Living and learning… and cookies

Posted on December 21, 2013 by missemtoo

Growing up in southwestern Connecticut, which only saw an average of 24″ of snow each year, was a bit rough for a snow bunny like myself. Because of the relative rarity of measurable snow, even a little bit brought everything to a halt; you could count on school being cancelled at least three times a year, sometimes at the mere prediction of snow.

Moving to Rochester was, therefore, a thrilling experience for winter lovers like Nick, the girls, and me. With an average of 100″ of snow per year here, there’s no shortage of the white stuff to go around, which is awesome for folks like us. (Lest you get the wrong idea, the volume of snow does not lessen our enjoyment of it; we still gleefully celebrate the first nighttime snowfall each year by waking the girls up and carrying them downstairs from their beds to watch the falling flakes, just like my mom used to do with me.)

This is our seventh Rochester winter, and I think I’ve finally got it figured out. Which probably sounds strange – what is there to figure out? It’s just freakin’ snowy all the time – but it’s not quite that simple. Here’s the thing: our snow doesn’t usually fall in large increments. It’s not like we get a foot of snow one day, eight inches a few days later, and another foot the following week. Although we do get a bunch of snowfalls that total over six inches each season, the majority of our snow comes in rather small amounts: an inch today, half an inch tomorrow, the two more inches the day after tomorrow. An inch of snow doesn’t sound like much – and it isn’t – but when you have an inch of snow for 10 out of 14 days, and it’s remained cold enough for the snow that’s already fallen to stick around, it adds up.

Literally.

The exception to this rule is an odd thing we have here called lake effect snow, which technically means that the Great Lakes (in our case, Lake Ontario) gather up moisture which then comes down as snow in the winter. Practically speaking, it means that even when we don’t have a storm moving through, if the conditions are right over the lakes, it can snow pretty much any time, and that snow is entirely unpredictable. Dealing with lake effect snow is like anticipating Pope Francis’s next move – he might deliver a homily in Latin or take a selfie in the Vatican square. On any given day, it can be clear and dry, and suddenly there’s a snow squall so thick you can’t see across the street for fifteen minutes – and then, just like that, the snow is done. It’s kind of cool, in a geeky weather way, but is also maddening because you never know when it might pop up next.

(Side note: I think Pope Francis rocks.)

So anyway, now that the meteorology lesson is over, I’ll get on with the actual story. Oh yes, there is an actual story. Last week, Annie was scheduled to attend an evening Girl Scout outing where we would be caroling at a retirement community. (I know, I know… I said we would be caroling, which goes against everything that the Slacker Moms stand for. But people, it was singing Christmas carols. I just couldn’t help myself.) I also say we because I’d signed up for this to be “my” activity, so I definitely needed to participate.

See, although we may be slackers, we still want our kids’ scouting experience to be a good one, and the troops don’t run themselves, so each of us agreed to be in charge of one meeting or field trip. Because my piano lessons prevent me from attending any of the meetings, I knew I’d have to do an extracurricular activity, and the caroling seemed tailor-made for me. First of all, singing. CHRISTMAS CAROLS. Check. Second, since it was an already-organized activity (our troop was tagging along with several other Girl and Boy Scout troops, one of whom had arranged all of the sing-along details), it was really easy to make it “my” event: all I had to do was bring song sheets, cookies, and hot chocolate. Check. And finally, since I was already attending a(n adults-only) Cookie Exchange later that night, I needed to be making cookies anyway, and I am nothing if not efficient. Check.

Beyond that, the only thing that Annie and I had to do was show up at the retirement community. When she got home from school, this seemed like it would be no problem; she was excited to go, the cocoa and cookies were ready, all was well. It was quite cold that day, with temperatures in the teens and twenties and a decent wind chill. Given that we’d be caroling outside from house to house, bundling up sufficiently would be necessary, but that wasn’t really a big deal. With about an hour to go before our scheduled departure, I glanced outside and noticed that it had begun snowing, but I didn’t think anything of it; no snow had been predicted for the day, so I only just barely registered the falling flakes.

Annie was in the middle of playing – nothing particularly earth-shattering, just, you know, playing – when I gave her the heads-up that we’d be leaving soon. She called back to me that she didn’t want to go because she was busy. Playing. I told her that I was sorry that she didn’t want to stop playing, but we definitely needed to attend, so we’d be out the door in a bit.

Well. Little Miss must have been in a mood, because when I told her it was time to put on her boots, she began having a world-class meltdown. Had I not heard her? She DIDN’T WANT TO GO. She’d NEVER wanted to go! SHE WOULDN’T GO.

I tried to calmly talk her down, and then glanced outside again. The flakes that had been fluttering to the ground an hour ago had apparently been gathering steam, because, in those sixty minutes, a good two inches of snow had piled up on the lawn, the driveway, the road. As I surveyed the white-out, I was momentarily confounded: I didn’t think we were supposed to get snow today. With that much already on the ground and more continuing to fall, I knew that boots wouldn’t quite cut it; she’d need full-on snow gear.

When I broke this news to Annie (who was lying on the dining room floor, writhing about as though perhaps the subject of an exorcism), she didn’t exactly take it well.

Have you ever attempted to wrestle a sobbing orangutan into a pair of overalls? It is a good time, let me tell you.

As the snow fell ever more steadily and the time of our departure drew nigh (first time I’ve ever written that word, holla!), I considered my options. More specifically, I considered that we didn’t have any options. On another night, I might have said, Ah, forget it. It’s snowing like crazy and Annie’s behaving like she’s possessed. We’ll pass. But this was MY ACTIVITY. I had vats of steaming hot chocolate (carefully packed into dispensers nestled within an insulated carrier) and dozens of cookies and had spent a good hour printing and stapling together packets of Christmas carol lyrics. Plus, the other girls in our troop were counting on us to be there and take the reins… Because it was my activity. Seeing as how Annie is the Girl Scout – not moi – she needed to come along, too.

I finally managed to get Annie into enough snow gear to cover her, but it wasn’t pretty. I can’t remember if I worked out that morning, but after the wrestling match, I’d easily burned enough calories to account for the cookie dough I’d consumed making the treats earlier in the day. After stuffing Annie into her booster seat and heading down the driveway, I attempted to reason with her. She could choose to continue to be upset, growling like a wounded animal, or she could choose to have fun. We would be spending the evening with some of her closest friends. We would be singing! THERE WERE COOKIES AND COCOA, FOR GOD’S SAKE.

Also, if she didn’t stop crying, her tears would freeze to her cheeks and then she’d really be miserable.

Crazy-mom threats. Always a good strategy.

I’d worried that, after our short drive, Annie would still be a hot mess when it came time to join the rest of the troop – but, as luck would have it, she had plenty of time to get herself under control because the road conditions were horrendous. Rochester is typically pretty good about clearing the roadways quickly and efficiently, and even in decent storms, we tend not to have much trouble getting around. This night was different. I’m not sure what happened – maybe the road maintenance crews had read the same forecast I had and didn’t know we were going to get snow, either? – but there were at least three inches of snow in the streets and nary a plow in sight.

As I crept from our street into the main drag, I could see nothing but brake lights up ahead, so I – very wisely, I was sure – chose to take the highway for our ten-minute sojourn. Wrong. The moment I merged from the on-ramp onto the freeway, the traffic was absolutely bumper to bumper. We never drove faster than 13 mph, and that’s when we were moving at all. THESE HOLIDAY CELEBRATIONS ARE SO MUCH FUN.

Forty minutes later, I exited the highway, and asked Annie if she was feeling a bit better. When she didn’t answer me, I turned to ask her the question again and saw this:

My little wounded animal had howled herself out.

After driving the wrong way – twice – at last I found our meeting spot, parked, and gently shook Annie awake. She was… not particularly happy with this development. Given that we were more than 25 minutes late, there would be no hot chocolate or cookies before the caroling, so I dragged the insulated carrier with me as we started off on our slippery jaunt around the retirement community. Naturally, the carrier had no straps, so I had to carry the enormous container in my arms, like I was toting a boulder up a mountain. (Does anyone actually do that? Perhaps I need a better metaphor…)

We joined up with the rest of our troop, trudging off through the snow that was far deeper than it had been at our house. As soon as I caught the eye of one of the other moms, she gave me a bewildered look back and said, “I didn’t realize it was supposed to snow…”

Annie came along for the ride, but she wasn’t exactly festive. Partly to defy me and partly because her body temperature hovers somewhere around volcanic, she refused to wear her hat, and within the first ten minutes, at least five adults asked her if she was okay, or offered to loan her their hat. No, that’s just my kid being defiant and stubborn. I realize it’s a blizzard out here, but I’m sure she’ll be fine. When she began literally dragging her feet and stomping on residents’ bushes, I pulled her aside and whispered violently to her that if she didn’t pull her act together, there would be a very serious consequence. I had no idea what that consequence was, mind you (another stellar parenting decision), but with my arms full of the hot chocolate and cookies, I couldn’t very well lug her around, too.

As we reached the third of seven houses, Annie’s demeanor began to change a bit. Rather than stand off to the side and murmur her “thumpity-thump-thump“s, she took the lyrics from me and sang a little louder. At the fourth house, she miraculously perked up when the residents offered the pint-sized carolers some Hershey’s kisses. By the last three houses, I could hardly even see her – partially due to the ridiculous conditions, and partially because she ran so far ahead, laughing and singing with such gusto, I could scarcely keep up.

When we had completed the final sing-along, our troop members were more than ready to hightail it out of there. We were frozen to our core and covered with snow; my feet were thoroughly soaked, because – not knowing that the snow was going to be so deep – I had worn my sneakers, which proved greatly ineffective. We Slacker Moms don’t sign up for such hardship, damn it! But there were two things that needed addressing before we could hop in our cars and inch our way back home: hot chocolate and cookies.

We – parents and girls – milled around for a good twenty minutes after everyone else had left, sipping and chomping and discussing how none of us had had any idea that it was going to snow that night… And now, here we were, with five inches on the ground in less than two hours. At last, we said goodbye, commenting about how crazy we must be to be out in this weather, how terrible the driving was…

… but also, how rather sweet it had all been. The kids, rushing from house to house, “singing” with such force that the tunes were sometimes unrecognizable. The octogenarians stepping outside and onto their porches, joining right in with the chorus despite the swirling snow. The catching of snowflakes on tongues. The richness of the chocolate, and hugs shared between friends. Knowing that we’d made people’s evenings just a little bit brighter, that we’d genuinely spread some cheer and happiness.

On our drive home, even Annie had to concede: that was really, really fun.

The return trip was much quicker than the journey there, which was a good thing because I still had a Cookie Exchange to get to. It struck me, as I crawled along the streets to my destination, that this kind of snow would have closed school in Connecticut (indeed, our friends who live in Connecticut, southern New York, and New Jersey had already had a snow day due to 4-5 inches of predicted snow), and here I was, blithely driving to a friend’s house to trade cookies.

But hey. Cookies are cookies, man. You don’t mess with cookies, not even in a blizzard.

By the time I reached my destination, the snow had largely stopped. When I left two hours later, I could glimpse the moon.

