I walked down the candy aisle of a neighborhood store last week and saw, to my dismay, that all the chocolate crème eggs were gone.
"No...no..." I uttered woefully as my four children watched me shove boxes around in the 75% off Easter candy, frantic for my fix.
They must be buried. Yes, surely, so I looked behind every chocolate bunny and cross, every box of egg-shaped confections. But they were gone.
Gone.
How was I supposed to battle my dejection, for what now could feed my chocolate addiction with so little inconvenience and such yumminess? Darn it! I should have bought more boxes when they were a mere 50% off.
Never mind that for the last month, while stuffing myself with boxes of chocolate eggs and English tea every Sunday, I had been feeling sluggish. My fatigue had gotten so bad that at first I wondered if there was an underlying health issue that was going to call my card any day. Then it occurred to me that I might possibly - just possibly - be suffering from a dangerous cocktail of chocolate-crème/high-fructose-corn-syrup poisoning. And, not for the first time in my life, I daydreamed about what life could be like without chocolate and sugar.
I might be truly healthy inside, as energetic as a two-year-old, own fewer wrinkles, and have substantially smaller grocery bills if I could just learn to give up the sweets.
This led me to consider other things I hold dear. Being the broadminded, expert daydreamer I am, I pondered an array of plagues on my freedom. I wondered what life could be like if I could renounce every other silly little addiction that keeps me grasping at trifles as if my life depended on them.
For instance, what might happen if could I give up the TV series Lost? A recent addiction, it already grips me in such a way that I try to hurry my kids to bed as soon as I can many nights. And it is really a double whammy, because I cannot resist the chance to finally sit and veg in the evenings, and I cannot bear to ignore the siren call of a good mystery, every episode of Lost being a good mystery!
But if, just if, I could vanquish the urge to find out what happens next, I might be more successful in many things. I might write here more often. I might improve my mind by studying constellations, learning all their names. I might play more games with my kids on Saturday afternoons.
And what if I could give up all mysteries - detective novels, crime shows? Maybe then I could stop assuming that every car that remains behind me too long on my route home is following me and stop thinking of new, crafty ways to lose the hounds.
Yet...what if, instead of giving up completely that which brings me pleasure, I really practiced moderation in all things? - ate only one chocolate crème egg at Eastertime, only watched an episode of Lost a week, only ate sweets - and just one slice or one square - on special occasions? What if I only desired those things that could improve my well-being and bring more happiness to my family? What would life look like then?
Well, then I might be free, free to be the hardworking, healthy, successful, unselfish, wife/mother/writer I was always meant to be.
A moderate...democratic...in all things.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Monday, May 5, 2014
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
A Batman Bed in Heaven, No Violence on TV
My littlest daughter said something very interesting to her tired big sister this morning:
"In heaven you can sleep and sleep and sleep without anyone making any loud noises."
And I thought, Yes! A mother's paradise. Sweeeet! And then I began to plan how long I would slumber before I explore my new, exciting and peaceful home (if I make it; still debatable). But my daughter wasn't done.
"And I'm going to have a Batman bed in heaven. Batman bed, Batman covers, Batman sheets...and I'm going to watch all the Batman shows!"
Aha! And it comes down to this yet again. My big five-year-old who can ride a bike with no training wheels, scale the monkey bars with no support and is soon to embark on her public school journey badly wants to watch superhero shows or movies. Blue and black are her new favorite colors because of her love and admiration for Batman. She dreams about Batman and relates their adventures to the rest of us in the morning. She tells strangers how cool and qualified as superhero Batman is, but her mama won't let her watch Batman - not even the cartoons. And the movies? There is no way in heaven or hell that I will allow my little girl to watch media "entertainment" with so much violence, so many absolutely bizarre and twisted characters. I haven't even subjected myself to the last few; each new one seems to want to outdo the last in graphic violence.
My little girl doesn't understand. I've told her that the movies aren't made for children. I did not tell her that they would give her nightmares and, if she continued to be exposed to such material, would desensitize her to real life tragedy and horror. I did not show her the handout for parents of toddlers and preschoolers from the pediatrician's office that said:
Children should not be allowed to watch shows with violence or sexual behaviors.
I take that to mean cartoons, too. She'll watch the movies someday, perhaps...when she's 18? While she's in grade school, she'll watch what her big brother and sister get to watch after school: PBS. If she wants a superhero, she will learn to appreciate the likes of Word Girl or even the Kratts Brothers of Wild Kratts.
I've heard many people say that children get from things - television, books - what children can understand, but I positively believe that what children see and hear alters their understanding of life, healthy relationships, respect for others, the possibility of peace. To better grasp how the content our kids watch affects their view on life, here's an easy-to-interpret, wonderful and thought-provoking graphic from EducationNews.Org:
Please Include Attribution to EducationNews.org With This Graphic
"In heaven you can sleep and sleep and sleep without anyone making any loud noises."
And I thought, Yes! A mother's paradise. Sweeeet! And then I began to plan how long I would slumber before I explore my new, exciting and peaceful home (if I make it; still debatable). But my daughter wasn't done.
"And I'm going to have a Batman bed in heaven. Batman bed, Batman covers, Batman sheets...and I'm going to watch all the Batman shows!"
Aha! And it comes down to this yet again. My big five-year-old who can ride a bike with no training wheels, scale the monkey bars with no support and is soon to embark on her public school journey badly wants to watch superhero shows or movies. Blue and black are her new favorite colors because of her love and admiration for Batman. She dreams about Batman and relates their adventures to the rest of us in the morning. She tells strangers how cool and qualified as superhero Batman is, but her mama won't let her watch Batman - not even the cartoons. And the movies? There is no way in heaven or hell that I will allow my little girl to watch media "entertainment" with so much violence, so many absolutely bizarre and twisted characters. I haven't even subjected myself to the last few; each new one seems to want to outdo the last in graphic violence.
My little girl doesn't understand. I've told her that the movies aren't made for children. I did not tell her that they would give her nightmares and, if she continued to be exposed to such material, would desensitize her to real life tragedy and horror. I did not show her the handout for parents of toddlers and preschoolers from the pediatrician's office that said:
Children should not be allowed to watch shows with violence or sexual behaviors.
I take that to mean cartoons, too. She'll watch the movies someday, perhaps...when she's 18? While she's in grade school, she'll watch what her big brother and sister get to watch after school: PBS. If she wants a superhero, she will learn to appreciate the likes of Word Girl or even the Kratts Brothers of Wild Kratts.
