Fathers, Daughters, & Disco Sticks

Today's guest blogger is Ted Ten Eyck. He's extraordinarily funny, even more so when you meet him in person. If you enjoy his wry humor you'll love his take on therapy, as well as his feelings about picking zits. Don't read the zit one if you're eating. 

When my wife finished watching the coverage of the recent royal wedding, she confessed the following to me:  “I’m glad you’re not a prince, because I don’t think I would make for a very good princess.” Having learned a thing or two over the past twelve years of marriage, I knew I had to respond carefully:  “Don’t be silly. Of course you would be a good princess.” My wife appreciated my lame attempt to sound supportive. But she went on to explain why she felt she would be a less-than-exemplary princess:  “I probably would have just flipped off all of those spectators at my wedding.” Oh. Well in that case, you definitely are not good princess material.  

My wife can breathe a sigh of relief because I certainly am not prince-like material. Luckily, I don’t want to be a prince. Hell, I don’t even want to be Prince. (But that is mainly because he is a full sixteen inches shorter than I.) Even though my wife knows she wouldn’t be a good princess, I am sure that doesn’t stop her from still having a desire to be a princess. Because, as far as I am aware, most people born with lady-parts have some yearning at some time in their life to be a princess. (Don’t worry; I make sweeping, stereotypical comments about men later on.) This desire is reinforced with weddings and proms and, as I discovered last year, the beloved Father-Daughter dance.  

My understanding is that the dance has its origin in basically forcing fathers to spend time together with their precious daughters. Fatherhood was very different “back in the day.” It was, after all, a time when it was socially acceptable for the likes of Don Draper to get drunk at a bar while his wife was in labor. An awful lot has changed regarding the role of fathers since then. Today, for example, men are expected to not only be (1) present and (2) sober for the birth of their child, but to also (3) pretend that their wife did not just have a bowel movement on the birthing table while awaiting Junior’s arrival into the world. Yet despite all of these changes, year after year, the Father-Daughter dance keeps on happening.  

And this is a really special night for the girls. The girls are typically wearing a new dress...and new shoes...and new jewelry. Some go to the hair salon on the day of the big event; some go for a manicure and pedicure. They get flowers from their father. And the girls are absolutely beautiful. They look like little princesses. 

Unfortunately, these little princesses don’t have a proper audience who can fully appreciate just how beautiful they look. I paid close attention this year, and discovered that the girls themselves really don’t care what one another look like. As long as they tamed their bed-head and are not still wearing the same Justin Bieber t-shirt they had on at school earlier that day, all is apparently good. And the only other people in attendance at the Father-Daughter dance are, appropriately enough, fathers. The fathers will make a big deal about their daughter’s appearance. They will even throw in a perfunctory, “You look beautiful!” However, all fathers really care about is making sure their daughter is never, ever wearing sweatpants that proudly proclaim “JUICY” across the ass.  

So, the only people who will truly appreciate all of these efforts are the only people who will not actually be attending the dance. Yes—the mothers. The same ones who bought the dress and the shoes and dealt with their daughter’s tears because the hair stylist made her hair too curly. So the mothers latch onto what they can; namely, posting the pictures on Facebook for all of the other mothers to appreciate.    

Despite the fact that my wife was already sharing her photos with all 252 of her Facebook friends before my daughter and I even entered the event, we still got suckered into paying for the professional pictures at the dance. And then we had to walk past the refreshment table, and another table where they were selling glow sticks. (I refused to buy one just on principle; I don’t need to give my daughter practice for what she might experience when she finally gets to go to her first rave.) Then it is finally time to enter the ballroom (a.k.a. high school cafeteria) where the magic happens. And I have learned from experience that the night will only play out one of two ways:   the first scenario happened to me last year, where my then six-year-old daughter clung to me the entire night because she was overwhelmed and over stimulated with the chaos of the event. The second option is what happened this year:  we walked in and my precious offspring dropped me like a hot potato. “Dad, I’m gonna go dance with my friends!” Fine by me. At the age of 41, I am pretty sure that I have more than met my lifetime quota of having to dance to “Y.M.C.A.”

That means that I am then on my own to mingle with the other fathers who were also ditched by their dates. So what is created as a result is a cafeteria full of men left to make small talk with other men. And everyone knows that striking-up conversation is not a strong point of people born with dangly-parts. That is why men prefer to get together with a planned activity in mind to give them something to talk about; activities such as playing poker or watching a stripper. So, if the organizers of the Father-Daughter dance really wanted to raise some serious money for the school, they would do more than just sell soda and candy bars; they should offer a full cash bar. Not only would the alcohol provide the much-needed social lubrication, but the sales would bring in enough money for the school to most likely build a new wing. (I can hear it now:  “Today’s assembly on scoliosis will be held in the Anheiser-Busch Multi-Purpose Room.”)

Although I have been tempted to bring my own flask to the dance, I have so far used my better judgment. So I have to resort to using my patented conversation starters that are specific to the Father-Daughter dance. Let me give you a few examples:  

“Hey, Bob? Doesn’t it seem odd that the kindergarteners are all dancing to Katy Perry going on and on about losing one’s virginity?”  

 “Am I the only one here who finds it creepy that our seven-year-old daughters are chanting ‘Boys wanna touch my junk’ along with Ke$ha?”

“Good to see you. Nothing like Lady Gaga proclaiming that she ‘wants to take a ride on your disco stick’ to build lasting memories for girls and their dads, eh?”

I really, really wish I was joking about these particular songs being played at the dance. But believe you me, these are the selections. Luckily, the songs that are played for the slow dances are surprisingly free of sexual innuendos. So, I have nothing to carp about regarding what we are dancing to; I do, however, have some things to say about how the dancing actually happens. Some pairings opt for the isn’t-that-cute daughter-standing-on-Dad’s-shoes move. Let me tell you from experience that that is enjoyable for the fathers for approximately seven seconds. Then there is the traditional option where even though the two dancing parties are holding hands, there is enough distance between said parties as to not catch cooties. (I wish that this image did not conjure up for me so many memories of dancing this way with uninterested partners during junior-high mixers while Journey’s “Open Arms” played in the background.)

