humor is good

Thing One is at that age wherein we are led to some challenging conversations. Like the one recently about cleavage. Not being so endowed myself, I wasn’t really prepared. And didn’t handle it well. Worse still, the showdown discussion took place in a trashy teen fashion store in a hellhole shopping mall. I nixed a low-cut top, which led to stomping out of the store and an afternoon of sulking and door slamming.

Revenge, with a grin, was hers when she threatened to wear this to Thing Two’s softball game:

end hiatus

The nice thing about being a grown up without a job is that sometimes you can just decide not to do something. Like not post things for awhile. Because sometimes it’s good just to do the living without the recaps.

And so.

A few things have happened in the interim. Thing One continued with the wrestling, all the way to the state championship. She took 4th — not bad after a season total of just 9 matches and two tournaments. I’m happy because those nasty stinky shoes can finally air out for a good long while. Thing Two has been quietly bopping along in school, doing well. Apparently doing weller than we knew: her math teacher pulled her aside and told her that she’ll skip a grade and move into Algebra 1 in the fall.

This is what makes parenting such a wild ride. Wrestling and Algebra? Where did those genes come from? Guess I should have had longer conversations with the UPS man…

What I’ve really been doing with my time is puttering in the garden. We’re up to about a dozen fruit trees now. Maybe this year we’ll even get some before the squirrels!

careful what you wish for…

From the time the Things were small, I had clear expectations for them: do well in school; learn to play a musical instrument (or two, or three), and play a sport. Thing Two? Check, check and check. Thing One? Um…gets good grades, albeit with much procrastination, drama, distraction, avoidance and panic. Now finally plays an instrument: electric guitar. And finally, after bailing on gymnastics, soccer, yada, yada until I’d finally given up, she announces that she has found a sport. She joined the school team. The WRESTLING team. The UNDEFEATED, mostly BOYS middle school wrestling team. That practices 5 days/week, 2-4 hours/day.

Last week we had our first parents meeting with the coach, wherein he shared the expected expectations like maintaining grades, showing up for practice, good sportsmanship, etc. Then there were the things I was NOT prepared for: warnings about how wrestlers are prone to contracting ringworm, scabies and herpes from the mats. Sigh. That injuries are to be expected. Sigh. Broken noses are not uncommon. I took a sidelong look at my beautiful, pristine Thing. Um, I suppose she could break her nose playing soccer. Yeah, I’ll go with that. Thankfully, there are a few other girls on the team, and even one in her weight class to spar with.

It’s been a few weeks now and I’ve grown accustomed to the post-practice debrief. “I almost flipped Bob! But Tim, he had me pinned right away. Jim smashed my nose into the mat, but I held on. We learned the Half Nelson today! I can’t wait to try it on you! Can I try a cross face on Thing Two?” Hang on. Family members are OFF LIMITS.

This weekend they’ll have their first match. Which means Thing One will likely be wrestling a boy, ’cause the other schools aren’t so enlightened. Only this boy will not be a teammate watching out for her. It’s a boy who wants to win. And maybe, um, other stuff. Sigh.

Every evening I watch the Volleyball girls leave the gym in their little short-shorts, knee pads down around their ankles with their perkly sports bags. Then come the wrestlers: dragging in dripping sweatsoaked oversized shirts and baggy pants, their shoes slung over their slumped and aching shoulders. They – girls included – look like cavemen returning from a mastodon hunt.

Oh, and another thing about wrestling? They weigh-in every practice. In front of everyone, all weights clearly announced. She’s tough stuff, that Thing.

And, as you can see from her choice of practice attire, she has a fully developed sense of irony.

Love that Thing.

auld angst syne: a holiday recap

It didn’t feel crazed while it was happening. Now that Things One and Two are back in school and Pop is back to work, all is returning to the usual pace. That’s a good thing. Not that the holidays were a bad thing. They’re just so, so much.

Any season that starts with pounds and pounds of chocolate, up to our elbows in in our hair, can’t be bad at all. Don’t tell anyone, but there are still a few truffles hidden away.

The Things mostly got along, but we’re definitely in the throes of adolescence. When they were babies, I wondered what it would be like when they were 12 & 13. We’re about to find out… Thing One will be 13 tomorrow.

No less a monumental transition, Pop turned 50 on New Year’s Day. A brand new 50 year old and and a brand new teen. Under the same roof. Uh-huh.

And to all you parents out there who thought it was a brilliant idea to give your kids Chocolate phones for Christmas and those pricey Abercrombie jackets…uh, thanks. The Things do just fine in the material goods department, but some of your little darlings would have done well to have gotten some manners for Christmas. Oh well… parenting wouldn’t be any fun if it weren’t a challenge. Nah.

The days roll on. While Global Warming may suck on a cosmic level, I can’t complain about the local effect.

Happy New Year!

sakes alive! it’s a meeeeeeeeracle!

One multimedia project on Geisha, complete with kimono and makeup. Check. Three math assignments. Check. Two Science worksheets. Check.  Done. Checked. Packed up. Ready for tomorrow morning. BOTH THINGS! Smiling Things!  Productive Things! See Dr. Suz do the happy dance.

sums it up

Actual, real life conversation in our happy home:

Thing Two: Are you kidding?!?!

