Elmo makes music … and Mommy tears

Well, we went to see this on Saturday. And suffice it to say that taking a toddler to a theater production of dancing characters she is only ¾-jazzed about is not the best way to spend a Saturday morning.

Inevitably, she will want to leave your $100 seats in the middle of the row shortly after intermission. And also inevitably, once you finally exit the theater, pissing off four other families and their equally fussy toddlers as you mumble “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, so sorry, so sorry” and trip your way to the aisle, you will make your way out of the theater and to the outside door representing freedom and McDonald’s French fries in your near future, your toddler will whine, “GO BACK IN. MOMMY! DADDY! GO BACK IN!!!!”

You will stare at your spouse with blank, helpless looks for a moment, before turning back around and dragging the toddler, diaper bag and Mommy purse back into the theater and claiming a few seats in the back, where the toddler can stand on your lap and dance along to the singing Elmo and Cookie Monster that mere moments before were the bane of her existence, requiring her to scream “GO HOME NOW” at the top of her little lungs whilst flailing about on the sticky floor.

But for all the hassle and the tantrums and the $8 Elmo balloon, I still found myself getting all teary and emotional, especially when R was really enjoying herself. I get that way a lot: Christmas morning, her birthday, Easter egg hunts, the fall festival… It’s happy tears. And they, too, are inevitable.

Make a Wish

Claudia tagged me with this Make a Wish meme. And while I want to be unselfish and giving and generous and worldly, I also want something else really badly.

1. Think about what it is that you want more than anything, what your heart’s desire and fondest wish is, and what it is that you would wish for if you were to see the above wishing star flame across the night sky.
2. Right click and SAVE the blank graphic below.
3. Use a graphics program of your choice and place your wish on this picture:

 

4. Post the Make A Wish Meme and your wishing star on your blog along with these rules.
5. Tag as many people as you like so that there can be wishing stars all across the Blogosphere and ask them to please link back to Linda at Are We There Yet? so that she can see what wishes others have made and share those wishes with others.

If you don’t currently have a graphics program and aren’t sure how to put your message on the picture you can either download one for free (Linda used IrfanView which is an image viewer but also allows you to customize and optimize your pictures) or email Linda at mouseski58@yahoo.com, tell her what you’re wishing for, and she’ll customize the picture for you and email it back to you so that you can then post it.

Anyway. I tag Erin (as always). And my new friend Mandy. And anyone else who could use a wish.

I wonder what Dave is going to say when he sees this.

religion and politics

Jodi wrote last week, in response to what I thought was a bit of a snarky comment, about her hopes for her son.

A liberal vegetarian Jew, Jodi has strong opinions and isn’t afraid to share them in a usually humorous and fun-to-read way. Her post got me thinking about what I want for R (and how do I parent her to get my desired outcome?).

I am a mostly liberal Christian, though I identify more with the “mostly liberal” part than the Christian part. I was raised very Catholic by a very Catholic mother who later divorced my Lutheran father and remarried and has thus been excommunicated. We went to church every Sunday and holy day (All Saint’s Day anyone?), attended Sunday School through our confirmation as juniors in high school and observed most Catholic rituals religiously. Ha-ha.

I attended church sporadically as an adult. When I met Dave, raised Lutheran, we would occasionally attend services, his or mine, together. We were married by a Methodist minister who was a friend of Dave’s family. When I got pregnant, it was important to both of us to give our child some kind of faith base. Because my church would not allow Dave to fully participate, we chose to be Lutheran. How’s that for choosing a religion?

When it comes time for R to find her spiritual path, I do not plan to force her into anything. She can choose on her own. I will provide her with some sense of Christianity, but if she chooses to go a different direction, I will support that too.

Additionally, I was raised in a household that was apolitical. Voting was a private thing my parents kept to themselves the entire time we were growing up. I suspect they are both Republican. They have never expressed disappointment or sadness at having raised three liberal Democrats. We all found our own way. I like that model very much, though I don’t think it worked out well for my parents (from their point of view).

And maybe it will backfire on me too. But I want R to be her own person, have her own faith and values and politics. Even if that means her beliefs are diametrically opposed to mine.Though I would really prefer they weren’t. But I’d love her anyway.

day care love song

One thing I love about our new daycare is R’s new ability to (and enthusiasm for) clean up after herself. After many activities we do together begin to wind down, R’s natural response is, “Clean up now!” and she begins to do it. She never did this before.

