I’ve been coasting along the motherhood path content and, relieved mostly, that Shorty has yet to start bringing up big life-issues – until this past Wednesday.
They had an exercise in school called “If you can be whatever you want to be, what would it be?” The teacher wrote the kids’ answers on a poster-sized sheet and hung it up in the hallway. Answers ranged from the expected, “I want to be a princess,” to the daring, “I want to be a green dragon.” There were also some realistic ones “I want to be a mom with five kids and live in a big house in the desert,” and then some odd ones like “I want to be a fruit snack.”
We were so amused with the list that Shorty and I rehashed her classmates’ answers on our drive home. One of her little friends said she wanted to be a princess like Jasmine (from Disney’s Aladdin) and among a whole list of dragons and superheroes one boy said he wanted to be the prince who marries Jasmine (the same one.) So how did Shorty react? “Eeew. He wants to marry a little girl with white skin.” My face burned. You see, ours is a ‘blue’ family in a very ‘red’ state, so when we found a preschool not more than 15 minutes away from our house that was surprisingly racially diverse, we couldn’t believe our luck (never mind that it costs us an arm and a leg, weekly.) So imagine my surprise when my daughter made this comment. I calmly asked, “Why is that eeew?” “Because he needs to marry someone with the same color skin.” I was convinced someone put it in her head, and it sure as hell wasn’t me. “Who told you this?” I asked trying to sound like I was just curious, not seething. “Nobody, Mom. I made it up myself.”
Her little friend who wanted to be Jasmine happens to be Caucasian, which up until now, I didn’t think mattered to Shorty. It obviously didn’t matter to her little friend who, out of all the Disney princesses, wanted to be one of the dark-skinned ones.
I have friends from different cultures, countries, and races, some in interracial marriages and some in same-sex relationships. So, it was a promise, no, a pact between my husband and I that if we had a child he or she will experience and thrive in a culturally diverse environment. I want my child to value diversity, practice tolerance, make and form well-informed choices and opinions, and be slow to judge. The best I can do is to teach her to always look at both sides of the coin.
I continued, “Your daddy and I don’t have the same color skin.” “Yes you do,” she said. Fine. I guess we do, but technically we are an interracial couple; my husband is Hispanic and I’m Filipino. Let’s see…Aha! I thought of my sister who is married to a man of Finnish descent. “What about your Tita T and Uncle E?” She smiled. Eureka. The light bulb went on. “See?” I said, quite pleased with myself. “What’s important Sweetie, is that you marry someone you like to hang out with, someone who makes you laugh, someone who hugs you when you’re sad or scared, someone who makes soup for you when you’re sick, someone who makes you feel like you’re the prettiest girl in the world.” Shorty was wide-eyed in my rear view mirror. Her wheels were obviously spinning. “Ok,” she said, “I’ll marry you and Daddy.”
I’m starting to think sorting exercises is the culprit. Tsk, tsk, Big Bird.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Someone Moved My Cheese
I recently went back to work, and Shorty went to preschool for the first time. Big step. Needless to say it was quite an adjustment for all three of us, including my husband. Now we do the get up, get washed, get dressed, teeth brushed, hair combed then shuttle-the-kid-to-school-and-get-to-work-on-time bit.
On Shorty's first day of school both my husband and I dropped her off, like a rite of passage I guess. As expected, she went off and played with other kids right away and had to be called back so we can get a goodbye kiss. Shorty made it easy for me. No tears there, no tears here. I have such a cool little kid; I am the world's greatest mother.
By the second week however, the novelty had faded. She realized it wasn't a field trip. Shorty had resorted to bringing her bed buddy, a now not-so-white and black panda, to school with her. Upon drop-off, she would just stand there holding Happy Pandy.(I did not name said panda.)
Come third week, Shorty would not unclick her seat belt and had to be carried in. "Why do I have to go to school?" she asked. "So you can go to college and get a job like me," I answered cheerily. I wanted to add, 'and leave your child at daycare, so you can earn money, so you can pay for daycare and buy work clothes, both of which you wouldn't need if you weren't working,' but I didn't. She was, by then, full-on bawling and clung to me like a monkey to its hairy mother's chest, not that I'm hairy, especially in the chest.
