Dirty Little Secret

I survived taking the kids to the pool again today. On the bright side, no one pooped. Though Lovebug let out a few screams (overtired+overexcited=Lovebug screams in response to any negative stimuli) that were loud enough to make me think someone had pooped.

But I suppose I’m the one who misbehaved today. Because today, folks, I read a magazine while my kids were in the pool. That’s right, not only did I let them go in by themselves, I dared to look away while they were in there.

Of course, they are 4 and 5 and they were in about 3 feet of water. Fenced into 3 feet of water, I should say. And there were like 6 other kids in the whole area.  While neither swims quite successfully, they do understand not breathing water. Oh, and they are very loud.

So, when I was not playing with them, feeding them or finding out why Lovebug was screaming (bumped his elbow on the fence, for example), I read. Not a novel, because I could get so engrossed in a novel I could miss them taking my wallet and handing it to the guy who sells ice cream and/or smacking that kid who was splashing everybody. Anyway, you should have seen the looks I got from the other moms.

Not all of them, but enough. Especially the one that I was NOT going to make fun of on this blog because she always seemed perfectly nice. I am trying to be a kinder, gentler me. But she glared at me, so clearly she started it and I can make fun of her freely.

Now let me say that a lot of moms around here still wear bikinis. Because they still look good in bikinis. And another percentage, while maybe not rocking the bikini, still looks cute at the pool. This mom is clearly trying to be in that category, because she doesn’t try the pregnant bikini thing, but her suit is very cute and she always does her hair.

And by does her hair, I mean that she invariable ties a grosgain ribbon around her ponytail. It’s always a different color, too.

What woman over 18. . .hell, what girl over 10 wears a ribbon in her hair? And who thinks, yeah, a ribbon is the perfect accessory for swimming?

And it’s in this loopy, lop-sided bow with long strings hanging down her neck. I mean, it would not have been a great style in 1986.

Ahem. So, yeah, ribbon lady and her friend glared at me today, as I sat with my magazine. I started to feel self-conscious. Because, you know, maybe I was being irresponsible by not watching them (along with the 2 lifeguards) in the 3 feet of water. And then I thought, maybe they’re just jealous because they had toddlers to follow around(this is why I avoid taking ChunkyMonkey to the pool. Also, he gets bored. And if I’m hauling a ton of gear and making a picnic, we are staying at the pool for more than an hour, dammit.) and I did not.

So then I thought, I’ll ask the internets. Well, the 4 of you not at BlogHer, anyway. Was I being irresponsible? Should ribbon lady have glared at me? Or would you have done the same thing?

This is a top search on my blog these days.

Even ignoring the weird Google statistical gymnastics that cause people searching for this to wind up here, what the hell, people?

I don’t know whether people want me to explain Playboy’s attractions or to commiserate about that weird attraction some people have for Playboy.

I hope it’s the former. So here’s my explanation:

Playboy has pictures and videos of pretty, naked girls. They are naughty without being smutty. They do not get mad, go on the rag or make guys hold their purses while they try on clothes. They are FANTASY women. And men like fantasies.

(Probably some lesbians do too. But I’ve never met a lesbian who’s told me that she liked Playboy. But I would really, really, love to and I would totally go out drinking with her even though I don’t really drink anymore. . .wait, my drinking fantasies aren’t the point here. . .)

Oh yeah, men are also visually stimulated. So, you know, Playboy. That’s the point. And let me tell you, Playboy is the cleanest, sweetest porn there is. So if your guy is all about Playboy? Be happy.

Anyone looking for commiseration has obviously gotten lost. My feelings on porn should make it clear.

I am trying to remember the last time I was in a truly good mood. I have flashes of happiness, like watching ChunkyMonkey hold his siblings’ hands as they carefully walked him to the car the other night or watching Ironflower and Lovebug giggle in the pool yesterday. But an overall feeling of well-being that lasted more than a few hours?

I have no idea.

I was fine until I read some happy status updates on Facebook. It’s not that I’m filled with  schadenfreude, exactly. I don’t like it when skaters fall or waiters drop trays. And it’s not that I want every status update I read to be a complaint about kids or jobs. Really.

But when someone is perpetually upbeat these days, I kinda want to smack them. I wonder if there’s a German word for annoyance at the extreme happiness of others?

I am grateful for so many things, feel fortunate for so many reasons. But I am also worried and stressed about so many things. So many legitimate and currently unfixable things. And I don’t think everything my kids do is adorable. Or even tolerable.

