“What’s it like to live your whole life in the south and move to the north?” I keep getting this question and I have been afraid to blog about it because I just have this feeling that someone will get offended or get their feelings hurt. If I say I love living up here everyone at home will go off and if I say I want to go home everyone around here will go off. Then I decided people are people and they want to go off anyway over anything, so I would just go ahead and do it. How The Mommy Quack went from North Carolina to the north. I have thought about this long and hard, and it will be divided into three separate posts, parts 1, 2, and 3. Today, you get part 1. Enjoy!
Part 1: My roots and my early images of the north, Birth-1997
I grew up in the city of Greensboro, North Carolina. It is the third largest city in the state. It is famous for the February 1st Woolworth sit-ins, and probably other things I don’t have time to Google. I was obsessed with Study abroad when I got to college, but I never once thought about leaving the south other than that. I wanted to get to Raleigh, the capital. I knew I would go to school there and I planned to stay there. Don’t know why now, but I did. I moved to Greensboro in the second grade and I stayed, my parents were from the area and all my grandparents were there. I grew up with the same kids from second grade until we graduated. There were very few changes in the group. Everybody knew somebody else somehow, that’s the way I remember it anyway. I knew very few people from “The north.” If they were from the north, they had been in the south a long time.
When I thought of the north, my first vision was Gone with the Wind. I have only seen it once and that was when I was in Kindergarten and I remember Scarlet, I think it was Scarlet, throwing dirt in a “Yankees” face. That must have meant they weren’t nice people. I have not seen that movie since, and I probably should. I also thought, as a five year old, that “Yankees” were going to burn my house down. My parents should have explained that one, but then again, they also let me stay up for Dallas, so what would be wrong with Gone with the Wind?
I went to high school with a girl who told me that John Irving was the only contemporary author worth anything. I naturally had to keep up with her and read all of his books. These gave me my second round of northern images. The boys were on the wrestling teams. The characters were funny, but it wasn’t slapstick, ha ha funny. It was dry, ironic humor. They were opened minded and they explained that there was more than one way to view a problem. Garp’s mom was a single working mom and her best friend was a transsexual. That didn’t happen in Greensboro. In the north they had granite quarries and orchards for cider houses. They never seemed to complain about the heat and they were always jumping into bed with each other. It was always cold and everybody could drive in the snow. To this day, almost twenty years later, I still remember reading The World According to Garp, The Cider House Rules, and A Prayer for Owen Meany. Irving made me want to go to a prep school in Massachusetts. I would have cut my tongue out for Ellen James. Well no, probably not.
In college, the next “Yankee” I was introduced to was Kevin Smith. I love that man. I really, really love his work. I will even admit to a giggle during Mallrats, OK? I’m surprised I wasn’t kicked out of the theater for laughing so hard during Clerks. So everyone in New Jersey smokes, cusses, and watches hockey. Got it. And again, the humor was more my speed. Chasing Amy defines our generation in a lot of different ways, but I digress.
I made real northern friends the two times I studied abroad. The first time in Ecuador, I was taking this class, and I met Ecuadorians absolutely, but there were two girls from Brooklyn that were there too, Lisa and Michelle. I don’t think at the time I knew Brooklyn was a borough of New York. Michelle lived in the apartment above the laundry mat/dry cleaners her parents owned, in the “neighborhood.” After we got back from Ecuador I was in Greensboro for Christmas and my phone rang. It was Michelle from Brooklyn calling to wish me a Merry Christmas, but then she went off on me because she called directory assistance at my college and they gave her my mom’s address and phone number. She ranted and raved for five minutes, “I could have been anybody! I could have been a stalker! She just handed over your information young lady!” It never occurred to me to be more cautious. Of course, why did she call and ask for it? So I took this to mean they didn’t give out important information so freely in the north.
My second two friends from the north were Jeannie from Boston and Kysa from New Jersey. I met them on the airplane to Madrid. I also met a really cool girl who went to Bates in Maine, and all I could think was Maine? Wow! All the way up in Maine? Where is Bates? I had never been past New York, New England sounded so beautiful. Kysa attended a women’s college very different from the one I attended. At Meredith you had to jump through a lot of hoops to start “alternative” clubs back then. At Barnard the only club not allowed to have a charter had something to do with girls interested in, um, better not say here, email me if you have to know. Jeannie used to save my phone messages and play them for her friends so they could hear my “cute accent” for themselves. Good times.
This was my exposure to the north during the educational phase of my life in North Carolina: reading John Irving, watching Kevin Smith, and studying abroad with others from the north. I wasn’t even in the States with them. I know the rules to the Southern Belle Primer. I might not always follow every single one of them, but I know them. I don’t wear white shoes after Labor Day. All three of my children have good, solid family names. I ate my grits and drank my iced tea and loved barbecue. I was living the southern way.
And then I got my first teaching job in Cary…..
