"My goodness! How many you got in there?"
Blink. "Excuse me?"
"I said," the gentleman winked and continued in his authentic southern drawl, "how many you got in there?" He pointed at my mid-section with a grin.
"Uh..." I looked down at the rounded maternity shirt (which may or may not have had a small smudge of strawberry jam on it). "Just the one, so I'm told."
He whistled. "I woulda sworn you had three or four in there!"
I briefly compared our weight classes, wondering if I could take him, but thought better of brawling in Target. A fist fight would upset my long-suffering husband. I tried my cutest smile on for size and laughed, "Well, he'll be tall and handsome, just like his daddy!"
That worked. He said, "Awww", and I wasn't forced to punch him. Thus I escaped, dignity barely intact.
Just to be clear, I did not know this man. To this day, my memory has created him from an amalgam of several events, because I was stopped so many times by random individuals that I eventually crushed them all into a single memory in order to conserve space. Male, female, young, old, it mattered not - strangers thought themselves perfectly qualified to comment on my size and shape.
Stranger Danger.
This segment will offer stratagems for dealing with well-meaning strangers, but next week, I will include tips for acquaintances and family members. While this post could mislead you into thinking only the wandering sociopaths of Walmart are going to address your burgeoning middle, I cannot in good conscience allow you to proceed misinformed. Your mother won't warn you of Stranger Danger because she will consider it perfectly natural for her (and all her friends) to comment/offer advice/dictate your taste in layettes. But more on that later...
You will, of course, be thrilled when the bump is obvious. It's much nicer for random strangers to open doors for you, because it means you no longer just look pale and bloated. The early months can be distressing, for no one offers assistance when you are bent miserably over a shopping cart in the canned goods aisle and praying for relief from morning sickness.
Unfortunately, just because you are not sporting a bump doesn't mean that other symptoms won't fetch comment. I remember a particularly evil week of the first trimester, still reeling from the life-altering, nausea-inducing miracle that was my first pregnancy, when I crawled from the couch to our studio to teach a piano lesson. The precocious nine-year old scrambled through her first three scales, then spun about on the bench with the air of an interrogator. "Do you know," she demanded, "that your acne is all over your neck now too?"
"Yes, thank you," I answered. It was hard not to notice the constellations.
"Okay." She returned to the keys, satisfied.
But she was more curious as the months went on. As my due date neared, she would look more and more appalled when I welcomed her to her lesson. "You're enormous!" she would cry. Or, "Can you still drive?!"
That one brought out the irate-piano-teacher sigh. "Of course, I can still drive!" I said. "There's nothing wrong with my brain!" Which was a lie.
"But how do you fit behind the wheel?" she asked. The spirit of honest curiosity was too adorable to be infuriating. Cute nine-year-olds get away with everything.
"The truth is," I admitted, "I have to push the seat back a bit. But I can still drive. And I can still tell when you fake your left hand fingering - so let's try that scale again, shall we?"
Response Tactic #1: Gentle Distraction
One of the basic rules of good conversation is to ask questions about the other person. If at all possible, turn attention away from the bump and back to your questioner. A good friend once gave this gem of wisdom to me: If someone should happen to reach out and pat your belly, saying, "Oh! Aren't you adorable?!", you should feel free to respond by patting their belly, saying, "Aren't you the cutest flabby lady there ever was?"
Moving on from the well-meaning or clueless stranger, we address the randomly impertinent and malicious. I have heard from girlfriends again and again of strangers whispering everything from, "Babies are hard!" (Seriously? Duh.) to outright, "Ugh! My life was completely over once my kids showed up."
I also found that resentment can linger. While standing in a crafts store checkout, I was accosted from behind by two middle-aged ladies. After the obligatory comments, "You must be due yesterday!" and the response, "No... just six months in, thanks," they exchanged glances and leaned forward. "Kids are the worst," one began.
The other nodded. "It's true. My kids are monsters."
"Ungrateful little wretches."
My jaw may have dropped a little. "Oh?"
"Enjoy the little time left, honey," the first said, shaking her head. "They destroy your body."
"Oh, yes they do," her friend agreed. Her weathered face scowled. "You're never the same."
"As soon as that baby shows up, it's all over."
The cashier and I were staring in horror at this point, though she was trying to help me complete my transaction as quickly as possible. "Sign here," she whispered.
"Remember what I told you," the first crone cackled, which was when I realized she had to be a descendant of one of the Macbeth witches. "Babies are the worst!"
"Little monsters!" the other chimed in.
"Soon, you will look just like us!"
"Hideous - Like us! Like US!" they howled in wicked unison.
I fled as fast as my swollen feet would allow.
