Negotiating With Terrorists

Once upon a time, there lived a moderately flawed Princess who had an answer to virtually all parenting issues (and pretty much everything else for that matter).  She reigned supreme in her own mental kingdom--slaying bad behavior, sleep issues, and other parenting dilemmas along the way.

Then, one day, the moderately flawed Princess had a little girl.

For a time, the Princess continued to preside over her fictional kingdom.  The Junior Princess, as she shall be known, was a ridiculously easy baby.  There was no colic, there was barely any crying....just lots of sleep, lots of smiles, lots of cuddles.   There were no potty training fights, there were no issues with sharing, there were no public meltdowns.  For three years, the Senior Princess frequently entertained the thought "Wow- I have this parenting thing DOWN."   The Senior Princess dared to think that she just might a very special, very excellent mom.

The Senior Princess was a fool.

Somewhere around the Junior Princess's third birthday, an evil witch spiked the Junior Princess's juice box with a massive quantity of time-released PMS pills.   Since that day, the Senior Princess has regularly been in way over her head---frequently trying to reason with an organism who has the uncanny ability to simultaneously be completely unreasonable, completely hotheaded, and completely bursting with self-righteous indignation (and the vocabulary to match).

This isn't my kind of fairytale.  Life with my 3 year old ain't no joke.

Some days, I get hours and hours of quality time with the sweetest little girl in the world--the girl Little M used to be.  Some days (and today was one of them), I spend hours and hours of time engaged in a losing battle of wits against the world's smallest (and funniest) terrorist.

Little M: 286.   Little Miss Sunshine:0.

We thought that taking Little M ice skating would be a fun activity.  That would be incorrect.  I'm pretty sure I can never again show my face at Ice Line of West Chester.   It was in that Ice Line where I morphed from a reasonably well-adjusted member of society into a stark raving Jerry Springer style loon.

The whole event started off poorly. Her Majesty informed us, and anyone who was willing to listen, that she required her skates to contain flowers, butterflies, and princesses.  I didn't realize that she required a famous-person rider, complete with a list of unreasonable demands.  (For the record, if I'm ever a famous rock star, my rider will demand that my dressing room be fully stocked with Diet Dr. Pepper and Lucky Charm marshmallows, and that all Pepsi products be removed from the premises).  In any event, she was decidedly less than pleased with the black, unisex rental skates she actually received.  Strike 1.

After a 15 minute change of terror, where I feared that my digits would be severed by the flinging blades, we made our way onto the ice.  We completed 2 laps, 3 tops....where she was overconfident in her abilities as a skater, which meant that she was flailing all over the place.  Those might have been the longest 30 minutes of my life---compounded by the fact that we were the parents of the only small child in the place that was sans helmet.  Oops.   She demanded to be taken off the ice.  Strike 2.

It should be noted that today is the husband's birthday, and he took the day off to spend with us.  I imagine that he sorely regrets this decision.  Any sane person would surely prefer a day in the office than waste a vacation day spent with a 3 year old in the throes of terrible, and a wife who (using highly technical terms) lost her mind and her shit in a public place.

Despite the two strikes, I might have been able to be a return customer at Ice Line.  Then it happened.

Her Majesty saw the vending machines that were stocked with Dippin' Dots.   She demanded Dippin' Dots.  I said no.

As a side note, who actually eats Dippin' Dots, anyway?  To me, they look like disgusting ice-cream pellet droppings.

Boys and girls, it all went downhill from there.  The switch was flipped, and all reason went out the window.  She went nuts.  It was epic.  (The husband picked a great time to return the skate-walker.  Lucky him.)

It started with her repeating her demand that I furnish her with Dippin' Dots.  I declined.  She put her hands on her hips, gave me a filthy look and duck lips,  and tapped her foot (while still wearing skates).  She repeated her demand.  I repeated my decline, and this time added, "I don't negotiate with terrorists."

She didn't say a word, but the look in her eyes clearly said "Bitch, you not only negotiate with terrorists, you're going to accommodate them with a smile on your face."  And then she took off, in a full sprint, down the looooooooooooong hallway of Ice Line----while still wearing the rental skates.

