I Have a Theory about Why Married Couples on Reality Shows Eventually Divorce

Since I'm a sociologist* and all, I figured I'd throw my theory out there. Long-term marriage requires love, respect, and trust. This we know, right? There are even songs and psalms about it. Here's the thing, though. There's another massively important ingredient that is completely squashed in a reality-show environment: the ability to LET THINGS GO.

Say your spouse does something that bugs you... I'm just going to pick something at random... like, using paper towels to blow his nose instead of walking three feet to the box of tissues on the table and grabbing some of those. And when you go to get a paper towel, there's a lonely cardboard tube, but no towel. So you go to the pantry to grab a fresh role, only to find that the entire stock of rolls purchased for the week are gone.

In real life, you say something like, "Could you PLEASE not use the paper towels to blow your nose?" He says, "Oh, sorry." And that's that. In reality life, there's probably a montage of every time he's snatched a paper towel throughout the history of the show, and then when you go to the grocery store to get more paper towels, perfect strangers say, "I see you're buying more paper towels. I can't believe that your husband uses them to blow his nose!" And then you get annoyed all over again. Even if he changed his habit, the audience would still think he does it, and then that would grate on HIM. And because of the commentary, the couple feels like they need to put on an act and behave as if everything is OK, because then maybe everyone will think everything is OK, and then maybe you can work out your issues in a semblance of privacy without dealing with people asking if everything is OK.

Suddenly, these silly roommate issues become much bigger deals because entertainment and its composite parts never really allow the water to wash under the bridge. To continue the analogy, the water pools in a dam and eventually either washes over in a torrent or breaks through the cracks.

I know, I know, most of the time the couples involved say that the end result would probably have been the same, but that the reality show caused them to get there faster. And I doubt that anyone's marriage has ever reached the crisis stage because he leaves the toilet seat up or she never puts her clothes away.

But how do you know? I knew a woman who actually questioned her husband's love for her and commitment to their relationship because he continued to put dirty dishes in the sink when she had expressly requested that he not do that.

Ultimately, I think we all need to be able to just ignore some things, pretend he doesn't do this or she doesn't do that. Plausible deniability is also clutch. Filming your life allows for neither of these things.

*I have no degree in this subject area. I know people who have Ph.D.s in Sociology, though, so that qualifies me, don't you think?

Kids' Books that Creep Me Out

With a two-year-old and a four-year-old in the house, our family has been given an inordinate number of books. Books when they were born, books for their birthdays, books for visits from grandparents, hand-me-down books from my siblings, hand-me-over books from neighbors, books that were treasured by Super Ninja and came packed tightly among other presents from his parents.... Their collection of literature rivals ours. They've filled three bookshelves, and their over-sized books spill out onto the floor. WHY, by the way, are many of the books for little children HUGE? It would be like me reading a novel on poster board. This would make me very angry, and you wouldn't like me when I'm angry.

Anyway, Super Ninja and I are huge bibliophiles, so it's no surprise that our children are quite fond of the written word. The Boy, who will be five in July, is reading independently. I can't take credit (much). It's all due to his daycare provider. He's not fluent, yet, though -- there are a handful of words in each book that he doesn't know. When he stumbles over one, he pads over to me, looks at me, looks at the word, looks at me, looks at the word, until I tell him what the word is.* You can tell that he's filing it away for future use, and I very rarely need to tell him what a word is a second time. The Girl is doing that pre-reader thing where she kind of makes up her own story to fit the pictures.

Periodically, these lovely children of mine will bring books to me that I really, really don't want to read to them. Because (shhh) I don't like them. They creep me out or irritate me in a big, big way. And then I feel bad that I'm imposing my taste on them. I mean, listen, they ARE going to love Depeche Mode when the time is right. That's a given. But when it comes to books, they should have freedom of choice, right? So I read them. Reluctantly, but I read them. Why? Because nothing piques interest like parental disfavor, right?

Here are the books that I may have to disappear from the collections:

1) The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein. Thing one against it? The monstrous picture on the back of Shel Silverstein in all of his gap toothed glory. Seriously, the guy looks like a Island of Dr. Moreau combo of a serial killer and a jack o'lantern. Forget the graphics, though. Let's talk about the message in the book. A boy keeps asking things of the tree, and the tree keeps giving, and giving, and giving, until the tree is a stump. And STILL the tree gives when it allows the boy, now an old man who needs to rest, to sit on her stump. You may tell me that the book was originally intended to be an ecological statement about all that nature gives to us. That may be true, but most folks I know interpret the tale as a metaphor for the parent-child relationship. And if you take it that way, the parent gives until s/he's eviscerated. The boy NEVER says thank you, never says, "Gee, you know, I've asked so much of you, it's time I figure things out for myself." Oh no. He's like, "Awesome, you've given me everything you've got to give. Anything else?"

