Recently I have had an important realization about Mountain Child. She just isn’t very nice. I have suspected this for a while. I think that I got tipped off when a typical social scenario goes like this:
Innocent Victim: My what a cute little girl you are!
Mountain Child: NOOOOOO!!!!
Innocent Victim: Oh, what is on your shirt? Is that a flower? Look at your little bow and your curls!
Mountain Child: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Mountain Mamma: I am really sorry. I am trying to teach her to be nice. It's just not working at the moment.
Innocent Victim: Oh, it's okay (looking rather offended), she's just two.
Mountain Child: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!! GO AWAYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!
This has happened to everyone, from strangers to my husband's boss at the company picnic to family members. People have told me that she will grow out of it once she gets a little older. People just think that she is just so cute that she couldn’t possibly be that mean. I guess it may be true, perhaps she will grow out of it, but our most recent experience just proves that, for the moment, Mountain Child has one long, black mean streak in her and there is nothing Sugar and Spice about this girl at all.
I was visiting Florida for about the hundredth time since we have moved to West Virginia. We were meeting up at the St. John’s Town Center with a dear friend of mine and her son that is almost exactly Mountain Child’s age. They always played so well together from the time they were able to walk, and I just adore his mom. We have been friends for over ten years.
The day promised to be just perfect. The weather wasn’t too hot, it wasn’t raining, and there was a children’s concert at the Town Center. Plus I just love that place. It is my version of commerce heaven. It has everything, and I mean EVERYTHING in one place: high end designers, great restaurants, a Target, and resort-like grounds complete with a koi fish and turtle pond right in the middle of everything. The concert was right by the pond area which I thought would be nice since Mountain Child loved the fish and turtles, although the utter lack of safety railing around the area always freaked me out. I guess aesthetics wins over safety.
Anyhow, we all meet and settle into our spots for the children’s concert. My friend is very pregnant, and we luckily scored a place to sit. I was wearing a very cute dress and shoes outfit and was quite proud of my self of how cute yet casual I was looking rather than my usual yoga pant getup that I have been wearing these days. The kids were watching the concert and playing with each other by one the smaller ponds. It was almost relaxing.
In hindsight, I realize now that that moment that I relax with Mountain Child is the precise moment when catastrophe will backhand me in a really, really ugly way.
So we are chatting and decide to get up and let the kids get a better look at the turtles and then get some lunch. Friend of Mountain Child is a sweet, energetic little boy, and, in typical little boy fashion, found it amusing to run up to Mountain Child and stand right on top of wherever she was standing. Mountain Child did not find it fun at all. She likes a very large circumference of space for herself, preferably an entire zip code. Every once in a while, Mountain Child would scream, NOOOOOOOO! And then my friend would say, “Give her some space!” Friend of Mountain Child would then run off smiling, do a lap around the little pond and do it again. I figured that this was a good exercise for Mountain Child to build a little character and tolerance.
This is part that gets a little fuzzy. We are standing by the larger pond and talking. We are watching the kids but we honestly aren’t completely in tune with what they were doing. And this is the moment where Friend of Mountain Child falls into the koi and turtle pond.
The water wasn’t deep but the edges around the pond were quite tall, and there really wasn’t any way for anyone to just reach over and help him out. Couple this with the fact that my friend is eight months pregnant or so, and guess who ends up getting him out—ME. In my cute dress and shoes. With the turtles and fish and all the pond scum and poop that was in there. But at that moment I supposed I went into Lifeguard Mode, remembering some of my long-gone YMCA lifeguarding days. I yelled, “I have him!” and jumped into that nasty pond and fished Friend of Mountain Child out of the pond. As all of the St. John Town Center shoppers looked on, horrified and whispering.
He was crying, soaked from head to toe, and screaming, “SHE PUSH ME!!!!”
Oh, crap. Did he just say that my kid pushed him in?????
I look over to Mountain Child. She is standing with a surprised yet sheepish look on her face, the exact same look she gets when she gets into something she shouldn’t and ends up dropping or breaking something. After we calm down Friend of Mountain child, change his clothes (yes, my friend is way more prepared for disasters than I ever would have thought to be), and attempted to disinfect him of the pond bacteria, my daughter says, “HE ALL WET! HE CRY. HE SAD.” She seemed very amused by the whole display.
“Did you push him into the pond?”
Mountain Child gives me a blank stare.
“Did he fall in the pond or did you push him?”
“NOOOO…..”
But Friend of Mountain Child was already convinced as to what happened. As soon as he could wiggle free from his mother, he ran over to Mountain Child and pushed her. I am pretty sure that he was warming up for a good, old-fashioned beat down until his mom grabbed him and scolded him. She then apologizes to me, embarrassed that her son got so angry and violent about the whole thing.
But I am thinking that Mountain Child had it coming to her since she more than likely was the one to push him in. And I tell my friend so. Then she jokingly says, “Well, there were no witnesses and it probably wouldn’t hold up in a court of law anyway.”
Oh, that’s right. I forgot to mention that my friend AND her husband are both attorneys. Way to pick your victims, Mountain Child.
In the end, my friend wasn’t upset with Mountain Child but very frazzled, so we did what anyone would do in that situation. We went to Panera to get some lunch. As we were walking, me sloshing along with my half-soaked dress and shoes, Mountain Child calmly riding in her stroller, and Friend of Mountain Child keeping his distance from her with his bare feet since his shoes were soaked, I decided that she definitely pushed him in. The diabolically calm look on her face right now absolutely proves it.
Mountain Child is cute and sometimes sweet but be warned: watch your back around her and open water.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A Letter to the Man with the Yellow Hat
Dear Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat,
My family is a huge fan of the Curious George stories. In fact, my daughter just can’t get enough of them. I think that I have personally read the story, George Rides a Bike, at least a thousand times. And there really is no end in sight of my child’s obsession with George.
Which brings me to the reason that I am writing you this letter. After reading all of the George stories many, many times, I have some pressing unresolved questions that I must ask you. If you could just give me a bit of insight on my queries, I would be grateful.
1. I realize that everyone has differing parenting styles, and that you really aren’t technically a parent since George is a monkey, but have you ever considered a caregiver for George while you are away? You seem to leave George alone quite a bit, and, as you well know, George tends to roam away from home every time. Please understand that all of his adventures when he wanders off are just delightful, but I do worry for poor George’s safety. Take the time that he flew that kite and the wind carried him off into the air. I imagine that securing a helicopter to rescue George was quite difficult and costly, not to mention incredibly risky.
2. Do you have any other outfits to wear besides that ghastly yellow one? Please don’t take this the wrong way, dear Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat. The Hat is a fashion icon. But the rest of the getup really needs to go. A nice navy suit or even just some jeans would not take away from the fabulousness of that Yellow Hat.