For someone who couldn't stay on her feet while on the ice, Little M made a remarkable on-skates sprinter in a public place.  Unlike my daughter, I am a proficient (if by no means good) ice skater, but a total crap skate- runner.  I chased her, as fast as I could without biting it in humiliating fashion, pleading (and by that, I mean screaming) for her to "Come back here....NOW.  Get back here...RIGHT NOW, GOD DAMMIT.  You're going to time out...FOREVER!!!  STOP!!!!!!!!!!  GET BACK HEERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRE, DAMMIT.  YOU BETTER HOPE THAT I DON'T CATCH YOU BECAUSE WHEN I DO YOU'RE GOING TO GET IT AND I'M SERIOUS THIS TIME...."

Classy.  Way to exercise virtually no parental control and sound like a whiny (and uncoordinated) idiot---ALL AT THE SAME TIME!

Thankfully, she bit it before I did----right next to the massive trophy case that I am so thankful that we didn't break.  (Don't worry, she wasn't at all hurt, and was still looking at me with her "you and what army, lady?" expression.)

Of course, we had an audience.

I attempt to walk her back to the changing area to return the ugly rental skates and get the hell out of there.  She wasn't really having it, so I'm dragging her by the hood of her jacket while whispering that I will get her a candy bar if we can leave without any further public humiliation.

I am pleased to inform you that we managed to get out of Ice Line without any further dramatic escapades.   She got her frigging candy, and I got 3 minutes of peace.

I shall collect my mother-of-the-year award now, thanks.

For the record, the following picture most adequately captures my plans for the rest of the day.

To being a pint-sized terrorist enabler,

I Heart You, Kelly Clarkson

Kelly Clarkson made me cry twice today.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I don't fully believe it either. I'd be ashamed, but honestly, I'm more flabbergasted than anything else.

I didn't even VOTE for Kelly Clarkson when she was a contestant on American Idol.  I wanted that Justin Guarini kid to win.  I even went through the exercise of dialing in votes (a few million of them, give or take) for Justin Guarini.  I wonder whatever happened to him?

Here I go again....turning my blog into shameful public confessions.  For the record, I'm not talking about the crying part, I'm talking about the part where I admitted to dialing 1-866-JustinG a few million times.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not--and I've never been--much of a crier. I'm German. We don't do that.   I don't cry at weddings, I don't cry at funerals, I don't cry at sad movies.  I've checked and I'm not actually a robot--I do actually bleed when cut, and there is a living, beating human heart somewhere in this body.   As a general rule, it's not a case of what I did not feel, it's a case of what I did not show.  This blog notwithstanding, I'm actually a fiercely private person (if more sensitive than I'd like to admit).

But Kelly Clarkson--- she got me twice today.  TWICE.  Frigging TWICE.

The first time actually wasn't that much of a surprise.  One of the very few things that I am a tear-sucker for is a well-sung national anthem.   I've spent 10 years trying to figure out how to move to London and be a fun expat and yet....I cry at the national anthem.  Go figure.  I actually wear dark sunglasses to all outdoor sporting events--in part because I realize that I am at risk for public displays of emotion if I manage to show up on time, which is rare.  Feel free- mock me now.

Kelly Clarkson: 1.  Little Miss Sunshine's tear parade:  0.  She rocked that national anthem.

The second time was the result of a combined effort by Kelly Clarkson and Little M.  Little M looooooooves Kelly Clarkson.  A while back, Little M truly impressed me with her lyrical analysis of "Mr. Know-It-All".

Little M:  Mommy, are all boys Mr. Know-It-Alls?
LMS:  Um...hate to tell you this, but yeah....pretty much.
Little M: Girls rule and are pretty.  Boys just eat a lot of food.

I love this kid.  This kid is just an explosion of awesome.

If "Name That Tune" were still filming new episodes, Little M would be a formidable contestant.  She can identify "Mr. Know-It-All" within 3 notes or less.

Little M loves to sing.  I'm guessing that she's inherited my musical ability, which is to say none at all, but her highly animated singalongs are things of beauty.

Imagine someone who is three and a half (and three and a half feet tall) singing her heart out-- complete with hands on hips, finger pointing, "talk-to-the-hand" gestures.  Keep in mind that her pronunciation of the "th" sound is, at best, spotty.  Now imagine her highly impassioned little voice belting out "you don't know a 'HAAAAAANNNNNNG about me" while her eyes glimmer with joy and spunk and mischief and she's telling some imaginary boy (or girl, or stuffed animal) which way the wind blows.

