The Ballet

I took Lakeland to see "The Nutcracker" last night.

We arrived a bit early, even though I had to drive around in an endless loop searching for parking and, finding nothing within a mile vicinity, pulled a 'Hoort*' and parked right next to the curb by the front door of the community theatre. 

Once inside the theatre, among the parents and kids milling about stood people behind folding tables full of fundraising items. You could purchase a wee toy nutcracker for $15, but since I recognized them from one of those dollar stores, I passed.  The other option to show support for NOVA ballet was by purchasing room temperature bottled water and candy, each for $1.  I gladly threw down $3 for Skittles for LL, a Twix for me, and one pint of water.

Off we headed to our seats, which were exactly in the middle of the row.  While the location provided a great view of the stage, you do, of course, have to have balls of steel to sit in the center with a four year old, because the chances that you'll have to leave in the middle of the performance and crawl over people while wearing a dress and heels are fairly high.  Thankfully, she was sufficiently entranced by the dancers and content to crunch her way through a whole bag of Skittles for the entire first act.

At the beginning of Act II, Lakeland spontaneously jumped out of her seat and commenced imitating the every move of the Sugar Plum Fairy, including pirouettes with arms gracefully reaching toward the heavens.  I could hear the delighted tittering and hushed "awww's" of audience members behind us as I gently tapped LL on the shoulder and motioned to her to take a seat.  "But mommy!" she whispered in that kid way that's not really whispering, but more talking at their regular decibel level only more gravelly, "If I don't practice right NOW, I won't remember the moves when we get home!"  I reassured her (in an actual whisper) that we could watch the ballet again at home and she responded by yelling "WHAT WAS THAT, MOMMY?"

Once seated, she motioned furiously to me that she needed a drink of water.  I clawed around in the dark for the bottle of water, found one that I hoped was ours, and handed it to her before returning my attention to the Arabian dancers.

Then, just as the Chinese dancers were tip-toeing on stage, Lakeland choked.  She choked on water, and was loudly coughing, sputtering, and burping.  And then, all of sudden, she puked water and an entire fucking rainbow of skittles onto both her lap and mine.

I guess most parents would have packed up their stuff, grabbed their dripping, vomit-covered child, and high-tailed it (as much as you can high-tail over people's knees, purses and water bottles while shuffling awkwardly sideways in a dark room) out of there.  But not me.  My mom and dad paid $67.00 for those ballet tickets, and I was not missing the Waltz of the Flowers, because that's the best part...unfortunately, it's also the second to last scene.

While Lakeland steadily questioned me in her special whispering way about the ending location of her spew ("Dress, mommy?  And tights?  And shoes?  And you?"), I grabbed her faux fur coat, hastily swiped it across my own lap, and then tucked it tight around her now vile crushed black velvet dress, hoping to somehow sort of seal her up because she smelled an awful lot like an elementary school bus.  Then I ignored her continuous pleas to go home and waited for the Waltz.

During the final scene of The Nutcracker, when Clara's parents rouse her from her sleep, I gathered our things and prepared to haul ass out of there.  Because not only were we both covered in sour fruit smelling Skittle bits, but I was also illegally parked.

And isn't it nice that during the holidays people are so thoughtful?  The crowd magically parted to let us though, as if they somehow sensed we were in a hurry.  Magical.

* "Pulling a Hoort" means you park where ever you feel like parking... named after the late Ron Hoort, who I miss very much.  Fortunately, he bequeathed his gift of doing whatever he wanted to his elder son Todd...

Santa vs. Elsa

Today I chaperoned a field trip for preschool kids.  Lakeland and 87 billion other 4 and 5 year olds were all invited to a high school production with live music and costumed characters like Mickey & Minnie, Tiana, Ariel, Aladdin, Rudolph, Frosty, etc...

When the band started playing "Let It Go", the auditorium just about got its top blown right off.  And then the MC's of the show, dressed as Peter Pan and Tinker Bell, announced that Anna and Elsa were in the house, and the high pitched roar from the children was deafening.  I can't even hear myself typing right now.

There was a literal mob scene, as all the once seated children bum-rushed these two poor teenage girls in the aisle.  I simply cannot imagine that either Anna or Elsa could have anticipated such a colossal reaction from such teensy people.  I'm surprised those princesses were able to remain upright.

"No, Santa.  I haven't seen your cell phone.  Ugh."

A few minutes later, Mrs. Claus, who is used to being second best, and probably just has a running dialogue in her head to cheer herself up this time of year...

"Yeah, who do you think cooked all that pork roast that made Santa's belly so round?" 

"Guess who fed and walked the reindeer every damn day, kids?"  

"Santa constantly misplaces his toy sack, and if it weren't for me, all of your presents would come in big, black Hefty bags." 