(End of Part 1)
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
What to do when On Demand is not on demand
I don't know what the hell parents of children with autism did before things like youtube, DVDs, and On Demand cable. I remember the scene in Rain Man, when Tom Cruise pulls over on a country road and begs a lady to let them watch The People's Court. That was a pretty creative solution until he bought the little television. I totally get that scene now.
I have blogged about the Imagination Movers before. My kids love that show. I could go on about how I am a tad disappointed that Knit Knots was fired from season two. My only main comments there are 1) What does Nina do now other than act as a "groupie" for the band since she no longer works for her Uncle Knit-Knots? and 2) I hope the actor was well compensated or has other acting opportunities ready to go because they put him through a lot last season, including carrying around a pet rock, watching paint dry for fun, and dressing up like a cu cu machoo that couldn't speak English. Then they go and fire his ass....
So the point is my child loves this show. So much that we sprang for tickets for their concert in November. She understands it will be crowded, she understands it will be loud. But she wants to go and you better believe you will be reading a blog about it later. I have always been grateful that she can go to school and come home and watch Imagination Movers to decompress while I get dinner done. She knows how On Demand cable works, and she can read the names of the shows on the buttons to choose from.
A couple of days ago, The Imagination Movers were removed from the ON Demand menu. To say that a tantrum followed is a bit of an understatement. We have a DVD of them as well, but alas we have no DVD player at this time. I took for granted that I would always have access to cable. What was a mother to do? A good mother would have held her and said life wasn't fair. A perfect mother would have said "let's go color." A superior mother would have said, "How about we read some books." And a guilt trip mother would have said, "Have you seen Slum Dog Millionaire? CHILL!" Now, who is ready for what the Quack Mother did?
As much as I hate math, I can count to four, and a light went on in my brain stormin' head. I found Noggin, now Nic Jr., on Demand and hit an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba as fast as I could. As soon as my man DJ Lance Rock had the toys coming to life, I held her close with her special blankie and said, "Look Frannie Monster! The Imagination Movers are wearing Yo Gabba Gabba costumes today!" Four movers, four Gabba Gabba friends. Scott is Muno, Rich is Foufa, Smitty is Plex, and Dave is Brobee. Nina comes over and voila, we have Toodee. She smiled and said they did a great job pretending to live in Gabba Land. My four year old, catching on, nodded and said that I sure did solve an idea emergency.
Any mom can brainstorm. But the mother of an autistic child needs the quick thinking of the Imagination Movers combined with the wackiness of Yo Gabba Gabba daily.
Think Fast ladies,
Page
I have blogged about the Imagination Movers before. My kids love that show. I could go on about how I am a tad disappointed that Knit Knots was fired from season two. My only main comments there are 1) What does Nina do now other than act as a "groupie" for the band since she no longer works for her Uncle Knit-Knots? and 2) I hope the actor was well compensated or has other acting opportunities ready to go because they put him through a lot last season, including carrying around a pet rock, watching paint dry for fun, and dressing up like a cu cu machoo that couldn't speak English. Then they go and fire his ass....
So the point is my child loves this show. So much that we sprang for tickets for their concert in November. She understands it will be crowded, she understands it will be loud. But she wants to go and you better believe you will be reading a blog about it later. I have always been grateful that she can go to school and come home and watch Imagination Movers to decompress while I get dinner done. She knows how On Demand cable works, and she can read the names of the shows on the buttons to choose from.
A couple of days ago, The Imagination Movers were removed from the ON Demand menu. To say that a tantrum followed is a bit of an understatement. We have a DVD of them as well, but alas we have no DVD player at this time. I took for granted that I would always have access to cable. What was a mother to do? A good mother would have held her and said life wasn't fair. A perfect mother would have said "let's go color." A superior mother would have said, "How about we read some books." And a guilt trip mother would have said, "Have you seen Slum Dog Millionaire? CHILL!" Now, who is ready for what the Quack Mother did?
As much as I hate math, I can count to four, and a light went on in my brain stormin' head. I found Noggin, now Nic Jr., on Demand and hit an episode of Yo Gabba Gabba as fast as I could. As soon as my man DJ Lance Rock had the toys coming to life, I held her close with her special blankie and said, "Look Frannie Monster! The Imagination Movers are wearing Yo Gabba Gabba costumes today!" Four movers, four Gabba Gabba friends. Scott is Muno, Rich is Foufa, Smitty is Plex, and Dave is Brobee. Nina comes over and voila, we have Toodee. She smiled and said they did a great job pretending to live in Gabba Land. My four year old, catching on, nodded and said that I sure did solve an idea emergency.
Any mom can brainstorm. But the mother of an autistic child needs the quick thinking of the Imagination Movers combined with the wackiness of Yo Gabba Gabba daily.
Think Fast ladies,
Page
Monday, October 5, 2009
I need more Barbie!
