Virtuous

Posted on July 22, 2013 by missemtoo

Several days ago, Ella asked me if we could please go to the dollar store. She’s requested this before – usually when she’s been given money by a grandparent or perhaps found some loose change lying around – and always seems truly thrilled to be able to shop for whatever she wants in what is, clearly, The Greatest Store Of All Time.

“Mom! Everything is only a dollar! EVERY. SINGLE. THING!!!!”

I’ve tried to impress upon her that whole you get what you pay for adage, but still, the dollar store is her Target. Or, given that it now carries a hefty selection of frozen and canned foods, maybe even a Super Target. Eight year-old shopping nirvana.

I’d protested that I didn’t want to spend money on ~~junk~~ lovely trinkets that might break within five minutes of purchasing them, but then she reminded me that both she and Annie have their own allowance. When she also reminded me (after pulling out her official allowance ledger) that Nick and I hadn’t actually paid either of them their allowance since last October – so we were just a teensy bit overdue – I felt the guilt take over and agreed to make a dollar store pilgrimage.

Ella was positively gleeful – and her glee even rubbed off on Annie, who had decided against joining us on our previous dollar store visits. The two of them rummaged through their ledgers and each chose a crisp $20 bill. After running a few other errands, we were ready to go. I checked my watch; we’d been gone for only 30 minutes, and so between what would undoubtedly be a quick jaunt into the dollar store, followed by pre-lunch-hour grocery shopping, I estimated we’d be home within an hour and a half. Perfect.

The instant we entered ~~heaven~~ The Greatest Store Of All Time, Annie made a beeline for the school supplies, saying she wanted items to create a “play school” at home. Prior to going in, the girls had settled on buying nineteen items apiece, so that their now-wadded-up twenties could safely cover everything (because, as Ella sagely noted to Annie, “They always add some extra cents onto the twenty dollars”).

Within five minutes of bursting through those pearly gates — I kid you not, FIVE MINUTES — Annie had accounted for all nineteen of her items (after reluctantly putting back the party pack of clip-on earrings, because I’d informed her that they’d break after only one wearing), and then proceeded to roam the store trading things in and out of her basket to maintain her under-twenty status. I encouraged her to be a bit more careful — to maybe check out the other aisles before blowing everything on the first display she encountered — but she held fast to the incredible marvels she’d already collected.

When not roaming, she used the super-skinny squirt gun as a walking cane. Or a tape measure. Or a magician’s wand. Or, really, anything at all, so long as it involved swinging it around madly and nearly decapitating other customers.

Ella, on the other hand… Ella was far more discerning. By the time Annie had found her nineteen treasures, Ella had managed to put three items in her basket. She walked up and down every single aisle a minimum of five times. She’d remove the merchandise, examine it as if holding a holy relic or perhaps looking for crime scene evidence, and then carefully put it back, saying it wasn’t exactly what she wanted.

Never mind that she has no cell phone to put inside this exquisite dollar store case…

Socks were pored over. Which size? Which color? Would they itch? Did they match her clothes at home? Perhaps she wanted some hair accessories. Should she get a pack of glow sticks? If so, how many? After the 287th time of cheerfully saying, “Whatever you want, sweetie!”, I remarked to her that she seemed to be having a very difficult time with these decisions, to which she replied, “I know I am, Mommy. I need to get every one right. It’s just the way I’m made, I guess.”

Whee!

After thirty minutes of “shopping,” I texted Nick and told him to send help. Twelve minutes later, I asked him please say some prayers for me. Under other circumstances, I would have hurried Ella’s butt right on out of there… but I’d just read this blog post last week, and although I’m often sick and tired of being told to slow down and savor the minutes (because, really, dollar store minutes are not the ones I’m going to be fondly recalling over the Mai Tais Nick and I will be sipping in Hawaii after Annie heads to college), I tried, just this once, to let Ella do her thing. Truthfully, we had no other plans. The grocery store could wait. There was no reason to rush her. Patience, mama. Patience.

As our “brief” excursion neared the hour mark, however, and as Annie began threatening to put the filthy squirt gun in her mouth, I started trying to encourage Ella to maybe speed it up a bit. Not actually hurry, mind you… No. Smell those roses, baby. Examine that sunglasses case for the fourth time. No rush; I love spending the morning in the dollar store. Patience is my thing. But perhaps – just perhaps – if you haven’t found anything you want by now, after having spent so much time in here, the Royal Baby may well have been born, left the hospital, been christened, and started teething… perhaps you don’t actually like what’s available here, so you don’t need to spend all twenty of your dollars.

Wrong. Wrong, wrong, so very wrong.
Those dollars did need to be spent, every last one, on essential, important, glorious items. She just didn’t know which ones yet.

At long, long, looooooong last, Ella completed her shopping. By now, of course, the previously-empty checkout register had four other shoppers in it. And, of course, we three shoppers (I’d managed to pick up a few things, too, if only as a sanity-saving measure) could not just lump our treasures on the conveyor belt and pay together. No, no, each girl needed to have her loot rung up separately, reverently forking over her $20 bill as though it were the Dead Sea Scrolls, and then I could place my items on the belt.

By the time we finally exited the pearly gates, I glanced at my phone to see if we’d make it back home anywhere near my original 90-minute mark and discovered that we had spent an hour and six minutes inside. AN HOUR AND SIX MINUTES. IN THE DOLLAR STORE. SIXTY-SIX MINUTES. Sixty-six minutes that I will never get back, but which Ella will remember gratefully and lovingly, forever. She can even put it on my tombstone: Beloved wife and mother; patiently sacrificed her sanity so I could enjoy the dollar store.

After getting home and carrying in the groceries, the girls put off eating lunch to spread out their newly-acquired bounty across the dining room table and adoringly describe each purchase to me. Ella’s scrupulous shopping had resulted in a relatively coherent collection: hair accessories, sunglasses and case, plastic cup and cup holder, and a couple of assorted toys.

Those socks? The ones she agonized over? Wrong size.
But the “really super bouncy ball that can bounce, like, to the ceiling” does, in fact, bounce all the way to the ceiling – and can almost take out the chandelier with it. Dollar store, FTW!

