Tiller: [Crying and arching her back on the couch.]
Me: “Baby, what is it?”
Tiller: “I want to be an elephant!!!!” [More crying.]
Me: [Under my breath.] “Good luck with that.”
Me: [Aloud] “Why do you want to be an elephant?”
Tiller: “I want to be able to pick stuff up and pour it on my head!”
Archive for the ‘Humor’ Category
I Want to be an Elephant
Friday, August 21st, 2009Don’t Mess With My Tutu
Friday, August 21st, 2009Things here in Dogwood Girl world have been a little wild lately. This whole year has been a roller coaster, but the commencement of school has really amped up our schedules. Oddly, though, in the midst of all of the rushing around to practices and stores to find shoes and helmets and gloves and bats and tutus, there have been these wonderful moments where I am struck by deja vu. I have been here before. I have felt this joy. Parenting is funny like that: You reach a milestone in your child’s life, and it brings you back instantly to that time in your own childhood.
Tiller started ballet last Thursday. She takes it at the rec center here in town. The minute I walked in there, I was rushed back to the old rec center at Wills Park in Alpharetta, the one next to the awesome wooden playground thingie – the ultradangerous one, with a bridge that went over a creek and lots of holes high up on the structure for little kids to fall out of. We never did. We also never injured ourselves on that fast merry-go-round; we just went faster and faster, squealing our guts out. Pretty sure those are gone now, replaced by some safer, more plastic, less wood and metal playground, with sustainable mulch or some such crap underneath it. I used to take baton twirling there at the rec center. I think it was maybe only one room, with some public restrooms. As soon as I walked in the dance room, i was brought back. Tutus and tights and little black patent leather tap shoes with ribbon laces. Pale pink ballet slippers.
I had been told that Tiller should ‘wear something comfortable” that first day. She had on shorts and a t-shirt. All of the other little girls wore tutus and had their hair in ponytails or buns. Most of them had their own shoes.
Ballerina Parent Fail.
Tiller didn’t even notice, though. She doesn’t realize yet that her mother is a Bull in a China Shop who never took more than one year of Dance. I was hideous. To this day, my photos from that one year of ballet and tap, taken in a studio that I believe was in the upstairs over the Indian Trading Post toy store in downtown Alpharetta, right across from Milton High school, are still the most-commented-on of all of my childhood pictures. (They do not, however, compare to the still-much-discussed naked run around the parking lot photo from a college game of truth or dare gone awry.) People think they are hysterical. So, before someone leaks them, I will share them here on Dogwood Girl, for all the world to see.
This is me on the left end of this group. I want to say the girl next to me is Heather Flack. Not sure who the other sad girls are. . . . It appears that the red monstrosities are what you wear for tap. I can still feel the material these little numbers were made of . . . .
Okay, this next one is me in. . . I don’t know what this getup is. I think this was the ballet number. Because nothing says graceful ballet like a CountryBumpkinVaudevilleShowgirl costume. Who comes up with these? Nice lipstick, huh?
This is the one that people really dig. . . Look at that poof in my hair. Yes, that is mom’s attempt at giving me a Dorothy Hamill, but I have curly hair, and it never did work. See that polka dot trim? It itched like a motherfucker. Red lipstick on a five-year-old is classy.
Now, this post is about how parenting reminds one of their own childhood. And one time that I was really struck by this was when I took the kids to Tucker Day last year. Tucker Day is for all the world just like I remember the Alpharetta Parade being. Tractors, and farmers, and bands, and groups like baseball teams and dancers. Yes, I believe that my dance troupe was in the parade, and I seem to remember wearing the above red and polka dot-trimmed outfit, while this next picture was being taken of my sister and my cousins, who lived right across the street from me back then. (Yes, I told you I was Southern. Southerners live across the street from their cousins, people!) Mom evidently parked the red Caprice Classic station wagon, with wood on the side, in the filling station parking lot near the Food Lion. (Food Giant? I get those confused.) The one on Hwy 9. She propped Graham, Adam, and Lisa up on the hood, and gave them a couple of bottles of Coke. Please note Lisa’s lionhead. (See also: The Lionhead Files.)
