I know that given my current circumstances it would seem that I have little to be thankful for on this holiday. But the opposite is true. I am incredibly blessed, despite being unemployed and barely making it financially. Many people in my same situation would wail and moan about how life is unfair and expect handout after handout. But below are my Top 5 reasons to be thankful:
NUMBER 1: I have a healthy and happy daughter. At age 41, being pregnant was like walking around with a ticking time bomb strapped to my chest. Terror clenched my heart as I read book after book detailing the myriad birth defects possible in women of normal child-bearing age, much less those of advanced maternal age. All the odds were stacked against me, but when she arrived, the Pie was perfect…and I mean PERFECT! She has no developmental delay, no health issues, and no learning difficulty. I am blessed every day simply by her presence in my life. I am profoundly thankful for her innocence, her intelligence, her wacky sense of humor and her very sweet heart.
NUMBER 2: I have rediscovered the child inside me and feel so grateful for the opportunity to stare at a moon in a dark sky and wonder what it’s made of, or to make believe I am a sleeping queen that can only be awakened by the kiss of a beautiful princess. Quite simply, I am thankful for the ability to play.
NUMBER 3: Many of my closest friends and family are aware of the struggles I have had over the past couple of months, and I am thankful for their support and encouragement. Several have offered generous financial assistance and without those gifts, I could not have gas service restored, or even remained in our house. On my behalf, a couple of friends have petitioned their churches for help and I have been so deeply touched by the kindness and generosity of those organizations. Total strangers helped us pay bills and buy groceries; mere words cannot illustrate how touched I am by the gesture.
NUMBER 4: During my unemployment and subsequent plummet into virtual abject poverty, I have been referred to several local agencies that have been able to help with utility assistance, clothes and food. I ask that if you are able, please donate to organizations such as these because they really do help those in the community who are in need.
NUMBER 5: I am thankful for the opportunity to wake up every day and face whatever challenge lies ahead of me. Mopping the floor, scrubbing the toilet, picking up the building blocks off the floor for about the eighty thousandth time…all these things and more give me purpose and help keep me from sliding into a depression that I may not be able to escape.
I know that something grand and fulfilling awaits me in the future, but in the meantime, I’ll just continue to count my blessings….
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Show Business
I am a theatre junkie…as you can tell by the way I spelled it with and “re” instead of “er.” I also pronounce it THEE-uh-ter, not thee-ATE-er. Whether it’s experimental improv, a small one-act or a musical playing, I love to go to the theatre. I am an especially humongous fan of the musical; my iPod is chock-a-block full of show tunes with everything from “Avenue Q” to “Xanadu.”
I am fortunate enough to have a friend who holds season tickets to our local performing arts facility and is also generous enough to invite me along when she has an extra ticket. Thus, I found myself with a seat for the touring production of “Wicked.” (Thanks, Steph!) The offer presented me with a dilemma that was two-fold: finding a babysitter and what to wear.
My regular childcare provider was unavailable, so I spent about half and hour making phone calls. I was prepared to get creative so I considered multiple options: 1) duct tape the Pie in a box and put her in the garage 2) just sneak out of the house while “Finding Nemo” played for the gazillionth time on the DVD player 3) call my dad to come over and sit on the couch for 3 hours while the Pie ran amok (most likely naked) through the house. However, my conscience would not permit me to further investigate these options; fortunately, my good friend who lives a couple of blocks away agreed to baby sit. One down, one to go.
When I texted my friend that I was trying to decide what to wear to the show, she responded with “I’m thinking along the line of clothes…” I knew I was at least on the right track. I take the theatre seriously, people, and I have a deep respect for the work that goes into mounting a show. I have worked with actors and stage crew, and I admire the dedication it requires. In that vein, I want to show my respect by dressing for the occasion. As I prepared for my evening out, my lovely daughter would occasionally comment: “Mama, you bra and panties match!” “Mama, me like you boots!” “Mama, how you get so pretty?” I admit, that last one stung a little bit!
Arriving at the performing arts center, after digging through my cupholder to come up with the $5 in change required for parking, I entered the lobby with great anticipation. I expected turned out folks in their finest duds, giddily chatting amongst themselves and imbibing wine from tiny plastic cups. But, I am reminded that this is the year 2010, not the 1940’s, and men no longer wear fedoras and women who should wear girdles don’t. The assault upon my eyes was ravaging, causing me to despair about the state of society where it is acceptable to wear the same clothes to the theatre as one would wear to a football game. There were dudes sucking back Bud Lights, dressed in jeans and team jerseys; women wore ensembles that looked like they just came in from doing the laundry on a rock by the river!
Oh, and lest we forget the ones who try TOO hard! There was a couple in their mid-forties that looked like they were going to a 1980’s prom – matching his outfit with her frock, even! A few teen-agers in attendance wore heels that were way out of their league with little tiny skirts and strappy tops. And the sequins! My God! Little blue-haired ladies looked like they had bedazzled themselves within an inch of their lives; and even women my age looked as if they spilled their kids' glitter glue all over themselves! Listen; if it ain’t the Miss America pageant, you have no business wearing sequins! How can I get this bill before Congress? Michelle Obama didn’t wear sequins on her husband’s inaugural day so what would possess a person to don them for a Sunday evening out?
The show was wonderful and I had a great time, despite waiting in line for 17 minutes for the ladies restroom, then having to pee like my life depended on it since there were legions of women with full bladders behind me. Probably all that beer they drank.
I am fortunate enough to have a friend who holds season tickets to our local performing arts facility and is also generous enough to invite me along when she has an extra ticket. Thus, I found myself with a seat for the touring production of “Wicked.” (Thanks, Steph!) The offer presented me with a dilemma that was two-fold: finding a babysitter and what to wear.
My regular childcare provider was unavailable, so I spent about half and hour making phone calls. I was prepared to get creative so I considered multiple options: 1) duct tape the Pie in a box and put her in the garage 2) just sneak out of the house while “Finding Nemo” played for the gazillionth time on the DVD player 3) call my dad to come over and sit on the couch for 3 hours while the Pie ran amok (most likely naked) through the house. However, my conscience would not permit me to further investigate these options; fortunately, my good friend who lives a couple of blocks away agreed to baby sit. One down, one to go.
When I texted my friend that I was trying to decide what to wear to the show, she responded with “I’m thinking along the line of clothes…” I knew I was at least on the right track. I take the theatre seriously, people, and I have a deep respect for the work that goes into mounting a show. I have worked with actors and stage crew, and I admire the dedication it requires. In that vein, I want to show my respect by dressing for the occasion. As I prepared for my evening out, my lovely daughter would occasionally comment: “Mama, you bra and panties match!” “Mama, me like you boots!” “Mama, how you get so pretty?” I admit, that last one stung a little bit!
Arriving at the performing arts center, after digging through my cupholder to come up with the $5 in change required for parking, I entered the lobby with great anticipation. I expected turned out folks in their finest duds, giddily chatting amongst themselves and imbibing wine from tiny plastic cups. But, I am reminded that this is the year 2010, not the 1940’s, and men no longer wear fedoras and women who should wear girdles don’t. The assault upon my eyes was ravaging, causing me to despair about the state of society where it is acceptable to wear the same clothes to the theatre as one would wear to a football game. There were dudes sucking back Bud Lights, dressed in jeans and team jerseys; women wore ensembles that looked like they just came in from doing the laundry on a rock by the river!
Oh, and lest we forget the ones who try TOO hard! There was a couple in their mid-forties that looked like they were going to a 1980’s prom – matching his outfit with her frock, even! A few teen-agers in attendance wore heels that were way out of their league with little tiny skirts and strappy tops. And the sequins! My God! Little blue-haired ladies looked like they had bedazzled themselves within an inch of their lives; and even women my age looked as if they spilled their kids' glitter glue all over themselves! Listen; if it ain’t the Miss America pageant, you have no business wearing sequins! How can I get this bill before Congress? Michelle Obama didn’t wear sequins on her husband’s inaugural day so what would possess a person to don them for a Sunday evening out?
The show was wonderful and I had a great time, despite waiting in line for 17 minutes for the ladies restroom, then having to pee like my life depended on it since there were legions of women with full bladders behind me. Probably all that beer they drank.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Stay At Home Bomb
When the Pie was born, I would have given anything to be able to be a stay at home mom. But being single didn’t allow for that, so for the past 3 years, I made the best of it and went off to work every day, knowing that I was providing for our little family. I took every opportunity I could to be with my daughter and enjoy…no, cherish those moments. However, my perspective changed after becoming one of the nation’s unemployed.
I lost my job over 2 months ago and have since spent almost every minute with my daughter. I am able to take her to preschool and pick her up, hearing all the details of her day firsthand. Other than the 2 ½ hours she’s in school 3 days a week, we are together. I love my daughter…more than my next breath…but I don’t understand how full time moms who stay at home don’t lose their ever-loving minds!
There is a limit to how much pretending, coloring, Play-Dough, baby dolls, video games and dress-up one middle aged woman can take! One day last week, I counted how many times in one hour, I had to get up and help the Pie with a computer game or video game, or refill her juice cup, or look at some imagined something: 19. No wonder I am so tired!
