Everybody, Meet My Mom!

Dear Mom,

Due to our magical powers and the mysterious technology of The Internet, we have become aware that you have discovered our quaint cyber home. It would have been much more entertaining for you if you'd seen this post or this one first (go on, click the links, you're really going to appreciate them). But more than just ridiculing someone who drives us mutually insane, we've spent most of our time here talking about the various kids in our lives.

Now that you have tasted from the smorgasbord of the Fringe Feast (did you click all the links?), we hope you'll agree that most entrees are light and sweet, not heavy or bitter. Umm, also? Please do not disown us for referencing you publicly on the internet without your expressed permission. Our only lifeline to sanity remains your excellent babysitting services which allow us to live a life of luxury and go to real life sit-down restaurants to eat in peace Every. Single. Weekend. (Go on, everyone. BOW TO HER!) Just think of the children. Why, just last night as little Quinn was flipping through a photo album, he softly intoned, "Meena" and looked up at me, nostalgic and longing for the days when he couldn't properly pronounce the name Bryce had christened his favorite grandmother with in his two-year-old attempt to say "grandma" during Quinn's infancy (drumroll as we introduce the sacred, up until now secret, grandmotherly title invented on Fringe property): Megama. I looked back at Quinn and smiled: "yes, you used to call megama 'meena', didn't you?" He grinned sheepishly and said, "I want to go to Megama's house." You know you can't resist that, Mom.

She's hip. She's cool. She's Mega. And she's reading this very blog. Welcome to the Fringe, Mom!

Anyone for cocktails?

Which came first?

Happy Happy Joy Joy

All my life, I've been considered more a pessimist than an optimist. Growing up, my mom was constantly lecturing me for worrying about things before there was anything to worry about. She saw me as doomsdayish and negative, an old soul in an awkward kid's body, bringing the happy mood down by several notches with my constant instinct to look for what might go wrong, or what might already BE wrong, with any given situation. I always found it ironic that MY frustration and cynicism toward the world around me caused HER great amounts of worry and frustrated sighs.

I never really agreed with my mom's assessment of me; I always considered myself realistic, not pessimistic. I don't purposely set out to find something negative in a situation, despite my mom's life-long opinion to the contrary. I do, however make a point to arm myself with information and the willingness to act on it if necessary. This could be in the form of verbally communicating some feeling of distrust, dissatisfaction, or worry. It could be in the form of making a choice in my life with which others might disagree. Or, it could be in the form of lots and lots of sarcasm. You just never know. I'm an enigma.

The house I grew up in demanded certain social facades; in a childhood marked mostly by maturity and good behavior, my one tacit rebellion was the refusal to smile in public if I didn't feel like smiling, silently exposing the truth that our family might not be the picture of functionality and bliss everyone assumed. This caused both of my parents much consternation, but I know on some level they understood that they couldn't do much about it. However, this act has had two results: 1.) my family sees me as inherently negative, turning this whole thing into a big self-fulfilling prophecy, and 2.) to this day, one of my biggest pet peeves is when I have a natural, straight face and people see me and say, "Smile!" (Why? If I'm not feeling particularly joyful right that second, or laughing at a joke - or someone's misfortune - , what's wrong with a straight face, people? What? What?) So, because I'm not inherently negative, but because I still insist on having an actual REASON to smile when I'm walking down the street, I end up feeling self-conscious anytime I do point out something that is legitimately negative, or frustrating, or depressing. And sometimes when I'm just being sarcastic (but not jovially), people think I'm being serious. (It's that damned dry wit.)

Someone recently found this blog by doing a Google search for "stress and heartache from children," and once again I find myself asking, "should I be concerned about this?" Maybe my mom has been right all these years: I'm just too much of a downer, all I ever talk about are the bad things, the challenges, and as an adult, the things that cause me to look like a colossal parenting failure.

Well, not today. John's busy season is coming soon, and we decided to take advantage of the last weekend we'll all be at home together by doing something that felt more like a fun outing with the kids than our usual harried weekend division of labor wherein we draw straws to determine who takes the louder and more time-bomb-like child to the less stimulating errand location, and vice versa. We've only taken both kids to a movie simultaneously once before, and since I'm determined to end this post on a sappy happy joyful positive note, I won't divulge any details. Suffice it to say that we've allowed enough time to lapse since that experience that neither of our faces twitched when we considered trying it again yesterday. The stars must have been aligned properly, because not only were our schedules completely open, but both kids took a nap and woke up happy. When we asked them if they wanted to go see a movie, their eyes almost popped out of their heads as their intellects tried to grasp the concept of doing something FOR FUN with both of their parents on a weekend that didn't involve a trip to any sort of grocery store. We explained again about the movie rules - how the movie theater management will call the police and have you hauled to jail without your parents if you get out of your seats, how if you yell during the movie, they will rip out your vocal chords and pin them to your shirt to publicly shame you...you know, the basic movie rules all parents tell their kids. They seemed to think they could handle following all the rules, so off we went.

The beauty of being "pessimistic" is that you set out with low expectations; John and I went in with the understanding that at least one of us would be shushing or walking at least one of the kids around after about seven minutes of previews. So, imagine our sheer and utter ecstacy when both kids sat next to us mesmerized for the entire hour and a half of Curious George, laughing at the funny parts, sharing their popcorn, never once attempting to climb over or kick the seats in front of us or turn the theater aisles into racing lanes. Quinn didn't whine. Bryce didn't have to go to the bathroom. Neither of them yelled inappropriately or tested any limits. At one point we thought maybe Quinn had lapsed into a coma with his eyes still open and locked on the screen, so during the scene where George sees all of the helium balloons at the zoo and runs towards them, John turned to Quinn and whispered, "what's he going to do?" Without taking his eyes off the screen or moving his head from the optimal movie-watching, popcorn-eating position, Quinn whispered his guess in reply: "he's going to a birthday party." I'm telling you, that kid is obsessed. Nobody could call HIM a pessimist.

Look at that! No woe-is-me theme, no chaotic scenarios to relive and deconstruct. No exasperation, anger, guilt, or frustrations bogging down my thoughts. See? I'm perfectly capable of expounding on the good experiences, looking for positives, and simply being content with everyday occurrences. What I don't do, and I won't ever do is present a PRETENSE of happiness and contentment where those feelings don't legitimately exist. And what I also don't and won't do is ignore the things that are sad or frustrating or that bring feelings of complexity that can't simply be smiled away - like guilt, regret, and desire. And I hope my kids learn the difference between society's current definition of "pessimism" or "negativity" and an honest, self-assured communication with the world about one's state of mind. I can simultaneously appreciate the good things in my life and work to make the not-so-good things better over time. If, in my process of doing that, some people find these posts by searching for phrases that would traditionally be considered "negative," that seems perfectly logical to me - because people could also theoretically find them by searching for "chuckle over crazy kid's antics" and "successful travel with four-year-old," which seem pretty positive to me.

It's a complex life lesson, and I hope my example does more than just confuse my kids. Oops, there I go, worrying about things outside my immediate control again. Please don't tell my mom.

If you meme yourself, does that make it a mememe?

I am constantly asking Kristen about the dreaded Meme. How is it pronounced? What does the word mean? Is it a verb or a noun? Whenever I bring it up she does her famous one eye roll, sighs as if to say "Not again" and demands to know what the hell my infatuation with a meme is? Since I can't get any answers from her, I went searching and found this on Wikipedia.

....one can roughly define 'meme' as any piece of information transferable from one mind to another. Examples might include thoughts, ideas, theories, practices, habits, songs, dances and moods. Different definitions of meme generally agree, very roughly, that a meme consists of some sort of a self-propagating unit of cultural evolution....(bold added for emphasis)

This leads me to conclude that no matter how much we hope we are not tagged with yet another freaking meme, how we hope to avoid them at all costs, they are not going away. And not only are they here to stay, but as a direct result of memes we are in the midst of a cultural evolution. Oh, and meme rhymes wih gene, and actually is a derivative study based on genetics.

Cool.

This is completely unrelated but it sure made my morning. I love stories like this.

