Sorry I wasn't on schedule yesterday. The good news is that I got tons of work done on the book while listening to the Trainspotting soundtrack. Should make for some interesting material. Better for an artist to be inspired by trippy music rather than actually tripping. But that's just my opinion.
Anywho, today will either be really fun, or so aggravating that I will crawl into bed tonight thanking God that it's over. We're having Christopher's birthday party at Colonial Bowling Lanes, and we've invited his friends from the neighborhood and family. Overinvited, I should say. I have a bad habit of this.
See, I simply love parties. Children's birthday parties, graduation parties, holiday shabangs, wedding receptions (especially ones with ethinic traditions where I don't know what I'm eating or dancing to)bar mitzvahs, book release parties (fingers crossed!), family reunions, high school reunions, ice cream socials, wingdigs, ho downs, par-tays, and etc., etc. I'm a total party junkie. So when Chris and I throw a party, even though I have a guest list, just about anyone and everyone are invited. If I bump into someone the day before, let's say, a Christmas party the conversation might go like this:
me: What's going on?
other person: Not much. Just standing here in line at Wal-Mart like you are.
me: Do you have plans for tomorrow night?
other person: No.
me: Cool, Chris and I are having a Christmas party. You should totally come.
other person: But I just met you five minutes ago. And who is Chris?
me: Get to know us! Stop by, have some eggnog! Dance to Bing Crosby!
other person (stroking his chin in thought): I do enjoy dancing to Bing Crosby.
another person in line overhearing us: So do I!
me: Then you need to come to my party!
yet another person in line because the lines at Wal-Mart are really long, especially around Christmas: Can I come too?
me: Sure! (grabbing a megaphone out of my purse) Everyone's invited!
all of Wal-Mart: YAY!
I find that this method works better than e-vite. Anyway, we usually have the kids' parties at home so inviting anyone and everyone isn't too big of a deal. The problem with overinviting people to the bowling alley is that I've only reserved two lanes. I called yesterday to see if we could bump up the number and the old guy on the phone said, "No, dawlin'. I don't got a single lane left." Luckily, there are video games and cool stuff like that so if the kids have to take turns bowling it might not be that bad. But actually, I find that these things have a way of working themselves out. Maybe I'm being overly optomistic, but my gut tells me everything will work out fine.
What I'm not optomistic about is getting the kids to clean their rooms and take baths before we have to leave. Thus the fear of falling into bed exhausted after an aggravating day. If I were the kind of person who made my kids tidy up every day it wouldn't be a big deal. But I'm not. I tend to let the mess build and when I finally set the kids to cleaning it, it's immense and overwhelming and (if I may quote the Bible) there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Wish me luck.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Little Feet Hit Big Wheels on Maryland Dr.
Christopher turned six on Tuesday and we figured it was time to get him a boy's bike. For the last few months he's been riding Emma's bright pink Disney princess scooter up and down the block.
Though I must say, I admire the kid's security in his masculinity. Having outgrown his old bike and a true junkie for anything on wheels, Christopher would snag whatever ride he could pull out of the garage, usually tossing a football into the pink basket below the ornate handle bars, and would ride like hell, a pink, flowery streak tearing up the pavement towards the rest of the boys down the road. These boys are about his age, and they haven't realized yet that they should be flushing his head down the toilet for such an offense.
My decision to get him a masculine bike of his own isn't because I believe that boys and girls should only have gender-oriented toys. I was all tomboy as a kid, so I know from experience how cruel other kids can be if you're the least bit androgynous. But with Christopher being a boy and all, I not so much afraid that they'll call him names as much as I am concerned that they might beat him with sticks.
Anyway, Christopher's been showing a preference for those low to the ground, big wheelie types of bikes, so with the boy being as tall as he is I looked for the biggest big wheelie I could find. After an extensive (five minute) Internet search I found just the thing. A Radio Flyer trike, wagon red, with a big wheel in the front, and a four foot flag pole sporting a nifty red flag on the back. When he sits in the thing he raises his hands to the handle bars, like he's steering a Harley, his legs pump the pedals like pistons, and sometimes he shakes his head, grimaces, and shrieks in delight. I understand that cry. It's that pumped up, radical feeling that makes you want to howl. It reminded me of myself at a Rage Against the Machine concert about 13 years ago. Ok, it reminded me of when I played a Rage Against the Machine CD in the kitchen the other day. A tip: don't sing along to "Killing in the Name" while doing the dishes. Something might break.