3. Are you ever going to find someone to be with instead of staying single? I know, I am prodding into your personal life now. But you seem like an interesting, kind person that could use some company and possibly some help with little George. My daughter has asked me before, where is George’s mommy? And I really don’t know what to tell her. Which brings me to question number 4.
4. Please forgive me that I am asking some pervasive questions. But I just have to ask: do you ever wonder if you bring George here from Africa was kidnapping? Or that you broke some sort of law bringing foreign livestock into our country? Don’t get me wrong: I think George is just darling and I would have been tempted to keep him, too. But honestly, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, you do realize that you took him from his mommy, right? And then you made him star in a movie? Did you know that child stars usually turn out to be a total mess? But perhaps I am getting too harsh with you. Like I said, we really do like you and your stories.
5. Did it disturb you like it did me that George went to prison for calling the fire department? Did you try to get an attorney and fight it? Also, when George escaped from prison, did you find it even more disturbing that he got the bunch of balloons that carried him away from a man selling the balloons right outside the prison? Someone should really speak to him about that—it is an awful location for balloon selling.
6. Additionally, in your first story with George, you allowed him to smoke a pipe after he came from Africa. I think you should be ashamed for such an irresponsible act. But then again, I don’t want to be too hard on you. I am sure that coming home with a curious monkey is a really confusing time in anyone’s life.
7. And finally, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, I have one more question. Can you give me some advice about how to potty train? I am in the middle of potty training right now, and it is really becoming difficult. I know that monkeys are notorious for going all over the place and even throwing their, ahem, stuff at others. What was your secret? It seems George was trained like a champ.
Thank you very much for taking the time to consider my questions. I am eager to hear your answers. It will greatly enhance our story times with your stories.
Respectfully,
The Mountain Mamma
My family is a huge fan of the Curious George stories. In fact, my daughter just can’t get enough of them. I think that I have personally read the story, George Rides a Bike, at least a thousand times. And there really is no end in sight of my child’s obsession with George.
Which brings me to the reason that I am writing you this letter. After reading all of the George stories many, many times, I have some pressing unresolved questions that I must ask you. If you could just give me a bit of insight on my queries, I would be grateful.
1. I realize that everyone has differing parenting styles, and that you really aren’t technically a parent since George is a monkey, but have you ever considered a caregiver for George while you are away? You seem to leave George alone quite a bit, and, as you well know, George tends to roam away from home every time. Please understand that all of his adventures when he wanders off are just delightful, but I do worry for poor George’s safety. Take the time that he flew that kite and the wind carried him off into the air. I imagine that securing a helicopter to rescue George was quite difficult and costly, not to mention incredibly risky.
2. Do you have any other outfits to wear besides that ghastly yellow one? Please don’t take this the wrong way, dear Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat. The Hat is a fashion icon. But the rest of the getup really needs to go. A nice navy suit or even just some jeans would not take away from the fabulousness of that Yellow Hat.
3. Are you ever going to find someone to be with instead of staying single? I know, I am prodding into your personal life now. But you seem like an interesting, kind person that could use some company and possibly some help with little George. My daughter has asked me before, where is George’s mommy? And I really don’t know what to tell her. Which brings me to question number 4.
4. Please forgive me that I am asking some pervasive questions. But I just have to ask: do you ever wonder if you bring George here from Africa was kidnapping? Or that you broke some sort of law bringing foreign livestock into our country? Don’t get me wrong: I think George is just darling and I would have been tempted to keep him, too. But honestly, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, you do realize that you took him from his mommy, right? And then you made him star in a movie? Did you know that child stars usually turn out to be a total mess? But perhaps I am getting too harsh with you. Like I said, we really do like you and your stories.
5. Did it disturb you like it did me that George went to prison for calling the fire department? Did you try to get an attorney and fight it? Also, when George escaped from prison, did you find it even more disturbing that he got the bunch of balloons that carried him away from a man selling the balloons right outside the prison? Someone should really speak to him about that—it is an awful location for balloon selling.
6. Additionally, in your first story with George, you allowed him to smoke a pipe after he came from Africa. I think you should be ashamed for such an irresponsible act. But then again, I don’t want to be too hard on you. I am sure that coming home with a curious monkey is a really confusing time in anyone’s life.
7. And finally, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, I have one more question. Can you give me some advice about how to potty train? I am in the middle of potty training right now, and it is really becoming difficult. I know that monkeys are notorious for going all over the place and even throwing their, ahem, stuff at others. What was your secret? It seems George was trained like a champ.
Thank you very much for taking the time to consider my questions. I am eager to hear your answers. It will greatly enhance our story times with your stories.
Respectfully,
The Mountain Mamma
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Yes, There Is Luxury in Sickness
In motherhood, there are so many little pleasures that you don't appreciate until they are gone. Being able recuperate in bed from a sickness is one of them.
I have to sleep off my illnesses. For me, it is the only way to really get over stuff. Oh, and a good cup of tea. So when I got my yearly bout of bronchitis, all I wanted was some green tea in my favorite duck mug and sleep for at least a weekend. Sidenote: since when did illnesses become a yearly event to expect? There's Christmas, birthdays, Easter, vacations, and now...bronchitis? That tops the list of lame life experiences.
Anyhow, I am feeling horrible. I am coughing up unimaginably gross things, my head feels like a jackhammer is inside, and I cough non-stop. I know I need to go to the doctor to get drugs--and lots of them--but all I really want to do right now is to sleep. Sweet, sweet, dreamless sleep. I look horrible, too. My fever has alternated me from uncontrollably sweating to shivering, and I haven't changed out of my pajamas for a couple of days. My hair? Grotesque. And it is one of the rare times in my life where my vanity doesn't win out. I just don't care.
My husband, alarmed at how disgusting I was in every way, coaxed me into a bath and gave me some tea and got my bed ready. He promised to watch Mountain Child all day so I could sleep. My Mountain Man can really be sweet sometimes. I will have to remember that next time I get irritated with him. I was beyond happy: now my current fantasy can come true. I take a shot of NyQuil and not have do a thing else. This was a fantasy, mind you. And a fantasy it stayed:
8:30 a.m.: "Where are the diapers? I think that we're out!" I roll out of bed, glad that I am not yet asleep and get my husband set up with where the diaper supply is. I make a mental note that he needs to do more of these activities because it is sad that he doesn't even know where diapers are. I also give him a rundown of what the day's schedule should be and give him a chance for more questions. I am getttinnnnngggg...slllleeeeeepyyyyyy...
9:00 a.m.: I am asleep. For about thirty seconds. I hear Mountain Child screaming downstairs. I pull the covers over my head and decide that earplugs must be purchased at first available moment.
