The Princess, who is now ten years old, has been asking for an African American “Ken” doll for a couple of weeks now. When I asked why she needed another Ken doll at all, she said that it was so she can “pretend that he’s Aaron Burr.”
Yes, I know that Aaron Burr was a white man, but she thinks he’s black because Leslie Odom, Jr. plays him on Broadway.
I don’t know whether to feel super proud of her for further diversifying her Barbie collection or to have some kind of white lady guilt for not already having a African American Ken doll.
Anyway, African American Ken dolls do not just materialize for no reason. Maybe she will find one in her Easter basket, or as a reward for having blood drawn, which she needs to do this month.
Yesterday she told me that while she’s waiting for the doll, she’s just going to “pretend Leslie Odom, Jr. is sick,” and the Ken doll she has “is his understudy”.
I think my induction into the Theater Mom Hall of Fame might be imminent
This morning I read about the controversy surrounding GoDaddy pulling its Super Bowl ad because of a kerfuffle about puppy mills and animal cruelty. Which of course, is something we should all be concerned about, yes, yes. I hear you. But what bothers me about this, whether it’s actually true or just a GoDaddy-staged publicity stunt is that while you can get this kind of action for the rights and dignity of animals, you can’t really say the same thing about the rights and dignity of women. Seriously, just try complaining about the objectification of women in ads like the ones for
Carl’s Jr. or any of the other myriad Super Bowl ads, or almost any ad (one of my favorites is the one where the guy is watching the game on his phone under the table because obviously it’s more interesting than anything his woman has to say from across it…but I digress…) for that matter, and you won’t hear anything about the ad being pulled for a reason like that. If anything, what you will hear is the sound of crickets chirping.
I could go on, but that ‘s not really the story I wanted to tell you. No, this is a story about parenting. A story about how I would like for my boys to grow up understanding that women are human beings, not slaves or sex objects, and that the way women are portrayed in the media has an immediate effect on how men view them in the real world. And I made my point, in the car on the way to school this morning, by relating it to Congress’s recent refusal to pass the Paycheck Fairness Act and the fact that women in the United States of America on average earn seventy-eight cents for every dollar that a man earns, even if they are doing the same jobs with the same amount of experience. It’s 2015. The 21st century. The new year came and everyone was bitching about how we weren’t getting the hoverboards that Back to the Future II had promised us. I’d just be happy if they gave us the 22 cents. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if people whined more about pay inequity than they do about the injustice of not getting hoverboards??
But again, I digress…I’m a stay-at-home mom. Basically, as I’ve said before, that means I am a cook, a laundress, a chauffeur, a judge, jury and jailor, janitor, a pet sitter, a nurse, a cop, a safety monitor, a teacher, a gardener, a comptroller, head of purchasing, a cruise-director, appointment secretary, and all-around shit-doer. So when I mentioned to my sons this problem of the pay gap, I was a bit incensed when the one in the back seat said, “Yeah, but you don’t work.”
That’s right. He said it. After asking me this morning where he might find his freshly laundered gym uniform, and then packing the lunch I had prepared for him into his backpack, this son of mine had the stones (though admittedly not the brains) to say to me, “But you don’t work.”
But the funny part was that he had said this as we were pulling into the parking lot of his school, and not a minute later, he realized that he had actually left his gym uniform back at home. “Can you bring it to me before 8:30?” he asked. (This was at 7:50, and I still had his brother to drop off at another school.)
“But, Clooney,” I said, “I don’t work.”
Just want to start this off by saying (in case you don’t already know) that parenting can often be a soul-sucking experience. Don’t get me wrong, of course sometimes it’s great; they make you laugh; they make you proud. But mostly they just wear you down to a little nub. At least until they’re in college (and even then, only if you’re lucky).
And that’s just before your first cup of coffee, mind you.
Anyway, basketball season ended, and since Clooney is the kind of kid who needs some structure and activity to his days, I suggested he try running track this season. He’d never done track, but he’d done a couple of cross-country kind of activities in the past. He’s long and lean, so I figured track would be a good outlet for him.
Clooney’s kind of artsy. I mean he loves art, but more than that, he’s into music. He can talk about music these days the way he could talk about cars from the time he could speak. Not that he can’t still talk about cars. Generally speaking, he can talk about anything. In fact, his rambling
conversations could talk cats off the back of a tuna boat. But anyway, he plays three instruments: electric bass, the clarinet, and cello. He also sings in the school chorus and has a part in the drama club’s spring play. He’s plenty busy, but I still worry that he will be sucked into that iPad, that Minecraft will turn his brain to pudding, that he needs more stimuli. I’m a mom. I worry…
His school doesn’t have an elementary track program, so when I went looking for a program, choices were kind of limited in our area. I finally found one through the Catholic Youth Ministry, but our church doesn’t have a track team, so I had to sign him up through the diocese website, and then get a dispensation to put him on the team of another parish. Already I was jumping through hoops, but hey, a mom does these things.
