I Love You!

I've recently been warping my daughter. When she leaves a light on in a room she no longer uses, I ask, "Girl, don't you love the polar bears?" She will then drop whatever she's doing, snap off the light and say, "Yes, mommy, I love them a lot."
I'm horribly mean.
So back in October when the preschoolers in my daughter's small-town, right-wing, Catholic preschool started telling my daughter that our new president kills babies or whatever the crap of the moment was that their parents were spewing, I set her straight on the baby thing and informed her that we were voting for Obama because he loves polar bears.
I don't have proof of that obviously. I've never seen him wearing an "I Heart Polar Bears" t-shirt, but he is pro-saving the environment.
My daughter doesn't see the environment as a whole. She loves cute, fuzzy polar bears, and knows that they are dying out because that's what her big brother told her. So in our house, recycling, energy conservation, what have you is all a dedicated effort to save the polar bears for our princess.
So today I turned off Dora and made my preschooler watch President Obama being sworn in, and when it was over she turned to me and said, "It sure is nice to have a president that loves polar bears like me."
And I whole-heartedly agreed.

Winter Doldrums

There is nothing I hate more than cold weather. If I didn't enjoy my family or if my favorite seasons weren't Spring and Fall (respectively) I would move to a warmer climate where I could always have my windows open and spend every minute of my life outside. Maybe I'd live in a yurt.
Ha! I have a hard time sleeping when camping so a yurt would most likely be out of the question especially since there wouldn't be a place for all my books or my computer and since Boy has been terrified (since age 5) that a legless boy scout will come after him if he camps, a yurt would be down right impossible.
To end the monotony of another day indoors (there aren't many activities in my town), Girl and I decided to make homemade play dough. I pulled out the container of nearly a billion cookie cutters that I received for Christmas one year and Girl and I sat down to some fun. Boy spurned the activity until he learned that I wasn't going to let him use my cookie cutters on his Silly Putty.
We ended up having so much fun that even Mr. Hobbitfeet pulled himself away from Fantasy Football to join us. Boy kept making people with too large heads that he called dough babies. None of them could stand with out help and their bodies almost always collapsed under the weight of their massive noggins but he never gave up.
Girl spent all of her time taking things other people had made and then "remade them" which basically involved smashing everything until it looked like a pancake version of whatever it was supposed to be.
In the end we called it a day because Girl wouldn't stop eating the dough even though it was so salty and Boy started making dough balls (that I'm sure were about to be thrown) but we killed a good two hours which got us to lunch which got us t nap time which got us to the open at 1 p.m. library. Freezing cold Sundays are all about making it through until Monday.
As Douglas Adams says in Life, the Universe and Everything:

In the end, it was the Sunday afternoons he couldn't cope with, and that terrible listlessness which starts to set in at about 2:55, when you know that you've had all the baths you can usefully have that day, that however hard you stare at any given paragraph in the papers you will never actually read it, or use the revolutionary new pruning technique it describes, and that as you stare at the clock the hands will move relentlessly on to four o'clock, and you will enter the long dark teatime of the soul.

Ans so we played with home made play dough.

Loving Christmas, Hating Santa!

Girl loves Santa and Christmas. I know that most people feel that way, but Girl has gone nuts. I confess that it's my fault. When we were in Colorado Springs this year we went to a Kiddie amusement park at the base of Pike's Peak. See, Mr. Hobbitfeet had dropped Girl on her face the night before and we subjected her to the Ranger talks on the various poo found on the peak as we steadily went up and up on the "most boring" mountain in the world.
So even though it was our anniversary and we wanted a fancy dinner, we spent our dinner money on the amusment park called the North Pole.
She loved it and got to see Santa in early June. Strike one.
We let her start watching Christmas movies in October. Strike two.
And finally I sent her a letter from Santa. Strike three.

Now she hates us because she wants to go live with Santa and can not understand why we can't "just let [her] go live where [she] wants to live! Oy! She's only 5!

