Once Upon A Time...

"Story" has been on my mind lately.  What are the ingredients for a good story?  How do we want our personal stories to evolve over time?  What stories do our children see being enacted in our homes everyday?  What stories are being fed to our families that are unnecessary and possibly detrimental to their soft little spongy brains?

Pragmatically speaking, story has been a huge piece of my day at work.  I create and tell a story to our class of 8 three year old's.  It is always seasonally appropriate, usually somewhat fable-like (has a moral), and often involves finger movements and inflection.  The kids. They love the inflection.  My goal in the moment of "so-help-me-i-HAVE-to-keep-their-attention-or-else" is usually just to simply entertain them.

Of course.

Isn't that what we do as parents afterall?  It sure feels like it at times, as I race around all week from

park to

bakery to

playdate to

birthday party to

grandma's house to

ballet class to

home.

The racing- the entertaining, seems to eclipse my initial goal.  Whatever that goal was.  (Even as I type this, I realize that I know the Sunday School answer for what our goal as parents is supposed to be, but I don't always feel it.)

That's when I think story helps.  It takes us out of the potholes of life, and pulls us into the places we're unable to really go.  While it has restorative properties for adults (escapism), it can actually lead a child down a road that may avoid the need for restoration later.  Or at least we hope as parents.

Story introduces good and bad at a very young age, the slightly more complex injustices of the world as they get a little older, and most importantly sympathy and tenderness for others.  It gives children confidence, while it can also be a reminder of our fragility.  Story can be a test of patience (for those with attention issues), and can be the one place that we as parents can disguise our guidance.  It's a tool, but in the most innocent and inconspicuous way.

One of my favorite aspects of Waldorf education is the spoken story.  For children who are not reading yet, teachers abstain from reading books which encourages children to rely on their imagination for the visual component.  (And it avoids all that "I can't see the picture, Ms. Dera!" stuff.)  What's more, the children hold on to your every word throughout the story (which is told once a day everyday for several weeks, I'll add), growing more and more attached to the nuances of the characters and their journeys.  And depending on how elaborate and dense the story is, we've seen our kids take the premise and use it in their social playtime as well.  It's kind of magical.

The particular story I'm telling right now is all about a little bearded man who secretly lives in a haystack in the back of a farm's barn.  He watches over the animals and the people of the cold town every night, after everyone has gone to sleep.  He speaks an unknown language that only the animals understand.  He peeks his head into the carpenter's workshop after he's closed up to see what toys he's made, then the bakery to see what yummy things were baked that day, and then to the cobbler to admire his handiwork.  As he peeks into each shoppe, I love embellishing all of the sights, sounds, and smells for them, as I watch their eyes stare at my mouth and study the repetition of each adjective.  (It has taken me months to untrain myself to see homoerotic innuendo in most of these "the gnome took his friend back to his haystack" stories.  Yes, there are more than one.)

It's then, as I watch their faces, that I see... I'm not entertaining them at all.  Storytelling (depending on the quality of story, of course) is a means of nurturing wonder in children.  It's a lost art in our day of spoon-fed media.  It's a breath of fresh air, as much for the child as it is to our Dora theme song fatigued ears.

I'm not trying to sound as if I'm teaching anyone anything (because ya'll- most days I'm so exhausted after my 4 hour preschool job, that I turn on SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS [of all things!] for my OWN children so as to decompress before the 2nd half of my day begins).  I'm just so happy that I had the onceinabluemoon awakening that led me to thank God for this opportunity- contributing to my children's sense of wonder, I had share.

With each season's passing, there are more and more opportunities for us as parents to make this life a little more magical than it really is.  While they are young, and wide-eyed.

Besides, there's plenty of time before they need to understand how to hide behind cynicism and scathing jokes to protect their tiny fragile hopelessly romantic emotions.

Ahem.

Or so I've heard.

I've Got The Touch.

Midas was a lucky man. I too have superpowers. Everything I touch turns to *BLEEP*.

I know I've said it before, but I run into things all. the. time.  In the last week alone, I've knocked children over, broken my favorite porcelain sugar spoon, snapped the head off a doll (on accident, not in some psycho fit of rage, I swear), spilled coffee on my favorite coffee table book, ruined my favorite jeans sledding down a hill (somehow ripping a huge hole in the crotch), and burned a hole in Terry's favorite pair of shoes.  The last one happened with such good intentions too.  After our day of sledding, I placed the family's wet shoes behind the fireplace screen to dry out.  Terry's shoes being the biggest, were the only ones that had holes burned right through the toes.  Whoops.

(Terry was such a good sport about it too.  He only made me feel a teensy bit stupid.)

But to top off the week's suck, I made the worst mistake of all: I never read Fiona's class email.  (The one with instructions for Valentine's Day.)

Apparently, all week, the parents of kids in her class were making homemade valentines for their children, secretly giving them to the teachers at drop-off, and were read aloud by the teachers at circle time.  Sweet, right?

Thursday rolled around and Fiona waited for her name to be called, just as all of her friends had.  It never happened because Mommy doesn't read emails in her spam folder.

Later that day, Fiona's sweet teacher, Ms. Lori, walked down the hall to my classroom, holding a heart-decorated piece of paper in hand.

Ms. Lori: "I don't know if you got the memo, but we are reading the kids' valentines that you were supposed to write to your child in front of the class.  Fiona got sick of waiting, so she made herself one.  From you."  (Sad pat on the back.)

∞ FIONA'S HOMEMADE VALENTINE ∞ 

"FIONA (hearts next to her name)

LOVE FOR FIONA 

(open it up)

DEAR FIONA, WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS AND YOU STILL LOOK LIKE A PRINCESS AND I LOVE YOU LOVE NEVE AND DERA AND TERRY.  (drawing of a crown and flowers)"

I got crap for the rest of the day from her teachers for the "princess thing" (we are sooo not princessy here), but I was too distracted by how awful I felt that the poor kid had to write her own valentine to care about anything else.

So, Terry and I made sure that we had her valentine ready for Friday.  It wasn't easy finding a skywriter to write "WHEN YOU CAME OUT OF ME YOU LOOKED LIKE A PRINCESS" over the playground at the last minute, but where there's a will there's a way.

(Valentine flowers from Terry, complete with empty Scotch bottle/vase.  Resourceful and romantic, no?)