In addition, I am constantly thinking about how we’re going to make it financially for one more week. I am receiving unemployment, but it is half of what I was making – which wasn’t’ enough to begin with! It takes a full 3 weeks of unemployment payments just to pay the rent on the house! Then there are the utilities, gas in the car, and other little things that suck up money. The cell phone has been cut off and cable, internet and phone are next to be suspended. I broke down and applied for Food Stamp benefits, but it’s not much. Life is not rosy here, people!
I accompanied the Pie on a class field trip yesterday and was unable to provide $8 for her to participate in all the activities. I felt like a failure – a complete loser - because I had failed to give my daughter what she needed. I had made a promise to myself early on that I would never tell the Pie, “We don’t have the money.” But I had to break that promise yesterday after her begging and pleading wore me down. Today, we will visit the CoinStar machine to cash in some change that has accumulated around the house.
I know that what is important is the time I spend with my daughter. But is it quality time when I am not really there…not present in the moment when she may learn something new or display some wonderful new talent? Part of being a good parent is providing everything…EVERYTHING that a child needs. But there are some days I cannot provide even myself.
I lost my job over 2 months ago and have since spent almost every minute with my daughter. I am able to take her to preschool and pick her up, hearing all the details of her day firsthand. Other than the 2 ½ hours she’s in school 3 days a week, we are together. I love my daughter…more than my next breath…but I don’t understand how full time moms who stay at home don’t lose their ever-loving minds!
There is a limit to how much pretending, coloring, Play-Dough, baby dolls, video games and dress-up one middle aged woman can take! One day last week, I counted how many times in one hour, I had to get up and help the Pie with a computer game or video game, or refill her juice cup, or look at some imagined something: 19. No wonder I am so tired!
In addition, I am constantly thinking about how we’re going to make it financially for one more week. I am receiving unemployment, but it is half of what I was making – which wasn’t’ enough to begin with! It takes a full 3 weeks of unemployment payments just to pay the rent on the house! Then there are the utilities, gas in the car, and other little things that suck up money. The cell phone has been cut off and cable, internet and phone are next to be suspended. I broke down and applied for Food Stamp benefits, but it’s not much. Life is not rosy here, people!
I accompanied the Pie on a class field trip yesterday and was unable to provide $8 for her to participate in all the activities. I felt like a failure – a complete loser - because I had failed to give my daughter what she needed. I had made a promise to myself early on that I would never tell the Pie, “We don’t have the money.” But I had to break that promise yesterday after her begging and pleading wore me down. Today, we will visit the CoinStar machine to cash in some change that has accumulated around the house.
I know that what is important is the time I spend with my daughter. But is it quality time when I am not really there…not present in the moment when she may learn something new or display some wonderful new talent? Part of being a good parent is providing everything…EVERYTHING that a child needs. But there are some days I cannot provide even myself.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The Filth Dimension
So, you want to hear about my latest project? I have undertaken the task of cleaning my dad's house. I haven't been working, so I decided a good way to use my time would be to get his house in order and in a safer and more healthy condition. I wonder now what the hell I was thinking.
The first day, I spent over an hour cleaning just the main bathroom. It was filthy: the toilet was covered with feces and it took half an hour just scrubbing it to get it clean. I was on my hands and knees washing the floor and even had to wash down the walls because they somehow had poop on them in places. The mountain of used Depends nearly filled a kitchen trash bag and there was all kinds of clutter covering the counter. I tried to convince him to stop keeping urinals by his chair and bed, but he said he needed them. I told him he at least needed to empty them and not leave them sitting out. The Pie could very easily get a hold of them and that thought just sickens me.
So on to the kitchen, where I spent nearly 4 hours. I filled 3 of the 30 gallons trash bags with old food, used tea bags, egg shells, coffee grounds and other unidentifiable items that covered the counters and table. I washed down the counters and the appliances on them as well as scrubbed the sink and did the dishes that were marinating in funky water there. For weeks, he has had 3 fans pointed at the dining table to blow away the bugs that swarmed around it and it disgusted me. I refused to eat anything that was prepared in that kitchen and the Pie was not allowed to walk barefoot in there for fear of her stepping on God knows what!
I started to move on to laundry but Dad said his washer was leaking pretty badly, so I decided to gather it up and bring it home with me. As I was getting it together, I found 2 towels that were covered in dried feces and I discovered later that there were ants and bugs in his laundry basket which I have now introduced into my new house (that really pissed me off)!
I want to help him live in a more healthy environment, but what I don't understand is how he can stand to live in those squallid conditions! He used to rage at my mother for not keeping a clean house and it was NEVER anywhere near the current condition. My thoughts were that if I got everything cleaned, it would be easier for him to keep up with, but I haven't seen any evidence that he is even trying! When I left last Wednesday, the toilet was so clean you could eat off if it and when I was there on Sunday, it had poop all over it again! And the kitchen again had dirty dishes and food sitting out.
What I fear is that he has just given up. He doesn't bathe on a regular basis and when he wants me to cut his hair, I make him wash it first. The cellulitis on his leg is getting worse and about once a month, I have to cut his toe nails and finger nails for him. He finally got hearing aids, but he hardly ever wears them. I've threatened not bringing the Pie there to visit, but that seems to make no impact on him. Sometimes I feel like I am raising 2 kids; one is 3 and lives with me and the other is 81 and lives 20 miles away.
Every time we go out there, the Pie says, "Mama, it stinks in here!" and I just don't know what to say to her. There were "skid marks" on his recliner and she refused to sit in it with him. Even SHE knew it was not a chocolate ice cream stain...I feel like I should threaten him with a nursing home if things don't improve. I just don't know what else to do.
The first day, I spent over an hour cleaning just the main bathroom. It was filthy: the toilet was covered with feces and it took half an hour just scrubbing it to get it clean. I was on my hands and knees washing the floor and even had to wash down the walls because they somehow had poop on them in places. The mountain of used Depends nearly filled a kitchen trash bag and there was all kinds of clutter covering the counter. I tried to convince him to stop keeping urinals by his chair and bed, but he said he needed them. I told him he at least needed to empty them and not leave them sitting out. The Pie could very easily get a hold of them and that thought just sickens me.
So on to the kitchen, where I spent nearly 4 hours. I filled 3 of the 30 gallons trash bags with old food, used tea bags, egg shells, coffee grounds and other unidentifiable items that covered the counters and table. I washed down the counters and the appliances on them as well as scrubbed the sink and did the dishes that were marinating in funky water there. For weeks, he has had 3 fans pointed at the dining table to blow away the bugs that swarmed around it and it disgusted me. I refused to eat anything that was prepared in that kitchen and the Pie was not allowed to walk barefoot in there for fear of her stepping on God knows what!
I started to move on to laundry but Dad said his washer was leaking pretty badly, so I decided to gather it up and bring it home with me. As I was getting it together, I found 2 towels that were covered in dried feces and I discovered later that there were ants and bugs in his laundry basket which I have now introduced into my new house (that really pissed me off)!
I want to help him live in a more healthy environment, but what I don't understand is how he can stand to live in those squallid conditions! He used to rage at my mother for not keeping a clean house and it was NEVER anywhere near the current condition. My thoughts were that if I got everything cleaned, it would be easier for him to keep up with, but I haven't seen any evidence that he is even trying! When I left last Wednesday, the toilet was so clean you could eat off if it and when I was there on Sunday, it had poop all over it again! And the kitchen again had dirty dishes and food sitting out.
What I fear is that he has just given up. He doesn't bathe on a regular basis and when he wants me to cut his hair, I make him wash it first. The cellulitis on his leg is getting worse and about once a month, I have to cut his toe nails and finger nails for him. He finally got hearing aids, but he hardly ever wears them. I've threatened not bringing the Pie there to visit, but that seems to make no impact on him. Sometimes I feel like I am raising 2 kids; one is 3 and lives with me and the other is 81 and lives 20 miles away.
Every time we go out there, the Pie says, "Mama, it stinks in here!" and I just don't know what to say to her. There were "skid marks" on his recliner and she refused to sit in it with him. Even SHE knew it was not a chocolate ice cream stain...I feel like I should threaten him with a nursing home if things don't improve. I just don't know what else to do.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Always Be Prepared
It took weeks of preparation...planning, researching, list-making, shopping. You can't just throw something together willy-nilly at the last minute. You must reflect on all possible outcomes and choose your path. I made phone calls, filled out forms, worried and fretted over the course of action: are we ready? should we wait? Finally, I made the decision and enrolled the Pie in preschool.
It was agonizing for me, because I wanted the Pie to become more socially acclimated for when she starts kindergarten. Her child care arrangement up until recently was just her and Mimi. But I felt she needed to be around kids her own age for her to learn how to share, make friends and impress teachers. So, after much thought and reflection, I found a small church preschool that is affordable and is only two and a half hours 3 days a week. It's located very close to Mimi's house so I felt there was some familiarity for the Pie.
