Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Chaos, Criminal Minds, Dessert, family, kids, Recipe
Hi. Long time, no see. You may have been wondering where I have been for the past several months. In short, I was busy. The long story, I was busy with the following:
Filed under: Family | Tags: Alice in Wonderland, family, imagine, impossible, kids
“Sometimes I have believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast,” Lewis Carroll from Alice in Wonderland
I have always loved Alice in Wonderland; the zany and mad tale of a girl lost in a land that revels in the absurd. I, for one, think the absurd is far too underrated and often amuse myself by thinking of absurd things all day long. For example, when my daughter made the rule that we must dress as our favorite princess for Halloween I reveled in the idea of putting my six foot four husband in a sparkly blue Cinderella dress. (I still maintain that he would look fantastic; blue is his color after all.) I have a month to make it happen.
This got me to thinking though, what impossible things could I believe before breakfast? Or better yet, what impossible things do I wish I could do? Here is my list:
- I would invent and utilize the morning machine as seen on the Jetsons. You know the one; simply hop on the conveyor belt on one end and arrive on the other dressed and ready with a cup of hot coffee in hand. It would make mornings in my house a much more pleasant experience.
I wish it were this easy.
- I would have a chat with my great-grandpa Pop O’Brien; my dad’s grandfather. He died when I was little and the stories I have heard about him over the years has elevated him to superhero status in my mind. An Irish immigrant, he came over at a time when the Irish weren’t very popular and managed to raise some of the coolest people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. (Including my saucy and fun grandma.) I wonder sometimes, though, what it would be like to talk to him as an adult. To get a true sense of who he was outside of the myth.
- To that end, I would also have a chat with my Great Grandma “Happy”; who died the year I was born. How cool is the nickname Grandma Happy? Although later I learned she was named after the dog… a little less cool now that I think about it. I know she too would have amazing stories to tell me, as a Mexican immigrant in a small town. Her husband left her soon after they immigrated, with thirteen children and not even a basic understanding of the English language. I would like to thank her for raising an amazing woman in my grandmother; who has taught me everything I know about hard work and determination. (Basically, she is the person who taught me how to be a stubborn steam-roller. Blame her.) Really, there are so many in my family that have come and gone that I would like to talk to as an adult. My grandpa Elmer Everett, or Mac as everyone called him; what would he have thought of my kids? I think he would have appreciated his little namesake, Madison Everett; the one who thinks we all need to dress as princesses. These are the people that have shaped our family and in turn made me… well me.
It looks like Grandpa Mac liked the absurd too, at least I hope that is what this picture is about.
- For this impossible coffee talk with my ancestors I would invent a magical chocolate chip cookie that tastes fantastic, clears up your skin and helps you lose weight (and does not involve ex-lax as an ingredient.) If I am going to dream the impossible I may as well dream big.
- I would find a magic bottle (labeled drink me of course) that would keep my babies young, happy and healthy. Then I would need a tea cake (this one labeled eat me, duh) that would help me raise well adjusted, smart and successful adults. Between the two we could revel in the best that life has to offer; the joys of being a young parent with the satisfaction of seeing your kids grow up with none of the messy heartache in between.
- Oh, and I would solve that whole world peace thing too. I mean dream big or not at all.
It dawns on me now; I think I can believe these impossible things. Well maybe not the Jetson machine or the magic cookies. But I can meet my great-grandparent through conversations with the family I have now. I can learn about them through the stories that I wasn’t quite old enough to hear as a little kid, I only have to ask. I can freeze time for my kids by writing down all of these little stories and antics now so I can share with them as they grow older. This idea seems all the more poignant this morning as learned that my dear friend has lost her grandmother last night. I can believe in at least three impossible things before breakfast, I simply must take the time to do so. Because time, as my friend can attest, runs out before you know it.
So the time has come, as I must say, to talk of many things. Not shoes and ships and sealing wax, but family and kids, fiction and facts… and because we are Irish, cabbages and kings.