...showed up, with the ordinarily show stealing Santa right on her heels, and the kids kinda glanced at the dude with their heads tipped sideways, like 'Who's the schlub in the red suit?', and then resumed craning their wrist-sized necks to see where the Frozen princesses had disappeared.

Now, OK...I get that the kids liked the movie and all that.  But seriously.  The fervor for Elsa is completely unwarranted.  I mean, I know it's not her fault that she is such a miserable, cold-hearted, terrible sister.  Obviously that blame belongs squarely on the shoulders of her parents, who, when they discovered a birth defect in their daughter, opted to forgo treatment and instead locked her in a bedroom.  WHAT IS THAT?!??  Any other parent would be fielding calls from social services.

Anyway, I thought it was really weird that Santa got the shaft this year.  But I think I saw Mrs. Claus smirking. 

Question? Answer.

It was one of those perfect November mornings...bright and warm with the sunlit colors of fall folding over me.  I was driving in the Shenandoah Valley, the mountains on my left, so lovely in their modesty, the soft green plots of farmland on my right, dotted with ancient, dark red barns and brimming with animal life.

Lakeland was asleep in the back seat, and I had a few treasured moments of time to be alone with my thoughts, which I used contemplating the boundless beauty of the earth.  I had gratitude just pouring from my being.

During this unhurried drive west**, I had one reoccurring thought; one question that's been nagging me for, if I'm really honest, years.  It was something I had never shared with another soul, something that I had wanted to work out on my own, eventually.

But after so much time had passed, and I'd found myself unable to navigate this irksome desire to understand to a place that felt resolved, I called the one person I usually talk to about these deep, unanswered quandaries; someone who can always render a new point of view, or calm my questions, or put things right in my world.

Here's the conversation:

Ring, ring...ring, ring...

Seth:  Hey, babe.

Me:  Hey.  You got a minute?

Seth:  Sure, what's up?

Me:  Well, I'm driving, and thinking, and I have a question for you.

Seth:  OK.

Me:  So like, when MC Hammer said that he was "Too legit, too legit to quit", what exactly did he mean by that?  Did he want to quit?  Or did he not want to quit?  I just cannot seem to get a grip on this.  What did he MEAN BY THAT?

Seth (so completely unfazed by my asking about a wholly obsolete rapper who hasn't been in the peripheral of any one person's thoughts for at least two decades, who responded as if my question were anticipatory, who might as well have just been thinking about MC Hammer himself, answered definitively and without a moment's hesitation):  Yeah.  He meant, like, "Oh, what's up fools?  You want me to quit this gig?  Well, guess what?  I'm not going to!  What I'm gonna do is make millions of dollars, and then I'm gonna flaunt it all over the place."  And then, you know, I'm going to lose the whole wad.  Only he didn't say that last part out loud.  Does that help?

Me:  Yeah!  Well...kind of.  So if I said that I was too legit to, say, do the dishes, would that mean that I had to do the dishes?  Or that I didn't really have to do the dishes?   Or...?

Seth:  It means that you wouldn't have to do the dishes, but you'd still do the dishes, and then be like "Damn right, I did the dishes.  I do what I want."

I believe that this exact type of conversation, and the many we have had, and will have in the future, is one of the reasons we got married.  Because he never knows what thoughts are rolling around in my head and because I have no doubt that he has the answers.

**Yeah...I don't actually know what direction I was driving.  I'm assuming west, because we didn't end up in the ocean, which I believe is east of where I live, and it didn't seem to be colder, so probably not north, and when we arrived at our destination, everything was not covered in gravy, so maybe not south. 

Isn't this the time?

It took everything in me not to stop my car, roll down the window, and shriek to the mother of one of Lakeland's classmates, "Hey! Your daughter is acting like a giant BITCH!"

But I didn't.  Because I was in a preschool parking lot.  And because yelling at people while hanging out a car window is a little bit trashy. 

Oh, but I wanted to.  Because I am having conversations with my daughter that go like this:

Me:  How was your day, bug?

LL:  Mommy, Girl A and Girl B were mean to me today. On purpose.  We were all playing and then Girl A said I couldn't play with them anymore, because she and Girl B were friends first.  Then they only played with each other and not me.

Me:  Hmmm.  Well what did you do?

LL:  I went and found other friends and played with them.

Me (feigning excitement when really my voice was shaking with anger and a big wad of sadness was threatening to purge itself from my throat and splatter on the windshield):  I'm sorry that happened to you, but I'm glad that you found new friends!

Every time I pick her up, we have a similar conversation.  "Girl A and Girl B still won't play with me.  It hurts my feelings because we were friends before."
  
Okay, so this is heartbreaking, right?  And infuriating, yes?  Not just because some girl was mean to my daughter, but because girls, at the age of four, are rejecting, excluding and hurting the feelings of their female peers.  How is this happening??  And WHY?

