Category Archives: The Natives are Decidedly Restless

March 28, 2011 · 11:03 am

Fool That I Am

Remind me to never again hire an incompetent babysitter. Ever. It’s hardly worth the aggravation I suffered as a result of inviting said twit into my home to care for my children. Granted, my husband and I enjoyed an enchanting evening together, which is a rarity in and of itself, and the delightful buzz derived from the three (or was it four?) glasses of something-or-other I quaffed was utterly decadent. However, those savory nuggets of goodness were but a distant memory once we crossed our threshold and laid eyes upon the mother of all messes.

The devastation we witnessed there was unconscionable. Rest assured, our charges were alive and well—and thankfully, hadn’t torched the place or climbed onto the rooftop to pet a squirrel. Just the same, I was baffled as to how our happy home had been transformed from the tolerable state of disarray in which we left it to the state of total annihilation in which we found it—just two hours later. It was inconceivable.

Dora the Explorer underwear, sweat socks and remnants of cheesy pizza littered the coffee table. Discarded clothing and half a roll of Scotch tape hung from the sofa like Spanish moss. Puzzles (Lord knows how many!) had been dumped and abandoned in front of the television set—which was blaring a lovely little blurb about Girls Gone Wild at roughly 120 decibels. A slew of videos and DVDs lay behind the couch like forgotten Frisbees and scads upon scads of marbles (which I failed to remember we even owned) were strewn about the place like chicken feed. I’m still finding the wretched things. Grok!

Needless to say, the floor itself was barely visible. Throw pillows, toys and a bevy of books lay like carnage throughout the house—as did unfettered markers and crayons and those pebble-ish clumps of Pay-Doh I’ve grown to know and loathe. And there were scissors (SHE GAVE THEM SCISSORS FOR CHRIST’S SAKE!) along with bazillions of confetti-like bits of paper scattered the world over.

At least I found no one’s ponytail amidst the rubble. There is a god.

Had I been sober, I might have recognized in an instant the telltale signs of ruin. Oddly enough, I do remember noting (yet pooh-poohing) the waist-high piece of string that led from my treadmill, where it had been crudely tethered, through the den, across the kitchen and into the vastness of the living room where presumably, it was tied to yet another stationary object—the babysitter, perhaps (i.e. the shiftless lump on the couch)?

It wasn’t just any old string either. Apparently those wily imps of mine had pilfered every blooming piece of lacing string, craft string and ribbon they could get their mitts on, purposefully knotting them together to form an anaconda-sized tightrope (read: a fiendish device for ensnaring unsuspecting creatures, great and small). They then must have wound the ends around key pieces of furniture in each of the aforementioned rooms, careful to keep it taut and thoroughly entwined every step of the way. It was masterful, I must admit. But WHERE ON EARTH was the babysitter during the eternity that it must have required for a couple of twerps (who can’t even tie their own shoes!) to construct something so profoundly complex and sinfully marvelous!? And why OH WHY hadn’t she put a stop to their foolishness by ordering them to put away the first behemoth-sized batch toys before piling into the NEXT behemoth-sized batch of toys!!? That’s just plain stupid. That’s what it is. Stupid.

So was the string thing.

What if instead they had decided to smear the cat with Vaseline, and then felt the compelling desire to festoon him with the vat of confetti they had created?! What if they had yanked every purple Popsicle out of the freezer and set it on the counter for the purpose of conducting some warped little melting experiment?! What if they had filled the tub with Gatorade or lime-flavored Jell-O?! I shudder to think. The string thing was bizarre enough.

But how could I (BLITHERING IDIOT THAT I AM) stroll past such a monstrosity without shrieking in protest and abject horror (at least within the confines of my own mind), knowing full well that something was terribly, terribly wrong with this picture!? Moms just know. At least they’re supposed to.

Then again, I’m supposed to have a handle on the incompetence thing as it relates to babysitters and whatnot.

So much for that.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (wondering whether I dare to hire another babysitter–ever).

