Wednesday, September 30, 2009

Banned Books

I have a few passions in life. Most of them are wonky. I am obsessed with Charles Manson. I love Coca-Cola memorabilia. I love little pink skulls. If I had a Cadillac I would totally put a deadhead sticker and a Black Flag sticker on it.

One of my passions is books. I can't describe this passion with enough flowery language to make a non-book-lover understand it. You either get it or you don't. I love to read. I love to sink into a story, to give myself over wholeheartedly to a character, an author, a setting. I love the feeling of falling headfirst in love, grieving, hating, watching, listening to things outside the realm of my understanding. I'm one of those people who frequently confuses things that I read with things that I did.

Reading is not a hobby or a time killer for me. Reading is love. Reading is a passion. Reading is one of the centers of my existence. Without reading, I would be a wholly different person. And not just because I would carry a much, much smaller purse.

And books. Books. I mean, you can love reading without loving books. People who own a Kindle probably love reading without loving books. I don't understand Kindles. I've tried and maybe one of you can enlighten me on why it's cool (other than requiring a much, much smaller purse) but I just don't get it.

Books smell. Books are tangible. They are something to hold. Something to cherish. Something to signify the vast weight held within. Books are cozy, homey. They are heavy and a pain to move, but they are worth it when you get them back on their shelves and they look at you like old friends.

And I can't understand book banning or book burning or any other restrictions of books. Books are a window. A window into another life. And if you don't like that life, then don't read it. But it exists whether you like it or not.

The thought of telling someone that they can't read something because you don't like it is sort of overwhelming to me. Most of my favorite books have been banned by someone at some time. Catch 22. Oh, I cannot even tell you the amazing sense of wonder that overtook me the first time I read Heller's version of WWII. And Gone with the Wind which was my very first book over 1,000 pages. Mammy is my favorite. I want to move in with Mammy and make her hot chocolate and say, "Tell me about crazy Miss Scarlet." I hope she cusses when she's not around Scarlet and Rhett. Harry Potter. All of them. Do I really even need to address the idiocy of banning books that inspired more children to read than the invention of books? Books that led up to a book premier that world wide had better response than any movie premier in history? Really?

September is Banned Books month and I am on the very last day celebrating. I don't actually worry about celebrating, because well... Come to my basement and you will see why. But, if you haven't already, go read a banned book. Read something historical or sassy. Something with lots of bad language or really good sex. Read something that has magic or something featuring an uppity woman. Then read one to your kids. You would be surprised at the kids books that have been banned. Then tell them why free press is so important. Why books of all shapes and sizes and creeds and colors are important to our world.

Why the first sign that someone is a bad leader is that they tell you what to read. Why books should NEVER be burned, banned or banished. If they are old enough, read them parts and pieces of Areopagitica. It's just the right thing to do.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

A New Year

Brynna turned five yesterday. It was a happy occasion. I miss certain things about four, but I am already twisting five to my advantage. Below is a short list of things that "five year olds can do":

Turn on the bathroom light
Feed the cat
Sleep with only one light on
Dress themselves
Brush their teeth without help
Keep their own rooms clean

For the record, all of these items are things that I am already absolutely certain she can do. I have seen her turn on lights when she thinks no one is going to come do it for her. I have seen her feed the cat when she is promised ice cream. I have seen her sleep in the pitch dark, so I know she can handle turning out a few of the myriad lamps around her room. I know she can dress herself because it works just like playing dress up, except with clothes that won't melt in the dryer. We've been working on the teeth thing. She has never yet kept her room clean, but she cleans up after herself at school, so her room shouldn't be that big of a challenge.

I would like to say that five year olds do their own laundry. Or that five year olds pitch in with the dishes. Or that five year olds do windows. Goodness knows no one else does. But, alas, I am sticking with what I know I can accomplish.

I do think it's time to add a chore to her list, though. So far, she sets the table (only when I want to eat dinner cold from all the time spent arguing), she scrapes her plate in the trash and puts it in the sink, and she picks up her toys (sometimes), and she cleans the toilet (I know you all think I'm an evil genius, but she LOVES this job. She begs to do it. And why should I say no?) So, what should I add?