I don't have a baby, at least not anymore.  I miss my baby, but I love the spirited, independent, sassy little girl she's become more than words could ever adequately capture.

Kelly Clarkson--you gave my little girl the first song lyrics to which she's ever truly connected.  That's worth a few tears on my part.  If it were 2002 all over again, you'd get my vote this time,

Love, hate and Philly Mag

I have a love-hate relationship with Philly magazine.  Each month when it arrives, I devour it--I get excited to vicariously participate in the adventures of the locally fabulous, and then, just as quickly, become kind of disgusted with myself for buying into the hype.   Call it the locally fabulous hangover, if you will.

I'm starting to believe that I prefer my hangovers to originate from beer and wine, or, at a minimum, from a party to which I was actually invited.  I mean, seriously.  If I'm going to have the hangover, I'd like to have had the fun first.

I realize that the term "locally fabulous", especially as applied to the Philadelphia metro area, is kind of an oxymoron.   It's Philadelphia, for crying out loud, where "fabulous" is often synonymous with "wearing clean sweatpants to the Outback".  Okay, that was mean.  If I'm being slightly more charitable, I'd describe it as a city with a massive runner-up complex, the Jan Brady to New York/LA's Marcia Brady.  I'm speaking on no authority whatsoever, but I'm fairly confident that fabulous in Philly is roughly equivalent to C-list in New York and LA. I'm thinking Kathy Griffin territory, here (who, incidentally, I do think is kind of fabulous)

Before I get lynched by the Philadelphia faithful- I am one of you.  I was born in this area.  I've lived here my entire life- initially by birth, and then consistently reinforced by a series of (some good, some questionable) choices.  I've spent my entire life trying to get out of here, but yet, I've never pulled the trigger.   My relationship with this area is probably the single best illustrative example of a love-hate relationship in my life.  I love the grittiness of this area.  I love the work-a-day, blue collar ethic.  I love the passion.  I love the historical significance.  I love the fact that it's completely okay to throw shit at Santa Claus.  I don't understand cities that don't have such ingrained passion.  There's plenty that I'm not so fond of, too- but I'm afraid of getting my ass kicked, so I'll refrain.  I don't hold up so well in street fights.  My jacked-up nose is evidence of that.

Side note: that statement made me sound much cooler/tougher than I actually am.  I broke my nose in the karate class that my mom made me take for self-defense purposes before heading off to the rough streets of Villanova.  I couldn't block for crap, and, for that matter, couldn't punch either.  After my nose cast was removed (yes, I really had a nose cast, and yes, it was as psychologically damaging to a 17 year old girl as you'd reasonably expect) Mom bought me some pepper spray instead and wished me the best.

Shockingly, I digress.

The point of this rambling is that I take umbrage to the glorification of "fabulousness"-- even if it is graded on a curve for the Philadelphia market.

That sounds harsh.  I know a good number of truly fabulous people in the real world, and these people should be glorified--because their fabulousness is based on actual substance and not relational bullshit.  These people should be considered out of scope from the full scale rant on which I am about to embark.

Who exactly decided that these people were better than anyone else?  Who exactly decided that these were the people who get to choose who is worth knowing and who should be relegated to the sidelines? Who exactly decided that these were the people who would ultimately decide if I'm worth knowing or not?

WTF.  Repeat after me.  WTF.

I read an article in this month's issue that profiled a woman who is apparently the person to know on the Main Line social scene.  I'll admit that I'd love to have a drink with her- she sounds totally amusing--but I surely would not pass muster.  Not the point.   What annoys   enrages me are the methods by which  "fabulous" women earn their titles, and the methods by which this "fabulousness" is repeatedly reinforced---all while reinforcing social stratification.  Awesome.

Apparently, what it takes to be a fabulous woman worth knowing is the following:  Be born white, at least moderately well-connected, and pretty.  Get enough of an education to look good on paper.  Get boob job and whatever other cosmetic procedures are required.   Absolutely, be blonde or get blonde.  Become the second or third wife or a wealthy man considerably older than yourself.  Have at least 2 children, a nutritionist and a personal trainer.  Work the social circuit.  Develop your "brand". Divorce.  Re-brand.  Become queen of a kingdom where who you know is more important than what you are.

And then get usurped by the next big thing in two years.

I have a little girl.   I worry about what she sees.  I worry about she reacts to what she sees.  I worry about how she uses this information to  frame her own definition of a woman of character.  This is not what I want her to see.

