I like my high thread count sheets, and I am not going to apologize for them. I began buying nice sheets about eight years ago, sheets that used to be well out of my price range, sheets that come in either white or ivory and had packaging with calligraphy on it. They feel better, softer and more sensual, and even if I don’t get eight hours of sleep, I would like to have the environment be ripe for a good six hours. High thread counts are almost the standard now, though, and those sheets of the lifestyles of the rich and famous are pretty much available on trailer budgets and in a rainbow of colors. So I branched out from the typical boring ivory, and now I have a small collection of European style and Egyptian cotton bedding sets, in hues like taupe and sage green and rich chocolate brown.
My children appreciate the finer bed linens as well, and when they have difficulty falling asleep in their own beds, they like to climb into mine. Something about that combination of the king sized bed, the familiar smells of their parents, and the luxury sheets lull them to sleep faster than a Benadryl. When I am ready to go to bed, my husband will move whichever child nodded off in our bed, carefully walking them back to their own rooms, so that I can get comfy and read before I too slumber. It’s not uncommon for one of my daughters to find her way back to my bed after I have gone to sleep. At least one night a week, I will wake up to pee, only to find one of my kids drooling away on my husband’s pillow. If they are feeling stressed, or if they have a babysitter, or they have any other change in their normal routines, they soothe themselves by resting in my room. In other words, my bed is not an adults-only domain. And sometimes, it really should be.
Recently, my husband and I went to a party, and my friend SF babysat the girls. SF knows our musical bed routine well, as most of the time when she comes over to watch my children, one of them will end up in my room before the night is over. We all accept that as the norm and don’t really do much to change it, because both girls are easy to move back to their own beds. When we get home, SF gives me a full report of how they behaved and ate and slept, including the usual difficulties in falling asleep.
On this particular night, my youngest daughter, S, had that feeling that sleep was going to be difficult to attain, so she thought it would be best to start out in my bed instead of her own. SF knows I am cool with it and got both the girls to go through the bedtime routine of showering and tooth brushing and picture book reading. When it was finally time to say good night, S removed the shams and decorative pillows and turned down the comforter and top sheet. She looked at the bed before she climbed in.
“What is all over these sheets?” she asked SF.
SF looked at the brown sheets, which had evidence of conjugal relations on them. Some hot freaky conjugal relations. Which meant that evidence was kind of all over the place. SF is a friend, and a woman, and familiar with what she saw. Wisely, she didn’t say a word, nor did she laugh.
E, my older daughter, also inspected the sheets. “It’s probably just drool stains. I have them all over my bed too.”
S most likely gave E a skeptical look, so E did what for some reason seemed logical to her. She got on the bed and sniffed the stains. According to SF, she didn’t just gingerly snuffle. She got her nose right up on the stains and inhaled deeply.
“I think it’s just drool, they’re fine,” E declared. SF stifled all remarks or outburst of laughter, and instead tucked my daughter into my filthy nasty semen covered sheets and wished her a good night.
When we got home from our evening out, SF asked to speak to me alone, while my husband was downstairs piddling about with his wallet and loose change and keys and whatever the hell else he digs out of his pockets, which could be rocks and frogs and baseball cards for all I know.
“I have to tell you what happened tonight,” SF said, “but I don’t want your husband to hear.” And she relayed that story to me as delicately as she knew how.
“For the record,” I said, “I just changed the sheets two days ago. They aren’t that dirty.”
Because, really, what else could I say.
My mother used to complain incessantly about how nothing was ever just hers. I thought she was selfish at the time, and in all honesty, she is selfish, but in some ways, I know what she means. I am not going to change my sheets every time I get my freak on to protect my children from a reality they will learn on their own in less than ten years, which disturbs me every time I think it. One day, E will have her own sex stained sheets, and she might sniff it, and that smell might trigger a memory back to one night when she was eleven and her sister could not identify what was all over their parents’ bed, and she will know. Five gray hairs just sprouted on my head typing that sentence.
And that’s why kids should sleep in their own beds. And sheets should only be ivory.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Bah, Humbug
I was an eleven year old girl once. I don’t remember it being as tough as this. Mind you, I am not an eleven year old girl again. I am a forty two year old girl with an eleven year old girl, my daughter E, who manages to bring a level of drama to my life that didn’t exist even a month ago. I have to admit, I am not enjoying it. It’s a bad version of time travel, where you don't actually go back and relive the good ole days, you only get to watch them like Ebenezer Scrooge. E began sixth grade last week, and if that weren’t bad enough, she is creating parenting challenges on an almost daily basis.
Middle school just started, and it is to elementary school what a federal prison is to a halfway house. Every day, I am amazed by the rules and rigidity of all of her teachers and the administration. I admit, I did go to private school for sixth and seventh grade, but that was to avoid the three hour round trip bus commute in my hometown, not to keep me in a cocoon. I have no doubt that tweens are a bunch of troublemakers, as I am learning every day, but they aren’t criminals. Yet. What follows are just a taste of some of my favorite new rules.
• No water bottles. What is this, a public education or the TSA? I don’t my daughter tonguing the same water fountain as eight hundred other mouth breathers. Besides, who knows how much lead is leaking into that drinking water? I can assure you, she is not bringing a Camelbak filled with vodka to get her through the day. Water, it’s the stuff of life. Kids need it, way more than they do the high fructose corn syrup juice and chocolate milk you are selling in that cafeteria.
• No backpacks in the halls. Seriously? What makes backpacks contraband? I remember a few years ago when schools had a see-through backpack policy. It seemed the only people who had access to clear backpacks were New York City club kids, but whatever, suddenly they were a requirement in the suburbs, and the idea of a right to privacy between the ages of eleven and thirteen was heresy. Now, the kids can take a backpack on the bus or in Mommy and Daddy’s car, but it better be locked up the minute you walk through those doors. Next thing you know, they are going to check the lunchboxes for files. As if a pencil could not be used a weapon. You could out an eye out with one of those things.
• Bathroom breaks only during class changes. Okay, here’s a good one. How are tweenage girls supposed to figure out how to use a tampon if they only have three minutes between classes? My eleven year old can’t pee, flush, zip, and wash her hands in three minutes. I know, because I have timed her. I can only imagine the horror of dealing with feminine hygiene for the first time when you only have three minutes to plug up your manhole. And that doesn’t even count the time it takes to walk from one classroom to another, or the part where you have to work up the nerve to actually use the school bathroom.
We haven’t even gotten to the part about going to school in the morning too early or the fun of dismissal in the afternoon or the horrors of the dress code. It isn’t a set of striped pajamas and ankle shackles, but it might as well be. For some reason, my daughter is petrified of wearing shorts, and it has something to do with showing skin. I don’t know if knees have been banned, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
Yes, I do understand that we have adjusting to do, and until that occurs, my daughter is going to find herself feeling more than a little anxious. She is overwhelmed by the amount of homework, the fact that all she wants to do is sleep, that lunch is at ten thirty, that she doesn’t understand how to operate a combination lock, that she finds eighth grade boys cuter than sixth grade boys. Wait, that one overwhelms me. So why would she go out of her way to get into trouble?
