I took the boys to Busch Gardens yesterday; the same place my granddad Henry use to take me and my husband vowed never to grace. After an hour of “are we there yet,” “I am hot,” “I am cold,” “can you roll down the window,” “Charlie stinks” and “what ya got to eat,” we arrived at the parking lot where I promptly wrote in large pink marker “Italy 36” on my hand in an effort not to replay past parking lot distress dramas. We then nabbed the tram to the security checkpoint which amounted to a middle aged gentleman looking at my diaper bag and deciding the effort to look through it exceeded the likelihood of me carrying a firearm, so he waved us in the direction of our designated waiting place, Big Ben (apparently he moonlights in Williamsburg), in time for a bottle fix before meeting up with my girlfriend Carrie and her wee ones. I was immediately drawn to the drones of the theater, promising a 25-minute hiatus from the sugar and thunderous park vibrations and evoking an epiphany regarding my grandfather’s professed and situational attraction to musicals. Mac unfortunately shared my childhood philosophy that theater is the lesser citizen when in the company of soaring helicopters and high flying swings, so we cruised through Italy and then Germany as we made our way to Dragon Land, a place wallpapered by snotty noses, diaper bags, and shrieks of joy and protest from little people quite sure they have found their oasis. It was here we hit the monstrous jungle gym, the teacup tumbler, and antique carousal before standing in line for 20 minutes for the privilege of riding a large green dragon around a water mote as a poor soul loaded kids on and off the medieval paradise. A lunch of peanut butter sandwiches, cantaloupe, cheerios, goldfish, granola bars, and wheat thins was then supplied by Café Mom, you know the establishment that is far too cheap to purchase the $7 nugget plate or Candied Apple (the ones guaranteed to provoke multiple sugar induced tirades) for her child but feels completely justified to sport herself a $3 Pepsi. Priorities. Next we nonchalantly highlighted the additional park offerings that just happened to lead us straight to the exit gate. And there we were, barely out of the parking lot, Mac and Charlie asleep in the backseat and me equipped with a Balance bar and 45 minutes of chatter free radio, the best ride of all.
He is plump and pleasing and all mine.
This is exactly what I thought as I put Charlie’s shorts on this morning, the ones Mac’s little stumps wore just three year ago, the ones that have been awaiting a second chance at glory, the ones that establish without a doubt that my chipmunk downs more of the good stuff than unnamed immediate family members did at last years Christmas festivities, and the ones that assure Charles’ placement in a future football line-up or comfortable couch.
The ones worn by the one I simply adore.
Mac swallowed a nickel today at school.
My immediate reaction was an inappropriate chuckle followed by mild pangs of panic, a panic apparently not warranted nor shared by the greater public as evident by my call to the doctor, where the secretary graciously put me through to voicemail; and my call to my husband, the one obviously forgoing his nomination for father of the year, who informed me he was on a conference call and would have to get back to me; and my phone conversation with Mac’s teacher, who assured me Mac seemed more concerned that his five cents might cost him a gum ball than the fact he jingled when he walked.
Nonetheless, I raced over to school, got the man of the hour, the one banking change for the next natural disaster, and found myself unable to resist asking the stupid, “why did you elected to swallow the nickel you took to school last week because you were studying the ever popular letter “N”, the one I had written off and now stand to regain, to which he replied, “I wanted to see how it taste.”
This seemed to make sense to me, which is worrisome in itself, so I decided to follow up the absurd with the ridiculous and threw out on the table, “Well for my own future reference, what did you think?” To which he responded with expert confidence, “Don’t recommend it mom.”
About this time the doctor finished her lunch break and gave a call back to see if my child was in fact still breathing and assured me kids eat money all the time (good to know) and it would be exiting out the back door over the next three days so to be on the look out for silver, to which I responded “appetizing” and thanked her for her concern and impressive response time.
Mac and I then decided to take advantage of our new found afternoon together and grabbed a haircut followed by a McFlurry packaged in the deal that I would expunged his five cent debt if he spotted me a bite, one with lots of M&Ms.
And tomorrow we will hunt for silver.