Response Tactic #2: Grateful Inquiry
When confronted with a doomsayer, try to appear both horrified and naive. After they declare, "Kids ruin your life!", respond with earnest sincerity, "Oh, no! I'm so glad you warned me! Is that what happened to you? Am I going to become cruel, inappropriate, and ugly too?"
Then run, or waddle, or duck behind a book display.
There is a line.
There is a line that shouldn't be crossed. According to the wise philosopher Bill Cosby, one should never ask a woman if she's pregnant. One may only assume the woman was pregnant if you are standing in the delivery room and see her birth a child. Then one may exclaim, "Oh! You were pregnant!" In no other circumstances is it entirely safe to ask. Mr. Cosby is a wise man.
But not everyone understands this. It is important to be kind and considerate to those who have not been trained. It is probably wrong to take advantage of them. But ---
Response Tactic #3: Play Dumb
Three weeks from my due date with my son, I was standing in a Starbucks. I want to say that I was there to get an organic green tea, but you and I both know that I was waiting for a Strawberries 'N Creme frappecino because it was July in North Carolina and I was melting. Anyway, while waiting for the barista, I moved to the end of the counter where I would block the least amount of traffic. A gentleman also awaiting his order looked up from his phone just long enough to smile and say, "Congratulations."
On sudden impulse, I played dumb. I stared at him, blankly. "For what?" I snapped.
His face went completely white. The jaw trembled and he gasped for air. "I-I..-I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"It's okay! I'm kidding!" I smiled reassuringly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, but I've wanted to do that for soooo long - you have no idea - I'm a terrible person. I'm sorry."
I wasn't, really.
Play Dumb has to go into the advice portion because it works. (A little too well.)
And I may be a horrible, terrible, vengeful goddess, but there comes a limit to what one can endure from the random public. At some point, you must defend yourself. I will back you up.
However, not all are vicious. Not every stranger is out to make you cry. I have other stories too, stories of kind gentlemen who hold the doors and insist on helping carry the groceries. Stories of kind ladies who murmur, "I remember those days. They are the best. Treasure every moment." In those cases, one should not answer, "You treasure it! I can't walk through a grocery store deli aisle without needing a Zofran tablet." One should respond --
Response Tactic #4: "Thank you".
"Thank you." Be gracious. Say, "Thank you", and move on.
If they try to touch the bump during flu season, put a hand gently to your cheek and say, "Dear me, I'm not feeling very well. You don't want to come near us", which isn't a lie, because you're not going to feel 100% yourself ever, because about 30% of you is busy becoming someone else.
But realize that some of the interference is just an attempt to reconnect to what is widely-remembered to be a glorious time of life. Most ladies don't recall the itchy skin and thinning hair. They remember the first flutters of baby feet. They remember the joy of growing hope and the tiny fuzzy baby socks.
So let them remember with rose-colored glasses and say, "Thank you."
Be sure to subscribe! In the next post, We'll discuss how to tell your family that you're bringing an addition to the next reunion!
Sunday, June 22, 2014
Monday, June 9, 2014
Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren: Part I 'Pregnancy Brain'
I am a walking GPS.
When we first moved to Greensboro, my husband made a wrong turn. I told him it wasn't a big deal as long we were heading north. With no maps, no knowledge of any of the street names, and no new-fangled smart phones, I navigated the snarl of back roads and we arrived unscathed at our new home. I brag because Greensboro is the sort of town that plans its major roads with only one aim in mind - to confuse anyone not local into accidentally driving to Virginia.
I also brag because the following story isn't very flattering.
Which leads me to the title of this series: Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren. There are many. I was one of the first of our friends to get pregnant, and while being a mammoth-sized guinea pig, I discovered that there are lots of things my mother didn't tell me - like, delivery doesn't happen in a 13 minutes window right after your water breaks. I don't really blame her for that one. I blame Hollywood.
Then there's 'What To Expect When You're Expecting', the book that prepared me for detecting a cerebral hemorrhage in my unborn child and helped me to recognize that I should worry about giving my child cancer in utero, but failed to include instructions for figuring out which of the 87 types of pacifier is best for baby's teeth and will actually be accepted by the baby - that is, if you're the sort of horrible parent who allows things like pacifiers.
And while sitcoms prepared me for the weird food cravings, and my research warned about mood swings, nobody told me that I would, overnight, become a completely incompetent moron. No kind OB/GYN patted my shoulder and said, "You know, you're usually capable of dressing yourself, but today you're going to put your shirt on inside out, spill yogurt down it, and not notice until you're standing in the checkout at Food Lion."
This is all very unfair. And since no one bothered to tell me that I might one day have a hairdresser say, "Oh! There's your little pregnancy bald spot!", I feel it is my duty to at least prepare my beloved friends and family who are considering this venture called Pregnancy & Parenthood.