No, you greedy bastard. I'm JUST A STUMP.

2) Love You Forever, Robert Munsch. Okay, all of you weepies out there. I know that you lose it at the end of this book when the Circle of Life rolls along and the man carries his graying tiny mother to bed, just as she put him to bed when he was an wee babe. I get it. Know what I don't get, though? The page where the mother, under cover of darkness, props a ladder against her adult son's house, sneaks in through a window, and gazes at him adoringly. As a woman married to a man who's mother might do something like this, I shiver a little when I get to this page.

3) Rainbow Fish, by Marcus Pfister. I want my children to share. Really, I do. And I want them to be nice to other kids. But I don't think I want them to give of themselves until they are almost completely depleted just so that other kids like them. Isn't that what the message of this beautifully illustrated book is? The rainbow fish is a little hoity-toity about his sparkly scales, the other fish don't care for his big ego, so he gives away all of his scales to the other fish so that they, too, have sparkly beauty of their very own and will be nice to him. What are my kids supposed to do? Pluck strands of blond hair and pass them out at recess? I think that would earn them a trip to the guidance counselor for a psychological evaluation. "Hello, Mrs. Super Ninja? This is Mrs. X from the Boy's school? Yeah, he's got trichotillomania."

Awesome.

4) Any book that makes noise. Not that these books are all bad or anything, but the Girl has been keeping herself awake at night by secreting one of these under her covers and then pressing the buttons relentlessly. So, I am only against them because in the morning I get a grumpy toddler to, ahem, enjoy after one of her late night adventures.

I'm sure this list will grow, but those are the only ones... For now.

*Right now, the Boy is physically incapable of ASKING for help. We're working on this. I don't want to fall into a pattern where I'm helping him simply because he emits a grunt of frustration. Know what that gets you? A grunty kid whose mother interferes before he has a chance to solve his own problem, and then, before I know it, I'm in the middle of a pattern where he's allowed to be mad at me for not fixing his problem AND he's mad at me that I tried to fix it without really knowing what the problem is. No thank you. I want him to request help and to state what the problem is so that (A) I don't have to guess, (B) he doesn't take his frustration out on me, and (C) he acknowledges that I am doing him a solid by helping him, and that he should be grateful and not grumpy.

This and $4 Will Buy You a Latte

Okay, so I have a minor addiction to gossip rags. Eh, whaddya gonna do? I'm actually kind of weaning myself off them because (a) I feel a little dirty after I read an article with that! many! exclamation! points!, and (b) the people who pass for celebrities these days are...confusing. And I watch television, people. I read Entertainment Weekly. You have to work REALLY hard for me not to know who you are.

Anyway, the thing that's all the rage in the rags right now is that Marilyn is claiming that he and Gavin Rossdale were an item for five years. WHO CARES? Okay, I get why people care. Bisexual pop star. That hasn't been done since... Oh, wait, that's always been done.

But the thing that they are all snarkily commenting on is that Marilyn kinda sorta looks (or looked) like Gwen Stefani. The thing is, I feel for Gwen on this one. Not because her husband might've dated a dude, since that's probably something that was discussed early in their relationship. Also, I don't think that it's a big deal that people are saying she and a dude look alike. I'd argue that most women don't want to be told they look like a man, but have you seen Marilyn? He's rather pretty.

Nah. My empathy is that she's dealing with the fact that her husband [allegedly] has a type.

Have you ever met an ex of your significant other's? I have. I've met two, actually. First, there was his met-during-college-orientation girlfriend. She and I, well, we share some common physical features... Kinda short (me too), brownish, curlyish hair (hey...), a ready smile (wait a minute...)... Then I met his Winnie Cooper, and it was the same thing. Short, smily, wavy hair. Hmph.

See, I think we all want to assume that we are the one-and-only for our partners in life (or crime, if you like). That there's some crazy cosmic thing that puts us in the right place at the right time, and that your significant other is drawn to that special something that makes you YOU. I don't necessarily disbelieve that. But at the same time, it's kind of tough to ignore that your husband tried a couple of VERY SIMILAR people on for size before he got to you. That sounds gross, but you get my point.

The Dawn of a New Era

I did it. I went to a gym, AND I worked out. This has not occurred since 1997. You think I am joking, but I am not. Actually, those of you who know my tubby self personally will not be that shocked. The reasons for this gap in gym history? Well, in 1997, I was still in college, and there was a pesky mandatory gym fee. Master of Frugality that I am, I couldn't abide paying for something that I wasn't using, so I went to the gym. Not every day or anything like that, because Yates* sucked an egg as far as variety and availability of equipment. But I hoofed it over there often enough that I didn't feel the fee was a waste of dough.

