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
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Mr. Potato Head Is Not A Secret
He is timeless. He requires no batteries. He does not flash or make noise. He is a potato head, that’s Mr. Potato Head to the world. I don’t think the version they have now has changed much since the original one. Here is the link to the history, but if you don’t feel like going there, I’ll say a few things. The year was 1952 and the plastic body parts were originally going to be prizes in a cereal box and mommy would provide the potato for hours of fun. I can see my kids sitting there with a potato punching pieces into it while I bake a cake from scratch. However, WWII was over, and people didn’t like the idea of wasting potatoes, but I bet the “people” were either childless or dads like Don Draper who were in an office all day and didn’t have to worry about how to entertain a child. Plus if we are going to try and save food, we shouldn’t put a toy at a bottom of a cereal box, but that is just me.
The actual plastic potato and all his body parts came together soon after, and everyone has loved him ever since. He has branched out a little with a Mrs. Potato Head and the spuds. You can go to the Mr. Potato Head website for cool ideas if you can’t figure out yourself he can teach body parts. My brother and I had a lot of fun screwing him up, putting his teeth where his shoes should be, stuff kids all over America have done forever. I would like to add that our potato head had a pipe! Who else had one with a pipe? They didn’t take Frosty’s pipe away, but that is another debate for later.
Mr. Potato Head has made his way into cinema. He had a leading role in Toy story. He introduced children to Picasso, which I appreciated much more than Jackson Pollack’s splattering which resulted in applesauce all over the kitchen. Men all over the world can take a lesson from him as he sat in the Barbie convertible, “I’m a married spud, I’m a married spud.”
My favorite Mr. Potato Head scene is from the 1983 movie War Games. Here we have the very young Matthew Broderick and Ally Sheedy talking to two computer hackers about how to break into a system. The big line: “Mr. Potato Head! Mr. Potato Head! Back doors are not secrets!” Does this mean that a backdoor is so simple someone that can play with the toy can break into a system using the secret password only the system designer knows? If I could follow the conversation it can’t be that difficult. What looks better with age: Matthew, Ally, the computers, or the potato head? I love that scene, but don’t stop watching. In the next part of the clip Matthew answers the question, “What did we do before Google?”
Teachers are all over Mr. Potato Head. When I started teaching Spanish, one of the first things I got as a gift from a fellow Spanish teacher was a Mr. Potato Head. I have taught Spanish from Pre-K to high school and all of my students get psyched when you pull out that potato head. All the hands go up in the air. Everyone wants a turn to push a body part into a potato and say “La nariz.” I love it.
When Frances started speech therapy four years ago, the first thing that skinny-minnie young pathologist did was pull out a potato head. The first thing my daughter did was scream and run away. For the first month Sally* would try to get her to point to body parts or ask for a body part and for a month my daughter would thrash and scream. Now, I don’t want to start a health care debate, but fifty dollars for thirty minutes of my own money was a lot for her to scream at a potato. I was also very pregnant with baby number two, and one day during a session I couldn’t wait any longer so I left the room to go to the bathroom and as I came back I looked through the window. There was my daughter pointing and signing and sitting nicely. She was working that potato head while mommy was out of the room! After that day, I started taking a People magazine and waiting in the lobby. Sorry. She also went through a phase where she only wanted potato heads. Her attention span was very flighty, so in a way it was good that he had so many parts. She could put them all on, take them all off, and start over again.
I guess I should thank Mr. Potato Head for all of his years of service: in education, in Speech therapy, and in pop culture. My baby is discovering his goodness and began playing with that potato head I was given (gasp!) thirteen years ago. Mr. Potato Head, you are my favorite carbohydrate: baked, scalloped, French fried, Spanish tortilla, oh have mercy……
The actual plastic potato and all his body parts came together soon after, and everyone has loved him ever since. He has branched out a little with a Mrs. Potato Head and the spuds. You can go to the Mr. Potato Head website for cool ideas if you can’t figure out yourself he can teach body parts. My brother and I had a lot of fun screwing him up, putting his teeth where his shoes should be, stuff kids all over America have done forever. I would like to add that our potato head had a pipe! Who else had one with a pipe? They didn’t take Frosty’s pipe away, but that is another debate for later.