Friday, September 25, 2009

Breakfast in Bed

Last year, towards the end of the school year, our morning routine devolved into something akin to stupid. In this routine we established, I brought Brynna's breakfast to her in bed every morning, gave her a shake and left it on her pillow. About ten minutes later, I would stick my head in the door, see if the Medusa snakes had slithered back inside her skull yet and help her get dressed or run for the hills.

I don't like this routine. For one thing, it is centered on me serving Brynna and her greatest accomplishment of the day being taking her plate in the kitchen (which she only manages to do half the time). So, this year, I was all "I'm not havin' it!" I have dutifully gotten up earlier and earlier for the entire first month of school and woken Brynna four, five, sometimes six times a morning, fought the beast, drug her kicking and screaming into the kitchen, force fed her breakfast, threatened her life for not getting dressed and cried it out with her in the kitchen floor.

In other words, I have demanded a normal family and life and have ended up with screaming banshees.

So, this week, I have given up. Actually The Husband has forgotten to reset the alarm, so I have overslept. Yes, it's his fault. No, I won't consider my own complicity in not just getting up 15 stinking minutes before I have to.

Anyway, with the oversleeping, I just don't have time for the whole mess. The whole pretending to be cheerful while someone is screaming at you to get away from them. The whole coming in every three minutes to check to see if I can see eyes yet. The whole begging a person to eat something and then ending up letting her take it in the car anyway. It's exhausting.

Wednesday, I tried, but finally ended up plunking the microwaved frozen waffles that only slacker moms buy anyway on her pillow and heading for the hills. Thursday, I made one attempt, then gave in. Today, I went into her room at 7 a.m. for the first time with a plate of said waffles, gave her a nudge and said, "oooh. chocolate chip." and left. I didn't even wait to see if she woke up.

And, like clockwork, five minutes later, she came in the kitchen, bright eyed and bushy tailed to remind me that I didn't bring milk and we hadn't laid out clothes last night. (We still left the house almost 15 minutes late this morning, but it was because we just couldn't decide between the pink boots and the gold boots and OHMYGOODNESS! WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY KID! ARE THERE ANY OTHER CHILDREN ON EARTH THIS FASHION OBSESSED. As usual, I threatened to make her go barefoot, reminded her that she has really outgrown the pink ones and she aquiessed to gold boots. Like anyone cares. She wears bedroom slippers in her classroom, so all this stress is over ten minutes at the beginning of school and the five minutes it takes to walk from school to afterschool and put on different slippers.

She just wakes up best on her own. With the motivation of food.

And, I don't know. I can't decide if that's okay. I mean, maybe I'm waiting on her hand and foot and giving her some false expectation of what life is going to be like. Or maybe I'm adapting to her natural challenges and working around what is obviously going to be a lifelong "not a morning person" thing. And really, I'm not a morning person. The minute no one was looking, I ditched eating breakfast forever. And I don't even brush my hair until I get in the car. Those frozen waffles, yeah. I could make "real" waffles. I do it for breakfast for supper at least once a month. I make good waffles. I could mix the batter, put it in the fridge and spend approximately 2 extra minutes and have real waffles with warm fake maple syrup for breakfast. So, why don't I? Because thought and I don't get along until at least 9. At least.

I didn't have to get up and pretend to be a Cleaver every morning. Of course, no one brought me breakfast in bed every morning either. But I did get to get up and get ready on my own terms.

So, I don't know. I may be ruining her forever, but goodness gracious if I can go one morning without that shrill scream to GET OUT, GET OUT, GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT! then it's a good freaking morning.

Feel free to weigh in, but understand that I don't promise to take anyone's advice. Ever.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Rock and Roll will Never Die, but May Get Hopelessly Lost

I am a child of the '90's. Have I made that clear with my rantings about grunge music and weird pop culture that no one cares about? Is it obvious from my collection of Buffy the Vampire Slayer DVDs or my oft expounded upon theory that Dazed and Confused is my generation's Fast Times at Ridgemont High? Is it clear from the fact that I use wicked as an intensifying adjective in normal conversation? No, well. I am.

My daughter, my precious (soon to be five year old) daughter hated music until very recently. She hated music, it turns out, not because she was a sociopath as I feared, but because she was partially deaf. We've taken care of the deafness and now an appreciation for music has begun to blossom. But, because most children develop a love for music at a much, much younger age, it's a hard road to travel with Brynna.