Anyway, the Boy's gymnastics classes have sprung anew. (HA! Sprung! See what I did there? Gymnastics? Sprung? I am such a wordsmith.) Tiny Tumblers is held in a county-sponsored rec center. Sheesh, just saying the words "rec center" immediately makes me want to hold a fundraiser or something. Weren't rec centers in 1980's television always in dire need of funding or they'd be boarded up, shut down, and burned to the ground?

Anyway...

The fee for a family package was extraordinarily low. Less than Super Ninja spends on comics in a year. Less than I spend on coffee for a year. This struck me as a bargain, and was the push I needed to finally, FINALLY, join a gym. The other push being that the Boy has enjoyed slapping my tummy because it "makes funny noises." He does this while I am in repose, which does not do much for my repose. Or my body image.

My return to the fitness equipment went pretty well. I did about 45 minutes of cardio. Jeez. I hate myself a little bit for that sentence. I worked with a bunch of fitness tools early in my career, and my pathological need not to join in group think woke up the dormant slob who didn't want to be like them. I still don't want to be like them, but I don't want to be like this either, so I'll get over it.

I did not do the cardio intentionally. I sat down on at a recumbent bike and it prompted me to make an exercise selection. I went for "Fat Burner." It presented me with many hills and valleys. I hated the hills with the white hot passion of a thousand suns. But I got through my 25 minutes, and moved onto a treadmill. Again, I poked "Fat Burner." Again, many hills and valleys, and again, white hot hatred. Okay, okay, I'm being a little disingenuous. I only hated the first five minutes or so. Once the endorphins kicked in, I was fine.

Translation: I'll go again, and I don't feel like I wasted the cash on the family membership. Huzzah!

It's Super Ninja's turn to go tonight. Wonder what he'll make of it? I'm half-expecting he'll get tangled up in the equipment.

*That picture is a lying liar when it comes to representing my experience of the field house. Georgetown totally revamped the place AFTER I left. This is third on my list of things I wish had been done prior to my matriculation. The brand spanking new performing arts center (with a fully loaded shop and costume room) and the existence of a theater major taking second and first place, respectively.

Vacation Plans

I'm in desperate need of a vacation plan. I think the idea of a vacation may actually be more valuable than the vacation itself. It's gloomy here in the Mid-Atlantic today, my to-do list is WAY bigger than my to-done list, and there's this swirl of stressy stuff that we need to do (taking that first step toward trying to sell the house, figuring out where to live after that in the Baltimore Metro region, hoping that it will be the right size, in a good school district, etc.). In the face of all of this grown-up blah, I need to know that at some point, I will be able to check out of my daily routine and check into a different life for a week.

There are a couple of options on the table, some involving a second honeymoonish kind of thing to celebrate Super Ninja's and my upcoming 10-year anniversary*, and some involving a sunshiney family four-pack vacations to a place featuring Disney characters. It all depends on whether or not we can bribe, I mean invite, someone to watch the Boy and the Girl for an extended period of time. They are little delights about 89% of the time, so it wouldn't be the most onerous thing we've asked my in-laws....or someone else with no job obligations...to do. If not, then we'll bring 'em with us wherever we go.

Once I nail it down, though, I'm going to feel so much better. Like, "Suck it, car needing an oil change, I'm going to ENGLAND in July!" Or, "Eat it, kindergarten registration. I'm going to the BEACH this summer!" I do not have that yet, though, so I am the one who currently has to suck it. I do not relish this.

*10 years? 10 YEARS. I have been married to someone for a decade. That's weird, since I feel like I'm about 15 in many, many situations. Which I suppose makes Super Ninja a pederast. Wait 'til I tell him THAT at dinner tonight.

A Thoroughly 21st Century Problem

So, I was chatting with a friend last night on the phone, and we were comparing notes on our four-year-olds. The Boy is about six months older than her daughter, so there are some developmental similarities, such as the impulse to make observations. Like, "You have messy hair, Mommy." Or, "Daddy, that cowboy [on TV] has a fat tummy too." The Boy doesn't mean to insult us. He's just callin' 'em like he sees 'em.

As I was sharing the messy hair comment, my friend interrupted and said, "Yeah, I saw that on your Facebook page." It wasn't rude or anything like that -- she was laughing with me about our children's, ahem, honesty.

But, hmmm.

I realize that I'm overly connected. I've got a rarely-used MySpace page, Facebook, this blog, and Twitter. Being plugged into these devices satisfies some writerly impulses that I have. It's not like I think that I'm so very awesome that I need varying media outlets to spread my good word to the masses. After all, I clearly don't have enough original content, since I was telling a story that I'd already posted on Facebook.

So, here's what I'm pondering: I don't think that you can assume that people are actually reading your blog or Facebook or whatever all the time. I don't want to be one of those people who responds to an innocent question with, "Didn't you read my blog/Facebook/Twitter/MySpace?" Ugh. Double ugh. People who do that should be punched in the head forthwith.