So now, even though I love Christmas, I really hate Santa right now and can not remember why I wanted my daughter to believe in him. It seems very counterproductive that I spend my entire year being a mom and making her eat her veggies and go to bed on time, and the credit for the one really awesome thing I do all year goes to some stupid fat man.
I don't even want to share the credit with Mr. H. I'm th one that wrote that letter that she is carrying in her back pocket.
I'm the one that painstakingly picked out the world's best scooter that is currently hiding in my garage waiting for Christmas morning and my daughter is like, "Bitch I hate living with you and all your stupid vegetables and bedtimes! I want to live at the North Pole!" (Obviously she didn't say that, it was just implied).
I never had this problem with Boy. He believed but he wasn't insane.

When Christmas Cards Go Bad

I spent almost an hour last night trying to get the picture taken for our Christmas card. It did not go well. I couldn't get a single picture where both kids looked nice. Eventually my kids got annoyed and wouldn't even smile for the camera. These were the best of the bunch, and that's just pathetic.

Nothing Smaller Than Your Elbow

When I was a baby, pre-talking but able to move on my own, I stuck a pebble up my nose. My mom never let me forget it. She kept it for years up until she moved out of the house I grew up in when I was in my early twenties. She told everybody about it too. My friends, boyfriends, whoever she could and then she'd show it to them. Tell them about how I couldn't talk but kept yelling at the doctors and nurses, about how they almost had to slice open my "poor little nose", about how a sympathetic nurse made a last ditch effort and got it out.
It used to mortify me when she'd tell it too. That is until I learned how to ask, "Well I was one, how come someone wasn't watching me?" Then she'd stop picking on me and blame my dad.

Well, as of today, I have something to hold over my daughter's head for the next twenty years. Today I was reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerers Stone to my five year old daughter, and after she told me she was going to do a magic trick, I looked up from the book to find she had stuffed one of the beads from her jewelery making kit into her ear. I think she was going to make it appear from her ear like that quarter trick. She kind of missed the point.
Anyhow, she was trying to get it out for a few seconds before I realized what had happened, and it got pushed pretty far into her ear.
I freaked out and kept yelling at her not to touch anything. It was really up there and I was afraid to try anything and risk popping something. Of course it was noon and her Dr. was at lunch. The emergency room said I'd have an hour wait there anyhow so I should just hang out until her Dr. came back (It's at this point that I would like to point out that I live in a small town of around 20,000 people, and while the hospital does serve the next town over as well, they aren't much larger and I doubt I would have had to wait an hour unless it was just that the ER was on their lunch break).
At any rate, since I had to wait any how, I decided to give one thing a try. I took the straw from Girl's cup and stuck it near her ear canal and sucked. It didn't move the bead a lot, but it pulled it down enough that I could grab it with a tweezers without putting the tweezers into her ear canal.

And once again the day (and hundreds of dollars in medical expenses) is saved thanks to Super-mommy.

By the way, learning from my feelings about that stupid rock, I took a picture of the bead and then cleaned it off and put it back with her jewelery kit.


Notice the bead is a Y for Why would you stick this in your ear.

Halloween

I hope everyone had a nice Halloween. Mine was okay. After a discussion with Boy we agreed he would Trick-or-Treat with us for one last year. We did bring his buddy with us, which kind-of didn't work out as his friend was slightly whiny and because of him we only went out for about an hour and a half of our town's trick-or-treat hours. We usually go for at least another half hour but Boy's friend complained about everything including thinking that he had flat-feet and had maybe inherited his mother's Plantar Fasciitis.

Oh, well! We have plenty of candy and Girl only complained about going in early a little bit. The Dr. Horrible costume turned out pretty nice and the weather was the nicest Halloween weather I had ever experienced.

An American Dream

I never thought anything would drive the stupid F.A.O Schwartz song (Welcome to our world... Welcome to our world Welcome to our World of Toys...) out of my head. That is until I took my daughter to American Girl Place last Friday.

From beginning to end only one song was playing in this mecca of consumerism. Unfortunately most of the song was quiet so I was only able to here the chorus over and over again. "Circle of Friends." I reminded me a lot of the Duff Beer song "Duff Beer for me, Duff Beer for you, I'll have a Duff you have one too."

I wanted to break one of the glass cases that they keep the dolls in and jam a shard through my temple.



