Popsicle Sticks and Well Dressed Rage

I look at the clock: 2pm on the dot. All the sewing I've been doing, all the skirts I had been making, the labels I ordered, the hang tags I punched and added to the finished products, all of that comes down to today: Photo Shoot Day.

I think when the economy is bad, people start doing crazy shit that they'd never do if they didn't have to invent their own opportunities. I think that might be a paraphrase from like, Hoover or Eisenhower, or someone important who also rode a horse (maybe my Dad?), but I also believe that to be true.

If I could get a regular gig somewhere for fun and $$ I wouldn't be thinking to myself, "How do I hustle and make some flow?" (assuming "hustle" means "work hard" and "flow" means "major cashola.")  And, since the economy is in the crapper and jobs are scarce, I'm doing what many women at home do: I'm gonna start selling crafty things at stupidly high prices that no one can afford, because the people that buy your stuff are off making their own crafty creations and are selling them at the booth beside mine.

Yes, Mr Heller, I am aware of the catch-22; however, I brought a magic marker so I can out bid my competition, Price Is Right style, only the opposite.

With the right adjectives, even a Popsicle stick tower can be sold for $75. 

At any rate, I decided it's time to start marketing my adorable skirts to the masses. But in order to do that, I decided I needed a photo shoot. So then, my needs went from just selling skirts and making money, to include a) get a photographer b) get half a dozen adorably cute little girls ranging in size from 1 to 10, and then a tween to model the bags and random other accessories I have created.

But where would I find such a bevy of young ladies? Why, I kept things simple-- I called my sister, sister-in-law and a couple of friends with wee girlies.  Everyone, much to my relief, agreed to do the shoo. And then, my needs went from all that aforementioned stuff, to also needing to clothe 6 models. Quickly, I figured out what needed to be done.

(here's the email I actually sent)

Hi!

Thanks for saying you will model skirts and such for the photo shoot on Saturday. We are super stoked to have your wee princess in our clothes!  Please bring the following things with you when you arrive.  Please arrive ready to dress, undress and re-dress your child many, many times within an hour.

Please bring the following shirts with you:
long sleeved navy, no print/logo -- with matching tights
long sleeved white, no print/logo  -- with matching tights
3/4 sleeve red, ruffles on chest
3/4 sleeve green, five buttons on chest
short sleeve pink, with pocket
short sleeve blue, with pocket
cap sleeve brown, with print/no logo
cap sleeve black, with print/no logo
1 white cardigan
1 brown cardigan
1 jean jacket

Please bring the following accessories with you:
1 hat in black
1 hat with sequins
a pair of hair clips/bows that match each shirt

Please bring the following shoes with you:
Pair of cute, fun boots (not winter)
Pair of flip flops
Pair of dressy shoes

I think that's it. I hope you're able to bring everything-- I hear Gap has a sale on, just in case you're missing a piece or two.  :)

xoxo
Diva

Looking back, I should've been less shocked for the flood of emails that went "Uh, my kid is, uh, like, sick or something. She's gonna be sick for at least another week or two (until the day after the photo shoot, whenever that is anyway). Sorry we can't do it anymore."

(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: Like, Sister! Why aren't you answering my call. Did you get my email? Of course you did. I checked the read receipt like the proper stalker I am.  Call me. K? Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: Sister! I only asked for like, two dozen shirts and various shoes and accessories. This is not outrageous or bizarre.  Call me. Seriously. Don't be a jerk. K? Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: Why are you screening me? Anyway, I can't believe you're not answering my calls. My email is legit. Frick. Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: Ok. So now Sister-In-Law isn't answering either. Are you two talking to each other? Don't get her to drop out, too. That's shite! Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: I just got the angel forward email. Seriously? Fine. Just bring your kid. And one shirt.  Will you do it then? Frickin' call me. K? Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: Ok. I'll just like, bring a couple of bins of clothing with me and you can figure it out. No biggie. K? You're acting like a jackass, by the way. Click.


(phone ringing)
Cell Phone: "You've reached Sister's voicemail. Leave a message."
Me: SERIOUSLY! Fine. I'll just post something on like, craigslist or something and find some new models. Frickdy.

(phone ringing)
Me: Hello?
Sister: Hi! Hey, so I saw you called 53 times. I was out buying the 50 thousand shirts you need. This photo shoot is so exciting! Sister-in-Law and I have been giggling about it all week! So FUN!  Anyway, my phone was out of charge-- what's up?
Me: ... Uh. Ya. Um. Just can you, uh, delete all those messages without, uh, listening to them?