On Meet the Teacher Day, Mimi and I loaded up the Pie and took her to meet the ladies to whom I was entrusting her for the next 9 months. They were lovely ladies - one was a bit too perky for my taste, but we're talking about preschool teachers here, so I guess she filled the bill. During our visit, the Pie was friendly and inquisitive. She was anxious to enter the building and investigate everything available to her. She picked out her chair at the table and claimed to be hers for ever more. I half expected her to plant a flag in it!
On the first day of class, I expected the Pie to experience some separation anxiety. I thought she would cry when I left her, or she would drag her heels on entering the classroom. I envisioned holding her and patting her back while telling her everything would be alright and Mama would be right back to pick her up. Guiltily, I admit I even wanted a little of that. I needed to know she would miss me. Umm...not so much.
When we arrived, she dressed in her black and white toille dress and cute little black shoes, the Pie sprinted to the doors and down the hall to her classroom. She let go of my hand, walked into the room and never looked back. Folks, I was devastated. I wondered what I had done wrong that she was so anxious to get away from me. So eager to be in the care of virtual strangers and be surrounded by kids she didn't know. I honestly stood in the hall, my hand empty of hers, wondering what had just happened. A few seconds later, the Pie came running out of the room and into my arms. "I love you, Mama," she said. And tears rolled down my face. I hugged her with ferocity and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of her lavender shampoo.. What was at first a moment of slight sadness quickly turned to a grand moment of inexplicable joy.
It was in that instant that I realized I had done my job. I had prepared her for the day she would have to leave the safety of home and go to school. I guided her to be strong and independent. I encouraged her to be brave and outgoing, to be honest and respectful. These are tools she will need for the rest of her life and as her mother, I provided her with lessons so that she could acquire them. I was proud of her and proud of myself.
Now, pass the Kleenex...
It was agonizing for me, because I wanted the Pie to become more socially acclimated for when she starts kindergarten. Her child care arrangement up until recently was just her and Mimi. But I felt she needed to be around kids her own age for her to learn how to share, make friends and impress teachers. So, after much thought and reflection, I found a small church preschool that is affordable and is only two and a half hours 3 days a week. It's located very close to Mimi's house so I felt there was some familiarity for the Pie.
On Meet the Teacher Day, Mimi and I loaded up the Pie and took her to meet the ladies to whom I was entrusting her for the next 9 months. They were lovely ladies - one was a bit too perky for my taste, but we're talking about preschool teachers here, so I guess she filled the bill. During our visit, the Pie was friendly and inquisitive. She was anxious to enter the building and investigate everything available to her. She picked out her chair at the table and claimed to be hers for ever more. I half expected her to plant a flag in it!
On the first day of class, I expected the Pie to experience some separation anxiety. I thought she would cry when I left her, or she would drag her heels on entering the classroom. I envisioned holding her and patting her back while telling her everything would be alright and Mama would be right back to pick her up. Guiltily, I admit I even wanted a little of that. I needed to know she would miss me. Umm...not so much.
When we arrived, she dressed in her black and white toille dress and cute little black shoes, the Pie sprinted to the doors and down the hall to her classroom. She let go of my hand, walked into the room and never looked back. Folks, I was devastated. I wondered what I had done wrong that she was so anxious to get away from me. So eager to be in the care of virtual strangers and be surrounded by kids she didn't know. I honestly stood in the hall, my hand empty of hers, wondering what had just happened. A few seconds later, the Pie came running out of the room and into my arms. "I love you, Mama," she said. And tears rolled down my face. I hugged her with ferocity and kissed the top of her head, breathing in the smell of her lavender shampoo.. What was at first a moment of slight sadness quickly turned to a grand moment of inexplicable joy.
It was in that instant that I realized I had done my job. I had prepared her for the day she would have to leave the safety of home and go to school. I guided her to be strong and independent. I encouraged her to be brave and outgoing, to be honest and respectful. These are tools she will need for the rest of her life and as her mother, I provided her with lessons so that she could acquire them. I was proud of her and proud of myself.
Now, pass the Kleenex...
Friday, July 9, 2010
Table of Elephants
I love words– especially when they are written or spoken eloquently or with great humor. Some phrases formed by clever or well placed words can leave impressions behind that take days or weeks or years to fade. My most beloved kinds of words are malapropisms that occur when someone’s tongue or brain or gets ahead of the other and something silly comes tumbling out. My new favorite comes from my dear friend, Dr. Steph. During one of our recent monthly lunch dates, she had me laughing until tears ran freely – mine and hers! She told me of a conversation she had with a friend in which she attempted to say “the element of surprise.” What she actually said (and what I think is WAY funnier) was “the elephant of surprise.”
In my head I immediately pictured an elephant, sneaking around behind bushes, carrying an enormous bundle of balloons and confetti poppers in its trunk, waiting to pounce upon some unsuspecting jungle animal and bellowing “Surprise!” Go ahead…picture it. I DARE you not to at least giggle. That’s funny, right?
Well, that got me thinking about other kinds of “elephants.” So here for your consideration are my thoughts:
The Four Basic Elephants
Water, earth, wind and fire. Naturally (get it), that just makes me imagine a group of funky elephants as 70’s musicians with Afros, dressed in glittering jumpsuits and singing “Boogie Wonderland.” How can disco be dead when there’s a stage full of pachyderms getting’ funky for ya? Of course, they all definitely have a certain…
Elephant of Style
Imagine a dapper pachyderm strolling the city sidewalk, sporting spats, white tie, tails and a top hat! His air of sophistication radiates as he greets passersby with polite bon mots. He’s got grace, wit, big ears and a trunk…he’s stylin’! Perhaps he’s on his way to visit his interior decorator – you know, the one with a dramatic…
Elephant of Design
This fellow is flamboyant and expressive, welcoming discussions of movement, texture, pattern and color. He believes that form follows function in a space and tends toward the boho-chic when decorating his own loft. Picture the elephant poised at an outdoor café table, sipping a venti half-caff mochafrappulattecino, with a dusting of cinnamon. He’s pontificating about the use of accessories in a powder room and wonders if adding built-ins is the way to go. Presently, he is joined by the…
Elephant of Doubt
We all know this guy…we can’t ignore him. He squirms his way into our thoughts and makes us question everything. This suspicious pachyderm doesn’t believe anything is true unless proven in some tangible way. His bushy eyebrows furrow into a “V” above his trunk as he whines, “I don’t know….” about everything from peanuts to popovers. He causes uncertainty among a group and his skepticism can be contagious if allowed to rampage, like elephants are wont to do. And what if he had a brother? He might be the…
Elephant of Danger
He’s a bad boy elephant…the kind your mother warned you about. He has a trunk piercing and a tattoo of barbed wire around his bicep; he drinks Pabst beer and smokes Lucky Strikes. He shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. This dude is a menace, people. He threatens little elephants for their milk money; he swipes candy bars and nudie magazines from convenience stores; he siphons gas out of SUVs to fuel his El Camino as the getaway car after a liquor store robbery. Nothing good can come from hanging around this perilous pachyderm, so run and seek to find the righteous…
Elephant of Truth
This one is virtuous, honest and trustworthy. She seeks to be a positive influence in the lives around her and she never lies, deceives or misleads. I picture her wearing a flowing blouse with bell sleeves and a tie-dyed broomstick skirt. Her huge ears are adorned with sparkly baubles and around her neck hang trinkets made of organic bamboo harvested by free-range itinerant farmers. She speaks of peace and love and harmony and gifts tofu mini muffins. She shops at the farmer’s market and doesn’t shave her legs. Wait – do elephants have hair?
Anyway…
I ran out of steam here. Got any other elements that can be elephants? Let me know.
In my head I immediately pictured an elephant, sneaking around behind bushes, carrying an enormous bundle of balloons and confetti poppers in its trunk, waiting to pounce upon some unsuspecting jungle animal and bellowing “Surprise!” Go ahead…picture it. I DARE you not to at least giggle. That’s funny, right?
Well, that got me thinking about other kinds of “elephants.” So here for your consideration are my thoughts:
The Four Basic Elephants
Water, earth, wind and fire. Naturally (get it), that just makes me imagine a group of funky elephants as 70’s musicians with Afros, dressed in glittering jumpsuits and singing “Boogie Wonderland.” How can disco be dead when there’s a stage full of pachyderms getting’ funky for ya? Of course, they all definitely have a certain…
Elephant of Style
Imagine a dapper pachyderm strolling the city sidewalk, sporting spats, white tie, tails and a top hat! His air of sophistication radiates as he greets passersby with polite bon mots. He’s got grace, wit, big ears and a trunk…he’s stylin’! Perhaps he’s on his way to visit his interior decorator – you know, the one with a dramatic…
Elephant of Design
This fellow is flamboyant and expressive, welcoming discussions of movement, texture, pattern and color. He believes that form follows function in a space and tends toward the boho-chic when decorating his own loft. Picture the elephant poised at an outdoor café table, sipping a venti half-caff mochafrappulattecino, with a dusting of cinnamon. He’s pontificating about the use of accessories in a powder room and wonders if adding built-ins is the way to go. Presently, he is joined by the…
Elephant of Doubt
We all know this guy…we can’t ignore him. He squirms his way into our thoughts and makes us question everything. This suspicious pachyderm doesn’t believe anything is true unless proven in some tangible way. His bushy eyebrows furrow into a “V” above his trunk as he whines, “I don’t know….” about everything from peanuts to popovers. He causes uncertainty among a group and his skepticism can be contagious if allowed to rampage, like elephants are wont to do. And what if he had a brother? He might be the…
Elephant of Danger
He’s a bad boy elephant…the kind your mother warned you about. He has a trunk piercing and a tattoo of barbed wire around his bicep; he drinks Pabst beer and smokes Lucky Strikes. He shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. This dude is a menace, people. He threatens little elephants for their milk money; he swipes candy bars and nudie magazines from convenience stores; he siphons gas out of SUVs to fuel his El Camino as the getaway car after a liquor store robbery. Nothing good can come from hanging around this perilous pachyderm, so run and seek to find the righteous…
Elephant of Truth
This one is virtuous, honest and trustworthy. She seeks to be a positive influence in the lives around her and she never lies, deceives or misleads. I picture her wearing a flowing blouse with bell sleeves and a tie-dyed broomstick skirt. Her huge ears are adorned with sparkly baubles and around her neck hang trinkets made of organic bamboo harvested by free-range itinerant farmers. She speaks of peace and love and harmony and gifts tofu mini muffins. She shops at the farmer’s market and doesn’t shave her legs. Wait – do elephants have hair?