Everybody's Gonna Jump For Joy

Quinn's birthday is approaching, and this is the first year he's really been aware of it. In fact, he started talking about it in August, when we celebrated Bryce's birthday. Then he asked about it in November (Hannah), December (Dylan, John, and one of his cousins), and at Christmas. Any celebration with food and presents causes his little question-mark talking to start up: "It's my birthday? They're coming?" I decided he needed some frame of reference. His birthday is exactly three weeks after mine, so I finally told him at the end of January that first it was MY turn for a birthday, and then, after all the suspensful build-up and cruel months of waiting, it would be HIS BIRTHDAY! And we would have a PARTY! With CAKE! And his cousins would COME OVER! His reply: "It's my birthday? They're coming?" Sigh. Yes, Quinn. It's your birthday. Whatever you say. You know, you've really gotta give the kid credit: he's persistently chipper. Amazingly so.

Last weekend, we celebrated my birthday with our family, and Quinn was really into it: "First it's mom's birthday, then it's MY BIRTHDAY! March 14th! My birthday? They're coming?"

Now that his birthday really IS the next celebratory event, and considering how I've painted him as some sort of screaming, impatient pre-schooler (pay no attention to the fact that my painting of said picture is 100% accurate), I'd like to expound on Quinn's endearing qualities by drawing upon the lyrics from Bob Dylan's Quinn the Eskimo. Quinn the Eskimo, the character from this song, is not our Quinn's namesake, but I do find it interesting how similar their personalities so clearly are. Observe:

Ev'rybody's building the big ships and the boats,

Some are building monuments,

[the way Bryce does, before Quinn gleefully smashes them]

Others, jotting down notes,

[Quinn doesn't need to leave notes when he can simply shriek his demands at us]

Ev'rybody's in despair,

Ev'ry girl and boy

[yes, being around all that non-stop noise will do that to a family]

But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here,

Ev'rybody's gonna jump for joy.

[if by "gets here" we're saying "stops screaming for five minutes", then yes, but it's more like weeping in gratitude than jumping for joy]

Come all without, come all within,

You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn.

I like to do just like the rest,

I like my sugar sweet,

[but not Quinn; he refuses anything sweet, preferring to demand whatever sweet snack his brother is enjoying until you give in, then gagging, spitting out a miniscule bite, and throwing the rest into the nearest trash can]

But guarding fumes and making haste,

It ain't my cup of meat.

[Quinn loves meat, especially chicken nuggets, especially when all we have is fish sticks]

Ev'rybody's 'neath the trees,

Feeding pigeons on a limb

But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here,

All the pigeons gonna run to him.

[Quinn is obsessed with animals, and gingerly places his cheek on pictures of kittens, like he's "petting" them...Also, if given the choice, he would take resting his giant head on my mom's tolerant cat over breathing oxygen]

Come all without, come all within,

You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn.

A cat's meow and a cow's moo,

I can recite 'em all,

Just tell me where it hurts yuh, honey,

And I'll tell you who to call.

[yes, call Quinn, because Quinn will get you medicine and then wait for you to scream and gag; he thinks that's a normal reaction to medicine]

Nobody can get no sleep,

There's someone on ev'ryone's toes

But when Quinn the Eskimo gets here,

Ev'rybody's gonna wanna doze.

[Quinn is a sleep god - give him his fluffy dogs and a paci, and he's out for 12 hours]

Come all without,

come all within,

You'll not see nothing like the mighty Quinn.

[wow, the grammar in the chorus is strikingly similar to Quinn's speech patterns - another amazing coincidence]

Actually, Quinn's 2 1/2 - 3 1/2 behaviors aside, his personality does resemble Quinn the Eskimo's. He is the life of the party, no matter who is around. People of all ages flock to him because he's hilarious, easy-going, happy, and accepting. He's had these traits since he was born, and while the clouds of pre-school rage are throwing some shadows on the rays of contentment with which he would normally, naturally grace us, his underlying love of life remains bright at his core.

So, yes, Quinn, your birthday is right around the corner. There will be cake that you will refuse to eat and we'll all laugh with you about it and find some chips for you to eat while we indulge in your unwanted baked good. You will quietly and carefully chase my mom's cat because you know that's the best way to manipulate him into being pet by you even for one ecstatic second. You will scream for presents and then scream for help and then scream that you want to open them by yourself. We will chuckle over your crazy antics and marvel at your hilarity, even through the screams...maybe because of the screams. And, ("they're coming?") yes...they are most definitely coming.

This is for our Canadian readers.

I know you all think I'm just a big complainer, always exaggerating the current conditions, making those surrounding me out to be big nuisances, full of idiotic logic and baseless paranoia. This time I took pictures. Is THIS weather worth cancelling mock ACT tests and closing down churches for? Tell them, my Canadian friends. Tell them how stupid they are.

Good god, can you drive on all this cold white stuff?! Only sort of?! CLOSE EVERYTHING DOWN! NOW!

Happy Birthday Kristen

If i could bake i would bake this for you:


If i could write songs i would compose this for you:
Song

If i could write poetry i would write this for you:
poem

If i could get you a card.....hey, wait a minute, I can get you a card. Happy Birthday, I'll be right back!

-----------------------------------------------
Edited to add: hmmm...going back and re-reading the sonnet leaves me a little confused. I suggest you read "she" in place of "he". Unless you think I'm gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Please. Make it stop.

Yesterday it snowed. As I've explained before, when it snows in these here parts, everything non-essential shuts down. That means schools, hospitals, churches, grocery stores, and law enforcement are simply unavailable. What's left is cock fighting and casinos, the die-hards.

My mother-in-law called in her trying-to-sound-not-stressed-and-therefore-sounding-like-someone's-fist-is-clenched-around-her-throat voice and said, "Well, dear. I've been on the phone with the committee all morning, and we've decided to carry on with the fashion show. But I'm telling everyone I talk to that if they feel ANY doubt in their deepest soul, then they shouldn't come."

I know what you're thinking. SCORE! You just got a get out of jail free card! No fashion show, no in-law clashing, no fake smile plastered on your face all day long. Alas, I did not take the opportunity that was handed to me on a shiny silver platter. I am S.T.U.P.I.D. I said, "Oh, we're still planning on coming. The roads are fine, it's no big deal."

Despite the fact that my mother-in-law is, in fact one of those people who packs three to six weeks in advance of an approaching trip out of town (Chag, how ever did you know?), when we arrived at the event, it was utter and complete chaos. I had planned on keeping Bryce with me so I could help change into his clothes - and also because I had no idea what to tell him to expect, so out of the courtesy I would want from someone who'd drag ME into something like this, I was going to stick around and keep him informed (because my mother-in-law won't...she will talk to him like he's a puppy - a retarded one). Bryce found his cousins, though, and wanted to play with them in the activity room they'd set aside for the kids, so I left him there and tried to find out when I'd need to help him prep for the show. Hannah was with me, and she was helping in the kids' room, so she agreed to come find me and keep me posted.

When it was time for Bryce to change, I asked him how everything was going. He was having a great time with the other kids and he was still looking forward to being in the show, so I helped him change and went back to my table.

The coordinators of this event had failed to take into account a few minor details. First of all, making kids wait in a quiet hallway with no food, toys, books, games, or even an errant trash can to play with, while a bunch of adults sit around and eat a gourmet lunch is, well, just a pretty crappy thing to do. What did they decide at their committee meetings? "Aw, screw the four- and five-year-olds! We can give 'em a bowl of goldfish in the activity room while we eat heaps and heaps of catered lunch!"



Also? Um, when you get a bunch of bored and hungry kids together, it's not so much a quiet or still situation. I went out to check on Bryce a few times; imagine this multiplied by 12 other kids:






The local news anchor (who was, strangly, wearing a black leather "biker" style miniskirt and metal-studded jacket) announced, "Well, everyone, it seems that the little models are getting. Um. Antsy. Heheh. So we're going to go ahead and start the fashion show!"

Because my mother-in-law does not even remotely "get" Bryce (Candace, you're so right), but because on some level she has some sort of good intentions, she told Bryce's cousin, right in front of Bryce, that they had to "teach Bryce how to be brave" to get on stage. There are so many issues I have with this. First of all, if her idea of bravery is denial and repression of one's feelings about something, she's going to have to bite me pretty hard before she gets that message through to my kid. I've been through a lot in my life; by most standards, I would be considered a pretty "brave" person. But I still don't want to be an actress or a model or any sort of public speaker, because I JUST DON'T LIKE IT. Forcing me to do something I inherently don't want to do is not going to make me any more tolerant of it. Secondly, what if Bryce were uncomfortable even after they "taught" him how not to be? What message does that send him? "Either GET comfortable, or PRETEND to be comfortable to keep everyone around you happy." SCREW THAT MENTALITY, Bryce.