She, like me, isn't drawn to a particular genre of music, but to lyrics. While I long for the poetic, the piercing, the arcane, the strange and the able-to-encapsulate-my-being-with-a-catchy-hook, Brynna likes the funny mostly. But she sometimes enjoys something that she feels is somehow about her. Which is really the same thing as my able-to-encapsulate-my-being-with-a-catchy-hook.

In the car, I try to keep things I know she will enjoy listening to. Along with the Jim Gill* and Ralph's World, I have Counting Crows (my favorite) for the song "American Girls." While AG has some... well... questionable lyrics ("coming to bed so edible", for one) Brynna is American and a girl, so she feels a kinship to this song. Also, I think she thinks it's about the dolls. She also loves "Einstein on the Beach" which is in my CCTop 10, too. I told her all about Einstein, and other than freaking the summer babysitter out with her discussion of Hiroshima and Einstein's feelings about it, she took to it really well. She has an Einstein bobblehead from a fast food restaurant and while so do about ten million other kids, they probably don't hold him and try to comfort him and promise him that splitting the atom will one day bring peace and prosperity to a world gone mad. (In not so many words.)

This weekend, she wore some black boots that are new to her. She really liked them and I had to threaten her life to keep her from wearing them with shorts on Monday to school. These boots are super-cute, but have really thick soles. Brynna has no trouble getting around in them, but they sound heavy when she walks. And my daughter, in her church skirt and big black boots, reminded me so much of "Santa Monica" by Everclear, that I just couldn't stand it. Once, she reminded me of A Clockwork Orange because of a hat she wore, this was similar, but less disturbing.**

So, I thought I would introduce her to Everclear. (In the wake of current celebrity nonsense, I feel it necessary to point out that I mean the band, not the liquor.) At any point in my life, asking me who my favorite band was could be a waste of time. For one thing, I have never had one or even two or three, favorite bands. I have a top 10, maybe even a top 5, but not a favorite. For another thing, even if I did, even if for one moment I was in LOVE with The Offspring, then tomorrow I would feel the same passion for Weezer. But, I digress. Point being that Everclear was always in the top whatever.

I loved them. Art Alexakis was an obsession of mine. Despite the fact that he is only three years younger than my mother, I was in love. I have all of their albums (up to about 2003 or so) and I listened to them reguarly. When I was down, I would sometimes pack my five disc changer with them and listen to about 4 straight hours of Everclear. And although my favorite songs almost all come from So Much for the Afterglow, it's the heavy guitar and the whining "With my big black boots and an old suitcase..." that made me fall in love with them in the first place. (Of course, with Brynna in the car, I'd have to skip over gems like "Heroin Girl," and "You Make Me Feel Like a Whore." But, you know, Alanis Morrisette is one of her favorites, so I've made friends with the skip buttons.

Except I've looked for three days and I can't find Sparkle and Fade. I've torn up my house. I see it in my mind's eye and I can't see it with my actual eyes because it is gone. Perhaps stolen. Who would steal a single CD from my collection, you ask. Well, one of these freakin' kids who have to listen to JLo on the radio all day long, that's who! It's been probably years since I had it out, but I should be able to go right to it and it's not there. Not in my car, not in my desk at work, not in my living room or my bedroom or the box in my basement. Nowhere.

This morning, though, we listened to So Much for the Afterglow anyway. There's less skipping involved with this album anyway. And, I have to say, athough I cried a little because the title song has a skip in it, I mostly rejoiced all the way to work today. Because I had rediscovered something that makes me extremely happy. Brynna sang "Down by the Bay" over the music, so I don't think she appreciated it much. But I did. Oh, how I remember. I remember the pain and torment and the victory and the joy. The raw emotion, the laying bare of souls, the listening and living and trying and failing. "This is a song about Susan," starts one song that for better or worse at one point described my relationship with a girl named Susan. "You gave me a name. And then walked away," describes Alexakis's relationship with his father and mine with mine. I felt all this. I lived all this. I soundtracked my life by all this.