Anyway…
I ran out of steam here. Got any other elements that can be elephants? Let me know.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Technology Tirade
Technology is a most wonderful thing! I recently acquired a new cell phone upon which I can access email, write letters, build spreadsheets, take pictures, send those pictures, text message, schedule meetings, compose ringtones…oh yeah, and make calls. It’s a fancy little item that both intrigues and frightens me. Most technology does.
Even in the realm of electronic toys, I am occasionally baffled. Yeah, I know how to push buttons, but that’s the least of it. Now kid’s electronics come with stylus pens and draw pads, interactive screens and talking hosts (in both English and Spanish, I might add)!! Video games now have buttons and sticks, and slideys and whammer-dingers…as humans, we don’t even have enough digits to operate all those things! When video games first arrived in my periphery, it consisted of a black screen, flanked by two white bars and a mind-numbing game of catch. Pong – that game stole about 1300 hours of my childhood from me! Now Asteroids, that’s the ticket! I imagine I could retire a wealthy woman and never have to work again if only I could recoup all the quarters spent at the Silver Mine!
What else did I have when I was a kid? Etch-A-Sketch and Clik-Claks! It took roughly 18 months for me to learn how to draw a circle on the damn Etch-A-Sketch and the only real application of the Clik-Claks, apart from imposing a concussion upon myself, was to hang around my neck as the stunt-double for my as-yet-to-arrive breasts! When I was three, the current age of the Pie, I played with rubber bands, sticks and balloons. The Pie, she plays, video games featuring her favorite TV show characters. There’s a Wow Wow Wubbzy! Game where she maneuvers through Wuzzleberg to catch a 50 foot fleegle. There’s a Dora the Explorer game where she goes hunting for presents for her new puppy; and there’s even an Alphabet Park game that requires her identify letters and spell words. Well, at least there was.
I am sad to report that the video game console has gone to the great scrap heap in the sky. The Pie was inconsolable….until it was removed from her vision and replaced with something more far more advanced and mysterious…. Mama’s makeup!
Even in the realm of electronic toys, I am occasionally baffled. Yeah, I know how to push buttons, but that’s the least of it. Now kid’s electronics come with stylus pens and draw pads, interactive screens and talking hosts (in both English and Spanish, I might add)!! Video games now have buttons and sticks, and slideys and whammer-dingers…as humans, we don’t even have enough digits to operate all those things! When video games first arrived in my periphery, it consisted of a black screen, flanked by two white bars and a mind-numbing game of catch. Pong – that game stole about 1300 hours of my childhood from me! Now Asteroids, that’s the ticket! I imagine I could retire a wealthy woman and never have to work again if only I could recoup all the quarters spent at the Silver Mine!
What else did I have when I was a kid? Etch-A-Sketch and Clik-Claks! It took roughly 18 months for me to learn how to draw a circle on the damn Etch-A-Sketch and the only real application of the Clik-Claks, apart from imposing a concussion upon myself, was to hang around my neck as the stunt-double for my as-yet-to-arrive breasts! When I was three, the current age of the Pie, I played with rubber bands, sticks and balloons. The Pie, she plays, video games featuring her favorite TV show characters. There’s a Wow Wow Wubbzy! Game where she maneuvers through Wuzzleberg to catch a 50 foot fleegle. There’s a Dora the Explorer game where she goes hunting for presents for her new puppy; and there’s even an Alphabet Park game that requires her identify letters and spell words. Well, at least there was.
I am sad to report that the video game console has gone to the great scrap heap in the sky. The Pie was inconsolable….until it was removed from her vision and replaced with something more far more advanced and mysterious…. Mama’s makeup!
No service will be held to honor the precious life given in service to the Pie.
Donations may be made to the Ginormous Thumb Rehabilitation Clinic.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
I am currently reading the most informative and horrifying book imaginable. It portrays scenes that leave me chilled to the bone and questioning myself and those around me. Conversely, it is significantly empowering because it has revealed a myriad of information that I need to file away for the future and some I need to utilize right this second!
The book? “Protecting the Gift: Keeping Children and Teenagers Safe (And Parents Sane)” by renowned security expert Gavin de Becker. Doesn’t sound all that terrifying does it? With each vignette exposing the vulnerability of a mother with walking in a parking lot her daughter or the manipulation of a young child, I wonder how I can possibly keep my Pie safe from unnecessary harm and fear. De Becker discusses the meaning of fear throughout these pages, explaining the separation of "manufactured fear," from "natural" fear. I am not a worry wart, but I do have valid concerns about my daughter. However, for those who worry excessively he comments, "everybody dies, but not everybody lives." He flatly states that worry increases risk and "to protect your child you must believe in yourself."
Because I am reading this book, I am now hyperaware of the existence and possibility of dangerous situations and overly analytical of things I hear and see. For instance, last night the Pie asked me to tickle her “inside” and pointed between her legs. My stomach did flip-flops, my eyes did that AAOOOGAH thing from cartoons and my heart raced. I asked her immediately what she meant and who tickled her inside, but she just said, “You, mama!” Perplexed, I pushed for more information, but she shut down and began playing with other toys. Her Mimi witnessed the exchange and was equally disturbed. I mentally reviewed where she had been over the last few weeks, when she had been without me, who she had been exposed to and nothing made sense. There was no way she could have been compromised! And I was not in denial; the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit.
Later, after bath and as we settled into her bed for story time, I asked her again about being tickled inside. Through a series of thinly veiled questions and some role play, I learned: “You Mama! When you do belly button tickles it feels funny in there.”
However ideally it would have been, it did NOT occur like this:
ME: So, tell me, Pie…how is it you came by the knowledge of being tickled inside and who, if I may be so bold to inquire, has ever done that to you?
PIE: Oh, silly mother…it was no one other than yourself! You see, when you apply light pressure to my umbilical scar, a tingling sensation results inside my abdomen!
In actuality, it was mostly like this:
ME: Where did you learn about tickling inside?
PIE: What? (accompanied by furrowed brow)
ME: Who showed you about tickling inside?
PIE: What? (accompanied by wrinkled nose and scowl)
ME: Did someone tickle you inside?
PIE: Yes.
ME: Who was it?
PIE: What? (accompanied by cocked head and widened eyes)
My daughter loves to be tickled and practically demands that I do it. Sometimes I give her the Tickle Spider, who devours her belly; other times, it’s the Tickle Worm, who goes after those sweet little folds in her neck; others she gets a Horsey Corn on her thigh or a Something Funny Under There for her armpits. She squeals and laughs and orders more. Those are such precious sounds.
Gavin de Becker says, "Throughout history half of all children failed to reach adult-hood ... childhood is safe only when adults make it so." I say, it's only when the right adults make it so...
The book? “Protecting the Gift: Keeping Children and Teenagers Safe (And Parents Sane)” by renowned security expert Gavin de Becker. Doesn’t sound all that terrifying does it? With each vignette exposing the vulnerability of a mother with walking in a parking lot her daughter or the manipulation of a young child, I wonder how I can possibly keep my Pie safe from unnecessary harm and fear. De Becker discusses the meaning of fear throughout these pages, explaining the separation of "manufactured fear," from "natural" fear. I am not a worry wart, but I do have valid concerns about my daughter. However, for those who worry excessively he comments, "everybody dies, but not everybody lives." He flatly states that worry increases risk and "to protect your child you must believe in yourself."
Because I am reading this book, I am now hyperaware of the existence and possibility of dangerous situations and overly analytical of things I hear and see. For instance, last night the Pie asked me to tickle her “inside” and pointed between her legs. My stomach did flip-flops, my eyes did that AAOOOGAH thing from cartoons and my heart raced. I asked her immediately what she meant and who tickled her inside, but she just said, “You, mama!” Perplexed, I pushed for more information, but she shut down and began playing with other toys. Her Mimi witnessed the exchange and was equally disturbed. I mentally reviewed where she had been over the last few weeks, when she had been without me, who she had been exposed to and nothing made sense. There was no way she could have been compromised! And I was not in denial; the pieces of the puzzle simply did not fit.