But, then I run the risk of repeating myself. So what to do? Do I start tracking myself like a stand-up comic and retire bits that I've posted? Or keep the best stuff for my in-person communications?

Guess I'll just have to deal when people tell me that they've read it already. Here's hoping that they do before I bore them to tears with a rehash of a story.

Yesterday at the Playground

The Boy: I'm Sunny Superhero!* And you, (he points to his father) are Dark [sic] Vader!

The Girl: I Pink Hulk!

So, yeah, I think we're doing a fair job of introducing our children to Nerd World, and ensuring that they will have a limited number of friends.

*This is a super hero of his own invention. Sunny Superhero can fly, and "has the power of sunbeams," which basically means he can shoot laser beams of sunshine from his fingers.

Mother Moment

For better or for worse, I don't define myself as a mother first. If someone asked me what I do, that wouldn't be the first thing that I mentioned. Even if I were a stay-at-home mother, I don't think I'd answer, "Well, I have two kids..."

There are some who would be horrified by that, and they would assume (a) that I am incredibly selfish, (b) that I don't love my children properly, (c) that I take the Boy's and the Girl's wonderful presence in my life for granted, or (d) all of the above. None of those things are true about me, but go ahead and be all judgy.

Anyway, I know there are scores of people who define themselves as parent first and foremost. Just take a look around Facebook and see how many profile pictures of your friends feature their progeny. Cripes, some of my friends' profile pics don't even include themselves. It's like they can't even wait for people to look at their bios or stats or whatever to see that they have children -- that bit of news is FRONT AND CENTER, baby.

Truth is, my children's welfare is always, always, always the first thing I consider in big decisions. For instance: Super Ninja and I are looking to move so that we can be in a really good school district as opposed to the dicey one that we're in now. Oh, and sidewalks. My kingdom for a network of sidewalks.

Perhaps my low-key-itude is overcompensation for my own mother's attitude toward motherhood? Ask her anything, ANYTHING, about herself, and the fact that she has seven children will come up within 30 seconds.

Let's analyze that later.

The whole reason I started writing this post is because I had one of those didn't-think-it-was-weird-'til-later moments over the weekend. Let me set the scene: the Girl seems to have a bit of an allergy to something floating in the air 'round our manse, so she's been a bit stuffy. But two-year-olds aren't proficient at the whole nose-blowing thing, and the air has been a bit dry despite prodigious use of humidifiers, so the end result was a crusty glob of yuck plugging up her nostrils. It was particularly bad yesterday morning. From several feet away, I could hear her exhalations whistling around the chunks in her nose.

So, I did what any mother would do.

I bribed her with M&Ms. Why the bribe? To allow me to pick her nose, of course. That's right. No tissue was going to get the job done. These things required extraction. But when the yuck gets that big, the removal is a little painful, even it it is softened up a little with some of this stuff. The M&Ms were to tempt her to stay still for a nano-second so that I didn't accidentally pierce her nose or anything like that. Four M&Ms later, we were done.

Victory.

The thing is, I wasn't grossed out by it. I wanted to do it. I was compelled to do it. And, when all was said and done, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly afterward, to be sure. But I didn't dry heave or anything like that.

And that's the kind of quiet moment that defines motherhood to me. It's not proclaiming from a mountaintop that I am a mother. It's just being one. Showering my kids with affection, and truly being eager to roll up my sleeves and do the grunt work that helps them, be it teaching them to read, explaining social interactions, or pinning them down and picking their noses so that they breathe more easily.

So, suck on that, ye doubters.

You Always Need Water

I had my annual visit to my OB/GYN yesterday. (Cue shudders among my male reader(s).)

On the plus side, my diminutive Asian doc told me that I should lose 25 pounds instead of the usual 40. So, the Wii Fit and the reduction of the amount of crap I shovel into my maw are having the intended effect. It's shocking what cutting calories and leading a slightly-less-than-sedentary lifestyle will do for ya.

On the not-so-plus side, I gave myself an outrageous case of razor burn while preparing for said visit. What am I, eleven years old with a dull Bic? Sheesh.

Yeah, so here's what happened. I'd originally thought my exam was scheduled for last Tuesday. I spent mucho time primping the night before. I think I spend more time grooming for my OB/GYN appointments than I did for my wedding. We're talking actually shaving ABOVE the knee, instead of up TO the knee. Anyway, at the appointed time, I sauntered into the doctor's office, only to find that someone (they say me, I say they) mixed up the appointment times. No biggie -- they just rescheduled me for yesterday.

Since I lead an ridiculously busy life (i.e., web surfing) I forgot about the appointment until yesterday morning. I did not groom during my evening shower the night before, and I only allow myself a lightning fast 15 minutes to get ready for work. Shaving ankle-to-hip is not a staple of my morning toilette.