Mr. Potato Head has made his way into cinema. He had a leading role in Toy story. He introduced children to Picasso, which I appreciated much more than Jackson Pollack’s splattering which resulted in applesauce all over the kitchen. Men all over the world can take a lesson from him as he sat in the Barbie convertible, “I’m a married spud, I’m a married spud.”
My favorite Mr. Potato Head scene is from the 1983 movie War Games. Here we have the very young Matthew Broderick and Ally Sheedy talking to two computer hackers about how to break into a system. The big line: “Mr. Potato Head! Mr. Potato Head! Back doors are not secrets!” Does this mean that a backdoor is so simple someone that can play with the toy can break into a system using the secret password only the system designer knows? If I could follow the conversation it can’t be that difficult. What looks better with age: Matthew, Ally, the computers, or the potato head? I love that scene, but don’t stop watching. In the next part of the clip Matthew answers the question, “What did we do before Google?”
Teachers are all over Mr. Potato Head. When I started teaching Spanish, one of the first things I got as a gift from a fellow Spanish teacher was a Mr. Potato Head. I have taught Spanish from Pre-K to high school and all of my students get psyched when you pull out that potato head. All the hands go up in the air. Everyone wants a turn to push a body part into a potato and say “La nariz.” I love it.
When Frances started speech therapy four years ago, the first thing that skinny-minnie young pathologist did was pull out a potato head. The first thing my daughter did was scream and run away. For the first month Sally* would try to get her to point to body parts or ask for a body part and for a month my daughter would thrash and scream. Now, I don’t want to start a health care debate, but fifty dollars for thirty minutes of my own money was a lot for her to scream at a potato. I was also very pregnant with baby number two, and one day during a session I couldn’t wait any longer so I left the room to go to the bathroom and as I came back I looked through the window. There was my daughter pointing and signing and sitting nicely. She was working that potato head while mommy was out of the room! After that day, I started taking a People magazine and waiting in the lobby. Sorry. She also went through a phase where she only wanted potato heads. Her attention span was very flighty, so in a way it was good that he had so many parts. She could put them all on, take them all off, and start over again.
I guess I should thank Mr. Potato Head for all of his years of service: in education, in Speech therapy, and in pop culture. My baby is discovering his goodness and began playing with that potato head I was given (gasp!) thirteen years ago. Mr. Potato Head, you are my favorite carbohydrate: baked, scalloped, French fried, Spanish tortilla, oh have mercy……
Monday, September 7, 2009
Finger Painting
Just the name ought to tell you to keep going and not throw it in your cart, but we buy it anyway. Finger painting is a rite of passage. It’s an “Our infant is now a toddler” kind of thing. I loved it when Frances was tiny. I remember her first birthday party when I just had one child. Afterwards, she slathered paint all over pieces of paper and I would let them dry. Then I would use all of the cool jagged scissors I had and scrap booking paper and blank cards from Michaels to make “Frances original” thank you notes. Nowadays, you can just be thankful you got a thank you note, OK?
Kids love to acceptably stick their hands in something funky feeling and smear it. Typically developing kids adore it, but autistic kids and other kids with sensory issues relish it. Frannie would get a grin so big on her face and dip her hands and arms in the paint and a sense of contentment would wash over her. She had to have it all over her hands and arms and in between her fingertips and squish it. I am only beginning to realize now that she was sensory seeking.