Later, after bath and as we settled into her bed for story time, I asked her again about being tickled inside. Through a series of thinly veiled questions and some role play, I learned: “You Mama! When you do belly button tickles it feels funny in there.”
However ideally it would have been, it did NOT occur like this:
ME: So, tell me, Pie…how is it you came by the knowledge of being tickled inside and who, if I may be so bold to inquire, has ever done that to you?
PIE: Oh, silly mother…it was no one other than yourself! You see, when you apply light pressure to my umbilical scar, a tingling sensation results inside my abdomen!
In actuality, it was mostly like this:
ME: Where did you learn about tickling inside?
PIE: What? (accompanied by furrowed brow)
ME: Who showed you about tickling inside?
PIE: What? (accompanied by wrinkled nose and scowl)
ME: Did someone tickle you inside?
PIE: Yes.
ME: Who was it?
PIE: What? (accompanied by cocked head and widened eyes)
My daughter loves to be tickled and practically demands that I do it. Sometimes I give her the Tickle Spider, who devours her belly; other times, it’s the Tickle Worm, who goes after those sweet little folds in her neck; others she gets a Horsey Corn on her thigh or a Something Funny Under There for her armpits. She squeals and laughs and orders more. Those are such precious sounds.
Gavin de Becker says, "Throughout history half of all children failed to reach adult-hood ... childhood is safe only when adults make it so." I say, it's only when the right adults make it so...
Friday, June 4, 2010
Hover Craft
I am not one of those “helicopter parents” that hovers over their children every moment to ensure their absolute safety. I am of the opinion that kids need to learn some lessons the hard way - like touching a hot stove, or running barefoot on wet concrete. Those things will leave an impression, but not a life-long scar. However, an incident over Memorial Day weekend may well serve to alter the course of my future hovering – most especially around bodies of water larger than a puddle. It was an exciting weekend: my lovely “niece” had her beautiful wedding to a handsome and brave man, the Pie and I had gone to the zoo and had a fun day together. And then it happened: the temptation of the swimming pool beckoned to us. So we loaded up and followed L and J to their new house to celebrate the holiday. A cook out was imminent, complete with potato salad and baked beans and I was anxious to get in the pool…but not nearly as anxious as the Pie!
Upon arrival at the new house, the Pie and H & H ran full tilt boogie through the mostly empty house and then discovered there was a large hole out back full of water and a few other things I can’t bring myself to talk about right now. Anyway, the pool eventually cleared and they stripped to their cartoon embellished undies and got in with an adult.
A few minutes later, I turned around to witness one of the most horrifying sights a mother can imagine.
My daughter’s head was partially under water, only her giant blue eyes and golden hair visible at about the 4 foot deep mark. I could see her arms and legs churning beneath the surface, but she just couldn’t make any headway. I was frozen to the spot – all I could do was scream her name, which I realize now is not overly helpful in this type of situation. Suddenly, I heard a splash behind me and the Pie was being hauled up out of the water. L had appeared from out of nowhere to rescue the Pie from drowning. As her bluish lips coughed up water, she began to shake and cry. I grabbed her and held her so tight, I probably cracked a rib, but I had to make sure she was alive and okay. When she said, “Me go swimming again?” I wanted to adamantly refuse and pack up and leave. She comforted me by saying, “Me wear my floaties dis time, okay Mama?” At least she knows something about being safe. I then stood in a corner of the year and hyperventilated a little…just a strange little aftereffect of sheer panic!
The rest of the day, my eyes never left her. They followed her as she bobbed in the water surrounded by her friends and many floatation devices, as she ate her hot dog and chips and as she conquered her fear of jumping into the water. I relaxed only when I knew she was napping safely inside the house.
As we drove home, I considered how we could have ended up just a holiday statistic; a tragic story in the paper the next day. I considered locking her in her bedroom for the next 15 years or moving to an Ashram in a remote mountain community. But the truth is, she will face danger every day of her life. Whether it’s a hot stove, a pointy stick, a swimming pool, a stranger, or furniture that seems to jump out at her when she’s running through the house, she will experience pain and aches, injury and fear. And while I would like to make absolutely certain that nothing ever happens to her, what kind of life would that be for her? Nothing would EVER happen to her.
Upon arrival at the new house, the Pie and H & H ran full tilt boogie through the mostly empty house and then discovered there was a large hole out back full of water and a few other things I can’t bring myself to talk about right now. Anyway, the pool eventually cleared and they stripped to their cartoon embellished undies and got in with an adult.
A few minutes later, I turned around to witness one of the most horrifying sights a mother can imagine.
My daughter’s head was partially under water, only her giant blue eyes and golden hair visible at about the 4 foot deep mark. I could see her arms and legs churning beneath the surface, but she just couldn’t make any headway. I was frozen to the spot – all I could do was scream her name, which I realize now is not overly helpful in this type of situation. Suddenly, I heard a splash behind me and the Pie was being hauled up out of the water. L had appeared from out of nowhere to rescue the Pie from drowning. As her bluish lips coughed up water, she began to shake and cry. I grabbed her and held her so tight, I probably cracked a rib, but I had to make sure she was alive and okay. When she said, “Me go swimming again?” I wanted to adamantly refuse and pack up and leave. She comforted me by saying, “Me wear my floaties dis time, okay Mama?” At least she knows something about being safe. I then stood in a corner of the year and hyperventilated a little…just a strange little aftereffect of sheer panic!
The rest of the day, my eyes never left her. They followed her as she bobbed in the water surrounded by her friends and many floatation devices, as she ate her hot dog and chips and as she conquered her fear of jumping into the water. I relaxed only when I knew she was napping safely inside the house.
As we drove home, I considered how we could have ended up just a holiday statistic; a tragic story in the paper the next day. I considered locking her in her bedroom for the next 15 years or moving to an Ashram in a remote mountain community. But the truth is, she will face danger every day of her life. Whether it’s a hot stove, a pointy stick, a swimming pool, a stranger, or furniture that seems to jump out at her when she’s running through the house, she will experience pain and aches, injury and fear. And while I would like to make absolutely certain that nothing ever happens to her, what kind of life would that be for her? Nothing would EVER happen to her.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Then and Now - The Transformation
The Pie turned 3 this week. I’m not sure how it’s possible because it was only a couple of days ago that she left my body and made my world all sparkly! At least that’s how it seems to me. The first three years of her life have passed in hyperspeed – and that’s probably due more to her high-speed little self than anything else – and I know I will soon wake up to discover a that a prepubescent beastie lives in my house.
Following a conversation with a good friend, I started thinking about all the transformations that have taken place in my life in the past three years. For the most part, I think the differences between then and now are significantly positive, but there are might be a couple that I could have lived my whole life without experiencing. But if it meant not having my daughter, then I would do them all a hundred times over.
What follows is a list of those changes.
1. I have touched things I never imagined touching – dead mice, spiders, poop
2. I fear different things now. It used to be trivial, mindless worry, but now I am consumed with her safety, her health, her well-being.
3. My heart breaks so much more easily than before.
4. I feel her pain more than my own.
5. There is a person on the planet who becomes giddily excited when I enter a room.
6. I don’t sleep nearly as much or as soundly.
7. I have discovered that there is no such thing as a leisurely shower.
8. I watch cartoons.
9. I never have a clean house or finished laundry.
10. I actually become excited about someone else’s bodily functions (tooting, pooping, etc.)
11. I actually read labels now.
12. I don’t watch the news anymore. As a mother, it’s too depressing and frightening.
13. I discovered I am smarter than I thought I was. Coming up with explanations for all the “whys” makes me really work my brain!
14. My sense of wonder that I had as a child has returned.
15. My heart now walks around (runs around) outside my body.
16. I don’t think about myself – I think of her – constantly.
17. Although I own a queen-sized bed, I usually only use about 18 inches of it.
18. I stopped coloring my hair. Clairol stock probably plummeted!
19. I don’t buy the expensive make-up anymore – because if I can wear the cheap stuff, so can she!
20. The only thing I read these days is the directions for putting a toy together.
21. I attend tea parties – with TinkerBell and Raggedy Ann as guests.
22. I have developed an intense dislike for Play-Doh. Don’t get me started…
23. Balloons are not nearly as fun for me as they used to be (see previous blog entry on balloon hating)
24. I no longer have any interest – or time, or energy – in dating
25. I have a new name….just call me Mama.
Following a conversation with a good friend, I started thinking about all the transformations that have taken place in my life in the past three years. For the most part, I think the differences between then and now are significantly positive, but there are might be a couple that I could have lived my whole life without experiencing. But if it meant not having my daughter, then I would do them all a hundred times over.
What follows is a list of those changes.
1. I have touched things I never imagined touching – dead mice, spiders, poop
2. I fear different things now. It used to be trivial, mindless worry, but now I am consumed with her safety, her health, her well-being.