One crazy morning, Shorty threw a tantrum the size of Texas because she didn't like her outfit. I finally got her and myself ready, threw our stuff in the car then went back in to corral the dogs into the laundry where they usually stay while we're out. I had to search for the Pug who wouldn't come when called because he is fourteen and deaf as a door knob. Then the Boston Terrier was nowhere to be found. Did he get left out in the hot sun? Did he fall in the pool? I was a ball of nerves. I hooted and hollered, searched in closets, under beds, in laundry baskets, and every corner of the backyard. I even checked the car. Surprise, surprise; there he was. He had slipped in while I loaded our stuff in the car and was now looking at me like I was nuts for leaving him in that laundry room all day long.
At school, Shorty refused to get out and said, "My teacher said when I'm big, big girl I don't have to come to this school. I'm big, big now, see?" she said stretching up to touch the car's ceiling. I told her some lie about her having to wait in the car for eight hours if she came to work with me. She hopped to, but cried all the way to her classroom saying, "I'm ready for college now." Well, I'm not. Mom and Dad need to get your 529 started which won't happen if I showed up late for work, then I'll get written up, then I'll get fired so I really need to leave in five minutes. As soon as I pried her off me outside the classroom door, she bolted back down the hall toward the exit. Try running after a toddler when you haven't worn heels in three years. Those shoes look great, but they don't corner well. Anyway, I left her crying while her teacher had her in a bear hug. Breaks my heart every time, but when I go to pick her up, she's having so much fun she doesn't want to leave.
Week 4. She's getting better. Each morning though, I still have to lie through my teeth, "School is so much fun," when all I really want to say is "Sorry Shorty, school's going to suck for a while," And she's barely started.
*The title is inspired by Dr. Spencer Johnson's book "Who Moved My Cheese?"
On Shorty's first day of school both my husband and I dropped her off, like a rite of passage I guess. As expected, she went off and played with other kids right away and had to be called back so we can get a goodbye kiss. Shorty made it easy for me. No tears there, no tears here. I have such a cool little kid; I am the world's greatest mother.
By the second week however, the novelty had faded. She realized it wasn't a field trip. Shorty had resorted to bringing her bed buddy, a now not-so-white and black panda, to school with her. Upon drop-off, she would just stand there holding Happy Pandy.(I did not name said panda.)
Come third week, Shorty would not unclick her seat belt and had to be carried in. "Why do I have to go to school?" she asked. "So you can go to college and get a job like me," I answered cheerily. I wanted to add, 'and leave your child at daycare, so you can earn money, so you can pay for daycare and buy work clothes, both of which you wouldn't need if you weren't working,' but I didn't. She was, by then, full-on bawling and clung to me like a monkey to its hairy mother's chest, not that I'm hairy, especially in the chest.
One crazy morning, Shorty threw a tantrum the size of Texas because she didn't like her outfit. I finally got her and myself ready, threw our stuff in the car then went back in to corral the dogs into the laundry where they usually stay while we're out. I had to search for the Pug who wouldn't come when called because he is fourteen and deaf as a door knob. Then the Boston Terrier was nowhere to be found. Did he get left out in the hot sun? Did he fall in the pool? I was a ball of nerves. I hooted and hollered, searched in closets, under beds, in laundry baskets, and every corner of the backyard. I even checked the car. Surprise, surprise; there he was. He had slipped in while I loaded our stuff in the car and was now looking at me like I was nuts for leaving him in that laundry room all day long.
At school, Shorty refused to get out and said, "My teacher said when I'm big, big girl I don't have to come to this school. I'm big, big now, see?" she said stretching up to touch the car's ceiling. I told her some lie about her having to wait in the car for eight hours if she came to work with me. She hopped to, but cried all the way to her classroom saying, "I'm ready for college now." Well, I'm not. Mom and Dad need to get your 529 started which won't happen if I showed up late for work, then I'll get written up, then I'll get fired so I really need to leave in five minutes. As soon as I pried her off me outside the classroom door, she bolted back down the hall toward the exit. Try running after a toddler when you haven't worn heels in three years. Those shoes look great, but they don't corner well. Anyway, I left her crying while her teacher had her in a bear hug. Breaks my heart every time, but when I go to pick her up, she's having so much fun she doesn't want to leave.
Week 4. She's getting better. Each morning though, I still have to lie through my teeth, "School is so much fun," when all I really want to say is "Sorry Shorty, school's going to suck for a while," And she's barely started.