Which brings us back to the fact that - up until my unexpected firstborn made me hate the smell of rotisserie chicken - I was ready for that Ranger test where they dump you in the desert and make you find your way home blindfolded. 'WTEWYE' (what kind of title is that for a book anyway?) warned me that some women experienced 'Pregnancy Brain'.
I experienced panic.
Why? Because I got lost. On an elevator. In a four story building.
A Four. Story. Building. Not the Mall of America. Not Super Target (who hasn't gotten turned around in one of those?). I was completely lost in a simple brick office building.
I'd had my prenatal appointment, where the midwife completely failed to mention anything about oncoming insanity, and was preparing to return to my car. When I stepped from the office, I paused. This hall looked unfamiliar. Was this the same hall I had entered by? Was that window always there?
I glanced over my shoulder. Doctor's office was still there. I had not fallen down the rabbit hole.
This is why they provide little signs with strangely engraved white letters in long, bland hallways. ELEVATOR. I followed the arrow. I had come in on an elevator. I was sure of it. From a parking garage. Yes. That was it.
I got onto the empty elevator and paused, finger frozen over the buttons. There were only four. But I couldn't decide. I hadn't come in on the first floor, surely. The third? I pressed.
Ding.
The doors opened. No. That couldn't be it. That wasn't familiar at all. It must have been the second floor. Silly me.
Ding.
Uh..., that isn't it either. Where was the doctor's office? Four. Right? Yes. Four. I think.
That was when I realized that I couldn't even remember which floor I had originally entered the elevator from. As in, 38 seconds previously. While I wasn't so far gone as to assume I'd been born, bred, and abandoned in this elevator, it did give me pause.
I had lost my mind.
I decided to try floor one. What could it hurt?
Ding.
That was definitely not where I had parked. It was an enormous lobby with windows and people. Two of the people got onto the elevator, an adorable couple who was obviously expecting a child. I was briefly jealous that this gentleman had had the foresight to accompany his wife, lest she go suddenly mad and be lost in an office complex. He didn't look the type that would be amenable to his child being born in an elevator.
They smiled at me and pressed the 4 button.
Since I hadn't gotten off, I realized I had to pick a destination. Any destination. I mashed the 2 and hoped they would believe that I had simply forgotten something and was returning to --
Ding.
Oh dear heaven, that was not the right floor. I didn't get off. They didn't get off.
We exchanged nervous smiles.
Three. Three. Please be Level 3 -
Ding.
I panicked and made a decision. "Oh! Here it is!" I laughed gaily and stepped off the elevator. "It's just so easy to get turned around in this place!"
They nodded and smiled as the door slid shut. The man may have put a protective arm around his wife - I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter, because I wouldn't have been capable of stalking them if I'd wanted to. I had just jumped off the elevator onto a completely unfamiliar floor.
There was an exit into the parking deck, so I took it. But I was no fool - I knew that my car was lost forever and I was doomed with it. So I called my husband.
"I want you to know that if I'm not home for dinner, you have to come looking for me," I said in a perfectly reasonable voice.
"Uh.... where will you be?"
"I don't know for certain. I'm lost at the doctor's office."
"Oh! Are you at a new one?"
"No."
"Wait. What?"
"Would you please quit asking questions?" I cried. "I've just ridden an elevator up and down every floor of the building and I've lost our car and now I'm hiking up these obscenely steep concrete steps because our car must be here somewhere and if I go into labor you have to find me before I give birth to our child in a parking deck! We'd have to name it something weird like Garage... but with a sort of French accent - "
"Are you telling me," he interrupted gently, "that you got lost at that little office building where - "
"Nope!" I shrieked. "Not lost! Found it!"
"You found the car?"
"Yes. Obivously. Ha. Ha." I laughed. "It was right here. Where I knew it was. All along."
"So... you're going home now?"
"Yeah," I said casually, "where else? Those dishes won't wash themselves!"
"Uh-huh..."
"So - yeah - you know - you don't need to worry about me." I unlocked the door. "By the way, we still live in the apartment, right? The one on New Garden Road?"
"Yeeess...."
We got lost in Greensboro twice within the next few months, so we scraped the pennies together and bough a GPS for ourselves for Christmas. I think my husband preferred the soothing Garmin voice to the hysterical whimpering of his wife repeating, "I don't know, I don't know - is it that? Left? Wait - no - I don't know, I don't know...", and really, who can blame him?
So that's Part I, 'Pregnancy Brain', for my beloved friends and family and ladies (and men, because you need to know what's going to happen to the perfectly rational person you married). You are warned. 'Pregnancy Brain' is no laughing matter. It will substitute salt for sugar and leave you with only one shaved leg. It will make you lose track of time so that you arrive a day before your scheduled appointment and you will argue with the receptionist for ten minutes before she blinks sweetly and says, "But the fourteenth is TOMORROW". You should probably get a tracking device in case you wander off, and an automatic turn-off switch for your oven. Double check and triple check which burner you turn on before you cook a plastic bowl of pancake batter while wondering why the skillet is still so cold.