3. My heart breaks so much more easily than before.
4. I feel her pain more than my own.
5. There is a person on the planet who becomes giddily excited when I enter a room.
6. I don’t sleep nearly as much or as soundly.
7. I have discovered that there is no such thing as a leisurely shower.
8. I watch cartoons.
9. I never have a clean house or finished laundry.
10. I actually become excited about someone else’s bodily functions (tooting, pooping, etc.)
11. I actually read labels now.
12. I don’t watch the news anymore. As a mother, it’s too depressing and frightening.
13. I discovered I am smarter than I thought I was. Coming up with explanations for all the “whys” makes me really work my brain!
14. My sense of wonder that I had as a child has returned.
15. My heart now walks around (runs around) outside my body.
16. I don’t think about myself – I think of her – constantly.
17. Although I own a queen-sized bed, I usually only use about 18 inches of it.
18. I stopped coloring my hair. Clairol stock probably plummeted!
19. I don’t buy the expensive make-up anymore – because if I can wear the cheap stuff, so can she!
20. The only thing I read these days is the directions for putting a toy together.
21. I attend tea parties – with TinkerBell and Raggedy Ann as guests.
22. I have developed an intense dislike for Play-Doh. Don’t get me started…
23. Balloons are not nearly as fun for me as they used to be (see previous blog entry on balloon hating)
24. I no longer have any interest – or time, or energy – in dating
25. I have a new name….just call me Mama.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
The Power of Prayer
Hallelujah! Let us rejoice and be glad that Kate Gosselin has been cast out of our television and admonished, according to the gospel of Dancing with the Stars, Season 10, Week Five: “Thou hast befouled American family television, so out with thee, into the vast abyss and reside forever in the ninth circle of Hell!” Can I get an Amen?
We have been cleansed, people! Washed clean of the sour puss of hatred, we can forge ahead in unison to enjoy Dancing with the Stars once again. Our prayers have been answered, God is good and we have been saved!
Saved, I tell you, from the wrath of the one who bore eight. Snatched from the jowls of the beast, whose evil strolling to music served simply to assault our senses. Join me, disciples of all that is holy and look to the Heavens once again; pray to vanquish the one who bestows roses upon unsuspecting women.
Amen!
We have been cleansed, people! Washed clean of the sour puss of hatred, we can forge ahead in unison to enjoy Dancing with the Stars once again. Our prayers have been answered, God is good and we have been saved!
Saved, I tell you, from the wrath of the one who bore eight. Snatched from the jowls of the beast, whose evil strolling to music served simply to assault our senses. Join me, disciples of all that is holy and look to the Heavens once again; pray to vanquish the one who bestows roses upon unsuspecting women.
Amen!
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Get Caught Up!
If you are interested in readin older posts from The Pie Baker (version 1.0), please take a hop on over The Pie Baker on Wordpress. www.thepiebaker.wordpress.com
Thanks!
Thanks!
Balloon Hatred
I hate balloons. There was a time when I actually liked them; I found them cheerful and festive in an innocuous way. It was entertaining how these little orbs of air and latex bounced around, ricocheting from one object to another. On a few occasions, I actually filled them with water and tossed them from a 3rd floor window. (Don’t tell anyone…) So, I remember a time when balloons and I got along pretty well. That was before I became a mother.
Now, I worry about balloons. Not just worry…I actually HATE balloons. They have evolved into insidious little beasties that toy with the affections of my darling child; they cause emotions to spin out of control and possess the potential to kill. And the Pie acts as if she cannot live without one when we stroll through any establishment that has utilized balloons as decoration. Our trip to the store quickly disintegrates into a power struggle when I say, “No, you cannot have a balloon today.” Ugliness typically ensues…then I say, “Okay, you can have a balloon.” (A tip to the employees of those establishments: DO NOT offer my child a balloon without my permission. That’s just mean.)
Oh, the joy the spreads instantly! Radiating from those sapphire eyes, pleasure that cannot be contained is cast far and wide. Her little face squinches up with glee and her sparkling smile gleams brighter than the sun. I love to make my daughter that happy – in fact, I LIVE for it. Then I must be hyper vigilant to guard against loss or damage to the ecstasy sphere. I repeat like a mantra, “Don’t let go….don’t let go…don’t let go…” I sometimes wonder if I’m talking to the Pie or to myself. So in her effort to not release the balloon, she starts to bite it. She likes the sound her teeth make when they meet the expanded latex. Ick! Anyway, I suddenly can’t tear my eyes from her, waiting for the balloon to pop, scare her and be sucked into her windpipe, choking the life from her. As a lesson in compromise, I cajole the Pie into tying the balloon to her wrist. I can relax for a few minutes as we finish shopping, check out and load up the car. Then we take the balloon home.
The life expectancy of a balloon is brief, my friends. A two year old cannot conceive that nothing lasts forever. She expects her precious little ball of air to still be tethered to the end of her bed when she wakes in the morning. What she does not expect to find is a soft, shriveled squishy-ball lying dejectedly at the foot of her bed. And, folks, Mommy doesn’t appreciate something that looks like an old man’s testicle furtively nestled against her daughter. As she opens her eyes, she looks up into thin air. As she lowers her chunky little legs from her toddler bed, she steps on the object that less than 24 hours before filled her with delight. Her revulsion is evident in her squeals, which quickly melt into tears. “Where boon, go, Mama?” Oh, dear. She is saddened by the loss of her joyful little friend and I get to formulate a scheme to get the tiny bloated sac into the trash can without her knowledge. I’ll bet I spend a third of my waking hours disposing of the bodies of various toys and other items that are no longer appropriate for her to play with. I feel a bit like a hit man!
So watch out, balloons…don’t piss me off! I can poke a hole in you so fast, it will make you dizzy!
Now, I worry about balloons. Not just worry…I actually HATE balloons. They have evolved into insidious little beasties that toy with the affections of my darling child; they cause emotions to spin out of control and possess the potential to kill. And the Pie acts as if she cannot live without one when we stroll through any establishment that has utilized balloons as decoration. Our trip to the store quickly disintegrates into a power struggle when I say, “No, you cannot have a balloon today.” Ugliness typically ensues…then I say, “Okay, you can have a balloon.” (A tip to the employees of those establishments: DO NOT offer my child a balloon without my permission. That’s just mean.)
Oh, the joy the spreads instantly! Radiating from those sapphire eyes, pleasure that cannot be contained is cast far and wide. Her little face squinches up with glee and her sparkling smile gleams brighter than the sun. I love to make my daughter that happy – in fact, I LIVE for it. Then I must be hyper vigilant to guard against loss or damage to the ecstasy sphere. I repeat like a mantra, “Don’t let go….don’t let go…don’t let go…” I sometimes wonder if I’m talking to the Pie or to myself. So in her effort to not release the balloon, she starts to bite it. She likes the sound her teeth make when they meet the expanded latex. Ick! Anyway, I suddenly can’t tear my eyes from her, waiting for the balloon to pop, scare her and be sucked into her windpipe, choking the life from her. As a lesson in compromise, I cajole the Pie into tying the balloon to her wrist. I can relax for a few minutes as we finish shopping, check out and load up the car. Then we take the balloon home.
The life expectancy of a balloon is brief, my friends. A two year old cannot conceive that nothing lasts forever. She expects her precious little ball of air to still be tethered to the end of her bed when she wakes in the morning. What she does not expect to find is a soft, shriveled squishy-ball lying dejectedly at the foot of her bed. And, folks, Mommy doesn’t appreciate something that looks like an old man’s testicle furtively nestled against her daughter. As she opens her eyes, she looks up into thin air. As she lowers her chunky little legs from her toddler bed, she steps on the object that less than 24 hours before filled her with delight. Her revulsion is evident in her squeals, which quickly melt into tears. “Where boon, go, Mama?” Oh, dear. She is saddened by the loss of her joyful little friend and I get to formulate a scheme to get the tiny bloated sac into the trash can without her knowledge. I’ll bet I spend a third of my waking hours disposing of the bodies of various toys and other items that are no longer appropriate for her to play with. I feel a bit like a hit man!
So watch out, balloons…don’t piss me off! I can poke a hole in you so fast, it will make you dizzy!
Whoopsie
I was adding previous blog posts and realized I was doing them backwards.
Please bear with me during this time of de-/re-construction.
thanks ever so much
Please bear with me during this time of de-/re-construction.
thanks ever so much
Shortly before the Christmas holiday, during a stroll through a superstore, I glimpsed what I thought would make the perfect gift for the Pie: A Barbie Kid-Tough Tricycle. The two shades of pink and purple hypnotized me into believing that my daughter simply could not exist without it. And it was on sale – so I bought it and hid it in the laundry room closet.
On Christmas Eve, while my daughter slept snuggled with her dolly and stuffed Curious George dolls, I snuck into the laundry room to assemble the glorious trike. As the pieces emerged from the box, I began to worry that I had undertaken a strictly masculine task and that my lack of a penis would surely inhibit my completion of said task. Before me lay the following: a straight axle, wheel hubs, pedal axle, nut caps (which sound to me like something men need in the winter), bushings (I’ll leave that one alone), fork arms, a seat unit and handlebar assembly. I recognized each of these words, but not how they were applied to the detritus that scattered my laundry room floor. So rather than freeze to death or end up throwing a nut cap through the window, I replaced all the items into the box and returned it to its hiding place in the closet. I was beaten and I knew it. It would have to wait until her birthday…or maybe next Christmas.
