adorable.  But I guess… it was a nursery, and now she’s 3… going on 30.

 

Last week I took her out to lunch.  She unwrapped her silverware, folded the napkin just so and set it next to her plate, and laid out the utensils very neatly.  Took a sip of her water, then set the water glass down very carefully.  Then she picked up her menu and opened it, saying, “Now, what do I want to eat today?”

 

I thought the waitress was going to pop buttons, she was trying to hard to hold in her laugh.  My daughter is a miniature adult.

 

She doesn’t allow talking at the table.  “Don’t talk with your mouth full.  It’s rude.  No talking.”  Heck, she pretty much doesn’t allow her father and I to talk at all, because if we’re talking to each other no one is paying attention to her, and that’s not acceptable.

She knows the difference between Duluth, Minnesota, and Superior, WI, and also knows who lives where.  And which side of the bridge we’re on at any given moment.  She knows the days of the week and which days she goes to school.  She knows the difference between VCR and DVD, and, of course, how to work them all.  And all of a sudden she can actually “point and click” with the computer mouse.  Dang! 

 

Last week she begged me to take her to visit her cousin.  It was after work and I was tired. “I don’t know what they’re doing tonight, sweetie, but I’m sure we’ll see her soon.”  Little Miss was quiet for about five minutes, and then she said, “Well, you could call them, Mom, and see what they’re doing.”  When we arranged for the littler cousin to come over, she said, “My cousin is probably bigger now, Mom, because I haven’t seen her in a long time.  Maybe she can talk because she’s growing bigger every day, just like me!”

 

She knows the meaning of “extra” and “concentrate” and that you wear green on St. Patrick’s Day.  When I told her this month is March she got very excited, and said, “It’s March!  We have to make Daddy a cake, a birthday cake!” 

 

She knows grandma is in Florida, and that we have to take an airplane to get there.  She asks every day when we get to go on the airplane, and says, “But Mom, I can’t wait that long.  I just can’t.”

 

Oh, and did I mention she loves her preschool, but… “Mom, I don’t want to go to preschool anymore… I want to go to high school with the big kids.”  Whoa.  Growing more every day, for sure.  Too fast, girl, slow down.

 

The wonder of this smart, articulate girl-child of mine.  Sometimes she tells me she’s smarter than me.  Sometimes I actually believe her.  How scary is that?

Out of Hibernation

3.8.07

I am a self-proclaimed hibernator.  Okay, that’s maybe not an actual word, but you get my drift, right?  I’m with the bears on the subject of winter – no worries, I’ll sleep through the whole thing, thank you very much.  Well, maybe not exactly sleep, but I’ll stay indoors where it’s warm as much as possible.  I have scrap-book pages to put together, email to read, friends to chat with online, and novels to write.  If I never had to set one foot in the snow I surely wouldn’t miss it.  I hate moving it, and I hate driving in it, especially when the hip yahoos in SUV’s fly past on the road as if they could never be derailed by a sneak ice attack.  Suffice to say it’s just not my favorite season.

 

I didn’t always feel this way.  As I child I loved skiing at Chester Bowl, ice skating at Cobb School, and sliding down the hills at Ridgeview Golf Course.  I had a neighbor who, at the end of deer season, would give me the foreleg of a deer.  I spent hours making deer tracks in the snow.  Of course, this was way back when we actually had snow in November.  The good old days… for a child at least.  I walked to school on top of snowbanks piled six feet above the street, and even before Christmas!  The adventures available in the backyard were endless.  I prayed for enough snow toallow me to climb onto the garage roof because I wanted so dearly to jump off of it.

 

I never had to shovel any more than I actually wanted to.  Oh, wait, that part hasn’t actually changed much, ha-ha.  My husband is in charge of any major snow in the driveway, and I when the post office wanted to put a mailbox at the end of the driveway instead of at my front door I happily agreed.  Once in a while I shovel a 2 foot by 3 foot porch.  That’s pretty much it.

 

As a grown up I’ve become a real wimp about snow and cold and winter. 

 

But this year…

 

This year we had a big storm and I have a 3 year old child.

 

That changes everything.  No more hibernation for mom, because there are mountains to explore in the driveway and rolling hills in the backyard.  And a drift behind the shed that reaches darn close to the roof.

 

My daughter never gets cold.  I guess she’s a Northland girl through and through. So this past weekend, the weekend of the “big storm,” I prepared myself to play outside.  I suspect it would have been a crime against childhood not to.  And of course, SHE has snowpants, and SHE has a hat with little flaps that cover her ears, and SHE has stylish purple snow boots.  I have none of these things.  I’m sure I owned snowpants before my pregnancy, but I haven’t seen them since.

 

So I have sweatpants over my jeans.  And I have a headband for my ears that keeps slipping down into my hood, and I have really ugly boots that are a cheap knockoff of Sorrel that are ten years old and not very warm anymore.

