Lately Mountain Child has been unnaturally preoccupied with color. Couple this development with the fact that she is nearly three and absolutely must have everything exactly the way that she envisions it and we have a real problem on her hands.
“What would you like for breakfast?” (Yes. I know. I should never ask a two year old a question that is so open-ended. But it’s 7 a.m., for God’s sake.)
“I WANT CANDY.”
“You can’t have candy. How about some cereal and milk?”
“NOOOOOOOO. WANT CANDY!”
I sigh heavily. “You may have cereal and milk or an egg. Or both. “
“WANT TOAST! “
“Okay, fine. Toast. I’ll put some peanut butter and honey on it. Maybe some raisins or banana…” (I am now retreating into a fantasy world where I am Top Chef and my child eagerly eats whatever concoction I give her.)
“NOOOOO. WANT JELLY!! JELLY!!!!! NO HONEY!!!! NO BANANA!!!!!!!!!!!”
It is now 7:05 a.m. And I am already wondering if it isn’t too early for a nap for the both of us. I compromise: she gets a bit of jelly on her toast and I smoosh up the banana so that she won’t really notice that I am trying to subject her to proper nutrition. She takes one look at my breakfast offering and pushes it away. “WANT ORANGE JELLY,” she demands.
“But you always like the purple jelly.”
“NOOOOOOOOO!!! ORANGE JELLY!!! WANT ORANGE JELLY! AND BANANA! PINK BANANA!”
“You want a pink banana? “
YES!!!!!!!!!!! She is getting frustrated at me—I have clearly missed the boat on how to properly feed a child. But there are no pink bananas that exist as far as I know. So I tell her so. She weeps bitterly at this fact as if I had just informed that there would be no Christmas this year. She keeps on calling out for the pink banana and now my headache that was just a little pinprick at my temples is a thumping drum. I decide to change the subject.
“Today we are going to go to the museum.”
She stops crying and is now almost placated. “ZOO?”
“No, the museum.”
“RIDE IN THE PURPLE CAR?”
We, of course, do not have a purple car. But she has decided that she has to order the colors of things all day. She has known and enjoyed learning colors very much, so it is little wonder that her days lately have been revolving around the color wheel. Her snacks must be orange or pink—unless it is cheese, which in that case it must be white although sometimes she asks for pink cheese. She wants her toes to be red. She wants my toes to be red. And there absolutely, must be at all times some form of pink in her clothes. Her towel that she dries off with at night has to be green. The list goes on and on. Unfortunately, many of the things that she wants to be specific color are impossible. And Mountain Child is therefore enraged at this injustice.
Somehow, by the grace of the Lord God Almighty, we get to the museum, and her obsession with specific colors is forgotten for the moment. Until, that is, we go to eat lunch.
We had chosen to visit the museum on a day that there was an elementary school visiting as well. So when we get to the café area, there are hoards of kids swarming around. Mountain Child is so interested in the crowds that she barely notices her lunch at all, which I suppose I should be thankful for, given her current color needs.
Now, I haven’t been around a lot of school-aged kids for a while. I used to work at a school, but now I just tutor a few. I rarely see them in huge groups like this. One thing that I noticed about many of these kids is that there seemed to be a fashion motif—if you can call it that—of camouflage. It is everywhere: in their shirts, jackets, pants, and even shoes. One of the little girls even had a little camo-patterned purse. I am bewildered. Have I stumbled upon a convention for young hunters of America? No, I am just in West Virginia.
Speaking of which, I went the other day to this little children’s boutique that I liked in town. I noticed that they had these poufy princess-type skirts that had a camouflage print. They also had hairbows of the same. And in the local Rite-Aid, they had on display some camouflage nighties—a little camisole and shorts. That’s right. Lingerie in the Rite-Aid. I really, really want to know who that person is who happens upon that little ensemble and decides that this is the PERFECT Valentine’s Day outfit for the honey. But I digress.