9:30 a.m.: Somehow, I manage to doze off even though Mountain Child is still throwing a fit. I now hear Mountain Man yelling at Mountain Child to quit doing something. I hate everyone.
9:45 a.m.: Things have quietened down and I sleep. Thank you, Jesus.
10:30 a.m.: They NyQuil is in full effect and I groggily notice that my door keeps on opening and closing. I don't care.
11:00 a.m.: I feel as if something is laying on my legs. I don't open my eyes.
11:05 a.m.: I can sense someone staring at me. I peel open one eye and see a pair of bright blue eyes smiling about a centimeter from my face. "HI!!! HIGH FIVE!!!" I then open both eyes and see that Mountain Child has decided to play the game, Empty My Whole Room Onto Mommy's Bed. There are toys, books, shoes, diapers, musical instruments, and God knows what else all over my bed. I heave myself out of bed, spilling half of the stuff on the floor. I stumble out the door and see Mountain Man downstairs, eating a sandwich and reading a book, as content as can be.
I walk down. Mountain Man puts down his book. "Hey. Did you have a nice nap? Are you hungry?" For a breif moment I had this vision of smashing his plate against his head and taking off to the nearest motel to sleep. Instead, I got some water, went back upstairs, and told my husband to take Mountain Child to the park...forever.
But now I can't sleep because the room is a mess. So I get up and put everything back in Mountain Child's room. I realize as I started to straighten the bookcases that being sick--or rather, being in bed sick--just isn't a luxury that I have anymore.
Life Observation: When men get sick, we make the house as quiet as a tomb. We clean up and fix them chicken soup with tea. We fluff their pillows. And it takes them forever to really get better and quit their whining. When we get sick, house gets messier, children are screaming, and there is always someone asking where the--fill in the blank--is. And we get better within hours because it is just not worth wallowing in our sickness because we will pay for it later.
Keep well, mommies.
I have to sleep off my illnesses. For me, it is the only way to really get over stuff. Oh, and a good cup of tea. So when I got my yearly bout of bronchitis, all I wanted was some green tea in my favorite duck mug and sleep for at least a weekend. Sidenote: since when did illnesses become a yearly event to expect? There's Christmas, birthdays, Easter, vacations, and now...bronchitis? That tops the list of lame life experiences.
Anyhow, I am feeling horrible. I am coughing up unimaginably gross things, my head feels like a jackhammer is inside, and I cough non-stop. I know I need to go to the doctor to get drugs--and lots of them--but all I really want to do right now is to sleep. Sweet, sweet, dreamless sleep. I look horrible, too. My fever has alternated me from uncontrollably sweating to shivering, and I haven't changed out of my pajamas for a couple of days. My hair? Grotesque. And it is one of the rare times in my life where my vanity doesn't win out. I just don't care.
My husband, alarmed at how disgusting I was in every way, coaxed me into a bath and gave me some tea and got my bed ready. He promised to watch Mountain Child all day so I could sleep. My Mountain Man can really be sweet sometimes. I will have to remember that next time I get irritated with him. I was beyond happy: now my current fantasy can come true. I take a shot of NyQuil and not have do a thing else. This was a fantasy, mind you. And a fantasy it stayed:
8:30 a.m.: "Where are the diapers? I think that we're out!" I roll out of bed, glad that I am not yet asleep and get my husband set up with where the diaper supply is. I make a mental note that he needs to do more of these activities because it is sad that he doesn't even know where diapers are. I also give him a rundown of what the day's schedule should be and give him a chance for more questions. I am getttinnnnngggg...slllleeeeeepyyyyyy...
9:00 a.m.: I am asleep. For about thirty seconds. I hear Mountain Child screaming downstairs. I pull the covers over my head and decide that earplugs must be purchased at first available moment.
9:30 a.m.: Somehow, I manage to doze off even though Mountain Child is still throwing a fit. I now hear Mountain Man yelling at Mountain Child to quit doing something. I hate everyone.
9:45 a.m.: Things have quietened down and I sleep. Thank you, Jesus.
10:30 a.m.: They NyQuil is in full effect and I groggily notice that my door keeps on opening and closing. I don't care.
11:00 a.m.: I feel as if something is laying on my legs. I don't open my eyes.
11:05 a.m.: I can sense someone staring at me. I peel open one eye and see a pair of bright blue eyes smiling about a centimeter from my face. "HI!!! HIGH FIVE!!!" I then open both eyes and see that Mountain Child has decided to play the game, Empty My Whole Room Onto Mommy's Bed. There are toys, books, shoes, diapers, musical instruments, and God knows what else all over my bed. I heave myself out of bed, spilling half of the stuff on the floor. I stumble out the door and see Mountain Man downstairs, eating a sandwich and reading a book, as content as can be.
I walk down. Mountain Man puts down his book. "Hey. Did you have a nice nap? Are you hungry?" For a breif moment I had this vision of smashing his plate against his head and taking off to the nearest motel to sleep. Instead, I got some water, went back upstairs, and told my husband to take Mountain Child to the park...forever.
But now I can't sleep because the room is a mess. So I get up and put everything back in Mountain Child's room. I realize as I started to straighten the bookcases that being sick--or rather, being in bed sick--just isn't a luxury that I have anymore.
Life Observation: When men get sick, we make the house as quiet as a tomb. We clean up and fix them chicken soup with tea. We fluff their pillows. And it takes them forever to really get better and quit their whining. When we get sick, house gets messier, children are screaming, and there is always someone asking where the--fill in the blank--is. And we get better within hours because it is just not worth wallowing in our sickness because we will pay for it later.
Keep well, mommies.
Hurricanes and Weddings Aren't So Different
When my husband and I happily accepted to be in Stephanie and Rodney’s wedding, we forgot about one little twenty-seven pound detail: Mountain Child. Of course she would come. But what in the world were we supposed to do with her during one of the most meaningful moments of my sister-in-law’s life? Nearly every single person that we knew that could take care of her during the wedding was attending it. So we did what any organized, sane parent would do: we totally winged it.
Winging it is not my nature. I am the absolute opposite of “winging it”—I usually like to…well, walk it out with my feet planted firmly on the ground, preferably with a GPS system in hand. Life, of course, in its nature is as chaotic as a hurricane. So I usually get a little twitchy around the eyes when that happens. Weddings are the epitome of this universal rule of life. And if weddings are stress/chaos level equivalent of a hurricane, then being in a wedding with no one to watch your two-year old in the ceremony is probably a lot like getting caught in that hurricane in a little rowboat. When it was looking like that was our reality, I began to secretly wonder if Stephanie would notice if I just sat in the audience during the wedding and give this whole notion of mommy and daddy being in a wedding.