Please forgive the week without any posts. We moved, Kevin is out of town, and I have had a lot of work to catch up on. Since I stayed one night in a hotel and just changed houses, I haven’t really had a grocery store diary either, except maybe taking the baby to the 7-11 for whole milk while he ran up and down the aisles touching everything and laughing.
I thought I would talk about another toy that has a special function in our house. I’m talking Miss Thing herself, Barbie. Barbie and I go back, I had the mansion in 1978. Maybe it was in Greenwich. No, it couldn’t have been with those pulley elevators. I remember I got in big trouble for taking a chapstick and smearing it all over the Barbie doll’s hair. I had Western Barbie, and if you pressed her back she would wink. My aunts were only eight and thirteen at the time, and their bathroom was full of Barbie perfumes and make up that I wasn’t allowed to touch. I bet if I went over to my grandparent’s house tomorrow it would still be in the medicine cabinet upstairs.
Yes, yes, we can debate the importance of Barbie in pop culture and what she means to little girls. I googled it and got all kinds of crap. Feminism Friday had a good one, The Body Shop had a poster about ten years ago, and did you know what her real life measurements are? I remember that fact being flashed at Lollapalooza back in 1992. Don’t knock her, she has had so many different careers she is ready for anything. I have a Spanish Teacher Barbie the nieces gave me a good eleven years ago one Christmas. I love that thing. I would go back and forth between wanting a convertible like Barbie or a jeep like Barbie, and then I remembered I can’t drive worth a crap no matter what it is.
So let me bring this back down to today. I have a little girl, and that little girl doesn’t play like other children. I also have a mother with four grandsons and wants to give my daughter dolls. My daughter has about six Barbies and a Ken in counting. They sat there for three years. The poor little Barbies, if they were played with at all they were lined up in front of mirrors to be left alone to stare at their beautiful reflections. Then last year, during Pre-K, something happened, and you will never, ever, hear a harsh, sassy word come from my mouth about that doll again. (Well, ok, maybe one.)
Frances comes home from school and tells us nothing. She couldn’t re-tell a story, or sequence events. If I ask her how her day is she says, “fine.” If I ask her what she does, she says “Nothing.” Now I know that all kids do this, but you can talk a kid into a story with the right bribes. But I still got nothing. Frances also comes home and plays alone. This is part of her autism, some might call it her “stem” but I am not good on terminology, I leave that to the experts.
One day last year, she was in the playroom and I heard her talking to the Barbie doll, she had named it, “Maddie,” then she had another Barbie named, “Bella” (I’m making these up). She named each Barbie and Ken for a student in her class and they kept the same names all year. Then each day she came home and re-enacted the entire preschool day with the Barbies. I knew who answered a question, what was said at circle time, who went to OT and who had speech. She could tell me through the Barbies what each kid had for snack. She would sing songs and do the weather.
Her brain rocks and her memory blows me away. I can’t remember what snarky comment I made to the woman at the library that handed me her mommy business card. This also means I have to be careful what I say around her. Once “Mommy Barbie” was on a toy telephone like this: “Uh huh uh huh, ok. Bye bye (hang up toy phone) Idiot,” and then “Mommy Barbie” rolled her eyes and shook her head.
A couple of other moms in our groups tell me this is wonderful pretend play. I go back and forth on this being pretend play. She is acting out her day using dolls that look like people, which according to Barbie History, is what she was originally designed to do. It is a start but not exactly there. Barbie is giving me hope though.
I am always searching for toys and games and the educational stores to find things to get my daughter to talk and sequence. Who would have thought that I would just need more Barbies? Now I’m looking for Barbie everywhere. Yard sales, consignment stores, I am searching toy bins at Wal-Mart. We must have a Barbie or Ken for each member of the class. Thanks Barbie, you might have made me feel like shit about my breast size, but you have given my daughter an outlet and a way for me to spy on her day.
I thought I would talk about another toy that has a special function in our house. I’m talking Miss Thing herself, Barbie. Barbie and I go back, I had the mansion in 1978. Maybe it was in Greenwich. No, it couldn’t have been with those pulley elevators. I remember I got in big trouble for taking a chapstick and smearing it all over the Barbie doll’s hair. I had Western Barbie, and if you pressed her back she would wink. My aunts were only eight and thirteen at the time, and their bathroom was full of Barbie perfumes and make up that I wasn’t allowed to touch. I bet if I went over to my grandparent’s house tomorrow it would still be in the medicine cabinet upstairs.
Yes, yes, we can debate the importance of Barbie in pop culture and what she means to little girls. I googled it and got all kinds of crap. Feminism Friday had a good one, The Body Shop had a poster about ten years ago, and did you know what her real life measurements are? I remember that fact being flashed at Lollapalooza back in 1992. Don’t knock her, she has had so many different careers she is ready for anything. I have a Spanish Teacher Barbie the nieces gave me a good eleven years ago one Christmas. I love that thing. I would go back and forth between wanting a convertible like Barbie or a jeep like Barbie, and then I remembered I can’t drive worth a crap no matter what it is.