And expect the unexpected. (Hey! That's what that book should have been called. 'Expect the Unexpected'. I need to trademark that.) Take heart, for some of the brain will return. It will be older, wiser, able to calculate bulk diapers per unit and compile a list of vacation supplies while making dinner, (and talking your friend through a sewing project). But a lot of those useful things, like the Battle of Hastings and what that thingamabob at the end of shoelaces is called will sort of fade away. You better write those down. Tie a string around your finger to remind you of things.
It will remind you to look down and say, "Blast. What is that there for?"
When we first moved to Greensboro, my husband made a wrong turn. I told him it wasn't a big deal as long we were heading north. With no maps, no knowledge of any of the street names, and no new-fangled smart phones, I navigated the snarl of back roads and we arrived unscathed at our new home. I brag because Greensboro is the sort of town that plans its major roads with only one aim in mind - to confuse anyone not local into accidentally driving to Virginia.
I also brag because the following story isn't very flattering.
Which leads me to the title of this series: Things Your Mother Won't Tell You Because She Wants Grandchildren. There are many. I was one of the first of our friends to get pregnant, and while being a mammoth-sized guinea pig, I discovered that there are lots of things my mother didn't tell me - like, delivery doesn't happen in a 13 minutes window right after your water breaks. I don't really blame her for that one. I blame Hollywood.
Then there's 'What To Expect When You're Expecting', the book that prepared me for detecting a cerebral hemorrhage in my unborn child and helped me to recognize that I should worry about giving my child cancer in utero, but failed to include instructions for figuring out which of the 87 types of pacifier is best for baby's teeth and will actually be accepted by the baby - that is, if you're the sort of horrible parent who allows things like pacifiers.
And while sitcoms prepared me for the weird food cravings, and my research warned about mood swings, nobody told me that I would, overnight, become a completely incompetent moron. No kind OB/GYN patted my shoulder and said, "You know, you're usually capable of dressing yourself, but today you're going to put your shirt on inside out, spill yogurt down it, and not notice until you're standing in the checkout at Food Lion."
This is all very unfair. And since no one bothered to tell me that I might one day have a hairdresser say, "Oh! There's your little pregnancy bald spot!", I feel it is my duty to at least prepare my beloved friends and family who are considering this venture called Pregnancy & Parenthood.
Which brings us back to the fact that - up until my unexpected firstborn made me hate the smell of rotisserie chicken - I was ready for that Ranger test where they dump you in the desert and make you find your way home blindfolded. 'WTEWYE' (what kind of title is that for a book anyway?) warned me that some women experienced 'Pregnancy Brain'.
I experienced panic.
Why? Because I got lost. On an elevator. In a four story building.
A Four. Story. Building. Not the Mall of America. Not Super Target (who hasn't gotten turned around in one of those?). I was completely lost in a simple brick office building.
I'd had my prenatal appointment, where the midwife completely failed to mention anything about oncoming insanity, and was preparing to return to my car. When I stepped from the office, I paused. This hall looked unfamiliar. Was this the same hall I had entered by? Was that window always there?
I glanced over my shoulder. Doctor's office was still there. I had not fallen down the rabbit hole.
This is why they provide little signs with strangely engraved white letters in long, bland hallways. ELEVATOR. I followed the arrow. I had come in on an elevator. I was sure of it. From a parking garage. Yes. That was it.
I got onto the empty elevator and paused, finger frozen over the buttons. There were only four. But I couldn't decide. I hadn't come in on the first floor, surely. The third? I pressed.
Ding.
The doors opened. No. That couldn't be it. That wasn't familiar at all. It must have been the second floor. Silly me.
Ding.
Uh..., that isn't it either. Where was the doctor's office? Four. Right? Yes. Four. I think.
That was when I realized that I couldn't even remember which floor I had originally entered the elevator from. As in, 38 seconds previously. While I wasn't so far gone as to assume I'd been born, bred, and abandoned in this elevator, it did give me pause.
I had lost my mind.
I decided to try floor one. What could it hurt?
Ding.
That was definitely not where I had parked. It was an enormous lobby with windows and people. Two of the people got onto the elevator, an adorable couple who was obviously expecting a child. I was briefly jealous that this gentleman had had the foresight to accompany his wife, lest she go suddenly mad and be lost in an office complex. He didn't look the type that would be amenable to his child being born in an elevator.
They smiled at me and pressed the 4 button.
