In today's overly-PC society, stupid has become a four-letter word. Sure, I agree that words can hurt and telling a child they are stupid can do some real damage to their self-esteem. But, I also resent the look of abject horror I get from my five-year-old if I dare utter the s-word in her presence.
I'm sorry, L, but soon you’ll learn that some things (and yes, some people) are just plain stupid.
There. I said it. Go tattle if you want to.
However, while I don't freak out whenever I hear stupid, I think we're all growing a bit tired of Z's new-found love affair with that word. It is his favorite response to every question he is asked. This morning I could hear him chanting "stupid, stupid, stupid" over and over while L screamed, "stop it, stop it, stop it" over and over again. And a good morning to you, too.
I'll admit, it doesn't sound too cute to have a two-year-old tell you that you're stupid. I got him yesterday, though. The conversation went something like this:
"Z, what book are you reading?"
"Stupid!"
"What is your favorite treat?"
"Stupid!"
"What are you?"
"Stupid!"
"Ha! Suckah."
Oh, relax. He wasn't traumatized. At least I don't think he was. I suppose it may take years before we'll truly know to what extent my parenting techniques have scarred my kids.
We're also no longer allowed to say shut-up. Im not sure when that one became bad, but saying it will also earn you the admonishment from L, The Language Monitor. She also went so far the other day as to tell me I could no longer say freakin'. I think my mother put her up to that one. Little does L know that Gran has no problem dropping the real s-word whenever she feels the need.
Practically every single Disney movie has the words stupid, moron, idiot and dumb as part of the dialogue. If Disney seems to think it's okay, can’t be loosen up a bit on our restrictions of such language?
"Z, what do you think of the silliness surrounding all these so-called bad words?"
"Stupid!"
I couldn’t agree more, son.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Remember to Smize
This past Monday, I took L to have her dance company photos made for their Spring Recital. According to the instructions sent home all dancers were required to wear makeup since bright lights would be used -- and we all know what bright lights do to a naked face. It ain't pretty.
So, naturally L was exceedingly enthusiastic about the prospect of getting to wear make-up and sticklips and fixing her hair all fancy. Not to mention posing for the camera in a fabulously purple-sequined tap-dancing costume.
I, of course, think she is beautiful anyway. But I'm also shallow enough to think that natural beauty can be enhanced by mascara and lip gloss. I realize that I have to be careful, though. I don't want to start filling her head with the unrealistic image of "ideal beauty" that you see on the cover of People Magazine. (Well, not a cover that features an overweight Kirsti Alley, of course. I mean the one that depicts Kate Gosselin after her tummy tuck.)
So, when L said, "I want to wear make-up so I will be beautiful," it opened the door to one of those 'Mom, do you ever get that not-so-fresh feeling' mother/daughter bonding moments.
I stopped what I was doing and sat down on the floor in front of her so I could look her in the eye. I took her hand and made sure she was really paying attention to what I had to say.
Very gently I explained, "Yes, honey, that's right. People who don't wear make-up are ugly. And fat. You don't want to be ugly and fat, do you?"
Wide-eyed, she responded, "Oh, no, Mummy, I do not!"
HAHAHAHAHAHA! I’m kidding. Relax people. Don't go all Toddlers and Tiaras on me.
What I really said was what you would expect a responsible, loving mother to tell her daughter -- that true beauty doesn't come from make-up or hair products or your plastic surgeon. It comes from within. If you are a beautiful and kind person on the inside, then others will see that come shining through.
She responded, "That’s great, Mom. You got any more blush? This shade is so last season."
At least I tried.
And all the while, there's two-year-old Z trying to curl his eye lashes with the curling tool -- and doing a surprisingly good job. But, that's a whole other post in itself.
At the studio, I feared I was capable of falling victim to the Pageant Mom Syndrome. I chased after her with a bottle of hairspray and a teasing comb saying things like, "Stop running! You're going to look all flushed!" and "For heaven's sake, get up off the floor, you're wrinkling your dress!" and "If you lick this lipstick off your lips one more time, I'm going to take you to a tattoo parlor and have sticklips permanently tattooed on your face!" and, of course, "Stop crying! Your mascara will run!!"
At the same time, I am trying to keep up with Z who is running all over the studio like a wild man. Finally, some of the older ballerinas caught his eye and he spent the remainder of the time doing stretches and poses with them at the barre. But, again, I’ll save that for a later post.
In the end, I think we walked away with a rather cute picture. However, I realized we've got to start working on her smile. What is it about kids -- they know how to flash a beautifully, stunning smile when they want you to give them an extra scoop of ice cream, but put a camera in front of their face and you get that fake, forced lips-pulled-back-over-the-teeth-in-a-freakish-sort-of-grimace-way smile. She will never be America's Next Top Model if she doesn't learn to -- as Tyra the Great says -- smize.
To all you non ANTM fans, that's "smiling with your eyes." Go to the nearest mirror and practice. Right now.
And at least put on some mascara.