And this morning, in the wake of some drama I'm not going to talk about, I listened to Art scream "They can't hurt you unless you let them," and I remembered that feeling. That feeling of knowing someone knows what you mean. Someone who can play guitar, who can get loud and scream about it, who knows all the chords and whose fingers don't bleed anymore. Someone who can be pithy and 3-minute-wise about it because they came out on the other side. And, although looking back on my obsession with a man the same age as my uncle, I find it a bit creepy, it helps that he is older. That he fought the fight and then became a rock star.

So, that's my words of wisdom for today. Pull out the music that spoke to you when you were at that age that required being spoken to. Crank it up and sing along. Feel the power racing through your veins and remember, they can't hurt you unless you let them.

*Parents, if you don't have a Jim Gill CD, look for one, or check one out of the library. Kid's music yes, but not annoying and funny enough to make you laugh, too.

** I've had my milksies and I'm ready for some ultra-violence.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Jessi's Emmy Predictions: Mostly Wrong

Long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I wrote a Emmy prediction post. It, in retrospect, was written half asleep. Re-reading it, I realized that I could have done a lot better than that. Although, I had to nominate Jenson Ackles, because if pretty, funny, charming and kickass demon hunting counted for anything, he would win hands down. But, as it doesn't...

Anyway, I had every intention of watching said Emmy's and commenting on the winners, the clothes, the acceptance speaches, the horror and the delight. But then, I kinda forgot. Last night I watched something called "Blood Book" and then fell asleep while The Husband watched "Pawn Stars." I never even knew the Emmy's were on. Fail.

So, this morning, I combed the internet and came up with the winners to comment on my own predictions. Which were, by and large, wrong. Four will wins won. Two should wins won. I guess that's about the best I can do. Anyway, for your summary pleasure. Or your didn't-watch-it-either-but-also-meant-to pleasure. You know, whatever:
Comedy:
Best Comedy Series- Called it!
"30 Rock" could be the only show on telivision and our friends at the Emmy's wouldn't know the difference. How many statues does one show need?
Best Actor in a Comedy Series - Cry. Whimper. Sniff
Alec Baldwin won, making the 9,859,342nd win for "30 Rock." You know, 30 Rock, sometimes it's nice to let someone else have a crack at it. I'm still crying about Jim Parsons. I knew he wouldn't win, but you know, I said that about Slumdog Millionaire, too.
Best Actress in a Comedy Series - Oh.
Toni Collette took out Tina Fey and I really don't have an opinion about that. "United States of Tara" is the only show in this category that I've never seen, so you know. Should get those pay channels if I'm going to make Emmy picks I guess. Who knew?
Supporting Actor in a Comedy Series - I hate it when I'm right.
Jon Cryer from "Two and a Half Men" took the Emmy. Right out of Neil Patrick Harris's hands, practically. Or perhaps only in my mind.
Best Supporting Actress in a Comedy Series - Win!!
Very pleased that my should win, Kristin Chenoweth actually took the statue home. Why, oh why would they cancel such a great, award winning show?

Drama
Best Drama Series - Some things are so predictable.
Okay, I get "Mad Men" is the best show I'm not watching or whatever. But this could have been pre-taped, because it surprised NO ONE.
Best Actor in a Drama Series - Win, 2!!
Another of my should win's won. Bryan Cranston. If you are not watching "Breaking Bad," then you are really missing out on some fine acting, one of the weirdest premises ever and a generally entertaining show.
Best Actress in a Drama Series - Well, Kyra still has Kevin Bacon. Which would be good enough for me.
Glenn Close walked away with it and I don't really begrudge her the win. She's good.
Supporting Actor in a Drama Series - Does anyone still watch "Lost?"
I mean, I guess they must, but I just don't get it. Aaron Paul, I weep for you, but at least William Shatner didn't win.
Supporting Actress in a Drama Series - And the underdog takes it!
I totally didn't care who won this category, but as the only actress not from "In Treatment" or "Grey's Anatomy" I kinda was rooting for Rose. So, go Rose.
Reality TV
Reality Competition Program - Feel-goody always wins.
"The Amazing Race" walked away with it. And no one cared. Even a little.

Reality Series - I know my reality shows, unfortunately.
"Intervention" won, again surprising no one. I actually had to go to the Emmy webpage to find out who won because it was so darn uninteresting.

