Go Play In The Dirt

In order to keep things as normal as possible – both for the tinies and for myself – during my travel days away from home, I try to mirror a couple of our evening routines when I speak with them each night on the phone. One of these routines involves asking each of my children this question: “What was your favorite thing that happened today?”

My husband and I have asked the kids this question almost every night since they were old enough to speak. In the early days, answers included “playing outside” or “lunch” or “going potty on the potty.” As they’ve gotten older and using the bathroom has become more commonplace in their lives, their answers have become more nuanced and varied, such as “getting to spend time with my new friends” or “learning about kinetic energy” (in Kindergarten… what???) or “when you came to have lunch with me, Mommy” (everybody say awwww).

The other night, I asked my Kindergartner this question, and after about twenty ums, she suddenly said, “I know! I had to bring a bag of dirt to school, from our yard. And then in science class, I got to play with it!”

I replied, “What did you learn about the dirt?” to which she cheerily responded, “I don’t remember.”

“So,” I said, “you’re just happy you got to play with dirt. Yes?”

With very clear glee, she emphatically replied, “Yes!”

Her excitement wasn’t all that surprising. My daughter has loved to play in the dirt since the first time she was placed on the ground. She loves to run her fingers through the soil. She is physically incapable of passing a patch of sand or dirt on the ground without bending down to let her fingertips at least graze it, but usually she prefers to at least pick up a handful, to feel the grains against her palm. It’s her passion. It calls to her and brings her joy. She can spend hours – literally hours – sitting on the ground, moving her hands through the earth.

Check out those fabulously dirty fingernails.

We each have our own version of playing in the dirt. Each of us has that one passion, that thing we do that brings us pure, unspoiled happiness and that lets us feel deeply connected to a special part of our souls. For some of us it’s writing stories and poems. For others, it’s creating artwork or getting out into nature. For yet others of us, it’s knitting or hunting or gardening or surfing. It might be bird watching, or it might be rebuilding automobiles.

In rare instances, people make a living with their version of playing in the dirt. But usually these are the things we do away from work, away from the normal day-to-day, when we need to get back in touch with that part of us that hasn’t been beaten down or abbreviated by life, that part of our hearts that isn’t burdened by the need to be productive or responsible. We do these things just… because. Because not doing them makes us feel just that little bit less alive.

If you’re reading this, my wish for you is that you never forget to play in the dirt. I hope you never let the daily grind or the judgment of others or the odd diversions of the world prevent you from getting those hands dirty and soaking up every ounce of pure happiness.

As for me, I realized – while speaking with my little girl the other night – that for a while now I’ve allowed myself to become distracted by things that seemed more important at the time but that, on retrospect, are rather ephemeral. I forgot to play in the dirt for several months. Shame shame. But I’m back. And I’m re-energized. So look out, world… it’s time to play.

Heartless Murder of an Imaginary Friend

I’m a big softy and a sucker for a cause, especially any cause that promises to improve the lives of children in some way – preventing bullying, providing wigs for kids, curing childhood cancer...  

Still, “caring” and “compassionate” weren’t always adjectives that could describe me.  My nature from birth was more inclined toward strict pragmatism, even bordering - for much of my youth - on coldly calculating practicality.  It took many years for me to develop even what I’d consider a “normal” level of empathy and kindness, much less the overflowing blob of emotion that I now can harbor when I’m confronted with the injustices of the world.

Case in point:  My imaginary friend.  According to my mother, when I was 2 or 3 I had an imaginary friend.  It’s something that I forget about most of the time, but the other day I was reminded of this when I found myself answering a slew of questions – asked by my little daughter – about the untimely demise of a child’s imaginary friend in the movie “Parental Guidance.” (If you have not seen this flick, give it a shot. It’s very cute.)

According to my mother, my imaginary friend was named Dansindoor.  I can only speculate about the actual spelling of his name, as I didn’t know how to spell back when my imaginary friend told me his name, so just go with me on this.  And to answer your next question, no, I have no memory of him whatsoever.  See?  Callous.  But it gets worse.  Far worse.

Apparently, Dansindoor was very small and lived in my pocket.  Once in a while, I would take him out and hold him up in the palm of my hand, and we would sing songs to people.  When we were finished singing, I would return Dansindoor to the cozy confines of my pocket.  (I have no idea where I kept him when I didn’t have a pocket in my clothing, though perhaps he lived in an imaginary pocket in that case.  See how that whole imaginary thing works?)

Anyway, as the story goes, one day I apparently no longer needed Dansindoor. Did I wish him a fond, tearful farewell? No. Did I have a long talk with my parents about the fact that I was ready to confront the world on my own terms? Nope. This is what I did:  I took Dansindoor out of my pocket and sang to someone – my mother, I assume, as she’s the one who tells me this sordid story. When we were done with our final little ditty, I looked at the invisible little being standing on my palm and said, “Good-bye, Dansindoor.” Then, with my other hand, I swiftly and unceremoniously clapped down, squashing my imaginary friend into oblivion.

That’s right. I murdered my imaginary friend. In cold blood. With no remorse.

Pretty bad, right?  Yeah, I thought so, too. 