So, naturally L was exceedingly enthusiastic about the prospect of getting to wear make-up and sticklips and fixing her hair all fancy. Not to mention posing for the camera in a fabulously purple-sequined tap-dancing costume.
I, of course, think she is beautiful anyway. But I'm also shallow enough to think that natural beauty can be enhanced by mascara and lip gloss. I realize that I have to be careful, though. I don't want to start filling her head with the unrealistic image of "ideal beauty" that you see on the cover of People Magazine. (Well, not a cover that features an overweight Kirsti Alley, of course. I mean the one that depicts Kate Gosselin after her tummy tuck.)
So, when L said, "I want to wear make-up so I will be beautiful," it opened the door to one of those 'Mom, do you ever get that not-so-fresh feeling' mother/daughter bonding moments.
I stopped what I was doing and sat down on the floor in front of her so I could look her in the eye. I took her hand and made sure she was really paying attention to what I had to say.
Very gently I explained, "Yes, honey, that's right. People who don't wear make-up are ugly. And fat. You don't want to be ugly and fat, do you?"
Wide-eyed, she responded, "Oh, no, Mummy, I do not!"
HAHAHAHAHAHA! I’m kidding. Relax people. Don't go all Toddlers and Tiaras on me.
What I really said was what you would expect a responsible, loving mother to tell her daughter -- that true beauty doesn't come from make-up or hair products or your plastic surgeon. It comes from within. If you are a beautiful and kind person on the inside, then others will see that come shining through.
She responded, "That’s great, Mom. You got any more blush? This shade is so last season."
At least I tried.
And all the while, there's two-year-old Z trying to curl his eye lashes with the curling tool -- and doing a surprisingly good job. But, that's a whole other post in itself.
At the studio, I feared I was capable of falling victim to the Pageant Mom Syndrome. I chased after her with a bottle of hairspray and a teasing comb saying things like, "Stop running! You're going to look all flushed!" and "For heaven's sake, get up off the floor, you're wrinkling your dress!" and "If you lick this lipstick off your lips one more time, I'm going to take you to a tattoo parlor and have sticklips permanently tattooed on your face!" and, of course, "Stop crying! Your mascara will run!!"
At the same time, I am trying to keep up with Z who is running all over the studio like a wild man. Finally, some of the older ballerinas caught his eye and he spent the remainder of the time doing stretches and poses with them at the barre. But, again, I’ll save that for a later post.
In the end, I think we walked away with a rather cute picture. However, I realized we've got to start working on her smile. What is it about kids -- they know how to flash a beautifully, stunning smile when they want you to give them an extra scoop of ice cream, but put a camera in front of their face and you get that fake, forced lips-pulled-back-over-the-teeth-in-a-freakish-sort-of-grimace-way smile. She will never be America's Next Top Model if she doesn't learn to -- as Tyra the Great says -- smize.
To all you non ANTM fans, that's "smiling with your eyes." Go to the nearest mirror and practice. Right now.
And at least put on some mascara.
Friday, March 19, 2010
My Do It!
Oh. My. Gosh.
Watching a toddler struggle vainly to put on his own jacket, trying to find the arm holes, fumbling with the zipper and refusing help while insisting, "No, my do it!" is about as frustrating as watching Sisyphus roll his boulder up the hill.
Just let me help you, kid!!
He gets one arm in and then reaches around for the other arm hole. But what he doesn't realize is that the act of twisting his body around is causing the jacket to also move, therefore making it impossible for him to get his little hand through the other hole. It is driving me crazy! I just want to reach over and grab the jacket and shove his little arm though so we can all move on with our lives!
L also has the dogged determination to do all things on her own. If she is trying to spell something, don't you dare help her out by supplying the correct letters. You'll get hit with, "Mom! I already know that! Why did you tell me?!"
"Sorry. I was just trying to help."
"I don’t need your help! My do it!"
Sigh.
Don't get me wrong, I am not one of those sentimental moms who gets all upset that their kid is growing up and doesn't "need" her anymore. Heck, the sooner they can do things on their own, the sooner they will leave me alone and I can get back to focusing on me. I applaud this stubborn independence. Since L has learned to get herself dressed, brush her own hair, pour her own cereal and milk and turn on the Wii, I get to sleep an extra 20 minutes in the morning. At this rate, I’ll be sleeping even later while she walks to the end of the driveway and hitchhikes to preschool.
What I find frustrating is how long it takes them to do whatever it is they are trying to do when they say, "My do it!"
Kids move at a snail's pace as it is. They exist in some la-la, dreamland where the world revolves around them, time is immaterial and nothing ever really happens until they get there anyway. But my kids are wrong. The world revolves around ME. And they'd better step up the pace because Mama has places to go and people to see.
I know I wouldn't be doing them any favors if I simply stepped-in and did everything for them. I am certain my future daughter-in-law would be furious to learn that she would be responsible for putting Z's hoodie on him every day because he never learned to do it himself. And I am even more certain that she would resent having to wipe his hiney every time he went potty. (Assuming, of course, he ever decides to start using the potty. If he doesn't, I probably won't have to worry about ever having a daughter-in-law.)