I've heard many people say that children get from things - television, books - what children can understand, but I positively believe that what children see and hear alters their understanding of life, healthy relationships, respect for others, the possibility of peace. To better grasp how the content our kids watch affects their view on life, here's an easy-to-interpret, wonderful and thought-provoking graphic from EducationNews.Org:
Please Include Attribution to EducationNews.org With This Graphic
Sunday, May 12, 2013
My Mom has two feet that are the same size
Today I'm proud to again be published at humorwriters.org . My post in honor of Mother's Day, Stroller Pains, can be found on their site by clicking HERE. Thanks, Teri!
Every year little munchkins at preschool answer simple questions about their mothers, and the teachers put it in a paragraph form and bind it prettily in a book. I always say these pamphlets read like cute little indictments. Read aloud to the whole congregation of moms at Mother's Day Tea, you're supposed to guess which one was written by your child. This year I knew from line one.
My precious Ella's book began thus:
My Mom is 10,ooo years old. She is big tall and she weighs 10 quarters.
Yes, I'm an old soul, probably on my 120th reincarnation. I've already used up a few lives this existence by nursing four kids on demand all night long for YEARS - probably look like I've used up this last reincarnation, too. What I want to know is, should I be shopping at the Big and Tall store? And do I weigh the same as 10 coins or 10 American Quarter horses?
She has brown eyes and brown hair (naturally). Her favorite food is healthy food. Her favorite drink is juice and water. My favorite thing she makes is spaghetti.
My mom likes to keep the house clean and I like to help her clean dishes.
What she no doubt meant was that I like to preach about healthy food while eating chocolate with pretty much every meal and that I like to dream about clean houses. She likes to play in the soapy water while I clean dishes.
When she is with my dad they like to take a nap together and they like to kiss.
That was a bit awkward, read aloud and all, but probably more awkward was my loud exclamation of, "Oh, no!" In giving myself away, what could I do but turn to the assembly and cry with conviction, "Well, who doesn't?"
When the laughter subsided, the book concluded thus:
My mom is prettiest when she wears her red dress with sparkly stars. My favorite thing she wears is her green and blue skirt. I think she is special because I love her. I love her too much! I would tell God that I love her.
I do have a red summer dress with sparkly stars, but I don't have a green and blue skirt and never have had. I would tell God thank you for my Ella and ask him to please help her and big brother Berto to get along.
That big bro Berto also authored a preschooler's book about Mom six years ago. At the time he and mama were going through a big disconnect. He hated preschool and was battling anxiety. I was pregnant with Ella and battling morning sickness. His book was more reserved, more accurate and full of searing honesty. It began thus:
My mom is 27 years old (I was exactly). She is 2 feet tall (not exactly). I think if she got measured at school, she would be up to that rainbow on the Noah's Ark measuring thing. She has 2 feet that are the same size. When she wears different clothes, she looks different. Her hair is brown and her eyes are brown (naturally).
Whew! Thank goodness I have two feet the same size! Big as they are, at least they're even. As for the different clothes, different mom thing, I may or may not have been with the CIA. I'm not telling.
I think her favorite food is vegetables and fruit, and other stuff that she eats (chocolate, scones, whipping cream...). I like eating carrots, but I just get them from the refrigerator. The favorite thing she makes me is fruit.
This makes me sound as if I had the poor boy scrounging for himself. Mama, can I have something to eat? Berto would ask. I routinely replied, Are there not carrots in the refrigerator? And then I "made" him fruit by washing it.
My mom likes to snuggle with me. I like to play Candy Land with her. Mom and Dad like to bake stuff in pans together. Momma laughs a little, but not a lot. I laugh a lot. She is funny when she doesn't win at Candy Land. She makes me happy by snuggling with me. I make her happy when I behave.
I played tons of games with Berto when he was a little tike, usually while his little sis Ana was napping. He could beat his papa and me at Sorry! when he was four years old - four years old, people! We always said the Sorry! Leprechauns were on his side; apparently, the Candy Land ones were with him, too.
Berto concluded:
My momma is prettiest when she snuggles with me and her hair is down. I don't have a favorite outfit she wears. Sometimes she is special, but not all the time. I love her A TON. If I talked to God, I'd thank God for her.
The boy has always been obsessed with hair. From the time he was two months old and could get a firm grip on it, he latched on to mine. It became his "lovey".
The part that pierced my heart in this final paragraph was "sometimes she is special, but not all the time." I hoped that it was only because we were going through such a difficult time together, but it broke my heart a little.
Still, he said he loved me A TON, and three years later in first grade, he wrote this:
My mom's name is Hillary. She is special because she loves me so much and I love her so much. I like it when she hugs me. I think she's best at cooking yummy things (no more carrots?) I like to make her smile by being nice to her. My mom is as pretty as !000 patches of flowers. My mom is smart. She even knows how to be the best mom ever! I'd like to tell my mom how awesome and great she is.
Obviously, the boy learned to be more diplomatic.
Ana, my oldest girl, never went to preschool. This is was what my love bug, who wants to follow me around with arms glued about my waist, wrote in first grade:
My mom is special because she loves me. I love her, too. I like it when my mom hugs me! I think she's best at watching the baby (It's hard not to watch a baby who's on the hip or breast nearly every moment. Still, practice makes close to perfect with constant prayer). I like to make her smile by being funny. My mom is as pretty as a tulip (I love that; it was my grandmama's favorite flower). My mom is smart. She even knows what movies I can watch.
As for my three-year-old Danny, he comes to roost softly on my lap every now and then to proclaim, "Mommy, you the best mommy in whole world!" Gabriella tells me that, too, but she squeezes me hard while showing her teeth in order to scare away any bad-mommy inclinations that might remain. All my children raise their hands when I stand over a sink of dishes and call out casually, "Who thinks Mama is the loveliest woman in the whole wide world?" - especially when I've just threatened to take them to the zoo to live with the komodo dragons or spectacled bears.
Now, I would like to answer some questions about my beautiful mother, my Mama Darlin'. Yes, I'm 33 years old and a bit old for this, but I never went to preschool. So here goes:
My mom is Forever Young years old. She is 5'5 and a half. She has topaz eyes and red/brown/black hair. One of her daughters once said to her, "Mama, I don't think I've ever seen you with a bit of gray in your hair!", and she replied, "And you never will, either!" Then she laughed like a school girl. Her favorite food is seafood. Her favorite drink is wine. My favorite thing she has ever made me is blackberry cobbler. Yummy!