So let me bring this back down to today. I have a little girl, and that little girl doesn’t play like other children. I also have a mother with four grandsons and wants to give my daughter dolls. My daughter has about six Barbies and a Ken in counting. They sat there for three years. The poor little Barbies, if they were played with at all they were lined up in front of mirrors to be left alone to stare at their beautiful reflections. Then last year, during Pre-K, something happened, and you will never, ever, hear a harsh, sassy word come from my mouth about that doll again. (Well, ok, maybe one.)
Frances comes home from school and tells us nothing. She couldn’t re-tell a story, or sequence events. If I ask her how her day is she says, “fine.” If I ask her what she does, she says “Nothing.” Now I know that all kids do this, but you can talk a kid into a story with the right bribes. But I still got nothing. Frances also comes home and plays alone. This is part of her autism, some might call it her “stem” but I am not good on terminology, I leave that to the experts.
One day last year, she was in the playroom and I heard her talking to the Barbie doll, she had named it, “Maddie,” then she had another Barbie named, “Bella” (I’m making these up). She named each Barbie and Ken for a student in her class and they kept the same names all year. Then each day she came home and re-enacted the entire preschool day with the Barbies. I knew who answered a question, what was said at circle time, who went to OT and who had speech. She could tell me through the Barbies what each kid had for snack. She would sing songs and do the weather.
Her brain rocks and her memory blows me away. I can’t remember what snarky comment I made to the woman at the library that handed me her mommy business card. This also means I have to be careful what I say around her. Once “Mommy Barbie” was on a toy telephone like this: “Uh huh uh huh, ok. Bye bye (hang up toy phone) Idiot,” and then “Mommy Barbie” rolled her eyes and shook her head.
A couple of other moms in our groups tell me this is wonderful pretend play. I go back and forth on this being pretend play. She is acting out her day using dolls that look like people, which according to Barbie History, is what she was originally designed to do. It is a start but not exactly there. Barbie is giving me hope though.
I am always searching for toys and games and the educational stores to find things to get my daughter to talk and sequence. Who would have thought that I would just need more Barbies? Now I’m looking for Barbie everywhere. Yard sales, consignment stores, I am searching toy bins at Wal-Mart. We must have a Barbie or Ken for each member of the class. Thanks Barbie, you might have made me feel like shit about my breast size, but you have given my daughter an outlet and a way for me to spy on her day.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Medium
Thursday was my 35th birthday. You hit a certain age, and your birthday means jack. You don’t get parties. The cards taper off. You really don’t need much, and you are watching the calories because you just can’t lose the weight from that third surprise baby. So birthday smirthday, I say.
Well, this year about a week before my birthday, I decided I wanted to do something crazy, or different. I narrowed it down to three choices: memorize a Vagina Monologue, get a tattoo, or have a psychic reading done. And honestly, I chose the last option merely because it required the least amount of time away from home.
All things paranormal are hot right now. We have Professor Trelawney in Harry Potter and The Ghost Whisperer. I am not saying if I believed or disbelieved, but I googled around until I found a “medium” in my small town. Let me say this, where I live we have quite a few spas, yoga studios, and psychics. Sometimes I think nobody told Connecticut the economy is bad. Googling worked for my son’s preschool, and it worked in this case too. I set up an appointment on my birthday, and with that, I had my first “reading” ready to go.
Now, I am not going into a lot of details about the actual session, and I’m not saying his name because he didn’t give me permission, but maybe he will sense that I wrote this and find it online. Hmmmm. Here are my “Mommy Quack” observations.
• He was incredibly good looking and had a great accent. I’ll bet women just pay up to sit across the room and stare at him.
• He made it very clear to me that I wasn’t who I was anymore, that my life was very different now. You mean I never gave a damn about sports and now I live to track the Steelers? Yep.
• It was really nice to know that my super anal grandmother is indeed NOT rolling over in her grave every time my toddler dumps his milk cup on the floor and tries to lick it up like a kitten.
• He said a lot of little subtle things that I am convinced there is no way he could have known, but that is just me…
• He asked me if I was always this dry and witty or was I just saving it for him? You guys will have to let him know the answer to that one.
• He said other things too, and I will say that, whether he googled the hell out of me or if my lovely relatives told him from the other side, I felt better about what he had to say.
• He DID NOT say stupid shit like, “EVIL spirits are after you and I can get rid of them if you give me a grand.” So don’t even think it.
When it was over, I told him that was the coolest thing ever, and thanks. Will I go again? It depends on how accurate some of his predictions are, but even then, I might go get that tattoo or memorize a story about my vagina.
Now, let me warn people who want to do something crazy on their birthday:
1) It is YOUR birthday and YOU decide how YOU want to spend it if you get a birthday check. Don’t worry about other people. Could you pay the phone bill with that check? Sure. But what are you going to remember in five years? Your crazy choice, whatever that is, or the bill?