I'm sure as a child, I was the same way. But, as I got older, I became very happy to let other people do things for me. That's why I have house cleaners and lawn guys and a pool boy. And a husband. I have no idea how to pay bills online nor do I care to learn. I "balance" my checkbook by going online every other week to see if there is at least enough money in the account for one more trip to Target. Make no mistake -- I am a kept woman. And I am one hundred percent at peace with that.
Don't be haters.
The only time I find the old "my do it" attitude kick in is when I am driving the car and my father is sitting in the passenger's seat next to me. That man will forever assume I don’t know the proper route to take anywhere we go. He has a very good sense of direction -- but so do I. And sometimes I even know a better route than he does. I get the passive-aggressive statement, "I was wondering why you decided to go this way" or the innocently condesending question, "Don't you think it would have been better if you had taken that road?"
And I swear, if he tells me to "take a right up here" and I already know that I'm supposed to take a right up there, I whine, "Dad! I already know that! Why did you tell me?"
"Sorry. I was just trying to help."
"I don't need your help! My do it!"
Sigh.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Yoga -- Not the Jedi Master
I have terrible rug burns on my knees and elbows.
Dirty-minded people.
No, they were not caused by anything, um, fun. They are the product of my latest get-fit exercise routine -- yoga.
Just as I do with anything new I pursue, I did my research looking for information and tips. I know that yoga followers -- sorry, yogis (no relation to the bear) -- can be pretty hard-core about their practice. And as I am sure you are becomming aware, I am not much of a granola-eater, so I was amused by some of the basic tips I ran across. Not that I condone making fun of something that another human feels strongly about, of course...
HAHHAHA! Yes, I do. Lay on the couch and eat a can of Pringles, people!
So, here are the tips (typed in bold) offered to those just beginning the practice of yoga. And here are my responses to those tips. As you read my words, just imagine me laying on the couch stuffing my face with Pringles. It’ll seem funnier that way.
The time most suitable for Yoga is in the morning before breakfast when the mind is calm and fresh and the movements can be done with ease and vitality. There is absolutely nothing calm or fresh about me first thing in the morning. Nor can I do anything with ease and/or vitality until at least two cups of coffee.
The most important things you'll need to get started -- as they say -- are a big heart and a small ego. What about a big butt and a small endurance level? Good? Alright, let’s get started!
A person must seek a place of quietude, which is well ventilated, free from dust, insects, unpleasant smell, draught, and moisture. There should be no distraction whatsoever. So, basically you’re saying I should never attempt yoga while in the house with my kids? And if you are living in a house that is stuffy, dusty, crawling with roaches and stinks to high heaven, then maybe yoga isn't really your thing anyway. You should probably just stick to NASCAR. Oh, I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Seriously. No need to go all Dale Jr. on me.
You must empty your bowels and bladder, clean your nostrils and throat of all mucus, consume a glass of lukewarm water and then begin the exercises after 15 minutes. This one is confusing. Do I consume the glass of lukewarm water after I have emptied my bladder? I had two nine-pound babies sit on my bladder and squash it ‘til it looked like a deflated balloon. If I drink a glass of water and then wait 15 minutes, I’ll certainly need to empty again. Otherwise some of those poses might get a bit messy.
Always remember that you should begin with the easy postures and then proceed to the difficult ones. One must follow the graded steps of Yoga. So, you’re saying that some of these poses are considered easy?! No, my friend, easy is sitting on a bean bag chair eating Chex Mix. There is nothing easy about sitting on your knees and bending your spine back so you can touch your heels with your hands. And it certainly ain’t easy to do with Chex Mix in your mouth.
In the beginning, all movements should be practiced lightly and you must cease to go further if fatigue shows. I'm feeling fatigued just writing about yoga.
Periods of relaxation are advisable if a particular exercise proves to be tiring. So exactly how long of a period of relaxation should I observe? And if I stop every time I feel tired, it would take me all week to complete one 30-minute session.
Yoga trainers recommend a balanced diet (sattwik). There should be an interval of 4 hours between meals. The ratio for the composition of meals should be: grains and cereals 30% of the calorific value; dairy products 20%; vegetables and roots 25%; fruits and honey 20%; nuts remaining 5%. Aw, hell-to-the-no -- now you’re asking me to do math? I find that equally as torturous as trying to gently place the sole of my right foot to the lobe of my left ear.
One should avoid overeating, fasting or eating once a day. Stale or non-nutritious food, you know, is harmful. I have yet to feel harmed by a stale bag of Chex Mix. Ha! Like I’d ever let a bag of Chex Mix go stale.
The clothing should be loose and as scanty as possible, because maximum amount of the skin should be exposed to air. Absolutely not. If I am in a room with people whose bodies look like mine -- or worse -- I want maximum skin coverage. I do not want to see naked contorting. There are three things you should never do naked: Have a coughing fit, do jumping jacks, and yoga. I’m sure there are more, but those are the most disturbing visually.