Since I hadn't gotten off, I realized I had to pick a destination. Any destination. I mashed the 2 and hoped they would believe that I had simply forgotten something and was returning to --
Ding.
Oh dear heaven, that was not the right floor. I didn't get off. They didn't get off.
We exchanged nervous smiles.
Three. Three. Please be Level 3 -
Ding.
I panicked and made a decision. "Oh! Here it is!" I laughed gaily and stepped off the elevator. "It's just so easy to get turned around in this place!"
They nodded and smiled as the door slid shut. The man may have put a protective arm around his wife - I couldn't be sure. But it didn't matter, because I wouldn't have been capable of stalking them if I'd wanted to. I had just jumped off the elevator onto a completely unfamiliar floor.
There was an exit into the parking deck, so I took it. But I was no fool - I knew that my car was lost forever and I was doomed with it. So I called my husband.
"I want you to know that if I'm not home for dinner, you have to come looking for me," I said in a perfectly reasonable voice.
"Uh.... where will you be?"
"I don't know for certain. I'm lost at the doctor's office."
"Oh! Are you at a new one?"
"No."
"Wait. What?"
"Would you please quit asking questions?" I cried. "I've just ridden an elevator up and down every floor of the building and I've lost our car and now I'm hiking up these obscenely steep concrete steps because our car must be here somewhere and if I go into labor you have to find me before I give birth to our child in a parking deck! We'd have to name it something weird like Garage... but with a sort of French accent - "
"Are you telling me," he interrupted gently, "that you got lost at that little office building where - "
"Nope!" I shrieked. "Not lost! Found it!"
"You found the car?"
"Yes. Obivously. Ha. Ha." I laughed. "It was right here. Where I knew it was. All along."
"So... you're going home now?"
"Yeah," I said casually, "where else? Those dishes won't wash themselves!"
"Uh-huh..."
"So - yeah - you know - you don't need to worry about me." I unlocked the door. "By the way, we still live in the apartment, right? The one on New Garden Road?"
"Yeeess...."
We got lost in Greensboro twice within the next few months, so we scraped the pennies together and bough a GPS for ourselves for Christmas. I think my husband preferred the soothing Garmin voice to the hysterical whimpering of his wife repeating, "I don't know, I don't know - is it that? Left? Wait - no - I don't know, I don't know...", and really, who can blame him?
So that's Part I, 'Pregnancy Brain', for my beloved friends and family and ladies (and men, because you need to know what's going to happen to the perfectly rational person you married). You are warned. 'Pregnancy Brain' is no laughing matter. It will substitute salt for sugar and leave you with only one shaved leg. It will make you lose track of time so that you arrive a day before your scheduled appointment and you will argue with the receptionist for ten minutes before she blinks sweetly and says, "But the fourteenth is TOMORROW". You should probably get a tracking device in case you wander off, and an automatic turn-off switch for your oven. Double check and triple check which burner you turn on before you cook a plastic bowl of pancake batter while wondering why the skillet is still so cold.
And expect the unexpected. (Hey! That's what that book should have been called. 'Expect the Unexpected'. I need to trademark that.) Take heart, for some of the brain will return. It will be older, wiser, able to calculate bulk diapers per unit and compile a list of vacation supplies while making dinner, (and talking your friend through a sewing project). But a lot of those useful things, like the Battle of Hastings and what that thingamabob at the end of shoelaces is called will sort of fade away. You better write those down. Tie a string around your finger to remind you of things.
It will remind you to look down and say, "Blast. What is that there for?"
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Some Things You Have To Figure Out For Yourself
So I decided, last night, that I should take a 3 hour car trip with 2 children by myself. Because.
Not just because it would be spontanteous and I miss my relatives and friends dreadfully, but because it was my son's spring break. And last night, around eight, I realized that I could either :
a.) keep us all home and pretend I would accomplish something with two bored kids or
b.) pack quickly.
My dear husband was trapped by work obligations, so I sallied forth alone this morning, armed only with a cup of coffee and a Veggie Tales 'Bob & Larry Sing the 80s' CD. And we survived with only a little scarring:
Spiderman: "Mom? Today is Palm Sunday!"
Me: "You're right! Well done, calendar-obsessed son!"
Spiderman: "So... I guess... Palm Sunday means we don't go to church?"
Me: "No. That is not how the church calendar works at all. It means that you're mother is a heathen..."
Ah, Cary. Magical land of more-doctorates-per-capita-than-anywhere-in-the-nation, happy place where weeds are banished, glorious home of Hodges. (We are the satellite clan). I'm always so glad to see its pleasant hills of brick shopping centers and palatial subdivisions.
I spent the afternoon baking in the sun while watching a baseball game with a dear friend. We ate quinoa and discussed education policy and both my kids were off with grandparents, so it was basically the best vacation ever.
