How To Unload On The Nearest Available Punching Bag, Or

Why I'm An Unfit Mother

—early this morning—

EM: Mom? Can I play on your computer?

Me: NO! grrrrrrnashgrumblegrrrrrr IT’S LATE! grrrrrrrr BUS COMING! ahrrrrgggggg EAT BREAKFAST! NOW! FASTER! EATEATEAT! grumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrr

room fills with disgusting slurping, sucking, crunching noises as EM warily munches on her Cheerios, earning her several more grumblegrumblepissmoanstinkeye’d grrrrrrrrrs while my tea takes a FUCKING ETERNITY to steep

EM: Um. Mom?

Me: grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

EM: Um. Can you, um. Can you make a different lunch for me today? I’m bored with bologna lately.

Me: AHHHHRRRRRGGGGGG grrrrrrrrrrr NEVER GOOD ENOUGH
grrrrrrrrrrrr ALWAYS COMPLAINING nashgrumblegrrrrrrrrrrrr UNGRATEFUL mumblemumblegrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SPIT IT OUT THEN. WHADDUHYA' WANT! nostrilsflairingunattractivelygrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

EM: Um. I always like peanut butter and honey.

Me: FINE!

grrrrrrrrcupboardsbangingdrawersslammingshouldbloodywellmakeityourselfgrumblegrumblegrrrrrrrrrr

EM: Mom?

Me: WHAT! NOW! grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

EM: I’m sorry I made you in a bad mood.

room fills with foul smelling vapor as hot air seeps slowly pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffff out of my fat head

Me: I woke up in a bad mood, EM. It’s not your fault.

EM: Why are you in a bad mood?

Me: mumblemumblegrrrrrr Dunno

EM: Was it your date with dad last night? Was it Daddy? thoughtful silence Did he embarrass you? I get mad like that when he embarrasses me.


Director's Note: In order to do this piece the dramatic justice it deserves, you will need to study any of the brilliantly rendered battle scenes from the Power Rangers television series. Pure theatrical genius, those.

P.S.

Just after I finished writing that little drama about all the grrrr-ing and the argggg-ing over breakfast this morning, EM came home from school with a backpack full of this past year's notebooks, workbooks, and art projects. On the very last page of the very last notebook, I found this little drawing:Has she not captured my very essence? The very pith and marrow of my soul?

On the one hand, I feel terrible that she was so vexed by my rage this morning she felt the need to draw a picture about it. On the other hand, I'm utterly delighted that she felt the need to draw a picture because she was so vexed by my rage this morning.

I just found out a few days ago that I finally succeeded in getting her into art classes at the Kulturskole starting in the Fall. I was sort of dreading the hassle of having to get her into the city once every damn week for a 2 hour class that she may or may not give a shit about. But having seen this, I'm more convinced than ever that it's the right thing to do by her. Drawing/art is clearly her preferred mode of expression. It's the one thing her teachers are always sure to rave about: "EM's doing fine in school, a delight to have in class, and her drawings are aMAzing!"

I can't wait to see where she'll go with it once she's got someone who can offer her a little technical support. Hands, for example. Let us hope that they tackle the fine art of hands early on in the program.

I Promise There Is A Perfectly Reasonable Explanation For What You Are About To See

Here's a summer challenge for all of ya'll while you're waiting for something more substantial to read.

A little game of Caption This Photo!

Writer of the most amusing, plausible, and/or enchanting caption gets to name my next cat. Extra credit given for entries submitted in limerick form (haiku is also acceptable, but not recommended).

Begging Your Pardon, But

You're all going to have to cut me a bit of slack for the next week, or six--or eight--or ten maybe...

Look, the first day of school is August 18. I should be able to resume regular posting then.

In the meantime, my dear ol' ma' is here visiting, and while I can assure you we're having a great time, and the kids are all over her like cute on kittens, I can't seem to get her to hush up long enough to finish a half-way decent post. I do have a few things in the works, but clearly it's going to take more time than usual for me to pull them into decent enough shape to publish.

Please be patient.

Cym--I'll be in touch with you about this illicit memory chip business. Shhhhh--makes me feel all dirty inside and stuff....

The Dread Retainer

Nine months.

That’s how long the orthodontist said he expected EM to have to wear The Dread Retainer.

Nine months.

Give or take a few weeks, of course.

But still—nine months.

I could make a whole other baby in nine months, the prospect of which—even given the long term consequences incumbent on said baby—is not nearly as distasteful to me as the thought of making The Dread Retainer feel welcome and comfortable in my home for nine full months.

I’ve spent some time online searching for a picture of The Dread Retainer. But I couldn’t find anything that looks even remotely like it. Sufficed to say, it’s all twisted, looping wires, and bulging, mesh cages; more crude instrument of Medieval torture than sophisticated device of modern dentistry. And it’s been permanently glued to EM’s back molars for the next—did I mention?—nine months.

Of course, on some remote level, I’m aware that it’s wrong of me to make The Dread Retainer sound like my cross to bear, rather than EM’s. After all, it was her gums that were scraped all to hell Friday afternoon while it was being fit into place. And she’s the one who hasn’t been able to eat much more than yogurt and runny oatmeal all weekend because her teeth are too tender to bite down on anything more substantial. But, gentle reader, please consider that I’m the one who has to listen to her suck and gurgle excess saliva until her mouth grows accustomed to the alien metal. I’m the one who has to endure the lisped and slurred speech as her tongue learns to speak around all that hardware. And I’m the one who has to hand pluck stringy bits of fruit and goo out from underneath the wires until she relearns how to chew and swallow.

The orthodontist tells me the excess saliva shouldn’t last more than 3 or 4 days. Same goes for the tender, aching gums and teeth. The more she talks, of course, the faster her tongue will learn to work around the metal. The swallowing, however, is likely to take some time, apparently. It is, after all, half the reason she has to have The Dread Retainer in the first place—to teach her tongue where it needs to be (roof of her mouth) when she swallows.

In case you missed the bit where I explained the story behind The Dread Retainer, here’s a quick synopsis: EM sucked her thumb a bit longer than she should have, ergo EM’s tongue has learned the bad habit of lazing sluggishly on her lower palette like a baby’s, rather than pressing firmly against her upper palette where it’s supposed to be. This, in turn, has led to a series of apparently untenable alignment issues that The Dread Retainer is meant to correct. Never mind that her teeth were neither crooked nor disfigured in anyway prior to treatment. Never mind that everything appeared to be in perfect working order—minus the trivial fact that she has been unable to use her front teeth to bite into a sandwich or apple or any other such food for that matter ever since her permanent teeth grew in. Is this an important ability? I seem to have lost my perspective somewhere between the drool and the lisp.

*sigh*

At least she didn’t embarrass me in front of the orthodontist again. Other than a bit of gratuitous whimpering before he’d even touched her, she behaved more or less decently. And I only had to threaten her Nintendo once to elicit such compliance! I consider this progress, no?

Two Things

Thing the First: I saw the season finale of Lost last night, and great glorious God on a hot dog was it ever good! But two ancillary things:

A) Why Jack’s dad? As far as I’m concerned the back story they built up around him doesn’t nearly justify his suddenly showing up everywhere to run the show. Speaking for Jacob? Showing up to tell Michael he can go now? I mean, didn’t Charlie and Jin deserve at least that much courtesy? Though, it has occurred to me that maybe Charlie and Jin aren’t all dead (only kinda/sorta island dead) which, I guess, would account for the difference, but still…Meh—the whole ‘Jack’s dad’ element confuses and annoys me.

B) Move the island by turning a great big icy cog? Seriously? That’s the best they can come up with? After turning us around to homicidal smoke clouds, time travel, and the freely roaming dead you’d think they would have put a bit more thought into it than that. I mean, come on! Here’s my disbelief willingly--wantonly--suspended for the next hour. At the very least light a fire with your eyes and chant some ancient Polynesian verse before you turn that cog!

Otherwise—brilliant! Desmond and Penny--swoon. How sweet was that?

Oh, and C) I hope Daniel Faraday isn’t dead, cuz’ I found myself kind of liking the dude. That new Asian guy, Whatshisname, too—he’s just pretty to look at.


Thing the Second: Boy had the open house at his new school today. He met his new teachers (all 4 of them) and his classmates (all 49 of them). He even got his first lesson book with 8 math problems he’s supposed to master by the first day of school in August (hint: the answer is always 10). God was he ever cute! And so excited! And so unbelievably ready! And I was so overcome by emotion, and pride, and excitement for him that I…

Shit! What did I just do? Did I really just agree to sit on the PTA committee?

Oh hell. I really just did. Sucker!

The Gory Details

It's easiest to let the pictures tell the story of the girls' birthday parties.

Enjoy!

I spent WAY too much time on these stupid things. WAY WAY WAY too much time.

Then I discovered the music library, and proceeded to waste ever more ill considered hours on them. Housewifery is a blast, man. A fucking hoot, I tell ya'!





Heh heh--it occurs to me upon proof-reading, that that first sentence could be misconstrued as having spent way too much time on the kids--which is all too true. But, as I'm sure you must realize, I meant the futzy picture dealies.

Missy is 4.

EM is 8.

4 + 8 = 12

There are 2 of them, so divide by 2. That's 6.

Boy is soon 6.

So, together, the 3 of them, on average, are 6 years old.

This, according to Mister, is more than enough reason to open a second bottle of wine.

I love Mister.

Also, I'm very drunk right now.

Sticky

Missy's birthday party with all her little friends from barnehage was yesterday. Details and pictures later--for now I have a bit of a poser for you all.

For reasons entirely too lame to dwell on, I ended up inviting ALL the girls--not just the girls Missy's age, not just the ones she plays with regularly, but ALL the girls at the barnehage--and in so doing, managed to invite 2 little ones that have never been to a birthday party before. Their mothers (in one case, a foster mother) were so pleased, yet nervous about the prospect, that they both called to ask if it would be okay if they stayed for the party--just to be on the safe side.

Fine. Fine. Whatever. I had no problem with that. More adult supervision is always a bonus at these events.

The one mother (the non-foster one) is a foreigner like me. From the Philippines. Been here nearly 10 years. Very quiet. Even more tortured than me by small talk, it would seem. Anyway, she didn't bring a gift, just a card with money. While I think it's a little chicken shit to give a 4 year old cash for her birthday, it's not unheard of here, and that's not my problem. My problem is the amount of cash she gave: 350 kroner (about $70).

It's too much--crazy too much--and I don't feel good about keeping it. Do I approach her about returning some of it? Or, would that just embarrass the hell out of everyone, and insult her entire family and 6 generations of ancestors? Keep in mind that even though she's been here nearly 10 years and one would think that she would have learned by now that the accept norm for a birthday gift in these parts is closer to 100 kroner: a) this is her only child, b) this was said only child's first birthday party, so no etiquette setting precedent to go on, c) she made several comments while she was here that led both Mister and me to believe that her family's contact with other Norwegians is limited, so it stands to reason that she had no one to ask "Hey what would be considered appropriate here?"

I would feel differently--like maybe she meant to give us that much, rather than she just didn't know how much to give--if both her and her husband where high earning professionals. But they're not--he's a farmer, she's a checker at a grocery store. Surely, they don't have this kind of money to throw around. I know we don't. Also, by approaching her, awkward as it would be, we would be letting her know the local standard for the next party they're invited to. So, you know....civil service, and all that?

I honestly don't know. Do I say something or not?

This is terribly silly, and hopelessly sentimental. But I get that way--kind of, sort of, a little bit--around the kids' birthdays.

What.Ever.

Just click play, and deal with it. Oh, and by all means, click on the full screen link when you see it. It helps.

Edited to add: Mark's Jenn's Oldest Younger Sister makes a valid point--you have to turn the pages yourself people. Point and click, point and click.

Also, you'll be singing that stupid song all day. You're welcome.

Reading, Writing, And A Smattering Of Arithmatic

I had a meeting with Elder Miss’s math teacher today.

Gøril.

How’s that for a name? Think ‘good reel’ only without the ‘d’.

It says something about how long I’ve lived here that that kind of name no longer even fazes me. Hell—I kind of like it. And Vigdis has grown on me to the point where I’d even consider bestowing it on a treasured cat. Not Ragnhild though; never Ragnhild. And Gaute is still something contagious, and spoken of only in furtive whispers. But Gøril I like. Gøril is sporty and fun; Gøril would buy you a round of Jello shots on your birthday—‘course, she’d call them géle shots and order ‘em full of aquavit instead of vodka, but the night out itself would be a riot.

Hold up. Where was I?

Oh yeah, math. My Elder Miss, she struggles mightily with the arithmetic.

Okay, not mightily, but I suspect there are issues which I wanted to address while they’re still young and largely imagined. So I requested a conference.

Right away Gøril assured me that in her opinion EM is fine—right on track with her progress. She showed me the standardized test that EM and her entire class took last week. EM scored a 56 out of a total of 74 possible points. A solid middle pack performance according to Gøril, and far, far from the panic threshold of 36 or lower. So what the fuck are you doing here? You pushy, demanding, critical, harping tart of a mother you.

I jest. She was really very pleasant. And, truth be told, she gave me a fair amount of kudos for being so engaged and interested in my daughter’s schooling—rare in these parts, apparently.

I will admit to being relieved to hear that EM is not the dumbest kid in the class. I will even admit that that very reassurance was 50% of the reason I asked for the meeting in the first place. The difficulty EM is having understanding and finishing her assignments is common and shared with a good half of her classmates.

But. But but…..

56 out of 74? I’m being patted on the head with 56 out of 74? That’s pretty crap, isn’t it? She showed me the actual test too. This was basic, basic stuff: greater than/less than, find the number on the number line, count by twos, count by threes, fill in the missing numbers in the equation 21+__ =30, 15-__ =8, and so on. Easy, easy stuff. 8 problems per page, and the only page where she was able to finish every problem in the allotted time was the one where she had to find the number on the number line.

She’s in the 2nd grade. Shouldn’t there be more to a 2nd grader’s understanding of basic arithmetic than this?

There was one page where she managed to miss every single problem. The instructions were to finish the equation by finding the 10’s and the 1’s. So something like this: 34=__ +4. The answer EM wrote was 38. Gøril told me not to worry. Many of the kids were unable to do this page. She felt it was because they don’t have any real understanding of what the ‘=’ sign actually means.