Form-fitting cotton/Lycra pants and shirts are the best. See my previous response.
Many yoga instructors assist students hands-on; if they try and move your body too much for you, or force your body into various poses, however, you could end up injured. So, apparently, even in yoga, we must all be educated on what is a good touch and what is a bad touch.
Always take a mat of kusa or any other grass or hay for sitting postures. I would love to see the looks you would get if you strolled into yoga class with a wheelbarrow full of grass and hay. And if you are as scantily-clad as possible, wouldn’t sitting on hay be terribly uncomfortable? I imagine it would be difficult to breathe and achieve a heightened state of relaxation with bits of straw poking around your hoo-hoo.
So, that's it. If you follow the above tips, you should be a yoga master in no time. And if you follow my tips, then you will find yourself lying on your sofa eating Chex Mix. The important thing is that you are comfortable with you and whatever position you find your body in. And whatever you do, always remember to keep breathing. Because, well, otherwise you'll die. Duh.
Here to help you, I am. May the Yoga Force be with you...
Dirty-minded people.
No, they were not caused by anything, um, fun. They are the product of my latest get-fit exercise routine -- yoga.
Just as I do with anything new I pursue, I did my research looking for information and tips. I know that yoga followers -- sorry, yogis (no relation to the bear) -- can be pretty hard-core about their practice. And as I am sure you are becomming aware, I am not much of a granola-eater, so I was amused by some of the basic tips I ran across. Not that I condone making fun of something that another human feels strongly about, of course...
HAHHAHA! Yes, I do. Lay on the couch and eat a can of Pringles, people!
So, here are the tips (typed in bold) offered to those just beginning the practice of yoga. And here are my responses to those tips. As you read my words, just imagine me laying on the couch stuffing my face with Pringles. It’ll seem funnier that way.
The time most suitable for Yoga is in the morning before breakfast when the mind is calm and fresh and the movements can be done with ease and vitality. There is absolutely nothing calm or fresh about me first thing in the morning. Nor can I do anything with ease and/or vitality until at least two cups of coffee.
The most important things you'll need to get started -- as they say -- are a big heart and a small ego. What about a big butt and a small endurance level? Good? Alright, let’s get started!
A person must seek a place of quietude, which is well ventilated, free from dust, insects, unpleasant smell, draught, and moisture. There should be no distraction whatsoever. So, basically you’re saying I should never attempt yoga while in the house with my kids? And if you are living in a house that is stuffy, dusty, crawling with roaches and stinks to high heaven, then maybe yoga isn't really your thing anyway. You should probably just stick to NASCAR. Oh, I'm kidding! I'm kidding! Seriously. No need to go all Dale Jr. on me.
You must empty your bowels and bladder, clean your nostrils and throat of all mucus, consume a glass of lukewarm water and then begin the exercises after 15 minutes. This one is confusing. Do I consume the glass of lukewarm water after I have emptied my bladder? I had two nine-pound babies sit on my bladder and squash it ‘til it looked like a deflated balloon. If I drink a glass of water and then wait 15 minutes, I’ll certainly need to empty again. Otherwise some of those poses might get a bit messy.
Always remember that you should begin with the easy postures and then proceed to the difficult ones. One must follow the graded steps of Yoga. So, you’re saying that some of these poses are considered easy?! No, my friend, easy is sitting on a bean bag chair eating Chex Mix. There is nothing easy about sitting on your knees and bending your spine back so you can touch your heels with your hands. And it certainly ain’t easy to do with Chex Mix in your mouth.
In the beginning, all movements should be practiced lightly and you must cease to go further if fatigue shows. I'm feeling fatigued just writing about yoga.
Periods of relaxation are advisable if a particular exercise proves to be tiring. So exactly how long of a period of relaxation should I observe? And if I stop every time I feel tired, it would take me all week to complete one 30-minute session.
Yoga trainers recommend a balanced diet (sattwik). There should be an interval of 4 hours between meals. The ratio for the composition of meals should be: grains and cereals 30% of the calorific value; dairy products 20%; vegetables and roots 25%; fruits and honey 20%; nuts remaining 5%. Aw, hell-to-the-no -- now you’re asking me to do math? I find that equally as torturous as trying to gently place the sole of my right foot to the lobe of my left ear.
One should avoid overeating, fasting or eating once a day. Stale or non-nutritious food, you know, is harmful. I have yet to feel harmed by a stale bag of Chex Mix. Ha! Like I’d ever let a bag of Chex Mix go stale.
The clothing should be loose and as scanty as possible, because maximum amount of the skin should be exposed to air. Absolutely not. If I am in a room with people whose bodies look like mine -- or worse -- I want maximum skin coverage. I do not want to see naked contorting. There are three things you should never do naked: Have a coughing fit, do jumping jacks, and yoga. I’m sure there are more, but those are the most disturbing visually.
Form-fitting cotton/Lycra pants and shirts are the best. See my previous response.
Many yoga instructors assist students hands-on; if they try and move your body too much for you, or force your body into various poses, however, you could end up injured. So, apparently, even in yoga, we must all be educated on what is a good touch and what is a bad touch.