What to do? I couldn't, just couldn't go to the doc with more than a week's growth on my gams. She might mistake me for some other hominid and forward me to the local zoo. I did what many a gal short on time has done: dry-ish shaved my legs.

Sounds desperate, I know. But I had one of these kind of shavers, and I thought if I spattered a little water on my legs, I'd be OK. I mean, the models in the commercials are never actually IN the shower when using the device, right? I would be a thoroughly modern, untethered woman, and shave outside my tiled prison. All would be well.

WRONG. Wrong, wrong, a thousand times wrong.

It didn't hurt while I was in the midst of shaving. But oh, Lord, the consequences. Imagine being slightly flayed. And then someone whips the exposed meat of your legs. Pleasant, eh? They are much better today, so I'm guessing a crucial layer of epidermis has grown back already. That's my secret mutant power: re-growing skin that I removed in a stupid attempt to beat the clock.

Ultimately, I've decided that if I forget about future OB/GYN visits, Tiny Asian, M.D., will just have to deal with my hirsuteness.

The Overly Examined Life

Socrates said, "The unexamined life is not worth living." He said this during the 4th century BCE, though, when people were mostly examining how take care of the first two levels of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. My guess is that when you are looking for food, shelter, and safety, you're not all that concerned with philosophical thought. But it's only through questioning and reflection that we understand our world, right? So, once you've had your gruel, think a little bit about the hows and whys of your day.

Okay, fine. Maybe in the three minutes that aren't spent working for survival, ponder life.

Got it.

I contend, though, that we're veering into a new age of overly recording and examining our day-to-day, which also renders life not worth living. I mean, if you're spending all of your time recording the quotidian, then you aren't really thinking about it, right? A list doesn't result in a manifesto. Well, unless you're Rob Fleming.

Anyway, I blame Twitter, Facebook, and other social networking sites that I'm too tired to look them up. These things have a function that allow us to update our connections ('cause, let's face it, not all of them are friends). And most of my connections are posting revelatory things like, "X is making turkey burgers for dinner." Or, "Y needs to eat." And, "Z is working out."

Just because the function is there, you do not need to use it. I use it too much, I know. It's there, taunting me. And then the status updates get out of date, and I think, "No, wait, I no longer feel that way." And then there's pressure to change it to something new, but then I realize that I HAVE NOTHING INTERESTING TO SAY, and it becomes this avalanche of need to collect some new experience and be able to say:

MCV is going out to lunch today.

Aargh. Not interesting. Not reflective. Not anything.

Anyway, I'm wondering when we'll hit the wall and realize that recording our daily meals or activities does not really add value to our lives. Is that harsh? I mean, my Facebook page does not reveal anything about me that my Outlook calendar would not, and that's a bit sad. I think that's why I maintain this blog. But I keep them separate, 'cause I guess I don't want all the folks that I'm, ahem, friends with on Facebook to have access to the old inner sanctum. That's just for you fine people, most of whom I wouldn't know if you poked me in the eye.*

*I don't know why you'd poke me in the eye by way of introduction. Jerk.

Getting It

I have long harbored a deep resentment for the phrase, "Get it." Seems like a harmless phrase, I know. But when I was working for a marketing company out of college, my boss would debrief us on sales pitches. If the meeting had gone well, he would invariably say, "It was great. The guy from [insert big company name here] is really smart. He really gets it."

And my boss, he would say "gets it" with such reverence, you would think that we were trying to sell string theory or something. In fact, my company organized intramural sports tournaments, and companies could pay a fee to put their logo on a banner, some equipment, and some t-shirts, etc., relating to the intramural sport, and participating colleges would put up the banner, use the equipment, award champs with the t-shirts, and hand out samples of the company's product. The marketing angle behind that was college students = discretionary income, and multiple impressions of a product at a place they visit twice per week (the rec center) results in increased brand awareness and sales among that population.

Not complicated. Okay, if it makes you feel better, it's really complicated, so you are really smart if you understand it.

The thing that really gets under my skin, though, is when I hear countless people dismiss opposing opinions because they believe the opposition just doesn't "get it."

Know what? It is, in fact, possible to learn the same facts, roll them around in your head a little, and come to a different conclusion. I'm not talking about the earth being round or gravity or anything like that. I'm talking about something like this. I can deem it a bit silly* and understand what it's about. It is possible.

I wonder if the people who accuse others of "not getting it" are also the people who were convinced that other kids were mean to them because those schoolyard bullies were "just jealous?"

*but no sillier than a ton of other lifestyle dreck that's out there.

The Philosophical Question of Our Times (or maybe just mine)

I have combination skin. By that, I do not mean that my T-zone is a little oily and that the other patches of my face are a little dry. I mean that my T-zone produces enough oil to lubricate all of the gears in Big Ben for a year, and at the very same time my cheeks and neck could absorb the moisture of the Great Lakes and still be a bit parched.

