Dance of the Sugarplum Wildebeest

I've always wanted to be in the Nutcracker. Ever since I caught a glimpse of some dance company performing excerpts of the ballet near the elevator at the mall when I was tiny. I remember watching them slowly and gracefully execute the haunting Arabian variation and thinking, "I will do that some day."

I did not do that some day.

Dancing daughter. Dancing in her craftily-
obtained pink dress with "Guacamole" the
(probably haunted) creepy doll. 

Once I finally did start dancing, it became evident that my dancing style was more...erratic and flailing. More "Dance of the Fleeing, Wounded Wildebeest" than "Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy." Sure, I had oodles of stage presence and could tap dance like a pro, but slow, graceful and haunting Arabian dances were clearly out of the question. Every year, I would go and watch my friends dance in the local Nutcracker and secretly imagine myself onstage in sparkling costumes not wincing in agony at the pain of my curly toes' knuckles rubbing themselves raw inside of my pointe shoes.

I have an active imagination.

Anyway, the Nutcracker was clearly out of the realm of realistic possibility. My choir sang during the snow scene for a few years and that was about as close as I got. My senior year of high school, a couple of my friends talked me into auditioning for another company, farther from home and easier to get into. I don't count that as a real experience, because while I got wonderful parts, I was awful at them. Chalk it up to the curly toes. 

But that's okay. Because all the while I was hatching a top-secret, highly diabolical plan.* I would dance in the "real" Nutcracker yet. I just needed time. And a daughter. A dancing daughter.


Now, many people live vicariously through their children, and that's all well and good, but I don't think those people dream big enough. Why simply bask in the glory of your children's accomplishments? Why not use your children's accomplishments to sneak your way into living out your childhood dreams? And so I waited. Patiently. And I put my plan into slow, deliberate action.

The Dictator as Angelina Ballerina.
Evil Plan step numbr 3.

1) Have a child. Done. And with time to spare, I might add.
2) Ascertain that said child is a girl, and more likely to have ballerina-aspirations. Done.
3) Have girl-child watch Angelina Ballerina like it was her job. Done. (Bonus points for girl-child asking to be Angelina Ballerina for Halloween. I am an overachiever.)
4) Enroll child in bitty preschool-person dance classes and hope it sticks. Done. With child number one. Child number two, not so much. But I have other dreams to live out. Other children to exploit. Her time will come. Her time will come.
5) Take girl-child to see local Nutcracker Ballet. Done.
6) Buy girl-child small souvenirs and refreshments at Nutcracker, creating an association between the Nutcracker and toys and candy. Done.
7) Allow child to audition for Nutcracker. Done. She begged to and all I had to do was say yes! I win.
8) Wait for request for parent dancers. Sign up. Muah ha ha!
9) Dance awkwardly/poorly as the confused (drunk?) party guest in the "real" Nutcracker! Childhood mission accomplished!

Yeah. That's right. Who needs to audition? Just wait 15 years, and you can get into the Nutcracker right through the backdoor.  They practically beg you. For real. Granted, it's not exactly my childhood dream of Arabian variations and Snow Queen solos, but whatever. Also, just wait until they see the secret pas de deux the Ballerina Bureaucrat (who wants this even more than I do) and I plan to bust out during the final act. It's going to be amazing. They'll totally cast me as Thirty-Something Clara next year, I can feel it!  Which is good, because if this evil plan had failed, I was going to have to resort to Wildebeest dancing in harem pants near the elevators at the mall, and I think we can all agree that no one wants that. 

So, I cordially invite you all to see my adorable Dictator  me, me, me (and the Ballerina Bureaucrat) in our Nutcracker debut. We are not good. We are phenomenal. Depending on your definition of "phenomenon." It will be the experience of a lifetime. In advance: you're welcome. *jazz hands*

* I didn't actually give birth to my children as part of a grand scheme to do ballet poorly. The Dictator actually wanted to audition for the Nutcracker all on her own. We signed up to dance in the party scene because the other parent volunteer options, such as "sell tickets" or "move scenery" seemed scary and intimidating. But "dance poorly and confusedly," strangely, did not. Also, you should definitely go to see the Dictator in the Nutcracker. She is going to be the world's cutest mouse. If you happen to glimpse the Ballerina Bureaucrat dancing with me, so much the better (or worse, depending on how things go). Maybe we'll provide comic relief (I think my character's back story is that she is ill-bred and maybe a little slow, and maybe a lot drunk...which will account for her confusion and propensity to crash into pieces of furniture and other dancers). But anyway...Dictator. Dancing. Adorably. Go see it. Get tickets here: http://plymouthcantonballet.org/

A lot cuter than I am. Also a lot
less likely to crash into things
while dancing.

Update (12/5/2014): 

Guess what! They're letting us all back onstage! They must be desperate. I get to wear an amazing bright red dress and try not to trip on people. The Bureaucrat gets to wear harem pants and carry people (I'm jealous of the harem pants). The Dictator gets to dance in the party scene this year. She gets to be a girl at the party and not a boy. She managed this by conveniently "forgetting" the boy choreography every time it was rehearsed, while diligently practicing the girl choreography at home, school, church, the grocery store, etc. She is also thrilled to be costumed in a pink dress. We think she managed this through some manipulative scheme, but she claims that she was the smallest child and that the pink dress was the smallest dress. Maybe she's been deliberately stunting her growth so as to fit into the pink dress? I wouldn't put it past the child. The Anarchist is being farmed out to various relatives all weekend with the promise that she can audition to be a mouse next year. The Dictator has been coaching her in "mouse runs" and "scared-mouse knee trembles" for the occasion. And it's all coming together. And so far no one is sick. I was convinced someone would be sick. (To be fair, I'm always convinced someone will be sick). So you should come watch my pink-clad baby, and my harem-pant clad husband dance their hearts out in a Christmas classic. Also, there's a 50% chance one of us might do something super-awkward on stage (and a 100% chance that I will try to work in some jazz hands). And that, my friends, might be well worth the price of admission.