But that’s not exactly the end of the story. Not anymore. Because the other day, as I recounted this to my children during their ride home from school, this was their response:

Bear (6):  “That is the most terrible thing you’ve ever told me. You should never kill your friends, even imaginary ones. Never tell me about that again.”

Ballerina (5):  “Mommy! That story was awesome! My favorite part was when you said, ‘Good-bye, Dasindoor,’ and then you squashed him! Can you tell it again?”

The Little Things, from The Little People

The last several days can only be described as a pile of stress. Between friend "stuff", work "stuff", family "stuff" and trying to get ready for Halloween, things are abnormally abnormal. That's saying a lot in my existence. On top of that, a historic storm bearing my mother-in-law's name -- so much opportunity for humor if she was a stereotypical mother-in-law... darn it -- just did serious damage to my childhood hometown in Connecticut  plus devastated Seaside Heights, New Jersey where my family spent a few weeks each summer. B***h of a storm attacked my youth.

My stressy time clearly doesn't hold a candle to what others are going through right now, so it feels selfish to feel stressed. But the stress is there, and what is it that they say?.. You can't fix the problem if you don't acknowledge there IS a problem. Or something like that. Likely something pithier or more clever.

Watching my kids tonight, I realized that they hold the key to getting a handle on serenity. It's NOT that they epitomize serenity personified -- no, they are more "this is what 5-Hour Energy would look like as tiny humans" -- but their outlook and actions hold the keys to bringing life back into balance.

Without further ado, here are lessons from them regarding what to do to reestablish bliss... these all came from a single evening:

• Hug everyone good-bye. Everyone. Every. One.
• If you don't get your way the first time you ask, keep asking. Several times.
• Chat up everyone you encounter. Be sure to introduce them to everyone you are with, including sharing everyone's ages, birthdays, address and phone numbers. It's friendly.
• Walk up to someone you like and sit in their lap, then cuddle up to them. Without asking.
• Challenge people to impromptu foot races. In the hallway. Naked.
• If the urge hits you, grab someone's face with both hands and kiss them. And then do it again. Then follow up with an Eskimo kiss, a butterfly kiss and an upside down kiss for good measure.
• Find your passion and then give it your all, even if your passion is battling fancy tops (beyblades).
• Close your eyes, extend your arms, and spin and spin and spin. Because it's fun.
• Tell someone you love the following, verbatim: "I need to tell you something. I need to tell you something. Hey. Hey. Are you... Hey... Are you hearing me? Hey, so um... This is important. Ready?... 'Kay... I really love you. A lot."

Try it. Report back. Now... Go.

The Artist

The children in my daughter's pre-K class were given large pieces of paper with blank "heads" printed on them and were asked to draw a picture of one of their parents.  Below is the picture my daughter drew of me.

Key points of note:

• I do have brown hair in reality, but it is long (way way way too long, cannot wait to chop it off). Not only this, but my daughter is partial to long hair. She drew me with a rockin' pixie 'do that I would love, but I don't have the delicate features to pull it off. My daughter accidentally referring to me as "Daddy" or to my husband as "Mommy" on occasion is taking on a whole new relevance now.
• Damn, I have one heck of a big smile! I knew I was a happy person, but wow. Apparently I need to consider a new profession of "bringer-of-joy."
• My real eyes are brown.  I promise you, I am not a Twilight vampire.
• I assume those are earrings that she drew in my ears.  I do not constantly wear earplugs.  Hm... constantly wear earplugs... interesting idea...
• Also, in reference to the cheek dots and circular blue nose, I do not walk around my house in full clown make-up.  Hm... walk around in full clown make-up... interesting idea...
• And finally:  I'm not entirely certain what those yellow appendages are that are sticking out of my neck. Frankenstein bolts? Rays of sunshine and sweetness? A visual representation of the pleasing ginger aroma emanating from my neck when I wear my favorite scent? Creepy elf arms reaching around to strangle me in my sleep?

Truth be told, I love that she drew me, even though this has brought into stark light that she may need glasses.  Or not.  I like how she sees the world.

Still Reeling

I apologize ahead of time that this post is a little lengthier than most that I write. However, it’s imperative that I tell today’s story correctly rather than focus on keeping it especially concise.

Originally, I’d intended to break my recent hiatus from posting with a fun little piece about Halloween costumes. As fate would have it, that post will have to be delayed.

Let me start this by setting the stage a little bit. My son’s hero of all heroes is Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. When we visited the King Center this past January on Martin Luther King, Jr Day, my little Bear didn’t want to leave first the museum and then the memorial. He wanted to commune with Dr. King all day. On a recent trip to Washington, DC, Bear didn’t want to leave Dr. King’s statue, and he made it a point to read aloud every single quote inscribed along the long wall of the memorial. As Bear’s mom, I am proud beyond words.

As for my daughter, Ballerina, she isn’t quite old enough yet to understand these matters and historic struggles for civil rights. However, from her friendships and from the discussions we do have with her, it’s clear that she would be baffled by someone disliking or excluding someone based on a physical trait.

Yes, my husband and I talk to the kids about these issues, in children’s terms. We ask them if they feel that any skin color or hair tone or eye hue is better than another, and when they answer no, we make sure to ask them why so that they solidify this belief in their hearts as completely as possible.

