Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Rude. Me, not Them
The Dad and I had a rare lunch date today- we went to the mall for lunch, then did the big loop around window shopping. And, you can't leave the mall without spending $69.01 at Target on diapers, formula, and baby food exclusively. Jeez lil' dude! get a job already.
In the center of the mall is the food court- it's completely wide open with very high ceilings. Noise carries in there terribly, making everything echo. Even a quiet, private conversations ping-pings off the walls and ceiling. Imagine for a moment a wailing toddler, or screaming child. Loud.
In this area is the mall center- you know, the information desk where you can purchase gift cards, page security, find lost things. It's where you can rent those giant double-stroller things for toddlers/lazy big-kids. The ones at this mall are shaped like a tree, with the seats looking like knot holes in the trunk, and the leaves and branches part (crown? is this called the crown?) are where the handles to push are located. Ugh, they are huge contraptions, hurt when your heels get rammed with them, and are just obnoxious. The carts sit clustered together, tethered by chains until you pay someone at the mall center desk to rent one, and you get the key to remove it from its tethered family.
Well today, as the Dad and I were headed across the vast canvas known as the food court/mall center heading to our fave sports store, we saw a lady walking towards us, yet speaking to someone behind her. As we got closer, we realized the lady had left her two blond boys, both very young, in a tree-cart about 200 feet away from the desk where she needed to buy the magical key.
The boys were both screaming . . . although, they didn't seem to be crying. Just loud screaming.
In turn, the boys' mother was screaming at them to sit down, be quiet, wait there, don't move, get in the damn tree, etc. I kept looking between the boys and the mom, as she reached the desk, the third person in line. She kept looking over her shoulder, repeating her orders. Sit. Down. Tree.
Between the desk and the stroller area are two large pillars that presumably hold the roof up. There also was a fake tree or two (not to be confused with the tree-stroller-carts) and some garbage cans. A lot of elements in the mom's line of sight, anyways. My own heart raced a bit for her. The boys seemed to be about 18 months and 3, maybe 2 and 4. I am still bad at guesstimating ages of kids.
I said to the Dad, "I cannot believe she is leaving those kids sit there alone as she walks away from them," over and over again as we walked past them. The mall was pretty busy for a Tuesday afternoon, and we were in the busiest, most congested loudest part of all. All chaos and cluster and trees. "What the Hell is she thinking?"
The Dad said, "I hope they have a meltdown."
And I said, "I hope someone steals one of them to teach her a lesson."
What? Excuse me, I said what again? That I wished an innocent little blond boy was kidnapped from the mall during the first week of summer? What? Why. Why? I never meant it. How could I? I would never ever wish in a million years for anything of that nature to happen to anyone, friend or foe, deserved or not. I never meant it. So why did I say it?
Because I used snap judgement and used my hyper-critical skills to analyze the situation and deem the mother unfit and wrong and stupid and terrible for walking 200 feet from her children, her babies, to grab the key to their fun afternoon.
I've been thinking about this since it happened about 4 hours ago. How I've only been a mother myself just 6 months, yet I appear to think and act like I know everything and do only what is right and acceptable all the time. How dare I? I've already built my little mom castle with the moat and the dragon and the guards in the towers protecting me and my child from the other mom castles. Which doctors to choose, which health facilities to visit, bottles, pacifiers, baby monitors, carseats, burp rags, brand of sleepers . . . when to feed, how to soothe, how to choose a name . . . the list goes on and on. If you are a mom, you know what I mean. You can't help it, it arrives with your new little like the ID bracelets and knit hospital hat. You've already created preconceived notions before you leave the labor and delivery floor. It's a rite of passage. I remember one instance in particular, last fall, before the lil' dude showed up. The Dad and I were at Target.
"Sweet Jesus, formula is expensive," he said, looking at the shelf where I pointed to the $25.78 label.
"Yes, it is. Oh well. It's not like we can whip up a puree for her using some things from the pantry. She needs what she needs." I said.
"Is there any reason we couldn't use the generic formula? Look at the price difference," he said, pointing to the $11.89 label.
"ARE YOU #@^&*$! KIDDING ME? DID YOU JUST SAY GENERIC???" and I proceeded to have a pregnant meltdown over the suggestion right there in Target, this time a meltdown not fueled by sobriety or heartburn or other normal pregnancy maladies. *
See? I had already formed the opinion that I knew what was best, and eat shit if you think you can tell me otherwise. And I wasn't even a mother yet!
The point is, being a mother is tough job. Being a parent is. It's unlike anything anyone has done before. There is no manual. There is no wrong way or right way, like there is to do calculus or change the oil in your car. Everyone does it the ways in which they learn is best for them- and their families. And I ought to put out a call to uniting of parents everywhere, by supporting them and recognizing their efforts for the job is so difficult. Ban together, not tear apart. Employ the "if it works for you, then shoot" reckoning.