Always take a mat of kusa or any other grass or hay for sitting postures. I would love to see the looks you would get if you strolled into yoga class with a wheelbarrow full of grass and hay. And if you are as scantily-clad as possible, wouldn’t sitting on hay be terribly uncomfortable? I imagine it would be difficult to breathe and achieve a heightened state of relaxation with bits of straw poking around your hoo-hoo.
So, that's it. If you follow the above tips, you should be a yoga master in no time. And if you follow my tips, then you will find yourself lying on your sofa eating Chex Mix. The important thing is that you are comfortable with you and whatever position you find your body in. And whatever you do, always remember to keep breathing. Because, well, otherwise you'll die. Duh.
Here to help you, I am. May the Yoga Force be with you...
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Luck Be A Lady...Bug?
Our master bathroom is swarming with ladybugs. And when I say “swarming” I mean I counted at least ten. In my opinion, when dealing with nature, anything more than five constitutes a swarm.
I think I read somewhere that a ladybug in the house is good luck. Or is that crickets? Regardless, I don’t care how lucky they are. They are little bits of nature that have come into my home uninvited. So I don’t like it.
And now I find I can’t get that disturbing nursery rhyme out of my head:
I tried reciting the rhyme for the ladybugs hoping they would take heed and head on back home to check on their families, but to no avail. Apparently, ladybugs don’t care about their children.
L typically freaks whenever she sees a bug or a spider, but doesn’t seem bothered by the ladybugs. She’s also partial to caterpillars -- actually in a somewhat freaky, obsessive way. Last year in preschool, there was a tree on the playground where L’s class spent recess that was infested with mounds and mounds of caterpillars. As soon as she got outside, L would head straight to the tree and proceed to pick up as many of the creepy, furry things as she could get. She would line them up and down her arm and let them crawl all over her. Her teacher told me that she would encourage the other children to come see her little friends and she’d very gently place them on her classmates’ arms and show them how to handle the glorified worms without squishing them. She was like the freakin’ Caterpillar Whisperer. She doesn’t get that from me.
L thinks the ladybugs are cool. Z was also excited about them -- but, then again, he also gets excited by “Yo, Gaba Gaba.” So, I can’t really trust his judgment.
Last night, as I was giving the kids a bath, one of the nature bits fell into the tub, was lost amongst the bubbles and drowned. I was afraid the kids would be traumatized by the death, but they seemed oddly nonplussed. Little sociopaths.
So, maybe ladybugs in the house aren’t so lucky after all...at least not for the ladybugs.
I think I read somewhere that a ladybug in the house is good luck. Or is that crickets? Regardless, I don’t care how lucky they are. They are little bits of nature that have come into my home uninvited. So I don’t like it.
And now I find I can’t get that disturbing nursery rhyme out of my head:
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home.Nursery rhymes are twisted.
Your house in on fire and your children are gone.
All except one, and that’s Little Anne,
For she has crept under the warming pan.
I tried reciting the rhyme for the ladybugs hoping they would take heed and head on back home to check on their families, but to no avail. Apparently, ladybugs don’t care about their children.
L typically freaks whenever she sees a bug or a spider, but doesn’t seem bothered by the ladybugs. She’s also partial to caterpillars -- actually in a somewhat freaky, obsessive way. Last year in preschool, there was a tree on the playground where L’s class spent recess that was infested with mounds and mounds of caterpillars. As soon as she got outside, L would head straight to the tree and proceed to pick up as many of the creepy, furry things as she could get. She would line them up and down her arm and let them crawl all over her. Her teacher told me that she would encourage the other children to come see her little friends and she’d very gently place them on her classmates’ arms and show them how to handle the glorified worms without squishing them. She was like the freakin’ Caterpillar Whisperer. She doesn’t get that from me.
L thinks the ladybugs are cool. Z was also excited about them -- but, then again, he also gets excited by “Yo, Gaba Gaba.” So, I can’t really trust his judgment.
Side note: Have you seen “Yo, Gaba Gaba?” I’m thinking you have to be on crack in order to understand it. Maybe I should start doing random drug tests on Z. However, I will say that I do find myself oddly and disturbingly attracted to D.J. Lance. I wonder if I could get one of those orange jump-suits for JAO...Anyway, back to the ladybugs. I’ve noticed that the ladybugs seem to prefer congregating around the big picture window over the tub in the master bath.
Side note again: I just spent way more time than I should have trying to decide if I needed to use congregate or conjugate in the preceding sentence. Then I was cracking myself up thinking about all those ladybugs clinging to the window pane and repeating, “Yo estoy, tu estas el esta, nosotros estamos, ellos estan.” I’m just assuming, of course, that the ladybugs are conjugating Spanish verbs because, well, I don’t like French -- or France.But, back to the ladybugs.
Last night, as I was giving the kids a bath, one of the nature bits fell into the tub, was lost amongst the bubbles and drowned. I was afraid the kids would be traumatized by the death, but they seemed oddly nonplussed. Little sociopaths.