*The title is inspired by Dr. Spencer Johnson's book "Who Moved My Cheese?"
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The seasonal vegetarian
I recently enforced, on my little family, meatless Fridays for 40 days this past Lent. Then, for 6 holy days leading up to Easter Sunday, we were vegetarians. Prior to the Lenten season, my husband decided to give up the occasional alcoholic beverage. He asked me what I was giving up. Before I could reply, he offered, "You should give up steamed white rice." I smirked. Was he nuts? You see, I grew up with the stuff. I'm wired to like it, it's practically part of my DNA. On occasion, my husband would wake up to me sitting in bed beside him, watching TV, chowing down a bowl of hot, white rice. I am to white rice as Peggy Bundy is to bonbons. "Facebook," I declared. Well, he's woken up to me, in bed staring at the bright screen of my laptop like a moth to a flame, checking out Facebook. That went out the window by the time Ash Wednesday came around.
So, meatless Fridays it was which he insisted, Shorty, who's 3, should observe it as well. I agreed. We take her to church, perhaps she should experience this too. We planned meatless options: salads, spaghetti marinara, grilled cheese sandwiches, tuna sandwiches, egg sandwiches, and rice in various shapes or forms. I don't know how vegetarians and vegans do it.
One Friday evening, Shorty was jonesing for a hotdog and I told her, "We can't eat meat." "Why not?" Not wanting to have to explain Lent, I said "Do it for Jesus." "Okaaay," she said with resignation. I was surprised at her willingness to participate. By Holy Week, Shorty seemed to look forward to having meat more than the scavenger hunt. To distract her, we made our own pizza which was a favorite activity of hers. When all the toppings were on and I was about to put it in the oven, "Wait," Shorty stopped me. "We forgot the pepperoni," she said with clear panic in her voice. "It's holy week," I said flatly. I tried to say it sweetly like a patient mother would, but I was having withdrawals myself. She hung her head, arms limp at her sides. "But mommy," she whined, "I love meat."
When Easter Sunday finally came, we went to Mimi's Cafe after church and had omelets with the most anticipated, most beloved bacon. Sigh. Oh for the love of all pigs crispy. Then, in sheer joy, arms in the air (and strip of bacon in hand,) Shorty exclaimed with a greasy grin, "Thank you, Easter time."
So, meatless Fridays it was which he insisted, Shorty, who's 3, should observe it as well. I agreed. We take her to church, perhaps she should experience this too. We planned meatless options: salads, spaghetti marinara, grilled cheese sandwiches, tuna sandwiches, egg sandwiches, and rice in various shapes or forms. I don't know how vegetarians and vegans do it.
One Friday evening, Shorty was jonesing for a hotdog and I told her, "We can't eat meat." "Why not?" Not wanting to have to explain Lent, I said "Do it for Jesus." "Okaaay," she said with resignation. I was surprised at her willingness to participate. By Holy Week, Shorty seemed to look forward to having meat more than the scavenger hunt. To distract her, we made our own pizza which was a favorite activity of hers. When all the toppings were on and I was about to put it in the oven, "Wait," Shorty stopped me. "We forgot the pepperoni," she said with clear panic in her voice. "It's holy week," I said flatly. I tried to say it sweetly like a patient mother would, but I was having withdrawals myself. She hung her head, arms limp at her sides. "But mommy," she whined, "I love meat."
When Easter Sunday finally came, we went to Mimi's Cafe after church and had omelets with the most anticipated, most beloved bacon. Sigh. Oh for the love of all pigs crispy. Then, in sheer joy, arms in the air (and strip of bacon in hand,) Shorty exclaimed with a greasy grin, "Thank you, Easter time."
Friday, December 24, 2010
That's What Christmas is All About, Shorty.
I took out my old nativity set which consisted of the Virgin Mary, St. Joseph, the Baby Jesus, a donkey and a cow. I told Shorty we should make a little stable for them, which she thought was a great idea. She said so. My mother gave me a pack of popsicle sticks and so we glued and stacked until the whole lot was gone. We set up the scene with the new house of sticks, under our beautifully decorated (but very plastic) tree and sat there admiring our masterpiece.