 

And yet… I never felt very cold.  Perhaps it was the wonder of seeing winter brand new in the eyes of this joyful child.  Perhaps it was squeals of delight as her nylon-clad body slipped and slid and rolled down a snow mountain, cushioned and cradled at the bottom by soft cold fluff.  As she packed snow into a square box and tipped it over to make a snow castle she said, “It’s just like the beach, Mom!”  I would argue that the beach is better, but I refuse to be a buzz-kill on this magical day.

 

I plopped her on top of the drift behind the shed, where her fingers could nearly reach the roof.  “I’m sitting on my tuffet, Mom!” and she proceeded to recite a nursery rhyme I didn’t even know she knew.  When she got to the end she squealed slid down the drift and laughed and laughed, her merry blue eyes twinkling with delight.

 

“Look Mom, the snow sparkles!” and indeed, in the twilight the snow sparkled like a million diamonds.  There’s a hush on a snowy night that can hardly be described.  “Yes, like fairy dust,” I tell her.

 

If I hibernated, I’d miss all this. Sometimes our children show us how to feel like children again.

Backpack Adventures

2.22.07

This weekend my daughter announced, “I need a backpack for school, Mommy.  I don’t need the diaper bag anymore.  I don’t even wear diapers.”

 

And thank god for that.  There were days last fall when I thought this kid would never be potty trained.

 

And I have to admit I knew the backpack request would be coming.  One little girl at “school” has a Nemo purse, and my daughter certainly wants one of those.  Another lucky child has a Pretty Pony toothbrush, and when mine saw one at the store she got so excited I thought she was having a seizure of some sort.

 

Backpack shopping.  Not the most exciting adventure for Mom, but what the heck.  I figured I’d have to spend a gazillion dollars on a fancy backpack with Dora and buckles and pockets and traps galore.  But my little miss chose a non-character, non-complicated adorable little backpack from the children’s gardening area.

 

It was a proud Mommy moment. 

 

My husband accused me of setting up her choice by not showing her the Dora backpacks, but he was wrong.  We looked at all the choices, and I have a beautiful new laptop bag that cost a gazillion dollars to prove it.  My girl stuck to her original decision, and nothing but a Spiderman backpack that comes with a Spiderman watch could change her mind.  I diplomatically reminded her she has a Barbie watch (complete with compass!) at home that she already doesn’t wear.

 

She found that Barbie watch when we got home, put it on, and said, “Come on, Mommy, let’s go get lost in the woods!”

 

Man, I love this kid.

 

As we emptied the old and very-well used diaper bag, I asked her what she needs in her backpack for school.

 

“Pants and panties and socks, in case I have an accident.”

 

“Do you ever have accidents at school?” I asked.

 

“No.  But someday I might.  And I need my mittens and my hat because sometimes when it warms up we go outside.  That’s all, Mommy.  See?  My little backpack is just big enough.  But it’s little so I can carry it on my back.”

 

She’s growing up so fast sometimes it stuns me.  I love her use of language; “Daddy’s going to be so impressed, is he?” and, “I’m a big kid now, am I?”

 

“Mommy, you love me truly madly deeply, andGrandma loves me sooo much, and Daddy loves me to ift… inty… what’s that word?”

 

“Infinity?”

 

“Yes, Daddy loves me that.”

 

Sometimes I remember how peaceful my life was before having a child.  But sometimes I also recall that peaceful was pretty darn boring.

The Big City

1.11.07

 

So a bunch of internet fangirls meet up in NYC to see a beloved actor perform off-Broadway.

 

There are so many ways this can go.

 

But first things first… don’t take the SuperShuttle from JFK to midtown Manhattan.  Oh, hell, don’t fly into JFK at all, really.  That was our first mistake.  The shuttle was really just a continuation of the original error.  And it was a doozy.  Maybe it was traffic, maybe it was insanity, whatever – but it was truly an eye-opening two hour ride.  Yes, I said TWO hours.

           

Ok, big deal, right?  Well, it feels like a big deal if you haven’t eaten in 10 hours.  Remember, they don’t feed you on airplanes these days.  They can’t.  If they did they might have to give you a plastic knife, and that’s a real no-no.

           

Anyway.  The single most amazing thing about the City of New York to this small town girl was the garbage.  It was everywhere.  No trash cans, just mountains of blue bags on every part of every street.  It figures we’d arrive just in time for garbage pick-up, doesn’t it?  It was surreal.  I don’t even think the people who pick up garbage are on strike right now.  I can’t imagine what the city looks like when they are.  Or what it must smell like.

 

New York City in January.  My husband shook his head in disbelief as I planned this vacation.  He thought I was a little bit crazy.  But the whole trip was based on crazy, I’ll be the first to admit that.  It was a meeting of my Internet Girls.  We all met on the showtime.com bulletin boards because we all loved the same television series. When the show ended and the bulletin board shut down we moved our happy safe little rooms to a place called LiveJournal and just kept talking. 

 

So here are the Internet Girls, taking a trip to the Big City to see one of our favorite actors perform in a play.  Hoping to look into his eyes and get an autograph.