Annie’s purchases, on the other hand, while supposedly all “play school” related (save for the squirt gun, although she did say she could use it as a white board pointer), had a distinct Mardi Gras flavor to them – and not just because she bought a plastic string of gold and purple comedy/tragedy beads. There were pens and pencils and drawing supplies, sure, but also coins (to practice counting), jewels and other trinkets (for the mystery kid prize box), and lots of gigantic play money. Plus, most importantly, her favorite item: a glittery pink wand “that won’t break like those cheap earrings.”

Except? The wand? Look closely… Bejeweled 15 in the middle of the heart…
Yep. Annie just purchased herself a quinceañera wand.
It’s now officially my favorite purchase of the day, too. ¡Muy bueno!

They both took a good five minutes describing every last one of their nineteen hard-won items, after which we had lunch… and then they gathered their booty, took it upstairs, and – presumably – set up the school. Or maybe they’re hanging out of their windows and throwing their beads at imaginary Mardi Gras floats. They’re ~~not hanging on me~~ happy, and that’s what really matters.

When Nick got home, he took the girls to get new golf gloves, and then announced that the three of them were heading over to the elementary school to hit golf balls, and did I want to come? I told him maybe later, because, as enticing as that sounds, I’m a terrible golfer, and hitting golf balls requires a lot of concentration. And coordination.
And patience. Lots of patience.

And, right now, mama is fresh out of patience.

Culture Club

Posted on July 19, 2013 by missemtoo

My sister-and-law, Emily (yes, I have a sister-in-law who shares my name; we both totally rock it) and her best friend, Molly, visited us last week. As always when Emi is in town, we had an amazing time, laughing more often than should probably be legal; Molly’s joining her only added to the general merriment and hilarity.

Due to the extreme heatwave that so much of the country has been experiencing (and also because I am all for supporting our daughters’ cultural betterment), we all agreed that the best option for afternoon fun would be taking the girls to see Despicable Me 2.

Gratuitous too-dark theater shot.

They’d eschewed dessert in order to partake in the kiddie movie snack box (some popcorn, an appropriately sized drink, and some fruit snacks), and as Emi and I made our way to the seats while balancing both snack boxes, another popcorn tub, three additional beverages, and three boxes of candy, I muttered to her that we should take bets on who would be the first person to spill.

Because it was a Monday afternoon, a 2:20 showing, I’d assumed that the theater would be relatively empty – but, shockingly, we weren’t the only people who’d thought that sitting in quiet, un-sunny, below-100-degree, air-conditioned splendor was a good idea.

Crowded theater but no one in front of us. Score!

We settled in, shuffling seats only once and going to the bathroom only twice (yay, us!) before the showing began. As the final preview flickered, and after tearing away at the packaging like a foraging squirrel, Annie asked if I could help open her fruit snacks. Seeking to quiet the rustling, I quickly reached over to take the bag from her… and promptly spilled my popcorn all over the floor. Before the movie even began. I WIN.

Seeing kid movies is always an excellent experience, because kids don’t hesitate to say what they think – during the movie, and loudly. Nick and I still talk about the time years ago when we went to see Shrek, pre-parenthood, and as we were leaving the theater, a father was admonishing his maybe three year-old son, “Just because you don’t think something is funny doesn’t mean you have to call out ‘That’s not funny!’ every time.”

This showing did not disappoint. There were shouts of, “Don’t do it!” and giggles loud enough to shake the seats. At one point, as the heroes were confronted by an enemy… chicken… one child yelled with disapproval, “What??! It’s a chicken???” It was right around then that Molly shifted slightly in her seat… and spilled her popcorn. Alas, having done so after me, she could not claim victory, but it was a valiant effort nonetheless.

We picked up as much as we could, but still… After us, the ushers could definitely use a raise.

I was very much enjoying myself, chuckling at what a cute movie it was, what delightful culture we were soaking up when, minutes before the end, one of the main characters surprised me and I found myself tearing up. Eyes welling with tears! At Despicable Me 2! Not cool, Universal Studios. Thankfully, the one- and two-eyed minions broke the mood by launching into a wordless version of “YMCA” and so I was spared the embarrassment of the tears actually falling. Not that it’s unusual for me to cry at animated movies, but I do try to save myself for Up, where I’m guaranteed to dissolve into a puddle at least three separate times.

After the show, we needed to run to the grocery store, which normally would have elicited angry protests from my girls, but was instead met with gleeful cheers because air conditioning. It wasn’t until we were already inside the store that I noticed Annie was wearing elbow-length white gloves.

What? Isn’t this what you typically throw on to visit the grocery store?
Note also: Ella’s first-ever successful bunny ears. We teach maturity early.

Because of the heat, I’d elected to wear a light, sleeveless dress, and everyone else had followed suit. Apparently, Annie thought it necessary to complete her look with some costume gloves from the playroom. At first, she simply swirled around the flower section, deliberately making “glamorous” poses. But as we finished our shopping, she ran ahead a little bit… and we rounded the corner to find her like this:

It’s not at all embarrassing to discover your child posing in white gloves on stacks of toilet paper.

Ah, well. You can never have too much culture.
And, if all else fails, she’ll have a lovely future as a toilet paper model.

Ladies who lunch. Or, in this case, ladies who spill popcorn and pose on packages of bath tissue. But not at the same time… yet.

The Young and the Restless

Posted on July 16, 2013 by missemtoo

For many (most?) kids, the idea of summer is fantastic. Free time! Sleeping in! Seeing friends! Staying out late! Days with no schedule and nothing to do!

For Ella, the idea of summer is also fantastic. In practice, however, days with no schedule and nothing to do! quickly loses its exclamation point and becomes, DAYS WITH NO SCHEDULE AND NOTHING TO DO OMG OMG OMG.

It’s not so much that she’s bored (a word that, in our house, is regarded with even greater contempt than the curses they’ve learned recently) but rather that she has a very difficult time playing by herself/figuring out how to fill her time, and so unstructured hours make her want to tear her hair out and double-fist caramel macchiatos and fuzzy navels (or maybe that’s just me as I watch her flop around, groaning about not knowing what to do).