Mountain Child, points to a kid near me and says, “WHAT’S THAT?” I say, “It’s a kid, sweetie.” She stares at the kid again and says, pointing, “GREEN!” Oh, she is playing the color game again. “Well, that color isn’t really green…it’s camouflage.”
“CAMFLAZ”
“Yes, that’s right.”
Oh, great. Now she has another color to demand. I am going to have to find a camouflage banana, pronto. This is a section of the color wheel that I wasn’t really anticipating. But West Virginia in hunting season has opened my eyes to something new.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
CityMom....Making Impressions
Note: I am not CityMom. CityMom is Leanza Cornett Steines. Which I am sure you will be able to very obviously tell by reading her first entry. Enjoy!
First, let me make it perfectly clear that I never intended on raising children in Los Angeles. Actually, I'm not sure where I thought I'd be raising children if at all. But here I am, in Los Angeles, with two children. Cards dealt...I'm playin' em.
So, LA is a land of celebrity, red carpet, valet parking, traffic, homeless people and general craziness. We are the town magazines love and people love to hate. Not only do I live here, but I am a part of the insanity because of the career that brought me here in the first place. My husband and I work in the "Entertainment Industry," which could mean that we wait tables as we wait for our "big break" but alas...we are actually WORKING in said industry. This effects our parenting only because we're raising our children in a world that, in my opinion is not realistic. People do not generally go to school with the kid whose Dad starred in the latest "Indiana Jones" movie. My kids do.
And speaking of Indiana Jones...
Every year, there is a parent's breakfast at the school Oldest and Youngest attend. I decided to make a delicious breakfast casserole and drive it down to the breakfast in hopes of impressing everyone with my culinary talents and home skills. A few minutes into the ride to school, Youngest had decided that the smell of the casserole was making him sick. The kid has some serious olfactory issues. So, I rolled down the windows in the car, which inspired complaints of too much wind, too cold, too loud. Seriously, it's a 4 minute car ride, and I was ready to pull over and start crying. By the time we were physically walking into the crowded breakfast, I was having a nervous breakdown and all I really wanted to do is put the casserole down and leave. Youngest was all for that (he hadn't started school at this point), and as we made our way out of the courtyard, a mom-friend stopped me to chat for a minute, which Youngest interpreted as total betrayal on my part to get him the heck out of this horrible place and back into our stinky, cold car. I mean, how dare I have an adult conversation in his presence when he is so clearly upset?
He proceeded to have a complete and total melt down. Arms flailing, he threw himself to the ground, screaming and crying that no one EVER listened to him, that he just KNEW everyone hated him and no one single person CARED about him. He was, at this point, about 3 feet away from me, laying on the ground and quickly gathering the attention of all who stood near him. It was at this moment, I looked up and realized that he was lying at the feet....almost ON TOP OF THE FEET of Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw. You might have heard of them. He directed and produced a little film called E.T., Star Wars and all the Indiana Jones movies among others. She is ravishing...at 8am, she looks as if she has stepped out of the pages of Vogue. They are looking at my kid with great horror, not because they can't imagine a child acting this way but because they probably can't understand why there isn't some caring, nurturing parent swooping in to save the day.
I had options. I considered them. And here is what I did.
I walked right by Youngest, looked at him, looked around at the adults who were watching him, and mouthed the words "Does anyone know who he belongs to? Is he okay? Poor thing..."
And I rounded the corner and waited for him to realize that Mommy ain't playin' no games with the tantrums. As soon as he saw that I was gone, the show was over and he came looking for me. Didn't win any Mom of the Year Awards that day, but if I'd really thought it through, I could have handed over a headshot and resume and hoped Steven would call my agent.
I just hope everyone enjoyed the casserole.
First, let me make it perfectly clear that I never intended on raising children in Los Angeles. Actually, I'm not sure where I thought I'd be raising children if at all. But here I am, in Los Angeles, with two children. Cards dealt...I'm playin' em.
