WIFI TMI

I discovered a few things this weekend about language and its flexibility.  And how hysterical the innocent commentary of children can be when faced with this multiplicity.  And finally, how carefully crafted an Internet search needs to be unless you are prepared for ALL possible interpretations.

Let me start you off old school.  In the early days of having a computer with Internet service, I would enthusiastically unplug the phone jack from the phone, dutifully plug it into the appropriate computer opening and begin the multi-step, auditory assault that was AOL dial-up.  Because I typically lived in the backside of beyond, this was a several minute process.  But the Internet and its wonders were new to me and this was all worth it, to be able to look for anything I wanted to know about and have it in 8.3 minutes.

And on this particular day I wanted to know more about my favorite band and when they were playing a concert venue in a nearby state.  Like a boss, I typed in "Barenaked Ladies"....and although it was not instant realization, (again, dial-up), it was pretty darn quick that I realized my mistake. I cannot unsee what I have seen....My eyes.  They burn like a thousand suns!

Flash forward a year to the days of many reports being written in college settings and the days of my good friend spell-check.    Finishing my Family Systems final paper in the wee hours, I relied heavily on Mr. Check.  Being a MS Word neophyte, having only recently graduated from a Brother Word Processor with five, (count 'em, FIVE!), lines of type on a screen at a time,  I somehow used the "replace all" function in a way that corrected my, then-married-name, to Boner.   Many, many times.  And that's not all.   I didn't catch that this time-saving program had changed an ancestor's name from Verena to Venereal before I handed it in.  To a professor with no sense of humor.  In person.

I think it's good that I was almost out the door of the program when I turned this paper in, or they may have reconsidered my graduation eligibility.  Or at least my sobriety.  Perhaps they just felt sorry for someone who had the double-hit of two names that make polite company wince.

And then, there's today's double-header, shame-o-rama.  The good news about WIFI is that before you finish typing, you have results.  Nice, right?...Guess what?  If you look up "red wiggler" you *might* not end up at a link for composting resources.    You might wish your children were not standing over your shoulder at the time that Google offers "Did you mean...?"  NO!  I most definitely do NOT want that in my compost ever!  Sweet Baby Johnson!  Oh crap, I said johnson, that makes it worse.  Just... just don't do it, okay?  Stick to something innocuous like "composting with worms".  Let me be the one to tell you,  Internet searches are precise and temperamental things.  They, I think, unlike my college professor, do have a sense of humor, and know when it is the most inopportune time to open the portal to ALL variations on a theme. 

Also, if you are like me, and a trip to the local Co-op leads you to binge-buy things that you know nothing about but make you feel you may be absolved of other non-organic sins if you take them home, you should do so in a well-informed manner.  Do not go home and google "soap nuts" to find out how to use your new ticket to organic, environmentally-friendly standing.

I'm pretty sure if you Google red wigglers and soap nuts in the same day,  the government may start a special file for you.  However, I will tell you that I learned that when my nuts are no longer useful, I can compost them in the same bin with my wigglers.

And finally, I cannot even begin to figure out how to solve this one, but on our way to exit town, we pass by a "shop" that sells certain accessories.  The shop appeals to a certain kind of market.  And my five year old observed as we drove by the other night and everything was lit from inside, "Hey Cool!  They sell the bubble-maker thing that the caterpillar in Alice In Wonderland uses!  Can we go there for my birthday? "  My reader, Miss Eight, announces "Hey, I think it's a magic shop.  See?  It says Magic over the door! Maybe we could have your party there!" 

I would look up how to explain this to my children, but I'm afraid of where it may take me.  So I've resorted to mime and interpretive dance.  At least this way my children are entertained and, if I do say so myself,   my mime skills are on-point for the big stuff, such as "Yes" and "No". 

I'd look up more, but everything else just seems to get me in trouble.

Ursa versus The Dingo

Do not cross Mama.  It's a universal truth.  In nature, a mama bear will rip your face off if you even *think* about endangering her cub.  She will drop you and ask questions later.  I applaud you Ursa.  You go girl! 