Not to worry. Consistent with his progressively more and more profound understanding and view of the world, Bryce spoke up for himself when he heard his grandmother make her "bravery" comment to his cousin, as if he weren't standing right there. He cut her off with gumption and indignantly declared, "I AM BRAVE! You don't have to teach me!" God, I wish I'd been there to shriek "YEAH!" and give him a high five. I had to hear this through John (his mom told him - she was smart enough - but not very BRAVE - not to tell me that story). Here he is with his grandmother in her non-grandmother-like bohemian outfit:


After the models went on the stage, they were supposed to walk through the dining room once and then go back to the hallway, escorted by their grandmother or whatever adult they were modeling with, of course. My mother-in-law just walked off and started socializing with all of her pals, undoubtedly admiring all of these horrifying teddy bear centerpieces on each table (I had to take pictures from one spot, so the shots aren't that great, but the point here is, can we get any more RANDOM? And let me ask, since no one else did. Why were the children forced to entertain themselves WITH THEIR FEET while these sat uselessly in front of our plates?)




Anyway, who knows where my mother-in-law wandered off to, but Bryce and my nephew were just blindly walking around the dining room, with no clue where to go. Look at them, they're even running into each other, and looking at other kids, like, "what the hell are we supposed to be doing here?"


I gave up on their grandmother and just walked them back to their dim, foodless hallway. Suddenly, my mother-in-law ran up to me like she'd been scouring the building looking for all of us. I was holding Bryce's hand, getting ready to take him into the room to get his regular clothes back on. What happened next has been permanently etched like some sort of bloody, puss-filled, infected tattoo on my brain. She had already told me once earlier to "go sit down" because "she could take care of it" like I was some sort of unrelated babysitter over-stepping my bounds, so I was admittedly not entirely happy with the woman by this time. I just wanted to get my kid back into his warm clothes and let him go back to the room where he could have a snack and play with his younger cousin, like I'd told him he could, like he was expecting to. As she approached us, with a big, forced smile, she said again, with no smile in her voice, "Go sit down, I've got this." (I suppose she was defensive since I'm sure she realized SHE was the one who had left the kids to wander cluelessly, otherwise I never would have been back in that hallway in the first place.) But, her condescending and completely inappropriate tone were not enough. She needed something else to really get her frigging point across to me. So she reached out and grabbed my wrist, the one connected to the hand that was holding Bryce's, PULLED IT AWAY FROM BRYCE, clenched his now empty hand in her gnarled wicked witch fist, and walked away WITHOUT EVEN LOOKING AT ME.

What I've envisioned doing to those fluffy overdressed bears since that time is only a fraction of the loathing I feel for that entire two-second experience. But that mounting volcano of fury is equalled by the pride and amazement I feel towards my son, who not only put up with ridiculous conditions, but did so with flexibility, contentment, and a healthy self-preservation that even my power-hungry, occasionally psychotic mother-in-law couldn't crack.

As we were leaving, my mother-in-law thanked Bryce for coming to the show to "help people with special needs." He shrunk away from her and into my leg (who could blame the kid - he was probably wondering when her claws were going to rip him away from me without warning again), but didn't break eye contact and said, "you're welcome." After we got home and I fed the boy some lunch (since all he'd had at the show was goldfish; I'd asked my mother-in-law for a piece of cake for him and she'd informed me coldly that "there was food for the children in the back room"), I asked if he knew what she'd meant when she thanked him for helping people with special needs. He said no, so I explained the idea of the charity and told him people had paid money to see the fashion show, and the money they paid was going to help people who couldn't do certain things for themselves. He listened intently and then glided his car around the surface of the coffee table, like he was thinking. I said, "Do you understand about people with special needs and how the show was supposed to help them?" He kept rolling his car around, looking pensive: "Yeah. I'm glad I did make some more money for them, then."

And ultimately, I guess that was the whole point. But, next year? Next year I'm going to be out of town. Bryce and I deserve a vacation.

Odds and Ends

Our Baby Is Systematically Destroying Our Sanity
This morning, Quinn woke up at 5:00 a.m., and when John told him it was still time to sleep, gave him his pacifier, and turned his sleepy music on, he WAILED and screamed and cried until I stormed in to get him so he wouldn't wake Bryce up. What the hell is he trying to do to us? I'm pretty sure this falls under cruel and unusual punishment, especially when combined with the gibbon abuse and the Super Cuts massacre. I know it's only an hour of sleep I missed out on, but it felt like so much more. I actually left my office this afternoon to hide in a closed bathroom stall just so I could fully slump and rest my head on my knees while sitting on the toilet. Now that's desperation.

The Fashion Show Must Go On
This morning, as I drove to work in a numb stupor, wishing I had stopped for a cappucino on the way, wondering how the hell I was going to survive the day without taking a cat nap at my desk (little did I know it would be by taking a cat nap on the toilet), my mom called: "Hey, I just wanted you to know that your mother-in-law called me last night to ask me AGAIN if I would be a model at the fashion show on Saturday." Someone, please. Put her out of her misery. My mom held her ground and said "NO! I don't want to be in your stupid fashion show! I told you no twice, then I paid money to be polite and attend this weird event with my victimized daughter and grandson, and you're lucky I'm even doing that. Now don't ask again, you passive aggressive psycho!" Well, okay. She didn't say that exactly. But it's what she was thinking, believe me. What I was thinking as she told me all this was, "if there is any good left in this world, Bryce will humiliate the hell out of this woman on Saturday."

My "Problems" Are Profoundly Unproblematic
I mentioned recently that I've been feeling down, and that's true. I've noticed over the past few years that this time of year finds me on the blue side, and now that I'm aware of that, I can identify it earlier in the season, and I can try to keep myself from sliding down the slippery slope of blueness into the wallowing quagmire of full blown self-pity. This year I'm watching my diet closely, staying in some semblance of an exercise routine, and basically treading emotional water. During my drive home today, I heard an interview with a woman whose mother had been at one of the New Orleans hospitals during Hurricane Katrina; she is part of a lawsuit that is alleging certain critical patients in trapped New Orleans hospitals were euthanized as the rest of the patients awaited rescue from helicopters that at the time seemed non-existent. This woman was told that her mother had been sedated, and armed police officers escorted her away from her mother as she died. She described the last time she saw her mother, and explained that her mother knew she was going to die because of the rescue problem, and asked her daughter to sing to her one last time. Surrounded by the police, doctors, and hospital staff, she did, while her mother cried, then went to the stifling, sewage-flooded first floor to await boats that also weren't coming. She had heard that DNR patients were being euthanized, and she said "DNR means 'do not resuscitate. It doesn't mean do not rescue, do not help." What a horrible lack of control over her circumstances, to be escorted away from her mother by armed officers AS SHE DIED. If anything will keep you from wallowing in self-pity, it's hearing a story like that. What the hell do I have to be blue about anyway?

Green Eggs and Ham Would Have Been Less Emotional
Tonight Bryce wanted me to read the book by Dr. Seuss that people always quote at various graduations. Between my fatigue, my blue tint, and the after-effects of the euthanized mother story, the damned thing made me cry, what with all the talk of how you start off in life so confident and excited and sure of yourself, and you're king of the world! but then you're really low and lonely and confused and clueless, until you find a small crack in the wall and some light breaks through and then look! you're back on top again, everybody loves you, and you love everybody...but then the tides turn again, and now things are even worse than before. It's all a big mess. Chaos and confusion, ups and downs, black and white, constant change and challenge and forever and ever the unknowns will plague you. Right as we got to the part where Dr. Seuss is slogging you a good one, telling you how deep the terrifyingly dark valleys can really go, right when he says that thing about how you won't win any games you play because you're playing against yourself, Bryce stopped me with a gentle hand on the page and posited a half-statement, half-question to me: "But, mom? It's okay. It's okay if we don't win. You know?"

Oh yeah. Thanks, buddy.

John is forcing this out of me.