Yesterday, I sat next to her on the couch while she read her science homework. I noticed what looked like freckles under her eyes, ones that I didn’t remember. They were very small and almost black, as if she had drawn them on with a fine point pen. I looked at her eyelashes, and I realized what caused those black dots. She had on mascara. If the under-eye spots didn’t give it away, the clumps on her lashes did. They were the clumps of a mascara novice. Did I mention she is not allowed to wear make-up until she is in seventh grade? Here's how it went down:
Me: What’s under your eyes? Are you wearing mascara?
E: No.
Me: Tell me the truth. Do you have on make-up?
E: No.
Me: This is the last chance I am giving you to tell me the truth. Is that mascara on your eyelashes?
E: Yes, ma’am.
She only says ma’am when she is in trouble or mad at me.
Me: Whose mascara is it? Did you put it on at school?
E: It’s yours.
I explained to her the dangers of sharing eye make-up. I reminded her that she is too young to wear it. And then I got mad about the lying. She said she lied because she didn’t want to get in trouble, but the lie is what got her in trouble. I would have told her to not wear make-up, to not use my things, but that lie cost her all computer access for two weeks, except for homework. No iPad, no laptop, no iTunes.
Remember that overwhelmed feeling I had? Well, it got a whole lot worse yesterday. If she will lie about wearing make-up, what else will she lie about? Not only is she breaking my arbitrary rules, but she is also going through my things and using them without permission. What if she finds all her baby teeth I have hidden? What if she finds my collection of sex toys? Hiding them higher in my closet isn’t going to work; she’s taller than me.
Yes, middle school is a series of adjustments. All she has to do is go there, learn, and stay out of trouble. Me? Well, I have to stay one step ahead of her. Which do you think is tougher?
Middle school just started, and it is to elementary school what a federal prison is to a halfway house. Every day, I am amazed by the rules and rigidity of all of her teachers and the administration. I admit, I did go to private school for sixth and seventh grade, but that was to avoid the three hour round trip bus commute in my hometown, not to keep me in a cocoon. I have no doubt that tweens are a bunch of troublemakers, as I am learning every day, but they aren’t criminals. Yet. What follows are just a taste of some of my favorite new rules.
• No water bottles. What is this, a public education or the TSA? I don’t my daughter tonguing the same water fountain as eight hundred other mouth breathers. Besides, who knows how much lead is leaking into that drinking water? I can assure you, she is not bringing a Camelbak filled with vodka to get her through the day. Water, it’s the stuff of life. Kids need it, way more than they do the high fructose corn syrup juice and chocolate milk you are selling in that cafeteria.
• No backpacks in the halls. Seriously? What makes backpacks contraband? I remember a few years ago when schools had a see-through backpack policy. It seemed the only people who had access to clear backpacks were New York City club kids, but whatever, suddenly they were a requirement in the suburbs, and the idea of a right to privacy between the ages of eleven and thirteen was heresy. Now, the kids can take a backpack on the bus or in Mommy and Daddy’s car, but it better be locked up the minute you walk through those doors. Next thing you know, they are going to check the lunchboxes for files. As if a pencil could not be used a weapon. You could out an eye out with one of those things.
• Bathroom breaks only during class changes. Okay, here’s a good one. How are tweenage girls supposed to figure out how to use a tampon if they only have three minutes between classes? My eleven year old can’t pee, flush, zip, and wash her hands in three minutes. I know, because I have timed her. I can only imagine the horror of dealing with feminine hygiene for the first time when you only have three minutes to plug up your manhole. And that doesn’t even count the time it takes to walk from one classroom to another, or the part where you have to work up the nerve to actually use the school bathroom.
We haven’t even gotten to the part about going to school in the morning too early or the fun of dismissal in the afternoon or the horrors of the dress code. It isn’t a set of striped pajamas and ankle shackles, but it might as well be. For some reason, my daughter is petrified of wearing shorts, and it has something to do with showing skin. I don’t know if knees have been banned, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
Yes, I do understand that we have adjusting to do, and until that occurs, my daughter is going to find herself feeling more than a little anxious. She is overwhelmed by the amount of homework, the fact that all she wants to do is sleep, that lunch is at ten thirty, that she doesn’t understand how to operate a combination lock, that she finds eighth grade boys cuter than sixth grade boys. Wait, that one overwhelms me. So why would she go out of her way to get into trouble?
Yesterday, I sat next to her on the couch while she read her science homework. I noticed what looked like freckles under her eyes, ones that I didn’t remember. They were very small and almost black, as if she had drawn them on with a fine point pen. I looked at her eyelashes, and I realized what caused those black dots. She had on mascara. If the under-eye spots didn’t give it away, the clumps on her lashes did. They were the clumps of a mascara novice. Did I mention she is not allowed to wear make-up until she is in seventh grade? Here's how it went down:
Me: What’s under your eyes? Are you wearing mascara?
E: No.
Me: Tell me the truth. Do you have on make-up?
E: No.
Me: This is the last chance I am giving you to tell me the truth. Is that mascara on your eyelashes?
E: Yes, ma’am.
She only says ma’am when she is in trouble or mad at me.
Me: Whose mascara is it? Did you put it on at school?
E: It’s yours.
I explained to her the dangers of sharing eye make-up. I reminded her that she is too young to wear it. And then I got mad about the lying. She said she lied because she didn’t want to get in trouble, but the lie is what got her in trouble. I would have told her to not wear make-up, to not use my things, but that lie cost her all computer access for two weeks, except for homework. No iPad, no laptop, no iTunes.
Remember that overwhelmed feeling I had? Well, it got a whole lot worse yesterday. If she will lie about wearing make-up, what else will she lie about? Not only is she breaking my arbitrary rules, but she is also going through my things and using them without permission. What if she finds all her baby teeth I have hidden? What if she finds my collection of sex toys? Hiding them higher in my closet isn’t going to work; she’s taller than me.
Yes, middle school is a series of adjustments. All she has to do is go there, learn, and stay out of trouble. Me? Well, I have to stay one step ahead of her. Which do you think is tougher?
Friday, August 19, 2011
PTA, PTSA, PTSD
“I don’t know why you are so nervous. You aren’t the one going to school tomorrow.” –S, aged 9.
This morning, while I drove to the gym, I listened to a song on my iPod by a band called Starfucker. I normally skip that song in the car because I don’t want my children to see the name of the band, even though they don’t say fuck in the song or anything like that. I was alone, though, so it didn’t matter. It was the first time I have ever driven to the gym alone on a school morning.
This week was the first day of school for both my children. My older daughter, E, began sixth grade, middle school. My younger daughter, S, started her first day of public school, after spending every school year since she was three at a Montessori school. Two kids, two first days, two new schools. I thought I had good reason to be nervous too.
Yesterday, I took each of them to meet their teachers and get a last look around before the fun began on the first day. S went to work with my husband in the morning so E and I could get a good look-see at her middle school without little sister distractions. I know E was nervous; she kept reaching for my hand and then remembering she was eleven and at school and someone might see her holding her mother’s hand. Poor baby. It’s tough when not only do you wanna hold your mama’s hand, but you are taller than her, and oh yeah, just being seen with her is embarrassing.