My mom likes to go shopping, especially in Paris. When she is with my dad, I don't know and I don't want to know, but I think they like to take naps together and kiss.
My mom laughs easily, and it's like a tinkling bell, inspiring joy. It's part of what makes her forever young. She makes me happy when she laughs, gives me great advice and when I see her with my children. I make her happy when I call or come to visit.
My mom is the prettiest when she wears her business suits with scarfs and beautiful jewelry. My favorite thing she wears is the dramatic jewelry that I love, looking like an Egyptian princess. I think she is special because she is so kind she would defend the devil, and she can be optimistic in almost every circumstance. I love her too much, A TON! I would tell God to please remember that I'm her daughter, so I can't mess up too bad, right?
Every year little munchkins at preschool answer simple questions about their mothers, and the teachers put it in a paragraph form and bind it prettily in a book. I always say these pamphlets read like cute little indictments. Read aloud to the whole congregation of moms at Mother's Day Tea, you're supposed to guess which one was written by your child. This year I knew from line one.
My precious Ella's book began thus:
My Mom is 10,ooo years old. She is big tall and she weighs 10 quarters.
Yes, I'm an old soul, probably on my 120th reincarnation. I've already used up a few lives this existence by nursing four kids on demand all night long for YEARS - probably look like I've used up this last reincarnation, too. What I want to know is, should I be shopping at the Big and Tall store? And do I weigh the same as 10 coins or 10 American Quarter horses?
She has brown eyes and brown hair (naturally). Her favorite food is healthy food. Her favorite drink is juice and water. My favorite thing she makes is spaghetti.
My mom likes to keep the house clean and I like to help her clean dishes.
What she no doubt meant was that I like to preach about healthy food while eating chocolate with pretty much every meal and that I like to dream about clean houses. She likes to play in the soapy water while I clean dishes.
When she is with my dad they like to take a nap together and they like to kiss.
That was a bit awkward, read aloud and all, but probably more awkward was my loud exclamation of, "Oh, no!" In giving myself away, what could I do but turn to the assembly and cry with conviction, "Well, who doesn't?"
When the laughter subsided, the book concluded thus:
My mom is prettiest when she wears her red dress with sparkly stars. My favorite thing she wears is her green and blue skirt. I think she is special because I love her. I love her too much! I would tell God that I love her.
I do have a red summer dress with sparkly stars, but I don't have a green and blue skirt and never have had. I would tell God thank you for my Ella and ask him to please help her and big brother Berto to get along.
That big bro Berto also authored a preschooler's book about Mom six years ago. At the time he and mama were going through a big disconnect. He hated preschool and was battling anxiety. I was pregnant with Ella and battling morning sickness. His book was more reserved, more accurate and full of searing honesty. It began thus:
My mom is 27 years old (I was exactly). She is 2 feet tall (not exactly). I think if she got measured at school, she would be up to that rainbow on the Noah's Ark measuring thing. She has 2 feet that are the same size. When she wears different clothes, she looks different. Her hair is brown and her eyes are brown (naturally).
Whew! Thank goodness I have two feet the same size! Big as they are, at least they're even. As for the different clothes, different mom thing, I may or may not have been with the CIA. I'm not telling.
I think her favorite food is vegetables and fruit, and other stuff that she eats (chocolate, scones, whipping cream...). I like eating carrots, but I just get them from the refrigerator. The favorite thing she makes me is fruit.
This makes me sound as if I had the poor boy scrounging for himself. Mama, can I have something to eat? Berto would ask. I routinely replied, Are there not carrots in the refrigerator? And then I "made" him fruit by washing it.
My mom likes to snuggle with me. I like to play Candy Land with her. Mom and Dad like to bake stuff in pans together. Momma laughs a little, but not a lot. I laugh a lot. She is funny when she doesn't win at Candy Land. She makes me happy by snuggling with me. I make her happy when I behave.
I played tons of games with Berto when he was a little tike, usually while his little sis Ana was napping. He could beat his papa and me at Sorry! when he was four years old - four years old, people! We always said the Sorry! Leprechauns were on his side; apparently, the Candy Land ones were with him, too.
Berto concluded:
My momma is prettiest when she snuggles with me and her hair is down. I don't have a favorite outfit she wears. Sometimes she is special, but not all the time. I love her A TON. If I talked to God, I'd thank God for her.
The boy has always been obsessed with hair. From the time he was two months old and could get a firm grip on it, he latched on to mine. It became his "lovey".
The part that pierced my heart in this final paragraph was "sometimes she is special, but not all the time." I hoped that it was only because we were going through such a difficult time together, but it broke my heart a little.
Still, he said he loved me A TON, and three years later in first grade, he wrote this:
My mom's name is Hillary. She is special because she loves me so much and I love her so much. I like it when she hugs me. I think she's best at cooking yummy things (no more carrots?) I like to make her smile by being nice to her. My mom is as pretty as !000 patches of flowers. My mom is smart. She even knows how to be the best mom ever! I'd like to tell my mom how awesome and great she is.
Obviously, the boy learned to be more diplomatic.
Ana, my oldest girl, never went to preschool. This is was what my love bug, who wants to follow me around with arms glued about my waist, wrote in first grade:
My mom is special because she loves me. I love her, too. I like it when my mom hugs me! I think she's best at watching the baby (It's hard not to watch a baby who's on the hip or breast nearly every moment. Still, practice makes close to perfect with constant prayer). I like to make her smile by being funny. My mom is as pretty as a tulip (I love that; it was my grandmama's favorite flower). My mom is smart. She even knows what movies I can watch.
As for my three-year-old Danny, he comes to roost softly on my lap every now and then to proclaim, "Mommy, you the best mommy in whole world!" Gabriella tells me that, too, but she squeezes me hard while showing her teeth in order to scare away any bad-mommy inclinations that might remain. All my children raise their hands when I stand over a sink of dishes and call out casually, "Who thinks Mama is the loveliest woman in the whole wide world?" - especially when I've just threatened to take them to the zoo to live with the komodo dragons or spectacled bears.
Now, I would like to answer some questions about my beautiful mother, my Mama Darlin'. Yes, I'm 33 years old and a bit old for this, but I never went to preschool. So here goes:
My mom is Forever Young years old. She is 5'5 and a half. She has topaz eyes and red/brown/black hair. One of her daughters once said to her, "Mama, I don't think I've ever seen you with a bit of gray in your hair!", and she replied, "And you never will, either!" Then she laughed like a school girl. Her favorite food is seafood. Her favorite drink is wine. My favorite thing she has ever made me is blackberry cobbler. Yummy!