Today is the first day of school. For the first time in her short life, I put my little girl on a bus and sent her off to school; by herself. No walking her into class, no helping her hang her coat up and no last kiss before she sat down. Needless to say I am a bit of a wreck. I think the best way to describe this feeling is through a story. (I am Irish after all.)
This story begins when I was five. I had an imaginary friend, Snoopy. He was my playmate and confidant, my partner in crime and the dog I didn’t have; even if no one else could see him. I always knew he was there. Snoopy scared away the monsters under the bed at night and woke me up in the morning so I wouldn’t miss a moment of playtime. He was my best friend.
On the first day of school in little Atchison, Kansas I woke up with Snoopy. I got dressed and ate breakfast. Backpack in hand I walked out the door and began my two block walk to school with mom looking on from the sidewalk. Two houses away I turned around and yelled at the thin air, “Go home Snoopy. You can’t come with me to school. Go home.” My mom sat on the front porch and cried; that was the last we saw of Snoopy.
Growing up I had heard this story a lot. For me it was a funny story about my cute quirkiness as I ventured off into the world of school. Now, as a parent I realize that this story means so much more. What I left behind on that sidewalk so many years ago was not just my imaginary friend, it was the first little bit of the complete innocence of youth. It was the last moment that my parents would be my entire world. It was the last moment that pure fantasy and imagination would be as real to me as ground beneath my feet. What I left behind was just the first of many moments leading me to this moment now, a grown-up with kids of my own.
Today my daughter starts kindergarten. She will go off into the world, armed with the values and confidence that I hope that I have taught her (and will continue to teach her), but for 7 hours a day she will go without me. This is a good thing, a wonderful first. It will be followed by new friends and first sleepovers. The first time she gets in an argument with a friend, the first time she realizes what a BEST friend is and the first time she thinks that her parents just don’t “get” her are all around the corner. These and all of the tiny little moments of childhood that will shape her into what I hope will be a strong, confident and happy person; these moments make up a wonderful life. This is what every parent wants.
But today, standing on the bus stop as my daughter drove away I realize that she leaves behind a tiny kernel of her childhood with me. On the walk home I thought about all of her firsts, her first real word (Dodo, for dog. Okay, it is only kind of a real word but we knew what she meant.) Her first ride on an airplane, trick-or-treating for the first time, her first trip to see Santa… all of these firsts came with me at her side. Today she starts a world of firsts without me. Today I really understand why my mother cried over an imaginary dog that ran away and never came home. Today for the first time in almost thirty years I want to stand on the front porch and yell, Come home Snoopy. Come home. I could really use an old friend, even if he is just in my imagination.
I have heard it said that you get the child you deserve. After a day like today I think I tend to agree. It started with my typical foray into my daughter’s room to get her going for the day. It had been a few days since I had taken a really good look at the place. The middle of the room looked clean enough, but lurking under the bed and tucked in corners was all of the remnants of a few days worth of play. No big deal, right. Just a few minutes worth of tidying would wrap it up and we could begin our day. Behold some of the fights conversations from our four hours of cleaning.
Let me preface these conversations with a few facts about me as a child. I was a master negotiator. I think I learned early on that a reward today was much sweeter than the promise of a bigger payoff tomorrow, especially if your parents forgot and you could finagle double the payday. This was good for postponed bedtimes, procrastinated chores and plenty of five more minutes. I also believed that it was much more cost effective to persuade my siblings to pick up my slack than it was for me to put forth the effort myself. What can I say, I am a natural leader.
That said, I usually make my kiddo clean up most of her room by herself, even though it would be way more efficient if I helped her. I figured if she can make the mess she can clean it up. A logical thought that usually goes out the window about an hour in since logic and five year olds are often like oil and water.
Before she had even begun I heard, “Mom, how about I watch a few minutes of Sprout and then clean my room.” No, Madison. Didn’t you just tell me that you learned on Sprout that you have to clean up your messes? “Yes, but I think I need to learn more about it so I will just watch a few more minutes.”
Go clean, Madison.
Then she came up with, “Mom, how about I surprise you with my room. I will just close the door and you can wait and see what happens.” She is a tricky one, isn’t she? I told her I would be just as surprised if she cleaned her room with the door open. (Or at all.)