Last year my daughter was too young to know the Christmas story, but this year I thought it should be easy. There's a mom, a dad and a baby. She'll love that. She already knew their names. Hmm. How to begin. I dove in head first.
"You know why we celebrate Christmas?" I started. See, I didn't want it to be primarily about gifts so I told her it was Jesus' birthday. Shorty smiled. She likes birthdays. Then, I asked "You know why we give presents? Because it's all about sharing."
I told her that Mary and Joseph got married. Then, an angel told Mary that she was going to have a baby and that she should name him Jesus. Shorty will find out later that they weren't married yet, when Mary got pregnant, but I'll leave that for Catholic school to explain. They're against pre-marital pregnancy; they can explain the Joseph part while they're at it. He wasn't really 'Daddy.'
"Then they left on a donkey because Mary was too pregnant to walk and went to Bethlehem." "Why?" Shorty asked her first question. In my head I answered 'For tax purposes,' but didn't want to be asked 'What's tax?' because I don't understand that either. Instead, I went with, "There was a mean king who wanted to steal babies." As soon as I said that, I knew instantly I had let St. Theresa's College (my old Catholic school for girls) down. Confusing Day of the Innocents with the Nativity Story should give me an overdue F on my report card. "Anyway," I continued, glossing over the humongous error in the story, "Baby Jesus was so special that three very smart kings went to see him and brought gold, frankincense and myrrh as birthday gifts." She asked me what those were. I told her coins for Baby Jesus' piggy bank and 2 kinds of perfume (weird combo but she didn't seem to be bothered by it.) I told her we celebrate Jesus' birthday because he was God's gift to us. "What's that?" "What's what?" "God," Shorty said flatly. I was appalled. We pray before meals, we pray at bedtime and go to church. She even dips her fingers in the holy font before she makes the sign of the cross but I never thought of what her impressions were of Him or Her. She never asked me until now.
How embarrassing that my daughter knows all about Santa Claus, and where he (supposedly) lives, and will jump through hoops for him. I heard my voice in my head "Santa's watching, better eat your peas," and she'll do it. I've been bribing my kid with the promise of a strange and very large man dressed in a terrible red suit to bring her presents.
Do I dare answer this question? How in the world did my mother answer mine? I know that the Catholic school I attended was run by liberal nuns who encouraged us to question, but prayer and the Holy Trinity was talked about and taught everyday; I don't think we ever stopped to really question anything. Who IS God? How do I explain something so abstract to a two year old when it's still a mystery to me?
I looked at her and decided that I'll tell her how I know God. "God is everything good. God is everywhere: the sky, the earth, the ocean, and," I said, "in here." I patted her chest where her heart is. I desperately wanted to add, "And God may not be a blue-eyed, white-bearded man either," but I bit my tongue.
Last year my daughter was too young to know the Christmas story, but this year I thought it should be easy. There's a mom, a dad and a baby. She'll love that. She already knew their names. Hmm. How to begin. I dove in head first.
"You know why we celebrate Christmas?" I started. See, I didn't want it to be primarily about gifts so I told her it was Jesus' birthday. Shorty smiled. She likes birthdays. Then, I asked "You know why we give presents? Because it's all about sharing."
I told her that Mary and Joseph got married. Then, an angel told Mary that she was going to have a baby and that she should name him Jesus. Shorty will find out later that they weren't married yet, when Mary got pregnant, but I'll leave that for Catholic school to explain. They're against pre-marital pregnancy; they can explain the Joseph part while they're at it. He wasn't really 'Daddy.'
"Then they left on a donkey because Mary was too pregnant to walk and went to Bethlehem." "Why?" Shorty asked her first question. In my head I answered 'For tax purposes,' but didn't want to be asked 'What's tax?' because I don't understand that either. Instead, I went with, "There was a mean king who wanted to steal babies." As soon as I said that, I knew instantly I had let St. Theresa's College (my old Catholic school for girls) down. Confusing Day of the Innocents with the Nativity Story should give me an overdue F on my report card. "Anyway," I continued, glossing over the humongous error in the story, "Baby Jesus was so special that three very smart kings went to see him and brought gold, frankincense and myrrh as birthday gifts." She asked me what those were. I told her coins for Baby Jesus' piggy bank and 2 kinds of perfume (weird combo but she didn't seem to be bothered by it.) I told her we celebrate Jesus' birthday because he was God's gift to us. "What's that?" "What's what?" "God," Shorty said flatly. I was appalled. We pray before meals, we pray at bedtime and go to church. She even dips her fingers in the holy font before she makes the sign of the cross but I never thought of what her impressions were of Him or Her. She never asked me until now.
