A Little Cheese With That Whine?

Yesterday, Harper hit a career high for average time of waking hours spent whining. She was tired, had been in the car and on the go far too long and she was just cranky. These factors have happened before, mind you; but they just usually don't result in all verbal sentiments expressed at such a ferociously irritating pitch.

So, Chris and I had been in the car too much, on the go and we were just a little cranky. If it were at all socially acceptable I would have been whining right alongside the child. But instead, we were forced to be the adults and listen to the purest vintage from our locally owned and operated "whinery." A good year.....a very good year. It was one of those days like I've have mentioned before - where maximum annoying behavior from child meets with minimum tolerance from parent; essentially it's the lower left quadrant in geometry......negative child, negative parents.....deep in negative territory.

At some point in the evening, I lost my cool and just flat out yelled, "Please stop whining." Here's what followed:

"But I like whining. Why can't I whine?"
"Because it's really annoying and Dad and I are tired of listening to it. Please use a normal voice."
"But why is it so annoying to you?"

And then I was momentarily confounded...because, really, why is whining so universally annoying? Why do I want to impale myself on a spoon when I hear it? Why does it take much larger chunks of the dwindling and precious pie of patience than normal kid behavior? I have absolutely no idea. I wave the question at the universe and invite response and debate.

The only thing I can think of is that, as a species, we're inherently pissed off when needy beings call on us in needy voices? But then, maybe not; they're needy all the time. They need you to feed them, clothe them, care for them in the most fundamental and simple ways. And although it's exhausting, it's seldom annoying. No, it's the voice, that voice - the high-pitch voice of desire, mixed with frustration, mixed with fatigue that trips some mental mine of parent patience. I have no idea, but for once, I think I'm not just merely projecting my own issues. For once, I'm fairly confident that whining has been reviled throughout the ages; that parents throughout history, across the world and in every language have taken deep breaths, eyes twitching with intolerance and let fly the words that parents hate saying even more than children hate hearing - "Please, Just Stop Whining! "

Why? to What?

Harp has just started to ask the most interesting questions. Just a month ago the nature of her questions were all about "why." Why do I have to clean my room? Why does it get cold when the sun goes down? Why do some animals lay eggs while others carry babies in their tummies? All "whys." Typical queries from the three and up crowd.

But recently, I've been getting much more thought provoking questions; I've been getting the "whats." Check these out - actual questions from Harper:

What is the biggest animal in the world? The smallest? In the ocean? On land?
What's the longest trip you've ever taken? The shortest trip?
What's the best meal you've ever had? The worst?
What's the biggest country in the world? The smallest country?
What's the fastest fish in the ocean?

All "whats." Some of which I can Google, leading Harper to believe that the computer is some sort of God who keeps, maintains and distributes all knowledge. I don't know if she understood the concept of a democratically created knowledge base, but there was head nodding. The other questions are new - insightful, provocative, conversation starters. Can you actually remember the worst meal of your life? The best?

These simple questions mark some new phase, a new consciousness, an interest in other people, their experiences, their lives. She's always been an empathic little person, but now she's thinking about what other people think and feel compared to how she does. I love that.

And then this funny thing happened. On her question, "What is the fastest fish in the ocean," Wikipedia provided the answer, "Sailfish". She mentally munched on that one, looking at the pictures, listening to the description. We went on to talk about whales and other fast fish. Slow fish, one fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish..... Then, a few minutes later, she asked me,

"Mama, what sailfish?"
"That fish we just looked up. You know the one with the sail on its back? The fastest fish in the ocean," I said, proud of our new collective knowledge.
"No, sellfish. What's sellfish,"she asked, tripping slightly over the pronunciation.
"Oh shellfish, like shrimp, crab, lobster?"
"No," tripping ever more, "SEEELLFISH."
"Oh, so not a fish. We're not talking about fish any more, are we?"
"No," she replies with a giggle, 'Selfish.'
"Oh, well that's when you don't share your stuff."

The first of many misunderstandings and frustrations in her endless quest for knowledge.