Turns out it was just lake effect snow after all. Nothing to be concerned about.
The cookies, on the other hand? So totally worth it.

Take Me Out To The Ice Rink

Posted on December 17, 2013 by missemtoo

Living with a certified Hockey Maniac, it was inevitable that we’d introduce our girls to the sport early. They wore their first ice skates before they were two (not necessarily gracefully or skillfully; being on the ice is different from being good on the ice); they know that the NHL rules the television from November through May (which isn’t the length of the season, but is the length of the bulk of the televised games); they craft a bazillion Rainbow Loom bracelets out of Minnesota Wild colors; they await the construction of the backyard ice rink that we erect each year; they cheer Daddy on with his beer league teammates; and they have seen a good number of Rochester Americans games (our local AHL team, usually referred to as the Amerks), although they have yet to make it to see the Wild (or any NHL team, for that matter) in person.

This year, the Amerks decided to up their game (see what I did there?) and host a 10-day outdoor hockey fest on a rink that would be erected in Frontier Field, where our AAA-league Rochester Red Wings play baseball in much warmer months. Over the course of these ten days, there will be all sorts of hockey played on the rink, from high school tournaments to private skating parties, but the Amerks kicked off the festivities on Friday with a nighttime game against the Lake Erie Monsters.

An outdoor hockey game. In a baseball stadium. Opening night of a ten-day celebration. Frozen Frontier, they’re calling it. There was pretty much no way Nick was going to miss it.

That seemingly iiiiiiitty bitty little pond out there? A full-sized rink.

And, in turn, there was no way that the rest of us were going to miss it, either, because we are nothing if not all about introducing our girls to as many cultural opportunities as possible. Especially where hockey sticks and beer-wielding fans are involved.

As Friday loomed, it became increasingly clear that it was going to be a really cold night. Sitting in a baseball stadium in the middle of December in Rochester is pretty much guaranteed to be cold no matter what, but we’ve endured a particularly chilly December thus far, with temperatures not really rising much out of the teens and “real feel”s well below zero. While we Rochesterians are known for our snow, deeply frozen temperatures are not really what we’re about.

But, as much as tried to argue with Mother Nature, she gave us the cold shoulder (ah, see, I did it again!) and told us to suck it, so we had no choice but to embrace the frigid temperatures. “Bundling up” took on new meaning, as we donned shirts, sweatshirts, jackets, skiing “shells,” gloves AND mittens, our warmest socks, leggings, pants, snow pants, our winteriest boots, hats, and scarves. Actually, we didn’t don these right away, because we were meeting friends for dinner – the same fabulous friends who’d joined us for Thanksgiving – pre-game, because the idea of removing one’s gloves in order to eat a tepid hotdog in 14-degree weather just wasn’t really appetizing. And so we wore only our under layers (which still made us, how do I put it… thick) as we dined, then put on the rest of our outerwear in the car before heading off the game.

Have you ever tried that? Putting on snow pants (while you’re already wearing your snow boots) and two jackets and gloves and hats and opening up hand warmer packets and shoving them inside your mittens while you’re in your car? If you haven’t, I have a recommendation: don’t. You will need to remove your boots, which will already have snow on them, and said snow will plop unceremoniously onto your car seat or onto your daughter’s hair. Or you might slip slightly while putting on said pants – shoeless – and put an un-booted foot into a pile of snow, which will then make your feet feel oh-so-lovely for the rest of the freezing evening. You might also realize that you can only find one of the super-warm waterproof mittens you’d brought to wear over your not-at-all warm gloves, which will set you into a panic. But that panic will be nothing compared to the meltdown that will be had in the back seat as your cherubs attempt to wedge themselves into their boosters and buckle their seatbelts while essentially being unable to move. Can the Michelin Man buckle himself into his booster seat? Enough said.

While we love Rochester for many, many reasons, well-executed crowd-control is not one of them. Nick had assumed that there would be “pomp and circumstance” before the game — introductions of all of the players, some sort of commemoration of this Frozen Frontier awesomeness — and that the game would probably begin at least a half-hour late, by which time our girls would be a) icicles, b) bored, and c) begging to go home before the puck had even dropped, so we were in no hurry to arrive on time. Which was a good thing, because we got stuck just outside of the stadium in traffic so terrible – despite the police officers “directing” the cars – that it took us over twenty minutes just to move one block. We had three blocks to go. At least we got to stare out of our windows from our warm, cozy car seats, onto the chilly field… at the players zooming around on the ice, because of course the game had started absolutely on time.

Thankfully, the other blocks were quicker than the first, and we eventually found parking and tumbled out of the car. Ella announced that she had to go to the bathroom as soon as we set foot in the stadium (which was odd, considering that she’d just been given the opportunity to use the facilities when we’d left the restaurant and she’d declined; none of your children has ever done this, I assume?), but we elected to forgo the line of port-a-potties immediately inside the gates because we both wanted to at least find our seats and also, port-a-potties? No, thank you. We’ll wait for the real thing.

Finding our seats wasn’t quite as easy as we’d imagined, however, in part because they were (of course) located a good distance from where we’d entered, and also because the stadium was absolutely packed… with people layered up as though ready to tackle some black diamond slopes. You know how everyone moves in a ski lodge (even without the robot-step-inducing ski boots), with wide, just-got-off-a-horse steps, and how everyone is always bumping into one another because you’re all so padded, it’s like banging about in a slow-motion pinball machine? Imagine doing so in the bowels of a baseball stadium when it’s 15 degrees out and… yep.

This being Rochester, sufficient snow gear is not exactly in short supply, so our fellow attendees had also come prepared. Seventy-five percent of them were wearing snow pants (this is an extremely well-researched fact), fifteen percent were wearing full-body hunting gear (I had no idea that “camouflage” came in so many colors), and although it wasn’t clear what the others were wearing to stave off the chill, they were also doing the slow-motion ski-lodge walk, so they must have been sufficiently layered. The toddlers in attendance were particularly amusing, because their parents had (wisely) bundled them up so fiercely, they could scarcely bend their knees, so they waddled and tottered everywhere they went, swaying back and forth like chiming bells.

We eventually hobbled to our seats just in time to hear the announcement that the period would be ending in one minute. Fantastic. Ella still needed to use the restroom, so – hoping to avoid the crush of onlookers flooding out of their seats and toward the loos – I ushered her and Annie (just for kicks and giggles) back out in search of the toilets. We were greeted by these signs instead:

Super.

The girls and I fought through the teeming hordes all the way back to the entrance, where gigantic lines had formed in front of every port-a-potty because a) THERE WERE NO WORKING BATHROOMS (have I mentioned this yet?) and b) the majority of the crowd had – perhaps in a bid to stay warm – been consuming copious quantities of alcohol, which, having gone in one end, had to come out of the other sooner or later. Also? Port-a-potties and ridiculous amounts of snow gear do not mix. It was like trying to peel off a full-body wetsuit inside a disease-ridden gym locker; don’t touch the walls unless you want to lose a hand to gangrene.

As a result, it took approximately 4.57 minutes for every single person to do their business, which, when you multiply that by a minimum of five people in each line, meant… well, I still suck at The Math, but it meant a really long wait. By the time we finally emerged from the johns and had gotten ourselves all suited up again, both of the girls declared they were starving and freezing, so we attempted to scrounge up some food and drinks that could be consumed without needing to remove our gloves. It was almost surreal, seeing the vending stations – which we normally visit in the summer – surrounded by icicles and snow piles up to the counters.

The chili was selling like it was liquid gold.

Just a typical evening at the ballpark…

At long last, we waddled our way back to our seats – hot chocolate, a big ol’ pretzel, some popcorn, Twizzlers, and Swedish Fish in hand. The hot chocolate and the pretzel were immediately consumable, but the other items proved a bit trickier. Turns out that Twizzlers and Swedish Fish become rock-solid when the temperature hovers around 15 degrees, making each bite a bit of an adventure — who might break a tooth today? Popcorn is deceptive; it seems easy enough to scoop some up in your gloved hand and then shove a handful into your face, but apparently human beings actually use their sense of touch when they eat popcorn – a sense that is lacking when one’s hands are covered – and, as a result, we were unable to determine when the popcorn was actually in our hands and when it had fallen out. Not to worry, though; more popcorn fell into my purse than went in my mouth, so if we’re hungry later, we can go back for more.

Bladders empty, food and drink in hand (and purse), and nestled into our seats, we were finally able to just sit back and truly take in everything around us. The cliché at sporting events is that the feeling amongst the fans was electric. I could say the same, but instead, I will say it was electrified – there was such a charge running through everyone, it was as though the entire place was humming. Although there’s a certain general loyalty shown to the Red Wings and the Amerks, none of the games we’ve attended previously has been all that well-populated, so enjoying the true “roar of the crowd” has been virtually impossible. By contrast, this Frozen Frontier game was sold out; there were people almost literally hanging from the rafters and they were extremely excited to be there, which added to the carnival-like atmosphere.

The majority of adults were – in Nick’s words – well-lubricated, which also gave the event a Mardi Gras flare. You know, if Mardi Gras were held in a baseball stadium in the middle of a very wintery December and onlookers threw snow, not beads. People were chanting raucously, singing with gusto whenever there was a break in the action. It was the first time that the girls got to see people at a sporting event successfully do the wave, which was awesome but looked pretty freakin’ hilarious with everyone bundled up to within an inch of their lives.

Annie and Ella were particularly taken with the Amerks’ mascot, a large moose very cleverly nicknamed The Moose. The Moose took the job of whipping the crowd into a frenzy very seriously (not that the crowd was all to hard to whip, given the level of revelry and intoxication), and became especially excited whenever the Americans scored, pumping his hooves into the air with a very un-Moose-like flare.

We jammed along with the music. We stood up and cheered like maniacs whenever the red goal light went on (which was pretty much our only indication that the puck had crossed the goal line, since we couldn’t really see the puck from where we were sitting). We threw our hands in the air and waved them like we really, really didn’t care whenever the wave came crashing our way. We clapped madly for anything and everything, which was a particularly amusing phenomenon, because gloved and mittened hands make no sound when they are smacked together. We marveled at the people who’d been smart enough to bring sleeping bags and goggled at the beer seller wearing shorts.

As for the game? Well, I know that the Amerks eventually won (in a wildly exciting and unexpected finish, as the Monsters tied the game with 0.1 seconds left – I kid you not – which had the inebriated ~~party~~ sports-goers shouting BULLLLL-SHIT!!! over and over again, to the shocked delight of our friends’ 9 year-old son, and the victor was eventually decided by a shoot-out). But the truth of the matter is that we really couldn’t see a damn thing that was happening on the ice.

In a hockey arena, the action is right there – quite literally, with only a couple of inches of glass separating the fans from the players. In a baseball stadium, the players are typically yards and yards away (save for the odd ball that is caught right at the bleachers) and the field is vast, so the hockey rink was positively dwarfed. Add to that the angle of the seats and the boards along the rink’s edge and we could only see about half of the sheet of ice, anyway. We could “follow” the play by watching the players swarming about the ice, but had no idea where the puck actually was.