If I had been cooler in middle-school (or in high school, or in college...), I would have had the chance to dance really close with a girl, with our bodies pressed up against one another and the girl’s head resting on my shoulder. Surprisingly, this is the move that many Father-Daughter pairings resort to. Unfortunately, because of the massive height difference between most adult males and their elementary-school-aged daughters, the girl’s head inevitably ends up resting on her father’s lower abdomen. And that is a sight that you will never see, rightfully so, in any of those Disney princess movies.  

So, I can bitch and moan all that I want, but it doesn’t matter. And that is because the Father-Daughter dance is not about me. It’s about my daughter, the princess. And my princess has a magical time at said event, because she feels special on that night. And hopefully later in her life she will find someone who can make her feel that special each and every day. In the meantime, she is stuck with me, her father, who is still closest at being prince-like only when I play the soundtrack to “Purple Rain” on the drive home from the Father-Daughter dance.  

R.M.A.O? I Don’t Think So.

Imagine running with two of these; one of which is leaking. 

While in AZ this summer, I had the great opportunity to have lunch with the fine folks of School Webmasters (SWM), the company I freelance for on a regular basis. I’m proud to say that I ate some fine Italian food with the CEO, the Art Director, the Lead Copy Editor, and the Office/Project Manager. And then there was me. The freelancer. Notice how I didn’t capitalize that. I don't make enough money for a capital letter yet, but I'm working on it.

It’s an amazingly powerful group of women, considering they established, run and operate a pretty large business, and employ freelancers who can work from home and thereby stay close to their kids. Which also allows them to keep their office pretty small and local with not a lot of pesky overhead. Nicely planned.

There are many things I love about working for SWM, the biggest one being that these ladies are really funny. They also read my blog (perhaps to be supportive but more likely to make sure I’m not leaking company secrets) and find that funny too. I suggested that if they found me so hilarious I probably should get a raise, to which the Art Director responded, “Well, you’re not that funny. You’re just LOL funny. Probably not LMAO funny, and definetly not LMFAO funny. Nope. You’re LOL funny and I’m pretty sure that’s just about where your pay is at.” Well, needless to say, I LMAO at that one. Touche.

One of the things I do not like about these women however, is that they exercise. They talk about exercising. They even run, ride bikes, join races where you run for miles and miles in a Godforsaken desert, and try odd diets like taking GPS…no, wait, HGTV…sorry wrong again…hCG? I think that may be it. Weird. But they do like to run.

I hate riding bikes.

I hate running even more.

And generally, I look at people who do run with a mix of fascination, jealousy, and disdain.

Oh, I’ve tried to run, don’t get me wrong. I even trained with my father for a half marathon a few years back. I did the half marathon, but I’m pretty sure that my father could have lapped me twice at the rate I plodded and bounced down the street like a hard boiled egg all off balance and out of whack. He stuck with me to be supportive and chalked it up to QT with his eldest daughter while my middle sister ran past us, completing the full marathon. She’s run two of them. I felt a little betrayed by the fact that she never hinted at her closet running personality growing up—instead shocking us all with the ability to run and run and run like Forest Gump once the leg braces were removed. And even though I made fun of her style—her legs tend to splay out a bit when running—I’m really just jealous. Who am I to mock her when she can do it and I can’t? Run, sister, run!!

I’ve come to accept the fact that there are significant factors that hold me back in the running department. One of them is my arse.

Yes, as my grandmother used to like to say to me, “Rachie, you have yourself an onion butt, but don’t worry, guys like onion butts.” Not to be outdone of course by the other comment she made while I was in college as she was measuring my posterior for some clothes, “Welp, Rachie. You’re not a young woman any more.” Which is to say, that my pearl onion butt had morphed into large Vidalia onion butt, which currently looks like rotting onion butt, with pockets of soft tissue hidden beneath flaky scaling skin. Layers and layers of 37 year-old onion deliciousness. Yum.

The problem with having an onion butt (besides fighting men off with a stick all those years) is that it makes running a tad uncomfortable for me. When I run my arse jiggles like two sagging water balloons are attached to my lower back and I’m always a little embarrassed that the residual effects will leave me bruised. Wearing a sports bra helps keep the chest jiggle to a minimum (honestly, it’s already pretty minimum) but I’ve yet to find a pair of sports underwear that will keep by arse in check. Duct tape doesn’t seem very functional. Wrapping it with an ace bandage seems moot. I suppose I could wear some Spanx under my running gear, but I’m worried it would be too hot.

Even if I did solve the ass-jiggle conundrum, there’s also not much I can do about the fact that running isn’t very good for my bladder or uterus. According to the anatomy books I’ve read and all the illustrated cross-sections of women I’ve seen, the bladder and uterus are supposed to remain inside the woman’s body—a location I can’t guarantee if I were to run on a regular basis. With each pound-pound-pound of my feet running on the sidewalk, I envision my uterus slip-slip-slipping out of place. Not to mention the drip-drip-dripping of my bladder with each step. I’m not in a hurry to be on a first-name basis with my uterus or bladder, obliged to say hello to them when I use the restroom. While genetics may force this “meeting of the organs” on me in the future, for now I’m happy having them reside safely and quietly in my internal darkness. I’m starting to suspect that when God was making me He ran out of Liquid Nails and patched me together using Scotch tape. A great substitution for construction paper, doilies, and maybe even Popsicle sticks, but certainly not for a bladder and a uterus. Those suckers are slippery. Clear tape just isn’t going to cut it.

But I have to do something because I’m realizing I’m starting to feel creaky. Achy. I’m not huffing up the five steps in my house, but I’m probably not far away from that moment. The last two mornings I walked with a couple friends on the street. I actually dragged my sorry-onion-ass out of bed at 6:30 a.m. and walked for an hour each day. It’s a step in the right direction I suppose, even if my shins feel like Tanya Harding’s ex-boyfriend took a bat to them. But thankfully, neither woman is running yet, although there was brief talk about it. I’ll walk fast. I’ll even sway my hips and pump my arms in speed-walking fashion just to keep up if it means I can keep my panties dry and my organs where they belong. Don’t get me wrong. There a few instances where running is absolutely necessary: like from a burning building. Or to protect my kids from a wayward vehicle or a busy street. Or if someone fell into the pool and hit their head. Those are running times and while I’d miss my bladder and uterus, I’d live without them because it’s the right thing to do. But certainly not just to exercise. Not for my heart. Not for no damned marathon. And absolutely not for the fun of it. As if.

