Dirty Little Secret

I have just received Ironflower’s 8 PAGE packet for her dance recital. Now, I might welcome the packet if it told me exactly what make-up to put on her or what to do with her beautifully unruly hair. I might welcome the packet if it laid out her 2 routines so that we could practice at home. I might welcome her packet if she wasn’t in preschool. But instead I look at the packet and think, are you FREAKING SERIOUS?

I still don’t know how to do her hair or her make-up. . .or even what her costume looks like (which doesn’t really bother me because the recital is not until late May, but why not just include this info in the packet?). But I do know that we can’t make our own DVD of the recital AND that it will cost us $40 to buy one. I also now know that I can purchase extremely over-priced bouquets and photos. Oh, and there’s a complicated lottery system for ticket purchases. I have also read about the procedures for picking up my child after the performance and extensive details about the dress rehearsal.

I am also to provide non-staining snacks and toys for her use backstage.

Snacks????? Toys??????

You know what I did backstage during the myriad recitals and performances I was in?

I talked to my friends and I watched the other dancers. When I got older, I put on more make-up. And I didn’t get to eat anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I also walked 2 miles up hill to school (actually, I would have done that, if my mom hadn’t driven me to school most of the time) and survived just fine.

I am usually the person who stands up for the booster seats until they can drive (or whatever the rule is now),  helmets and bouncy playground surfaces. I’m reluctant to leave my children with a baby-sitter or for them to have playdates without me. I overanalyze everything (which you have probably noticed if you’ve ever read this blog before). In short, I am a modern parent.

But I think we’ve gone off the deep end where dance recitals are concerned. First come, first served seating is no longer good enough for today’s families.  DVDs have to be professionally produced. Bouquets have be  big and expensive. Photos must be taken by an overcharging professional. Children must be entertained backstage. Packets must be sent home 3 months beforehand. All the spontaneity of live performance must be crushed.

I am so NOT cut out for helicopter parenting.

I was a picky eater as a child. My cousins like to remind of the phase I went through when I wouldn’t eat green food because it was my favorite color. (Just for the record, that wasn’t really it. It was because I hated most green foods. Especially lima beans. And broccoli.)

Naturally, I assumed that my own children would not have to rebel in this way. I wouldn’t demand that they eat their vegetables, I would simply present them with healthy choices and eventually they would find fruits and vegetables that they liked.

Karma is such a bitch, isn’t she?

My children are worse than I ever was. They don’t even eat pasta or cold cuts, let alone vegetables. The only fruit Ironflower eats willingly is apples.

So we decided to try a more forceful strategy. Now they can’t be excused without trying  everything on their plates. We figured that if they tried enough new things, they’d learn to like some of them. According to the parenting magazines, it can take 20 tries. We knew we’d have to be consistent and persistent. We were prepared for that.

We were not prepared for Ironflower, however. At 5, Ironflower has the will of an Olympian. An Olympian who refuses to eat any vegetables. Recently we’ve been working on baby carrots. (Do not tell me about dipping. The child won’t use any dip but ketchup, and then only on some kinds of french fries.)

Is one bite of carrot really such an unreasonable request?

The child has refused the carrot 4 times now. Each time she has not been excused from the table. She has stayed there until bedtime. FOUR TIMES.

I mean, she’s KNOWS we’re serious. She KNOWS that we’re not going to give in. And yet. . .

She won’t take ONE FREAKING BITE OF CARROT.

We’ve had the same issue with peas. And green beans. And pears.

But carrots, dude. Even I liked them as a child.

Anyone got advice they can pass on before dinner this evening? Because I’m getting kind of desperate.

I always thought I’d be one of those really creative moms, the kind that do amazing art projects with their kids on rainy afternoons and let them dress however they wanted. I thought I’d just quietly walk out of the room when angry, or quietly lecture them until they apologized and never did it again. I thought I’d always be happy to read a story. I thought I’d be good at this.

Which just goes to show that life must really begin at 40, because before I had kids, I certainly didn’t know myself very well. While it’s true that sometimes I liked to draw or color to relax, the only time I ever did amazing art projects was when I had to do them to make examples for my students, and even then I only did them while I was watching movies and talking on the phone. As for dressing, well, I tend to conform. And the only time I’ve ever been quiet while angry is right before I’ve exploded. With regards reading stories, sure I LOVE to read and I do enjoy quality children’s literature, but that’s not what my children want to hear. They want to hear Thomas stories and rehashings of Disney movies.