After we got signed up, we were able to get more information about the team. The first sign that perhaps we’d made a mistake, was the practice schedule: Tuesday and Thursday nights from 5:45 until 7. Not ideal, since he has bass lessons on Tuesdays until 5 and drama climb on Thursdays until 5 as well. But again, I’m Mom. If he wants to run track, I will make it work.
His first practice was cancelled because of late-season snow, so the first practice he actually attended was on Thursday. Thursdays are a bit crazy for us, because I signed The Princess up for a dance class this season, thinking that she could take a school bus one day a week to the school that offers this after-hours program. However, I was mistaken on this point, and didn’t find out until after I had paid for the class. So, every week, I pick up the Princess from her school and drive her to this other school, about 15 minutes, for the class. It’s not really a big deal, but I have to pick her up at 5 as well. The dance school is only about a mile from Clooney’s school, so it actually kind of worked out, in terms of picking them up around the same time.
On a normal day.
The first day of practice, was also the day that I took our dog to be groomed. She wasn’t ready to be picked up until 3:00, so after I got her, I took her with me to get The Princess. After dropping off my daughter at the dance class, I ran the dog back home, which was 20-25 minutes from the dance school, depending on the traffic. Got the dog settled at home, grabbed some cold chicken for Clooney to have for dinner before track, and headed back to get them both. First I picked up The Princess, and then I headed over to get Clooney, and one of our neighbors’ kids, with whom we carpool. From there, we headed back toward home (at 5:00, traffic is thicker, so 25 minutes was making good time). Clooney ate his dinner in the car, but it turned out that he had forgotten to bring his track clothes, so after we dropped off the neighbor, we stopped back at our house for him to change, and to drop off The Princess with her older brother, Edison, who was by then home from his own after school activity.
Clooney quickly changed, filled a water bottle, and we headed to the practice, which was 10 minutes away, but still in heavy rush-hour suburban traffic. Lots of cars, lots of lights. I missed a parents’ meeting with the coach, but I got him there by 6:00, which I told the coach would be a regular occurrence.
After I saw that Clooney was settled, I got back in the car, went home, fed the other two kids (because Manfrengensen was working late), walked the dog, and went back to the track to get Clooney. By that time, the sun was going down, and it was getting cold. I stood watching him run for a bit, and then he saw me. The coach told them he’d see them Sunday at the meet, and the kids were free to leave. Clooney came through the gates with the crowd, broke away to come to me and said, “You know what? I don’t want to do this. Track’s not really my thing.”
And I just kind of felt like this:
The Princess has lost two teeth in the last ten days. With the first one, she came home from school so proud, showing off the little plastic treasure box that the nurse had given her to hold the tooth. She put the box under the pillow, and nothing happened. The next morning, she was so disappointed that the Tooth Fairy had stood her up. I didn’t know what to say – I mean, I had totally spaced the thing. She is, after all, the third child, so this tooth fairy thing is kind of getting old, at least for me. But still, I felt bad, because Tooth Fairy, for her, is a rare opportunity to earn some cold, hard cash.
That night, after school, it was obvious that she’d been trying to work out why the Tooth Fairy had dissed her. She told me that her friend had said that perhaps leaving the tooth in its box had been a mistake, that perhaps the Tooth Fairy had missed the tooth because it wasn’t in the open space under the pillow. And I lightbulb lit up in my head. This little girl I had never met was not only a friend of my daughter’s, she was no doubt, a friend of mine — how kind of her to give me a second chance! So that night, The Princess left just the tooth under the pillow, and what do you know? The Tooth Fairy left FOUR DOLLARS. A little guilt on Mom’s part can really generate interest on that tooth investment.
Well, then within a week, another tooth fell out, and frankly, I just don’t carry around that much cash. And, to be honest, again I forgot about it. The cleaners were coming the morning after she had put the tooth under her pillow, and before they got here, I meant to change everybody’s bedclothes. I took out the sheets, laid them on the beds, and then got side-tracked and forgot about the actual changing. I guess the cleaners figured that because I had put the sheets out, I meant for them to change the linens, so they stripped the beds and put the new ones on. And, oops, the tooth disappeared.
Well, The Princess was incensed. Because she had forgotten to check in the morning, she assumed that the cleaners had stolen her Tooth Fairy booty. I tried to dissuade her from this theory, but she would have none of it. She HAD BEEN ROBBED!