She had decided early in the day that she didn’t want to go to orientation with her friends, because she might get distracted and miss something she needed to know, like how to get to art class. I walked a few steps behind her like a Saudi wife, letting her set the pace for our progress through the checklist, the yearbook photo, the collecting of textbooks, the introductions to six new teachers. I was there to chime in with her last name when needed, when she couldn’t get out her own name because of nerves. That was one long hour, and we were both overwhelmed when it was through. We got in the car to pick up S and didn’t say a word to each other.
That afternoon was S’s turn at her elementary school, where E had been a student for the past two years. We stood impatiently waiting for them to unlock the front doors, general admission style, as opposed to the stockyard feel of E’s school, where we were herded into the cafeteria until they were ready for us. We jostled for position and when the doors were opened, rushed in along with all the other suburban moms and kids. We found the fourth grade class lists, and to our disappointment, we saw that S got the one class she didn’t want. Which is always the luck, really.
S and I entered her classroom and looked around, waiting for the teacher to finish talking to another family. When it was our turn, I introduced S to her, then convinced my daughter to look around while I explained to the teacher how sensitive S is, how she had been sheltered at her small private school since she outgrew diapers, how she was bullied by some of the other kids. I don’t know how needy we came across, but I am pretty sure my teary eyes gave it away. I stopped my mouth from spewing any more information all over the teacher, grabbed my folder of ten thousand forms that public school requires, and escorted my daughter around the school so she could meet her other teachers and familiarize herself with the building. I didn't want S to have the stigma of a hover mother in addition to the baggage she brought to the table herself.
On the way home, S asked me, “Mom, what is a grade?” She has never understood what a grade was, in either context. She never had a report card, so she doesn’t get the whole A through F thing. She wanted to know what happened to E. And grade levels, well, that too is meaningless to a child whose preschool class was three to six year olds and whose elementary class was six to nine year olds, depending on when their birthdays fell. There is so much she doesn’t know. Like how to check out a library book. Or how to get the bus at the end of the day. Or where to go to get a band-aid. Or how to find her classroom. She grew up sheltered, I admit, but I didn’t realize how sheltered. Just wait until she hears a kid yell shit or throw a cafeteria tray at the teacher.
And that big one, E, at middle school. She is used to nice teachers, to one classroom, to having a number called in the carpool line and a bathroom in the back of the classroom. She will have to use a real girls’ restroom, the kind from countless teenage movies. Yeah, those restrooms. She will have to deal with teachers who don’t give a crap if her pencil needs to be sharpened or if she started her period. She will have to learn how to avoid bullies and eighth graders and drugs. Chances are, by the time she finishes middle school, she will know someone who got pregnant, someone who got expelled, someone who got arrested. Is she ready for that? Am I?
Two new schools, with all the things that go along with them. It’s a lot to think about when driving all by myself to the gym, for the first time on a school morning, listening to my Starfucker song. Maybe I don’t miss diapers as much as I thought I did.
This morning, while I drove to the gym, I listened to a song on my iPod by a band called Starfucker. I normally skip that song in the car because I don’t want my children to see the name of the band, even though they don’t say fuck in the song or anything like that. I was alone, though, so it didn’t matter. It was the first time I have ever driven to the gym alone on a school morning.
This week was the first day of school for both my children. My older daughter, E, began sixth grade, middle school. My younger daughter, S, started her first day of public school, after spending every school year since she was three at a Montessori school. Two kids, two first days, two new schools. I thought I had good reason to be nervous too.
Yesterday, I took each of them to meet their teachers and get a last look around before the fun began on the first day. S went to work with my husband in the morning so E and I could get a good look-see at her middle school without little sister distractions. I know E was nervous; she kept reaching for my hand and then remembering she was eleven and at school and someone might see her holding her mother’s hand. Poor baby. It’s tough when not only do you wanna hold your mama’s hand, but you are taller than her, and oh yeah, just being seen with her is embarrassing.
She had decided early in the day that she didn’t want to go to orientation with her friends, because she might get distracted and miss something she needed to know, like how to get to art class. I walked a few steps behind her like a Saudi wife, letting her set the pace for our progress through the checklist, the yearbook photo, the collecting of textbooks, the introductions to six new teachers. I was there to chime in with her last name when needed, when she couldn’t get out her own name because of nerves. That was one long hour, and we were both overwhelmed when it was through. We got in the car to pick up S and didn’t say a word to each other.
That afternoon was S’s turn at her elementary school, where E had been a student for the past two years. We stood impatiently waiting for them to unlock the front doors, general admission style, as opposed to the stockyard feel of E’s school, where we were herded into the cafeteria until they were ready for us. We jostled for position and when the doors were opened, rushed in along with all the other suburban moms and kids. We found the fourth grade class lists, and to our disappointment, we saw that S got the one class she didn’t want. Which is always the luck, really.
S and I entered her classroom and looked around, waiting for the teacher to finish talking to another family. When it was our turn, I introduced S to her, then convinced my daughter to look around while I explained to the teacher how sensitive S is, how she had been sheltered at her small private school since she outgrew diapers, how she was bullied by some of the other kids. I don’t know how needy we came across, but I am pretty sure my teary eyes gave it away. I stopped my mouth from spewing any more information all over the teacher, grabbed my folder of ten thousand forms that public school requires, and escorted my daughter around the school so she could meet her other teachers and familiarize herself with the building. I didn't want S to have the stigma of a hover mother in addition to the baggage she brought to the table herself.
On the way home, S asked me, “Mom, what is a grade?” She has never understood what a grade was, in either context. She never had a report card, so she doesn’t get the whole A through F thing. She wanted to know what happened to E. And grade levels, well, that too is meaningless to a child whose preschool class was three to six year olds and whose elementary class was six to nine year olds, depending on when their birthdays fell. There is so much she doesn’t know. Like how to check out a library book. Or how to get the bus at the end of the day. Or where to go to get a band-aid. Or how to find her classroom. She grew up sheltered, I admit, but I didn’t realize how sheltered. Just wait until she hears a kid yell shit or throw a cafeteria tray at the teacher.
And that big one, E, at middle school. She is used to nice teachers, to one classroom, to having a number called in the carpool line and a bathroom in the back of the classroom. She will have to use a real girls’ restroom, the kind from countless teenage movies. Yeah, those restrooms. She will have to deal with teachers who don’t give a crap if her pencil needs to be sharpened or if she started her period. She will have to learn how to avoid bullies and eighth graders and drugs. Chances are, by the time she finishes middle school, she will know someone who got pregnant, someone who got expelled, someone who got arrested. Is she ready for that? Am I?