Fast forward to New Year’s Day. The Pie enjoys helping me with laundry – she pushes the hampers to the laundry room and hands me the clothes to place in the washer. So it was during one of our laundry trips that she got curious and opened up the closet door. At her eye level, there gleamed an open box of pink and purple plastic thingies that in her estimation were created exclusively for her immediate enjoyment. “Mama, make this,” she cried as I looked to the Heavens and questioned why I ever bought the thing in the first place. The Pie likes to help, at least what she thinks is helping, and she promised she would help me make the tricycle. “Okay,” I thought. “This might be a good mother-daughter bonding moment where she can understand that girls can do anything.”
Yeah, right. What she learned was that Mama knows a lot of dirty words and she’s not afraid to use them! While the directions for assembly were fairly straightforward, the application of them became inhibited with the presence of my “helper”. The instant I snapped the seat into place, she wanted to sit on it. The moment I installed the back wheels, she wanted to ride it. I temporarily placed the fork arms and was about to screw in the covers, when she hopped on and the whole thing blew apart underneath her. To an onlooker, the scene probably would have incited laughter of the gut-busting variety, but I was not amused. At some point in the assembly process, the Pie located the handlebars, hoisted them above her head like a WWE Champion and marched around the house screaming, “HANDLEBARS! HANDLEBARS!” Yeah, yeah … it sounds cute – but believe me, it was not. Nor was it easy talking her into handing them over when it was time to attach them to the trike. Just the threat of not riding the toy was enough to do trick, however, so we neared completion of the Barbie Kid-Tough Tricycle.
As I tightened the final screw in the beast, I felt awash with pride and accomplishment. I did something I thought I would never be able to do – all through the encouragement from and love for my daughter. Seeing her pedal around the house on her new trike is reward I never imagined. I triumphed over fear and apathy for the sake of my child and learned a lesson in the process: don’t buy anything that comes in a box with the words “Some Assembly Required.”
Maybe It's Just Me
Contrary to what one might believe, I do actually have small windows of time when my mind begins to wander…usually when I’m taking a shower or driving home from work. It is during these times, that a vapor lock occurs inside my cranium that refuses to let rational thought inside. Topics that manage to invade my gray matter include, but are not limited to, conspiracy theories, invention ideas, recipes, craft ideas and fantasies. Don’t get excited, not THAT kind of fantasy! They often involve mundane tasks such as painting the walls or mowing the lawn. But maybe it’s just me…
For example, this morning, in the shower (one which I actually got to take by without the presence of my daughter) it occurred to me that Anthony Sullivan – the British guy who pitches products like the Super Snake and was on the show “Pitchmen” with the late Billy Mays – could theoretically be responsible for Mays’ untimely death. Ok here’s what happened: my alarm went off to the radio blaring one of Sullivan’s latest commercials and as I stumbled to the shower, I kept thinking how his voice was just as annoying as Billy Mays’. Then I remembered that Mays was dead and how it seemed that Sullivan was snatching up all the ad time for the “incredible new products” to hit the market. Even that Sham-Wow guy is in jail (icing on the cake for Sullivan), so the market is now saturated with guy! What if he orchestrated something to take out his biggest rival? Autopsy reports state that there was cocaine in Mays’ system, but his family adamantly denies any drug use. Knowing his nemesis had a heart problem, Sullivan could have mixed a little Bolivian marching powder in with the Oxy-Clean and “accidentally” blown a cloud of it into the air, which Billy inhaled and, after a bump on the head from a suitcase in an airplane, he buys the farm. I am NOT saying that anything like this actually happened. I sympathize with the Mays family and couldn’t care less about Sullivan – I have a MUTE button. Maybe it’s just me…
And here’s one…as I was getting dressed, I wondered what feat of German engineering had occurred to keep Mariah Carey in her dress at the Golden Globes. That joke is just TOO easy, so I won’t even go there! Some of the clothing that stars wear is so beyond the ridiculous that I wonder what they are thinking when they don a fluffy confection of sheer lace, blinding sequins and high and/or low cut cloth swatches? Do we really need to see the breasts of these women? And why don’t the men do something similar? I wouldn’t mind if Hugh Jackman (my close, personal friend) showed up shirtless in a pair of tighty-whities and flip-flops!! Come on, what these women wear is tantamount to that, so why the double standard? Maybe it’s just me…
On another note… don’t you think it would be FANTASTIC to have a 24 hour drive-thru convenience store kind of establishment? Here’s the scenario: You need diapers, smokes, pop and juice in the middle of the night and you’re in the middle of a downpour of epic proportions. You also have a baby (or toddler) in the car with you. Do YOU want to get out of the car, run around to the other side to get the baby, cover the baby in a blanket, run into the store – already soaking wet – get the needed items, run back out into the rain, put the baby in the seat (getting further soaked from the waist down while buckling the straps), open the trunk and put said items in, run to the driver’s side and hop back in? Yeah, me neither. Which is why we need a place where you can drive up to a covered menu board, you can poke buttons for what you need, then pull up to a window where you pay for your order. Then once payment is received, you proceed to another window or door where the items you ordered only moments before are delivered to your warm, dry vehicle. Beauty, right? Maybe it’s just me…
Does anyone else have these strange moments where your brain takes flight and the craziest thoughts enter in? Care to share? Oh, maybe it’s just me...
For example, this morning, in the shower (one which I actually got to take by without the presence of my daughter) it occurred to me that Anthony Sullivan – the British guy who pitches products like the Super Snake and was on the show “Pitchmen” with the late Billy Mays – could theoretically be responsible for Mays’ untimely death. Ok here’s what happened: my alarm went off to the radio blaring one of Sullivan’s latest commercials and as I stumbled to the shower, I kept thinking how his voice was just as annoying as Billy Mays’. Then I remembered that Mays was dead and how it seemed that Sullivan was snatching up all the ad time for the “incredible new products” to hit the market. Even that Sham-Wow guy is in jail (icing on the cake for Sullivan), so the market is now saturated with guy! What if he orchestrated something to take out his biggest rival? Autopsy reports state that there was cocaine in Mays’ system, but his family adamantly denies any drug use. Knowing his nemesis had a heart problem, Sullivan could have mixed a little Bolivian marching powder in with the Oxy-Clean and “accidentally” blown a cloud of it into the air, which Billy inhaled and, after a bump on the head from a suitcase in an airplane, he buys the farm. I am NOT saying that anything like this actually happened. I sympathize with the Mays family and couldn’t care less about Sullivan – I have a MUTE button. Maybe it’s just me…
And here’s one…as I was getting dressed, I wondered what feat of German engineering had occurred to keep Mariah Carey in her dress at the Golden Globes. That joke is just TOO easy, so I won’t even go there! Some of the clothing that stars wear is so beyond the ridiculous that I wonder what they are thinking when they don a fluffy confection of sheer lace, blinding sequins and high and/or low cut cloth swatches? Do we really need to see the breasts of these women? And why don’t the men do something similar? I wouldn’t mind if Hugh Jackman (my close, personal friend) showed up shirtless in a pair of tighty-whities and flip-flops!! Come on, what these women wear is tantamount to that, so why the double standard? Maybe it’s just me…
On another note… don’t you think it would be FANTASTIC to have a 24 hour drive-thru convenience store kind of establishment? Here’s the scenario: You need diapers, smokes, pop and juice in the middle of the night and you’re in the middle of a downpour of epic proportions. You also have a baby (or toddler) in the car with you. Do YOU want to get out of the car, run around to the other side to get the baby, cover the baby in a blanket, run into the store – already soaking wet – get the needed items, run back out into the rain, put the baby in the seat (getting further soaked from the waist down while buckling the straps), open the trunk and put said items in, run to the driver’s side and hop back in? Yeah, me neither. Which is why we need a place where you can drive up to a covered menu board, you can poke buttons for what you need, then pull up to a window where you pay for your order. Then once payment is received, you proceed to another window or door where the items you ordered only moments before are delivered to your warm, dry vehicle. Beauty, right? Maybe it’s just me…
Does anyone else have these strange moments where your brain takes flight and the craziest thoughts enter in? Care to share? Oh, maybe it’s just me...
Letting Go...Or Not
Many years ago, a friend of mine became quite emotional as she told me about a song called “Letting Go,” by a female country artist. It is apparently the story of a woman who learns to release her fears and anxieties about her life, trusting that it will all turn out okay. The song’s lyrics are simple, but impactful: “There’s nothing in the way now… There’s room enough to fly… and though she spent her whole life waiting, it’s never easy letting go.”
The story begins with a woman who is packing her daughter’s belongings as she prepares to leave home and attend college – she must let go of the relics of her daughter’s childhood and accept that the girl is now a young woman. Then the story turns to the empty nest woman whose husband suddenly leaves her; she must let go of the anger and betrayal in order to move forward with her own life. Finally, the same woman’s mother struggles for life in a hospital. Regardless of the pain of losing her beloved mother, she knows that it would be better to let her slip quietly away to a better place.