I know that Girl loved it. Who wouldn't love being sent loose in a store designed specifically for your current interest and being told to pick almost anything you want (courtesy of Grandma)? By that I mean any accessories for her new doll. Because yes (if you haven't worked it out), despite the heated debate, Girl got her American Girl doll.



I have never felt more out of place. Nothing can make you feel more out of place than hanging out on the Magnificent Mile in a store full of dolls whose outfits are more expensive than the one you are wearing. Plus the whole thing is set up to suck every dime from you.

But all of it was worth it because Girl is insanely happy. Grandma even got her PJ's and a shirt that matched her doll, and a picture that commemorated the whole thing.

(I think the photographer had her smile like that because up until that moment, I've never seen her smile with her front teeth sticking out and when I first saw the dolls I wondered why every one of them had their teeth sticking out).

Happy Birthday!

A great big happy birthday to Girl today. She's five (going on 21) and is, "having the best day ever!"



I'll save why it's not my best day ever for another time.

And So It Begins

Farm and Fleet and Kmart have been running Christmas ads all week. My daughter demanded four Christmas songs at bedtime. Our leaves only began falling this week, but Christmas has already come to my house.
I have a dream that one day I will be allowed to celebrate my holidays in order. That at some point my little girl will not listen almost exclusively to Christmas music from September to February. I dream that someday we won't visit Santa in June (like we did this year thanks to a Christmas-themed amusement park in Colorado) and Elf won't be put in our DVD player until after Thanksgiving instead of in late August.
These are my dreams. Dear Santa Claus, it's all I want for Christmas.

My Kingdom for a Bathroom Key

The next town over has a very old library. One of the best things about this library is that in the children's section there is a carpeted area that very clearly used to be a stage and it's loaded up with toys.
After her swim lessons today, Girl begged me to take her to this library which was only about a block away from the Y.M.C.A (where her lessons were). Very happy to get out of yet another afternoon of watching her attempt to cross the monkey bars, I quickly agreed.
We spent a good chunk of time there, with her playing with the Polly Pockets from my purse in their giant dollhouse (there were no dolls for the dollhouse) or playing with cars from my purse on the giant parking garage/track (there were no cars for the track) and I read my book and occasionally read books to her (Fancy Nancy: Bonjour, Butterfly; Pinkalicious; and No Zombies Allowed) I am telling you the titles in a kind of one-of-these-things-is-not-like-the-others-type scenario.
At any rate as 4-year-olds (two weeks from their 5th birthday) are wont to do, Girl needed to use the facilities, and as they are also wont to do, she didn't tell me until she was potty dancing.
I ran right over to the children's section desk and asked the clerk where the bathrooms were located.
"Oh, well the upstairs bathrooms are closed because of vandalism, you'll have to use the ones in the lower basement, but first you'll have to go to the main desk and get the key," he replied.

Grrr!

Let me give you an idea of the layout of this library in which this event is taking place. As I've said, it's an old building, the kind with high ceilings where the first floor is actually about a half a floor up and there are several flights of stairs before you get to the second floor. The children's section is on the second floor, the lower basement is actually three floors down. Did I mention my daughter is dancing?

So we bolt down the stairs (pausing briefly at the second floor bathrooms to determine that they are in fact locked). We rush down four flights of stairs and hurry over to the front desk, which is completely empty. A heavyset, old lady wearing cataract surgery lenses under regular glasses scoots out of the office and walks away from us with a stack of DVDs in one hand, holding the walls for support with the other. "I'll be right with you dear," she calls over her shoulder. I look at my daughter, her legs are crossed, her hand is firmly gripping her crotch and she is still dancing. "It's a bit urgent," I call back. I am ignored.
The old lady reappears and SLOOOOOOWLY makes her way to us. "We need the bathroom key," I explain quickly patting my daughter's head.
"Well, I need your library card." I scramble through my purse to get my wallet and practically fling it towards her as I make a grab for the tiny key attached to a giant purple dowel rod.
She backs away faster than I thought possible given her previous manner of movement.
"No, dear, you have to check it out."
She shakily makes her way to the computer scans my card and then scans a bar code attached to the dowel rod and slooooowly hands both back to me. I grab my daughter under my arm and make a Heisman-style dash to the stairs and go down six more flights. After a battle with an ancient uncooperative lock I get my daughter inside where she barely makes it to the toilet.