My mom likes to go shopping, especially in Paris. When she is with my dad, I don't know and I don't want to know, but I think they like to take naps together and kiss.
My mom laughs easily, and it's like a tinkling bell, inspiring joy. It's part of what makes her forever young. She makes me happy when she laughs, gives me great advice and when I see her with my children. I make her happy when I call or come to visit.
My mom is the prettiest when she wears her business suits with scarfs and beautiful jewelry. My favorite thing she wears is the dramatic jewelry that I love, looking like an Egyptian princess. I think she is special because she is so kind she would defend the devil, and she can be optimistic in almost every circumstance. I love her too much, A TON! I would tell God to please remember that I'm her daughter, so I can't mess up too bad, right?
Friday, January 25, 2013
Let's STOP - for all that is Good
I can't look at the violent ads for movies since Newtown. I turn away, and I turn the channel. But I swear they are present during every break. Often I wonder just why such an ad is on screen during a weekend afternoon when children can be exposed to its crude message. (I should ask the same about Super Bowl ads.)
As has been pointed out in a different arena lately, all these stars who stand up for gun control have no problem shooting it up in ultra-violent, "realistic" film scenes for a fat paycheck. Some would say this is not hypocrisy, but it absolutely is.
They are not the primary ones who contribute to our culture of violence, however. Every selfish and/or ignorant parent who takes their five-, eight-, or ten-year-old to a movie meant for adults, because they don't want to pay for a babysitter or make entertainment sacrifices for their kids' well being (Believe me, I have seen tiny kids dragged into PG-13 and R movies) is culpable. Every parent who lets their teenage son play violently graphic, and often pornographic, video games shares blame. And, heck, never mind the teenagers, my 10-year-old son has shared the titles of games his peers are allowed to play, and it is discouraging.
A long time ago a mother reached out on Facebook to ask advice. Her son wanted to buy a rated M game with his own money. Should she let him do it? She had reservations, but he certainly wasn't a little kid anymore.
I liked my sister's response to that question. She replied that her 17-year-old son was not even allowed to play rated M games, that games for teenagers were almost all off limits, too.
People might scoff at that (he's a teenager, for crying out loud), but I think we'd all be better off if our youth were not exposed to simulated battle with weaponry, crime and sex. If 10-year-old's are playing war games or games with morally reprehensible titles and themes, my friends, society has a lasting problem. Kids gain a skewed view of life and its value.
It's harder as kids get older. I get it. I've made mistakes. A huge one was letting my eldest boy read all the Harry Potter books and then watch the movies. My husband just stared at my during one of the movies to communicate, What the hell were you thinking? My fast-forwarding of certain scenes didn't alter my Man's disapproval. And my boy's teacher let us know she thought it was a little early for him to read the whole series. She was right, but, foolishly, I had agreed to let Berto read the first book, and it snowballed. Berto was already a reader like his Aunt Vinca or Uncle Nate, seeming to devour rather than read books, and I made my mistake.
And I worry in the evening when our oldest two have reading time that they can hear the cop/detective shows my husband and I are watching in the other room. "Turn it down a little. Turn it down a little..." I say. Maybe in our small home with our small children, we should give up these shows and their "good guys" with questionable methods for defeating the bad guys.
LET'S STOP.
Let's stop patronizing movies filled with horror and brutality. Let's stop sending our kids off to play video games that corrupt their minds and their view of mankind and sexuality. Let's stop allowing our kids to watch so-called "children's cartoons" that are mindless, vulgar, obnoxious, have bizarre characters and no educational value in basic or social skills. Let's stop watching adult programming with our kids, thinking, oh, it's just a show - a funny show, a good show and start realizing that media can shift their moral compass. Let's stop saying anything goes in the name of ART! and ENTERTAINMENT! Let's boycott this sale of our collective conscience.
Let's talk to our kids more. Eat dinner at the table with no media whatsoever. Take them into nature alot more often. Teach them about God. Teach them how to be social animals face-to-face instead of screen-to-screen. Get back to the promise land of programming like PBS. Let us communicate our family values.
Let's try, for all that is good in the human race, so that when they see evil, crime and horror, our kids can cry; they can feel it deeply and want to combat it with love, light and justice.
Come on. We can do it. It may be damn hard, but I believe in us. I have hope. And so do you.
As has been pointed out in a different arena lately, all these stars who stand up for gun control have no problem shooting it up in ultra-violent, "realistic" film scenes for a fat paycheck. Some would say this is not hypocrisy, but it absolutely is.
They are not the primary ones who contribute to our culture of violence, however. Every selfish and/or ignorant parent who takes their five-, eight-, or ten-year-old to a movie meant for adults, because they don't want to pay for a babysitter or make entertainment sacrifices for their kids' well being (Believe me, I have seen tiny kids dragged into PG-13 and R movies) is culpable. Every parent who lets their teenage son play violently graphic, and often pornographic, video games shares blame. And, heck, never mind the teenagers, my 10-year-old son has shared the titles of games his peers are allowed to play, and it is discouraging.
A long time ago a mother reached out on Facebook to ask advice. Her son wanted to buy a rated M game with his own money. Should she let him do it? She had reservations, but he certainly wasn't a little kid anymore.
I liked my sister's response to that question. She replied that her 17-year-old son was not even allowed to play rated M games, that games for teenagers were almost all off limits, too.
People might scoff at that (he's a teenager, for crying out loud), but I think we'd all be better off if our youth were not exposed to simulated battle with weaponry, crime and sex. If 10-year-old's are playing war games or games with morally reprehensible titles and themes, my friends, society has a lasting problem. Kids gain a skewed view of life and its value.
It's harder as kids get older. I get it. I've made mistakes. A huge one was letting my eldest boy read all the Harry Potter books and then watch the movies. My husband just stared at my during one of the movies to communicate, What the hell were you thinking? My fast-forwarding of certain scenes didn't alter my Man's disapproval. And my boy's teacher let us know she thought it was a little early for him to read the whole series. She was right, but, foolishly, I had agreed to let Berto read the first book, and it snowballed. Berto was already a reader like his Aunt Vinca or Uncle Nate, seeming to devour rather than read books, and I made my mistake.