A year later we have her in a private preschool in Pittsburgh and she is studying artists (yes, I know, don’t take me there). All of a sudden, she is flicking applesauce around the kitchen and smearing it on the table. I begged her to stop, but she looked up at me and said, “Look Mommy, I Jackson Pollack.” I sent the director an email about the events that transpired in my kitchen and a request to have dear Jackson stricken from the curriculum. Then I thought I better send that woman a second note explaining I was kidding before my husband got a call in his office. Good choice on my part. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to say “joke,” then I would have gotten a six page letter about her aesthetic perception and how small children need the right to explore their artistic abilities and exposure to the fine arts and the big names. Um, my kitchen was covered in applesauce. That could have happened if I let her watch the WWE SmackDown.
So, you might ask, why do I keep buying this paint if it is so messy? Aside from her loving it, in some ways it is very low maintenance. How can you screw up finger paint? You can’t really. And anybody anywhere can find something positive to say about it. “She put a lot of energy into that one,” or “He sure was in a good mood when he made that gloppy mess.” You can let your own creative juices soar just describing it.
While I can go to the local Walmart for the paint, where I live they don’t carry the paper. Bummer. At first I was letting them finger paint on computer paper. The problem with that was that the paper would disintegrate under the paint and make a bigger mess on the table. I had to go the Purple Bear, the specialty toy store in town on the green. I was very proud of both of the kids on the way over. I specifically told them that we were going for finger paint paper and this was one trip before the grocery store. We were not looking or buying anything else. A parent could go bankrupt in there. The boys were in the stroller and Frances was next to them grinning from ear to ear. They were so good. I asked for shiny paper for finger painting because I decided it would go quicker if I just asked a sales attendant instead of torturing the kids by staying in there longer necessary. She looked at me like I was from Mars and then she said, “You mean glossy?” I took my own advice and semi-walked away from retaliating that shiny and glossy gave me the same connotation. Of course she was right about the glossy, so I am glad I just nodded and thanked her for bringing it to the front for me. That couldn’t be enough for a trip to the toy store with my crew. As she is putting the “glossy” finger paint paper in the bag, my big mouth three year old has to say “Mommy! Are we going to buy ketchup now?” The woman stared at the paper and then at me and said they carried the paint and I didn’t need to buy the ketchup. Good grief if I was going to just buy ketchup to paint with I wouldn’t stop there. I would buy mustard, mayonnaise, and pickle relish and then drag a shower curtain out to the back yard and totally have the neighbors fall in love with me as we smear condiments on the vinyl in the name of aesthetic pleasure.
I have had many a “Super mommy” moment with finger paint. There have been nasty rainy or snowy days in New England when I have mixed up a chocolate pudding box and had all three of them finger painting away into chocolate happiness. I have even been an extra super mommy and attempted to have them spell in it, or at least draw shapes and guess letters. The baby gets covered in it and cackles in delight to be part of the older two’s world. Nice.
You can spice finger painting up a bit by adding glitter and tools to paint with instead of your fingers. My kids love to use Q-tips, old tooth brushes, and sponges to smear their paint around. They have tried to use traditional paint brushes, but they really prefer the other things I mentioned. I am going to be brave and make my own paint some day. What else am I going to make with flour and cornstarch? I even have food coloring left over from my volcano attempt.
I have written before about our use of foam at bath time. They also love to use bath tub finger paint. Again, it is easily removed from the nice bathtub. They paint all over the tub and the walls, and I have been known in a “Super mommy moment” to challenge them and say, “Who can draw a circle first? Who can draw the letter T?” There is something in a little competition. I think they get it from the brother/sister bunny rabbit pair Max and Ruby, but they seem to love painting all over each other and laughing. It is paint/soap after all and at least on those nights they will all be squeaky clean. Another “mommy” (translatable gag) moment is to mix the paints as it says to on the bottles. Yellow and blue make green, red and blue make purple, red and yellow make, hey wait a minute, you know this, sorry.
