Traveling in Style

I am pretty sure that my ass is posted on Facebook. Some girls I don’t know from somewhere in South Carolina did it, I am sure.


Allow me to explain.

For quite a while, I have had an on and off again case of van envy. It usually comes on when I am traveling with the girls. Traveling brings out the problem solver in me—usually because traveling is really nothing but an endless string of issues and indignities that I have to endure to get to the destination to have Fun Family Memories. I have long wished that I would be That Mom that has a calm look on her face while her kids are happily sitting in their comfy captain’s chairs, riding down the road in happy anticipation for the next wholesome family trip that will surely include nature and crafts in some way. All the space! The safety features and stowaway seating! The built-in TV screens in the ceiling of the van.

Go ahead and judge, granola mommies. Go ahead and judge while you stuff your kids full of gluten-free, organic food and happily play with your darlings with your handmade toys, talking about how you breast fed your children until they were two and made all your own baby food, deodorant and laundry detergent. I used to be like you. Sort of. I at least used to sneer at the poor, out-of-control mothers that had to resort to letting their kids watch television in the car. I was so smug about the fact that I was waaaayyyy more enlightened about the dangers of too much television and that kids needed to stimulate their minds doing active, creative things, even when traveling. I was self-righteous up until the point that I realized I probably needed anti-anxiety medication on any journey longer than a half hour. And since I used to have an hour-long commute to work every day…well, you get the picture.

Now I am not sure if I could ever travel without televisions. I don’t care if my children’s development is stunted while traveling. I just want there to be quiet, blessed quiet, where not one soul asks me for one thing while we are getting where we are going. Not one snack, not one drink, not fixing one twisted seat belt, not one dropped toy—nothing. It is a dream right up there with getting to go on vacation to French Polynesia for a month. My husband asserts that he has the hardest job as he must safely get us to our destination and locate a radio station for us to listen to without interruption because he refuses to use my iTunes. But we all know the truth. He drives because he has witnessed the contortionist act that the passenger must perform in our SUV every time we go anywhere more than five miles down the road. And I am certain owning a minivan will solve all of these issues and more.

Okay, back to why my ass is on Facebook.

So we are driving down the road, and Little Mountain Goat is crying because she has thrown her bottle on the floor of the SUV for probably the hundredth time. And I am searching desperately for it because it is the only thing that will induce a bit of peace while we drive to Florida. Never mind that she is nearly TWO and STILL is very much attached to her bottle. I am starting to wonder if I need to look into some sort of rehab facility for her bottle addiction. We are going to Disney for Thanksgiving because we like to put ourselves in the most ridiculous stressful situations possible during holiday times. Only I put my foot down and said that we were NOT going to the theme parks during one of the most crowded times of the year with a nearly-six-year-old and nearly-two-year-old. So there. I am not as crazy as those people. While I am nearly on my head in the back seat yet still somehow have my lower half of the body in the front seat, I notice not for the first time the disgusting mess that the floor of our Explorer is. There are bits of cereal, French fries, fruit snacks, dried milk and juice and a myriad of unidentifiable grossness down there. I am pretty sure that if were ever in a situation where we had to live in this vehicle, we could live for at least several days on what we find. That is, if we don’t catch some sort of rare bacterial infection in the process.

I am doing a move that could either pass as some advanced yoga pose, and it just so happens that my jeans are, of course, drooping down just enough that you see my butt crack. I barely even notice this is happening because I am constantly stretching and bending and nearly losing my pants anyhow. The other day Little Mountain Goat actually pantsed me. I was wearing comfy pants and doing dishes. Little Mountain Goat prefers that I to hold her while I am doing everything, but I couldn’t at that moment because I was elbow-deep in suds. So Little Mountain Goat attempted to climb up my leg like a tree. She starts climbing, my pants fell, leaving me in the middle of the kitchen with no pants and Little Mountain Goat indignantly crying because her attempt at ascending Mount Mommy failed. Mountain Man walks in at this moment and laughs hysterically. If I weren’t so used to scenes like this, I would have probably either cried or thrown something in sheer rage. But I just pulled up my pants and went on washing the dishes, tuning out the growing shrieks of Little Mountain Goat.

Oh, right. Back to me searching for the bottle in the back seat with my disappearing pants. Suddenly, Mountain Man yells, “Hey!” and begins swerving to the other lane. This move makes me fall over on Mountain Man, and he is laughing and pushing me off of him, saying, “Honey, I think those girls just took a picture of you.” It didn’t even register at first why they would bother taking one of me. I heaved myself up off of the floor of the backseat, uncurling myself from my newly discovered yoga pose, and take a look at the car that is in the other lane now slightly behind us. They girls in it were young, likely in college. The one in the passenger seat is holding up her phone and all three of them are laughing hysterically. And then it hits me: They just took at picture of me. They just took a picture of my ass. And they are now posting it on Facebook.

I’ve got it hand it to my Mountain Man. He really did try to elude those bitches. The situation brought out his inner Nascar driver and had him accelerating and swerving as he tried to obscure the girls' view of my posterior. It was a sweet, protective gesture that likely gave me a hernia and a concussion, but it's the thought that counts. It reminds me of the time I was on my way to the hospital to have Mountain Child. I was prancing to the entrance of the hospital in my I Am Really Cute In My Having a Baby Today Outfit. It was a pair of dark brown cargo pants with a pale pink maternity shirt. My hair was straightened and legs were shaved. My makeup even looked good. I had on an adorable brown and pink polka-dotted headband and leather flip flops. I was ready to look radiant and beautiful for all of the pictures after my easy, uneventful delivery. All these thoughts were floating through my head like frilly little kites when I slipped crossing the wet street going into the hospital. Mountain Man, in his attempt to catch me, tried to break my fall by throwing my pillow in the street. It was a valiant, chivalrous effort. However, I was fuming because my  favorite pillow along with my outift was soggy and dirty and my hair was getting frizzy.  A crowd of concerned people swarmed around me as if I were a beached whale, insisting that I needed a wheelchair with my favorite pillow soggy and dirty. And likewise his attempt to out drive the college chicks was indeed appreciated but still ended in humiliation.

Oh, college girls. I understand why you took a picture of my ass. I get why it is likely on Facebook. It really is funny. It is hilarious, actually. But hear me now, college girls: there will be a day where this will be you. Your ass or some other body part will be digitally archived in some stranger’s phone to be presented the next time she is with her friends, perhaps while having a drink at some trendy bar. She’ll pull out her phone and say, “Oh, my God! You will never guess what we saw today! LOOK!” Everyone will peer around the phone looking faint image documenting your discrace. The group will laugh hysterically. And one of the girls in the group will surely say, “Oh, that just SAD. I don’t EVER want to be lame like that.” Meanwhile, you will for the first time in your life actually yearn for a minivan.

Taking a Stand Against Childhood Obesity

Now that I am pregnant again, I am trying to do certain things better/different this time around. For one, I have absolutely, definitely decided that I WILL NOT gain 60 pounds during this pregnancy. That’s right. I gained 60 pounds with the Mountain Child. I weighed as much as my husband when it was all said and done. I would step on the scale, and we would both marvel at the hugeness of the number. It was like it wasn’t even real, so I could therefore have another strawberry milkshake if I wanted. Which, by the way, I needed them so badly I would routinely leave work and go get one. Chick-Fil-A had such delicious ones that the employees would just get the thing ready as soon as they saw my car pull up to the drive-through.

Come to think of it, I was pretty much hungry for whatever I could get my hands on all of the time. And if I didn’t get food RIGHT AT THE EXACT MOMENT that I decided that I was hungry, I was angry. Yes, very, very angry indeed. Two of my dearest friends know and understand what this was like all too well. I venture that they still need a bit of therapy each time they recall the time we were in Chicago for a school counseling conference. We were all excited to be able to eat our way through that town. I am surprised that we somehow squeezed in some of the educational sessions. Anyhow, one morning we set out to check out a little breakfast place that was supposed to be really good. We bounced out the door, me forgetting that I needed something to eat before I attempted to walk several blocks on an empty stomach. By the time that we arrived at this little café, it was clear from the line that most of the Chicago Metro Area also had the same breakfast plans. Perhaps I am exaggerating a little. But if you were as hungry as I was at the time, it wouldn’t have mattered. One person in front of you is just too much to bear when you smell eggs and bacon.