How embarrassing that my daughter knows all about Santa Claus, and where he (supposedly) lives, and will jump through hoops for him. I heard my voice in my head "Santa's watching, better eat your peas," and she'll do it. I've been bribing my kid with the promise of a strange and very large man dressed in a terrible red suit to bring her presents.
Do I dare answer this question? How in the world did my mother answer mine? I know that the Catholic school I attended was run by liberal nuns who encouraged us to question, but prayer and the Holy Trinity was talked about and taught everyday; I don't think we ever stopped to really question anything. Who IS God? How do I explain something so abstract to a two year old when it's still a mystery to me?
I looked at her and decided that I'll tell her how I know God. "God is everything good. God is everywhere: the sky, the earth, the ocean, and," I said, "in here." I patted her chest where her heart is. I desperately wanted to add, "And God may not be a blue-eyed, white-bearded man either," but I bit my tongue.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Out of the Mouth of Babes
A few days ago, I was feeling quite fulfilled as a full-time mom. My two-year-old was singing her ABCs, counting 1 through 10, all while diaper-free (and pacifier-free, I might add, but that's for another post.) Sigh. 'My perfect child,' I thought.
Nearing lunch time (aka crabby time,) I fought the urge to take a shortcut. To hell with Easy Mac. I am Supermom, I am Wondermom. I taught my child the alphabet, to count, and I potty-trained her in a week, thank you very much. I will make her lunch from scratch.
So, there I was busying myself in the kitchen and Shorty was playing by herself in the living room. She would interrupt every now and then with a request so politely asked like "Apple juice, please," followed by an un-coached "Thank you." 'Oh I am so good at this,' I thought. I was so proud of myself for teaching my daughter to be a very courteous toddler, when I heard a crash followed by what sounded like, "Damn it!"
"What did you say?" I asked, non-threateningly. Just asking, really.
"I just playing with my blocks, Mom," she answered sweetly.
I let it go.
A few seconds later, another crash. Definitely followed by "Damn it, damn it, damn it." I was in denial. That doesn't sound like me, does it? I called her over with the intention of correcting the offending word while it was still fresh out of the horse's mouth. No answer. I called again. Nothing. The third time I called her name, I heard her shuffling to the kitchen saying "Okay, okay, I'm coming. Jesus!"
I was petrified. My two-year-old just said the Lord's name in vain and it was only noon. I left the mild blasphemy for another lesson, another day, but I bent down to her eye level and told her that 'Damn it,' was not a very nice thing to say.
She answered "Really Mommy? 'Bout shoot?"
I had to make a deal. Okay, I said.
In the days that followed, she seemed to use a wide range of expletives from 'oh my doodness' to 'oh my dosh,' and 'shoot,' but none of them offensive. Again, I felt a surge of parenting success until we were cruising along at the market and I steered that semi of a grocery cart (the one with the toy truck attached to the front end) into the toy aisle. Clear as a bell, Shorty exclaimed at the array of toys "Holy crap!" for all the world to hear, after which I caught myself saying under my breath, "Jesus!"
Crap, and I thought I was doing a good job.
Postscript: Shorty runs breathless from the office and tells me "I play Pacman on the pyooter, ghost eats pacman (she beeps like the computer in imitation of the sound when pacman gets devoured) then," she continues, "Daddy says 'Damn it!" slapping her forehead.
A-ha!
Nearing lunch time (aka crabby time,) I fought the urge to take a shortcut. To hell with Easy Mac. I am Supermom, I am Wondermom. I taught my child the alphabet, to count, and I potty-trained her in a week, thank you very much. I will make her lunch from scratch.
So, there I was busying myself in the kitchen and Shorty was playing by herself in the living room. She would interrupt every now and then with a request so politely asked like "Apple juice, please," followed by an un-coached "Thank you." 'Oh I am so good at this,' I thought. I was so proud of myself for teaching my daughter to be a very courteous toddler, when I heard a crash followed by what sounded like, "Damn it!"
"What did you say?" I asked, non-threateningly. Just asking, really.
