In which I totally invade my daughter's privacy

The Dictator has been reading books from the Junie B. Jones series recently and has become inspired by the books to do many new things, including starting every sentence with "Only except" and "And also, too,"reiterating constantly how much she "hates" things, and last, but by no means least, writing in a journal.  In the books, Junie B. has to write in a first grade notebook during school, so the Dictator has repurposed an old sketchbook filled with her artistic endeavors from last year (when she actually cared about art) and turned to the few empty pages not covered with characters from Disney, Nick Jr. and PBS Kids in order to begin a first grade notebook of her own.

Dictator N., First Grader

Now, I'm just going to admit up front that I am an awful parent, and went ahead and read every page of her journal the minute she went to bed last night.  I'm admitting this mostly because I'm about to cite the entire thing verbatim in this very blog entry, so it wasn't going to stay secret for long anyway.  I know, I know.  When you invade your child's privacy out of sheer curiosity (rather than because you think she has become a drug trafficker), you risk losing  her trust, causing her to hate you/authority figures/etc., screwing her up for life, blah, blah, blah.  Only except, I've completely rationalized this, so there's no need to fear.  See, she dictates these things out loud to herself as she writes them...with us in the room.  So clearly, she has no reasonable expectation of privacy.  And also, too, she obviously wants  someone to read them.  This is definitely a cry for help...or at least, attention.  And they're so darned cute.

So without further ado, annotated first grade diary voyeurism.  You're welcome.

Teusday Decmber 13 2011
Dear first grade nootbook notebook.*  Today I am watching PBS Kids with myself.  At first I was watching On Demand, but it started to mute so I am no watching Word World.  The eposodes are calld Duck's Hiccups and Achoo!.  In Duck's Hiccups, it is Duck's first time geting the hiccups.  In Achoo!, Pig is alrgic to peaches and I have a losse loose tooth and whenever I make a mistake I have to cross it out and I have a lot well not that many.**  Now Christmas is comeing up and I wrote tow two lists allreddy.***
From Dictator N Morton  First Grader

*Crossing things out is super cool because Junie B. does it.  The Dictator made most of her mistakes intentionally, in order to have something to cross out.  Although I believe that she really did have issues with the word "loose."
**We need to have a discussion about run on sentences.  This is sounding a bit Joyceian.  Dictator, no one can get through the first two pages of Ulysses, so how on earth are they supposed to read your adorable, yet completely impenetrable stream of consciousness journal?
***The existence of a second Christmas list is troubling.  I think I might need to find that.

This entry is followed by an elaborate diagram of Heartbreaker Boy and his sisters, utilizing arrows to show the complex familial interrelations between the three.  Fascinating.

Next is this page full of division problems.  Apparently the Dictator knows how to divide.  Who knew?

Following this is a page of words that she is practicing for her spelling bee.  What a good student!


Next entry.

Dear first grade notebook,
I just got back from scool*.   And now I found out my conputer is borken!**  But I decided to rhit riht in this notebook, but I have a pen.  I have***

*Apparently the words "school," "computer," and "broken" are not on the list for the spelling bee.
**The Dictator doesn't actually have a computer.
***The entry breaks off abruptly, here.  It seems that the simple possession of a pen does not a first grade notebook entry make.  

Next/final entry.

Dear Notebook,
Today is Wedsday witch which* was my favorite day but is not enyanymore.  Why?!  Now you're asking me "why?!"  Weel  Well, I will not teel tell you.  NO!  NOT RIGHT NOW!  Ok.  Soory Sorry.**  I did not mean to hurt your ears.  I just had a bath and yesterday for dinner we had rice.  Yum (but Yuck! to the Anarchist, my sister, so Dad just gave her soup...eww a little...I like it this much and she love it this much.  Wow!  This much!)  Today is art, that is why I dread Wedsday.***  Most of what I am talking about is food.****  Now, how many sentences have I wrote?*****
From,
Dictator N Morton First Grader

*Okay, the first "witch" misspelling was my fault.  She asked me how to spell "which" and I immediately thought of the kind that Puritans liked to torture.  "No, mom.  Like, 'which way did the car go?'  THAT which!"  Silly me.
**I don't think she needed to cross out "soory."  Canadians are cool and we should totally emulate the way they talk move to their country and become Tim Horton's consuming citizens.
***I have absolutely no idea why she dreads art.  I actually think she looks forward to art.  I think she just wanted an excuse to use the word "dread."  Wouldn't you?
****Yup.
*****My count is 15-ish.

So yeah.  I don't respect my daughter's privacy.  Only accept except I think she didn't really write anything too private and I had Taco Bell for dinner tonight and I like Taco Bell this much but it's not good for me and this weather is bad for me it gives me mygranes migraines.

From,
Me C Morton, Middle Ager**

*I didn't really misspell these words.  I just wanted a reason to cross things out.
**I have a tendency to subconsciously write in the style of whatever I've been reading, recently.  Hence, this blog is really good when I'm reading Tina Fey's Bossypants, and really depressing when I'm reading Sartre (and really incestuous when I'm reading Faulkner?).

Application for Employment

Name:  Morton, Me

Other Names by Which You Have Gone in the Past: Hey Mo-om, Aw No Fair, Honey U. Needtogetajob

Title: See above

Did you Attend High School:  Yes.  Before you were born.

Have you attended/are you attending college?:  Yes.

I think you will find that my ability to apply compelling post colonial criticism to current works of literary fiction useful in filling customer drink orders.

Also, my familiarity with Sanskrit and Latin and linguistics will come in particular handy when explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino to confused customers (I find people respond well to having the entire history of Indo-European language and it's accompanying consonant shifts explained to them when they're already late for work).

Please list any certificates, awards, etc. here:

• This one time, in high school, I got a scholarship for choir camp.  I had to wear corduroy knickers, but it was worth it.   
• Also, I was a National Merit Semifinalist.  If I had been an actual finalist, I would probably be off somewhere being a nuclear-physicist or a notable author.  As it stands, I was a semifinalist, and I'm a stay at home mom, currently applying for this job
• More currently (i.e., college...like, 8 years ago), I received a departmental award for English, proving that I am literate enough to read a training manual.  
• Most recently, my eldest daughter  referred to me as "The Best Mommy Ever."  However, I have yet to receive a written record of said accomplishment.

To which position(s) are you applying?:  The positions in which  I get to multitask, work with food, have people screaming orders at me, feign patience in the face of great upheaval, listen to incessant whining, accommodate great picky-ness, never get a moment's rest, and clean up after messy people.  Otherwise I might start to miss my family.

Is there anything that might prevent you from working a certain position?:  Hairnets.  Polyester.

Please list availability below:

Monday: so early the infomercials are still on-after the Anarchist's bedtime (which has become increasingly complicated and dramatic)
Tuesday: none
Wednesday: so early the infomercials are still on-the Bureaucrat has to go to class
Thursday: none
Friday: so early the infomercials are still on-as late as you need me to, in order to make up for the fact that all the college kids who work here have requested tonight off on account of the fact that they have lives.
Saturday: 2pm-as late as you need me to, in order to make up for the fact that all the college kids, etc.
Sunday:  No, thank you.*

*Alternately, 5am-10pm or 4pm-close.  Ooh, or open availability, every other week...but only if you could guarantee me that you wouldn't pull that thing where you agree to every other week, but end up using me every single week because people keep requesting time off and I'm a doormat.  I am a doormat.  If you consider this a valuable asset, you should totally hire me.  And ignore the previous stuff about not wanting to cover everyone else every single week.  I will do it.  Because I'm a doormat.  I'm your doormat.  Unless, of course you prefer an employee who is more assertive.  In which case, I'm that.