In an effort to help Ella feel like something is predictable, we’ve attempted to follow some sort of routine — wake up, put on clothing, consume something, maybe not just lounge around all day, consume something else, leave the house at some point, probably get wet, and be sure that everyone is still alive at bedtime. Very rigid, our days. For the past several summers, we’ve also created a Summer Fun List — a collection of things that we can do to A. have fun (hence, the name) and B. not kill one another.

Feel free to click to see our absolutely incredible ideas, like, life-sized.

Some days, we’ll check off more than one activity. Other times, an entire week will go by and we won’t do a single one, but it’s somehow comforting to have the list available – and I enjoy having everything spelled out for me so that when they beg for the 297th time to go to the amusement park, I can cheerfully point to the poster boards and reply, “Aww, bummer. No time today. But it’s on our list! Check back again later!”

For the most part, the SFL is effective in helping Ella stave off that OMG MY DAY IS A BLANK SLATE feeling, but there are still many times when we don’t have the ingredients to make root beer floats, the kite string is knotted, and I’d sooner gnaw off my arm than make a tinfoil river 30 minutes before dinner. It’s in these moments, the open spaces, when Ella really begins to struggle. She simply cannot entertain herself easily – whether that’s a product of her firstborn-ness (and us having “entertained” her as a baby) or simply an innate part of her personality (yes, I realize it’s both, just thinking out loud here), I’m not sure, but when she begins to pace the rooms, push every one of her sister’s buttons in the span of two minutes, and hover over my shoulder so closely I can feel her breathing in my ear, the emotional temperature of the room definitely takes a nosedive.

To be fair, it should probably be noted that I wasn’t, um, exactly the best self-entertainer as a child. It’s been rumored that I might have awakened on more than one occasion and approached my mother with the delightful phrase, “What fun thing do you have planned for me today?” Ah, youth. These days, my to-do list is not a piece of paper but rather an entire book (literally), so although I can’t entirely remember being unable to find something to do, I absolutely remember that feeling and how itchy and uncomfortable it is. (And, hey, I still don’t enjoy having stretches of time with “nothing to do.” See above: Summer Fun List.)

Seeking to stave off both Ella’s sense of helplessness and the terrible bad mood that accompanies it, I suggested that she make a list of things that she could do to entertain herself. (Coincidentally, I had this conversation with her only one day before Dooce posted about doing something similar with her daughter, Leta. If they ever got together, it could be the perfect partnership — Leta could do Ella’s reading and Ella could eat whatever Leta won’t touch. Symbiosis, bam.)

Upon hearing my suggestion, Ella immediately seemed game. As a big fan of making lists and writing notes, she already had paper and pens set to go, and so she brought her supplies to the living room and sat down, ready. I’m pumped! Let the brainstorming begin!*

But first, she wanted a clarification. “This is a list of things that I can do?” Yes. “All by myself?” Yep. “Like… when I don’t know what else to do, I can do these things?” Mmmm hmmm. “So… I’m thinking of things. Things I can do on my own.” That’s the idea.

And then she sat. And sat. And looked around the room. And sat some more.

Finally, several minutes later, she looked up and said, “Mom?” Yes? “Can you help me think of things that I can do?”

This is a marathon, people, not a sprint. And we haven’t even crossed the starting line yet. I really hope the oranges taste good at the water stations.

Eventually, Ella did come up with a list – a pretty good one at that. (I particularly like #16: Clean.) So far, summer has been a solid enough combination of busy and relaxing that she’s been able to keep her hand-wringing to a minimum and the list hasn’t really been necessary yet.

Which is a good thing, because the one time she did want to refer to it, she couldn’t find it. Because she’d lost it. She was quite distraught until I remembered that I’d taken a photo of it (again, see above), so I could just print it off for her. She waited patiently while I located the photo amongst my bazillions of other photos, opened it up, refilled the paper tray, and printed a copy… And then took one look at it and declared that she didn’t really want it – she just wanted to know where it was.

Ah, youth.

*totally adopted from one of my favorite lines in Good Will Hunting, “Let the healing begin!” I can’t find a good YouTube clip to it, but if you’re not sure what I’m talking about, check it out. Such ballyhoo.

Throwback Thursday: Crazy

Posted on July 12, 2013 by missemtoo

It was my cousin’s 23rd birthday last week. Because her birthday is so close to Independence Day and her family visits the lake each year for the Fourth, we actually get to celebrate in person with her annually. As the festivities wore on, it occurred to Nick that, despite not “officially” joining the family until 2001, he had celebrated nearly all of Grace’s birthdays with her, having first joined me at the lake when Grace was just five.

It was my grandmother’s 75th birthday, and her three daughters, all of whom live out of town, were flying into town to surprise her. In turn, they were each bringing their own daughters – so it was to be the six of us all together. Happy Birthday! A girls’ vacation!
And Nick.

We had been dating for a little over a year. The previous summer, I’d felt practically apoplectic because he was in Minnesota and I was in Connecticut. It was that outrageous, blinding, gag-inducing kind of love, where nobody understood us and surely no one in the history of humans had ever experienced a connection as profound as ours. Except for the performers of the songs we included on the mix tapes we made for each another, with titles like “The Long Summer” and “Dreaming of You”. Dire Straits totally got us, man.

Vintage 1994. A shared love of gigantic bangs will take you very, very far.

Anyway, because I was still in that but he’s my soulmate haze a year later, I brought Nick with me to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday. I don’t remember too much from that trip, except that he brought his guitar and sat on the dock and played They Might Be Giants songs for my cousin, which I thought was just the sweetest, awesomest thing ever. Dear God, we were dorks.

What I do remember from that trip was the tumultuousness of being newly in love. The you are my everything feelings, and how very necessary they seemed at the time… but how exhausting they seem now. It’s not that I’m not still crazy about my husband, because I am… but a lot has changed in 19 years, and there’s just way less crazy in the crazy.

It is bigger that it used to be. There are two other beings who we created and need to keep alive, which is, you know, kind of all-consuming. Plus, there are car payments and doctor’s bills, jobs and home improvements and parent-teacher conferences. It is big, this life stuff. But it’s smaller than it used to be, too. We’ve found our spot, the place where we’re meant to be, both literally and metaphorically, and we’re comfortable here. It’s not the place I necessarily envisioned 19 years ago, but it’s a very good place to be.