I will not, no matter what anybody says, buy into the notion that this is just a case of "girls being girls", or that acting like a little snot is some rite of passage.  That's just bullshit.  Because I don't believe that it is inherent of female nature to be cattish and nasty.  I think it's inherent of female nature to be nurturing.  To exude strength.  Even in times of weakness.  To protect.  To love.  And to pretty much be a badass from toddlerhood to old age.

So the business of being a four old preschooler has been on my mind, and here's what I've been thinking...

Isn't this the time when differences are meaningless, if even noticed?

Isn't this the time when kids are fully delighted by each tiny similarity they find in each other?  ~Hey!  We both have on red shirts today!  Wanna play?

Isn't this the time for boundless encouragement?

Isn't this the time when scrapes and scars belong on elbows and knees, not heads and hearts?

Isn't this the time for authentic joy?

Isn't this the time when unmarred hearts are worn, adorned with neon lights and sparkly glitter, on sleeves?


Isn't this the time when expectations are irrelevant?  Nonexistent?

What I know is that nobody's daughter should have to worry about protecting her little heart from preschool friends.

What I know is that if some kid walked up and hit my daughter, I wouldn't hesitate to intervene, but that emotional taunting feels far more difficult to handle than aggression of a physical nature.

What I know is that my little girl understood just enough about what these two girls were trying to accomplish, to walk away with her feelings bruised.

What I know is that four is too young to worry about what others think.

What I know is that this is, and should be, the age of innocence.

What I know is that I shouldn't be having grown up conversations about grown up stuff with a tender-aged and light-filled girl.

What I know is that nobody needs to grow up faster.  Kids grow up so fast and with such fury; they're like a wild storm running up the coast.  I just want to surround my daughter with good and kind friends who want to hold hands with her and jump with her in the puddles when the rains ebb.

Girl A is failing.  She's failing to live up to the gifts with which she was born.  Failing to be tolerant, loving, kind, caring, thoughtful and accepting.  Somewhere along the way, she learned to go against her nurturing instincts.  She's failing to be a badass.  Which is so, so sad because being what she was born to be is so much better, and so much more fun, for her and everyone around her.  So I really just want to tell her mom that her daughter is acting like a bitch, and get this whole storm turned back in the right direction.

I'm not interested in THAT point of view.

(***see below)

I've spent a fair amount of time in ladies' locker rooms.  Enough to sort of...well...not care much about any of whatever goes on in there.  When I was younger, sure I was probably a bit curious, but I'd say that now, I'm impervious to the various states of undress. 

I don't care if you make yourself a terrycloth tent out of 12 towels and cover up everything but your elbow.

I don't care if you are completely naked and swinging your towel around your head like a helicopter. 

I don't care if you are flip-flopped or bare footed or walking around in wet, squishy socks.  
I don't care if you come into the sauna nude.  With no towel even to sit on.  I don't think it's particularly wise to slow roast your labia on a slab of 197 degree cedar, but that's entirely your own business. 

If you, in all your naked glory, want to sit across from me in the sauna, I don't care. 

But here's where I'm gonna go ahead and take exception.  When you pull one knee up to your chin and just sit there, like your crotch isn't waaayyyy too close to my face, and waaayyyy too exposed.  To this I say "What is wrong with you?  Did your mother not teach you about keeping your knees together and ankles crossed when you are wearing a skirt (or, you know, nothing!), or were you just not listening?"

I don't think that I, or anyone except your highly-paid gynecologist and maybe your waxologist, if you so choose to exercise that option someday in the future, should be privy to THAT point of view.

Am I wrong here?  Did I miss something in the locker room etiquette handbook? 

***Oh. My. God.  I googled ladies locker room images, and my eyeballs are burning.  BURNING.  Google, you are a perv.  No women's locker rooms look like that.  What is wrong with YOU?

Captured

Just a plastic dinosaur...

There is a small, plastic dinosaur that lives on the rim of my kitchen sink.  I love that stupid dinosaur.  Lakeland put it there one day and said it was "to keep me company while I do the dishes". 

While I am scraping plates, washing the coffee pot, rinsing out whatever needs to be rinsed out, scrubbing pans, or just standing at the sink talking, that little dinosaur looks up at me with his indents-for-eyes, shimmering green and brown skin, and one streak of red paint that was accidently splashed on him during the millionth time I cleaned preschool-size paintbrushes, and reminds me to:

Be Kind.  For no particular reason.

Notice stuff.  Especially little stuff.

Let there be a little clutter.  Everything doesn't have to be perfect.

Gift the things I have to give.  Affection doesn't need to be wrapped up in a big, fancy package.

Feel Love.

Now go forth and spread joy.  Hand out wads of your own version of trinkets.  It'll be so fun.  

