The Mother Tongue

Being an English major, I am quite a stickler for correct grammar, spelling and pronunciation. I know I have made spelling mistakes in this very forum, and they have mortified me, but they were usually results of bad typing in a dark room at 3 in the morning…so sue me.

I have no patience for people who incorrectly pronounce words or use words in the wrong context, but it seems that those people are the only ones crossing my path lately. My dad has home health nurses and a health aide that visit a few times a week and in an effort to quell some of the awkwardness of that time, I will invariably strike up some inane conversation with them. It never fails that one or all of them will end up with her foot in her mouth.

Also, as the Pie learns her native language, she cracks me up with some of the pronunciations she comes up with. I have never used “baby talk” with her but simply spoke to her as if she understood what I meant. By the age of 9 months, she knew the meaning of “dangerous.” At 18 months, she knew what “understand” meant and used it correctly. Now, at the age of 4, she uses words like “appropriate, investigate and completely.” However, some words do give her a little trouble. What follows is a small compendium of some of the incorrect usages and pronunciations I have heard recently. I have noted first the incorrect pronunciation, a definition and finally, an example sentence of how it was butchered…er, used.

ROT-A-TOO-LEE – a French vegetable dish. I like to fix up some ROT-A-TOO-LEE for a quick supper.

PA-NAN-O – a musical instrument. Can I play the PA-NAN-O?

NUH-VILL-UH – a flavor of ice cream. I don’t like chocolate; I want NUH-VILL-UH.

KWAY-SO – a Mexican cheese dip. I want to order some KWAY-SO.


NUKE-YOU-LER – it’s NUKE-LEE-ER, you bucket heads! Come on!!!


FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL – referring to money matters. We need to go over our FY-NAN-SHOE-WULL status.


SIM-FON-ICK – working together as one. We have such a SIM-FON-ICK relationship.


KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN – the start of a school career. I have a son going into KIN-NEE-GAR-DUN.


MISS-CHEE-VEE-US – up to no good. Look at him…he’s being MISS-CHEE-VEE-US.


TORE-TILL-YUH – a flat dough made of corn or flour. Do you want some TORE-TILL-YUH chips and dip?

SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE – speculated. She was SUH-POSE-UH-BLEE coming by today.


ECK-SET-ER-RUH – and so on. We need office supplies: pens, paper, ECK-SET-ER-UH.


ATH-UH-LEET – one who participates in sporting activities. He is the greatest ATH-UH-LEET to ever play the game.

So in summary, always make sure to pronounce your words correctly…it will be a blessing in the skies.

Today's Care Giver

During a recent trip to the hospital with my father, I noticed a magazine on a table in the waiting room. The title was “Today’s Care Giver” and I admit being somewhat intrigued. How can a magazine devoted entirely to people who take care of other people be a successful publication? I suppose since it’s a niche market and they only seem to be available in hospitals, it meets the desired circulation.



The glossy cover features a pseudo-celebrity whose interview promises to reveal inside secrets to caring for elderly parents. If we talked about it in real terms, there would be no need for psycho-babbly publications and do-it-yourself seminars. Yeah, the editor-in-chief of this magazine travels all over the country and holds conferences on how to be a caregiver. Where can I sign up for that gig? The one secret you won’t learn in a magazine or at a seminar is this: Have limitless resources.


Financially, it is a huge strain to manage a household that includes a 4-year old, a 46-year old and an 82-year old. I do not work “outside the home” (as they say), so we depend on my dad’s very fixed income to support us. Utility bills, groceries, prescriptions, other personal necessities must be managed with very little financial wiggle room. In fact, for the past couple of months, I have relied on good friends to help me make my ends meet. But really, money is the least of my concerns.


It’s my personal resources that are being drained. It may look to those outside the situation that I have a free ride, but nothing could be further from the truth. I work my fanny off every day to make sure that our odd little household is running smoothly and everyone is well cared for. For example, just this morning, I realized that I had done more in a couple of hours than most people get done in a whole day.