I look at the clock-- it's 2pm on the dot. Everyone has arrived at the house. It's time to start loading cars with girls, their clothing, and my skirts. And the balloons. And the giant sequined teddy bear.

We start out toward the photographer's when I realise that Gloria (my GPS) has no idea how to get there either. I drive towards the small town, regardless of that fact, hoping I'll just see some giant sign to call us inside.  After driving up and down the main drag 4 times, with three cars trailing me full of models and their giant suitcases of shite, I remember that I have a postcard in one of my boxes with the phone number of the photographer written on it.

Just then, Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" came on the radio. 

Yes. I know I should've looked up the address before embarking on the quest. Yes, I also realise that having the phone number in my phone, and not in the trunk, would have made a lot more sense.

I got out, opened the hatch, grabbed the rush of balloons that tried to escape to freedom, looked inside and realised that NONE of the clothes bins made it to the car. NONE OF THE CLOTHES MADE IT TO THE CAR!

I'm usually a pretty relaxed person. Well, sometimes I am relaxed, but anyway, this was not one of those times. See, I booked one hour for the photo shoot, and the photographer lives 40 minutes from my home. There was no time for us to turn around and be back by 3pm. And there was no point in doing the photo shoot without any FRICKING CLOTHING!?!

I did the jumping kicking dance of rage while the three moms looked on from the safety of their newly locked cars. I got back into my car. I called Husband. He picked up.

Me: (growling) CAN you see two baskets of CLOTHES in the laundry room?
(I was still kinda hoping that he wouldn't be able to find them, and they'd magically appear in the trunk through Jedi magic and well-harnessed rage.)
Husband: Um. Hold on. I have to go upstairs. (sounds of him going up stairs agonisingly slowly) ... Yes.
Me: Why do you think you can see them?
Husband: Uh, because they're here?
Me: WHY ARE THEY THERE???
Husband: I don't know. Are you even talking to me or is this whole conversation rhetorical?
Me: RAZZ-A-FRAZZIN'!!
Husband: Hey, Yosemite Sam. Can I bring the stuff to you?
Me: please.
Husband: K. You're welcome. You can sew me a cape when you're done with the photo shoot.

Husband arrived with the clothing-- thankfully my sister had claimed a few of the skirts as her own-- so she'd packed them in with the shirts et cetera she was bringing.  Fortunately, she was able to get get some pictures done of her daughter done while the rest of us waited for the rest of the stuff.

I'm quite certain the photographer took the cutest pictures ever taken in the history of time, but we won't know that for a week or two. So, in the meantime, take heart that no children were harmed in the making of the photo shoot-- even though my blood pressure went up 200 points when I thought we were lost, and then again when I realised we had none of the necessary goods with us.

I've just been avoiding salt and egg yolks this week-- I'm sure the pulsing in my left arm will stop on its own.

In the meantime, anyone interested in a $75 Eiffel Tower sculpture message me. I can get you a good deal.

YouTube Fail Videos Pt 2

So.

I figure you're wondering whether I actually waltzed into my kid's school wearing a gigantic ruffled dress and read the (hilarious) riot act. I mean, it does sound like something I'd really, actually do, I know. But, I didn't.

Knowing that, I suppose you're now thinking to yourself, "Self, it's all well and good that Elizabeth was able to like, laugh her way through this bully thing, but how, exactly can I apply this lesson to my own life?"

And if you were thinking that, I would say to you, "Hey, man, THIS post is for you."

For the ease of reading, I'm gonna use the bullying issue of last post, but know this applies to any situation where you feel threatened by someone else-- whether it's your kid's school, your boss, your in-laws, whatever, insert your issue where I have all the bully/school stuff.

Here's the situation:

"You buzzin' at ME? ARE. YOU. Buzzin'. AT. ME??"

When you're in the middle of the visceral "Someone's gonna pay, and pay big" reaction to any pain your child is going through, it's very, very tempting to bring the wrath of Mama Gone Mad upon the School, upon the Principal/Teacher, upon the Child/Girlfriend/Boyfriend, upon the Bee that stung your child.

So tempting, is it, in fact, that unless you have someone take your car keys, and your sneakers, and put broken glass in a 4-foot trench around the radius of your home, you may actually end up at the school red in the face with messed up feet, crazy hair (from the walk) and with that twitchy-eye thing you see on seriously messed up people.