This next one is prompted by Rollie playing t-ball. This is my softball team. Before that, I played t-ball with a bunch of boys, and one other girl, Ashley Marvin. Now, I don’t remember exactly why i played t’ball with a bunch of boys. But this next picture is from a softball team I played on. We had an after season party at Ashley’s house. Ashley had an awesome old renovated house near Crabapple, and a pool. Also, please note our totally trippy 70’s-style Fulton Co. Parks and Rec shirts.
This final one is just one of my fave pics ever. It is of the spectators at one of my b-ball games. I guess it was when I played on the boys’ team, because my cousin’s mom is there. I LOVE this picture. The folks are sitting on the bleachers at Wills Park. I guess it is cold. Maybe my dad took the picture? My mom is standing to the left, in the plaid pants, smoking a cigarette. The blonde next to her is my cousin’s mom, Connie. That is Adam in her lap – I love that he is twirling his hair, like he always did at that age!. To my Mom’s left is my sister, Lisa, sitting next to my Uncle Harry, a.,k. a Gran, my grandma Smith’s brother. His wife, Virginia, or Bubba as we called her, is sitting the next row back. You can almost make out her reddish hair. Would love to know who some of the other folks are.
Now we have the metal bleachers, but there is still that same feel at practices. I am looking forward to enjoying some of those after-game ice creams, and to watching my Tiller keep herself occupied around the field while Rollie plays this season.
Forget About Me, God
Wednesday, August 19th, 2009I woke Rollie up this morning. (After Todd woke me up; I almost never hear the alarm. He usually has to nudge me awake.) Rollie is having trouble waking up in the mornings, after a summer of sleeping later and waking with the sun. It is still dark at 6:45 and he usually mumbles something like, “I want to stay under the covers,” and I kiss him on the forehead and whisper, “I do too.”
I made sure he was awake and then went down to start coffee, make oatmeal, and fix his lunch. He came down, sleepy-eyed, and hair sticking up in a thousand different directions. (I call him, “Little Cecil,” because his hair is just like my dad’s – thick, slightly curly, and sticks up when he’s been sleeping on it.) I told him to put on his shoes, and then he came into the kitchen and said, “Mom, I am going to tell you a joke.” I turned around from my coffee, ready for the laughs.
Now, any parent of a preschooler or young elementary-age kid will understand that this means you will probably get a Knock Knock joke that makes absolutely zero sense. For instance, Todd told Rollie and Tiller the old Knock Knock joke that ends in “Orange you glad . . . .” They have improvised on this theme and will say, “Aren’t you glad I didn’t say Banana?” Or “Knock Knock. Who’s there? Table!” And then they explode into laughter, thinking they made a joke. You laugh, too, because otherwise you would be crying.
It is possibly one of the most torturous parts of parenting, being stuck at a dinner table with young Knock Knock joke comedians.
So, I really wasn’t expecting this joke to be unusual, and definitely wasn’t expecting it to be funny. I really wasn’t expecting this:
Me: “Okay, let’s hear it.”
Rollie: “Forget about me, God!” [He twists his face into a goofy expression, one that indicates that he is trying to be funny.]
I stare at him.
Me: “Rollie, that’s not funny.”
Rollie: “Well, I think it’s funny!” [Runs off into the den, balls up on the couch and wails and cries.]
I stand there thinking, “Well, shit.” I guess he expected me to laugh. We always laugh.
Now, I am not the most religious person in the world. I would say I am not religious at all. But I do think about God, I think there might be a God, but I am not sure. Because sometimes I also think that we are all just millions of ants in a huge anthill, waiting to get stomped on, or have a huge Dixie Cup of Kool Aid dumped over our hill, washing us all away in a red typhoon. But I was raised to believe in God, and so i have a great respect for that belief (which I think is sorely missing in our society today) and I would be mortified if my child ever said that to a believer.
I took a deep breath. Looked longingly at the coffee just starting to trickle it’s way into the pot. Thought, once again, that some mornings there just isn’t enough coffee in the world. Went in and sat on the couch next to Rollie.
I asked if he knew why his joke wasn’t funny. He protested that his joke was funny. I finally had to tell him that he would lose privileges if he kept using the joke, because the joke might be offensive to other people. I then had to try to explain the word, “offensive,” which just came off as “might hurt someone’s feelings.” I explained that it would hurt his Grandparents’ feelings to hear that joke. That one of his friends might really have their feelings hurt if he said it to them. He said, “okay,” all the while still claiming that it was funny. (No idea where he gets this stubborn streak from.)