Drink Your School! Stay In Milk!

We got great news this morning!  Fiona will be enrolling in the new neighborhood charter school for the Fall.  All of my hopes and crazy criteria for a specific curriculum, recess, arts and music, homework, student/teacher ratios, and a good principal were met and even exceeded in some ways. 

But...

to make it even more awesome than I could have ever anticipated...

they announced the location for grades K-3...

they will meet in the beautiful old Episcopal church AT THE END OF OUR STREET!

 

My dreams of walking my child to school have come true!!!  (I just hope she learned her lesson.)

It's Always Sunny In Atlanta

Except for yesterday, and the day before, and then the day before that...

Today's forecast: clear skies, 45º, Neve's friend, Hannah, comes over to play, a trip to the country, and lots and lots of smiles.  (Thank you, Aunt Stephanie and Uncle Nat, for letting us stop by your house today while you were at work.  We remembered not to feed the horses too much, we brushed their manes [once again compared to Mommy's "almost-as-pretty" hair], and we swung on the best tree swing in the world!)

The Biggest Non-Winner

Day 1 of "Family Night", Fiona's cute little 6 year old idea, courtesy of some WalMart commercial.

Terry: "Let's play Chutes and Ladders."

Dera: "No.  Connect 4."

Neve: "No.  A puzzle."

Fiona: "Yeah, a puzzle contest."

Terry: "Mommy and Neve are on a team.  Me and Fi are on a team."

Neve and I are at an advantage because she had already started a 50 piece Strawberry Shortcake easy-peasy puzzle.  Terry and Fiona dump out all the pieces of a Rand McNally detailed US map puzzle. 

We're ahead, and then... 2 of our puzzle pieces go missing.  Happens every time.  I'm trying to recall if the color and design of the last few pieces I swept up and threw away in the last month match those we need. 

Terry and Fiona are pulling up from behind.  Only Connecticut, Vermont, and Maine to go.

Terry: "Dera, look in the plastic bin on the top shelf of their closet.  I think I threw some stray puzzle pieces up there a while ago."

There are indeed enough stray puzzle pieces to account for the 20 unfinishable puzzles we have in boxes.  However, Strawberry Shortcake pieces are still missing.  I'm pretty sure I swept them up and threw them away.

Vermont and Connecticut are still missing!  I am hoping to find them in the bin of puzzle piece orphans, just so I can sit on them and call it a tie.

Fiona starts freaking out.

Fiona: "Where is Conn!?  Where is CONN!?", (saying "conn" instead of Connecticut.) 

Terry: "Calm down.  It's probably wherever Strawberry's shoe is."

Fiona: "But I want to win!"

Terry: "We're just having fun.  Family night, remember?"

Fiona: in a whisper, "Let's just put some silly putty over the holes, and they'll think we're don- "

Me: "I can hear you."

Fiona: "Well, you're still losers."

Terry: "Don't call your mother a loser!  Watch it or you'll go straight to bed."

Fiona: under her breath, "I am, and we still won."

A few minutes pass, and sure enough, Team Strawberry Shortcake and Team Rand McNally are both honestly missing 2 pieces of their puzzles.  A fair tie.  I'm officially ready to call "Family Night" over, as the bed is calling my name, and then Terry says, "Now let's play Chutes and Ladders."

Fiona: "Yeah!  But just us.  Not those cheats!", all sassy and emphatic.

Terry: "Fiona, what's the deal?"

Fiona is now genuinely pissed at me for no good reason.  She can't even look at me without scowling.  I'm increasingly more amused by this, while Terry is getting more mad.  She is the worst loser in history, and she didn't even lose.

Fiona: calling Terry from the living room, "Dad, c'mon.  Let's play out here."

Terry: "No.  Let's stay where we are."

Fiona: "I can't be in the same room with those losers!", lip quivering.

Terry: "Alright!  That's enough.  You're going to bed."

Me: "Let's all go to bed."

And Terry is still in there playing Chutes and Ladders with 2 children who are naughty-tired.  One of which is crying.  I can't tell which one and I don't know why, but I'm guessing it has something to do with being a loser.

Family Night, brought to you by WalMart casablanca.

Happy 4th Birthday, Cheeks!

I'm way overdue to write about Neve's birthday!  It was a whole lotta fun.  We invited family and friends to meet us at the park for chili dogs and cake. 

She felt special and loved, as she watched each of her buddies from all of her cute separate worlds (church, school, neighborhood, Daddy's work, etc.) collide into one big circus-themed party.  The weather was perfect, and we even got our $20 deposit back (despite the mess the rented elephant made).  A girl couldn't have a better day I tell ya.

The above cake was my gift to her, as I stayed up until the wee hours rolling, cutting, and dyeing fondant.  I posted it on FB already, and it received some really kind comments.  But let me just tell you, it was all show.  Fondant is the grossest tasting stuff next to marzipan.  Actually, at least marzipan has that almondy flavor, but fondant tastes like a plastic Strawberry Shortcake doll.  How do I know, you ask?  Don't pretend like you didn't lick them too when you were a kid, hoping that the taste would be as good as the smell.  You did.  Anyway, I was lucky the cake-cake part tasted good, otherwise I might as well have made that Amy Sedaris cake I've been meaning to try.

My dog is scratching at our door for the 9th time in the past hour, so that is my cue to say goodbye.  Well actually, in the time it took me to write the previous line, he just pooped in the laundry room.  I better go before he takes himself to the pound.

is that a gnome in your pocket (or just a peach pit)?

So, I'm officially a preschool teacher. Alright, only a preschool teacher's assistant, but you know... baby steps to living the dream, right?

I have so many amazing stories to tell about the last month (which, by the way, is also the first month in over 6 years that I've been back in the work world), but cannot. For many reasons. The first being that in the spirit of apple-appliqued denim jumpers and sneakers, teachers are mature and responsible and loving and are politically correct and indiscriminate. (And they like kids.) In my mind, they don't blog, unless it's to document some crafty creation that only supports their case in being even more sweet, respectable, and quilted. (Yes, they themselves are quilted.)