Guess who is gonna take you seriously when you look like Marge Simpson from that one episode where she suspects Homer is messing around with his singing star protégé, Lurleen? Grinding your teeth, breathing heavily while zombie-walking is NOT the look that screams, "I'm a competent person. Listen to my complaint about a bully."

Always, ALWAYS take as long as it takes for you to calm down. If that's 3 hours, or three days, do NOT contact the school in any way until you are able to describe what happened to your mother, mother-in-law or best friend without a)swearing, b) tearing up or c) feeling "that feeling" in your gut.

I made this when I thought the Wal-Mart lady
forgot to put my soy sauce in my bag.
I found it, later, in my trunk.
Glad I took a couple of hours to calm down! 

In order to calm yourself, you might need to write. That's what I ALWAYS need to do when I'm feeling crazy (hence my twice-weekly posts hahahahaa. No, seriously.).  Maybe you run or crochet or bake or glue things to other things-- do whatever it is that enables you to harness your rage and turn it into something beautiful. Trust me, as hard as it sounds, it will be extremely beneficial to your predicament.

So. I Calm down.

Then, I write out a list of the Top 3 Reasons you trust your school, teacher and principal/caregiver with your kiddo in the first place.

I'm serious.

You need to remember why you sent your wonderful, perfect, beacon of light and goodness to the hands of the person you chose.  My list (hopefully always) is : 1) I trust the teacher/caregiver 2) I always feel good when I go into the school/home and 3) I know they want what is best for my child as much as I do.

Well, then. If you chose your child's school/daycare/nursery school/coach with enough confidence to be able to say the above three things, then you can de-escalate yourself another notch. You know they don't want to see your baby in harm's way either. (If you don't feel that way, then you need to consider that at least 50% of your reaction to the bully is a result of your not trusting the teacher/school with your child. If that is the case, why are your kids going there?)

Now that I'm feeling better about the school/teacher/principal, I now need to address my bully issue.

First Stop: Teacher and Student

At any age (Kiddo #1 is in JK and is 4) I believe the first line of defence with any school issue is the child. If Kiddo #1 says that she's supposed to wear a scarf to school tomorrow, and there isn't a note in the planner about it, I'll tell Kiddo #1 to talk to her teacher about it. If Kiddo #1 says she was pushed on the playground  by some kid, likewise, I ask her if she talked to her teacher about it. If she says no, we discuss how the better option would be to get her help that day, but to talk to the teacher about it the next day at school. Then I remind her to talk to the teacher as she's getting on the bus.


Lastly, I have a little sticky note inside her planner with a little "Can you check-in with Kiddo #1 about being pushed yesterday, in case she forgets." Of course, as Kiddo #1 gets older, I'll have to be more covert-- perhaps an email? But then again, she'll be older and more able to self-advocate, hopefully. 

Second Stop: Teacher and Parents

When it's time to talk to the teacher about the bully, I leave another note in Kiddo #1's planner asking if husband and I can stop in and chat. Then, we do just that. We stop in, we chat about the issue and make sure everyone knows that we're aware and want to help things get better.

We use phrases like, "What can we do at home to help Kiddo #1 feel better about the bully?" and "What kinds of things would help keep her out of harm's way?"

We also make sure that Kiddo #1 knows that we went to her Teacher. We tell her what is going on and what everyone is thinking. This goes a very long way in terms of trust for her.

Stop Three: Principal and Parents

IF the situation continues, or crosses a line, or any sort of thing that says we need to reconnect at school, I drop Kiddo #1 off at school and ask for an appointment with the Principal to discuss the situation.

Granted, I haven't had to do this a whole lot as a parent, but as a Teacher, myself, I always feel better when a parent comes to me first (after the student) before talking with administration.  Not for the "cover your ass" part that some people might think, though. Seriously, if I've spoken to a parent about a situation from my classroom and I feel I have remedied it, but the parent doesn't, then I know that (at least) I've tried to help, first.

Here is a list of things I find helpful (keeping in mind I don't always remember any of them, and when I forget to ask/say these things, I always end up feeling frustrated after the meeting.)

1) What can we do to help fix this problem?
2) Has the school ever had to deal with this issue before? If so, how was it handled?
3) Is this a possible way to handle this, too?
4) If not, what has the school been doing, and where will we go from here?