And I worry in the evening when our oldest two have reading time that they can hear the cop/detective shows my husband and I are watching in the other room. "Turn it down a little. Turn it down a little..." I say. Maybe in our small home with our small children, we should give up these shows and their "good guys" with questionable methods for defeating the bad guys.
LET'S STOP.
Let's stop patronizing movies filled with horror and brutality. Let's stop sending our kids off to play video games that corrupt their minds and their view of mankind and sexuality. Let's stop allowing our kids to watch so-called "children's cartoons" that are mindless, vulgar, obnoxious, have bizarre characters and no educational value in basic or social skills. Let's stop watching adult programming with our kids, thinking, oh, it's just a show - a funny show, a good show and start realizing that media can shift their moral compass. Let's stop saying anything goes in the name of ART! and ENTERTAINMENT! Let's boycott this sale of our collective conscience.
Let's talk to our kids more. Eat dinner at the table with no media whatsoever. Take them into nature alot more often. Teach them about God. Teach them how to be social animals face-to-face instead of screen-to-screen. Get back to the promise land of programming like PBS. Let us communicate our family values.
Let's try, for all that is good in the human race, so that when they see evil, crime and horror, our kids can cry; they can feel it deeply and want to combat it with love, light and justice.
Come on. We can do it. It may be damn hard, but I believe in us. I have hope. And so do you.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Mother Crisis
In October and November of last year, I went through what I facetiously termed a post-accident, mid-thirties crisis. Simplified, it was a crisis of feeling. I felt old. I felt unsuccessful. I felt I was less than I should be - less talented, less important, less nurturing, less educated, less attractive. I had struck out at the ballgame.
In feeling unsuccessful and unimportant, I particularly compared myself to the firefighters and trauma surgeons who treated me for my injuries after our September car accident. These individuals are vital in their communities and invest a great deal of their time and resources in acquiring and aggrandizing valuable skills. Observing their efforts made me ask myself, What am I doing with my life? I certainly wasn't that successful writer that I thought I would already be. I didn't even know how to maintain a blog properly; for far too long, I thought you just wrote.
While on the phone with my dear friend Camille one day last fall, I told her how I felt. Camille reminded me that I am doing a highly important job, though I wasn't likely to get accolades or affirmation from others. She wasn't telling me something eye-opening, but I needed to hear it anyway.
I've been a mother for the last 10+ years. I have four very different children. As a parent you bring the resources and personality that you as an individual possess to the endeavor, variables that you cannot deny. Then, if you are like me, you do your research when facing challenges, reading all that you can and having discussions with fellow parents to find methods that will work for you and each special kid within your family. Two tools are essential, no matter who you are or the environment you came from: love and patience. Loving, competent parenting will always be indispensable to human development.
Still, like every person I've ever known, we mothers want to make our mark. Sometimes, we feel left behind by the ambitious, fast-moving world, even if we were once part of it. Forget aggrandizing our skills, we often feel we are stagnating, lacking broad schemes. We fail to remember in those self-doubting moments that the contributions our children will be equipped to make to a safe, ethical, and productive society through our instruction is the greatest part of our mark on this world.
I've heard and read opinions that being a stay-at-home mom is a waste of one's talent and education...or that it proves you don't have either. What hog wash! As a mother or a father, you utilize all that you possess to teach your children, and from birth to age five are crucial years in their development. No boss or co-worker could promote innovation so well! Your time spent nursing and holding your baby (sometimes all day long), playing and conversing with your toddler, reading and teaching basic skills to your preschooler, and disciplining your child is not wasted. Not one minute.
I recently uttered these sentiments to a couple of friends and fellow mothers who, I was surprised to find, were experiencing a similar crisis to my own of "feeling less than". What I struggled to feel with conviction, I had no problem affirming to others. I've noticed the challenges they faced with aplomb, the time they invested in learning what was best for their kids' development, their amazing reservoir of patience and effective discipline techniques, the hours spent in aiding their kids' schooling, and the profound progress their children made thanks to their parenting efforts.
Of course, I understand their need to feel more than just a mother. Has motherhood erased my ambition to be a writer? No, and it never could. It certainly has given me great material, however, and broadened my understanding of many things - including my imperfect self.
(Parent, know thyself - and teach yourself - then raise your children well, with love.)
Yes, I will never be a trauma surgeon - a good thing for the safety of others, I think. I'm not yet an established writer. I am a woman of many foibles who is striving to be the best parent I can be for my children. No basic job within our human family has a greater capacity to improve the world than that one.
In feeling unsuccessful and unimportant, I particularly compared myself to the firefighters and trauma surgeons who treated me for my injuries after our September car accident. These individuals are vital in their communities and invest a great deal of their time and resources in acquiring and aggrandizing valuable skills. Observing their efforts made me ask myself, What am I doing with my life? I certainly wasn't that successful writer that I thought I would already be. I didn't even know how to maintain a blog properly; for far too long, I thought you just wrote.
While on the phone with my dear friend Camille one day last fall, I told her how I felt. Camille reminded me that I am doing a highly important job, though I wasn't likely to get accolades or affirmation from others. She wasn't telling me something eye-opening, but I needed to hear it anyway.
I've been a mother for the last 10+ years. I have four very different children. As a parent you bring the resources and personality that you as an individual possess to the endeavor, variables that you cannot deny. Then, if you are like me, you do your research when facing challenges, reading all that you can and having discussions with fellow parents to find methods that will work for you and each special kid within your family. Two tools are essential, no matter who you are or the environment you came from: love and patience. Loving, competent parenting will always be indispensable to human development.
Still, like every person I've ever known, we mothers want to make our mark. Sometimes, we feel left behind by the ambitious, fast-moving world, even if we were once part of it. Forget aggrandizing our skills, we often feel we are stagnating, lacking broad schemes. We fail to remember in those self-doubting moments that the contributions our children will be equipped to make to a safe, ethical, and productive society through our instruction is the greatest part of our mark on this world.
I've heard and read opinions that being a stay-at-home mom is a waste of one's talent and education...or that it proves you don't have either. What hog wash! As a mother or a father, you utilize all that you possess to teach your children, and from birth to age five are crucial years in their development. No boss or co-worker could promote innovation so well! Your time spent nursing and holding your baby (sometimes all day long), playing and conversing with your toddler, reading and teaching basic skills to your preschooler, and disciplining your child is not wasted. Not one minute.