Reflections from a water park

Lakeland and I went to a water park last week.  Just thought I'd share the following:

• There are 8,000 hardworking lifeguards constantly hyperventilating into their whistles, and there is not one kid in the place who could give two shits.  I'm serious.  Kids are oblivious to those chirping whistles as well as every single posted rule.  They effectively flip those lifeguards their mini middle fingers the moment before they dive into the slide upside down and face first (a highly illegal maneuver and oft broken water park rule, by my observation). 

• At least 50% of the moms I saw are replicas of my favorite U.S. Olympic beach volleyball team, Kerri Walsh and Misty May.  Bronzed.  Abs.  More abs.  Cute, round butts.  And lots of braided high ponytails with visors.  I contemplated this while leisurely chomping on an $8 cardboard bucket full of fries. 

• The wave pool.  Oh, the wave pool.  (In case you are unaware, a wave pool is a giant pool that intermittently turns into a violent tsunami before calming down to its original state.)  These pools contain a billion bodies just senselessly bouncing off one another.  They are so packed full of people in sustained motion that if you saw it from an airplane, it'd look like a giant, wildly colored beehive.  So the deal is, if you are responsible for a kid under 4 feet tall, you get delegated (by whistle) to the part of the wave pool that is two and a half feet deep.  Which is precisely the point where the waves break and absolutely crush the little kids to smithereens.  These poor, tiny people go from having the grandest time frolicking in calm, waist deep water, to half-drowning while taking severe beatings by all of the big kids that wash up with the waves.  Repeatedly.  Like...every 30 seconds.  I saw several kiddos get creamed by waves/big kids, scraping the joy right off their faces and onto the concrete bottom of the pool.  They'd pop up, bloody and screaming, reaching for the hands (perched on the shapely hips) of their professional volleyball player mothers. 

• And it's not hazardous for just the kids.  I was, at all times, poised in a defensive position...soft kneed, hands advanced, fingers splayed in anticipation of a takeout. When the waves stopped trying to murder the children, I found myself instantly relieved that my knees didn't get blown out by some errant kid flying through on a tube. 

• I swear, it's places like this where adult sensibility and reason fly right off the handle.  Water parks, theme parks, carnivals, zoos, funerals, airports...these are the places where parents go and Absolutely. Lose. Their. Shit.  I saw this dad, who I bet isn't a total disaster on most days, but on this day...he was a nightmare.  He had three boys with him, young teens maybe.  I didn't see what led him to throw his hands in the air and begin a tirade that would have made the father from "A Christmas Story" proud, but the dude had zero qualms about using seriously inappropriate language at a decibel level that couldn't be ignored.  Additionally, I saw several women who, while waiting (bare-footed in standing sludge) in a stagnant line at the concessions, tired children slung across their bodies, rip apart concession staff and/or equally uncomfortable and frustrated women.  I think the only thing that brought these people back to reality from basic survival mode was the warble of a dozen whistles.  So, as it turned out, all those lifeguards weren't wasting their breath.

Fish out of water...

We have a fish.  Her name is Not Norma.  She is the successor of our two previous fish (who "got dead", according to Lakeland), Norman and Not Norman.

Last time I cleaned her tank, Not Norma almost got dead too.

It was all so innocent when it began.  Catching her in a glass had never before presented an issue.  I mean, her tank is only a gallon and a half.  It's not like trying to catch a fish in an ocean with a sandbucket.

However, on this particular day, Not Norma was juking me like a professional athlete.  I chased her around and around, plunging the glass into her tank over and over.  I finally got tired of the cat and mouse chase, and that's when shit got real.

I got as agressive as one can get with a jelly jar in hand, and I aimed for the majority of her sleek, blue body.  And I caught her!  Well, most of her...

Maybe I clipped off part of her tail as I squished her frantic body between the glass and her tank.  I'm quite sure she doesn't need that whole billowy, beautiful tail just to float around in a gallon of water.

Once I got most of Not Norma safely into the glass, I cleaned and refilled her tank.  Well, actually I overfilled the tank.  There was not enough room to add both Not Norma and the water in which she was floating.

So I figured I'd just dump most of the glass full of water down the sink, being, you know, careful to keep her contained.  It would have all worked out perfectly, had she not propelled herself right out of the glass.  The next thing I knew, her little body was halfway down the drain.  Poor Not Norma's shocked little face, the only visible part of her, was looking up at me, fish lips opening and closing, silently demanding me to save her.

I had no choice but to grab her by her face with my thumb and pointer, lifting her from certain doom, and depositing her into a sparkly clean tank.

She zoomed around for a second, then swam (through her trajectory was a bit off, as she navigated the waters with her newly lopsided fins) to the side, and once there, stared me down with the meanest glare a fish can muster.

Lakeland watched this whole scene with equal parts delight and horror.  Then declared, "Mommy, I'm pretty sure Not Norma is pissed at you".

You try it.

I was browsing the internet this morning, and ran across an article titled "9 Tips to Look Slimmer in a Bathing Suit."  Not normally something I would click on, but for some reason, on this morning, reading a bunch of horse-shit seemed more appealing than another 10 minutes of coloring Hello Kitty books with Sharpies. 