To recap: I don’t like to run because I jiggle, fall apart, and pee myself. Hey, if you can run and not leave body parts behind you while you do it, bully for you. Keep it up. Stuff the ear plugs in your ears and turn up "Eye of the Tiger" to 45 decibels and run like Stallone. The women at SWM can do it. My sister can do it. I’m pretty sure my neighbor friends can do it. Not me. I’d rather LMAO than RMAO any day and twice on Sunday. 

All Monkeys are Not Created Equal

It’s really true that the last kid gets the short end of the stick when it comes to….well, almost everything. Our first born children get the best of us, the middle children get the rest of us, and the last children get what’s left of us. And usually, it ain’t much.

Child C’s birthday (as in A, B, C is my third) was last week and we are celebrating the big day tomorrow. I did not send out cute Smilebox cards with music-I sent out a generic email invite. I did not give people 4 weeks notice-I gave them about two. I am not having it at a park, indoor gym, or Chucky Cheese-we are having it in the back yard if it doesn’t rain. Depending upon how clean the house gets by tomorrow, we may have it outside even if it does rain.

To add insult to injury, Child C has never had a party with kids before. Last year doesn’t really count because I’m quite sure she doesn’t remember it, and the kids who came were the same ones who are at my house almost everyday and very often the weekends. Same ol’ same ol’. Last week on her actual birthday we didn’t even have a cake. We wished her happy birthday a lot, but that’s about it. Sadly, my goal for tomorrow’s birthday is get ‘em in, feed ‘em cake, and move ‘em out. Break out the slip n’ slide, some water balls, two hours start to finish, done.

It’s terrible I know. I recall very fondly my son’s three-year birthday when I invited the entire family to a huge park in Chandler, Arizona, everything themed Elmo, replete with a huge Elmo shaped cake I baked from scratch, including the red-dyed coconut I used to make Elmo look hairy. I’m old now. I just don’t have that kind of energy (or time) anymore. I suck, suck, suck.

And though I suck, I’m not particularly mad at myself, because I’m reasoning that she’s only three and the chances of her remembering her mediocre birthday party are slim. I could be wrong about this, but fortunately for me I won’t find out if this damages her for at least 10 or so years. And by that time you can be damn sure I won’t remember a thing about this party. By then I can play the senility card.

But something is bothering me quite a lot. The girl loves Curious George, so at the very least I wanted to have a few things that represented the darling monkey; plates, ineffective cute napkins, maybe a cheapy plastic table covering. Curious George is pretty popular so I’m thinking it shouldn’t be too hard.

Well, Michael’s craft store has nothing George. Nothing monkey. Nothing even banana. Besides getting some frosting bags, frosting tips, and a tube of black icing, the entire trip was a bust.

I know that if I headed to iParty I could find an entire section devoted to Curious George, with little plastic tumblers, party favors, monkey masks, and maybe even some banana flavored candy. Artificial banana flavor, yummm.

But iParty is a 15-minute drive from my house and in the course of the last few days, I did not have the time to spare. At all. I headed to Target to get what I could, crossing my fingers that some corporate buyer also had a child who adores George.

Well, guess what. No George. No banana stuff either. But wait! They do have some monkey things but nothing resembling the cuteness of the curious one. 

This is that creepy looking Paul Franco monkey design that seems to be all the rage these days. This is a George monkey knock off. I’m thrown back to my childhood when my mother forced me to wear Lee brand jeans instead of Levi’s because they were cheaper, and they “look just the same.” No one wore Lee jeans. Everyone wore Levi’s. Just because they both use denim doesn’t make them interchangeable. Turns out, a monkey isn’t just a monkey either.

What bothers me most about the Target monkey—and I’d hold onto your seats because I’m going to get a little inappropriate—is that the mouth really bothers me.

A lot. It’s just too…vaginal for me. Labial if you will. I know Freud would have a field day psychoanalyzing why I must turn that stupid monkey’s mouth into a vagina, but I’ve said it. It’s clearly the same part of me that thinks Muno looks like a big, bumpy, one-eyed dildo. Judge me if you will.

I know Child C will not think that anything is wrong with knock-off monkey, but it bothers me that over 10 little children are going to be eating chocolate cake off labial-monkey faces. It’s just gross. And even though I have a problem with this monkey face, do you think it encourages me to get my ass in the van and drive the 15 extra minutes to get REAL Curious George monkey paraphernalia?

Of course not. Because I do not have the time. Because she is my third child and this is what’s left of me. So tomorrow while the kids are inhaling cake off inappropriate plates and wiping their little innocent mouths with primate porn, I’ll just have to grin and bear it. I suppose it could be worse. That funky monkey could be eating a banana. 

There Once Was a Man From Nantucket....

It’s National Limerick Day, the day when people the world over stop, give thanks, and repeat all the dirty nasty limericks they know to their friends. I always thought that dirty limericks were an off-shoot of clean limericks; that this poem type existed as a form before it existed as a way to share crude humor. Turns out that isn’t the case.

In fact, according to Gershon Legman  the true form of limerick is specifically bawdy in nature and “from a folkloric point of view, the form is essentially transgressive; violation of taboo is part of its function.”

There is some question as to where the term Limerick comes from, but it’s rumored to be named after a town in Ireland with the same name. Apparently people would go to the pub, swill a few pints of Guinness and, sing rude, crude, limericks until….. well, the cows came home I suppose.

Poetry On-line even goes so far as to suggest that this type of poem is easy to write, especially by drunkards, and doesn’t take a lot of skill to compose. I know I’m no poet but trying to come up with some original limericks to share with you that were witty, rhyming, and not completely innane proved to really challenge the synapses in my brain. I know occasionally I have posts on here that are a tad risqué and make my husband blanch (like last night after I read him my limericks, he asked, “You’re not going to post those on your blog, are you?”), but generally I try to stay away from sexual words that rhyme with sock, duck, blunt, kick, knit, and Nantucket. Try writing a witty, bawdy limerick without using those rhyming words and it proves quite a chore.

I could have written plenty of clean limericks, but I wanted to stay true to the folkloric integrity of the form. Who am I to change a style that’s been sung in the pubs of Ireland since the fifteenth century? So I composed a few original limericks to share with you today. Have a pint of Guinness, invite some friends over, and recapture a long lost tradition. I’m betting the limericks get funnier as the night goes on and the beer goes in. I suppose everything gets funnier that way.