GO clean, Madison.
Next I hear, “I am just going to go outside to play with the dogs for a few minutes.” No, Madison we have to clean up BEFORE we get to play. “No, no… did I say play with the dogs? I meant I need to go outside and take care of the dogs. It is not playing, I am helping.”
GO CLEAN, Madison.
Then I get the lecture that Jack doesn’t have to clean his room, because he is a baby. Yes, Maddie, I know. (I have a feeling poor Jack is going to be subject to a lot of Madison’s “leadership” as well.) But Jack also doesn’t make the messes that she makes. He doesn’t have the same amount of toys that she does either. This launches a spirited debate on why Jack needs books if he can’t read. (Neither can she.) Or why her old baby books should live in Jack’s room. (Yes Jack can share them with you, but no you do not need anything else in your room.) And finally, why they are called baby books if they are not made out of babies… I am not even sure where this one came from, but we will just ignore it.
GO CLEAN MADISON!
It is about this point that I start to lose my patience. The project has already taken 45 minutes longer than it should have and we haven’t even started yet. That is when I tell Madison that if she doesn’t get in there and pick up her stuff I am going to go in her room and clean it with a trash bag… and she won’t like the results. It is at this moment that I realize I have repeated something my mother would say to us as kids, verbatim. I head to the kitchen to pour another cup of coffee and seriously consider adding equal parts Jameson to the mug, but I opted for chocolate instead since my perception of clean is directly proportional to the level of alcohol in my system. (The proof of this is in the infamous Thanksgiving incident of 1998; but that is another story I think may have already blabbed on this blog.)
Properly chocolate-ly medicated I head back to Madison’s room, ready to help her tackle the mess. At this point I catch her in the cubby hole under her bed (it is a half-bunk… I don’t really make my kid play under a regular sized bed, at least not yet.) She had dumped her entire crayon box and approximately 25 sheets of paper under there. She had also managed to smuggle in a pair of scissors from the kitchen drawer and was happily cutting said paper oblivious to the angry mommy behind her. Once she realized I was there (and after she jumped a mile) she realized her only option was to cry, a dumb negotiating move if you ask me. Although my husband was quick to point out that I have been known to use the same technique to try to weep my way out of a ticket or two.
The tears did not have the desired effect on me, however. All it prompted from me was the urge to pile all of her mess into one big pile in the middle of the room. A move also made famous by my mom, which prompted another needed dose of my chocolate “medication” to help me cope with the fact that despite my best efforts I am turning into my mother. Madison’s room now looked like a cross between a deranged fraternity party and a ticker tape parade.
All told, it would take a few more hours and at least eight “how about’s” from Madison, trying to negotiate a lighter sentence than the few minutes it would take to finish. After seven more, GO CLEAN MADISON’s and five more pieces of chocolate we finally finished cleaning her room. Now it is time to tackle the laundry. (sigh) Pass the chocolate… and the Jameson. If I can’t clean ‘em, join ‘em.
It happens to me all of the time. That “Oh Duh” moment when I see a product that is destined to make my life so much easier; a product that I totally should have thought of myself. I am not talking about huge technological leaps that better mankind for decades to come. I don’t have any allusions that I could have invented the I-pad or put together Facebook. I know as much about computer programing that my grandma does, and since she doesn’t even own a computer that is saying a lot.
I know the odds of me being the next Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg are about the same as me winning the next multimillion Powerball drawing (with the same monetary rewards I would imagine) and I am okay with it. What makes me crazy though, are those products that I run across out in the world that I totally could have come up with… and didn’t. The products that I am sure have made their inventors a small fortune despite their simplicity. Most of them seem to be products for my kiddos, and area in which I seem to drop a lot of cash. (I am a sucker, what can I say.)