Filed under: Children, Family, getting old, Life, parenthood, parenting, work
I love Verizon Fios equipped with a DVR that allows me to tape various shows like Bob the Builder, Namaste Yoga, and the Today Show. So now, here I am at 11:09am rewinding, forwarding and pausing Ann Curry’s interview with Vanity Fair writer Leslie Bennetts about her controversial book the Feminine Mistake, which details Bennetts argument that “girls grow up with the fairy tale that Prince Charming is going to take care of them …. and women do not think of it as high risk behavior to give up their careers, give up their financial self-sufficiency and depend on men to support them and their children and if you add up all the risk factors it is extremely high risk behavior unless you are prepared to support yourself at a moment’s notice.” She then shares the statistic that 40% of mothers who elect to take which she coins as the “off-ramp” never return to full time employment and those that attempt to make the merge encounter significant job discrimination from employers who are more apt to hire people that have continuous tenure in the field. Bennetts goes on to explain that women with multiple children have an average of 15 years in which they are actively engaged in childcare and another 60 years in which they may be forced to assume the role of sole financial supporter for their family due to the risk factors of divorce or the illness or job loss of a spouse. She contends that to make the conscious decision not to plan for this probability is in fact reckless behavior, a revelation most women do not come to until their forties and in significant financial disrepair. At this point Curry interjects that she believes many women do not think that they are making a “high stake choice” for their future but a “safe choice” for their family, for they do not feel comfortable putting their children in the care of outsiders, to which Bennetts responds that the media has distorted the realities of childcare and in fact when you review the statistics 80% of parents were satisfied with their children’s pre-school /daycare experience. So it appears that Bennetts has reopened the argument started by Betty Friedmann’s classic 1963 book, The Feminine Mystique, and whether you agree or disagree with their claims, I think empowerment, specifically as it relates to women and families, grows out of honest dialogue that challenges us to look inward at home grown assumptions and be willing to think different and large out of respect for our own families, while at the same time honoring the diverse beliefs that exist and function successfully in the lives of many. So instead of fighting amongst ourselves let us lean on each other for support in the challenge we all experience: motherhood.
We obviously missed the memo. Sunday, to our family, has become the day of unrest. A day of church, grandparents, errands, Advil, and now soccer.
When we arrived at the field the long haired soccer coach with the cleats, uniform, and weathered tan asked me what size uniform Mac needed and then interrupted her own question and handed us an extra-small shirt, shorts, and pair of socks. She reminded me of my high school gym teacher who called me Toto in reference to my name and my urge to flee at the very mention of words like practice and tournaments; nonetheless, I trusted this new Sunday companion because she appeared to be the only one at the game with professional footwear, signaling a level of competence lacking in the rest of us.
She then directed Mac to Coach Dad with the long black hair and ponytail, the one Mac quickly bypassed as he aligned himself with Coach Dad #2 with the short brown hair and fire engine red soccer uniform. Coach Ponytail seemed a bit perturbed by the brush off until I assured him Mac had been ignoring directions from authority figures for years and not to take it personally, he was simply like a moth, attracted to bright colors.
As the game began the white team was direct to run to the left and the red to the right, which they all promptly did leaving the ball alone on the dance floor looking for some play. After the two coaches exchanged a, “these teams are likely not going to make it to the finals” look, followed by a brief discussion on the merits of actually making foot to ball contact, a minimum level of understanding appeared to be reached and the game was on.
As the children played it occurred to me that Mac was the smallest member on the team even though he is in the 95th percentile for height and weight and I had consciously decided not to sign him up for the “Big and Tall” league this season. So with a little detective work that would make Monk proud I ascertained that four-year-old Mac had inadvertently been place on the five-year-old team. Ponytail coach, however, said he liked Mac’s energy (I asked to get this statement in writing for Mac’s future kindergarten teacher) and I assured him that Mac’s attitude was more befitting a five year anyway.
So we both agreed to let him keep hanging with the fellas.
Filed under: Children, Family, Life, parenthood, parenting, Soccer, sports, sunburn
I am not yet in the mode of sunhats and sunscreens as evident by Charlie’s pomegranate glow. Moms should be equipped with a colossal sunhat adorned with manic animal figures ready to pounce on unexpecting and unnaturally large baby heads at the slightest hint of sun, a fact I knew but failed to see as applicable to yesterday’s soccer match. Now the pangs of guilt are only matched by the umpa-lumpa staring back at me with an unbeknownst smile of a child not even considering calling his congressman or neighborhood civic leader to report the offense. In an attempt to admit my transgression and turn myself in, I called the pediatrician who nonchalantly replied with one word: lotion. I was hoping for a subtle berating of my irresponsibility and inattention but I suppose I will have to settle for a self-inflicted time-out.
On Wednesday Charlie turned the calendar on thirteen-weeks and proceeded to turn his 3-6 month clothes over to those wee babes not on track to be a 120 pound 3 year-old.
The question is do I reserve him a place at Fat Camp now or get in touch with Jenny Craig Jr. and pray for a turn around.
Mac was also a sizable boy, a fact largely overlooked until an elderly gentleman stopped me at the elevator to remark, “Wow, your baby is VERY substantial,” which made me think, “Wow, I wish I could say the same about the number of hours you have devoted to morning readings of Emily Post.”
Our proclivity to monstrous size children is peculiar since Greg and I are people of small stature, on a variety of levels, and likely wouldn’t crack the 270 pound mark if I was to stand on his shoulders, something we haven’t done since we left the circus.
Nonetheless, there is nothing I love more than jelly-rolls and copious chins on a little man that welcomes each morning with a gigantic smile for farm friends that hang over his crib and keep him abreast of today’s likelihood of incoming Krispy Creams.