So, LA is a land of celebrity, red carpet, valet parking, traffic, homeless people and general craziness. We are the town magazines love and people love to hate. Not only do I live here, but I am a part of the insanity because of the career that brought me here in the first place. My husband and I work in the "Entertainment Industry," which could mean that we wait tables as we wait for our "big break" but alas...we are actually WORKING in said industry. This effects our parenting only because we're raising our children in a world that, in my opinion is not realistic. People do not generally go to school with the kid whose Dad starred in the latest "Indiana Jones" movie. My kids do.
And speaking of Indiana Jones...
Every year, there is a parent's breakfast at the school Oldest and Youngest attend. I decided to make a delicious breakfast casserole and drive it down to the breakfast in hopes of impressing everyone with my culinary talents and home skills. A few minutes into the ride to school, Youngest had decided that the smell of the casserole was making him sick. The kid has some serious olfactory issues. So, I rolled down the windows in the car, which inspired complaints of too much wind, too cold, too loud. Seriously, it's a 4 minute car ride, and I was ready to pull over and start crying. By the time we were physically walking into the crowded breakfast, I was having a nervous breakdown and all I really wanted to do is put the casserole down and leave. Youngest was all for that (he hadn't started school at this point), and as we made our way out of the courtyard, a mom-friend stopped me to chat for a minute, which Youngest interpreted as total betrayal on my part to get him the heck out of this horrible place and back into our stinky, cold car. I mean, how dare I have an adult conversation in his presence when he is so clearly upset?
He proceeded to have a complete and total melt down. Arms flailing, he threw himself to the ground, screaming and crying that no one EVER listened to him, that he just KNEW everyone hated him and no one single person CARED about him. He was, at this point, about 3 feet away from me, laying on the ground and quickly gathering the attention of all who stood near him. It was at this moment, I looked up and realized that he was lying at the feet....almost ON TOP OF THE FEET of Steven Spielberg and Kate Capshaw. You might have heard of them. He directed and produced a little film called E.T., Star Wars and all the Indiana Jones movies among others. She is ravishing...at 8am, she looks as if she has stepped out of the pages of Vogue. They are looking at my kid with great horror, not because they can't imagine a child acting this way but because they probably can't understand why there isn't some caring, nurturing parent swooping in to save the day.
I had options. I considered them. And here is what I did.
I walked right by Youngest, looked at him, looked around at the adults who were watching him, and mouthed the words "Does anyone know who he belongs to? Is he okay? Poor thing..."
And I rounded the corner and waited for him to realize that Mommy ain't playin' no games with the tantrums. As soon as he saw that I was gone, the show was over and he came looking for me. Didn't win any Mom of the Year Awards that day, but if I'd really thought it through, I could have handed over a headshot and resume and hoped Steven would call my agent.
I just hope everyone enjoyed the casserole.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
A Quick Announcement
I have an exciting little twist on the usual MMD protocol: I will have a guest very soon! My cousin Leanza will be posting some of her experiences in her little corner of the world--LA. We think of it as a great experiment of the paradox of motherhood: there is really no normal place to raise your kids. And there are really no normal mommies. But somehow, we relentlessly seek normalcy to find that it's pretty fun to just be a bunch of freaks in a even freakier world.
Keep your eyes open...more fun things soon...
Keep your eyes open...more fun things soon...
Mother Nature Helping the Mountain Mamma
There are ideas that I have in my head about how a child’s day should go and then there is reality. I really want to be able to say that I do A and B on a consistent basis with Mountain Child, but sometimes it is actually X and Y although I hate to admit it.
DELUSION: Mountain Child has a lunch with all the food groups that is low in sugar and, of course, organic.
REALITY: Wendy’s Chicken Nuggets and fries. Yes, I know that you can sub the fries with mandarin oranges, but you can’t dip those nearly as well into a Frosty.
DELUSION: Playtime with learning-based toys, preferably with some fine arts and multicultural exposure thrown in.