"I just playing with my blocks, Mom," she answered sweetly.
I let it go.
A few seconds later, another crash. Definitely followed by "Damn it, damn it, damn it." I was in denial. That doesn't sound like me, does it? I called her over with the intention of correcting the offending word while it was still fresh out of the horse's mouth. No answer. I called again. Nothing. The third time I called her name, I heard her shuffling to the kitchen saying "Okay, okay, I'm coming. Jesus!"
I was petrified. My two-year-old just said the Lord's name in vain and it was only noon. I left the mild blasphemy for another lesson, another day, but I bent down to her eye level and told her that 'Damn it,' was not a very nice thing to say.
She answered "Really Mommy? 'Bout shoot?"
I had to make a deal. Okay, I said.
In the days that followed, she seemed to use a wide range of expletives from 'oh my doodness' to 'oh my dosh,' and 'shoot,' but none of them offensive. Again, I felt a surge of parenting success until we were cruising along at the market and I steered that semi of a grocery cart (the one with the toy truck attached to the front end) into the toy aisle. Clear as a bell, Shorty exclaimed at the array of toys "Holy crap!" for all the world to hear, after which I caught myself saying under my breath, "Jesus!"
Crap, and I thought I was doing a good job.
Postscript: Shorty runs breathless from the office and tells me "I play Pacman on the pyooter, ghost eats pacman (she beeps like the computer in imitation of the sound when pacman gets devoured) then," she continues, "Daddy says 'Damn it!" slapping her forehead.
A-ha!
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Idle Hands
After a year and a half of sending out resumes and exhausting the first two tiers of unemployment it's understandable why I've been feeling quite useless. I cried during a Toyota commercial once because some bubbly lady said "My Toyota is just like me. I'm dependable and a hard worker." Open ye floodgates. 'I want to be dependable again. Sob, sob.' I can hear my loving friends' and family's (high-pitched) voices of encouragement, "But you're taking care of your daughter. Now that's a full-time job." I smile, sincerely appreciating the support. Sigh. It is, I have to agree, but lately I just don't think that doing laundry and figuring out a new menu to keep Shorty interested in dinner is really intellectually stimulating.
Currently, I'm jealous of a friend's project: her newly-acquired old house, a diamond in the rough begging for her to polish it back to its charming glory. I hang on to her every word and picture every improvement she describes. This charming bungalow is at least 60 years old and in the diverse, culturally-interesting part of town. Having been let go from an 11-year stint in architecture, I launched into a barrage of unsolicited ideas. I'll definitely do pro bono now. God, I hope I didn't scare her off. Needless to say, I was craving to do something creative. I offered to find a reupholsterer, planned a trip to the fabric store with her, and started to decorate a virtual cottage in my head.
In my quest for information for her I stumbled into newdressaday.com. Here, in a Julie-and-Julia-inspired moment the author, after being laid off and watching the flick, decided she would create a once-a-day challenge. In her case, instead of cooking through Julia Child's classic cooking tome, she creates a dress for a buck a day for 365 days. It was so good that by the time I saw all the dresses I just felt dejected that I didn't think of it first. Never mind that I didn't know how to sew either. (Digging deeper into the depression hole.) So I stumble into craftfail.com where people post their failed craft projects. Now, that was more my speed. It was hilarious and it was company for the craft-miserable indeed. However, it did not satiate my hankering for a creative outlet so I kept decorating the 'cottage in my head,' which will not come to fruition in the near (or far) future with the real estate market as it is.
Desperate, I took to looking for a dollhouse to paint and decorate and furnish. 'Shorty would love it,' I tried to convince myself. Then I shot my own idea down. Too big; the square footage it will take up in my little house will just annoy the hell out of me. So, I started looking for birdhouses.
Somebody give me a house, any house, to paint and decorate. Otherwise, keep those scissors away from me or I'll start altering the drapes.
Currently, I'm jealous of a friend's project: her newly-acquired old house, a diamond in the rough begging for her to polish it back to its charming glory. I hang on to her every word and picture every improvement she describes. This charming bungalow is at least 60 years old and in the diverse, culturally-interesting part of town. Having been let go from an 11-year stint in architecture, I launched into a barrage of unsolicited ideas. I'll definitely do pro bono now. God, I hope I didn't scare her off. Needless to say, I was craving to do something creative. I offered to find a reupholsterer, planned a trip to the fabric store with her, and started to decorate a virtual cottage in my head.