And, once again, I make sure Kiddo #1 knows I'm going into the school to see what we can do about the situation. And when we're home again, we talk with her about what was said. I don't do the verbatim, but I do sum it up and reassure her that we're all looking out for her happiness and safety.

Moving Along

I had several emails wondering whether I'd spoken directly to the Bully's parents or not. In this case, I haven't. Here's why: This kiddo is 4 years old. The kid is very aggressive and seems to be lashing out at not only Kiddo #1 but anyone that happens to be near by.  The child isn't one to say negative things (thus far); the altercations are physical and occur when Kiddo #1 has disagreed with an opinion or has said something that the kiddo probably could never articulate (hence the frustration, anger, and physicality).

I do not feel that calling the child's parents would be beneficial to this instance-- if a four-year-old kid thinks it's acceptable to slap, hit, kick, push and spit on someone for disagreeing, I can't help but think this behaviour must be modelled at home. If that's the case, I will not be the one that calls saying "Your kid's a jerk!" and then have Hellfire brought down on that child once the phone is hung up. I can't make that ok in my head, no matter how much I want that kid to stop hurting my child. This kid is a victim, too.

(Would I feel this way if the kid was 14? I don't know. Do I know this is what is happening? Nope. Just a gut feeling that is unsubstantiated by any *real* proof.)

Next?

Not Hot to Smokin' Hott.
Screech/Dustin Diamond: take notes.

So. Where are we now? Well, we're going back into the school to discuss what's going on. I'm not going to pretend any of this is magically over, like "Saved By The Bell." But it does make me wonder if "Screech" is the reason Dustin Diamond is such a mess. I mean, you can't play the comic idiot your entire adolescence and into early adulthood and actually expect anyone to take you as anything else. You hear me, Jaleel White? Oh wait. YOU are delicious now. You don't count. Sorry, Screech. How 'bout Buddy Lembeck? Good ole Willie Aames-- yeah, he and DD could both take a page from Jaleel's sexy, sexy book.

Where was I? Oh, well, yes. So we're still on it. And we're still getting things worked into. AND, above all, I am remembering that I trust the school and everyone in it, to make sure Kiddo #1 is safe, happy and smarter. lol Tall order, I know, since there are 300 other kids going there, too. But you know what? That's why I'm in there-- I'm making sure she blends in when she should and stands out when she needs to.

I'll update this later, but know that we're on it. And nothing is perfect, easy or immediate. But we're all trying. And if you're going through this, and you've de-escalated yourself and your gut is still ringing that there's something wrong, keep pushing. Keep pushing. Even if nothing changes, your kiddo will see you fighting for what's right and your kiddo will know that simply submitting will not work, no matter how much easier it would be.  That's power. True power.

Hugs.

YouTube Fail Videos

I found myself in The Principal's Office for different reasons growing up-- receiving accolades and awards, having been spit on by a boy I was tragically in love with (that was the day the Juliette in me packed her bags and left me to my own devices), and one time because I witnessed a fight between two kids that I didn't know, so I got to be an impartial witness. That was cool.

I'm also a teacher. I've been in The Office to get my yearly evaluations, which always end with "You're making great connections with your kids, Elizabeth. You care and because you care, they do."  That's a big deal when you teach high school English, by the way. 

I mean, when I go to dinner parties (hahahahahaaaaa, that's a lie. I don't ever go out, least of all to dinner parties. hahaa Oh that's a killer.). Ha. Phew. Ok. So when I meet new people, randomly, at the library or while shopping for bananas, and they ask me what I do, I say I teach high school.  I don't usually even tell them what subject I teach because as soon as they do, whoever it is abruptly stops talking to me as though I've got my red pen poised and am marking their every word in giant, fat, bleeding Xs. 

This is pretty much the beginning of every email I get.

I'm not kidding. I suppose if I were to be in some calculator conversation with a Maths teacher I might be all, "Man, my Cos is pretty angled because of the root of the hypotenuse, so, like, don't hate me, ok? But here's my question-- if a train leaving Chicago at 6am ..." Blardy blar blar. 

But I've just made an after lunch appointment to meet with the principal. See, Kiddo #1 has been having problems with a kid at school.  I have been assured several times over the past 6 months that this isn't "bullying" and that this kid "targets everyone" but that "Kiddo #1 seems to get most of it." I'm a strong proponent to self-advocacy, so I have been encouraging her to speak with her teacher about these incidents.  We've had a couple conversations with Teacher ourselves about it. Yesterday, though, she was spit on.  It's now time to move up the food chain; spitting is inexcusable, I don't care if you're four or four hundred.