I'm happy to report that my fears of not being "teachery" enough have faded. I've found my inner Shari Lewis. I'm outfitted with a pocketed apron (my shield), and with finger puppet gnome* residing in that pocket (my sword). My armor is complete with chainmail Waldorf-approved finger plays and songs, newly added to my alto repertoire. I've gained mastery once more in self-controlling any incidental flatulence that was a byproduct of my 6 year stint of being a stay-at-home-mom. (A relief to know that I'm not an 80 year old trapped in a 29 year old body.)

And... drumroll... I do in fact like children other than my own! What a relief!

These kids, I love them already. I only work 3 days a week, and let me tell you... I find myself thinking about them those other days that I'm away. I wonder and hope what they are doing and if they're enjoying it. Each little kid's quirks makes me smile, as I reminisce about my 4 hour day with them... how simultaneously precocious and innocent they are. And, it has served as a reminder that my kids are amazing, but not the only amazing kids in existence. (Friends' kids are an exception of course, as I've always known they were special.)

The first time I pulled a felted faceless finger puppet out of my pocket in a sweaty desperate attempt to get them to peacefully transition from bathroom to sink to sitting on the rug indian style- I mean, crisscrossapplesauce- without smothering each other with 2 year old affection,

I saw their faces light up.

Like really light up. Not in an I'm-humoring-you-because-you're-obviously-a-sweaty-desperate-teacher-impostor kind of way, but in a hey-you're-a-finger-play-genius kind of way. And the gnome went back into the pocket victoriously.

Not one kid made fun of me, not one kid rolled his/her eyes, not one kid gave me the gong, and not one kid (even the one I thought would be the Simon Cowell of the bunch) blinked as I sang about apple trees, personified winds, and bruised produce (that I think makes it's way into our neighborhood's ghetto supermarket.)

In all seriousness, if you're at all inclined to brush up on Waldorf preschool philosophy, you can click here to read more about what/how/who/and why (do my kids play with peach pits in a school that costs as much as a mortgage payment?). Seriously, it's a beautiful thing.

*Gnomes in pockets souncded scary and creepy at first, but are now proven effective in the classroom.

Get your own on etsy.

Chocolate vs. Strawberry

I knew the day would come.

I just hoped the day wouldn't come so soon.

We hop into the car after school. The obligatory "how was school?"/"what fun things did you do today?" questions commence.

Neither child seems especially enthusiastic in their reports.

Neve asks me a question that makes me adjust the rear view mirror down into her sweet blinking eye-dots.

"Mom?" (one one thousand, two one thousand, three...) "Is this thing on me really chocolate?"

I immediately knew what she asking. And when I looked at her through the mirror, sure enough... her finger rested on her chest.

The birthmark. THE birthmark. It's the chocolate swirl in her vanilla milkshake. It's the Hawaiian Islands on her Rand McNally. It's the kiss of the melatonin gods. It's the attribute that I swear makes her a better dancer than the other 3 all-white White's.

I love her birth mark.

"No, it's not chocolate. Wouldn't we have washed it off you (in the last 4 years) if it were chocolate? It's called a 'birthmark'."

"My birthmark?

"Yep. And it makes you special."







"I don't want it."

Immediate heartbreak in the driver's seat. Between Uncle Joey's (lovingly, I'm sure) humorous "You're so tall now! And it's growing with you." remarks and the nonstop "You got a little chocolate ice cream on you... oh, wait, you're eating vanilla ice cream?" comments from strangers in every ice cream shop we've stepped foot in, I knew she'd eventually have an opinion about it.

"When I was little, I had one that I didn't like either. My mommy and Daddy called it a 'strawberry'."

I pointed to the small pinkish red spot on the palm of my hand.

"I like your strawberry. This [chocolate spot] is too big."

Apparently, someone at school asked her if it was chocolate, and she said she didn't know. Sigh. I realize that this is only the first of many many future sad school moments. But her being so young really caught me off guard. I have not had time to prepare my "God made you special (and delicious)" talk.

Love your chocolate spot.

First Day of School (2 Weeks Late)

Thanks, other bloggie-Moms, for making me feel like a jerk as I read about your kid's first day of school.




Well, here it is at long last: a little 2-week-tardy-reenactment of their first day of school. (Notice Neve's expression of uncertainty, and Fiona's teacher's pet enthusiasm.)


Hey, Oijoy, Smacksy, and My Life: we couldn't all be camera-ready and sober, you know.*








*I'd like to think there is an easier way to make the point that I'm only joking. But since I'm not the emoticon- ;) - j/k - or LMAO/ LOL type, the asterisk with accompanying explanation will have to do instead.

I was not drunk on their first day of school.*

*...at least not first thing in the morning. I waited until after school snack.

suckiestmom.blogspot.com

Terry hands me the latest Newsweek this evening. There's an article that he wants me to read. He prefaces it with, "I'm not saying it's you, but I thought you'd find it interesting."

{I would encourage you to read the article here.... especially if you're a blogger who happens to be a mom.}

I won't lie. I bristled. And I bristled because I'm paranoid that this article is written about blogger types like myself.

I want my girls to trust me in both real life and internet life. I want them to grow into beautiful adults, confident that their mother loved them more than the laughs she got over them and their antics.

However, I also don't want to stop writing here. It's therapy. It's a place to gain perspective. It's a place to laugh about things that are not so easy to laugh about otherwise. It's a place to connect with other people who share similar concerns, similar struggles, and similar jokes.

There are far too many testimonies of bloggers, facebook users, and twitterers who've been bit by leaving a written virtual trail of err. They come in many shapes and sizes, but all say the same- "are you serious?". In the case of the "mom blog", I fear the wrath of the greatest employer: my children.

So where do I draw the line? I suppose I'll be more conscious of how they will feel at, say, 13 or 14 years old, when they can Google search themselves and find Mommy Dearest writing about their adventures in puberty.

Yes, parenthood is messy. And yes, there are boundaries of respect (even for our innocent and Google-illiterate subjects of discussion) which can be crossed easily. But ultimately (in my humble opinion), if the child grows into adulthood knowing that their parents were people who could laugh at themselves and the world around them, they are better for it.

Besides, we'll be the enemy one day no matter what proof exists on our
insert-pseudonym.blogger.coms.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the matter.

Panic

There are two posts of epic proportions waiting to be finished before I can publish them. I just can't seem to find that golden shiny chunk of alone time to finish anything these days. Unless it's to wash dishes or do laundry. But then it's neither golden nor shiny.