Anyway, I was pissed. How DARE they make a PREGNANT WOMAN wait like this? Doesn’t anyone care?? I hate you, Chicago!!!! I walked five blocks for this crap?!? Someone bring me a muffin RIGHT NOW!!!!!! I was becoming unglued and the walls were starting to close in on me.
My friends tried to calm me down. One of them helpfully added that I needed to bring snacks with me so I wouldn’t feel this way. I then told her to shove that advice straight up her ass. There was a tense silence among us at that point. I can’t imagine why. I almost started crying because I hated everyone in the entire world right then and no one cared.

It was at this moment that a kind-hearted elderly lady tried to offer me a mint. “Here, dear. I remember mints settled my stomach when I was pregnant.” I looked distastefully at the mint as if she just tried to offer me dog feces and said, “I DON’T NEED A MINT. I NEED FOOD.” The lady looked at me and then to my friends as if to say, Good luck with that piece of work. My friends then chastised me for being so rude. I felt that it was an insult to offer a starving pregnant lady a crappy mint when what she clearly needed was a comfortable chair, toast, and some sort of meat—QUICKLY. Actually, she was lucky I didn’t punch her in the face.

Mercifully, our seats became available and we all settled into breakfast. I happily tore into my order, which was, of course, half the menu. I was so jolly about how delicious the food was that I had completely forgotten what a sociopath I was about twenty minutes earlier. My friends, however, were still horrified at my behavior and didn’t say much during the whole breakfast. Not that I noticed. I was too busy scarfing down eggs benedict and hash browns.

Anyhow, that was then. I made a very conscious decision that I could not allow that to happen to me again. It took me over a year to get off all that weight. Besides, I don’t have too many friends here in the Hills, so I need to mind my behavior. And so far, I have been a bit more normal. Up until my third trimester, I only gained 19 pounds. Up until the third trimester is the key thing to remember. It is a sick coincidence that my third trimester fell during Halloween, which then landslides into Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s hopeless, really.

I am not proud of it, but I stole almost all of Mountain Child’s Halloween candy. At least the good stuff. And the saddest part is that my daughter is smart enough to know that I am taking her stash and that means that I have to lie to her.

Mommy, are you eating MY Halloween candy?

No, sweetie, this is my candy.

NO, IT’S NOT! THAT WAS IN MY TRICK OR TREAT PUMPKIN! GIVE IT BACK!!!!!

This is my treat. You have your own. Now go and play.

Mommy, that is MY chocolate! I WANT MY CHOCOLATE!!!!! She runs to her room and cries. And I continue eating that delicious Twix bar. She shouldn’t be eating this junk anyway.

My doctor assured me that I would not gain nearly as much weight this time, but I am pretty sure that he hasn’t taken into account the amount of chocolate that kids get in their Trick or Treat haul or my obvious commitment to protecting my daughter from childhood obesity.

Not An Existential Crisis, Just A Little Confusion

I swore that I wouldn’t start off any of my blog entries apologizing about how I have neglected my poor little blogspot. So I won’t. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, right?

Plus I have perfectly good reasons that I haven’t written in a long time. We have been living in a tornado for the past month and half and I am just now emerging from it. What has been happening, lately, you ask? The better question is what hasn’t been going on?

Oh, just a horrible stomach virus, back-to-back catering jobs, finding out that I am pregnant again, deciding that my husband and I will start a kids’ camp for foster kids, attending the training to become proper camp directors for said foster kids, squeezing in a random weekend jaunt down to Hilton Head, revamping a deck, working extra at the reading center and entertaining family that come into town. Just in case you were really curious.

Which brings me to the actual point of my little mini-blog today: is being busy just some people’s destiny in life or is something that we choose? And if we choose it, is it bad? I remember that I desperately wanted to be less busy when we lived in Florida. It was such a mental burden to have such a crazy, cluttered life—kind of like that out-of-control closet that you just would rather throw out the entire contents of rather than organizing it.

And when I moved to West Virginia, things really were much simpler for a good while—months, actually--I had little more to do than to hang out with Mountain Child and update my blog occasionally. It was lovely indeed, but it really was more like a pause as if I were drawing in a deep breath before the next sprint. It was a state that I couldn’t keep constant.

So is that a bad thing? Do I fight the busyness of life that seems to be so attracted to me, or do I ride with it because it is more like waves of an ocean that you can’t make still?

I have no idea.

Funerals + Silly Putty = Trouble

Hopefully reading my blog has the benefit of making you feel better about your own child's behavior after reading about mine. And the thing that makes my own daughter's behavior so horrid--or any child's behavior--is that it is so unpredictable. I mean, one minute you are having a quiet moment in your head that says something like, "Gee, this day isn't so bad. At least my kid is being good." And the next, you are either mortified or calling the emergency room.

My most recent Unviverse-Really-Sticking-It-To-You Moment came at a most inopportune time: Grandma Lee's viewing at the funeral home. And this is why this post is so hard to write--because Grandma Lee was such an extraordinary woman that it is almost disrespectful to not focus on her. But then again, maybe Grandma would have chuckled at my daughter's antics. Or maybe not. Perhaps she would have told me to look up a Bible verse about disciplining your children or something.

Anyway, we were at the funeral home. As with any funeral, it is an emotionally charged time. You see family you haven't seen in forever--which is great. You have the memories of this person who has passed away--which is both great and sad. And, of course, you have the body of your loved one right up at the front of the room for you to say your final goodbyes to--which for me, at least, has always been a very confusing time. I mean, I know she's in Heaven. I know that she is in an infinitely better place. But do I still need to say something to her? How long do I stay up there? How much do I cry? Obviously, these things are quite personal and varied among people, and that it is just the nature of going to a furneral. And since Grandma Lee was such an anchor in so many peoples' lives, it was really hard to even know how to act sometimes at this particular juncture. Even more tricky for me, is how to deal with Mountain Child on an occasion like this. Children and furnerals are an interesting combination. They can lighten the mood of even the most meloncholy of occasions. They can also cause a great deal of havoc. My husband and I decided that she didn't need to go up and see Grandma Lee. She is only three, and we felt that it might be too confusing and upsetting. We did tell her that Grandma Lee, or "Maga Lee" went to Heaven. She understood this--sort of, and she replied, "JUST LIKE ROXY." Oh, yes. Just like Roxy. Roxy was our dear German shepherd that died last July.

Anyhow, most of my time at the funeral home was a balancing act of me keeping Mountain Child away from the front of the room and out of everyone's way, along with playing Gracious Wife, introducing myself to family members that I hadn't yet met and greet those whom I had not seen in several years. It's funny. Mountain Man and I have been married nearly eight years and I still feel like such a newcomer to his family. I wonder if this feeling will ever wear off.

Some other kids were there, and after a while, they got into games of hide-and-seek and tag in the lobby. They were being pretty good, and it had the side benefit of Mountain Child forgetting to whine. She has made whining into a sort of art form/sport. And the more important it is for her not to whine is in reverse proportion to how much she will cry and complain. So I was grateful for at least a few moments to not be climbed upon and tugged on, with constant wheedlings of "I'M HUNGRY. I WANT WHITE CHEESE. I NEED MY BABY DOLL. WHERE'S MY BOOKS? WHERE'S DADDY? WHERE'S THE OTHER KIDS? WHERE'S MY BLANKY? I DON'T WANT TO BE QUIET!!!! I DON'T WANT TO BE HAPPY!!!!!" And so on and on and on...