I am not sure what purpose traditional finger painting serves other than to work on the fine motor skills and sensory delays. Maybe someday one of my children will find themselves in a remote jungle in Costa Rica being chased by an alien who likes to hunt for fun, but only has thermal vision, so they will need to quickly get that mud all over their bodies to hide their heat before he gets them. All of these Crayola kits that end up on the counter tops as I desperately try to get it up before my husband gets home are really going to come in handy then. Can’t wait…..
Kids love to acceptably stick their hands in something funky feeling and smear it. Typically developing kids adore it, but autistic kids and other kids with sensory issues relish it. Frannie would get a grin so big on her face and dip her hands and arms in the paint and a sense of contentment would wash over her. She had to have it all over her hands and arms and in between her fingertips and squish it. I am only beginning to realize now that she was sensory seeking.
A year later we have her in a private preschool in Pittsburgh and she is studying artists (yes, I know, don’t take me there). All of a sudden, she is flicking applesauce around the kitchen and smearing it on the table. I begged her to stop, but she looked up at me and said, “Look Mommy, I Jackson Pollack.” I sent the director an email about the events that transpired in my kitchen and a request to have dear Jackson stricken from the curriculum. Then I thought I better send that woman a second note explaining I was kidding before my husband got a call in his office. Good choice on my part. If I hadn’t been lucky enough to say “joke,” then I would have gotten a six page letter about her aesthetic perception and how small children need the right to explore their artistic abilities and exposure to the fine arts and the big names. Um, my kitchen was covered in applesauce. That could have happened if I let her watch the WWE SmackDown.
So, you might ask, why do I keep buying this paint if it is so messy? Aside from her loving it, in some ways it is very low maintenance. How can you screw up finger paint? You can’t really. And anybody anywhere can find something positive to say about it. “She put a lot of energy into that one,” or “He sure was in a good mood when he made that gloppy mess.” You can let your own creative juices soar just describing it.
While I can go to the local Walmart for the paint, where I live they don’t carry the paper. Bummer. At first I was letting them finger paint on computer paper. The problem with that was that the paper would disintegrate under the paint and make a bigger mess on the table. I had to go the Purple Bear, the specialty toy store in town on the green. I was very proud of both of the kids on the way over. I specifically told them that we were going for finger paint paper and this was one trip before the grocery store. We were not looking or buying anything else. A parent could go bankrupt in there. The boys were in the stroller and Frances was next to them grinning from ear to ear. They were so good. I asked for shiny paper for finger painting because I decided it would go quicker if I just asked a sales attendant instead of torturing the kids by staying in there longer necessary. She looked at me like I was from Mars and then she said, “You mean glossy?” I took my own advice and semi-walked away from retaliating that shiny and glossy gave me the same connotation. Of course she was right about the glossy, so I am glad I just nodded and thanked her for bringing it to the front for me. That couldn’t be enough for a trip to the toy store with my crew. As she is putting the “glossy” finger paint paper in the bag, my big mouth three year old has to say “Mommy! Are we going to buy ketchup now?” The woman stared at the paper and then at me and said they carried the paint and I didn’t need to buy the ketchup. Good grief if I was going to just buy ketchup to paint with I wouldn’t stop there. I would buy mustard, mayonnaise, and pickle relish and then drag a shower curtain out to the back yard and totally have the neighbors fall in love with me as we smear condiments on the vinyl in the name of aesthetic pleasure.
I have had many a “Super mommy” moment with finger paint. There have been nasty rainy or snowy days in New England when I have mixed up a chocolate pudding box and had all three of them finger painting away into chocolate happiness. I have even been an extra super mommy and attempted to have them spell in it, or at least draw shapes and guess letters. The baby gets covered in it and cackles in delight to be part of the older two’s world. Nice.
You can spice finger painting up a bit by adding glitter and tools to paint with instead of your fingers. My kids love to use Q-tips, old tooth brushes, and sponges to smear their paint around. They have tried to use traditional paint brushes, but they really prefer the other things I mentioned. I am going to be brave and make my own paint some day. What else am I going to make with flour and cornstarch? I even have food coloring left over from my volcano attempt.