Even MORE updated Update (11/30/2016):
Uh oh, they're letting us dance again. Mike is the only one of us who gets to live out my dreams of being in the Arabian dance. Sylvie gets to be a green flower (a role she's been dreaming of since...last year). And it's very likely that one of us will be awkward onstage, or that my hoop will totally fall off of my skirt, creating a hilariously scandalous wardrobe malfunction). And as an extra bonus, at least one of the dolls in the party scene is DEFINITELY haunted this year. You don't want to miss it!

Eight Things I Love About My 8 Year Old

Minutes old. Angry at
the world.

The Dictator turns eight tomorrow, and I've been thinking about how much I like the person she is becoming. I know I generally tend to be all snarky and sarcastic here, and so maybe I don't paint the most flattering picture of my beloved family members, but the fact is I'm crazy about them. Therefore, I'm going to go and get all sentimental about how much I love the Dictator...in honor of her birthday. And not because I have an easy time writing with any level of sincerity.

8 Things That I Love About My 8 Year Old

The Dictator, at one, shows
musical inclinations.

1. The Dictator is an unabashed nerd. I tend to worry about what her penchant for Magic cards and chess means for her social life, but I really just need to get over it. The Dictator loves these things, and My Little Pony-themed Dungeons and Dragons game, and computer games with wizards. She likes to discuss these things at length and in great detail with perfect strangers who could not care less that the rewards for leveling up her wizard's pet after a battle in round four means an extra two lives and a ring of power. While this horrifies me (because I always assume that it's my job to make everyone like me even if this means compromising who I am--and I totally project that assumption onto my poor children), it doesn't phase the Dictator in the least. And that's awesome. Nerd it up, Dictator. If that means Comicon and cosplay in your college years and rolling a D20 for initiative (whatever that means) in an epic monster-slaying D&D quest on your weekends, good for you. I love that you know who you are and that you refuse to change for anyone.

Two years old...developing
a flair for fashion.

2. The Dictator is an unabashed girly girl. In addition to a laundry list of totally geeky pastimes, the Dictator loves all things girly. Ballet, pink, Paris, romance, sparkly clothes, hair accessories, pop music, Nickelodeon tween shows, kittens, American Girl dolls, glitter. You get the idea. Basically, the Dictator winds up looking and acting like a future popular girl. She doesn't worry deciding between the girly business and the nerdy business. She passionately pursues both and to heck with anyone who tries to make her pick. Yes, her wizard in the computer game has a pink cloak and matching hat, 16 fluffy pets and a well-designed bedroom, but she can also totally defeat the Skeletal Warriors in any battle she enters. My child is a lovely, lovely paradox.

At three, as Arthur the aardvark.
She wore this every day for months.
The Dictator is awesome.

3. The Dictator has a fabulous sense of humor. Sure, she likes the typical elementary school fart jokes, but she also gets subtle wordplay, comic timing, innuendo (not the sexual kind though, never the sexual kind, not even when she's 40), cultural references, irony and the like. The one type of humor she's not into is my favorite kind--self deprecation. I can't tell you how happy I am about that. Her lack of self-deprecation may just correlate with her complete lack of humility, but that's okay. I'd rather let her keep her gigantic, healthy ego than have her turn into a self-loathing neurotic like somebody I know...

Four years old and classy.

4. The Dictator is self-aware. This is crucial, because I've recently discovered that I really appreciate people who are self-aware (isn't that self-aware of me to realize that about myself?), and it's important to be able to appreciate your children. She knows what she likes and why she likes it. She knows who she likes and why she likes them. She knows her own flaws and weaknesses, but she's equally aware of her strengths (and is sometimes prone to overestimating them). Also she's into personality typing, which is just really, really cool. She makes up her own personality quizzes and administers them to unwitting victims. I now know that if I were a chipmunk from Alvin and the Chipmunks I would be a cross between Jeanette and Theodore and that if I were a My Little Pony I would be Fluttershy mixed with Twilight Sparkle, which is crucial information if I'm going to become a fully self-actualized human being.

She turned five on the first
day of kindergarten.

5. The Dictator is hungry. She's picky about what she eats, but boy does she appreciate what she does eat. This tendency of hers really satisfies my inner-Italian-grandma (I'm not Italian, so this elderly nonna living inside me is a little disconcerting). "Eat! Eat! You're all skin and bones!" And the Dictator gladly obliges.

Pretty six-year-old
dancing Dictator.

6.The Dictator is creative. And prolific. So prolific. We really need to add an extra room or three onto our house to all of her art/writing projects. We have novels, comics, drawings, plays, musicals, songs, sculptures and architectural projects. The kids a regular Da Vinci. Too bad she's also a hoarder...because that means we never get to throw any of it out. Ever. EVER.

"Fancy" Dictator at seven.

7. The Dictator is strong-willed. You don't get the name "Dictator" by letting other people push you around. She's always very polite about it, but the Dictator gets her way. She has told the swimming instructor how to run her swimming class, her orthodontist how to put in her spacers, me how to parent her (when she was like, 6 months old...she didn't need words...Dictators don't need words), and her sister how to do pretty much everything in existence. Small Central American country with a volatile political climate, you're next. The Dictator is benevolent, but she knows what's best, and questioning her is not in your best interest, I assure you.

My lovely Dictator
is a third grader.