So I bitch. And I was okay with that until I started having violent thoughts while on Facebook. I mean, how do people get to be happy all of the time? Even drug addicts have to come down sometimes.

The universe is testing me.

Two subjects that other people manage every day are completely tripping me up.

Other people, for example, don’t secretly hope to run into douchebags so that they can get a blog post out of it. Other people, I gather, might not even automatically assume that someone is a douchebag within 10 seconds of seeing them. So I’ve been trying to be more open-minded and tolerant.

Also, I notice that I’m always telling my kids to ask directly and politely for what they want, and to speak up for themselves. Yet there are many occasions – especially with strangers and doctors, for example – where I don’t take my own advice.

I was just thinking about my personal goals on Saturday while I was watching the big kids at a local pool. They were in the shallow water, playing happily, and I was chatting with my Dad  – who not only met us there, but managed to snag 2 comfy chairs and a place in the shade. Awesome. There was a group in front of us with 2 toddlers. I started paying attention when I noticed the little girl running around naked and heard one of the adults say, “But is she potty trained?”

The child’s mother replied, “If she’s naked, it’s fine. She can just go in the sand. ” You know, the sand were kids were digging at that very moment. THAT SAND. Not the sand off in the bushes away from people who were digging and eating and laying in the sand.

“Um, I think she’s already gone, ” said the first guy. And super mom said, “Oh, she pooped. You can just scoop it up with one of the sand toys and throw it in the trash.”

That’s right, the child had pooped into the sand where people were digging and eating and laying. And then they used her toy shovel to scoop it up and throw it into the trash can. And they didn’t even rinse off the shovel.

I mean, how the hell am I supposed to ignore this level of douchebaggery? How can I not post about the crazy people who think it’s okay to let their kids poop where dogs can’t? And to use their kids’ toys to scoop up poop?

I can’t. I have failed this test, universe. And you know what? I’m okay with failing this part of the test. There are just too many douchebags in the world for me to be a kind, happy blogger.

BUT.

What I am ashamed of is failing to say anything to these people. I just stared at my Dad, both of our mouths wide open. Usually I can think of a good question or comment within 48 hours of an incident, but I am still at a loss. Should I have said anything? And, if so, what?

Help me here, internets.

Dear Lady-at-the-park-this-morning,

First, congratulations on your new daughter. I’m sure she’s adorable, not that you ever uncovered her long enough for me to see her face. Also, may I commend you on your well-behaved boys. They played well with my Lovebug and seemed very polite – they actually got your permission before going on the jungle gym and waited for you to join them.

I’m sure you noticed that my children did not ask me permission for anything. Not even the toddler. They roamed freely within the confines of the playground. I followed the toddler, who seems to have a strong urge to return to the emergency room. My kids were all over the place, but I always knew where they were. Okay, I knew where they were for the vast majority of the experience.

I’m sure you also noticed that I was the only adult with my children, while your husband sat patiently with your sleeping baby. I wonder how you’ll handle things when he’s not there. I wonder if you’ll still give me dirty looks after you’ve taken 3 mobile children to a park by yourself. I wonder if you’ll still sniff at me when your boys become more independent and don’t want to do the same things all the time.

I sure hope we run into each other again. Preferably when my youngest is a reasonable 3 year old and yours is a toddler.  And you don’t have any back-up.

Sincerely,

Jerseygirl

I must start by saying that I’m sure my neighbors are nice people who love their children very much. And who (fortunately) do not read my blog.

But. (You totally knew that was coming, didn’t you?)

I’m not sure how I feel about my kids actually playing with their children. They gather at the cul-de-sac that ends our street. At first, I was pleased that the parents seemed so nice and so willing to share their kids’ myriad toys with my kids (we live about a block up and mainly come down with our bikes and some chalk).

Ironflower was enchanted with 2 little girls, slightly younger, who share her penchant for princesses. ChunkyMonkey just loved that I let him out of the stroller outside of the house. Lovebug was not as thrilled, as one boy was too little and the other little boy is really, really into sports (What can I say? We’re so afraid of becoming psycho sport parents that we’ve sort of forgotten to teach our kids the rudiments of T-ball. Oops. Also, we’d much rather go for a walk.)

Lovebug changed his tune when the motorized Barbie Jeep and the motorized Mustang came out. Each of Ironflower’s new little friends has her own car (Did I mention that they’re younger that she is? And she’s 5?).  Well, he did until he realized how hard it would be to actually get a turn.