With this as the backdrop and as a reflection of how my husband and I feel about discrimination of any kind, I will tell you about today.

This afternoon, while my husband took my kids on errands, I took off on my weekly long run. I expected a relatively uneventful, if slower than usual due to humidity, 8-mile run. Because of the length of the run, I started listening to a novel on my iTunes to pass the time.

A little over 3 miles along the trail, I came upon a detour sign and a loose mesh fence blocking the arm of the trail I usually follow. Being curious, and figuring I could just turn around at any sign of real danger, I went around the detour and continued on another tenth of a mile or so until I reached the spot where the trail passes under a road. Signs indicated that until early October the city is doing water line construction, so the portion of the trail under the road is closed.

I have a small fear of underpasses, so I decided not to risk going under. The thing is, this underpass is relatively new. The trail used to wind along another tenth or so of a mile up to the road itself, where a runner, walker, cyclist, etc., using the trail had to wait for a walk light to cross the street to the trailhead at the other side. I felt adventurous and decided to follow the old trail up and over the road.

Just as I was about to continue along, a slightly older couple on bicycles happened along – apparently, like me, they considered the detour sign to be more of a suggestion than a rule. We all spoke for a couple of minutes, and they decided to follow me up the old trail. For the sake of clarity in the story, let me state that this couple was African-American. The necessity of this description will be clear in a moment.

We approached the road, and as we arrived at the spot where the final turn up to the road used to be, we discovered that last length of connecting sidewalk had been removed and trees and shrubs planted along the strip where the paved trail had been, effectively blocking the easiest rise to the road. What was left was a very steep, grassy rise straight in front of us of about twenty or twenty-five feet up to the roadside sidewalk.

The man of the couple and I carefully worked to pull the bicycles up the rise, and when all was secure, the woman gingerly made her way up as well. Did I mention it was steep? It was really steep. I was impressed that they climbed up, and in such good spirits! They didn’t complain about this obstacle. They didn’t wince at the climb. They took it in stride and laughed almost the whole time.

I was just telling them that I’d lead them to the trailhead across the street, when a small, white SUV passed, filled with young men or teenagers – they went by so quickly, I couldn’t tell – and the most hateful word in the English language was screamed out the car window at our little group.

You know the word I’m talking about.

There’s no way you don’t.

I refuse to type it.

Like most people, I can write things and type things that I’d be embarrassed or even mortified to say out loud. But this… I don’t want any effort of mine to produce this word. But you know it.

Of course I have encountered this word numerous times in my life. In movies. On news reels. In history lessons. On talk shows. In philosophical discussions. But I have never encountered it flung as an invective at me or at people I’m with. This is a new experience for me. And hey, I’m Irish with a temper that matches the stereotype; I get furious enough just hearing about this word being used. Hearing it marring the air around me and directed at people in my proximity performed the miracle of simultaneously stopping my heart and sending my blood pressure skyward.

I heard myself yell some impotent remark at the boys as they drove off; what I really was thinking was, “What I wouldn’t give right now for a baseball bat and a red light.” Of course, violence against these fools – or at least against their vehicle – would have accomplished all of nothing, but it was the first response that came into my head, and I felt it through my gut and along every nerve ending.

The man of the bicycle riding couple looked at with me, and with his unwavering smile still brightening his face, he asked, “What did they say?”  I looked at him for a moment to determine if he was only pretending not to have heard… to try to spare me? to spare me what? embarrassment? to spare himself embarrassment? to sweep away anger and not let someone else’s idiocy ruin the day? 

Either way, I said, “I’d rather not say. Let’s move on. The trailhead’s right across the road.” I gave the couple what I hoped was a warm smile that didn’t reflect how shaky I felt inside, and we continued up the sidewalk, chatting about the area and the trails.

The rest of my run was pretty terrible. I turned off the audible book; I wasn’t listening any longer to anything but the thoughts raging through my mind. I tried to grab hold of my anger and leverage it to drive me forward, but the shock of that word and the hatred it reflects invading the day deflated my motivation and killed my energy. And I wasn’t even the object against whom the word truly was flung. Fortunately, the couple who were the targets either didn’t catch what was yelled or were able to rise above it.

To everyone who ever has fought hatred without turning to hatred themselves… my respect, which always has been tremendous beyond description, somehow managed to increase a hundredfold today.

I’m not naïve enough to believe that people don’t still use the awful word that was yelled today. I’m not Pollyanna enough to think that racism is dead. But I like to believe that it’s becoming increasingly shameful and unacceptable. I like to think that people “out there” are becoming increasingly aware that varying skin tones and ethnicities should be appreciated and embraced, not hated and feared.  I like to believe that parents are teaching their children to be a better generation than ours and the ones before.

Ultimately, I refuse to let today kill my spirit, but it’s going to affect me for the long haul. What I experienced was so insanely minor compared to what others have had to experience and continue to experience today. And yet it was so powerful, that one word, that one moment. It was a perspective changer.

Even so, to those who tease me about being a bit of an idealist in my view of the world… no, this won’t make me less of one. I continue to be realistic about the world as it is, but I also refuse to stop being idealistic about how I want the world to be. Because being an idealist requires a person to have and strive for ideals. And if people don’t have ideals they firmly believe in and want to strive for, how will anyone ever make a difference… how will they ever make this world a better place?