So, maybe ladybugs in the house aren’t so lucky after all...at least not for the ladybugs.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Liar, Liar
I’ve encountered another stumbling block in this journey that is parenthood -- an over-abundance of lies. Not from my children, but from myself.
I am discovering that the job of being a mother requires more lying than I realized. And I often find myself facing a moral dilemma: How can I preach to my children the virtue of truth and the sin of lying and then turn right around and answer “yes” to the question, “Mom, is Santa Claus for real?”
I know you probably think I am being overly-dramatic about this. Telling your child that Santa Claus is real is hardly the same as denying that the milkman or the mailman is their real father, right? (I’m kidding! We don’t even have a milkman.) But, while I will agree that there are varying stages of lying that we can intellectualize as adults, to a child, a lie is a lie. And if I tell them not to lie, what am I teaching them by lying myself?
The reason I am having such an issue with this right now is because of the whole Tooth Fairy mess. L just recently lost her first tooth. There was much rejoicing and celebration over this major step toward “growing up.” That night, as she was placing her tooth under her pillow she asked the obvious questions: How does the Tooth Fairy know her tooth is there? What will the Tooth Fairy do with the tooth? How does she get into our house? And every single answer I gave her was a lie.
About a month later, the second tooth came out. Again, with the rejoicing and again with the placing of the tooth.
Insanely early the next morning, I awoke to a sobbing, little girl who tearfully exclaimed, “Mommy! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!”
Inside my head I screamed, “Holy S**t! I forgot!!!!”
You cannot imagine how badly I felt at that moment. And I had only myself to blame. I was the one who had put the idea of this magical tooth-snatching, money-granting chick inside her head in the first place. And now I was trapped in that lie.
So what did JAO and I do? We lied to her like we’ve never lied before.
“See, honey, you were running a fever yesterday and I bet the Tooth Fairy was afraid she would pick up some of your germs and pass them on to some other kid.”
“You know, it is still really early in the morning. Maybe you got up too soon and she didn’t have time to sneak into your room.”
“I bet if you put your tooth back under your pillow, she will come sometime during the day.”
With a few more sniffles, L accepted our lies and went back to her room. Later, I was able to sneak in and put the money under her pillow, along with a note from the Tooth Fairy explaining -- no lying -- about why she was late.
Argh.
Again, you may think I am making too big a deal over this. I mean, the only alternative is to explain the cold, hard facts to a wide-eyed, innocent 5-year-old and shatter every illusion she has about the magical world of fun and fairies that she believes in. Maybe that’s just as cruel as the lie.
For instance, this past summer, L told me that when she grew up, she wanted to be a mermaid. When it became clear to me that she was very serious about her goal, I felt I should gently inform her that she could not be a mermaid when she grew up. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her that. I meant it from a purely scientific standpoint. I told her there was physically no way her body could grow a fin and her lungs adjust to life under water. She was quite upset by this -- as if I were denying her, for some unknown and cruel reason, her lifelong dream.
Finally, my mother interrupted and said, “Just tell her that she can be a mermaid!”
So I said, “Fine. Then when she graduates high school and enters college and discovers that nowhere in the curriculum will she find ‘Mermaid 101’ then you can explain it to her!”
See, my mother’s old mommy instincts kicked-in and she was willing to say anything to her granddaughter to get her to smile again. And that included lying about becoming a mermaid.
After a few beats, L straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and said, “Fine. I’ll be a fairy then.”
What was my response? I lied. I told her she would be the best fairy in the whole world.
And she smiled.
Sigh.
I am now an adult and seem to have suffered no ill effects of the lies my parents told me. I now know that they lied to me about a lot of things and I see no reason to drag them in front of Jerry Springer and deride them of their faults. So, maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. Maybe the lies, when told with only good intentions aren’t so bad after all.
Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go shopping. The Easter Bunny will be coming soon, you know.
As long as he doesn’t go to bed early and forget...
I am discovering that the job of being a mother requires more lying than I realized. And I often find myself facing a moral dilemma: How can I preach to my children the virtue of truth and the sin of lying and then turn right around and answer “yes” to the question, “Mom, is Santa Claus for real?”
I know you probably think I am being overly-dramatic about this. Telling your child that Santa Claus is real is hardly the same as denying that the milkman or the mailman is their real father, right? (I’m kidding! We don’t even have a milkman.) But, while I will agree that there are varying stages of lying that we can intellectualize as adults, to a child, a lie is a lie. And if I tell them not to lie, what am I teaching them by lying myself?
The reason I am having such an issue with this right now is because of the whole Tooth Fairy mess. L just recently lost her first tooth. There was much rejoicing and celebration over this major step toward “growing up.” That night, as she was placing her tooth under her pillow she asked the obvious questions: How does the Tooth Fairy know her tooth is there? What will the Tooth Fairy do with the tooth? How does she get into our house? And every single answer I gave her was a lie.
About a month later, the second tooth came out. Again, with the rejoicing and again with the placing of the tooth.
