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.

A Letter to the Man with the Yellow Hat

Dear Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat,

My family is a huge fan of the Curious George stories. In fact, my daughter just can’t get enough of them. I think that I have personally read the story, George Rides a Bike, at least a thousand times. And there really is no end in sight of my child’s obsession with George.

Which brings me to the reason that I am writing you this letter. After reading all of the George stories many, many times, I have some pressing unresolved questions that I must ask you. If you could just give me a bit of insight on my queries, I would be grateful.

1. I realize that everyone has differing parenting styles, and that you really aren’t technically a parent since George is a monkey, but have you ever considered a caregiver for George while you are away? You seem to leave George alone quite a bit, and, as you well know, George tends to roam away from home every time. Please understand that all of his adventures when he wanders off are just delightful, but I do worry for poor George’s safety. Take the time that he flew that kite and the wind carried him off into the air. I imagine that securing a helicopter to rescue George was quite difficult and costly, not to mention incredibly risky.

2. Do you have any other outfits to wear besides that ghastly yellow one? Please don’t take this the wrong way, dear Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat. The Hat is a fashion icon. But the rest of the getup really needs to go. A nice navy suit or even just some jeans would not take away from the fabulousness of that Yellow Hat.

3. Are you ever going to find someone to be with instead of staying single? I know, I am prodding into your personal life now. But you seem like an interesting, kind person that could use some company and possibly some help with little George. My daughter has asked me before, where is George’s mommy? And I really don’t know what to tell her. Which brings me to question number 4.

4. Please forgive me that I am asking some pervasive questions. But I just have to ask: do you ever wonder if you bring George here from Africa was kidnapping? Or that you broke some sort of law bringing foreign livestock into our country? Don’t get me wrong: I think George is just darling and I would have been tempted to keep him, too. But honestly, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, you do realize that you took him from his mommy, right? And then you made him star in a movie? Did you know that child stars usually turn out to be a total mess? But perhaps I am getting too harsh with you. Like I said, we really do like you and your stories.

5. Did it disturb you like it did me that George went to prison for calling the fire department? Did you try to get an attorney and fight it? Also, when George escaped from prison, did you find it even more disturbing that he got the bunch of balloons that carried him away from a man selling the balloons right outside the prison? Someone should really speak to him about that—it is an awful location for balloon selling.

6. Additionally, in your first story with George, you allowed him to smoke a pipe after he came from Africa. I think you should be ashamed for such an irresponsible act. But then again, I don’t want to be too hard on you. I am sure that coming home with a curious monkey is a really confusing time in anyone’s life.

7. And finally, Mr. Man with the Yellow Hat, I have one more question. Can you give me some advice about how to potty train? I am in the middle of potty training right now, and it is really becoming difficult. I know that monkeys are notorious for going all over the place and even throwing their, ahem, stuff at others. What was your secret? It seems George was trained like a champ.

Thank you very much for taking the time to consider my questions. I am eager to hear your answers. It will greatly enhance our story times with your stories.

Respectfully,

The Mountain Mamma

Yes, There Is Luxury in Sickness

In motherhood, there are so many little pleasures that you don't appreciate until they are gone. Being able recuperate in bed from a sickness is one of them.

I have to sleep off my illnesses. For me, it is the only way to really get over stuff. Oh, and a good cup of tea. So when I got my yearly bout of bronchitis, all I wanted was some green tea in my favorite duck mug and sleep for at least a weekend. Sidenote: since when did illnesses become a yearly event to expect? There's Christmas, birthdays, Easter, vacations, and now...bronchitis? That tops the list of lame life experiences.

Anyhow, I am feeling horrible. I am coughing up unimaginably gross things, my head feels like a jackhammer is inside, and I cough non-stop. I know I need to go to the doctor to get drugs--and lots of them--but all I really want to do right now is to sleep. Sweet, sweet, dreamless sleep. I look horrible, too. My fever has alternated me from uncontrollably sweating to shivering, and I haven't changed out of my pajamas for a couple of days. My hair? Grotesque. And it is one of the rare times in my life where my vanity doesn't win out. I just don't care.