Required Starting Wage:  Required?  That's such a strong word.  And I know that if I put something too high you might not hire me.  However, if I put something too low, you'll totally take advantage of it and I'll be working for 75 cents  an hour less than everybody else.  Which--let's face it--is not cool.  Why do you even ask this question?  Is this to test my bargaining skills?  Is this secretly a psychological assessment?  Are you trying to see if I'm delusional?  Because I'm not delusional.  Neurotic, but not delusional.  And I'm only neurotic because I'm conscientious...which is a good quality in a worker, if I do say so myself.  And, possessing such a sought after quality, I find it reasonable to inform you that I require an hourly wage of $35 an hour.  Because peoples' lives specialty coffees are in my hands.  See?  So not delusional.

Employment History

Most Recent Job/Title: Bagel Schlepper/Bagel Schlepping Trainer/Bagel Schlepping Shift Manager (say that five times fast)
Job Description: All-high multi-tasker, bagel-lover, change-counter, baked goods-baker, sandwich-assembler, coffee-brewer, table-wiper, dish-washer, inventory-taker, food-prepper, bank-dropper, maintenance call-maker, drive-thru worker (classic English major, right there), customer-soother, coworker-motivator
Date Started: That one summer when I came back from college and needed a job, and they needed help so badly that they started me on the cash register the minute I finished my interview.
Date Finished: The day, seven years later (talk about company loyalty!), when I was hospitalized while pregnant with the Anarchist.
Reason for Leaving:  I wanted to give someone else a chance to schlep bagels.  Also: bed rest.

Job/Title: Western Michigan Annual Fund Phonathon Caller
Job Description:  Demanding money from alumni at meal time.
Date Started: the day I realized there were literally no other jobs available on or off campus
Date Finished: the day I graduated and never had to ask another alumnus for $500 at dinner time again.
Reason for Leaving:  Graduation.  Also: I hate bothering people.

Job/Title: Medical Records Clerk
Job Description: Address envelopes/alphabetize files/mooch off of drug rep luncheons
Date Started: some time in high school, before you were born...we didn't even have internet yet
Date Finished: some time shortly after high school, also before you were born...we had internet by then
Reason for Leaving: Relocation.  Also:  I though it would be neato to leave a well-paying, extremely easy job and instead obtain a completely impractical education, funded by ridiculous amounts of loan money, to be paid back by working far more demeaning, far less lucrative jobs in the future.


Have you ever been convicted of a crime?  I got pulled over once for a burnt-out taillight.  I got a "warning."  The police officer was super nice.  That's all I've got, though.  If you're looking for someone with grit, I feel like I'm totally failing you, here.

Are you qualified to work in the United States:  Yup.

Employment Inventory questions to determine if you're a bad person or not:

You are doing a complex counting task when a customers interrupts because she needs help.  You:
A) Stop what you are doing, but sigh audibly so as to make her aware of just how much of an inconvenience she is.
B) Keep counting.  Pretend you are deaf.  If you ignore them, they usually go away.
C)  Have another employee take over for the cashier, have the cashier take over for you, and go help the customer, per her request.
D)  Ask your manager.

Write in response: Leave a small sticker to mark your place, and make a written record of where my counting left off.  Help the customer.  Return to inventory counting unfazed.  Alternately, see if I have a coworker that can go and help her so that I can continue counting.  Doesn't that seem like a simpler solution, Employment Inventory?  Doesn't it?

You notice that some of your coworkers are making fun of a customer.  You:
A)  Cry.  That customer is your grandmother.
B)  Point out that, while cruelty is funny, getting caught is not.  Advise them to use their whispery voices when degrading other people.
C)  Join in.  Nothing says "make fun of me, next" like not participating in the mean-fest.
*D)  Ask your manager.

You are minding your own business behind the counter when an large, angry, enraged racist lunges behind the food line and at an employee who is a racial minority, threatening to kill him if he "doesn't go back to his own country."  You:
A)  Join in.  After all, you are a card-carrying member of the KKK.
B)  Scream and throw knives.  Maybe one will hit him.
C)  Throw yourself heroically in front of the threatened employee.  Advise the racist customer to use his whispery voice when making racist threats of violence.
D)  Ask your manager.

Write-in response: Ooh!  I have experience with this exact scenario!  The correct answer is, surprisingly, not "B."  It turns out knife-throwing is some sort of liability.  Whatever.  The correct answer is to send someone to get your manager, who will then threaten to call the police if Mr. Aggressive Racist Pants won't leave the store immediately.  Meanwhile, if you can throw your Caucasian self between the threatened employee and the racist, that's usually a good move, although it's possible that he will still mow you down in his fervor to do racially-motivated violence.  Usually threats of the police work.  Also, soothing tones and soft lighting might prove effective.  Finally, if all else fails, turn to the tip for appeasing disgruntled customers that you learned in your training video: offer him a free bag of chips or a cookie.

Thank you for your interest in our company.  We look forward to ignoring you meeting with you, if your qualifications meet our needs.

The Fat Assassin's Tacky Sweater Party

Yesterday, my favorite person made all of my wildest dreams come true.  Yesterday, I was thrown my very own, super festive, glorious-er than glorious tacky sweater party.  It was truly phenomenal.

The neckline of my perfect new garment of clothing makes
speech a touch challenging.  Oh I do so love a challenge!

Some of you may have seen pictures that were prematurely leaked to the internet on various social media networks.  You may also have encountered false allegations that I was less than pleased with my new woolen attire.  Let me take this opportunity to set the record straight.  These accusations are completely false.  Not only was I delighted to wriggle into my brand new, brightly colored, form fitting holiday cat sweater, but I was devastated when the party ended early, due to a tragic misunderstanding.  It turns out that the ever-so-flattering turtleneck of my favoritest new article of clothing wreaked havoc on my vocal chords (havoc, which was, by the way, entirely worth every moment of gasping and retching), and I may have accidentally hissed instead of purred with pleasure while luxuriating in my fabulous get-up.

An astute observer, such as the Female Person, would have immediately understood that I intended to communicate only praise and gratitude for my sweater-having situation.  Unfortunately, she was not present, and the less-adept Male Person, wrongly perceiving my ecstasy to be suffering, tore my beautiful sweater from my gorgeous furry self before I knew what hit me.

Let me be absolutely clear.  I am eternally grateful to my People for throwing me such a wonderful tacky sweater party.  I have never longed for anything more than a tacky sweater party.  My tacky sweater was completely worth every cent of the $2.50 the Female Person was so insistent that we spend upon it.  She made the right choice.  She is a genius.  I will always cherish her gift, her intellect, and her desire to see me in a sweater.  Not only did I thoroughly enjoy my very first tacky sweater party, but I excitedly anticipate my next tacky sweater party.  Female person, you made all my dreams come true.  Thank you for cramming me into a paralyzing sweater.  Thank you from the bottom of my furry heart.


I love you.

So what if I couldn't stand upright in my couture sweater?
I'm madly in love with it.  Look at how it slims my torso,
and accentuates my beautiful pear-shaped figure.

All Photos Courtesy of the Bureaucrat, 2011.