As a twenty-year old enjoying my college years, if someone had of told me that one day I would look forward to the opportunity to sit in a parked car than I likely would have thought them mad.
But that is exactly what has happened.
On Saturday, Greg needed to run into Best Buy and I volunteered to WAIT IN THE CAR. Today my mother wanted to make a short stop at a local clothing store and I offered with odd enthusiasm to again WAIT IN THE CAR.
You might think that it is the serenity of a quiet car that pulls me in but you would be wrong. You see, I forgot to mention, that I am not alone. Oh no. I have two children in the back seat. One asking various and sundry questions like: What is that smell? (you will find the answer in yourself or perhaps your pants my friend) Why is that car yellow? Is that man having a baby? And other thoughtful inquiries … while the pipsqueak has taken up the hobby of letting out barbarous rants when placed in a motor vehicle that has ceased to move for more than 30 seconds … but despite these peaceful melodies there is something calming encapsulated in the moments and I am pretty sure it has something to do with restraints.
You see, the car enables me to do something I cannot do at home without taking the risk of serving jail time: strap the children to their chairs and forbid them to move until further notice. I find this act empowering because it allows me to detach from reality for several minutes without worrying if a little person is jumping off the sofa, spilling grape juice, or assaulting a classmates, and in my world these are all causes for celebrations.
So if you ever see us parked in a deserted lot at midnight … please don’t alert the authorities …. we are simply on vacation … my vacation.
Mac decided to exert his independence last night and continue his retaliation against sleep, as Greg and I shifted gears between childish, bemused giggles and indignation as Mac offered down-the-hall pleas of “I need you daddy,” “Where did you go daddy?” and “Is anyone, anyone is this whole wide world here for me.” Having now garnered a certain amount of familiarity with these antics, we made (or attempted to make) the conscious decision to stay calm, repeating mantras one might hear on a New Age, self-help retreat (know any?): “breathe,” “this too will pass,” and “I hope my head doesn’t start spinning around at unrecognizable speeds as we try to defeat Satan.” The battle, though well fought, cannot be deemed a complete success since at 1:30am I looked down on the floor and saw Mac curled up in the fetal position with only a throw pillow, dirty towel, and Curious George. But with the focus on the positive, we kept our cool, we kept affirming that we loved him dearly but couldn’t permit him to sleep in our bed, and we kept a sense of humor (though fragile) that had alluded us in prior wars. I think a lot of this parenting thing is not about training your children to become better listeners but challenging ourselves to become more understanding and patience individuals and that must be a good thing since I am pretty sure it is too late to settle for buying a cocker spaniel that is house trained and walks calmly on a leash.
The inconvenient truth is that parenthood will make you mad. Not as in angry, though that is certainly a discernable side effect, but as in the tightening of the muscles around your face as you debate through a quivering lip whether to jump out of your bedroom window, likely resulting in critical though not fatal injuries, or risk remaining in your house and chopping up innocent houseplants in an effort to redirect the rage away from deserving though legally protected minors.
The unraveling began at the grandparents’ house where an overdose of chocolate peanut butter cookies helped to precipitate Mac shouting obscenities at his father through the locked bathroom door and then making the regrettable decision to put his hand up at me, as if to say, “silence, I am in control,” resulting in unmitigated parental outrage and bedroom incarceration until dinnertime.
The festivities continued into the evening where after exhausting outdoor voices, illogical adulthood explanations, and looming morning time-outs, Mac was permitted to get into bed with me while I attempted to find a “happy place” within my current read Marley and Me. As I read, trying to mentally separate from my fidgety appendage, Mac inquired about various words on the page.
(When being harassed by family members under three feet tall I often find relief in interjecting personal humor, though at times inappropriate, it keeps me from pulling my arm hairs out in search of some kind of desperate relief).
For example ….
“BELIEVE, what does that mean mommy?” To which I responded, “I believe God has placed you on this earth to teach me patience and compassion for all loving and treacherous creatures like yourself.”
“PASSED, what does that me mean mommy?” Now even more annoyed, I replied, “Well that means my patience has passed, my hopes at world and household peace have passed, and I think I am about to pass you off to a nice family in China who have been looking to replace their recently deceased lizard.”
“Is that really what it says?”
“YES!!!!!!”
Mac then asked if he could read a “Mommy book,” so I handed him one from atop my stack: Al Gore’s Inconvenient Truth.
This selection prompted me to think of four most recently relevant inconvenient truths of mine own …
1. I love this little felon with all my heart and that fact alone has kept him out of foster care for the month of March (April is anyone’s game).
2. That parenthood makes me happier, angrier, nuttier and more psychotically inclined than I ever thought possible.
3. That a 45 lb kid is laying in my bed, on top of my dry sheets, and just last week we thought it wise to throw out his nighttime pull-ups and pray for dry awakenings.
4. And my personal favorite ….. that I have just finished pushing this creature onto his father’s side of the bed …. I mean why should moms have all of the fun?
Playground Uprising 