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Filed under Home for Wayward Toys, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as babysitter, children, humor, kids, messes, parenting

March 22, 2011 · 2:23 pm

Rodent Rage

I always hear the wild rumpus before I determine its curious source—a raging battle within the confines of a two-story, purplish hamster cage with an electric green spiral slide and a profusion of tunnels that twist and turn at precarious angles. A sudden and intense eruption of sound, to include screeching, scratching and scurrying about, arises from what was once dead silence. As if something in the Land of Peaceful Accord tragically shifts, causing the whiskered beasts in question to become hostile combatants—their tiny voices piercing the still of my home. Lord knows why they engage in such vicious behavior. Never mind why they choose to poo where they dwell or why I ever thought my brood would need five of the stupid things to somehow make their lives complete.

Needless to say, much of our robo hamsters’ day-to-day conduct baffles me and I often struggle to find the mere suggestion of logic and meaning in their actions. Like the manic pace at which they circle the cage, the reckless manner in which they fling themselves (and each other) off their miniature wheels and into oblivion, the obsessive nature of their grooming and gnawing habits, the adorable way they hold behemoth-sized wedges of fruit in their little paws and bring it to their mouths to nibble ever so slightly and, of course, the huddled mass of fur they form while they sleep, commune-style, wedged impossibly inside a plastic hovel or in an obscure corner of the trendy enclosure we felt compelled to purchase—the one that apparently requires a master’s degree to assemble.

Nevertheless, the bursts of aggression perplex me and I watch in amazement as they stand on their haunches and brawl like savages—although it’s slightly comical, given their diminutive stature. Try as I might, I can’t seem to wrap my mind around what drives this asinine show of bravado. There are no potential mates to impress as they’re all females. There is no shortage of food since we lavish them with all their little hearts could desire. Nor is territory an issue in my categorically unprofessional opinion. Perhaps a simple and overwhelming desire for the heady rush of world domination is largely to blame—or at least dominion over a 1,080 cubic inch corner of the rodent world.

That said, I don’t pretend to know what makes hamsters tick and/or hurl their smallish bodies at one another, thrashing about the place on the fringe of complete and utter derangement with every intent to maim those on the receiving end of their wrath. However, I find it fairly disturbing that, of late, the aforementioned hostility smacks of bullying in the truest sense of the word. More specifically, all of the big and burly hamsters join forces to torment the remaining (and pitifully defenseless) creature—chasing it without end, wrestling it into submission and causing it to cower in lieu of feeding or resting comfortably. No wonder it has failed to strengthen and grow on pace with the others. It is the Fregley (of Diary of a Wimpy Kid fame) of the hamster world, while the others, collectively, are Scut Farkus (the infinitely repulsive, skank-mouthed beast-of-a-thing that played in A Christmas Story).

Oddly enough, I find myself wanting to intercede beyond the obvious solution of segregating them—to play the role of mediator, to dole out therapeutic blurbages in Hamster-ese and to assign the warring factions exercises to promote cooperation and civility. I feel like demanding there be some sort of formal agreement, too. And in a perfect world, they would each sign something to that effect. A binding contract, suitable for framing, that I could display in full view of their purplish cage—a constant reminder of the joint investment made. Additionally, I feel as if the victim deserves special treatment for combat fatigue, because, clearly, that is what plagues the poor soul now. I’d also like to enroll the belligerent beasts in an anger management program—refusing to buy them any more strawberries or (gasp!) bananas unless and until they willingly participate and fully comply with its tenets.

In the meantime, I’ll have to settle for the segregation strategy, methinks, ever grateful to our kind and generous friends who GAVE us another hamster cage—an interconnected wonder of plastic feeding bubbles and cozy tunnels, gigantic domes and a wheel made for three or more of the smelly rodents we love so dearly.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (dealing with rodent rage).