Of course, the event of the night was the Dr. Horrible appearance. All of the Joss Whedon groupies (myself included) squeed with delight and then cried with joy. Fabulous!

Friday, September 18, 2009

Your Friday Meme - Top 5's

Top 5 Songs for Crying
1. "Break Down Here" by Julie Roberts
2. "Nothing Compares 2 U" by Sinead O'Connor
3. "Whisky Lullaby" by Brad Paisley and Allison Kraus
4. "Angel" by Sarah McLachlan
5. "Why Don't You Quit Leaving Me Alone" by Rosanne Cash

Top 5 Songs for Driving
1. "Running Down a Dream" by Tom Petty (actually anything by Tom Petty)
2. "Boys of Summer" either Don Henley or the Ataris, I like both
3. "What's the Frequency, Kenneth" by R.E.M.
4. "Jack and Diane" by John Cougar Mellencamp
5. "Crazy Eddie's Last Hurrah" by Reckless Kelly

Top 5 Songs for a Breakup (Warning, I get mad, not sad)
1. "You Oughta Know" by Alanis Morrisette
2. "Napoleon" by Ani DiFranco (or you know, anything by Ani DiFranco)
3. "Before He Cheats" by Carrie Underwood (yes, I know, but it's soooo aaangggrrry)
4. "Kerosene" by Miranda Lambert
5. "Gunpowder and Lead" by Miranda Lambert
(Lesson to men: don't mess with the country chicks.)

Top 5 Songs for Dancing
1. "Magic Carpet Ride" by Steppenwolf
2. "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" by Meatloaf
3. "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane (what can I say, I'm a weird dancer)
4. "Bobby McGee" by Janis Joplin
5. "Son of a Preacher Man" by Dusty Springfield

Top 5 Songs for Remembering When
1. "Semi-Charmed Kinda Life" by Blink 182
2. "Santa Monica" by Everclear
3. "Beautiful Junkie" by Operation Ivy
4. "Buddy Holly" by Weezer
5. "American Pie" by Don McClean

Thursday, September 17, 2009

Friday Night Madness

Okay, I'll just tell you upfront. I spent years priding myself on my distaste and displeasure with high school sports.

I have my reasons. The biggest was probably that as a total geek in high school, I resented those kids and what playing sports meant for them. I resented that a third or fourth string basketball player was more popular and well-respected (by adults as well as students) than the lead scorer on the academic team or the kid who had gone to state for speech every year. I resented that the football team took two or three buses to games while the speech team piled into parent cars because we couldn't afford a bus. I resented that the sports teams had "boosters" and we had, well, ourselves, a handful of dedicated parents and staff members who would do anything for us. Mostly I resented the attitude that the football players, basketball players and cheerleaders were model citizens and that us black-wearing, Nirvana-listening drama geeks were all trouble makers who were probably doing God-knows-what. When, for the record, it was the sports stars who were out doing GKW every weekend.

It's hard for me to get past that. I was anti-social in high school in a very acceptable, kinda-social way. And I just assumed that my kids would be too. Brynna is testing that assumption by being Miss Montessori Popularity. But, really, I'm not worried about that yet. She has years to decide that black is the new pink and that life is cooler in the underground.

In the mean time, however, I will be at the football field Friday nights cheering and screaming and trying desperately to wear red. (I'm also getting in the habit of spelling cardinals during that chant, instead of bluebirds like my (really lame) rebellious soul did in high school.

Why? Because my brother is there. On the field, red jerseyed. I can't help it. If he tried to conquer the world and make us all say "Smurfy" all the time, I'd probably end up expounding the virtues of smurfiness.

And, also, because, well, I kinda-sorta get it. I get the excitement of it. The roar of the crowd and the smell of hot dogs and the band and (God help me) the freakin' cheerleaders. I get how people care. How whole towns (although not ours, really) care. How people arrange their schedules around this.

Which brings me to my next point. Will people PLEASE STOP scheduling things on Friday nights during football season. I can't take it. I can't be two places at once and I can't miss kiddo out on the field, but I can't miss whatever either. I am going to have to miss the first Friday of playoffs. I can't quite wrap my brain around that. How can I do that? I can't. It's impossible. But, yet. I've made a commitment to raising money for my kid's school and I have to follow through on that.