In my quest for information for her I stumbled into newdressaday.com. Here, in a Julie-and-Julia-inspired moment the author, after being laid off and watching the flick, decided she would create a once-a-day challenge. In her case, instead of cooking through Julia Child's classic cooking tome, she creates a dress for a buck a day for 365 days. It was so good that by the time I saw all the dresses I just felt dejected that I didn't think of it first. Never mind that I didn't know how to sew either. (Digging deeper into the depression hole.) So I stumble into craftfail.com where people post their failed craft projects. Now, that was more my speed. It was hilarious and it was company for the craft-miserable indeed. However, it did not satiate my hankering for a creative outlet so I kept decorating the 'cottage in my head,' which will not come to fruition in the near (or far) future with the real estate market as it is.
Desperate, I took to looking for a dollhouse to paint and decorate and furnish. 'Shorty would love it,' I tried to convince myself. Then I shot my own idea down. Too big; the square footage it will take up in my little house will just annoy the hell out of me. So, I started looking for birdhouses.
Somebody give me a house, any house, to paint and decorate. Otherwise, keep those scissors away from me or I'll start altering the drapes.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Anatomy 101
Last week we piled into a rental that had enough buttons to keep three kids busy on a 6 hour trip to San Diego. In the van (which my daughter insists on calling "the bang") were my husband and I, his parents, our two year old daughter, a nine-year old niece, and a five-year old nephew. The van was also packed to the hilt with enough sugary snacks to keep everyone wired throughout the whole trip and drinks that guaranteed more stops than we wanted. This was my daughter's first trip to a theme park, but more importantly, the first road trip, and with cousins. She was ecstatic to say the least.
Although their ages ranged greatly, body parts and bodily functions were somehow very, very funny. Everyone took turns passing gas to shock, to entertain, to gross out. The kids took to pretending they cut one and claimed every single one with pride, even my two-year old calling, "Ooops, I farted."
We spilled out of the van into a small room with two double beds so privacy was limited to the one bathroom. My underwear spilled out onto the bed eventually when packing a day bag for the beach, for Sea World and wherever we were going. In the commotion, I noticed that Shorty was unusually quiet. She had run away to a corner and was putting on my bra quite expertly. I asked her "What do you have on?" "A bra!" she exploded happily. Days prior she had watched me put them on and asked me what they were. "I want one," she said. I told her you don't have boobies yet, to which she replied with delight, "I-want-boobeeeees!"
So goes the interest for body parts. The lessons kept coming as her five-year old cousin B was kicked out of the one bathroom as the grown-ups (needing more privacy) had to use the toilet. In the process, his towel fell to the floor and he streaked the room with a grin stretched ear to ear. Shorty squealed and focused on his midsection. You couldn't tear her away with the jaws of life if you tried. No matter what direction B turned, there she was, pointing, jumping and squealing. "Oooh, look," she said giggling at her cousin. She then ran to me and pulled me by my hand. "Mom, wanna see? Wanna see? B's got a horn."
Although their ages ranged greatly, body parts and bodily functions were somehow very, very funny. Everyone took turns passing gas to shock, to entertain, to gross out. The kids took to pretending they cut one and claimed every single one with pride, even my two-year old calling, "Ooops, I farted."
We spilled out of the van into a small room with two double beds so privacy was limited to the one bathroom. My underwear spilled out onto the bed eventually when packing a day bag for the beach, for Sea World and wherever we were going. In the commotion, I noticed that Shorty was unusually quiet. She had run away to a corner and was putting on my bra quite expertly. I asked her "What do you have on?" "A bra!" she exploded happily. Days prior she had watched me put them on and asked me what they were. "I want one," she said. I told her you don't have boobies yet, to which she replied with delight, "I-want-boobeeeees!"
So goes the interest for body parts. The lessons kept coming as her five-year old cousin B was kicked out of the one bathroom as the grown-ups (needing more privacy) had to use the toilet. In the process, his towel fell to the floor and he streaked the room with a grin stretched ear to ear. Shorty squealed and focused on his midsection. You couldn't tear her away with the jaws of life if you tried. No matter what direction B turned, there she was, pointing, jumping and squealing. "Oooh, look," she said giggling at her cousin. She then ran to me and pulled me by my hand. "Mom, wanna see? Wanna see? B's got a horn."