8. The Dictator is sweet. I was a little worried early in life when she was born all angry and suspicious. I was worried when she spent the first eight months of her life wide-awake and screaming infantile profanities at anyone who would listen. I was worried every time she pitched a raging fit when we missed a word in a book at storytime, drew a Yo Gabba Gabba character with the wrong amount of eyelashes, or set dishes out in the wrong order. I was worried when she growled at the Anarchist for the first year or so of the Anarchist's life. But I shouldn't have worried. The Dictator is strong-willed and demanding, but she's also kind, compassionate, sweet and utterly lovely. And I love to watch her grow into an amazing person who is exactly and perfectly herself. Her nerdy, pretty, girly, creative, hungry, dictatorial, self-aware, funny self.


Happy Birthday, dear Dictator. I want to be just like you when I grow up. You're delightful and we're so thankful for you every day of our lives!

Introvert Bill of (Totally Reasonable) Rights

Lately, the internet has been overrun with helpful "How to Understand Your Introvert" memes. You know the ones. They usually feature a picture of a retiring individual pulling his/her head into the neck of a sweater like a tortoise in a shell. They contain introvert-related propaganda such as, "It's not our fault we don't want to spend time with you. Please just understand that we are way smarter than you so we have much more interesting things going on inside our brains than small talk with you could ever hope to compete with. Also, we are humble."

Introverts are profound. Not aloof. We're never aloof.
We're too amazing to be aloof. And also we are humble.

With all this introvert-awareness-raising going on, it almost seems as if there's a introvert-revolution afoot. I mean, when else would an entire people defined by its hesitancy to speak audibly suddenly find a soapbox and voice its assertion of rights unless...well...there's a change a-comin', my friends. The quietest 1/3 of the population apparently no longer wants to be ignored (unless they're burnt out, socially, and then you must ignore them).

I say "they," but of course I mean "we" (as much as any group of people who refuses to socialize even within itself can be considered "we"). I am a stark-raving introvert, as is my darling little Dictator, whose stock phrases include "I just want to be left ALONE!!!," "Not a hugger!" and "Don't TALK to me!!!" As an introvert myself, and an advocate for my precious offspring, I feel compelled to join the movement. The (super duper) silent minority is ready to overthrow the extrovert-dominant system of noisy oppression. Viva la Personal Bubble!

Thusly, I hereby present an List of Demands Introvert Bill of Rights for immediate adoption by the entire human race. Listen up. I'm only going to say this once (and then I'm locking myself in my quiet room to read Neil Gaiman for two days straight, and don't even think of calling/texting/knocking).

INTROVERT BILL OF RIGHTS

1) All introverts shall hereby be granted a five foot personal bubble that shall not be violated except  in cases of grave emergency (e.g., escaping large parties, fleeing overcrowded concerts, sharing an elevator in an attempt to leave a bar/club/room full of excited toddlers).

2) In cases where an introvert holds a service/public relations/sales/customer service/other job that deals with the public, said introvert shall be limited to a 20 hour work week, but shall be paid double what an extrovert working a similar position is paid. This measure is to compensate for the fact that when an extrovert leaves such a job for the day, the extrovert goes to the gym or the bar or a party. When an introvert leaves the same job for the day, the introvert goes comatose in a dark room, rocks in a fetal position while drooling, or searches out hard drugs to dull the pain.

3) Every introvert shall be granted one of those sweet turtle neck/hooded/hide-your-whole-head sweaters that keep showing up in all those introvert memes. Said sweaters shall be snuggly and amazing.

4) All terms previously used to define introverts--however true--shall no longer be used. Dorky shall become interesting. Eccentric shall become unique. Awkward shall become either charming or endearing. Instead of aloof, introverts shall be referred to as profound. Instead of standoffish, introverts are cautious. Instead of snobbish, introverts shall be called discriminating. And shy is humble. Oh so humble. The humblest.

5) Hereafter, any extrovert wishing to be "considerate" in the direction of an introvert is forbidden from providing unasked help, company, gifts, or hugs (unless the introvert wants a hug, in which case the extrovert must read the introvert's mind and provide a hug, for in no case will an introvert initiate a hug). The introvert definition of "considerate" shall be adopted in all cases pertaining to introverts and is as follows: Considerate is defined as being careful to avoid invading the introvert's thoughts/time/space with unasked help, company, gifts or hugs (unless mind reading has indicated that hugs are actually secretly desired).

6) No party or social occasion shall last for more than three hours. No more than 5% of party attendees shall be strangers, and only 10% may be casual acquaintances. No party may contain more than 10 guests. (Parties of exclusively extroverts are exempt from these restrictions). Introverts must be notified of parties and other social events at least 2 months in advance (to give introverts time to obsess about  get used to the idea). Parties shall be free from small talk. Snuggly-awesome turtleneck head-hiding sweaters are considered appropriate party attire.

7) Introvert parents shall be granted a minimum of three hours locked in a quiet room per parenting day without repercussions (except those to society, because you know those kids are going to be going all Lord of the Flies on you).

8) The inner thoughts of an introvert are sacred and shall not be violated. A glazed-over, daydreamy, zoned-out stare is indicative that an introvert is lost in glorious, glorious thought and shall not be disturbed. Introverts shall not be held legally responsible for any physical violence or destruction of property than ensues if said glorious thought is interrupted.

9) Plans for a nice day/evening out should reach a maximum at two events. For example, dinner and a movie. The eager exclamation of, "Hey guys! Let's go to a bar or seven!" after dinner and a movie is completely unacceptable.

10) An introvert is never required to answer the phone or to return phone calls. This is asking too much. Acceptable introvert communication may include: texting, limited emailing, subtle body language, knowing looks. Please consult with introvert to determine which method will not send him/her into a state of paralysis.

11) When asked of reluctant introverts, the answer to the (often rhetorical) question, "What are you waiting for, a personal invitation?" shall always be: Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes! And handwritten, if possible. Calligraphy would be nice, just so we know you're serious. However, the introvert should not be expected to RSVP, as this would cause far too much social exertion terror.

12) No conflict shall arise from the adoption of this Bill of Rights. Introverts totally hate conflict.