Here's how 'goes:

1. Fiona and Neve were intensely sick for a few days, which meant we thought they had caught the swine flu. But, after the third day, it left as fast and furiously as it had arrived. We scratched the possibility of swine flu at that point. (Yet another reason to live under a rock: what you don't know about swine flu outbreaks, won't hurt you. Or make you behave like a hysterical donkey.)

2. Neve is currently en route to the ER with Terry. (It's 10:30pm, by the way.) Yesterday, on our way to the Summer Shade Festival, Neve went running down a steep hill, and hit her head HARD on the sidewalk. Aside from the big egg on her forehead, she seemed more upset by the rasberries on her knees. It wasn't until an hour ago that it dawned on me that her weird listless behavior today could have been caused by yesterday's ugly fall. I think she'll be fine, but better to be safe than sorry. I'm waiting for the call as I type this. (And trying my darndest not to react like a hysterical donkey.)

3. We've lost almost half our flock of chickens in the past couple of weeks. Something (I say it's a raccoon) has enjoyed a bucket of Ginger, Frances, Phyllis (noooo!- she was our blue egg layer!!!), Soup, and Dorothy. The craziest part of it all is that they live in a very sturdy coop that seems impenetrable, unless you have large people hands. I don't even think my children could open their coop door without me. Sure enough, this monster's little fingers (it has to be a raccoon, right?) pryed the door open just enough to sneak in and steal poor sleepy Faye's chicken breasts. He left the rest of her in the coop. It was so gross and so sad.

Terry has taken on the role of bait master, filling the live traps with a hot dog or two each night. The chicken assassin is smart, I tell you. He knows enough to pull those meat tubes out through the holes in the side of the trap, rather than taking the obvious route (through the front) which activates the closing trap door. Terry even went so far as to rake the dirt around the trap real smooth, hoping to identify it's tracks this morning. (My chicken McGyver.) The chicken assassin is a ninja! He leaves no tracks!

Maybe it's our neighbor.

4. I got a job! Whoo! This is the first real punch-a-clock job (is that even the right term for clocking in?) I've had in 6 years. I decided to slowly wet my feet in the work world with a low-key assistant teacher position at my kids' school. That's where my heart, my brain, my money would go anyway... only makes sense that I'd just "cannon-ball" into the deep end and work there too. Seeing as how school is starting in a week (after Labor Day), I'm busy getting the classroom set up, busy training (to be human again, after spending the past 6 years farting uncensored in the privacy of my own home), and busy doing a million things other than cleaning my house. I thought the concept was: if you are spending time outside the home, you should return to a house that is as clean as you left it. I swear somebody's been sleeping in my bed.

Maybe it's our neighbor.

5. And lastly, I've been obsessing over the results of my Myers-Briggs personality test. Before I go on about it (that's the subject of one of the epic posts I've yet to finish), let me encourage you to take the test too. I originally took the one on FB, but took it again here to compare results. I scored the same on all 4 tests I took, so it's definite. I'm a "pain-in-the-ass-that's-way-too-excited-about-others-personality-types-type", according to Terry, Myer, and Briggs. Let's compare results later, okay? (Twirling my hair and smacking my bubble gum).

6. Last, last, lastly, i got an iphone (gasp!). I can't believe that Terry bought me, the most irresponsible of phone owners, the iking of phones. Perhaps he knows that this is the only way to get his wife to keep, charge, or answer her phone- make it pretty and expensive. Or just pretty expensive. But, it has also helped me keep up with important matters like swine flu outbreaks, and fashion trends outbreaks like this:
(Mom, I know that you love the Reebok. And I know you love the picnic gingham. Do I hear Christmas 2009?)

Anyway, if interested in other awesomeness and foolishness, check out The Cool Hunter.

So, let's review. Swine flu, donkey hysteria, chicken assassin, flatulence censorship, Myers-Briggs, gingham hightops, and two especially long posts in waiting. Pandemic!


*** UPDATE ON ER VISIT FOR ANY GRANDPARENTS WITH INSOMNIA ***

She's fine. No concussion. No swine flu. She just has a backlash of whatever flu-like sickness she had last week. She'll be fine in no time.

Lost At Sea and A Sinking Ship: Part 2

After a particularly long day, a no-nap-kind-of-day, an Arby's-mah-fah-free-roast-beef-sandwich-day, a did-my-stomach-just-touch-my-boobs?-kind-of-day, a let's-sleep-this-day-gone-kind-of-day, I decided that I would take dinner to the park on foot as a last attempt to rectify this... day.

And so, Terry, the kids, Banjo, and myself walked to the nice new park in our neighborhood. We crossed over the street that is shared with drug dealers, hookers, horny pilots (we live near the airport and often see them walking to their crash pads with an attendant or 2), scared and disoriented hotel guests that have ventured across the street to Arby's (free roast beef sandwich day remember?) in their khaki shorts and blinding white socks and sneakers, and other neighborhood characters deserving their own chapters in the book I've not yet written entitled, "We Still Owe How Much On This House?"

So, over the road and through the cemetery. I'm not kidding. And there's a man named "Okay" buried there too.

Pass the nursing home, strangely (or strategically) placed next to said cemetery.

Pass the baseball field, which I've yet to see used for baseball.

Pass the unidentifiable gray building that has people dangling out of it's windows. (I have no idea why.) When the charm is just not there, I like to cloud gaze. Dera, just keep your eyes above the horizon!

And then, boom, there you are. It's the nicest, most out-of-place (but I'm not complaining) park grounds you've ever seen. Paths, lush sodded greenspace, tennis courts, ergonomically propelled high-design play things, picnic tables under cabanas, bathrooms (!), and a huge chimney thing that's really old and cool. It's the park oasis among rows and rows of boarded-window homes. Again, I have no insight... we don't ask why, we just ignorantly and blissfully propel ourselves in an ergonomic fashion. (We should attend a few more Neighborhood Association meetings, huh?)

To add another layer of lovely, conversation en route went like so:

(Sirens blaring, as fire trucks and police cars whip through the intersection between the aforementioned street and the entrance to the cemetery.)

Neve: "That engine has a fire in it, right?"

Me: "What's that?"

Neve: "That engine. It had a fire in it. Right?"

Me: "No. That fire engine is going to put a fire out in a house or a car."