Two new schools, with all the things that go along with them. It’s a lot to think about when driving all by myself to the gym, for the first time on a school morning, listening to my Starfucker song. Maybe I don’t miss diapers as much as I thought I did.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Buzzkill
As a parent, you sometimes know when you have totally screwed up, the kind of screw up that your child might bring up in therapy as an adult. You never intend to do permanent damage to your offspring, and yet, just by happenstance or plain not thinking, you go and say or do something that once out there, you can’t take back. If you are anything like me, and hopefully you aren’t, you beat yourself up over these parenting blunders. I can’t seem to remember that I am allowed to make mistakes as a parent, that just because my children might occasionally think I am an expert on many things and fairly infallible, that doesn’t make it true. I screw up just as much as the next mom, with alarming frequency. If parenting were a paid position, I don’t know how well I would fair at my next performance review.
The other afternoon, I picked up my daughters from day camp and drove them home. On the way, they took turns telling me about their days. My younger daughter, S, gave her usual report of who got in trouble and what she didn’t like, saving the good positive parts of the day to share later with her father at the dinner table. She is only nine and she already knows how to filter her information to avoid conflict and elicit sympathy.
My older daughter, E, was not quite as coherent in her retelling of the day. She had gone on a field trip that day to a nasty little kid spot called GattiTown. It is one of those pizza buffet and arcade houses, a huge box with no windows, neon patterned carpets, and no supervision. It’s like Chuck E. Cheese without the giant mouse and ball pit, catering to the older child with ADHD. Even I get stimulus overload in that place, which is why about three years ago I put a moratorium on going there with my family.
E had every intention of relating several good stories about her field trip to me, but every time, and I mean every time, she began a sentence, she would mumble out two or three words, then sort of toss her head around and laugh. I drove along, patiently waiting for her to make even a bit of sense, but that never happened. She would start talking and stop, laugh some more, mumble, her head lolling loosely on her neck. At one point, she became quiet and rested her head on the window with her eyes closed. I turned the music up to indicate our attempted conversation was over.
I thought I recognized that behavior in my eleven year old child. It was reminiscent of being stoned, a kid version of high as a kite, and it scared the hell out of me.
When we got inside the house, I waited for my younger daughter to slink upstairs and park her ass in front of the television before I confronted E.
“I need to ask you a question,” I said to her. “Can you come here for a second?”
“What?” she said, standing next to me by the kitchen counter.
“I am a little concerned about the way you were acting in the car just now,” I said. “Did you or any of your friends take anything on your field trip?”
“Take anything? Like steal? No, Mom,” she said.
“I don’t mean stealing, I mean drugs. Did anything give you anything to taste or swallow or sniff or anything like that today? Or did you see your friends sniff or swallow anything?”
E immediately sobered up, or, rather, woke up. “Mom, you think I’m on drugs? Why would you think that?”
“You are just acting really weird, not at all like yourself. I’ve never seen you this disoriented or incoherent. And you don’t act that way when you’re tired. So I asked.”
“I can’t believe you would think I would do a thing, like that! Gosh, Mom.”
Yes, she said “Gosh.” E speaks like Napoleon Dynamite on an alarmingly frequent basis, considering she has never seen the movie or that character.
She looked at me, her eyes all watery and on fire. “Don’t you trust me? I can’t believe this.”
“I do trust you,” I said to her. “But you’ve been at a field trip all day in a dark, unsupervised building with a bunch of teenagers. Then you get in the car and you can’t string two words together. I’ve never seen you act like this, but I have seen plenty of adults act like this, and they were either drunk or on something. I don’t smell alcohol on your breath, so I asked.”
She glared at me and stormed upstairs, and I stood alone in the kitchen, wondering how I could have handled that better. Was I overreacting? Was it fair for me to ask her? Was she being honest with me? Did I have any reason to doubt her?
I thought about our exchange for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get over the guilt I felt for confronting her about something for which I had no proof. She is, after all, eleven. She is a good kid, and just a kid. She doesn’t like to talk about love or sex, she doesn’t make or receive phone calls from boys, she doesn’t hang out with a rough crowd. She still likes stuffed animals. How could I make such a big leap? I apologized to her before dinner, and by dessert, the entire episode seemed forgotten.
I discussed it with my husband later that evening, trying to assuage my guilt. He sort of agreed with me, that if she acted so oddly, it was worth questioning, but he did seem to think I dramatized the whole situation. I might have; I honestly don’t know. My mommy instinct told me to ask, so I did. Maybe I didn’t handle it that great, maybe I could have been less accusatory and more understanding, maybe I was wrong. At least I cared enough to ask and was paying enough attention to notice, so that can’t be all bad.
I believe she wasn't on anything. I didn't get a blood test, but I do trust her. Maybe she was tired, and after a full day of tween talk, with all its "likes" and "ums," coherent conversation was beyond her. And perhaps next time, I won't jump to conclusions. For all I know, she might have been crashing from too much soda, which in my house we do treat like an illegal drug. I wonder if she will be as scarred as she claimed to be. She can just add it to the list of grievances about my parenting, and I, in turn, will drop another dollar into her therapy fund.
The other afternoon, I picked up my daughters from day camp and drove them home. On the way, they took turns telling me about their days. My younger daughter, S, gave her usual report of who got in trouble and what she didn’t like, saving the good positive parts of the day to share later with her father at the dinner table. She is only nine and she already knows how to filter her information to avoid conflict and elicit sympathy.
My older daughter, E, was not quite as coherent in her retelling of the day. She had gone on a field trip that day to a nasty little kid spot called GattiTown. It is one of those pizza buffet and arcade houses, a huge box with no windows, neon patterned carpets, and no supervision. It’s like Chuck E. Cheese without the giant mouse and ball pit, catering to the older child with ADHD. Even I get stimulus overload in that place, which is why about three years ago I put a moratorium on going there with my family.
E had every intention of relating several good stories about her field trip to me, but every time, and I mean every time, she began a sentence, she would mumble out two or three words, then sort of toss her head around and laugh. I drove along, patiently waiting for her to make even a bit of sense, but that never happened. She would start talking and stop, laugh some more, mumble, her head lolling loosely on her neck. At one point, she became quiet and rested her head on the window with her eyes closed. I turned the music up to indicate our attempted conversation was over.
I thought I recognized that behavior in my eleven year old child. It was reminiscent of being stoned, a kid version of high as a kite, and it scared the hell out of me.
When we got inside the house, I waited for my younger daughter to slink upstairs and park her ass in front of the television before I confronted E.
“I need to ask you a question,” I said to her. “Can you come here for a second?”
“What?” she said, standing next to me by the kitchen counter.
“I am a little concerned about the way you were acting in the car just now,” I said. “Did you or any of your friends take anything on your field trip?”
“Take anything? Like steal? No, Mom,” she said.
“I don’t mean stealing, I mean drugs. Did anything give you anything to taste or swallow or sniff or anything like that today? Or did you see your friends sniff or swallow anything?”
E immediately sobered up, or, rather, woke up. “Mom, you think I’m on drugs? Why would you think that?”
“You are just acting really weird, not at all like yourself. I’ve never seen you this disoriented or incoherent. And you don’t act that way when you’re tired. So I asked.”
“I can’t believe you would think I would do a thing, like that! Gosh, Mom.”
Yes, she said “Gosh.” E speaks like Napoleon Dynamite on an alarmingly frequent basis, considering she has never seen the movie or that character.