The Mirror

Last week was quite special. For one, the girls spent the week at their grandma's. Two, I slept until I was done sleeping and went to yoga every day - absolutely decadent. And third, my mom sounded like me after the second day. The happy exhaustion, the monotony of serving broccoli for the eighth time and the measured frustration and fatigue all came across in her tired voice on the phone.

My mom and I talk nearly every day, not by design but out of some intimate connection that I can't quite describe. We always call when things strike us as cute, funny or profound. Topics and insights range from Obama gushing to Rosie's rendition of the "poop song", which I absolutely must record and share. Sure, everyone would love that. A big spectrum of interesting things, some small and personal, some larger that we can't even hope to influence, but bare discussion. One thing is always the same though - the kids are with me; they're on this side providing the narrative, interrupting the calls with endless requests for food or fighting over toys. But not so this week. My Mom had the girls for five, almost six days and she was the one telling me all the mundane details of the day, all the funny things and firsts. And it was a surprising twist to our everyday conversation.

My Mom became me, juggling, tired, delighted and full of news and I called expectantly, hoping for little scraps in between screams and calls for more popsicles. As the week wore on and the tenor of my mom's voice changed from the delighted to tired, I suggested I come get the crew a day early. The week had been a first for me, a break to end all breaks, especially with the best laid plans having gone so so awry. We came home, got back into our routine, laughed and giggled a bunch. And my Mom slept until she was done sleeping. Thanks Ma.

The Best Laid Plans

Harp and Rosie went to Gramma's today. What would the world be without Grammas? I have five days totally without kids. Let me restate because it sounds a little unreal - five days.....without whining, serving food, interrupted phone calls, butt wiping, serving food, negotiating, or serving food. My girls are both good eaters. I've been planning this week for a while now because for the past several months, I've wanted to redecorate the girls' room. Well, redecorating commonly implies a decorating phase completed and revisited. Not so in this case. Our girls live in a very functional bedroom - places to sleep, put toys, store their thousand books and their clothes. And it's not very pretty.

I never thought they needed the Pottery Barn bedroom. I mean, the catalog pictures make me drool, with all those deliciously coordinated bedroom sets, chiffon butterfly bed tents and monogrammed storage bins. And part of me is dying to give the girls a bedroom like that. But the other part of me is solidly anti-consumerist. I don't really want to buy more crap, because I've been sold a bill of goods and pretty pictures. (Nothing against those pretty pictures K - you kick ass). But, I've struggled with the dilemma for a long time. I want my home to look nice, but I cringe at the thought of little hands abroad stitching into the night so Harper can have a ladybug pillow sham. Troubling. So, I always think before I buy - new stuff versus exploitation. Hmmmmm.

In the end, our life is a balance and I relented a little on the consumerist angle. Because...basically I'm weak. That, and a couple months back, we went to visit a recently remodeled friend's home and when Harp went into the little girl's room her eyes lit up like fireflies. "Such pretty things mama, " she turned to me and whispered. It was Pottery Barn in all its sweetness, with none of the faux monogrammed homeyness. A real room, light and lived-in and absolutely beautiful. I knew then that I wanted to give them a little bit of this sweetness, to spread just the finest layer of pixie dust on their room, so she could walk in and feel the light and pretty things all around her. I would combine a discount at Pottery Barn, some Ikea knick knacks and some Home Depot paint for the final effect- not a whole room from the catalog, but a nice change nonetheless and one the girls would love. Oooh and it was to be a surprise. But.....the best laid plans of mice and mothers often go awry.

Because when the time approached to go to Gramma's so I could implement the surprise, Harper resisted. The end of Kindergarten, as it turns out, had been traumatic - a difficult and emotional transition, requiring a few days of parental soft shoeing. I feel like I should have anticipated this, seen the magnitude of the end of her first year of school, but I missed it entirely. While I'm trying to secretly arrange the care, materials and transportation to put my plan into action, Harp kept losing it, crying that she didn't want to go to Grammas at all, which she loves. In turn, I shared a bit of my plan - that a surprise waited for her upon her return, that Dad and I had a really great project to do, just for her and she would love it. Well, contrary to its intended effect, the new information caused more tears, more resistance. And I finally gave up on the surprise. Hard for me because I love a good surprise. I told her our plan and showed her all the pretty things that she would see in her bedroom upon her return. Well, what do think happened? Another round of tears, more resistance, a sudden aversion and pointed distaste for yellow paint and polka dots.