I recently uttered these sentiments to a couple of friends and fellow mothers who, I was surprised to find, were experiencing a similar crisis to my own of "feeling less than". What I struggled to feel with conviction, I had no problem affirming to others. I've noticed the challenges they faced with aplomb, the time they invested in learning what was best for their kids' development, their amazing reservoir of patience and effective discipline techniques, the hours spent in aiding their kids' schooling, and the profound progress their children made thanks to their parenting efforts.
Of course, I understand their need to feel more than just a mother. Has motherhood erased my ambition to be a writer? No, and it never could. It certainly has given me great material, however, and broadened my understanding of many things - including my imperfect self.
(Parent, know thyself - and teach yourself - then raise your children well, with love.)
Yes, I will never be a trauma surgeon - a good thing for the safety of others, I think. I'm not yet an established writer. I am a woman of many foibles who is striving to be the best parent I can be for my children. No basic job within our human family has a greater capacity to improve the world than that one.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
#2 short, mostly unedited post
My Danny baby and his Papa were bonding over food again. My baby son was giggling as he threw Cheerios at my husband's mouth, and I set my eldest boy on the scene with the video camera. The thought occurred to me that I get such joy out of that sound I want to have it for dreary days in my old age.
And he's my last baby.
Sometimes I'm very sad to think that. But sometimes I want to cry dramatically with arms flung wide, "Save me! Save me now or give me patience!"
Or maybe I should climb a chair and cry with a passionately shaking fist, "Give me patience or give me a break!"
My husband and my Danny Sam have spent a good deal of time bonding over food. That is owing to me, of course. Not because I make such wonderful food that everyone is thrown into raptures and bounces around the table clapping each other on the back - no - but because I sit with my ribs creaking against the table, my chair as close as I can draw it without snapping said ribs. I do this to prevent children from settling on my lap like wayward pigeons when I'm trying to eat. I learned a while ago that it drives me crazy to be craning around a little person to get at my plate. I cannot be denied that little scrap of peace over my evening meal surely?
So Matthew invites our littlest ones onto his lap, and that is how Danny Sam discovered the comical nature of a fork. He grabbed his papa's and speared it into the plate. The strike of metal on stoneware delighted him. Giggling he thrust the fork like a pitchfork into green beans and spaghetti time and again, not always coming up with food but never failing to giggle joyfully at the sound it made. While he played thus dangerously, and Matthew valiantly tried to prevent him from accidentally hurting himself or his papa, Danny Sam turned his laughing eyes often on his papa's face, looking for that camaraderie over cutlery.
And he's my last baby.
Sometimes I'm very sad to think that. But sometimes I want to cry dramatically with arms flung wide, "Save me! Save me now or give me patience!"
Or maybe I should climb a chair and cry with a passionately shaking fist, "Give me patience or give me a break!"
My husband and my Danny Sam have spent a good deal of time bonding over food. That is owing to me, of course. Not because I make such wonderful food that everyone is thrown into raptures and bounces around the table clapping each other on the back - no - but because I sit with my ribs creaking against the table, my chair as close as I can draw it without snapping said ribs. I do this to prevent children from settling on my lap like wayward pigeons when I'm trying to eat. I learned a while ago that it drives me crazy to be craning around a little person to get at my plate. I cannot be denied that little scrap of peace over my evening meal surely?
So Matthew invites our littlest ones onto his lap, and that is how Danny Sam discovered the comical nature of a fork. He grabbed his papa's and speared it into the plate. The strike of metal on stoneware delighted him. Giggling he thrust the fork like a pitchfork into green beans and spaghetti time and again, not always coming up with food but never failing to giggle joyfully at the sound it made. While he played thus dangerously, and Matthew valiantly tried to prevent him from accidentally hurting himself or his papa, Danny Sam turned his laughing eyes often on his papa's face, looking for that camaraderie over cutlery.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Bikes and Beds, Egg on My Head
"Ella, you should ride it," I told her. "You don't want to hurt Santa's feelings. He gave that pretty pink bike to you."
"No," she answered calmly but firmly. "I don't like it. I wanted a big girl bike."
I knelt down by her, looked straight into those big, chocolately-hued eyes and said as gently but as honestly as I could, "I think we both know why Santa didn't bring you the bike you wanted, sweetheart. Don't we? Hmmmm?"
Alright, such honesty earns me an F- with the esteem-building parenting club, but all those threats about Santa rewarding only good behavior have to count for something. We had all warned Ella several times to shape up, shaking our heads sadly over her persistent gleeful misbehavior. She continued to be rotten right up until December 24th, and I happen to know Santa couldn't give her the expensive, sleek big girl bike she'd asked for simply as a matter of principle. Still, generous as he always is, he did give her a bike - a less expensive, plastic bike that was basically just a glorified tricycle - but a bike nonetheless.
He may as well have given her a box, a roll of duct tape, and a few shiny lumps of coal. It would have been more apropros, and she might have played with those, but the bike was shunned as a subpar offering and not even its pink color could redeem it.
"Look, Ella, you can ask Santa for that big girl bike this year, but you have to behave."
A look of desperation came into her eyes as she said imploringly, "No, for my birthday! My birthday, Mama! Pleeaaase?"
Yes, because even a three-year old knows there's a no-strings attached birthday policy; people just hand you a stick to hit the pinata and throw treats at you, simply because you were born. I looked at that sweet little face framed in curls and read in its expression her fear of bartering for that bike with good behavior.
Then an idea struck me. It was brilliant; it might work, and Matthew and I would get better sleep out of it.
"Hey, Ella, how about you earn a big girl bike by staying in your own bed at night? Mama will make you a sticker chart, and once you get a month's worth of stickers, we'll get you your bike, okay? After all," I added, seeing doubt in her face, "your birthday's a looooong way away."
She hesitated a moment, and then we shook hands on it.
This is what modern parenting has come to, you understand. You strike a bargain for your kids to stay in their own beds at night, and you hope to goodness they honor it! Let's see...I'll give you a popsicle for breakfast, a bouncy ball, and a Mcdonald's toy. How about it?
I remember the days when parents were cold, cold I tell you! and immoveable. It used to be that kids were not allowed in their parents' bed and dared not even attempt to creep in during the night because the expedition would end in failure and possible humiliation. Maybe we could smell the unwelcoming atmosphere the moment we approached the threshold, maybe the bed was diligently wrapped in mosquito netting every night, or maybe the room was bobby-trapped: as soon as you entered, you tripped a wire that sent twenty or so Jack in the boxes springing at your face, released a rubber mallet that repeatedly knocked you on your noggin, and a recording of Ray Charles singing, "Hit the Road, Jack!" blared forth out of the darkness.
