Momming Around

She’s a Maniac, Maniac on the Floor

Posted on by Beth Hull

There’s a very good reason my parents didn’t name me Grace. The reason became clear in ballet class when I was six, and the instructor kept having us count to eight while we lifted our arms in (not-so) graceful arcs, and then count to eight as we lowered our arms in (not-so) graceful arcs. I assume the repeated exercise was because we weren’t getting it. Or maybe that was just me.

“I know how to count to eight. I want to leap and bound across the stage! In one of those sparkly frilly skirts! I want to be a ballerina right now. I’ll wear diamonds.”

I guess it’s a good thing they didn’t name me Patience, either.

I love to sing, and whenever I see a musical, I wish I could sing and dance together. It’s been my “wild” dream – the one I know will never come true. I think everybody needs one of these wild dreams, if nothing else than for entertainment when life isn’t treating you kind. Got a sick toddler you need to rock? Hum “Memory” from Cats and picture yourself slouching rhythmically under moody stage lights. Waiting in line at the DMV? They don’t have to know you’re smiling because you just nailed “Cell Block Tango” from Chicago and the audience is going wild. Long drive through Nevada? No way – you’re belting out “Popular” from Wicked and You Are a Star, Baby. Wearing diamonds, of course.

But none of that actually involves, you know, dancing. When my brother introduced me to Just Dance 2, I fell in love, then stole my mother’s Wii and bought my own copy of the game. Now, not only do I get to dance, I get immediate, objective feedback. And I can compete with my brother (and lose every time), which is always fun.

Favorite dances:

  • “Rasputin” by Boney M.
  • “Baby Girl” by Reggaeton
  • “Call Me” by Blondie
  • “Jump” by Studio Allstars (not Kris Kross? But it sounds just like them. Weird)
  • “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha
  • “Iko Iko” by Mardi Gras
  • “Girlfriend” by Avril Lavigne

I’ve only hit myself in the head with the controller a couple of times. Fine, maybe three or four times. Like I said, my name is not Grace. I haven’t actually knocked myself out yet, so I’m not too worried about it.

Z occasionally joins in. She’s “Baby” in the photo above, with 18 points. (She dropped the controller and found something better to do in administering injections to her stuffed animal friends.)

So I can sweat and be aware of every excruciating minute, or I can have fun and suddenly realize that my heart rate is up and I’m panting and sweating.

So. Jillian Michaels? Or a dancing video game?

Oh, daddy, I choose to dance. Even if flailing about with the controller occasionally bruises my forehead.

And the little one said, “Roll over, roll over!”

Posted on by Beth Hull

[Image from Hyperbole and a Half’s fabulously funny blog. Click here to get to the original post.]

I know what you’re thinking: we brought this on ourselves. The place we’re at, right now, is a natural, predictable consequence of implementing the Family Bed (of Pain).

But that doesn’t make it suck any less.

See, maybe the Family Bed (of Pain) works great when you don’t mind letting your kid sleep there past age 7. I do know parents of twins who have done/are doing this, along with their new infant. They have a Cal King and pushed a twin bed up next to it.

Well, a) we don’t have a Cal King and, even if we were so wedded to the idea of Eternal Cosleeping that we were willing to buy a Cal King, b) one wouldn’t fit in our room and c) it still wouldn’t be big enough for us and a three-foot-tall person who wants to sleep sideways.

Two weeks ago, fighting gravity and the kicking feet of my sweet, cherished daughter:

Ever-Suffering Mother: [eyes still closed, barely able to sit up on couch, resenting being dragged from bed for the morning’s goodbye-to-Daddy-just-one-more-hug-and-kiss-oh-last-one-wait-one-more-and-one-more ritual] I can’t do this anymore.
Husband and Z: It speaks! What is it?
ESM: I’m the Ever-Suffering Mother. Pay attention.
Husband: [realizes  Z left some pointy toys of the couch that the ESM might use as missiles] Yes dear?
ESM: I can’t do this anymore. Z, tonight if you wake up and want to come to our room, you can sleep on your cot. We’ll move it next to our bed. [looks at Husband] This has gotta work. Please let this work.
Husband: [muttering] This isn’t gonna work.
[Creepy music to foreshadow disaster.]

The Cot of Urine after its most recent hose-down.

Husband was mostly right. The cot, from here on referred to as the Cot of Urine, is only partially successful. Z’s diaper leaked on the second night, so after getting cleaned up, there was nowhere else for her to go (or was there?) except into the Family Bed (of Pain).

Henceforth (what a great, underused word), Z seems to have realized that peeing gets her into our bed. Here’s what I think goes on in her head:

Step 1: Wake up.
Step 2: Say, “Oh no! My Pull-Up leaked!” (Whether or not Pull-Up is wet.)
Step 3: Wait for grouchy parent to take me to the potty and change my Pull-Up. (Whether or not Pull-Up is wet.)
Step 4: Climb into the Family Bed (of Pain). (Even if the Cot of Urine has no urine in it. This is where Mommy and Daddy are weak, lazy parents. If they were smart/less tired, I’d be getting back into my cot (if it’s dry) or back into my bed. Mommy and Daddy are sucker parents and I shall sleep in their bed until I’m 25.)
Step 5: Talk and kick for the rest of the night/morning.
Step 6: Screech with glee and happiness and ask for a snack at 5 a.m.
Step 7: Wonder why Mommy looks like a zombie bride.

Now that I’ve analyzed her way of thinking, I see where we’re going wrong: Step 4. Things are going to change around here.