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Metamorphosis for Pre-schoolers
We started a garden in the late spring so my daughter could experience the cyclical nature of things. Earth, seedling, sun, water, air, fruit, food. It's lovely isn't it? Except I started getting attached to the 'runt' of the garden. A tiny seedling of a crookneck squash, barely getting by. After months, the tomatoes, zucchini, cucumbers, bell peppers, and strawberries shot up, but this little guy although perky, didn't seem to grow at all. Finally, I noticed a bud; then, a little bump at the base of the now withering flower; and then, some semblance of a tiny, yellow gourd, a miniature version of its adult counterpart. Mmmm, I could taste it's creamy crispness in olive oil and garlic or in a salad. So, I tended to that garden which, surprisingly enough, was thriving in the Arizona heat and under the care of my very, very non-green thumb.
One morning, my daughter and I checked on the garden (I was really checking on my little squash. I could care less about the rest. They seemed just fine.)
I had my back turned away, picking dry leaves off the tomatoes when I heard Shorty say, "Look mommy. Whassat?" I turned and saw her holding up the one baby squash. I was so upset that I, a thirty-five year old mother, asked my two-year-old, "What'dyou do that for? It was a baby, now it will never grow," I said taking the guilt route. Yes, I went there. She smiled as if saying 'Big deal,' which made me start to fume a little. I dialed my husband at work (I know, I know,) and didn't bother to say hello when he picked up. "She picked the squash off the vine and now that baby squash won't grow. Here, tell Daddy what you did," She took the phone and said, "I picked it. Now won't grow," she reported and they both had a good laugh at my expense.
The plant died after that. Perhaps because, discouraged, I didn't care for it anymore, or all its energy went into that one casualty of a squash. So, I turned my attention on the tomatoes which were strangely losing leaves. My husband found fat green worms feasting on the plant and fruit. They had peculiar horns at their ends. "I see caterpillars," my daughter said, ecstatic. We just started reading Eric Carle's classic. Meanwhile, I just thought, 'Wow, these are the size of my husband's fingers; if they turn into butterflies, those suckers are going to be huge.'
I googled it; turns out they were Tomato Hornworms, parasites evolved to feed on tomatoes and occasionally, peppers (uh-oh.) They do turn into winged creatures, the Hawkmoth. They are the size of hummingbirds. I got rid of the rest of them and stuck two in a jar and Shorty's been feeding her 'caterpillars' lettuce or 'salad' as she calls it, everyday. Guess who's laughing now?
One morning, my daughter and I checked on the garden (I was really checking on my little squash. I could care less about the rest. They seemed just fine.)
I had my back turned away, picking dry leaves off the tomatoes when I heard Shorty say, "Look mommy. Whassat?" I turned and saw her holding up the one baby squash. I was so upset that I, a thirty-five year old mother, asked my two-year-old, "What'dyou do that for? It was a baby, now it will never grow," I said taking the guilt route. Yes, I went there. She smiled as if saying 'Big deal,' which made me start to fume a little. I dialed my husband at work (I know, I know,) and didn't bother to say hello when he picked up. "She picked the squash off the vine and now that baby squash won't grow. Here, tell Daddy what you did," She took the phone and said, "I picked it. Now won't grow," she reported and they both had a good laugh at my expense.
The plant died after that. Perhaps because, discouraged, I didn't care for it anymore, or all its energy went into that one casualty of a squash. So, I turned my attention on the tomatoes which were strangely losing leaves. My husband found fat green worms feasting on the plant and fruit. They had peculiar horns at their ends. "I see caterpillars," my daughter said, ecstatic. We just started reading Eric Carle's classic. Meanwhile, I just thought, 'Wow, these are the size of my husband's fingers; if they turn into butterflies, those suckers are going to be huge.'
I googled it; turns out they were Tomato Hornworms, parasites evolved to feed on tomatoes and occasionally, peppers (uh-oh.) They do turn into winged creatures, the Hawkmoth. They are the size of hummingbirds. I got rid of the rest of them and stuck two in a jar and Shorty's been feeding her 'caterpillars' lettuce or 'salad' as she calls it, everyday. Guess who's laughing now?
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