About a year ago, John's mom, pictured above (John's links were obviously defective - what an unforunate mistake!), innocently asked me if I would participate in a fundraising venture for a very worthy cause. This cause, which shall remain nameless, benefits developmentally disabled adults like John's sister by providing them with safe places to live in communities where they will be welcomed and assisted with things like transportation and personal finances. I have hesitated to write about it because I fear that any criticism I may direct towards the passive-aggressive behaviors of certain family members may unfairly and incorrectly belittle the actually human amount of respect I do have for the fundraiser and its purpose. So, two disclaimers:

1.) Anything stated about an individual's clearly annoying and pushy behavior should not be taken as a slam against the good deeds this individual also happens to perform.

2.) Um, actually? If I can't get my message across that this has nothing to do with the fundraiser itself, then I have more to worry about than offending readers, because apparently I need to stop posting anything at all until after I take a communication class.

On with the story...

This will require another update later in the week, because the actual fundraiser, which, as John mentioned, is a fashion show, does not occur until Saturday. As my mother-in-law (see above photo) informed me two weeks ago when she tracked me down at my sister-in-law's house to inquire for the 68th time about when John's photography donation would be ready (because there were only two weeks left and she lives a whole three miles from our house and with our busy schedules when were we going to be able to get it to her, answer her already, answer her!), planning this event has been "like planning a wedding - with a lot of long term things to do and then a mad dash for the last month leading up to the big day." Who is the bride, the center of attention, the one we all have to walk on eggshells around so she won't bite our heads off on THE BIG DAY in this instance -- the recipients of the fundraising proceeds? The fundraising participants and donors? The attendees of the fashion show? Nope. Keep guessing. I'm sure you'll figure it out.

When my mother-in-law originally approached me to request that I participate in the fashion show, she asked me to work on the invitation design committee, and also to model some clothes. I tried to be polite about the modeling, but I think my answer was, "not just no, but hell no." So to appease her, I agreed to help with the invitation design - I had the resources at my disposal at work anyway, and I figured I'd have the time, what with all the hours I spent twiddling my thumbs at my then-job. A few months went by, and she asked me AGAIN if I would model and design the invitations. Again, I said, "only if you pay me a trillion dollars" to the modeling part, and "sure" to the design part - wondering why we were having this conversation for a second time. A few days later, she called MY MOM and asked her to model, too. My mom said a polite version of "I don't think so, woman!" but agreed to attend the fashion show with me. Weeks after that, I still hadn't heard any specifics about any "design committee meetings" but I got another call about the fashion show: "can Bryce participate in the part where all the kids go up and listen to story?"

HUH? I thought this was a fashion show. What the hell is going on with a story time segment? I. AM. CONFUSED. She said the "theme" of the show was grandmothers and grandkids, so they were having one of the modeling grandmothers do a "bedtime story" with the modeling kids. She assured me Bryce wouldn't have to model, but they wanted lots of kids to sit in front of the "grandmother." Then she said she "purposely decided not to include me on the design committee" since I was "so very busy and had such a full life already"... uh, okay then. I think I just got rejected from something I didn't even want to do! How did she DO THAT? She's talented, though, because then I agreed to let Bryce sit with his cousins during the story time, even though I knew he would be completely bored during the remainder of the non-kid-friendly event.

A few more months went by, then I got the previously mentioned wedding comparison phone call at my sister-in-law's house during which she proceeded to force me to promise to crucify John if he did not commit to a certain date and time that he would deliver the auction donation he had promised her repeatedly for the previous six months. A few more days, then another phone call, a cheery voice on the line: "Hi, we need another kid model! Could Bryce do it? Don't you think he'd just LOVE it?" I was starting to lose my ability to be polite about this thing. It was all feeling pretty passive aggressive and all about her image and not about the disabled people anymore. Plus, she called me on a Sunday night, so I was coming off a weekend with the kids and hadn't yet numbed my senses with enough wine. NOT the best time to call me and sound phony when asking for a favor. I did something I have never done with her before: sat in silence, not affirming whatever it was she just said. Normally I can't stand the silence with her. It tends to fill with judgment and tension and unspoken discomfort and dislike for admittedly shared personality traits - normally I have the energy to fill the silence and keep things comfortable for both of us. But not that day. I thought long and hard about my response, and my tone: "Fun? For Bryce? Walking into a room filled with strangers all staring at him, wearing clothes with (god forbid) TAGS on them, in a situation he hasn't previously dictated and/or approved? No. Not fun. Maybe for other kids, but...no. Not for Bryce. Fun wouldn't be the word I'd use."

"Well, he'd be with ME, and his cousins; it's not like he'd be alone. It would be so much FUN! Don't you think?!" (What did she think I'd say at this point? "Oh, now that you put it that way, forget my entire previous comment! DUH, YES. YES! It would be fun!!! That's what I meant.")

More victorious silence from me. Then, "I'll talk to him about it to see if he's interested."

Confused silence from her. I can only assume her inner dialogue was something like "Can not compute. Asking the person you want something from if they WANT to do whatever YOU want them to do?? Warning! Warning! System overload."

Well, I did talk to Bryce, and I tried to explain what a fashion show was, but I'm not sure he understood, because he got really excited about the prospect, first asking what kind of costume he'd get to wear, then telling me that he couldn't wait to get out there and do a big dance for everyone, and he proceeded to jump around like his feet were on fire and he was surrounded by hungry mosquitos.
I started to tell him that he was supposed to walk quietly and calmly, serenly following his cousins and grandmother, and his clothes would probably just be boring old regular clothes, with TAGS, mind you, and not cool costumes with accessories like the ones in this picture, but then I thought better of it.

She likes to play the passive aggressive game, huh? Won't take no for an answer? Well, my singing, spasm-dancing, confused and innocent kid will be the drunk uncle who humiliates everyone by shouting all the family secrets into the reception microphone at her wedding, while she stomps her feet in protest and tells us she hates us all for ruining the day that was supposed to be all about her. Oh wait. It's not about her. It's about the fundraiser. The cause, or something? Some people at some place needing some things? Luckily by the time the attendees arrive, they've already paid. So Bryce's bonus performance shouldn't negatively affect the money raised. But he might make this event a hell of a lot more entertaining for me.

By the way, John gets to stay home with Quinn. I think it's a conspiracy.

Fashion Show Hell

Last night my mom stopped by to pick up my donation to a Fashion Show fundraiser she is coordinating. When I told Kristen my mom was coming by, Kristen said she wasn't in the mood to be social, and was going to stay in the bedroom while she was here.

I keep waiting for Kristen to post about the Fashion Show. Maybe if some of you inquire about it often enough, she'll give us a little bon bon of insight on her thoughts about it. Please, inquire. I dare you.

Just a few clips from our life...

A few weeks ago, Bryce announced that he was going to "chalk a beautiful picture" for me and John. We were told to keep out of his secret chalking lair until the masterpiece was complete. Why he was wearing his red cowboy hat and why in god's name he's posing like this (and why all of Bryce's drawings end up being whatever surface he's using COMPLETELY COVERED IN SCRIBBLES with whatever medium he's using - chalk, paint, crayon, pencil, highlighter, whatever), we will never know. But it cracks us up every time we see it (Brokeback Mountain, anyone?).


I've mentioned Quinn's loathing for haircuts before, but I bet you thought I was exaggerating, didn't you? Well, here's your proof, you doubting Thomases. These photos were taken last week after literally hours of bribing and negotiating and cajoling and promising rooms full of balloons to try to get him to JUST SIT STILL AND BE QUIET FOR THE LOVE OF GOD so the people at Super Cuts wouldn't glare at us quite so hatefully every time we go in there. I thought maybe we'd finally gotten through to him, because he sat patiently and waited for his name to be called. In fact, all four of us (Bryce needed a haircut too) waited patiently while the Super Cuts employees found all manner of things to do besides call the names on the little white slips of paper, the slips of paper which they knew represented the miserable end to their already crappy Sunday shift. After the poor new girl realized her co-workers were WAY BETTER at finding busy work ("Oh wow, Shannon never swept under her station before she left! I better do that RIGHT THIS SECOND! And look! Nobody has double-checked our Paul Mitchell inventory, and I think I see a few missing bottles...off to find my clipboard!"), she gave in and called Quinn's name...but not before one last-ditch effort wherein she looked at us with confusion, then looked at the slips of paper and said, "are you guys here for haircuts?" Hoo boy, that was classic. If I didn't want to keep her on my good side because she was about to be holding scissors right next to my offspring's heads, I would have absolutely lost it in hysterical laughter. And really, the poor girl deserved some extra respect, because look at what she had to deal with when Quinn was in her seat:

(I had to hold his head in place to keep him from thrashing. COME. ON. NOW.)