Not that the girls used the cars a lot. But just because they weren’t using them didn’t mean they wanted to let a BOY use them. Their parents cajoled and begged and bribed and Lovebug was allowed to play. Which I thought was nice of the parents. And bitchy of the children.  A bit later, one girl threw a huge hissy fit about not having the right princess shoe. She demanded them and demanded them and finally her mother went home to get them. A bit later there was another tantrum that resulted in another child getting what she wanted.

And another and another and another until my children were just kind of staring at them in fascination. When it was time for us to leave, Ironflower was riding in the mustang with one girl. Before she could get out, the girl started the engine. I followed, half jogging while I pulled Ironflower’s bike, pushed ChunkyMonkey’s stroller and kept an eye on trike-riding Lovebug. I told them to stop, told Ironflower to ask the girl to stop but nothing worked. The girl’s dad caught up and also told them to  stop.

They didn’t until they were at our driveway.

Now, if Ironflower had asked, I would have been fine with this. But there was no asking ., . . .and no listening. Which is not like my kid. The dad was unsurprised and unconcerned that his daughter didn’t listen and had driven off without permission. He didn’t say anything to her about it, just asked her where she wanted to go next.

And I was horrified. I was horrified by the whole experience. I’ve avoided the cul-de-sac at peak times ever since.

But now I’m thinking. . .what if it’s me? What if I”m the bitch? What if I’m being unduly harsh by giving consequences for temper tantrums? What if it’s not a big deal when my kids don’t listen and obey? Why should I care how they talk to me?

But I can’t help it. I don’t want my kids to act like that or to treat me like that. And I’m not sure if I want them hanging out with parents who do.

I live in a place where people range from comfortable to wow-is-that-a-Murano-glass-chandelier-in-your-toddler’s-bedroom?-rich. And because of all the perks of living in such a place – the safety, the amazing public schools, the proximity to cultural events, the fact that no one wears house slippers to the grocery store – I try to ignore all the things that bother me about living in such abundance (I didn’t say I always succeeded. I just said I’d try.)

But I can’t ignore this one.

There are a few places that I tend to visit nearly every day. Because my life is exciting like that. Anyway, two of my local places have put out jars to collect change for the people in Haiti. Both places are reputable and reliable and will donate the money without a doubt. If they had any money to donate.

In one place, the jar is empty. In another, where it has been up for a week, it is nearly so.

I would like to think that all of my neighbors have driven their Porsche Cayennes and Ranger Rovers to their banks so that they can wire thousands of dollars to Haiti. I would like to think that they are all too busy using their credit cards to carry change to put in the jars. I would like to think that they just haven’t noticed the jars.

But the jars are rather obvious. In one case, there was even an email about the jar. And who doesn’t keep change in their car?

Every day, when I drop in all the change I can scrounge up, I keep hoping that the jars will be full. Maybe I’m obsessed with them because I can’t write a huge check or volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. Maybe they just seem so important to me because helping to fill them is all I can do. Maybe this is why I’ll never own a Range Rover – I can’t save money worth a damn.

Would this bother you? Does the idea of the empty change jars in what is literally one of the wealthiest counties in the country bother you? Or am I just being bitchy again?

I felt guilty when I first read it. “Oh my God, I do that all the time! I did it to all 3 kids! I’m so irresponsible!” And then, well, then I took a deep breath. I turned off the “Supermom” voice, the one that screams (internally) whenever the baby eats a cracker from the floor, the one that panics (mostly internally) whenever she sees one of her child’s peers exhibit a skill her child doesn’t have, the one who is thinking about learning to knit just because she thinks moms should know how, not that she has actually interest.

I reread the paragraph. “What was she thinking?” I wondered this time around.

The “she” is some mom who wrote to Parents magazine because her daughter’s car seat fell off the shopping cart. Now that sucks, and I’m very glad the baby was okay. Apparently, the shopping cart went over a bump and the car seat fell off the top part. The part where I’ve been putting my car seats for the last 5 years.

I have never had a car seat fall.

Possibly some of that is luck. And possibly some of it is that when the terrain is bumpy, I freaking hold on to the car seat.

Look, I’m not judging. I’m sure this woman is much more patient than I am and spends hours reading to her baby every day. I bet there are no crackers on her floor. So I’m NOT saying I’m better than she is. I’m really not. I’m just saying. . .didn’t she ever notice what the car seat did when it was bumpy? How it bounces it bit? How did she not notice?

And why did Parents magazine have to publish this? Now poor new moms are going to be strapping their babies into Bjorns and not giving their poor backs a damn rest while at the grocery store. Why not just say, “Hold the car seat in the parking lot”?