And as I struggle to convince my fiercely independent children that nose-picking is gross, that vegetables will not kill them, that they can let me direct the imaginary play just once and that matching socks are fun, I kind of want to laugh. Not at them.

At me.

How on earth did I think two stubborn, loud parents would produce quiet, malleable children? And turn flexible and quiet upon parenthood? What the hell was I smoking?

What’s really funny is that my belief in an easy child and my subsequent ideal motherhood were going to happen with ChunkyMonkey. Like any third child in our family wouldn’t realize that he’d have to yell just to be heard each day. And like adding a third child to the mix wouldn’t increase my older children’s independence and my own willingness to encourage them to entertain themselves.

And that’s how I know I’m done having kids (aside from the realities that we don’t have enough money or room to have another, of course). I may be a little sad to realize that I won’t be buying baby stuff anymore and that I’ll never nurse again, but the bloom has worn off. I know if we had a fourth s/he would be even more passionate and loud than the other three and that I would become even less of an ideal mother, possibly by barricading myself in my room during play time and letting them all fend for themselves.

Dear Ironflower,

Today you are 5. In some ways it seems like if I blinked, you’d go back to being my happy, sleepy newborn again. In other ways, since I can’t imagine life without you, it feels like you should be at least 20. What I am sure of, though, is that I love you more each day.

You are so friendly and outgoing, so quick to make friends. I think that’s so cool. And you figure things out so quickly, you are a good thinker. And a good talker. You are the most verbal child I’ve ever met; I love listening to you talk about your day or have imaginary discussions with your animals. You like to be independent and self-sufficient, except when it’s just “too hard”. And that’s okay, because I always want to be able to help you when it’s “too hard”. You are very reasonable for a 5 year old and handle having to wait for things you want exceptional well.

Right now, you like princesses, dinosaurs, outer space and Project Runway. You like to have your own fashion shows with your dress up clothes and today you’ve dressed yourself in black leggings, a pink tulle skirt and a pink princess t-shirt. Later you will play with your princess dolls and/or dinosaurs, telling stories with Lovebug and entertaining yourself for hours.

You are also an avid artist, drawing, coloring and painting for hours. You add details to all of your drawings – even the ones your teacher asks you to make to illustrate your math skills! You are into drawing princesses right now, but you also like to make abstracts. I am amazed at your ability and patience.

Your favorite stories right include non-fiction about space, Arthur, Fancy Nancy and Olivia. You like to watch Arthur and Olivia too, but I think your favorite kid’s show is Dinosaur Train. Besides Project Runway, you like to watch Supernanny with me. You love the Barbie movies, especially the 12 Dancing Princesses. You love to go to shows like Shrek and Disney on Ice – you already know what’s expected of a good audience member.

I love you, kiddo, more than I ever thought possible.

Mommy

They tell you that motherhood profoundly changes you. They tell you that you’ve never imagined love that deep. They tell you that you will become more selfless than you’d ever imagined. They tell you that your life will never be the same.

And you realize it quickly, as you stare into that little face. As you function on two hours of sleep. As you read the same story for the 1,000th time. As you try to give your friend advice on what to wear to a formal event and realize you haven’t been to one yourself since 2002. As you physically miss your children when they spend the night at grandma’s.

What they don’t tell you is how your capacity for grossness will change. Sure, they mention dirty diapers. But I was a nanny. I baby-sat. Dirty diapers hadn’t fazed me in the first place. But it wasn’t until I was a parent until I realized that dirty diapers are merely the tip of the iceberg.

Ironflower had gastric reflux for the first 8 months of her life. She threw up everywhere, all the time. We told each friend she threw up on that could call themselves aunt or uncle. And I, I whose stomach had retched so easily at just the thought of vomit, was totally calm. In fact, I became rather scientific as I cleaned up each round of vomit – what color would it be this time? Hot Guy was even more impressive, though. Once, as he held her over his head, she threw up. Into his open mouth. The fact that he didn’t run screaming out the front door then has always made me a bit complacent about our family.

