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Posts Tagged ‘Moms’

Captain Feathersword

My daughter had a little Halloween party at her preschool today and she was so excited about it that she could hardly sleep last night.  She got to wear a costume to school and the parents came to the last half hour and joined the kids for a little buffet (My contribution sucked, but that’s neither here nor there.  I brought string cheese.  Another mom brought string cheese that looked like dismembered fingers.  DAMN!).  This is the first year that she has had any opinion about her costume and unfortunately the opinion has been changing every few days since early September.  I thought we had settled on The Cat in The Hat but this morning she insisted on wearing the Captain Feathersword costume that we bought for her 6-year old boy cousin to potentially wear to the Wiggles concert last summer.  It’s too big and it’s sort of boyish but she really, really wanted to wear it and she did look pretty darn cute.  When I got to school I saw that the other little girls were dressed in little girl costumes: a princess, a mermaid, and a kitty cat witch.  I left feeling a little sad that my kid didn’t want to be something cute and girly.  I have no interest in perpetuating the gender stereotypes and forcing her into a box and I can’t stand Barbies and Disney princess obsessions but I can count on one hand how many times I have been able to get her hair into a ponytail.  And all of those little plastic, Goody barrettes?  The yellow ducks, the red bows, etc…  Nope.  But she’s her and I love her.  A lot.

So as I was pondering this hair tragedy and the bizarre little peanut to whom I gave birth, I came across this photo online:

noah cyrus

This is little 9-year old Noah Cyrus, Miley’s sister.

Ahoy there, me hearties.  After seeing this, that polyester Captain Feathersword costume looks more beautiful to me than any zillion dollar couture gown in the entire world.  Rock on, Junior Feathersword.  In 6 years, and in 16 years, you will not be wearing a dress this short.  Not under my roof.

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Vigeland Tantrum

My child was a big drooler.  I kept an extra shirt in my purse until about 3 months ago.  And she’s 3 1/2.  When I realized that the same shirt had been in my purse for about 6 weeks and was covered in lint and other bottom-of-purse debris, I switched it out for an extra pair of pants because we were in the midst of potty training by that point.  Those same pants remained for several months and I eventually took them out during one of my intensive purse-cleaning sessions.  That move may have been slightly premature…

We went to the park on Sunday.  And I would like to make a confession here: I do not enjoy going to the park.  I really and truly would like to be a mother who enjoys the park but I am not.  Parks are full of germs, weird kids (and even weirder parents), pot-smoking teenagers and wood chips.  I hate wood chips.  They stick to my clothes, they get into my flip-flops and they seem an ideal environment to step on an uncapped hypodermic syringe.  Hate ’em.  So I try to avoid trips to the park.  But sometimes (while high on coffee) I say, “Maybe we’ll go to the park later!”   And because elephants and 3-year olds never forget, I find myself, several hours later, picking wood chips off of my sweater while I sniff the air and scan the bushes for the teenager with the 7-Up can pipe.  The trip always ends in tears or injury (or both) and I always leave saying, “Never again…”

But on Sunday we did go to the park.  And here’s how it went down:  It was sunny when we arrived but became cloudy and frigidly cold within moments of our arrival.  A foreshadowing of what was to come?  Perhaps.  My daughter went down the slide about 87 times and then some really strange, older boys arrived on the scene.  I tried to get her interested in the swings but she was interested in the strange, older boys.  Great.  I watched her like a hawk as she went up the ladder and down the slide and then suddenly she stopped.  Right as the words, “Oh, no!  I’m goin’ pee-pee!” were coming out of her mouth, I saw the horseshoe of urine darkening her pants.  Damn!  I removed her from the play structure and brought her into the creepy, concrete bathroom.  It was then that I remembered my reckless decision to remove the spare pants from my purse.  Oh, well.  I’ll just carry her, naked-bottomed, to the car.  I’ll crank the heat, put my jacket on her lap and get her home.  Oh, no, no, no.  The pants were removed and then she took off like a shot for the play structure.  Apparently she thought she might be able to continue playing, sans pants.  And she stuck to her naked guns on this for quite some time.  I had to drag her out of the park, kicking and screaming, past the weird kids and a very disturbing Vietnam vet who materialized out of the bushes to see what the fuss was about.  Once I got her into the car I tried to explain that it wasn’t anybody’s fault and that it was really too bad but that she didn’t make it to the bathroom in time and we needed to leave.  Through huge sobs and gasping for air she managed, “But I was really close to making it in time and I want to play for 5 more minutes!”  I wanted very, very badly to say, “Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Kid.”  But I didn’t think it would help the situation very much so I resisted the urge.