But that wasn’t really the point. We weren’t there for the game; we were there to say we’d done it. We’d braved the frigid elements and donned every drop of winter gear we owned to teeter our way into a bathroom-less baseball stadium in the middle of December with a crap-ton of drunken revelers, just because. Because that was what it was all about. The hot chocolate and the singing. The wave and the bright lights. The nearly palpable joy and anticipation surging through the air. Come to think of it, it was, in fact, one of the most Christmas-y things we’ve done yet this season.

By the end of the second period, with the action stopped and The Moose taking a potty break (good luck with that), everyone seemed to realize all at once just how unbelievably cold they were. The universal Dance Of The Cold sprung up all around us, with people standing and jitterbugging about back and forth in a futile effort to get their blood pumping again. Our girls were frozen through, and asked to go home; as soon as the third period began (and the majority of fans returned to their seats, making navigating the stadium far easier), we obliged.

Naturally, Annie needed to go to the bathroom on our way out, so our departure was delayed while we waited for her to de-robe in the e-coli infested portable john, but we could still hear the patrons cheering frantically. By the time we reached our car, we could hardly feel our fingers and toes and the girls were beyond exhausted. We agreed that we had, indeed, been there, done that – just because – but we were glad that it was over.

And yet, somehow… we had a total and complete blast. Do I want to brave another Frozen Frontier game? No, thanks. Been there. Done that. But I’m awfully glad we did, because it was pretty much the best damn hockey game I’ve ever been to.

The popcorn that’s still in my purse is just a bonus.
Why are the girls not wearing their hats even though they’re allergic to the cold? I DON’T KNOW. They must have terrible parents.

Some things were meant to be

Posted on December 12, 2013 by missemtoo

This life stuff doesn’t always go as planned. I suppose that’s what makes it, you know, life, but still, when things don’t work out the way you’d thought they would, it can really be a shock to the system.

New Coke: I’m looking at you.

Nick and I had always talked of having two children, but we’d wanted them three years apart. We’d carefully reasoned it out: Ella would be out of diapers and we wouldn’t be dealing with a toddler and a baby at the same time, but she and her younger sibling would still be close enough in age to share some of the same toys, go to the same school, etc. It was going to be great.

Then, when Ella was a mere fifteen months old, I unexpectedly got pregnant. I realize that some people find it difficult to believe that a pregnancy can be “unexpected,” especially after having already birthed a child (so we clearly understood the whole birds and the bees thing, if you know what I mean), but it was. I’d carefully done the math, but – sparing you the details (you’re welcome) – The Math and I have never been real tight, and I’d gotten something wrong, and suddenly, there we were, pregnant.

For those of you who also struggle with The Math, 15 months (Ella’s age) + 9 months (gestation) = our kids would be two years apart rather than three.

Not only that, but this baby was also due in December – Ella’s birth month – which was really not cool with me. Like many teachers, I’d hoped to give birth in the spring, take my 6-8 weeks of maternity leave, and then back up the end of the leave right into summer break, giving me the maximum amount of (paid) time home with my newborn. Again, sparing you the details (and again, you’re welcome), we became pregnant with Ella sooner than we’d thought we might, and our “spring” baby arrived right before Christmas.

I had no childcare lined up, and didn’t plan to get any, because the following school year, I’d be job-sharing with Sarah, a wonderful friend of mine who’d also recently had a baby. For half of the week, each of us would teach, and for the other half, we’d watch both babies. It was a fabulous win-win, so I didn’t want to search for temporary childcare for Ella knowing I’d just give it up in a few months. Instead, Nick and I managed to cobble together a network of family members and friends, with each of us also using personal days, to watch Ella when I returned to school. We made it happen, but it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

Giving birth in December also meant that I was essentially homebound for three months, because our pediatrician had warned that we shouldn’t take the baby into any “crowded spaces” — malls, restaurants, libraries, stores, basically anything with walls and a roof — because of germs! And RSV! And you never know who’s carrying a deadly disease! Given that it was, you know, winter, it was too cold to be outside with the baby (and even if I’d dared to brave the elements, there was no place to go outside with a newborn in the winter; it’s not like she’d enjoy checking out the local playground). So that kind of sucked.

And then there was the whole birthday-a-week-before-Christmas thing that was a big ol’ pain in the neck. Christmas is already its own unique kind of crazy; adding a birthday to that each year seemed ridiculously daunting, and I wasn’t really excited to take on the challenge. Plus, I worried for Ella’s sake. She’d get birthday presents wrapped in Christmas paper! Her special day would be outshone by Christmas’s glare! Not fun.

We would make it work, of course, but back then if I’d had to choose, Ella wouldn’t have been born in December. So I vowed: absolutely no more December babies.

And then The Math and I had a tussle, and suddenly the little plus sign was taunting me from its perch on the bathroom sink.

I’m not going to lie: I was not excited. Nick and I have always felt that everything happens for a reason, and we never considered terminating the pregnancy, but I did wish fervently that I wasn’t pregnant right then. In fact, more than once, I peed on yet another pregnancy stick and hoped that it would come up negative. I didn’t want to lose the baby, not at all… I simply didn’t want to be pregnant at that time, if that makes any sense. Happy just wasn’t happening.

More to the point, I was downright angry. Actually, I was terrified — of having another baby so soon, of having another being growing inside me, of the whole December-baby thing, of how having a sibling would disrupt the lovely life we’d built for ourselves and Ella, of the logistics of the whole thing. The details just seemed insurmountable: we lived in a small, three-bedroom house that was just barely big enough for Nick, Ella, and me. I couldn’t possibly ask Sarah to watch the baby AND Ella when I was only watching her son, so I’d have to scrap our arrangement and return to teaching full-time, putting Ella and the baby into daycare… But, thirty miles outside of New York City, the cost of living was so high, I’d actually take home LESS working full-time and paying for daycare than I was bringing in working half-time.

It was just impossible.

In our calmer moments, Nick and I reasoned that, somehow, we’d be okay. We’d always wanted another baby. This one was just coming a little sooner than we’d expected. We would figure out the job/childcare/housing thing. Everything happens for a reason. We’d make it work.

But the part I couldn’t wrap my head around was why I got pregnant when I did. (Okay, I know why I got pregnant, because… I’ll shut up now. You’re welcome.) Why another December baby? Why NOW? The universe and God work in mysterious ways, yes, but the reason behind the timing absolutely eluded us.

Spring turned into summer and still I wasn’t excited about being pregnant. I did all of the things I should – I ate right, I took my vitamins, I exercised, I cut out caffeine, I didn’t consume a drop of alcohol – and, as my stomach expanded, we did our best to prepare Eleanor to become a big sister… but I just wasn’t into it. Summer ended and I returned to teaching and, as the months crept toward my due date, despite my own personal scolding and pleading and chiding and stern talkings-to, I simply could not muster happiness about the arrival of this baby.

And then, right around Halloween, I was watching something on TV featuring a pregnant woman who lost her baby. It wasn’t A Baby Story or anything like that, and actually may have just been a dumb sitcom, but as I watched, I felt this terror take hold of me and I realized that I did not want to not be pregnant. I could not lose this baby.

It was quite the shock, that: realizing that I no longer wanted to not be pregnant. (Yes, it took me until I was SEVEN MONTHS along… Mom of the year before I’d even given birth, that’s me…) It wasn’t exactly the same as actively being excited to have another child, but it was a helluva lot better than outright dread.

As November progressed, my indifference slowly shifted to acceptance, until finally, by December, I was – at last – looking forward to meeting this wee one who’d been renting space with me for the past 8.5 months, THANK YOU SWEET BABY JESUS AMEN. Nick and I still had no idea why the timing worked out the way it did, but at least we were psyched to become a family of four.

Being psyched, however, could not guarantee a smooth delivery. Alas, the baby was sunny-side up and became trapped in the birth canal – and so, after laboring for seven hours, completely turning down the epidural so I could “feel” where to push, then pushing for nearly three hours, an emergency c-section was ordered. (Good thing, too; poor babe came out with a bloody mark on her forehead where she’d been smooshing up against the bones of my pelvis.)

Annabelle Grace arrived at 8:11 p.m. and was healthy as could be. Damn cute, too.

Showing some ‘tude straight out of the womb.

Nick went home that night to be with Ella, and I phoned him around 2 a.m. asking if he could find any Allegra or Claritin to bring me — it seemed I’d forgotten mine and was developing hives. (Have I never mentioned that I have chronic, unexplained hives [technical term: chronic idiopathic urticaria] and, every night since I was thirteen, if I don’t take an antihistamine, I break out in full-body hives? No? Well, I do. They’re swell.) Even after taking the medication, however, the hives never abated, and it was finally determined that I was allergic to the Percocet they’d given me for pain. My other drug allergies ruled out Vicodin and the like, which meant that my only options were Advil and Tylenol.

Advil. And Tylenol. For pain from an emergency c-section, after which the doctor ordered that I remain in the hospital an extra day because, having pushed for so long and so hard, it was “as though (I’d) given birth twice.” Super fun.

The second night of my hospital stay, I received a call from Nick at 2 a.m… Ella had thrown up all over her crib. Yep, our almost two year-old had come down with her first-ever tummy bug, and there Nick was, in the middle of the night, trying to change crib sheets and clean up a pukey kid, while I was in the hospital, unable to even lift Annie from her bassinet without tearing my stitches (I’d taken to just holding her in bed with me so I could nurse her when I needed to and not bug anyone for help), all hopped up on TYLENOL AND ADVIL.

Extra super fun.

Taken in the hospital before Ella began her barf-a-thon.

The following morning, Nick’s mom – who’d flown in from Minnesota to help us out – became ill (unrelated to the stomach bug) and had to fly back home. Nick’s dad and GranMary were able to catch the next flight from Minnesota to offer their assistance, and none too soon, because the day after I returned from the hospital, Nick came down with the pukes… which meant, clearly, that he couldn’t be near Annie, because a five day-old really isn’t supposed to catch the stomach flu. And I couldn’t really help out with Ella, because I wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than Annie…

So, yeah. Extra super duper fun.

Still, pretty much from the moment she arrived, Annie was magnificent. I wasn’t stuck inside with her like I’d been with Ella; when you have your first December baby, you stay home for three straight months because the thought of germs is paralyzing. When you have your second December baby, you understand that your two year-old is harboring more germs on her right forefinger than the entire children’s section at Barnes and Noble, and you give up and just get on with things already.

Sometimes this works brilliantly, and sometimes your newborn develops RSV. Ah, well. Builds stamina!

It became clear almost immediately that our family, while perfectly happy, had been incomplete without her. She was a precocious baby, immediately engaging, and an obvious daredevil from the word go. Eventually, Annie would come to command the attention of everyone in the room everywhere she goes — she has the most magnetic, draw-you-in personality of anyone I’ve ever met (and she’s freakin’ hilarious, so that helps) — but in her early months, she definitely took a backseat to Ella.

It wasn’t that people weren’t interested in Annie, who was, by all accounts, an adorable and fun baby, but rather that Ella was so full of life, so talkative, so bold, people naturally gravitated toward her and didn’t pay Annie too much mind. That is, until she met my grandmother.