Now that the task is complete I can fully appreciate how fucking mad I am.

We return to the front desk and my little girl wants to return the key, but I want to yell (or whisper furiously as it is a library).

You need to know that I love libraries with my heart and soul. Almost all of my favorite places have been libraries and this one is no exception, it's lovely.

Finally after she helps the several elderly ahead of us in line, I approach the desk and ask cataract-lady who is in charge.
"That's me actually."
I proceed to tell her how fully irritated I am. My speech was lengthy and included forays into my daughter's constitutional right not to have an accident, and reminders about how she would be required to clean up any such messes and the greater danger of urine to books versus ink to walls. I also reminded her that public libraries were for the public and you shouldn't need a library card to pee.
All the while library patrons are staring and I am realizing I am not maintaining a library voice.
Finally I finish and the old lady looks at me and says in a very clear "I am brushing you off" voice, "I am sorry ma'am."
I grabbed my daughter's had and said (loudly for the benefit of my audience), "I don't want your apologies, I want you to fix your ridiculous policies!"
I wish old people had heard of the slow-clap, because I clearly deserved it here.
Anyways, we went back to the children's section to grab the books Girl wanted to take out and as we left I noticed the upstairs bathroom was open and a girl was scrubbing the walls.

I think I am still going to write to the local paper.

11 Years of Halloween

So, I'm supposed to be making a Dr. Horrible costume for Boy and a fairy costume for Girl. Instead I am stalling like crazy and am presenting an eleven year retrospective of my children's Halloween costumes.

This is Boy's first Halloween (1997). He was the cutest little dragon in the kingdom.

Boy with his Godmother, K. in 1998. I think it's self-explanatory.

1999- A Jedi Master. This was taken after trick-or-treating. Always take pre-t-or-t photos.

In 2000 I was working for the Chicago Cultural Center organizing their annual Halloween party. The theme was Wizard of Oz for the 100th Anniversary of the book that Baum wrote while living in Chicago. I was Dorothy and Boy was Toto. Too bad he wouldn't look at the camera and too bad blue gingham isn't very flattering on me.

2001- Boy was Harry Potter and won a Harry Potter look-a-like contest. That little white thing is a mini-Hedwig which he carried instead of a wand. Boy loves animals.

2002- He was a turtle. The girl is my friend's daughter. They trick-or-treated together for the bulk of our years in Chicago.

2003- Girl's first Halloween, a short eight days after she was born. Everything was store bought this year because I was tired and uncomfortable all through October because of the 9+ lb. baby inside of me (and PUPPP). Girl was a butterfly and Boy was Frodo, note the furry feet (a nod to Mr. Hobbitfeet)

2004- Our first Halloween downstate. Boy was a generic wizard (not Harry Potter at all) and Girl was a Fall Fairy. She had a nice pointy hat too that was my big thing that year. The night after the town parade, we found out Girl had Pneumonia so she missed trick-or-treating, but won the Under 3 costume contest.

2005- A velvet ant and a purple Unicorn. I made both of these, but the velvet ant was almost impossible.

2006- Dorothy and a Bionicle. Boy really wanted me to make his Bionicle costume but I refused as I was still recovering from the velvet ant, but I made Girl's though in this picture it is mis-shaped because of the many layers she was wearing under the outfit.

And finally 2007. Boy was (clearly) Luigi and Girl wanted with all her heart to be Wonder Woman. I gave in and bought Wonder Woman because, come on, that costume was awesome. Boy won 2nd place in the 10-12 costume contest. 1st place went to the parade director's niece in a very lame store-bought fairy princess dress. Lame!

