4.4.17

I didn't follow the prompt today. I got sidetracked slaying Donald Duck and helping the Ponies win the  war against the Bergens and then we all ate Trolls.  And we were happy.  Such is motherhood.

Playtime with Miss N, Age 4

Fluffy Bear has lost his hair

and doesn’t know where to turn.

The dollies march to Bergentown

and pause to watch it burn.

Board my boat and cross the sea

and return Cinderella’s shoe.

Minnie Mouse has trashed the house

but left this cake for you.

Princess dress and blankie cape

and glowing Jedi sword

are her armor when Mom finds her

curled, napping on the floor.

Anything But a Baby Toy

Miss N, The Baby, is now eight months old, and is quite a curious little critter.  We can't crawl yet--but we're almost there.  We can army crawl, which is an upgrade from what we called "the Tripod," which involved baby, while lying face-up, arching her back so that she rested on three points (two little legs and head), then scooting the legs inward and tipping her chin down, which would sort of flop her in the direction she wanted to go.  From the army crawl, we are trying to stand up.  I am thinking it won't be long, folks...

Little Miss N makes REALLY good time in the army crawl.  Usually, she hangs out on the living room floor.  We have a couple of large toys there for her entertainment, and a legion of small ones.  But what really interests this child is the stuff she's not supposed to have.

This includes Miss L's toys, which are supposed to stay in her room, but rarely do.  I swear they move when we're not looking.  It's like I'm living in Toy  Story some days.  (This train of thought leads me down an interesting path, like what the stack of naked Princess I-can't-believe-it's-not-a-Barbie-dolls talk abort when our backs our turned...but I digress...) Dollhouse furniture, little tiaras and shoes (to fit the naked Princesses), Hot Wheels cars, loose change (one of Miss L's favorite things to play with)--Miss N wants it all.  She wants it now, and she wants it in her mouth.  *cue paranoid squawking from Mommy*

She also likes things that shouldn't, EVER, go in anyone's mouth.  Little fluffs of cat hair.  Scraps of paper from Miss L's art projects. Unexplained particles of...stuff.  Is our floor REALLY this dirty?  I swear to God we vacuum.

Miss N will army crawl over to the piano, and attempt to get into Miss L's backpack for preschool (which lives under the piano when not on Miss L).  She will try to break into the diaper bag.  If it's left on the floor, and it doesn't belong there, she's all over it.

Why???  This child has hundreds of dollars worth of attractive, well-made, and perfectly child-safe baby toys.  We have things that rattle. We have things that sing.  (LOTS of those.)  We have brightly colored toys, balls, rings, friendly stuffed animals, we have a carpet of beautiful baby toys.  What must the child be thinking, to look at all those toys, then look at a dust bunny that's crept out from underneath the couch and go, "Oh, hey.  I should eat that."

I suppose it's human nature to want what we can't have.  I SHOULD be grading things, or cooking things, or cleaning things, or something, but instead I dork around on Facebook, which I shouldn't do, because it's meaningless and wastes time.  And then I think, why am I dorking around on Facebook when I could be writing something?  Like, for real?  I WANT to write--at least I think I do...but do I want to screw around more?  When did my "real" writing become work, something to put off, to procrastinate about?  Is it because it takes effort, because it's less shiny and streamlined than the virtual "places" online where I fritter away my time?  Sometimes I feel like my writing is a turd...but when I DO manage to write something, I'm in a great mood all day.  No effort, no payoff. 

I need to take a cue from Miss N: ignore all the flashy stuff that's designed to suck me in, and put that dust bunny in my mouth.  Writing needs to be forbidden fruit...even if it's fuzzy forbidden fruit.

Let me in, let me in!

What is there about being a mommy that means you don't get to be in the bathroom alone, ever?

Take last Sunday.  We don't move too fast around here on Sunday mornings.  I get up around 5, make a pot of coffee, give the begging cats their wet food, and curl up with my laptop to work on the lecture for Monday's class (or whatever needs working on.  Sometimes it's Facebook.)  I sit on the couch by the east window, watch the sun come up, and enjoy the stillness that comes with being up before everybody else on the block.  Yes, I'm a morning person.  It's a little sick but I've learned to deal with it.

Usually, sometime between 7 and 8, Miss L will wander out in her footie pajamas with the zoo animals on them, curly blond hair standing out all over, rubbing her eyes.  "Mommy, you're here!"  (I"m not sure why she so frequently sounds surprised about this.)  Sometimes she'll give me a hug, sometimes she'll just announce, "It's time for Super Why!" and trundle off to the bedroom, where Daddy-O (who stays up till ungodly hours of the night playing His Little Games and therefore is of no use to anyone before about 11) is still asleep.  She'll fix that.  "Daddy, where's the remote?  Daddy?  Daaaaaaaaaaaaaddy?  Where's the remote?"  I hear sleepy mumblings from Daddy-O, then the jaunty singing of some happy cartoon show.  Back to my computer.  I can usually get another hour of work in.

Eventually, I make breakfast.  Depending  upon my level of motivation, this might be an elaborate spread including pancakes and eggs...or it might be toast with PB&J.  Just depends on the Sunday.  Miss L doesn't care as long as her tummy gets full.