So. So. So. 

I went into the school for the second time in two days, today. 

I spent the entire time Kiddo #2 was in nursery school this morning, to ready myself. That is to say, I put on my best outfit from my days as a ballroom dancer, did my hair and make-up, added the proper sequins and double-sided tape and put on my waltzing shoes.   I started out in my more dramatic Cha-Cha outfit but, frankly, I wasn't sure that I would be taken seriously with the giant, fake birthmark on my upper lip, so I changed. 

 What do you think of our porcelain skin? Jealous much?

 

Into my waltzing dress I dove-- Here's a picture of Husband and I at the last championship Ballroom Dancing competition we did.  We took home the gigantic trophy that night. It was truly magical. I put my hair in that bun, took the flouncy dress out of storage. While I did that I went over my speech and how I was going to address our issues at the school. I figured the dress would at least get their attention, and certainly point to the severity of spitting. 

I went in the day before, which was the day of the spitting incident-- but I didn't know about the spitting at the time. I was just checking in about the Bully and how anxious my daughter was because of Bully's behaviour.  

Yesterday, I was so polite. Yesterday, I was smiley. Yesterday, I was positive and very eager to make the situation go away.  Between all that happiness and the Principal not really wanting to deal with the situation, I left, ironically, feeling pretty hostile. I asked what we could do to help at home, but I didn't ask what they were doing at school. I mean, I had what my daughter was telling me (and I was then interpreting) but she's not an adult. I needed to hear from the Principal and I wasn't offered that information, nor did I ask. 

So, later that day, as I sat at home seething because I felt that nothing changed, I realised that all negotiations are like learning dance steps.  You say one thing, they return with another blardy blar blar. I just needed to be dancing the same number as the Principal for everything to get resolved.  

I had Husband call in and make the appointment for me for today (I didn't want them to recognise my voice and be on to me), I got Kiddo #1 to school on time, got Kiddo #2 to nursery school and returned home, smug as a bug in a rug. Or whatever. 

Random note: If you are going to don an elaborate waltz dress and need to get somewhere, you should consider a few things first: 1) Is your car clean enough to enter without leaving dirty black marks on the dress?  2) If not, have you figured this out BEFORE getting dirty black marks on your dress? 3) If not, do you have a Shout stain-erasing pen? 4) Once you've erased the stains, is there a bus that happens to go right by your house, and with fewer than 3 transfers before you arrive at your destination?  

If the answer is no to most of the above, then you should really call for a cab and save yourself quite a bit of aggravation and Shout pen. 

3.5 hours later, I finally arrived at the school. Thank heaven I was able to leave Kiddo #2 with another mommy or this would have been entirely impossible. 

I waltzed (quite literally) into the office. 

I said, "Hello everyone. I just want to let you know that I've told my daughter that if she is bothered by anyone ever again, while at school, she is to retaliate with any physical or mental force she deems necessary.  I told her hitting, slapping, pushing, kicking and, newly added to the list, spitting, are encouraged and promoted while at school, and especially with Bully."  

The front office staffers pooped their collective pantses and The Principal ushered me quickly into her office and closed the door.

Her:  Mrs. Kiddo#1! I cannot believe you would tell your sweet daughter to really do that!

Me: Well, I can't believe you'd tell me to toughen her up and make her less sensitive and expect anything less.

Her:  Mrs Kiddo#1! You can't tell her to hurt other children!

Me: Why not? It seems to be the way we do things here.

Her: Mrs. Kiddo#1! What do you mean?

Me: Well, Bully, in her class, you remember him? That kid that is constantly getting red cards for pushing, slapping, kicking, and, as of yesterday, spitting on other kids, and especially my daughter. Well, since he's allowed to do it to his classmates so I figured you encourage this type of behaviour.

Her: Mrs Kiddo#1! How could you think that?

Me: Well, because I didn't even find out that he spit on her from the school. She had to tell me, so you must not think that is unusual or terrible.

Her: Spitting is a very grave matter.

Me: Well, not anymore. I've toughened her up and made her less sensitive. We watched YouTube Fail videos all night, so now she thinks people like to hurt themselves and she is ok with it.

Her: I cannot believe you mean this.

Me:  Why not?