 In the eight years of parenting to date, some of those overlap years with one to two siblings being parented as well, there have been moments when my children were in situations where the endorphin surge made me lose a little bit of my mind and the reptilian part of my brain was completely in the driver's seat.   Most recently a fire.  No thinking, just action.  Grab the babies and go.

These situations in life I can tolerate, partly because they are few and far between, and partly because they are universals.  In every culture everywhere parents have to rescue their children from a threat at one point or another.  We are lucky that because of our privilege in living where and when we do, these moments are few and far between.  I do not have to vigilantly watch out for dingos, saber-tooth tigers, nor erupting volcanoes on a daily basis.  My children are not under constant threat.

And yet they are under attack.

 Not to minimize dingo-related danger, but my children are constantly barraged with messages that are difficult and confusing.  For example,recently we were trying to buy dress shoes for Easter.  If you want something that does not have a heel, nor a Disney character, you're pretty much out of luck.  (And that's in the infant/toddler section.)  When I asked if there was such a thing as a simple old-fashioned Mary Jane I was told I would probably have to order online from the "uniform section" or maybe check out the "religious supply companies".  What?  No, wait.  WHAT?  When did basic shoes become a specialty item?

But it gets even more surreal.  Miss Eight is a mighty thing.  Tall for her age.  Big feet to hold up her tall self.  Miss Sales ASSociate watched me negotiate the many heeled options, listened to me explain why we were looking for flat shoes, and even heard me say that we had a budget as we were buying three pairs of shoes that evening.  And then, with the slip and slime of a used-car salesman caricature, she made her move.   The condensed version:

"Let's measure those feet again.  Sometimes parents don't get it right, and if you do, you can have a sticker.  Don't you want a Frozen sticker?"
 "Oh, you have grown-up girl feet.  You're going to love the princess shoes that have pearls and flowers!"

"Now, these are beautiful on you.  You look like a princess.  I know Mom said no heels, but let's see if these are low enough for her.  What do you think Mom?  She really loves them!"

I think you are an awful excuse for a human being.  I think you just sold out a child's love and trust for her mother to make a sale on cheaply-made shoes.  I think you should be ashamed.  I think as a fellow woman, you should stop selling girls princess-dreams based on how they look.  I think, in short, if you were on fire, I would briefly consider roasting marshmallows.

Don't get me wrong.  My girls have Barbie dolls.  They watch princess movies.  I tell them they are beautiful.  They take bubble baths and paint their nails.  But I never tell them they are beautiful or special because of the specific thing they have or buy.  It is not the shirt that makes you beautiful Miss Eight, it is you.  Who you are and what you do with your life.  How you treat people.

So yes, we did walk out with the shoes, because it saved the tantrum.  We kept those shoes all of ten minutes while we debriefed in the car why the shoes were not coming home with us.  And my princess, with her good heart and good brain, was able to let the shoes go.  They were returned before the ink on the receipt was completely dry.  The look on the ASSociate's face might be what keeps me from jail.  It was that satisfying.

But here is where the story becomes more complex.  These moments happen every time we shop for our girls.  My children are not products, nor platforms for product placement.  They are not "hotties" or "dreamy" or "out of your league".   If you choose to dress your children in these clothes, I have nothing against them, or you.  There is room for both of us on this planet.  I can even concede that a word on one's derriere does not mean any one thing necessarily.

I just don't want them on my children and I would like a choice without having to order from Catholic School Uniform Supply.  I would like my girls to have options that are not always glitter-infused.  Not all animals need fake eyelashes and lipstick to make a cute shirt.    Girls like dinosaurs too.  And boys can wear pink.  Can we blur the lines a little and make it less of an ordeal?  Can we just have a range?

I applaud a friend who recently voiced her opinion to a company and changed policy.  When you search online with this company these days, you no longer have to select gender to find the item you seek.  How about we just want a shirt with our child's favorite animal?  I would never have thought to take this step, but I appreciate that you did it for all of us.  It brings us one step closer to not being defined by the chromosomal code we carry.