Next came Lovebug. He seemed so clean, comparatively speaking. Rarely threw up. Had lots of little poops instead of big explosive ones. Wouldn’t eat baby food, so he didn’t really eat solid food until he was old enough to keep it in his mouth. I should have known that he’d get back at me eventually. He STILL won’t poop on the potty, you know. He waits until bedtime when he’s wearing his training pants and then goes for it (Although the other day he went up to his room in the afternoon, changed into training pants, pooped, then changed back into his underwear. Quite a kid, my Lovebug.). Then takes off the training pants and drops them on the floor. The carpeted floor of his room. So now I’ve been an expert at scrubbing shit.

Now the bodily functions of my children don’t bother me at all. I don’t even have a moment of nausea, or repulsion. Which is why – and I can’t believe I’m admitting this, except that I’m kinda hoping that someone else will admit to doing the same thing – I watched as ChunkyMonkey pooped this morning. He’s just started having solid ones. Thinking he was done, I started to change him. But he had more and I watched it come out. I was kinda fascinated. I have never seen that much poop come out of a baby. Seriously, it was impressive.

If anyone had told me five years ago that I would just sit there and watch my baby’s poop come out, I would have thrown a drink at them.

So yeah, there’s deep love and fierce protectiveness that comes along with motherhood. And, apparently, also an ability to appreciate a big poop.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Ironflower threw up at school this morning. (Yes, she had school. Long story.) Anyway, I feel SO guilty. She said her tummy was upset, but I attributed it to her usual morning complaining (we are not a morning family) and her runny nose. Hot Guy took her to school, but he forgot her bag. And I forgot to remind him, because it’s not like she really NEEDS the bag, right? She’s never touched the spare outfit.

So not only did the poor kid puke, she had to wear too big borrowed clothes while Hot Guy went to pick her up.

Once again, we are totally the white trash family at the preschool. Feeling sorry for Ironflower led Hot Guy to stop by the movie store while getting stuff for dinner. (The way we’re going, we should probably just give up and let them watch Nascar and wrestling and horror movies every night during dinner. But I digress.) And even though we normally eat dinner while watching a kid’s movie only on a Friday night, we’re doing it now. And we’re watching Barbie and the Diamond Castle.

I’m actually kind of liking these Barbie movies. They have surprisingly good messages and music. Even Lovebug likes the music.

But, well, I’m liking this one for another reason. As it started, Hot Guy mentioned that the guitar playing friends reminded him of the Indigo Girls. Suddenly we started (in code the kids couldn’t understand, of course) pointing out all the ways that Barbie and the Diamond Castle could, in fact, be a nice lesbian love story. Begcause whenever we talk in code around the children we totally regress, this has been amusing us greatly.

Try to keep that in mind if you’re ever forced to watch the movie.Because it TOTALLY works.

And if you want a real lesbian love story, watch the movie Go Fish.

I’ve hardly ever had a job that didn’t involve kids. Babysitter, nanny, teacher, tutor. . .MOM. I like kids. I do.

But, um, I don’t really like playing with them.

I love watching them play while I also watch TV or check my email. I love teaching them new things. I love reading to them. I love cuddle time. I’ll play active games, or sing songs willingly. I like going to the park and story time and other outings.

But playing princess dolls and trains? Not so much.

I feel like I just came out or admitted an addiction. “Hi, my name is Jerseygirl and I don’t like playing.”

“Hi Jerseygirl!”

It’s not so much that I DISlike playing with my kids. It’s that I get bored. I’m the kind of person who likes to read and watch TV at the same time. I like to check my email when I’m on the phone. I also like to read and/or watch TV and/or check Facebook while I play princess dolls. Because making the appropriate responses during Ironflower’s stories? Not so interesting. While she’s very creative artistically and when she’s telling a story, the princesses tend to do the same thing. Over and over. And over and over again.

Once Hot Guy asked me who had taught Lovebug to crash his trains and cars. Because we don’t let him see violent stuff and because this was before he’d started preschool, Hot Guy wondered how his little boy had learned to stage crashes.