Breaking Her Mommy's Heart Since 2003

Sometimes as a mom you have these moments with your kids that just rip your heart out. It's possible you have these moments as a dad too, but I can only tell you what it's like from my side of the fence. Also, when I tell Mr. Hobbitfeet these things, he laughs at me which leads me to suspect that men are heartless and a little mean. Again, I only base this on my experience so if you are a dad, I get that you might not be heartless and mean, but come on, you are.
At any rate I had to of these instances today.
On Tuesdays and Thursdays Girl stays home with me. Tuesdays used to be horrible. We had a whole day of not a whole lot and then after 3:30 p.m. we were running around crazy trying to fit in Boy's swim team practice, Girl's gymnastics class, and then Girl's swim lessons. All this took place the next town over so we weren't getting home again until 7:15 p.m. Since Girl is 4 and she has school the next day, her bed time is supposed to be 7:30, and we still had to get dinner in her, and Girl hates eating dinner.
Obviously this system wasn't working, so after the last session of swim classes finished we switched her to private lessons on Tuesday mornings. Today was the first day of the new schedule and the plan was for Mr. Hobbitfeet to pick her up after gymnastics and take her home while I stayed with Boy at his swim team practice.
It worked well until I was leaving gymnastics to head back to the YMCA. I pulled out of the lot and suddenly heard this heart-stopping scream. I look in my mirror to see Mr. H. running after the car. I seriously thought I had run over my daughter.
What actually happened was, Girl had been practicing cat's cradles all day with a piece of string, that she had left in the car when she went in to gymnastics. When she realized the string was still in my departing car, she screamed, escaped her father's grip and chased my car. The reason I only saw Mr. H. as he chased her was that she was too damn short to even be seen from my Honda Civic. I had a heart attack, but Mr. H. got her damn string. Awesome.
Later as I was singing her her four goodnight songs, she did it to me again. Usually when I sing her songs she'll say something like, "princess songs tonight Mommy," and I'll bust out my memorized Disney songs. Sometimes she wants Annie songs, or occasionally Dr. Horrible. Tonight she wanted me to pick, so I started with Baby Don't You Cry (the pie song from Waitress), transitioned smoothly into Baby Mine (from Dumbo), and then blanked on a soft slow song so sang Me and Bobby McGee, changing the words so I said her name in place of Bobby's like I have since she was a baby.
That brought it on. For the first time ever, Girl realized what it meant when I said, "One day up near Salinas, Lord, I let her slip away," and started bawling. Inconsolable she started this sad story about how three of us (Me, Boy, and Girl presumably) would go on vacation leaving the other three (again I am presuming, Mr. Hobbitfeet, Mr. Giles, and Willow) at home. Then she would really miss them. Her heart was broken. She cried for a long time before I was able to cheer her up with some Dr. Horrible. Uggh. Kids.

C-O-O-L R-I-D-E-R!

So Jenboglass at the Steenky Bee was talking about Grease and Grease II, which for some reason made me want to watch Grease II. Unlike her, I actually own the movie. I got it as a twofer from Best Buy when I bought the original.
Truthfully, I know every word to every song. Thanks to my cousins K. and A., I saw the movie several times a month as a kid.

After hearing a few songs from her room, Girl joined me. She may have thought I was watching High School Musical or some other wacky Disney movie. The following were actual coversations that occured during the movie (keep in mind she 4, oh sorry, 4 and a half).

Girl: So wait, what is that guy doing?
Me: He's learning to ride a motorcycle.
Girl: Why?
Me: Because he likes Stephanie and she told him she wants a "cool rider."
Girl: Mommy, that doesn't make sense.

Girl: Okay, who's the guy that built the motorcycle, and who is the guy who rides it?
Me: They're both the same guy. They're both Michael.
Girl: Who is he trying to be? Is he a superhero?
Me: I don't know baby I guess.

Girl: Mommy, is Michael dead?
Me: We're supposed to think he is.
Girl: That girl shouldn't have made him be a "cool rider."

Girl: Is that Michael, is he in heaven?
Me: Yup. Stephanie's dreaming.
Girl: And she's in heaven.
Me: Yup.
Girl: Wait, his motorcycle's in heaven? Mommy, motorcycles don't go to heaven.

Girl: Well that was a good movie, Mommy, but High School Musical is better.

Maybe I Should Be Living in 1964!

My sister Meander found this website called yearbookyourself.com and posted some pretty funny pictures of her family. I gave it a try and was creeped out by how much it looked like me. I showed to my son and he thought it was our Grandma. Mr. Hobbitfeet didn't recognize me, but he was very sure it wasn't me, and didn't believe me after I told him it was.