I asked where he heard this joke.
He replied that he made it up.
I am going to need a whole bunch more coffee to ponder how on earth my son came up with this in the first place, and what it might mean to him. Should I be glad that he has a concept of a higher being, and that somehow he is thinking about his place in the world? Is he thinking about his place in the world? Maybe he just liked the way it sounded.
It was only 7:15 a.m. when I finished this conversation with him. Have you ever seen me in the morning before coffee?
Parenting is fucking hard.
Bee Sting Trumps Pledge of Allegiance
Tuesday, August 11th, 2009Rollie started Kindergarten yesterday. I took him to school, deciding to forego the bus on the first day, so as to avoid any mishaps. Ha! Joke was on me. I parked on a side road near the school. (First day of school is complete and total mayhem!) We walked through the wooded path on the backside of the school, and just as we were coming out of the trees, it happened.
Beesting.
Rollie got stung by a mother-frackin’ bee two minutes before school started on the first day of Kindergarten. So, there i was, wiping his tears, and carrying all his stuff (backpack, lunchbox, plastic Kroger bag of school supplies), and trying to find out where the nurse’s office is, then finding out that the nurse was on vacation. I finally gave up and went to the cafeteria and got him a plastic glove of ice from the lunch ladies. So, yes, while everyone else was quiet, hand over heart, saying the Pledge, and having a moment of silence, that was me leading the sniffling bee sting victim through the halls and into the cafeteria. Bee sting trumps Pledge of Allegiance, people.
We were late to the classroom of course, but I got him settled in, made sure that the teacher knew he had been stung, and dodged insinuations that I should be room mother again. I kissed him goodbye and headed out for my coffee in front of the school.
Turns out he did fine all day and had a good time. Me? I think I might make it, too.
Beater: A Creepy Childhood Memory
Tuesday, July 28th, 2009So, not sure how this came up last night, but it is scary and funny all at the same time. Growing up, we had this guy living with his parents down the street from us. He was probably somewhere from 18 to 25 and he was ultra strange. He had an arm that didn’t work, and it would just hang at his side as he walked down the street past our house. I never saw him drive. He would just walk down the street back to his house from where ever he had been, carrying a brown paper bag in the good arm. Never knew what was in the bag.
So, we always thought he was scary, and he rarely talked to us kids. We never talked to him. If anything, we moved away from the street edge of the yard when we saw him coming. Even at ten years old, a kid senses when someone just ain’t right. Turns out we were right on the money.
A little girl was selling girl scout cookies one day. She rang the guy’s doorbell. He came to the door wearing nothing but a towel. He stood there and stared at her, then dropped the towel. Eeewww.
Then, another time, he got caught playing with himself while watching kids play at the pool! Double eww.
My memory is fuzzy, but I want to say that there was another time when he may have asked us kids about the girl that lived next door to us. As in, “who is that blond girl?” Creepy!
All in all, I am surprised that there was no parental outpouring of hatred for this guy. I tell you what, though. Kids are mean as all get out. What did we call him?
Beater.
I don’t know why that makes me laugh now, but Todd thinks it is funny, too. (So, maybe there is something wrong with both of us.) Also not sure why i had to write about this, but it is part of the landscape of my suburban Atlanta childhood and I didn’t want to forget it.
What? No Dixie Cups??
Monday, July 27th, 2009Another sign that we made the right choice when we picked a new neighborhood . . . we stopped by a real live lemonade stand on the way back from our picnic at the park. Two freckle-faced red-headed kids were running it. They even said, “Yes, M’am” and “You’re welcome.” When questioned on what they would do with the funds, they said they were “saving for college.”
Are you kidding me?!
Rollie was like, “I’d buy hot wheels!”
Oh, and the going rate for a pink lemonade, in about a 6 oz cup, is fifty cents. They even put a slice of lemon on the edge of the cup. I am so not kidding.
What? No Dixie Cups for ten cents? I kinda miss the Dixie cup.
In case you are in the area and want to help out the enterprising young chaps, they are located between the park and my house.
Going Gray
Tuesday, July 21st, 2009So, in the course of any given day, I have about five to ten main things I want to get done. I am terrible at completing tasks. TERRIBLE. I get very overwhelmed by a pile of tasks at hand, and if I don’t just concentrate on only my top priority, I will make myself crazy. Things that I stress about include:
Making doctor’s appointments for me, the kids.