John quite enjoyed taking these shots. Bryce was in the background singing to Quinn, and I appreciated the effort. Quinn...not so much.

Waxing Philosophical: Two Random Cases

In a successful society, everyone has their niche. Ideally, this niche both fits each individual's needs and wants, AND meets the society's needs and wants from that particular individual. Being in the appropriate niche means being surrounded by other people who affirm that you are in fact inhabiting the niche that fits you and the surrounding society's general expectations of you based on who you are as a person. This is a simplistic and idealistic view, but it's the basic framework from which I operate when I am indignant over things I consider to go against that - things as broad and multi-faceted as the U.S.'s imperialistic warfare on the rest of the civilized and "uncivilized" world, but also things as private and microcosmic as a good friend's marital problems or basic disappointment in someone I once trusted.

The Society of Marriage
Someone John and I are close to has significant and disturbing problems in her relationship with her husband, and it's beyond the realm of "no marriage is perfect". It's unhealthy to the point of dysfunction; his behavior towards her constitutes psychological abuse at the very least. And their kids? They should be in therapy now, but they're not -- and as long as these two stay married, they won't be; he believes their family has an outer image of "normalcy", and maybe even superiority to other families they know (and therefore forbids any activity that would publicly declare otherwise), and she, while aware on some levels that there are problems, pushes most of her awareness under the surface of her day-to-day consciousness to avoid the crushing waves of pain she feels when she faces it in its fullness. John and I were talking about it yesterday and I was railing against the husband, spewing disgust and hatred for who he's become and how he's damaging his kids in the process of systematically destroying his wife's sense of self. John pointed out that because of the nature of the situation, we were only hearing one side of the story, we don't know that she's 100% innocent in all of this, we can't jump to conclusions. This is true. But during a conversation with her last week, she was discussing the possibility of leaving the marriage; they have talked about divorce during fights and during the last one he made a crack about what a huge custody fight there would be - she told him there would be no fight: he could have the kids. She told me this with a straight, numb face. How dead do you have to feel inside to have no more instinct or motivation to keep your own kids with you? This is how much he's beaten her down. Theirs is not a successful society or community: she has no niche -- not as a contributing and fulfilled inhabitant of the home, not as his wife, not even as the mother of her own children. It makes me sick. Yes, he is not 100% at fault - no one ever is - but he is the one who has dictated that the direction of the family will be down the ravine of secret dysfunction, and he has no intention to recognize or change this - his daily life feels JUST FINE to him. Of course, no one is psychologically crushing his identity with every step he takes, either.

The Society of Friends
On a lighter note, a few years ago, an acquaintance of ours invited us to a big "game night" - an annual fundraising event. She presented it as an opportunity to have a night out with friends while raising money for a good cause. We accepted, giddy with the notion of finally being invited to do something with someone other than our moms. We were making friends! How about that?! We went to the event and had a nice time, but I picked up a little vibe from our acquaintance that perhaps she was taking the competition of the game night a little too seriously. "Oh well," we thought, "that's our buddy! She's so quirky and interesting, look at her getting so worked up over winning! Ha ha ha!" The next year, she invited us again, and having forgotten the slight doubt I'd felt at the end of the night the year before, we accepted again: "Look at us! Friends who invited us back to the same event! We're moving up in the world!" This time I picked up even more strangeness from our acquaintance - she was visibly concerned about seating arrangements and team structures. We hardly talked to her that night at all because she was so busily strategizing on how best to win the FUNDRAISING game (...uh, I thought we were here for a good cause and to hang out with friends...?). Still, we were on our "we have friends!" high and we let it go. This year, another invitation was extended to us, and out of habit, we accepted. An e-mail was sent with seating arrangements, and when I received it, I was taken aback. I called John: "What's this? Now we don't even get to sit with people we know?" I e-mailed my acquaintance and half-jokingly told her we didn't know anyone at our table, and without directly saying it, let her know I was curious as to why we wouldn't be sitting at her table - you know, with the PERSON WHO INVITED US. She e-mailed me back with lots of assurances - "oh, don't worry, you'll recognize some of the people at your table, blah blah blah."

When we got there, out of a table of 10 people, there were two who John and I had met - about three years ago. John looked over at the table where our "friend" was sitting and said, "hey, isn't that the guy who knew all the answers last year?? How convenient that he's at her table again." I blew it off, but as the night went on and the acquaintance never even came over to say hello (so much for a friendly social function, huh?), we confirmed it: we were at the Loser Table. I was enraged. I hissed my displeasure to John: "who does she think she is? I guess we didn't give them enough good answers the first two years and since apparently her whole goal in coming here is to win the pathetic game prizes and bask in her year-long glory of fame within the completely unknown community of People Who Attend Fundraising Game Nights, we were banished to the table of people she's just obligated to invite! Screw that! I thought we were coming here to socialize and have a night out with friends, but instead we get stuck at a table full of people who don't even know each other. I'm done with this. I will NOT be coming here next year!" John just laughed and then five minutes later spilled a beer in my lap, which caused my already fuming red face to turn purple, but when I got back to the table after cleaning up, I found a new niche for myself and decided to drink lots of cheap margaritas and talk to the people with whom I had been banished. We all knew we were the Loser Table, thrown together because of our mutual acquaintance's intense need for victory in this stupid, stupid event. We also knew that there was ONE member of the other table who was providing all the correct answers, so we all conspired the best way to have him miss the competition next year, and a pool was started to hire a hit man, but then we decided that was too extreme, and we'd only be stooping to our acquaintance's level, so someone decided that whoever got the flu next year would simply go find this man and cough in his face for an hour a few days before the game night.

Ha. You screw with my societal niche, woman, and I'll go after your precious genius boy. (By the way, she won first place. We tied for fourth place and in a moment of extremely high-pressure memory mining that cemented our not-so-impressive ranking, I remembered the name of Calvin's favorite cereal in the Calvin & Hobbes comic strip - anyone else remember this? And no cheating by pulling out old C & H books - guesses can only come from memory...I'll provide the answer in the comments in a few days.)

His eyes are amazing

I was able to grab a few pictures of Bryce this afternoon while we were playing outside. His eyes are incredibly beautiful.

It's not a toomah!

I'm feeling down, but I'm not sure why. I mean, I have my theories, of course. And since all three of you come here to read about my harebrained theories, I'll expound.

Theory # 1: Money Sucks

This theory is twofold: 1.) I know in my head we're in the best shape financially that we've ever been in. 2.) It's still not "enough". Damn it! Oh, sure - our bills are paid, we're saving some, we're sending our kids to the schools of our choice - these are all things we never would have imagined we'd be doing a few years ago, when I was freshly laid off, pregnant with the second kid, and John's business was in its infancy. Back then, we were happy if the bills got paid every month without dipping into our measly emergency savings. (And I still wonder how we actually managed to survive that time without incurring crushing debt.) But it seems that whatever "new" money is incoming is immediately spoken for without us even having a chance to relish the thought of - I don't know - having extra money? "Oh cool, hon, I booked three extra weddings, bonus! Wha- what did you say? The minivan...broke...down?" "Whoah! Your new job is going to give you a substantial bump in pay! Extra mon-- wha? Gum recession? You need braces now? Didn't you already have those in, like, junior high?" We want to do things like look at new houses closer to Bryce's school, but those houses are out of our price range unless - get this - we stop paying the tuition to send Bryce to his school. Ow. It's so deep it gives me a headache just thinking about it.

Theory #2: Good Stress Is Still Stress

I like my new job and all, but, come on, people! What is with companies who expect you to actually WORK when you show up the first week? Sheesh. All this reading is a little much, don't you think? They need to give me a little transitional time - I've been twiddling my thumbs and reading personal e-mail all day for two years, with about an hour of work thrown in for good measure. What's this "eight hours of actual work per day, five days per week" thing all about? Slave drivers! I'm going to love the new job once I get past all the training time (for which I'm actually very grateful, despite all my sarcasm), but it's still a system-shocking change in routines and an unbelievable amount of material to learn. In theory, I love that I'll be challenged by my job. But somehow that same fact is contributing to my headache. Hmm. Another oddity.