But before I experienced the wild release of edgy, political metal/rap, I found glorious freedom on a bike. I envied that about Christopher as I watched him pedal down the street, oblivious to cars or squirrels in his path. A bike is the symbol of the kind of freedom he will later get with a car. A kid on a bike can go anywhere that will admit two wheels - smooth or cracked streets, the bumpy terrain of front lawns, and empty school yards after dismissal. It's better than trespassing. You're not just walking through a fenced area. You're flying through it. The hum of wheel spokes cutting through the air is essentially saying, "So long, suckers!" It makes you cocky, like you're Speed Racer, only with hipper clothes and your speech is in synche with the movement of your mouth when you talk.
This isn't to say I haven't been a nervous wreck watching him ride down the street. Flag or no, I worry that cars and trucks don't see him, or worse, they're teenage drivers who are obsessively thinking about themselves and are ignoring everything else in the world, or that, worse still, Christopher is so excited to be on the bike that he isn't looking before he darts out of the driveway and into traffic. Our street is relatively busy for a suburban neighborhood, and it seems that everyone who passes by is driving an enormous, kid-squashing truck. Yesterday I finally let him ride down the block to his friend Luke's house without running along beside him. I stayed five feet behind him.
It'll take time, but I know we'll both get used to him riding on his own. When you're a kid, riding your bike gives you a sense of independence and privacy that isn't even matched by closing the door to your room. Your room is still in someone else's house. A kid's bike is their domain, their steed, and they're liberator. Even if it's just down the block I think it's important for Christopher to feel that. And when he gets older and much, much bigger and stronger than other boys, if he decides that he wants a pink bike then his family will support him.
But before he does, God help him, he needs to learn how to look both ways.
Though I must say, I admire the kid's security in his masculinity. Having outgrown his old bike and a true junkie for anything on wheels, Christopher would snag whatever ride he could pull out of the garage, usually tossing a football into the pink basket below the ornate handle bars, and would ride like hell, a pink, flowery streak tearing up the pavement towards the rest of the boys down the road. These boys are about his age, and they haven't realized yet that they should be flushing his head down the toilet for such an offense.
My decision to get him a masculine bike of his own isn't because I believe that boys and girls should only have gender-oriented toys. I was all tomboy as a kid, so I know from experience how cruel other kids can be if you're the least bit androgynous. But with Christopher being a boy and all, I not so much afraid that they'll call him names as much as I am concerned that they might beat him with sticks.
Anyway, Christopher's been showing a preference for those low to the ground, big wheelie types of bikes, so with the boy being as tall as he is I looked for the biggest big wheelie I could find. After an extensive (five minute) Internet search I found just the thing. A Radio Flyer trike, wagon red, with a big wheel in the front, and a four foot flag pole sporting a nifty red flag on the back. When he sits in the thing he raises his hands to the handle bars, like he's steering a Harley, his legs pump the pedals like pistons, and sometimes he shakes his head, grimaces, and shrieks in delight. I understand that cry. It's that pumped up, radical feeling that makes you want to howl. It reminded me of myself at a Rage Against the Machine concert about 13 years ago. Ok, it reminded me of when I played a Rage Against the Machine CD in the kitchen the other day. A tip: don't sing along to "Killing in the Name" while doing the dishes. Something might break.
But before I experienced the wild release of edgy, political metal/rap, I found glorious freedom on a bike. I envied that about Christopher as I watched him pedal down the street, oblivious to cars or squirrels in his path. A bike is the symbol of the kind of freedom he will later get with a car. A kid on a bike can go anywhere that will admit two wheels - smooth or cracked streets, the bumpy terrain of front lawns, and empty school yards after dismissal. It's better than trespassing. You're not just walking through a fenced area. You're flying through it. The hum of wheel spokes cutting through the air is essentially saying, "So long, suckers!" It makes you cocky, like you're Speed Racer, only with hipper clothes and your speech is in synche with the movement of your mouth when you talk.