As long as young men like the ones from today are out there, the world needs to be made better. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do about it, but I’m working on it. I’m doing my best to ensure that my children not only think differently than these young men but that they also are passionate enough about their beliefs to stand up for them.  I’m encouraging my son’s choice of hero, because not only did Dr. King make a difference but he did so with a focus on peace, education, love and non-violence. Focusing my efforts on my children may be the equivalent of a drop in the bucket, but there are millions of us out there, and if all of us would contribute a drop, the result wouldn’t be just a full bucket… but a flood.

How about you? What are you doing to make the world a better place?

LICE!!

Late yesterday, my husband and I received the call from my daughter’s pre-K that parents everywhere dread.  “We’re pretty sure your daughter has lice.”  No!  It can’t be true!  Please!

So many things ran through my head at the speed of light:  Bugs in my kid’s hair! Bugs!  In hair!  *shivers*  Smelly hair treatment.  Nitpicking (that phrase – being nitpicky – will never sound the same again to these ears). Lice combing. Washing and sanitizing every sheet in the house, since Ballerina likes to make her way to everyone’s bed to snuggle. Washing and sanitizing all the kids’ clothes. No activities with other kids for a week.  No pre-K for a week (shoot me now).  Trying to keep the kids apart so the bugs don’t spread to Bear, who is set to start first grade on Monday.  Keeping the snuggly 4-year-old off the couches.  Keeping snuggly 4-year-old off laps.

Not a photo of Ballerina, but might as well be.

None of this is good. None.

As of the writing of this post, we have been dealing with this tiny menace for around 18 hours. Last night, while I took a moment to get in the right mental state for this (as if that’s even possible for a head-bug-phobe like me) and cooked comfort food for dinner, my husband kindly performed the initial step of washing Ballerina’s hair and applying the treatment to her head.  After dinner, I did the initial lice combing and nitpicking (there’s that phrase again), which I repeated this morning. 

Now that we’re self-designated experts at this, I will share my newly acquired parental wisdom with you, hoping the entire time you never have to apply said wisdom with yourself or your kids.

1. Prepare for several days of house arrest.  You don’t want to expose others to your child’s new friends.  That means you are stuck at the house/condo/apartment, too, and your little one likely will get bored at some point.  Set up the movies.  Pull out the art activities.  Line up the books.  Decide to learn a new language together.  Send someone out for materials to build a next generation tablet computer. [As I’m writing this, Ballerina is sitting off to my right, on a plastic chair, watching Disney’s Jungle Book.]
2. Expect your head to feel really itchy. Seriously. From the moment we heard the word “lice,” my husband and I have felt dramatically itchy probably a few hundred times.  Neither of us has lice.  How do I know?  We’ve checked each other’s heads at least five times apiece so far. But we still itch. So we will continue to check. Obsessively.
3. The person with the strongest back needs to be the lice comber/nitpicker.  I don’t care how cleverly you situate yourself as you begin your designated hour to two hours combing and picking your child’s hair; at some point you will find that you’ve been standing over him or her, bent over awkwardly from the waist, for several minutes or longer. It’s not comfortable. Knowing this may happen someday to your child is reason enough to start a workout regimen. Believe me.  Believe my back.
4. Wear all black while you lice comb and nitpick. Lice and nits in the hair look white. On a paper towel some can look brown, but some still look white. Black makes them all stand out. If you wear black and the little buggers jump onto you – and a few may, trust me – you can spot them and nab them.  Today, I’m wearing a black t-shirt and black skirt.  I look like a cheerleader in mourning.  But it’s been worth it.
5. If you have long hair and you are the hair-comber, pull your hair back snugly. The last thing you want is to offer a safety rope to the few still-living lice trying to escape your child’s head.
6. Don’t expect the lice comb to get the nits out.  You’ll need to meticulously go through your child’s hair to pick the nits off the hair follicles with your fingers, then recheck through nearby hair shafts to make sure the nit didn’t fall onto one and reattach.  And then you’ll have to do it again.  And later, you’ll have to do it again.  Get out your glasses and your patience. Truly, there is no alternative.  
7. Repeating #2.  Your head will feel itchy.  A lot.
8. Do NOT make jokes to your partner along the lines of, “You do the lice combing. It seems right up your alley. You enjoy obsessively looking for problems” or “Nitpicking! You’ve found a physical manifestation of your true calling!”
9. Do not beat yourself up and assume your kid is unclean in some fashion. There are urban legends about lice preferring clean hair to dirty hair and some anecdotal “evidence” that the nits have more trouble gluing to oily hair than clean hair. That’s not a reason to obsessively shampoo your kid’s head.  Kids get lice. Clean. Grungy. If they have hair, they’re susceptible.
10. Don’t make faces or shrink from your kid or otherwise make your child feel icky.  Yes, that’s the technical term – icky.  They’ll likely be freaked out that they have bugs on their head.  Possibly more than you.  It’s the kid’s head harboring the bugs, after all. 
11. READ THE DIRECTIONS on the treatment. Seriously, people. For instance, our treatment states that if after 8-12 hours, the lice aren’t dead or sluggish, do NOT use the treatment again; rather, call the doctor to determine if you need another type of treatment. The treatment is a pesticide.  Do you really want to keep dousing your small child with pesticide?  READ THE DIRECTIONS. And follow them.