I would add a link to the article if I could find it again, but I can't.  When I Googled* "9 Tips to Look Slimmer...", I got 90 zillion helpful cues on how to look skinny.  In a bathing suit.  In pictures.  Naked.  In a dress.  For a date.  During the holidays.  At work.  While vacationing. 

It's so easy, too!  Please don't worry about diet and exercise...it's all so much less complicated than that.  Really.  It's as simple as throwing your hair in a ponytail.

All you have to do is jut out your chin, open your eyes really wide, roll your shoulders back, but forward (yep, you heard me), stand up straight, wear heels, wear a solid color, and put your hair in a ponytail. Yes, girls.  A ponytail.  The key to looking thinner is all wrapped up in a hair-tie. 

Here are my results...obviously, I look natural and thin in the photo.  Not weird at all.  There is no way I'm about to kill someone's kittens. 

 

* I didn't actually "Google" it.  Seth switched our search engine to something called "DuckDuckGo", which he says doesn't track us the way Google searches do.  I think he's full of shit. 

Hey honey, I broke the disposal.

Seth and I have an on-going rift about the garbage disposal.

I discovered one day, as I threw mushroom caps into the sink for disposal, that he doesn't think we should actually be using this appliance.  I turned around from the stove to find him shoveling the scraps into his hands to throw in the garbage.

Me:  What are you doing?
S:  I'm throwing these away. 
Me:  They can just go down the disposal...?
S:  Some stuff is way too fibrous to go down the disposal.
Me (with a snicker and a pre-eyeroll look on my face):  Too fibrous? 
S (immediately on the defense):  Yeah.  I'm just trying to prevent wear and tear.  You know what?  Let's just both mind our own business with regards to the disposal.  And not talk about this anymore.
Me (voice dripping with sarcasm):  Yep. You're right.  Those mushrooms are WAY too fibrous to go down the disposal.  And you know what?  Let's prevent wear and tear on the washer and dryer too.  We can just start going to the laundry mat.  Also, we should probably stop using the toaster, the coffee maker, the toilets, and the computer...might as well save them too.  Cool?
S:  You are the worst.

And with that, we agreed to stop talking about our own disposal preferences.  I used it (for normal stuff, like egg shells, carrot and potato shavings, the occasional scrape of a plate...) and Seth didn't.  

After we had the "too fibrous" discussion, I felt weird every time I turned on the disposal, like Seth was quietly cursing me.  It's not like I could hear him over that satisfying chop, gurgle and whir.  So in the evenings, to avoid what I was sure was Seth's disapproval, I would just flip it on and off real quick, then figure the rest could wait until he went to work in the morning.  Until one morning, when I flipped the switch and nothing happened but a low, humming sound.  "Shit!" I thought.  "Shit! Shit! Shit!"  Now I would have to tell Seth it was broken, at which point his overuse argument would come in very handy.  

I could not let that happen. Obviously.  So I quickly found my resolve and decided I would fix it before Seth ever found out it was broken.  I summoned my neighbor Jenny, handed her a beer, swore her to secrecy, and then we got to work discussing our knowledge of disposals.  We had none.  But two college graduates could figure this out, right?  Surely my degree in economics would be helpful, and Jenny, being a brilliant high school English teacher, could rely on her own prowess. 

Jenny and I took turns, bravely plunging wrist deep into the bowels of the sink, which everybody knows is the worst idea ever, obliterating the number one rule of fixing disposals.  We found three noodles and a piece of an egg shell.  Perplexed, we each cracked another beer, and while I Googled "Fix the Disposal so My Husband Doesn't Win this Fight", Jenny cleared out the stuff underneath the sink.  

We tried EVERYTHING.  We tried to turn the blades from beneath with every size of Allen Wrench available to us, we checked the fuse box, we punched the reset button.  No matter what we did, the blades did not budge.  They had quite literally grinded to a halt, like every woman's digestive system while on vacation...zero movement, no hope of evacuation.  

We gave up before Seth came home and caught us with our hands down the disposal, but I still wasn't ready for a full on admission.  Fortunately for me, his non-use meant that I had time to keep up the charade of a fully functioning garbage disposal until it better suited me to tell him.  

Which I've decided is...right now.  Hey honey, I broke the disposal.  

But don't you worry.  I already fixed it.  While you were at work, I dabbled in the profession of plumbing, and I totally nailed it.  I'm the best appliance repair-woman you've ever married, and don't you forget it.

SAME CAR!

We play a game in my family called "Same Car!"  It goes like this:

• If we see our same car (a Honda Element), we yell out "SAME CAR!" and if it's the same color as ours (black), we yell either "SAME CAR! DOUBLE!" or "SAME-SAME CAR!"
• If we see a car like my mom's (LL calls her "Nama"), we yell "NAMA CAR!"
• Then there are the occasional other vehicles thrown in... "Toddfather Car!", "Miss Jenny's Car!", "Jack and Will Car!"