Get Me To The Church On Time: The Morton Family Guide to Going to Church Like a Real Suburbanite, INSTALLMENT II

Now that you've perused the church market and carefully selected the suburban church that's just right for you and your family, you'll need to actually make it to church...preferably on time.  This presents an enormous challenge for my family (as I live with three of the slowest moving human beings on earth), but I've come to discover that many other families, the wide suburbia over, struggle with the exactly the same challenge.  Sundays are hard.

Growing up, I thought that it was only my family that endured untold stress and hardship making it to church every Sunday.  My father would be sitting in the running car, honking the horn, as my mother rushed around complaining about all the things he had forgotten to do.  My sister and I would be trying on our thirteenth pants/sweater combos and everyone would end up yelling and angry by the time we finally thrust our way into our seats and got ready to worship the prince of peace, love and forgiveness. 

As I grew, I realized that we were not the only ones who seemed to grow more  impatient, ornery and crazed on Sunday mornings.  People would literally push past one another, "sneaking" out after communion in the time-honored Catholic ritual of The Most Holy Race to the Parking Lot.  Working at a restaurant on Sunday mornings, I would witness family after family, all dressed in their Sunday best, impatiently snap at one another, their servers, cashiers and fellow customers.  Sunday mornings and the pressure of getting to church on time are clearly not good to anyone.  So much for Sabbath rest, eh?

"...but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind
and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards
goal for the prize of the heavenly caffeine of fair trade
church coffee."  (Phillipians 3:14, NISV)*

So what's a nice suburban family, struggling to keep up appearances, to do?  Sure, the Bible says that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first, but let's set all that biblical mumbo jumbo aside for a moment and focus on what's really important--maintaining respectability.  Also--getting to church in time to partake of the delicious fair trade coffee offered before the service without missing so much of the service as to raise eyebrows.  You've gotta have priorities, people.    

Having gone to church for the past couple of months, and having been on time maybe once or twice during that time period, I think it's obvious that the Morton family has this thing down to a science.  If your family is still struggling to make it to church without killing each other, getting into a car accident, or missing out on your caffeine fix, why don't you check out some of our helpful suggestions:

1.  Lay out your kids' clothes the night before.  Sure, they'll probably refuse to wear the outfit come Sunday morning (or, in the case of our dear Anarchist, have outgrown the outfit by morning), but at least then you can blame them for your tardiness, and not yourselves.  Because if there's one thing that we learn from church, it's that you should totally throw planks into the eyes of others, so as to distract from the specks of dust in your own...or something like that.

2.  Do not even think about starting a Sunday morning pancake breakfast tradition at your home.  Sure, it sounds quaint and cozy on Saturday night, but I guarantee it will ruin your life come Sunday morning.  Pancakes bring, not peace, but the sword.  Fork in hand, family member will turn against family member.  I promise you that it won't be pretty.  Aunt Jemima is the mother of lies.  Avoid the pancakes and save your souls...or at least, your sanity.

3.  Try a page from my dad's book and wait impatiently in the driveway, engine running, a half an hour before your family will be ready to leave.  Honk the horn impatiently at five minute intervals.  When the last family member is finally at least partially in the car, back out of the driveway at top speed before this family member has time to sit down/close the door, allowing his/her limbs to graze the ground as a lesson to everyone that timeliness is next to godliness.

4. Do family calisthenics in preparation for the big day.  When the apostle Paul urges us to "run the good race," he's obviously speaking literally of making it to Sunday morning services in time (however, when he tells us that one of the fruits of the Spirit is patience, he's clearly speaking symbolically).  Thus, every family must physically prepare for the great Sunday race.  Jumping jacks, running laps, even push-ups, will get your family in the best possible shape to make that last minute dash from parking lot to nursery/Sunday school classrooms/sanctuary/gym-turned-alternative-worship-space, effectively elbowing other churchgoers out of the way as you go.  It might also be helpful to practice cheers to raise morale.  Shouting such phrases as, "show me some hustle," and "kill 'em," at one another really gets everyone into the worshiping spirit.

5.  When all else fails, give up and go shopping.  If you're already running late, your simplest solution to avoiding tardiness is simply not to go.  Perhaps you can find a nice Starbucks that closely approximates your churchgoing experience.  Good enough.  You will maintain respectability, get your caffeine fix, and avoid the embarrassment of walking in late.  If you are concerned that any of your fellow customers may judge your for being heathen non-church-attenders, simply behave in an ornery and impatient manner.  They will naturally assume that you have already attended/are about to attend church.  You will also make them feel better about themselves by showing them that they are in good (albeit angry and impatient) company.  This is comforting to them, and you are therefore performing a service.  Love your neighbor and all that jazz.

As you can see, we Morton's are good, wholesome people, and our suggestions are based on warped and distorted sound Biblical principles.  So you should totally take our advice.  But be advised.  We take getting to church seriously.  So if we happen to ride your tail, run you over in the parking lot, or elbow you in the face in the lobby in the midst of our mad dash to church, forgive us.**  Because forgiving is what you're supposed to do.  We know that because we learned it in church this Sunday.  We learned it in church this Sunday because we weren't (too terribly) late...and I have the coffee jitters to prove it.

*NISV, New Impatient Suburbanite Version  
**Or not.  After all, "in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize...Run in such a way that you may win it...so I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air, but I elbow the others, and mow them down, so that after removing them from my path, I myself should not be disqualified. "  (I Corinthians 9:24-27, NISV)

He Totally Smurfed Them the Bird

It's story time at the Morton household.  The Dictator and Anarchist have been working busily for a week, creating elaborately illustrated story books on sheets of blank paper that the Bureaucrat brought home from work as a special surprise (this is what children get excited about when you have no money...oh, who am I fooling, this is what children get excited about even when you have money...why do we even buy them toys?).  Both children have chosen to write about--surprise, surprise--Smurfs, and the Dictator is dying to read her story to an audience this very moment (the Anarchist has already run off to stir up anarchy in another part of the house).*  The Dictator, having secured her captive audience (the Bureaucrat and, most likely, his iPhone), pauses, and then opens her book with a dramatic flourish.  She begins reading:

The Smurfs: A Halloween Advnter Story

Pg. 3  A Hollween Advnter

Pg. 15  The Leaves Are Falling Somware On Us

Pg. 20 A Smurfing Thanksgving 

Oh, good Lord!  Over twenty pages of Smurfin' goodness!  Good thing the Bureaucrat is patient...

Papa Smurf encounters a Smurf in ghost get-up, in the
Dictator's riveting tale of depression and decay.

A Hlloween Advntre

One day boffore Hlloween, Papa and brainy were makeing the Smurfs' costumes.  But...Brainy was being too bossy.  That's when Papa left the knitting table.  Brainy was shoked to see him leave the knitting table.

Because no one, but no one, leaves the knitting table except in the case of a dire emergency or government mandate.  Man, this book is getting intense.

Skipping ahead a few pages (in which Papa encounters several Smurfs who--to his great frustration--are prematurely clad in Halloween costumes):

Just then Gargamel found the villige to ruin the Smurfs' Hloween, but...The Smurfs stoped him by pelting him with berries, pies, nuts and frying pans.

Gargamel's really just upset because he has such
awkwardly curved eyebrows.  Poor pumpkin.  It's
hard to be an evil sorcerer these days.

And if this is as violent as the Dictator knows how to be, so much the better for the free world when she comes into a position of world domination.  Just be sure to duck when you see a frying pan with the seal of the Empire flying through the air.

 Gargamel ran all the way to his castle.  The Smurfs cheered.  Then all of them went out trick or traeting.  Then Papa noticed Grouchy did not come.  When Papa opened the door [to trick or treat], Grouchy stuck his middle finger out at him and closed the door.  Papa saw a sign that said "No Trick or Treat Candy."