Why does this happen? Why can't the oil just kind of roll on over to the dry spots? Seriously, it's like someone built little famine walls all over my face. Unless maybe there is a reason for the division? Maybe there's a civil war on my face, and the haves are not sharing natural moisture with the have nots in a bid to get them to shrivel up and die.

But I don't want parts of my face to shrivel up and die, so I have spent a chunk of my adulthood flitting from face cream to face cream to try and find something that addresses my myriad skin issues. I mean, honestly. You should not be getting pimples and wrinkles at the same time.

I realize I sound like the early part of one of those commercials featuring a Bright Young Thing declaiming the wonders Oxy or Biore or Roc or Dove. Know what the BYTs' secret is? GENETICS. At least the Proactiv commercials have the decency to offer photo shopped pictures of starlets with mini-mountain ranges of pimples as evidence of effectiveness.

After years of searching, though, I FINALLY found something that works for me. And I love it. Except for one niggling little detail. It smells a little bit -- just a little bit -- like sour milk. This is not a pleasant smell. I am not revealing the brand. But it rhymes with Ploddy Whop.*

So, what do I do? Do I go back to the itchy blotchy skin? Or deal with the smell?

THIS IS A HUGELY IMPORTANT QUESTION, INTERNETS.

Also important: if you know me personally and catch a whiff of slightly sour milk, please know that it is not some kind of Mommy side effect. If my kids spill milk on me, I will change my clothes. I promise.

*If I write a children's story, this is most assuredly going to be one of the characters' names.

There Ain't No Party Like a Gymboree Party 'Cause a Gymboree Party Don't Stop

The kids are invited to not one, but TWO parties this weekend. They are social butterflies. Their parents are introverts. So this should go well.

Actually, the hosts are college friends of Super Ninja's, so it's not like we're going be mingling amongst perfect strangers. The kicker, though, is that both of the parties are at the same place: Gymboree. If you are not familiar, Gymboree is a kids' clothing store-cum-arts & crafts learning center (among other things). I've not taken the kids there for any kind of educational purposes, and I rarely shop there, because I am a little suspicious of any place that sells adult clothes that match the kid clothes. You know, for those perfectly coordinated family photos.

Given my hesitations, I'm going to go ahead and bet that the kids LOVE both parties this weekend, to the extent that they will beg me to go back until my head explodes. Should be a hoot!

Undecking the Halls

This weekend, our Christmas tree has an appointment...TO MEET ITS MAKER! MU-HA-HA!. Okay, actually, it had already met it's maker about a month ago, and we've been watering its lovely corpse in our living room for the past few weeks. I like to leave holiday paraphernalia up through Epiphany, which was yesterday, so I don't have any more excuses.

We'll probably do this during nap time, or we will end up with many broken ornaments. The kids kind of like to, ahem, help. For five or six minutes. And during those five or six minutes, their help is about as productive as a twister through my living room.

On a completely different topic, our Wii Fit arrived last night (thanks to Playwright and B.I.L., whose gift of a big bag of money* funded this purchase)! I don't know what it says about me that I prefer watching a cartoon version me exercise in a lovely digital world to actually jogging in my neighborhood. And I'm sure that the workout is not as good as one done in a gym, but I burned more calories than I would have web-surfing, which is the only other kind of exercise I get on a regular basis.

My Wii Fit age is 44, which is horrible, but better than Super Ninja's 52. Despite his head cold, he messed around with it too, which tells me we may actually use it beyond the novelty phase. I'm reluctant to post the nitty-gritty of my stats here, because I really don't think everyone needs to know just how much I suck at balancing (whoo-hoo for doughy core muscles). But we'll see if I can get my Wii Fit age down to (or below) my chronological age.

*They truly gave me a big bag of money for Christmas. It is all I ever ask for when prompted for gift suggestions, so my Christmas dreams came true. I am now wondering if I should have asked for world peace or something like that, but I'm too busy playing with my Wii Fit to really ponder it.

I'm Haven't Fled the Country, I'm Just Busy

It's lovely when my office assigns me a huge new project. On December 15th. And I need to have my head wrapped around the details by January 5th. And the building is closed between Christmas and New Year's. Yep. LOVELY.

Besides that, nothin' much goin' on around the compound. Wrapping gifts, slapping paint on the walls, marvelling at the inadequacies of some of my DIY projects, especially when they are in direct contact with jobs professionals have done (I'm lookin' at you, brand-spankin' new kitchen window). Random other holiday projects have taken center stage, like erecting a tree that Super Ninja thought wasn't big enough but skims the top of our living room ceiling. Honestly, I think he would have been happy if we had to lop off the top third of it, and then stick that in a Christmas tree stand in the Girl's room since it's directly above the tree spot in the living room.