Allow me to be a bit more blunt.  I'd rather set fire to my own house while I sit in it than raise a daughter who thinks it's fabulous to be a queen bee (or queen bee lady-in-waiting) in a shallow kingdom that creates and perpetuates its own bullshit-- and expects others to bow to the throne.  I'd also like her to actually ACCOMPLISH something meaningful before she becomes supremely proud of herself.  Maybe that's just me.

This, incidentally, is probably precisely why I'm never going to end up on any Most (fill-in-your-obnoxious-adjective-here) List.  I'm okay with that.

It bothers me enough when I see messages like this in the media, but I find it even more troublesome when I see it in the course of everyday life.  Which I do.  More than I should.  I'd run out of fingers and toes to count on if asked to quantify how many times I've been told in the last year that Mr./Ms. XYZ is awesome, and I should really try to make sure they like me.  That my life would be better if I was deemed worthy by the elite Mr./Ms. Fabulous.

Again, WTF.

Shall I bring my best dress to the cleaners?  Get my makeup done?  Be witty and charming and smart (but not too smart) and say the right things, and only the right things, and pray that I make the cut?  Fail.

Life's not sorority rush-- which, incidentally, I survived in the mid 90s by a mutual choice between me and a group of quality girls that shared core beliefs, if not every opinion.  For the record, it's the lack of mutual choice in these types of setups that have me running for the hills.   I'm too old, too tired, and too time constrained to put myself in situations where my role is to pretty myself up and pray to be chosen-- in a relationship that would likely be unilateral.  Let me get this straight- I am supposed to like you, because you're better than me, and I should just reallyreallyreally hope that you like me?

I'm packing up my ball and going home, kids.  I'm not playing....at least not anymore.  I spent too many years trying to be the version of me that I thought was most suitable for mass consumption--only to realize that I no longer consistently realized who I was.  I have a little girl who watches my every move- this crap doesn't fly.  I have a masters degree, a respectable job, and a lot of opinions (!!), but none of this matters if I can't show my daughter that if you don't love and respect yourself, you can't really love or respect anyone else.

I think it was the great poet Jewel (ha!!  please kill me) who said something along the lines of "people living their lives on TV.  They say they're better than you, and you agree."  You may say you're better than me.  I don't agree- at least not until you get to know me, and I get to know you, and we can actually make some sort of informed decision.

Rant over.   Next time, I'll be less serious, i promise.

No silence, no consent,

Brothers and Sisters

The thing about Facebook is that it can artificially inflate your self-confidence.   This surely is a totally stunning confession to you all, but I'm more than a bit snarky by nature.  I'm also raising a promising mini-snark, and the 2x snarky multiple in my house has provided me with ample raw material for Facebook fodder over the years.  I have a keen eye for the utterly ridiculous, which also has served me well.  A sharp eye plus a wicked pen--I'll admit that some days, that allows me to come up with some pretty witty and even some highly amusing crap.

What remains shocking to me is that some very kind-hearted people actually publicly admitted to liking my charming anecdotes, which typically involve a semi-profane musings from a 75% profane 3 year old.   Damn you, Facebook.  You made me believe that I was funny and witty and had some sort of uniquely entertaining worldview.

Here's the thing.  ANYBODY can be funny in 4 sentence clips posted at thrice-weekly intervals-- especially when you're surrounded by a highly entertaining supporting cast.   I know this now.  I'm not special.  Damn you, Facebook, for allowing me to be so self-indulgent as to believe that I was special.

I am so much cooler on Facebook than I am in real life.  Please all, let's take a moment and reflect on just how very pathetic that is.

How do I know this, you ask?  I know this because (DRUMROLL........) I mistakenly thought in a beer-and-Beyonce filled haze, that if I was funny on Facebook, I'd be even funnier in a blog.  Riiiiiiiiight.  It took less than 3 weeks for me to realize that I don't have all that much that is interesting to say, especially when I write in paragraphs as opposed to in phrases.  Maybe Twitter is my medium---I'd surely seem like a comedic genius when limited to 140 characters or less.

I've been radio silent for the better part of the last week because, frankly, I've had nothing particularly interesting to share.  Let's summarize my accomplishments of the last week:

1.  I went to work.  And then I went to work again.  And again.  And again.  I'm pretty sure I spent most of my time there acquiring new work and little time actually completing the work that I already had; thus, finishing the week behind where I started.  Again. 