Then, sometime around mid-morning, it's shower time.  Daddy-O is up and chatting with Miss L at the table as she finishes her toast.  I go into the bathroom.  I close the door but don't lock it.  Adjust the water to my desired level of "hot."  Step in.  Tip head back, let water cascade down my back.  Ahh.

Doorknob rattles.  Shower curtain sways slightly as the door opens.  Miss L's voice:  "Mommy, what are you doing?"

"I'm taking a shower."

"What does it do?"  (This is her favorite questions at the moment.)

"It gets me nice and clean so I smell good."  She ponders this.  Toilet flushes.  Twice.  She is bored but reluctant to leave.  "Go back out to Daddy, please."

"All right."  Little footsteps pat-a-pat out.  At least she's agreeable. She left the door open.  Damn.  I consider getting out and closing it, but the draft isn't too bad, so I don't.

I reach for the shampoo, squirt some out, lather it into my hair.  Halfway through the lathering process, in saunters Daddy-O.  Now, the two-year-old I can understand strolling in like she owns the place (which she basically does)...but for God's sake, I don't bother HIM when he's in the shower.  Nevertheless...he begins speaking.

"Hey..."  Pause.  "Mumblemumble something the internet mumble peanuts mumblemumble timbucktu gravel chainsaw. Okay?"

"What in the hell did you just say?"

"Mumblemumble squeegee harumph koalas bog petard Christmas."

"Can't this wait till after my shower?"  Not only can I not understand him (Daddy-O is a Grand Champion Mumbler), I don't care, and I'm starting to get irritated.

"Fine!"  He walks out, pouting.  I often tell people I have two children: a two-year-old and a twenty-six-year-old.

"Close the door!"  I peek out.  He didn't.  It's still half open.  I still don't get out and push it shut.  Back to washing my hair.

I am rinsing when I hear the bathroom door bump into the wall.  NOW which one is it? Seconds later, the shower curtain wiggles: nudgey nudgey.

One white paw sneaks around the edge of the curtain, followed by a gold-and-white whiskered face.  It's the Smaller One.  He bats the curtain open a few inches.  Behind him, I can see the Large One sitting, waiting expectantly, her big green eyes filled with loving condescension.  The Smaller One goes and sits next to her.  They both stare at me.

"Traitors."

Neither cat blinks.  They sit there and continue staring at me until I get out and dry off. I feel sort of like a circus sideshow act.  Maybe the Monkey Woman, since I didn't shave.

"Is there a point you're trying to make with all this?"

Not a mew, not a movement.  Their mocking stare says it all:  Next time, lock the door, stupid.  And we want more cat food.

Beware of singing toys.

This is an introduction that isn't really an introduction, just a collection of observations.

Adult life is weird.  It's equal parts nostalgia, juggling mangoes, toys that sing (that part multiplies exponentially after you reproduce), coffee, ten-cent armchairs, turkey hats, Velveeta cheese, overlong car trips, dark alleys, sunrises, and Wile E. Coyote falling off a cliff for the thousandth time.  I write poems but I don't know that that means anything. I'm a smart-ass, which may be more important.

I have one surprise daughter, which means I fall into the Toys That Sing Exponent.  This is really the best thing ever, though I didn't know it at the time (meaning the "surprise" time, and not necessarily referring to the singing toys, because they're ever-present and sometimes turn themselves on at night, shouting out happy things in the deep dead of 2 a.m. purely to scare the bejesus out of me).  Somehow, one wound up in my car trunk, so that when I turn a corner too sharply, it bellows out, "LET'S GET OUR TELESCOPE!!!!  EL TELESCOPIO!!!!!" in a shrill voice. The trunk toy happens to be Backpack, from Dora.  Backpack reminds me of this little guy I used to work with in my restaurant years, Manny the Dishwasher.  He talked like that too, accent and everything, and he always shouted random things in Spanish at odd moments.  I'd walk through the kitchen carrying a tray full of ketchup bottles to refill, and he'd scream from the dishwashing station, "UN SACAPUNTAS!!!!" (which, I think, means "pencil sharpener").  That, or he'd sing, which is another reason Backpack reminds me of Manny.  The main difference between the two on that score is that Backpack has no off button or volume control (the person who designed this toy was obviously not a parent).  Manny, at least, would pipe down if you promised to buy him a beer after work.

But I was talking about being a parent, right?  Before I got off on the "Manny" tangent?  I should also state that I only had Backpack in my trunk for a short car trip to the grocery store, and then out he came.  (It's that lying-to-the-tell-the-truth-poet-thing, sorry.  Get used to it.  If the cat needs to have two heads for the blog to make better sense, the cat will probably wind up with two heads.)  I have two cats, the Larger One Who Rules the Universe, and the Smaller One Who Needs a Crash Helmet.  The Smaller One needs a crash helmet because he has a sunny personality and is not bright enough (yet) to run from my daughter, who has succeeded in putting him in a drawer at least two times.  Pets in drawers...one more thing they don't warn you about parenthood. 

So far, we've covered singing toys, mildly disturbing former co-workers, why I exaggerate and tweak the details sometimes but won't actually lie to you in a global sense, the joys of parenting, and kitties in peril.  That may be enough for my first post.  We'll see how this goes.