I have written before about our use of foam at bath time. They also love to use bath tub finger paint. Again, it is easily removed from the nice bathtub. They paint all over the tub and the walls, and I have been known in a “Super mommy moment” to challenge them and say, “Who can draw a circle first? Who can draw the letter T?” There is something in a little competition. I think they get it from the brother/sister bunny rabbit pair Max and Ruby, but they seem to love painting all over each other and laughing. It is paint/soap after all and at least on those nights they will all be squeaky clean. Another “mommy” (translatable gag) moment is to mix the paints as it says to on the bottles. Yellow and blue make green, red and blue make purple, red and yellow make, hey wait a minute, you know this, sorry.
I am not sure what purpose traditional finger painting serves other than to work on the fine motor skills and sensory delays. Maybe someday one of my children will find themselves in a remote jungle in Costa Rica being chased by an alien who likes to hunt for fun, but only has thermal vision, so they will need to quickly get that mud all over their bodies to hide their heat before he gets them. All of these Crayola kits that end up on the counter tops as I desperately try to get it up before my husband gets home are really going to come in handy then. Can’t wait…..
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
My Daughter's Playlist
Twilight author Stephenie Meyer is a symbol for all of us stay at home moms. We actually have something going on in our heads and other women want to read it. One of my favorite things about her is that she writes to “playlists.” Like always, I need to back up. I got into trouble with some colleagues about four years ago because I allowed students to listen to iPods during a test. The principal sent out a nasty letter saying that they couldn’t be allowed to do this. I don’t know if this was coincidence or if I was tattled on, bygones anyway. After the note, I told my students, no more music. I agreed with them that it helped them focus, but the powers that be say no, so I say no. Those kids never had an iPod in class again, I’ll give them that. No harm, no foul. Enter this woman three years later reinforcing what I said back then. The music helps you concentrate. Duh…..
Everything she writes has a playlist, and I am beginning to think she is becoming the Oprah Winfrey book club for bands. It is a good thing to be on a Stephenie Meyer play list. I can’t imagine some idiot band saying, “No thank you Steph. Please remove us from your website and we could care less if we inspired the third paragraph on page 321.” Yeah right.
I am not a big music person; I don’t know what is good and what isn’t. My high school sweet heart ended up being a music producer in New York, so you would think this would have rubbed off a little, but all that came of it is that I can tell you that the three members of Rush are Alex Lifeson, Neal Peart, and Geddy Lee. And incidentally, Neal is and always will be the best drummer in the world. See? I listened somewhat. That was the 90s. I think in my car right now I have the Imagination Movers, a Kindermusik CD, and the soundtrack from the musical Chicago for the off chance that I am alone in a car. But this playlist thing is kind of a cool concept. If my daughter and I were to have a play list, this is how our journey would look so far.
P.S.-some of these songs flat out suck. I am not trying to be corny or a copycat, I swear. No one can copy the great Meyer nor should they try. I am just trying to put this in terms so that others can relate. Don’t read my list if you don’t want to.
P.S.S.-Most of these songs seem to be focused on 90s music, so I will call this my daughter's life according to the 90s playlist. Like I said, I haven’t really been able to pick my own music since October of 2003. Please forgive the theme…..
My Girl-I loved her from the day she was born
Good Riddance Green Day-When I changed jobs to have more time with her
Can’t get it right today Joe Purdy-When she wasn’t walking or talking. You are the mom. It's going to be your fault some how, forever. Sorry....don't give up.
Fields of Gold Eva Cassidy’s version- Kenneth is born, it is obvious that he is very different, can’t ignore it
Cornflake Girl-Tori Amos All the little girls were coloring, she would dance. This isn’t always a bad thing.
You-Candle Box – Taking her to appointments and therapies, it took a lot out of me.