2.  I made chocolate chip cookie dough (and subsequently burnt some cookies) with Little M.   We sang the "Mixing Song" while making the dough.  For those who are interested, the "Mixing Song" involves singing the word "mix" over and over again to the tune of "Jingle Bells."  I'm a thrill a minute, I tell you.

3.  I got really excited about my purchase of KABOOM! and how shiny it made all of the chrome in my sinks and tubs.  I'm still kind of excited about that, actually.  I heard about KABOOM! on either an informercial or a regular commercial late at night, and I will say, it performs as advertised.  I'm obsessive (shocker) about shiny chrome, and KABOOM! truly delivers.  KABOOM!

4. I got to spent time with my best friend, where I (a) turned myself into a wine bag, (b) got a hangover that was totally unsuitable for someone who answers to the name of "Mom" and (c) took a class called "Core Fusion" (while nursing my wine hangover) where I humiliated myself in a room full of highly fit people.  Allow me to elaborate- I'm in pretty decent shape for a middle-aged woman (thank you P90x and Insanity), but (as one of my trainers once told me), I'm about as flexible as your average senior citizen and (as my dad routinely informs me) as graceful as your average ruptured duck.  Core Fusion involves a ballet barre.  Imagine an interpretative dance performed by the spawn of the Loch Ness Monster and a river otter and you have the general idea.  

5.  Oh yeah, and I went grocery shopping.  With child.  On the weekend using one of those carts that have a car attached to the front of it.  Repeat after me- never.frigging.again.

So, now you know why you haven't heard from me.  Feel free to thank me now.

On the upside, I did get to spend time this weekend with both my brother....and my sister.  Good stuff.  The two of them remind me how fortunate I am to have a family that takes me in when I don't always deserve it, that puts up with my crap, and that loves me, without condition, when I am spectacularly imperfect.  Sometimes, biology makes a family. Sometimes, choice makes a family.  Always, love makes a family.  I'm a lucky girl.

My brother and I have the same mom and dad.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I either look so much alike we could be twins or we look virtually nothing alike.  Depending on who you ask, my brother and I are so much alike, it's eerie or we are polar opposites.  In point of fact, my brother and I are flip sides of a coin---a little different, but totally complementary. Interdependent.  We are for each other.    We've both gone through life saying that we were 5 years apart in age --but we're actually less than 4 and a half years apart (we're not completely stupid- we were 5 years apart in school and were born in calendar years that are 5 years apart).   My brother was the "cute" one and I was the "smart" one, but somewhere along the way, we realized that my brother is crazy smart and I can be kind of cute in good lighting.  

My brother and I can fight (and have fought) like cats and dogs---but if anyone screws with my baby brother, I would knock their lights out first and ask questions later.  If not for growing up in the same house, my brother and I probably would not have been friends, partially due to the age difference and partially due to the fact that we're enough alike that we'd get on each other's nerves.  I'm so thankful for the shared DNA--there are a good number of times that my brother is the only one able to talk me off the ledge.  My brother's life has been far from easy--far more difficult than mine--but he's lived it anyway, and he's lived it with a grace and a tenacity I'm not sure I could muster.  I may be older, but I love looking up to my little brother.  There's no one on this planet who can press my buttons like my brother can, and no one who I'd rather share DNA with.  Go figure.  Baby Brother C- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and so proud to be your sister.

My sister and I have different parents and live in different states.  We share few physical features, unless you count us being the exact same height (midway between dwarf and average) and freakishly small fingers (how many adults can possibly have a size 4 ring finger?)  I'd say we were alike in all the ways that count, but that would be unfair to her and grossly inflating me.  We are, however, for each other.  

My sister is the most beautiful person I've ever met in real life...inside and out.  She's brave and outspoken and open-minded and listens with open ears and an open heart.  She does not judge (unless it's truly bad fashion, and it's always justified).  Like my biological brother, her life hasn't been easy, but she lived it anyway, and with grace and tenacity that I doubt I could muster (sound familiar?)  I was (obviously) alive when I met her, but my sister is the one who taught me to live...taught me to get a life.  She is my single greatest influence.   Little M has not been baptized in a church, but there was only one person that I'd want to be her (fairy) godmother.  My sister.  Sister J- I don't tell you nearly enough, but I am so lucky and proud to be your sister.  

