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.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 22, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Monday, November 30, 2009
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.
“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.
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