I'm torn. Like Natalie Imbruglia. Nothing's fine, I'm torn.

If you had told me in *cough* 1996 *cough* when I graduated high school that I would one day be crying at a dinner party with poker and drinks and fabulousness because I wasn't in the stands at Cardinal Stadium cheering for the football team, I would have requested that you seek immediate psychological treatment. That I would one day be seriously debating over which was more important: a birthday party or football, I would have laughed until Dr. Pepper came out of my nose. Or orange Shasta. Whichever.

Yet here I am. Lamenting and whining and wondering if I can make it there by the half.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Just So Everyone Knows How Crazy I Am

Have I ever told you about my completely and utterly unhealthy obsession with Charles Manson? No, well. There you have it. I'm weird.

I made The Husband stay up until almost midnight a few nights ago because I didn't want to miss a minute of the new History Channel program, "Manson," (because HC always has the creative names, you know) and wouldn't risk moving into the living room to watch. By the way, if you are wondering, I was disappointed in "Manson" as I felt it made too much of Charlie's failure in the music biz and too little of oh, I don't know, the total and complete INSANITY of the whole thing. Poor Charlie, never got a record contract and so, understandably, became the poster child for crazy. Whatever.

Anyway, I digress. It all started when I was in high school. I bought a copy of Helter Skelter to read on a flight and I was totally sucked in. I could sympathize with these girls. These girls were just like me. (Except for the brutal murder part, you know.) And I felt like everyone who had ever felt like an outsider (in other words, everyone) has been in that weak emotional state where you could be manipulated. In other words, I read it full of there-but-for-the-grace-of-God moments.

As an adult, I've reread HS and added other books and websites and articles and first hand accounts and court transcripts and whatever else I could get my hands on. I don't have those moments anymore. Because, well, because I grew up. Just like most of these girls have. They grew up in prison, with all this crap weighing on their consciences, and no end in sight.

It's been a big year for Manson news. There usually isn't much. You know, they're all still in prison. UPDATE: still in prison. UPDATE: still in prison. There's a few parole hearings here and there and everyone gets denied. (Except for Squeaky Fromme, by the way, who is out now and quite possibly the craziest this side of Manson himself. She didn't go in for the Tate murders, but for trying to kill Gerald Ford. While Manson was in prison. And she was a nun in his own made up religion.) But this year there's been some real news.

Squeaky Fromme getting out for one thing. And Susan Atkins trying desperately to get out. She'll probably die before year end and that'll be even more news. Charlie did a television interview this Spring. The first in a while. He pretty much looked like your grandpa except for the swastika on his forehead (and the crazy, crazy eyes). And Barker Ranch burned to the ground. Probably arson.

Every time one of these things hits the news, I get re-addicted. I do Internet searches, I read blogs, I pick up HS (still the best) and read specific sections. And I wonder why I care. Why I have this weird obsession. Why this crime of all the crimes in history has me so engrossed. I actually have a thing about serial killers. Son of Sam, Ed Gein, H.H. Holmes. I'll read about any and all of them. I'll watch the movies and compare them to reality. But I don't stick with them the way I stick with The Family. And I wonder why.

Is it because it only took one dose of crazy to infect a whole community of people? Is it because of how close the authorities came to unwittingly preventing it time and time again? It is because of Manson's Kentucky connection? Is it because of the family kids, a story still mostly untold that intrigues me? Or is it something simpler? That it was the first true crime novel I ever read? The first movie to ever give me nightmares?

The story will always be with us. It's just that kind of story. The reality of it will fade as the family members die (in or out of jail). Charlie is in his 70's and has never lived a particularly healthy life. The victim's families will fade away. The places will be razed, rebuilt, converted. Most of them already have. And all of those things will make it seem more like a story and less like reality. That's a scary thought. The Manson murders will one day inhabit the same place in our mythology as Jack the Ripper.

And I believe that THAT is one of the things that keeps me tethered to the story. After 40 years (the anniversary was last month) it's still raw in many ways. It's still real in a way that it won't be forever. It's less real for me than for those who remember the news. It's less real for them than for those who had been visited by the creepy crawlers. It's less real for them than for those close to those killed or those who did the killing. And for my kids, when they are older and learn about it or see a movie or pick up Helter Skelter from mom's bookshelf, it will be less real than it is for me.