Bullet with Butterfly Wings-Smashing Pumpkins-Nothing seemed to be working, no one would give me answers, I felt a LOT of rage.
Long December- Counting Crows- In Pittsburgh, we finally got an autism diagnosis. I had reason to believe that maybe this year would be better than the last.
Closer to Fine-The Indigo Girls- We are getting there
Mysterious Ways-U2- It’s all right, and she really does move in mysterious ways.
Wonder-Natalie Merchant She will make her way, she already is.
Sorry if some of those songs made you music people gag and cringe. Every now and then I have to do something stupidly mother-like or I will lose my license.
Do you have a playlist? For your autism journey? Your Down Syndrome journey? Any journey really? I don't care what kind of music you like either. It can be country music: Sugarland (They have a Yo Gabba Gabba! Dancey Dance, by the way), Toby Keith, and Kenny Chesney for all I care. You can make a classical list. It's your play list. I don't think millions of little girls are going to go out and buy the CDs because you told them to, but still, it's your journey and your music.
Everything she writes has a playlist, and I am beginning to think she is becoming the Oprah Winfrey book club for bands. It is a good thing to be on a Stephenie Meyer play list. I can’t imagine some idiot band saying, “No thank you Steph. Please remove us from your website and we could care less if we inspired the third paragraph on page 321.” Yeah right.
I am not a big music person; I don’t know what is good and what isn’t. My high school sweet heart ended up being a music producer in New York, so you would think this would have rubbed off a little, but all that came of it is that I can tell you that the three members of Rush are Alex Lifeson, Neal Peart, and Geddy Lee. And incidentally, Neal is and always will be the best drummer in the world. See? I listened somewhat. That was the 90s. I think in my car right now I have the Imagination Movers, a Kindermusik CD, and the soundtrack from the musical Chicago for the off chance that I am alone in a car. But this playlist thing is kind of a cool concept. If my daughter and I were to have a play list, this is how our journey would look so far.
P.S.-some of these songs flat out suck. I am not trying to be corny or a copycat, I swear. No one can copy the great Meyer nor should they try. I am just trying to put this in terms so that others can relate. Don’t read my list if you don’t want to.
P.S.S.-Most of these songs seem to be focused on 90s music, so I will call this my daughter's life according to the 90s playlist. Like I said, I haven’t really been able to pick my own music since October of 2003. Please forgive the theme…..
My Girl-I loved her from the day she was born
Good Riddance Green Day-When I changed jobs to have more time with her
Can’t get it right today Joe Purdy-When she wasn’t walking or talking. You are the mom. It's going to be your fault some how, forever. Sorry....don't give up.
Fields of Gold Eva Cassidy’s version- Kenneth is born, it is obvious that he is very different, can’t ignore it
Cornflake Girl-Tori Amos All the little girls were coloring, she would dance. This isn’t always a bad thing.
You-Candle Box – Taking her to appointments and therapies, it took a lot out of me.
Bullet with Butterfly Wings-Smashing Pumpkins-Nothing seemed to be working, no one would give me answers, I felt a LOT of rage.
Long December- Counting Crows- In Pittsburgh, we finally got an autism diagnosis. I had reason to believe that maybe this year would be better than the last.
Closer to Fine-The Indigo Girls- We are getting there
Mysterious Ways-U2- It’s all right, and she really does move in mysterious ways.
Wonder-Natalie Merchant She will make her way, she already is.
Sorry if some of those songs made you music people gag and cringe. Every now and then I have to do something stupidly mother-like or I will lose my license.
Do you have a playlist? For your autism journey? Your Down Syndrome journey? Any journey really? I don't care what kind of music you like either. It can be country music: Sugarland (They have a Yo Gabba Gabba! Dancey Dance, by the way), Toby Keith, and Kenny Chesney for all I care. You can make a classical list. It's your play list. I don't think millions of little girls are going to go out and buy the CDs because you told them to, but still, it's your journey and your music.
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