This isn't to say I haven't been a nervous wreck watching him ride down the street. Flag or no, I worry that cars and trucks don't see him, or worse, they're teenage drivers who are obsessively thinking about themselves and are ignoring everything else in the world, or that, worse still, Christopher is so excited to be on the bike that he isn't looking before he darts out of the driveway and into traffic. Our street is relatively busy for a suburban neighborhood, and it seems that everyone who passes by is driving an enormous, kid-squashing truck. Yesterday I finally let him ride down the block to his friend Luke's house without running along beside him. I stayed five feet behind him.
It'll take time, but I know we'll both get used to him riding on his own. When you're a kid, riding your bike gives you a sense of independence and privacy that isn't even matched by closing the door to your room. Your room is still in someone else's house. A kid's bike is their domain, their steed, and they're liberator. Even if it's just down the block I think it's important for Christopher to feel that. And when he gets older and much, much bigger and stronger than other boys, if he decides that he wants a pink bike then his family will support him.
But before he does, God help him, he needs to learn how to look both ways.
Friday, January 2, 2009
The Big Parental Scam
The tooth fairy is suspect. She was supposed to come two nights ago, and she still hasn’t shown up. Not only can she not afford to risk her job in this economy, but she’s losing esteem in the eyes of my seven year old.
But then, the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny have all lost some of their former glory over the last couple of years. And before I go any further, there’s something you should know. I am Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny! That’s right! All at once!...which is why my performance has been rather inconsistent. And it explains my seasonal rapid weight gain. Seriously, have you ever tried multi-tasking with floppy ears, an enormous beard, and fairy dust clouding your vision? It sets a girl back.
But there are more complicated set backs than that. The primary problem is exhaustion. Two nights ago when Emma came to me with a jack-o-lantern grin and the fallen tooth in hand, I was already in bed. Snuggly pajamas on, warm covers up to the chest, and my nose in a good book. The first thing I thought when I saw her standing there with that bloody little tooth was, “I going to need coffee. I can NOT fall asleep before her this time.” But of course I did. I got up, brewed the coffee, and planted myself on the couch while I waited for her to fall asleep. But she was too excited, and the couch was too comfortable, so the Tooth Fairy fell asleep during a “Scrubs” rerun with a dollar in her pocket.
I should have seen this coming. My body is so addicted to coffee that it’s merely a formality when I’m trying to stay awake. It doesn’t have a sobering affect on me anymore. (off topic writer question for fun: should I use “affect” or “effect” in that sentence? I know that “affect”t is a verb, but is it used as a verb in that phrase? “a sobering affect” Or is it a noun? “Sobering” seems to be an adjective describing “affect” so perhaps it is “effect.” Did you know that the Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny was so into language? She was an English major)
The worst job I have ever done as the Tooth Fairy was when Claire was six and I forgot to leave her money for five days in a row. The first night was easily explained.
“Since you fell asleep in Emma’s room she didn’t know to look for you there.”
The second night was a little more tricky. “Uh…she must be busy.”
The third night was ridiculous. “Gees!” I said, “There must be lots of kids losing their teeth! I bet she’s overworked.”
By the fifth night I’d run out of alibis so I shifted the blame. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
Ok, so I didn’t say that. Instead I shot myself up with enough caffeine to keep a narcoleptic sloth wide awake, and told Claire, “I hear that when the Tooth Fairy forgets a few days in a row she leaves you even more money.”
Claire’s eyes got big. “Really?”
“Yes!”
Claire woke up with a ten dollar bill. Call it guilt money plus interest.
Santa has dropped the ball a couple of times with letters. This year Christopher, my five year old, found his letter to Santa on my dresser. Two days AFTER Christmas.