The first one that comes to mind is the “Little Taggies” blankets. My daughter is what you would call a tag aficionado. She samples tags the way a sommelier samples a fine wine, and like a sommelier has an unique nose for determining only the best tags. We have carried around blankets, dolls and even washcloths based on their special tags; a blend of softness, silkiness and thickness all adding to the delicate balance that makes the PERFECT tag. So when I discovered the “Little Taggies” blankets I had to ask myself, why didn’t I think of that?!
Oh the tag heaven...
After having Jack, I have been introduced to a whole new world of creative and yet simple products. I must admit that when I saw “Sock Ons” for the first time I was a little peeved. They are just little pieces of stretchy fabric that fit over a baby’s foot and prevent those little baby socks from falling off. Until I saw these I was convinced that baby feet and baby socks had magnetic properties, but with different polarities destined to repel each other for eternity. (I am the daughter of a science teacher, nerdy science references are par for the course.)
Inevitably the socks always fall off in the middle of the grocery store or the parking lot of the mall, and only noticed twenty minutes after they are gone and never to be found again. My friend, Liz, gave me a couple of pairs of “Sock Ons” when I had the baby and we haven’t lost a sock yet. Well, we haven’t lost a sock in public… I am convinced the dryer has eaten a pair or two. I chalk it up to the price you must pay to the dryer gods to keep everything in working order, similar to the sacrifices of my Aztec ancestors but far less gory and gross. I imagine that my sacrifice of a sock or two prevents the dryer gods from shrinking my jeans or stretching my sweaters; totally worth it.
So simple, so perfect and so not my idea.
Finally, my pediatrician introduced me to “Wubbanubs” a brilliantly cute way to help keep a pacifier in your little baby’s mouth. It is a small stuffed animal with a pacifier attached to the end. Basically it can rest on baby’s chest or next to him in the car seat and it provides just enough support to keep the pacifier in when the baby starts to drift off, but not so much that the baby can choke. Not to mention that they are SUPER cute, I can picture this becoming Jack’s lovey as he gets a little bigger. And the technical know-how required to invent this miracle product? A pacifier, a small stuffed animal and a glue gun. No engineer required.
Seriously?! It is so cute it almost makes me want to take up a pacifier...
Although mine will be dipped in bourbon.
So now I have a new retirement plan. For the next month or two I am going to walk around the house armed with a glue gun and some creativity. My house has no shortage of little irksome problems just waiting for someone with the next big idea to miraculously come up with a wonder product to fix it. There is a whole “As Seen on TV” market dedicated to these BRILLIANT ideas, although I think every idea looks a little more brilliant at three in the morning. Lets face it the target viewership is people who are up with a crying baby who won’t sleep (trust me we are not in our right minds in this scenario) or people who are up due to some liquid encouragement. (I have also been the person up at this hour, after a couple of bottles of wine and a party pizza you really want a knife that can cut through a tomato AND a tin can.)
Now I just need to find a problem and solve it in a brilliantly simple manner. Maybe I can invent an alarm for hidden sippy cups that still have milk in them. Trust me, you want to find those in a timely manner. Or maybe it will be the automatic toilet paper changer, since I seem to be the only person in the house properly trained to perform this duty. I would tackle the whole missing sock in the laundry conundrum, but I don’t want to anger the dryer gods. There are some things that aren’t the risk.
I sometimes wonder how the world looks to my daughter. Simple things I take for granted she is trying to figure out on a daily basis. Even things as mundane as the syntax of a phrase can take on a whole new light through her eyes. For example, she had a really hard time understanding why we had to take a bath BEFORE we went to a baby shower. After all, we were going to a shower! I had to giggle at the type of party she thought we were going to.
She was watching television with my husband when an ad for a UFC fight came on. (I am not sure what they were watching come to think of it, since this commercial hardly seems child friendly. Water under the bridge I suppose.) She looked at Greg and asked him why the two men were mad at each other and was shocked to find they weren’t. “Then why are they fighting with each other?” she asked.
“That is just what they do honey, they get paid for it.” he replied. (Not sure I like the idea that he put this thought in her head… that she can make a living punching people, but again I will pick my battles.)