So I am sitting next to one of Mountain Man's second? third? cousins and chatting. Then Mountain Man's aunt calls over to me and says, "I think you need to get her...she's got something in her hair." She points to the front of the chapel. The part of the chapel that was the one spotI am afraid to look, but I start walking over there anyway. And what do I see? My child with two other kids happily playing inches from Grandma Lee's casket with Silly Putty everywhere: in her hair, on the floor, laced with the flowers, and....the casket.

There are many disconnected thoughts running through my head: Who in God's name has Silly Putty? Who would be insane enough to give it to her?? It's amazing how this stuff grows and spreads everywhere. Oh, no--who was trying to have a private moment with Grandma while this was happening? Why am I not with-it enough to pay attention to my one kid? Why can't I even have a five-minute conversation with a person? Is this a good time to leave?

I turn around and see lots lots of people smiling that Please-Get-Your-Delinquent-Child-Out-of-Here smile at me. All of the kids freeze and have a guilty look of their faces, and the older ones try to explain to me what they were doing with the desperation that only kids that are caught red-handed can do--but at that point I hardly cared. I just told them to go to the lobby. I scooped up Mountain Child and wondered if Silly Putty in the hair meant a new haircut for her. Luckily, it's not like gum and comes right out.

So on a scale of one to ten, one being Dream Child and ten being Sociopath Kid, where does your kid throwing Silly Putty around by your husband's grandmother's casket fall? Just wondering.

Worms

Today my husband and I cleaned out our flower beds. The beds were in such bad shape that we have had to plan out the project in phases. Phase I is the Digging Phase. We had such an infestation of dandelions that we just decided it was easier to dig everything out and start over. And, as a result of completing Phase I today, I have decided that dandelions are the Devil's flower. They are awful. They are impossible to pull up so you have to dig them out. And this means that I have to touch dirt and worms. In case you don't know me, I am not fond of worms.

But Mountain Child is apparently incredibly fond of them. I am surprised by this because normally Mountain Child doesn't like getting anything dirty on her hands, and she thinks everything is gross. But worms are the exception in her PinkSparklyPrincess world.

"Oh, look! I have dug up some worms! Wanna see them?"

"WORMS?!?! YES. I WANT TO SEE THEM."

I show her the worms, which I do not touch. Our dirt is full of them, and they are crawling all over the soil that I have just freshly dug up. She gingerly touches one and pulls her hand away quickly. She looks thoughtfully at the worms and decides to pick it up.

"I WANT TO TAKE CARE OF HIM."

"Like as your pet?"

"I WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM."

"You can't sleep with a worm. You'll squish him."

"I WANT TO SLEEP WITH HIM, MOMMY! HE IS MY BABY!"

"Oh, what is his name?"

She doesn't answer and walks off talking her new worm friend. I continue working on digging out dandelions. A few moments later, she returns.

"I WANT TO EAT THE WORM."

"We don't eat worms. We just look at them. In fact, put him back in the dirt. That is his home."

"MOMMY! THIS WORM IS MINE!!!! THIS WORM IS A GIRL WORM!!!!" Mountain Child begins to cry and runs inside the house. In the confusion, she has dropped the worm on the sidewalk. I take a stick and transport him back into the dirt.

Oh, and where was the Mountain Man in this whole scenario? Well, he actually went to hit golf balls and then returned to pick up the next digging shift. The worm incident happens when he was gone, of course. I tell him later and he doesn't even believe me.

After everything calmed down, Montain Child asks if she can play with the worms tomorrow. I guess we will bring the ketchup, too.

Desperately Seeking Cooldom

It appears that I have reached that point in my life where I am no longer cool. I now do really lame Mommythings. No, I am not being too hard on myself. I mean, I have moments of cooldom; but in general, I am forced to do things that just embarrass my former cool self.

Case in point: I actually got up in the middle of the night to go wait in line to get into…no, not a concert or show of some sort. I did it to get Mountain Child into a preschool. That’s right. I woke up at 4 a.m. to get in line by 5:30 a.m. downtown to get my daughter into one of the only viable preschools around.

Perhaps you remember my last incident with preschools. I had plenty of time to lay low about the whole thing and mentally recover from it. A few weeks ago, I started the search again, this time armed with lots more recommendations and lists of questions to ask my prospects. The list, it turns out, was pretty short. There isn’t just much to pick from around here. I don’t blame the fact that we are the middle of West Virginia and somehow inferior when it comes to preschools—it’s just the rule of population. Not as many people live around here, so therefore there aren’t as many preschools. I settled on a preschool downtown which had been around for, about 75 years and also included a music and Spanish language program. I was about as excited as I used to be about myself going on a weekend trip with the girls. Like I said—my cool points are being lost by the minute.

But there was one little hitch with this particular preschool. It had exactly one morning that it opened itself up to the community for new people to register. And that was at 7:00 in the morning.

“So should I arrive a bit early that day? Are there a lot of people that try to get in?”

“Oh, I would get here early if I were you,” the preschool director said mildly.

“Like how early?”

“Oh, I have noticed people coming as early as around 6 a.m.”

Six?!? What is this, anyway? Now, my competitive radar is up. Right then and there I decided that Mountain Child must get into this school. If people are lining up at such an ungodly hour of the day, then it has to be worth it, right? And I will get there before anyone else.

I talk to other friends about the preschool. Apparently this place is notorious for parents camping out on the sidewalk practically in the middle of the night waiting for the doors to open to get their kids in this place. And once you’re in, you have to do it every year—and you have to come even earlier. One person told me that she knew of parents going at 4:30 in the morning. Luckily, that isn’t quite the case with the day that I was going—only the crazy parents that actually got their kids into this place had to do that. But still. I figured that I had to get there at 5:30 a.m. to beat the rush.

At that hour, it is still really cold at the beginning of March in West Virginia. Like still in the 30’s. I woke up at 4 a.m. I layered up, packed at hot tea to go, and headed out.

When I arrived, there were already two parents waiting. I decided that I was the Most Awesome Mother Ever because now I was #3 in line and was most definitely getting Mountain Child in. If I could survive the cold and boredom. I brought nothing to read and the only place to sit was on a cold metal bench. I suppose this is why people brought tents and chairs and practically had a campout for these things. It is cold and you need shelter.

Other parents trickled in. To my surprise, they were mostly dads on their way to work. I hadn’t even considered asking my husband to come. I think that is because he would have laughed hysterically in my face if I would have suggested that he get up and come. I don’t hold that against him. I am laughing at myself hysterically in the face for doing this.

We all chat and joke that we all probably used to wait in lines like this for concerts or something way more with it than doing this. I nod my head in agreement, but then I remember the last time I waited in line for like. We waited for over an hour to see Jesco White, the Dancing Outlaw, at the Charleston Power Park before a minor league baseball game. Another time, when I was pregnant, the celebrity chef Paula Deen was coming to the Williams Sonoma in my old hometown. And honestly, friends, I was so excited to meet her that you would have thought I was waiting in line to see the Dave Matthews Band or Brad Pitt—anyone more fashionable than the Queen of Southern Cooking and Butter. And before that? It was at a university when I was studying in my English graduate program—I waited in line to hear Rita Dove read poetry. Before that, I am not even sure. But it had to be something that the Cool Kids would have done, right….?

I realize now that I perhaps never had many cool points in the first place. I can’t blame my dorkiness on the Mountain Child.

Neighborhood Watch

Since we have moved into our new home, I have not met many of the neighbors. We have been busy getting unpacked, and the snow has made most people hibernate. And truthfully, I don’t really care much about getting to know the neighbors. It’s not that I don’t like people. It’s just that I am not really used to that. In Florida, we barely knew anyone on our street except for our next door neighbor who got drunk on a regular basis and would fall into our hedges. I guess we were all just too busy and self-absorbed to really get interested in any extra people, with the exception being getting the mail for Drunk-in-The-Hedges Neighbor when he went to rehab for a couple of months. The more I thought about it, the idea of having neighbors I know and like seems really nice. However, weeks have literally gone by where I haven’t seen a soul outside unless they were in their cars driving to work. Snow appears to breed antisocial behavior.