I don’t know what it was, but from the moment they laid eyes on each other, Annie and Phoofsy were smitten. Phoofsy had always loved Ella – there was no worry of that – but there was something special about her relationship with Annie. They lit up when they saw one another; where everyone else would be captivated by Ella’s stories and songs and dramatic reenactments, Phoofsy would go up to Annie and coo at her, instead. Annie’s biggest fan, we called her. It was pretty damn neat.

After mulling over (and over… and over…) our options post-baby, Nick and I decided that his 90 minute commute into lower Manhattan was simply too much. My going back to work full-time was too much. Finding childcare that would cost more than my half-time salary was too much. We could not stay in Bronxville any longer. As luck would have it, Nick’s company had a branch in Rochester, and because we already knew the area (with my mother and her sisters having grown up here, and my grandparents still living here, with a house on the lake where we visited each summer), we decided it made the most sense for him to change jobs and for us to move here. And so, in July of 2007, when Annie was seven months old, we did.

With “Great” in August, 2007

We split the time that summer almost evenly between moving into our new house and going to the lake. I’m pretty certain that I saw my grandparents more in those first few months than I had in the previous thirty-one years of my life. The girls had the incredible experience of spending unlimited time with their great-grandparents. Things were good.

At the very end of September, my grandfather went in for surgery to repair an aortic aneurysm. Although that sounds scary, the location of the aneurysm and his overall good health caused his doctor(s) to predict an easy fix; they expected him home within a day or so. At 2:38 p.m. that Friday, he sent all of us the following email:

going to hospital at 4. TTYL

Very sadly, there would be no “later.” The operation wound up being much more complicated than they’d anticipated, and although they successfully repaired the aneurysm, he never woke up; we lost him on Sunday morning.

The weeks following his death were a blur, with family coming and going, but eventually, everyone left and it was just my grandmother (and my brother and sister-in-law, who were living locally at the time) and us. We made sure to see her often, both because we didn’t want her to be alone and because we really enjoyed her company. Thanksgiving eventually rolled around and my extended family came back into town to celebrate together. While I was thrilled to have them visit, it struck me that it felt a little funny with them there; we and Phoofsy had fallen into a kind of (irregular) routine, and interrupting it was a bit uncomfortable. We were the ones who were supposed to be here.

Wait a minute: we were supposed to be here. HERE, in Rochester, right exactly then. If we hadn’t moved when we did, we wouldn’t have had that summer with my grandfather. We wouldn’t have been there when he died; my brother and I wouldn’t have been the ones to stay with him in his hospital room and say goodbye to him after they turned off all of the machines. We wouldn’t have been there with my grandmother after his death, dragging her gamely along to the children’s museum and the apple orchard, and accompanying her to mother/daughter celebrations at her social club. If we hadn’t moved when we did, she certainly wouldn’t have had Annie and Ella nearby to cheer her up, to make her smile, to give her hope.

It was all so ridiculously clear: If Annie had not been born when she was, we never would have moved when we did, and life as we know it would not exist.

Everything happens for a reason, indeed.

Click on it to see it bigger; it’s worth it.

It wasn’t just my grandma who benefited from Annie’s timely birth, of course. We’ve all – everyone who meets her – been so tremendously fortunate to have Annie in our lives. She defines the word character. She is vibrant and exceedingly full of energy. She never stops talking. No, I mean it… Never. Stops. Talking. Wait, I take that back; she stops talking when she’s singing. Does that count?

She wakes up happy nearly every single day, and greets me – whether it’s first thing in the morning or when I pick her up from school – with the broadest grin imaginable and an elated, “MOMMMMMYYYYYY!!!!” She’s one of the most hilarious people I’ve ever met, as evidenced here and here. She certainly has no shortage of self-confidence and purpose, as is shown in her frequent use of phrases such as, “I’m going to give them a gift… It’s called The Awesome of Annie.”

She can turn on a dime and be the crankiest kid you’ve ever come across; and then, just like that, she’s laughing again. For three parent-teacher conferences in a row, her teachers referred to her as a “pistol.” She’s so exuberant and funny and delightful and just plain crazy, we kind of didn’t realize that she’s also crazy smart; her kindergarten and first grade teachers let us know that we’d greatly underestimated her.

I looked, but apparently I didn’t turn my “six” photo from last year into a collage… Oops.

She’s utterly exasperating in the mornings before school, when I head downstairs to let the dogs out and she’s got her pants on and is putting on her shirt and tells and will be down shortly — and then, twenty minutes later when I realize she’s never appeared, I go upstairs to check on her and discover that she’s now undressed and is rolling around on the floor, teeth still needing to be brushed. She’s similarly exasperating in the evenings before bed when it takes fifteen minutes to put on her pajamas.

She is kind and generous and sweet and a truly fabulous dinner-making partner; she now makes all of our salads every time and has, more than once, been responsible for cooking virtually all aspects of the meal. There is nothing she cannot turn into an art project (no, really, nothing; I know this from experience). She idolizes Ella and would do anything for her – just today, she earned a prize at school for twelve consecutive days of good behavior and “spent” her points to buy a gift for her sister instead of herself – but also purposely needles her – gleefully – with all of her might.

Annie is unbridled joy and to-her-core happiness. When I say that our lives wouldn’t be the same without her in it, I mean that in every possible way; we’re literally here today because of her. She fills us all with her light; we didn’t even realize how bright things could be until she came along. We may have been thrown for a loop when I got confused with The Math and became pregnant with Annie, but I’m so very glad we’re along for the ride.

And it turns out that December birthdays aren’t so bad after all. Go figure.

Seven years, Banana. Seven years of awesome.
Lucky, lucky us.

Happy Birthday!
xoxo

7 tonight

Stepping back

Posted on December 11, 2013 by missemtoo

A couple of weeks ago, I was headed to the bathroom when I happened to notice that Nick was watching the end of Amadeus in the living room. (The fact that I was heading to the bathroom is largely immaterial, but I do like to be precise.) I hadn’t seen the movie in years, and found myself absolutely fixated, unable to move until the closing credits.

I’ve loved Amadeus since I first saw it in the theater when I was eight (let’s just pause here for a moment, shall we, and ponder that my parents took me and my brother — who was SIX — to a movie about Mozart, where nude women run amok and the focus is about, you know, Classical music… Yes, yes they did… Which, I think, gives me latitude to show Ella and Annie just about any movie I choose and receive absolutely no sideways glances whatsoever, no?). The ending – where Salieri is frantically scribbling out the Confutatis maledictis from the Requiem as Mozart dictates the parts to him from his deathbed – is one of my favorite, most chill-inducing passages of any movie, ever.

I have always loved that scene, but, having not seen it in years – since well before I became a music teacher – I’d never gotten it in a technical music sense. Now, as Tom Hulce hummed and pounded out and sang each line, each section, and F. Murray Abraham put notes to paper… and then as the music came together, piece by piece, until we finally we heard Mozart’s unbelievably beautiful vision for the first time, I was completely enthralled. It wasn’t just gorgeous; it made sense. It clicked.

It’s not that Mozart died and left the Requiem uncompleted that makes it so awe-inspiring (although that certainly adds to the mystique); it’s the work itself, Mozart’s genius being so definitively and wondrously realized. I have yet to hear the entire Requiem live, but it’s absolutely on my bucket list. (Lest you think my bucket list is all classy like that, you should know that it also includes learning how to properly wolf-whistle and smashing truckloads of tomatoes into perfect strangers at the Tomatina in Buñol, Spain.)

Fast forward to last Friday, when I was subbing for a high school music teacher – not my typical gig. Although I’m qualified and certified to teach music K-12, my professional experience (subbing aside) has only been K-8, so I always regard high school music subbing with a bit of curiosity. Friday proved to be a fantastic experience, and one that I was not expecting.

Yes, it was great that one of the classes was AP Music Theory (which might sound either terrifying or horrendously dry, depending on your perspective); I was psyched, because although I hadn’t dabbled much in theory since college, I did genuinely enjoy – and excel at – it way back when. I wasn’t disappointed. Despite it being students-bring-in-a-song-to-share-with-the-class day — a classic, dummy-proof move for when you have a sub, especially if your sub might not be a music teacher — this was no throwaway class. The kids brought in everything from Zeppelin to instrumental celtic songs, and used phrases like “I thought it was interesting how the measure of 3/4 immediately bumps up against the 4/4 measures, giving them a heightened tension” and “I enjoyed how that measure doesn’t end on the tonic, but rather how the dominant sets the stage and leaves you hanging” to describe what they heard (no, I am not making this up). It was pretty rad.

And, yes, there was the 10th grade choir, who were almost entirely student-led and sang a raucous version of Handel’s “Hallelujah” chorus. But it was the Polyphonic Choir – arguably the school’s most prestigious group – that really took my breath away.

For one thing, it was like stepping into an episode of Glee, or what Glee might be like if the students actually read music and were concerned with phrasing and diction and warm-ups. Each of these kids wanted – really wanted – to be there, from the obviously gay young men in their smart pants and patterned sweaters to the grungy girls with their heavy eye-liner and spiky earrings, and the moment they came into the rehearsal room, they were focused, poised, excited, ready. You don’t really get that in your average Calculus class.

For another, these kids could sing. They were good. And not just with their voices; they could read music like it was nobody’s business, play piano with prodigious skill, and fine-tune their singing when something wasn’t quite right. They fully directed themselves (I was really only there so they could claim that an adult was in the room), doing warm-ups alone for a full twenty minutes, and sounded stupendous.

But also? They had a concert the following Monday (like, two days ago), and one of the pieces they were performing was Mozart’s Requiem.

O
M
G

I couldn’t believe I was hearing it – live – and that these seventeen year-olds were not only singing it, but conducting themselves, and singing it well. Their voices rang and echoed, filling the space with wonder and satisfaction (I realize the phrasing is weird there, but really, there was wonder and satisfaction just floating around the room. For real). It was like nothing I’ve ever experienced as a teacher; I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to be there to witness it.

As soon as the period was over, I texted the following to Nick:

The choir I was subbing for is performing Mozart’s Requiem; they led themselves in rehearsal. Felt like Salieri. SO COOL.

Before Nick and I went to sleep that night, I just had to talk about it more; I couldn’t quite let it go. I relived the rehearsal, dissecting each warm-up and playing for him the audio recordings I’d surreptitiously made of the choir with my iPhone. We both agreed that this was a damn good choir.

And I couldn’t help but wonder: does their teacher feel this way every day? Does he go home every night, rushing to share the delicious details of every rehearsal with his wife (who happens to be a friend of mine; first time I’d ever subbed for someone I “knew”)? Does he sit back and let the music wash over him, soaking up the choir’s soul-stirring abilities, reveling in his AP students’ knowledge and interest and abilities?

Does he come home every single day thinking, Holy crap, I get to do THIS for my JOB?? I must be the luckiest person on the face of the planet!

Well, let’s be honest: no. He probably doesn’t. Not if he’s human, anyway. In part, because not every day is like the day I witnessed. These kids had been rehearsing for months for a concert that was one day away; no wonder they were so good. Surely rehearsals back in September bore little resemblance to what I witnessed on Friday.