I feel the need to pin that reality down. To hold it firm, lest we forget. Lest we forget the fear and uncertainty. Lest we forget the shock and revulsion. Lest we forget the desperate need to talk to our kids. Lest it becomes nothing but a story. A movie. A dramatization. Lest we think it's ever over.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Conversations with a Four Year Old

Anyone feeling like I've left you? Sorry about that. It just happens sometimes. I can't believe it's been a week, and I am very sorry. It's been a crazy hectic week full of craptacualarness, and also The Husband's birthday. You know how it is.

Anyway, here I am, a week later, with nothing more interesting to say than "Oh, hey, my kid says funny stuff." But whatever:

Brynna: Mommy?
Jessi: Yes.
B: I'm going to be a good mommy someday.
J: I'm sure you will. You're already such a good dolly mommy.
B: Yeah. I'm going to have two girls and a boy.
J: Really?
B: Yes, I'm going to name them Samantha, Brynna, Robert and Mister.
J: Is that two girls and two boys or is Robert Mister one name.
B: No. Two girls and two boys. I just changed my mind.
J: That's cool. Did you know daddy's real name is Robert.
B: Yes, but I'm naming my Robert after someone else.
____________________

J: Did you see Uncle D?
B: Yes. But only for a minute. He came right in and right out.
J: Oh. Was M with him?
B: No, that boy who came to our house was with him.
J: Tyler.
B: Yep. Him. He's handsome.
J: Really?
B: Yes. I can't talk to him because he makes me giggle.
J: Oh... Well...
B: I like handsome boys. I think I'll marry a handsome boy when I grow up. Like Griffin. Or Ryan.
J: Well, that's always a... that's a plan, I guess.
___________________

B: Mommy. I think you should have a Jonas Brothers birthday party.
J: Why?
B: Because they're funny. Do you remember when they made the cake and it got all over the stuff and the one put his foot in a bucket? That was funny.
J: Yeah. That was funny. So you like the show and not the music.
B: I kinda just like looking at them.
J: Walks away quickly.
___________________

So, what do you all think? Phase? Am I in big trouble? Is this just the next logical step in her experimentation with social systems? Will the upside of this be that I won't have to hear the constant drama over who is Skylar's best friend today and who isn't talking to Maya anymore and who was mean to Autumn? Have we moved on? Because I can deal with a boy crazy four year old if it means that drama queen popular girl is gone.

Also, this is probably the last Conversations with a Four Year Old for a while. In just a 13 days (that's right, less than 2 weeks) she will be five. Wish me luck with that.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

Ruining Her Life

As a parent, I believe that it is my God-given responsibility, my reason for existence, my purpose in life, to ruin my children's lives. This weekend was an astounding and amazing success.

Below; a brief list of the many activities that I did that ruined Brynna's life:

1. I forced her to try a pork chop before she left the table. With the raspberry sauce that I specifically made because she's always liked it before.
2. I wouldn't let her go to school yesterday. (As it was a holiday and no one else was there.)
3. I made her get off barbie.com after two hours.*
4. I told her that scalloped potatoes taste more like cheese than potato. Because she hates potato.
5. I packed sliced bell peppers in her lunch for today.
6. I refused to buy her a toy at the grocery store.
7. I watched two hours of the Dirty Jobs marathon.
8. I told her the Jump-arounds had changed their name.
9. I asked her to put away her toys.
10. I made her go to school today.

Alas, the weekend wasn't such a spectacular success with the younger one, who seems amused an happy almost no matter what we do. However, because the weekend went so badly, this morning I took her to the doctor and demanded they stick a needle in her leg. **

* I haven't yet bothered with rules governing computer time because her attention span has always been shorter than whatever TV show I am trying to watch while she's on the computer. Also because, frankly, I am more than happy to regain control of the remote and the peacefulness of the house while she does math with Handy Manny. I guess I need rules now, though, because barbie.com is evil, pink, princessy, crap with no educational value and apparently, no extent to the attention span to be paid there.