Her: This is a school! If we permitted students to just run around and hurt their peers, this place would be no better than a zoo. An angry zoo!

Me: Huh. Hadn't thought of that. Oh well. 

Her: Have you been drinking?

Me: Yes. I've been drinking from the well of the Golden Rule. Do unto others as they've done to you.

Her: I think you have that wrong.

Me: Oh. Well, I'm not concerned with semantics.

Her: You should be. I cannot believe you would tell your daughter to hurt another child!

Me: Oh, there's one more thing.

Her: What could you possibly add?

Me: I do not expect any repercussions from the school when she does this. 

Her: That is not possible. 

Me: Oh, yes. Yes it is.

Her: I can't just not punish someone when they hurt another one of my students.

Me: You don't punish her Bully, ergo, you will not punish her when she acts accordingly to get him to stop. You can give her all the red cards you need to, but if I hear of any other action taken about her behaviours I will seek litigation.

Her: What? What?

Me: Oh, yeah. Sorry about that one-- forgot to mention that if you get her into any more trouble than simply putting her in the hallway for the day, I will be forced to sue the school for taking away my child's educational opportunity. 

Her: But what about Bully's? What about her classmates? Don't they deserve the right to an education?

Me: Once again, your inaction has sealed your casket, Princi-pal.  Bully has been disrupting the class since the beginning of the year. No one in that class has been getting an adequate opportunity, least of all my daughter. So you can't claim her retaliation is any more or less intrusive. 

Her: I am calling the police. And Children's Services. 

Me: Oh, yeah. Right, you can't do that either, sorry. I'm protected because I'm, now, officially insane. Ta-da!

(wee tap-dance motion as I shuffle out the door)

End Scene. 

Blardy Blar Blar.

Dino-mite, Ooooh Yeah!

The worst part of the dinosaur era wasn't being chased down, in one step, by something ready to eat you in two crunches.  No, the worst thing about living with and surrounded by dinosaurs is that you could never discern the cries of the damned pterodactyl to the cries of your children.

The thing is, there's no simple trigger for those high-pitched sounds, either. Sure, getting into groups of 3 kiddos can set off decibels that shatter stemware, but over what? Is it the thrill of playing dolls that makes girls start shrieking? Or is it the pursuit of becoming Alpha Pre-Schooler that is the issue-- they can't out last, out wit and out play, so they deafen the competition into submission? 

I kinda thought, for a fleeting moment in my early 20's, that it might be cool to be a super star, à la The Beatles (Justin Beiber was busy being conceived when I was in my 20's so I couldn't use him as my role model).  I rented a VHS copy of  Hard Day's Night and barely made it through the credits before I realised that it would, indeed, by a hard day's night if I had to listen to all that shrieking, screaming, bawling and general emotional overload whenever someone saw me.  I wanted fame, yes, but I wanted the stoic, Olympic-Gold type, not the ... well, blubbering at high pitches.

And yet, as I donned my trench coat and fake moustache to throw my kids of the trail, I realised I have become just that: I am a superstar in my own home;  I was completely surrounded by screaming, bawling, running, chasing fanatics that desperately wanted me to touch them to make their lives better. Say what?

The pterodactyls screeched all around me, but because I was absolutely, perfectly still, and wearing a disguise, no one knew it was me. They screamed. They bawled. (Kiddo #2 actually stomped his wee feet like he was furiously running in place, which was awful and comical at the same time.) I didn't flinch. I knew they could smell fear, so I closed my eyes and did some deep breathing exercises (I think they're asanas, but Wikipedia is down today to protest SOPA so I can't confirm what I did with the actual, correct term. How's that for showing how little I know and how dependent I am on the internet/WIKIPEDIA FOR MY FACTS? Sad day.)

Right, so using my proficient ventriloquy skills, (ps, I spelled ventriloquy right the first time!! That's kinda fantastic!!) I was able to throw my voice to the piano who then said, "Each of you knows two languages. If you want to speak with your mother, you need to use one of them."

If I hadn't been there, I would never have believed my eyes. Instantly, my two flapping dinosaurs stopped screeching and calmly said, "Momma, can I have a snack?" (the baby said, "Dada, DeeDee, Up Peas!" but that's what he meant).  

I tossed a ball in the other direction to divert their attention, ripped off my fake glasses/nose/moustache and trenchie and "magically" appeared "out of no where" with a smile.  We all had a laugh about how I went missing and who was the guy in our house with the moustache. It ended like any good 30 minute sitcom should. 