Thing One: Yeah.

Thing Two: Are you serious?!!?

still feeling it

thankful, that is. Great family, great friends. Health scares in various quarters survived and conquered. Parenting challenges weathered. Perspective intact. Life is good.

We have very nice buns, Chez Dr. Suz

And we know how to wear our napkins.

 

 

Technoweenies, satiated, now passing around their toys.

Duck talk

 

Love ‘em, every one.

Perfect days have perfect endings.

live! american! girls! and the very special hotel room

Another reason that it is American Girl Place and not just a store is the Theatrical Revue. We had been tipped by a friend that it would be a quality production, drawing from the seemingly limitless pool of uber-talented adolescents farmed in the Southland.

When you book your tickets ($30 each, mind you) you are subjected to a lengthy recording warning of no flash photography, no recording devices, no children under three, suspension of disbelief required, services available for the blind, deaf and feeble. When we arrived at American Girl Place, we were told that we must check in with the concierge before the show, where we were reminded of no flash photography, no recording devices, no children under three, suspension of disbelief required, services available for the blind, deaf and feeble. After we shopped our little feet to mush, we met up with Uncle Bubba and Auntie Pass (yeah! kindred souls for mom!), drank down our beverages (no refreshments, no bags, no coats – forgot that bit) and – even though we arrived at 4:00 on the dot, we were held outside the theatre “while the performers enter the stage through the audience”. While Biff the doorman had us captive on the steps outside the door, he took the opportunity to remind us that there was to be no flash photography, no recording devices, no children under three, suspension of disbelief required, and services are available for the blind, deaf and feeble. ‘Kay then.

We were ushered into the Very Tiny Theatre by a real professional usher complete with outfit and teeny flashlight. Class Place, this. First thing I noticed was the live band (okay, two guys with sampling keyboards and a talented multi-instrumentalist) in a little hut off to the side. Good music bodes well. Apparently by arriving on time, we missed the premise of the entire show. Fortunately, it didn’t take long to surmise. Six or seven girls had formed an American Girl club, wherein they would get together and take turns acting out the stories of their dolls. But, oooh, heavy overtones, there was a new girl, who’s parents had recently * gasp* divorced. She was therefore, sad, lonely, withdrawn and *gasp* lacking a doll of her own.

I will not bore you with the total recap, but will share a few scary relevant tidbits from Kaya’s story. Kaya is a strong-headed, impulsive Native American girl. Her sister is blind. Kaya’s nickname is Magpie, because she is irresponsible and thinks only about her self. Note to readers: Thing One is also nicknamed Magpie because of her lifelong attraction to, and hoarding of, bright shiny objects. In our tale, Kaya is ticked that her horse was traded to some shady characters. She, and Sweet Blind Little Sister, impulsively and irresponsibly take off after the horse traders. Sneaking into their camp, they are discovered and captured. Stupid horse thieves don’t tie up the blind girl, who promptly sets Kaya free. Kaya then leaves Sweet Blind Little Sister with the horse thieves. In the dead of winter. And runs back home. Whoa. It’s a parable of the lives of Thing One and Thing Two. The rest of the show? Singing, acting out tales – escaped slaves, mexican medicine girl, child of the depression (no, not that depression), WWII Victory girls – dancing and a rousing sing along to wrap it up. “I will be brave, I will be strong. I will smile and sing along…”. Thing Two enjoyed it, the girls were indeed talented and the band in the box? Rocked.

After meeting back up with Thing One and Dad, Uncle Bubba and Auntie Pass joined us for dinner and wandering in the LA Farmer’s Market. We were happy after a long day to retreat to our Very Special Hotel Room. You see, I, being the most perfect mommy, had booked a mini-suite with the Very Special American Girl Experience Package. Our hotel was in a great location just off Melrose near the Design Center. Having been converted from an apartment building, each room is really a suite, complete with kitchen and living room. Our Very Special Room also came with an authentic American Girl doll bed and a swanky American Girl toiletries kit for Thing Two. Thoughtfully, the milk and cookies had been upgraded to also accomodate Thing One. Nice touch.

Kids being kids, they checked out every drawer, door and cranny in the room. “Look! The scale only goes to 80 lbs!” Each Thing is substantially larger than that (dense bones, I tell ya…) so they had great fun stomping on the scale that would not pass 80. A little silence (never a good thing), then… “Moooooommmmm? Whaaaaaaaaat’s this?” Two, climbing down from the room safe, hands me a 2″ square little ziplock baggie imprinted all over with red lips. And filled. with. white. powder. I didn’t hesitate to take swift and decisive action: “Go ask Dad.” Dad has professional experience with the underbelly of society, therefore he is an expert. He confirmed that it was in fact an illicit substance. Much discussion ensued. Two wanted to call the front desk to turn it in. One wanted to put it back and wait for the Russion Mafia to come back for it. Mom wanted to sit down and blog about it. Dad washed it down the sink.