Well, that makes perfect sense.  If any Smurf isn't going to participate in community activities with the rest of the Smurfs, that Smurf would be Grouchy, after all...wait...WHAT did he do?!  He did WHAT with his middle finger?!!  From what loathsome, awful person/television show did my precious, pure and innocent Dictator learn such a crude gesture?!  That's it, we're throwing away the television, pulling her out of school and becoming one of those unfathomable homeschooling families.  I'll find the patience somewhere (no I won't).

The good news is that I was nowhere present at the first reading of "The Smurfs: A Halloween Advnter."  And I am told, and we'll have to take his word for this, that the Bureaucrat maintained his composure and allowed the oblivious Dictator to finish her epic Halloween saga uninterrupted.  It was only in this way that he would discover, with a shocked Brainy Smurf, that Grouchy was sitting alone in his mushroom consuming last year's Halloween candy while the other Smurfs trick-or-treated until sunrise.

Tragic.

Perhaps more tragic still were the events that followed.  Grouchy, in a fit of expired-candy-induced delirium, staggered into Papa's lab, tried a "bad" spell, and set the entire place on fire.  (With the obvious omission of the requisite implied incest, this is almost becoming Faulknerian).

But no one was around, so he left it alone.  [Meanwhile,] at the last house, they even got 8 Smurfberries.  They loved the costumes.  They even visited Gargamel's castle.  Then Papa saw his own house on fire.  Oh no!  He blamed Grouchy and he got in trouble.  Then Smurfette rang the bell, got he fire hose and got to work.  The end.

So, the moral of the story is, don't leave a depressed and volatile Smurf alone to consume toxic candy when no one is around.  The village will burn, with only the single female of your society to save it from utter destruction.

In the final scenes of "A Halloween Advnter," Papa's
house, a symbol reminiscent of Grouchy's raised middle finger
(yes, I'm going with "finger" here, because I can't even imagine
what else this mushroom might symbolically resemble...) is consumed
by the flames of destruction and purification, providing for Grouchy,
and the Smurf community at large, a redemptive purgation of the darkness and
depression gnawing at the soul of Grouchy, and, it is implied,
the world of all the Smurfs who hide their depression and emptiness
with knitted costumes and smurfberries.

 Depression kills.  So be on the lookout for signs of depression (or "the blues," Get it?  Smurfs?  Blues?  Ah ha ha ha!  Wow.  I hate puns).  Signs might include lack of interest in things the Smurf previously enjoyed (for example, smurfing for smurfberries, smurfing up some costumes at the knitting table, smurfing a happy song), change in sleep and eating patterns, and of course, sudden crude and offensive hand gestures.  Like smurfing the middle finger.  Completely inappropriate, but a sign, perhaps, of deeper problems.

Deeper problems like the problems that plague the little 6-year-old boy--we'll just go ahead and call him Batman Jr., after his Halloween costume--who introduced my angelic daughter to things in which only a drunk Smurf in the throes of depression should dabble.  We found out later that Batman Jr. put up his  middle finger in response to provocation by Super Girl Jr. (and if anyone can provoke such a gesture, it's definitely Super Girl Jr., who the Dictator describes as someone "who has a little trouble remembering to be nice, and also she's too loud") during library class.  According to the Dictator, Batman Jr. "got blamed for that and got in a lot of trouble, because that's not a nice thing to do, even when you're mad."

Well, at least she's aware that it isn't exactly acceptable.  More importantly, she's unaware of exactly what, specifically, the gesture means.  And we'll keep it that way.  At least, we will until one of the bus stop hooligans decides to fill her in.

And once more, homeschooling is starting to look like a more sane option.

Seriously, what the Smurf?!



*The Anarchist's story is a postmodern commentary on the loss of meaning and coherence in our communication.  While it looks, on the surface, like a cross between the crazed etchings of a serial killer and a delightful romp through Smurf Village, there can be no doubt that this format points beyond itself to the uneasiness of Smurf culture in an age where invocation is met with uncertainty, and often, flames.

Play Dates, Crippling Shyness, and Me

If you know me, but not well enough to have married me, emerged from my womb, given birth to me, or grown up in the same house as I did, there are two things you should know:

1. I love you.  For real.
2. I am terrified of you.

Things have been this way for as long as I can remember.  I say "as long as I can remember" because my parents tell me that I was an outgoing, friendly and charming baby, waving at complete strangers from the comfort of my stroller, calling out "Hi-ch!" to everyone I met.  

My parents might be liars.  

My first memories involve melting inconspicuously behind the nearest parental leg the minute I was introduced to someone new, assuming that everyone that smiled at me was secretly judging me for being young, ignorant, and possibly ugly, and shaking in terror whenever I was forced to pick up the telephone.*

This isn't to say that I haven't developed some social skills.  For example, I no longer hide behind the nearest adult's calves in frightening social situations.

I have found much more sophisticated hiding spots.

Behind my hand.  A more sophisticated
hiding spot.

In fact, I have actually had people act surprised when I tell them that I suffer from social anxiety.   So I must be good at acting like a well-adjusted, socially competent adult.  But having children has introduced me to a whole new social scenario for which I have no coping mechanisms whatsoever: the dreaded "Play Date."

The mere phrase sets my heart racing.  This is partially due, of course, to the fact that someone decided--at some point between when I was a child and this present moment--to give what we used to call "having a friend over to play" a terror-inducing name.  Think about it, "first date," "blind date," "due date," are all frightening concepts even for non-neurotic, normal people.  The name "play date" evokes an ancient terror that dates back to the very first awkward dinner and a movie.  On the other hand, I doubt very much that non-neurotic, normal people, have a significant change in blood pressure and a fight or flight response (I choose flight) that rivals that of most woodland creatures at the mere mention of "play dates."**  I think those things happen to me because I'm crazy.  

This is no help to my beloved children, the eldest of whom could use some practice developing her social skills (no, Dictator, people will not want to be your friend if your first hour of playing is spent going over the minutia of the lengthy list of playtime rules you have created), the youngest of whom shares none of my inhibitions ("Look!!!  A FRIEND!!" she yells upon spying someone under the age of 12 in the grocery store, "Be my FRIEND!  We can PLAY!!!").

As such, I've come up with a list of helpful things that I can do to get myself through the horrors of my children's play dates:

1. Make my kids make the phone calls.  I have a friend who does this and it seems to work.  Kids are adorable and their social awkwardness is still acceptable.  Who can say no to the Anarchist?   No one.  That's who.
2. Try to have most play dates with children of people who are already my friends.  These people are already aware of what a nut I am and, for some reason, do not seem to care.  This makes the whole situation of forcing them to spend time with me/my children way less stressful.
3. If my children insist on choosing their own friends, attempt to steer them towards friends whose parents are either just as neurotic as I am, or who are way more outgoing than I am.  That way, they'll either understand why I'm shaking like a leaf when I drop the Dictator off to play, or they simply won't notice/care.  
4. If sticking around during a play date--I still haven't figured out the "should I stay or should I go" rules of play dates yet, so if anyone wants to clue me in, I'd be ever so grateful--locate emergency exits as soon as possible.  Also, map the locations of the nearest adult legs, as these still make good hiding spots in a pinch.
5. If all else fails, hand my children off to better parents and become the cave-dwelling hermit I secretly am deep down inside.