I really had no other choice. I had to promise not to do anything while she was away. Not to touch the window frames that have no paint around them, not to replace the scuzzy creme carpet with a bright chenille rug, not to touch her bed with its mountainous pile of stuffed animals and mismatched linens. Just leave it as it is. Letting go is the hardest thing. It's what I wanted more than what she wanted right now and I guess if she needs it ugly, it'll have to stay ugly.

But, these are some of the hardest times for me as parent, just trying to show them how much you love them with little things....when those little things get flung back in your face, suddenly becoming markers of parental control rather than affection. Best laid plans....

Chris is the one who finally suggested that we let it go, that the End of an Era in Kindergarten was really the issue. So I took a deep breath and put the new quilt back in the box. Maybe Harp and I can try again later in the summer, when she's a little less sensitive and when yellow paint once comes back into favor. But I've got no more plans, just gonna roll.

The End of an Era

Harper graduated Kindergarten last week and the whole thing was really surreal, surreal, sad and momentous. I mean, she just started yesterday. I'll never forget the day; we were nearly as afraid as she, worried about the level of education, worried about her safety, her happiness. It just seemed so big for her. She was only four, after all - a mature, smart and sassy four but still just a handful of years on the planet, with hardly enough knowledge or know-how to navigate this new system of rules and expectation. And how would she know where to go to the bathroom. Would she be to scared to ask to pee, mar her first day, emotionally and forever with an accident in her pants? She was never more anxious and nervous than on that day, sitting at her assigned table, waiting to be questioned, tested and tried. I was crying in the reception room, with other parents - cliche and predictable, but no less authentic and important. Chris hugged me and we walked home.

And now, she's done. Sheesh. Where do they sell the parenting clock? Because, this one just ain't working. My five year old pile of sass had an amazing year. She never had a bathroom accident and she circumnavigated the challenges of Kindergarten with ease and confidence. She amazes me. I, however, cried all through graduation. More than the first day. Why so many things make me cry in parenthood is a poignant curiosity to me. But.....Chris hugged me and we walked home. And she's perfect.

The Little OCD Girl?

I think Rosie might be a little obsessive. And this is particularly surprising because she has absolutely no genetic link to anyone compelled to do the dishes before bedtime, put away their shoes or replace the cap on the toothpaste. Most days, we manage to do most of the dishes and tidy the house, so that we can greet the morning with a semblance of order. But some nights, we just give in to our childish impulses and go to bed. On those nights, I like to think that I value more important things - time spent with kids, substantive conversations with mate, a good book, but really I'm just lazy. That and I love to sleep. But hey, if the dust bunnies actually start hopping by themselves, I do manage to drag out the vacuum cleaner. Hopping........or if someone is coming over.

In case of visitors, I completely perplex Harper - by running around half-bent over and sweating for an hour, sniping at her for not cleaning up her stuffed cats, twenty or so, and generally being grumpy with my own mess, as if the state of my own disorder is a shocking surprise. Harp and Rosie will grow up like I did, cleaning frenetically when company's coming, grouching at your lovely life mate and wiping down the surfaces that haven't seen moisture in months. Or maybe not. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that Rosie is a little OCD girl. She follows me around and closes the drawers and cupboards behind me. She won't take a bath if she senses a single hair floating among the bubbles or a piece of tree pollen blown in from the window. And several times a day, she holds up her little finger for me to examine an "eeeew" on one of her digits. I might need a magnifying glass to see the offending particle, but it's always there - a tiny hair, sliver of carrot or mini booger. She likes everything in its place and in our family this is, well........unexpected. Nature is clearly trumping nurture in our modest Oakland home.