And also, you aren't allowed to think we hate you. We love you oh so much. We just have a terrible special way of showing it.

Okay. That's enough revolution for me. I'm going to go find a nice place to lose myself in my super-brilliant, highly-personal, oh-so-humble thoughts.

*pulls head to into sweater and ceases to acknowledge the rest of the world*

A Morton Family Guide to Navigating the Windy City with (Violently Ill) Children

It's the dead of summer. The children have cabin fever. You just want to get out. Everyone and their mom is heading "Up North" for a fun family weekend of clean, crisp air, towering pine trees, immaculate Great Lakes beaches, and wholesome, natural relaxation. So obviously, you don't want to do that. You would be such a follower. "Pure Michigan?" Psssht, whatever. Who needs Gwen Frostic, Petoskey Stones and Mackinac Island fudge (both kinds), when you can have feces-scented trains, endless walking and crowds of rabid museum goers? That's right, folks. I'm talking about Chicago. I know, I know. You've done Chicago before. You've taken the kids to see Sue at the Field Museum, snapped touristy photos at Millennium Park and drained next month's mortgage payment at the American Girl Place. Chicago's old news. So why not spice things up a bit? Why not go to Chicago, but this time do it up right.  This time, why not opt for a fully immersive urban experience and bring along a violently ill child? Like, I'm talking nastiest stomach virus ever. As in, coming out both ends...with reckless abandon. Take that American Girl Place!

A picturesque place to bring the
entire (sick) family.

 Naturally, the Morton's have experience with just such a vacations, so we've prepared a handful of helpful tips to help you to make the most of your family weekend (with a violently ill child) in Chicago. You're welcome.

1. Stay in the suburbs. You can get a fantastic hotel in Schaumburg for about a third of the price of a similar hotel in the city. Not only will you avoid the crowds, but your child will have plenty of commute time into the city in which to work up a really nice bout of nausea. Choose a hotel with a terrible view (ours was of the IKEA). That way, you won't be reminded of all the fun you aren't having. Bonus: you can use all the money you save to pay for your subsequent doctor's bills. 

The Anarchist and the Dictator enjoy
our room with a view...of IKEA.

2. Choose a hotel with the right amenities. If your child is violently ill, she probably won't give a hoot about the heated, saltwater indoor pool (but that might be a fun way to spread that nasty little virus). You will, however find that she has a new-found concern for the softness of her pillows, the availability of complementary plastic laundry bags, the presence of a mini-fridge in which to store the electrolyte water, and access to child-friendly cable channels (although we found that the Weather Channel was okay in a pinch). You will be glad you chose a hotel with a coffee shop and a bar onsite. The Bureaucrat had a fun little run-in with a particularly chatty drunk man in our swanky hotel bar one night while the rest of us slept like (sick little) babies. Nothing like meeting new people to keep vacations fresh!

3. Take advantage of public transportation. Why risk getting vomit all over your own car when you can take the train into town? The combination of fecal-scented seats and lurching/swaying cars is sure to churn your child's already fragile stomach. Let her work it out on the Blue Line and not in your second-hand Saturn. They have people to clean that up, right?

On the train, keep your kids entertained with a rousing game of
"Don't Lose Your Lunch"

4. Take a stroll. Chicago neighborhoods are full of tons of culture. Bust out your running shoes and take to the streets to immerse yourself in all the sights, sounds, and smells of the city. Try getting off the train a few stops before the one closest to your destination. That way you can explore local parks and landmarks really over-exert your weak and nauseated child. Try a photo op at Millennium Park with your ailing family member, and then work up a sweat yourself as you haul your hot, whining child a bajillion and one blocks and up a massive flight of stairs to the Field Museum. Just be sure to save money for physical therapy when you get home! You're going to need it.

5. Be mindful of the time-change. (And then promptly ignore it). If you're a Michigander, you're in for a time-change when you head to Illinois. We found that our children tended to wear out quickly near the end of the day and needed to recharge a lot sooner, especially since the Dictator was so unwell. We handled this situation beautifully by heading to dinner especially late. We recommend you do the same. Choose a nice deep-dish pizza joint for authentic pie and be prepared for a substantial wait as your pizza bakes--about 45 minutes. Don't bother ordering for your kids. They'll fall asleep on the table before the server brings that second round of garlic bread...which is perfect. After all, kids are expensive, and the sick one shouldn't be eating anyway. Plus, you've just bought yourself an entire two hours of blessed whine-free adult conversation time...and a whole extra basket of garlic bread.

6. Hit up the mall. Yes. That mall. The one with the American Girl Place that will eat your soul, your life-savings (if you have any), and your parental dignity. Because otherwise, you don't love your children. Be advised that your sick child will not seem to appreciate this trip nearly as much as she should. Note her ashen-faced blank stare as her doll's hair is detangled for an exorbitant fee, the unresponsive stance she takes as she forces you to buy that stuffed pet cat that costs more than a real, live, prize-winning pure bred Persian. Understand that she can't help her lack of gratitude. She is violently ill, after all. Just know that she really is thankful. And that she's well-aware of how well her sickly state is working in her favor. Poor baby, you think to yourself as you write a check that could have covered her private college tuition, maybe this hundred dollar plastic replica of a chunk of cheese will cheer her up. No? Still frowning? Poor baby. I know, have a five-hundred-dollar photo shoot with your doll. Your pretty green face and glazed-over eyes really capture the spirit of our trip!

Even sick kids will smile when you buy
them their weight in fancy toys.

7. Bring friends. What's the fun of a violently ill vacation if you can't share it with friends? Be sure they're childless. That way, they'll get an exciting glimpse into all the fun of traveling with sick kids, and you'll have a couple extra sets of helping hands to carry vomit-soaked children, dispose of barf-bags and babysit while you and the spouse sneak out to the indoor, heated, saltwater pool or to the skeazy hotel bar full of chatty drunk guys. We didn't take nearly enough advantage of our childless vacation friends. Maybe because they were smart enough to make themselves scarce as soon as we let them know that we had desecrated the museum with nasty chunks of kid puke.