I awoke to my daughter whacking me in the head with her cup, demanding more milk. As I stumbled through the living room, my father greeted me from his recliner (his throne), his leg covered in blood and stuck in a plastic grocery sack. He had injured his shin during the night and spent the rest of the wee hours with his leg propped up. So… I rinsed, refilled and delivered the Pie’s cup and grabbed medical supplies from the bathroom. I washed Dad’s lacerated shin with normal saline (just happen to have it lying around), and then cleaned the dried blood with warm soapy water. I covered the wound with antibiotic cream and dressed it with sterile bandages. Upon completion of this task, I had been awake for about 20 minutes.


After washing my hands, I set to work preparing breakfast. Before I could locate the pancake mix in the cabinet, my daughter blasts into the kitchen with the force of Iron Man and declares she is hungry. I explain that I am preparing our regular Saturday breakfast of pancakes and sausage, but she rebuts that she will starve if she doesn’t have something to eat RIGHT THIS SECOND!!! A quick talking-to and instructions to stand in the corner took care of that, so back to breakfast. While I wait for the griddle and frying pan to heat up, I remove the dishes from the dishwasher and put them away. Why is it there is ALWAYS a dirty dish somewhere in this house? With that done, I grab a load of laundry and start it on it’s merry, agitating way.


Back to breakfast: sausage in the pan, batter on the griddle…we are good to go. Oh, suddenly, from the corner where she still stands, my daughter announces that she needs a new band-aid on her toe (this will be the 17th since her injury less than 24 hours ago) and it must take priority over anything else I am doing. She’s so funny…. I flip the pancakes, get the required accoutrements from the pantry and run to the bathroom for a new princess band-aid. I realize I carried the syrup with me all through the house as I sit the Pie down for a new wound dressing. I go back to the kitchen to finish up pancakes and sausage and serve them up an empty dining table. My dad has wandered off to the bathroom, which could take up to 45 minutes, and my daughter…well; she’s still standing in the corner. At least she takes direction well!


As I wait for everyone to be seated, I decide to do a little dusting in the living room when the phone rings and it’s a company to which my dad has applied for Medicare Prescription Part D insurance, explaining why we are unable to enroll him at this time, blah, blah, blah… By the time I hang up, both my charges sit at the table looking at me like Oliver in the movie asking for more gruel! Oh, but wait…where the hell is the syrup? I honestly had to remind myself why I was ever in the entry foyer to begin with when I discovered the Log Cabin sitting forlornly in the corner. Now, let the eating commence.


After 4 bites, the Pie explains that she is full. This from the child who swore she would shrivel up and die if she didn’t eat something. Dad eats silently, that is until he says, “The sausage is a little browner than I like.” Fortunately for all involved, I say nothing. Breakfast is finally, mercifully over and now the real work begins.




Three more loads of laundry, dishes, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, wound care for both of those clumsy clods I love, then some playing with Barbies, Play-Doh and the Littlest Pet Shop. Preparing and cleaning up from lunch and dinner will also make their way onto the list.




If I have time, I plan to write that magazine and suggest they change the name to: “Today’s Care Giver is Tomorrow’s Exhausted Raving Lunatic.”

What's In My Hand?

I am The Pie Baker...and I am a spanker. But, wait! Before you call Social Services on me, let me explain. When the Pie gets a spank, it's only after she meets certain criteria established upon the first incident of undesired behavior. I only spank with my hand, no other object is used. And a singular spank is what she gets. Not a barrage of smacks on the buttocks. but one solidly landed spank. I know there is an ongoing and fiercely heated debate regarding this issue and I'm not, repeat, AM NOT asking for support, a comment blast, or chastisement, or finger-waving or whatever else fanatical people do to make normal people feel bad about themselves. So, kindly zip it. Now, let's move on.
It occurred to me that The Pie has received more spanks in the months since she turned 4 than she received in her entire first 3 years. Now, I have not conducted empirical, variable or any other kind of real research on this fact, but the only sense I can make out of it is that for the first 2 years she did nothing that warranted an actual spanking and now as her personality takes a more solid shape (some days it's a gargoyle, but most days it's a sunflower) she is testing the boundaries as well as my willingness and ability to enforce them. I get it...it was part of the sign-on bonus I got when I gave her life. But what I do often wonder is what will she remember about my hands?