Also, let’s not forget that these kids didn’t learn how to conduct a choir rehearsal or identify when the melody ends on the tonic or dominant all by themselves. They learned it from someone – I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess maybe they learned it from the teacher for whom I was subbing – and that someone likely had to work damn hard to get these kids to come so far. While I’m sure it’s been gratifying to have such motivated and talented kiddos in your classes, I’m also sure that there are days when – as with all professions (or, let’s say, being a parent) – you want to pull your hair out.

But I hope, for this teacher’s sake, that he has some of the moments I experienced. I hope that, between the pressures of putting on a concert and helping kids understand voice-leading and working to make sure the tenors aren’t sharp and having the warehouse fall behind on the sheet music shipment and figuring out how Common Core affects the curriculum and budget cuts and colleagues who raise eyebrows and question whether or not you’re a “real teacher” because you “just” teach music, there are genuine moments of joy and gratitude and awe, moments of, I truly must be the luckiest person on the planet, if only for this one song.

Truth be told, I could stand a few more of those moments myself these days. Like everyone else, I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off. This fall/early winter have been so freakin’ busy, and now with Christmas and two birthdays on the horizon (I will have a seven year-old in two minutes, omg!), it’s just become absolutely insane. There are days when my “free time” begins after midnight, when I awaken in the morning to have my FitBit tell me I’ve already walked 800 steps that day. Only once in the past ten days have I gone to bed before 1:30 a.m.

It’s unsustainable. I realize this. I’ll wind up making myself sick, and then my holiday spirit will really go to hell in a hand basket.

I need to stop and breathe. I keep thinking, if I just get this done, just accomplish this one more thing, then I can relax… But I keep a to-do book, not a to-do list, and it’s absolutely never-ending, so I have yet to reach the relaxation point.

And yet, surely there are bits of the Requiem going on around me. Maybe it’s in my girls’ faces as they find Hermey our elf in his new location each morning. (Shit. Note to self: Hermey must be moved to Annie’s room tonight. Birthday girls always get a visit from Hermey.) Maybe it’s in the fresh falling snow we’re getting each day. Maybe it’s in the irresistible toffee my aunt sends us each year (we received it two days ago and it’s nearly gone; send more!).

I’m not entirely sure where it is, but I’m going to make it my mission to find it. Every year, I lament that this season has gone by too fast. I can’t make it slow down, but I can at least try to find some joy and gratitude and awe, if only for one song.

Come to think of it, maybe the Requiem is hidden in the chocolate chip cookies I made for the cookie exchange and the Girl Scouts caroling. They did taste pretty damn good.

Setting the bar reeeeally low

Posted on December 3, 2013 by missemtoo

A couple of weeks ago, I took Annie shopping with me at Trader Joe’s. Although I typically avoid taking her to the grocery store (despite her “helping,” things are just much faster when she’s not trundling along beside me), Trader Joe’s is the exception because I don’t do our regular shopping there. When you’re only picking up pumpkin cream cheese, Peanut Butter Tracks ice cream, and Sea Salt Butterscotch Caramels, you can be in and out in a jiffy.

Annie loves coming with me to TJ’s because a) free samples, b) she can find a stuffed animal bee and receive a lollipop or an apple (guess which one she chooses every single time), and c) stickers. Each visit, the checkout person pulls out a roll of Trader Joe’s stickers and tears off five or six for my girl and she just thinks this is the best thing ever. (I, on the other hand, do not think always think that this is the best thing ever because, despite having heard the WHERE DO STICKERS BELONG? mantra for her entire life, my almost seven year-old continues to adhere stickers to the car windows. Curse you, Trader Joe’s stickers! Maybe I’ll speak with the management.)

Anyway, we were at the checkout and the conversation went like this:

“Would you like some stickers?”

(barely looking up from her lollipop; did you guess correctly earlier?) “Yes, please.”

“Here you go!”

“Thank you.”

“Wow, you’re very polite!”

“Thank you.”

“Since you used such nice manners, here are a few more stickers!”

Annie left the store with 18 stickers from three different sticker rolls and thought it might have been the greatest day of her life.

It got me to thinking, though. When on earth did simply saying please and thank you amount to being “so polite” or “such nice manners”? Not that I’m complaining; Annie did speak politely (although we still need to work on eye contact, especially when lollipops are involved) and she did use nice manners, but it’s not like she composed a sonnet on the spot about what a lovely store Trader Joe’s is, nor did she compliment the checkout lady on her stunning eyes… She just did the very basics – but still the checkout person was genuinely taken aback.

This was far from an isolated incident. Annie and Ella, both, are actually informed quite frequently that they have awesome manners. Once, we went out to eat and were surprised when the manager suddenly appeared at our table. Turned out, he happened to overhear the girls order their own meals from the server (saying please) and then, when the plates were presented, saying thank you, unprompted… and he (the manager) just wanted to let us know how much he appreciated their good manners, and how very rarely he hears kids using them. It was really cool having him come and talk to us like that (until the girls started walking around with their chests puffed out like maybe they’d rescued a litter of kittens from a burning building), but we were also like, Dude. They hardly spoke. This really called for accolades?

Last year, when we were in Disney World, Ella and I stopped into a candy store on our way out of The Magic Kingdom. It was after dinner and the park itself had closed, so we had the store to ourselves. We also were a bit hard to miss because I was pushing Ella in a wheelchair, her recently un-casted broken foot not yet being strong enough to take on the parks. She got some Jelly Bellies for herself and Annie, and I was ordering a ridiculous caramel-peanut-butter-cup-chocolate-covered apple concoction at the checkout counter when we had the following conversation with a Cast Member:

I’d like that one, please. (I point to the monstrosity that supposedly has an apple at its center.)

“All right. And the Jelly Bellies?

Yes, please.

(The Cast Member rings up both and hands back the Jelly Bellies, putting the apple into a bag.)

“Thank you!” (Ella takes the Jelly Bellies.)

“Mommy, may I please have some of these now?”

Sure. That would be fine.

“Thanks, Mommy.”

(Cast Member stops what she’s doing and actually reaches out to touch my hand.)

“Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

Um, pardon me?

“Do you have any idea how rare it is, what your daughter just did?”

I’m not sure what… (No, seriously, WTF is happening here…?)

“She not only said ‘thank you’ to me without you reminding her, but she also politely asked you if she could have some of her candy instead of demanding it… and then she thanked you too!”

Oh, that! Uhhh, yes, she did. She uses really good manners.

“Yes, she does! I hope you appreciate how unusual and wonderful that is. You must have taught her well.”

Considering that I’m stammering my reply, I’m not sure that that’s really the case…

“We have so many extra cookies, and they make us throw them away every night. I’d really love it if you took them with you to your hotel.”

And that is how we wound up with two dozen delicious cookies that were passed around our group and enjoyed all night long. FREE COOKIES. IN DISNEY WORLD. All because Ella said thank you and asked me if she could have candy.

THAT WAS IT.
No, “My greatest appreciation to you, fine Cast Member, for your truly incredible service tonight” or a letter written in golden ink… Just the absolute bare bones in terms of respectful, polite conversation — and for that, we got free cookies. !!!

When on earth did using the very most basic manners go from being the rule to being the (apparently exceedingly rare) exception? What the heck are other kids saying — or not saying — to make my kids’ simplest manners seem so amazing?

Now, lest you think that I’m writing this to toot my girls’ horn, please let me be the first to tell you that isn’t the case. While I’m not at all above writing something to showcase how fantabulous my offspring are, I promise I’ll let you know I think it’s super and that I’m bragging. Sometimes a proud mama just needs to brag.

But this time? Not the case. I’m just thinking this through.

It’s not that I’m not proud of my girls for being polite and using good manners. Quite the contrary; some of my proudest moments as their mom have come when other people have commented on their manners. But I kinda don’t get it. You see, not having good manners really isn’t a choice in our family — unless you ask nicely, things are absolutely not going to go your way – so when the girls do it when we’re out and about, I don’t even notice. Not saying please and thank you – unprompted – would be akin to deciding to pee on the floor instead of in the toilet or eating ice cream with your fingers. It just doesn’t fly.

Which isn’t to say that Annie and Ella are perfect and always deploy spectacular manners. Believe you me, they have their fair share of floor-peeing and ice-cream finger moments. Case in point: the reason Ella and I were leaving the Magic Kingdom, just the two of us, was that she’d thrown a full-on, all out tantrum earlier in the day (despite being the oldest kid in our group, she had a fit so terrible, she was escorted back to the hotel and missed out on the second half of our day at Animal Kingdom), and by dinner time, she was just done for the day, so we left alone. Considering her behavior that morning, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d thrown the Jelly Bellies on the floor – so I was particularly pleased that she managed to pull out her lovely manners for the Cast Member helping us.

In fact, the reason I’m writing this post today is to remind myself that my kids really do know how to be sweet, polite, and kind… because Sunday was bad, y’all. BAD. Horrendous, rude, disrespectful, eye-rolling, sobbing, Mommy-yells-till-her-throat-hurts bad, the kind of bad that results in skipping out on getting the Christmas tree, threats of canceling advent activities, and tear-stained letters written to Santa apologizing for their over-the-top nastiness.

So… yeah. My kids are hardly angels. They are not well-mannered and polite every minute of the day. They definitely have their moments. Many, many of them.

But usually, they’re pretty good about it. Maybe it’s because they know that if they don’t ask politely for a snack, there will be no snack, so they’re respectful out of self-preservation (hey, pretzels are a powerful motivator). Maybe it’s because they genuinely understand that speaking kindly to others is just the right thing to do. And, heck, maybe it’s because they know that if they’re rude when we’re out and about, they’ll be sent off to Azkaban for the night… I don’t know.

But I do know that they get complimented on their manners an awful lot, and that people are well and truly floored by the simplest of pleases and thank yous.

Which, on the one hand, is really kind of sad, you know? What Ella and Annie are doing is so freakin’ minimal in terms of being polite – to think that other kiddos encountered by store managers and check-out clerks and restaurant servers are falling short of a bar set that low is just plain depressing.

But on the other hand, it makes it pretty darn easy to blow people away. Super low expectations rock!

Unfortunately for the girls, we’re not really letting them get away with just pleases and thank yous anymore. No, we’re moving on to looking people in the eye when they speak, shaking hands with a firm grip, asking questions to show someone you’re interested in them, and holding the door for the person behind you. Annie and Ella are not terribly pleased with this development.

They are catching on, however. On Sunday, Annie held the door for me at church before throwing her jacket on the floor of the Great Hall and leaving her trash on the table after coffee hour. And Ella definitely looked me in the eye while rolling her own eyes at me as I was reading her the riot act.

This is a marathon, people, not a sprint. Thank God there are stickers and free cookies at the aid stations.