2) If you tell people what you are up to, like when writing a blog post, be prepared for different reactions, for example:
• My brother in law pissed me off beyond belief by calling me Whoopi and telling me he was going to ride his unicorn to work the next day. I hope he sits on the horn.
• My sister’s friend is scared for my soul and wants me to do a cleanse and get healed by a priest.
• And my favorite? I have a good friend who said, “Really? Cool! Let’s go to Lily Dale and dance naked under the moon…..I am so there!
May you always do something memorable on your own damn birthday,
Page
Well, this year about a week before my birthday, I decided I wanted to do something crazy, or different. I narrowed it down to three choices: memorize a Vagina Monologue, get a tattoo, or have a psychic reading done. And honestly, I chose the last option merely because it required the least amount of time away from home.
All things paranormal are hot right now. We have Professor Trelawney in Harry Potter and The Ghost Whisperer. I am not saying if I believed or disbelieved, but I googled around until I found a “medium” in my small town. Let me say this, where I live we have quite a few spas, yoga studios, and psychics. Sometimes I think nobody told Connecticut the economy is bad. Googling worked for my son’s preschool, and it worked in this case too. I set up an appointment on my birthday, and with that, I had my first “reading” ready to go.
Now, I am not going into a lot of details about the actual session, and I’m not saying his name because he didn’t give me permission, but maybe he will sense that I wrote this and find it online. Hmmmm. Here are my “Mommy Quack” observations.
• He was incredibly good looking and had a great accent. I’ll bet women just pay up to sit across the room and stare at him.
• He made it very clear to me that I wasn’t who I was anymore, that my life was very different now. You mean I never gave a damn about sports and now I live to track the Steelers? Yep.
• It was really nice to know that my super anal grandmother is indeed NOT rolling over in her grave every time my toddler dumps his milk cup on the floor and tries to lick it up like a kitten.
• He said a lot of little subtle things that I am convinced there is no way he could have known, but that is just me…
• He asked me if I was always this dry and witty or was I just saving it for him? You guys will have to let him know the answer to that one.
• He said other things too, and I will say that, whether he googled the hell out of me or if my lovely relatives told him from the other side, I felt better about what he had to say.
• He DID NOT say stupid shit like, “EVIL spirits are after you and I can get rid of them if you give me a grand.” So don’t even think it.
When it was over, I told him that was the coolest thing ever, and thanks. Will I go again? It depends on how accurate some of his predictions are, but even then, I might go get that tattoo or memorize a story about my vagina.
Now, let me warn people who want to do something crazy on their birthday:
1) It is YOUR birthday and YOU decide how YOU want to spend it if you get a birthday check. Don’t worry about other people. Could you pay the phone bill with that check? Sure. But what are you going to remember in five years? Your crazy choice, whatever that is, or the bill?
2) If you tell people what you are up to, like when writing a blog post, be prepared for different reactions, for example:
• My brother in law pissed me off beyond belief by calling me Whoopi and telling me he was going to ride his unicorn to work the next day. I hope he sits on the horn.
• My sister’s friend is scared for my soul and wants me to do a cleanse and get healed by a priest.
• And my favorite? I have a good friend who said, “Really? Cool! Let’s go to Lily Dale and dance naked under the moon…..I am so there!
May you always do something memorable on your own damn birthday,
Page
Monday, September 21, 2009
The Grocery Store Diaries 3
Dirty Looks: 2, possibly 3, might just have been his face
“You’ve got your hands full”: 0 (didn’t have the baby with me)
Damage: One box of blueberries on the floor
By now no one is confusing these with the Red Shoe Diaries so don’t bother looking for David Duchovny. I had to write that in the spirit of the new season of Californication. This is how something weekly and ordinary can become extraordinary, at least in my world.
It was a beautiful day in our neighborhood and I decided that since Daddy was home and the baby was napping that the older two and I could go up to the green and we could stop in at the little “Guilford Food Center” for a few things I forgot at the Big Y. Yep.
The ride was fine, they know the rules now. Actually, Kenneth rides his bike and Frances skips beside him. She still doesn’t have quite the coordination to peddle for that long of a distance but she is happy enough in herself to skip along with her brother. Neither of them seems to notice that one can do more than the other. When they are together, they just “are.” I hope Frances and Kenneth always have that relationship. They both stop at every street and look both ways and wait for mommy. This is due to Barney and his annoying songs, not any good mothering on my part.
Kenneth parks his bike outside the store, and then the real fun begins. The aisles are tiny and the food is fresh, but they do have some general staples for the few people like me who don’t make a grocery list like they should and have to grab a couple of things they forgot.