One of the things I hate about our new daycare is the parents who park in the fire lane. I hate this on a personal level because they often either a) block me into a parking space or b) block the exit to the parking lot completely. I hate this on a global level because what are you teaching your children about consideration for others?

One of the things I love about our new day care is Parents Night Out. I think it could save my marriage. And my sanity!

One of the things I hate about our new day care is the lack of clarity on their weekly calendars. On today’s calendar it said “Bring something that starts with ‘A.’” So Dave went off with R and her stuffed alligator, which was apparently the wrong thing to do because he had to leave a crying R without her stuffed alligator. Apparently the teachers were bringing the A items and kids can only bring show and tell items on Fridays.

One of the things I love about our new day care is how it is teaching R to get along with a lot of kids (or not get along with them). She is learning how to modify her behavior and maybe will someday even empathize (I know, not yet). And best of all, she doesn’t watch television at all.

One of the things I hate about our new day care is that I think there are ‘cliques’ and other social traps that I hoped R would not encounter until elementary school. I think I was wrong.

the breakfast club

I hated high school. From the fall of 1990 until the spring of 1994, I tried too hard.

I tried too hard to be cool, to be popular, to be pretty, to be smart, to polish my college applications, to have a boyfriend, to be involved in everything, to be a perfect daughter, etc. It was hard to keep everything together. Added to the general turmoil and angst of being a teenage girl who desperately wanted to be liked and approved of, it was downright exhausting.

My school was like any other in the suburbs, maybe a touch edgier with its ban on wearing certain color combinations, multitude of security guards, gang fights in the cafeteria and the shooting I once witnessed outside the gymnasium, but pretty normal by most standards.

And by normal, I mean separated into cliques. And I fit no where. I was a brain – 15^th out of a class of 537, secretary of National Honor Society and editor of the school paper. I was a jock – participated in volleyball and track. I was a leader – a member of the student council and president of the Latin Club.

But I was more defined by the things I didn’t have than by the things I did. I didn’t have perfect skin. I didn’t have self-confidence. I didn’t have designer jeans and $100 highlights and real Birkenstocks (just those fake ones I bought at Payless). I didn’t have pom-poms to wave on the sidelines or a booty to shake during half time. I didn’t have a dark personality. I didn’t want to do drugs or drink. I didn’t want to rebel. I couldn’t do complex mathematical equations or type 100 words a minute.

I spent a lot of time worrying about whether or not the popular girls: the Claires, the Betsys, the Megans, liked me. Instead, I should have been worried about what my real friends thought of me. What did the other normal, fun and friendly girls think every time I broke plans with them because I was invited to a party thrown by someone more popular? What did they think when I grabbed my books out of my locker near theirs and ran down the hall to the popular girls’ spot?

It took me a long time to get over this, this need to be liked. I still have it in a lot of ways. But I hope I would never again behave as I did in the early 90s. Because as much as that girl convinced herself she was nice, she didn’t have the first clue what nice was.

jaws

I saw the number on my office phone’s caller ID and wondered who it was. People (besides my husband) rarely call me from local numbers.

I picked up with my usual, “Good afternoon, this is Michelle.” And the voice on the other line was calm and reassuring, even as she said, “Michelle, this is (R’s day care).”

Now that’s a call a working mom never wants to get. It either means your child is very ill or has done something very wrong. I had been standing up, on my way to the bathroom if you must know, and I slowly sank into my new and much-less-comfortable office chair.

“Hi,” I said quietly, wondering what it could be.

“We wanted to call you because R was bitten by another child, and it’s our policy to call when that happens,” the motherly voice said. She even apologized.

Apparently, the bite is pretty bad, it broke the skin and there is significant swelling and bruising involved. They had iced the wound and R was napping with the rest of her class. She hadn’t done anything to earn the bite, hadn’t retaliated and was just “in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Again, they were so, so sorry.

Now, these things happen. I know that. It’s just … I wrote last week about R’s adjustment to the new school, how I’m worried about how it’s going. Then, last night, one of the other little girls hugged R tightly when we were leaving, shouting, “See you tomorrow, R!” and I thought we had turned a corner. Now I’m back to wondering if she’s not fitting in (in addition to worrying about her owie).