Best laid plans

Posted on November 29, 2013 by missemtoo

I always start out with such high hopes and good intentions. We had a wonderful Thanksgiving yesterday – truly the very best time with my grandmother and newfound, fabulous friends, all of whom were kind enough to protest my apologies when we ate two hours past our original estimate because that the turkey took far longer to cook than I’d planned (Alton Brown – dude, you’ve never led me astray before; what gives??). It was just perfectly cozy and fun and laughter-filled and delicious, so much so that, while we were doing the dishes after everyone had gone home and girls were in bed, Nick stopped to ask me, “Am I not agreeing strongly enough with what you’re saying? Because you’ve just told me for the fifth time that this was a really great Thanksgiving…”

So, after actually getting enough sleep last night (a Thanksgiving miracle, word!), I awoke today in a delightful mood, ready to throw caution to the wind and, by God, make some pumpkin donuts; today’s breakfast will be more than just juice, in the name of sugar and cinnamon and pumpkin spice, amen. To round out the morning (and perhaps atone for the donuts), I thought I’d do some yoga – after all, the floor was freshly vacuumed for last night’s guests, and I couldn’t let a dog-hair-free carpet go to waste – so I donned new yoga pants and a kicky black yoga zip-up top (thanks, Mom!), even stopping to admire my snazzy I Might Work Out Or I Might Just Strut Around In These Because They Make Me LOOK Like I’ll Work Out clothing in the mirror before heading downstairs.

It was all going to be just wonderful, you know? Right out of a Hallmark Special. I’d make the donuts (okay, does everyone who grew up in the Northeastern US still hear the Dunkin’ Donuts’ guy’s voice in your head intoning, “Time to make the do-nuts…” every time you think of donuts?) in my fantastically clean kitchen (hosting Thanksgiving definitely has its perks) while the girls – who, naturally, would be deeply grateful for my efforts – could either assist cheerfully by my side or play bucolically together downstairs.

A fresh layer of snow had fallen last night, adding sparkle to the eight or so inches that we already have on the ground. The sunlight was streaming into the kitchen, giving the entire room a warm, soothing-but-invigorating glow. Ah, yes. A grateful morning. Joy just oozing from my being. I started to get out the ingredients.

Annie came upstairs in tears not shortly thereafter, and, still in my This Is The Stuff Dreams Are Made Of haze, I picked her up and held her close, whispering sweetly in her ear to tell me what was wrong. “Ella hit me, and also scratched my arm.” Why had Ella done so? I wanted to know. “Because she wanted to put the Legos to bed somewhere else.”

Of course.

Not wanting to break my reverie, I soothed her and apologized and reiterated that hitting and scratching are not appropriate ways to behave. I was just about to (kindly, gently, warmly) reprimand Ella for her behavior when I thought to ask Annie if she had, by chance, done anything to her sister to precipitate such an attack. Annie nodded solemnly and said, quite matter-of-factly, “Yes. I hit her really hard because she didn’t give me the Legos I wanted.”

And so came the first, If you can’t play nicely together, you’re going to be in separate rooms! of the day.

Turning back to the task at hand, I measured and whisked, mixed and stirred. I found my inner peace (or maybe it was just leftover Xanax) and breathed deeply into it, or whatever it is the yoga lady on YouTube says to do. The girls came upstairs, still grumpy, and I suggested that perhaps they were hungry. They denied that they were (even though it was 9:45 and they typically eat around 8:15), but reluctantly agreed to eat a little breakfast. Playing my Best Mommy Ever card, I offered them a slice of leftover apple pie, pumpkin bread, or a dinner roll, and when they asked if they could have little bits of all three, I said sure – it’s the day after Thanksgiving! We are so happy and thankful! We celebrate life! Of course you may have all three!

This, I assumed, would cheer them up and make them see just how very fortunate they are, not only for the abundant riches of our life, but for kick-ass moms like me who allow desserts for breakfast. We might have taken a slight scene break, but we would surely return to our Hallmark Special right after these messages. I was just piping the first globs of batter from the Ziploc bag into the donut maker when I felt this… stickiness… on my hands. Apparently, I hadn’t closed the zip on the bag tightly enough, because the enclosure came entirely open and there was now more pumpkin donut batter outside of the bag then in. And the only place to “catch” it and prevent it from falling calamitously to the floor was to sandwich it between my hands and my kicky new black yoga top.

The girls would chuckle at this, I figured. Or perhaps offer to help.
Instead, “Mommy, why are you making such a mess with our donuts?” was their charming inquiry.

With two donuts already baking in the donut machine and batter completely covering my hands, the only solution was to scrape it from my fingers and into the other donut receptacles. I was madly stuffing the sticky globs into place when the girls attempted to leave the kitchen. Mistake.

Please stay seated – I’m making donuts for you.

They didn’t leave the premises but, rather than remaining seated, they chose to horse around with the dog gate – the one that is held precariously within the door frame and that must be treated carefully – and succeeded in not only knocking themselves to the ground, but the gate as well.

I might have reminded them that they’ve been told at least a million times not to play with or hang on the gate, and I may have said that they were going to be responsible for fixing it if it took them all day to do so… But I’m not entirely sure, because I was busy checking on the donuts while also scrubbing donut batter from my hands and my now-batter-stained sweatshirt. When they finally succeeded in putting up the gate and attempted to walk away, I’m quite positive that I growled at them to return to the kitchen because I AM MAKING DONUTS FOR YOU.

After they grudgingly ate the donuts (whispering to themselves that they were as tasty as the apple donuts I’d made earlier this year, but, still angry with me for getting in trouble, not even glancing my way), they then headed off to play. Perhaps the morning isn’t all a loss, I reasoned. They’ll play happily now and I can enjoy a donut in peace…

“If you EVER touch me again, I will never speak to you!”

“I didn’t do it on PURPOSE!”

“Don’t you even know how to use your HANDS?”

“Don’t you even know how to use your MOUTH?”

THAT’S IT. YOU NEED TO PLAY SEPARATELY. AND IF I HEAR ONE MORE WORD FROM EITHER OF YOU, YOU WILL SPEND THE AFTERNOON IN YOUR ROOM.

I AM SO THANKFUL FOR THIS DELIGHTFUL MORNING.

Something is oozing from my being, but I’m pretty certain it isn’t joy. But let’s be honest: those Hallmark Specials always kind of sucked anyway.

If the YouTube yoga lady tells me to breathe into my toes, I will leave her a VERY nasty comment. Then again, can one even still do yoga if your sweatshirt contains more donut than your stomach? Surely I can burn just as many calories outside in the snow as I could Downward Dog-ing in the living room… Especially while making snowmen. Or throwing snowballs.

I know of two particularly appealing targets right about now.

Like a fine wine (let’s go with Sauvignon Blanc)

Posted on November 25, 2013 by missemtoo

Last Friday, it was my birthday; I turned thirty-eight. I’m neither ashamed to admit my age nor to admit my unabashed love of turning every birthday (even – especially? – my own) into a special occasion.

Being in the spotlight – unless I engineer it or am standing at the head of a classroom – generally makes me uncomfortable. I’m not one to go around to strangers blabbing about myself or my life. But on my birthday, all bets are off. Maybe it’s a mom thing, maybe it’s a primary caregiver thing, maybe it’s a female thing, or maybe it’s just a me thing, but for 363 days of the year, I do not come first. (No, I didn’t do the math wrong [although, given my history with The Math, I don’t fault you for thinking so]. Nick rocks at putting me first on Mother’s Day.)

That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes come first, or that my needs aren’t met, or that Nick’s not pulling his weight… none of that. I’m pretty good about speaking up for myself and taking time when I need it, whether it’s grabbing coffee mid-day or having dinner with a friend or telling the kids they’ll just have to wait a minute, I’m busy, for crying out loud. And Nick is really super about encouraging me to take time for myself and of helping to make sure what I need is taken care of. But, with the exception of Mother’s Day and days when I’m sick or have had surgery, I’m not the focus of the day (and, let’s be honest; when I am sick enough to actually be in bed, the girls are crawling in beside me, and when I had laparoscopic surgery a few years back, I was driving Annie to preschool two days later). And that’s as it should be – God knows I wouldn’t want every day to be about me; even I get sick of Starbucks.

But one day? Yep. It can be all about me. I’m absolutely down with that. Am I asking for attention on my birthday? You betcha. BRING IT.

(Except that November 22nd isn’t really the most fabulous birthday if you want a day that’s all about you. Every five or six years, my birthday falls on Thanksgiving, which is a big ol’ bummer, and for forever, the majority of Americans a generation older than I am have heard my birth date and said, “Ohhhh, that’s the day Kennedy was assassinated!” True, and yes, I read the news coverage of the 50th anniversary just like everyone else.

But also? It’s my birthday! HOLLA!)
Annie agrees:

Let’s go, 38 year-old Mommy.
H-H-Happy Birthday!
Love Annie

I know plenty of people who totally downplay their birthdays. (By people, I mean adults, because I have yet to meet any children who don’t practically wear a neon sign above their heads on their birthdays. AMEN.) It’s no big deal, they’ll say, just another day, I don’t want to celebrate. And that’s all well and good.

But me? No, man. I’m not shy about it; I’ll work it into any conversation that it’s my birthday. This is the day I was BORN, damn it, and being born is a mighty awesome thing. Even more awesome is the passing of another year – in part, as my dad likes to say, because it sure beats the alternative, but in part because another year under your belt, another year of things seen and done and accomplished and lived and learned and loved, is worth celebrating.

And so celebrate, I did. Last Monday, the rebel moms and I finally made good on our promise to grab some dinner and have a “planning meeting,” and they surprised me with a birthday dessert. On Wednesday, some wonderful friends met me for lunch ’cause it was my birthday in two days, and what better excuse to get together in the middle of the week? Thursday, Friday, and Saturday were filled with some squeezed-in but much-needed me time, taking Ella and Annie out of school to eat lunch at a local restaurant (ooooh, the excitement!), some lovely gifts, phone calls and texts and video chats with family and friends, scads of Facebook well-wishes, a dinner out with just Nick (while GranMary was excellent enough to watch the girls), a birthday dinner in with the girls and GranMary and my own grandma (where I didn’t have to lift a finger), and even a homemade (and quite yummy) cake from Annie and Ella.

Tilting candles make cake taste better.

It was a very good birthday. So far, thirty-eight is pretty rad.

The older I’ve gotten, the less apprehensive I’ve become about sharing my age. With a late November birthday, I was one of the youngest in my class, and was always one of the last to turn whatever age the other 1975ers had turned. As a teen, it bugged me that I was the youngest, so always hesitated to tell folks how old I was. In my twenties, I was constantly told that I looked young for my age (in fact, I still get carded; last week, a department store salesperson asked if I had the store card – when I said no, he asked if my parents did, and maybe I could use theirs?), so I kept my birth date to myself.

Now, I’m no longer embarrassed to tell people my age. Quite the contrary; thirty-eight feels really good. I no longer judge myself by my peers, but rather by my own set of standards, the majority of which include making sure that Nick, the girls, and I are happy, and that I’m choosing kind far more often than not. There are way more lines around my eyes, and when I see them, I’m reminded of the fabulous days I’ve spent outside in the sun (with sunscreen, no worries, I’m a bit fanatical) and of how incredibly often I laugh, even when I shouldn’t.

Thirty-eight means feeling more confident about who I am as a person, while recognizing that I still have a really, really long way to go to become the person I want to be. It means that I finally – finally! – understand that when someone is critical of me (or offers “advice” that’s really criticism wearing shiny clothes), they’re saying a whole lot more about themselves than they are about me.