“Then why are they naked?” she asked. “Do they have to be naked to fight?” To be fair, the gentleman were wearing shorts but to my five year old shirtless means naked. Greg’s jaw just kind of hung open for a minute before he told her to come ask me. I changed the subject. Some questions are better off brushed under the table. Again, I pictured what must be running through her head. Men who must be naked but aren’t angry at each other get paid to punch each other while people watch. When you put it that way it does sound a bit insane.
This week though, we caught a rare glimpse into how her little mind works. She took my husband to VIP day at school and presented him with a picture she drew just for him. Along side it was a verbatim translation of who her father is to her; penned by her teachers straight from the horse’s mouth.
My husband, as drawn by my daughter. I assure you his hair is not multicolored.
The caption reads: “This is my dad. His name is Gregory. He looks like a big giant but he is actually 30. In the spring we go fishing. My dad likes to eat crab and sometimes he drinks water and sometimes he drinks iced tea. He likes to watch deer hunting. Sometimes we go to the grocery store we have lunch and breakfast. When my mom is at the hospital he tucks me in. My dad loves me as all the stars in the sky and I love him more than all the houses”
You see every night when we put her to bed we have the same ritual. We say, I love you all the way to moon and back or I love you more than all the stars in the sky. She replies with the largest thing that she can think of, like all of the butterflies on the planet, all the leaves on the trees or all of the houses in the world. We play this game a couple of times; adding all the fish in the sea or all the flowers in world before we kiss her good night.
I may not always know what she is thinking nor do we always do the best job of explaining the weird quirks in life, like a shower without water or two naked men fighting for no reason. At the end of the day though, she has picked up on something absolutely true. We do love her more than all the stars in the sky and we would go all the way to the moon and back for her. This she knows for sure.
I have run into a conundrum and I am turning to the internet to gather my thoughts.My four year old has become slightly obsessed with death. You heard me correctly, my darling cherubic daughter has become a burgeoning Wednesday Adams. I am not sure what to do.
It started innocently enough, with Disney; some of the Disney Princess movies to be precise. I guess I never noticed this, but there is a lot of death in fairy tales. Many of the princesses are missing a mother or a father or both. The movies gloss over this morbid fact, but from Tiana in the Princess and the Frog to Snow White, it is not uncommon for one of these heroines to live without at least one parent. I guess I understand this, without a missing mom you can never have an evil stepmother which is a catalyst for many of the stories. I mean, what would Cinderella be without her horrible stepmother? I learned from watching Tangled with Maddie that I would much rather have the villain be a stepmother than an actual mother. (That opened up a whole other issue. Madison STILL calls me MUDDER when she is displeased with me, in her best Rapunzel voice.)
In addition to the death of parents Maddie also was influenced by a term she made up called deaded, another something she learned from these movies. “I’m deaded,” she says and then flops to the ground awaiting a kiss. Two of her favorites, Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, both fall under a curse and slip into… well I guess they are in a coma? Huh, never really thought about that either. It is deeper than a sleep, but not quite dead and quite confusing for a four year old. And all these beautiful princesses need to be revived is a kiss from her true love; simple right?
Simple until you lose a couple of fish… and mommy doesn’t want to kiss them. I don’t know which would have been more traumatic, watching mommy make out with a dead beta fish or seeing that mommy’s kiss isn’t as magical as she has sold it to be. Added to the mix, is an avid hunter for a daddy. A daddy who thinks nothing of calling us out to take picture with his latest kill, smiling proudly with a dead duck, buck or turkey. It takes some getting used to. (I revert to my mantra… find a happy place find a happy place. I am not quite altogether used to it.) The first time Madison witness one of Daddy’s deer she asked him to fix it. So between a liar for a mommy (no magical kisses) and a killer for a daddy (he has an entire photo album devoted to his conquests) we have unintentionally scarred our child for life.
So began the questions. “Why do fish die?” Hmmm, it is just a part a life and it is sad but your fish is in heaven now. “Do people die?” Well, everyone dies honey, but don’t worry. Most people don’t die until they are very old. “So when is great-grandma Kate going to die? She is old.” That question I side stepped with candy.Don’t judge, you would have done the same thing.