Last night, as we snuggled before she went to bed, she began asking me about her friend A from her old babysitter’s house. Instead of avoiding the subject, we talked about A for awhile. I’ve got a couple of days off next week, and I’d like to take R over to see her old sitter and old friends. But I wonder if that would just confuse her. Or be overwhelming for the old sitter (I would stay there the whole time, of course)…

Anyway. Three more hours til I can retrieve my injured baby…

Painting the town and such

This weekend, I did something unprecedented. I went out. Without my child. Both nights. Even more unprecedented: I went out without my husband.

]On Saturday night, I met all of these classy ladies of Indy (ish) for dinner and what turned (devolved?)  into a game of bowling complete with fashionable neon shoes and kiddie bumpers on the lanes.

I am so totally out of shape (see, bowling IS a sport) that after scarfing down a burger, fries and two lemon martinis, I actually strained a muscle in my forearm whilst tossing a ten-pound ball down a lacquered wooden floor. So, so sad.

But the best part was I felt like I was getting some of me back – not R’s mommy, not Dave’s wife, not “job title here.” Michelle is still in there somewhere! And she can laugh! And talk with other women! And stay out past 10 p.m.!

Who would have thought?

late socialization

I went out on a date last night. With my husband.

It was awesome.

We saw a movie, but the movie wasn’t the awesome part. The last time I set foot in a movie theater was December 27, 2005. In less than 12 hours, I would give birth to my first (and so far only) child. We saw “Rumor Has It” which was frankly, not a very good movie. We decided to continue our streak last night with “Vantage Point” which, while starring the uber-talented Forrest Whitaker, was decidedly gimmicky and tiresome.

But I remembered how much I love the movie theater. The darkness, the smell of greasy popcorn, the taste of the icy Diet Coke, the snuggling with my sweetie during the scary parts. Afterward, at dinner, we talked about grown-up things and drank grown-up drinks and generally had a fantastic time getting re-acquainted without a two-year-old clamoring for attention.

R’s new day care, conveniently, hosts a Parents Night Out once a month, during which they stay open for signed-up children until midnight. When we arrived to pick her up, she was lounging on her sleeping bag watching The Jungle Book, her eyes barely open. She was happy to see us.

Living far away from any family and being an overprotective parent who doesn’t trust her child with just anyone, it’s been a long, long time since Dave and I were able to go out and enjoy each other’s company without needing to care for R. It was really refreshing. And as  much as I hate to leave R, as guilty as I feel, I’m already looking forward to next month.

early socialization

I went to pick R up at school (school? School? Am I really one of those moms who calls it SCHOOL when it’s really just glorified day care with music classes once a week and ‘class pictures’ every quarter?) yesterday, and she was out on the playground. I found her at a picnic table with some other (older) girls (they were probably three but they looked about seven to me).

As I approached, I heard the words, “No R! Stop!” first from one girl, then the other three chimed in as well. R was sitting on top of the picnic table, totally inappropriate and wrong of her (but she’s only two!). But in that moment, memories of my own childhood came rushing back.

I was a shy child, slow to make friends. You would never find me sitting on top of a picnic table trying to take over something others, especially older girls, were doing. But you would find me being bossed around, being made fun of, being generally used as a doormat by my playmates.

I do not want that for R. But I also do not want her to be the bosser, the bully, the child no one likes because she attempts to run every activity from tether ball (do kids even play that any more?) to tea parties. I worry that my own insecurities, both as a parent and as a person, will somehow taint R. Rationally, I know that they will, and I shouldn’t let it bother me because it happens to every kid. Just like I inherited my pear-shaped figure and love of Diet Coke from my mother, so will R likely get my bad skin and brownie cravings.

I know I can’t shield her from being who she is going to be. I have to let her make her own way in the world. I can’t protect her or, in all cases, prevent her from making the same mistakes I did. I just remember how painful being a child, an adolescent a teenager and even a young twenty-something was for me. And I illogically want to protect her from that.

Thank God we have the same taste in music….

… the same CRAPPY taste. What are we jamming to in Mommy’s new ipod? “The Final Countdown” by Europe. She also likes “Milkshake” by Kelis (don’t tell her Daddy).