** Since I know someone will ask and it is kinda why I made the stupid blog in the first place:
The Doctor's Office by the Numbers:
29 - inches long
21 - lbs. weighing
75 - head circ. percentile
90 - weight percentile
95 - height percentile
1 - number of needles stuck in her (flu vaccine)
1 - number of developmental milestones not met (saying Mama or Dada, obviously)
5 - number of developmental milestones met
16 - oz. of formula needed per day until her first birthday
3 - number of months until next appointment

Friday, September 4, 2009

This Post is Nothing to Get Excited About

It's been a long week. I have been consistently behind on everything I had to do. I have cleaned my house from top to bottom to host my church group, I have been sick and well and sick and kinda well again. I have not written, and for that I am sorry.

Now, it's going to be a long weekend. It's funny how those two phrases (long week and long weekend) have such different connotations. Say "a long week" and you will see me deflate before your eyes. Say "a long weekend" and you can feel my excitement.

I'll make a confession, though: I don't get Labor Day. I just don't understand the concept. I am grateful for it, because otherwise the stretch between July 4 and Thanksgiving would be unbearable. Perhaps that's what it's all about. Perhaps someone long ago was writing down all the important American holidays and said, "Wow, we are good November through February, but we something to break up the late summer/early fall period."

I'd like to be in the developmental meeting that decided that what we should be celebrating on that day was hard work. By not working. I'm sure it sounded something like a pitch meeting for Seinfeld.

All this is to say that I am really not up to writing a real, live blog post that's like interesting or funny or something. And I feel guilty just skipping out on you, since that Wizards of Waverly Place picture has been up since Tuesday.

And it is Friday, so I could do a Friday meme, but I haven't gotten any good ones lately, so I'd have to search for memes, which sounds easy but really isn't. Try it, google meme. You'll be impressed by how much it isn't what you thought it would be.

So, have a nice weekend. I'll try to check in. Enjoy your extra day if you get one. I'll enjoy mine plenty.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Crying Crybaby

I am a crier. Not as in a town crier and I notify the rabble when something interesting is happening, but as in I cry at Hallmark commercials.

There used to be a commercial for a phone company. I don't remember which one. Anyway, a teenage girl is in a very damp, dark looking city and she's all dirty and she goes in a phone booth and picks up the phone and then somewhere in a bright, sunny kitchen a woman picks up and the girl just says "Mom" and the mom knows and asks where she is. And then I bawl. Like a baby. Because she's coming home and she's gonna be safe and... Well, I can't explain it. It's 30 seconds and I'm a whimpering mess. I'm actually teary telling you all about this commercial I haven't seen since at least high school.

I love to cry at movies or TV shows or whatever. It kinda annoys me when I get teary at commercials, but there is something so cathartic about just sobbing while someone rides into the sunset. Or doesn't. I'm not picky, I like happy crying and sad crying equally. I love Steel Magnolias because you get both. You also get to laugh while your crying every single time and if Truvy isn't right about that, I don't know anything about anything.

People have always made fun of my crying. Except my family, because they are all criers too. My mom and my little brother especially. (It was NOT popcorn salt in your eyes and you know it!) The thing is, I'm not particularly embarrassed of it most of the time. I don't mind that I am a crier. That's just life. It's just who I am. I get scared at horror movies, I cry at happy movies or sad movies, I get pissed off when I watch Animal Cops. I just feel it all and I don't mind that.

I'm not afraid of feeling and I guess I've always believed that maybe my feeling all feelingy makes me more empathetic or something.

In any case, I will sob unabashed in a movie theatre, crowded living room, my car (to the radio, not movies), wherever. I don't care who sees and who thinks what about it. It just doesn't bother me. Most of the time.

Then, there are times. Times when I wish I wasn't so *empathetic*. Times when I wish I could be a normal person. Times like Sunday. When I continued to watch Wizards of Waverly Place: The Movie even after Brynna had gone on to bed. When I watched with some trepidation as Alex and Justin fought for the family power (a concept that I am sure 90% of you have no clue about, but which fascinates me). And then, I cried. I cried as it all worked out. As Alex hugged her mother and went running after her brothers. As they all threw their arms around their father. I cried. Because I'm a big crying crybaby, is why. And I am not proud of that at all. I am, for maybe the third time in my life, ashamed to be crying at a movie.

She's got good hair, though, doesn't she. And so does the mom. I'm going to grow mine out in hopes of getting that mom's hair.