*And, Internet friends, eating shit tastes like, well, you know. The only formula the lil' dude has ever consumed is the Target generic brand for $11.89. It won't be the last "You were right and I don't know everything" I mutter in this lifetime, stamped guarantee!
In the center of the mall is the food court- it's completely wide open with very high ceilings. Noise carries in there terribly, making everything echo. Even a quiet, private conversations ping-pings off the walls and ceiling. Imagine for a moment a wailing toddler, or screaming child. Loud.
In this area is the mall center- you know, the information desk where you can purchase gift cards, page security, find lost things. It's where you can rent those giant double-stroller things for toddlers/lazy big-kids. The ones at this mall are shaped like a tree, with the seats looking like knot holes in the trunk, and the leaves and branches part (crown? is this called the crown?) are where the handles to push are located. Ugh, they are huge contraptions, hurt when your heels get rammed with them, and are just obnoxious. The carts sit clustered together, tethered by chains until you pay someone at the mall center desk to rent one, and you get the key to remove it from its tethered family.
Well today, as the Dad and I were headed across the vast canvas known as the food court/mall center heading to our fave sports store, we saw a lady walking towards us, yet speaking to someone behind her. As we got closer, we realized the lady had left her two blond boys, both very young, in a tree-cart about 200 feet away from the desk where she needed to buy the magical key.
The boys were both screaming . . . although, they didn't seem to be crying. Just loud screaming.
In turn, the boys' mother was screaming at them to sit down, be quiet, wait there, don't move, get in the damn tree, etc. I kept looking between the boys and the mom, as she reached the desk, the third person in line. She kept looking over her shoulder, repeating her orders. Sit. Down. Tree.
Between the desk and the stroller area are two large pillars that presumably hold the roof up. There also was a fake tree or two (not to be confused with the tree-stroller-carts) and some garbage cans. A lot of elements in the mom's line of sight, anyways. My own heart raced a bit for her. The boys seemed to be about 18 months and 3, maybe 2 and 4. I am still bad at guesstimating ages of kids.
I said to the Dad, "I cannot believe she is leaving those kids sit there alone as she walks away from them," over and over again as we walked past them. The mall was pretty busy for a Tuesday afternoon, and we were in the busiest, most congested loudest part of all. All chaos and cluster and trees. "What the Hell is she thinking?"
The Dad said, "I hope they have a meltdown."
And I said, "I hope someone steals one of them to teach her a lesson."
What? Excuse me, I said what again? That I wished an innocent little blond boy was kidnapped from the mall during the first week of summer? What? Why. Why? I never meant it. How could I? I would never ever wish in a million years for anything of that nature to happen to anyone, friend or foe, deserved or not. I never meant it. So why did I say it?
Because I used snap judgement and used my hyper-critical skills to analyze the situation and deem the mother unfit and wrong and stupid and terrible for walking 200 feet from her children, her babies, to grab the key to their fun afternoon.
I've been thinking about this since it happened about 4 hours ago. How I've only been a mother myself just 6 months, yet I appear to think and act like I know everything and do only what is right and acceptable all the time. How dare I? I've already built my little mom castle with the moat and the dragon and the guards in the towers protecting me and my child from the other mom castles. Which doctors to choose, which health facilities to visit, bottles, pacifiers, baby monitors, carseats, burp rags, brand of sleepers . . . when to feed, how to soothe, how to choose a name . . . the list goes on and on. If you are a mom, you know what I mean. You can't help it, it arrives with your new little like the ID bracelets and knit hospital hat. You've already created preconceived notions before you leave the labor and delivery floor. It's a rite of passage. I remember one instance in particular, last fall, before the lil' dude showed up. The Dad and I were at Target.
"Sweet Jesus, formula is expensive," he said, looking at the shelf where I pointed to the $25.78 label.
"Yes, it is. Oh well. It's not like we can whip up a puree for her using some things from the pantry. She needs what she needs." I said.
"Is there any reason we couldn't use the generic formula? Look at the price difference," he said, pointing to the $11.89 label.
"ARE YOU #@^&*$! KIDDING ME? DID YOU JUST SAY GENERIC???" and I proceeded to have a pregnant meltdown over the suggestion right there in Target, this time a meltdown not fueled by sobriety or heartburn or other normal pregnancy maladies. *
See? I had already formed the opinion that I knew what was best, and eat shit if you think you can tell me otherwise. And I wasn't even a mother yet!
The point is, being a mother is tough job. Being a parent is. It's unlike anything anyone has done before. There is no manual. There is no wrong way or right way, like there is to do calculus or change the oil in your car. Everyone does it the ways in which they learn is best for them- and their families. And I ought to put out a call to uniting of parents everywhere, by supporting them and recognizing their efforts for the job is so difficult. Ban together, not tear apart. Employ the "if it works for you, then shoot" reckoning.