REALITY: Dora the Explorer’s Puppy Power on repeat. Hey, Dora speaks Spanish, right?
DELUSION: Lots of outdoor time to develop mind and muscle along with an appreciation for the environment.
REALITY: I ask Mountain Child if she wants to go outside. She says no. I make her go with me anyway. We walk in the grass and she trips and falls. Mountain Child then has a meltdown over a blade of grass sticking to her hand.
Of course, I have my days when Mommy Power is in full effect. But I have equal doses of Mommy Slakerdom Days where I just can’t get it together. And reading Parents magazine just highlights all the more the sad fact that I am woefully mediocre.
But lately my husband and I have been taking Mountain Child with us to go hiking in the Kanawha State Forest, which simply epitomizes my idea of the We-Are-Having-An-ldeal-Granolaized-My-Kids-Is-Having-A-Really-Amazing-Experience-Rockin sort of day. For anyone that isn’t familiar with the Kanawha State Forest, it is located just outside of the Charleston, West Virginia limits and is a most wonderful place. Especially since it is fall right now, and the mountains are truly at their most impressive, with the trees waving all of their flamboyantly dressed branches and the forest floor crunching deliciously under our feet.
Anyway, this weekend we were driving around the grounds, looking for a trailhead. That’s when we spied a rather interesting rite of passage being recorded. A man, presumably a professional photographer, was standing on a ladder taking a picture of a boy in an open field. But this wasn’t just any fall photo session. The boy, who at a glance couldn’t have been more than eight, was posing with his bow with his freshly killed deer in front of him. Then the father, with a smile huge enough for us to see it from the road, posed beside him. I can imagine many life experiences where you would hire a photographer to capture the moment; I just never knew a child, his weapon, and a deer carcass being one of them. Later my husband tells me that there are sections of the forest-thankfully away from our trails-that people can hunt. I resist the urge to give in to my paranoia of an errant bullet or arrow hitting Mountain Child while we are trying to have Fun Family Memories.
But back to us and our own first moments. Out here, Mountain Child suddenly doesn’t care about getting dirty so much. She even climbed up on a huge log and tried to balance on it, a feat that our grumpy/cautious little one would never have considered otherwise. And for the first time in a veryvery long time, Mountain Child didn’t cry or whine for at least three hours. We scramble up mountainsides over rocks, logs, and moss in air as crisp as a Granny Smith apple. Now that we have gone the past three weekends, I am actually starting to get sad at the mere thought of when it is too cold for us to do this any more. But for now, we will go as long as the weather lets us and mingle among the hikers and child hunters.
DELUSION: Mountain Child has a lunch with all the food groups that is low in sugar and, of course, organic.
REALITY: Wendy’s Chicken Nuggets and fries. Yes, I know that you can sub the fries with mandarin oranges, but you can’t dip those nearly as well into a Frosty.
DELUSION: Playtime with learning-based toys, preferably with some fine arts and multicultural exposure thrown in.
REALITY: Dora the Explorer’s Puppy Power on repeat. Hey, Dora speaks Spanish, right?
DELUSION: Lots of outdoor time to develop mind and muscle along with an appreciation for the environment.
REALITY: I ask Mountain Child if she wants to go outside. She says no. I make her go with me anyway. We walk in the grass and she trips and falls. Mountain Child then has a meltdown over a blade of grass sticking to her hand.
Of course, I have my days when Mommy Power is in full effect. But I have equal doses of Mommy Slakerdom Days where I just can’t get it together. And reading Parents magazine just highlights all the more the sad fact that I am woefully mediocre.
But lately my husband and I have been taking Mountain Child with us to go hiking in the Kanawha State Forest, which simply epitomizes my idea of the We-Are-Having-An-ldeal-Granolaized-My-Kids-Is-Having-A-Really-Amazing-Experience-Rockin sort of day. For anyone that isn’t familiar with the Kanawha State Forest, it is located just outside of the Charleston, West Virginia limits and is a most wonderful place. Especially since it is fall right now, and the mountains are truly at their most impressive, with the trees waving all of their flamboyantly dressed branches and the forest floor crunching deliciously under our feet.