It is easier. So much of the guesswork is over. I know that he always sits before he puts on his socks, that he’s changed his order from “well done” to “medium,” and that The Jerk never stops being funny. He knows that I sleep with white noise, that I compulsively watch My Cousin Vinny every time it’s on cable, and that I pack the grocery bags according to item type (cold stuff together; dry goods elsewhere; chocolate in my purse). It’s harder though, too. As job challenges and extended-family crises arise, it can be really difficult knowing just how to support one another while still being good parents, good partners, and not relying too heavily on wine and Chopped marathons.

Volcanoes National Park, Hawaii. Honeymoon style.

It is calmer than it was before. Gone are the moments of Could that conversation mean we’re over?? and impromptu getaways with friends. In its place are impromptu Bruegger’s breakfasts with Daddy and the girls, offered to them after they’ve received disappointing news from their theatre camp and Nick instinctively knows that they need some special attention. It’s also wilder than it was before. You never know who’s going to vomit in your car, require a visit to the emergency vet on the Fourth of July, or when you might deal with a 21-hour flight home.

It’s so much slower. We watch Homeland and Modern Family instead of heading out at night. A feverish child requires hours of couch cuddling, and chores and emails are swept aside. There are days when I can all but promise you that either Ella and Annie or I will make it until bedtime, but not all three of us, and I swear that each minute has been designed to prove to me why some animals eat their young. But it is also ridiculously fast. College memories seem a couple of years old, not decades old. It is impossible that our wedding was a dozen years ago. And if the girls don’t stop growing up so fast – so very quickly that I have to catch my breath to try to hold onto them – I’m gonna have to pull a Superman (the original Christopher Reeve version) and fly backwards around the earth, turning back time to have just a few more all-important minutes.

It’s predictable. There’s nothing to prove, no one to impress. Wednesdays, the garbage goes out. The girls have swimming on Mondays. After work, he’ll retreat upstairs to play games on his iPad before dinner; once the kids are in bed, I’m glued to the computer. And yet, it’s surprising. Nick said he was going to start swimming in the mornings, but honestly? I knew better. Pfft. Until yesterday, when the alarm went off at 6:30 and damn if he wasn’t done with laps by 7:15. His birthday gift this year was a trip with his dad to a Minnesota Wild game, orchestrated by me in secret (including contacting a buddy of his who is a sports writer and, amazingly, winding up with free tickets to the game). Not that I’m bragging, but it was a hell of a gift. Surprise!

It is sillier and more stupid. It’s rapping the lyrics to “Parents Just Don’t Understand” while the girls look away in horror. It’s singing bad 80s music in the shower while the other one of us harmonizes at the sink. But it is so much wiser. It is knowing when is an appropriate time to have an important discussion, recognizing that right after a Wild loss is a poor choice. It is ignoring nasty words that are said when someone is tired, understanding that they don’t mean what they’re saying, and that engaging in a counter-argument would be unproductive and dumb. It is knowing when to offer help and when to let the other person do it alone, when to suggest that another beer is a poor idea and when to join in for the next round, and that, through it all, there’s still no one on earth I’d rather be living this life with, and so long as we do it together, we’ll come out just fine.

It has become repetitive. We have the same argument over and over (oddly, Nick has yet to see that I’m right). I can quote you Looney Toons episodes by heart, not because I have seen them (not a single one), but because the girls have memorized them and quote them to us (please don’t be too jealous). There is the bedtime routine: let the dogs out, take Annie to the potty, check on Ella, finally get some shut-eye; lather, rinse, repeat. Yet, it is also exciting. We fly to New York for our anniversary, eating our way around the city. Nick receives an A in his first MBA class and has a Facebook post go viral; I look for a new teaching job. We’re planning a 40th birthday getaway that will (thank you, Macklemore) be effin’ awesome. Or… maybe there’s even a new Trip Flip on the DVR – and the crowd goes wild.

It is chaste and clean. The girls need to get off to school in the mornings, there is homework and email at night. We share a room with our daughter when relatives visit or we go to the lake. Valentine’s Day isn’t celebrated because (according to someone I know, *cough*) it’s too commercial. But it is also passionate and provocative. It is stolen moments when the kids aren’t around. It’s flowers sent just because and perfume worn because it’s his favorite. It’s knowing that little is sexier than watching him read to the girls before bed or bring the trash cans into the garage without being asked.

Circa 2002. Borrowed puppies make everything cuter.

It is louder. There is constant singing (especially “Hard Knock Life” and “Tomorrow” – betcher bottom dollar that tomorrow, there will be 392 renditions of “Tomorrow” and my head will be sore from all of the banging). There is clomping around in high-heeled dress-up shoes and barking dogs and Stop touching your sister. It is also quieter. It is hearing him bemoan that he needs some desk space to do his homework, and then taking hours that evening to clear out cupboards and rearrange furniture for him so that he has a workspace. It is sweeping the floor but then having him reach for the dustpan and gather up the dust bunnies so I don’t have to.

It is sad. It is losing loved ones and fearing losing others. It is saying goodbye to our Golden Girl. It is the girls’ heartache over a broken foot, a troubled friendship, a lost blanket, and knowing that a kiss will not make things better. But it is also happy. Sometimes deliriously happy, but mostly just content, satisfied – joyful. It is watching our daughters read to one another. It is Annie and Ella giggling as Nick tickles them or I slip into an accent mid-sentence. It is Disney World before Christmas with our best friends. It is returning to Minnesota and showing the girls the bridge where we got engaged. It is card games with family after the kids are in bed. It is attending The Book of Mormon and our mouths being sore from all the laughing (in that omg I can’t believe I’m watching this kind of way, which is pretty much the best way).

It is kisses goodbye every morning and snuggling close every night. It is days when we hardly even see one another, much less have a meaningful conversation. It is hands held in the car and purposeful, over-the-top smooches in front of the kids, because we know it bugs the heck out of them – but also because, you know, we’re still in love and all that. It is acceptance. It is anger. It is forgiveness. It is my heart still skipping a beat when I see him across a room. It is his picking up chocolate-covered caramels on business trips and calling each night to talk to the girls before they go to sleep. It is saying something and having Nick chuckle at it, and feeling a smug sense of pride that, nineteen years later, I can still make this man laugh. Which is a good thing, because he does the same to me every single day.