But I pressed on. I had loosely arranged for a couple of very kind and unsuspecting family members to “keep an eye” on Mountain Child, knowing full well that a toddler explosion could occur at any minute. A serious occasion where everyone must be quiet right before dinnertime? It takes a special kind of insane to attempt something like that.
I decided to just have a little talk with Mountain Child about weddings a few days beforehand. “Stephie and Rodney are getting married! And we are going to have a party for them.”
“OHHHH MARRY! CAKE! BALLOONS!” Mountain Child is getting quite excited about this now.
“Yes. There will be cake. But no balloons. But there will be pretty flowers and bubbles.”
“BUBBLES?!?!” Now Mountain Child is beside herself with excitement. “STEFFY AND RAHREE GETTING MARRY!!” She claps her hands and decides to sing a song for the occasion.
A while later, I bring up the wedding again. “Listen—during the wedding, there is a part where you have to stay in your seat and be quiet. If you do a good job of doing that, you’ll get cake and bubbles.”
Mountain Child is now a little suspicious. “STAY IN SEAT?”
“Yes, you have to stay in your seat and be really really quiet. Like a butterfly.”
“OHHHHH! BUTTERFLIES!! MARRY BUTTERFLIES??”
“No, there won’t be butterflies at the wedding. Just cake and bubbles and pretty flowers. But you have to be good and quiet so you can get cake and bubbles.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! WANT CAKE!!!!! LOOONS!!! HAPPY TO YOU, HAPPY TO YOU!” Mountain Child proceeds to march around the house yelling this at the top of her lungs for the next half hour.
Oh, never mind. What happens will happen. Thank goodness we can practice at this during the wedding rehearsal.
We arrive at the wedding rehearsal and I try to give Mountain Child another pep talk. By this time, she is hungry and excited and about a volatile as a tornado. To restrain her means that it will be nuclear meltdown and I would miss the rehearsal. I decide to leave her alone and pray that she doesn’t tear down the place. Surprisingly, her blood sugar never dipped to cause any meltdowns and she was extremely happy the whole time. The only problem was that she was under the impression that the wedding was somehow her stage to debut herself.
My husband and I made the decision a while ago that Mountain Child wouldn’t be in the wedding because she was at an age that was too unpredictable for being a flower girl. But apparently we should have conferred this decision with Mountain Child. She marched right down the aisle after the real flower girls and took her place right up front. When the pastor talked, she talked louder. And to top it off, she went down the row of everyone in the wedding and ran through their legs. Everyone thought it was just adorable…except for me.
I tried my best to get her sit down. But she was having none of that. Plus by the end of the rehearsal, she was REALLY hungry which meant that she REALLY grumpy. To make her do anything was going to be showdown. Trust me; I am the type that will woman up to any showdown that my kid will give me. But the end result isn’t pretty and weddings are supposed to pretty, right? Oh, great, tomorrow is going to be an absolute fiasco.
The next day was the wedding. Stephanie looks absolutely gorgeous. Mountain Child looks just delectable in her flowered poufy dress and huge flower barrette in her hair. In fact, everything was just lovely, even despite the fact that there was one of the worst storms of the summer approaching the country club and we had to move everything inside. I am so terrified that my kid is going to be “that kid” that ruins the most significant moment of the whole evening that my eye uncontrollably twitches and I barely care about the huge storm and all of the stress associated with that. I am pretty sure that in most of the wedding photos I look like I am winking at the camera, my eye was twitching so badly.
My husband’s aunt takes Mountain Child to go sit down with her a bit before the wedding begins. We are fluffing Stephanie’s dress and primping in the mirror. And my head is pounding and my eye muscles are doing the meringue. It is completely out of my hands now. Mountain Child is just…out there, a hurricane ready to approach shore at any time. I begin to regret that I didn’t take advantage of the bar that was just outside of the dressing room at the country club.
When the big moment comes, I do the bridesmaid thing, smile pretty and walk down the aisle. I see Mountain Child sitting so still and quiet in her great aunt’s lap that I wonder if she had been drugged. When Mountain Child sees me, she smiles a huge grin and says, “HI MOMMY!” I smile back and put my finger to my lips. She settles back and remains quiet for the rest of the ceremony.
I can’t believe it. Yet I can. The amount of stress energy that I put into this whole event and it all turns out fine. It just figures that sometimes you prepare yourself for the hurricane and it somehow just dissipates into thin air.
And yes, Mountain Child did get her cake and bubbles.
Winging it is not my nature. I am the absolute opposite of “winging it”—I usually like to…well, walk it out with my feet planted firmly on the ground, preferably with a GPS system in hand. Life, of course, in its nature is as chaotic as a hurricane. So I usually get a little twitchy around the eyes when that happens. Weddings are the epitome of this universal rule of life. And if weddings are stress/chaos level equivalent of a hurricane, then being in a wedding with no one to watch your two-year old in the ceremony is probably a lot like getting caught in that hurricane in a little rowboat. When it was looking like that was our reality, I began to secretly wonder if Stephanie would notice if I just sat in the audience during the wedding and give this whole notion of mommy and daddy being in a wedding.
But I pressed on. I had loosely arranged for a couple of very kind and unsuspecting family members to “keep an eye” on Mountain Child, knowing full well that a toddler explosion could occur at any minute. A serious occasion where everyone must be quiet right before dinnertime? It takes a special kind of insane to attempt something like that.
I decided to just have a little talk with Mountain Child about weddings a few days beforehand. “Stephie and Rodney are getting married! And we are going to have a party for them.”
“OHHHH MARRY! CAKE! BALLOONS!” Mountain Child is getting quite excited about this now.
“Yes. There will be cake. But no balloons. But there will be pretty flowers and bubbles.”
“BUBBLES?!?!” Now Mountain Child is beside herself with excitement. “STEFFY AND RAHREE GETTING MARRY!!” She claps her hands and decides to sing a song for the occasion.
A while later, I bring up the wedding again. “Listen—during the wedding, there is a part where you have to stay in your seat and be quiet. If you do a good job of doing that, you’ll get cake and bubbles.”
Mountain Child is now a little suspicious. “STAY IN SEAT?”
“Yes, you have to stay in your seat and be really really quiet. Like a butterfly.”
“OHHHHH! BUTTERFLIES!! MARRY BUTTERFLIES??”
“No, there won’t be butterflies at the wedding. Just cake and bubbles and pretty flowers. But you have to be good and quiet so you can get cake and bubbles.”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! WANT CAKE!!!!! LOOONS!!! HAPPY TO YOU, HAPPY TO YOU!” Mountain Child proceeds to march around the house yelling this at the top of her lungs for the next half hour.