Will she be haunted by memories of my hand hitting her little bottom or will she smile when she recalls my fingers clenching her tiny chubby hands as she took her first steps? Will she suffer flashbacks of getting spanked for an act of defiance or will she one day revisit when my hands soothed her boo-boos and gently wiped tears from her soft cheeks? It's my hope that she remembers all of these things and more...because what I hold in my hands is the story of a life. Mine. Hers. Ours.


I like to think of it this way...a sculptor begins with a raw material and his or her job is to create beauty from that material. Whether it is clay that must be pounded repeatedly to obtain the perfect curve, or steel that must be hammered into shape, every medium used to create art sustains hitting in order to achieve the artist's vision. During the process, the artist becomes just as much a part of the medium as the piece of art itself.


In that vein, The Pie must withstand my hand occasionally hitting her bottom so that I can shape her into the work of art I see but cannot describe. She must learn consequences and discipline and focus and order. The lessons she learns by my imprinting my hand on her tushy I hope will be passed down to her child as she holds it in her hands and shares its secrets.

Go The F*#k to Sleep

I recently received a wonderful gift from a friend that truly gets me and my experience as a parent. The gift was a book entitled “Go the F*#k to Sleep” by Adam Mansbach and it is an irreverent and painfully accurate glimpse into getting your kid to go to sleep.

 The book is full of sweet little rhymes - descriptions of kittens snuggling and lambs resting – and visually arresting illustrations by Ricardo Cortes. The author resorts to all the standard efforts to coerce a child to sleep, but updates the plea with the lament, “Go the F*#k to Sleep.” I repeatedly laughed out loud as each page reveled increasing frustration and vehement requests to the listening toddler to just go to sleep – something I know quite personally.

 The Pie's nighttime ritual is pretty much the same. Dinner, a little play time, bath, teeth brushing, story time and bed. Every night she attempts a negotiation as if she is dealing with a hostage-taker. “I will play for 1 minute and then go to sleep.” When I say, “No, it's bedtime,” she tries a different approach. “Mama, how about I watch a movie and then go to sleep?” I just stick to the script and say “no” to everything, which turns bedtime into a stressful and raw experience. Mansbach must have obviously placed cameras in my house, because I am certain I have mumbled some of the pleas more than once. Verbatim.
 When I finally get out the door, after chanting the requisite bedtime words, I take a deep breath and wonder how long I have until she comes out of her room waving her sippy cup or claiming she needs to use the bathroom, or suddenly needing to share a thought she had four days ago. It's usually between 20-45 minutes. But on very special nights, if she's sick or just exhausted, when I put her to bed and hear not a peep until morning. Those are the nights that God smiles on me.

There is a line in the book that totally captures the essence of my nightly struggle:

“A hot crimson rage fills my heart, love.

 For real, shut the f*#k up and sleep!”

I get so angry at this adorable angel that I nourished in my body and gave breath to that I am tempted to punch a hole in dainty shelf near her bed. How can she do that to me? More importantly, WHY do I let her do that to me? By there time her bedtime rolls around, I am spent. Goofily, swaying from room to room, picking up toys and shoes and clothes. Gleefully giggling to myself that I might actually get some quiet personal time. Oh, what a cock-eyed optimist I can be. No, what I should do is don my armor and prepare for battle!

Let me be clear, I do not in any way recommend you read this book to your child. While it masquerades as a childrens' book, it contains adult profanities that you probably don't want your child knowing at this tender age. “Go the F*#k to Sleep” is a work of inspired genius for every parent – whether of one child or ten – and can help us all, at least for a moment, laugh at ourselves.

Now, I need a sequel for advice to get her to take a F*#king Bath!

52 Pick Up

Confession time: my daughter has WAY too much stuff. Mostly toys. And she cannot stand to leave them on the shelves, or in the toy box, or in the storage bins. For some reason, she needs to be able to glance at any given square inch of our 1200 square foot house and find one of her playthings. Me? I can't stand it! I am all about organization - a place or everything and everything in it's place.

Today I counted and kept track of the things that I picked up and put away (some items more than once) and was astounded at the multi-colored flotsam and jetsam I waded through to achieve the smallest amount of standard organization. My strong back proved victorious against the enemy, but I don't know how long it will hold out.