And there was a marvelous party on the first night in town, so Spiderman opted to ride with Grandpa and Uncle Wombat (your read that correctly), and Auntie 'Becca rode with the Princess and me. While we were wrestling - I mean, helping the little girl into her car seat, the Princess cried out, "I need water!"
"What, now?" I replied gently. "Not while we're sitting at Grandma's table, but now that we are in the car?"
"I need water!" she said.
"You can have water at the church," Auntie 'Becca pointed out much more gently than Mommy. "It's all right. We'll have water in a minute."
"I need-da-water-bottle!" Princess insisted.
"Oh, my purple bottle," I sighed, backing out of the world's most frustrating driveway (Steepest downhill grade ever allowed by a drunken civil engineer). "Honey, there's no water in there."
"But I thirsty," my offspring insisted.
"It's empty," patient Auntie reminded her.
"I need it! I thirsty!"
"Here!" I cried, (very calmly and sweetly), handing the bottle to the outstretched fingers. "You can hold it. We're almost there-"
"I need it."
"Here! Keep it together!"
Silence, as the bottle was accepted in triumph. Then, "I can't open."
Pause at stop light. "It doesn't matter, it's empty," I said.
"But I can't open!"
"There isn't any water in it."
"I need it open."
"We're almost to the church."
"But I need it!"
"Here," gracious Auntie 'Becca said. "I'll open it. But remember, it's empty."
"I got it! Is open!" Princess chuckled in glee.
Green light. So close to the church --
"IS EMPTY!" wailed Princess.
I didn't actually bury my face in my hands, but only because I was driving. I guess she will be one of those people who must test and approve everything. I sigh, knowing that she will have to figure out everything for herself.
What fun will the teenage years hold, I wonder?
Not just because it would be spontanteous and I miss my relatives and friends dreadfully, but because it was my son's spring break. And last night, around eight, I realized that I could either :
a.) keep us all home and pretend I would accomplish something with two bored kids or
b.) pack quickly.
My dear husband was trapped by work obligations, so I sallied forth alone this morning, armed only with a cup of coffee and a Veggie Tales 'Bob & Larry Sing the 80s' CD. And we survived with only a little scarring:
Spiderman: "Mom? Today is Palm Sunday!"
Me: "You're right! Well done, calendar-obsessed son!"
Spiderman: "So... I guess... Palm Sunday means we don't go to church?"
Me: "No. That is not how the church calendar works at all. It means that you're mother is a heathen..."
Ah, Cary. Magical land of more-doctorates-per-capita-than-anywhere-in-the-nation, happy place where weeds are banished, glorious home of Hodges. (We are the satellite clan). I'm always so glad to see its pleasant hills of brick shopping centers and palatial subdivisions.
I spent the afternoon baking in the sun while watching a baseball game with a dear friend. We ate quinoa and discussed education policy and both my kids were off with grandparents, so it was basically the best vacation ever.
And there was a marvelous party on the first night in town, so Spiderman opted to ride with Grandpa and Uncle Wombat (your read that correctly), and Auntie 'Becca rode with the Princess and me. While we were wrestling - I mean, helping the little girl into her car seat, the Princess cried out, "I need water!"
"What, now?" I replied gently. "Not while we're sitting at Grandma's table, but now that we are in the car?"
"I need water!" she said.
"You can have water at the church," Auntie 'Becca pointed out much more gently than Mommy. "It's all right. We'll have water in a minute."
"I need-da-water-bottle!" Princess insisted.
"Oh, my purple bottle," I sighed, backing out of the world's most frustrating driveway (Steepest downhill grade ever allowed by a drunken civil engineer). "Honey, there's no water in there."
"But I thirsty," my offspring insisted.
"It's empty," patient Auntie reminded her.
"I need it! I thirsty!"
"Here!" I cried, (very calmly and sweetly), handing the bottle to the outstretched fingers. "You can hold it. We're almost there-"
"I need it."
"Here! Keep it together!"
Silence, as the bottle was accepted in triumph. Then, "I can't open."
Pause at stop light. "It doesn't matter, it's empty," I said.
"But I can't open!"
"There isn't any water in it."
"I need it open."
"We're almost to the church."
"But I need it!"
"Here," gracious Auntie 'Becca said. "I'll open it. But remember, it's empty."
"I got it! Is open!" Princess chuckled in glee.
Green light. So close to the church --
"IS EMPTY!" wailed Princess.
I didn't actually bury my face in my hands, but only because I was driving. I guess she will be one of those people who must test and approve everything. I sigh, knowing that she will have to figure out everything for herself.
What fun will the teenage years hold, I wonder?