Here's to my siblings- to the family I was lucky enough to be born into, and to the family that I was smart enough to choose.  Oneword. Love.

I'm a lucky girl,

Little Miss Sunshine

Me and my (little) M

Dear Little M,

It's time that old mom let you in on a little, tiny, itty-bitty secret.  Every word on these pages--every last one--is about you.  Every word on these pages- every last one- is for you.

You'll see in life, if you haven't already, that some people are remarkably articulate.  That some people are remarkably insightful.  That some people are remarkably funny.  That some people will stop traffic and that some people will light up an entire room with their smile and their charm.

Lucky you, little girl.  You are all of these things.

Unlucky you, little girl.  Your mom is none of these things.  If Bridget Jones were a real person, she'd look and sound eerily like old mom with an American accent---right down to the public humiliation on the local news.

(Side note:  if, in 20 years, you are ever convinced by your friend to attend an event called "Dateless and Desperate" at an Irish pub on Valentine's Day, scan the room for camera crews before being a drunk participant in the drunk version of "The Dating Game."  Trust me on this one.  You'd be stunned how many people watch the 11:00 news on Valentine's Day.  I'm just saying.)

The fact of the matter, little girl, is that your mom is probably best served on paper.  It's on paper that I'll come up with semi-profound thoughts, zippy comebacks and some well-timed one-liners.  In real life....well, in real life, I come up with zippy comebacks about 10 seconds too late and usually share my semi-profound thoughts with complete strangers and dogs.   Don't ask.  I will, however, have you know that if real life came with pause and rewind buttons, your mom could kick some serious ass.

I do know that you deserve the best of me, and if the best of me is on paper, so be it.  It's better than nothing.  Maybe someday, you will stumble across this blog, and realize that your mom was periodically struck with articulate thought.

Little M---If every child in the world was assembled in one line, and I was allowed to select the children I wanted,  I'd pick you...every single time.  I wish I could pass along my wisdom to you, but (a) I'm not sure I have any to share and (b) you have the right to find your own wisdom, at your own pace.  I know you'll be wise, little girl.  You're mine, after all.

Cheers to my three-and-a-half foot hero,

Little Miss Sunshine

Time Out. Who Knew?

Had I known that time outs were so blissfully awesome, I wouldn't have been doling them out like they were candy for the last few years.  I clearly need a new disciplinary tactic---one with some teeth.

Why the change of heart, you ask?

Because my time out is the closest thing that I've had to a true vacation in 3 years, 6 months and 1 day (not that I'm counting or anything).

I've (only somewhat jokingly) maintained for years that my fantasy is 2 nights in the Holiday Inn down the street--by myself.  I can barely imagine how great it would feel to be in a bed, by myself, with no diaper-wearing footballs, sponge bob cast members, boppy pillows, Disney Princesses named Chuck, beach towels, abandoned throw pillows, rogue puzzle pieces or a restless-legged 3 year old who snores like a 747 at takeoff.    To be able to pee---uninterrupted.  To be able to read a book that doesn't feature cartoon characters and is not adorned by fossilized yogurt remnants.  To not have to share the marshmallows in the goldfish s'mores.  To not reach into the goldfish bag and find abandoned half-eaten non-marshmallow goldfish that are still slightly soggy.

Someday, somehow....I will live the dream.  Today, however, I got a glimpse---and it was everything I thought it could be.

I've previously mentioned that I find music to be an essential life element, and it's equally important  that I share this passion with Little M.   My girl and I have a sacred Friday morning tradition---the pajama dance party (yes, the "jammy jam") immediately followed by cuddle time on the sofa where we stare into space, and hold hands and analyze song lyrics.  When she looks back on her childhood, I really hope that she fondly remembers our Friday morning girl tradition--or that she hears a song on the radio and is struck with the realization that it was her lame old mom who introduced her to that song.  I know that I'll never forget.

Mothers of sons and fathers of daughters get a special spotlight dance on the wedding day.  Most mothers of daughters...we normally are relegated to playing the role of misty-eyed spectators on the sideline.  On little M's wedding day, I hope she and I can reenact one of our Friday morning dance parties; and that she and I can have a special dance to "our" song.  Yes, we have one.  It's been around for many years- hell, it even predates me--but it was written especially for her.  I'm convinced.