Insanely early the next morning, I awoke to a sobbing, little girl who tearfully exclaimed, “Mommy! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!”
Inside my head I screamed, “Holy S**t! I forgot!!!!”
You cannot imagine how badly I felt at that moment. And I had only myself to blame. I was the one who had put the idea of this magical tooth-snatching, money-granting chick inside her head in the first place. And now I was trapped in that lie.
So what did JAO and I do? We lied to her like we’ve never lied before.
“See, honey, you were running a fever yesterday and I bet the Tooth Fairy was afraid she would pick up some of your germs and pass them on to some other kid.”
“You know, it is still really early in the morning. Maybe you got up too soon and she didn’t have time to sneak into your room.”
“I bet if you put your tooth back under your pillow, she will come sometime during the day.”
With a few more sniffles, L accepted our lies and went back to her room. Later, I was able to sneak in and put the money under her pillow, along with a note from the Tooth Fairy explaining -- no lying -- about why she was late.
Argh.
Again, you may think I am making too big a deal over this. I mean, the only alternative is to explain the cold, hard facts to a wide-eyed, innocent 5-year-old and shatter every illusion she has about the magical world of fun and fairies that she believes in. Maybe that’s just as cruel as the lie.
For instance, this past summer, L told me that when she grew up, she wanted to be a mermaid. When it became clear to me that she was very serious about her goal, I felt I should gently inform her that she could not be a mermaid when she grew up. You should have seen the look on her face when I told her that. I meant it from a purely scientific standpoint. I told her there was physically no way her body could grow a fin and her lungs adjust to life under water. She was quite upset by this -- as if I were denying her, for some unknown and cruel reason, her lifelong dream.
Finally, my mother interrupted and said, “Just tell her that she can be a mermaid!”
So I said, “Fine. Then when she graduates high school and enters college and discovers that nowhere in the curriculum will she find ‘Mermaid 101’ then you can explain it to her!”
See, my mother’s old mommy instincts kicked-in and she was willing to say anything to her granddaughter to get her to smile again. And that included lying about becoming a mermaid.
After a few beats, L straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin and said, “Fine. I’ll be a fairy then.”
What was my response? I lied. I told her she would be the best fairy in the whole world.
And she smiled.
Sigh.
I am now an adult and seem to have suffered no ill effects of the lies my parents told me. I now know that they lied to me about a lot of things and I see no reason to drag them in front of Jerry Springer and deride them of their faults. So, maybe I am making too big a deal out of this. Maybe the lies, when told with only good intentions aren’t so bad after all.
Now, if you will excuse me, I need to go shopping. The Easter Bunny will be coming soon, you know.
As long as he doesn’t go to bed early and forget...
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Me and My Friend, Jenny
I just left my Jenny Craig appointment. Yes, I admit it -- I called Jenny. I am happy to announce that after six weeks, I have dropped 9.8 pounds. I am only one pound away from my half-way mark. So, touch me! No, on second thought, you’d better wait another six weeks before you do that.
The fun thing about going into a weight-loss center is you get to stand before someone else who is holding you accountable for every pound you lose or gain. (Surely you knew that when I said “fun” I was being sarcastic, right?) And we all know how tricky scales can be. Plus, they don’t make allowances for your clothes, which I feel is wrong. When you’re dealing with percentages of pounds, even the added weight of your bra’s underwire could tip the scale against your favor. And they won’t let us weigh in the nude -- I asked.
So, I go in there every week, first thing in the morning, wearing no jewelry and as little clothing as I can get away with (and yes, that means no underwire) to tell Evette how my week has been. I know that many people think accountability is one of the keys to weight loss. If you down a bag of Chex Mix while hiding in the pantry and then have to turn around and confess that to someone the next day, you may be less likely to partake of the secret Chex Mix binge. Or if you promise your counselor that you will work out every day of the week, and yet you only get in three days worth of activity (because you know that lifting the remote with one hand while shoveling Pringles in your mouth with the other does not constitute exercise), then you have to look her in the eye and fess up to your failure.
I, however, am a very good liar. So, I don’t really get anything out of that part of the program.
What works for me is the knowledge that every time I go in there, the lobby will be full of other woman who are “on the program.”And everyone is surreptitiously sizing each other up (ha-ha, pun intended). I try and stand up real tall and suck in as much of my excess as I can in the hopes that all who see me will whisper amongst themselves, “What is that stunningly thin woman doing here? Oh, surely she must be the next Jenny Craig celebrity spokesperson!”
Because we all fear that the other women are actually thinking, “Oh, yeah, it’s a damn good thing she called Jenny. Look at the Pringles crumbs still clinging to her chins! Bless her congealed artery-clogged heart...”
So, I am feeling a bit better about myself theses day. However, I have discovered something disturbing about my weight-loss journey this time around. No matter how much weight I lose, or how often I work out, there is an unsettling amount of squishy skin lingering around my tummy. For this, I blame my children. If they hadn’t ballooned to nine pounds while in utero, my poor stomach would not have been forced to stretch itself 30 ways to Sunday to accommodate their Amazon baby bodies. Obviously, I should have continued smoking during my pregnancy to reduce their birth weight. Then I wouldn’t be having this problem.