Thirty-eight means valuing friendships more than ever, especially as life gets in the way and it can be harder to get together in person. It means valuing family, near and far, and actively working to make the relationships in my life just as I want them to be. It means that my husband has never been more attractive or appreciated, despite the days when we hardly see one another.
ella's bday basket to me
Thirty-eight also means duct tape purses. Word.

Thirty-eight means feeling rooted and grounded and absolutely content, while simultaneously constantly looking to try new things and find the next set of adventures. It means that I’m a whole lot closer to fifty than I am to twenty, or even twenty-five, but that’s just dandy, because I have a heckuva lot of fifty (or almost-fifty) year-old friends, and they’ve shown me that things really do get better with age.

Thirty-eight means reaching the point where weddings and baby showers are replaced by memorial services and funerals, as we lose our parents and our friends’ parents and our parents’ friends. But it also means soccer games and Harry Potter and gingerbread helpers at school and (still!) the wonder of Santa Claus.

Thirty-eight means speaking in a British accent at the grocery store, even when you don’t realize you’re doing it (true story: I was asked today where I’m from, and only then did I realize I was speaking to the woman using a British accent… awkward…), twerking in front of the bedroom mirror when no one is watching, and cleaning dog poop off the wall when your dog has had explosive diarrhea in the middle of the night. It means gratitude and happiness, appreciation and doubt, love and desperate sadness, hope and vulnerability, juicing in the morning and wine in the evenings, and realizing that many things really do get better with a little chocolate.

Last year was a helluva year, and I don’t know what this next year will bring, but I’m ready. Thirty-eight is where it’s at, and I’m so very glad to be here. It is a time to CELEBRATE, y’all.

Especially when it involves a massage and Caramel Macchiatos. bday with my girlies
The best accessories when you’re thirty-eight? New scarf, new earrings, and one child hanging off of each arm.

All Shook Up

Posted on November 20, 2013 by missemtoo

Annie’s fabulous Herb Brooks turkey was, in some ways, to be expected. See, although Herb may have been influenced by Nick, the desire to put her all into school project was definitely inherited from me. There was the school wide make-a-poster contest for the fall festival, where my brother and I — in our own respective grades — took first place each. There was the write-about-a-country project (my country: Saudi Arabia) for which I actually brought in a beautiful head scarf from Saudi Arabia, because my dad had gone there on business trips.

There was the See If White Carnations Still Turn Blue After Mixing Crap Like Sugar And Salt And Kool-Aid Into Their Blue Food Coloring-Tinted Water project, which was set up in the guest room for at least two weeks, threatening to turn the carpet aquamarine. There was the acid rain project one of my best friends and I did in 9th grade, where we asked friends and family to send us vials of water and soil collected from around the country (to analyze the acidity and then pore over actual library books to see, way before Google could help out, if there was a connection between soil content and acid rain), for which we filmed at 15-minute video, complete with several “commercials.”

If there was a project to be done, I was going to DO IT, by God, and DO IT WITH ALL MY MIGHT, especially if a tri-fold board was involved. Man, those boards were cool.

But then, as my mom reminded me last week after I posted about Annie’s turkey, there was the… ill-fated… Tsunami Project Disaster of ’87. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?

No? Well, then this is your lucky day.

If memory serves, we had to do a project for science class about some kind of natural disaster. I was quite disappointed to be assigned the tsunami, first because I’d coveted the volcano (you got to blow things up in the classroom, rock on), but also because back then, no one in southwestern Connecticut had really even heard of tsunamis (again, back in the dark ages before Google and CNN and 24 hour news coverage even in the middle of record-breaking typhoons). After doing some research (more library time FTW!), I discovered that tsunamis were actually pretty awesome (in storm-chaser kind of way; work with me, people), and set out to make a project that would aptly demonstrate their awesomeness.

A decent-sized clear plastic bin was procured (undoubtedly by my mother, who had to navigate my ADHD-induced craziness for all of my school projects) – large enough to show what a tsunami was, but not so big I couldn’t carry it to school myself. One half of the bin contained the land, its shoreline and trees and whatever other structures were deemed necessary rendered with clay and things like popsicle sticks, while the other half contained water. By rattling the bin around and simulating an earthquake, the water would slosh ominously toward the land and – voilà – tsunami (or, at least, tsunami, 7th-grade-style), which would knock over some of the houses perched on the beach.

Now, causing the tremors by hand didn’t really work so well — I needed to show that the earthquake (or whatever had caused the disturbance) could happen anywhere, any time, and the displaced water would crest toward land; randomly jiggling the bin back and forth didn’t so much as simulate a tsunami so much as a broken washing machine. I needed something that could be placed just so, rattling, earth-quake like, and then we could all stand back and watch the water roll in. Enter the seemingly perfect solution: my family’s back massager.

We’d had it around for years, and I’d seen it in action many times — for knots just under your shoulders, aching hamstrings, or those extra-fun moments when you placed it on your head and tried to talk, your voice coming out sounding like a robot. You’ve probably seen them out and about; in fact, I just spotted some the other day in Target’s stocking stuffer section:

No, I didn’t buy one; the girls would probably just torture the dogs with them.

Awesome, right? Yeah… Except that my family’s back massager didn’t look like cute little robotic puppies. It looked more like…

this:

And now you can’t un-see this. IMAGINE HOW I FEEL.

I carefully described to the class what a tsunami was, how one was caused, and the damage one could render. I showed my little clay model. I added in the water (to many appreciative murmurs from my classmates). But when I pulled out the back massager to demonstrate just how a tsunami worked, giggles – mostly from the boys – began to erupt around the room.

I was stumped. What on earth could be so funny about a back massager?
And then the questions started.

“What the heck is that?”

It’s a back massager.

*snicker* “A WHAT?”

A back massager.

“Uh, yeah… Where’d you get it?”

I brought it from home.

*chuckle* “Where’d you find it?”

Find it? What do you mean? My mom and dad use it, and it was just lying around, so…

*giggle* “Have you ever used it?”

Of course. I use it all the time.

*barely-controlled-hysterics* “YOU DO? What do you do with it??”

(impatiently and a little exasperated at their obvious dim-witted-ness) You know – when I have a sore back, or I’ve gotten a charley horse…

*outright laughter* “Is it FUN???”

Well, I wouldn’t really say it’s fun, but it definitely works – you should try it sometime!

And then I turned the damn thing on and held it up to the bottom of the little plastic display and all hell broke loose — both in the form of the perfectly-formed little tsunami that had brewed in my lovingly constructed project — and amongst my fellow classmates.

The teacher eventually settled everyone down and I soon took my seat, wildly embarrassed but not really certain why. (To this day, I’m not sure how my instructor managed to keep a straight face. Then again, I held it together when my fifth grade general music students created a commercial jingle about an inflatable doll to the tune of “We Will Rock You”, the chorus of which went, “We will.. We will… BLOW YOU!” Teachers are AMAZING, y’all.)

It wasn’t until after class that one of my friends pulled me aside and explained that my innocent little back massager was less chiro and more porno.

If you look up the word “mortified” in the dictionary, you’ll see my name beside it. Use Google, even. It was that awful.

To this day, I’m not sure if my parents didn’t know I was bringing in this delightful device, didn’t realize that it would elicit such a reaction, or thought it would be damn hilarious to have their daughter tote what was essentially a vibrator to seventh grade science (nor, come to think of it, do I know if the “back massager” was ever used for anything beyond easing muscle aches… AND OMG I DO NOT WANT TO KNOW, EVER), but I can promise you that I will not allow my children to make a similarly mortifying mistake.

No, no. I will try my damnedest to prevent them from utterly humiliating themselves in front of their classmates. But if they do – if something slips through the cracks – I will hold their hands and comfort them and tell them that surely it will all be okay.

And then I’ll post about it on Facebook.

After all, they have to have SOMETHING to blog about when they get older.

Point Taken

Posted on November 15, 2013 by missemtoo

Since forever, Nick and I have used a “points” system to call the other out when we’ve unwittingly said or done something simply because we’ve just been together too damn long, and our… peculiarities… have rubbed off on each other. When we’re out with friends and someone refers to workers at the Disney Store as “employees” and Nick corrects them, saying, “Actually, they’re cast members,” I get at least ten points, because my Disney-speak wormed its way into his vocabulary. When I note that Mark Messier must have won more Stanley Cups than Wayne Gretzky because he was with the Rangers when they were the champs in ’94, Nick gets a solid fifty points because his love of hockey has caused me to remember weird hockey stats.

Were you just singing part of Les Mis while you made dinner?
“Shit. I think I was.”
OMG, a hundred points for me. Maybe one-fifty.

“Did you just shake your bag of popcorn to spread out the flavor more evenly?”
Holy crap, did I?
“That puts me in the lead for at least a month.”

Naturally, since marriage is at its best when it’s essentially a competitive sport, we are also keeping points when it comes to the girls. There are some things that Annie and Ella do – ways they behave or phrases they say – that are absolutely because they’re my daughters. Becoming frustrated when someone uses incorrect grammar? Totally my kid. Being physically unable to turn the television off when The Sound of Music is on? That’s my girl! Knowing at least two verses to every Christmas carol? Naturally. WHAT WERE THEY, RAISED BY WOLVES?

And then there are the things that they do that are a direct byproduct of having Nick for their dad. Like last week, when Ella was by herself in the dining room and I heard her cheerfully muttering, “I love scotch. Scotchy scotch scotch! Here it goes down. Down into my belly!”

How do you know all of that?
“From that thing Daddy showed me*.”
You’re actually quoting Anchor Man???
“Yes! It was really funny!”
DAMN IT, NICK, YOU GET TWENTY POINTS.

(* don’t call CPS. He only showed them the trailer for the first movie. It was super fun to avoid explaining what “quite a handful in the bedroom” means.)

Sometimes, the points are given grudgingly. When Annie, age three, returned from a potty run (while we were out. In public) and loudly proclaimed that she’d just been “dropping a deuce,” Nick earned himself a few points, but also maybe the silent treatment on the way home.

Other times, Nick has had points deducted from the Official Points Bank (which is kept in my head; it’s exceedingly accurate). Years ago, as I was changing a then-18-month-old Annie’s diaper, I removed the offending nappy and she murmured, “Fuggin’ diaper.” Making sure I’d heard her correctly, I (stupidly) asked her to repeat herself. Nope, “Fuggin’ diaper,” plain as day. (Lest you think I’m being chaste, I’m not trying to avoid writing the word “fucking” — Annie actually pronounced it as “fuggin'”.)

Oh wow. Where did you hear that?
“Daddy said it.”

BUS.TED. Fifty points from Gryffindor.