Or maybe it was voodoo, the knowledge of which has passed into legend.
Whatever cold-hearted methods they used, I'm sure the beautiful sleep they got more than made up for feelings of guilt about parental abandonment.
My husband claims that even when he was sick as a little boy, if he found the courage to wander down the dark hall to his parents' room, his dad would point inexorably to the foot of the bed and proclaim, "There!" as if doling out a judgement for his audacity in entering forbidden territory. It wasn't comfortable curling up at his parents' feet, so he'd listlessly return to his own room, grumbling but with lesson learned.
Nowadays, I'm betting he thinks his parents had a pretty darn good plan in place. This is because every morning My Man finds himself confined to a six foot long by two-and-a half inch wide space. He lies there on his side straight as a stick, and dares not move for fear of inviting the wrath of the preschooler who is blissfully stretched out on the rest of bed, master of the master bed for almost four years now. And this after he has endured knees in his back and elbows in his ribs, well-aimed kicks to his midsection, and little arms that thwacked him in his face all night long for daring to fight for more than his two inches of space. Meanwhile, I'm sleeping in the recliner with our toddler, grumbling about my cruel fate and bemoaning the fact that I have neither the courage nor the stamina to fight Ella for a place in my own bed.
A friend once confessed at an annual Halloween party that when his eldest son was younger, he tried everything to make him stay in his own bed, including throwing out his favorite Thomas the Tank engine toys as punitive damages for interrupted sleep. I can just picture our friend saying, See James the Red engine? Gone! Thomas? Sayonara sucker! Percy? Hasta la vista, baby! When his son was back in bed, he'd sheepishly dig the toys out from the garbage, rinse them off and place them on top of the fridge to return later.
"Looking back," he told us. "I think, Wow, I was such a jerk!" The rest of us all nodded our heads in profound sympathy for his desperation, but we couldn't help laughing heartlessly at the same time. Misery, I am shamed to say, loves finding others between the same old rock and hard place.
Oh, there are urban legends about the desperate measures parents will go to just to sleep alone in beds they paid hundreds of dollars for, and there are rumors about the parents that are such pushovers their kids still sleep with them when they're nine.
Matthew and I have tried taking things away. It doesn't work. Because little kids forget they were ever threatened with losing TV, a toy, or a favorite treat when it's dark, and Mama and Papa's warm, expensive bed calls to them in the small hours of the night. We've tried taking them back to their own beds, too, but they only stay there long enough to allow us to get comfortable and cocky before they come crawling back in, planting their feet on our backs and arms across our faces in order to mark their territory. As we roll away from them and grind our teeth in frustration, they follow us around the bed like little heat-seeking missiles, not satisfied until they have rested themselves in our personal space or actually on our stomachs.
So you see now why I lured Ella with the promise of a shiny new big girl bike? It worked well, too. She wasn't consistent, I'll grant you, but she was always excited to get a sticker the morning after staying out of Mama/Papa's bed. It only took her three months before she had 31 stickers and had earned her big girl bike. It was Matthew's and my anniversary when we went to pick it up. We were so happy to give it to her, all pink and blue with Disney princesses on the side and a basket for her baby doll, because we could hear the sweet bells of freedom ringing in our heads!
To conclude this heart-warming tale of two parents triumphing over adversity, I must disclose that each night since that day Ella earned her pretty new bike, she has as usual woken up in the night and felt the urge to invade our bed. But what do you think she does now? Why, she just promptly crosses the hall and crawls right in! I have no doubt that as she elbows us out of the way, she thinks to herself, I'm so glad I've got my big girl bike. Now I don't have to stay out of Mama and Papa's bed never, ever again!
Yes, feel sorry for me, very sorry. Now if you'll excuse me, I must wrap my bed in mosquito netting, booby-trap my bedroom doorway, and find that old recording of Hit the Road, Jack. It's the only way My Man and I will get a decent night's sleep.
This piece is dedicated to my beautiful, angelic mother, because somehow I neglected to mention her in my anniversary post. I remembered one night as I was nursing my little boy, and my hand slapped my forehead, and I thought, Good Grief! How could I forget Mama Darlin'? She's royally important, and she reads all my stuff, no matter how lame it is! So this piece is all for you, Mama, and if you happen to have some advice on keeping your grandchildren out of my bed, please just pass it along.
Love, Hoodoo
Friday, April 15, 2011
Not the Lady
I'm pretty sure my three-year-old daughter's nickname for me is Naughty Pants. She usually shouts, "Naughty pants!" in an accusatory way when she's angry with someone, but this cannot be true in my case, for just today I said, "Gabriella, come here and comb your hair."
Ella sauntered down the hall, turned the corner and cooed, "Okay - Naughty Pants."
Later when I told her she could only have one more pumpkin cookie, and she replied, "Fine, Naughty Pants," with a matter-of-fact delivery, my son Berto said sternly, "You shouldn't call Mama naughty pants, Ella. That's not nice."
"Yeah," I said in a bumbling, mumbling way. "That's really no good. You've got to stop that."
I'm not cowed; I'm confused. What did I do to earn this misnomer? Is it a term of endearment? You know, like the way folks in the South sometimes call their children booger (apologies to my darlin' Mama for the use of this vulgur word)? Or like I sometimes call Matthew, my husband, Pumpkin Head even though his head does not even remotely resemble a pumpkin? Or is it, dare I say, a case of monkey see, monkey do? I fear the latter. You see, a while ago I jokingly started to say to Ella every time she was being a little bratty, "Oh, stop being such a naughty pants..."
And so it comes back to haunt me. Just another incident to reinforce the rule that if the kids pick up an irritating phrase or bad word, it is without doubt my fault. I can't recall a time they repeated one of Matthew's annoying expressions (trying to think if he has any...). Believe me, I'd be on it in a heartbeat with an Aha! followed by a gleeful grin and some diabolical hand-rubbing. That's usually what happens on the rare occasion when he breaks something; I pounce on the chance to say, "Okay, now listen - don't get mad the next time I break a dish, okay?" That's because I break dishes so often, one might suspect I think it's necessary to ward off evil spirits.