What you will have to do if you don't
make your childless friends carry
your kids for you.

8. Get an education. Chicago is full of fantastic cultural opportunities. From aquariums to planetariums, there are any number of exciting places for your children to learn and vomit. Don't expect to get to them all. Sick kids have a surprising lack of stamina. Instead select your favorite one or two museums and really take time to take in the best exhibits. Don't save the best for last, otherwise you might never make it. Chances are, you'll get asked to leave once your kid manages to be sick all over the Ancient Egypt exhibit. 

The Anarchist recommends the jade
exhibit. She likes jade an unreasonable
amount. Like, we had to physically carry
her out of that place.

9. Make time for photo ops. You'll want to treasure the memories of your adventurous time in the city. Wouldn't Sue the Dinosaur look extra special covered in a layer of your kiddo's projectile vomit? That would be a backdrop to remember! Or find a nice piece of fine art at the Art Institute of Chicago with a color scheme that really complements your child's sickly green complexion. Or why not try documenting the places where you spent most of your time on your trip, like the museum bathrooms, for example? This will make for unique and memorable photos of your family time together.

The Dictator got sick right next to the narwhal exhibit. 

10. Be social. There's nothing people in the city like more than knowing that they are trapped in close proximity to an incredibly nauseated child. Be sure to communicate. We found that our museum/hotel elevator-mates were very responsive to the Anarchist's joyful announcement that, "The Dictator is really sick, but we won't get it unless we touch her throw-up, right?" Really responsive.

11. Make it your own. Every family (of sick people) is different. And every family vacation (with sick kids) should be different. Tailor your family vacation to your sick family. Maybe you want to take your little sicko swimming. That's okay. That's what chlorine is for, right?  Or maybe the American Girl Place just isn't for you. Don't worry. I'm sure your sick child can guilt you into spending unreasonable amounts of money at the Lego Store or any number of other fun locations. Not interested in Millennium Park? What about a nice trip to Navy Pier to ride that giant Ferris Wheel. I wonder what would happen if vomit fell from the top of that thing...d'ya think it would fall with enough velocity to kill someone? Why not find out? And no one says you're restricted to the Field Museum or the Art Institute. I hear that Shedd Aquarium is a very nice place to have lunch lose your lunch. The possibilities are endless. Go out there and create the family vacation that's right for you and your queasy offspring. You won't regret it.*

*Or maybe you will.**

**Yeah. You totally will.***

***But not because of Chicago. Chicago is awesome. I love that place. Even the trains. I love the trains. You'll regret it because sick kids make terrible travel companions. I mean, they're just awful. Plus they're heavy. And they're miserable. And they don't like it when you have to throw out their favorite cardigans at the museum because the cardigans are covered in vomit and you have nothing to carry them home on the train in. They really hate that. Poor things.****

****Also, it turns out the healthy siblings aren't that much fun either. As in, "you don't like me as much as you like her because you're cleaning up her vomit instead of doting on me so I'm actually jealous of her vomit and now refuse to enjoy any part of this vacation" unfun.*****

*****On second thought, just find someone to watch your kids and spend a romantic weekend alone. Just avoid that chatty guy at the hotel bar. He will totally compromise your whole evening. Seriously.

The Anarchist Says Grace

Despite many sessions in suburban Sunday School, or Splash Jam Awesome Rock Edge or whatever flashy name they're calling Sunday School nowadays, my children might be budding heathens. Sure, the Anarchist used to be a worked-up tent revival preacher, but that seems to have ended now, as evidenced by last night's attempt to say grace. We were at a friend's house, and it was announced that another friend was going to quickly say a prayer before eating. Now, my kids usually say the traditional Catholic "Bless us, oh Lord..." (at warp speed as they reach for the biscuits and butter) while at my parents' house, but our attempts to say grace before meals as a family have tapered off as our number of meals eaten together as a family have tapered off. So when the kids kept chattering, they had to be reminded that we are quiet during prayers. "That's okay!" announced the Anarchist (loudly), "We can keep talking, because we don't pray, anyway."

The Anarchist in church. Absorbing bits and
pieces to later patch together in heathen-y,
yet adorable ways.

Lovely. But it wasn't always that way. The Anarchist used to leap out of her seat in anticipation of being the one to "pray" before meals. And by pray, I mean have a lengthy and drawn out personal chat with the Creator of the Universe about her day, The Divine Holy One's almighty preference of cat breed, and whether the Alpha and Omega was a fan of pepperoni or cheese pizza. In fact, my little Anarchist used to have a lot to say to/about the All High, as evidenced by this little gem I unearthed while cleaning up my computer files. I think this was from last year. And it's pretty priceless:

An Anarchist's Prayer 

Now, let us have a prayer. God wanted someone to light the sky, but the sun was already doing that thing for Him. One day he went on a big cruise ship the Lord gived him. And one day Paul gave Him a guitar to play. And there were food and drinks on that boat, and they haved a good time. And then they came to their stop…the zoo. But it wasn’t really where they wanted to go. So they kept droving…it wasn’t the way to Los Angeles, but then they drove all the way to home…to Thanksgiving. 

Then there was a lot of rain. But when the rain was done, there was a lot of sunshining. So Paul and God went out together for a nice little meeting…with lots of music. It went like this [proceeds to play the piano]. So then they were confused about something that they did for Halloween Trick or Treat. They went for Halloween trick or treating, but something was wrong. So then Paul and God went out and got lollipops and Lifesavers. It was so fun! And they even got toys that were stuffed animals!  So they painted a picture for the Lord. And they sended it to Him. 