(Nick lost even further points as Annie – probably in response to my shocked reaction – decided that it was fun to yell “FUGGIN!!!” at the top of her lungs, especially when we were out and about. “FUGGIN’ LIBRARY!” “FUGGIN’ GROCERIES!” I quickly learned that if I responded in any way to her outbursts – whether to scold or admonish, distract or quickly zip her the heck outta dodge – she would get a charge out of it and would yell even more loudly and jubilantly. “FUGGIN’ CAR! FUGGIN’ CAR! FUGGIN CAR!!!!!” The only thing that would eventually quiet her down was to ignore her entirely, which meant that for a good three or four months — until she finally realized she wasn’t going to get a rise out of me, so it lost its luster — Annie dropped the F-bomb in every store we entered. FUN TIMES, THOSE. I was ahead in points for at least half a year.)

This isn’t to say that the girls haven’t picked up the occasional unsavory phrase from me. When Ella was frustrated with something a couple of weeks ago, she angrily yelled, “Oh, for God’s sake — JESUS CHRIST!!” Um, yeaaah. Oops. My bad.

Sometimes, they’ll tell me “secrets” just to see what I’ll do, like when they returned from a trip to Brueggers last weekend and Annie bounded up to tell me, “Guess what word Daddy taught us but we’re not allowed to tell you? GRAB-ASS!”

Isn’t that delightful.
“He said Grandpa Bill used to say it to him when he was a kid, so that makes it okay, right?”
Not really, but I’ve got to give him points for style.

And I will fully admit that I love how Ella has memorized comedienne Anjelah Johnson’s bit about Nordstrom and Ross employees’ responses** to the Raider cheerleader calendars. It slays me every time she – correctly, appropriately – drops, “I have three words for you – Fan. Tas. Tic!” into conversation. Okay, Nick. You win this round.

(** not the best recording of this, but worth a look if you don’t know who/what I’m talking about. Hilarious.)

But Nick’s greatest coup may have come when he least expected it. Last weekend, the movie Miracle was on cable, so he began to show it to the girls, starting from wherever the movie was at the time. I jumped in and said no, we had to start at the beginning — how else would they know about the Cold War? About the relationship between the United States and Russians in 1980? How could they miss Eruzione almost not making the team? How would they understand the significance of his saying that he played for The United States of America, whereas previously each player had always said they played for such-and-such college?

If we’re going to show them the movie about one of the greatest sports stories of all time – a HOCKEY story, at that – we must start from the beginning, damn it ! We need a Miracle family movie night! Oh, and totally ten points for me for standing up for the hockey movie.

Aside from watching a bit of A League of Their Own, this was the first sports movie the girls had seen, and while we hoped they’d enjoy it, we weren’t entirely sure. Our apprehensions were eased as they gasped aloud when the coach, Herb Brooks, made the team undergo a grueling practice after a half-assed effort in Norway, shouting “Again! Again!” until the players were vomiting from exhaustion. They shook their heads in bewildered disbelief as the Russians beat the Americans 10-3 in an exhibition game just three days before the start of the Olympics. And they were beside themselves during the Big Game, covering their faces with worry, screaming aloud for every goal, dancing around (literally) as Al Michaels called out, “Do you believe in miracles? Yes!” It was a good night.

Still, it was just a movie, and after going to bed that night, we didn’t talk more about it. The following day, we sat down to start one of Annie’s school projects, where the entire family was supposed to work together to “disguise” a paper turkey by turning it into something else, so it wouldn’t be eaten at Thanksgiving. We could use anything around the house – markers, glitter, dried pasta, feathers, scraps of paper – but we had to work together.

We began the discussion. Do you want to turn it into a Disney character? Maybe Phineas (of Phineas and Ferb)? How about a soccer player? A teacher? An artist?

Nope. Wrong, all of them. Annie had her own idea.

Once she’d decided, we all worked to help her disguise her turkey, cutting, glueing, drawing. In the end, he turned out pretty damn well.

And so, without further ado, I present you Annie’s Family Turkey:
Herb Brooks.

I am NOT a Turkey

Hi I love hockey. I coached the USA Olympic hockey team in 1980. We won the golden medal. We beat the Russians by one point because we had 4 and they had 3. They were mad because they never, ever lost. It was called the miracle on ice.

In case you thought the design was haphazard, please compare Herb-the-Turkey to Kurt Russell-as-Herb-Brooks from Miracle:

I’d completely forgotten that he’d worn plaid pants (ohhh, 1980, you really were somethin’ else), a tan blazer, a blue shirt, and a tie. Annie sure as heck didn’t.

Please also note Herb Brooks-the-Turkey’s fuzzy hair (again, 1980, you truly were a gift).

When Annie presented her turkey to the class, not one of her classmates guessed who it was (which, you know… not exactly a shocker…). But she was so dang proud of our creation, she didn’t care one bit.

Neither did her dad, who won approximately 823 points for Annie’s efforts, at least half of which were given because he hadn’t even tried to influence her choice.

So Nick’s a little ahead right now in the points department, which is fine with me. This is the 2nd first-grade family art project we’ve done, which surely means there will be others, leaving me plenty of time to plot my ~~revenge~~ course of action. A Family Snowman disguised as a Caramel Macchiato would be pretty incredible.

Which would be fitting, since both Ella and Annie could identify the Starbucks logo before they turned one. ADVANTAGE, MAMA.

Times, they are(n’t) a changin’

Posted on November 13, 2013 by missemtoo

A little bit ago, Annie had a friend over for a play date. She and this buddy get along famously, and often spend their time together doing artsy stuff. At one point, they each asked for a pair of scissors (and then looked at me rather incredulously when I asked to know why they needed said scissors, seeming almost hurt that I wouldn’t allow two six year-olds to just waltz off with some Fiskars) so that they could cut out these little… squares… they were making.

I watched as they meticulously drew dots on each square – one had a dot smack dab in the middle; another had two dots, one in the upper right and one in the upper left corner; yet another contained five dots, with one in the middle and the remaining four in the corners – and it occurred to me that they were essentially drawing dice patterns on their papers. When I voiced this to them, I was quickly admonished.

“No, Mommy! These aren’t DICE. Dice are ROUND.” (Okay, so we may need to work on our geometry.) “These are CARDS.”

Ah, playing cards! Gotcha. When I then suggested that they could simply use one of the 839 decks of Bicycle cards we have lying around the house, I was dismissed just quickly as before.

“No, we need to MAKE THESE because it’s part of the GAME. We learned it at school.”

So, first grade teaches gambling these days. Awesome.

Once the “playing cards” were drawn and cut out, it was time to write down the rules. Annie and her friend H each wrote down separate versions, then compared them, to be sure they’d each gotten it right.

To wit: Annie’s rules of the game (you can click on the photo to see it bigger)

1. Make sure that you each have 11 cards.
2. Shuffle 3 times.
3. Say “1-2-3 top it,” then have each flip over the card (whoever gets the bigger number wins <—- small print squeezed in off to the right side)
4. Keep doing it over and over
5. Until your cards are out
6. Have fun

H took her rules home with her, and I didn’t have a chance to take a photo of it before she did, but they matched Annie’s pretty closely.

What’s this game called?

“Top It.”

As I watched the girls begin to play – each turning a card over at the same time, with the person who played the higher card winning and taking both cards – I remarked that it looked an awful lot like the old-time favorite card game “War.” They looked briefly up at me and said, “It is.” When I asked why they were calling it “Top It” instead, they simply said, “Because in school we’re not allowed to say ‘war.'”

Really? REALLY?? It has come to this?

To be fair, our elementary school has, I think, done a pretty fantastic job of NOT jumping on the overreaction, EVERYTHING IS DIFFERENT THESE DAYS, there-could-be-a-pedophile-around-every-corner, we must protect our children bandwagon. Loads of kids walk and bike to school (many sans parents), there is still Tag and monkey-bar-hanging at recess, the kindergarteners are taken on a bus ride — without parents! without even ASKING the parents! — when they come to meet the teachers in August, and there is still outdoor recess all through our snow-filled Rochester winters (with the stipulation that once the wind chill hits 20 below, it’s officially too cold). It’s a school that, despite the recent push toward high stakes testing and lots of homework and recent tragedies at other schools across the country, has really embraced the idea that we truly are a community, and kids should be allowed to be kids. In short, it’s a fabulous place to be.

So, maybe that was why not allowing first-graders to call “War” War struck me as so odd. Or maybe it’s simply because it’s an asinine rule. BECAUSE PLAYING A CARD GAME THAT INVOLVES THE HIGHER NUMBER “BEATING” THE LOWER NUMBER HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ACTUAL WAR, you know what I mean?!?

Yes, yes. It’s different now. Increased security, Newtown, Columbine. And our school has taken measures because of that. But I can absolutely promise you that playing “War” wasn’t at the root of any of those tragedies.

I’m trying to imagine what’s next… Since the devastating tornadoes in Joplin and Oklahoma, clearly we can no longer allow kids to play “Twister.” I suggest “Twisted” (too psycho?) or “Tangled” (save for copyright infringement).

“Candyland” obviously promotes unhealthy choices, but “Veggieland” or “Paleo-land” are probably okay.

“Battleship” encourages violence; “Sink ‘er!” or “Peg It!” are much more benign.

“Hedbanz” will soon be recalled for its glaring grammatical faux pas, with “Guess Me!” arriving in its place (or perhaps “Guess Me?” would be more apropos…?)

I know that my girls will tire of hearing me say it, and no, I didn’t walk to school uphill both ways (although I did have to endure a time when Jams were in style, and when the only way to watch cartoons was to actually find them on the television when they were showing LIVE — and then TURN THE DIAL, by hand, to the correct channel), but in many ways, life was just easier when Nick and I were kids. People didn’t second-guess everything. Nuance wasn’t read into all our interactions. We played “War” and nobody got a yen for actually hurting someone.

I guess it was a different time.
Except… not so much at all, really.

UPDATE:

Annie’s just now arrived home from school, bursting to tell me about her day. After I heard about her Morning Work and playing outside at recess (gleeful, because there was snow on the ground), she proceeded to ask Ella if she’d heard a little “song” that Annie’d learned recently. And it goes like this:

Ella and so-and-so
Sittin’ in a tree!
K-I-S-S-I-N-G

Awwww. Familiar, no? I was reminded, yet again, of just how much childhood has not changed as I chanted alongside her (in my head, not aloud; that would have been totally uncouth, in Annie’s opinion)…

First comes love!
Then comes marriage!
Then comes the baby in the bay-bee carriage!

So beautiful, the connection between the generations, the innocence of childhood. “Top It” instead of “War,” my butt.
I heard the rest of the little ditty in my head before Annie could say it out loud…

Suckin’ his thumb!
And wetting his pants!
And doing the hu-la hu-la dance!

Except… that’s not how Annie ended her version of the ever-famous schoolyard jingle. No, according to Annie, after the baby arrives , he goes on a bender:

Then comes the baby in the bay-bee carriage!
That’s not it! That’s not all!
Your baby’s playing with al-co-hol!

Adorable.

Soooo, it would appear that some things have changed just a smidge in thirty-plus years.

I’m still calling it “War,” though.
And if Annie continues to sing this jaunty tune at the top of her lungs, I’m taking away the remote and making her change the channels on the television by hand. USING THE BUTTONS ON THE TV.

And she’ll still have to walk to school.

When she tells her own kids about that, I certainly hope she lets them know it was uphill. Both ways.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Category Archives: good life