Theory #3: Quinn Is Out to Get Me

About a year ago, maybe a little more, Quinn entered what I thought was a "phase". Other people called it the terrible twos, said it was normal for kids to act this way when they learn they're independent and separate beings from their parents and siblings. During said phase, he began screaming and yelling and throwing and kicking when someone (that means "I") wouldn't give him exactly what he wanted - more milk, some goldfish, a butcher knife. He also began to reject me in favor of John, the parent he spent the most time with. It brought me to tears on more than one occasion to have my own offspring scream and thrash in mid-air as if someone were kidnapping him and holding him for ransom over a volcano pit as John tried to hand him to me when I'd get home from work. So, John and I started a campaign wherein I took over certain aspects of Quinn's day - mainly bedtime and mornings. After a few months, Quinn didn't openly hate the sight of me and things felt pretty normal again. But the screaming and the kicking and the hitting when he didn't get his way - that has never gone away, and in fact it seems to be getting worse. The newest part of his repetoire is waking up EARLIER AND EARLIER every. single. morning. What does he do when he wakes up? What do you think? Loudness yelling, of course! Bryce's room is connected to Quinn's, so the kid's really got us in his clutches, and he knows it: "You don't want to Bryce to wake up, eh? Well, suckers, there's a simple solution here. GET ME OUT OF THIS CRIB. NOW. I'll start the screaming. I will. I'll do it, man!" Makes for some pleasant mornings around our house, let me tell you. There's nothing like two pissed off adults and an overtired pre-schooler glaring at each other, with the pre-schooler throwing out the occasional "NO! Get out!" punctuated by his accusatory glare and his very taut arm pointing at one of us from across the room. Good times. Except for that headache.

Theory #4: Braces Are Evil

It's been three weeks, and despite my orthodontist's sweeping claims, I am NOT used to them yet. I still walk by the mirror and cringe, especially at work. When I am introduced to someone new, I do my typical over-analysis when I note their visible recognition, and then their visible attempt to cover up their recognition, that I have braces. My inner dialogue goes something like "Oh crap, they're going to introduce me to this guy. My mouth is closed, but I'm going to have to smile when I shake his hand and there's no way I can do a closed-mouth smile without looking like a chimpanzee doing tricks, so I better just get ready for it. AND THERE IT IS! The slight blink, the longer focus on my teeth, the quick glance back up to my eyes to pretend he didn't notice. But...but...OOOOH! And he couldn't resist! Yep - you saw it right. I have braces, pal. Don't make any snide comments unless you want me to whip out my go-go gadget mouth weaponry." The other thing about these unnaturally jagged metal appliances on my teeth - and I know this is going to be a shock - THEY HURT THE INSIDE OF MY MOUTH. I have cuts and indentations all over the insides of my cheeks. I thought the pain would have subsided by now, but I find that while I'm engrossed in reading at my desk, I have to hold my jaw in an unnatural position to keep the swollen cuts on the insides of my cheeks from rubbing on those pesky sharp objects that just won't go away. And the holding of my jaw in the unnatural position for hours at a time? It gives me a headache, too.

Add another one to the list

Today I will have to add one more to the list of Places We Can Never Return. After dropping B off at school (which went very well considering I was in the smaller of our two vehicles with no DVD distraction device which increases the chance of malicious and intentional contact between B and Q which usually ignites an all out screamcrywailfest which usually results in white knuckle grip on the steering wheel which we all know adds negative points to the Can I Get to Where I'm Going Safely in Morning Traffic Game), I plan my route so I can zip through the bank drive through lane before heading to the Y (which usually triggers the morning's fifth encore of Q's screamcrywailfest because God forbid he be left in a safe, fun playroom at the YMCA with 6 other children he can romp with for 45 minutes).

I pull in to the drive through lane at the bank, and find myself penless. I notice this bank has a very sophisticated video system in place. A camera is pointed directly at me, and not only can I see the video feed of myself on the monitor but also on a split screen display I can see the teller inside the bank! I push the speaker button to ask for a pen and hear the teller's pleasant voice, "May I help you?"

Now I'm sure bank tellers hear all kinds of strange conversations coming from the vehicles while they process the daily flow of monetary transactions, but I'm quite sure this teller, in fact ANY teller, has never heard what happened next.

The teller's voice asks "May I help you?" and just before I can ask for a pen, Q yells, in his loudest, clearest voice, "My PENIS hurts! It's too hard! It's hard and it HURTS. My penis!!!!"

There is a brief silence, and the teller, wide eyed in shock and surprise, responds "Excuse me?" Having never been in a situation quite like this before, I quickly run through my options: Drive away? Apologize? Explain? Well, I decide the best course of action is to simply ignore it .... pretend it didn't happen. I ask for a pen, it comes, I fill out my deposit slip, receive the receipt back, and leave --- quickly.

The Update on Bryce's Outing

I've been thinking of how best to frame all of this, and there are so many ways I could do it. I could take the intensely alarmist standpoint wherein I wail and gnash my teeth over the fact that Hannah with her maturity problems, together with my sister-in-law's world-renowed ability to make people do things they don't want to do, made up the WORST POSSIBLE COMBINATION of semi-adults to send off with Bryce. Hence, the pop he drank FOR THE FIRST TIME IN HIS LIFE DESPITE HANNAH'S DISTINCT AWARENESS THAT I DON'T GIVE THIS TO HIM AT HOME AND HE'S NOT TO HAVE IT UNTIL I BLOODY WELL SAY SO. Hence, the TWO AND A HALF HOURS they were gone from my house on the unplanned trip to Carl's Jr., which actually turned into more of an unplanned trip to Carl's Jr., the land of sugar-filled caffeinated drinks, and also a big chaosfest at Cold Stone Creamery, you know, just because their stomachs didn't have enough complete crap to digest already. Hence, the stop at two open houses that my sister-in-law wanted to walk through while leaving all five kids and Hannah in the car while she drooled over a house her husband will never "let" her buy even though she's the one who actually provides the paychecks at their house.

Um. I digress. That was the alarmist standpoint. I could also take the drunk standpoint, wherein I say, "oh what the hell? it's just a dr. pepper. he didn't even know what it was and he won't be able to ask for it in the future. i'm probably just being anal about this whole pop thing anyway...normal kids drink pop, why not mine too? He's not THAT out of the ordinary. Barkeep! Another round!"

In a slightly less irresponsible twist, I could take the newly laid back standpoint wherein I and say, "who was that woman freaking out about a Carl's Jr. trip anyway? It's FUN! What kid wouldn't enjoy that? I need to take some lessons from my sister-in-law. After all, she has THREE kids, and I only have two biologically. She probably knows more than I do."

Or, I could just take the realistic standpoint wherein I stop stalling and admit that Bryce LOVED every second of his time with his cousin. Despite the chaos and the new social situation and the unwarranted caffeinated sugar drink that I would never have approved and the millions of opportunities to feel uncomfortable, he was free to feel it all and enjoy things that if he'd had me there to shield him from, maybe he wouldn't have risked. When my sister-in-law brought Hannah home from their three-hour "lunch", I approached the car from my front door not knowing what I huge emotional explosion would await me when I opened that door, but what I found was a kid with a chocolate mustache and a voice hoarse from squealing laughter in the Carl's Jr. play area and eyes and language that said to me with all the intensity I've learned to cherish from this kid, "No, mom! I'm going back to their house like we talked about! Remember!?" My hands itched to get him out of that car, to bring him back inside and give him the third degree about what had happened in this unprecedented amount of time he'd been gone, to provide the comfort I was sure he'd need after such a taxing milestone, to keep him under my wings for just a little bit longer. I stood there at the car door and looked at him with his face full of hope and excitement and absolute fatigue; I faltered in my resolve to protect him from any further chaos. He was fine. He was tired but happy, not confused and overwhelmed and craving familiarity. At least not the way I'd feared he would be. He had managed it. He had handled it. He had done what I'd been teaching him to do.