It is not what I expected it to be; instead, it is so much less… but oh so much more.
Which, when I think about it, is pretty crazy.

Curses!

Posted on July 9, 2013 by missemtoo

“Hey, Ella. We can get some big ass gas for the car!”

“I’d love some big ass gas!”

“Hellllooo, Big Gas Man!”

I’m not sure that you understand that commercial.

“I could use some big ass gas savings!”

We all could. But the commercial actually says big GAS savings. Big. Gas. Savings.

“Big ass gas savings!”

No… You’re adding an extra… word. And it’s really a word you shouldn’t be saying.

“Which word?”

The one after big.

“Ass? I shouldn’t be saying ass?”

Yup. That’s the one. Nailed it, Annie.

“So it isn’t ‘big ass gas’?”

Nope.

“Well… It could be ‘big ass gas’ if someone farted really big.”

I suppose that’s true, Ella. And I like how you used such lovely grammatical thinking. But still. Don’t say that word.

“No more ass!”

Super.

—————————–

“Shall we watch ‘Next Food Network Star’ while we eat tonight?”

“Yes, Daddy!”

“Awesome. Em, can you divvy up the dinners?”

Sure. Which one of you has the ravioli?

“I’ve just got to get one thing and… oh, shit!”

(From me: death stare. From girls: cricket-worthy silence.)

“Ah, girls. I’m sorry. I just said a bad word.”

“It’s okay, Daddy!”

“And it’s not a word you can use. In fact, I shouldn’t even have used it.”

Not in front of you, at least.

“It’s just not a word that you should say.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“I apologize for using it. It’s just not a nice word.”

I think they’ve got it now. No need to keep going.

“I’m not even sure if you know which word was the bad one, but…”

“Daddy, we can’t say S-H-I-T, right?”

Looks like they understand which word, babe.

“Sure does. Glad we had this talk.”

————————-

Both of these conversations have occurred within the past week. I think we win some kind of parenting award, except it’s more like the booby prize.
Or maybe the booty prize. Aw, snap!

Okay. I’ll quit while I’m ahead.
Or am I already a little behind??

Okay, seriously. Enough.
Annie offered me ten cents yesterday for her lunch. I forgot to give the nickels back, which is a good thing, because now I can save it for her future therapy. Or at least put it toward gas.

Golden Slumbers

Posted on July 2, 2013 by missemtoo

For quite some time, Ella and Annie have been begging to have a sleepover with our next door neighbors at the lake (girls who are significantly older, but with whom they get along famously). They’d never slept over at anyone’s house before, and I wasn’t sure how it would go… But, with us visiting our family’s lake house this week, last night seemed as good a chance as any to give it a whirl. The girls were thrilled. (And, hey, it would ~~mean that Nick and I wouldn’t have to share a room with them~~ give them a chance to develop a little independence. Win, win!)

I expected Annie to maybe struggle a bit, both because she’s the youngest and also because she gets scared at the slightest provocation (taking her to Brave may have scarred her for life; her resulting determination to use bows and arrows in the house may have scarred me for life). I decided it would be a good idea to walk her and Ella next door, check out where they’d be sleeping, visit briefly with their friends’ mom, and give a few reassuring hugs before I returned home for a night ~~of freedom~~ with my family.

After dropping off their overnight bags (they’d been instructed to bring only necessities, so naturally they each brought 286 stuffed animals, two changes of clothes, several blankets, a bag of toiletries, and maybe 63 books), we went upstairs and I chatted with the mom. Then, to my surprise, Ella pulled me aside and whispered that she didn’t think she could do this. (Just when you think you’ve got your kids down, bam!, they let you know what a presumptive idiot you are.) She was too nervous, it wasn’t her own bed, what if she couldn’t fall asleep??

I talked to her for a minute, reassuring her that I thought she’d be fine — but if not, she could come home anytime. This seemed to placate her, and after I gave her a hug, I turned to do the same with Annie – but she’d already run off to play, dismissing me with a single hand wave. So much for my natural motherly instinct.

Like everywhere east of the Mississippi, it had been raining basically all day, and the ground was absolutely soaked. On the way over, we’d eked our way up the (normally grass, now mud) hill between our houses, and so I gingerly started the short journey home, taking painstakingly slow stutter steps to avoid my feet sliding entirely out from under me.

Yeah. You know when you’re holding something, a towering pile of boxes or library books or plates you’re balancing for the circus, and you feel them start to go off kilter… and you try to recalibrate, to calm the swaying, to stop the inevitable, but suddenly you know – there is just no doubt – that everything is going down, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it?

Yup. Behold: the inevitable.

Shorts, legs, shoes and forearms (where I’d tried to brace myself): covered with mud.
It should be noted that this photo was taken by my mother, who promptly put it on Facebook, saying I’d “hurried” down the hill. Ahhh, family…

It took a good thirty minutes to remove the mud and the stench, but when I finally did, I rewarded myself with a nice big bowl of peanut butter cup ice cream (with homemade fudge sauce, FTW!), half expecting Ella to come walking in any moment… But, for a solid two hours, the doors stayed blissfully closed. I’d just settled in to savor a glass of Sauvignon Blanc when my phone chirped all-too-happily at me to alert me that I had a text. It seems that Ella had borrowed our neighbor’s iPod and just needed to check in…

8 year-olds and hyperbole = BFFs.

The texts continued for a good half-hour, and although it is endearing being loved so so so so much, it’s even more endearing when your child powers through her first sleepover and actually falls asleep. After a couple of “I might come home but I’m not sure” exchanges, I told her that either was fine — stay, or return — but that she really needed to get some sleep. Amazingly, she agreed, and the texts stopped… so I assume that she fell asleep shortly thereafter. Or perhaps she robbed a bank and then wrote the great American novel – but hey, I didn’t hear from her… so yay, sleepovers!

Although both of my girls usually awaken early, there’d been talk amongst them and their buddies (who, as middle-schoolers, tend to go all Edward and [post-gruesome-Renesmee birth] Bella if they see the sun before noon) that they’d try to sleep until 9:00. I said a prayer to the sleep gods that maybe their friends’ habits would rub off on Annie and Ella, hoping they’d all get some decent shut-eye, and then went to bed myself. Despite the rare opportunity to sleep in ourselves, Nick and I both got up early today – and, as I looked down at the neighbors’ beach shortly before 8 a.m., I saw all four girls, pajama-clad, groggily dipping toes in the lake and checking out the foggy morning. Sleep gods, you totally slacked on this one.