Oh, never mind. What happens will happen. Thank goodness we can practice at this during the wedding rehearsal.
We arrive at the wedding rehearsal and I try to give Mountain Child another pep talk. By this time, she is hungry and excited and about a volatile as a tornado. To restrain her means that it will be nuclear meltdown and I would miss the rehearsal. I decide to leave her alone and pray that she doesn’t tear down the place. Surprisingly, her blood sugar never dipped to cause any meltdowns and she was extremely happy the whole time. The only problem was that she was under the impression that the wedding was somehow her stage to debut herself.
My husband and I made the decision a while ago that Mountain Child wouldn’t be in the wedding because she was at an age that was too unpredictable for being a flower girl. But apparently we should have conferred this decision with Mountain Child. She marched right down the aisle after the real flower girls and took her place right up front. When the pastor talked, she talked louder. And to top it off, she went down the row of everyone in the wedding and ran through their legs. Everyone thought it was just adorable…except for me.
I tried my best to get her sit down. But she was having none of that. Plus by the end of the rehearsal, she was REALLY hungry which meant that she REALLY grumpy. To make her do anything was going to be showdown. Trust me; I am the type that will woman up to any showdown that my kid will give me. But the end result isn’t pretty and weddings are supposed to pretty, right? Oh, great, tomorrow is going to be an absolute fiasco.
The next day was the wedding. Stephanie looks absolutely gorgeous. Mountain Child looks just delectable in her flowered poufy dress and huge flower barrette in her hair. In fact, everything was just lovely, even despite the fact that there was one of the worst storms of the summer approaching the country club and we had to move everything inside. I am so terrified that my kid is going to be “that kid” that ruins the most significant moment of the whole evening that my eye uncontrollably twitches and I barely care about the huge storm and all of the stress associated with that. I am pretty sure that in most of the wedding photos I look like I am winking at the camera, my eye was twitching so badly.
My husband’s aunt takes Mountain Child to go sit down with her a bit before the wedding begins. We are fluffing Stephanie’s dress and primping in the mirror. And my head is pounding and my eye muscles are doing the meringue. It is completely out of my hands now. Mountain Child is just…out there, a hurricane ready to approach shore at any time. I begin to regret that I didn’t take advantage of the bar that was just outside of the dressing room at the country club.
When the big moment comes, I do the bridesmaid thing, smile pretty and walk down the aisle. I see Mountain Child sitting so still and quiet in her great aunt’s lap that I wonder if she had been drugged. When Mountain Child sees me, she smiles a huge grin and says, “HI MOMMY!” I smile back and put my finger to my lips. She settles back and remains quiet for the rest of the ceremony.
I can’t believe it. Yet I can. The amount of stress energy that I put into this whole event and it all turns out fine. It just figures that sometimes you prepare yourself for the hurricane and it somehow just dissipates into thin air.
And yes, Mountain Child did get her cake and bubbles.
Princess Tea Parties
There are certain milestones in a child's life that one should celebrate: first steps, first pee pee in the potty, first lost tooth...first trip to juvi...no, seriously--I am all about making a big deal about major events. Apparently, in the area that I live, the Annual Princess Tea Party ranks right up there with the rest of them.
Call it boredom, curiosity, a serious lapse in judgement, whatever, but Mountain Man and Mountain Mamma decided to dress up Mountain Child like a little princess and experience the Princess Tea Party.
But let me back up a moment. I am not the type to get excited over such events. In fact, I am the one that makes fun of them. I don't want to say that I am a feminist, because there is too much about me that is just not--but something inside of me feels very wrong to go around calling little girls princesses. I would rather call them presidents or doctors or circus performers. Perhaps it is because to me a princess is just someone who gets born into ridiculous amount of luxury and privilege. And I want my daughter to go for what she wants without it getting handed to her. But wait--I really am letting all of that women's studies 101 crap get me thinking too deeply--princesses are fun for little girls, bottom line. So I suppose this was my line of thinking when I went.
My attitude was really good at the beginning. Like I said, I even dressed Mountain Child in her filliest little dress and sparkly shoes. She really did look darling. We arrived and went ahead and got into line for the big Picture with Cinderella in Her Carriage. I couldn't believe the length of the line. It was about as long as it would be to get on Space Mountain at Disney World. There were people everywhere. And not one little boy was to be found anywhere. The thing that I noticed right away was how UNDERDRESSED Mountain Child was. The other little girls had the most elaborate princess dresses that I have ever seen. There were even girls with HAIR PIECES in their hair. Other girls had on makeup, and I swear that I saw at least two moms in princess costumes of their own. Seriously? I had just entered a frilly, pink and really creepy Princess Twilight Zone.
But dressing up is fun. So why not? The kids love it, right? I decided to hold off on the rolling of the eyes and remember that I am not here to score cool points (because I have lost all of mine I accumlated over a lifetime in this one little outing anyway), I am here so Mountain Child can have a fun time. And she was having a reasonably fun time until she saw the Frog Prince. The Frog Prince was this huge green frog creature in a cape. He was Cinderella's footman. And Mountain Child was positively terrified of him.
After the Frog Prince sighting, it was all downhill from there. We tried to get her to take a picture with Cinderella or some of the other Disney Princesses, but she just gave them all a dirty look and even tried to swat poor Sleeping Beauty. And to top it all off, that stupid Frog Prince was everywhere we were. It was like he was trying to put my kid in therapy. We gave up and headed home.
Mountain Child did, however, acquire a magic wand while we were there. She thought it made a great weapon/fly swatter/hair brush. It kept her busy long after all of the glued-on glitter wore off. And looking back on the outing, it makes me proud of my kid. She isn't obsessed with princeses. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Call it boredom, curiosity, a serious lapse in judgement, whatever, but Mountain Man and Mountain Mamma decided to dress up Mountain Child like a little princess and experience the Princess Tea Party.
But let me back up a moment. I am not the type to get excited over such events. In fact, I am the one that makes fun of them. I don't want to say that I am a feminist, because there is too much about me that is just not--but something inside of me feels very wrong to go around calling little girls princesses. I would rather call them presidents or doctors or circus performers. Perhaps it is because to me a princess is just someone who gets born into ridiculous amount of luxury and privilege. And I want my daughter to go for what she wants without it getting handed to her. But wait--I really am letting all of that women's studies 101 crap get me thinking too deeply--princesses are fun for little girls, bottom line. So I suppose this was my line of thinking when I went.