Somehow. If I ever get enough sleep to have the energy to completely shut down the Family Bed (of Pain).

The Pirate at the Other Side of the Table

Posted on by Beth Hull

Besotted with my kid as I am, and proud as I am of her smart little brain, I can’t help but wonder if somehow, maybe during her naps, pirates are sneaking into the house and coaching her in table manners.

Having never dined with a pirate (except in my fantasies when Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow first takes a shower, sobers, and then sweeps me away for a pleasure cruise…wait, this isn’t my fantasy. This is – – – – -‘s fantasy. Guess it’s mine now, too). Where was I? Oh yes, having never dined with a pirate, I cannot say for certain what their table manners are like. However, if the most popular modern-day depictions of pirates (yes, you know the movies, starring Mr. Depp) are any indication, I imagine pirates would shovel food into their mouths when they’re hungry, and, as soon as their tummies are sated, they might start throwing things on the floor, at each other, and generally act dirty and uncouth: spitting, piling up the unwanted food, smearing it on their hands and arms, sweeping everything to the floor with a sticky arm (or hook, because we should embrace the pirate clich é s).

Just like my daughter. Just add random, belligerent yelling.

Husband and I weren’t very happy for awhile, didn’t feel very close, when Z was really little and neither of us could do anything fun because we couldn’t hear or talk or make plans over the screaming. But now, now we’ve bonded all over again. We have united in the face of a Common Pirate Enemy. And our sense of camaraderie doesn’t stop at the dining room table. The shared horror at the atrocities performed a mere two feet away from our plates has strengthened our relationship. We understand each other better. We have suffered together, and continue to suffer, and will suffer through whatever future stages of growing-up we are lucky enough to witness.

They say the early years go by so quickly.

The speed of the early years going by is not quite as fast as a pea shooting through the air.

Our Busy Busy Calendar

Posted on by Beth Hull

I have been…blessed with an inquisitive child. At times this feels less like a blessing and more like a curse. Like when I’ve heard, “Why,” for the three hundred fifty-second time over the course of one morning. Sidenote: It isn’t even like she wants an answer. I mean, she does, but she doesn’t even ask it like it’s a question. Here’s an example:

Ever-Suffering Mother: Hey, Z, let’s get you dressed for music class!
Z: Why.
ESM: Because even though I’ve let you wear your jim-jams all day long, and in fact, I am still in my jim-jams myself, it is four p.m. and probably time to get dressed. At least just because we’re actually going out.
Z: Why.
ESM: Because…we’re going out?
Z: Why.
ESM: Because people certainly don’t want to see me in my grody sweatpants, and they probably shouldn’t see you wearing your oatmeal from this morning’s breakfast. They’ll think I’m an unfit mother.
Z: Why.

But that’s not what I’m writing about today. At least, that wasn’t what I thought I was writing about. Maybe I thought wrong. There’s obviously some untapped potential in that line of rant.

A couple of weeks ago, the questions strayed from WHY (hallelujah) and veered over into the week’s line-up. During one particularly busy week, I answered (patiently, patiently, always patiently) numerous questions about who was coming when.

“What day is Gran coming?”
“Friday.”
“What day is Grandma coming?”
“Thursday.”
“What day are we going to music class?”
“Thursday, if we ever get out of our pajamas.”

So I thought, she can recognize a stop sign, three letters, and numerous species of birds. She can recognize and respond to the various expressions of annoyance that show up on my face every day (“You’re very angry right now, aren’t you Mommy”). Why couldn’t she recognize and “read” a big weekly calendar?

Whipping out poster board, construction paper, and a fat black marker, I made her a weekly calendar. She worked in tandem with me at the kitchen table, making “calendars” for Husband and me. I put the calendar up on the basement door next to her room and voila!

Did the calendar solve the questions problem? No. And I hope nothing ever does. The most guilt I feel at this point (well, after the guilt I feel for making her play on her own while I write these rants/blog posts) is if I crack and say, “No more questions!” Because I want her to always, always ask questions. Even annoying ones.

But maybe she could direct those questions to someone else occasionally? Like…her preschool teacher when she starts in August?

Excuse me, I have to go revive The Dance of Joy.

Maroon Curtains: SOLD

Posted on by Beth Hull

Part of Momming Around is navigating the crap collected throughout day to day existence (read: the crap collected during Emergency Trips to Target Because You Need to Distract the Unholy Terror of Screaming Proportions). Add to all that crap the fact that it still doesn’t feel like we’ve moved into this house, and add to that crap all the crap two sets of parents have brought from their homes and deposited into your garage, and you’ve got yourself a Yard Sale.

It feels so…American. So social, so open. Here! I’m going to put everything I can’t stand to even have in my sight out on my driveway for everyone else to look at! It’s ugly and embarrassing, but if there’s a chance you’ll give me fifty cents for it, I totally don’t mind sharing it with the world.

In the end, though, it was all worth it, because this lady took one look at those maroon curtains, draped artfully over some rusty lawn chairs, and asked me how much I wanted for them. She was thrilled. Thrilled! To go home with not only all THREE sets of curtains, but their valances, for $20.

Yes, I’m snickering a little, because I hated them so, and I hated them for so, so long. But at the same time, in the bright light of a Saturday morning, I could see those maroon curtains as something more. More than the gloomy light-blockers they’d been in my living room. Reflected in this woman’s eyes, the curtains were desirable, practical…even (a teeny tiny little bit) pretty.

The saga with the maroon curtains (and the Gaylord Perry bobbleheads, and the big, big rug) is finally over.

Does anyone need a palm pilot?

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