A husband whose cruel wife would fake,
Ailments so love she wouldn’t have to make,
Wanted to feel like a man,
He smacked her head with a pan,
And said,“Now we BOTH have a headache.”


There once was a man whose libido,
Was so strong he was always in need-o,
His indifferent wife,
Laughed and simply replied,
“Have you seen yourself in a Speedo?”


There once was an ex-nursing mother,
Whose left boob was longer than the other,
When her husband complained,
She politely explained,
“It doesn’t seem to bother your brother.”

Now it’s your turn. Have a favorite limerick that makes you howl? Have you penned an original? Please share it! Even if it’s raunchy, rude, and crude. That’s the point after all. While I’d love for you to leave your name, if you don’t want to fess up to the limerick you can always sign in anonymous. Can’t wait to read some others!

Guest Blogger: Ted TenEyck

Introducing: Ted TenEyck. Guest Blogger, Social Worker and Funny Man. Close personal friend. If you're lucky enough to be on Ted's Christmas letter list, you already know how his mind works. Thought I'd pass the funny along and invite Ted to blog here now and then. Don't worry, he'll get his own blog up and running soon. Right Ted?

DO YOU KNOW HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME??? DO YOU???

I love the promises people make to themselves about what what life will be like when they are a parent: “When I have kids, I am only going to feed them organic foods.” “I refuse to use the television as a babysitter.” “I vow to not let being a parent impact my relationship with my friends.” And sure enough, a few years later these same people are plopping Junior down to watch the same episode of Spongebob Squarepants for the fourteenth time while serving him some Jimmy Dean Pancakes & Sausage on a Stick: Blueberry (a real product, by the way). This, of course, buys Junior’s parents some time to go on Facebook and attempt to reconnect with friends they have had no contact with since they first learned the art of how to suction a baby’s nose.

As for me, my false promise was that I would not subject either myself or my kids to traditional children’s music. Nine years and four kids later, I have 5,670 songs on my ipod. And I listen to the same thirty-three songs by The Wiggles in heavy rotation until I am pretty sure that my ears are going to start to bleed.

This was not something that I ever planned, and it was surely something that did not happened overnight. No, it was a slow gradual process, which began when I realized that finding music to meet everyones’ needs and tastes is much easier said than done. As a result, I now have very stringent requirements for anything that may eventually wind up in my “Tolerable Kids Music” playlist. The following is just a brief sampling of what it takes to be immediately disqualified from ever making that exclusive and elusive list:

Songs that may cause my kids to one day need antidepressants.
I have learned the hard way that my cherubs do not enjoy any of the 193 songs that make up my “Despondency” playlist. My eldest son reported to me that the folksy songs from the soundtrack to Once were, “giving me feelings that I don’t like.” I wanted to shout at him to “lean into the pain and feel your emotions,” but I thought I should just cut my losses and play something different.

I-Would-Rather-Look-At-How-Much-My-Financial-Portfolio-Lost-Last-Year than listen to these songs:
Surprisingly, Alvin and The Chipmunks are not the main offenders in this category; even when they cover “Funkytown.” This is still more tolerable to me than anything associated with High School Musical. Zac Efron, I swear on my mother’s grave that if I ever run into you and your faux-basketball-playing cohorts, I will personally kick the crap out of each and every one of you. And not because you did anything to me personally; rather, I will beat you to a bloody pulp because you introduced my kids to the genre of musicals. If I ever have to take any of my kids to a matinee of “Cats,” I will hold you responsible.

Songs that mention any of George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say on TV.”
Unfortunately, about a full one-third of my music library falls under this category. That probably wouldn’t happen if I had no taste and enjoyed “easy listening favorites.” Luckily, most of the time, the offending dialogue is really pretty blatant, allowing me to be a “good parent” and not play it for the kids. However...

One day while cleaning the kitchen, the song “URAQT” by M.I.A. started to play from my ipod. In a rare moment for me of pure excitement and joy, I picked up my daughter and danced with her for the duration of the song. Whenever we would hear the song again, my kids would beg me to do the “Silly Dance” with them. It quickly became a wonderful tradition. Around the seventy-fourth time we were enjoying this dance, my wife quietly asked me exactly what the words of the chorus were. Unsure myself, I looked up the lyrics on line. It was at that time that I discovered that the song is rather... well, filthy and profanity-laden. If I was capable of learning what the lyrics were, I was pretty sure that my kids one day would also discover what these lyrics were. And I thought that this was probably not the type of childhood memory that I wanted them to have of their father. There are already plenty of other memories that involve me that I wish I could permanently remove from their tiny little brains, so I did the only thing I could, and retired the “Silly Dance” immediately.

Songs that require me to have to explain how communist organizations work.
The Johnny Cash Children’s Album contains the extremely entertaining song “Why is a Fire Engine Red?” The song uses fun and silly word play, eventually concluding with the line: “The Russians are red. A fire engine is always rushin’ so it’s red too.” “I don’t get it!” my kids would shout when the song ended. “What does he mean by the Russians being red? Explain that to us Dad.” And that was the last time that I ever played that album for them again.

Songs that require me to have to explain how double negatives work.
I’m looking at you, theme from Ghostbusters. “Dad, I’m confused. ‘I ain’t afraid of no ghosts’ actually means that they really are afraid of ghosts, right?” “Yes, kids. You are correct. The writer of that song is indeed afraid of ghosts and is apparently also an idiot.”

Perfectly good songs that I ruined because I’m an idiot.
The soundtrack to Shrek the Third contains the classic song “Cat’s in the Cradle,” by Harry Chapin. The kids would listen to the song and recall the funny scenes from the movie when that song was played. And then one day I had to go and spoil all of their fun by shouting like a drill sergeant: “Do you know what this song is about? Do you? It’s about a father who didn’t spend enough time with his kids. DO YOU SEE HOW LUCKY YOU ARE TO HAVE A FATHER LIKE ME? DO YOU??” Surprisingly, the kids never wanted me to play that song again.