Then another God came, named Miss Hip Hop Teacher*. He was walking down the street and he said, “Hello! My name is Miss Hip Hop Teacher!”  The Lord was caming to each house to say “Hi!” and they got notes to take home. She put the Lord’s note in her special keeping box. The note was different than last year’s. It said “Bad news. Have a good day, because I’m not going to be there tomorrow.”

I hope you guys liked that Halloween Meeting. Have fun at the next meeting.

Amen.

*The Dictator's hip-hop teacher, whose name has been changed to kinda-sorta protect her identity

Okay, so maybe the Anarchist has always been a bit of a heathen. Halloween? The absence of God? Polytheism? An ark full of stuffed animals? But at least she used to be a heathen with adorable speech patterns. Maybe she just needs more time in Splash Jam Awesome Rock Edge so that she can master the art of the Evangelical prayer. She still doesn't use the word "just" nearly enough times to sound legit, yet. We'll have to get right on that. Because if she embarrasses us at one more dinner party, she might not get invited to God's next Halloween meeting. And that would just be too bad. Because then she might miss out on all those holy Lifesavers. And no. I doubt she meant "Lifesavers" metaphorically. 

The Dictator and the Anarchist Throw a Parade...of DEATH!

Yesterday, people everywhere celebrated Father's Day with backyard barbecues, festive downtown running races (that just sounds awful), dinners out, and  neckties. We encourage the Dictator and the Anarchist to be free thinkers, so they chose to celebrate Father's Day in their own unique way. While the fathers in the house passed out and drooled while watching golf on TV, and the ladies roamed the garden and discussed weddings like Edwardian Jane Austen characters, the Morton children were busy at work writing, cutting, constructing and choreographing a lovely parade to crown the Father's Day festivities. The Dictator and the Anarchist were so busy putting together the exciting event that they almost missed dessert. Adorable!

My father, the Leprechaun,
watches golf intently while the
Bureaucrat drools.

Now, the Dictator is practicing hard to someday become the successful ruler of a totalitarian regime, so not only was there going to be a parade, but attendance would be somewhat compulsory, as we were made aware by the numerous flyers posted in every square foot of the house.

 

Yeah, that's right. Or else.

While my mom explained to the Dictator that false advertising is cause for legal liability, the precious children handed out homemade cloth tickets and jumped up and down in eager anticipation. Ah, the innocent joys of childhood!

Thump. She totally didn't make me rich or famous.
False advertising. Thump.

 After being herded welcomed upstairs into the "parade" room, the delightful ceremonies began.  In the recesses of the sweet little bunk bed that my parents keep for the girls we could make out a well-constructed parade of Zhu-Zhu Pets and stuffed animals, replete with miniature floats and banners. How cute are my kids?!

An adorable parade...

And then, my young, sweet girls began their sweet little parade...of death.

A festively morbid banner.

"Have a fun time in hevan, Nugget!"
Apparently, you won't be missed.

We miss you. (We're pretending)

A painstakingly-crafted float.
Because we miss you...just not that much.

So, apparently, in a move vaguely reminiscent of exultant Munchkins at the death of the Wicked Witch, my children's toys staged a victorious parade in celebration of the untimely demise of one of their less lovable fellow-toys. Ding-dong, the hamster is dead, etc.

Dead Nugget on parade. With flowers. And blood spatter.

I don't know what atrocities a motorized hamster could have committed to invoke such an extreme response to its very existence and maybe I don't want to. I think that the larger question here is really this: why are my children being so darned creepy?

The Anarchist laughs in maniacal delight
after dropping an effigy (yes, effigy) of
the mean dead hamster in a fit of zeal.

So...happy Father's Day, Bureaucrat and Leprechaun (and Pastor Grandpa, who was mercifully spared this unholy terror...until now). Your (grand)children got you a dead hamster...on parade. You're welcome. 

Just remember as you are forced to watch this macabre spectacle, these are at least partially your creepy, creepy morbid genes at work in my adorable little girls. So...maybe this horrific Father's Day Parade of Death is your own fault. But you have to admit, it could be worse. They could have just bought you another necktie.

Not another necktie.

The Queen of the Nerds and the Naked Noo Noo

There must be something in the air. The birds are building their nests, the rabbits are holing up under the deck to do unspeakable and prolific things, the bees are buzzing and pollinating flowers like there's no tomorrow, and the kids are...well...the kids are acting kinda funny. Today was the kind of day that convinces me of the wisdom of locking my beloved Dictator and Anarchist away from the rest of the world until they are at least thirty...or maybe forty.

The mythical "sassy" Nerd Queen of
fantasy card game legend. 

The Bureaucrat's plot to turn the Dictator into a nerd, thereby rendering her undateable to the future teenage male population is failing utterly. We can't say we weren't warned. After discussing the Dictator's love of nerdy fantasy card games and her desire to play in nerdy fantasy card game tournaments with certain nerdy fantasy card game playing friends (who may or may not be nerdy themselves), we were reminded that the Dictator would be a rare and exotic find in nerdy fantasy card game world. She would be a lone girl among hoards of socially awkward boys. She would share both their intelligence and their passion for nerdy fantasy card games. And if she washed and groomed herself--which, to his credit, the Bureaucrat is not encouraging--she would be the epitome of nerdy fantasy card game playing boy desires: The Queen of the Nerds.

To be fair, I knew this was a risk. I never really approved of nerding-up the Dictator in the first place. I honestly thought I would have time to undo all of dragon-loving, battle-waging, hair-not-washing work done by the Bureaucrat before it was too late. But alas, the events of this week have proved me wrong.