I sent him off again with my sister-in-law, and told her I'd be there to get him in an hour. When I got there, he was still playing heartily with his cousin. After a while, when it was time to head home, the meltdown I'd been expecting from him hit with the force I'd been expecting from him. He wasn't ready to leave, but I'd known this was coming: transitions are hard for him. My sister-in-law thought it was strange, but again, she doesn't know my kid the way I do (this is why she also thought it was "weird" - and expressed so to Hannah - when Bryce refused to drink white milk and she told Hannah to "just give him the dr. pepper"). I picked him up and took him to the car without comment. On the way home, as he tried his damndest to negotiate terms of future late night playtime with me, I asked him to really listen to me, and I went into a very complex, adult monologue about how we all make choices with our time, and since he'd chosen to spend the afternoon with his cousin, we couldn't stay out late and go to the school's bingo night with them the way he'd really, really wanted to, because it would just be too much for his body to take all in one day. I always do these monologues, but they are typically drowned out by wailing and moaning and screeching about injustice. Not this time. He dried his tears and sniffed, then said, "well, how about next time I take a nap in the afternoon and THEN we can play bingo with them at night?! Would that work?" (The eternal negotiator. At age four. At age three. AT AGE TWO. The kid is unreal.) I said, "that's a great idea, buddy. Maybe we'll try it that way next time."

And you know what? After that, he was JUST. FINE.

This intensity he brings into our world...have I mentioned that it's unpredictable? Have I mentioned that its force sends me reeling back to a place of humility and awe and utter amazement at every turn? Because it is. And it does. And for the record, I know how surrealistically lucky I am to have him, to have this opportunity to watch the universe laugh at me and my theories and effortlessly turn me on my head.

Only here will you find a comparison between a trip to a fast food play area and swimming through scalding poison.

I know it's illogical and paranoid. I know there is only a slight basis in reality for my fears or criticisms of the only individual in authority with my child right now. But I can't help but wonder, as Quinn sleeps off his morning terrorist activities, if I made a mistake sending Bryce with my sister-in-law and her gaggle of kids this afternoon.

They just pulled out of the driveway, immediately after I learned that the plan had changed - as is wont to do anytime my sister-in-law is involved in something - but I'd already given Bryce permission to go, and strapped him into the Fun Times Car. My sister-in-law called me earlier this morning to ask if Bryce could come over and play with his cousins during Quinn's nap. It would be simple: she would bring Hannah home from babysitting, pick Bryce up, and take the kids back to her house; when Quinn woke up, I'd go retrieve Bryce. Sounded harmless. And it would give Bryce something to do besides conceptualize the ten best ways to make Quinn squeal.

But instead of arriving within 30 minutes, two hours passed by before my sister-in-law showed up. And when she did, she had all three of her kids, Hannah, and a friend of her son's with her. I did the math: "Are you going to have enough carseats in your car for Bryce, too?" She looked at me with that deer in the headlights glaze in her eye: "Umm. Oh. Yeah. I'll need another carseat."

Side note: Changing out carseats is one of my biggest pet peeves. I hate it. I always smash one of my fingers or get the seatbelt strap tangled beyond repair and the whole thing takes way more time and energy than I ever intend for it to.

I left to get a carseat out of my car for her, mumbling under my breath the whole way. The car was in the garage with very little room to maneuver anything at all, so after struggling and walking around the car several times, opening BOTH backseat doors, pushing it out with a huge thud onto the garage floor, and dragging the bottom-heavy carseat over to her car, the whole group of kids came running out, fighting to get in. There were NO other carseats in her car. Great. Bryce hopped in and sat in one of the seats, just like his cousin, who is a year younger than him: "I want to sit in a regular seat like them! I don't need a carseat!" My sister-in-law looked at the monstrous load in my hands as I panted and stumbled over to get it into her car: "Isn't Bryce too big for that kind of seat anyway? Doesn't he weigh too much?" I told her the kid was 32 pounds, and he's in the right kind of seat. I was thinking, "maybe YOU should be re-evaluating the seats YOUR kids are in instead of arching your eyebrows at me like that."

After I got the seat in and Bryce was strapped in, his eyes wide with anticipation of the magical playdate that awaited him at his cousins' house, she told me, "oh yeah - I'm taking them to Carl's Jr. for lunch - you know that one with the three story playground area?! See you later!" And off they drove, with Bryce in the background saying, "but I already ate lunch, I don't need to eat!" One adult. FOUR other kids in a loud, chaotic environment. And Bryce, Mr. Routine, Mr. I Need To Know The Plan And Do Not Even Think About Changing It Without Providing Ample Warning, Mr. I Must Gradually Ease Into New Social Situations.

My sister-in-law has always taken a different approach to parenting her kids. I used to think my way was better and more consistent, but now I realize it's just a different way. However, that difference plays a role in the expectations each of our kids has on other people, relationships to their friends and family, acceptable behavior, and their general social conscience. In addition to that fact, Bryce is by nature "quirky" and more sensitive than the "average" kid. With her laid back approach to parenting, making a last minute decision to take five kids aged 6 and under to Carl's Jr. without explaining all the expectations and rules upfront goes under the category of Being A Really Cool Friend-Parent. But for Bryce, and for me, it is filed under Things That Stress Us Out and also Things That Might Unintentionally Cause Meltdowns In Participants Under Age 5 Even Though The Participant Might Think He Is Willing.

I know it's just a trip to a fast food play area, and that for most parents, this is not something to feel stress about for any logical reason. But I know my son, I know the scenarios where he is most at home, where he thrives. I am so neurotic that changing a carseat sends me through the roof and gives me hours worth of frustration to work through. I hate that I passed some version of this onto him, but the fact that I can recognize that and bust my emotional ass to teach him acceptable ways to deal with it, proper times to avoid or ignore it, and appropriate channels through which to focus it should at least partially make up for my genetic downfalls. But I really hate it when I feel I have to justify or explain his quirkiness, and my sister-in-law makes me feel that way every time our families are together. I think it's great that her kids can be spontaneous without having meltdowns (um, and that's not even true, but it's her stance), but my kids aren't - and Bryce in particular isn't - that way at all. Now that he is older, and we've spent a few years discussing appropriate ways to deal with frustration and change in public, I am less worried about him actually "melting down" at the restaurant with those other four kids watching in horror or entertainment. What I am more worried about is that something that would be minor or non-existent to other kids will bother him, hurt his feelings, or cause him some kind of confusion that I would normally help him through, especially in a social situation he's never experienced before (out like a "big kid" with one adult and little supervision). My sister-in-law's philosophy is "The more kids, the better. That way they can entertain each other and I don't have to work as hard." She doesn't catch Bryce's glances of fear or social pain or confusion or over-stimulation. If he experiences something he would normally approach me or John for guidance on, she will never know. And to get to the real issue here, I will never know.

While none of this may be normal or logical, it is my life, it is Bryce's world. I'm worried that he'll have to navigate waters that seem perfectly calm and harmless to everyone around him, but that to him, are choppy, shark-infested, boiling vats of poison. I'm worried that he'll feel alone and abandoned and that I won't know about it or know how to address it with him later without adding to his future sensitivity and making my own paranoia worse.

Somehow I realize this is a sentiment unique to my parenting of Bryce. When Quinn is 4 1/2 and invited to go along on a spontaneous trip to a grease joint play area, my biggest concern will probably be that boys' clumsiness (he is ALWAYS running into walls while he looks over his shoulder at something else...always!), and I remain eternally grateful that my neurosis only passed through the placenta of my firstborn. I don't know if I could survive the stress and heartache of Quinn's every miniscule social milestone the way I have with Bryce.

So. Hopefully Bryce isn't in an emotional vat of poison right now. Hopefully he's having a normal amount of fun with his normal cousins at a normal germ-infested fast food playground area. And hopefully he won't say something heart-breakingly profound to me later that will confirm my fears and suspicions that the spontaneous trip with a busload of other kids to the Land of Social Chaos was too much for him. Because that will just mean I'll be drowning my sorrows in some Ben and Jerry's tonight (and I'm trying to save my calories for the alcohol, people).

Ethics Code, Shmethics Code!

I've been doing lots of interesting reading at my new job -- reading about things that I've taken for granted exist in my life already: morality, legality, ethics, Doing The Right Thing. The company I'm working for is really big on these things, which I find encouraging in my "I'm sure they're totally genuine" stupid innocence. In my particular position, I'm considered to be one of the people who's supposed to ensure that all the other employees are Doing The Right Thing, and if I were a different type of person, I would take this fact and use it to my distinct, powerful advantage in my quest for more effective narcissism. Instead, I find it all very overwhelming and scary: what if I miss something? what if it's all a crock and there are unwritten rules I don't accurately decipher? what if I just get it all wrong?