Any item in the wildly bizarre Kidz Bop catalogue.
What is better than a CD compiling all of the most popular radio hits from the past year? If all of the songs were sung by eight year olds! That's the concept behind this apparently popular product line. Not only are these songs painful to listen to, but they are at times downright creepy. That's because the producers didn’t apparently think about the fact that lyrics that were intended to be sung by adults would now be sung by third graders. For example, one song contains the line: “I can have another you in a minute. Matter fact, he’ll be here in a minute.” Sung by someone who will not be able to get her driver’s permit for at least another seven years. Isn’t that precious?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is just an abbreviated list of reasons why I have resorted to just listening to The Wiggles as I drive around all day in my eight year old van. Feel free to call me lazy or a conformist. These labels may indeed be applicable. But listening to The Wiggles makes my life easier, even though now I have to explain to the kids on a daily basis why Greg Wiggle is no longer in the group because he has been diagnosed as having “orthostatic intolerance.” Although not an easy task, it is still better than the alternative: watching my five-year-old daughter walk around the house singing: “If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it.”

The Benefits and Consequences of Choice

Just returned home from voting. Yes, the Good American that I am fulfilled the duty-pinnacle of what it means to be a thriving member of our society. I can’t help but feel like someone who has purchased 100 dollars in lottery tickets for the billion-dollar pot, hoping my numbers will be drawn. Like when I hold two movies behind my back for the kids, because they can’t seem to agree on what to watch- the nation is holding those movies behind it’s back and I’m jumping up and down with my fingers crossed hoping mine gets picked. My husband voted earlier in the day, and since he has been home from the voting booth, the TV has been on, and will remain so until a winner is announced. In fact, there are only a few times in our lives when TV watching becomes the meth-drug we can’t live without; the OJ Simpson trial, the Bush-Gore presidential race, and the events of 9/11. My husband and I will be sucked in again, and no one-I repeat, no one- will be allowed to change the station. Not even to watch the weather, and we watch the weather channel a lot.

I admit it did feel good to vote, even if my vote doesn’t really count. I know everyone says all votes count, but not really. Those electoral votes are the ones that count-not the popular vote in which each person’s voice is really heard. (Remember the Gore-Bush election? Good ol’ Al did rise from the ashes to make a pretty fab documentary though.) But the fact that I get to make a choice, that I could walk into that voting place, fill in the bubbles of my choice, and then drive home without threat to my life, or the risk of bodily injury is one great benefit of our freedoms.

Regardless of who I voted for, when it comes down to the winner, I’m going to have to be satisfied even if it wasn’t my pick. That’s the consequence of choice- that there will be a majority, and the majority will win, even if it wasn’t my majority. If the person I voted for doesn’t get elected, I have more choices still. I can choose to bitch and whine about that person for the next four years-blame him for all the problems in our nation and rant and rave about how “I’m not responsible, because I didn’t choose him.” Again, I’ll be free to do this because I live in America, and as American’s we have a fundamental right to complain. I don’t think I have ever witnessed a presidential race where someone didn’t say, “I’m voting for the lesser of two evils,” or express their belief that our choices just “aren’t that great.” And when the winner is announced all heck will break loose (I hope I'm wrong here) as people claim voter fraud, miscounted and uncounted votes, and general election mishandling. After all, it’s only a fair system when your movie is chosen at random from behind your back. The other person no doubt, got screwed.

The ability to choose things in this great country has trickled down to the younger generations, where we give children the right to choose their lunch options at school, what they want to wear each day, how they would like their meals prepared, and what they want to be for Halloween. In fact, the ability to choose has gone a little far when it comes to Halloween and trick-or-treating.

When I was a kid, you went door-to-door, said the obligatory, “Trick-or-treat,” and then held out your bag while the man or woman holding the door open plopped something in your bag. Once home, mom and dad made you dump the sugar-booty onto the carpet, where they sat to inspect said merchandise. The pinnacle of the night (for me anyway) was to organize that candy into similar groupings. After grouping those treats, it was then you realized that the majority of your candy consisted of Dum-Dum lollipops, Double-Bubble chewing gum and Tootsie rolls. There was the sprinkling of mini-sized chocolate bars, to be savored for sure, because even my father was prone to steal those out of our bags, leaving us the stupid hard candy, gum and Laffy Taffy. They call those lollipops Dum-Dum for a reason.

The climate of choice has now drifted into the long-standing trick-or-treat tradition and forever changed the I-only-got-candy-that-sucked atmosphere. I had to farm out my older two children this year for trick-or-treating, because my husband was out of town on business. I was not able to watch them scamper up to doors, ring the bell, say thank you, and run to the next house. So my son trots home after a few hours, and proceeds to dump the contents of his pillowcase (I know, how gluttonously horrific) on the kitchen table. Piles of candy spill out, including 5 or 6 full size candy bars, and tons and tons of chocolate. One piece of Double-Bubble, and only two Dum Dums. Mind you, we only visit houses on two streets-the same two streets each October. “Wow,” I exclaim. “The neighbors sure were generous this year.” My son nods, and begins choosing the 20 pieces I let him keep. The rest gets put in a bowl for my husband’s office.

About an hour later, in waltzes my daughter with her normal size Halloween bag, and proceeds to spill the contents out for inspection. My daughter easily has less than half the amount her brother collected. Almost everything in my daughter’s pile is a Reese’s peanut butter cup. “Did you go to both streets?” I ask her. She nods in affirmation at which point I yell: “SON! GET UP HERE!”

My son trots in (again)—“What?”
“Why do you have so much more candy than your sister?”
Shrugs with creeping smile.
“Did the neighbors let you pick the candy?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he replies.
“Did you take MORE THAN ONE PIECE?” I ask incredulously.
“Well, they all kept telling me to take a handful, take a handful, so I did.”
“You actually took handfuls of candy from the neighbor’s bowls? I don’t even let you keep all that candy? WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT?”
Shrugs again. “I was just doing what they said,” he tells me.
Sigh.
I’m wondering what Emily Post would suggest in my situation. Apology notes for the whole neighborhood? Personal door-to-door handing back of excess candy taken? Wear a black bag over my head in ridicule for having a 9 year-old boy act like a 9-year old boy? When did kids start getting a choice in what they received in their trick-or treat bags? When did neighbors start lowering the bowl and state, “Choose what you like honey?” And when did the candy morph from crappy starlight peppermints and Dum Dums, to all chocolate bars?