Before:






After:

And here is how I spent my night:

1st Boy:

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Then Girl:

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

Then Me:

Created with Admarket's flickrSLiDR.

But what I've really discovered is that I could be a man:

I like Boy and Girl best in 1954. What do you think?

My Own Little Guinea Pigs

I was 20 and in college when Boy was born. My college, near where I live now, is primarily known as a teachers' college. One of the things that teachers have to do before they become teachers is observe children. I know this because when he was a baby, nearly everyone of my friends sat in my living room and watched my son do his baby things for an hour or two.
Then they wanted to put the things they had learned in class to practice. Once one of my friends put a dot of lipstick on his nose and held him up to a mirror to see how he reacted. I think it was supposed to show how babies can't recognize themselves if they have some lipstick on their noses. They look at themselves and think, "Oh hey that's me! Oh shit, no it's not! That kid has lipstick on his nose. Hi weirdo! Who the hell are you?"
Now that I don't actually know anyone at college anymore, I thought my days of letting people experiment on my kids were over. But I got a letter from Girl's preschool the other day letting me know that students from the college were coming to observe the children. Apparently the students not lucky enough to have a friend have a baby before Junior year have to get setup by the school to do their observations.
I didn't think that they would be putting lipstick on my daughter's nose. She's far enough in her development that she recognizes herself even especially when she wears her Hannah Montana wig so I doubt a little lipstick will fool her.

Then I got a letter from these students. Their little forms were all filled out. Girl got top marks in everything until the last part. She got low marks on the money section, and I got a little note at the end.

Girl has no concept of the value of money. She can not identify the values of any of the coins and will switch a dollar for two quarters. Girl shows no interest in money and would rather play with the other toys. You should work with your child with value amounts. We have sent home some play money to help you in this task.

And all I could think was, "Um, she's four. Is it important that my daughter isn't Alex P. Keaton?" I very clearly remember learning about money in higher grades. More importantly why are the teachers of these future teachers not telling them that their letters to parents shouldn't be so negative. That they should compliment the child, remarking on their successes before easing into the areas that need work. In the end I guess it doesn't matter. These are just notes from students not from professionals, but it's never fun to get a note from school telling you your kid is a moron which is essentially what the note said.

Back To School

Girl finally went back to school today. She was so excited yesterday she could barely stand it. She also decided she was big enough (now that she's in four year old preschool) to make her own lunch, take her own bath, pick out her own clothes, etc. She did, however, accept help with a lot of it.

I had to veto a lot of very interesting outfits, until I finally asked her what was the most important part of her outfit, and we'd build around it. In the end, we stuck with the styles she picked out, but with more matching colors.

She was very excited about wearing a scooter (a skirt with attached shorts underneath), a pair of knee socks (this is a matchy as any of her knee socks get), and her butterfly t-shirt. She originally picked her bright yellow scooter, and maroon and black striped knee socks. I felt this was a good compromise.

Also, if you look at her hair, you may see what is left of the curls she so desperately wanted today. After her bath last night I walked in her room to find her sticking the curlers that her aunt, Meander gave her, which were more stick in your hair and blow dry, than sleep in curlers. So I pulled out my sleeping curlers and put them in her hair. Unfortunately her hair is too damn short for curlers and all but one fell out during the night. So this morning I sprayed out her kinks and put in a couple braids with her rainbow-sparkly barrettes. Thus her awesome first day of school outfit was completed to her satisfaction. I guarantee that when Mr. Hobbitfeet picks her up at 3 p.m., her shirt will be stained, the socks will be rolled down to her ankles, and the barrettes will be lost forever (unless her new teacher is as thoughtful as her old one and puts them in her book bag). I am not sure why she loves knee socks so much because she always rolls them down until she looks like Olive Oyl.

And just so you don't think that I only love Girl, here is a picture of Boy on his first day (last Thursday).