Is it really too much to ask people who procreate to have some sense?

I like to call myself a realist. Some might say “cynical bitch”, but those people also might say “I think The Bachelor helps people find true love”, so really, who cares what they think? Anyway, I really soured on romance thanks to my ex-husband, who was a great one for romantic gestures and also for being a total selfish asshole, but even as a child I wondered how an abused maid like Cinderella would get along with a prince’s family.

I’m always looking for the dark backstory, and generally there is one. Let’s take Chastity Bono – er, I mean Chas Bono – shall we? When I was a little girl in the ’70′s, I watched Sonny and Cher with my mom. My favorite part was whenever little Chastity came out in a sparkling dress that matched her mother’s. I secretly longed for a mom with straight hair who wore glittery dresses on TV, one who would put me on TV too. I got over it quickly, especially after I heard that Sonny and Cher got divorced. I got even more over it when Sonny became a Republican politician. And, er, now that little Chastity is a man (not that there’s anything wrong with that) . . .well, let’s just say it’s probably good I never wore a sparkly dress on TV.

Sure, sometimes I think it would be nice to think that Katie and Tom do really love each other and that it’s not just a business arrangement, or that EVERYONE on Rock of Love was acting, but that’s not who I am. But as I listen to the news and read magazines, I start to wish that everyone was more like me.

We’re going to run out of oil. Health care costs are going to be out of reach for the average American. We’re not going to just “win” the Middle East like we did World War II. People who can’t afford it, are too young or too insane for it are going to keep breeding. Not everyone can own a flat screen TV.

And we need to accept that.

Our current situation is the dark backstory to the Reagan and Clinton years. Every politician proclaims that he or she can fix things, if this or that bill is passed it will fix things. Bullshit.

Can’t we just stop being optimistic Americans for one minute and realize that fighting on Fox News isn’t going to fix jack shit – and neither is either political party? We need to accept our dark back story and learn how to manage it.

Look at Chas Bono. Her mother is a gay icon, the ultimate feminine fantasy-woman. Does Chas try to emulate her? Try to become her eager assistant? Try to become an earth mother archetype in rebellion? No. He goes in a completely different direction. Not dwelling on the past or hostiley rejecting it.

Although, the cynical part of me wonders how much of it had to do with those sparkly dresses.

Last night I watched the commercial for “Teach Your Baby To Read!”, a product that teaches babies and toddlers to memorize the shapes on flashcards read. The urge I had to smack all those parents upside the head, well, it reminded me of my urges when I watch the kiddie pageant spectacle, Toddlers and Tiaras.

It’s the same damn thing.

Poise, the ability to walk in high heels, reading. . .those are all great skills to have. Reading’s obviously more important, but still. In our looks-obsessed society, the ability to wear lip gloss without it going all over your teeth can’t be denied. But why the rush?

Four year olds don’t need to look polished to do well at preschool.

And babies don’t need to be able to read. And, in fact, they aren’t actually reading. Sure, I saw them say the words on the cards, or gesture to indicate that they knew what the word was. But that’s not actually reading. They didn’t decode (aka “sound out”) the word and they sure as hell didn’t comprehend its meaning from the surrounding text.

I’ve taught lots of kids to read and I guarantee that none of them would have read for real any more quickly had they memorized the words for body parts as babies. If their parents had talked to them more, read them more stories and/or not let them spend all night watching horror movies, that might have helped. But this stupid program? Not so much.

A colleague once referred to me as “The Reading Bitch”, that’s how into teaching reading I was. I might have been a little militant. I might have distributed timelines and scopes and sequences and lesson plans to my elementary school teacher colleagues a little obsessively.

And yet my baby has no idea what letters even are. But I have gotten him to sit still long enough to finish listening to “Touch and Feel Farm”. I’m kinda proud of that. Because it’s age-appropriate.

I suppose in a world where first graders have cell phones and grandmothers attend Botox parties, age-appropriate isn’t a very popular concept. Sure, everyone clucks over the pageant kids, made up and hairsprayed like teenage prom queens, but they still have their own shows. And I’ve yet to hear anyone talk about, much less criticize, “Teach Your Baby To Read”.

The truth is, kids who memorize easily (or very early), often have a hard time reading more difficult text when they hit second or third grade. And forget about developing their thinking skills. Memorization does jack for those. But all those parents can now brag that their one year olds can read, which I guess is more imporant than age-appropriate or thinking.

Score another one for the assholes.