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Filed under The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, hamsters, humor, kids, parenting, pets

March 18, 2011 · 11:01 am

I Do Not Like It, Sam I Am

It has come to my attention that a certain someone (Read: Thing One) is no longer fond of the cheery, little notes I tuck inside her lunch box each day—the ones I had hoped would make her feel special and remembered throughout school. Nor is she particularly thrilled with those I stuff in her snack bag. Hence, the gripes and grumbles and the oh-so-theatrical rolling-of-the-eyes performance to which I have been subjected of late. All of it, seemingly out of the blue. Of course, I find this news completely devastating—because it can only mean one thing: the end of childhood is nigh.

First, it’s “I don’t need you to hold my hand,” then, “I don’t need you to tie my shoes,” and apparently, “I don’t need you to write those silly, little notes anymore, Mom. It’s embarrassing.”

She then delivered the crushing blow, “And so are those bags. I’m the only one in my whole entire class who brings a snack in a STUPID BROWN BAG. Everyone else uses Ziploc baggies. And could you just write my name on it in plain old boring letters? I don’t want fancy bubble letters anymore. Are you trying to make me look like a baby or something?!”

Ouch.

Quite frankly, this unfortunate turn of events blindsided me, taking me entirely by surprise. I had no idea that such a practice was thought to be humiliating—much less, heinous and vindictive in nature (i.e. I’m usually well aware of the instances during which I am heinous and vindictive, and I have a pretty good handle on when I’ve humiliated my brood—hot, angry tears followed by a barrage of foot stomping and sporadic outbursts involving the endearing phrase, “Evil Stepmother!” are fairly reasonable indicators). But this time, not so much.

At any rate, the fancy-schmancy doodles and notes must stop. Unless I can do it in a fashion that Thing One finds fully unobjectionable. “Can I just scribble something on a Post-it Note and hide it under your sandwich…once in a while…maybe on Tuesdays or something?” I posed, clinging desperately to the notion that it might still be okay for me to communicate with my child in this manner—but on her terms.

“Yeah, I guess so,” she conceded, “…but only if you quit using those Cat in the Hat notes. Do you want EVERYONE IN THE WHOLE CAFETERIA to see them?!” she spat as if I had suggested stuffing her underwear in with the Cheerios.

“Oh, no! Not the Cat in the Hat notes!” I wailed. “I love those things!” Indeed, I fondly recall the day I stumbled into what I considered to be the greatest find a parent of a grade-schooler could be blessed with—a collection of ONE HUNDRED Dr. Seuss-isms, smartly bound by Hallmark in a four-color, pocket-sized booklet, designed specifically with harried moms like me in mind (That’s code for: I did a happy dance right there in the middle of the aisle and shouted “Sam I am!” while clutching said nugget of brilliance to my breast). Truly, it was a thing of beauty and utterly brimming with ingenious rhymes like, “The cat is here! The cat came back! He thought you’d like a yummy snack.” And inspiring blurbages like, “Hot fish, cool fish. You fish, RULE fish!”

I thought it was cute. I thought it was clever. I thought it would save me from a slow and horrible death an obscenely tedious task—that of scrawling a bazillion heartfelt (and agonizingly original) notes to my children at an ungodly hour, when my brain barely functions beyond what is necessary for pouring my exhausted self into bed.

But no. The child hath spoken. “No more Dr. Seuss notes, Mom. I’m a THIRD GRADER, remember?”

“Yes, I remember,” I bemoaned that irrefutable truth. “At least Thing Two still likes them, though,” I considered. “Didn’t she???” Later, I would quiz the girl—far away from the poisoned influence of her counterpart.

“Yeah, Mom. I still want Dr. Seuss notes in my lunch,” Thing Two cheerily stated. “I like them. And I like the notes you write, too. But I get mad when you use my stuff to do that.”

“Your stuff?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. My multicolored crayon pencils. I wish you wouldn’t use them to write notes to me,” she clarified. “Just use a pencil.”

“Oh,” I acknowledged, “Okay then,” deciding it was a small, albeit bizarre, concession to make. One of many I’ll apparently be making in the days, months and years ahead.

But I do not like it, Sam, I am.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (busy lamenting the finite quality of childhood).