Around 10:20, they finally came home, having had a marvelous time and looking surprisingly zippy.

Ella’s eyes are closed probably because she’s trying to concentrate on corralling the stuffed animal tribe she brought with her.

I girded myself for the exhausted meltdowns that I was sure would come today… But, again, both girls completely disregarded my superior parental instincts and had a great, cheerful, not-at-all cranky day. They pushed all the way through until 8:00, when I began to notice that they looked a little droopy as they ate their dessert, so I encouraged them to move along and head to bed. They brushed and washed and pajama-ed, protesting that they were just fine, not tired at all… But, a mere three minutes later when I came to check on them and say goodnight, they were both completely zonked, already snoring away.

Looks like mother does (occasionally) know best. Holla!
I’d definitely recommend not following me home, however. At least not after it’s rained.

The Family That Bunks Together…

Posted on July 1, 2013 by missemtoo

We are spending the week at my family’s lake house on Canandaigua, as we do every Fourth of July. It’s one of the only times each year that my extended family gets together en masse, and we four always look forward to it … except maybe for the sharing of one bedroom (including a bunk bed, with Nick and me on the bottom – you know you’re jealous).

“Pssst! Mommy!”

Ggbufmmpz…

“Mommy! Daddy!”

Zzzggbvooa…

“ARE YOU AWAKE??”

I am, now.

“I’m trying to be quiet, but I don’t know what to do.”

You could raise the shade a little.

“What?”

I’m trying to whisper. Because other people are sleeping.

“WHAT, MOMMY? I CAN’T HEAR YOU!”

You could raise the shade a little so that you have enough light to read.

“Oh, good! That means I can put on some pants!”

Do I even want to know why you don’t have…

“What the heck is happening in here?”

“She does this every morning, Daddy.”

This is why we don’t all sleep in one room at home.

You’d think, inventing games like this each day, that they’d go to bed exhausted and sleep in niiiice and late.

Nope!!!

Epic *

Posted on June 29, 2013 by missemtoo

* both the trip and the length of this post…

It started out so simply: a family gathering for Bill’s birthday, a weekend spent together – which is, in and of itself, a revered once-a-year occurrence. When Mary (my stepmother-in-law) upped the ante by saying she’d envisioned a weekend of games, Minute to Win It style — an all-ages tournament complete with prizes and, surely, plenty of opportunity for embarrassment and hilarity — we were even more stoked. If there’s anything this bunch does well, it’s competition and laughter. Bring it ON.

The end of school is always bittersweet for Ella and Annie, so this trip provided a welcome distraction from their sadness. We arrived at O’Hare on Friday morning with no trouble and began to get even more excited that we’d totally be Brady Bunch-ing out soon.

Jambi was an expert aviator.

Four hours later, after our layover was “extended” by two hours due to weather-related issues and my sister-in-law called to say she was ill and her family wouldn’t be coming, Nick and I turned to one another as we sat for 60 minutes on the runway and wondered aloud if this trip was cursed.

By the time we arrived in Minnesota, ravenous and grumpy, we told ourselves that surely things would be superb from here on out. His sister was feeling better and, happily, they were coming after all, so Nick and I hightailed it to Target to purchase a gift for our nephew, who’d turned three the day before. (We’d already sent him his “real” birthday gifts, but a family celebration had been planned for the following day, and we wanted to be sure he wasn’t empty-handed.) While I perused the aisles of Target that were clearly marked Appropriate Kid Stuff Available Here, Nick perused the automotive and camping aisles, which were clearly marked Stuff Appropriate Only For Grown-Ups, where he found a little red lantern that he insisted our nephew would enjoy. I tried to talk him out of it — some bubbles? Color Wonder markers? A puzzle? — but Nick was adamant that our nephew would get a kick out of turning the light on and off. I skeptically put it in the cart and remained ready to explain, when the time arose, that this was all Nick’s fault.

We returned to the house in time for a delicious dinner and proceeded to get dressed for a birthday performance we’d planned for the night. All started out beautifully… Then the storm came. And the power left. And suddenly, the weekend seemed less The Brady Bunch and more Little House on the Prairie.

After procuring some candles, we tucked the girls into the truly fantastic new bunk beds that Grandpa Bill and GranMary had gotten for them, finished the performance, and went to the airport to get Nick’s sister and her family. The drive was dark and ~~terrifying~~ exciting, having to dodge the literally dozens of live power lines and downed trees that had been uprooted in the absurd winds and 2.5 inches of rain that fell in less than an hour, but we got them and made it back safely, only to discover that the candles we were using wouldn’t quite cut it, because a) wax drips, and b) three year-olds and fire don’t mix well. We did, however, have a brand-new lantern… so we stole it right out of the birthday gift bag (tag still on to preserve its not-used status) and turned that sucker on. Let there be light!

Alas, no lantern in our bedroom, but I think Laura Ingalls would have approved.

I awoke on Saturday morning feeling filthy, and not in a good way. Despite sleeping as close to the open window as humanly possible, it was still hot and so humid, you could practically hold the air in your hands, and the “sleep” I’d gotten had been fitful and sweaty. I also hadn’t showered in two full days (and, in that time, had mowed the lawn and traveled for 11 hours), so I desperately needed to get clean. After overhearing a brief discussion the night before on whether or not we still had hot water after the power had gone out (the verdict at the time: there would be some hot water for a short while), I decided that I didn’t want to waste the precious little we still had, so, as Little House on the Prairie gave way to Survivor, I cleaned myself up using water so freezing, it would surely be illegal in most countries.

After a quick trip to the store for some absolute necessities (ice, bagels, and – most of all – coffee, duh), the adults filled coolers with items from the refrigerator while Ella and Annie met their baby cousin and played with his brother. We discussed the possibility of playing some of the games that Mary had so thoughtfully planned and prepared, deciding that we’d begin the official festivities after lunch.

Feeling mighty proud of themselves while holding the baby for the first time.