And that is how our Very Special American Girl Experience room came to be known as the Very Special America’s Next Top Model Experience room.

all the pretty plastic people

Not plastic at all, our real-life friends K & F enjoy a fancy-schmancy American Girl lunch

“Shhhh. Hear that? That ‘tap-tap’? It’s the sound of an army… of little feet… marching. Hide! They’re trained assassins. It’s not safe here! We’ve got to RUN!!!!” So narrated by Thing One upon entering the American Girl store in LA. Thing Two? Not amused. Therein lies the dichotomy of my precious darlings. 21 months and an ocean of attitude apart.

This being Two’s special day, One was promptly dispatched with Dad to go wander elsewhere, anywhere else. Apparently, the snark fest continued down the escalator where One and Dad were intercepted by Jay, the American Girl concierge. Recognizing a kindred soul of snotty sarcasm, he offered to refund their non-refundable theatrical revue tix because, as he put it, “Honey, I have seen that show and I can tell from looking at you that you. will. not. survive.” In the interest of preserving the innocence of the intended audience, he tore up their tickets and directed them to the movie theater a few doors down. I said a little prayer hoping that Dad would have the good sense not to let One see Borat. She’s enough of that on her own.

Back to real intent of this entire trip: spending. Thing Two hordes cash. She’d saved up a sizable amount and we were there to spend. We began with recconaissance. Note that it is not called an American Girl store. Oh, no. It is American Girl Place. Because it is so much more.

Downstairs we found the Salon. And I quote, “Treat your doll to a new ’do! Give her a sassy ponytail flip, an elegant bun, or a long braid. Visit the Doll Hair Salon and let one of our specially trained stylists work magic on your doll’s hair. And be sure to ask about adding on a Pampering Plus package for dolls, complete with a facial scrub and nail decals.” At the last minute, Two had pangs of conflict and left her dolls in the hotel room, so the Salon experience (which I was secretly looking forward to) was not to be. Onward.

At the top of the escalator is a display case with every version of the Just Like You dolls, dressed in identical lavender cardigans and skirts. There had to be 50, standing in tiers, their eyes following me… “Tap, tap.” I’m thinking Chucky; Thing Two is thinking, “Which one, which one?”  Oh! But ahead there is more! Each of the historical dolls has their own mini-boutique with a large display of their period accessories. I will allow that the wee cups and chairs and binoculars and ooooooh, the typewriter, are pretty cool. I made a compelling pitch for the typewriter (little keys! carriage return!), to no avail. Onward.

The modern girls accessories line has its own TWO rooms to explore. After about 15 laps to examine every doll and every outfit, I entertained myself with people watching. Let me tell you, if you are a student of humanity, THIS is the place. I could write a tome on parenting, consumerism, modern mores and child psychology from the days hours spent enduring patiently standing by. The beautiful sad looking Russian woman buying three dolls, a suite of furniture and two giant bags of outfits and accessories. The little girl – no more than three – trying on a dress, cocktail-ready…bigger girls and their dolls dressed alike…and, god help us, some moms, too… over-stimulated, over-indulged Wonka-brats pitching ugly fits…

But – oh! Look at the time! It’s nearly 2:00 and K & F from our home town will soon be here for their seating in the cafe! If we’re quick, we can catch them…and lo, we did. We, alas did not have reservations, so we escaped just as they sealed the cafe doors (no kidding, they really do), to get out there and spend. And spend, she did. The soccer outfit, the (admittedly kinda neat) gimp kit, school girl togs, jammies, and more, so much more.

 

Next up: The Theatrical Revue and the Very Special Hotel Room

 

 

 

mom is not ready

A few weeks ago was the first dance of the year at my daughters’ middle school (which means it was their first dance, ever). I was actually permitted to chaperone. My duties mostly entailed pouring gallons and gallons of cold water for sweaty kids. And observing. Closely.
Things have changed a bit since my last school dance. There was rather a lot of free floor space in the not-so-large auditorium. That would be because all the kids were packed into one compact bodybrick smack in the middle of the floor. The still really little 7th grade boys scurried back and forth across the room chasing each other with their Star Wars sabers. The 7th & 8th grade girls in their French Maid with Fairy wings or Mini Skirted Nurse in Nancy Sinatra Boots costumes did a sort of line dancing hip grinding lap sitting crack the whip dance thing. For every sub-pack of 10 or 20 girls, a few confident 8th grade boys would squeeze in, followed shortly by the wrestling coach and his flashlight. Bless that man.

My kid, who did NOT get dressed at my house, showed up in a black tank top, frilly mini skirt, high heeled Doc Martens and…black lipstick.

Huh.

There was a dramatic subplot (that I clearly missed) as her usual pack of smart girls with limited social skills floated around the perimeter in their Pirate Maiden dresses, occasionally stopping to try a few self conscious leg bounces and maybe a slightly raised arm or two. No sign of my kid. For about a week there were rumblings in her social unit; it appears that the tectonic shift had occured and she’s been shuddered off on her own. About midway through the evening, she appeared at the snack table, hair dripping with sweat, “I learned to dance tonight!”.

Uh, great?

Now that I had a clue as to where to look, I did spy her from time to time dancing with a group of grrrrrrrlz at the front of the stage. Jacket down around her elbows, shoulders back and wagging.

I am. so. not. ready.