I hated telling him that I had taught our innocent little boy to crash things because I got bored pushing them around and around. Strangely enough, Lovebug no longer wants me to play trains with him. It’s almost like he doesn’t trust me with all of his expensive Thomas toys.

Sometimes I imagine Ironflower on the therapist’s couch lamenting, “And every time my mom played with me, she had to watch Ugly Betty or Top Chef too. Now I think I’m boring and that’s why I have 87 piercings.” But then I think about how much therapy she’ll need if I starting banging my head against a wall while we’re playing, so I’m reasonably sure that I’m doing the lesser of the two evils.

What do you think?

Oh no, it’s not enough that I had to be in the hospital, have another surgery and spend hours of my life cleaning out a huge wound. It’s not even enough that the stitches my doctor kindly put in yesterday to speed the healing hurt like a motherfucker. Nope.

I’ve apparently warped my daughter into the bargain.

Today at lunch Ironflower mentioned that she would never get married. Not that I’m in any rush for four year old to elope, but I was a little concerned that she was writing the whole process off at such a young age. I asked her why. She told me that it hurts. I was confused, until Hot Guy was able to explain.

She’s told him that she doesn’t want to have babies and “hurt like Mommy.”

I feel like such an asshole. A whiny, cranky, horrible asshole. Clearly I’ve complained too much. I’ve warped my kid. She’s going to wind up in therapy and it really will be all my fault.

How do I fix this?

And I really have to fix this, because Ironflower has enough issues on her own. Last night she was very curious about whether you go to the bathroom after you die.

Yesterday we had dinner at my parents’ house. This in itself is a regular occurrence as my mother is a fabulous cook, plus we like having outside confirmation that our children are brilliant little hellions. Anyway, one thing about eating at my parents’ house is that you are guaranteed to get a salad and a green vegetable (unlike when you eat at our house half the time, but that’s another blog). Usually I consider this a bonus, even though my children refuse to eat either. But yesterday the veggie was asparagus, which is a definite winner of the “Vegetables I Still Hate” award in my happy little world.

But I always put some on my plate to set a good example for my children. And to shut my parents and husband up. Anyway, usually the asparagus remains on my plate until it is carried out to the kitchen and surreptitiously dumped into the garbage can after dinner. But yesterday, right after I asked for more mashed potatoes, Ironflower piped up with, “But Mommy, your asparagus looks like it’s getting cold!”

Naturally, every eye went to my plate. My plate with it’s three lone stalks of asparagus among the dregs of pork roast and mashed potatoes. It was like being eight years old again, faced with eating the horrible asparagus so that I could leave the table and go play with my Barbies. Realizing that using my 8 year old solutions of whining and/or hiding the asparagus under bread crusts, I ate the asparagus. With a pleasant expression on my face so that my children would see that asparagus is yummy. Just like mashed potatoes.

But you know what? I still don’t think asparagus is yummy. And I think Ironflower could tell.

(This should have been posted yesterday. I suck.)

My big girl, I can’t believe you are four today. I can’t remember life without you – and yet it seems like just yesterday we were waiting anxiously for your first cry (Ironflower got a dose of meds during the c-section because it took SO long for them to get her out, thus her first cry was delayed long enough to terrify us). You are such an amazing kid. It seems as though you’ve been making up for that delayed first cry ever since, with your precocious talking abilities.

I love that you can talk to anyone about anything. . .without stopping. I am so proud of how hard you are trying in dance class, even though it hasn’t come easily for you. And you are such an amazing big sister, often willing to share and always willing to hug. Your memory always astounds me, as does your imagination.

Right now you love princesses so much that I’ve even purchased Barbie products for you, something I never thought I’d do. Though I confess that it’s probably my fault you also love make-up these days. What makes you especially cool though is that you also love dinosaurs and your knowledge of them is already encyclopedic. And your favorite TV show is 64 Zoo Lane, about a little girl and her animal friends. You recently saw Into the Woods – and impressed all those seated around you with your ability to pay attention – and I think as of right now that is your favorite musical.

You have handled the arrival of a new baby brother with total aplomb. You love to sing him lullabies and nursery rhymes and you imitate the way I talk to him perfectly.

We love you so much, honey. And we are so proud to be your parents.