Letting go seems to be a really difficult thing for anyone to do. When we are small children, we want to hang on to our blankies and dummies (my word for pacifiers) because they provide us with a sense of security and familiarity. I think that’s the case for all of us even as we grow into adults. There’s the excitement and anticipation of something new, but when it becomes comfortable, well-worn and cozy, we attach ourselves to it – whether it’s a pair of jeans, a driving route to work, or a significant other. We can’t bear to let go of it either because of the memories attached to it, or the way it comforts us or the ease of it. In all those cleaning and organizing shows on cable, one of the things the professionals ask is “Have you used or touched it in the last 6 months?” Good question.
When I was teaching the Pie to walk, her first steps were equally exciting and painful for me. She was moving toward a certain level of independence and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. I took her tiny hands in mine and felt her pulse race as she tentatively stepped forward. Her eyes shone and her grin lit up and I could feel her subtle tug against my hand, quietly asking me to let go…to let her strike out on her own, regardless of boo-boo potential. But I couldn’t do it. I could not allow those pudgy little fingers to slip through mine so soon…it seemed the last vestige of our invisible bond was slipping away. Eventually, of course, I did let go and she hasn’t been still a minute since!
I now find myself faced with another kind of decision about letting go of something. It’s not tangible object: an old pair of shoes, a cherished photograph, one of the Pie’s toys. It’s something that at one time was integral to my life on a visceral level, but that now serves only to frustrate and anger me.
The answer to the question of having touched it in the past 6 months is a resounding “No.” Nor has it touched me. It seems to have disappeared into a cocoon, slowly mutating into something unrecognizable and certain to never be the same again. But even as I walk right up to the precipice, dangle it over the abyss and prepare to release it from my grasp…I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t throw it away. As much as I need to – want to, even – I can’t.
I hope she knows that.
The story begins with a woman who is packing her daughter’s belongings as she prepares to leave home and attend college – she must let go of the relics of her daughter’s childhood and accept that the girl is now a young woman. Then the story turns to the empty nest woman whose husband suddenly leaves her; she must let go of the anger and betrayal in order to move forward with her own life. Finally, the same woman’s mother struggles for life in a hospital. Regardless of the pain of losing her beloved mother, she knows that it would be better to let her slip quietly away to a better place.
Letting go seems to be a really difficult thing for anyone to do. When we are small children, we want to hang on to our blankies and dummies (my word for pacifiers) because they provide us with a sense of security and familiarity. I think that’s the case for all of us even as we grow into adults. There’s the excitement and anticipation of something new, but when it becomes comfortable, well-worn and cozy, we attach ourselves to it – whether it’s a pair of jeans, a driving route to work, or a significant other. We can’t bear to let go of it either because of the memories attached to it, or the way it comforts us or the ease of it. In all those cleaning and organizing shows on cable, one of the things the professionals ask is “Have you used or touched it in the last 6 months?” Good question.
When I was teaching the Pie to walk, her first steps were equally exciting and painful for me. She was moving toward a certain level of independence and I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. I took her tiny hands in mine and felt her pulse race as she tentatively stepped forward. Her eyes shone and her grin lit up and I could feel her subtle tug against my hand, quietly asking me to let go…to let her strike out on her own, regardless of boo-boo potential. But I couldn’t do it. I could not allow those pudgy little fingers to slip through mine so soon…it seemed the last vestige of our invisible bond was slipping away. Eventually, of course, I did let go and she hasn’t been still a minute since!
I now find myself faced with another kind of decision about letting go of something. It’s not tangible object: an old pair of shoes, a cherished photograph, one of the Pie’s toys. It’s something that at one time was integral to my life on a visceral level, but that now serves only to frustrate and anger me.
The answer to the question of having touched it in the past 6 months is a resounding “No.” Nor has it touched me. It seems to have disappeared into a cocoon, slowly mutating into something unrecognizable and certain to never be the same again. But even as I walk right up to the precipice, dangle it over the abyss and prepare to release it from my grasp…I can’t. I don’t know why, but I can’t throw it away. As much as I need to – want to, even – I can’t.
I hope she knows that.
Birth of a Comedienne
I wish everyone could spend just one day with my kid. Not just because I could use the break, (because who wouldn’t?) but because she would keep you laughing until you pee your pants a little. The Pie is one of the funniest people I have ever personally known and the best part is – she doesn’t even have to try! Her innocence and sponge-like retention of the most trivial things makes her a treasure trove of hilarity. What follows is only a carefully small, hand-selected collection of actual things that have been uttered by The Pie.
A PROFESSIONAL OPINION My daughter loves to role-play and pretend, so oftentimes I find myself in some ridiculous situation feeding invisible apples to made-up bears; but on this occasion, I was the baby, and the Pie was the mama. She covered me with her Curious George towel, patted me on the head and said, “night, night.” She then sat on a chair and pretended to read, like her care takers are wont to do when she naps. After about 8 ½ seconds, she proceeded to “wake me up.” She asked if I had good dreams (like I always ask her in the mornings), so playing along, I told her of a fantastic dream that involved magical plants, flying cars, rainbow staircases, talking frogs, singing butterflies and shoes that exploded! With a very serious face and with deep compassion, she once again gently patted my head and said, “You really sick, Mama. Go back to bed.”
MUSH MOUTH The Pie spends her days with her Mimi, a woman I consider to be a very good friend. We are so close, in fact, that we consider each other part of our families. Mimi’s son had been spending time with a young lady and she one day announced she was pregnant. It was shocking news in light of the fact that the young lady has spent time in Africa as a missionary and seemed dedicated to a “Christian” life-style. In the throes of Mimi’s apoplexy at her baby having a baby, she alluded to the fact that her son had “knocked up a missionary.” My daughter, who hears all and sees all, told me later that MimI was crying : “ 'cause Anden knock over a mush!"
SMELLS LIKE A FAIRY TAIL…ER, TALE The Pie likes her stories. One day as she pretended to be a giant, demolishing everything in her path a la Godzilla, the adults around her encouraged her with shouts of “Fee Fie Foe Fum…I smell the blood of an English man!” And because she repeats (sort of) everything she hears, she lets out the following cry: “Fee Fie Foe Fum… I smell a BUM!”
EASY AS 1,2,3 As most parents do at some point in their parenthood career, I have implemented the counting strategy to admonish the Pie into a desired behavior. As a child, I thought it was kind of goofy myself, but I see the value of it now. Well, I USED to until recently. My daughter is painfully similar to me in that she is headstrong, stubborn and emotional. I have been working with her to ask for things in a nice manner – saying, “please” when she wants more juice, chewy snacks, noodles, whatever. Recently, she wanted more chocolate milk in her cup and proceeded to throw her cup at my feet and say, “More chocolate milk!” I assembled my face in the proper motherly gaze and inquired, “Is that the right way to ask Mama for something?” Her response? “1…2…”
A PROFESSIONAL OPINION My daughter loves to role-play and pretend, so oftentimes I find myself in some ridiculous situation feeding invisible apples to made-up bears; but on this occasion, I was the baby, and the Pie was the mama. She covered me with her Curious George towel, patted me on the head and said, “night, night.” She then sat on a chair and pretended to read, like her care takers are wont to do when she naps. After about 8 ½ seconds, she proceeded to “wake me up.” She asked if I had good dreams (like I always ask her in the mornings), so playing along, I told her of a fantastic dream that involved magical plants, flying cars, rainbow staircases, talking frogs, singing butterflies and shoes that exploded! With a very serious face and with deep compassion, she once again gently patted my head and said, “You really sick, Mama. Go back to bed.”
MUSH MOUTH The Pie spends her days with her Mimi, a woman I consider to be a very good friend. We are so close, in fact, that we consider each other part of our families. Mimi’s son had been spending time with a young lady and she one day announced she was pregnant. It was shocking news in light of the fact that the young lady has spent time in Africa as a missionary and seemed dedicated to a “Christian” life-style. In the throes of Mimi’s apoplexy at her baby having a baby, she alluded to the fact that her son had “knocked up a missionary.” My daughter, who hears all and sees all, told me later that MimI was crying : “ 'cause Anden knock over a mush!"
SMELLS LIKE A FAIRY TAIL…ER, TALE The Pie likes her stories. One day as she pretended to be a giant, demolishing everything in her path a la Godzilla, the adults around her encouraged her with shouts of “Fee Fie Foe Fum…I smell the blood of an English man!” And because she repeats (sort of) everything she hears, she lets out the following cry: “Fee Fie Foe Fum… I smell a BUM!”
EASY AS 1,2,3 As most parents do at some point in their parenthood career, I have implemented the counting strategy to admonish the Pie into a desired behavior. As a child, I thought it was kind of goofy myself, but I see the value of it now. Well, I USED to until recently. My daughter is painfully similar to me in that she is headstrong, stubborn and emotional. I have been working with her to ask for things in a nice manner – saying, “please” when she wants more juice, chewy snacks, noodles, whatever. Recently, she wanted more chocolate milk in her cup and proceeded to throw her cup at my feet and say, “More chocolate milk!” I assembled my face in the proper motherly gaze and inquired, “Is that the right way to ask Mama for something?” Her response? “1…2…”
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