 

Yes.  I’m a woman over 30.  I’ve never gone seeking an autograph ever before in my life.  Not even as a teenager.  So I’m pretty comfortable calling this trip crazy.

 

My husband accompanied me to New York because we have a rule that goes something like this:  No meeting internet people alone. 

 

But the girls were all regular people, and everybody was just the way they portrayed themselves on-line.  Thank god.  Imagine how uncomfortable that could be – sharing a hotel room with an icky person.  Whoa.  Scary.

 

8 women and my husband.  He’s a tolerant fellow, isn’t he?   This is how much fun he had:  “Well, now I’ve seen NYC and I never have to go back.”

 

This is how much fun we girls had:  “Think we can swing another trip in the fall?”

 

We saw:  Times Square, Rockefeller Center, the Museum of Modern Art, Ground Zero, Fire Station # 10, Battery Park, Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum, Starbucks on every corner, various deli’s on every opposite corner, parts of Christopher Street, a whole lot of the subway system, and a lot of really tall buildings.  Really tall.  A lot of them.  In fact most of my pictures contain some kind of building against some kind of sky because I was a tourist dork who couldn’t stop looking up.

 

We didn’t see:  Central Park, the Museum of Natural History, the Empire State Building, the Statue of Liberty close up, the works of Picasso at the Whitney, The Bronx Zoo, the Brooklyn Bridge and way too many other things to list.  We only managed a fraction of the sights.

 

But we saw the play.  And we met the actor.  And we got autographs.  It was all good.

 

I never imagined that typing on an internet bulletin board would lead me to New York City.  Or that I’d ever make a crazy trip just to get an autograph. Or take a picture of my girlfriend kneeling in front of Bill Clinton.  But perhaps that’s a story for another time…

 

Sometimes a dream you never knew you had comes true.

 

Kitchen Chaos

1.4.07

 

We had a lovely Christmas season.  A good friend of mine added a stunningly adorable baby girl to her family.  My own girl was stunningly charming with Santa Claus.  She was so enamored and sweet with him I nearly cried (my thanks to the Mariner Mall Santa on Dec 23rd – you were fabulous).  On the way to visit Santa, my little miss warned me she might be scared and shy, but when we got there and it was her turn she went into his arms without a qualm.  Actually, she flung her arms around as much of him as she could, buried her face in his pristine white beard, and said, “I love you, Santa!”  That’s more affection than some family members get sometimes.  She told him her list of 3 items and her life story, all in 8 minutes.  I believe she included the low down about the new baby.

 

Ok.  Well, with all the holiday busy-ness and the having-to-work time crunch, imagine, if you will, my house pretty much as messy as it could possibly get.  And I have teen-agers coming tomorrow.  One of them kind-of, sort-of likes things really… um… organized.  Ha-ha. Today I had a plan to get my house in order.  My girl has lots of fun new toys to play with, so it was a pretty good plan.  Except she got a whole lotta kitchen stuff from Santa… and during my final last-minute shopping trip I saw a really cute kids’ kitchen…

 

And that’s all well and good, right?  Quick trip to the bank to cash in the kid’s Christmas money, quick trip to Target, no problem.  Home by noon.

 

Except for the fact that the darling little kitchen comes in a really flat box.  And with a LOT of screws.

 

Let me just say that – ahem – Mommy isn’t exactly the builder of the family, but come on,  how much trouble can a screwdriver and a star-wrench be?  And I know we have a cordless power screwdriver.  Heck, I’ve bought at least two of them.  Last Father’s Day I bought a very decent low-quality multi-talented tool kit for my husband because every time I ask him to fix something or hang something he says, “Oh gee, sorry honey, all my tools are at the shop,” and I was pretty tired of that excuse.  So I KNOW there are tools in this here house.  In fact, I even know where they are.

 

Only… when I lifted the cute little lid of the cute little black tool box… all the good tools – like the laser level and the cordless screwdriver – were missing.  That’s par for the course around here.

 

Back to manual screwdriver and star-wrench… and three hours later my girl has a brand new island kitchen in her room to go with her brand new pots and pans.  Almost.  I say almost because the hinges for the oven and refrigerator doors were a bit complicated, to say the least, and had to be left for Daddy. 

 

My daughter put a cookie-sheet in the oven, and being the bright young darling that she is, said with an aggrieved sigh, “The cookies are waiting in the oven.  They’re not cooking because my kitchen isn’t done being builded.  They can’t cook without the door.”

 

When Daddy came home he figured out the hinges (although, to my credit, even he didn’t get it right the first time).  He also brought home dinner, because there was no time for cooking real food while building a pretend kitchen.  I mean, come on, that’s asking a little much.

 

When my daughter climbed up on top of her new kitchen, my husband said, “I’d keep in mind who built that before I’d stand on it.”

 

Yeah, thanks for that.  Ha-ha.  Sometimes the cook is in the kitchen.  Sometimes he has to finish the job with a screwdriver.