Then, when Manfrengensen put her to bed, she told him about how she’d been a victim of this crime. He, of course, figured that I had dropped the ball, so after she had finished her rant about the Tooth Fairy, he said, “Let me talk to her, and we’ll see what happened.”
“You know the Tooth Fairy?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “Mom,” meaning, “Let me talk to Mom…”
And without missing a beat, she said, “Mom knows the Tooth Fairy?”
And then you know what? I freaking spaced it the second night too. Mom of the Year over here.
It’s been a good summer. It’s been a busy summer. There was a good bit of traveling, a few camps, and lots of laughs. But you know, it’s time to return to our regularly scheduled programming. The school bus schedules arrived yesterday and every night this week there’s some event at each of their three separate schools to welcome back and introduce new teachers and friends. The long days of sleeping in, playing as many video games as Mom will allow and staying up late are drawing to a close.
I turned 49 this summer, and I don’t know if it’s this feeling like I’m on the downward slope of a roller coaster ride into 50, but I feel the need to make some changes, get a few things done. First thing is to get the house in order, just rearranging all the pieces that have just been sitting in places where they originally landed. Then I’m also getting myself in order, trying to exercise both body and mind more than I have in recent months…or years.
I started in the office, which looked like this:
but now looks like this:
Then, yesterday, I rearranged a junk drawer in the kitchen, though there are still two more of those left. Basically, I plan to be an organizational tsunami from one end of the house to the other, hopefully finishing the whole thing before the end of September.
But mostly, I am looking forward to the quiet that the school day brings to my life, a chance when I can gather my thoughts and actually follow through on them, or use the bathroom without hearing my name called on the other side of the door. I realize that some day, too soon, this will be the whole of my life, once the kids are grown and out of here. It’s not that I don’t cherish the moments of chaos, but I do love the quiet.
This is pretty much the story of every morning, when they are talking to me about who hit whom, who’s not being fair and what kind of breakfast they want, when all I can really think about is that first cup of coffee.
It’s that time of year again, and this year, I really hope to keep up with ThinkIt’s Year-End Blog Wrap-Up. The prompt for December 1st is the Year in Pictures. I had a hard time reducing it to one moment, so I collected these, in no particular order:
I’m surely leaving out many memories of the year, but hopefully they will come back to me as we continue this process over the next few weeks.
It’s Spirit Week at Edison’s school, and the theme for today is “Dress to Impress.” Yesterday was “Wear Orange” (It had something to do with an anti-bullying campaign), and Monday was “Dress like a Twin Day.” Edison pulled out his spiffiest duds for today’s occasion. Unfortunately, these include the sport jacket that he wore for his First Holy Communion four years ago. They are a size 8, and he is a firm 12-almost-14. I tried to dissuade him, to tell him that he looked silly, but then an argument began, and I thought, you know what, if he were The Princess, I would have given up at the first protestation. If she’s taught me anything, it’s to pick my battles, and what you are wearing is not worth fighting. So I let him go, even though he kind of looked like this:
Just hoping some of that anti-bullying rhetoric stuck to the ruffians in his middle school population yesterday.
The Princess started first grade last week, We had this conversation this morning.
The Princess: Mommy, can you chaperone my field trip?
The Princess: Like, three weeks?
Me: What is it?
The Princess: It’s when you come along with my class.
Me: No, I mean, what is it?
The Princess: It’s when you get a group of kids from my class and you take them around and make sure —
Me: I mean, where are you going?
The Princess: Oh. France.
I am cleaning out my inbox, and I found some old memories…
(We belonged to a pool that summer. It was like a little party club. There was a main clubhouse there with changing rooms, a kitchen, and a little playroom with toys for the kids. Edison was 8, Clooney 4 1/2, and The Princess was almost 3.)
Yesterday I took the kids to a play date at a pool. When it was time to leave, Clooney totally melted down. People were offering condolences, words of comfort to me. I wasn’t too flustered. I just kept
talking to him calmly while herding him inside. He’s going through a phase. I got him into the changing room and calmed him down a bit before realizing that I had left Edison’s underwear in my bag back out at the pool. I ran out to get it, leaving them in the otherwise empty changing room for what could not have been more than 30 seconds. As I came back, I saw Clooney, doing a full-circle streak-show, out the changing room door, through the toy room to the kitchen, and back out through that door to the patio. Got him corralled and back into the changing room, came through the door, and there’s Edison, BUCK NAKED riding the back of this rubber hippity-hop animal thing; The Princess was cheering him on. And the hippity hop wasn’t the only thing that was bouncing, if you know what I mean.
Insane. Luckily no one else saw that, but if they did, they’d have to burn the hippity hop.