So once again, spare pants are collecting lint on the bottom of my purse and once again, I am swearing off of parks.  Like the plague that I know them to be.

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Raffi

I’m confused.  How in the name of Greg/Sam, Anthony, Murray, and Jeff has my child been exposed to the likes of Raffi without my consent or knowledge?  Prior to this week I was vaguely aware of Raffi’s existence but did not know anything about him.  I had heard of the song, “Baby Beluga” but did not know the tune nor did I care to.  Imagine my surprise when my kid picks up a Raffi concert DVD at the library and says, “Let’s get this ‘Waffy’ movie, Mom!”.  I added it to our pile of goods and didn’t think much of it until last night when she asked to watch it.  I put the DVD on and went back to my magazine.  Sweet Jesus!  What the hell is going on here?  I can appreciate that the music is positive and soothing but all of the children in the crowd seem to be drugged and why in God’s name are they all wearing pinafores and/or suspenders?  Is this the 1980s or the 1880s?

I decided to do some research.  Okay fine, I Googled him while eating an english muffin…  He appears to be a doe-eyed Armenian man with a penchant for using a banana as a telephone.  And the kids eat it up with a spoon!  I had seen his picture before but I think I had mistaken him for the prop comic Gallagher.  Without the hair, there is a resemblance.  And I think they both wear black, pleated pants.  So in that way, he also resembles Paula Poundstone.  Which would be Strike Two for Raffi.  If anybody’s keeping track, the Banana Phone was Strike One.

So, I still don’t know how the hell my daughter knew about Raffi if I didn’t.  We spend all of our time together and she only started Preschool last week.  My sister suggested that there may have been some playground peer pressure at work and that Raffi is only the beginning.  That terrifies me.  If Raffi is the gateway drug to Hannah Montana, please bogart that Banana Phone.  If you see me or mine on the playground, don’t pass it over to us.  We don’t want a hit.

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feature_4-seasons

Hide in the bathroom
The only peace to be found
Three-year olds are loud

Where did your pants go?
We can’t leave the house naked
Stop touching your butt

Sleep is for children
Mothers fold clothes and worry
Will sleep come again?

The preschool bully
Brown pigtails and shiny shoes
Her mom is mean too

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Mr. PeanutMy daughter is starting preschool on Tuesday and there are lots and lots of forms to fill out, lists to read and agreements to sign and date.  Most of them seem to pertain to peanut allergies and my rights and responsibilities in regards to them.  While I, like any good and decent American, am vehemently opposed to school segregation in general I am starting to wonder if these peanut allergy kids might not enjoy their own little peanut-free schools.  Because what in holy hell am I gonna put in that lunch box on Tuesday?  Preschool without peanut butter and jelly?!  I don’t know about this…

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images-2

Driving in the car today my daughter said, “Ya…  Ya… Unibrow starts with a Y!  Like YOU!”

Note to self: Time for an eyebrow appointment…

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imagesSo, it turns out 3-year olds aren’t all that great at keeping birthday secrets.  In my attempt to include A in her dad’s birthday plans, I let her help me pick out his presents this year.  Now she keeps saying, “I can’t tell you what I’m givin’ you for your buthday, Daddy.  ‘Cause it’s a WEALLY big SUPWISE!”  And then she proceeds to tell him exactly what he’s getting, in great detail.  But I don’t think he minds.  As for the fact that she’s insisting on Diego being on top of his birthday cake?  Well, that might be the true surprise…

2432557940_81ddaea4f1What she’s hoping for… Not gonna happen.

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