Actually, that is not completely accurate. One lady came by one snowy afternoon that was, strangely enough, our street’s welcome committee representative for the homeowner’s association. I only say that it was strange because, 1) we had been living in the townhouse for two months with no one even looking in our direction, and 2), she exclaimed, “I have been trying to get a hold of you for weeks!” You have? I stay home. How hard can it be? And furthermore, can’t you just mail the papers to me? I actually casually suggested that she could have left the papers at my door or just mailed them. She looked at me as if I had just suggested that we all commit pagan acts in the common areas at dusk. She peered nosily inside the house from the front porch and then, rather than just handing me the “Welcome Packet”, she asked to come in. I didn’t really want her to come in. Everything was a huge mess, with boxes and and breakfast dishes and laundry everywhere, not to mention that Mountain Child was actually taking a nice nap for once. But I was stuck in one of those social quandaries where I may have been rude by not being more gracious, but then again she may have been the rude one since she was sort of barging in. So I invited her in and offered her a drink. She declined, and then launched right in on a complete account on everyone that lives on our street: what they do, who is divorced or dying, and how the people at the other end just sold their place in only fourteen days. She didn’t know how much it went for, but it must have been good because it was one of the first offers and that place was really done up nice….and on, and on, and on. She let me know that everyone around here knew each other and were friends, play tennis and walk together. And that she and I should get together sometime, wouldn’t that be great? Oh, the whole exchange was just exhausting. Of course, the conversation eventually turned to my unit and how much we paid for it, for which I just said, “We got a really good deal,” and left it at that. She kept on hinting to see if I would tell her, but I wouldn’t budge.

This is something that I just cannot understand about people around here. They have no problem asking you the most personal of questions, how much do you weigh, your yearly salary, home purchase prices, cholesterol level, your marital problems, etc, etc, etc. Conversely, they don’t mind at all to share the exact same information about themselves and everyone else they know. I don’t know how many times I have been in the Kroger line or sitting in a waiting room somewhere and suddenly have become 1) privy to some random person’s most personal information that I never wanted to know, and 2) someone’s new best friend. There is a trade-off to the friendliness that is in West Virginia. The people here are the types that will listen to you all day long and really care. They will give you their last dollar. But they also expect that you don’t mind to share your most intimate details of your latest domestic battle or visit to the doctor for hemorrhoids. Which makes me an outcast because I simply can’t do it.

But I still want to be a Good Neighbor and a Gracious Person, so I decided that I would at least try to get to know the guy right next door to us. We are an end unit, so I actually just have one right beside us. I can do that. Small steps: I can be nice and be interested in one person. But he seemed to work mostly night hours, and my husband met him once and found out that he, along with his brother, run one of the nicest restaurants in town, Laury’s. Mmmmmmm…I had visions of us being great friends and free meals. But I never really saw him to even get in a hello. And the only holiday coming up is St. Patrick’s Day. Do I send him a card and a green beer on his doorstep? Or is that stalkerish and pathetic? I figured I was off the hook, that is until Wednesday of last week when I was forced to introduce myself.

On this morning, Mountain Child had locked me out of the house. I ran out to the car for under a minute and when I returned to the door, it was locked. I look down at my feet. I am wearing house slippers. I have on just a thin long-sleeved t-shirt. It is snowing. I then make a very concentrated effort to not completely freak out, and I calmly say through the door, “Honey, open the door for Mommy.” There is a lot of doorknob jiggling, and Mountain Child says, “I NEED HELP.”

“All you need to do is turn the lock the other way that you locked it.”

More jiggling. “MOMMY, YOU DO IT.”

“Sweetie, I can’t. You have to. I am very cold and you need to let me in.”

The doorknob jiggles some more, but nothing happens. “MOMMY! GET THE KEY!”

“I don’t have the key. It is inside. So you have to try hard to unlock the door and let me in.” I then attempt to explain how to unlock a door. This turns out to be difficult to do. “Just grab the little gold (Does she know what the color gold is?) knob and turn it to the right (She doesn’t know right and left yet. I need to get on that.). There is silence. And then Mountain Child starts to cry.

“I’M HUNGRY. MOMMY COME BACK.”

“I would love to, sweetie, but you have to let me in.”

“GO THROUGH THE GARAGE.”

“The garage doesn’t work. Please try to unlock the door.”

“CALL DADDY, MOMMY.”

Since when does she know what to do? I just love the helpfulness and knowledge of a three-year old. Of course, I don’t have my cell phone on me, either. I survey the row of townhomes on our street and realize that I will have to find a neighbor to help me. I walk next door to my neighbor, the one that I am supposed to try and become friends with anyway. I see his SUV in the garage and decide that now is as good of a time as any. I ring the doorbell and survey his porch area. It is swept clean, no doormat. There is nothing in the flowerbed, but there is a “WELCOME” sign made out of stone stuck in it. No one answers the door. I ring it again and then realize that he is probably sleeping. I start to walk away, and, with much dread, realize that I may have to just start going to each door down the line until I find someone. I am now imagining Mountain Child playing with the knives and stove. Just then, the door slowly opened. My neighbor peers outside, looking very sleepy and is wearing pajama pants.

Oh, I am not so sure that I am going to be invited to his very fancy restaurant now for that complimentary meal. “Oh, hi…um, I live next door. I am so sorry to wake you.”

“Oh, it is okay. It was time to wake up anyway.” He had a Middle Eastern accent and was tall and slim. I could tell that he was a heavy smoker because the smell almost knocked me down when he opened the door. He tried to smile, but I could tell that he wasn’t really even awake yet.

“I am so sorry to bother you. But I am locked out of my house. My three-year did it and she is still inside.”

“Hold on; I will be right back.” He disappears into the house and I can hear a toilet flushing a moment later. After a bit more, he returns to the door with jeans on, a cigarette, and an extra jacket for me. I am absolutely mortified but grateful for the gesture. We walk next door, and he jiggles the doorknob, which of course, doesn’t move. He leaves again, and this time returns with a hotel key card. He slips it in the door and nothing happens. He asks, “Where is your baby?”

“Well, actually, she is three and she was just at the door. Sweetie! Are you there? Try to help Mommy!”

“Helllooooo, little girl! You need to help your Mommy and let her in! Are you there? Are you okay?” I figure that anyone watching this little scene is probably pretty amused. A flaky mom in her slippers, a Middle Eastern man, both in the freezing snow, yelling at a door.

Mountain Child replies, “MOMMY, WHO IS THAT?”

I say, “That is our friend from next door….”

“My name is Fazi,” he volunteers.

“It’s Mr. Fazi,” I tell her. “Please help us get the door open.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOO…”

Fazi seems amused. “Is she usually a good baby?”

I didn’t occur to me until that moment that a three-year old more than likely knows when she has locked her mommy outside and that this is, indeed, very bad behavior. There just wasn’t any warning. We were having a perfectly fine morning until, bam! I am outside shivering with my neighbor and my feet turning numb. “She hasn’t done this ever before. I guess she will be in trouble once I get back in.” I also realize that have inadvertently told a lie. She did this when she was around a year old by accident. However, she mysteriously unlocked it before I panicked.

“You need to get a key and hide it,” Fazi adds helpfully.

I borrow his cell phone to call my husband. He sighs and promises to be there in ten minutes. At that moment, I look up and there is Mountain Child, looking out her bedroom window at us as if we are putting on a show for her. She is laughing and waving at us. “HI MOMMY! IT’S SNOWING!!!!” I can hear her yelling this through her window.

And so we wait. Fazi stays with me outside, which I told him over and over, that he didn’t have to do that. But he insisted, saying that something may happen to the baby. I thought that this was both sweet and absolutely useless since we couldn’t get in anyway. Unless, of course, we broke a window. We chat about where we are from (he is from Iran), siblings (he has nine brothers), and the very cold winter. If it weren’t so cold, it was actually a nice chat.