My son goes running to the baking aisle for his volcano ingredients. He is really interested in volcanoes right now, so I constantly have to re-stock the pantry with vinegar and baking soda (I just learned from a friend that I can always dump the left over down the drains, by the way). We have plenty of food coloring, so I don’t have to worry about that this time, but I get to the baking aisle and they don’t just have “vinegar.” They have at least ten different specialty gourmet organic vinegars ranging in price from 7-11 bucks. Do I want to put that much into my son’s little science project? Then he looks at me sweetly and reminds me that it is magma when it is just baking soda and food coloring and we have to add the vinegar and then it becomes lava because it is out of the Earth. So we decide that the red wine vinegar might just do the trick. It might even be better than generic Big Y vinegar. He is so excited about setting off his volcano. Any day now it is going to fall apart and I will have to spend an afternoon making a new one. I am trying to talk him into a volcano birthday party because that would make me so much cooler of a mother than a Spiderman one.
In the mean time, Frances has meandered over to the fruit section. They have everything fresh and available for little hands to grab and I hope I stopped her before she took a bite out of an apple and put it back, I looked but I didn’t see any. She begs me for strawberries, but they were looking a little too fuzzy, so I bargained her into blueberries, which fell on the floor.
As we head to the little check out area, Kenneth starts to scream, “Don’t forget Daddy’s Diet Coke! You know how he is without Diet Coke!” Yes, we all know how Daddy is without his coke, and now so does the rest of the store.
As we are leaving a pretty teenager tells Frances she had to wear an eye patch when she was a little girl too, but they didn’t have the cool purple ones when she was small. This makes my child’s day!
We wander home through the green, say hello to the Civil War statue that I have accepted is a Union member, and my cell phone isn’t ringing, so I know that the baby is asleep and all is well.
A trip to the small store with only a few little setbacks.
I have some nice days all things considered…
“You’ve got your hands full”: 0 (didn’t have the baby with me)
Damage: One box of blueberries on the floor
By now no one is confusing these with the Red Shoe Diaries so don’t bother looking for David Duchovny. I had to write that in the spirit of the new season of Californication. This is how something weekly and ordinary can become extraordinary, at least in my world.
It was a beautiful day in our neighborhood and I decided that since Daddy was home and the baby was napping that the older two and I could go up to the green and we could stop in at the little “Guilford Food Center” for a few things I forgot at the Big Y. Yep.
The ride was fine, they know the rules now. Actually, Kenneth rides his bike and Frances skips beside him. She still doesn’t have quite the coordination to peddle for that long of a distance but she is happy enough in herself to skip along with her brother. Neither of them seems to notice that one can do more than the other. When they are together, they just “are.” I hope Frances and Kenneth always have that relationship. They both stop at every street and look both ways and wait for mommy. This is due to Barney and his annoying songs, not any good mothering on my part.
Kenneth parks his bike outside the store, and then the real fun begins. The aisles are tiny and the food is fresh, but they do have some general staples for the few people like me who don’t make a grocery list like they should and have to grab a couple of things they forgot.
My son goes running to the baking aisle for his volcano ingredients. He is really interested in volcanoes right now, so I constantly have to re-stock the pantry with vinegar and baking soda (I just learned from a friend that I can always dump the left over down the drains, by the way). We have plenty of food coloring, so I don’t have to worry about that this time, but I get to the baking aisle and they don’t just have “vinegar.” They have at least ten different specialty gourmet organic vinegars ranging in price from 7-11 bucks. Do I want to put that much into my son’s little science project? Then he looks at me sweetly and reminds me that it is magma when it is just baking soda and food coloring and we have to add the vinegar and then it becomes lava because it is out of the Earth. So we decide that the red wine vinegar might just do the trick. It might even be better than generic Big Y vinegar. He is so excited about setting off his volcano. Any day now it is going to fall apart and I will have to spend an afternoon making a new one. I am trying to talk him into a volcano birthday party because that would make me so much cooler of a mother than a Spiderman one.
In the mean time, Frances has meandered over to the fruit section. They have everything fresh and available for little hands to grab and I hope I stopped her before she took a bite out of an apple and put it back, I looked but I didn’t see any. She begs me for strawberries, but they were looking a little too fuzzy, so I bargained her into blueberries, which fell on the floor.
As we head to the little check out area, Kenneth starts to scream, “Don’t forget Daddy’s Diet Coke! You know how he is without Diet Coke!” Yes, we all know how Daddy is without his coke, and now so does the rest of the store.
As we are leaving a pretty teenager tells Frances she had to wear an eye patch when she was a little girl too, but they didn’t have the cool purple ones when she was small. This makes my child’s day!
We wander home through the green, say hello to the Civil War statue that I have accepted is a Union member, and my cell phone isn’t ringing, so I know that the baby is asleep and all is well.
A trip to the small store with only a few little setbacks.
I have some nice days all things considered…
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Picking Berries
When I was talking to my real estate agent about living in Guilford, the first thing she said was, “you are going to love living here, we have orchards and you can pick your own apples and berries.” I have never cut grass; I have only really raked leaves once because a friend of mine told me her dad said he bet I couldn’t. Now I was leaving the hustle and bustle of Pittsburgh to go pick my own berries? Nope. I don’t play the Grapes of Wrath.