I admit that there are probably better/healthier ways to deal with my anxiety.  Maybe someday I'll regain the courage to enter the Anarchist's preschool classroom grinning like a fool, waving, and yelling "Hi-ch!" at every parent I encounter.  In the meantime, I'll try to calm the heart palpitations that I'm currently experiencing as I wait for a nice mom of one of the Anarchist's little friends to call about that-which-shall-not-be-named.  Let's just say that, if I can bring myself to pick up the phone when she calls, the Anarchist might be able to "have a friend over to play," that is, if I can stop hyperventilating long enough to make that happen.  

*Actually, my very first memory is of a dream in which a rabid wolf that lived in the laundry closet adjacent to our kitchen attacked me as I ran past in a desperate bid to get out the door to Chuck E. Cheese.  The dream closed with a vivid image of the laundry wolf gnawing happily on my severed arm as I deliberated over whether or not to go to Chuck E. Cheese limbless.  I know you wanted to hear about that.

**As a side note, I would make an excellent gazelle, as my ability to turn and flee danger--i.e. a person walking in my general direction, the ringing of my telephone, etc.--can only be described as graceful and awe-inspiring.

Seriously, What the Smurf?!

Two pieces of Smurf-related news:

The Good News:  The Dictator has finally exited her Only Pink phase, and has admitted Smurf-blue shades into her wardrobe, declaring this particular shade of blue her "new favorite color."  (In other news, the Anarchist has assumed the role of "pink wearer" in our family...thank goodness we have loads of princess colored hand-me-downs in which to stuff her little pink-loving self).

The Bad News: I have a weather-induced migraine that no amount of caffeine/medication/rocking and drooling can vanquish...and the kids are playing "Smurf" again.

Smurfs can be temporarily subdued
with lollipops.

To clarify, the Smurfs are not responsible for my extremely painful headache; I blame the month of November for that.  But they aren't exactly helping.  See, playing "Smurf" is a loud endeavor.  Loud and physically active.  The game begins with non-stop, panicked shrieking and consistently ends with someone bleeding.  We need to buy stock in Hello Kitty bandages.  Can you even buy stock in Hello Kitty bandages?

Phrases overheard during "Smurf" include:

"Oh, how shall we ever survive in a universe with two Gargamels?" 

"C'mon. Let's go up to my mushroom."  

"I'll lead the way through the dark, dark night." 

"We should just start throwing things." 

"Apparently, I want you to stop laughing and start being not crazy."

"Stop big-sheeping me!" 

And my all time favorite:

"I don't care what you want.  I just care what you need.  And right now, you need a throw-up bucket."

When did Smurf culture become this passionate and intense (and, for that matter, nauseated)?  When I was little, the Smurfs were on the television in the background, but I mostly ignored them...because they were weird.*  My children, on the other hand, run around from dawn until dusk in chemical saturated, cancer-inducing white foam hats, diving off of furniture, slamming headlong into one another, and tormenting the Fat Assassin (who has unwillingly been cast in the role of  "Azrael"), in a Smurf-inspired frenzy.  The Anarchist has even announced her intentions of becoming a Smurf when she grows up.**

The Anarchist dressed for her
future occupation of Smurf.

Fortunately, there are good things that come out of this noisy, violent, cat-torturing, furniture-destroying game:

1. The Anarchist and the Dictator willingly (and cooperatively) play together for hours.  This is a game with something for everyone: a world to control for the Dictator, untold anarchy for the Anarchist.
2. Smurf Village has enacted a new Politeness Initiative.  Thus, I hear my blue and white clad offspring muttering things such as, "I love to help you out.  This is so polite.  Thank you so much.  I just adore being a kind, polite person...I mean, Smurf."
3. It encourages imagination.  I know.  This is obvious.  You probably heard me complaining about all of this and thought, "What an awful parent!  Doesn't she know that imaginative play is an essential part of childhood development?"  Why yes.  Yes I do.  But knowing that doesn't make my migraine any less painful.
4. The children's vocabulary has been--somehow--positively influenced by the world of Smurfs.  New words include, "miserable," "sickly," "survival," and "scattering."  
5. It gives the Dictator an opportunity to practice dictating...and also an environment in which to experiment with bureaucracy.  Smurf Village has at least five town meetings a day. Smurfette, the Dictator's alter ego, will often "adjourney" the meetings after "motioning" that they schedule another for later in the day.  Recently, the Smurfs' politeness awareness combined with the Dictator's new-found love of meetings to produce this little gem:
   "I move to end this stupid meeting until a later date.  Also, I move that we make a rule never to say 'stupid.'"
6. As a result of repeatedly viewing a compilation DVD of vintage Smurf episodes, the Anarchist and the Dictator are learning important lessons about life and death***.  In Season 2, Episode 12, Smurfette loses a pet mouse (who is also a village hero) to smoke inhalation and "runs away from life" in order to protect herself from more loss.  I mean, it's better than an After School Special.  They just don't make 'em like they used to.****

So, I guess I don't have too much to complain about.  They're being creative, expanding their vocabularies, playing cooperatively, practicing manners, and brushing up on their meeting lingo.  Now, if I could only pry them out of their filthy, flea-infested Smurf costumes for two seconds and get them to stop "invoking" things all the time, we'd be good to go...and then I wouldn't have to run away from life.

The Dictator in her new "favorite color,"
Smurf Blue.  Note that she is not currently
trying to run away from life.

*She-Ra, with its much more plausible plot and realistically rendered animation, was by far the more rational choice.
**A far less realistic career role than my chosen future occupation of "She-Ra's long lost sister."
***The Anarchist has actually become a touch obsessed with death.  She talks about dying rodents constantly.  It's rather morbid.
****You have to see it for yourself. That way, you'll be fully prepared to deal with the most profound problems of existence, too.

The Morton Family Guide to Going to Church Like a Real Suburbanite: INSTALLMENT I, Finding Church

Let me preface this post by pointing out that I am now officially qualified to give all sorts of helpful advice regarding churchgoing etiquette.  As you might remember, the Morton family had been going all indie/uber-authentic/whatever and doing house church like a bunch of little hipster kids (or...you know...persecuted religious minorities in oppressive regimes...either way).  Anyway, we thought we were too fantastic for entrenched institutions, especially those soul-crushing mega churches.  But here's the thing: we live in the mecca of all suburban enclaves, and pretty soon, one way or another, the suburbs will overtake and engulf you.

Suffice it to say, I now aspire to own three pairs of khaki capris, drive a mini van, and shop at Walmart.  In the meantime, I have already accomplished one such suburban goal: I (and my family) now attend a (modest) megachurch. 

Nice, suburban families like this one should really find a
"real" church to attend.

I know, I know.  We're huge sellouts.  What can I say?  They sucked our kids in with their child-dazzling Sunday school; and if there's anything suburbanites are good at, it's pandering to their children.    "We LOVE Sunday school!" sang the little Mortons, and the big Mortons followed along like happy little lemmings. 

We have been attending a "real" church for about a month now.  Thusly, I feel more than fully qualified to offer helpful tips relating to church and your families.  You're welcome.