She looked at me, her eyes all watery and on fire. “Don’t you trust me? I can’t believe this.”
“I do trust you,” I said to her. “But you’ve been at a field trip all day in a dark, unsupervised building with a bunch of teenagers. Then you get in the car and you can’t string two words together. I’ve never seen you act like this, but I have seen plenty of adults act like this, and they were either drunk or on something. I don’t smell alcohol on your breath, so I asked.”
She glared at me and stormed upstairs, and I stood alone in the kitchen, wondering how I could have handled that better. Was I overreacting? Was it fair for me to ask her? Was she being honest with me? Did I have any reason to doubt her?
I thought about our exchange for the rest of the afternoon, trying to get over the guilt I felt for confronting her about something for which I had no proof. She is, after all, eleven. She is a good kid, and just a kid. She doesn’t like to talk about love or sex, she doesn’t make or receive phone calls from boys, she doesn’t hang out with a rough crowd. She still likes stuffed animals. How could I make such a big leap? I apologized to her before dinner, and by dessert, the entire episode seemed forgotten.
I discussed it with my husband later that evening, trying to assuage my guilt. He sort of agreed with me, that if she acted so oddly, it was worth questioning, but he did seem to think I dramatized the whole situation. I might have; I honestly don’t know. My mommy instinct told me to ask, so I did. Maybe I didn’t handle it that great, maybe I could have been less accusatory and more understanding, maybe I was wrong. At least I cared enough to ask and was paying enough attention to notice, so that can’t be all bad.
I believe she wasn't on anything. I didn't get a blood test, but I do trust her. Maybe she was tired, and after a full day of tween talk, with all its "likes" and "ums," coherent conversation was beyond her. And perhaps next time, I won't jump to conclusions. For all I know, she might have been crashing from too much soda, which in my house we do treat like an illegal drug. I wonder if she will be as scarred as she claimed to be. She can just add it to the list of grievances about my parenting, and I, in turn, will drop another dollar into her therapy fund.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Bibliophilia, not Fecophilia
I just read a book called “The Story Behind Toilets” while sitting on the toilet. Nothing beats some good reading material while trying to do your bizness, and I loved the irony of reading about toilets while using the crapper, which, in case you didn’t know, is the last name of the man who improved the design of the flush toilet. While I was not successful in my endeavor, I did learn that toilet fact, as well as a steaming heap of others, my favorite one being the practice of putting an unpopular public figure’s likeness on the bottom of a chamber pot. I like the idea of colonists taking a dump on King George III.
I got that book, along with some other interesting ones, at the children’s section of my local library. As you may recall, I am a huge fan of the library. Mainly, I love them because I love to read, and there is always something new to be perused at the library. I have a hard time selecting books at a bookstore because I don’t want to pay for something that I might not enjoy. What if I make the wrong choice and I am saddled with some piece of crap that should only be used for kindling or wiping? At the library, I can take risk-free chances, and if I don’t like them, so what? I just drop off the boring books and pick out new ones. I also like the part where my house isn’t cluttered with all that reading material. If I bought and kept all the books that I and my children read in a year, we could start our own library, or, at the very least, have our own episode of “Hoarders.”
You have to get over the part where other people, strangers whose hygiene might not live up to your standards, have manhandled the very same books that you now hold in your once-clean hands. I am sure I wasn’t the first person who read the toilet book on the toilet, and I won’t be the last. So if you can handle the mystery stains or the stale cigarette odor or the scribble marks or the occasional mildew/vomit smell of the books, then maybe the library is for you too.
Since it is the summer, my children have shut their brains down in sleep mode in an effort to not overtax themselves by actually retaining old facts or learning new ones. I decided to be a normal mom this year and not force them to complete workbooks, but I insist that they continue to read. For E, my older daughter, reading is a pleasure. S, my younger daughter, is not quite as passionate about it. She doesn’t understand why we should read when there is a perfectly good television sitting there, waiting to be turned on. It ain’t gonna watch itself, you know.
In an effort to hold their interests, I try to get a nice assortment of reading material every time I go to the library, which is on average once a week. For E, this is pretty easy. As long as there is some reference to Nazi Germany or a dead mother, she is good to go. At eleven, she is the upstate of South Carolina’s leading child expert on the Holocaust, and considering our location in the Bible belt, our library system has a surprisingly vast collection of juvenile genocide material. I have to work a lot harder to find things that are going to appeal to S. She prefers storybooks with a silly slant, but not too silly. One time I got one too many silly books and she questioned why all the main characters were idiots. She doesn’t like to read things that are too easy, but she also doesn’t want to overexert herself. What she really doesn’t want to do is read.
So last time I hit the local branch, I scouted around for some unusual choices. I don’t just go for fiction or picture books; I scan over the nonfiction as well. I am overly familiar with the Dewey Decimal system (fairy tales, 398.2, World War II, 940.5), so I am pretty good at searching around for something that might appeal to her unusual tastes. Hence the toilet book. I also got her a book about popcorn, her favorite snack food, a book about caring for your hamsters, and even a book all about being healthy, if you are a monster, because it is more fun eating broccoli and getting an hour of exercise daily if you aren’t a regular old human. For E, I found a young adult book about a Korean girl called “Slant” as well as a collection of slave diaries from South Carolina, since she just finished reading two Holocaust stories. Even experts need to expand their knowledge base.
When I checked out, the librarian noticed my assortment while scanning each one. “I am trying to figure out the connection between toilets, small rodents, and popcorn,” he said to me.
“We have eclectic tastes in my family,” I replied before something funnier popped in my head. I should have said “We have a busy afternoon planned,” or “Look it up on the Internet,” but I behaved, and thus did not embarrass my perpetually embarrassed eleven year old daughter who was with me.
As we left, I couldn’t help but think back to when the Patriot Act was made law in 2001. In it was the library records provision, which in essence gave the FBI the ability to investigate what a person gets from the library. Now, like a good American, I get my porn on the Internet, but if my odd assortment of reading material catches the eye of the local librarian, imagine the kind of trouble I could get into with the authorities. What if they took that provision one step further and decided where and when you could use your public reading materials? What if the book return procedures included DNA sampling and testing? They could fine patrons for mistreating their books, maybe sending tickets in the mail like those evil speed trap red light cameras.
As for my daughter, she has no interest in reading a book about toilets. I guess it’s time for another trip back to the library, maybe for something about how television works or how diseases can be transmitted through fecal contact. Anything to get her reading.
I got that book, along with some other interesting ones, at the children’s section of my local library. As you may recall, I am a huge fan of the library. Mainly, I love them because I love to read, and there is always something new to be perused at the library. I have a hard time selecting books at a bookstore because I don’t want to pay for something that I might not enjoy. What if I make the wrong choice and I am saddled with some piece of crap that should only be used for kindling or wiping? At the library, I can take risk-free chances, and if I don’t like them, so what? I just drop off the boring books and pick out new ones. I also like the part where my house isn’t cluttered with all that reading material. If I bought and kept all the books that I and my children read in a year, we could start our own library, or, at the very least, have our own episode of “Hoarders.”