In-laws arrive today. Some of my co-workers have offered mis-placed sympathy because my in-laws will be here for almost a week. But honestly, they do so much for us while they are here. I might just be interpreting their behavior in a way that benefits me, but I think they are only happy if they are contributing in some fashion. Well...my father-in-law would be content to read an historical tome while ESPN plays in the background, but he is always more than willing to make lunches, wake up with kids, or run to the grocery store.

Tomorrow evening will be spent with my family, and we will festively dine on cheesesteaks. I didn't want to ask my Mom to whip up a holiday meal on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, when most of her other children will likely visit. Besides, I kind of really like cheesesteaks.

After that, the week will be spent back-and-forthing among various familial outings. And enacting the countdown to my children's heads exploding from all of the sugar, toys, and people.


'Til then, my compadres, have a lovely holiday season.

P.S.: If you are the parent of a child who is friends with my children -- and at this age, "friend" seems to mean they know each other's names -- PLEASE don't buy my children Christmas gifts. I haven't purchased gifts for your children. And even though, as adults, we give to each other because we want to do so and do not expect a return gift, IT DOES NOT WORK THIS WAY WITH KIDS. If they see a brightly wrapped package going to one of their daycare friends, and they do not get one in return... Well, cue tears. So let's save each other the hassle, shall we?

P.P.S.: Once again, the Boy has requested a toy that IS NOT MANUFACTURED. So Super Ninja and I have craftily obtained something similar. I know that sounds terrible, like we're trying to give him a GoBot when he really wanted a Transformer. But the thing that he wants exists only in his imagination, so we are not giving him a subpar version of something cool. I'll explain later. He's learning how to read, and I'm sure he'll stumble upon this blog and he will have magically obtained complete literacy, and Christmas would just be ruined.

Big Girl Beds

The Girl embraces change. The Boy kind of needs to be talked into some things. But the Girl? Not so much. Take this past weekend, for example...

Super Ninja and I have been dithering over her sleeping arrangements. We moved the Boy into his toddler bed when he turned two, mostly because we knew we were going to need the crib for the Girl and we didn't want him to feel like we booted him out of his comfy crib in favor of the new baby. Which, in fact, is what we were doing. But he loved his toddler bed, and we loved that we didn't have to sweat the consequences if he tumbled out of it.

Anyway, most books and other other parents will advise that you leave a kid in a crib as long as she isn't make any attempts at a prison break. The Girl is quite content to sit and snooze. I've never even seen her stand up in the crib, so there's no pressing need to move her into a regular bed. At least not from our perspective.

On Saturday afternoon, though, she said she was tired. A few minutes later, she was nowhere to be found. She's too little to open heavy doors, though, so we knew she was probably upstairs. Super Ninja crept into her bedroom (he is after all, a ninja) and found that she'd grabbed her stuffed dog, crawled into the guest bed that eats up a corner of her room, pulled up the covers, and drifted off to sleep.

Guess she made the decision to move to the big bed on her own.

A footnote to the story: that night, when I was putting her to bed, I told her that now that she was sleeping in a big girl bed, she was becoming a big girl, and would need to think about giving up her pacifier. She informed me, "I not a big girl. I little tiny." Which leads me to believe we're going to have as much fun breaking her of this habit as we did with the Boy.

Some things are the same from child to child, eh?

I Think We'll Qualify as a Fleet Soon

Oh yes, we bought another quasi-mini-van. Super Ninja's beloved Windex-blue 1998 Chevy Cavalier served us well. At 115,000 miles, I don't know that we could have asked for more from it. But when we got to the point where we were carrying a battery charger around with us and crossed our fingers every time we started the car, we decided to cut it's life support, and trade it in.

The two qualities we were looking for in a car? Six seats and a really, really good price tag. I know, I know, we're picky. But do you know how many new cars meet that description? Two that I could find. The Mazda 5 (that little beauty pictured above), and the Kia Rondo. The Mazda 5's a little eensy, weensy bit more stylish. But the Kia Rondo lost because when I was getting married, the music director of the chapel made a tape of the most commonly used wedding pieces. The first song on that tape was "Rondo," but Mr. Music had an incredibly thick Baltimorean accent, so it came out more like "Rawndeaux." While that might be an awesome paladin's name in a fantasy novel, I just could not spend the next five to ten years hearing people call my car that.

So, yeah, we bought a new car. The kids like it too, which is a big plus. Especially the Boy, since he's been kind of sensitive about changes like this. As soon as I said it was blue like the Jaguar Power Ranger, though, he was on board.