Whoever yells first, wins. And we keep score of how many cars we identify.  Every day. Because this is a family of fierce competitors.  Just last night while playing UNO, Lakeland laid a draw two on her dad and said "Boom. I am JACKING fools."  (I realize and appreciate that this type of expression is inappropriate for a three year old. Unless we're playing cards. She's allowed to talk shit while playing cards, and she follows this rule fairly well.) We pretty much turn anything that can be remotely competitive into a competition.

Anyway, back to "SAME CAR!" There are dire consequences if you misidentify a car.  They involve dropping and doing push-ups, wherever you may be at the time of your blunder. For instance, while walking to the car from the grocery store, I busted out "Nama Car!" and was immediately called on the carpet for my error.  But I play by the rules, and so I set down my items right there in the parking lot and did 3.5 push-ups. LL was as delighted to see me pay up as she was to have corrected me. 

The other night, Seth (a.k.a. Best. Dad. Ever.) mentioned that he'd like us to take Lakeland on a special trip.  To a car dealership.  So she can yell out "SAME CAR" or "NAMA CAR" 80 thousand times. Which would make her, and all of us really, so very happy.  I think we are going to take her for her birthday. 

Technology ruined everything this morning...

Prior to 9am this morning, I got to watch a new episode of "People Acting Like Assholes" and here's your recap, in case you missed it:

Act 1: People on Their Smartphones While Driving

Seriously.  Stop. Doing. This. A young woman nearly rammed into a fellow driver this morning not once, but twice because she just couldn't be bothered to stay in her own lane.  When I pulled up next to her at a red light, guess what she was doing?

You are not behind the wheel of a feather.  You are behind the wheel of two tons of steel, rubber and glass.  You could kill someone. Put your phone in the back seat if you have to, but please, please...stop the madness. 

Act 2:  Parents Teaching Children to be Robots Instead of People

As he was walking his son into preschool this morning, I heard a dad say: "I'm sorry I put the wrong movie in the car this morning. Which movie did you want to watch?"  "Peter Pan!" whined the tiny Mr. Roboto.

Really? OK, number one:  I'm pretty sure that choosing the "wrong movie" does not warrant an apology from a parent to a preschooler.  Save your sorry's for real parenting failures.  And number two: Does your kid need to watch TV for the 15 minutes it takes to get to school?  Here's a novel idea.  You could use that time while both you and your child are strapped down in the same place at the same time, with no other distractions except your Smartphone, to speak to one another.  This is the perfect time to ask your kid questions, to teach them something new, or to sing stupid songs together.  If you don't want to talk to your kid, I get it.  I do.  So hand them a book.  Or some crayons.  There is enough technology in their world already.   

Normal People Stuff

LL's first day of school.

Ever since Lakeland started preschool, there have been:  

A.  A bunch of snow days and 2 hour delays.  As of this writing, she's been in school for a grand total of 22 hours.

B.  A bunch of people that have asked me what I'm doing with myself now that I have all of this newfound free time.

This got me thinking.  What have I been doing with all of this free time?  And I figured out I've just been doing normal people stuff.  The following are 5 things I've done in my 14 hours of free time.  (Figure on 1/2 hour driving to and from school each day because I refuse to make her a late person even though lateness is my natural tendency, and because I am terrified of being late to pick her up.)

1.  This. Right here. Blogging. Boom.

2.  Dishes and laundry.  Without interruptions.  Holy. Shit. I am the Flo-Jo of chores.

3.  Watching "The League", which you really can't watch with a kid around, even a sleeping kid, because it's so horribly and hilariously offensive.  And yes, I realize I'm 4 years late discovering the show...I keep excitedly asking people "Hey!  Have you ever watched 'The League?"  And they're all, "Yeah.  I've watched it.  All. FOUR. Seasons." (Seriously though, if you haven't watched it...so funny.)

I heart you, Terry Gross.

4. (To culturally balance out #3) Listening to NPR.  Like, actually listening and gaining information and finding myself engaged and entertained.  I forgot how much I love Terry Gross.

5. There is no #5.  It's only been 14 hours, people!

The Queen Size Bed Fight

If there is one thing Seth and I agree on, it's that we failed at sleep training Lakeland when she was a baby, resulting in three-plus years of her sleeping either in our bed, or on the floor right next to me. Plus, as exhibited, the occasional odd spot...

On an etch-a-sketch...

Straight upright on a couch...

In a restaurant...

About six months ago, I got this idea that we should get a queen size bed for Lakeland's room.  Despite what Seth might say, I had good and valid reasons for wanting to purchase a giant bed for a three year old that never, ever slept in her room.