INSTALLMENT 1:  FINDING THE RIGHT SUBURBAN CHURCH FOR YOU

First, of course, you have to resolve to go to church.  Whether you've not been attending church because it seems devoid of meaning, is emotionally scarring, hypocritical, not authentic, inconvenient, scary, not scary enough, or because you're a stark raving atheist, you're a devout Muslim/Hindu/etc., or--like our family--you're just way too into church to go to church because church is actually not churchy enough, you need to forget your hangups, sell out, and go anyway.  Seriously.  Otherwise the rest of my helpful advice will become completely irrelevant to you.  And, after all, shouldn't your spiritual decisions be based entirely upon what will boost my self-esteem?  Of course they should.  So go to church.*

To decide which style of suburban church is right for you, consider the following questions:

• Are you a Gen Xer?  If so, look for a church that reminds you more of a movie theater or a mall, or for that matter, anywhere you used to spend exorbitant amounts of time as a teenager.  See if you can find the word "relevant" in the description.  This church will most likely be filled with 30-40 somethings and their families.  You will get all sorts of helpful messages from the pastor about how to apply Christianity to your job in middle management/sales/engineering.
  
  



Doesn't this look "organic?"
(shout out to the Bureaucrat for
this lovely photo)

• Are you a post-modern?  If you don't know what I mean by this, then you probably aren't.  If you do and you are (and you are smirking in an elitist way at those who don't/aren't), look for churches where the pastors have tattoos (preferably sleeves).  This is a good first sign.  Also, look for the words "organic," "authentic," and "conversation" on the church's website.  See if you can find a church with cryptic images on the overhead screens (to scare away the old people). Be sure to scan the crowd to assure yourself that at least half of the members of the congregation have ironic facial hair/glasses/smirks.  If so, you are in good company.  Double check: is there a coffee in your hand?  Is there a smartphone in your other hand?  Yes?  Good.  Looks like you've found your church home.
  
  
• Do you hate church and want to participate as little as possible?  Find a church that touts its "seeker friendly" status.  See if you can find one with stadium seats and a super-loud worship band.  Make sure the church takes place in the pitch black dark.  Now no one can hear you not singing, see you not paying attention, feel you drooling as you fall asleep next to them.  You may be asked (politely) to let Jesus into your heart.  You probably won't have to demonstrate that you're listening to him once he's there.
  
  
• Do you have a six-figure income?  Consider looking for a church by scanning the parking lot for luxury vehicles.  The Jesus in this church will probably not be presented to you in such a way as to make you feel bad for having that Lexus and wearing those Louboutins.
  
  
• Looking for a church that loves America as much as you do?    Fear not.  Many suburban churches proudly fly the American flag all over their churches, sing "God Bless America" on a regular basis, and support your rights as a citizen.  These churches are much less likely to pander to culture and a much more likely to pander to good, old-fashioned patriotism.
  
  
• Like tradition?  You can probably find a "dying" mainline church (think: Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian...without "evangelical" in the title) in your community.  It will probably be very nice--just like the church Grandma used to attend--but less than half of the seats will  probably be filled.  Tragic, really.**  The good news is,  you'll totally have a place to put your coat.
  
  
• Have a young family?  Look for churches with websites that have lots of pictures of smiling families in khakis.  There should be entire pages devoted to children's ministries with catchy names.  Scope out the high school ministry pages (sure to be titled "Epic," "Relevant," "The Rock," or some equally cool name) to make sure that, at some point, when your children are teenagers, they will have the opportunity to play paintball at church.  This is crucial to their formation as young Christians.
  
  Bonus points if your church has a MOPS group, a bounce house in the summer, or the a Vacation Bible School that puts Disney World to shame.  WWJD?  He'd make sure your kids had so much fun they forgot they were at church, that's what He'd do!
  
  
• Subscribe to the theory of "bigger is better?"  Good news!  So do the suburbs!  And do they ever have the churches for you!  If they haven't targeted you with their well-placed marketing schemes, you have been living in a cave.  Why aren't you already attending one of your local monstrosities? The problem might be that it is often hard to physically locate these churches.  While they are enormous, they often look less like churches than industrial parks and are surrounded by so many acres of parking lot, that it's easy to dismiss them as mere airports.  Be assured, these are so much more than airports (although do not be surprised if your local mega church comes equipped with at least one airport). Mega churches are the epitome of capitalism-meets-religious institution.  Coffee shops, bookstores, schools, cafes, meeting areas, these churches have it all.  Mega churches are your one-stop-God-shops in a world where Goliath beats David, Jesus overturns the money changing tables in the temple to make room for a new Starbucks, and those who hunger and thirst aren't so much blessed as given an opportunity to purchase a frothy caramel latte.
  
  
• Does this all just sound awful to you?  Don't fret.  I made it sound so much worse than it is because I am an incurable cynic.  There are people doing good and meaningful things in all sorts of places, even the suburbs (even in mega-churches, even while wearing Louboutins).  That being said, if you really think that you'll have an easier time finding Jesus in the faces of the poor, and you're terrified of being culturally subsumed by the apathy-inducing, pacifying suburbs, I would consider leaving as fast as you can.  End the lease on your studio apartment, hop on your bike and ride off into the sunset.  Wait...you already bought a minivan (the kind your kids love, with the TV screens and folding seat) and a starter home (which you, of course, can't sell), and are eternally embedded in the suburbs with us?  Hmm...House Church might re-form one day, but in the mean time I guess we'll all have to humble ourselves and do the best with what we've got.  I, for one, am already looking forward to sipping coffee at my next "authentic" church service.  Now, where did I put that ironic facial hair?

*This has been my once in a lifetime act of overt evangelism, and it wasn't even sincere.  Cue smiting.

**It has been said that one reason for the demise of these traditional churches is that they fail to market themselves adequately.  This may be so, after all, the message of Jesus really has to do with shopping around to find the things that best fulfill my personal preferences.  I, however, am tempted to attribute the death of the traditional denominational church to its utter lack of irony...and lattes.

The Demon-Witch-Monster and the Late, Late, Day

I grew up in a family that was never late.  Never.  Sure, we rushed around at the last minute like everyone else, but if being on time meant diving headlong (shoeless and with unbrushed hair) into the Dodge Caravan as it backed out of the driveway, then dive headlong we did.  It was never okay to be late...and we never were.  I spent my entire childhood without once having experienced tardiness.  I was pretty certain, though, that being late would result in immediate spontaneous decapitation, fire and brimstone, and the annihilation of the human race.  Thusly, I avoided it like the plague.  The first time I was really truly late for class in college I was too terrified to go in.  I had already missed five minutes; surely entering now would end my life.  I continued this pattern of behavior throughout college...if I was going to be late, I simply wouldn't go.  Problem solved.  Still never late for anything in my life.

Then I got married and had kids.  The  Bureaucrat, it turns out, is never late for anything either, but this has more to do with the fact that he has a loose definition of "on time."  If he gets there when he intends, and hasn't missed the entire thing, people should understand that he was "on time."  After all, having a sense of urgency would totally kill that "meticulously thorough" vibe he has going.  "No," he 'll stubbornly and--irritatingly--calmly announce as I desperately try to get the family to church in time in the morning, "I'm not leaving until I drink my coffee, read this article, go to the bathroom (again), clean the kitchen, put the rest of my coffee in a to-go mug, find the right socks, and turn off this iron so the house doesn't burn down." (whatever)

The Dictator putzes around with a
spoon on her forehead.  I wish I could
say that this behavior was unusual for her.

The Dictator has inherited the Bureaucrat's utter lack of urgency.  "I'm not going to hurry, Mom," she'll announced as I try to herd her out the door in the morning, "I have to button my raincoat, check my umbrella to make sure it still works, untwist my backpack straps, adjust my tights, line up my toys in order of height, drink more water and  wash my hands first.  THEN I can hurry!" (Kill me now, kill me now, kill me now).