Thank God for windows with lovely natural light…

Enjoying the most awesome playhouse ever.

Nick’s other sister (who lives locally) and her best friend arrived shortly after noon, bringing with them not only lunch but a gluten-free slice of cake for me to enjoy while everyone else devoured birthday cake later on. Additionally, they brought four entire containers’ worth of gluten-free goodies — brownies, cookies, spice bars — treats so delicious-looking, I’d have endured several more glacial showers just to show my appreciation. Mercifully, a thank you sufficed, and after lunch, we were ready for the games to begin!

Except… it was nap time, both for the wee ones and the ~~old~~ wise leader of our tribe… And so we took Ella and Annie bowling (electricity AND air conditioning, hallelujah!).

Jambi approves of Cosmic Bowling.

Returning home, we found… everyone still asleep and the power very much still off. And, as her awesome activities sat idle and the weekend continued to careen off the rails, I’m pretty sure that Mary started utilizing calming breathing techniques. This was not what we’d planned, damn it! Right about then, my sister-in-law returned from a run, dripping with sweat, and declared she needed a shower. I was about to warn her that doing so might cause frostbite when we learned that, actually, the water heater wasn’t affected by the power outage. Meaning we’d had hot water all along.

As a toddler, stomping feet and screaming are acceptable responses when things really don’t go your way, but, to my dismay, such tantrums become far less okay if you’re thirty- or sixty-something. Drinking lukewarm beer, however, is always appropriate.

Yes, that’s sand, not mud.

We took the girls down the road to a nearby lake, where they splashed happily and played in the sand. Once the nappers had awakened, they joined us at the beach. We agreed that dinner back at the dark, sauna-like house wasn’t terribly desirable and elected to have a pizza picnic and birthday celebration by the lakeshore instead. I returned to the kitchen briefly to bring back some paper plates and other needed accoutrements and decided to grab the refreshing-looking watermelon on the counter. Pizza, cake, and watermelon on a hot summer night? Perfect, no?

Well, actually, no. When I mentioned the possibility of consuming it right then and there, Mary was visibly stricken. Apparently, the melon was being saved as part of the Minute to Win It games and, so help us God, something would go as planned this weekend and we would be playing those games!! (Except she didn’t freak out on me at all; exclamation points are mine because, if I’d been in her shoes, I’d have just about lost my mind.)

Good photo? No.
Until you notice Bill’s adorable blond ponytail.

The pizza hit the spot (best GF pizza I’ve eaten – word!) and the birthday cake was divine (or so I’m told; I was giddily stuffing one of my sister-in-law’s fabulous gluten-free treats into my mouth). The treat was so good, I’ll even concede that Nick’s idea was fantastic: our nephew was, indeed, ecstatic to open his new-to-him lantern.

Yes, the candles blew out early – 24 hours after the storm, it was still crazy windy.

As the meal was winding down, we decided to introduce my nephew to his first game of telephone, with the rest of us passing simple one- and two-word phrases down the line: Swimming. Happy Birthday. Ice cream. Then it was one of my girl’s turns to start the chain, and we all dutifully passed on the word until my brother-in-law caught Mary by surprise, turning to her and whispering, “Watermelon.” Her face registered an odd combination of confusion, frustration, and what might be categorized as rage, as she clearly had not realized that we were still playing telephone – and thought, instead, that he was asking her if we could eat the fruit.
We’ve been through this already, people!! How many times do I have to tell you that the watermelon is being saved? For the games! FOR THE GAMES THAT WE WILL HAVE, I SWEAR IT, THERE WILL BE GAMES!!!

After the kids went to bed, we stayed up to play our favorite cut-throat card game, Hand and Foot (with Nick and me both on teams that lost spectacularly), and then headed to sleep ourselves. Or, at least, we tried to sleep, but between the heat and the deafening thunderstorms that caused me to awaken levitating – not one part of my body was touching the bed – it wasn’t the most restful night.

Nick and I were the morning’s designated coffee-runners, and we were surprised to see — two days later, in the daylight — just how much damage had been wrought all around us. As we groggily stood in line waiting for our to-go coffee box (the barista had taken one look at us and simply said, “No power?”), I asked if he’d “ever lived through” a power outage like this. Nick barely stifled his delirious laughter, because although I meant, Have you ever been with a dozen people in one house for what was supposed to be this special weekend with 80-degree temperatures and no power for 48 hours?, it came out sounding more like Have you ever lived through a famine and a plague of locusts while asking for asylum as you flee a war-torn country. Ah, first-world problems. Reality check accomplished.

Notice the power pole hanging diagonally over the street…

After a candlelit breakfast (watermelon, anyone?), we agreed that the time had come: we would play games, and they would be awesome.

And, in fact, they were. Mary’s careful research and preparation meant that the games were totally ready to go; all we needed to do was show up (and I mean that both literally and in the sports metaphor way – clever, no?).

Tossing marshmallows through a hula hoop.
Which seems easy until they hit the wet ground, become soggy, and congeal together so that you’re forced to throw a softball-sized marshmallow.

Our official scorekeepers.

Bouncing ping-pong balls into cups filled with water. Not to brag, but I totally won this one.
See, kids! You don’t have to drink your way through college to dominate at Beer Pong!

Distance bubble blowing.
Which we would have nailed, if the gale force winds hadn’t been blowing at us.
Also, please ignore my Cowardly Lion mane; no power and natural curl result in some interesting ‘dos.

Tallying the scores so far.

Examining the leader board.

When the festivities were over, it was time for lunch, and Nick suggested that we order some sandwiches. Right before he and his sister left to pick them up, he announced that he couldn’t find the rental car keys — which seemed impossible, because he and I had driven home from getting coffee that morning and no one had left the property since then. After a brief search, we decided that surely they’d turn up any minute now – but we were so hungry, we might crack open the watermelon, so procuring lunch needed to take priority. As we divvied things up, everyone began hungrily digging in… Except Nick. Because, despite his being the one to suggest them in the first place, we’d neglected to actually order him a sandwich. It just wasn’t there.

And neither were the keys.

Hours later, we finally paused our search for the entire crew to go bowling – another of the originally scheduled tournament games – and reveled again in the air conditioning and light.