Anyway, this weekend we were driving around the grounds, looking for a trailhead. That’s when we spied a rather interesting rite of passage being recorded. A man, presumably a professional photographer, was standing on a ladder taking a picture of a boy in an open field. But this wasn’t just any fall photo session. The boy, who at a glance couldn’t have been more than eight, was posing with his bow with his freshly killed deer in front of him. Then the father, with a smile huge enough for us to see it from the road, posed beside him. I can imagine many life experiences where you would hire a photographer to capture the moment; I just never knew a child, his weapon, and a deer carcass being one of them. Later my husband tells me that there are sections of the forest-thankfully away from our trails-that people can hunt. I resist the urge to give in to my paranoia of an errant bullet or arrow hitting Mountain Child while we are trying to have Fun Family Memories.
But back to us and our own first moments. Out here, Mountain Child suddenly doesn’t care about getting dirty so much. She even climbed up on a huge log and tried to balance on it, a feat that our grumpy/cautious little one would never have considered otherwise. And for the first time in a veryvery long time, Mountain Child didn’t cry or whine for at least three hours. We scramble up mountainsides over rocks, logs, and moss in air as crisp as a Granny Smith apple. Now that we have gone the past three weekends, I am actually starting to get sad at the mere thought of when it is too cold for us to do this any more. But for now, we will go as long as the weather lets us and mingle among the hikers and child hunters.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Cupcakes, Candy and Zebras, Oh My!
As a person that loves to celebrate each holiday to the fullest, I was most excited about Halloween. Mountain Child would be old enough to better understand Trick or Treat Night, and we would actually be living in a place that really looked and felt like fall. I was so excited, in fact, that I purchased Mountain Child’s Halloween costume on September 4th, the day after I got the Pottery Barn Kids catalogue in the mail.
Whoever puts together the Pottery Barn Kids catalogue should get some kind of award for evil genius in advertising. When I look at those things, I actually can imagine my kid right there in those pages, playing on her pink 100% wool rug, fluffy comforter on her perfectly made bed, room completely organized with cubbies and shelves and bins everywhere. Her hair is neatly fixed. And there is no food from breakfast on her shirt while she plays very nicely with her age-appropriate, eco-friendly, educational toys. I start believing that it is possible to enter this beautiful parallel universe. The section on their Halloween costumes is no exception.
I spied the Cupcake Costume last year in the PB Kids catalogue. It is a felt costume that is a dress but in the shape of a huge cupcake. The bottom is the wrapper of the cake, and the top is pink icing with polka dots. It even had a headband with a strawberry on top. I wanted to get it, but I waited too long and they were sold out. I was determined to get it this year. My daughter was going to have the cutest costume ever. No fairy or princess costume for her! So I ordered it as soon as the costumes came out. I will not even tell you how much I paid for it because it is embarrassing how much I did.
The Cupcake Costume comes in the mail and I joyfully tell Mountain Child that she gets to go trick or treating very soon and she gets to be a cupcake! She gets very excited over the idea of a cupcake given her undying affection for all things sugary sweet. But when I took the costume out of the box to show her the Cupcake Costume, she gives me a dirty look and throws the thing on the floor. “WANT CUPCAKE,” she demands. Oh, great. I forget that two-year olds are such literal creatures and she probably thought she was getting a real cupcake. I hang the costume in her closet and decide to let her try it on later.
Later on, I try again. But she apparently has remembered the big disappointment of her costume not being a real cupcake, and she still refuses to try it on. So I decide to just give it a few days. The days turn into weeks and still Mountain Child refuses to try it on, even if I bribe her and tell her that we can “practice” trick or treating and get candy. She just would cry for the candy and wouldn’t go near the costume. Finally, I decide to just put it on her, and hopefully she will get over it. I take out the costume and somehow wrestle her into it. She is writhing, kicking and screaming and I can’t get her head through the top of the costume. She runs around with her head still somewhere in the costume as if she is the Headless Cupcake Girl. It took me an hour and about ten storybooks with her blankie for her calm down again. She is probably going to need some therapy later for this childhood experience.