My husband eventually pulls up and lets me in the door. I scold Mountain Child vehemently and put her in time-out. I think that at that point she could have cared less. The excitement of mommy outside, the neighbor, snow, and now daddy coming home was totally worth it.

After we have lunch and I hurriedly get dressed for work at the Reading Center, Mountain Child says, “MOMMY GOT LOCKED OUT.”

“Yes, you locked mommy out. Don’t ever do that again.”

“WHO WAS THAT MAN?”

“That was our neighbor. Fazi. He was nice and let me use his phone.”

“FAZI IS OUR FRIEND.”

Yes, I suppose so. Maybe I will give him something for St. Patrick’s Day.

Cupid Falling

I just love Valentine’s Day. Actually, I love all holidays. It gives me an excuse to cook something special and celebrate. At least, I think I love holidays, especially now that having a kid makes is supposed to make it all the more Special and Fun. So when Mountain Child says to me, “I WANNA MAKE BALENTINES,” I think, “Oooohhh, goody! Now we will have Fun Craft Time!” I just love crafts. It isn’t that I am even good at them. It is just a fun reason to go to the store and buy cute things. I secretly fantasize that Martha Stewart and I collaborate and chat over the phone. And though she has an icy personality even when she is trying to relate to the inferior masses, I still want to be her friend. I know. I am total freak.

So we are strolling around Target and Mountain Child is crying for popcorn. I tell her that we aren’t going to get popcorn because it is too close to lunch.

“NO LUNCH!!! I WANT BREAKFAST!” Mountain Child loves breakfast. Actually, she loves every meal. But she is especially fond of breakfast—the kind that is practically a five course meal in the mornings. Each morning she asks for—and I am not kidding when I say this—cereal with milk, fruit, apple juice, two cheesy eggs and a veggie sausage. We like to eat big breakfasts in the Mountain Household, which is probably the secret reason that I wanted to quit my full-time job. I just want to have a decent breakfast in the morning without rushing or getting up at 5 a.m.

“Okay, fine. We will have breakfast.”

“NO BREAKFAST!!!!!!! I WANT CHOCOLATE! WHERE MY BLANKY!?!????!!!!”

She is whipping herself in a fine frenzy. I lean in and tell her that she will go to time out if she doesn’t quit. Of course, she doesn’t even hear me. Honestly, threats of time out—threats of anything—are absolutely useless when this kid is hungry. I remember when I used to plan my days so meticulously so that mealtimes and naptimes were neatly incorporated. The only problem was that it usually meant that I stayed home all of the time. I grab some decorative paper and stickers for our Valentine cards. And I am about to cry, too, because I had this idea in my head that the whole experience from start to finish would be really fun. But this isn’t fun. This is stressful. I now understand why most parents just resign themselves to the pre-made Dora and Hannah Montana-themed Valentine cards where all you have to do is just write your kid’s name at the bottom. But I couldn’t let myself do that. We will have HANDMADE, REALLY SUPER CUTE CARDS THAT MOUNTIAN CHILD DID! AND WE WILL HAVE REALLY FOND MEMORIES OF THE EXPERIENCE!

I need to quit having these expectations. What is even more depressing is that no one will even know of my mental angst and the hours that I spend on this whole thing. Not even my own daughter, who will likely “help” with “her” cards for exactly two and half minutes before darting off to her next diversion. But I carry on. That is one thing about me. Once I get something in my head, I hang on to the bitter end.

So to get her to stop crying, I say casually, “Do you want to make Valentine cookies?”

She immediate dries up and says, “COOKIES?”

“Yes, Valentine cookies.”

“I WANT A COOKIE.”

“Well, we have to make them first. And then we can eat them. So quit throwing a fit so we can do that.”

Mountain Child has all but forgotten about her meltdown about the popcorn, chocolate and the missing blanky. She is now naming all of the colors that our cookies can be. Great. Now I have to get everything for cookies. I could get the tube of cookie dough. But no. I must make them from scratch because….well, because Martha would know.

We finally get home and I begin to get our things in order. Change diaper first (Yes. I know she’s three and still in diapers. That’s a whole other thing.), clean kitchen from breakfast, get a load of laundry done, make beds…hmmmm…I am not sure if I can fit this in.

And here is the problem of staying home. You really have to remember why you did this in the first place. Maybe not for Other Better Mothers, but for me, I start to think of what a mess my house is, and somehow, Mountain Child is left just watching me do my chores. Okay, okay, I will allow the house to be a mess. We will do cookies.

Mountain Child loves cooking with me. And since I do it so often, she gets a lot of opportunities to “help.” But it does have its pitfalls. Like when she decides to tweak recipes when I am not looking. Or when her hand-eye coordination isn’t quite developed to the point of being able to make her mark when adding ingredients in the bowl:

“Okay, sweetie, go ahead and pour the sugar in the bowl.”

“WOOPSIE!!” The sugar is now all over the counter, stove, and floor. We try again. About half of it makes it in. I try to estimate how much more we need by surveying the floor—which, by the way, isn’t a great way to calculate much of anything. I dump in the bowl what I think we need to make up the difference. This was a fatal mistake.

“NOOOOOOOOO, MOMMMMMMEEEEEEEEE!!! THAT’S MY SUGAR!” Did I mention that, upon Mountain Child turning three years old, she has gotten a mean case of the selfishes?

“But I have to do this to make sure that the cookies taste sweet. Don’t you want the cookies to taste sweet?”

“YES! THAT’S MY COOKIES!!!!!!” Mountain Child is now rolling on the floor that is covered with sugar, screaming. She is a sugar-coated monster now. I put her in time-out and finish the cookie dough myself. We will decorate the cookies later.

After her time-out, I just don’t have the stomach to work on cookies anymore. I have already cleaned up the kitchen, and I really can’t take anymore melt-downs. I don’t want to start drinking in the middle of the day. So we work on Valentine’s Day cards. Why I think this will be easier than making cookies, I am not sure, but we do.

Mountain Child is having fun for about 37 seconds. She picks out some paper that I have already cut out into heats and she helps to glue it on the card. She scribbles on the inside of the card and randomly sticks some glittery stickers on it. And then she is off, pretending she is Dora the Explorer. This is her favorite game. It requires no toys or props. Mountain Child runs back and forth around the house, reciting WORD FOR WORD an ENTIRE Dora video. This includes the entire introduction, songs, even the sound effects. Yes, I know. It’s a little creepy.

“Let’s finish our Valentines, honey! What buttons do you want to glue on?”

I have violated the number one rule of three-year-olds: I have interrupted her.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO MOMMMMMMMEEEEEEEE!” Mountain Child is now rolling around on the floor again. At least now there isn’t any sugar on the floor.

I give up. I put her in time-out again and then just put her down for her nap. And this another little tidbit about three-year-olds: they don’t think they need a nap anymore. She gets up after about ten minutes. “I WANT COOKIES.” I start to daydream about the days when my husband and I would just take off for Valentine’s Day weekend to some fun hotel and it really was a romantic holiday. Now it has been reduced to me being a slave to Martha’s crafts and decorating cookies while trying to negotiate truces with my child every five minutes.

Fast forward to the next day, Valentine’s Day. At this point, I have finished the cards myself. I wake up early that morning; make heart-shaped biscuits and gravy with fruit salad. I serve Mountain Child and my Mountain Man breakfast in bed. I crawl into bed and hand my husband the card that our daughter/I made. We snuggle in bed, eat our breakfast and listen to Mountain Child pretend to read us books.

I am pretty sure that this ended up being best Valentine’s Day ever.

Tips for the Preschool Search

A while back I had to find a place for Mountain Child to go for a few hours while I went to work. Normally, my mother-in-law keeps Mountain Child on the two afternoons a week that I go. But she decided on a whim to go out of town, and I had three days to find a place for Mountain Child. Yes. I should have already thought of that detail and had a plan B. Yes. Mountain Child should probably be going to preschool anyway. And yes. I have had plenty of time up to this point to figure all this out.