To wit:

• Perhaps a big, cozy bed would be the magic spell that coaxed her to sleep through the night and stay out of our room?
• If we got a bed with underneath storage, we would no longer have to trip over 47 thousand toys.  
• It might be nice to have a place for our guests to sleep.

In the midst of making Valentines...

In transit...

Anyway, I started subtly planting my agenda while secretly shopping Craigslist, and eventually brought it to Seth's attention that it was my intention to get a new bed in Lakeland's room

While coloring...

at some point.  I was guilt ridden that we were providing such lackluster accommodations for her.  And by "accommodations", what I mean is that we threw her infant mattress on the floor and called it good.

For my part, I thought the mattress on the floor was awful because: 
1.  It was too small for her.
2.  It was too sad...sleeping on a mattress on the floor (on a permanent basis) is like squatting in your own home.
3.  It looked shitty, aesthetically speaking.

Seth thought the mattress on the floor was great because:
1.  It could be moved around to provide "fun" locations to sleep.
2.  He used to sleep in weird places when he was a kid, so she might like to as well.
3.  After hearing my argument that the mattress was too small, he measured her, and then measured the square footage of her mattress, and then he measured himself and the square footage of half of our mattress, and concluded that she had more allotted sleeping area than he did, and therefore it was plenty of room.  (Which was smart of him to do by way of argument, but I still thought it was a bit dickish).

Look at this poor thing...

So then I started taking pictures of her sleeping next to her mattress after falling (albeit not far) off her bed and landing on her toys. See what I'm saying?  Not cozy.  Not comfy.  The poor thing has an octopus jabbing her in the back, and she's laying on a plastic sand bucket.

This is why, night after night, I'd make a cozy little nest for her  next to my side of the bed.  And at some point, upon waking in a pile of toys, Lakeland would stumble in with her blanket and lay down and go right to sleep. 

Then I found out that it bothered Seth that Lakeland was in our room.  Every night.  For over three years.  Like, really bothered him.  He said it was because she should be in her own room because she's not a baby, and because our room is for us, etc., etc., etc.  I'm pretty sure part of his angle was that, with Lakeland out of our room, there'd be a chance of morning sex.  Pfffffft... we're not dating anymore, honey.

In the end, we did what we always do, and made a deal/bet.  (Some married people call this "compromising" but we do better competing.)  Lakeland had to spend ten nights in her room, in a row, by herself, and she/I would earn a big girl bed.

Our bet did not include parameters on how I could go about executing this task.  So I went out and bought a king size bottle of Benedryl...ten days later, that bed was mine.  I mean hers.

Seth, I am quite sure, would have a different take on this scenario.  Well guess what?  This is my blog.  He can get his own forum.  

DO sweat the sad stuff.

About a year and a half ago, I had my first ever bout of depression.  Actual, real depression.  Though the symptoms were mild, to me it was frightening, embarrassing and, in my opinion, completely unwarranted.  What had I to be sad about?  My fantastic family?  Enough money to eat well and live in a place with two bathrooms? Recognizing what I was feeling proved difficult because not only was I new to being emotionally unfit, but I also felt my sadness was so very self-indulgent.  I know people who struggle with depression, and those people have actual problems and real reasons to feel what they are feeling.  I was merely having a lengthy pout. 

My depression presented as a wet, heavy cloak draped over my shoulders.  It slowed me down, dampened my joy and made me uncomfortable in my skin.  It wasn't debilitating, but the heaviness really limited my positive emotional experiences.  Stuff that would usually have made me laugh my face off only elicited a smile and maybe a chuckle.  I didn't have a good counter-balance anymore for dealing with unfavorable events either, so when something sad happened, my heart would plummet and grief would wash over me.  Mild irritation at people or situations turned to something short of rage, but definitely past bothersome.  With support from my husband, family and the few friends that I managed to talk to about how I was feeling, I went to a doctor and was diagnosed with mild, situational depression and was given a prescription for an antidepressant.

For me, taking a pill meant handing over control of myself and my feelings to a drug; putting my trust in a chemical.  A little white pill and a lot of cigarettes became my personal floatation device, and I got to thinking that that was pretty fucked up, given that I had perfectly capable arms and legs with which to paddle.  It just so happened that my limbs were rather weak at the moment.  Maybe they just required better training to carry me through this part of my life?  That's when I became very, very good friends with the gym.

Running, strength training and most importantly, group fitness classes have literally become my antidepressant.  I have sweat, run, boxed and weight-lifted my way away from pills and nicotine.  Only naturally produced "feel good" hormones stream through my veins.  Every trip to the gym floods my brain and my body with enough endorphins and oxytocin to regulate my mood.  I can actually feel it every time I walk through the doors. 