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Filed under Smother May I?, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as children, humor, kids, laments, lunch box notes, parenting, school

March 9, 2011 · 5:00 am

Still Crazy (for Barbie) After All These Years

Barbie is 52 today. She’s no spring chicken, as my great-grandmother would likely say. Nevertheless, the 11.5 inch cultural icon has weathered well, having been recognized as one of Mattel’s best-selling toys for decades—some estimates indicating that more than a billion dolls (three every second) have been sold worldwide. That said, Barbie made her grand debut on this day in 1959 at the American International Toy Fair in New York—wearing her signature ponytail (available in blonde or brunette) and a racy, zebra-inspired swimsuit. Clearly, she was a rebel before her time—one responsible for fueling not only imagination and independence among little girls everywhere, but for spawning a wealth of controversy and lawsuits as well.

Barbie had rather prominent breasts after all, wore a demure sideways glance originally and promoted an unrealistic body image—one that would correspond to a 5’ 9” woman with a 36-inch bosom, an 18-inch waist (gasp!) and 33-inch hips. Her perfectly painted-on smile and shapely legs simply added to the concerns raised by many (i.e. since she was viewed as a role model, young girls would perhaps become anorexic in an attempt to emulate her impossibly slender physique). Stirring further discontent, “Barbie Baby-Sits” (1963) and the “Slumber Party” ensemble (1965) came with a book entitled How to Lose Weight which dispensed advice such as “Don’t eat.” Eventually, in 1997 the toy giant addressed the aforementioned criticisms by outfitting Barbie with a wider, more contemporary, waistline—but nary an ungainly, flat-chested, bucktoothed Barbie will you find anywhere, my dear Mattel.

Despite it all, we’re still crazy for Barbie in all her buxom career-minded glory—both conventional (think: nurse) and infinitely obscure (think: paratrooper). And let us not forget her endearing gaggle of plastic companions, the glut of branded whateverness spilling from store shelves hither and yon and the pretty pink houses without which Barbie enthusiasts would surely wither and die.

I mean who can be properly amused by said lithesome beauties (upon which a shock of hair-like matter seemingly “grows”) without the requisite 67 pairs of stilettos, 43 hats and a wardrobe whose mix ‘n match permutation potential is decidedly incalculable? Never mind pink cars. And pink boats. And swimming pools perfectly imbued with pink rafts. Just for fun, sometime I’d like to amass (into a hideous heap!) all the Barbie-related foolishness with which my daughters have been blessed over the years. I’m quite certain it would be an impressive and distinctly pink pile; however I doubt it would change the spending habits in this house-turned-shrine-to-all-things-Barbie.

Besides, a great portion of the aforementioned huddled masses with whom Thing One and Thing Two routinely play fall under the category of recycled, having entertained their big sister more than a decade ago. And as luck would have it, some were graciously bestowed upon my progenies as gifts. It’s rumored that a handful of the dolls were even mine, although I had great difficulty convincing a certain couple of somebodies that that was even possible. (i.e. “Did they even MAKE Barbie dolls back then, Mom?”)

That said, it’s not as if we’ve had to shell out a ton of cash to acquire the legions of plastic wonders we now own, which, I suppose, makes the whole we-have-too-many-damned-dolls thing seem somewhat tolerable. Nor do we possess Barbie Video Girl, Totally Tattoos Barbie or Teen Talk Barbie—which gladdens my heart more than words can adequately express.

Oddly enough, though, my charges aren’t overly interested in the bells and whistles so many of today’s dolls feature. Nor do they give a hoot about what their beloved Barbies wear or whether or not their bizarrely angled feet happen to have shoes, let alone ones that match. Forget what the avid collectors may opine. Mint condition means nothing to my brood. If anything, it is the doll with unkempt hair to which they are drawn—or the one whose unruly mane was hacked off with scissors when they were four, or the blondie with missing face paint, now sporting a deficient, yet endearing little smile, or the one with chipped plastic and mottled skin, having been abandoned in the garage (or a snowbank) for months. Curiously, it’s as if their dilapidated qualities add charm and character beyond measure.