And if you want to choose the pink, glittery, kissy-lipped dinosaur shirt, then rock on my sister.  I applaud your fashion decision, but at least you had a choice. 

Tammy Faye, Alligator Hide, and GNO

Things change as you get older.  This was so very clear to me in a course of events over the weekend in which my care-free twenties seemed light years away.  Let me set the stage...

In my twenties I was not a party-girl.  I went to the state's top party school and I can count the number of events that would register as a "party" on one hand with fingers left over.  I'm okay with that, it was a choice.   There are times when I wish anxiety had let me cut loose a little more, but more often than not, I'm just okay with what it was.  That said, the few nights out that I hold in memory started with looking through my closet for the just right outfit, a decent amount of time in personal grooming and asset-maximizing, loud music to set the tone before we left and at least one drink before we left so that we ready for what was to come.  Prep time?  Likely several hours.  The location we headed to was dark, preferably loud, close and filled and to capacity.  We left when the time started with a single digit followed by an a.m.  We slept in until we were good and ready to get up.

Flash forward to my present reality.  The last time I went out with some of the girls predates my oldest child's birth.  In some cases I been out for a delightful and decorous birthday lunch with some of these ladies within the year, but not within the fiscal year.  Prepping for this event was somewhat different.  I looked in my closet for something that was clean and comfortable.  I made sure it matched and that was the extent of fashion consultation.  If any assets were maximized  it was purely accidental.    I didn't shower between work and girl's night, or at least not intentionally, however Little Middle may have sprayed me with sink sprayer when she was trying to get a glass of water.    My make-up and grooming chalked up to washing the pink spray out of my hair from the school spirit event and washing away the Tammy Faye mascara streaks that twelve hours of parenting and public school will provide me every time.  I didn't moisturize because I was reasonably sure no one was going to get nimbly-bimbly enough to feel my legs in their current alligator hide state. Good to go.

I took their dinner out of the crockpot to make sure the kids were fed before LOADING THEM UP IN THE CAR to go with me.  Fear not...not to the bar, but to meet their father who was going to swap cars and bring them back home.  Before we left, I emptied the dishwasher and loaded the washing machine one more time to cut down on the amount of laundry waiting on Saturday.  (HOT right?)

On the way to the rendezvous spot, we listened to KidsPlace Live on Sirius.  I can sing you all the words to "What Makes the Breakfast? by Mike Phirman if you need it. And yes, the volume was all the way up so it was kinda like being twenty in a way.  I waited in a gas station parking lot for Mr. Unscripted as we debated by phone the fun-risk analysis of being out as the weather turned from cold to rainy and possibly icy.    The whole thing started to feel less footloose and fancy-free and more Married with Children.

I finally got to my destination as the last to arrive.  The good part being that with my low alcohol tolerance, it wouldn't take me long to catch up or nor reach my limit, so being an hour late almost works in my favor.  I got the  "Cheers" worthy greeting from my ladies and the evening was off and running. 

Like the old days, sex was in the air.  Unlike the old days we were talking about the sexuality of our waiter and how to explain radio commercials for venereal disease to our children.  Like the old days, the band was loud.  Unlike the old days, I couldn't hear a thing and it made me cranky and I was glad when they stopped.  Like the old days, we were people-watching, but unlike the old days, we were largely grateful that non of the men offered to buy us drinks, nor asked us to dance.  The options were really that sparse.    Like the old days, we ordered food.  Unlike the old days, we actually ate it.  It wasn't boy lure, nor prop, and damn it, we were comfortable enough with one another to admit we eat bacon and we like it.  Yes, it goes right to my ass and thighs and my pants cry out for salad, but it was GNO!  BACON!

At the end of the night, 9:17 with a time stamp p.m., I called it a night.  I'd had my drink and a half, (up .5!  YES!), and the kids would be up at 5:00 the next morning regardless.  As I left, the ladies at our table were individually "lei-ed", (some of us badly), and so I went home with a smile, a souvenir, and bacon breath to slide into bed next to my sweet Little One feeling rather accomplished.   Ending the night as I began it, albeit with a higher endorphin level.