Strewn about my living space were:
1 monkey towel (the Pie's favorite)
2 shredded tissues (those might have actually been courtesy of the dog)
3 crayons
3 Polly Pocket Dolls
4 pairs of shoes (making 8 total)
4 stuffed animals
5 socks (don't ask about the singleton...I have no clue)
6 La La Loopsy mini-dolls (those things can really do a number on bare feet!)
9 Little Pet Shop pets
and 15 various McDonald's Happy Meal toys (as God as my witness, I will one day shove every one of them up Ronald McDonald's nose. Just have to find the freak first!!)

Alas, these 52 items do not complete the list. I also picked up stuff of my dad's:
3 dropped pills
2 towels (left on the bathroom floor)
2 pairs of shoes (4 total)
22 pieces of junk mail (that piled up since I moved in)
and 1AWOL hearing aid

So, to be clear...I am picking up what you're laying down.

The Parental Divide

Admitting I don't know everything is difficult for me, but it is the harsh reality. I have only been a parent for 4 years so I have no experience with teenage angst (other than my own, of course), or other issues that apply to children older than the age of my own little Pie. What I do know, and consider myself expert in the field of, is what I feel is best for my child and what I can live with. Honestly, sometimes those are exclusive to one another, but for the most part, they exist in harmonious glory. People who are not familiar with my child or know anything about us often attempt to instruct me on how to parent my daughter. But here's what I have to say to them:

YOU DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING EITHER!!!

My child is an individual and what works for most kids may not work for her and vice versa. I am exceedingly weary of women piping up in the check-out line at Wal Mart to tell me that my child needs a coat, or shouldn't be drinking from a sippy cup, or should be able to conjugate at least 10 verbs at her age. What makes these people think that I don't know what's best for my own child? The Pie happens to be very warm blooded and rarely gets cold, even in the deepest of winter, so wearing a coat for her is torture. When we travel away from home, she takes a sippy cup because I don't want to deal with the inevitable mess that will result from a spill. And yes, she is 4 and still talks like Cookie Monster...we are dealing with that, OK?

When I notice this situation developing, what I desire most is to punch the sanctimonious ass-hat in the throat and holler "Mind your own business, you daft cow!" But I can't risk being banned from Wal Mart. So, I nod and and make some noncommittal remark and psychically will the checker to engage warp speed so I can make my escape. Why must I defend my actions as a parent? I know the basics - stuff like not letting her play in the street, keeping her away from plastic bags, feed her - that kind of stuff, so why am I - and other moms for that matter - under such intense scrutiny?

Why must mothers be divided on the issue of parenting? After all, what we really want is to raise responsible, caring, inquisitive, loving, kind, intelligent people to launch out into the world...what difference does it make how they get there?

Tap, Tap, Tap on My Heart

I love dance...all kinds. I took dance lessons for 14 years and really enjoyed the creative and performance aspect of it. I did tap, ballet, jazz, lyrical, and pointe.  I dreamed of dancing the pas de deux from "The Nutcracker" with Mikhail Baryshnikov and taking Radio City Music Hall by storm. But truthfully, it's hard to parlay dance, particularly solo dance, into a solid financial future. I never entertained dance as a profession, mostly because of my body type, but I truly loved the art form. 

So that's why I signed up the Pie for a 6 week summer dance camp that will teach her introductory tap and ballet. I became nearly spastic at the idea of my daughter following in my dance shoes and couldn't wait to complete the enrollment form. For one hour a week, my child will learn grace and expression through dance and I am certain that even if she just stands there for the entire hour (which I highly doubt). I will be proud of her effort. 

The studio has specific requirements for dance students, so I had to purchase a black leotard, pink tights, tap shoes and non-split sole ballet shoes. They were easy enough to find and fairly affordable, so I excitedly ordered the items online and awaited their arrival. Surprisingly, one item arrived today. 

Shiny, black patent leather tap shoes, sparkling with potential. My tears only made them gleam brighter. I became unexpectedly overcome with emotion thinking about seeing my little Pie take the stage and perform her heart out. I thought about how excited I was when I was young to move from the clunky block sole tap shoes to the character shoes with heels...and someday she may be equally excited. And will share her joy. 

It was just another milestone to mark the Pie's development and maturation. I know she can't stay little forever, but it seems that with every moment that passes, she grows a little more into a big girl. It's a good thing I have a strong heart!