Thursday, February 27, 2014
"I Don't Need Clothes"
Spiderman was taken to school by an obliging Daddy, so I had a few extra morning minutes to tackle the toddler. And since she is almost potty-training, I thought a bath would be a healthy way to start the morning. The Princess didn't agree until I offered to let the Baby Doll take a bath too.
The poor "Surface Wash Only" companion seems to be recovering well from the soap, and the scrubbing, and the lotion that were applied to her flawless plastic skin. Princess insisted Baby Doll encounter every ritual before she would submit, but she didn't complain. I thought myself very clever for finding this solution.
But after the ablutions, I told Princess that Baby Doll needed to dry out before we put her back into her outrageously pink outfit. The squishy bits were still very damp, and as the tag said that"Air Dry" was acceptable, so I figured the doll could handle being a free spirit for a few hours.
"All right," I said to the Princess, "let's get your clothes."
"I need toast," she said.
"You need clothes."
"I don't need clothes."
"You.... don't need clothes?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, you do."
"I need toast."
"Clothes."
She stared, uncomprehending. She wasn't turning blue, and I needed breakfast, so I admit - I caved. I made toast. I waited until the first piece had been devoured, and I tried again.
"You want some clothes."
"Baby says, she needs clothes."
"She needs to dry. You need clothes."
"I need clothes?"
I went for the Socratic method. "Don't you think you need clothes?"
"Mm-mm." She shook her head and went back to her toast.
I'm sitting here, watching the naked Princess devour toast while the naked Baby Doll lounges placidly on the table. I'm not up to chasing her around with pants because I haven't had my coffee, and frankly, I still haven't decided if I this is a hill I want to die on. She's almost three, anyway, and I'd hate to squash her budding what's-it-creative-psycho-babble-thingey.
Or I'm just a coward.
I hope the Baby Doll dries out soon.
The poor "Surface Wash Only" companion seems to be recovering well from the soap, and the scrubbing, and the lotion that were applied to her flawless plastic skin. Princess insisted Baby Doll encounter every ritual before she would submit, but she didn't complain. I thought myself very clever for finding this solution.
But after the ablutions, I told Princess that Baby Doll needed to dry out before we put her back into her outrageously pink outfit. The squishy bits were still very damp, and as the tag said that"Air Dry" was acceptable, so I figured the doll could handle being a free spirit for a few hours.
"All right," I said to the Princess, "let's get your clothes."
"I need toast," she said.
"You need clothes."
"I don't need clothes."
"You.... don't need clothes?"
"Yeah."
"Yes, you do."
"I need toast."
"Clothes."
She stared, uncomprehending. She wasn't turning blue, and I needed breakfast, so I admit - I caved. I made toast. I waited until the first piece had been devoured, and I tried again.
"You want some clothes."
"Baby says, she needs clothes."
"She needs to dry. You need clothes."
"I need clothes?"
I went for the Socratic method. "Don't you think you need clothes?"
"Mm-mm." She shook her head and went back to her toast.
I'm sitting here, watching the naked Princess devour toast while the naked Baby Doll lounges placidly on the table. I'm not up to chasing her around with pants because I haven't had my coffee, and frankly, I still haven't decided if I this is a hill I want to die on. She's almost three, anyway, and I'd hate to squash her budding what's-it-creative-psycho-babble-thingey.
Or I'm just a coward.
I hope the Baby Doll dries out soon.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
References by Innocents
Daniel: "-so the big meeting at work is shuffling the departments-"
Annie: "Daddy. Daddy-daddy. Daddy?"
Daniel: "-and they won't make a final decision until next month-"
Annie: "Daddy. Hey. Daddy."
Erin: "So you'll be working with data instead of financial products?"
Annie: "DADDY."
Daniel: "Probably. I mean, the decision -"
Annie: "Daddy? Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-"
Erin: "Annie! Do not interrupt!"
Daniel: "What is it, little girl?"
Annie: "Daddy! Excuse me! I burped!"
Not a joke. That's how it happened. It's a wonderful life.
Annie: "Daddy. Daddy-daddy. Daddy?"
Daniel: "-and they won't make a final decision until next month-"
Annie: "Daddy. Hey. Daddy."
Erin: "So you'll be working with data instead of financial products?"
Annie: "DADDY."
Daniel: "Probably. I mean, the decision -"
Annie: "Daddy? Daddy-Daddy-Daddy-"
Erin: "Annie! Do not interrupt!"
Daniel: "What is it, little girl?"
Annie: "Daddy! Excuse me! I burped!"
Not a joke. That's how it happened. It's a wonderful life.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
Moving
Moving is like that riddle your teacher wrote on the board in third grade:
You have a fox, a goose, and a sack of grain. You must transport them across the river, but there is only room for one in the boat with you. The goose cannot be left with the grain. The fox cannot be left with the goose. The river is rising, so hurry up and think of something clever or you'll all drown.
