Little L Moments

L has started kindergarten, which means I am now old enough to have a child in school. Okay, fine, so I was old enough for that a decade ago, but that’s not the point. I have been making fun of all the moms I know who boo-hooed over their kid’s first day of school and mocked their sentimentality over something so silly. And to answer your next question, no, I did not cry on L’s first day of school. JAO, however...

But I would be remiss if I didn’t take a few moments to reflect on this momentous occasion in L’s life. Our nearly six years together has been interesting, to say the least. So, in honor of my daughter's new role as a matriculator, I thought I’d share some of my favorite Little L Moments from the past. I hope you enjoy reading them more than I enjoyed living them.

Our first tale takes place in May of 2007 just two weeks after the birth of Z. L was two-and-a-half. Thus the stage was set for misery.

With a newborn Z to look after, I hadn't been getting as much sleep as I needed and so I really, really wanted a nap. I got the baby boy to sleep and read some books to L. She was acting pretty tired so I hoped she'd go down without a fight. Schyeah, right.

I put her in her bed and threatened her life if she got up and then I went to my room to collapse. Sure enough, a few minutes later, I heard her get out of bed. I marched back down the hall, made her get back in bed and wearily trudged back to my room. This time, I fell asleep myself as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Fifteen minutes later, I awoke from a dead sleep to find L standing next to my bed with her hands covered in blood.

Blood!

Inwardly, I freaked out -- but she was so calm that I quickly realized she was not in danger of bleeding out. Nor did she appear to be feeling pain. I rushed her into her bathroom where I washed her hands and discovered a small cut on her thumb. I put a bandage on it and decided that she would live.

Then, I walked into L’s room to discover the source of the cut -- broken glass was littering her bed and floor and there was blood all over her sheets. The child had stood on her bed and wielding a plastic, yellow maraca, shattered the globe covering the light on her ceiling fan! And this was no accident. While she was tall for her age, she still had to jump up in the air in order to make contact with the light! This was a deliberate Mariachi attack on her light fixture.

I had to treat her sheets (which were brand-new Pottery Barn sheets, by the way) with stain remover and throw them in the wash. Then I had to do a super-duper vacuuming job on her carpet to remove the tiny shards of glass. Then, I had to follow and remove the trail of bloody hand prints that led from her door, down the hall and into my room.

Needless to say, I never got that nap.

Our next tale takes place the following New Year's Day. JAO, the kids and I ventured out to the mall to exchange some Christmas gifts. L was tired and irritable and basically being quite difficult. Baby Z was still in his sweet, agreeable baby phase and was content to ride in the stroller. (It would be another year or so before Z would fully embrace his Spawn of Satan persona.)

In an extremely crowded Macy’s, we split up -- I went with Z to one side of the store and L and JAO stood in line at the Men’s department to exchange a sweater. I finished first and returned to my husband and daughter. As Z and I were approaching, I could tell that JAO was irritated with L for continuously having to tell her to stop messing with all the things around the register.

When the exchange was complete, L turned to walk away. From my vantage point, a gentleman and his young son were between me and her. The next thing I saw, a little hand reached out from nowhere and punched the little boy square in the face. For the tiniest second I thought, “Oh, please don’t let that have been L.” But, the very next second, sure enough, here comes L sauntering around the man and the now-screaming boy, looking as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

The father was on his cell phone and didn’t even see what happened, but his mother, who was standing a few feet away, did. We both ran up at the same time -- she trying to comfort her child who was the victim of this random act of violence and me apologizing profusely for mine, the random act.

Even worse, the little boy and his parents were obviously of Indian descent. L could have been charged with a hate crime!

Fortunately, the assaulted boy’s parents could not have been more gracious. She assured me that her son was fine and she was not going to call the ACLU. I drug my demon child out of the store by the arm, fuming and ready to ship her off to Russia.

(It should be pointed out that this was not the first time L has randomly assaulted some other child. I couldn’t even relax at a playground because I never knew when she was going to haul off and smack the preschooler next to her.)

Outside the store, JAO asked a now contrite L why she hit that boy. Through her remorseful (whatever) tears, she replied, “Because I’m mean.”

She got no arguments from me.

But now Little L is a kindergartener and I am pleased to announce that she has not smacked anyone in the face (except for her little brother) since that day. And as crazy as she has made me, I can honestly say that being her mom has been a lot of fun. I am very proud of my girl and I’m looking forward to seeing the amazing young woman she will become.

Though I hope she doesn’t become that woman any time soon. Because I am way too young to be the mother of a woman.

Paying for a Summer of Sin

Hey, Jenny, it’s me, Regina.

Yeah, it has been a while.

I’m fine. Well, sorta.

My summer? It was good. Too good, I guess. That’s kinda why I’m calling. You know how last Spring I was looking all hot and feeling good about myself? Well, I’m still looking hot -- but it’s really more of an over-weight, sweaty-hot. Perhaps it would have behooved me to be a bit more vigilant over the summer.

My activity level? Well, how many calories do you think you burn carrying a cooler of beer down to the beach?

Not that much, huh?

It was a case, you know, not just some dinky six-pack.

Oh.

Did I make good choices? Sure! When the choice was between fried shrimp or fried scallops.

Yeah, I know. I use humor to mask my shame. So, um, I was thinking...can I come back in?

That’s swell. Wait...you won’t have to weigh me, will you?

You will? Crap. Can I at least weigh in the nude?

No? Man, you guys are really sticklers for that rule, aren’t you?

Fine. I’ll see you at 11:00.

Yeah, I’m really looking forward to it, too. And afterward I’m thinking about going for a PAP smear and a mammogram just to round out the day of fun.

Yes. That was my humor.

Bye.

And here we go again.

Can someone please explain to me how it can take four months to lose the same amount of weight you can gain in only one month? And don’t go saying it was the laying around and eating fried foods and drinking fruity drinks all summer that did it. If I wanted brutal honesty I would have called my mom.

I guess I feel like it just happened so fast. One minute I was buying the first two-piece swim-suit I’d bought in nearly seven years, and the next minute I was searching my drawer for the pants I wore home from the delivery room. It’s so frustrating.

I simply got too comfortable with myself. Sure, that’s supposed to be the touchy-feely, everyone’s a winner, we accept all kinds attitude. But, let’s be honest -- it’s that type of mentality that allows a 200-pound woman to wear a thong bikini and a 300-pound man to wear a Speedo. I don’t care how at-one with yourself you are, Oprah --suck it in or cover it up!

Wah, wah, wah. I'm too fat. Blah, blah, blah.

I suppose I can continue to bitch and complain or I can throw away the Chex Mix, pour out the wine, take the wrapper off the “Dancing With the Stars Workout DVD” and get back at it.

Yes. That was my humor again.

Because I don’t care how much weigh, it is NEVER okay to pour out wine.