Yesterday, the Dictator leaped off of the school bus giddy and skipping, with an odd gleam in her eye. "Guess what?" she exclaimed. "I met someone on the bus who likes to play nerdy fantasy card games too! And he's a boy...an older boy." And then she tossed her hair like she does when she's trying to be "glamorous" and "sassy." God help us all. Please. "I really like him. I told him all about my Fairy Harbinger card, Deadly Recluse, and Sentinal Spider. And he showed me his cards. Now he wants to see mine." I'll show you mine, if you show me yours. Terrifying.

But maybe it would come to nothing. Fantasy card game enthusiast meets fantasy card game enthusiast. Fantasy card game enthusiast shares deck with other fantasy card game enthusiast. Fantasy card game enthusiast promptly forgets all about other fantasy card game enthusiast and runs off to play "zombies and attack kittens" with her (mostly female) friends. It could happen.

But it didn't.

This afternoon--while getting swarmed by ominously feverish bees--I watched my little Dictator descend the bus steps, her "sassy" and "glamorous" hair flowing behind her as she sashayed across the street. Behind her, a dark and handsome (or, ya know, curly haired and adorable) third grade boy eyed her longingly as she made her way across the wildflower-laden lawn. "Dictator!" he called, passionately, "We should really try to spend more time together." Eek. And I got to hear about him all the way home. Actually, I got to hear all about his nerdy fantasy card game deck all the way home. But, as the Bureaucrat and I have very recently (due to the current state of affairs) started to use "deck" as a joking euphemism, her innocent prattling did not seem as innocent as it should have.

But that's okay. There's still time. She's not a teenager yet. I get that. Little Fantasy Card Game Enthusiast  Boy is probably just interested in fantasy card games, and nothing more, right? I'm sure that's why I saw him ride his bicycle by our house and gaze amorously at her window, all Romeo-like, right? He just wanted to play cards. Sure he did.

The Anarchist tries on a dress and dreams
of her future wedding to a plastic doll
"in a state where that's legal."

Well, at least I can take solace in the fact that the Anarchist doesn't seem the least bit interested in boys. In fact, she doesn't even seem to notice that they exist. Actually, she's vowed that she's either going to marry her little girlfriend Hamster Dropper (I don't know much about the girl except that she's nice and she drops her hamster a lot) in "a state where that's legal," or, if that doesn't work out, to marry her American Girl Doll Molly "in a state where that's legal." And then she can have lots of little cyborg babies. Okay. Never mind. That's creepy. Maybe I'll just marry her off to the first nice human boy who sets his sights on her. Like that nice little boy the Anarchist told me about as she got off the bus today...that nice little boy who lifted her shirt up repeatedly at lunch so that he could "see her belly button." Sure. That's why. To see her belly button. Sure it was.


And thusly, I will be locking my beloved offspring in our attic (I think we have an attic) for an unspecified duration, but at least until after prom, and more likely until they are forty. Queen of the Nerds and the Naked Noo Noo. Oh boy.

I pose with my future daughter-in-law.

Cheerios, Cottonballs, and the Futility of Life

So, I've been resisting reading this book for a long time now. The title of the book is A Year of Biblical Womanhood; the subtitle is How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master," which makes it more palatable, I guess. The author, Rachel Held Evans, decides to explore living out, as closely as possible, the literal dictates and examples of femininity in the Bible in all their absurdity and irony. I've been avoiding it not only because it seems a bit gimmicky and because if someone found it open next to me and realized I was reading a book about "Biblical Womanhood" they might assume that I am a submissive domestic Bible-thumping type (I'm not), but because I'm a little jealous that I didn't come up with the idea to write the book first. Kind of like the "Reasons My Son is Crying" tumblr, I'm avoiding it out of jealousy. I'm a great person.

Anyway, I eventually ended up reading Evans' blog, which was witty and insightful, and as a result, decided to revisit her book, which was funny, thoughtful, and intelligently wrought. But this post is not about the book. It's actually about me, because I'm crazy narcissistic. The book, however, is essential to this post for the few moments in which Evans found herself in existential crisis for the most lovely, quaint and ridiculous reasons:

"While cooking strikes me as an essentially creative act, cleaning seems little more than an exercise in decay management, enough to trigger an existential crisis each time the ring around the toilet bowl reappears."  (27)

"My aversion to crafting goes way back to an incident in kindergarten during which, upon gluing something like the fortieth Cheerio to the inside of a giant O-shaped construction paper cut-out, I was suddenly struck by the futility of human existence." (79) 

I love these because I can relate so closely to them (I hate cleaning and gluing things). Maybe that's because these are universal moments of crisis, maybe it's because I'm a bit similar to Evans, or maybe it's because I have an especially delicate psyche and most things cause me to question the meaning and validity of human existence. I'm not sure. But it asking just what sorts of things throw people into existential crisis? I questioned a group of friends, and the general consensus was "the vastness of the cosmos." Bor-ring! I mean, isn't that kinda cliche? Not me. Bring on the entirety of infinite space and time. But these, these are the things and the moments that destroy me emotionally and psychologically. In no particular order:

• When the clouds in the sky aren't well enough defined
• Adult contemporary music
• Grocery shopping
• Being forced to listen to adult contemporary music while grocery shopping
• Driving through industrial landscapes
• Any town or city built primarily in the mid 20th century (those buildings are so freakishly small and cubicle, and where oh where are the sidewalks? DESOLATION!)
• Gluing cottonballs to anything
• Weeding the garden (nothing like playing God to mess with your neatly defined concepts of theology/theodicy)
• School buses and the accompanying school bus-y smell
• Treadmills
• 4:00 am
• Sleep deprivation
• Any repetitive, futile task, such as cleaning (as the state of my house will attest)
• Packing school lunches 
• Realizing how old I am, how many opportunities for success I had as a child, and what I actually do for a living
• Flowers with broken stems
• Roadkill
• Subdivisions and strip malls
• Any novel or movie that deals with the death of an animal
• Straight, level roads
• When I want pizza, but can't have it
• Being the new girl at work

Currently, I am the new girl at work, am surrounded by subdivisions and strip malls (through which I drive on straight, level roads), have an intense awareness of what I do for a living, pack school lunches, and write this as I gaze out into a sky full of woefully undefined clouds. So yeah, I guess you could say I'm in a good place right now. The good news is that am not listening to adult contemporary music and my grocery shopping is done. I am also not currently being forced to engage in a project employing Elmer's glue and cotton balls, so things could be worse...a lot worse. Because I hate cotton ball/glue projects with an unbridled passion...so much stickiness, stringiness, fuzziness...why was I born?! Yeah. It's like that. 