At least, that's how I remember it.
I'm pretty sure that my first comment to the teacher was: "The goose can swim."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Why not?"
"Because. It's a riddle."
Which doesn't even begin to cover the ethical issues involved in risking human life during a flash flood to offer a probably unwanted boat tour to a wild fox. Take the grain and bolt for high ground.
Anyway, moving feels like that. Moving a household with two cats and two small children feels like the boat is sinking, the river is lava, the fox is allergic to wheat gluten, and the goose has a written project due on Monday.
I mention all of this because... I hate moving.
The silence of the past weeks has been almost entirely due to the mounds of boxes and bubble wrap that have consumed our lives. I pleaded with my husband to let me burn it all and start fresh, but he insisted I pack. So I packed, and we were blessed with loving friends, and the mountains of Shtuff were lugged from the Charlotte home to the new Davidson home.
"That's a lot of work," you might think, "just to move twenty miles."
But if you've never driven I-77, north or south, between the hours of - you know what? It doesn't matter what time - then you've never experienced hell. And my darling husband has commuted for three years through the corridors of Hades. I'd had enough. So here we are, moved at last, excavating our beloved belongings and all the other random detritus that falls into a box.
And the new digs are totally worth it. My husband comes home for lunch, the new studio space is bigger, and my son informed me yesterday that, "I love our new house, Mommy. I love having a room with my sister." Melt.
We're officially moved, waiting for the old place to sell, and renting out our happy days here in Davidson. You may drop by for tea if you care to, but you might have to step over a box. Or two. Or just duck this way, step over that, careful of - here. Sit here. And I'll make you a cup of tea when I find a clean mug.
You have a fox, a goose, and a sack of grain. You must transport them across the river, but there is only room for one in the boat with you. The goose cannot be left with the grain. The fox cannot be left with the goose. The river is rising, so hurry up and think of something clever or you'll all drown.
At least, that's how I remember it.
I'm pretty sure that my first comment to the teacher was: "The goose can swim."
"It doesn't work that way."
"Why not?"
"Because. It's a riddle."
Which doesn't even begin to cover the ethical issues involved in risking human life during a flash flood to offer a probably unwanted boat tour to a wild fox. Take the grain and bolt for high ground.
Anyway, moving feels like that. Moving a household with two cats and two small children feels like the boat is sinking, the river is lava, the fox is allergic to wheat gluten, and the goose has a written project due on Monday.
I mention all of this because... I hate moving.
The silence of the past weeks has been almost entirely due to the mounds of boxes and bubble wrap that have consumed our lives. I pleaded with my husband to let me burn it all and start fresh, but he insisted I pack. So I packed, and we were blessed with loving friends, and the mountains of Shtuff were lugged from the Charlotte home to the new Davidson home.
"That's a lot of work," you might think, "just to move twenty miles."
But if you've never driven I-77, north or south, between the hours of - you know what? It doesn't matter what time - then you've never experienced hell. And my darling husband has commuted for three years through the corridors of Hades. I'd had enough. So here we are, moved at last, excavating our beloved belongings and all the other random detritus that falls into a box.
And the new digs are totally worth it. My husband comes home for lunch, the new studio space is bigger, and my son informed me yesterday that, "I love our new house, Mommy. I love having a room with my sister." Melt.
We're officially moved, waiting for the old place to sell, and renting out our happy days here in Davidson. You may drop by for tea if you care to, but you might have to step over a box. Or two. Or just duck this way, step over that, careful of - here. Sit here. And I'll make you a cup of tea when I find a clean mug.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
"Because It Makes Me Happy"
D: "Son, what are you doing?"
Spiderman: "Nothing, Daddy."
D: "It doesn't sound like Nothing. Tell the truth. What are you doing?"
Spiderman: "I... was throwing blocks."
D: "Do you think that's a good idea?"
Spiderman: "Uh...."
D: "Is that what blocks are for?"
Spiderman: "Um... no."
D: "Then why are you doing it?"
Spiderman: "Because! It makes me happy."
D: "Yes. Well, I'm glad it makes you happy. But stop doing it."
Parenting: Crushing Little Dreams with Reality since 2008
Spiderman: "Nothing, Daddy."
D: "It doesn't sound like Nothing. Tell the truth. What are you doing?"
Spiderman: "I... was throwing blocks."
D: "Do you think that's a good idea?"
Spiderman: "Uh...."
D: "Is that what blocks are for?"
Spiderman: "Um... no."
D: "Then why are you doing it?"
Spiderman: "Because! It makes me happy."
D: "Yes. Well, I'm glad it makes you happy. But stop doing it."
Parenting: Crushing Little Dreams with Reality since 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)