My attitude was really good at the beginning. Like I said, I even dressed Mountain Child in her filliest little dress and sparkly shoes. She really did look darling. We arrived and went ahead and got into line for the big Picture with Cinderella in Her Carriage. I couldn't believe the length of the line. It was about as long as it would be to get on Space Mountain at Disney World. There were people everywhere. And not one little boy was to be found anywhere. The thing that I noticed right away was how UNDERDRESSED Mountain Child was. The other little girls had the most elaborate princess dresses that I have ever seen. There were even girls with HAIR PIECES in their hair. Other girls had on makeup, and I swear that I saw at least two moms in princess costumes of their own. Seriously? I had just entered a frilly, pink and really creepy Princess Twilight Zone.
But dressing up is fun. So why not? The kids love it, right? I decided to hold off on the rolling of the eyes and remember that I am not here to score cool points (because I have lost all of mine I accumlated over a lifetime in this one little outing anyway), I am here so Mountain Child can have a fun time. And she was having a reasonably fun time until she saw the Frog Prince. The Frog Prince was this huge green frog creature in a cape. He was Cinderella's footman. And Mountain Child was positively terrified of him.
After the Frog Prince sighting, it was all downhill from there. We tried to get her to take a picture with Cinderella or some of the other Disney Princesses, but she just gave them all a dirty look and even tried to swat poor Sleeping Beauty. And to top it all off, that stupid Frog Prince was everywhere we were. It was like he was trying to put my kid in therapy. We gave up and headed home.
Mountain Child did, however, acquire a magic wand while we were there. She thought it made a great weapon/fly swatter/hair brush. It kept her busy long after all of the glued-on glitter wore off. And looking back on the outing, it makes me proud of my kid. She isn't obsessed with princeses. Not that there's anything wrong with that.
Potty Animal
I didn't set out to be the mom that pushes her child unecessarily. But it still happened anyway. This is a particularly disappointing turn of events for myself because I actually prided myself for not being uptight about all of the milestones that kids go through in baby/preschool years. Of course, now looking at myself objectively, I realize that I was deluding myself. I am pretty much a perfectionist-type A-stressball all the way.
I decided that we would engage in the Great Potty Experiment because Mountain Child was showing all of the signs of potty readiness according to the wise authors of What to Expect In the Toddler Years. Aware of bodily functions? Check. Letting you know when she pees or poops? Check. Interested in what you do on potty? Unfortunately--check. I waited until she exhibited all the signs before I even considered the big Going Shopping for the Potty Trip.
The book suggested that I allow Mountain Child to go with me to pick out the potty. But the book apparently doesn't really have to parent a two-year old and experience all of the joys of a Target meltdown over something as stupid as walking past the popcorn or book aisle. No, I would go at it alone. I wandered up and down the potty aisle of Target (I never in a million years would have even considered that as a primary destination until Mountain Child came along) and marveled at all of the potty choices there were. There were choo-choo train potties, princess potties, potties that sing and light up when your...stuff goes in, and on and on and on. Frankly, I was mortified. This was capitalism at its lowest. I mean, since when did a kid's crap become such a industry? I just wanted the simplest, cheapest potty I could find. Making a Broadway production out of taking a poop just didn't seem right to me. I finally found one that wasn't 30+ dollars and didn't look like it belonged in a mental institution. It was a cute one in the shape of a froggy. There. A nice balance between potty-time fun and getting your business done.
The book also suggested that we read books and videos in order to get your child into the mode of pottying. So, for good measure, I throw in Elmo's Potty video and set home. Oh, yes, and the Pull-Ups. It was beginnig to get expensive.
Anyway, I brought home the potty and showed it to Mountain Child. I even sat on it myself to show her what it looked like. The book suggested that you also allow your child to decorate the potty with their own stickers and stuff--but I skipped that. I just think that we should have a more accurate picture of what a potty does, and the sticker thing just seemed a little unsanitary. Besides, my husband was at this point totally freaked out by the froggy potty as it was. He about had a heart attack when he saw it early in the morning. He claimed that it was giving him the evil eye.
The book pointed out that I needed to make sure that my child was comfortable with the potty and to make it a welcome member of our household. Mountain Child went a step further: she thought it made a fantastic toy and decided that was her new play spot. She brought her toys and books in there and sat on the thing for at least a half hour, singing and chattering while parked on the potty. On top of that, she loved the Elmo video and talked about it nonstop. Things were going so by the book, I decided that potty training would be easy.
I learned in my book that I needed to ease my child into the idea of potty training and explain to her what she should do. After a week or so of playing with the potty chair with her pants on, I then put the Pull-Ups on her and explained to her that she was going to be like Elmo and mommy and put her pee pee and poo poo in the potty. She would have to sit down with her pants and diaper off to do it. If she did it, I would give her jellybeans. As exciting thought as this was to her, she completely freaked out when I went to help her pull down her pants--which, by the way, she is pro at and usually does at the most inopportune time.
Okay, so the book didn't mention this. I decided to table the issue until bathtime when Mountain Child would be naked anyway. But when bathtime rolled around she gleefully took off her clothes, did a few naked laps around the bathroom, and proceded to scream when I tried to steer her onto the potty. She got so worked up that I had to give up the bathtime altogether and put her straight to bed.
So Mountain Child clearly is not ready to potty train. And I have decided that these books on pottying are definitely not to be counted on.
I decided that we would engage in the Great Potty Experiment because Mountain Child was showing all of the signs of potty readiness according to the wise authors of What to Expect In the Toddler Years. Aware of bodily functions? Check. Letting you know when she pees or poops? Check. Interested in what you do on potty? Unfortunately--check. I waited until she exhibited all the signs before I even considered the big Going Shopping for the Potty Trip.
The book suggested that I allow Mountain Child to go with me to pick out the potty. But the book apparently doesn't really have to parent a two-year old and experience all of the joys of a Target meltdown over something as stupid as walking past the popcorn or book aisle. No, I would go at it alone. I wandered up and down the potty aisle of Target (I never in a million years would have even considered that as a primary destination until Mountain Child came along) and marveled at all of the potty choices there were. There were choo-choo train potties, princess potties, potties that sing and light up when your...stuff goes in, and on and on and on. Frankly, I was mortified. This was capitalism at its lowest. I mean, since when did a kid's crap become such a industry? I just wanted the simplest, cheapest potty I could find. Making a Broadway production out of taking a poop just didn't seem right to me. I finally found one that wasn't 30+ dollars and didn't look like it belonged in a mental institution. It was a cute one in the shape of a froggy. There. A nice balance between potty-time fun and getting your business done.
The book also suggested that we read books and videos in order to get your child into the mode of pottying. So, for good measure, I throw in Elmo's Potty video and set home. Oh, yes, and the Pull-Ups. It was beginnig to get expensive.