Neve: "Right. Because of the fire in it's engine."

Me: (whispering to Terry) "What is she saying?"

Terry: (goes on to explain fires, engines, and fire engines. I walk ahead, leaving him to it.)

Fiona: "Mom?"

Me: "Yes?"

Fiona: "What is there, other than fire?"

Me: "Hmmm?"

Fiona: "Other than fire, what else is there?"

Me: "Everything other than fire is something other than fire. This sign, the grass, the air, water that puts out fire, the houses that are not on fire, dogs, that man over there and dinner. All things OTHER than fire. Is that what you were asking?"

Fiona: "Yes. (pause- one one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four...) But then there's fire gas."

Me: "Terry? Wrap things up with Engine Fire. I need your help with Fire Gas now."

Sometimes I think they're just screwing with me. I mean, if you heard their tone or saw their faces as they spoke to me you'd think they were genuinely interested in getting to the bottom of these hard-hitting questions. But, I think they conspire after hours. I think they try to scheme the most bizarre conversations or non-sequitur opportunities for confusion for the following day. Just because they like to watch mommy sweat.

Between our unpleasant surroundings, our go-nowhere conversations, and our Arby's and Horsey sauce glow, I was ready to lay down next to Okay and cloud gaze. Give me a good night sleep, something fresh to eat in the morning, and a sunny day, and watch me answer those hard-hitting questions, rapid-fire. Good night, Okay and friends.

Greetings From Wonderland

We are on vacation, and it is so good. It's a place where:

Skin is sun-kissed, heads are clear, smiles are frequent and big, tummies are always full, and grandmas get unsolicited hugs.

In the midst of all the fun, Fiona and I had a moment to discuss birthday plans. She will be 6 years old next month (I can't believe it!!!), and every year she challenges me to launch a fun party around the most bizarre themes. Luckily, this year she chose something I'm sure to have a lot of fun with:

I was so excited, I spent this entire evening making her invitation (above). Imagining:

a not-what-it-seems tea party, a round of plastic flamingo croquet, and a kiddie hookah bar.

Maybe not the hookah bar... but my wheels are spinning. If she changes her mind, so help me.

So Fresh, So Clean*

Washed hair- check.

Home manicure- check.

Good night sleep- check.

A (still in progress) clean house- check.

Pressed shirts- check.

Cup of (good) coffee- check.

Walked dog- check.

Happy children- check.

Clean sheets- check.

Quality prayer time this morning- check.

I took the day off in the garden today, per Terry's request. In a rather diplomatic way, he suggested that I may not be the person I like (see previous post) when I spend the entire day out there. Being the oracular hormonal woman that I am (ladies, tell me you are too?), I read between the lines and assumed he was saying I've been a neglectful wife and mother. He assured me that his suggestion was for my own good. Besides, if mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy.

It was with great relief that I met Sarah in the garden this morning to alert her that "I can't play today". She seemed somewhat relieved herself, saying that she felt the same way yesterday when she returned home to her hungry family. With Taco Bell in hand. Tell me, why do we eat so poorly when we're working so hard to grow the good stuff? Seriously, we study the labels on our organic fertilizer containers, but we default to the nearest drive-thru window at the end of the day. I swore that stuff off years ago. Before the garden.

Anyway, Garden Hos Farm is not the offender. Like anything in life, too much of a good thing can become bad. It always amazes me to see what weird things I put on pedestals. I think of myself as relatively low-maintenance gal, with a love for thrift stores, a passion for vegetation, a weakness for a tall man in plaid flannel, and a morning primping routine that consists of a splash of water on the face and some brushed teeth. But when certain "low maintenance" things come in between me and my responsibilities, I've gone and put excursions to Ace Hardware and a flock of rare chickens on a pedestal. (Remind me to one day tell you about the crush I had on a homeless man. Terry drew a picture of this scenario, making it worthy of it's own post.)

I took the girls to a Catholic cathedral in town this morning to pray. We've never done this before. We're Presbyterian. It's a Thursday morning. But I knew it's doors would be open, and I knew it would be quiet. It was the best decision I've made in a long time. Both girls were amazed. Fiona exclaimed in a loud whisper, "God is here!". Neve was just taking it all in. All three of us knelt and prayed for at least 15 minutes (which was much longer than I thought the girls would give me). In fact, I don't think they were even ready, but I wanted to leave on a high note. I think we'll be doing that more before summer's end.

*From Rogers and Hammerstein to Boi and 3000. Janet (Oijoy) used to be my older RA college friend that was the only nurturing maternal figure in our depraved dormitory when I was a freshman. She used to sing "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair" to certain friends who'd just been through a very sad daramtic break-up after a month long relationship. The best.

I'm Gonna Wash This Day Right Out of My Hair

I'm tired.

I have greasy hair.

No matter how I position myself on this couch, I can't seem to escape the body odor wafting up from my Tom's-of-Maine-what-are-you-good-for pits.

I'm listening to a Leap Frog toy play the same song over and over again, while fantasizing that it's fate is met with a bat.

We lost about 20 tomatoes in the last 2 days due to some gusty winds.

We ate Arby's for dinner tonight, because it's promotional free "roast beef" sandwich day.

I ate 2 "roast beef" sandwiches, while simultaneously thanking a friend for joining a Facebook cause. The Slow Food (healthy eating) cause.

Round-the-clock rotation of boots and bathing suits, their messy knotty heads of hair, and non-stop improv "shows" make for an unenthusiastic mom.

There are sticks laying on the floor in my kitchen.

The pile of laundry on our bed contains 90% of our entire family's wardrobe.

Fiona is laying stomach-side-down on a skateboard, Neve on her back, rolling from the coffee table to the dining room. And back. At 10:00pm.

I'm too lazy right now to adjust my current wedgie.

There's a pile of dishes in the sink from who-knows-when. ("Roast beef" sandwiches tonight, remember?)

The state of my hands have just left "your charming novice gardener" hands and entered "if they weren't dangling next to your huge ass, you'd think you were a dude" hands.

My legs are so unbelievably itchy from mosquito bites that I'm ready to use the cheese-grater.

There's not a drop of beer nor wine in the house. (The above photo prop was a bottle of balsamic vinegar. For effect.)