Which, by the way, I am really confused about this whole preschool issue. There are such divergent views on the whole thing. Some say get into preschool as soon as possible. Get them into some structure and on the right track for academic readiness. Where you pick to go to preschool sets the stage for their whole academic lives. Others say that they don’t need preschool really at all. And I constantly waver back and forth between those two extremes and whatever is in between. Part of me is unwilling to send her off to preschool since I did move across the Eastern Seaboard just to stay home with her. Illogical, I know. But can’t I just hold on to my naïve ideas just for a little while?

I do not want to give you a complete recap of my harrowing stint with the Preschool We Shall Not Name. But I will share with you some lessons learned through it. Perhaps you can use my bits of wisdom. Or maybe you can just make fun of me because, honestly, didn’t everyone know that already?

Rule #1: And this is the most important rule to remember. Do not go with the first preschool that you visit. Even if you really, really like it—which incidentally, I really, really didn’t like the one that I sent Mountain Child to for those four hours. But I had a lot going on: working an extra day that week, strategizing how to properly transport 50 crab cakes to my catering client’s destination without risk of botulism, caring for Mountain Child in some legitimate way, and general family upkeep. Oh, and maybe I did go and work out a couple of extra times that week. And go and get my nails done, perhaps a lunch date or two. But still. Important stuff. Plus it rained a lot that week, and you know how that really makes things a pain.

Rule #2: Do not assume because you have a _____ degree in ____ that you somehow will know anything about the Preschool System. Or that anyone you encounter in said system even cares. I mistakenly assumed that since I used to be in education nearly ten years with a Master’s degree in Education that I was a) someone to be respected, b) immune to all of the horrors of being ignorant about how to choose a preschool, and c) I would at least be a little more self-assured and armed with Useful Knowledge. It turns out that the answer is actually d) you just make yourself look like more of an ass. I learned this unfortunate fact when I decided that, after only about four hours of her attending there, I wasn’t happy with how things were going at Mountain Child’s school. I decided to do what any intelligent yet affable parent would do: I called a meeting with the head of the school. However, when I tried to casually mention my obviously superior experience in the education realm, she gave me an annoyed look and said, “Right.” Oh, dear. I have become the very annoying parent that give educational professionals heartburn.

Rule #3: Avoid any place that has Chocolate Milk Fridays.

“Chocolate Milk Fridays?” I ask incredulously.

“Oh, yes. We treat Fridays as a special day since it is right before the weekend. We try to give them a little treat that day.”

“But what if I don’t want her to have Chocolate Milk Fridays?”

“Why wouldn’t she want it?”

“Well, she would, but I don’t. She has never had chocolate milk before.”

The lady is now looking at me as if I just told her that I lock my child in a closet with spiders while I go out on the streets to support my crack habit. Or maybe she is looking at me with total amazement and admiration. You know, those two looks are eerily close.

Perhaps I am being too self-righteous. It is just that I have heard horror story after horror story about kids refusing all other milk products unless it is chocolate once the Chocolate Milk Bubble is broken. Once your kid even sees chocolate milk, it’s all over. Besides, what do kids that age know about Fridays? Every day is the weekend for them. Right, I know. I am living in a dream world. But just let me be.

Rule #4: You really do get what you pay for.

Rule #5: If you are able to wander all around the preschool, peeking in classrooms and talking to random children completely unchecked, it isn’t a great idea to have your kid attend there. My husband goes to pick up Mountain Child on her first day of school. He, of course, didn’t know where to go. So he just meanders around, checking out the artwork in the classrooms and tries to see if he can find Mountain Child. No one asks him what in the world he is doing. And when he finds Mountain Child, he collects her things and takes her home. And no one knew who he was. Just thinking about that sends really horrible You-Are-A-Really-Bad-Mommy Shivers down my spine.

Rule #6: If “naptime” involves a large-screen television playing a really loud cartoon movie, know your child probably isn’t going to sleep very well. And you will be no more painfully aware of this fact as when you are trying to do anything of any importance, for example, crossing a street or getting a cartful of groceries to your car.

After digesting all of the reasons that I shouldn’t have taken her to this place and knowing that I did anyway, I vowed to myself that the next place that I take the Mountain Child will be done correctly. And with my really important lessons learned, I am pretty sure I at least will be a bit more equipped. By the way, when I asked the Mountain Child how her day went at the Preschool We Shall Not Name, she said,

“I GOT BROWN MILK”

“Brown milk? Was it good?”

“YES!!! WANT BROWN MILK! PLEASE?”

It was a Tuesday when she told me this. So I did what any caring mother with a strong sense of values would do. I said, “There’s isn’t any more brown milk. All the kids at that school drank it all up and there won’t ever be any more. Isn’t that sad?” She seemed to understand. The Chocolate Milk Bubble is still in tact for now.

Night at the Fights, West Virginia Style

When we first moved to West Virginia, I was determined to soak in all that this state had to offer culturally. And you should know, dear Reader, that West Virginia does have a civic center, state ballet, symphony, and all of the other cultural staples that a state should indeed have. I am sure that we will get around to checking out those lovely things one of these days. But not until I attend the Rough N’ Rowdy Brawl one more time.

I realize that most places have a competition that involves boxing/fighting/organized violence. Las Vegas has the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and a host of other places showcase boxing and amateur fight nights. But no one, I mean NO ONE, does a fight night quite like West Virginia can. After what I witnessed last year at the Charleston Civic Center, I can no more skip this event more than I can skip Christmas.

As with most activities in my life, I didn’t really intend on going to the Rough N’ Rowdy Brawl. But we had just moved to West Virginia, and we didn’t have much else to do. My sister-in-law and her boyfriend invited us to go. I suppose boredom won over my usual revulsion for fighting competitions and interacting with the armpit of humankind in general. In spite of this, we go downtown, get to the Civic Center, and walk in to get our tickets. I look around at the crowd and notice an eerie similarity to the line that I would normally see at the DMV office. The thing that struck me as most interesting was how many kids were waiting to get into this event. Wait, this was amateur boxing, right? Not Disney on Ice? The little boys all had one of two haircuts: a mullet or mohawk. And most of them wore some form of hunting camouflage. Come to think of it, that is how most of the dads looked, too. Except for the more stylish set who decided to wear their Affliction shirts, which were in such abundance that my husband actually turned to me and asked if those were the new thing and should he get one.

Anyhow, we got in and were lucky enough to score the “kickass seats”, according to the guy at the ticket counter. These seats were on the floor right by the ring. Whatever body fluids were going to be flung, we might actually get a piece of it. Everyone was really excited for the whole thing, and apparently there was even a contest for the best ring girl. Fantastic. I was not only going to get to see a bunch of rednecks wail on each other, but I was going to see a little soft porn, too.

Apparently, the attendees of such an event do not come empty-handed. I discovered this fact as I spied a mason jar of what looked like water being passed down the aisle in front of us. Everyone in the row took a drink. Yup, you guessed it. The “water” was actually moonshine. And those people drinking it? They all just met that evening when they sat down.

The fights finally start. And I realize that the term “boxing” was a grossly inaccurate term for what they were actually doing. The movements more closely resembled a windmill that had drunk a lot of that moonshine and now is really, really drunk, angry and may or may not need some glasses. Each round was much the same as the first, except that the guys got bigger. But not the good kind of big, mind you. And apparently shirts were an unspoken taboo.

I felt like I had gotten my twelve dollars worth of entertainment at this point, but then things got better. Apparently, in an attempt to give women their rightful place in society, the women were also slated to fight following the men. Right away, I knew who my favorite contender would be: MOMMA MIA. Momma Mia, a 30-year old mother of seven, had dreamed of being in this competition most of her life, according to the newspaper. She just was pregnant for most of it and couldn’t. I just love it when women aim high in their aspirations. Another 39-year old woman who was 5’4” and 220 pounds was particularly entertaining. And then there was the 18-year old girl the size of a linebacker with her own airbrushed-designed t-shirt. There was actually one 20-year-old girl, Hannah, “The Silencer”, from West Virginia State University who really and truly boxed. But I was nervous for her. I was putting my bets on Momma Mia. Any woman with seven kids has already been through enough fighting already making an event like this literally child’s play to her. And the other women were so large and big and mean that all of the professional coaching in the world wasn’t going to save poor Hannah.