Yesterday, while sitting on the toilet, she asked when she is going to die. After a momentary thought that my child was the reincarnated Elvis (she really really likes music and swaying her hips AND peanut butter) I stammered out why? She looked at me like it was a ridiculous question. “I just want to know, if everyone dies…” she let the thought trail off. I told her not for a long time I hope. I told her that mommy and daddy would really miss her. All the while I am panicking, WHY does my kid keep asking me this question? Then she says, “Well, I want to know about heaven.”
Heaven, I think I can handle. I mean, it’s paradise right? So how hard can that be to explain to a four year old? Apparently very. I started off saying that heaven was a place filled with happiness and love. It was everything that she could ever want it to be. Seemingly satisfied she went off to play for a bit. She came back a few minutes later with her swimming suit.
“Mom, tomorrow we need to go to heaven to swim in the pool.”
What?
Looking annoyed she said, “Well you said heaven could be anything I want it to be. I want it to be a big swimming pool. Can we go tomorrow?”
So, to my four year old daughter, heaven is a swimming pool where her fish and her long passed family all swim together. It’s as good a thought as any I guess.
My Saturday nights used to be very different. As I sit here and write this a flood of memories comes rushing back. It is eleven o’clock on a Saturday and I have been in my pajamas for close to two hours now. There was a time where my evening wouldn’t even begin until eleven on a Saturday. There was a time when, on a whim, we jumped in the car and ended up in Las Vegas—twenty-four hours away. There was another night we talked ourselves into a rooftop party and toasted our slick talking with champagne; on someone else’s dime, because free drinks always taste better.
We stayed up late and we woke up later. We went interesting places and met interesting people; at least they seemed interesting at the time… I have the tendency to make “new best friends” when I drink. We were young and vibrant and each upcoming weekend held the endless promise of a good time (even if they didn’t always end up that way.)
We played kings, we played circle of death and we played quarters; drinking whatever cheap beer was on sale. When we decided that we were too mature to bounce money across the table we switched to a more grown-up game—“drinking” Trivial Pursuit. (The rules are simple, if you miss the pie piece you have to take a shot, if you get it right then everyone else has to take a shot. By the end of the game NO ONE feels smart.)
We were young, we were dumb and we had a lot of fun.
Flash forward several years and now I am sitting on my couch, trying to stay awake past 10:30 on a Saturday night. I spent the evening hanging out with my three year old and my husband; just your typical, ordinary evening. Not that I am complaining, I love my family and I love the time we spend together. Every now and then I am just struck by the contrast in my life as it is now, and how it used to be.
After dinner it was bath time for the monster, but before she could head for the bathroom she had to say goodbye to the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I am sure it makes sense to a three year old. She looked at me and said, “Fie meese turks eesh.” Again, I think it makes sense to a three year old.
“Five means fish eat?” I asked as I helped her into the bathtub.
“No. Fie meese turks eesh,” she repeated.
Now usually she is pretty clear when she talks, and most of the time I can understand her. Even when she is not so clear I can usually speak toddler. But some nights I get a little rusty and tonight was one of those times. Thus started the new game we play on Saturday nights, Toddler Translations.
Fight me, wish heat?
Flies eat goose wheat?
Flight wings with sweets?
“Five means roast beef?” my husband yelled from the kitchen; wishful thinking from Mr. Drive Through Menus on the Brain.
My daughter shot me a look that said, “My parents are idiots” before yelling “NO! FIE MEESE TURKS EESH.”
“Five means twist east?” I asked.
“Yes,” she replied, obviously exhausted by her parents idiocy.
I looked at her trying to find meaning in the phrase, five means twist east. She smiled back at me as if she had just said something completely profound.
It was not the first Saturday night that a half-naked, incoherent person sitting next to me thought they were the next Confucius. I guess the more things change…
The moral of this story is:
Things will change as you start to age
It’s time to let it go, just turn the page.
So although your partying has greatly decreased
You’ll giggle as your toddler says: Five Means Twist East.
I don’t know what it means either. Any ideas?
a life just ordinary 