And then, this morning, when I dropped Kiddo #2 at his second week of nursery school, a strange thing happened.  This kiddo, who is independent and wants to do everything all by himself; this kiddo who knows no fear and loves to jump off the back of the couch, or surf on the hall carpet while I pull it back into place, wouldn't let go of my legs when I put him down. 

I picked him up once I'd placed his various accessories in their various locations. He clung to me like he didn't want me to go.  And, for the first time in my life, that pterodactyl scream that drives me crazy, that deafens me and incites rage in my heart, actually made me terribly, horribly sad.  I used to empathise with parents when they'd say "Oh it's terrible, my child cries and bawls when I drop him off at school." and I'd, believing I was sincere, would say, "Oh I know! I was torn apart, but for the opposite reason: Kiddo #1 barely said goodbye when she left this morning. She doesn't need me anymore at all!" and I felt I was being a good friend.

Well, to all my friends with crying children, I now fully understand your pain. It's not the same when your kiddo runs off to join friends and barely waves.  That sucks, but that's not the same. 

The same is when the nursery school teacher brings your baby-est baby to the window so he can wave good bye to his Mama and you can't hear a shriek but you can see the deafening screams all over his face.  The same is when you can see him gasping for breath through the window and you're smiling and trying not to Kool-Aid Man through the wall to get him and hold him and make him feel better. The same is when you can watch him mouthing "Daaadaaa! Dadddaaaa!" and all you can think about is how he's too young for this and he's not ready and what was I thinking.  

I'm sorry I was glib, but I didn't know it wasn't the same. Thanks for not throwing rocks at my face. I owe you one.  

And, also, while I'm thanking people, THANKS NURSERY SCHOOL people for taking wonderful care of my two children. I don't know how you do it, but I never worry about their safety or wonder what they're doing, or whether they're getting enough stimulation or too much or anything of the sort. For real, knowing he was bawling in your arms kept me from actually, for real, crashing through the building to save him. Oh yeah. 

Oh, Kiddo #2 calls me Dada, and he calls his father Daddeeeee, in case you're wondering what that shizz is.

On a great note, the shrieks of joy that reverberated off the walls of the nursery school when I came back to pick him up were the sweetest dinosaur roars I've ever heard. 'Dada' never sounded so good. 

Awkward Turtles and Missing Hamsters

We've been battling the overnight pull-ups for close to a year now. In fact, actually, now that I sit here typing and have resorted to counting on my fingers, we've been doing this since Kiddo #1 was 2.5 years old, which is technically uh, carry the one ... yeah. I mean, going on 3 years now. Ugh.

Kiddo #1 had no problem learning how to use the toilet during the day-- I'd even say she was amazingly easy to train. I would like to think it's because we cloth diapered and so she felt it every time she had an 'accident' in her diaper.  But let's be honest-- if she only knew cloth diapering, then how would she recognise that "wet" or "crap-filled" was "weird?" Oh, Marshall McLuhan and your hypothesis that a fish has no idea he's in water until he leaves the stream. Is there nothing your brilliance cannot touch?

Anyway. So, you'd think that if she has no problem with being conscious and making it to the toilet, and that it's only while sleeping that she has accidents, that therefore she would have accidents during nap time, too, but no. Just in the overnight.

The Top 10 Things (out of 6 Million) That We Tried To Get Kiddo #1 To Have Dry Nights

1. Rewards: stickers, tattoos, silly bands, Smarties (the Canadian ones, not the American ones, which are called Rockets in Canada.  AND, ironically, American Smarties are made in Canada).

2. Good Praise: Ranging from elaborate, choreographed "Potty Success" dances to subtle "Great job, honey-bunny."

3. Ignoring accidents: (not to be confused with negative praise, which shames your child into not wetting the bed, we didn't want to do that because, well ... well, it works. Every time. Like a charm. But we, apparently, prefer a multi-year challenge, so we skipped the shame. Sigh. What were we thinking?) Right, so ignoring-- when there was an accident, we'd say, "Oh well. Try again tonight."

4. Food Exclusions: I heard that different foods satiate you more, and allow a deeper sleep at night. These foods include, but are not limited to: peanut butter, cheese, eggs, (mainly proteins) ... So one by one we'd take them out of her diet to see if she was better able to arise before an accident. No dice.