I need to start taking a multivitamin.
I did not write a word today.
I have not been keeping up with my blog.
I feel like posting about anything on my blog other than the things I am REALLY preoccupied with is “false.”
I have not worked out today.
I have not called the doctor about my ankle, and if my ankle is going to get better, I need to do that.
If my ankle isn’t better, how will I run?
I am fat.
I need to eat better.
I need a new composting solution.
I need to check work email.
I need to do work.
Facebook is the devil.
I need to stop drinking so much during the week.
I need to clean litter box.
I need to trim shrubbery.
I need to work more in yard.
We never finished renovations on house.
There is cat puke on the bedspread and i haven’t cleaned it up yet.
I need to help my mom and dad.
I need to help my sister.
I haven’t worked on my family history files in ages. What if I die? They will never get done.
What if I die?
Do i have anxiety?
I have anxiety.
I have never had anxiety before.
I need to get the oil changed.
I wish I was more like Todd when it comes to laundry.
I hate laundry.
I hate putting away laundry.
I hate feeling guilty about doing laundry.
Do you think today is the day todd will divorce me over the laundry?
I need more large pots for my patio.
I should go to yard sales to find them for cheap.
Don’t forget to pick up a cushion for the lounge chair at the lake.
On clearance.
The kids need to turn off the tv and get more exercise.
I haven’t finished the dates for the damn school newsletter schedule yet, or i’d take them to the pool. No, I wouldn’t because I need to start dinner.
I am going to let down 500 elementary school kids who won’t have a newsletter.
I am going to let down my family
I am going to let down myself.
You get the idea. So, any time that I can take one thing off my plate, i am for it.
Which is why I have decided that I am going to stop dyeing my hair.
I have been going gray since college. I guess it is God’s way of punishing me for all the dyeing and crazy hair colors of my youth that now i am doomed to the albatross of dyeing my hair twice a month. As it is, I dye it at home. When I say, “I,” I mean Todd. Yes, Todd dons the plastic gloves, which are way too small for his manly hands, and he dyes my hair like a pro. Sort of. Having the salon dye my hair is not an option: It is too expensive and time-consuming to have it done, and at the rate that my hair grows out, and with the amount of gray that I have, it needs to be done about every two weeks.
Whatever. I am over it. I am chucking the outdated, Loving Care Loreal ideal of beauty in a box. I am embracing my gray. Now, you probably have some questions about this process. Hopefully, the following will help answer those:
-
Yes, Todd has been notified. And by “notified,” I mean that I stared at him without a trace of a smile, and told him what I was going to do and he was too scared to laugh, show disbelief, or protest in any manner.
Yes, when it all grows out, my head will probably look like I am wearing a hat made solely of gray pubic hair.
Yes, I will probably be wearing a lot of hats and scarves this fall.
Yes, I will probably break down and dye it again by this time next year. It’s nice to keep options open.
Yes, I’m going to document this in photos and post them on my blog; Just think of the self-embarrassment potential! It’s, like, photojournalism. I’m pretty sure that Oprah will pick it up, or I will get book offers in the coming months.
Okay! Who’s with me? Hello? Hellooo! Whatever. Screw you fancy dye-job, black-rooted, broke-ass, slave-to-fashion bitches!
I already feel better about having one less damn thing to worry about. FTW!
A Tale of Two Sweets
Sunday, July 12th, 2009We took the kids for ice cream this afternoon. Oddly, Rollie wanted a Sprite instead. Todd and I decided we’d all share a bigass rice krispie treat, too.
Tiller went for the ice cream (birthday cake) and a handful of rice krispie treat, too. Sometimes it was hard for her to decide which to bite from. . . .
I am feeling ungrateful and babyish today. I love my kids. They are fun. But I miss the trips with leisurely walks, and less argument, less potty emergencies. I miss strolling around, stopping for a coffee or a beer. I miss perusing bookstores for an hour at a time, and window shopping, and not having to have a destination or a time schedule.
I know I will have it again someday. I just mourn it sometimes. And it is hard to stay dissatisfied when they look this happy.
Pretty Sure Todd Needs This
Sunday, June 21st, 2009I know it’s Father’s Day, and the dad’s are supposed to get grilling sets, and fishing poles and things with electrical cords. But what Todd really needs is this little guy:
