Found Objects

One of the joys of having children is finding little artifacts, archaeological evidence of their imaginative play.

I was cleaning our kitchen, as well as my daughters' miniature one, when I discovered this little tea party on a tray. Each mismatched teacup with water inside, carefully arranged. Abandoned when a more exciting opportunity came along.

I'll look back fondly on this finding when during their adolescence, I unwittingly uncover more alarming evidence of their wild imaginings.

A Bit Bereft

It's not unusual for me to feel this way, at the end of a school year. I've given a lot of myself to students and school and now it's time to give back to my family.

Identity-wise, I feel adrift. Not connected to teachers in the same was I was now that I am an administrator, yet my heart not fully an administrator, I wonder who I am in my career, going into the third year of this Vice Principal journey--the year that I knew I would decide what's next.

I couldn't tell you. I really couldn't tell me.

In my house and in my 'hood, I need to reconnect too. I'm ready to settle into a daily routine with my kids, with fewer interactions based on getting ready to get out of the house. Meanwhile, neighborhood mothers are either like me, searching for their own balance and family harmony, or they've organized and planned with more available moms--and I am pawing at the door to be let back in, for the summer season at least.

I've reached my very last straw, going out with a bang as I am: administrator required training tomorrow, all-day test on Saturday, and a workshop for teachers I'm leading on Monday. Tuesday, summer starts.

My family feels my bare nerve endings, perhaps close friends do, too.

I'm not sure if I need Therapy, or just Summer.

Have I Told You I Unheart You, Mom?

Saturday morning my eldest daughter and I had a skirmish over her Polly Pocket Collection.

For those blissfully uninitiated into the World of Polly Pockets, "My Pollies," as my daughter affectionately calls them, are miniature Barbie-like dolls--less busty, perhaps--with stretchy plastic clothes and tiny little shoes and accessories.

Our daughter first fell in love with these infuriating little vixens when she was about two years old, when her interactions with the dolls consisted of bringing them to us for outfit donning or removal. If you're the parent of a little girl between the ages of two and eight, then you've likely uttered nasty expletives while wrestling a centimeter-sized rubber skirt onto a rubber two-inch Tart. Or you won't allow Polly Pockets in your home. More Power To You.

The benefit of Polly Pockets is that three years after her first foray into Polly's World, she's still happily wandering around in there. In terms of toy acquisition, we've been able to draft off the Polly Collection, adding few accessories over the years. Our firstborn spends hours, even days, making up stories and variously rearranging her Pollies inside her Disney Castle (Santa Gift '06). If we are gone for a day, or (gasp!) overnight, she runs into her bedroom First Thing to reacquaint herself with the Pollies she left behind.

It's kind of cute, when it's not emotional.

On Saturday morning, shortly after getting up, she was inexplicably tired. Tired as in, I just woke up but I need to go back to bed RIGHT NOW. Yet if my mom figures this out I will deny my exhaustion.

Hence, her irrationalism hit me late in the game.

The saga began when she asked me to search through her Bucket O' Pollies for some inscrutable object. I could not determine what she wanted; she could not meaningfully describe it. And there was no way I was pawing through a foot of rubbery Polly-ness to find some Plastic Mattel Holy Graille in the form of a Polly Purse. I told her, YOU FIND IT.

Her bad mood beginning to reveal itself, she lay down on the carpet and moaned, "No, YOU. YOU, Mommy. YOU," in a most annoying voice. I held firm, refusing to assist in a mission whose objective was getting lost by now in the Battle of Wills.

In frustration, she finally dumped her entire Polly Pocket Bin onto the floor. And then cried about the mess she had created. Her little sister, in an attempt to escape the scene of Polly Landslide, stepped on a sharp plastic Polly accessory and began wailing too.

In a predictable twist, prostrated/frustrated daughter changed the tune of her relentless lament to a whiny "I WANT A SNAAAAAAAAAAAACK," to which I responded, "Not until all the Pollies are back in the box."

Before she could begin pleading with me to HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP her, I realized this was the moment to take my shower, to drown out the whimpering, to see what unfolded during three minutes of relative alone-ness: Polly Clean-Up? Or Heightened Ululations?

Imagine my surprise when I turned off the shower and stepped out of the tub to find a note, sort of crumpled and left strategically for me on the sink.

One look at the illustration gave me an inkling this was my first Mom Hate Mail: a heart, emphatically X-ed out. There was mysterious writing above it: "EVEBUDUHAZ" and her name.

My daughter, silent now, but petulant, blurted that her note meant "EVERYBODY HATES ME."

Thoroughly amused, and impressed with my daughter's invented spelling, I mused, "Huh. So, when we are having fun, playing with you and snuggling you, do we hate you?"

"No, not when you are having fun with me. Only when you want me to clean up."

It's just the beginning.

So many more avenues for communication yet unexplored!

Dear Indigo Girls,

Tonight was your annual concert. I waited all year for June 19th to arrive. I tried my best (without being too annoying) to convince you that you could make the waiting less painful and the exhilaration longer lasting if you did two shows in my city in 2009 (yep, that was me, yelling my suggestion for next year from the sixth row).

I would BE THERE two consecutive nights, even THREE. I don’t even care if you wear, say, and sing the same stuff. You can do whatever you want as far as I am concerned. I’m yours.

This year five friends and I splurged for the dinner-and-ticket package offered by the waterfront hotel/restaurant venue where you took stage. The extra cost and meal ensured tickets in the first seven rows. WORTH IT. We had prime rib, halibut, soup, salad, bread pudding and cheesecake (okay, and also wine) in a restaurant filled with other hardcore fans. But dinner was really just the whipped cream on top of being so close to you on stage that I could see the sweat and spit flinging into the air as you sang.

The best news of the night is that you have a new album coming out in February. My paranoid fears that you two will suddenly quit singing together and stop touring were immediately allayed (for a year, at least). I've been wanting to tell you to keep on keepin' on, because I would love my daughter(s) to become fans, to come to concerts with me, to understand how important a community of women is, and how powerful love and the best of intentions are. I want them to know why I have been following you, appreciating your lyrics, and admiring all you do and portray, for so long now. I need a few more years--while the world needs you forever.

I've watched several gifted young artists launch their careers on the road with you (Kristen Hall and K's Choice are notable examples) and last year and last night Brandi Carlile filled the air with her incredibly rich voice and sweet stage presence.

I am so excited for your new album. I've used your songs in my English and Creative Writing classrooms because your use of metaphor is unmatched (example from your song "Ghost": "The Mississippi's mighty/but it starts in Minnesota/at a place where you could walk across with five steps down/And I guess that's how you started/like a pinprick to my heart/but at this point you rush right through me and I start to drown..." and the song "Virginia Woolf" explains why it's worth studying art and literature: "They published your diary/And that's how I got to know you/The key to the room of your own and a mind without end/And here's a young girl/On a kind of a telephone line through time/And the voice at the other end comes like a long lost friend..."

So I wasn't surprised to hear Emily's new song about the sea and Poseidon and safe harbors and stormy seas...smart allusions abounding. And then Amy sang a song with an almost Spanish melody, and lyrics about having "blackest boots" and "whitest skin"--a soldier blues, perhaps. The most gorgeous melody and words.

I loved that you celebrated the California Supreme Court decision to legalize gay marriage while you sang "The Power of Two" ("the steel bars between me and a promise/suddenly bend with ease/The closer I am bound in love to you/the closer I am to free...").

That's the thing: you have strong convictions, and they're clear in your music and the organizations you support. But you also understand the human side of the other side--which is often being middle American, being stuck.

I have joked with friends that your concert is like going to church for me. I don't mean to minimize religion or to deify you. But I think it would be nice to find a church that made me feel the way being at your concert does: that I am in good company, that what I am hearing is true, and that the mission is pure and simple.

So, I guess what I really want to say is, Thanks Y'all.

P.S. There's also the amusing restroom situation at your concerts, where all bathrooms become women's loos, except for some Porta Potties over by the smoking section. This area had the shortest line, of course, which is why I headed there during the break between Brandi's performance and yours. One guy leaving the head and walking past the long line of mainly females, declared, hands up, "I just want all you ladies to know: I put the seat up...and then I put the seat BACK DOWN."

No one clapped. But we laughed, for sure.

Missile of Mercy

Be careful what you ask for.

The trend during the past two weeks as our daughter recovered from ureter surgery was Incontinence. And then over the weekend, inexplicably and unexpectedly, it turned into Constipation.

(I apologize to you now, daughter, for this blog entry).

The Zoo Sleepover was a huge success, until the very end, when she didn't want to walk. Didn't want to do one more walkabout the zoo; didn't want to walk to the car. Her legs hurt. Her legs hurt, and well, she needed to go. Needed to go, but didn't want to, for fear that it would "sting."

As Sunday progressed, so did her discomfort. Incredibly, her appetite didn't abate either. As she moaned, she asked for food: Sure! Have more watermelon! And here's a drink of Metamucil, honey! We fed her just about every natural laxative we could conjure, cringing at the knowledge it was all just piling atop a Plug of Poop.

I'm happy to report that I never truly knew what it was To Be Constipated until after the C-section birth of this child, the one that just had her own surgery. We have matching scars now, and near-matching experiences. I won't go into detail about my own Descent Into the Bowels of (FROM) Hell, except to say the solution ultimately involved a relative making a late-night run to Rite Aid, my marriage is all the more intimate, and my brother got a new Hawaiian shirt out of the deal.

At about 9:00 last night, after hours of my little girl writhing in pain while curled up on our bed watching The Complete First Season of Fraggle Rock, I called my mother (my parents, by the way, deserve major props during this Post-Surgery Season: it was my father who called in a prescription for the pill form of the dreaded Raspberry-flavored Ditripan and who suggested we could revert to the preferred oral amoxicillin and shun the already-shunned sulfa antibiotics with which we came home from the hospital, saving us from more Medicine Meltdowns and filings at Child Protective Services).

Mom offered that the merciful thing to do at this point was employ the Suppository. Really, Mom? How do I suggest that to my four-year-old daughter?

YOU DON'T TALK ABOUT IT, was her response.

Hmmm. Let's see: Pardon me, kiddo, while I accidentally slip something somewhere I have told you No One Should Ever Go (until you're of consenting age, at least).

I had to wrap my mind around the concept of Merciful=Glycerine Missile Inserted Into My Daughter's Netherparts, as well as send her father on a mission for such accoutrements. And that was before we actually formulated a Game Plan for this Undertaking.

Needless to say, docking occurred, the details of which I will spare us, and move on to the OUTCOME, hahaha.

Her immediate response was to scream GET IT OUT GET IT OUT GET IT OUT.

A predictable, understandable response.

Unfortunately, her next move was to shriek CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLICE! CALL THE POLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIICE, screaming and yelling with fervor the likes of which we've neither seen nor heard before. It seems pertinent to mention here that it was a warm night and our windows were open wide.

I am still surprised we heard no sirens. Of course, I am now wondering what would happen--if anything--if murderers were in our house and we were screaming for assistance, only twenty feet away from the neighbors.

Less than ten minutes later, however, the Eagle Landed and it was All Over. The actual resolution happened peacefully, almost uneventfully.

And because my daughter is truly a sweetheart, truly a thoughtful little girl, the first thing she said to me was, "Thank you, Mommy, for putting that thing in my bum. I feel much better."

The Kind of Dad He Is

My husband and our eldest daughter just left for a Father's Day Sleepover at the Zoo.*

My husband is excited, because he is always excited--ALWAYS EXCITED--to embark on adventures with his children. It would not occur to him to wonder if there is a ball game on TV tonight that he will miss, to regret that they are not serving beer as part of Sleepover Supper, or to speculate on whether it will be dumb or boring or cheesy. He hasn't even figured out that he will likely not be one of the American fathers sleeping in tomorrow morning, as he will wake up in a tent, somewhere over by the camels. He is just simply psyched. And up for anything, as long as he is with his girl.

This dad flies kites with his daughters, takes them on neighborhood clean-up missions, teaches them how to garden, fish, and clean. He colors in coloring books. He swings at the park and splashes at the beach.

He laughs and snuggles and encourages. Though he is a coach, I know he will never push our children to be athletes in his image. He wants them to be who they are.

His temper is long. He listens carefully to the concerns and worries and protests of our children and treats them like thoughtful human beings. He hugs. He apologizes.

He is firm and consistent. He is a parent unto himself--he doesn't defer to me or to anyone else. He is not the kind of father--out with his kids somewhere--that moms feel the need to help out or advise. He is a natural.

He is the Morning Man, because I leave so early for work. He makes our kids (different!) breakfasts everyday and dresses them. He drops them off, fills out forms, volunteers, and attends open houses and doctor and dentist appointments.

And he has his own full-time job.

My husband is the kind of dad that inspires our elderly neighbor to pull me aside and confide that she thinks he is an amazing father...unique in the attention he gives our children and the patience he demonstrates.

Honey, our daughters are so fortunate to grow up in your care. And I am thankful that I raise them with you.

*What I love about the Father's Day Sleepover at the Zoo is that it is for dads and kids. The Mother's Day Sleepover at the Zoo, on the other hand, is for Moms Only. There must be women running the Sleepover Program.

Flossy

There was one day last week when we were in a post-surgery Honeymoon Period, when we thought it was all downhill from here. Home from the hospital with our daughter, both parents off of work, our patient spending the day painting, humming tunes, rather peacefully recovering. And going to the bathroom regularly, normally.

Ignorance is such bliss.

We didn't foresee the next nights of quarter-hourly trips to the bathroom, days of repeated accidents, and our daughter's frustrations at not being "better" yet and not being able to "hold it," while her little two-year-old sister returned from preschool triumphant at peeing on the potty. We're tired; she's ready to go back to school; her bladder is holding us--if nothing else--up.

But let's go back to that Honeymoon, shall we? Because last Thursday afternoon while all was calm at the ranch, I made a decadent sneak to Nordstrom, where the Clinique Bonus and all manner of other possible material things to stumble upon serendipitously awaited me.

I rarely make it to The Mall anymore. Whereas I make it to Target often. Because I can get diapers AND picture frames AND nephew's birthday present AND cleaning supplies AND maybe an inexpensive dress I don't have time to try on, but heck throw it in the cart AND even WINE. It's pretty seductive one-stop shopping for a time-challenged working mom.

The Mall, on the other hand, is intimidating and usually pointless, as I rarely have a mission and I am not the Aimless Mall Stroller I once was. Time and money are too precious. And clothes too hard to fit in these days.

I had a strategic mission on Thursday, though, and that was the Clinique Bonus. Not that I need another free lipstick the color of which I don't get to choose. But the opportunity to buy my annual foundation refill AND get some Free Stuff while I was at it was too hard to pass up when opportunity knocked.

But opportunity was actually flawed, because I escaped to Nordstrom during workday hours and left my little invalid at home. Which meant I was not only plagued by guilt, but paranoid that the mother of one of our students would spot me in the Individualist section of the store during the equivalent of 5th period at school and So Bust Me for not being at work. And I would be defenseless, with hangers over my arm and a lipstick in hand, agape, lamely explaining that my daughter just had surgery and I was taking days off to be home with her...well, except for this one wee outing...

I considered wearing my sunglasses, just in case.

Instead, I furtively slinked between displays, fingering dresses and tops while en route to the cosmetics section.

And oh! They were having a shoe sale, tempting racks of footwear filling my line of vision as the escalator descended. I didn't need any shoes. But if there happened to be a red pair...I am always on the lookout for that elusive, perfect pair of red shoes--with a heel--to wear with slacks or dresses (from Target, of course).

My current favorite pair of shoes I bought at a vintage clothing store. They're the first used shoes I've purchased for myself, since the notion of walking in previously-worn footwear generally gives me the heebie-jeebies. But these shoes looked brand new and were so so cool--forties-style heels of mauve/lilac faux snakeskin and a gold luster when viewed from the right angle, complete with peep toe and a little mid-arch strap.

High School Girls compliment me on these shoes each time I wear them.

But lately I have been mourning the fact that they're beginning to show signs of wear, pre-emptively anticipating their demise and the passing of my momentary coolness for having at least one hip item of clothing. Vintage clothing stores, like after all, don't sell diapers (thank goodness).

Imagine my glee when I spotted a Red Patent Leather version of My Favorite Shoes. On Sale. At Nordstrom. The first thing that crossed my mind besides These better fit me/nevermind I don't care/I'll wear them anway, was My two-year-old daughter will dig these shoes. She will totally approve. And wear them before I do.

My littlest girl has a remarkable shoe fetish. It involves her 1) coveting other people's shoes; 2) spending much of her days changing her footwear repeatedly; 3) taking all of my shoes out of the over-the-door shoe bag every day to clompclompclomp around the kitchen (making putting them back while I swear under my breath my own daily ritual). Her love for shoes is a trait recognized by anyone who loves her. She's only two, but she's a Shoe Girl.

So I asked the helpful, hopeful salesman for the other shoe in the pair so I could try them on. Alas, a little too big, with that gap between my heel and the back of the shoe that made them not uncomfortable, not falling off (there's that great strap across the arch!), but looking a little silly. No fear, says salesman, after delivering the bad news that this was The Only Pair In Stock. We have little pads we can add that will solve your problem. I'll throw them in the box. For free.

Ahhh, Nordstrom. You always make it better.

This is how I came home with the Clinique Bonus AND a spanky pair of fabulous new shoes that raised my toddler girl's eyebrows and had both daughters modeling for me within minutes (above).

Post-surgical daughter was fine when I got home an hour and fifteen minutes later. Phew.

And my clando trip remained on the downlow until now.