You have to get over the part where other people, strangers whose hygiene might not live up to your standards, have manhandled the very same books that you now hold in your once-clean hands. I am sure I wasn’t the first person who read the toilet book on the toilet, and I won’t be the last. So if you can handle the mystery stains or the stale cigarette odor or the scribble marks or the occasional mildew/vomit smell of the books, then maybe the library is for you too.
Since it is the summer, my children have shut their brains down in sleep mode in an effort to not overtax themselves by actually retaining old facts or learning new ones. I decided to be a normal mom this year and not force them to complete workbooks, but I insist that they continue to read. For E, my older daughter, reading is a pleasure. S, my younger daughter, is not quite as passionate about it. She doesn’t understand why we should read when there is a perfectly good television sitting there, waiting to be turned on. It ain’t gonna watch itself, you know.
In an effort to hold their interests, I try to get a nice assortment of reading material every time I go to the library, which is on average once a week. For E, this is pretty easy. As long as there is some reference to Nazi Germany or a dead mother, she is good to go. At eleven, she is the upstate of South Carolina’s leading child expert on the Holocaust, and considering our location in the Bible belt, our library system has a surprisingly vast collection of juvenile genocide material. I have to work a lot harder to find things that are going to appeal to S. She prefers storybooks with a silly slant, but not too silly. One time I got one too many silly books and she questioned why all the main characters were idiots. She doesn’t like to read things that are too easy, but she also doesn’t want to overexert herself. What she really doesn’t want to do is read.
So last time I hit the local branch, I scouted around for some unusual choices. I don’t just go for fiction or picture books; I scan over the nonfiction as well. I am overly familiar with the Dewey Decimal system (fairy tales, 398.2, World War II, 940.5), so I am pretty good at searching around for something that might appeal to her unusual tastes. Hence the toilet book. I also got her a book about popcorn, her favorite snack food, a book about caring for your hamsters, and even a book all about being healthy, if you are a monster, because it is more fun eating broccoli and getting an hour of exercise daily if you aren’t a regular old human. For E, I found a young adult book about a Korean girl called “Slant” as well as a collection of slave diaries from South Carolina, since she just finished reading two Holocaust stories. Even experts need to expand their knowledge base.
When I checked out, the librarian noticed my assortment while scanning each one. “I am trying to figure out the connection between toilets, small rodents, and popcorn,” he said to me.
“We have eclectic tastes in my family,” I replied before something funnier popped in my head. I should have said “We have a busy afternoon planned,” or “Look it up on the Internet,” but I behaved, and thus did not embarrass my perpetually embarrassed eleven year old daughter who was with me.
As we left, I couldn’t help but think back to when the Patriot Act was made law in 2001. In it was the library records provision, which in essence gave the FBI the ability to investigate what a person gets from the library. Now, like a good American, I get my porn on the Internet, but if my odd assortment of reading material catches the eye of the local librarian, imagine the kind of trouble I could get into with the authorities. What if they took that provision one step further and decided where and when you could use your public reading materials? What if the book return procedures included DNA sampling and testing? They could fine patrons for mistreating their books, maybe sending tickets in the mail like those evil speed trap red light cameras.
As for my daughter, she has no interest in reading a book about toilets. I guess it’s time for another trip back to the library, maybe for something about how television works or how diseases can be transmitted through fecal contact. Anything to get her reading.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Premature Evacuation
My cat Moshe and I have gotten into an unpleasant little routine. We are not on the same sleep cycle, and we both like to wake the other one up. I don’t feel particularly bad about it when I do it to him. Moshe has no trouble falling back to sleep. No cat naps for him; he sleeps heavier than any cat I have ever had, like the dead, both eyes closed, body totally limp. It’s no big loss for him if he misses out on an hour or two of deep sleep, because chances are good he will still get a solid fourteen to sixteen hours of quality snooze time.
I, on the other hand, am lucky to get six to seven hours of interrupted sleep a night, an unfortunate pattern I developed over eleven years ago during my first pregnancy. At first it was because of the pregnancy itself, with its lovely heartburn and ligament pain and difficulty flipping over in bed. Waking up for feedings replaced that joy, which was then replaced by a few years of night terrors (my daughter’s, not mine), which was then replaced by my own weak bladder and racing thoughts. If I’m lucky, I can get up, pee, go back to bed, and fall asleep within fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I am not a very lucky person.
My cat is well aware of this model, the waking up nightly between 3:00 and 5:00 am. Moshe has adjusted to my nightly routine, and he prepares himself for my early morning trip to the bathroom. He will awaken from his usual spot under my bed and join me in the bathroom, where he likes to rub his whiskers all over the corner of the wall, followed by trying to knock the toilet paper roll off the holder with his face. Then he trips me in his rush to get to the garden bathtub, where I usually turn on the faucet and give him a little fresh running water to drink. I’ll grab a sip of water, from my glass, not the tub, before heading back to bed, leaving him to slurp up the droplets of water and shed black fur all over the tub.
I then settle myself flat on my back, press my head firmly on the pillow, and wait for Moshe to join me. He jumps up on the bed, purring loudly, his pupils fully dilated, and commences making biscuits on some part of my person. Usually, he will knead his little declawed paws on my right shoulder and armpit, which I rather enjoy, especially if I lifted weights the day before. Nothing beats a cat massage to relieve those sore muscles. Occasionally, he will opt for my belly, in the large intestinal region. Fourteen pounds of cat pressing on your upper abdomen is cheaper and faster than a high colonic, but just as effective, let me tell you. This kneading and purring will continue until he either wears himself out or he wakes up my husband, who is not such a fan of feline lovin’ in the morning.
I allow this behavior for a number of reasons. First of all, he is so gosh darn cute and sweet, how can you say no to that face? Secondly, he is persistent as hell. His biscuit making and walking around the bed is the cat equivalent of trying to get into my pants, and he won‘t take no for an answer. It’s easier just to let him have his way with me, and then he will roll over and go to sleep. He also is pretty good at opening closed doors, and if he can’t get it open, he will stick his paw under it, smacking it a bunch while yowling loudly. It is impossible to sleep through any of that ruckus.
That is pretty much the routine year round. In warmer months, he sleeps under the bed. In colder months, he sleeps on the foot of the bed. But the love fest, well, that’s in season every season.
The other morning, I got up for my three o’clock pee, and Moshe had just settled into his biscuit making in my armpit when something went horribly wrong. He suddenly stopped his kneading and began looking around behind him. I sat up and noticed what looked like a bug on my arm, right around the same time that Moshe furtively licked the comforter. I scooted him out of the way and saw that a trail of whatever was on my arm was also on my sheets and duvet, and Moshe wanted to clean it up before I noticed. He went back to licking the spots vigorously while I sat there dumbfounded. In my sleepy disgusted haze, I figured it out; his anal glands spontaneously excreted themselves all over my side of the bed. And my arm. At three in the morning.
Yes, that’s right. I was covered in my cat’s ass juice, juice which he clearly did not want me to know about. Moshe seemed downright embarrassed that such an appalling thing had occurred and was doing his best, without thumbs, to clean it up. As disgusted as I was, I couldn’t throw on the light and toss the cat out of the room and change the sheets, because on the other, cleaner side of the bed, my husband slept the blissful sleep of the unaware. If he had awoken to what was taking place on my side of the mattress, well, let’s just say our household would be down one cat.