In any case, it was this Friday morning tradition gone slightly awry that landed me in time-out.  Normally, she and I agree on the daily soundtrack, but today, there was no meeting of the minds.  Imagine a bull-headed 36 year old locking horns with an even more bull-headed 3 year old in a spirited Fitz and the Tantrums vs. Radiohead debate.

It's my music library.  I am the DJ.  I retain creative control.  I picked the Tantrums.  In response, Little M was mildly displeased a raging lunatic.  She sprung from the sofa, pointed her finger at me, screamed "Mommy, you are in time-out for 41 minutes", slammed the door and walked out.

A few clarifying items:

(1)   We normally follow a one minute per year of age time out philosophy here.  Little M is due a time out of her own for aging me by 5 years.

(2)  All of her time outs to date have taken place on a staircase.

With these clarifying items in mind, I will admit that I am so grateful that Little M is not a time-out enforcement purist.  If she were, I never would have my glimpse into the dream.

After the initial shock of being punished by a 3 year old wore off, I glanced around the room.  The room where I was the sole occupant.  With a TV.  And my entire music library.  And a half-full bag of chex mix.  And a Diet Dr. Pepper.  Is it wrong that I did a little happy dance?   Time-out exile rocks---can I stay for three weeks????

Sadly, I was eligible for early time-out release.  Little M was thirsty.  Goodbye, blissful exile.

If you happen to observe some unusually ornery behavior from me, it's because I'm trying to get sent back to time-out.

41 is the new 36,

Little Miss Sunshine

Love and Basketball

By now, it should be clearly established that it's Little M's world, and she just lets me live in it.  It's one adventure after the next, and the good news is that she allows me to accompany her on these adventures.  Hell, who am I kidding?  She allows me to play chauffeur and to bankroll the advenutres.  It's all good.

Despite being all of 40.75 inches tall, her new obsession is basketball.  (With genes like hers, those quarter inches count, by the way).  Every Saturday after soccer, she wants to play basketball (with her soccer ball).  It's hilarious.  There are a few good traits that she could have inherited from me, but unfortunately for her, it appears that she might have acquired my hand-eye coordination.  Poor kid.

She did, however, LOVE her first ever Sixers game.  In under a minute, she learned that the "green team" (aka Milwaukee Bucks) needed to go home.  She cheered at the right points, quickly adopted the Philly fan arm gestures (limited to the not-obscene ones, thank you very much), and even learned to make a "T" with her hands after a technical.  Thankfully, she was more interested in the actual basketball than by the dance squad, despite her shimmying in her seat--though, unfortunately, she did learn the term "underboob" after the first dance routine.  Incidentally, that was my bad.

Little M's post-game verdict?  In her words, "I love basketball."  Is it possible that we have Best Dressed Tomboy (Junior) in our midst?  Speaking of the clothes, Junior and I were dressed nearly identically today in black skinny cords, striped shirts and boots.  It was an accident- I'm not a fan of dressing my daughter like a mini-me (though it doesn't bother me when other people do it, strangely enough).   We have very different personal styles-  my outfits are generally coordinated and her outfits reflect a ( shall we say) slightly more eclectic style.

Of course, the only reason that we were able to take her to a basketball game on a Monday afternoon is because we had the day off of work for the Martin Luther King holiday.   In my mind, this isn't a "freebie" day off and I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the holiday here, and more importantly, spend time talking about Dr. King and his legacy to Little M (in 3 year old terms, anyway).

I'm thankful that my daughter is growing up in the aftermath of Dr. King's legacy.  It's a better world than I grew up in, and certainly a better world than my parents and grandparents grew up in.  I'd be completely moronic, however, if I didn't freely and publicly acknowledge that there isn't tons of work still left to be done....tons of behaviors and thought patterns still requiring change.

At this point, I've lived a reasonably long time...and not once, has someone deliberately crossed the street to get away from me.  No one has ever locked their car doors while driving through my neighborhood.  No one has cast a suspicious glance at me in a convenience store late at night.  No one has ever suspiciously looked at me while walking to their seat on a plane.  Until the day arrives where these more subtle instances of racism are eradicated--and these behaviors are, unfortunately, pervasive and engrained--there is still much work left to do.