I Always Feel Like Somebody's Watching Me

And I don't mean this guy.*

Last week, the Girl turned two. I didn't write about it, because I am inspired to write only when there's an opportunity for sarcasm or it's cousin, snark. But the Girl is sweetness and light. I mean, really. When she has a tantrum, she kind of whines and mopes over to the stairs, and lays down on the bottom step. The Boy also employed this civil disobedience-style tantrum, but he would do it right in the middle of the floor, or sidewalk, or whatever. She tucks herself away in a corner. Can I complain about that? Not really.

What else would I write about? That she's turned our lullaby routine into a duet, but prefers to sing either in a growl or a a squeal because she knows it makes me laugh? Or that she gives kisses on the cheek? Or when she sees me says, "Mommy! Yay!" Seriously, do you want to throw up now or what?

But, there is some aftermath from the perfectly lovely birthday party that I need to describe.

The Girl is waaaaaaaaay into Disney Princesses right now. Some women won't let their kids within 100 yards of all the princess stuff. Me? I don't intend to raise the child to think that a magical person, talking animal, or a rich doof will rescue her from day-to-day life. Rather, I want to raise both of my kids to understand that a life partner is someone who makes the day-to-day stuff seem magical. And I don't think some dolls and movies are going to undermine that.

ANYWAY, I bought a truly enormous Mylar Disney Princess balloon for the Girl. She loves it, the boy loves it, everybody loves it. But I don't think it loves me. In fact, I think it has it in for me. It's following me around the house. You could say that it's haunting me. It is gently swaying about four feet away from me right now. It started out upstairs. How did it get down here? Malice. Oh, fine, it might be the air current from my fancy schmancy central air. But if I don't post again, you can rest assured that it is the demon balloon that did me in.

*Oh, God, Super Ninja. What have you done to me? I can't reference things like a normal person. I DON'T KNOW WHAT CONSTITUTES COMMON KNOWLEDGE ANYMORE.

To the Kids Who Knocked on My Door Last Friday

(Or: What I Wished I'd Said Instead of Politely Thanking Them and Closing the Door While They Were in Middle of Asking Me Why I Am a Roman Catholic)

I'm a Roman Catholic because it's the faith of my forebears, and I figure that if I identify as Christian, I might as well go with the one that one that started the party. I know there's this perception that Catholics are wacko because of all of the superstition and ritual, but I don't think it's more weird and witchy than the religious organization to which you belong. Besides, we all need a little magic in our lives, right? In fact, I kind of dig that during each service some serious mojo is supposed to go down. Which may or may not make me a divine cannibal. I haven't quite worked that one through yet...

But I digress.

There are flaws, yes. That's because religion is crafted by very fallible human hands. But among the Christian religions, can we say that one approach makes infinitely more sense than the other? Not really. Because the inciting action for Christianity -- divinity encased in human flesh, born of a virgin, and resurrection -- well it's a lot to swallow. You could say that I have my doubts.

But you're not only concerned with what I believe. You want me to practice it in a certain way, right? Really? Does an omnibenevolent God care if I believe in golden plates? Is THAT what's going to keep me out of Heaven, if it exists? Jeez, it's like saying that even though my answer to #3 on the math quiz is correct, I didn't do the work the right way, so I failed. Is that what you are? My 8th grade algebra teacher?

Mostly, though (and this is for the Church organizers): I don't think it's the wisest thing to send 19-year-old caucasian American boys around the world to spread the word. Send me people who have been THROUGH something, or at least people who appear to have been through something more serious than acne. Do that, and I might be more compelled to listen.

So, That Happened

I don't have an election hangover, because I didn't have election fatigue. I might have kind of a real hangover, because I whooped it up last night with two drinks instead of my usual one. But that didn't really have anything to do with the election, either.

The most meaningful thing that I realized during this past election cycle? I am NOT a joiner, almost pathologically so. When I hear someone opining, my natural tendency, EVEN IF I AGREE, is to look for the flaw in the argument, to try to see the other side. What is that? Why can't I just throw my support behind someone or something without feeling like I'm drinking the Kool-Aid*?

Could be a lot of things... Maybe it's vestigial high school anti-cliquishness. Maybe I don't want to appear foolish if it turns out that I'm wrong. Maybe I really, really dislike those clips of Dick Cheney very seriously stating one thing, and then 18 months later, stating the exact opposite thing, but with the same gravitas**. Maybe lack it's a lack of confidence in my reasoning skills. Or maybe it's because I grew up in a household of people with wildly differing opinions, people for whom I have a lotta respect, so I don't want to dismiss a different point of view casually.

Whatever the reason, I'm left feeling all kinds of wishy-washy, which is just not a sexy look. Still, though, I make decisions, cast my ballot and hope, really hope, that they were the right ones. I hope, but I don't know, and that's what so hard.***

*Apologies for the overused, icky allusion.
**'Gravitas' should be used as much as possible in casual conversation.
***It could also be that for the first time in my voting life, the person for whom I cast my ballot in a presidential election actually won, and I don't know how to deal with that.