I have the unbelievable fortune of going to a gym staffed with world class and class act instructors.  Gone are the days of the bouncy 19-year-old aerobics instructors wearing leotards, leg warmers and full makeup.  The women that teach at my gym are athletes with the strength of lionesses and the hearts of humanitarians.  They are educated, driven and innovative.  They are so good at what they do that droves of people gladly get out of bed at 7am on a Saturday morning to be with them for 60 minutes.  They are so good that if you aren't 10 minutes early, you won't get a spot in their class.  They know that they can't make you challenge yourself, that they can't force you to push past your limits.  And they don't have to.  The good ones, the really good ones...they create a hunger that makes you want to put more weight on your bar.  They beget your trust and you learn you can hold your pose longer.  They build ambition so you have a need to keep pushing yourself.

There is one instructor in particular for whom I feel a tremendous amount of respect and gratitude.  She is my therapy.  She is my campaign manager against drugs.  I don't have a boss, or co-workers, so her voice is the one I hear most often besides my husband and daughter.  She recently said that 90% of the time, people don't hear what she says in her classes.  But we do...that's why we're there.  Her voice carries us through pain.  Through uncertainty.  Through fragility.  And we all come out on the other side of 60 minutes stronger in heart, mind and body.  60 minutes.  It's amazing that the actual chemical makeup of a person can be changed in 60 minutes but that's exactly what happens.  In my case, and I cannot be alone here, she has strengthened me in life changing ways.

I have several morals to this story.  One is, if you feel sad, try exercise.  Sweating is a most powerful elixir.  I know that it won't take the place of drugs if you need them, but it sure as hell won't hurt you.  Two, if you feel lonely, try to get in a room with a bunch of strangers.  You don't have to talk to anyone to get the positive effects of a group working toward a common goal.  I didn't open my mouth for months and months and still, during and after each class I felt less alone.  Three, if someone's work is exceptional and you have benefited enormously from the time and effort they've put in, you should thank them.  Thank you, Kate.  Your talent is unmatched, your beauty soul deep.

Romantic as a rock

Seth and I don't do romantic stuff, like exchange foot rubs and back massages.  We don't usually buy Christmas, birthday or Valentine's gifts for one another.  We rarely surprise each other with candy or flowers.  We are decidedly unromantic, at least conventionally.   

If we do buy candy, the purchase is a result of careful consideration and collaboration.  For instance, we thoughtfully discussed if we should buy the bucket of Jelly Belly's at Costco.  (No, we should not.  But let's.)

Flowers arrive rarely and randomly, and are from me, to me, though I have had Detroit Redwing players send me flowers upon the team's arrival to the playoffs, and I have had Detroit Tiger players deliver bouquets on opening day.  It's possible those were from Seth, but I like to pretend they were from Sean Casey and Tomas Holmstrom.

My idea of a romantic gesture is to make sure Seth always has apples and clean white t-shirts.  So not so much romantic, but more of a daily affirmation that I love him and think of him.

I thought really hard for several days, and I came up with "Seth's Top Five Most Romantic Gestures or Gifts Because Ten is Way Too Many".  And here they are:

5.  He bought me the perfect necklace for our wedding day, after I'd gone shopping and spent $7.00 on a fake that would most probably turn my neck green.  I was in tears when I opened the box.  It was an unbelievable gift, given in such a simple way.  I was putting sheets on the guest room bed, and he walked in and said "You deserve real pearls on your wedding day."  Well, I started sobbing, and I think it's safe to say that he was not expecting this very girly reaction from me, which must have made him quite uncomfortable, which made him resort to smirkily reciting the time-honored, and oh so classic "pearl necklace" words of wisecracks.  So it was more like half romantic, half 'I'm about to marry a 14 year old boy who makes crude jokes at inopportune moments.' I think it still counts.

4.  From April through October, when I drive to Michigan (or any trip that takes more than an hour), Seth makes me a list of all the good baseball games that'll be on XM radio, including the times and the stations. Not romantic for everyone, but makes me swoon.

3.  Once, when I returned from an out of town trip late in the fall, I arrived home to find that Seth had gotten all* of my Christmas** boxes*** out of storage**** for me. 
         * At least 15.
       ** He HATES Christmas.
     *** Boxes = 30 gallon totes.  Heavy, awkward totes.
  **** Lugged from 15 stories below our apartment.  In an elevator, but still.  Long hallways.

2.  He always, always says "Goodnight, babe.  I love you." before he goes to sleep.  Even if I'm already sleeping (or he thinks I'm sleeping, which is how I know about this).

1.  When I'm sick with a head cold, he makes me a special garbage bag for used tissues.  It's a paper grocery bag placed inside of a plastic grocery bag.  It's a very bizarre thing to do, but it's one of his ways of taking care of me, and it sure feels nice. 

I am glad today, and every day, that I married my best friend.  I'm glad that we care for each other in small ways daily, instead of in big ways quarterly.  I'm glad that we both love baseball.  And camping.  And cards.  Or we'd both be married to other people.