I was not an expert on cat anal glands at the time, but I am now. Just read this part, so you won’t have to Google it yourself later. Yes, it turns out that dogs are not the only ones with this dirty little secret. Cats too have hidden ass glands. But unlike dogs, who like to scoot across your carpet, dragging their filthy asses all over the place, cats just excrete a little at a time when they do their business. Unless they are frightened or very excited, in which case those little buggers just go off without much warning, sometimes even all over your arm before the asscrack of dawn. It’s kind of like a skunk, I suppose, except you don’t have a skunk next to you in your bed, making sweet love to your armpit.
A little ass juice can be fixed with some spot cleaner and a thorough run through the washing machine. My cat’s pride, well, that will take a bit more to fix. At least he has laid off the mornication for the past few days. But he still can’t look me in the eye. No judgment, I told him. Sometimes love can be a little messy.
I, on the other hand, am lucky to get six to seven hours of interrupted sleep a night, an unfortunate pattern I developed over eleven years ago during my first pregnancy. At first it was because of the pregnancy itself, with its lovely heartburn and ligament pain and difficulty flipping over in bed. Waking up for feedings replaced that joy, which was then replaced by a few years of night terrors (my daughter’s, not mine), which was then replaced by my own weak bladder and racing thoughts. If I’m lucky, I can get up, pee, go back to bed, and fall asleep within fifteen minutes. Unfortunately, I am not a very lucky person.
My cat is well aware of this model, the waking up nightly between 3:00 and 5:00 am. Moshe has adjusted to my nightly routine, and he prepares himself for my early morning trip to the bathroom. He will awaken from his usual spot under my bed and join me in the bathroom, where he likes to rub his whiskers all over the corner of the wall, followed by trying to knock the toilet paper roll off the holder with his face. Then he trips me in his rush to get to the garden bathtub, where I usually turn on the faucet and give him a little fresh running water to drink. I’ll grab a sip of water, from my glass, not the tub, before heading back to bed, leaving him to slurp up the droplets of water and shed black fur all over the tub.
I then settle myself flat on my back, press my head firmly on the pillow, and wait for Moshe to join me. He jumps up on the bed, purring loudly, his pupils fully dilated, and commences making biscuits on some part of my person. Usually, he will knead his little declawed paws on my right shoulder and armpit, which I rather enjoy, especially if I lifted weights the day before. Nothing beats a cat massage to relieve those sore muscles. Occasionally, he will opt for my belly, in the large intestinal region. Fourteen pounds of cat pressing on your upper abdomen is cheaper and faster than a high colonic, but just as effective, let me tell you. This kneading and purring will continue until he either wears himself out or he wakes up my husband, who is not such a fan of feline lovin’ in the morning.
I allow this behavior for a number of reasons. First of all, he is so gosh darn cute and sweet, how can you say no to that face? Secondly, he is persistent as hell. His biscuit making and walking around the bed is the cat equivalent of trying to get into my pants, and he won‘t take no for an answer. It’s easier just to let him have his way with me, and then he will roll over and go to sleep. He also is pretty good at opening closed doors, and if he can’t get it open, he will stick his paw under it, smacking it a bunch while yowling loudly. It is impossible to sleep through any of that ruckus.
That is pretty much the routine year round. In warmer months, he sleeps under the bed. In colder months, he sleeps on the foot of the bed. But the love fest, well, that’s in season every season.
The other morning, I got up for my three o’clock pee, and Moshe had just settled into his biscuit making in my armpit when something went horribly wrong. He suddenly stopped his kneading and began looking around behind him. I sat up and noticed what looked like a bug on my arm, right around the same time that Moshe furtively licked the comforter. I scooted him out of the way and saw that a trail of whatever was on my arm was also on my sheets and duvet, and Moshe wanted to clean it up before I noticed. He went back to licking the spots vigorously while I sat there dumbfounded. In my sleepy disgusted haze, I figured it out; his anal glands spontaneously excreted themselves all over my side of the bed. And my arm. At three in the morning.
Yes, that’s right. I was covered in my cat’s ass juice, juice which he clearly did not want me to know about. Moshe seemed downright embarrassed that such an appalling thing had occurred and was doing his best, without thumbs, to clean it up. As disgusted as I was, I couldn’t throw on the light and toss the cat out of the room and change the sheets, because on the other, cleaner side of the bed, my husband slept the blissful sleep of the unaware. If he had awoken to what was taking place on my side of the mattress, well, let’s just say our household would be down one cat.
I was not an expert on cat anal glands at the time, but I am now. Just read this part, so you won’t have to Google it yourself later. Yes, it turns out that dogs are not the only ones with this dirty little secret. Cats too have hidden ass glands. But unlike dogs, who like to scoot across your carpet, dragging their filthy asses all over the place, cats just excrete a little at a time when they do their business. Unless they are frightened or very excited, in which case those little buggers just go off without much warning, sometimes even all over your arm before the asscrack of dawn. It’s kind of like a skunk, I suppose, except you don’t have a skunk next to you in your bed, making sweet love to your armpit.
A little ass juice can be fixed with some spot cleaner and a thorough run through the washing machine. My cat’s pride, well, that will take a bit more to fix. At least he has laid off the mornication for the past few days. But he still can’t look me in the eye. No judgment, I told him. Sometimes love can be a little messy.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Red Faced Rednecks
Some moms find it tough to deal with a tween daughter, what with those mood swings, constant outfit changes, bizarre eating habits, and that irrational fear of public humiliation. Oh, embarrassment. Is there anything more detrimental to a tween’s well-being than being embarrassed by her family?
Think about it for a minute. How lucky is my eleven year old that the worst thing she can imagine is a little public shame? She has plenty of organic food, a nice home, relatively stylish clothing, a loving family, an active social life, opportunities for fun and travel, and relatively few responsibilities. Hell, maybe when I grow up, I can be a tween. It doesn’t pay well, unless Dad or Mom remembers to give out allowance. So when that constant whine that arises, "stop embarrassing me," it is kind of hard for me to give a shit.
In fact, game on, tween girl. It’s on like Donkey Kong. It’s a battle to the end, and I am in it to win it. Get ready to get schooled, middle- aged Mom style. Before it’s all done, you’re going to be wishing you were still sucking your thumb and pooping in your diaper. What I mean is, I haven’t even begun to embarrass you.
Now, I am not oblivious to the fact that I can be embarrassing. I come from mortifying family genes. My grandfather was legendary at sexually harassing waitresses. My grandmother would demand even a penny back if she thought the price was wrong. My mother felt comfortable passing gas, loudly, in the aisles of any store. This is the same mother who taught sexual education to my Jewish friends when I was a tween, back when tweens were just awkward early teens without a special moniker. You want embarrassment? Try having a crush on a curly headed swarthy prepubescent boy who learned where to stick his penis FROM YOUR MOTHER.