We did try to do it the second weekend we lived here. It was apple season and you had to wait in line for the big trucks to take you up the actual orchards. This was before you even started picking the apples. The crowds were too big and the wait too long for any of my children, forget the one that can’t stand a crowd or loud noises.
When I was in high school, it was the early 90s and Kurt Cobain and all that grunge stuff was popular and my parents were divorcing. I was headed to a women’s college, and I was obsessed with Sylvia Plath. I loved her pain and her depression and the world hates me and doesn’t understand me angst. The bottom line is she was a girl from New England going to Smith and working for a magazine. Come on girl, you weren’t waiting in line at a soup kitchen. But I loved her. I wrote papers on her. I memorized “Daddy,” yeah, I know. I didn’t have much of a life then either.
OK, now I am a mother of three little ones and I know that Sylvia killed herself while her toddlers were napping. I know that isn’t funny and please don’t take this the wrong way, but who hasn't used naptime at least once for a full blown psychotic mommy melt down? But since I have other outlets and know, thanks to the internet, that I am not alone, dear Sylvia, you and I have parted ways. I will stay on the earth as long as I am allowed….
At least I thought we had parted ways until I agreed to a berry picking play date. It was my children and three other moms and their kids at the blueberry patch. All the kids were ready to pick berries with their buckets. It wasn’t nearly as crowded or confusing as that day in the apple orchards. They had the bushes marked for picking, and off we went. Yeah right. Sylvia’s brilliant Bitter Strawberries popped into my head, and it has stayed there. It was still there three months later when we went for raspberries with daddy. Here we go, my Blueberry picking against her memories turned poetry of her Bitter Strawberries:
All morning in the strawberry field
They talked about the Russians
Squatted down between the rows
We listened
We heard the the head woman say,
‘Bomb them off the map.’
In the blueberry fields, probably closer to eleven than the original plan of ten, the six kids all ran in completely different directions and didn’t hear a single thing any of the mommies said about healthcare, if we mentioned it at all…
Two Children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged
Page’s kids decide they would rather throw rocks than pick berries and invite the other boys to join in the fun. The baby squirms and wants to join them. He has incredible aim for a twelve month old. Wow.
How many quarts?
She recorded in the notebook
Most people’s buckets were filled and the totals were in the 20 dollar range, cash or check only. My three kids picked less than four dollars worth.
Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger
What nice fine motor skill work. Occupational therapists should really encourage berry picking, considering my daughter had about zero fine motor ability right before she turned three. I couldn’t get her to pick up a cheerio with a pincer grasp. I tried broken crayons, I tried three little pig finger puppets from Guatemala, and I tried popcorn. No go. But she did really love picking the blueberries for a little while. Then you remember no attention span and after about fifteen minutes, give or take ten, my kids were yanking on everything and shoving it in the bucket.
We did try to recreate our “Pick your own” experience with Daddy in the raspberry field, and I did try harder that day. They each had a hat they refused to wear, and I put sunscreen on them. But no one, and I mean no one, told me that raspberry bushes had prickles on them. Good night nurse the screaming that day isn’t worth writing about. Sometimes I am almost sure my husband wishes he had married someone else who would have given him cute kids that would have worn matching Gymboree outfits and filled their baskets to the brim without eating any or smearing berries on themselves or scream to get out of the stroller. Then we could have gone home and made tarts from scratch and read Jamberry together and scrapbook the day.
Sylvia so should have blogged….
We did try to do it the second weekend we lived here. It was apple season and you had to wait in line for the big trucks to take you up the actual orchards. This was before you even started picking the apples. The crowds were too big and the wait too long for any of my children, forget the one that can’t stand a crowd or loud noises.
When I was in high school, it was the early 90s and Kurt Cobain and all that grunge stuff was popular and my parents were divorcing. I was headed to a women’s college, and I was obsessed with Sylvia Plath. I loved her pain and her depression and the world hates me and doesn’t understand me angst. The bottom line is she was a girl from New England going to Smith and working for a magazine. Come on girl, you weren’t waiting in line at a soup kitchen. But I loved her. I wrote papers on her. I memorized “Daddy,” yeah, I know. I didn’t have much of a life then either.
OK, now I am a mother of three little ones and I know that Sylvia killed herself while her toddlers were napping. I know that isn’t funny and please don’t take this the wrong way, but who hasn't used naptime at least once for a full blown psychotic mommy melt down? But since I have other outlets and know, thanks to the internet, that I am not alone, dear Sylvia, you and I have parted ways. I will stay on the earth as long as I am allowed….
At least I thought we had parted ways until I agreed to a berry picking play date. It was my children and three other moms and their kids at the blueberry patch. All the kids were ready to pick berries with their buckets. It wasn’t nearly as crowded or confusing as that day in the apple orchards. They had the bushes marked for picking, and off we went. Yeah right. Sylvia’s brilliant Bitter Strawberries popped into my head, and it has stayed there. It was still there three months later when we went for raspberries with daddy. Here we go, my Blueberry picking against her memories turned poetry of her Bitter Strawberries:
All morning in the strawberry field
They talked about the Russians
Squatted down between the rows
We listened
We heard the the head woman say,
‘Bomb them off the map.’