My husband, alarmed at how disgusting I was in every way, coaxed me into a bath and gave me some tea and got my bed ready. He promised to watch Mountain Child all day so I could sleep. My Mountain Man can really be sweet sometimes. I will have to remember that next time I get irritated with him. I was beyond happy: now my current fantasy can come true. I take a shot of NyQuil and not have do a thing else. This was a fantasy, mind you. And a fantasy it stayed:

8:30 a.m.: "Where are the diapers? I think that we're out!" I roll out of bed, glad that I am not yet asleep and get my husband set up with where the diaper supply is. I make a mental note that he needs to do more of these activities because it is sad that he doesn't even know where diapers are. I also give him a rundown of what the day's schedule should be and give him a chance for more questions. I am getttinnnnngggg...slllleeeeeepyyyyyy...

9:00 a.m.: I am asleep. For about thirty seconds. I hear Mountain Child screaming downstairs. I pull the covers over my head and decide that earplugs must be purchased at first available moment.

9:30 a.m.: Somehow, I manage to doze off even though Mountain Child is still throwing a fit. I now hear Mountain Man yelling at Mountain Child to quit doing something. I hate everyone.

9:45 a.m.: Things have quietened down and I sleep. Thank you, Jesus.

10:30 a.m.: They NyQuil is in full effect and I groggily notice that my door keeps on opening and closing. I don't care.

11:00 a.m.: I feel as if something is laying on my legs. I don't open my eyes.

11:05 a.m.: I can sense someone staring at me. I peel open one eye and see a pair of bright blue eyes smiling about a centimeter from my face. "HI!!! HIGH FIVE!!!" I then open both eyes and see that Mountain Child has decided to play the game, Empty My Whole Room Onto Mommy's Bed. There are toys, books, shoes, diapers, musical instruments, and God knows what else all over my bed. I heave myself out of bed, spilling half of the stuff on the floor. I stumble out the door and see Mountain Man downstairs, eating a sandwich and reading a book, as content as can be.

I walk down. Mountain Man puts down his book. "Hey. Did you have a nice nap? Are you hungry?" For a breif moment I had this vision of smashing his plate against his head and taking off to the nearest motel to sleep. Instead, I got some water, went back upstairs, and told my husband to take Mountain Child to the park...forever.

But now I can't sleep because the room is a mess. So I get up and put everything back in Mountain Child's room. I realize as I started to straighten the bookcases that being sick--or rather, being in bed sick--just isn't a luxury that I have anymore.

Life Observation: When men get sick, we make the house as quiet as a tomb. We clean up and fix them chicken soup with tea. We fluff their pillows. And it takes them forever to really get better and quit their whining. When we get sick, house gets messier, children are screaming, and there is always someone asking where the--fill in the blank--is. And we get better within hours because it is just not worth wallowing in our sickness because we will pay for it later.

Keep well, mommies.

Hurricanes and Weddings Aren't So Different

When my husband and I happily accepted to be in Stephanie and Rodney’s wedding, we forgot about one little twenty-seven pound detail: Mountain Child. Of course she would come. But what in the world were we supposed to do with her during one of the most meaningful moments of my sister-in-law’s life? Nearly every single person that we knew that could take care of her during the wedding was attending it. So we did what any organized, sane parent would do: we totally winged it.

Winging it is not my nature. I am the absolute opposite of “winging it”—I usually like to…well, walk it out with my feet planted firmly on the ground, preferably with a GPS system in hand. Life, of course, in its nature is as chaotic as a hurricane. So I usually get a little twitchy around the eyes when that happens. Weddings are the epitome of this universal rule of life. And if weddings are stress/chaos level equivalent of a hurricane, then being in a wedding with no one to watch your two-year old in the ceremony is probably a lot like getting caught in that hurricane in a little rowboat. When it was looking like that was our reality, I began to secretly wonder if Stephanie would notice if I just sat in the audience during the wedding and give this whole notion of mommy and daddy being in a wedding.

But I pressed on. I had loosely arranged for a couple of very kind and unsuspecting family members to “keep an eye” on Mountain Child, knowing full well that a toddler explosion could occur at any minute. A serious occasion where everyone must be quiet right before dinnertime? It takes a special kind of insane to attempt something like that.