Choice. While my son chose to pillage the neighbors bowls (they asked him to of course), he still had to choose only 20 to keep. All that extra bounty for nothing. My daughter chose to take the high road and only take one, but the same one over and over. She is now getting sick of peanut butter cups and wants to trade with her brother and her friends. In good American fashion, they’re both complaining that they never get enough candy-they wish they would have gotten different stuff, they made a mistake, next year they're going to...blah, blah, blah.

Looks like they’re on the road to becoming good voting citizens.

More Inappropriate Costumes 2008

First I need to address this: I found it on the internet. Will the idiot who decided this was a good idea, please come forward?

In case you missed last years blog on Inappropriate Halloween Costumes For Children, you should really take few moments and reference it. Those of you still searching for the perfect outfit to throw on your little cherubs will not be disappointed with the selection, and there’s even more below.

My son only recently (as in three days ago) told me what he wanted to be for Halloween. After much discernment, thoughtful pondering and intensive research, he announced that he would like to be “someone in the war.”
“You mean, a solider, a military person?” Hoping he wasn’t opting for the bloody remnants of a fallen enemy.
“Yeah- I want to be a solider.”
“Just curious, why do you want to be that?” I ask. Again, listening for the words noble, or brave, or strong, or something resembling honor.
“Because I really want to carry a weapon. Can I have a real gun for my costume?”

Sigh. I pointed out to him that if he just wanted to carry a gun as part of his costume, there were many, many things he could dress as. A murderer. A Police Officer. Sarah Palin. Dick Cheney. A Russian bakery owner. An angry teenager. Why be limited? But he decided on the solider-so I’m stuck with that. The jury is still out on whether I’m going to let him have a “real” weapon. I don’t suppose he’ll be satisfied with the pop rifle we have from Bass Pro Shop. Maybe I can paint a lemon olive-green, and let him have a hand grenade.

I have convinced my daughter to dress as a gypsy this year. Mainly because I have all parts of the outfit already in our dress-up box. It’s also a bit nostalgic for me as well, since I used to dress up as a gypsy for Halloween all the time. Why? Because (again) mom had all the parts for the outfit at home. Everyone knows a homemade costume is 10 times better than those vinyl sheaths and plastic masks. At least that’s what mom sold me. It has been a bit difficult to explain to my daughter what a gypsy is. That’s an icon that has been removed from the history lessons and TV shows these days-so I look up some images on line. We shuffle through them, and she asks, “Yes, but what did gypsy’s do?”
Hmmm. “Well, they moved around from place to place.”
“That’s all?”
“Well, no, they played the tambourine and sang and probably stole stuff from people before they moved on.”
“The stole stuff?”
“Well, yes, but its not exactly the same as stealing stuff today…and..well…” At this point I have a son who wants to carry violent weapons and a daughter who I’m dressing up as a thief and vagrant. As a mother I have fed and clothed them, protected them from harm, kept them warm in the winter, and have occasionally provided laughter and good memories. Apparently their character and tendencies I cannot attest to.

In that light, I made a list of a few more Inappropriate Costumes, in case there are any of you out there who would like to join the ranks of Mother of the Year.

Burning Dollar Bill- spray paint a rectangle of foam green and affix an image of Jefferson on the front. Put 100’s in each corner. Shred some red, orange and yellow tissue paper and affix around a flashlight to symbolize a large burning flame. Put on your child’s head. Teach your child the following slogans to recite as he/she walks through the neighborhood; “The world is going to hell in a handbasket;” “Our president always sucks;” “Down with Government Control;” and lastly, “Nobody gives a rat’s ass about the middle class.”

A Made In China Sign- This costume is super simple and for the cash strapped family. All you need is a large piece of carboard-paint it white and stencil in, “Made in China.” Make sure you use lead paint. For good measure and to really get the point across, hang some milk bottles from the side, labeled “Melamine only,” and attach some stuffed (read: dead) dogs and cats for your child to drag along. If you’re really looking to be edgy, tape a bunch of fake money to the sign, since that’s where most of ours is going.

Politician In Handcuffs- (For the boy in your family) Another budget conscious outfit. Dress your child up in his/her Sunday best-slacks, blazer and shirt and tie. Handcuff your child’s hands behind their back, and hang a sign around their neck that reads, “Washington Politician.” Keep your neighbors guessing as they wonder, Kinky role play? Arrested for soliciting sex? Caught taking kickbacks from Columbia or Mexico? Cuffed for pilfering millions of our retirement dollars? It’s a costume and charades all rolled into one.

Angelina Jolie-Pitt- (For the girl in your house) For the social worker and do-gooder in every girl! Dress your daughter in a fancy, billowy frock, and give her a pair of those big, red wax lips. Tape 27-35 pictures of multi-national babies and a few sets of twins, to the outfit. Place crown on her head with glowing halo. For your daughters best friend, have her dress in plain clothes, ruffle up her hair, and attach 27-35 multi-national and twin life-like baby dolls to her outfit. Place sign on her back reading, “Nanny who really takes care of state-spoon-like-infant-collection.”

Well, I hope that provides parents who are at a stalemate with their child, some additional costume alternatives. It doesn’t really matter if your child understands it, its all about how much you and your friends can laugh at how clever you are. I’m up for ideas. Any additional last minute suggestions?

Beyond #2

Warning: Blog rated Mature Audiences Only (for gross content.)

I would like to know why, amidst all the advice I received from family and friends over the years (especially pre-kid years) that no one, I mean NO ONE, mentioned how much time I would spend dealing with poop.

I’m sure you’re thinking I have some fascination with this particular waste product, some type of fecal fetish, or at least a form of obsession. While I do admit to a mild case of OCD, it generally surrounds the abhorrence of germs and a preoccupation with personal and family safety. No poop issues here.

But I have spent the last 9 years of my life inspecting poop and trying to label, describe, and define it. I’ve never been one of those parents who can simply ask their child, “Did you go number one, or number two?” It’s way beyond #2. I can’t be alone in this, and yet, I have never seen an article in any parenting magazine labeled: “Poop Signs and Symptoms: What to look for in your child’s turd.” My son having a variety of lower GI issues, we’ve had to monitor for size, consistency, and regularity. Since there are no poop-identifier-cards (like the tick-identifier-cards we get at the beginning of each summer), we create analogies in order to communicate to the doctors what we are dealing with.