In all, the Rough N' Rowdy Brawl didn’t disappoint. In particular, I think that it was a proud day for women everywhere. And if it weren’t for all of the moonshine-swilling fans producing their own fights in the stands, I am sure that they would have agreed, too. I simply cannot wait to get back and cheer for Momma Mia again, if she isn’t pregnant again.

Pest Control

by CityMom: Leanza Cornett Steines

Growing up in the Appalachian mountains, I somehow escaped the inevitable. Actually, now that I think about it, I escaped it no matter where I grew up since it seems that Head Lice is a universal, indiscriminating issue. As far as I know, and as far as my parents tell me, I never had lice. They could be sparing my pride on this one, since the highlight of my career thus far has had a lot to do with wearing a crown and that would just be ironic, wouldn't it? Anyway, the subject and concern of lice has eluded me in my own life, luckily. However, as the mother of two boys I have been schooled on the fact that it can happen anytime, anywhere, to anyone.

Case in point: a few years ago, when Youngest was still in pre-school, I received a rather upsetting email from the school's director saying that there had been an "outbreak" of lice with a few of the other students. Envisioning a movie-style Andromeda Strain kind of pandemic, I went into full panic mode and bought not one, not two, but THREE kits which promised to rid us of any and all bugs. There were explicit instructions, of course...combing, washing, drying, conditioning, combing again, washing again, anti-lice solution. On top of that, I was supposed to wash pillows, sheets, stuffed animals, clothes...wipe down my car, and virtually anything my child's head may or may not have touched. Not to mention going through the entire routine with Oldest, lest he be infected as well. I felt like I was in the middle of that scene from E.T. The Extra Terrestrial where the guys in the suits and vacuum sealed vans come to examine the alien.

As it turned out, Youngest didn't have "The Lice" as my friend Sue's mom liked to say, God rest her soul. However, I DID have the heebie-jeebies and have never quite gotten over the compulsive itching anytime I see a fleck of dandruff. Oh dear...chills down my spine just writing about it.

I bring this little story up because today, in an odd conversation with a friend of mine, the subject of lice came up. I know...very odd. Seems her kid got The Lice and she, like me, was in panic mode over the whole thing. So she did what every good mom living in Los Angeles does. She called the HAIR WHISPERERS. Oh yes...there is such a thing. Look it up. Go ahead. Google it...Hair Whisperers, Los Angeles, Lice. Those are your key words.

That's not all. The Hair Whisperers have competition. There is yet another rid-your-kid-of-lice place in LA called the HAIR FAIRIES. I'm sure there are others but these are the two I've been made aware of. Both boast of being the best at "nit-picking" and getting rid of any and all critters in your kid's head and your household. I'm not sure of the cost, because it isn't posted on the website, but they also offer a mobile service, just in case you happen to be the type of person who doesn't want to be seen walking into such a place. I imagine no one does, but in LA that can be a deal-breaker, I'm sure.

Funny thing is this: my friend ended up using the services of her very own nanny, who'd seen and experienced this problem many times before and got rid of the lice with her own solutions, routines and potions. And then, you know what? My friend saw a wonderful opportunity for her nanny and went for it. So now her nanny has a little side business...HAIR TODAY GONE TOMORROW. For half the price of those other places, she goes and gets those bugs and everyone is critter-free.

If the you-know-what hits the fan and I find myself or my loved ones itching, I know who to call. Gotta love Los Angeles.

Color Wheel

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

Football

I watched the big West Virginia vs. Colorado game at the local Quaker Steak—a wing and beer place which also happens to have largest concentration of bikers in the state due to their weekly Bike Night. This peculiar cocktail of people promised to be a perfect night for people watching and perhaps me becoming a more football literate person. My husband was actually AT this game, having scored some great tickets. So I went with my sister-in-law.

After about twenty minutes into the game, I am bored. It’s not that I don’t like football, there is just too much activity around me, and I am feeling a bit overwhelmed. So I begin to look around. I notice a few things:

1. Everyone, EVERYONE in West Virginia are either WVU fans or Marshall fans. The craze here is absolutely inexplicable. I realize that everyone can probably say that about where they live regarding the devotion of their home team fans, but here is a little story to illustrate what I mean: When one of my friends first moved here from New York, her neighborhood was going to paint the house numbers on the curb. You had a choice of two colors—WVU (blue and gold) or Marshall (green and white). They had just arrived and the choice was too much like choosing Democrat or Republican, Protestant or Catholic. Feeling very pressured and weirded-out, they opted out of the house numbers altogether. They are now probably officially the losers of the neighborhood.

2. According to most of the people in this sports bar, if you are not a WVU or Marshall fan, you must be queer. Or stupid. Which are synonymous terms in the minds of most people around here.

3. If you aren’t wearing WVU gear during a WVU game, then your face must be painted. If your face isn’t painted and you aren’t wearing WVU gear, then dear Lord, at least wear the colors. Note: I was wearing a denim skirt and pink sweater.

4. When WVU does anything—and I repeat ANYTHING—remotely good, you must yell as if you are an Apache about to scalp a pioneer. Mountaineer Fans are apparently notorious for their yelling, which is to my estimation a perfect hybrid of yodeling and screaming.

5. Just about everyone here is reallyreally drunk.

I find that when going out, I am about a hundred times more entertained being sober than I could ever be drunk. Take the prime example of the woman that is sitting next to me. We are sitting at an outside bar where there is a huge plasma television playing the game. She is smoking and sleeping sitting up. She is trying to stay awake, but she keeps on rolling her eyes in the back of her head, her cigarette burning precariously close to her fingers. Her head bobs a few times, and I swear that I hear snoring. I begin to worry that this woman will fall off her chair, burning herself and then getting stomped by all of the gold and blue-clad fans, yodeling and hollering. But then it gets better. Her better half comes over and puts her arm around her. I look at him, and he has the most perfect mullet that I have ever seen. It was cropped straight across in the front, like some mod go-go girl’s bob, but then the back hung down to his butt. He even had a bit of cascading curl to the whole thing. Sigh. Now my night is nearly complete.

What made the night even better was the staff’s repeated problem of people trying to smuggle out beers. One such woman tried to do so but got caught when she tripped and her beer bottle leaked out of her purse. Fantastic!

Oh, and the bikers. The dear, sweet bikers bedecked in leather. They are simply a wonderous breed of their own. The men usually have rather large beer bellies and strut around like peacocks in heat. The women usually are stuffed into their leather gear like sausage casing and wearing enough makeup to make Sephora's stock soar. There is enough hairspray and boots to last one a lifetime. Oh, dear—I am sounding like I don’t like these people. Yes, I do. Just please don’t hurt me.

In all, I can’t say that I was too into the game. I did look for my husband in the stands on television, but that truly paled to all of the wonderful people-watching that evening. The last image that I had in my mind as I was leaving was actually in the women’s bathroom. If it weren’t such an unpleasantly nasty place, I could just stay there and watch people. Anyway, this one woman comes in, high heel boots, tight leather pants, skimpy top, lots and lots of makeup…pushing about 45 or so…you get the idea. She was checking herself out in the mirror and then walked out—with toilet paper attached to BOTH feet. I considered running out and telling her, but I was laughing too hard to myself to go.

I just love football season in West Virginia.









...my next new 'do.

House Hunting

After nine months of living with my in-laws, we now feel ready to go and get a place of our own here. Just so you know, that is about seven months past my internal deadline that I had for something to happen with the Florida house and for us to have the freedom to get something here.