Cosmic bowling is less mysterious when it’s fully lit…

With bowling complete, as we pulled into the driveway, we noticed that the outside lights were on: the power had been restored!! And, with it, our spirits — and our resolve to find the keys. Despite combing through virtually every inch of the house, the yard, the garage, the trash, and our suitcases, however, and despite my insistence that it was, technically, impossible for them to be gone, the keys remained missing. This is definitely not what we’d planned, damn it! Nick and I may have thrown actual tantrums, but the fact remained: the keys were lost. Meaning that a 6 a.m. tow to the rental car repair lot was in our future for Monday morning, which is so totally what you want to be doing on your vacation.

As it turned out, Bill accompanied Nick and the tow truck to the lot (where Nick was informed that he didn’t even need to be there in person, which made him super happy), and I took a shower. A nice, un-freezing shower. We played one final game before divvying the prizes that Mary had stashed away — at last, something had gone as planned.

Balancing M&Ms on straws stuck in a raw baking potato. (What, you don’t do this at home?) Again, not to brag… But I won this one, too.
And we never did get around to the watermelon game.

We said our goodbyes, joking about how we would never, ever, ever forget this weekend, as his sister and her family flew home and Nick, the girls, and I went on to visit my mother-in-law and stepfather-in-law for the afternoon. Bill and Mary drove us to the Mall of America, a relatively central location, where we transferred our gear from their car to Karen and Ray’s and then hit up a few MOA amusement park rides.

No, they didn’t ride this one…

I tried to get them to pose with SpongeBob, but they wouldn’t have it.

The remainder of our visit with them was delightful – so delightful, in fact, we felt assured that our traveling curse had ended.

My mother-in-law sewed them dresses. On the spot, just like that.

Modestly modeling their new duds.

Rehashing their performance from the other night…

One last story before bedtime.

And then we tried to get home.
Twenty-one hours later, at 1:30 a.m. on Wednesday, we pulled into our driveway, feeling less Survivor and more Walking Dead. Zombified, we immediately fell asleep, vowing to do nothing on Wednesday but try to become human again.

Two days later, having had the chance to reflect on the trip, I can definitely see that it was not without its advantages. For one thing, I learned how to use the commode in total, astounding blackness, a skill that could be useful someday, especially in the event of a real zombie apocalypse. I also discovered that, unlike I’d previously thought, I will not keel over and die if my children don’t brush their hair, although I might experience a few slight body convulsions.

An added bonus to living without power for a couple of days is that it gives you the perfect excuse to offer up absurdly stupid excuses. Mismatched shoes? Couldn’t see. The kids subsisting almost entirely on soda, strawberries, and birthday cake? No way to properly cook a meal. Single-handedly consuming fifteen (yes, I counted) gluten-free goodies that my sister-in-law had so generously purchased for me? Without refrigeration, they wouldn’t last anyway, and I do hate to let things go to waste.

Most of all, though, this trip reaffirmed what I already knew: that my in-laws are fantastic. Throughout everything, no one lost their temper (except those under the age of five, but they got a pass). At each turn, with each this cannot possibly be happening, the gasps of disbelief would be followed by repressed giggles that gave way to peals of laughter, not only because it was better laughing than crying, but simply because they’re incredible folks and we crack one another up. The entire experience, simply put, was epic.

No, it wasn’t what we wanted. This was definitely not what we’d planned. Damn it. And that was hard, in part because it’s always difficult letting go of long-held expectations and hopes, but also because, as adults, you understand the importance of making your time with loved ones count, especially when they live across the country. As parents, Nick and I tell our girls not to dwell on the negative, not to focus on their disappointments – but instead that it’s okay to grieve for what could have been, to then acknowledge what actually is, and to pick themselves up and move forward. Easy to say; not so easy to do.

Nonetheless, my in-laws — no, my family — and I took that advice to heart, coming to terms with how the reality of the weekend diverged from our fantasy of the weekend, shedding a few tears, and then dissolving into laughter as we moved forward. I’d be totally lying if I said we didn’t complain — because, oh, did we bitch and moan maybe literally beat our heads against walls and tables — but it was always done with the understanding that this was simply the way it was, and it would be okay. In fact, it would be good. Not so much because we’d “make the best of it,” but because it already was the best of it — just being together.

They say that when you marry someone, you marry their family. I can easily say that I married very, very well.
We are getting together again in August, and I can hardly wait. I’ll be bringing my sense of humor.

And a generator.
And definitely a watermelon.

Throwback Thursday: You Neek, You Nork

Posted on June 27, 2013 by missemtoo

It has only been just over a week since school got out, and already the girls have uttered the “B” word. (No, not that B word. I reserve that for yelling at the television. Or at other drivers when the girls aren’t in the car with me.)

Three years ago, we attempted to stave off boredom with a few tongue twisters.

Today, they put together their Summer Fun List. It’s got over fifty activities on it, so I’m betting it’ll provide them with at least twenty-three minutes of entertainment over the course of the next nine weeks. Thirty, if they attempt to sell sea shells by the sea shore. I’ll start collecting shells now.

BTW: We’ve discovered an even more difficult tongue twister: Willy’s real rear wheel.
Have fun with that one.

Or WORSE, Expelled

Posted on June 27, 2013 by missemtoo

Walking home last week…

So, how was your day, lovey?

“Great, Mommy! We got to meet the first grade teachers today!”

Oh, that sounds like fun!

“It was! All of the teachers are really nice.”

That’s good. Because you’ll have one of them.

“I know.”

Unless you flunk.

“What’s that?”

Only kidding. So, anyway, you met the first grade teachers?

“Yes! And also we played a game where we were robbers.”

What kind of game is this?

“You know, where some kids are the robbers and stuff.”

Are there cops?

“No. Just robbers.”

Um, okay. So you’re all just thieves?

“Well, some of us are good guys.”

Did you get arrested?

“Mommy! We’re not really stealing anything!”

Well, that’s a relief. ‘Cause stealing’s, like, illegal and stuff.

“I know. It’s bad to steal.”

Indeed. In real life, you could go to jail.

“Or even to the principal’s office.”

Oh, my little Hermione, I do believe you need to sort out your priorities.

All Together in a Scattered Sort of Way

Finding humor in even the most inappropriate places

Tag Archives: parenthood