And of course, the Anarchist thwarts any attempts at respecting the hallowed social more of timeliness with the simple application of anarchy.  "I don't WANT to go to the four-year-old preschool!  I HATE doing the Jolly Jamboree!*  I'm going to sit on this potty FOR 100 MINUTES so I can be LATE for preschool and MISS the Jolly Jamboree!" she'll shriek from the bathroom, five minutes after we should have left and I've begun throwing random things around the house in a vain attempt to convey to my offspring how serious the situation is becoming.

Needless to say, I stand dumbfounded in the face of such blatant disregard for the importance of urgency, of being on time, of consideration for rules/regulations/the rest of humanity/my extreme neuroses regarding tardiness.

Well...not exactly dumbfounded.

See, the problem is, I may or may not turn into a shrieking demon-witch-monster when running late.  I start off patient and understanding enough.

"Okay, guys," I'll say, urgently, yet oh so patiently, "We're running a little behind, so we need to get moving and follow directions really well without whining, okay?" 

(Subtext: "Please don't turn Mommy into demon-witch-monster, please don't turn Mommy into demon-witch-monster).  

"Let's get to the bathroom and then we'll put these clothes on...no, not after Super Readers (Super Readers ends AFTER we're supposed to be there.  What's wrong with you people?)...NOW!" 

(deep breath) 

"Okay.  I'm turning off the television.  You need to put the Cheerios down.  You've had 45 minutes to eat them and now it's time to go.  Anarchist.  Put the Cheerios down.  NOW."  

(demon-witch-monster slowly surfacing...long black tongue and creepy opaque white eyes starting to form)  

"Anarchist...what did I just SAY to you?!  Put the Cheerios down." 

(grabs, violently, bowl of Cheerios and slams them on coffee table...Cheerios fly everywhere...demon-witch-monster's presence is becoming more obvious now)  

"WHY DON'T YOU LISTEN?!  Come HERE and put your pants on.  No.  DON'T dance around like a monkey!  Anarchist!  Singing the Smurf song will NOT help us to be on time!  Anarchist!  Mommy's starting to lose it!  Please!  Cooperate! "

(catches sight of Dictator putzing around in nothing but tights and a Smurf hat in front of the mirror, humming to herself)

"DICTATOR!  It.  Is.  Time.  To.  Go.  Get.  Your.  Clothes.  On.  NOW!!!!!"

(Dictator responds with, "I'm going as fast as I can!  I'm just slow.  Like Daddy.  I can't help it."  Demon-witch-monster--fully formed and out for blood--is unleashed in all her terrifying splendor)

"IT IS NEVER OKAY TO BE LA-A-A-A-A-ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

(The sheer quantity of exclamation marks in the previous sentence does little to capture the essence of demon-witch monster's rage at the Morton family's lack of urgency.  Picture that scene in Lord of the Rings where the white witch gets all crazy with the ring, and her eyes get all creepy, and her voice gets supernaturally psychotic; now pair that with the head-spinning green vomit scene from the exorcist and any scene from any B-movie horror flick you've ever watched in your pajamas on Halloween night because you were just too lazy to get dressed up for that Halloween party, and you'll get a vague sense of the scene in my home most mornings...it's not pretty.)

To say that I'm not proud of this impatient streak in myself would be an understatement.  I die of shame every time I get the kids safely dropped off to school and watch all the patient parents who (even though they are late) smile and chat and actually let their kids put their shoes on and button their coats before getting them into the car, even at the expense of the potential destruction of the entire cosmos (yup, being late can get that serious).  Meanwhile, my kids are scarred for life, traumatized by demon-witch-monster and her undying hatred for all things putzy.

My only consolation is this:  while I've seen plenty of angelic, patient parents with their oblivious spawn pull up to school ten minutes late with not a care in the world, I've also seen my demon-witch-monster-haunted peers throw children from still-moving SUVS as tardy bells ring, heard her evil shriek surface in their exasperated "HURRY UP!"s, and known that I, and my children, are not alone.  A small remnant of children will grow up set apart from society by their fear of all things tardy, their reverence for urgency, and their ability to save the human race from utter annihilation and spontaneous decapitation one skipped college class at a time.


*The Jolly Jamboree refers to a happy little preschool song designed to help children "wake up their brains."  The Anarchist recently launched a full-scale protest/boycott of the Jolly Jamboree out of solidarity (over-identification) with a small boy who cried during the Jolly Jamboree the first week of school because he missed his mom.  The Anarchist felt his pain...and wanted to share in his drama.  Thus the Kill the Jolly Jamboree Movement was born.  

This Place is a Zoo! (No, it really is. I swear. There's got to be an animal around here somewhere...)

Hey, look!  A map!

Yesterday I had the pleasure of herding my offspring into a friend's minivan and heading out of state to the Toledo Zoo (yes, we were zoo traitors, abandoning our home zoo for the zoo of another).  The timing could not have been more perfect, as the Dictator--who is afflicted with multiple food allergies--had just finished up her annual allergy-blood-draw-fest, and we had needed the zoo trip as a bribe/light at the end of the needle-jabbing tunnel.  The children were well-rested, cheerful, and obedient, having only tried to dismember one another a few times in the waiting room at the lab.  This trip was going to be a smashing success (don't I sound British when I say "smashing?"); I could just feel it.

And for the most part it was...as long as you don't factor seeing actual animals into your definition of "success." 


The one thing I've noticed about going to zoos since I've had children is how very few animals we actually encounter.  At the Toledo Zoo, we spent much of our time in an interactive children's play area that had next to no animals (and my children actively ignored the ones that were there).  At the Detroit Zoo, we do make sure to peek at the penguins and butterflies, but most of our time is spent checking out interactive computer displays, eating at the bistro,* sitting through Dora the Explorer 4D action movies, running wild on the playground, and melting hand prints into the ice wall in the Polar Exhibit.  This makes the Bureaucrat insane.  "I came to the ZOO!" he'll exclaim irritably, "I want to see ANIMALS!"

The Dictator climbs an
interactive "spider web,"
ignoring the giant live
spiders spinning real webs--
in a desperate bid for her
attention--just feet away.

It turns out that his understanding of the zoo is so two decades ago.  When the Bureaucrat and I were growing up, you went to the zoo to, um, see animals.  I mean, there was a fountain, some concessions, a gift shop and a few park benches, but you wanted to see the monkeys, bears, zebras, elephants, tigers, reptiles, etc.  Now--and I notice that it isn't just my nature-hating children--kids could be in a room surrounded by rare, fascinating species just waiting to be noticed, and they won't give them a second glance.  Heck, the peacocks have to roam free and fly headlong into your kids' wagon, squawking and shrieking before they have half a chance at recognition.

Me: "Look at the baby polar bear, Dictator!  Isn't it amazing?" 

Dictator (not bothering to turn her head in the general direction of the live creature not five feet from her face; absently):  "Uh huh.  Hey LOOK!  There's a blinking map on this wall!"

 or

Me: "Look, Anarchist!  Do you see the baby elephant!  It's playing with that toy!  Oh my goodness!  It's dancing ballet!  Anarchist!  It's speaking your name...in French!  In fact, it has now morphed into a character from Cars and is driving right for us to say 'hello'...in French!"

Anarchist: "I'm too sleepy for the elephant.  I've been walking so much!**  I need to rest on this bench and close my eyes and not look at the elephant.  Hey look!  A map!"

etc.

The Anarchist and the Dictator actively ignore a seal doing
amazing seal-tricks just feet away .