This dilemma I have with myself and my understanding of black/white, right/wrong was driven home for me, yet again, by my kids tonight (my pre-school aged kids, mind you - why did this company hire me, anyway??). First it was Quinn. For some reason he's become violently opposed to taking baths, and despite a basically pleasant dinner and some fairly peaceful post-dinner romp time with Bryce, he repeatedly yelled and hit me during his bath tonight. Looking forward the glass of wine I knew awaited me once this tyrant was in bed, I managed to keep myself from screaming back at him, but in my eternal quest to be a consistent, logical parent (yeah, right) I had to do something. I mean, the behavior was unacceptable (or, "unasseptible" if I pronounce it the way SuperNanny does). So, what privelege popped into my head while I pushed back the mounting rage I felt bubbling up as my son repeatedly screamed in my face and refused to sit in the bath tub while I rinsed the shampoo out of his hair? Why, reading a bedtime story, of course! That's totally responsible! Why take away TV or play time or junk food when you can take away the ONE EDUCATIONAL ASPECT OF HIS LIFE?

The really pathetic thing is that once I told him he lost his story privelege, he hit me again. And then cried. As I was drying him off and torturing him with the slathering of the torturous lotion that keeps his skin from peeling and itching and leaving little white scrape marks every time his shirt rubs him the wrong way, he said, between screams of objection to the AWFUL AWFUL lotion saving his skin, in his typical question mark speech, "Read a story?" I made that little sound where you suck in while your mouth is downturned and simultaneously make the "ssshhh" sound: "Ssshhheee...Uh. Yeah. Well, see Quinn, here's the thing. Remember all that yelling and hitting in the bathtub? Did you get the memo? We don't...exactly... READ to kids who act that way. Yyyyyeeeeaaahhhhh. I'll get you a copy of that memo, mmmkay?" He looked at me like this made no sense, why would his MOM, of all people, take away reading, don't we like reading anymore? I couldn't give in now, what would that teach him? He looks pitiful and cute and this pesky "consequence" idea goes right out the window!? NO WAY, people. NO. WAY. I said no reading, so there was no reading. Even when he repeatedly brought me the story book I always insist on, rather than the cardboard "baby book" he used to demand ("elbows? cake? ball? star?") way past the age I thought such books were appropriate. NO, Quinn! You yelled at me, so no visible value placed on education for you! Why don't you go watch a Disney movie while I contemplate my stupidity? Mmmkay?

After sticking to my guns about the reading, I told Bryce to wait quietly in his room for me while I put Quinn to bed, and he looked at me with sadness welling up in his four-year-old eyes: "Mom, why?? Why don't you ever put ME to sleep first? *I* want to go to bed first, I'm ready to be in beeeehheeeeeddddd!" Huh. I wasn't able to answer this. I mean, sure, a year ago, my reasoning was that Quinn needed to go to bed earlier, but that is really no longer relevant. In fact, Bryce has been a little under the weather lately; I thought, "maybe my four-year-old has a very legitimate point, here." Well, duh! OBVIOUSLY I should listen to the four-year-old!!! RIGHT??? I mean, let's see, not reading to my pre-schooler as a punishment - I'm on a roll here! "Okay, Bryce. You're right. I'll put you down first tonight. Quinn, wait for me in your room and I'll be right there, okay?" I guess Quinn was terrified of what other "priveleges" I might eliminate (vegetables? sleep? school?), so he cooperated without a peep while I got Bryce's water and covered him with all of his neurotic required blanket layers. Then I scooped Quinn out of the glider in his bedroom and started his nightly songs, but right at that point, Bryce burst through Quinn's bedroom door: "But mom, you weren't supposed to turn on the music yet! Not until you're done with Quinn!" SIGH. Why did I mess with the routine? WHY, WHY, WHY??? Oh yeah. Because. I'm. An. Idiot.

Great resolve. Great judgment. Yeah, this is definitely an individual who should be making ethics decisions for a business handling billions of dollars in a volatile industry, headquartered in a city that would be devastated by its loss. OH MY GOD I'M GOING TO FLATTEN THE ENTIRE CITY WITH MY STUPIDITY AND PATHETIC LACK OF JUDGMENT.

10 Weird Things, Part II

Chag tagged me for a meme where you're supposed to write 10 weird / random things about yourself and 10 weird / random things about your kid, but I've already done the 10 things about myself (which you can see here, because I'm sure you're dying to), so in keeping with Chag's format idea, I'll list five examples of weirdness for each kid.

Bryce
1.) The kid refused to eat any solid food until he was 15 months old. He gagged like we were shoving golf balls down his throat if we tried to sneak half of a mushy diced peach into his usually smooth Stage 3 baby food. He is now four years old, and still has, um, issues.

2.) He's psychic, but so far only when it's related to presents he'll receive in the future. Example: the day before his SECOND birthday, we asked him if we knew what the next day was. He replied, "fire truck!!" We exchanged a confused and slightly terrified glance and then said, "no, Bryce, what is tomorrow, it's a special day" to which he responded, "building blocks!!" He was getting two gifts from us: a fire truck and some building blocks, which we had chosen at random and had not been talking about; it wasn't like he'd been obsessed with asking for a fire truck or building blocks. He's had similar premonitions before other events. I suppose it's possible he was sneaking out of his crib and snooping through our closet while we slept soundly, but it seemed odd at the time.

3.) Along with his frighteningly advanced vocabulary, he had an early and freakish sense of direction. He could point out the building John worked in from any spot in the city, and even if he couldn't see it, he would point in the RIGHT DIRECTION. We tested him. He never failed.

4.) He was VERY serious as an infant and early toddler, but you'd never know it now, when he spends all of his time coming up with new and improved laugh tracks for his intelligent jokes - jokes like, "Have you ever seen an elephant with a diaper on its back?! Ahahahahaha!!! That is FUNNY!"

5.) He role plays ALL. THE. TIME. It never ends. The characters change, but they range from a cat to a dinosaur to inanimate objects or disastrous events like avalanches or fires. He's intense, that one.


Quinn
1.) He's always seemed younger than he really is, or younger than we think he should seem. He was late on all of the physical milestones like rolling over, sitting up, talking, crawling, and walking. But he smiled and was flexible and happy, content to be carried around on countless errands at a very early age (like by the time we brought him home from the hospital).

2.) Because of his late bloomer status, we got a little concerned by his 18-month checkup, and our pediatrician wanted to be on the safe side, so we scheduled an appointment with the state program that monitors children with developmental delays, and gets help for them if it's determined that they need it. It took two months to schedule the appointment, and by the time the three different speech, physical, and occupational therapists came to our house with their huge tupperware boxes full of puzzles and books and tests, Quinn had started talking up a storm and had mastered stairs, walking backwards, completing shape puzzles, identifying animal sounds...you know, all the things the nice, busy therapists were there to test him on in order to find out where he was behind. And what were the results? He wasn't behind, oh no. In fact, his scores came out slightly ahead in the areas of gross motor skills and speech articulation...the two areas we had been most concerned about. Those therapists probably thought we were really pushy parents, wondering why our 18-month-old wasn't in the olympics and composing symphonies yet. I swear, he was remarkably behind when we initially set up that appointment. Even our pediatrician thought so!

3.) He shrieks like he's being tortured when he gets his hair cut. He says it hurts. They don't even use the clippers on him so they can avoid touching his head - they use scissors. On his HAIR. At the very TIPS of his hair. He screams, he cries, huge crocodile tears streaming down his face. "It hurts!!" Yeah, bud - it hurts. It hurts BOTH of us, believe me.

4.) He has never liked anything sweet. As a baby, he wouldn't eat any of the jarred fruit - we tried it all - applesauce, applesauce with bananas, peaches, pears, even the chicken with apples. He gagged the same way Bryce did when we offered chunky food. Quinn was fine with texture, but absolutely refused anything sweet. He still eats no fruit (no exaggeration - he has never had an apple, banana, orange, strawberry, mango, kiwi...okay, you get it) and doesn't even like pudding, ice cream, cookies, or cake. He snacks on goldfish and popcorn and drinks only milk or water. Luckily he is a fan of several vegetables, so he's not completely malnourished yet.

5.) He's completely dependent on his pacifier when he sleeps. Bryce never took a pacifier, so this was a whole new experience for us. And, seeing as how he turns 3 next month, I'm thinking maybe we let this go on for too long. We've chosen the "denial" path here because we've already lost most of our hearing between these two, and I'm not sure going completely deaf from the screams of objection and protest is really the most beneficial thing for me at this stage in my life.