My twenties are long, long gone.  My party days never really began, but are for the most part over.  But this is good too.  These ladies make me smile.  We are comfortable with each other.  We make each other laugh.  We overlook fashion faux pas and support your bacon consumption.  And, when my children need to know about VD, I now know who I am calling.

I love you guys, and I can say that no liquid persuasion at all.

Like a Rug

Children please...Here's a little mini-lesson on lying.

 "Don't."  Short and sweet.  Easy to remember.  Socially, religiously, economically, intimately, true. 

A break-down of the lies this week.

The dishwasher door no longer closes and the entire unit is jutting precariously out of the cabinetry.  The unit lists to the side where one might, (*might* mind you) stand if one were too short to reach the stash of Cadbury chocolate eggs that are only available to Mama a few short weeks each year and have been rationed out slowly, ever so slowly as singletons for the last two weeks.  Putting these details together with the fact that you just offered me one of my own treats that I know you can't reach, this would not be the time to lie.  This would be the time to hope for a pardon from the Governor, but not the time to look at me with your sweet, somewhat chocolate besmirched face and insist that you "...didn't eat them Mama.  I only got one down for you because I can reach now."

Liar, liar...

The room reeks of nail polish and there is a poster on your wall featuring drying stripes of varnish.  Above it hangs a sign in your handwriting that reads "Beuty Spa" with a hand-drawn picture of a bottle of, (dare I connect the dots?), nail color.  I could give you points for starting with a Vinnie Barbarino-worthy "Whaaaat?"  I could give you points for trying to create the ambiance of Target with the large flashy hanging signs to direct you to good stuff.  And I would, if it hadn't gone down like this.

You:  "Whaaaat?"
Me:  Are using nail polish up here?
You: (affronted) "Nooooo! I know that I have to use it downstairs."
Me:  The polish on this paper is dripping.  Are you sure?  Now would be the time for telling the truth.
You: "Um...I think that's the kind that takes a really long time to dry.  I did that downstairs a couple of days ago..."

Clearly my child thinks I have the intellect of a cantaloupe.  Confiscating the polish simply makes me the bad guy.  Being unable to remove glitter polish from the favorite pillow makes me inept.  The fact that you call it "toe-nolish" does not redeem you this time.  Gnashing of teeth, weeping and wailing ensue.  And finally, the death blow.  "I can't believe you don't believe me."  *sniff*

Oh child.  Oh best beloved...let me summarize for you.

...Pants on fire....

Finally, today.  "Mama?  When you wake up, first thing in the morning?  Your hair kinda looks like Ursula the Sea Witch." 


I have two options.  I can teach the social etiquette lie.  "No your pants don't make your butt look big." and "That's a great haircut!"

 Or, I can assume, given the track record,  that I look fabulous and you're lying to me.

In the words of my other (imaginary) best beloved, Jon Bon Jovi,  "Lie to me. Baby, I can take it. C'mon lie to me." ...

Sugar and Spice

It's approaching St. Patrick's Day and so this seems a good time to point out the red highlights in my little blond leprechaun's hair.    I don't mean to perpetuate a stereotype, but there is a certain level of "spice" that comes with this one that the others did not have.  A shortness of temper.  A propensity for drama.  A "Don't cross me or I'll cut you" approach to things not happening when she deems them appropriately due.    It reminds me of a card I received the other day which read:

"I haven't lost my temper.  I know exactly where it is.  And if you're still in reach in thirty seconds, you'll see it for yourself."

But here's the thing.  She gets mad about things that I have very little control over.  For example, the fact that water is wet and therefore gets her wet makes her mad.  The fact that her outgrown shoes exist but no longer fit her feet is clearly my doing and therefore my fault.  The fact that gravity prevents her from flying...Yup again.  My fault.  The fact that onesies have three snaps and her patience snaps after one....You get the picture.