So when I tell Ella we're not going to the park until late in the afternoon, and she replies aggresively with, "Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?" I hear the echo of my own stupid utterance. When Berto, just a toddler at the time, said, "That's crazy, Baby!" to another Mom who was trying to tell him something about her son, Matthew knew to blame me as he tried to explain to the woman that his son did not really understand what he was saying. The first time Berto, our oldest, said, "Dammit!" because one of his toys wasn't working, Matthew didn't ask, "Where'd you hear that?" The expression on his face as he looked my way said plainly that he knew. After all, I'm the one who says, "What the hell?" when one of my children lets out an ear-piercing scream while playing, the one who shouts, "Stupid damn thing!" when a utensil is stuck in the kitchen drawer, and I'm banging it back and forth in illogical spite. It's all backwards. The dad is the one who's supposed to shoot off his mouth in front of the children while the mom pulls nervously at her pearls, cocks her head toward the innocents in the room and dutifully chides, "Now, Honey...the children."
The first time Matthew heard me use my favorite swear word, we had yet to even meet. I was in Idaho; he was in Texas, and we were having one of our late-night, nearly all night, long-distance conversations. He knew that I professed to be a lady. I had certainly told him of my mom's high standards, so I'm pretty sure he was convinced that I ne'er let a foul word or hint of slang pass my innocent lips. So on this night of disillusionment, I was rattling on about heaven knows what. When I paused to hear his response, I realized the line had gone dead. We had been disconnected before, and I was sick of it. After jangling the receiver and calling stridently into the silence, "Matthew? Matthew?" I let one fly into the empty void of the telephone line (yes, it was a landline...don't get distracted now). "Dammit!" I exclaimed with whole-hearted gusto and practised enunciation. A stone-cold silence, and I was just about to hang up the phone when I heard a man's voice query uncertainly, "Hillary? Uh, is that you..."
I bonked my head against the wall and said a bad word in my head.
But is it far, far too late for me even now? If only somehow I could swear off swear words and all coarse slang, no longer would I disappoint my mother, The Lady. Mom is possibly the last true Lady on the planet. Her good example drives the rest of us to drink. Drink sloppily. From a keg. I comfort myself she feels guilty about that.
Well, well - if I can't be a lady, I'd like to not be a naughty pants, if possible. So I'll just start saying to Ella every time she behaves properly, "Oh, Ella, stop being such a lady!" If the formula tests true, she'll be addressing me as "Lady" in no time. Sure that makes me sound like somebody's favorite cocker spaniel, but it's better than the alternative.
Ella sauntered down the hall, turned the corner and cooed, "Okay - Naughty Pants."
Later when I told her she could only have one more pumpkin cookie, and she replied, "Fine, Naughty Pants," with a matter-of-fact delivery, my son Berto said sternly, "You shouldn't call Mama naughty pants, Ella. That's not nice."
"Yeah," I said in a bumbling, mumbling way. "That's really no good. You've got to stop that."
I'm not cowed; I'm confused. What did I do to earn this misnomer? Is it a term of endearment? You know, like the way folks in the South sometimes call their children booger (apologies to my darlin' Mama for the use of this vulgur word)? Or like I sometimes call Matthew, my husband, Pumpkin Head even though his head does not even remotely resemble a pumpkin? Or is it, dare I say, a case of monkey see, monkey do? I fear the latter. You see, a while ago I jokingly started to say to Ella every time she was being a little bratty, "Oh, stop being such a naughty pants..."
And so it comes back to haunt me. Just another incident to reinforce the rule that if the kids pick up an irritating phrase or bad word, it is without doubt my fault. I can't recall a time they repeated one of Matthew's annoying expressions (trying to think if he has any...). Believe me, I'd be on it in a heartbeat with an Aha! followed by a gleeful grin and some diabolical hand-rubbing. That's usually what happens on the rare occasion when he breaks something; I pounce on the chance to say, "Okay, now listen - don't get mad the next time I break a dish, okay?" That's because I break dishes so often, one might suspect I think it's necessary to ward off evil spirits.
So when I tell Ella we're not going to the park until late in the afternoon, and she replies aggresively with, "Are you kidding me? Are you kidding me?" I hear the echo of my own stupid utterance. When Berto, just a toddler at the time, said, "That's crazy, Baby!" to another Mom who was trying to tell him something about her son, Matthew knew to blame me as he tried to explain to the woman that his son did not really understand what he was saying. The first time Berto, our oldest, said, "Dammit!" because one of his toys wasn't working, Matthew didn't ask, "Where'd you hear that?" The expression on his face as he looked my way said plainly that he knew. After all, I'm the one who says, "What the hell?" when one of my children lets out an ear-piercing scream while playing, the one who shouts, "Stupid damn thing!" when a utensil is stuck in the kitchen drawer, and I'm banging it back and forth in illogical spite. It's all backwards. The dad is the one who's supposed to shoot off his mouth in front of the children while the mom pulls nervously at her pearls, cocks her head toward the innocents in the room and dutifully chides, "Now, Honey...the children."
The first time Matthew heard me use my favorite swear word, we had yet to even meet. I was in Idaho; he was in Texas, and we were having one of our late-night, nearly all night, long-distance conversations. He knew that I professed to be a lady. I had certainly told him of my mom's high standards, so I'm pretty sure he was convinced that I ne'er let a foul word or hint of slang pass my innocent lips. So on this night of disillusionment, I was rattling on about heaven knows what. When I paused to hear his response, I realized the line had gone dead. We had been disconnected before, and I was sick of it. After jangling the receiver and calling stridently into the silence, "Matthew? Matthew?" I let one fly into the empty void of the telephone line (yes, it was a landline...don't get distracted now). "Dammit!" I exclaimed with whole-hearted gusto and practised enunciation. A stone-cold silence, and I was just about to hang up the phone when I heard a man's voice query uncertainly, "Hillary? Uh, is that you..."
I bonked my head against the wall and said a bad word in my head.
But is it far, far too late for me even now? If only somehow I could swear off swear words and all coarse slang, no longer would I disappoint my mother, The Lady. Mom is possibly the last true Lady on the planet. Her good example drives the rest of us to drink. Drink sloppily. From a keg. I comfort myself she feels guilty about that.
Well, well - if I can't be a lady, I'd like to not be a naughty pants, if possible. So I'll just start saying to Ella every time she behaves properly, "Oh, Ella, stop being such a lady!" If the formula tests true, she'll be addressing me as "Lady" in no time. Sure that makes me sound like somebody's favorite cocker spaniel, but it's better than the alternative.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)