And this from a girl who ate more carpet fibers, dirt, bugs, beads, leaves - anything within reach in her first months of hand-to-mouth coordination. I thought she was just another gross kid. But instead, she's gradually become fastidious, particular, dare I say........ clean. She refuses to sit in her high chair if a tiny piece of last night's dinner resides in her space. Refer to first paragraph to determine likeliness of crumbs from dinner in high chair. Lately her clothes have to be spotless and well fitting. I have to fold her baby's blanket just right or she yells , "NO" at me like I just threw her baby out the window. She's really quite persnickety and I don't know where it's coming from.

You have to know Rosie though: she walks by and people melt. She has an inimitable and lovely presence in the world, an ease in her countenance and her gait that draws people to her. She's magical really; she giggles at everything, dances without music, has a streak of irrepressible independence, red hair, and more charm that anyone I've ever had the pleasure to meet, much less create. So the presence of her OCD tendencies at such a young age is really just another funny charming thing that we can talk about over dinner. But they do seem to be increasing. Maybe it's just who she is, maybe a response to her chaotic dust bunny existence (it's really not that bad - I exaggerate for comedy). Not sure. I like to think it's just the way her little brain works and it's fascinating, because it's unlike my brain in almost every way. On the plus side, we could really use someone with a little OCD in our family. Maybe the dust bunnies will fear to tread when Rosie comes of age and chore charts become part of the family lexicon. Maybe she'll demand reform in the house of neglect, a new sheriff in town to fight the clutter and stuffed cat diaspora. Hell, we could use some shaping up and maybe she's just the two-year-old for the job.

Play Dates Are Hell

Play dates are hell. Am I the only parent out there that thinks that a meeting of five-year-olds doubles or triples an already overburdened workload? Play dates have such a good ring to them. A playmate to occupy your child; a person whose age, interests, and desire for physical activity perfectly align with the apple of your eye. Activities for two - another mind and body to complete the play circle. I always thought play dates meant a break. The misconceptions and ignorance of my pre-child days rival any successful misinformation campaign. Think WMDs but limited to dangerous explosions from 1) my temper and 2) kid's bodily fluids.

I love all of Harp's friends....I really do; they are sweet, polite and caring individuals. And I really want them to come over, even if so many of them comment on the size of our house, asking with delightful curiosity where the rest of the house might be. But more kids equals more work. The first 30-45 minutes of every play date is me preparing food for kids, special considerations taken for diet, allergies, preferences. I should probably shove some grapes and water in front of these young peeps and call it a day, but I just can't seem to draw the line. I mean, even when they're five, they're guests, guests that you want to treat well, show a good time, have them leave with a good impression, so they can come back, eat more food, dump more toys and require massive amounts of game facilitation.

Depending on the Friend Compatibility Quotient, I might get a few minutes without an intervention during any given play date. A high FCQ is optimal for parents, producing few tears, mostly giggles and minimal parental intervention. A low FCQ is........ quite the opposite. Expect to drink after a low FCQ play date. Harp had a high FCQ friend over the other day and it was delightful. They played in an expandable tunnel for two hours, creating worlds, rules for the game and collaborating better than most adults. I had very little to do except watch Rosie, because high or low FCQ, an extra person in the house is just too cool for Rosie; she's tries to imitate every move...requiring additional supervision. On one recent play date, I was called upon to draw a hopscotch course outside. Rosie started playing with the older peeps, then came over with a blue sidewalk chalk mouth; she taste tests everything, including her recreation, even if that means licking the sidewalk. Amazing I've only called Poison Control three times in her short life.