*And, Internet friends, eating shit tastes like, well, you know. The only formula the lil' dude has ever consumed is the Target generic brand for $11.89. It won't be the last "You were right and I don't know everything" I mutter in this lifetime, stamped guarantee!
Monday, June 9, 2008
Letter from Mama, v6
Happy half-birthday, Miss Lil' Dude!
6 months ago, you became you and we became us. Most marriages in Hollywood don't last 6 months. I know, I keep writing about how quickly time is passing us by and how astonished and saddened I am by it. I resolve to no longer wallow in the past while trying to hold on to the days. You, my sweet, bright, beautiful daughter are growing up. Never have I had so much fun.
You are definitely an individual, lil' dude. Your giant personality and wet grins go the distance even on dark days. You remind everyone who loves you how good life is and how thankful we are. You love your toys and your blankets; the things in your nursery that are yours. It is so easy to make you happy. Daddy and I spend most of our time together laughing at you, or recapping what new things you've come up with. We most especially love doing commentary from your point of view, oh, the things you (we) say!
I love how when you're in your stroller, and we're shopping or at the park, or even at the pediatrician's office, you look for anyone and everyone to smile at and interact with. Your happiness and excitement is contagious. I've never known a more happy baby. When Mama or Daddy takes out the camera to take pictures of anything, be it the dog, or flowers, or your new friends, you perk right up and flash us that $10,000 smile. You love being adored, you love being spoiled, you love being you.
This summer, baby girl, is all yours. Daddy and I have always loved summer and everything that goes with it. We have never been more excited for summertime, now that you are here. We can't wait to share our favorite things with you and make new traditions as a family. We knew parenthood would change us, make us do things differently. We knew that before you were even born. We just didn't know how great those changes would be, how much doing things differently would delight us so. There is simply nothing better than being your parents, lil' dude.
So yes. For 6 months we have been us. We've reveled in your belly-laughs and your determination to sit up, in your new found love of being on your tummy, and introducing you to great things like toes dipped in a rain barrel, licks of ice cream, sips of Sprite straight from the can. There is nothing I won't share with you, kid. It's all yours for the taking.
Mama loves.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
What a Girl Wants
What a Girl Needs . . .
Is an itty bitty pair of fierce Converse slip-ons . . . in black skulls, natch!
Oh, you can bet all the littles will be mad jealous when they catch a glimpse of the lil' dude log-rolling across the carpet (as we are currently working on the strut) in these fly sneaks!
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Brought to You by the Letter: Spaghetti
Lil' dude, most women, when pregnant, crave food. They have tiny, hungry little jellybeans in their bellies, just like Mama when you were in her tummy. And you were one hungry little jellybean . . . just ask The Dad!
People like your grandmas and other older people say that pregnant women crave weird things, like ice cream and pickles; or pizza with peanut butter on top; or Fruit Loops with Kool-Aid instead of milk. That was not the case when it came to me, however. I craved normal food- just loads and loads of it.
You know how at the movies, there are written words on the popcorn containers? Those words say who helped this popcorn makes its way into the movie theatre and into your little hands. Well, when I was pregnant with you, I should have had written words on my belly saying "Hunt's Spaghetti Sauce" because that is who helped you make your way into this world!
All I ever wanted when I was busy growing you from a tiny jellybean into an 8-pound baby was spaghetti. Spaghetti! Not that crazy, right? Well, I wanted spaghetti for two meals a day almost each day of the week. Just noodles with butter and garlic and spaghetti sauce with Italian sausage and spices ladled over the noodles. With shredded Parmesan cheese on top! More spaghetti please! The Dad, he began to hate looking at spaghetti. He made me go visit your aunties when I wanted spaghetti again. He wanted some pork chops or spicy chicken stir-fry. Not spaghetti. Not again! But, Mama couldn't help it. We wanted spaghetti, didn't we, peanut? That is all we ever wanted.
Then, you showed up and my affinity for Hunt's returned to normal levels. The Dad and I now have spaghetti for dinner maybe once every three weeks or so. But, I still smile so big when I take the can opener to the top of the can of Hunt's sauce, thinking of all the people at the Hunt's office getting big paychecks thanks to you and me and all the cans of sauce we went through when we were busy working on making you big and fat and long and ready to come out and play. They never had it so good!
Last night, I made spaghetti and meatballs for The Dad and I for dinner. And you seemed like you really wanted to help me. So, I let you help me cook . . . we wore matching cooking gear, even.
Right now, sweetie, you are too little to have any spaghetti with Mama and Daddy at dinner. I suspect when you do have your very first bite, though, you will think, this tastes awfully familiar. Why do I feel like I have had this before?