I decided to just have a little talk with Mountain Child about weddings a few days beforehand. “Stephie and Rodney are getting married! And we are going to have a party for them.”

“OHHHH MARRY! CAKE! BALLOONS!” Mountain Child is getting quite excited about this now.

“Yes. There will be cake. But no balloons. But there will be pretty flowers and bubbles.”

“BUBBLES?!?!” Now Mountain Child is beside herself with excitement. “STEFFY AND RAHREE GETTING MARRY!!” She claps her hands and decides to sing a song for the occasion.

A while later, I bring up the wedding again. “Listen—during the wedding, there is a part where you have to stay in your seat and be quiet. If you do a good job of doing that, you’ll get cake and bubbles.”

Mountain Child is now a little suspicious. “STAY IN SEAT?”

“Yes, you have to stay in your seat and be really really quiet. Like a butterfly.”

“OHHHHH! BUTTERFLIES!! MARRY BUTTERFLIES??”

“No, there won’t be butterflies at the wedding. Just cake and bubbles and pretty flowers. But you have to be good and quiet so you can get cake and bubbles.”

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!! WANT CAKE!!!!! LOOONS!!! HAPPY TO YOU, HAPPY TO YOU!” Mountain Child proceeds to march around the house yelling this at the top of her lungs for the next half hour.

Oh, never mind. What happens will happen. Thank goodness we can practice at this during the wedding rehearsal.

We arrive at the wedding rehearsal and I try to give Mountain Child another pep talk. By this time, she is hungry and excited and about a volatile as a tornado. To restrain her means that it will be nuclear meltdown and I would miss the rehearsal. I decide to leave her alone and pray that she doesn’t tear down the place. Surprisingly, her blood sugar never dipped to cause any meltdowns and she was extremely happy the whole time. The only problem was that she was under the impression that the wedding was somehow her stage to debut herself.

My husband and I made the decision a while ago that Mountain Child wouldn’t be in the wedding because she was at an age that was too unpredictable for being a flower girl. But apparently we should have conferred this decision with Mountain Child. She marched right down the aisle after the real flower girls and took her place right up front. When the pastor talked, she talked louder. And to top it off, she went down the row of everyone in the wedding and ran through their legs. Everyone thought it was just adorable…except for me.

I tried my best to get her sit down. But she was having none of that. Plus by the end of the rehearsal, she was REALLY hungry which meant that she REALLY grumpy. To make her do anything was going to be showdown. Trust me; I am the type that will woman up to any showdown that my kid will give me. But the end result isn’t pretty and weddings are supposed to pretty, right? Oh, great, tomorrow is going to be an absolute fiasco.

The next day was the wedding. Stephanie looks absolutely gorgeous. Mountain Child looks just delectable in her flowered poufy dress and huge flower barrette in her hair. In fact, everything was just lovely, even despite the fact that there was one of the worst storms of the summer approaching the country club and we had to move everything inside. I am so terrified that my kid is going to be “that kid” that ruins the most significant moment of the whole evening that my eye uncontrollably twitches and I barely care about the huge storm and all of the stress associated with that. I am pretty sure that in most of the wedding photos I look like I am winking at the camera, my eye was twitching so badly.

My husband’s aunt takes Mountain Child to go sit down with her a bit before the wedding begins. We are fluffing Stephanie’s dress and primping in the mirror. And my head is pounding and my eye muscles are doing the meringue. It is completely out of my hands now. Mountain Child is just…out there, a hurricane ready to approach shore at any time. I begin to regret that I didn’t take advantage of the bar that was just outside of the dressing room at the country club.

When the big moment comes, I do the bridesmaid thing, smile pretty and walk down the aisle. I see Mountain Child sitting so still and quiet in her great aunt’s lap that I wonder if she had been drugged. When Mountain Child sees me, she smiles a huge grin and says, “HI MOMMY!” I smile back and put my finger to my lips. She settles back and remains quiet for the rest of the ceremony.

I can’t believe it. Yet I can. The amount of stress energy that I put into this whole event and it all turns out fine. It just figures that sometimes you prepare yourself for the hurricane and it somehow just dissipates into thin air.

And yes, Mountain Child did get her cake and bubbles.