Love knows no color,

Little Miss Sunshine

Letters to Sunshine

Little M is a morning person.  This concept is beyond foreign to me.  I'm reasonably pleasant (pleasant enough, anyway) over the course of the day, but I hate virtually everything about the first hour that I'm awake.  Over the years, I've found that trying to be nice in the first 60 zaps me of energy for the whole of the day, so I pretty much stopped trying.  It's best for everyone that way.

Most adults that I've lived with have learned to ignore me entirely in the morning, or to opt for the oh-so-effective reverse psychology approach.  Want me to be nice in the morning?  Be mean to me.  Works like a charm- I become a fetching, if bedraggled, bundle of sunshine, rainbows, puppies, chirping birds and hearts in no time flat.  I'm still learning how to adapt to the little girl living in my house who is constitutionally unable to sleep past 6 AM---with a mouth that is fully operational from the second her feet hit the floor.

Transcript from this morning, circa 5:45 AM.

Little M (at top of lungs):  WAKE UP, MOMMY!!!!!  IT'S MORNING TIME.
LMS (whining):  whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?
Little M opens LMS's eyelids with her fingers.
Little M (screaming):  MOMMMMMMMMMMMMY!   ARE YOU IN THERE?
LMS:  no.
Little M:  GET UP, MOMMY!  ITS MORNING TIME!
LMS:  (grumbling)  Maybe in France.
Little M:  FEED ME, MOMMY!  I'M HUNGRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!  AND I WANT TO DANCE!

(On a side note, I realize that lots of people like to dance.  Some people are good dancers.  Many people magically become good dancers after 3-12 drinks.  I am none of these people.  There is no simply no quantity of wine in this world that I can consume and subsequently think "Wow, I am a GREAT dancer.")

So, I drag my sorry self out of bed and stumble to the kitchen.  Little M informs me that she wants candy bars and sprinkles for breakfast.  She gets the candy bar.  Note that I am not completely unfit as a mother--about a year ago, I had an "aha!!!" moment and told her that the organic cereal bars that were collecting dust in the pantry and more closely resembled paperweights than breakfast food were actually candy bars.  Anyone who tells her anything to the contrary will have some serious hell to pay.

Anyway, I'm awake, so I may as well write.  Recently, I came across a book entitled "Letters to My Younger Self", which is exactly as it sounds.  I did recently say that a guidebook to life would have been  hugely helpful, and I'm fascinated by and wholly supportive of concept of the It Gets Better Project, so here goes.  With no further ado, please welcome the guidance I wish I received when I was 12, 16, 23, 30 and 36....

Dear Tiny Miss Sunshine,

You spend so much time worrying about how to make yourself the kind of person others like that you're going to lose yourself in the process.  The path to conformity is a dead-end and rigidity is going to be the death of you.  While we're on the topic, stop wasting time:  stop wasting time worrying, stop wasting time beating yourself up, stop wasting time trying to re-invent yourself as something that you think others will like.  Just stop.

Forget about money- time is the most precious and finite commodity at your disposal.  Every second you waste trying to fit in is a form of cheating.  You're cheating those people who like who know who you really are and like you, as is, no exceptions.  Most of all, you're cheating yourself and the person you could become if you'd just have enough faith to believe in yourself and follow through.

There will be people in this world who dislike you.  If they dislike you because you are unkind, unmotivated, unreliable--hear the truth and fix it.  Now.  Get better.  If they just don't find you to be their cup of tea--that's fine.  Move on.  You will have more than your fair share of people in your corner, and it's those people who have your back when you're periodically an unloveable pain in the ass that matter.  There's a world of difference between constantly striving to be the best version of you and constantly striving to be someone else.  Know that subtle difference and carefully tread that fine line.

In life, there's a place for pragmatism and responsibility and there's a place for excitement and beauty.  Live within your means, but don't let your means constrain you. Buy beautiful shoes and clothes and experiences---because they're beautiful.  They're not going to change who you are as a person, but if they make you smile, they're worth it.  Appreciate the beauty in things, but realize that at the end of the day, they're just things.  Appreciate the beauty in people more.  Appreciate the beauty in life the most.  Things are nice, but it's people who matter.

Oh, and I know that you like math, but life isn't an equation.  Stop using > and < in defining yourself in your relationships.

By the way, you'll never grow to be a respectable size.  That's okay.  There are certain benefits to being a portable adult--plus, there's usually a great selection of items on the sale rack in small sizes.

I wrote this letter and now I can't find a freaking stamp,

Little Miss Sunshine