Lessons Mom

Girl has become obsessed with "lessons."
While these do not need to be professionally taught she wants lessons in EVERYTHING. Obviously Mr. H. can't be counted on to teach her sports as he seriously injures himself playing mini-golf.
So I've been working on imparting every bit of wisdom on any activity that I can think of to my four-year-old.
Friday we worked on rollerskating, skateboarding, basketball, and tennis.
I can rollerskate, although I haven't done it since I was in eighth grade. Mostly my knowledge of skating was involved in skating around Scottsdale Roller Rink for our monthly, grade-school, Roller Skating Parties.
Since there were no large carpeted mushrooms to sit on Girl and I sat on the bleachers outside of the outdoor roller hockey rink. I strapped on her Barbie "My First Skates" and the Skechers Four-wheelers that I bought several years ago during the two-week period where boy wanted to learn skating.
I pulled Girl to the rink, with her sobbing all the way, "I'm scared Mommy!" She was wearing knee pads and a helmet and her skates only rolled one way. Worms on the sidewalk were in more danger than she was. But we tried and she whined all the time because she didn't have skates like mine. She completely ignored my teachings and didn't want to hear that she could have real skates when she was good on hers. 10 minutes after begining we were done with roller skating. We hadn't even made it an eighth of the way around. Next up skateboarding.
Honestly, skateboarding was our biggest success of the day. The summer before both Freshman and Sophmore year of high school, my cousin and I spent the summer as skater boy groupies. Hell we even got arrested for them (remind me to tell you that story again later). Sadly though I haven't picked up much from watching those boys slide over parking blocks and attempt to flip their boards under them. I know how to get it to go, turn, and the proper way to pick up your board (by stepping on one end hard enough to knock the other into the air and catch it). This is the extent of my skater knowledge, but Girl really seems to be picking it up. I figure once she gets those down she can pick the rest of her need-to-know information the same way those boys did, by practicing endlessly in the parking lots of banks and White Hens. We worked on this for nearly an hour. She said it was boring, but she didn't give up. She even managed to skate across the hocky rink (the small way across) but there may have been a small slope and she may have gotten a couple pushes t help out her little foot pushes. At any rate she didn't fall at all and even managed a small turn. Lessons learned.
Next up basketball. Basketball is one of the few ball sports I know how to play, and though I might not be very good, I know the fundementals enogh to get her well on the way. I showed her how to dribble and even how to switch hands, but we got in trouble when I tried to get her to look at me instead of the ball. But we only made it through fifteen minutes and a lot of that was on the slide so there wasn't much learning involved.
Finally tennis. Tennis is one of Boy's sports, which may be why Girl likes it. I have no knowledge except for what I picked up my last semester of P.E. my Junior year of high school, but we swatted the ball a little and that was good enough for Girl.

So Girl had enough "lessons" to be happy. I was freaking tired. Honestly sometimes Mothering should and Olympic sport.

A Rant on Sexism

I lost my shit today at the park, and very nearly yelled at a little boy who was maybe eight at the most. Girl and I were swinging on the swings. Boy was sitting at the edge of the park watching traffic (his favorite thing to do). Girl got off her swing and walked a few feet away to the merry-go-round (her favorite thing to do at the park). Three little boys were already on it and one of the boys yelled out, "Hey! You can't come on this. No Girls allowed!" Girls face crumpled and tears started flowing down her face.
Normally, I tend to leave kids alone to their own arguments. But boy, howdy! I wasn't going to leave this one alone. I jumped off my swing and got to the merry-go-round in three steps.
"Listen, you little brat!" I wasn't screaming, but it was taking all I had to prevent it. I grabbed the merry-go-round and stopped the spinning, "You don't have the right to tell anyone they can't ride something!!"
Girl got on and I spun all of them until she was dizzy and wanted to get off.
As we walked away, I held her hand. With lips tight and eyes a little teary (but hidden behind my sunglasses), I told her, "Never, never let anyone tell you you can't do something because you are a girl. You fully have my permission to tell them to shut up, and then do what they just told you not to do. Girls are every bit as good as boys. Don't ever, ever forget it!"
Girl looked up at me and said, "I won't forget, Mommy. Next time those boys don't let me on, I'll say shut up."
I don't know, maybe I was being a little drastic, but I look around my town all the time and see blatant sexism that should have gone out of style decades ago, and think about the crap I had to grow up with and get so fucking mad. This might have been a tiny thing, but it's the tiny stuff that chips away at our daughters self image until they lose their shit at 12 and start kowtowing to boys and social pressure and crap like that.
And here I am watching the start of it with my four-and-a-half year-old. So it comes down to am I going to let it pass and let those little punks get away with it because they aren't my kids, or am I going to be angry at the park and have my daughter see me stand up for her and teach her that that stuff is bull-shit and she doesn't need to put up with it. I chose the latter, and I hope all moms with little girls do the same. In much the same way that I stand up for little boys whose parents don't let them play with dolls.