Why? How? What the everloving fuck? How does a kid, let alone ‘many’ kids, get to the 2nd grade without knowing what the ‘=’ sign means?

I do not mean to malign the teacher. I really don’t. I have every reason to believe this Gøril’s as competent and caring a teacher as I could hope for for EM. It’s the method and the book from which she teaches that I hate—the convoluted, wordy, theoretical, mumbo-jumbo, concept driven bullshit that bathes these kids in a gentle sprinkle of mathematical ideas without ever teaching them any actual skillz yo.

Grumble, grumble.

In the end we agreed that EM could use some linguistic reinforcement. So for the next month or so, until the end of the school year, she’s going take the time to go over some of these concepts with EM in English after she’s instructed the rest of the class in Norwegian. And I’m supposed to encourage EM to learn how to speak up and admit when she really doesn’t get it. EM is a master at nodding and feigning interest when really she’s just counting freckles on her arms and biding her time until all the tiresome yapping from the grown-ups ceases. It would be helpful, says Gøril, if she quit that.

Yeah. So, so much for my proactive meeting of the minds. Wish I could say I felt better about everything now, but I don’t. She’s average. Fine. I neither expect nor require genius from my kids. I just wish I didn’t feel like the standard she’s being held to was so woefully low. Even after seeing that bungled test of hers, I can’t help but feel she’s capable of so much more, if only someone would issue the challenge and teach her the necessary skills.

I feel utterly trapped by this laissez-faire school system, but see absolutely no viable alternatives.

Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m going to bed now.

Who-ray For Norway Day

Tomorrow it will be my singular pleasure to celebrate yet another 17th of May, Constitution Day with my adopted countrymen and women.

Woo Fucking Hoo

I’ve never much liked 17. Mai (pronounced soot-en-eh my), except for the bunads. I like the bunads; they’re fun to gawk at. Truth be told, I kind of want one for myself because I think they make chicks look hot—hot in a repressed yet buxom, puritanical sort of way, but still hot. Other than that, 17. Mai =big, fat yawn in my book.

We, like every other family with school-aged children, will be contenting ourselves with passing the business end of 17.Mai—the parade (they call it a parade, but I assure you, it’s nothing like; it’s really just a drab procession of bunad clad families walking down the street waving flags and congratulating one another on being Norwegians), the speeches, the carnival games, the over priced helium balloons and cotton candy—at the kids’ school. Again I say, Woo Fucking Hoo.

If you don’t have kids, or your kids are all old and grown, according to the standard issue The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry, you’re expected to head into the nearest city center, where you will spend your day jostling enormous crowds for a glimpse of the parade (same sort of procession seen at the local schools only bigger, and therefore longer, and infinitely more dull), and searching (largely in vain) for the tiniest of café tables and the chance to ease your bloodied and blistered feet out of your dress shoes. Then, if you’ve been doubly lucky enough to have caught the attention of one of the two working waiters on duty, you may hunker down in this prized spot with a pint of beer and a plate of fenalår, and observe (in a good-humored, non-judgmental fashion) the loud antics of the hordes of drunken teenagers. For it is further noted in The Good Norwegian Citizen’s Guide to Good Norwegian Citizenry that if you are a child you are expected to spend the day gorging yourself silly on bowel shaking quantities of ice cream and cotton candy, and if you are a teenager you are expected to spend it drunk off your ass. It’s a patriotism thing. Apparently, it’s how you express love of country in Norwegian.

And speaking of patriotism, I’ve been getting quite a kick out of how much effort good Norwegian citizens put into their 17. Mai preparations. Yesterday Boy and Missy’s barnehage spent two hours of their afternoon marching around the soccer field shouting “Hurra for 17. Mai! Hurra for 17. Mai!” Then the teachers would go “Hip hip!” and the kids would go, “Hurra!” Teachers, “Hip hip!” Kids, “Hurra!” And so on and so forth. Apparently it took them two hours to get this liturgy down pat.

Today Elder Miss’s entire school dedicated their entire morning to much the same thing: marching about the school grounds, shouting socialist propaganda at one another, and working hard to get just the right amount of snap in the flip of their waving flags. All morning they worked on this.

And I’m thinking, “Lookit citizens—a lawn chair, a bucket of chicken, and a cooler full of ice and beer. Keep one semi-intelligent adult semi-sober enough to light the sparklers after dark. And that’s your Independence Day. Done.”

All this fuss and bother over a constitution that only granted them partial sovereignty anyway. Woo Fucking Hoo.

Oh well, at least the girls are going to look fabulous in their bunads. I’ve had Farmor ironing them all evening while I swill beer and type at you fine people.

Gratulerer med dagen!

Legs, Meet Hills. Hills, Meet The Relentless Churning Power Of My Mighty Hams.

I recently added hills to my running regimen. Gruesome, but oh. so. satisfying.

If you had told me even just this past Christmas that, come May, I'd be running up the mountain roads I've been running these past two weeks, I'd have listened politely with mock-stern interest, then I'd have had you burned as a heretic.

I freely admit to occasionally underestimating myself and my modest potential.

The Couple Who Drinks Together, Stays Together

The Scene:
Friday night. 9-ish. Kids are in bed. So far no one has come out puking. Looks to be a quiet night.

Explanatory note:
We have one TV in the house located in the upstairs living room; we spend most of our time in the downstairs living room where there’s nothing but each other and the fire by way of entertainment—and the ipod of course, which is on low, rotating through a playlist of late 80’s-era Sting, U2, and Springsteen, with an occasional dash of REM, which may or may not be contributing to Mister’s brooding.

One last thing:
“underholdning” is Norwegian—means “entertainment”


Him: So. You didn’t like your birthday present very much, did you?

Me: 50” wide-screen TV? What every girl dreams of. Why?

Him: We never watch it. Not together anyway.

Me: We’ve talked about this before, dearest. You and I have a conflict of interests where our TV viewing is concerned.

Him: So? You know I’m not picky. I’ll watch whatever.

Me: You say that now. You might even mean it. But when we're sitting up there together, I feel obligated to watch something you’ll like.

Him: Nobutno. But seriously. I’m fine with whatever. You always get the remote anyway. Do whatever you want with it. Except flip channels. I hate that.

Me: But that’s what I do.

Him: Why? Why do you do that? How can you know whether or not a program is worth watching unless you sit still and watch it?

Me: Look. I know myself well enough to know that I’m not going enjoy anything with the words “norsk” or “underholdning” in the description. Ditto the words “dance”, “idol”, “reality” and/or “contestant”. So why wouldn’t I quickly flip past any and all of that crap?

Him: But some of those Norwegian talk shows can be kind of funny sometimes.

Me: To you maybe. Not to me.

Him: I’m sure you’d like them if you’d just give them a chance.

Me: *heavy sigh* So what are you trying to tell me here? Would you like to go upstairs and watch the Friday night talk shows? Cuz’ you can. You’re certainly free to do that if that’s what you want to do.

Him: Not necessarily.

Me: But you want to watch TV?

Him: I don’t know. Maybe.

Me: And the talk shows are what you’d be watching if it were up to you?

Him: Well. That’s really hard to say when I’m not sitting right there in front of the TV. How am I supposed to know what I’ll be in the mood for.

Me: *heavy, heavy sigh* Honey. Help me out. What are we talking about right now?

Him: Just wondering what it says about us as a couple if we can’t even watch TV together. That’s all.

Me: Not much! I mean, honestly! I don’t get my mother’s TV viewing pleasures either, and I still like her a lot, and consider us quite close.

Him: *silent pout*

Me: And besides, every pop psychologist’s guide on how to build a stronger relationship with your partner begins and ends with TURN THE TV OFF! According to their logic, we’re like the healthiest couple we know.

*thoughtful pause*

Him: So, I’ll open another bottle then?

Me: Christ, I thought you’d never ask!

Things You Don't Want To Hear From Your Career Counselor

Boy: Mom? Is EM going to be a doctor?

Me: That’s what she says. Yes.

Boy: And I’m going to be a paramedic?

Me: That’s been the plan for awhile now. Have you changed your mind?

Boy: No.

Missy: What should I be then?

Me: What do you want to be?

Missy: I want to be a princess.

Boy: Oh come! on! Where are we going to find a prince who’ll take you?

English Lessons

Remember EM's English book? That intellectually jarring, spiritually jolting, psycologically altering work of developmental genius I shared with you a while back about dead mice and hungry cats?

When we eventually returned it to her classroom, I added a note in which, rather than question the suitability of the subject matter or the accessibility of the overarching theme of spiritual struggle between grace and sin it clearly symbolizes, I simply suggested that perhaps the text was a bit simplistic for EM. Have you got anything more challenging?

Her teachers responded by skipping two levels. We then endured three more editions in the same series--slightly less weird, yet infintely more dull: Mary and Steven Go to a Birthday Party, Mary and Steven Find a Snake in the Grass, Mary and Steven Love Each Other Like the Osmonds (or something, I might have misremembered that third one).

Finally I sent another note: Still too easy! Lace us up with all you've got ma'am. We can take it.

This is what she came home with:

That kindly blond man posing as her doctor ends up pimping her out to drug lords and arms dealers in the inner city. Meanwhile Steven, seeing his sister's sad fate, seeks redemption for them both by joining a seminary, but tragically winds up as the senior priest's favorite little bitch.

It is the 9th and highest level to be sure, so obviously it is intended for a slightly older reader than EM. But I don't know. Just seems to me like they've gone a bit too far with the hard-hitting morality bit. I'm considering a strongly worded letter to the superindendent.

Figuratively Speaking

The following is a snippet of a conversation Elder Miss and I had a few nights ago. We had just finished the first book in the American Girls series about Kaya, a Nez Perce girl living during the late 18th century. I had asked her what she thought had been the most interesting part of the book. She talked for a minute about an exciting river rescue scene, then asked me the same question. I responded that I thought the part about all the village children being punished by the Whipwoman for Kaya’s mistake was interesting.

EM: Why?

Me: I just think it’s interesting that all the kids had to be punished because one kid did something wrong.

EM: Why?

Me: Well, how would you feel if I whipped all three of you kids every time Boy pushes the cushions off the couch. (something he does every other God damn day, and it pisses me off)

EM: We would cry.

Me: But would you let him do it over and over again if you knew you were going to get whipped for it?

EM: I’m glad there are no Whipwomen in Norway.

Me: I’m sure you are. But you didn’t answer my question.

EM: In Norway, tree branches are for roasting hot dogs, not for whipping children.

Me: Yes, but focus darling. What would happen if, for example, all the kids in your class were punished because one boy was teasing a 1st grader and stealing his lunch?

EM: That’s bullying! Bullying isn’t allowed.

Me: I know. But that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen. Would you be more or less willing to let a classmate bully a 1st grader if you knew you might be punished for it?

EM: Punished how?

Me: A whip, EM. Remember the Whipwoman?

EM: There are no Whipwomen in Norway.


Literal much?

Her father is exactly the same way. Try playing the ‘what would you do if you won a million dollars?’ or ‘were granted three wishes?’ game with him, and you’ll soon find yourself casting about for the nearest large, preferably jagged object with which to knock him over his pee-brained head, and put him out of his pee-brained misery.

Willing suspension of disbelief, and unnecessary expeditions into the realm of the hypothetical are not things that either one of them do willingly. I do not have a million dollars, so why would I pretend that I do? There are no Whipwomen in Norway, so why are we talking about being beaten by one? If you can’t say something sensible, please don’t say anything at all.

Which is not to say that they are so starkly dull in all aspects of their lives. You’d think, for example, someone so married to the literal truth as EM would approach her clothing choices with a bit more sobriety. But no. Elder Miss mixes colors and patterns, in improbable layer after improbable layer with the fanciful whimsy of a kindergarten teacher. I have no idea why she’s so blind to the ghastly wrongness of most of her fashion combinations. I guess because in her very literal world blue is blue, pink is pink, and the tedious parsing of all the clashing tones and hues in between is for artsy–fartsy types like myself who waste their time finding beauty in moonscapes and poetry in waterfalls.

Boy, by the way, is shaping up to be the polar opposite of EM in the cloudy intangibles department. Boy, it seems, is my spiritual apprentice in all things artsy-fartsy.

Last year I posted some examples of the random, illogical leaps conversations with him would often take. He doesn’t do that anymore—thank God—but it seems obvious to me that those loopy rejoinders were early indications of the looser, more abstract way his mind works.

You can see the natural progression of that conceptual freewheeling when he’s trying to tell a story and can’t remember some simple word in English. Rather than simply use the Norwegian word as EM would have done, he manages to throw in the most wonderful descriptive substitutes like chocolate water for mud, or wiggly stick lights for candles, or, my personal favorite, rock-sky day to describe dark, overcast weather.

He’s also always been better at pretend play than EM; since they were of an age to start playing together, EM has had to follow Boy’s lead. It was Boy who taught EM that it was okay for her Polly Pockets to live in the castle next door to his Transformers, that they could even gasp talk to one another. And when the two–headed dragons came to attack, it was Boy who showed EM what effective missiles Duplo Legos made against them. EM was scandalized that Legos should be used for anything other than building the officially sanctioned figures that came illustrated with the factory instructions. She actually came to ask me if it was okay.

EM: Boy is making the Duplos act like bombs.

Me: Say what?

EM: He’s using the Duplos to kill the dragons. He’s throwing them.

Me: Is he throwing them at you?

EM: No.

Me: Sounds like fun EM. Death to the dragons!

EM: But what if we want to build something with them later?

Me: Then you’ll pick them up off the floor and build something.

EM: Oh.


I know that all of this must sound like I’m pitting one kid against the other and saying, “Look how dumb that one is compared to this one.” I swear that’s not what I’m driving at. In fact, I don’t think any of this has anything to do with intelligence at all. I’d be remiss at this point if I didn’t mention that EM has a remarkable aptitude for practical problem solving—there is no obstacle you could put in front of that kid for which she couldn’t come up with at least 3 different alternatives inside a minute. Boy would just stare slack-jawed at the very same obstacle and cry, then later he’d describe that bleak moment as unto a journey into the very foothills of darkest Purgatory (or maybe just the dentist’s office, he is only five after all).

All I’m really trying to say (and I’m ashamed and humiliated that it’s taken me this long to say it) is that it is becoming ever more apparent that EM thinks like her father and Boy thinks like me.

One last story to illustrate my point, then I’ll shut up.

I’ve been reading the Magic Tree House series to Boy and Missy every night at bedtime. About a week ago we were in the middle of an adventure set in the Wild West, and a cowboy character said something like “I’m going to round up all them thur’ horses, then split the wind over that thur’ ridge.” It’s a phrase I’d never heard before, so I paused to ask Boy what he thought “split the wind” might mean. He didn’t stop to think even a second before he shot his hand out in a half karate chop and shouted, “GO FAST!”

Almost a week later we were all in the car when we hit a long, straight stretch of road (very rare in these parts) and Mister laid on the gas--revving the engine, and noticeably speeding up. From the back seat Boy cried out, “This car is splitting the wind!” I laughed out loud, and so would have high-fived him if we had been face to face. EM and Mister, on the other hand, snorted simultaneously with intellectual distain, “You can’t cut air, Boy."

"And besides,” EM added helpfully, “Air is a gas. Didn’t you know?”

A Clever Title Eludes Me--Suck On This For A While, Then Volunteer One Of Your Own

I spoke to Alpha Grandma on the phone on Friday. She tells me I’m the greatest thing since sliced bread and that she misses me. Of course, I already knew this, but it’s nice to hear it out loud like that. She also told me a delightful story about my 3 year old niece calling her to boast, “I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.”

“Isn’t that cute,” said I, “How terribly adorable of her to want to share that with you. Which reminds me, did I happen to mention what happened the last time I took Elder Miss to the dentist? Or more specifically, the orthodontist? No? Oh well then, prepare to be enchanted and enthralled all over again. Because my daughter? Why my eldest daughter never fails to charm and delight.”

Some background information—however disruptive it may be to the narrative flow of my tale, is rather necessary. Especially for those of you who are not privy to the same weekly updates regarding the everyday minutia of our lives that Alpha Grandma endures.

Early last fall a routine dental check-up revealed no cavities (huzzah!) but a potential problem with EM’s bite. I wasn’t clear at the time on the specifics—something about upper/lower palette alignment blah blah blah. Frankly, I was more absorbed by the fact that times had changed so drastically that dentists were now routinely referring children as young as 7 years old to orthodontists to pay too much attention to anything else the woman had to say.

Of course the waiting list for a first time appointment with any of the orthodontists in the area was eternal, so we didn’t get in to see one until just after Christmas. But when we finally did, our guy wasn’t two minutes into his examination before he pulled his fingers out of EM’s mouth, peered at me over those ridiculous goggles dentists sport, and asked, “So does she still suck her thumb?” And that, friends, is the exact moment I discovered that crow feathers don’t tickle so much as chaff going down, and egg will cause a rash if left on the face too long.

EM was an ardent thumb sucker from 7-8 months of age to about 5 ½ years. Yes, I had heard all the dire warnings about allowing children to continue this habit into their later years, but naturally, I assumed that “later years” meant something more like “marriageable age”. And besides, I had also heard all the dire warnings about allowing your child to fuss and cry for more than 5 seconds at a time, or feeding them whole grapes and peanut butter before the onset of puberty—alarmist bullshit, obviously—so I ignored the thumb sucking admonitions, just like I ignored nearly every other piece of parenting advice I ever read in a magazine.

EM’s orthodontist—a large and imposing Greek man who reminds me very much of my own beloved D.D.S Dr. Floyd Tanner, so I’m inclined to like him otherwise—tells me this was probably a mistake.

Because she sucked her thumb for so long, her tongue, rather than resting in its natural position against the roof of her mouth, has developed the habit of protruding slightly to rest always on her lower teeth. The absence of her tongue’s pressure pushing against the upper teeth has made her entire upper palette too narrow, causing not only the misalignment that the dentist noticed, but also a glaring gap between her upper and lower front teeth. Or, to be fair, maybe not so glaring since I never noticed it until it was pointed out to me. But now I can’t seem to stop looking at it. Ditto the tip of her tongue which I suddenly can’t not notice sticking out from between her teeth all the time.

Happily, all of this is easily correctable with a dread retainer. But before he committed us to this costly apparatus, he wanted to try filing down a few of her molars, wait three or four months, then come back in and see if anything shifted into place. So that’s what we did. Last Wednesday was the follow-up to that protocol.

Background complete. Now pay attention. We’re getting to the charming bit.

Recall again little Zoe, my niece, strapped into her car seat in the back of her mother’s car. Tracy speed dials Alpha Grandma on her cell, tells her Zoe has some important news she wants to share, then passes the phone back. I’ll bet you dollars to donuts, Zoe’s got a kick ass pair of miniature pink sunglasses on when she announces, in that deadly serious toddler lisp of hers, “Grandma, I’ve been to the dentist, and I don’t have any cavities.” EM was still grunting and gesturing like a well trained monkey at 3 years old, but whatever. That’s not the funny part.