Oh, relax...I’m kidding. I would never condone pregnancy smoking. Pregnancy drinking, however...
Okay, now you’ve got me all off track.
At various times, both L and Z have commented on how squishy my belly is. I know they are not intending to be mean (though at the ages of two and five, they are certainly capable of such), but it is hard to ignore the blatant honesty of a child. JAO knows a hell of a lot better than to ever make such a comment. Especially since L once told him that he looked like he had a baby in his tummy. Hee, hee...he’s going to hate that I shared that.
So, I’m afraid the only hope for my pathetically non-taunt abdomen is the tummy tuck. Though I am in serious doubt that will ever happen. It is not the fear of pain that would deter me. I love narcotics, as I believe I have mentioned before. It is the fear that I will discover there is simply too much of the squishy stuff to successfully tuck. I don’t want to end up with my belly button in the center of my chest and my boobs up around my neck.
Though, I suppose if they were up that far, they would cover up my chins. So, maybe that would be such a bad thing after all.
Side Note: I was informed by my mother last night that I am no longer to refer to her grandson as the “Spawn of Satan.” I asked her if I could at least call him the “Stepson of Satan.” Apparently, that is not acceptable either. So Z will heretofore be known simply as Z. But you will all secretly know his true evil alter-ego. Just don’t tell my mom.
The fun thing about going into a weight-loss center is you get to stand before someone else who is holding you accountable for every pound you lose or gain. (Surely you knew that when I said “fun” I was being sarcastic, right?) And we all know how tricky scales can be. Plus, they don’t make allowances for your clothes, which I feel is wrong. When you’re dealing with percentages of pounds, even the added weight of your bra’s underwire could tip the scale against your favor. And they won’t let us weigh in the nude -- I asked.
So, I go in there every week, first thing in the morning, wearing no jewelry and as little clothing as I can get away with (and yes, that means no underwire) to tell Evette how my week has been. I know that many people think accountability is one of the keys to weight loss. If you down a bag of Chex Mix while hiding in the pantry and then have to turn around and confess that to someone the next day, you may be less likely to partake of the secret Chex Mix binge. Or if you promise your counselor that you will work out every day of the week, and yet you only get in three days worth of activity (because you know that lifting the remote with one hand while shoveling Pringles in your mouth with the other does not constitute exercise), then you have to look her in the eye and fess up to your failure.
I, however, am a very good liar. So, I don’t really get anything out of that part of the program.
What works for me is the knowledge that every time I go in there, the lobby will be full of other woman who are “on the program.”And everyone is surreptitiously sizing each other up (ha-ha, pun intended). I try and stand up real tall and suck in as much of my excess as I can in the hopes that all who see me will whisper amongst themselves, “What is that stunningly thin woman doing here? Oh, surely she must be the next Jenny Craig celebrity spokesperson!”
Because we all fear that the other women are actually thinking, “Oh, yeah, it’s a damn good thing she called Jenny. Look at the Pringles crumbs still clinging to her chins! Bless her congealed artery-clogged heart...”
So, I am feeling a bit better about myself theses day. However, I have discovered something disturbing about my weight-loss journey this time around. No matter how much weight I lose, or how often I work out, there is an unsettling amount of squishy skin lingering around my tummy. For this, I blame my children. If they hadn’t ballooned to nine pounds while in utero, my poor stomach would not have been forced to stretch itself 30 ways to Sunday to accommodate their Amazon baby bodies. Obviously, I should have continued smoking during my pregnancy to reduce their birth weight. Then I wouldn’t be having this problem.
Oh, relax...I’m kidding. I would never condone pregnancy smoking. Pregnancy drinking, however...
Okay, now you’ve got me all off track.
At various times, both L and Z have commented on how squishy my belly is. I know they are not intending to be mean (though at the ages of two and five, they are certainly capable of such), but it is hard to ignore the blatant honesty of a child. JAO knows a hell of a lot better than to ever make such a comment. Especially since L once told him that he looked like he had a baby in his tummy. Hee, hee...he’s going to hate that I shared that.
So, I’m afraid the only hope for my pathetically non-taunt abdomen is the tummy tuck. Though I am in serious doubt that will ever happen. It is not the fear of pain that would deter me. I love narcotics, as I believe I have mentioned before. It is the fear that I will discover there is simply too much of the squishy stuff to successfully tuck. I don’t want to end up with my belly button in the center of my chest and my boobs up around my neck.
Though, I suppose if they were up that far, they would cover up my chins. So, maybe that would be such a bad thing after all.
Side Note: I was informed by my mother last night that I am no longer to refer to her grandson as the “Spawn of Satan.” I asked her if I could at least call him the “Stepson of Satan.” Apparently, that is not acceptable either. So Z will heretofore be known simply as Z. But you will all secretly know his true evil alter-ego. Just don’t tell my mom.
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