Maybe it's all the interactive features zoos have these days.  Our kids are so overstimulated by technology that an orgy of mating kangaroos looks tame and dull by comparison.  Maybe zoo animals should come equipped with educational features, flashing lights in their ears, and water spraying out of their eyes.  Maybe that would get the attention of our tech-savvy youth.  

Let me be perfectly clear.  I adore all of our zoo trips.  Even the animal-free ones.  I've come to view the zoo as a place where my kids can explore, play, learn and whine, with or without captive creatures.  It just took some getting used to.  Nevertheless, I really think that zoos should look into ways to engage our children in meaningful interactions with nature that do not distract them from...Hey!  Look!  A map!

The Anarchist is "so tired" from
"too much walking."

*Shout out to the Detroit Zoo for having so many allergy-safe options...and a Starbucks.
**This is a bold-faced lie.  She screamed like a banshee the entire walk from the parking lot to the front entrance until I was forced, out of utter embarrassment, to rent a wagon, which she road in for the entire zoo trip. 

the story of frankenmuth

 Guest Blogger the Dictator reminisces about our second vacation this year to the land of buttered noodles, kiddie mohawks, and constant polka music:

The Dictator enjoys softserve at the
Bavarian Inn

one day my family went to frankenmuth.  we rode in the car for a long time.  the anarchist and i were tiered by the time we got to the hotel.  we watched tv then went to the pool.  i had a routine for the big pool.  first i went in the pool.  then i went under the blue and green sprayers.  then i pulled myself up.  and that's the routine.  after the pool we went to diner.  i ate macaroni and had vanilla ice cream for dessert.  and then we went to the toy store i got ned bracheosaurus with a train car ,and the anarchist got smurfette then bedtime.  the next morning we went down stairs for breakfast then we went home. i love frankenmuth.  the end.

The Dictator hated the fountain,
but feigned happiness for the photo.

"I like this picture the best because
I'm so pretty."

The Dictator: My Pink Princess

Fancy Dictator, pretty in pink.  Plans for world domination
begin with the wardrobe.

Before the Dictator was born, I decided that--as I loathed the color pink--we would paint her bedroom in butter yellow and grass green and decorate with a crisp, primary colored farm theme.  Most of her baby clothes, though decidedly feminine, were blue, green and yellow.  She got called an adorable boy by little old ladies on any number of occasions (despite the fact that she was so obviously clad in a dress).  And I was okay with that.  I don't love pink, and I certainly didn't want to impose that nauseating color on my precious offspring.  If she had to be mistaken for a baby of the opposite gender, then so be it.  She would be too young to remember anyway.

See?  I think she looks quite fetching in brown, don't you?

Little did we realize that our Dictator has an alarmingly sharp memory, or that she was taking mental notes in that coffee shop as she sucked violently on her pacifier and sought revenge on the "nice" little old lady who dared to mistake her for something so hideous as a boy.

I don't know that she'll ever get that revenge, but she has put into place a diabolically simple corrective to all the gender-confusing lifestyle choices we mistakenly made for her so long ago.

The Dictator's Plan For Reclaiming Her Feminine Identity

Phase One:  DRESS LIKE THE GIRLY GIRLS

Phase One has been active for about a year or so.  About a month into kindergarten, the Dictator announced that "wide at the ankle" jeans were verboten; only "thin bottom" jeans would do.  While the vast majority of kindergarten girls at the Dictator's school were happy to sport jeans of any make and model (I don't think kids become fashion snobs until at least second grade, right?), it turns out that one crucial kindergarten fashionista, Pretty Headband Girl, exerted especial influence over the Dictator's choice in legwear  As the Dictator's chief rival for the affections of Little Blond-Haired Boy, Pretty Headband Girl's pants mattered; and Pretty Headband Girl's pants were skinny.  And so the Dictator took the necessary steps to get her man, hiding each and every pair of offending "wide at the ankle" pants she owned.

PHASE TWO: REFUSE ALL PANTS (or, OUTDO THE GIRLY GIRLS)

But this was only a gateway pants decision.  Soon, the Dictator found it necessary to up the ante.  And something inside of her, some vague, gnawing past hurt pointed her in the direction of her next man-trapping move.  If she was to snare the heart of Little Blond-Haired Boy, it would prove necessary to establish that she was, without ambiguity, a girl in the girliest sense.  To prove this to herself, Pretty Headband Girl, Little Blond-Haired Boy, the Disney Princesses, Fancy Nancy, and the world, the Dictator took the extreme measure of shifting to a Skirts Only Wardrobe.  Tights and leggings had to be procured.  Second-hand stores were scoured for cast-off fluff of an affordable nature.  Pants were handed down to an unwitting Anarchist.  And a girly girl (er...girly Dictator?) was born. 

Did I mention that pajamas must also abide by the no-pants,
all-pink Dictator wardrobe guidelines? 

PHASE THREE: GO PINK OR GO HOME

It took a while for me to adjust to the overtly girly wardrobe choices of my eldest spawn.  I had to put aside my dreams for preppy, sleek tweed pants  and sweaters and let my little Dictator make her own decisions...even if they involved sequins, fluff, and nothing but skirts.  And I had made my peace with that. 

But then something terrible happened.  Last week I took the Dictator and the Anarchist back to school shopping.  Nothing elaborate, we just needed some shirts, leggings and tennis shoes.  I walked into the store, enamored with the rainbow of jewel-toned tees in brilliant turquoise, ruby red, amethyst and emerald.  I suggested fluffy shirt after fluffy shirt in pumpkin orange, indigo, chocolate and slate.  My suggestions were met with looks of disgust and a strange growling noise. 

"What's wrong with this?" I asked, naively, "It's covered with sequins, strewn with tulle flowers, has the word 'princess' on it in glitter, and smells like roses!" 

 "No. No. No," the Dictator said, rolling her eyes in disgust and waving the unacceptable apparel away with an irritable flick of the wrist.  "I only wear pink!" 

And despite my best efforts, we walked away from the mall with six brand new shirts in varying shades of pink, pink tennis shoes, pink leggings, pink tights and a pink headband.  We also have a brand new pink leotard for dance class, along with pink tights and new pink ballet shoes (thank goodness her new class level switches her from white shoes to pink, or I don't know what she'd do). 

And so, my daughter the Dictator has achieved maximum girliness.  And I am doing my best to keep my cool.  I know it's wrong to say this, but I may very well get sick of looking at my daughter every day.  It's not her, she's a lovely girl...it's the pink.  So much pink.  I suppose it's my own fault, really.  If only I had seen fit to dress her in all the stereotypical pink "it's a girl" baby clothing, we probably wouldn't be having these problems right now.

What was I thinking, putting her in
blue like that?!  This is all my fault!

But you know what?  I'm not going to blame myself for this.  There are other scapegoats to be had (although not Pretty Headband Girl, because she's just doing what she needs to do to get herself a man).  So I blame you, Fancy Nancy, with your big words and your fluffy skirt-filled wardrobe.  And I blame you, Disney Princesses, with your palaces and jewel-encrusted dresses.  Also, I blame you little old lady from the coffee shop, for not knowing a floral embroidered dress when you see one.  Okay, that's completely insensitive.  You are old and probably find it hard to see.  So I don't blame you after all.  Sorry.  Sorry about that.  And finally, I blame whoever decided that pink was a girl color.  I don't know who you are, but if I ever find you, I may release the Fat Assassin on your fleshy calves.  You'll totally deserve it.

Thanks, Disney Princesses.  Thanks a lot.