It was clear that my fantasy about my daughter becoming a Pottery Barn Kids model with her Halloween costume wasn’t going to come true. But it is now only about two days before it is time to trick or treat and I have nothing. It figures. I try to plan ahead, but I am still in the exact same position as if I were to have done nothing and spent nothing. I ignored a simple fact about my child: if it doesn’t resemble pajamas, she isn’t going to wear it without a fight. I head to Target and get some plain black “cozy” pants and a black t-shirt. I throw some white duct tape in. Out of sheer hopefulness, I add a headband with zebra ears and a zebra tail. And I proceed to create a zebra costume. To my surprise, the finished product looked very zebra-ish and the whole thing cost me under $20. I was ecstatic for my craftiness, although I will tell you to cut duct tape into zebra stripe shapes is no easy task.
Meanwhile, I called a friend to see if her daughter wanted to perhaps borrow the costume. She stopped by, and I handed over the Cupcake Costume. Mountain Child, wept bitterly over us lending out the costume and wails, “MY COSTUME! WANT CUPCAKE COSTUME!!”
But, honey, you didn’t like it. Remember when you cried when Mommy tried to get you to wear it?
“MY COSTUME, MY CUPCAKE COSTUME! IT’S MINE!” Mountain Child is sobbing.
“We will get it back. We are just sharing it for a little bit. Will you wear it when we get it back?”
“GET CANDY?”
“Yes and get candy.”
Mountain Child seems satisfied with this. I then show her the zebra costume. She is mildly interested and begins to make zebra noises. “ZEBRAS GO LIKE THIS: NEIIIIIIGHHHHHHH! ZEBRAS HAVE STRIPES!”
Okay, we might have a hope now. However, predictably, when it is time to get dressed for Trick or Treat Night, she cries again for the Cupcake Costume and doesn’t want to be a zebra. And the headband with the zebra ears and the tail? Forget it. Somehow, I get that damn zebra outfit on her and put her hair in pigtails. We get her pumpkin pail and go out on the front porch to see the other kids who have eagerly started to trick or treat. She didn’t want to go. Of course. I carry her to three houses to see if the act of getting the candy would be enough to convince her that this was indeed fun. That doesn't work either. Then Grandpa Dennis offers to walk with her. Suddenly, she is as cheery as can be and happily walks off with him. And as I watch my two-year old skip off with grandpa, her zebra stripes peeling off, giving her a look that is now more mummy than zebra, her crooked pigtails, and her trying to dig into her pumpkin pail for more candy, I am reminded once again that planning ahead with preschoolers isn’t as effective as it should be. Unless you live in a Pottery Barn Kids catalogue.
Whoever puts together the Pottery Barn Kids catalogue should get some kind of award for evil genius in advertising. When I look at those things, I actually can imagine my kid right there in those pages, playing on her pink 100% wool rug, fluffy comforter on her perfectly made bed, room completely organized with cubbies and shelves and bins everywhere. Her hair is neatly fixed. And there is no food from breakfast on her shirt while she plays very nicely with her age-appropriate, eco-friendly, educational toys. I start believing that it is possible to enter this beautiful parallel universe. The section on their Halloween costumes is no exception.
I spied the Cupcake Costume last year in the PB Kids catalogue. It is a felt costume that is a dress but in the shape of a huge cupcake. The bottom is the wrapper of the cake, and the top is pink icing with polka dots. It even had a headband with a strawberry on top. I wanted to get it, but I waited too long and they were sold out. I was determined to get it this year. My daughter was going to have the cutest costume ever. No fairy or princess costume for her! So I ordered it as soon as the costumes came out. I will not even tell you how much I paid for it because it is embarrassing how much I did.