People like your grandmas and other older people say that pregnant women crave weird things, like ice cream and pickles; or pizza with peanut butter on top; or Fruit Loops with Kool-Aid instead of milk. That was not the case when it came to me, however. I craved normal food- just loads and loads of it.
You know how at the movies, there are written words on the popcorn containers? Those words say who helped this popcorn makes its way into the movie theatre and into your little hands. Well, when I was pregnant with you, I should have had written words on my belly saying "Hunt's Spaghetti Sauce" because that is who helped you make your way into this world!
All I ever wanted when I was busy growing you from a tiny jellybean into an 8-pound baby was spaghetti. Spaghetti! Not that crazy, right? Well, I wanted spaghetti for two meals a day almost each day of the week. Just noodles with butter and garlic and spaghetti sauce with Italian sausage and spices ladled over the noodles. With shredded Parmesan cheese on top! More spaghetti please! The Dad, he began to hate looking at spaghetti. He made me go visit your aunties when I wanted spaghetti again. He wanted some pork chops or spicy chicken stir-fry. Not spaghetti. Not again! But, Mama couldn't help it. We wanted spaghetti, didn't we, peanut? That is all we ever wanted.
Then, you showed up and my affinity for Hunt's returned to normal levels. The Dad and I now have spaghetti for dinner maybe once every three weeks or so. But, I still smile so big when I take the can opener to the top of the can of Hunt's sauce, thinking of all the people at the Hunt's office getting big paychecks thanks to you and me and all the cans of sauce we went through when we were busy working on making you big and fat and long and ready to come out and play. They never had it so good!
Last night, I made spaghetti and meatballs for The Dad and I for dinner. And you seemed like you really wanted to help me. So, I let you help me cook . . . we wore matching cooking gear, even.
Right now, sweetie, you are too little to have any spaghetti with Mama and Daddy at dinner. I suspect when you do have your very first bite, though, you will think, this tastes awfully familiar. Why do I feel like I have had this before?
Monday, June 2, 2008
The Highchair
The story goes like this, lil' dude.
The wooden Highchair was purchased second-hand by Mama's grandparents in 1949.
From their perspective, it has been a rite of passage to 5 kids, 14 grandchildren, 19 great-grandchildren (you are lucky #19!) and should see a 5th generation great-great-grandchild by this Christmas.
You loved sitting in The Highchair this weekend in great-grandma's kitchen. You kept throwing your teething rings and plastic toys on the floor. Grandma rushed over to you bearing "toys" she said you would not abandon in such a way; a set of metal measuring spoons, a gingham-checked canning ring from a jelly jar, and a Tupperware magnet straight off the fridge. And you know what? She was right! You wore the canning ring like a bracelet and noisily and happily banged the spoons and chewed on the plastic magnet. You were in heaven!
You bridged the 4-generational gap by being sweet and patient as we both listened to Grandma's wisdom.
"Don't tickle her feet! It'll make her stutter when she grows up."
"The first table food I fed my kids was soft-boiled eggs with butter. There was no such thing as baby food back then."
Grandma: "Do you give her water to drink?"
Mama: "Does she need water?"
Grandma: "Do trees need water?"
"Let her have a bite of your rhubarb torte, one little bite is not going to hurt her."
"I have never seen such dark, defined eyebrows on a baby. She is going to be a dark-haired beauty!"
"If she wants to sleep on tummy, let her, for goodness sakes. I can hardly blame her myself!"
"She's not afraid of strangers one bit! Must be that daycare making her so friendly."
"Is she still hungry? I can mash up some canned peaches for her?"
It was 78* at Grandma's yesterday, yet she kept a log in the wood stove and the windows in the house open.
"I didn't want it to be too hot or too cold for her," she explained.
We spent the afternoon watching Grandma's favorite MLB team on TV. They won! "They are a young team, learning to play together." We walked the long rows of her garden, squatting down to show you the teeny green sprouts. We dipped your toes in the rain barrel, we smelled all the flowers from Woodland Flox to the rare pink Baby's Breath to the Gerbera Daisies she kept alive over the winter. "They are hardy! like me," she said. We (well, Mama) ate homemade cinnamon rolls, raisin puff cookies, butter brickle cookies, dinner rolls, blueberry muffins, rhubarb torte, rhubarb pizza . . . coffee with "cow" in it (real whipping cream) . . . and then, for good measure, a hand-scooped ice cream cone. "Let her taste that ice cream now, the cold will feel good on her gums," Grandma said. Grandma was right!
As we reluctantly packed up to head home, I prepared to haul The Highchair back to the little garage where it is stored. "No," Grandma said as I lifted it, "you leave that here in the kitchen, where it always used to sit. She will be back again soon."
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