I'm told this will serve her well in the future.  I'm told that it's toddlerhood.  I'm told that it has nothing to do with those roseate strands in her otherwise downy blond fluff.  Not convinced.

 This child's temper is amazing to watch.  So here's the good and the bad....at eighteen months she shows us clearly that she knows we have different thoughts than she does.  Her theory of mind is fabulous.  She will cry and cover her eyes, but should we leave the room, she stops crying comes to find us and begins crying again.   This can go on for five rooms and at least as many minutes.  It's funny...except when it's not.

She knows a few functional signs.  She uses them to say things like "cheese", "more", "no" and "hurt".  She uses them most often when she is following us room to room covering her eyes and crying, and then stating "Mama" and signing "hurt".  (To be interpreted as "I asked for cheese and Mama said no.  It hurt me deeply.  I may not recover easily.  Do you see these tears?  I'm hurt by Mama.  Mama was the one... Mama I tell you.")  It's very convincing when coupled with her gigantic crocodile tears and piteous and dramatic flopping.

But, I can't completely blame the erubescent strands.  She comes by it naturally by some degree..It is Mama's fault.  You see, before my pale blond (read Gray) strands came in, I had some pretty flashy claret highlights myself.  They tend to employ themselves when someone behaves badly.  And heaven help you if you hurt someone I care about.  They also come about when something is incredibly tedious, noxious, annoying, repugnant, or just happens on a random Thursday.

For example, I have had visceral hate for stoplights that last too long.  I'm speaking to you traffic light at Home Depot.  I have had to reign myself in when a driver changes lanes while I'm still using it.  Yup, you know who you are black Audi from CT.  I have had words with the weather.  February 21, 2015, I'm still holding a grudge for the drive home.  And raspberry seltzer that is more on my sleeve and eyebrows than in my glass...Well, you'll get yours.  

So I pity the fool who sees my daughter and thinks "Cute little blonde".  She comes from a long line of quick tempers regardless of hair color.    Genetic heritage that sets her up for expecting the most from others and herself.  Hair trigger tempers and life-long loyalties.  Powerful combinations.

Those little glowing streaks in her otherwise golden locks?  It's the rattle on a rattlesnake.  Fair warning.  Time to check yourself.  Advance notice of what you're about to be up against.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

It's an Unscripted Thing

Writing thank you notes...I'm losing credibility in my arguments here.

Her logic is solid. 

"I said thank you when I opened it."  "I said thank you over the phone."  "They saw the picture of me with it and I'm smiling."

Yes, all of this is true, but somehow, no matter how archaic it may be, I think that writing thank you notes count for something. 

I do recognize in today's society that instant awareness via pictures and 40 character messages are also considered thank you apropos.  However, there is still the knowledge that a gift is not an instant event.  Someone took time to think of you, shopped or created for you, wrapped for you, and parted with resources of time and/or money for you. 

And so, Miss Eight, thank you notes are part of the Unscripted family protocol.  In ten short years you get to decide whether or not to continue the practice, (and I hope you will.) 

In the meantime, some of my favorite thank you note out-takes from today. Complete with original spacing and formatting.

"Dear (loved-one),
Thank you for being
It was nice of you."  
*I think she may have lost focus for a moment there.*

"Dear (loved-one),
Thank you.  I love it, a hole
lot." 
*I'm still trying to explain the giggling that ensued when I read  "I love it, A-Hole". *

And then there are the visual jokes which I cannot show you until the recipients have them in hand.  I don't want to ruin the moment....But know that there is one that we had to quickly add to as it looked so much like a bad birthing video still-frame.  Done in fingerprints.  And with mysterious smudging on the edges.  (Thank heavens we are related and you know this child and that the intention was good.)

And now, Mama's time-out is up and we have three more to go.    Those of you who have been forced to claim genetic linkage before, you know you're going to want to watch your mailboxes. 

It's the trade-off; the universe balancing out. 

You're welcome. 

"A hole

lot."