4. Cold, hard, cash. 

5.  Offer of something insane in exchange for 14 dry nights in a row.

Trust me, we've tried it all. Except the shaming, I guess. But anyway, I feel like we could write a concise, all-in-one-spot reference on everything everyone tells you to try, when potty training.  However, we still have a kid in pull-ups overnight with good, but unreliable successes so it probably wouldn't sell well. 

Let me tell you that resorting to cold, hard cash was hard for me. I don't believe in teaching children to get shit done for money. I mean, really, isn't that kinda ... capitalistic? Or something nefarious like that? You should feel good about not shitting the bed, right? Not just hold out and keep swimming yourself awake until you get the right dollar amount.  But, yes, we resorted to money when, after the first year and a bit, nothing seemed to really be working reliably.

It goes like this: $1.00 for each dry night, with the chance for a bonus dollar if she has the dry night in her own bed.  She can't just earn the bonus dollar for sleeping in her own bed (which, she's smart enough to have asked about after day 3, hahaha). And, yes, I totally dig that I'm teaching her to believe that she should also hold out for a Price Is Right style game of bonus prizes.

Oh, and because I, too, like Price is Right style games, we did a combo of #4 and #5-- she was allowed to save her money up for a hamster. She originally wanted a kitty, but Husband nixed that before the KI was out of her mouth. So Husband and I negotiated Kiddo #1 down to the hamster.  Plink-o that, bitch.

However, after probably close to a year of saving her loonies and twonies (pronounced looney and tuney for those of you outside of Canadia. Ha Looney Tunes. Nice, Canada, nice.) Husband said, this morning, "Um. Do you think we should let her like, buy something with all that money? I feel like she might feel more excited about saving if we get her, say, the cage or something for the Hamster."

Brilliance! Let me tell you, he's more than just a pretty face, that Husband of mine.

So, off to the pet store we tooted this morning, after counting her money (you do NOT want to know how much money she'd raised, it would make you cry. And want to mug her.). And, actually, the counting of money-- putting a value on the "leaf, beaver, boat, caribou, bird and polar bear" (the penny, nickel, dime, quarter, loonie and twonie) and showing her how many of each thing is in a dollar, it was a fun little game. Four caribous equals a bird. Two birds is a polar bear. Ten leaves is a boat.

Oh the games you can play when your money has national treasures on it. And by national treasures, I mean, wildlife.

Anyway, toot-toot to the pet store. We chose a glass aquarium, glass water dispenser, pink bedding (made from reclaimed/recycled waste from the paper industry, so it's super compostable, too), a purple metal wheel and a white dish for food. 

I know hamsters only live two years, but I couldn't, in good conscience, put a hamster in a plastic house with plastic dishes and plastic bed et cetera. Husband, of course, said, "You're kinda being crazy."
Me: Cray. You mean, 'cray.'
Husband: Are we doing this again?
Me: Just trying to keep you relevant, Diddy.
Husband: Right, so you're still being (air quotes) cray. Hamsters don't care about plastic.
Me: I care.
Husband: But they only live, like, 2 years.
Me: Yes. But it will be a wonderful, fertile, non-cray two year span.
Husband: That hamster had better NOT be fertile.
Me: Plus, I read that book The Room about being locked away from the world. It has changed me.
Husband: A H-A-M-S-T-E-R. Seriously.
Me: Plus, because we're getting the recycled bedding, she can have a  pink house for her hamster just like she wants.
Husband: You're crazy. No, I take that back: you're CRAY.
Me: Thanks!!

I always love it when he embraces cool slang and stops being an awkward turtle. 

(this one is bewildering even to me-- but you take your hand with the palm face down.  Then, with your thumb and pinkie finger, you make circles and with the other three fingers, you have them stay straight. This, apparently, looks like a turtle swimming, yet it's awkward to do, and possibly if you're a turtle and your one fin is short and thumb-like, with the other one short and pinkie-finger like, you would swim awkwardly. The piece de resistance is when you put one hand on top of the other, which is the mega-awkward turtle.) 

So, as of today, we have an empty hamster aquarium with pink bedding, a purple wheel and a white food dish.  Kiddo #1 has to achieve 14 dry nights in a ROW in order to unlock the bonus Hamster. We're going to draw a Hamster on the calendar every time she has a dry night. 

Hopefully we'll have that puppy filled sometime before she's 8. Teen.  I mean, at that point, the bribe would just be a car, right?  Oh crap. She's been holding out all along. Now who's the awkward turtle?