And then the friends with the low Friend Compatibility Quotient. Hmmmmm. This particular quotient is more work and much more difficult to manage. One little girl with a medium to low FCQ spent an afternoon with us recently and I didn't sit down for five hours. After snack was homework, helping two kids with questions while attending to Rosie and her proclivity for taste testing. Then on to outdoor activities, running through the urban sprinkler yard, which means, swimsuits, towels, sunscreen and guarding our infant vegetables as the girls leapt around the garden. We don't have a yard yet. Then more food, more drinks, more clean-up. Why don't we have this and that - "because this is my house, dammit and we don't buy Go-gurts." Then on to dress up, which means hair help, zippers, bows and trying to ferret out where the wet swim clothes ended up. At some point during the post-dressing up, preening stage, the little friend told Harper that she, the girl, had perfect eyebrows - that Harp's eyebrows would never be perfect because they were blond and not shaped as delicately as hers. Harp came over crying, needing consolation and reassurance that perfection is not an objective judgment, that she is perfect too. I'm confidant that Harper hadn't given her eyebrows a single moment's thought before their color and shape were impugned. Then dinner..... and "no, we don't have pepperoni pizza." Then wine for low FCQ supervisor.

It's all part of the game, I know, and I know they have to experience life's trial, conflicts, personality differences; it's how they learn to function in this fracked up world. But it's so much more work. And I'm not sure that the kids enjoy the low FCQ interactions either. Wouldn't it be great if we lived in some Brave New World where everyone had a FCQ rating. "A play date? Yeah - sounds great. What's your daughter's FCQ? Oooh, we're a 84. Sorry, not gonna happen. But that little girl over there is a 56 and she loves Go-Gurts. " Was Aldous Huxley's vision really so very wrong?

Existential Minivan Crisis

I never thought I would drive a minivan. A minivan represents things to me - big car America, the conspicuous consumption of our culture and the denial of dwindling natural resources. Plus, why are all the windows tinted? It's impossible to see through the windows when you drive behind a minivan- like they get their own special view, while the rest of us just cross our fingers that that red lights don't suddenly appear and force me to teach Harper new expletives. Might be an exaggeration; she already knows most of them. But still, damn dark windows on those things. Minivans.......blackgh! Self-indulgent, quintessentially materialistic, space hogs. No thanks; I will drive a small, fuel-efficient, socially responsible vehicle, green to the earth and safe for my ever-evolving earth consciousness. Until...right about now.

Somehow, I have to take three kids to camp for three weeks this summer. And the car seats just don't fit. I almost broke my wrist when I tried to jam two boosters and Rosie's full size mega-protecto-seat into the back of my Camry. Can't be done and certainly can't be done safely. So I started looking around at used cars and I have been strangely hypnotized by the idea of a minivan. Yeah, a minivan. Hmmm. Really, me, in a minivan? Beyond all my green arguments for not owning a big car, which I just sanctimoniously drummed up in the first paragraph, is a very real identity crisis.

I'm not the kind of person who drives a minivan, but who the hell is the kind of person who drives a minivan? Don't answer that. I have some friends without kids who jibed me about being a soccer mom, who said that I simply couldn't get a minivan; it would be giving in, going "burbs", somehow adopting an identity. It got me to thinking, that as tolerant as I am about most things, I can throw down stereotypes with the best of them. I don't want to be the minivan driver and I don't want other people to see me as a minivan driver - to pigeon-hole me as simple, domestic, functionally uncool.

Because I am cool dammit. Or, at least I'm me and I wouldn't stop being me because of my vehicle. And that's really it. For the past thirty plus years, I always think I'll be different when I get to certain stages in my life. Go to college - become new college, intelligent, poetry-reading, coffee drinking young adult. Get job - become uber competent, respected, professional. Get married - become mature, secure, settled adult. Have kids - become together, funny, cool, energetic Mom. Yeah - none of that happened. Different vacations, same baggage. Love the ad industry. But I'm here now and I've learned a bit - like that I'm never different. Like, wherever, whenever I go, there I am. It's comforting in a way - to know that I'll carry myself into any situation....like driving a minivan.

We haven't made the decision yet; we might try to work around the several weeks with some childcare, some favors and perhaps Rosie wouldn't mind the bugs in her teeth up top. But at least now, I've sufficiently dispelled the minivan myth for myself. I think I might even be able to drive a minivan for a few short years without winding up in a step aerobics class or selling Avon products. Doh!