My Little Daredevil

Girl discovered the diving board today. All that I was allowed to do was sit at the side of the dive pool and watch as she ran and jumped off the board over, and over, and over again. She hasn't worked out any different jumps yet. All that she can manage is running as fast as she can and jumping, but she certainly swims back to the ladder better than most of the other kids there.

In Which I Am Willing to Trade My Kids and Pets For One Night of 8 Hour Sleep

I have this goal that I am going to get up at 6 a.m. and make my husband and kids a nice healthy breakfast in the morning. A breakfast that isn't a bagel or a bowl of cereal, which is all the kids get when Mr. Hobbitfeet makes breakfast. Well, sometimes he makes instant oatmeal. I really would love to make them scrambled egg whites.
So every night I go to bed thinking, "Tomorrow, I'll do it." Then the night hits me. No matter what time I physically go to bed, I cannot fall asleep until at least 12:30 a.m. (if I'm lucky). I just lie there thinking, completely unable to turn my brain off no matter what I do.
Mr. H. can lay down no matter what time of day or night and instantly be in a deep sleep, and once he's there nothing, NOTHING can wake him up (short of a high pitched scream directly in his ear or possibly a blow job, but who wants to go there?). I hate him.
The slightest thing wakes me up, a loud owl, a weird breeze. Sometimes, absolutely nothing will wake me up. I'll be asleep having nice dreams, and BAM! I am wide awake for no discernible reason. Every now and again (though much less if I take a sleep aid) I'll wake myself up as I am running screaming down the hall turning on every light in the house. Why do I do that? I never have any knowledge.
Then there are nights like last night. The dog, the cat, and Girl all decided that they needed to sleep with us. Despite being a queen-sized bed, there is no room for that shit. Of course, since Mr. H's feet go all the way to the bottom of the bed, they are all on my side. At first it was okay. Everyone took up some space, but we were all feeling cozy, but at 3 a.m. the cat and the dog remembered they hate each other and start brawling and I am trapped between Girl and Mr. H.
So everyone is kicked out. Girl is pt back in her own bed, which makes her cry for hours and the cat and dog are thrown out.
Of course, this isn't the end of it. I have to leave the door open in case one of my kids needs me, and the cat and t he dog aren't fooled for a second by my closing it most of the way, but leaving it open a crack. They keep pawing the door so it opens and then staring at me from the doorway before resuming their brawl.
Finally, I can't take it anymore. Even though it is a chilly night, I turn on my two fans for the white noise and dig myself deep into the covers. 4 a.m. and I am back asleep. Then 7:30 a.m. rolls around and I am awakened by Girl, once again in my bed, wanting me to tell her how many days it is until she can sleep over at my mom's farm, how many days until school starts, how to spell this and that, until I am fully awake with a pounding, not-enough-sleep-for-the fifth-night-in-a-row headache and every muscle sore from last night's battle with kids to big to carry and stupid pets.
"Go watch t.v. with your brother," I mumble, very much aware of the shitty parenting I am doing.
Five more minutes and I am wide awake because the dog is barking his "someone's here bark" which is much, much louder than his "there's a deer in our driveway" bark or his "there's a dog being walked and I can see it" bark. So I get up to make sure my kids aren't going to allow a religious nut into the house. But it is just Blondie, the kid whose is Boy's age and gets babysat by his Grandma who lives across the street. Luckily, Boy sends him away. Knowing I won't let him out until breakfast has been eaten and Mama is awake. Good ole Boy. He sure takes care of his Mom!
Maybe when I sell the pets and Girl (to the gypsies as my dad always said), I'll keep him around.