So while I admit that singing along with the music in Publix is, shall we say, unorthodox, it will hardly make you a social outcast. Ditto with the car seat dancing. And the loud public laughter. I’m having a good time, which last I checked the DSM did not damage the psyche of a developing girl. The more my daughter, E, complains about being shamed, the more I want to live up to her skewed perception. Embarrassing her is fun, except for the whining part, and it gives me a goal. She already thinks being seen with me is humiliating, but just how humiliating? Let’s find out, shall we?
On our last beach trip, which was week 2 of Camp Mom, we decided to stop by Walmart on our way home from a tasty seafood dinner. Sometimes eating too many hushpuppies requires a little stroll about to settle the stomach, and what better venue than a Walmart, where you can find a few necessities and perhaps engage in some voyeurism at the same time? As we entered the store, I announced to my family, “Let’s talk like rednecks while we shop!” in my fakest over the top Southern accent. The idea delighted my younger daughter, S, who is a master of voices, no small feat for a child who not once but twice required speech therapy. Even my normally reserved and socially appropriate husband cottoned to the idea. We were all game, except for E, who didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
We started twanging our way around the store, all except E, who immediately turned red and crept away from us before anyone could connect her to our family. She would return periodically to where we were loudly sassing each other, announce that we were embarrassing her, and then sneak away again. We reminded her that we were on vacation and didn’t know anyone in the Walmart, but that reality didn’t matter to E. She deserted us in the chip aisle, and we couldn’t find her, no matter how many times we bellowed her old Southern name, mispronouncing it like a teacher on the first day of school. My husband came up with the idea of having her paged over the intercom, which really would be embarrassing. We opted against that because we did have to go home with her, and as unpleasant as she was acting in the store, she could really pull it out if she tried.
We finally caught up with her in the nail polish section, which is home base for a tween in a Walmart. I allowed her to select an inexpensive polish as compensation for the humiliation we served up, and we walked over to the check-out line with the rest of the crap we didn't need. E decided this was a good time to belittle her sister, who in turn felt the need to argue back, still in her best hillbilly accent. Checking out of Walmart is irritating enough without listening to your kids bicker. I threatened them with ass whuppins right there by the register, loudly questioning if they were the kind of kids who needed a good public beating. The cashier stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious and whether it was better to intervene for these girls’ safety or to not get involved and stick with scanning. She went with B and handed me the receipt.
As we walked to the car, my husband said, “No more of that. It’s funny until you take it too far. Threatening to beat your kids in the Walmart isn’t funny. What if someone thought you were serious?”
“Oh, please,” I shot back. “Do you think anyone really thought I was really going to hit my kids? That one is taller than I am, and the other one is holding my hand. I hardly fit the profile. Not that I care either way. We both know I wasn’t going to hit them, so big deal.”
To which E said,” Stop arguing! You’re embarrassing me!”
Which was totally worth that bottle of anti-freeze green nail polish.
Think about it for a minute. How lucky is my eleven year old that the worst thing she can imagine is a little public shame? She has plenty of organic food, a nice home, relatively stylish clothing, a loving family, an active social life, opportunities for fun and travel, and relatively few responsibilities. Hell, maybe when I grow up, I can be a tween. It doesn’t pay well, unless Dad or Mom remembers to give out allowance. So when that constant whine that arises, "stop embarrassing me," it is kind of hard for me to give a shit.
In fact, game on, tween girl. It’s on like Donkey Kong. It’s a battle to the end, and I am in it to win it. Get ready to get schooled, middle- aged Mom style. Before it’s all done, you’re going to be wishing you were still sucking your thumb and pooping in your diaper. What I mean is, I haven’t even begun to embarrass you.
Now, I am not oblivious to the fact that I can be embarrassing. I come from mortifying family genes. My grandfather was legendary at sexually harassing waitresses. My grandmother would demand even a penny back if she thought the price was wrong. My mother felt comfortable passing gas, loudly, in the aisles of any store. This is the same mother who taught sexual education to my Jewish friends when I was a tween, back when tweens were just awkward early teens without a special moniker. You want embarrassment? Try having a crush on a curly headed swarthy prepubescent boy who learned where to stick his penis FROM YOUR MOTHER.
So while I admit that singing along with the music in Publix is, shall we say, unorthodox, it will hardly make you a social outcast. Ditto with the car seat dancing. And the loud public laughter. I’m having a good time, which last I checked the DSM did not damage the psyche of a developing girl. The more my daughter, E, complains about being shamed, the more I want to live up to her skewed perception. Embarrassing her is fun, except for the whining part, and it gives me a goal. She already thinks being seen with me is humiliating, but just how humiliating? Let’s find out, shall we?
On our last beach trip, which was week 2 of Camp Mom, we decided to stop by Walmart on our way home from a tasty seafood dinner. Sometimes eating too many hushpuppies requires a little stroll about to settle the stomach, and what better venue than a Walmart, where you can find a few necessities and perhaps engage in some voyeurism at the same time? As we entered the store, I announced to my family, “Let’s talk like rednecks while we shop!” in my fakest over the top Southern accent. The idea delighted my younger daughter, S, who is a master of voices, no small feat for a child who not once but twice required speech therapy. Even my normally reserved and socially appropriate husband cottoned to the idea. We were all game, except for E, who didn't want to draw any unnecessary attention to herself.
We started twanging our way around the store, all except E, who immediately turned red and crept away from us before anyone could connect her to our family. She would return periodically to where we were loudly sassing each other, announce that we were embarrassing her, and then sneak away again. We reminded her that we were on vacation and didn’t know anyone in the Walmart, but that reality didn’t matter to E. She deserted us in the chip aisle, and we couldn’t find her, no matter how many times we bellowed her old Southern name, mispronouncing it like a teacher on the first day of school. My husband came up with the idea of having her paged over the intercom, which really would be embarrassing. We opted against that because we did have to go home with her, and as unpleasant as she was acting in the store, she could really pull it out if she tried.
We finally caught up with her in the nail polish section, which is home base for a tween in a Walmart. I allowed her to select an inexpensive polish as compensation for the humiliation we served up, and we walked over to the check-out line with the rest of the crap we didn't need. E decided this was a good time to belittle her sister, who in turn felt the need to argue back, still in her best hillbilly accent. Checking out of Walmart is irritating enough without listening to your kids bicker. I threatened them with ass whuppins right there by the register, loudly questioning if they were the kind of kids who needed a good public beating. The cashier stared at me, trying to decide if I was serious and whether it was better to intervene for these girls’ safety or to not get involved and stick with scanning. She went with B and handed me the receipt.
As we walked to the car, my husband said, “No more of that. It’s funny until you take it too far. Threatening to beat your kids in the Walmart isn’t funny. What if someone thought you were serious?”
“Oh, please,” I shot back. “Do you think anyone really thought I was really going to hit my kids? That one is taller than I am, and the other one is holding my hand. I hardly fit the profile. Not that I care either way. We both know I wasn’t going to hit them, so big deal.”
To which E said,” Stop arguing! You’re embarrassing me!”
Which was totally worth that bottle of anti-freeze green nail polish.
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