Anyway, I brought home the potty and showed it to Mountain Child. I even sat on it myself to show her what it looked like. The book suggested that you also allow your child to decorate the potty with their own stickers and stuff--but I skipped that. I just think that we should have a more accurate picture of what a potty does, and the sticker thing just seemed a little unsanitary. Besides, my husband was at this point totally freaked out by the froggy potty as it was. He about had a heart attack when he saw it early in the morning. He claimed that it was giving him the evil eye.
The book pointed out that I needed to make sure that my child was comfortable with the potty and to make it a welcome member of our household. Mountain Child went a step further: she thought it made a fantastic toy and decided that was her new play spot. She brought her toys and books in there and sat on the thing for at least a half hour, singing and chattering while parked on the potty. On top of that, she loved the Elmo video and talked about it nonstop. Things were going so by the book, I decided that potty training would be easy.
I learned in my book that I needed to ease my child into the idea of potty training and explain to her what she should do. After a week or so of playing with the potty chair with her pants on, I then put the Pull-Ups on her and explained to her that she was going to be like Elmo and mommy and put her pee pee and poo poo in the potty. She would have to sit down with her pants and diaper off to do it. If she did it, I would give her jellybeans. As exciting thought as this was to her, she completely freaked out when I went to help her pull down her pants--which, by the way, she is pro at and usually does at the most inopportune time.
Okay, so the book didn't mention this. I decided to table the issue until bathtime when Mountain Child would be naked anyway. But when bathtime rolled around she gleefully took off her clothes, did a few naked laps around the bathroom, and proceded to scream when I tried to steer her onto the potty. She got so worked up that I had to give up the bathtime altogether and put her straight to bed.
So Mountain Child clearly is not ready to potty train. And I have decided that these books on pottying are definitely not to be counted on.
Balloon Battle
Eating out just isn't how it used to be.
I recently returned from a trip to TN to see my grandmom and aunt, and my mom also came in from FL so she could get in some quality time with the Mountain Child. My mom, aunt and I decided to go eat at a trendy Asian fusion-type place with Mountain Child. That was a fatal mistake.
It all started okay enough. I had settled Mountain Child to the table with some chopsticks and was letting her play with the tiny soy sauce dishes. It was nearly...pleasant. Let me stop here to say that anyone thinking that going to a restaurant with a kid is actually pleasant either has some cyborg for a child or they just don't have kids. It is work, exhausting work, from the time you get ready to go until you get home. There is nearly always crying and parents are almost always uptight and annoyed. But I still do it because 1) sometimes it is my only choice if I want to go out, and 2) it is a valuable learning tool for...well, I am sure that we all learn lessons along the way.
Anyway, back to my evening. Things were going tolerably until the PARTY came in. They all came prancing in with a huge bouquet of balloons and birthday cake. Mountain Child's entire face lit up. PARRY? PARRY!?! OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!! LOONS! LOONS!!!!!!
Oh, God, here we go.
I say to Mountain Child, "Yes, Balloons! Aren't they pretty? What color are they?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! LOONS!!!!!!!!" She is now reaching for them.
"No, sweetie, those aren't yours.""NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" She proceeds to try and get out of the high chair. I make her sit down. She then screams and cries. I begin formulating an exit strategy and wonder if they would make an exception about taking alcohol to go. I mistakenly thought if I just took over to the balloons, she could see and touch them and then it would be over. Of course, that was a complete fantasy.
I then take her outside. She continues to scream and now she is pulling my hair. I try to act like a calm and collected mommy that is totally in control despite the fact that a screaming two year old is using my hair like Tarzan's Vine. I realize now that I will have to go home. Mountain Child is 25 pounds of rage and fury. I walk into the restaurant to tell my mom and aunt that I won't be enjoying my sushi with them and get my things. My mom and aunt start to pepper in some suggestions:
"What about coloring?"
"I don't think that she will do that right now. She wants to kill someone."
"How about some ice cream?""Maybe...but she needs dinner..."
"Here, let me hold her; she just needs her Nana."
Then my aunt takes matters into her own hands and marches over to the party, blissfully unaware of the personal hell that I am experiencing just a few feet away. She offers them ten dollars for one of the balloons. They, of course, look over to me with my screeching mess of a child, and, of course, refuse the money and just hand over a balloon.
Mountain Child immediately stops crying. She is now in heaven. "OOOOHHH! LOON! TANK YOOO!" I am not in heaven. I am mortified.
I know that I should expect brattiness and psychosis from two-year old. I am hardly surprised. But now I am faced with a difficult choice: a) I refuse to give in to Mountain Child's domestic terrorism and still take her home without that stupid balloon, or b) thank the people, let it go, and enjoy my sushi. I chose b. I imagine that a child development expert would have tsk tsked me, but by then I was just spent. And reallyreally hungry.
I recently returned from a trip to TN to see my grandmom and aunt, and my mom also came in from FL so she could get in some quality time with the Mountain Child. My mom, aunt and I decided to go eat at a trendy Asian fusion-type place with Mountain Child. That was a fatal mistake.
It all started okay enough. I had settled Mountain Child to the table with some chopsticks and was letting her play with the tiny soy sauce dishes. It was nearly...pleasant. Let me stop here to say that anyone thinking that going to a restaurant with a kid is actually pleasant either has some cyborg for a child or they just don't have kids. It is work, exhausting work, from the time you get ready to go until you get home. There is nearly always crying and parents are almost always uptight and annoyed. But I still do it because 1) sometimes it is my only choice if I want to go out, and 2) it is a valuable learning tool for...well, I am sure that we all learn lessons along the way.
Anyway, back to my evening. Things were going tolerably until the PARTY came in. They all came prancing in with a huge bouquet of balloons and birthday cake. Mountain Child's entire face lit up. PARRY? PARRY!?! OOOOOHHHHHHH!!!! LOONS! LOONS!!!!!!
Oh, God, here we go.
I say to Mountain Child, "Yes, Balloons! Aren't they pretty? What color are they?"
"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! LOONS!!!!!!!!" She is now reaching for them.
"No, sweetie, those aren't yours.""NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!" She proceeds to try and get out of the high chair. I make her sit down. She then screams and cries. I begin formulating an exit strategy and wonder if they would make an exception about taking alcohol to go. I mistakenly thought if I just took over to the balloons, she could see and touch them and then it would be over. Of course, that was a complete fantasy.
I then take her outside. She continues to scream and now she is pulling my hair. I try to act like a calm and collected mommy that is totally in control despite the fact that a screaming two year old is using my hair like Tarzan's Vine. I realize now that I will have to go home. Mountain Child is 25 pounds of rage and fury. I walk into the restaurant to tell my mom and aunt that I won't be enjoying my sushi with them and get my things. My mom and aunt start to pepper in some suggestions:
"What about coloring?"
"I don't think that she will do that right now. She wants to kill someone."