In the blueberry fields, probably closer to eleven than the original plan of ten, the six kids all ran in completely different directions and didn’t hear a single thing any of the mommies said about healthcare, if we mentioned it at all…
Two Children laughed at tag
In the tall grass,
Leaping awkward and long-legged
Page’s kids decide they would rather throw rocks than pick berries and invite the other boys to join in the fun. The baby squirms and wants to join them. He has incredible aim for a twelve month old. Wow.
How many quarts?
She recorded in the notebook
Most people’s buckets were filled and the totals were in the 20 dollar range, cash or check only. My three kids picked less than four dollars worth.
Cupping the berry protectively before
Snapping off the stem
Between thumb and forefinger
What nice fine motor skill work. Occupational therapists should really encourage berry picking, considering my daughter had about zero fine motor ability right before she turned three. I couldn’t get her to pick up a cheerio with a pincer grasp. I tried broken crayons, I tried three little pig finger puppets from Guatemala, and I tried popcorn. No go. But she did really love picking the blueberries for a little while. Then you remember no attention span and after about fifteen minutes, give or take ten, my kids were yanking on everything and shoving it in the bucket.
We did try to recreate our “Pick your own” experience with Daddy in the raspberry field, and I did try harder that day. They each had a hat they refused to wear, and I put sunscreen on them. But no one, and I mean no one, told me that raspberry bushes had prickles on them. Good night nurse the screaming that day isn’t worth writing about. Sometimes I am almost sure my husband wishes he had married someone else who would have given him cute kids that would have worn matching Gymboree outfits and filled their baskets to the brim without eating any or smearing berries on themselves or scream to get out of the stroller. Then we could have gone home and made tarts from scratch and read Jamberry together and scrapbook the day.
Sylvia so should have blogged….
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Grocery Store Diaries 2
If I am to do this Bridget Jones style, I’m going to do it right:
Dirty Looks: 4
“You’ve go your hands full” - 3
Break anything: 0
Today’s trip was all about teamwork, starting with digging through the carts for the police one. The Big Y now has your choice of toddler carts. Before it used to be a Fire engine only, but now you can also ride around in a taxi or a police car. Someone had returned a blue police car cart, and my son was not going to sit in anything else. So after I pulled out three other carts with a baby on my hip, everyone was happy in the cop cart.
Usually all you have to do is push your cart up and down the aisles, grab what you need according to your list, grab what you need according to your cravings, or grab what you need according to the sale price. My son on the other hand decides that we need to be a team about it. It was Frances’ turn to sit in the cop seat while the boys were in the front. Kenneth decided that she should hop out and pick up the food, and then she should hand it to me. THEN I should give it to him to throw in the cart. How many people does it take to throw food in the cart? The answer is three apparently. We did this around the grocery store and it didn’t get old and he didn’t give up. “Frances give it to mommy, mommy, give it to me, now watch me put it in the cart.” It did prevent fighting and biting and it killed a rainy Saturday afternoon, so there you go.
The baby did decide to scream over a yogurt cup I wouldn’t let him eat today, since now I know his game, just in time for two little old ladies to look up and say, “What is that screaming?” Did babies in the 50s really act that much better? I doubt it.
The trip could have been worse, team work drags it out but definitely made it less of a headache.
Dirty Looks: 4
“You’ve go your hands full” - 3
Break anything: 0
Today’s trip was all about teamwork, starting with digging through the carts for the police one. The Big Y now has your choice of toddler carts. Before it used to be a Fire engine only, but now you can also ride around in a taxi or a police car. Someone had returned a blue police car cart, and my son was not going to sit in anything else. So after I pulled out three other carts with a baby on my hip, everyone was happy in the cop cart.
Usually all you have to do is push your cart up and down the aisles, grab what you need according to your list, grab what you need according to your cravings, or grab what you need according to the sale price. My son on the other hand decides that we need to be a team about it. It was Frances’ turn to sit in the cop seat while the boys were in the front. Kenneth decided that she should hop out and pick up the food, and then she should hand it to me. THEN I should give it to him to throw in the cart. How many people does it take to throw food in the cart? The answer is three apparently. We did this around the grocery store and it didn’t get old and he didn’t give up. “Frances give it to mommy, mommy, give it to me, now watch me put it in the cart.” It did prevent fighting and biting and it killed a rainy Saturday afternoon, so there you go.
The baby did decide to scream over a yogurt cup I wouldn’t let him eat today, since now I know his game, just in time for two little old ladies to look up and say, “What is that screaming?” Did babies in the 50s really act that much better? I doubt it.
The trip could have been worse, team work drags it out but definitely made it less of a headache.
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