I hope this is helpful. Or actually, I don’t. Because if it’s helpful, that means your kid has lice. And that would suck.

Excuse me… time to go nitpick. Apparently, it’s my calling.

UPDATE:
Both kids ended up with lice (not shocking, since they're very close).  After treating each child twice in far faster succession than is recommended - though done with a doctor's direction - the little head bugs remain tenacious. So I am providing additional insight and advice:

1. Know your school's and county's lice policy. Our county recommends allowing children to return to the classroom the day after treatment, even if some nits remain, because at that stage it's highly unlikely the child will transmit lice to classmates. The nurse at my son's elementary school is a bit more hesitant, though she pins the blame on the teachers.  I got into it with her this morning regarding the whole lice thing.  If you want details, email me... not in the mood to post here.  Suffice it to say, Mama's Irish was up.
2. The American Academy of Pediatrics has these recommendations, which concur with our county's policy... some of the information is reassuring, some disconcerting.  
3. There are magical places that specialize in lice removal.  As in, you take your child there and they'll do the whole thing!  Some places will even come to you at your home!  They guarantee one treatment and done, and as in the case of the place we're going - Elimilice (cute name) - they even provide documentation that allows them back in the classroom the same day as treatment!  (This service apparently warrants a 3-exclamation-point information bullet.)

Ballerina, exhausted from days of Mommy scouring her poor head.

Being Everything.

A few weeks ago, my little Ballerina’s preschool teacher asked that we parents bring in baby photos of our kids. We were curious why, of course, but we are typical preschool parents; we don’t question random requests of this nature, we just comply.

As it turns out, the baby pictures were used for a sort of look-backward-look-forward project. The teacher taped the baby photos up on the wall next to the kids’ statements of what they want to do or be when they grow up.  Here’s Ballerina’s photo and statement:

I WANT TO DO EVERYTHING!

 I wish I could tell you that this came as a surprise. Nope. I just nodded. So did one of her teachers.

Here is a list of the various things Ballerina has stated, or otherwise indicated during her brief-thus-far but very noticeable life, that she wants to do or be: 

• Olympic swimmer (I have explained to her that it would be helpful to learn how to swim without floaties first, something we’ve been trying to get her to do for years)

• Olympic diver (Her practice involves jumping off the couch in various ways or standing on the floor, spinning and falling down)
• Singer
• Chef

• Teacher
• Farmer

• Storyteller
• Archeologist

• Dancer (Although given the choice between dance class and karate class, she chose karate class)
• Artist
• Jedi knight

• Pole dancer (My response, to my husband: “Honey! We won’t have to pay for college!”)
• Counselor
• Soccer Goalie

• Daycare provider/babysitter
• Lawyer
• Karate champ

• Cheerleader (She is convinced that yelling “U-S-A! U-S-A!” at the television is helping our Olympic athletes win.)
• Comedienne

Interestingly, even though she gravitates toward younger children like blonde dog hair to a dark suit – to the point where other daycare moms constantly tell me how sweetly Ballerina cares for their small kids, holding their hands, reading to them, generally being overbearing – the one thing that Ballerina does not want to be… is a Mom.

This surprises me. A lot. But it's the truth. Ballerina often asks me if she will be required to bear children someday. When I tell her that she can choose to have children or not to have children, it’s entirely up to her, she unerringly says, “Mommy, I don’t want to have my own children. I love kids a lot, but I don’t want to be a Mom. Is that okay?”  Of course, I tell her that it is just fine.

And you know what? It is just fine.  Sure, if this is the path she takes when she grows up, part of me will ache that I won’t get to see the amazing little people she would create and nurture. She has such a way with children already, and such a clear love for them.  But I also know that if she doesn’t want children of her own, then she shouldn’t have them to make someone else happy, even if that someone is her long-suffering Mama. She needs to live the life she envisions. 

It’s her life, after all, and she wants “to do everything.” And I couldn’t be more proud. She has this giant life in front of her. It’s still the beginning of the beginning for my Ballerina. She isn’t trying to find some niche to fill yet, some place to fit in. My bright, perceptive girl already has a sense of her true self, and I hope she clings to it fiercely. She so clearly recognizes the enormity of the world and all of its potential, and she wants to grab hold of it and make it her own. She wants to experience… everything.

That’s my girl.

Accidents and Aliens

Tonight, the kids and I passed a car accident on the way home. After the inevitable discussions about the number of each type of vehicle surrounded the banged-up cars – “Mommy, look, there’s one fire rescue truck, one ambulance, one police car, what’s that thing again?, oh yeah, one tow truck,” etc. – and whether or not someone died, Ballerina’s focus landed squarely on one of the accident victims. 

Well, I’m not sure if she this woman actually was a perpetrator or a victim. I wasn’t there to see the accident. Let’s just call her an accident participant.