Wednesday afternoon, it was the assistant who got EM settled, and bibbed, and stretched out in the exam chair. When the orthodontist came in, we exchanged a few pleasantries, as you do, then he turned to EM and asked her to open up. And what does EM do in response to this simple request?

My very nearly 8 year old daughter flips over on her side, and sticks her thumb in her mouth. I assure you, I’ve never been so proud.

Of course, the whole appointment went down hill from there. She refused to speak, just sort of whimpered and moaned to all his questions and proddings. More than once he asked me, “What is wrong? I am not hurting her.”

“I know. I know,” I assured him, “She’s just a god-awful idiot sometimes. I’m open to a series of shots and drills if you think it would straighten her out. That’s a killer set of pliers you’ve got over there. Let’s attach them to her fingers and toes and start twisting until she promises to act her age.”

In the end x-rays were shot, molds were made, and the dread retainer was ordered—all by the assistant, as the orthodontist clearly didn’t want to deal with her. Sadly, I don’t think I ever managed to convince him that she really isn’t retarded, and she really doesn’t suck her thumb anymore.

The Hardest Kept Secret

Little Miss threw up last night. I sort of lost count, but I’m pretty sure it was 7, maybe 8 times at least. She kept me awake with her sobbing and dry heaving from 11:30 to 3:50 a.m.

She knew exactly when she was done though. After one last gagging spasm, she wiped her pale, puckered lips on her ruffled sleeve and said, “I want to go to my bed now.”

She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Leaving me, at long last, to fall onto the couch and sleep for all of 3 hours before Mister poked me in the ribs to ask, “Dude. What was going on last night? Is something wrong with Missy?”

Up until last night I was certain that my trip home to surprise my mom for her 60th birthday was well worth every penny, every hassle, every miserable minute spent in transit from here to there and back again. But something about last night—the stealth speed of the attack—its sheer volume and intensity—how does a 3 year old even produce that much vomit anyway?—the comical overkill of each successive assault—“Again? Surely not. There’s nothing left. Surely you must be mistaken. No? Well. Okay then….”—felt like payback, like some sort of cosmic comeuppance for my foolish notions of independence and autonomy.

Welcome home, Mom! Glad you had a nice trip. Now kindly set your bags down, cuz’ we’ve got some shit for you to clean up.

Nice. How very nice it is to be home.

As for the trip itself—the secret—well, after seven long months, the cat is very much out of the bag now, isn’t it?

I’m happy to report that Operation Make Them Pee Their Pants was orchestrated, executed, and fulfilled to absolute perfection, thanks—in no small part—to my two accomplices Skinny Bitch Stace and my brother, The Partial Godfather.

I’m not exactly sure what my eager audience expects of me at this point. A blow by blow account of the week—even just that first weekend of surprises—would be time consuming. Frankly, I’m not sure I’m up to the task—you know?—given my crippling jet-lag, and sickly child, and all like that.

And yet, there are so many moments that should be documented lest they ever be forgotten. La Dragon being puked on by a total stranger during our final descent into Salt Lake, for example. Or the blank nods and terse smiles from the many members of the service industry that first day whom my mother insisted on telling that is was her birthday, and that her daughter, that one there, right! there! flew all the way from Norway to surprise her—ME!—Today! And I had NO idea. NONE! And ohmygod, I’m overwrought. Fetch me another drink! So we did.

Ohohoh! And remember that time during dinner when I was thanking Stace for all the work she did booking limos and making dinner reservations and stuff? And Stace grabbed my hand? And she said, “No no no. It was nothing. Ever since I was the Matron of Honor at your wedding….” And it was about to be a beautiful moment, because my wedding? it really was lovely, and we were about to bond over it or some shit like that. But then a light went on in Nan’s wine befuddled brain, and she pointed a finger at Stace and shouted, “AH! I remember you now! I do know you!” And it was so fucking funny, see? Hilarious. Because they had already spent the entire day together, and it was only just then that she recognized….Nah. Forget it. You probably had to be there. Or at least be drunk like we were.

I’ll tell you what wasn’t funny though. Being dumped out of a rented limo at 1 in the morning, in front of a house which no one had the key to, with a garage door which refused to open, and a bladder full to (I shit you not) BURSTING! That moment? That is a moment I would just as soon forget. But I peed on the neighbor’s lawn, so probably no one will let me. Assholes.

And the next day I got to surprise everyone on my dad’s side of the family. Even after an accidental phone call to Norway (way to drop the ball there Sparky) allowed Elder Miss to tell everyone I was there, they still managed to be utterly dumbfounded to see me standing at the door. A most excellent moment by any standard.

Alas, it is a sad truth that all good things must eventually come to an end. And to that end, it occurs to me that I have washing that needs to be put in the drier. Missy should be roused from her nap. Boy needs fetching from school. And Elder Miss needs help with her homework.

Welcome home.