The Cupcake Costume comes in the mail and I joyfully tell Mountain Child that she gets to go trick or treating very soon and she gets to be a cupcake! She gets very excited over the idea of a cupcake given her undying affection for all things sugary sweet. But when I took the costume out of the box to show her the Cupcake Costume, she gives me a dirty look and throws the thing on the floor. “WANT CUPCAKE,” she demands. Oh, great. I forget that two-year olds are such literal creatures and she probably thought she was getting a real cupcake. I hang the costume in her closet and decide to let her try it on later.
Later on, I try again. But she apparently has remembered the big disappointment of her costume not being a real cupcake, and she still refuses to try it on. So I decide to just give it a few days. The days turn into weeks and still Mountain Child refuses to try it on, even if I bribe her and tell her that we can “practice” trick or treating and get candy. She just would cry for the candy and wouldn’t go near the costume. Finally, I decide to just put it on her, and hopefully she will get over it. I take out the costume and somehow wrestle her into it. She is writhing, kicking and screaming and I can’t get her head through the top of the costume. She runs around with her head still somewhere in the costume as if she is the Headless Cupcake Girl. It took me an hour and about ten storybooks with her blankie for her calm down again. She is probably going to need some therapy later for this childhood experience.
It was clear that my fantasy about my daughter becoming a Pottery Barn Kids model with her Halloween costume wasn’t going to come true. But it is now only about two days before it is time to trick or treat and I have nothing. It figures. I try to plan ahead, but I am still in the exact same position as if I were to have done nothing and spent nothing. I ignored a simple fact about my child: if it doesn’t resemble pajamas, she isn’t going to wear it without a fight. I head to Target and get some plain black “cozy” pants and a black t-shirt. I throw some white duct tape in. Out of sheer hopefulness, I add a headband with zebra ears and a zebra tail. And I proceed to create a zebra costume. To my surprise, the finished product looked very zebra-ish and the whole thing cost me under $20. I was ecstatic for my craftiness, although I will tell you to cut duct tape into zebra stripe shapes is no easy task.
Meanwhile, I called a friend to see if her daughter wanted to perhaps borrow the costume. She stopped by, and I handed over the Cupcake Costume. Mountain Child, wept bitterly over us lending out the costume and wails, “MY COSTUME! WANT CUPCAKE COSTUME!!”
But, honey, you didn’t like it. Remember when you cried when Mommy tried to get you to wear it?
“MY COSTUME, MY CUPCAKE COSTUME! IT’S MINE!” Mountain Child is sobbing.
“We will get it back. We are just sharing it for a little bit. Will you wear it when we get it back?”
“GET CANDY?”
“Yes and get candy.”
Mountain Child seems satisfied with this. I then show her the zebra costume. She is mildly interested and begins to make zebra noises. “ZEBRAS GO LIKE THIS: NEIIIIIIGHHHHHHH! ZEBRAS HAVE STRIPES!”
Okay, we might have a hope now. However, predictably, when it is time to get dressed for Trick or Treat Night, she cries again for the Cupcake Costume and doesn’t want to be a zebra. And the headband with the zebra ears and the tail? Forget it. Somehow, I get that damn zebra outfit on her and put her hair in pigtails. We get her pumpkin pail and go out on the front porch to see the other kids who have eagerly started to trick or treat. She didn’t want to go. Of course. I carry her to three houses to see if the act of getting the candy would be enough to convince her that this was indeed fun. That doesn't work either. Then Grandpa Dennis offers to walk with her. Suddenly, she is as cheery as can be and happily walks off with him. And as I watch my two-year old skip off with grandpa, her zebra stripes peeling off, giving her a look that is now more mummy than zebra, her crooked pigtails, and her trying to dig into her pumpkin pail for more candy, I am reminded once again that planning ahead with preschoolers isn’t as effective as it should be. Unless you live in a Pottery Barn Kids catalogue.
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