daughter

Five o’Clock Disco Breakdown

Posted on by Beth Hull

When five o’clock rolls around, it’s time to dance. “It’s five o’clock!” I shout, and you immediately start your funny shuffle, some cross between the Running Man and the Moon Walk. “Clear the dance floor!” I say, kicking books, stuffed animals, and assorted wooden puzzle pieces. I give a particularly rough kick to any toy that uses batteries and makes noise, hoping it will “accidentally” break. Then, with a good beat blasting, we dance.

You prefer to dance in my arms, face to face, bouncing your own exaggerated bounces until I give in and jump up and down. You squeal, smiling wide, letting go for a second to clap your hands. Once my back is about to give out, I finally put you down and hold your hands, or one of your hands and one of Mr. Penguin’s hands–er, wings. We dance in a circle, and I sing “Ring Around the Rosie” to a disco beat. Or we dance facing each other. I do the can-can, you kick your legs out in an approximation of the can-can that looks more like a goose-step.

It’s fun when Daddy joins us. We all spin, shake our groove thangs, and laugh a lot. The perfect end to a long day.

The Nap

Posted on by Beth Hull

story-books and lullabies

hush, my baby, don’t you cry

all the pretty little horses–

lids fall, lashes long

soft breaths, gentle-strong.

up too early?

too darn bad, it’s back to sleep.

mommy needs

her sanity.

hold my breath, afraid to gulp

the second phase is harder earned

ten minutes on tip-toes

climbing moves, grasping doorframes

avoid the squeaks in the old-wood floors

ah, peace, safe downstairs

for another fifteen minutes.

Kitchen ‘Capades

Posted on by Beth Hull

This morning I was greeted in the kitchen by the Mt. Everest of dishes, looming precipitously above me and sucking up all the oxygen with their stench. Didn’t I JUST do these? I wondered. Hasn’t there been enough kitchen cleaning for one week? Does it never end? I know I’m not the first stay-at-homie to ponder these philosophical quandaries. With my easy solution, perhaps I’ll be the last.

For those of you interested in my ground-breaking solution, here it is: stop eating. No food means no dishes. I know I can certainly survive until the Fourth of July off of my stomach fat alone, not even needing to use up the fat stores from other parts until much later. Z can survive off the handouts she gets at playdates. Seriously, the kid walks into a stranger’s house and starts begging. I try to convince the other moms that she does eat at home, but they don’t believe me. So I may as well stop feeding her and make the rounds to the other toddlers’ houses. And Husband? He barely eats anyway, somehow getting through an entire day on three cookies. In fact, he doesn’t even have to eat those cookies. He takes them to work, then brings them home; he magically absorbs whatever calories he needs just from carrying them. I magically absorb whatever calories I don’t need just by looking at air.

But this isn’t an article intended to poke fun at my weight, as easy as that is right now. I’m mystified by the kitchen, and the dishes inside it, and how they seem to dirty themselves through the very virtue of being dishes. Perhaps I don’t get it because I don’t cook. So when I see the dishes it’s magical in an Oh-No-Voldemort-Just-Apparated-In-My-Kitchen sort of way.

When I do finally tackle the mess, usually in the morning (I mean really, who wants to waste Z’s precious bedtime hours cleaning?), I vow to never again let it get this bad. “Never,” I say, scrubbing a chunk of enchilada off the rim of a plate. All good intentions are lost as soon as Z looks “thoughtful” and needs a new diaper. My child protects me from doing too much work because after the diaper change she wants a story. And in the face of all those dishes, reading Rosemary Wells’s Bunny Planet trilogy forty-six times sounds like nirvana.

Baby, Let’s Paint the Town Coral Expression

Posted on by Beth Hull

One afternoon a long time ago, Z could not go down for her nap and I could not be around her for one extra second. Luckily for us both, my in-laws were visiting and they happily played with her (dark circles under her eyes and all) so I could get in the car and drive away.

But I had nowhere to go. Mexico, while extremely tempting, was a bit far. As I drove down Main Street I toyed with the idea of treating myself to an ice cream cone. After all, if anyone deserved ice cream to soothe fraught nerves that day, I certainly did. Then I remembered how it was almost as hard to button my jeans as it was to get Z down for a nap. I closed my eyes (while stopped at a stop light, don’t worry) and tried to calm myself with a vision of a great, empty room. (Yes, I’m getting to the “list” part of this entry in a second. Hang on, you impatient minxes.) The room was painted a soothing color…ahh…Rhythmic Blue.

Home Depot beckoned from the horizon (much closer than Mexico), so I went in and browsed the paint swatches. The paint department is a calming place, full of dreams, possibilities, and stir sticks. I took home about fifty colorful pieces of card stock that day. Since then, I’ve returned a few times. I usually stick to the Behr brand, but not for any particular reason. I always exit the store with at least twenty cards clutched in my hand, and I usually come home to find I have duplicates.

Paint Colors I Would Use In My Home (If I Had My Way)

  • Daredevil
  • Bon Voyage
  • Liberty
  • Romantic Isle
  • Rain Drop
  • RHYTHMIC BLUE
  • Purple Essence (or Foxgloves) (or Twilight Pearl)
  • Ballerina Gown
  • Neptune Blue
  • Beach Towel
  • Magic Spell
  • Crowning
  • Lemon Pound Cake
  • Wild Mushroom
  • Pumpkin Toast
  • Aztec Brick
  • Anemone
  • Surfer

My house, with the exception of Z’s room (Celery Sprig), still sports white walls. I’ll get to them someday. Soon. Also, my house doesn’t have this many rooms. Either I’ll have to paint the floors, trim, and kitchen and bathroom fixtures as well, or the colors will have to take turns.

Why Mr. Penguin Can’t Ride a Bike

Posted on by Beth Hull

Mr. Penguin can do many things. He can wear your cloth diapers and your t-shirts and onesies. He can sit on your potty. He can lie down in the cradle while you rock him. He can say grace. He can sit in your high chair and eat the pretend food you spoon in the general direction of his beak. He can hold your hands and dance the Five o’clock Disco Dance Breakdown.

But Mr. Penguin cannot ride your bike. Try again and again, stomp your feet, ask Mama to “peas hep” (please help), throw Mr. Penguin to the floor. He will not do it. Not ever. Mr. Penguin cannot ride your bike for the same reason he cannot wear your pants.

Why not? Because Mr. Penguin has no legs. And short of a very risky and time-consuming surgery, there is nothing Mama can do to peas hep.

While we’re on the subject, Mr. Penguin will never take a bath with you. Why not? Because Mama says so.