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!

 

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.

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...

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.

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.

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!

Get Caught Up!

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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!