And sometimes blog-ventilation like this makes everything a little better. I'm off to take a well-deserved shower. Thank you for being a friend. You're a pal and a confidant.

(This may my creepiest Photoshop creation yet.)

Don and Tiny

I'm neither sure of the origins of the title or the story behind this cute rodent narrative. (Fiona is asleep now, but if her explanation is good I'll post an update tomorrow.) All I do know is that this was the title she gave Terry, and this is so telling of my daughter.

While her 3 year old sister has a wider vocabulary than her (granted Neve could talk the horns off a billy goat), clearly she has a lot she's thinking about and wants to say. And I love seeing it spill out onto paper.

My mother (an old fashioned Italian woman) is positive that it has something to do with "serving a man". I'm sure she was clutching her chest with bursting pride as she made this observation. Ah, madonne.

Openly Guilty of Agism

Birthdays seem to be a hot topic these days in our house, as many of Fiona's friends have either turned 6 recently or will be turning 6 shortly. She's come home from school eager to discuss birthday party plans and guest lists for a day that's still at least 3 months away. She's made comments about wanting to invite "the naughty kids" from school, because she thinks they may not be invited to many parties. (One of the many qualities of my tender daughter). She's tossed around the idea of having a zoo party, or an indoor inflatable jungle gym party, or (are you ready for this?) a Disney World party, only to have the Fun-Crusher (me) remind her that we can only afford a backyard sprinkler party where guests B.Y.O.H.D. (bring their own hot dog).

She's also been terribly interested in the duties and the look of a 6 year old. How will I look different from a 5 year old when I turn 6? (Give an inch in height and take a tooth or two, you won't look that different.) Do 6 year olds walk home from school? (Perhaps, but they shouldn't. Hellooo? Nancy Grace?) Do 6 year olds have boobies? (The non-organic-milk-drinking 6 year olds do.) Will I have long hair when I'm 6? (Not if you keep cutting it.) Will Neve still be my little sister when I'm 6? (According to Star Trek, the movie, there is the possibility of an alter reality that allows for time to move faster for some than others if said time travelers are given the opportunity to intergalactically travel at lightning speed. Seeing as how we don't have the money for a zoo party, I doubt Neve will be time-traveling before you turn 6. [As I adjust my tape-hinged glasses].)

Fiona's good friend, Shammah, celebrated her 6th birthday today. I gave her the opportunity to pick Shammah's gift out by herself, in the attempt to be "cool mom", not "uptight mom", or "wooden toy mom", or "anti-Bratz, anti-Barbie, anti-Littlest Pet Shop, anti-Polly Pockets, anti-Disney Princess, anti-Hannah Montana, anti-High School Musical, anti-talking and peeing baby dolls, anti-pink singing plastic whatever mom". Just "cool mom". But after the first 7 things she picked up were nixed due to price, vulgarity, or keeping the poor parent's interest in mind (nothing with 2 million pieces or motion-detecting sensors), I remembered why I like being "wooden toy mom".

Eventually, it came down to a DIY unglazed tea set (my choice) or a Disney Princess slip-n-slide (Fiona and Neve's choice). Slip-n-slide won, and it was a mild victory for "cool mom". Best of all, Fiona took pride in what she chose and found joy in giving it to her friend. And in the spirit of DIY, Fiona eagerly ran into her bedroom when we got home, excited to make Shammah a homemade birthday card.

Boy do I wish I had a picture or scan of it. It was pretty priceless. There were several cards, actually, that didn't make the cut before creating the masterpiece that was marker-bled balloons flying in a sky of handwritten "SHAMMAH HAPPY BIRTHDAY".

The first card was adorned with a cake that she insisted needed 5 candles on top. But after she struggled drawing the frosting's edge, she gave up with a rip and a scream. I talked her through the next drawing, saying, "Let's just draw a bird with a sign in it's mouth that says, "HAPPY 6TH BIRTHDAY, SHAMMAH!"" But after the bird's head and neck lacked the right amount of definition she was going for (despite my assurance that birds don't really have necks), she ripped the second card up as well.

The last and winning card was covered in balloons. How can you go wrong with balloons, right? And things were going well until she came to the 5th balloon. "Cool mom" took a break for a sec to allow "typical mom" to urge Fiona to add that 6th balloon. She refused to do it, and that pissed "typical mom" off. "Typical mom" took a break for a sec to allow "ashamedly irrational mom" to really really urge Fiona to put that 6th balloon in. Or else. When she refused a third time, I grabbed a marker and drew the symbolic 6th balloon in myself. While she cried, "SIX MINUS ONE IS FIVE!!!" (which I still don't understand), I colored the 6th balloon in with a pink marker saying, "Shammah is 6 now. Let's give her 6 balloons, for crying out loud."

The wrestling match between the symbolic 5 and 6 balloons was about as transparent as it gets in parenthood. And as easily interpreted as her wig-out was, I still let my anger get the best of me, annoyed by my daughter's sudden change in heart. Gifts and cards are fine, but admission that she's 6? Nope. Happy Birthday- not Happy 6th Birthday.

We had a nice talk en route to the party about age and it's importance. I'm beginning to see that the slightest effort in painting a little context for kids is key in rationalizing with them. "Mommy is 5 years younger than Daddy, and it's as if we're the same age. In a few months, you'll forget that Shammah turned 6 before you. In 10 years (ok, maybe a little more), you'll forget that Neve is younger than you. Age doesn't mean much as you get older."

Once at the party, having fun eating cake and pizza, I was sure the battle for age-equality was now history. Kids of every age and size were there, blowing bubbles in indiscriminate harmony. And that's when I, too, forgot.

Fiona: "Mom, can I spend the night with Shammah and Rachel?"

Me: Flippantly, "No. Not until you're 6."

Fiona: "BUT I THOUGHT AGE DIDN'T MATTER!?"

Sigh. I wish I had a funny, tidy ending to our conversation, but I don't. It was pretty messy and incoherent as I stuttered and consoled her the whole car ride home. I remember those same feelings from childhood (feeling left out, too young or too old), and they suck. But soon, like in 3 months soon, I will have to think of new excuses for not being ready to let her go.

an apology

for such infrequent postings. Even as I write this, I realize there's a good possibility that it will sit on my virtual dashboard as a draft for all of Blogger eternity. The last few weeks have been wonderful and busy, keeping me from my lover, I mean my computer. Here's what's been going on around here:

1. Fiona started kindergarten. We are usually pretty backwards in the way we do most everything around here, so it only seemed right for me to enroll her 3/4ths of the way into the school year. It's kind of a long explanation as to why I chose to do it now (one better saved for another post, as it too has a "Curb Your Enthusiasm" quality), but rest assured, now was as good a time as any. Sort of.