Was it the size of a small cucumber?
Was it in one long piece, or were there many smaller pieces?
Did it look firm, like a zucchini, or was it softer and frayed around the edges, like fresh mozzarella au jus?
Was it made up of smaller poop balls, or did it look formed, like a playdoh roll?
Was it the length of your finger? Your hand? Your arm?

There is nothing like bonding with your husband, both heads pondering the contents of the toilet, monocles in hand.
“What do you think Inspector Vidoni?” I ask in my best English accent.
“Wow, Inspector Vidoni. Bigger than a baby carrot, not quite a pickling cuke, I dare say,” he replies.

With our middle child it was less about form and more about content. As the remains were usually always of the creamy variety, we opened diapers, held them to the light, and examined for foreign substances.

Was there mucus present?
If so, what color was it?
Was it separate from the poop or mixed right in?
Was there blood?
If so, what color was it?
Bright red? (okay) Black? (bad)
How much mucus and/or blood was there?
Less than a tablespoon? More than a dollop? A smidge? A smattering? Enough to butter a bagel, but not enough make a sandwich?

If we found an offending diaper (and we often did) it was saved until the doctors visit, so she could also, examine, inspect and surmise.

Enter child #3. I prayed this one would have no GI issues or food allergies leading to blood in the stool. And guess what? She’s fine. Allergy-and-GI-problem-free. No reason we need to search her diaper for strange substances or try to effectively describe size and shape. Sure she eats it, but still.

No, this child is blessed with bowels that work properly even if her poop-timing is all off. My last child’s favorite time to poop is during her bath. I suppose there is nothing quite so relaxing as relieving yourself in four inches of lukewarm water. I personally haven’t tried this, but perhaps I should. I’m always hoping it’s just a bit of gas—all that grunting and bubbles—but inevitably those are sure signs of doodie. The unfortunate bit for me is that this isn’t your run-of-the-mill poop. There are no floating turds, easy to scoop out of the water with the plastic bath cup. I’m not that lucky. My youngest leaves behind (pardon the pun) what can only be described as…butt vomit.

I know. I’m gagging too. Currently, as I re-live this event that happened only minutes ago, I’m gagging. I skipped dinner and un-tapped another beer because, quite frankly, I feel nauseous.

Because my daughter has only two front bottom teeth, and yet eats everything found hither and yon, quite a large amount of that matter remains in original form and escapes mastication. The good news is that she is able to eat without gagging and choking. Those little toothless mandibles really do their job in this department. The bad news is that what happens to miss the gums, comes out in the same form it went in. Chunky, colorful, resembling goulash or perhaps veggie stew. At least that’s what tonights looked like. After emptying the bath water all that remained was extremely reminiscent of what I find in my sink drainer after I’ve completed the dinner dishes. It took all my strength, a lung-full of air and four (yes I’m wasteful) Brawny paper towels to eliminate her remains.

I’m blogging about this because I’m wondering if I’m alone in it. While I know that my baby is the only one in my town, in my state, in my country that eats fecal matter, I’m wondering if I’m the only parent who has had to dedicate a good portion of their life to poop inspection. And why hasn’t there been an article in Parenting magazines on this? (No one scoop me; it’ll be my first query letter.) Why hasn’t Mike Rowe been to my house to tape an episode of Dirty Jobs? There are days when I could really give those cesspool pumpers and cow inseminators a run for their money.

Your daughter or mine?

I’m heating meatballs in the oven, going for a makeshift dinner of sorts, my husband and son are at baseball, the baby is temporarily sleeping and my 7 year-old daughter hits me with:

“Mom, do you think I’m Goth?”

Another dinner-time-universally-important question and my husband is not in the room. Dammit.

Many years of counseling and teacher-training come back to me as I quickly self-talk myself into remaining calm and showing no strong emotion that she could possibly attach to the word “Goth” as positive or negative, therefore eliminating any chance of her trying to use my emotional response to this word against me in a few years. It was difficult.

“What do you mean by ‘Goth’?” I ask noncommittally.
“It’s where a person dresses all in black and stuff,” she replies. “I like to wear all black.”
“Who told you about this?”
“My friend in school. She said I’m like so Goth because I like to wear black.”

Now I know this friend she mentions and I really like her. She came to my daughter’s birthday party this year and she is a nice girl. As far as I know she is the oldest kid (maybe an only child) and although she is extremely precocious, I’m curious where she learned about what Goth means. I’ve seen both her parents. They are Asian and don’t have a penchant for black.

I know it’s a simple harmless question. I get that she has no real understanding of what Goth means in all its stereotypic labels, mannerisms and attitudes. She might just as well have said, “Mom, do you think I’m a hooker?” or perhaps “Do you think I’m a stoner?” and she would probably know as much about these two things as she knows about being Goth. That one is a fisherwoman and the other a person who throws rocks.

But the Goth question stops my heart a bit. I spent three years teaching Junior High English and I can tell you, it scared the hell out of me. Not that the students were threatening. Not that I couldn’t control them in my class. But the thought that someday my kids would be sitting in rooms similar to these, surrounded by yahoos similar to the ones I taught, scared me to the very marrow of my existence. And that’s not even taking into account what kids will be like in 6-8 years. Hang on while I swill my wine…

The ironic thing about all this is that my husband and I have joked about this very thing.
“Why is she wearing all black today?” my husband asked at one point.
“I don’t know. She often wears all one color. Some days it just happens to be black,” I reply. Then my daughter tramps through the room exclaiming, “I just love black! I love to wear black. It’s my favorite color.”
My husband and I eye each other. We gulp. We act nonplussed. As she walks away my husband says to me, “Do you think she’s Goth?”
“Not if I can help it,” I retort.

I’m one of those people who hope to instill in my children the knowledge that you can’t judge a book by its cover. That you don’t label and discriminate based on the superficiality of looks. I know. I was one of those teens who prided herself on looking different (not Goth however) and never, never, never desired to fit the mold. (Damn the rogue genes.) But it’s a different matter when your little 7 year old daughter is using the word Goth and all you can envision is body piercings, hair dye and spiked dog collars. Suddenly your chubby handed little girl who loves to play homeless and run in the dirt barefoot, is a teen slamming doors and stealing your black eye liner.