So anyway, Ballerina quieted momentarily when she saw this accident participant, a middle-aged (I’m guessing) woman (I think… one never knows truly) who was strapped to a gurney and about to be loaded into the one ambulance. The following exchange ensued:

Ballerina:     Mommy, are they taking her to the hospital?

Me:              Yes, baby.

Ballerina:     Will she die?

Me:               Seriously?

Ballerina:     Sorry. So they’re going to make her better?

Me:               Yep.

Ballerina:     Got it. They’re taking her to the hospital to take care of the bad things inside her and then they will get the bad things out and then the bad things won’t be inside her anymore.

So now this is what I envision when I think about the woman on the gurney and what will happen when she arrives at the hospital.

c/o IMDB.com and Paramount

For a more action-packed version, here you go...

Way to go, Ballerina.

Weird, Unimportant Coincidences

[Spoiler Alert:  If you’ve never seen Sleepless in Seattle or Field of Dreams, and if you think you may someday, and if you don’t want any information about either one before you do, and if you somehow have never encountered any other spoilers about these movies that are now 20-ish years old… you may actually learn a very little something about these movies in this post. Very little. But something.]

As my BFF pointed out recently, I’ve been in a bit of a nostalgic mood lately. One of the results of this all-encompassing nostalgia is that I’ve spent time lately introducing my children to some of the classic movies of my youth. E.T. Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Star Wars. Ghost Busters. Black Stallion.

It’s been fun seeing them fall in love with these movies that captured my imagination when I was young, and it’s also been interesting to see these films through their fresh eyes. Some of the observations have been enlightening or even funny. For instance, there are scenes in E.T. that involve a rotary phone. Many kids these days aren’t fully familiar with original touch-tone phones that connect to land lines, and even land line phones often have cordless headsets, so explaining a rotary phone circa 1980 was a fun challenge.

Last weekend, I had a late evening “sleepover” with my kids in our basement playroom. The kids thought this was the most fantastic thing ever.  Kids tend to think sleeping anywhere but their own beds is the best thing ever, really. Anyway, I had one rule: the only movie we would watch would be a “Mommy movie.” I knew they absolutely would not fall asleep if we watched a kids’ movie, and I assumed that if we put on a romantic comedy or light drama, the kids would drift off.

After flipping through the channels, I happened upon the last maybe half hour of one of the best, sweetest romantic comedies of all time, Sleepless in Seattle. I took a moment to give the kids a quick overview of what the movie was about, and then we settled in to watch. By the time I was done with my kid-friendly film synopsis, the movie was at the scene where the son Jonah’s little friend Jessica helps him secure a seat on a plane to New York. To my happy surprise, the kids watched raptly until the end and were giddy with excitement when Sam and Annie finally met at the end.

Bear (smiling ear to ear):  Mommy! Will they get married?

Me:  I don’t know, baby.

Bear:  I think they will. They have to. This is so great!

Well, last night I held another sleepover with the kids. This time I was determined to show the kids a complete, start-to-finish Mommy movie.  I gave the kids a choice between my all-time-favorite movie, Field of Dreams, and Sleepless in Seattle (so they could see how it begins). After some debate, the kids agreed they wanted to see Field of Dreams (Ballerina’s first choice) first and Sleepless in Seattle (Bear’s first choice) second or the following day. 

We settled in – the kids in their sleeping bags on our couches, I on a “bed” of couch cushions laid out on the floor – and turned on Field of Dreams.  Ballerina zonked out about halfway through the movie, but Bear was rapt and fascinated throughout.  He was crushed for Doc Graham after he left the field – sacrificed his place on the field, in truth – to save Ray’s daughter, Karin, from choking on a hot dog. Bear felt indignant at the end when Terry was invited “out” with the ball players but Ray was not, he asked over and over during the last scene between John and Ray, “Do either of them know John is his dad? Do they know yet?” and he quietly cheered when Ray called out to John, “Hey… Dad? You wanna have a catch?”

After the movie was done, Bear asked if we could start Sleepless in Seattle.  It was late, and Bear was sick, but I thought, “Why not?” and put the movie on. About ten minutes in, Bear yawned and the following exchange happened:

Bear:  When does Karin show up?

Me:  Um… who? 

Bear:  Karin. When does she show up?

Me:  Karin… from the last movie?

Bear:  Yeah.

Me:  But this is a different movie.

Bear:  Right. So when does she show up?

At first I thought that these were perhaps the sleepy ravings of an exhausted, mildly feverish, almost-6-year-old who wasn’t used to staying up past 11:00pm. But then it hit me.  The little girl who played Jonah's friend Jessica in Sleepless in Seattle is the same girl who played Karin in Field of Dreams.  I would never have made this connection, but my sweet little Bear saw it right away. It kind of gave me chills. Not entirely sure why. But isn't it interesting?

From Field of Dreams (c/o IMDB.com).

From Sleepless in Seattle (c/o stargalaxy.com).