1985 = dumb kindergarteners. 2009 = Mensa kindergarteners. I can't believe the amount of homework this kid's been bringing home. Grandparents, Fiona is reading reading! Not the kind of reading I said she was doing a few months ago when she sounded out BUS STOP (that took her 5 minutes to do), but is now actually reading Dick and Jane books!

2. The Spring garden is in full swing. We (me and my gardening partner in crime, Sarah Sport Weasel) just finished tilling the enormous plot again (this time it'll be 60' x 27'!), we're having a garden fence built now to keep out Thumper and his other hungry friends, we had it filled with beautiful stinky humus, and we (mostly she) built some lovely tent-like structures for some snap peas. There are a few flats of some romantic-sounding heirloom tomatoes and peppers that are germinating nicely on their heating blankies in my laundry room. It's all coming together quite nicely (thanks to all the extra hard work of Sarah), and we can almost taste the yumminess it will deliver in a few months. By the way, if I baby-talk every time I speak of this garden, I apologize again. Cute little seedlings seem to be quenching my thirst for a baby right now. (That came out so gross.) I will post pictures shortly (imagine little bonnets on beets).

3. We just ordered... (are you ready for this?)... 25 chicks yesterday. I know some of you don't know where or how we live, but let me tell you- it's not the country. We're in no way prepared (or allowed) to keep that many chickens in our (relatively urban) backyard. There was a minimum number you could buy and have shipped (to keep the little girls warm enough while en route), so we'll have to give away at least 1/2 of the chicks we're getting next week. The kids are already prepared to emotionally detach themselves from half the fuzzy flock.

I'm hoping our coop will look like this when all is said and done- CASABLANCA POLLO:
Ahem, Dad? Terry? Are you ready? 25 chickens will be at our doorstep next week, and they cannot live in our laundry room! It's already doubling as a greenhouse. I need to do laundry again, seeing as how I now have a child in school (said in my most twangy country voice).

Oh, and the coolest part of it all is the chicks we ordered are mixed breeds... some rare, some not. But this variety will give us blue, olive green, brown, white, and cream colored eggs! Please- if you know anyone in the Atlanta area who is interested in some vaccinated* chicks, I'd love to be your poultry dealer.

4. I've been inspired by so many lately. This has truly been an answer to prayer for me, because there are many days that the only thing that inspires me is the thought of bedtime. (That sure came out dour.) In any case, I'm always grateful for those unexpected "awakenings" in life. When suddenly you find the everyday beautiful and fresh. Spring is also guilty of doing this to me, as I'm sure it does to you too. Birds seem to chirp sweeter in Spring, one finds themselves gazing at perky daffodils as their car almost veers off the road, bikes are dusted off, and children go back to the place where spills are no problem and jumping is welcomed- outside! Spring is truly inspiring to everyone.

But the first specific inspiration I'm referring to is that of monetary well being: Sarah at Devastate Boredom has some really amazing money-saving tips accompanied by some very witty observations about life, food, and the series "Lost". (What's that? Don't ever write a synopsis for you again? Ok.) She's inspired a dimension of Dera that I didn't think could be inspired. I'd rather get a Brazilian wax than listen to Suze Orman tell me to "take ownership of your finances". I know, ho. But somehow, Sarah's delivery makes me like the idea that I can do it, and perhaps it could even be simultaneously fun. Have you ever thought about taking your show on the road, Sarah?

The next inspiration variety I'd like to discuss is that of physical/emotional well being. With the help of friend Sarah at Sport Weasel (who is, by the way, one humble warrior in the kitchen), I've been inspired to get back to basics here at Casablanca too. Soaking grains? You betcha. Ginger beer? I'm making it. Live active cultures? Not just for Jamie Lee Curtis anymore. Super Foods? Well, so far every "super food" I've tried tastes "super gross", but I'm trying them anyway. (Bitters, cod liver oil, nutritional yeast, Noni juice,- blech.) And, by the way, thank you Mama Lani for my "Healing With Whole Foods" book. I love it!

And not to make this post all "I wanna give a shout-out to...", but let me just say how great it is to have a mom that is talented and maternal? She's like the best of both worlds- she's inspiring creatively and inspiring as a mother. I have some photos to upload soon of some of her latest "mades".

Ok, I just realized that it's daylight savings today, so my already irresponsible 2am post has just turned into me hating tomorrow in advance. I should have known that spending 30 minutes photoshopping chickens and clouds into my coop diagram was unnecessary.

*Did you know that along with getting your chicks vaccinated and dewinged you can also get them DEBEAKED!? If you thought you couldn't muster up any sadness for a chicken, wait until you see a chicken's lips.

I Wanna Destroy You

One of the many reasons we elected to have children was the opportunity to impose our taste in music on the impressionable spongy brains of our offspring- the fledgling brains that still believe their parents (us) are cool, know everything there is to know about everything, and who chose to be parents over being famous experimental artists by day/touring musicians by night. Before the world tells them otherwise. Indeed, having kids has many selfish advantages for the parent, but the one that I recognize most often is the challenge/mission to create life that will steer clear of Hannah Montana. Or worse.

There's no way to disguise my pride on the matter- my children don't really like kid's music. In fact, they don't really even know that it exists, give or take an "I'm a Little Teapot" or "Wheels on the Bus". They've been given cds containing such music over the years, but inevitably the tunes are revised (by them) with lyrics that involve their body parts or bodily functions. After putting out the "adapted by the White sisters" fire, we felt they were not missing much in the way of children's music.