I finally gather myself and say (again without emotion) “No, I don’t think you’re Goth. Being Goth is more than just wearing black. It’s more about how they act and the things they believe in and the negative things they do in their spare time.” Yes I know, I stacked the deck. I stereotyped. I’m sure there are probably many many Goth teens out there who volunteer at the local animal shelter, donate their time to Big Brothers Big Sisters and who attend daily Mass. (I have never seen any of them, but I’m sure they are out there.)

“Oh, you mean like ding-dong-ditch?” she asked me.

Ding-Dong-Ditch? I think. Is that as bad as it gets in her imagination? Maybe I don’t have anything to worry about after all…

“Yes, exactly,” I say.

Hoochi-Mommas and Reapers and Blood, Oh My!

Warning: This blog rated PG-13 for sarcastic humor.

My son always wants to be something gross or scary for Halloween. Having not grown up with brothers I figure it’s a boy thing. He is pretty well versed on my stance on violent weapons, blood, and costumes that look evil, since I must replay the diatribe every time he asks me to be one of these things. This year he wanted to be the Grim Reaper.
“But I won’t carry the big curved sword so it’s really just a big, black cape and hood.”
Not having the energy to go into the plethora of reasons he was not going to dress as the Angel of Death, I just said “No.” (okay, you got me, it was a few hundred No’s) We finally settled on a Mimja costume (He insists it starts with an “m”) for Halloween this year. Fine, I said, but no violent weapons.
“But it isn’t fun being a Mimja without violent weapons,” he whined.
“Well then you can wear the clown costume we already have at home in the dress up box,” I retort. He stayed with the mimja, sans weapons.
My daughter wanted to be anything as long as she could wear a wig.
“How ‘bout a Gypsy?” I asked.
“What’s a Gypsy?” She asked back. (Don’t they teach those kids anything in school?)
She wants to be Hannah Montana. I’m not letting her wear hoochie-momma-teen clothes.
She wants to be a Cheetah Girl. Again, I’m not letting her wear hoochie-momma-teen clothes. I’d really like her to be a gypsy. So what if she doesn’t know what one is? For one thing, we have most of the costume at home. For another thing, we have most of the costume at home. I’ll download some gypsy pics off the internet, we’ll have a brief lesson and she’ll be good to go.

But as I’m wandering the isles of Target trying to find gypsy accessories, I realize that 1) this is taking way too much time, 2) this is going to cost more money than buying a new costume and 3) I’m the one who wants this; she doesn’t even know what a gypsy is. So I head to the pre-fab Halloween costume section, pick up one mimja outfit, and also score a cheetah print dress with cat ears and tail, (the literal translation of “cheetah girl”) all on sale. Done. (And she didn’t get to wear a wig, by the way.)

And there I am, watching the kid’s Halloween parade at school. There are a few princesses, a Harry Potter, a sprinkling of police and fire-people, and a couple classics, like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. But by and large the greatest costume populations were singers in hoochie-momma-teen outfits and grim reapers. Of course.

Now call me what you will, but there is something unnatural about seeing a line of black hooded seven and eight year-old grim reapers. Some with sickle. Some with fake blood that you can pump-action down the ol’ reaper face. There is also something disturbing about seeing all the little seven an eight year-old girls half dressed with microphone head pieces. I even saw one girl, dressed all hoochie-momma with a sign around her neck saying, “Paris Hilton-Prison.”

Now parents, if your 1-3rd grader knows the detailings of Paris Hilton news and asked to be this for Halloween—and you let her—shame on you. If your 1-3rd grader has no idea about the Hilton escapades and you thought it would be a funny parody at her ignorance, shame on you twice. And the pumping blood? PUMPING BLOOD I ask you. Who needs to see the grim reaper, let alone his face awash in blood? Perhaps each year’s popular Halloween costumes are a testament to where we are as a society. I remember growing up with the vinyl Sesame Street characters and Princess Lea, and you know what a bunch of pansy-asses my generation turned out to be. Kids these days are so much more knowledgeable and worldly—let’s just call it street smart. I suppose you need that growing up in our world today. So I made a list.

Yes, a list. For parents who may need some more societal inspiration for their children’s Halloween costumes for next year. If your children don’t know what the costume is, you can call it a teachable moment and let your child in on how the world really works. Not only that, but your child just might win the “Most Creative Costume” award next year.

Rachel’s Top Five Most Inappropriate Child Costumes for 2008

1. Hooker- It’s a classic really. They have been around…well…probably since Socrates. Nothing is cuter than a small child in fishnets and tight leather. If you really want to be PC and open-minded, have your boys use this costume too. Nothing says “tolerance” like a small cross-dressing boy hooker.
2. Forensic Pathologist- Have your little muffin dress in a white lab coat, latex gloves (or latex free if they have an allergy), and drag behind them a mutilated body. If you have time and money, you could construct a small gurney on wheels that your child could push, but dragging the body along the pavement will work just as well. It’s already dead after all. This costume would be good for CSI-addicted parents.
3. Meth Lab- Attach a bunch of empty bleach bottles and Sudafed packets to your child’s clothes, and have them carry a couple empty beakers and flasks. You’ll need to get a jump start soon with this one, since the pharmacies now ration Sudafed like bread in Russia. Sick people (like me currently) can’t get a decongestant to drain our pounding heads, but meth labs are having a field day. So, if you and your spouse both start purchasing them now, by next Halloween you could have a good collection of packages to attach.
4. Hazmat worker-The next generation of “Dirty Jobs!” Have your child dress in a white sweatsuit with helmet and breathing apparatus. This could be for cleaning up those messy meth labs, or for cleaning up toxic waste and/or chemical spillage.
5. Polygamist-Wife- This is the easiest costume ever! Have your daughter don a simple peasant style dress, wear a long braided wig (recycle that Hannah Montana wig from this year), and have her carry 10-12 of her favorite baby dolls around. This could also double as a good geography lesson about where Colorado City is located.

These costumes would not only get a good laugh from all those parents and adults who watch the kiddies in the parade, but would provide hours of quality family time while you explain the intricacies and history behind each outfit. What? You say? Your children aren’t ready for that kind of information? Mine either. But apparently there is a large parent contingent that doesn’t have the same kind of filter I do. In fact, I’d love to keep my kids in Elmo, Spider Man and Dorothy costumes forever.

So, weigh in. What inappropriate costumes did you see this year? Any you want to add to the list?