This observation must have switched on the “find commonalities” part of my brain, because I almost immediately made two more interesting connections between the movies… well, interesting to me, at least.  First, baseball figures prominently in each.  The baseball connection in Field of Dreams is obvious, of course – if you can’t sort that one out, you likely haven’t actually seen Field of Dreams, and if that’s the case, then your assignment for this week is to rent, borrow or buy the film and watch it! – but if you watch Sleepless in Seattle, you’ll find that it’s a baseball reference within Annie’s letter that is the first thing Jonah refers to as “a sign” that she’s someone to whom Sam should consider speaking.  And speaking of Annie, the main female character in both Field of Dreams and Sleepless in Seattle is named Annie.  That’s right.  Not Ann or Anna or any other iteration of the name.  Annie.

Now that I have impressed you with my son’s powers of half-asleep observation and my own ability to make inane connections between movies, you may go about your day. As for me, I’m going to try to sort out what sort of “sign” all this is. Because it must mean something, right?

Or not. 

Camping With Obama

There’s this beat-up, old, dark blue truck in my neighborhood that is eternally parked in the same spot up against the curb, not far from one of the neighborhood entrances.  The truck has hard cover over the bed, and across the back is scrawled, in large capital letters, “STOP OBAMA.” 

Clearly, the owner is a fan of the POTUS.  (I love the acronym POTUS. Sounds kinky.)

On the way home today, Bear read the sign on the back of the truck out loud to Ballerina. “Stop Obama,” he said, followed by, “Why would someone want to stop Obama?”  I explained that like with anything else, people’s opinions differ on the President; some like him, some don’t.

Ballerina, who is four, thought about this a moment, and this is the conversation that ensued.

Ballerina:  So that man doesn’t like Obama?

Me:  Apparently that is the case.

Ballerina:  Does that mean he won’t go camping with Obama?

Me:  Most likely no.

Ballerina:  And he won’t go to his house for a party or a sleepover?

Me:  Probably not.

Ballerina:  What about fishing with him?

Me:  I doubt it.

Ballerina:  Why do grown-ups not do sleepovers if they don’t like each other?  And why doesn’t he like Obama anyway?

Even casual, not sure this screams "I love camping."
image c/o nydailynews.com

At this point we arrived home, so both children focused their attention on arguing about who should be allowed to unlock the door.  But this discussion left me wondering… could domestic and international issues be easily resolved if our leaders would just hold a darn sleepover?  Maybe tell ghost stories?  Do “light as a feather, stiff as a board” games and spin the bottle?  Play truth or dare?  Ballerina might be on to something.

Lightsaber Battle in the Back Seat

Below is the conversation that occurred in the back seat of my car last night.

Bear (5 years old):  Ballerina!  I know what we should ask for for Christmas. Jedi lightsabers.  Then we can have lightsaber fights.

Ballerina (3 years old):  Okay, Bear. But don’t we have lightsabers already? [I think she meant the light swords we bought them at Disney… over a year ago.]

Bear:  I’m talking about real lightsabers. They have them at Target. Right, Mom?

Me:  Um, yeah.

Bear:  See? 

Ballerina:  If we fight with lightsabers, who do you want to be?

Bear:  I’ll be Anakin.  That means my lightsaber has to be blue.  You need to be… um…

Ballerina:  Can I be Han Solo?

Bear:  No.  We will be playing a Revenge of the Sith [Bear pronounces it Siff] fight. Han Solo isn’t in Revenge of the Sith.

Ballerina:  Oh.  Then… who can I be?

Bear:  You can be Padme. We can give you a purple or pink lightsaber. That’s okay for girls.

Ballerina:  Who will be the dark Jedi?  [Not sure if she meant Mace Windu/Samuel Jackson or the “dark side” Jedi/Emperor.]

Bear:  It’ll be just you and me.

Ballerina:  Huh? Padme and Anakin are both good. They can’t fight.

Bear: No, Ballerina, I’m going to be bad Anakin, from the end of Revenge of the Sith. Remember? He turns bad.

Ballerina:  So wait. Will you be a good guy or a bad guy? [Incredulous that anyone would choose to be a bad guy.]

Bear:  A bad guy.  Bad Anakin.  From Revenge of the Sith. [At this point I’m thinking he just likes to say “Revenge of the Siff.”]

Ballerina:  So if just you and me fight, can I cut off your legs?  In Revenge of the Sith, Obi-Wan Kenobi cuts off Anakin’s legs and then they put on new legs and then they put on a scary cape and then the put on his Darth Vader mask and then he’s Darth Vader.

Bear:  Right. And after that he’s Darth Vader in Star Wars and Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi and we know that he’s really Anakin but also Darth Vader.

Ballerina:  Look, Mommy!  Christmas decorations!

I’m wondering how many of you reading this have no idea what this conversation is all about, how many of you are impressed at what an awesome mom I am and how many of you are ready to call Child Services…

Eat Your Heart Out, John Lennon

You know how, as the parent of a young child, you hope that at some magical moment you will catch a glimmer of your child’s future brilliance?  For me, that day has arrived.

I’ve always suspected that my Ballerina’s talents were geared toward art.  My tiny 3-year-old enthusiast doesn’t color anything a single hue. Rather, she makes every coloring book character an intense calico.  She can spend 10 minutes meticulously coloring in a space 2 inches by 2 inches, choosing every tint and shade with care and making sure to blend the colors into one another, even layering colors for effect. She practically floats with joy at the mention of paints, and she thinks mixing mediums – markers, paints, puffy stickers, glued magazine cut-outs, stamps – is nirvana.