"How about some ice cream?""Maybe...but she needs dinner..."
"Here, let me hold her; she just needs her Nana."
Then my aunt takes matters into her own hands and marches over to the party, blissfully unaware of the personal hell that I am experiencing just a few feet away. She offers them ten dollars for one of the balloons. They, of course, look over to me with my screeching mess of a child, and, of course, refuse the money and just hand over a balloon.
Mountain Child immediately stops crying. She is now in heaven. "OOOOHHH! LOON! TANK YOOO!" I am not in heaven. I am mortified.
I know that I should expect brattiness and psychosis from two-year old. I am hardly surprised. But now I am faced with a difficult choice: a) I refuse to give in to Mountain Child's domestic terrorism and still take her home without that stupid balloon, or b) thank the people, let it go, and enjoy my sushi. I chose b. I imagine that a child development expert would have tsk tsked me, but by then I was just spent. And reallyreally hungry.
Jerky Baccy, Anyone?
There are certain significant moments in life where you know that your life has completely, irrevocably changed. Strangely enough, my most recent You-Are-No-Longer-in-Kansas-Anymore Moment came while tutoring this week.
I decided to tutor at a reading center part-time to have some extra money and to keep my resume from growing cobwebs while being a full-time mommy. And it is a perfect fit for me right now. Plus I get to tell stories to you like the following:
A student of mine, a cute little second grader I will call Country Boy, has been coming to me for months now. Country Boy has absolutely no interest in being near a classroom at any time unless you count him perhaps taking his dad’s John Deer Tractor and mowing one down. He regularly comes to tutoring with grubby fingernails, bruises, camouflage, and whopper stories about catching snakes or shooting rifles at animals. Surprisingly, he is a good sport about taking time out of his busy schedule of riding four-wheelers to come and see me. I am never bored when he comes in, and this week was no exception.
As is our custom, I give Country Boy a snack and a cup of water before our lesson. He asks, “May I have another cup?”
“Sure!” I say. “For what?”
“To spit in.”
“Huh?”
Country Boy then proceeds to take out a small round can that looks exactly like chewing tobacco. Oh, crap. I think. I have visions of Country Boy’s entire family sitting around a dinner table all spitting into their personal tobacco cups. I ask if I can see it. After a closer look, I am relieved to discover that it isn’t tobacco at all—it is beef jerky, finely ground to look and feel just like the real stuff. Seriously? This stuff exists? For who????
“It’s my Jerky Baccy.”
“Jerky Baccy? Oh, okay…well, here is your cup. Let’s get started.”
We sit down, and Country Boy carefully arranges his cups and pretzels on the table, takes a pinch of the Jerky Baccy, and puts the whole wad in his lip like some seasoned pro. He then takes a sip of water and spits it out into his empty cup. It was an odd scene, me coaching him on his vowel sounds, the seven year old happily spitting in his cup like some old man on a porch somewhere in a mountain holler.
Okay, so it’s not exactly orthodox classroom behavior, but I go with it. He is still able to tell me all of words on his cards and spell on the magnet board. Why rock the boat? But the prudish teacher in me kept on wanting to say something about his Jerky Baccy. Is he just pushing his luck with me, or is it really that normal of an activity for him? Finally, at the end of lesson, I decide to ask him.
“May I ask you a question about your…?” I point to his can of jerky.
“My Jerky Baccy?”
“Yes, your Jerky Baccy.”
“Want some?”
“No, I’m good for now. I wanted to ask you—did you know that it looks a lot like real tobacco?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh. Do you know anyone that uses real tobacco?”
“Yeah, my daddy. His jaw is probably going to rot right off.” He thoughtfully spits into his cup. “That stuff is BAD for you.”
“Yes, you’re right. Good thing you have your Jerky Baccy, right?”
“Yup.”
It was at that moment I knew that I was DEFINITELY not in my hometown anymore. Not that no kid ever had play tobacco products. And not that every kid here does. But still…I am not sure what to think about this one.
I decided to tutor at a reading center part-time to have some extra money and to keep my resume from growing cobwebs while being a full-time mommy. And it is a perfect fit for me right now. Plus I get to tell stories to you like the following:
A student of mine, a cute little second grader I will call Country Boy, has been coming to me for months now. Country Boy has absolutely no interest in being near a classroom at any time unless you count him perhaps taking his dad’s John Deer Tractor and mowing one down. He regularly comes to tutoring with grubby fingernails, bruises, camouflage, and whopper stories about catching snakes or shooting rifles at animals. Surprisingly, he is a good sport about taking time out of his busy schedule of riding four-wheelers to come and see me. I am never bored when he comes in, and this week was no exception.
As is our custom, I give Country Boy a snack and a cup of water before our lesson. He asks, “May I have another cup?”
“Sure!” I say. “For what?”
“To spit in.”
“Huh?”
Country Boy then proceeds to take out a small round can that looks exactly like chewing tobacco. Oh, crap. I think. I have visions of Country Boy’s entire family sitting around a dinner table all spitting into their personal tobacco cups. I ask if I can see it. After a closer look, I am relieved to discover that it isn’t tobacco at all—it is beef jerky, finely ground to look and feel just like the real stuff. Seriously? This stuff exists? For who????
“It’s my Jerky Baccy.”
“Jerky Baccy? Oh, okay…well, here is your cup. Let’s get started.”
We sit down, and Country Boy carefully arranges his cups and pretzels on the table, takes a pinch of the Jerky Baccy, and puts the whole wad in his lip like some seasoned pro. He then takes a sip of water and spits it out into his empty cup. It was an odd scene, me coaching him on his vowel sounds, the seven year old happily spitting in his cup like some old man on a porch somewhere in a mountain holler.
Okay, so it’s not exactly orthodox classroom behavior, but I go with it. He is still able to tell me all of words on his cards and spell on the magnet board. Why rock the boat? But the prudish teacher in me kept on wanting to say something about his Jerky Baccy. Is he just pushing his luck with me, or is it really that normal of an activity for him? Finally, at the end of lesson, I decide to ask him.
“May I ask you a question about your…?” I point to his can of jerky.
“My Jerky Baccy?”
“Yes, your Jerky Baccy.”
“Want some?”
“No, I’m good for now. I wanted to ask you—did you know that it looks a lot like real tobacco?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh. Do you know anyone that uses real tobacco?”
“Yeah, my daddy. His jaw is probably going to rot right off.” He thoughtfully spits into his cup. “That stuff is BAD for you.”
“Yes, you’re right. Good thing you have your Jerky Baccy, right?”
“Yup.”
It was at that moment I knew that I was DEFINITELY not in my hometown anymore. Not that no kid ever had play tobacco products. And not that every kid here does. But still…I am not sure what to think about this one.
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