“You didn’t mail it,” he said, confused by the discovery. “How did Santa…”
“I e-mailed him,” I said.
He looked at me in disbelief.
“Santa has e-mail,” I said.
“No he doesn’t,” he argued.
“Well, he is magic. I bet he knew what you wanted without the letter. He brought you your stuff, so it must be magic.”
This seemed logical to him, and he was appeased, but I still felt horrible.
Luckily Santa, like the Easter Bunny, has never forgotten to leave gifts during the night, but they’ve been nearly caught a couple of times, and have also nearly fallen asleep. One year the Easter Bunny fell asleep, woke up, saw 5:00 AM on the clock, sat bolt upright, and hopped into the kitchen to fill baskets TWENTY minutes before the kids woke up.
What I’m not sure about is how much longer I should continue….well, lying. Christopher will be six next week, and the girls are seven & nine and a half. I thought sure that Claire, my nine year old, would have stopped believing in Santa by now, but this year she was still saying stuff like, “Have I been good? I know sometimes I’ve been bad.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re a good kid.”
“Because I don’t want Santa to think I’ve been bad. What if he doesn’t leave me anything because I’ve [insert offense against sibling]?”
“Every kid does that, sweetie, and you’ve said you’re sorry. Santa will come.”
What I wanted to say was, “Dude, are you serious? You haven’t figured it out yet?”
I don’t remember how old I was when I knew the truth, and I don’t know if I figured it out or my mom told me. But I know that I couldn’t look my daughter in the eye and say, “There is no Santa.” It would have been like hurling her into a cold world where her heroes are a lie. But then, it would be relieving to have the truth out there. To say, “Look, I’m the Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny. So if you want to keep the loot coming then behave and get to bed at a decent hour.”
Because, after all, isn’t that at the heart of the lies? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the stories began way before the invention of behavioral medication. One day, long ago, some sleep-deprived genius of a mother said, “You lost another tooth? Dude! This is great! You can get money for this!”
And the hyper-active kid said, “Yeah? Tell me more!”
“All you have to do is go to sleep RIGHT NOW, and a fairy will bring you money.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m totally serious. So you should go to bed immediately.”
“But it’s only 3:00 in the afternoon.”
“Do you want the money or not?” asked the mother, and the child was soon asleep.
Later on she got the same idea around Christmas, convincing her son that Santa would bring him gifts IF he behaved and IF he went to sleep as early as possible. But when should my children know that? When are other children going to tease them for believing the behavioral modification folk tales?
I don’t know, I haven’t figured it out yet. In the mean time, Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny is going to have to find a stronger alternative to caffeine or hire help. Since snorting cocaine is out of the question, I’m going to have to get some elves. Their chores will involve shopping and making sure I get up on time. Anyone interested in the position should apply to my North Pole address (in New Orleans), and be willing to work for cookies.
But then, the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny have all lost some of their former glory over the last couple of years. And before I go any further, there’s something you should know. I am Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny! That’s right! All at once!...which is why my performance has been rather inconsistent. And it explains my seasonal rapid weight gain. Seriously, have you ever tried multi-tasking with floppy ears, an enormous beard, and fairy dust clouding your vision? It sets a girl back.
But there are more complicated set backs than that. The primary problem is exhaustion. Two nights ago when Emma came to me with a jack-o-lantern grin and the fallen tooth in hand, I was already in bed. Snuggly pajamas on, warm covers up to the chest, and my nose in a good book. The first thing I thought when I saw her standing there with that bloody little tooth was, “I going to need coffee. I can NOT fall asleep before her this time.” But of course I did. I got up, brewed the coffee, and planted myself on the couch while I waited for her to fall asleep. But she was too excited, and the couch was too comfortable, so the Tooth Fairy fell asleep during a “Scrubs” rerun with a dollar in her pocket.