Did I mention that her favorite item of clothing is her pair of black pleather boots?

This past weekend, Ballerina spent the better part of an hour drawing a picture for me of about forty “houses.” When she brought me my paper, 2-dimensional neighborhood, I almost fell over. First, in all honesty, I was shocked at how very un-house-esque her houses appeared. I mean, most little ones, in my experience, at least draw something approaching a box shape when sketching a house. My child’s houses look more like… well… red squid. A swarm of them.

But that’s not what got me. Check out Ballerina’s "house" next to John Lennon’s famous self-portrait:

Almost identical, right???

The resemblance is uncanny!!  My 3-year-old daughter is channeling Lennon!  She may even BE John Lennon reincarnated!  I need to give her more time at the piano…

Speaking of reincarnation… several months back, my sweet, 5-year-old Bear read a science book chapter about the decomposition of trees, which led to an existential discussion about the circle of life as we took one of our many trail walks. Tonight, out of nowhere, Bear decided to pick up this conversation, but he suddenly became focused on the fact that I will die someday and that he will die someday, yadda yadda… crying and howling and tears (oh my)! Eventually my husband and I calmed him down by throwing theories at him, telling him about the idea of reincarnation and the possibility of heaven and how some people even believe that we stick around after we die and watch over our loved ones. This idea that there may be some sort of "after" gave him pause. Positive pause. (No, not paws... you know you thought it...) Bear still is not 100% convinced that he shouldn’t live in abject fear of death, but he’s pondering. Right this minute. As you read this. I guarantee it.

Finally, I learned that today my Bear loves me more than my husband. I am She Who Is Most Loved. Everyone say “awwww.” Bear told us this tonight. He loves me “point one” more than my husband. To be specific, he loves me “one point four one two” (1.412) and he loves my husband “one point three one two” (1.312). I’m not sure what that means, but I’ll take it. I might even make it into a T-Shirt. 

Want one? 

When I Grow Up…

When I grow up, I promise to:

• Stop kvetching about my group project teammates (aside from Project Coach) who can’t seem to get their heads out of their arses to contribute something to our project that is due in 2 weeks. Something. Anything. Please.
• Be able to hear the word “moist” without feeling required to text it or email it immediately to my sister, who finds the word revolting. Moist.
• Quit wearing pigtails. Except when I run. Or when it’s summer. Or when my hair is long.
• Try to grasp the importance of mani-pedis.
• Reconsider my sheer adoration of my white hairs. (They are not gray. They are bright white and make my hair look sparkly.)
• Admit that I want the red wine, I don’t need the red wine.
• Stop eating cookies for dinner. At least as far as you know.
• Stop laughing when my 3-year-old says, in frustration, “Fucking ridiculous!”
• Finally break down and watch Rocky. (Don’t judge me.)
• Finally break down and have my Grease, Hair & Hairspray festival (you know what I’m talking about, M.E.).
• Quit procrastinating doing my schoolwork by writing blog posts.

Okay, so maybe I won’t really do that last one.  What do you promise to do when you grow up?

My Kids and Big Love

My daughter’s latest career aspirations came to light over the weekend when my husband, kids and I attended my close friend’s birthday dinner at a semi-traditional Turkish restaurant; I say “semi-traditional” because their kids’ menu included pizza and chicken fingers, which I do not believe qualify as Turkish fare. You do, however, sit on comfy cushions at low tables to eat, and they serve delicious Middle Eastern food, like kebobs (hello! yum!) for us grown-ups. 

They also have a belly dancer. My Ballerina was entranced from the first twitch of this woman’s hips. By the end of the evening, Ballerina was serenely mirroring the “dance belly’s” moves.  She refused to leave the restaurant before the dance belly finished her set, and Ballerina has since shown off the sways, swishes and gyrations (toddler-version) of her chosen future profession to any who will observe. We do not allow tipping, thank you very much.

While this development challenges my husband’s sensibilities, it doesn’t compare, in my mind, to the conversation to which I was privy on the way home tonight from preschool. Things to know – Bear is 4, Ballerina is 3, Gabbie is a new girl in Bear’s classroom and Tyler is a little girl in Ballerina’s classroom. On with the replay:

Bear: Mom! I played with Gabbie today all day! She is my friend already, and I’m going to marry her.

Ballerina: What about me?

Bear: I can’t marry you. Brothers in a family can’t marry sisters.

Ballerina: But I want to marry you.

Bear: I’m marrying Gabbie. What boys at school do you want to marry?

Ballerina: You.

(Thus commenced a thorough discussion of the relative merits of every boy in each of their classrooms. Finally…)

Bear: Okay, I’ll let you marry Evan.

Ballerina: Okay. I’ll marry Evan. And I’ll marry Tyler, too.

Bear: You can’t marry Tyler. She’s a girl. You can’t marry a girl.

Ballerina: I’m going to marry both Evan and Tyler.

Bear: That’s so cool! You’ll be two mommies and a daddy! I’ll let you do that.

Let’s recap. Based on this past weekend and tonight, my children’s future includes belly dancing, misogyny, patriarchy, dangerous proximity to incest and polygamy.

Winning!  (Off to get a glass of wine…)