Furthermore, Thing One and Thing Two are fairly enthralled with the dismembered populace of our sprawling Barbie community. Apparently, it matters not that they possess an intact set of limbs (or a head for that matter). “They’re still fun to play with, Mom—even without heads.” Translation: My children are disturbingly droll and I am doomed to forever share my home with their dear playthings.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (with an obscene quantity of Barbie dolls).

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Filed under Home for Wayward Toys, The Natives are Decidedly Restless

Tagged as Barbie dolls, Barbies, children, humor, kids, parenting

February 21, 2011 · 6:56 am

And the Snow Gods Laughed…

Enough already with the snow days. I’ve certainly had my fill of time home with the heathens—especially since the inclement weather, of late, has been anything but conducive to building snowmen and frolicking about in the great outdoors. Ice, somehow, just doesn’t carry the same appeal as the white, fluffy stuff. Neither does freezing rain. Nor bone-chilling temperatures.

That being said, I think school cancellations fall under the Law of Diminishing Returns—the more I experience, the less enamored with them I become. Further, they embody the spirit of my slightly twisted adage, “Too much of a good thing (like parent-child togetherness) can be horrible when it involves entertainment-starved youth and a dearth of all-things-entertaining.” Indeed, it’s likely I need a refresher course on keeping boredom at bay for the six-and-under set. (Note to self: Read 1,001 Things You and Your Kids Can Create with Pipe Cleaners and Modeling Clay! And after that, peruse the finer points of Embrace Cabin Fever, or Die!).

In all honesty, the first few days off from school with my children were wonderful—a welcome reprieve from our harried morning schedule. There were little or no discussions surrounding the topic of dawdling. No ogre-ish threats were made involving the consequences of missing the bus. No battles over the wearing of undershirts took center stage “…because I hate undershirts, Mom!” No one even checked to see if teeth or hair had been brushed, or that pajamas had been removed and subsequently replaced with suitable attire. Nor did anyone care. School was closed for the day and the gift of time—a sacred offering from the snow gods—had been bestowed upon us all. Liberated for one calendar day. I guess it’s much like I felt as a youngster—free to squeeze as much goodness out of a 24-hour period as was humanly possible.

Back then the joy didn’t wait for the official announcement to be made. Indeed, it arrived in earnest the night before a possible school cancellation. Like scores of goofy kids, my brother and I planted ourselves at a windowsill, anxiously scanned the starry skies for the suggestion of a snow flurry and clung to the hope that we would, in fact, receive the monstrosity of precipitation that had been forecast—as if we could will it to happen.

More recently, however, I’ve become obsessed with the Weather Channel and with local news stations that promise up-to-the-minute reports of closings. At an ungodly hour I stumble out of bed and glue my sorry face to the television screen, bathed in the blue-white glow that fills the entire bedroom. I do this because I lack both the initiative and the wisdom to fetch my glasses first. I then inch my snoot from left to right and back again, eye-to-eye with that stupid scroll thingy at the bottom of the screen—living in fear that I’ll somehow miss the L’s entirely. Translation: If that were to happen, I’d spend literally MINUTES in pure agony, oblivious as to whether or not I could skip the dreaded rousing-of-the-bleary-eyed-beasts-out-of-bed routine. A chore I loathe to the pithy core of my being.

But enough is enough. My charges have missed far too many days of school during this pitiful portrayal of winter. Besides, I think my kids would rather be there than home with me anyway. Perhaps it’s because I’m a pathetic parent and find it a supreme challenge to keep them content and actively engaged for any length of time (i.e. not at each other’s throats or leaping with glee upon my last nerve). Maybe it’s simply because they’re too young to fully appreciate the grand and glorious wonderment that a snow day possesses. They’re still completely smitten with the world of academia and, in fact, mourn the days when they cannot be with their teachers and friends, for whom they hold more adoration than for the sun and moon put together.

They’d never dream of actually wishing for a snow day. Ah, but that time will soon come and I’ll find them perched at a windowsill anxiously awaiting that which the weatherman hath promised.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live.