I do realize that my children are no different than any others out there... they're not immune to the tempting sounds of bubblegum pop. Fiona just recently watched a Jonas Brother's show on the Today Show, asking "who are these boys?", with stars in her eyes. I won't be able to supress the natural ugly urges that come with tweenhood, or sheild her from the world of advertisement-laden attire. (But I can try, right???) However, in the meantime, I'll love every minute that I hear my children singing this to each another from their bedroom:

I Wanna Destroy You - The Soft Boys

Am I bragging? Yes. And believe me, there's more where this comes from. (As St. Patty's Day approaches, I'm sure I'll be posting more about their love for the Pogues.) There's nothing impressive about my playing music that I like for them. But what is amazing is how they both remembered the lyrics (Neve is only 3!) weeks later, as they played naked-Barbie-fight. {I'm beaming with pride.}

After listening to them sing it, I showed them the album cover.
Fiona used to love staring at this album when she was younger, long before she made the connection that this belonged to that song. Terry and I would laugh like crazy as we watched her study it with a furrowed brow. "What could se be thinking?", I remember us asking each other. Well, Neve answered that question for us, as she looked at it for the first time recently.

Neve: {studying it for about 30 seconds}

"I hate it."

{pause, eyes still fixed on it}

"They are ugly."

{pause}

"It's scaring me. Will you take it?"

It must have scared her too much to actually hand it to me, because I had to pull it off her lap, her hands in the air.

Me: "Why is it scary?"

Neve: {scowling} "I don't know. I don't want to talk about it anymore."

The End.

When Anger And Gum Meet

After posting my last social blight, I think it only makes sense to keep the spirit with another.

I went to the grocery store around lunch a couple of weeks ago. Because of the lunch crowd, it was unusually busy. Almost all of the parking spaces were full. I'm not the type to avoid walking from the farther part of the lot (ok, sometimes I am, but was really not in this case), but rather I tend to look for the spaces that are closest to the cart returns. That way, I can both dump my youngest child into the cart on the way in, and easily dump the cart off on my way out. My goal is to avoid walking across the lot to return a cart with two distracted kids in tow.

I see a lone vacant spot that is 1) close to the front and 2) close to a cart return. As I pull up closer to it, I see that the reason this too-good-to-be-true space is vacant is because the doofus on the left has parked way over the yellow line. And just to make things even more difficult, the car on the right is very close to the yellow line. Whether you call it voracious determination or idiotic spite, I was going to park there. And, 15 minutes later, I did just that. Now the small matter of squeezing my family out. Somehow, by way of sucking in guts and lifting children over the roofs of Mustangs, we had succeeded. I certainly felt we were deserving of a pack of Twizzlers after all that maneuvering because of some selfish dumb-dumbs.

After our shopping was complete, I left the store and headed for our car. But before noticing the car, I notice the gaggle of construction workers staring at me with smirks. Truth be told, I thought I was getting the eyeball. And maybe I kind of even sort of liked it. My hips swung a little more than they usually do, and I tenderly held Fiona's hand as I smiled at these otherwise goofy men. What can I say, the last guy to check me out was a man who was restocking shelves at Walgreen's a few years ago. I was flattered.

Once my attention had returned to the matter of unloading groceries and children, I was greeted with a note stuck to my rear window, which read:

HEY ASSHOLE!
LEARN HOW TO PARK!
F--K YOU!

My boyfriends (a.k.a construction workers on their lunchbreaks) are now giggling like schoolgirls. They weren't checking me out at all. No, they had something to do with this note.

Me: "Hey, do you guys know anything about this?"

One of the gaggle: "Yeah, it was some real mad lady who was pissed she had to squeeze into her car."

Me: "Did she see the car that was parked like 3 feet over the yellow line on my left? I'm in the yellow lines!"

One of the gaggle: "No. That car wasn't here when she came out."

I look over, and sure as their Mountain Dew is flourescent yellow, the flippin' Mustang that was practically taking a nap in my spot had left. This, naturally, left my car looking as if to have been parked by a blind child.

Me: "Well, I know my car looks crazy, but I had to park it like that because of the other dummies that parked next to me." (I'm doing my best to use words like 'dummy' and 'stinker' in front of my kids, along with trying not to raise my voice.)

One of the gaggle: "She was mad. She asked us to stay here and tell you that she was the one who wrote that."

Me: "And you agreed? Do you know her? If I asked you to stay here and wait for her to come back next week and tell her that I was mad too, would you do it?"

One of the gaggle: "No. She was just yelling and stuff. And then she spit her gum onto the paper and stuck it to your car. We were all, 'Ohhhhhh!'"

That crazy hag of a woman attached her cowardly note to my car with her nasty DoubleMint gum! I even came down with a case of the angry lip quiver- the most embarrassing reaction to someone being mean to you ever. Before this grown woman, the same woman who still parked between the yellow lines although on a slight diagonal, started crying in front of her wide eyed children and pack of sub-eating, Mountain Dew-drinking monkeys, I felt it best to unload the groceries quietly... as if I was the calm sane beneficiary of some hilariously rediculous chain of events. Yes, I kept thinking, you are lucky to have experienced something so stupid, something funny to tell Terry on the way home. Dammit, lip, stop trembling!

When I returned the cart to the cart return, the gaggle still stood there, staring at me, while chomping on their mayonnaise-soaked subs. (Apparently the villains in my story love mayo, as I just made that part up.) This time I was pretty certain that my hip saunter had nothing to do with their stares. I was just one half of the abstract cat fight these men witnessed on their lunch break. I'm sure it was almost as good as watching female wrestling, give or take a few extra garments of clothes, the women actually coming in contact with each other, and some DoubleMint gum.

The kicker?

One of the gaggle: "She said that if she saw your car around town, she was going to go crazy on your shit."

Me: "What does that mean?"

One of the gaggle: "I don't know. She was crazy mad though."

Me: "Was she threatening me? What is wrong with this woman?"

The gaggle at large: (laughing)

Me: "Heh." (Dera, bite that wimpy lip before it starts trembling again.)

The carride home was silent. The various dialogs played over and over in my head, as I tried to imagine confronting the woman in the parking lot. Would I take the Ghandi approach, killing her DoubleMint gum notes with kindness? Or would I have said,

"Ho, you touch my car and so help me I will squirt you in the eye with this juice box!"

Once the fear of being seen by this psycho faded, once the fear of her "going crazy on my sh-t" subsided, and once my dumb baby bottom lip stopped shaking, I realized how funny the whole thing was. I'm also more cautious in assuming that smirking construction workers are out for my body. Especially when I'm wearing a sweatshirt, holding an enormous child, and lifting a 4 lb. Boston Butt out of my cart.