I should have seen this coming. My body is so addicted to coffee that it’s merely a formality when I’m trying to stay awake. It doesn’t have a sobering affect on me anymore. (off topic writer question for fun: should I use “affect” or “effect” in that sentence? I know that “affect”t is a verb, but is it used as a verb in that phrase? “a sobering affect” Or is it a noun? “Sobering” seems to be an adjective describing “affect” so perhaps it is “effect.” Did you know that the Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny was so into language? She was an English major)
The worst job I have ever done as the Tooth Fairy was when Claire was six and I forgot to leave her money for five days in a row. The first night was easily explained.
“Since you fell asleep in Emma’s room she didn’t know to look for you there.”
The second night was a little more tricky. “Uh…she must be busy.”
The third night was ridiculous. “Gees!” I said, “There must be lots of kids losing their teeth! I bet she’s overworked.”
By the fifth night I’d run out of alibis so I shifted the blame. “You’ve been a bad girl.”
Ok, so I didn’t say that. Instead I shot myself up with enough caffeine to keep a narcoleptic sloth wide awake, and told Claire, “I hear that when the Tooth Fairy forgets a few days in a row she leaves you even more money.”
Claire’s eyes got big. “Really?”
“Yes!”
Claire woke up with a ten dollar bill. Call it guilt money plus interest.
Santa has dropped the ball a couple of times with letters. This year Christopher, my five year old, found his letter to Santa on my dresser. Two days AFTER Christmas.
“You didn’t mail it,” he said, confused by the discovery. “How did Santa…”
“I e-mailed him,” I said.
He looked at me in disbelief.
“Santa has e-mail,” I said.
“No he doesn’t,” he argued.
“Well, he is magic. I bet he knew what you wanted without the letter. He brought you your stuff, so it must be magic.”
This seemed logical to him, and he was appeased, but I still felt horrible.
Luckily Santa, like the Easter Bunny, has never forgotten to leave gifts during the night, but they’ve been nearly caught a couple of times, and have also nearly fallen asleep. One year the Easter Bunny fell asleep, woke up, saw 5:00 AM on the clock, sat bolt upright, and hopped into the kitchen to fill baskets TWENTY minutes before the kids woke up.
What I’m not sure about is how much longer I should continue….well, lying. Christopher will be six next week, and the girls are seven & nine and a half. I thought sure that Claire, my nine year old, would have stopped believing in Santa by now, but this year she was still saying stuff like, “Have I been good? I know sometimes I’ve been bad.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You’re a good kid.”
“Because I don’t want Santa to think I’ve been bad. What if he doesn’t leave me anything because I’ve [insert offense against sibling]?”
“Every kid does that, sweetie, and you’ve said you’re sorry. Santa will come.”
What I wanted to say was, “Dude, are you serious? You haven’t figured it out yet?”
I don’t remember how old I was when I knew the truth, and I don’t know if I figured it out or my mom told me. But I know that I couldn’t look my daughter in the eye and say, “There is no Santa.” It would have been like hurling her into a cold world where her heroes are a lie. But then, it would be relieving to have the truth out there. To say, “Look, I’m the Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny. So if you want to keep the loot coming then behave and get to bed at a decent hour.”
Because, after all, isn’t that at the heart of the lies? I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the stories began way before the invention of behavioral medication. One day, long ago, some sleep-deprived genius of a mother said, “You lost another tooth? Dude! This is great! You can get money for this!”
And the hyper-active kid said, “Yeah? Tell me more!”
“All you have to do is go to sleep RIGHT NOW, and a fairy will bring you money.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m totally serious. So you should go to bed immediately.”
“But it’s only 3:00 in the afternoon.”
“Do you want the money or not?” asked the mother, and the child was soon asleep.
Later on she got the same idea around Christmas, convincing her son that Santa would bring him gifts IF he behaved and IF he went to sleep as early as possible. But when should my children know that? When are other children going to tease them for believing the behavioral modification folk tales?
I don’t know, I haven’t figured it out yet. In the mean time, Tooth Fairy/Santa/Easter Bunny is going to have to find a stronger alternative to caffeine or hire help. Since snorting cocaine is out of the question, I’m going to have to get some elves. Their chores will involve shopping and making sure I get up on time. Anyone interested in the position should apply to my North Pole address (in New Orleans), and be willing to work for cookies.
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