I keep on saying that living in one room at your in-laws’ is character building. And that is all that I can say. If I dwell on it too long, I will most definitely fall into a depressive state and pitch a tent somewhere in the Kanawha State Forest to live or something.

If one can make a baby in nine months, surely one can make a firm decision about where she wants to live. You would think that, but we are no closer to knowing what in the world what we want to do than the day that we arrived to West Virginia. Like most women, I have that mental checklist of must-have aspects to my new home. Here was my original list when moving here:

1. at least an acre of land on top of a mountain
2. architectural details that make the home charming/unique/not too stuffy
3. a huge gourmet kitchen with granite countertops, quality cabinetry, industrial-strength appliances
4. a playroom/bonus room for the kiddies to play
5. hardwood flooring throughout
6. a spa-like atmosphere in the bathroom
7. large windows
8. an outdoor living space, complete with an outdoor kitchen
9. and of course, a fantastically established neighborhood

I am not kidding. I really thought that I could get all of that. We quickly enlisted ourselves with a realtor as soon as we got here to start looking. I told him my list. And then I told him my price range.

“Well,” he said, trying to be tactful, “I am not sure how long it will take for that combination of wishes to come together with your desired price point.”

That is fancy talk for it’s a cold day in hell before you get all that. Come back to Earth, sister.


Okay, so I was dreaming big. That is my way. So I adjusted my wish list:

1. a good-sized yard
2. charming architectural details
3. a kitchen with potential to be my dream kitchen
4. hardwood floors
5. good neighborhood and good schools

We settled on two areas in the Charleston region. One in the city and one suburb right outside of it. After looking at about fifty or so houses and hours of looking on line at realtor.com, I came to realization that the idea of a yard is absolutely relative to who you’re talking to. If you are talking to a Floridian about yards, one with a beach in the back is the ideal situation. But we never think in terms of phrases such as “usable land”. All of it is pretty much usable. If you are talking about yards to a West Virginian, anything that you can stand on without fear of falling off the side of a mountain is “usable land”. Additionally, driveways in West Virginia usually require the help of some climbing gear to make it up the hill, especially in the winter. That is, if you even have a driveway. Usually, the owners of these houses are so delighted that they have found a way to engineer their houses to hang precariously off the side of a mountain, a driveway would have been just too much to figure out.

Meanwhile, I have been watching way too much HGTV. My husband and I currently love the show, House Hunters. They make is seem so easy, you just pick a price, three houses, and poof! You have your home and sipping cocktails five months later with all of your home improvement projects completed. But we don’t just stop that that show; we watch pretty much all of them. And after prolonged exposure to that sort of can-do brainwashing, you start to really think that you are just like all of these experts, ready to take on any mess of a house and turn it into something that belongs to the cover of Southern Living.

This is not a good mindset to be in when you are on the hunt for a house.

We saw a house that “needs updating” and that “has potential”. This means in Realtorese that the house doesn’t cost much because no one would live there. Now this house was in a great neighborhood. Too bad all of the neighbors wanted to bulldoze the house down. I see it and begin to imagine all of the things that you can do with it. We can knock down walls! It is no big deal to replace electrical wiring. Refinishing hardwood floors? No problem! It got to where I didn’t even see the actual house; I just saw the finished product.

This happened again and again. We would say that we were fine with a house that needed work. But we would forget how much of a pain in the you-know-where it is to actually do that. Our first house needed an updated bathroom. So my husband took out the old vanities and put in new ones. That little switch-out resulted in four days without water and me showering at the YMCA.

So back to my list. I don’t know if I finally realized through a series of disappointments of realizing that we, in fact, are not destined to be an HGTV series. All of my fantasizing has exhausted me. As a result, my list has diminished to two items:

1. a place where I can move in with minimal work, and
2. be able to walk around naked in my own house

One forgets the luxury of being able to walk around naked in your own house until you live with others. It has been a huge fear of mine that I would exit the shower and have the door wide open and me on display for the in-laws because Mountain Child has opened it and not closed it. It’s not that I am even the type to walk around naked a lot. It is just the fact that I can’t and I want to have that option.

And if you really think about it, home way be where the heart is, but more importantly, it is where you can be naked.

A Formula for Parenting

We have had a triumphant moment in the Mountain household in the past week. Mountain Child has officially ditched the pacifier!

She decided on her own, which is just absolutely typical Mountain Child fashion. When I tried to take it away, I had a carefully constructed plan backed by expert opinion, advice of moms, and every parenting magazine tidbit that I could find about pacifiers. As a result, I had nightmares about my kids having buck teeth and a lisp because she sucked on one too long. Or that she would get some sort of nasty bacterial infection because of the germyness of her pacifiers. Another common obsessive thought that I had was that she would bit off the pacifier nipple and choke on it in her sleep. I actually dreamed the other night that Mountain Child had about a hundred pacifiers hidden in her sheets and I couldn’t get rid of them all because she kept popping up with more. It was Alfred Hitchcock creepy.

I put a plan into action. I decided to prep her for the big cutoff by talking about it for a week. She humored me with the conversation, which went a bit like this:

Me: “Next week, you are going to have to say bye-bye to your pacifier. You are a big girl and you don’t need it.”

Mountain Child: “NO BIG GIRL. WATCH DORA?”

Me: “No, you can watch Dora later (by the way, I have decided that I hate Dora. My child likes her better than me.). We are going to say bye-bye to your pacifier next week.”

Mountain Child: “NOOOOOOOOOOO!!! I LOVE PACI.” She then hugs it and kisses it.

Me: “Okay, that’s fine. Just put it in your bed for now.”

Mountain Child then tucks it into bed and kisses it goodnight. I am really thinking that I am just stupid for even trying this.

I posted my status on Facebook about our pacifier situation. I got 22 comments about the issue, more than any other status that I have ever posted. It seems that this is a point of great debate in the world. An overhaul of our health care system? No, way! Pacifiers are waaaaayyyyyyy more interesting. I’m not kidding. At least I understand them a little better.

That day I decided to tempt fate and the Universe’s equilibrium and take away the pacifier for naptime. Mountain Child put up such a fight and screamed so long and loud that I decided that I had two options: 1) I would either have to search for a service to come in and break her of her pacifier addiction or 2) just give up the whole idea altogether. I actually decided on secret option #3 which was just cutting the top off of it, which was the most popular bit of advice that I got. Mountain Child gave it a funny look when I handed her the “new” pacifier and proceeded to suck on it as if it were a Popsicle. So much for that little tip that practically a hundred people gave me.

But the next morning, Mountain Child walked into her room, picked up the pacifier and said, “PACI BROKEN. I THROW AWAY.”

Me: “Are you sure that you want to throw it away? You can’t get it back. It will be bye-bye pacifier…”

Mountain Child: “I THROW AWAY.”

She then marched downstairs into the kitchen and threw it in the trash can. She said, “BYE-BYE PACI!!!!” And that was it. She slept that night as if nothing happened.

It was dreamfully easy. Which just further proves my formula for parenting:

The more you stress over it, the more likely it will work out fine despite your mental gymnastics. However, if you don’t worry about it, something really terrible/embarrassing/pain in the ass will happen.

If could have saved a lot of money in child rearing books if I would have gotten that from the beginning. In the end, it has not as much to do with all of my efforts.

So our next hurdle will be the potty. I have decided to continue obsessing over it but I will let her decide when she is ready. However, I must freak out over it because the energy expended over this is contingent with the success that we have in the end even though it isn’t my worrying that does it—that is just the universe laughing at me and confounding my every attempt at logic in parenting.

Perhaps I should make up a mathematical formula. But I am too inept in math to come up with one. Plus math means that there is logical outcome to your problem. Parenting is not logical at all. It is precisely the opposite, more like tromping around in SeussLand, experimenting with magical spells.

However, if any of my mathematically savvy friends want to take a go at making this into a formula, have at it. We can write a book and split the profit.

Sugar and Spice and Really Not That Nice

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.