So I'm curious, what sort of things throw you into existential crisis? And whatever you do, don't say "the vastness of the cosmos." 

Coffee Shop Breakup

A week ago, I learned that I would lose my job as a bad barista at what we shall call Unnamed Coffee Shop, as Unnamed Coffee Shop would be closing its doors forever. I was surprisingly devastated because, as it turns out, I actually thoroughly enjoy underachieving, working on my feet, and serving people caffeine for a living. I really do. Also, my amazing boss, the Eternal Optimist, had managed to turn our particular location of Unnamed Coffee Shop into a lovely community. It was truly a nice place to work. Customers cried when they found out we would soon be closing our doors for good, in order to "consolidate the Unnamed Coffee Shop market" in remote and inconceivable places like the Dakotas and Iowa. Turns out we had been bought by a German investment company who also own another coffee shop corporation from the West Coast--we'll call it Stupid-Name Coffee Shop because it has a stupid name--and preferred to expand Stupid-Name Coffee Shop to the Midwest, shutting down most Unnamed Coffee Shops in Michigan and opening Stupid-Name Coffee Shops in the place of those locations that remained. (If that didn't make your brain explode, then you're a great deal smarter and more focused than I am).


Our location is closing in two days. I'm very sad about this. I feel like I just went through a terrible breakup that I didn't see coming. "It's not you. It's me. I just think...I feel like it's not working out. I don't even know who I am anymore. No. I don't think we should give it time. I think we just need to make a clean break of things. And never see each other again. Ever. Here. You can have your things back. Just...get out." I've never actually been through a terrible breakup, but that's what a breakup feels like in my imagination. I have an active imagination. Anyway, because my coffee shop broke up with me, I have been through a period of mourning including, but not limited to, binge eating, impulse shopping (Sorry, Bureaucrat!), and bouts of irritating sentimentalism. As it happens, so have my dear children.

Having only visited Unnamed Coffee Shop a grand total of, like, ten times in their lives, the Anarchist and the Dictator still feel the trauma of separation. The Anarchist has been wailing about "poor poor Unnamed Coffee Shop" all week in her most tragic mourning voice. If I can get her to rend her garments and beat her breast, I'm going to hire her out as a professional mourner (someone in this family's going to have to make some money).

The Dictator, on the other hand, has become highly interested in German investment companies and buyouts:

"A good reason Unnamed Coffee Shop is closing is because some more people can get some good things for their jobs and their families. Kind of like it's going to be like um the people who work in the new place get more money...the people that bought the company...the Germans. And it's good for their families because they can get lots of new things with all their money, but then the people that used to work there have to lose their jobs, which is a little bit bad."

I think the Dictator doesn't understand that she isn't related to the owners of the German investment company, and will thereby not stand to profit from the buyout. Or else, she understands that without a job I cannot afford groceries, but cannot hide her admiration for such a crafty money- making maneuver. She's probably plotting  her own corporate takeover as we speak, imagining the mansions full of American Girl dolls she could acquire as a result.

But even the Dictator finally participated in a brief fit of wistfulness as we attended the store closing party for my Unnamed Coffee Shop tonight. On the car ride there, both girls sang Taylor Swift's "We-ee are never, ever, everrrrr getting back together!" incessantly as a kind of funeral dirge for a coffee shop they would never see again. It was both somber and annoyingly upbeat. The Anarchist announced, "I'm going to Mommy's work and hug Mommy's work and say goodbye because it's so tragic that Mommy's work is closing. Mommy, if it turned out your work wasn't closing after all, then you could be happy again!" Because when Mommy is sad, everyone suffers.

Our customers were supposed to write happy memories on this
chalkboard. And they did. My children, on the other hand,
covered as much of the board as they could reach in tragic
frowny faces and words like "sad"...

...and "wah." As in the crying noise.
See it in the center, there? The Anarchist
really loves drama...and crying.

Both kids pretty much forgot about the horror of it all during the party, because the party had tortilla chips and a captive audience and an employee the Anarchist was intent on stalking. But afterward, the Dictator cast one last lingering glance at the place. "I wish all of this weren't really happening. I wish it was all just a dream and we would wake up and it never would have happened...and Unnamed Coffee Shop would still be open and would stay open forever. Because it's a really nice place and those are really nice people and it makes people happy." I started to explain that this is the reality of free-market capitalism and that human labor is just a depersonalized commodity and that she shouldn't be surprised that the greed of the powerful trumps the needs of individuals, and that this is why we probably won't be able to afford dance classes next year...but then I realized that I should just be glad she had paused in her plans to use a multinational corporation to take over the world long enough to see the human cost. Also, my angry jadedness had almost made me sound embarrassingly like a teenager who had just discovered Marx for the first time. Not cool. But the good news is, my jaded cynicism isn't lasting for long. Because I am totally rebounding. Unnamed Coffee Shop might have seemed perfect, but I was too good for him, anyway. I have a new coffee shop now. And he's super popular.

So if you happen to be in need of coffee and are in the area, you should definitely come visit. We're nestled between the Walmart and a shady apartment complex. Look for me. I'll be the new girl sporting an apron with a topless mermaid on it and weeping as I screw up your drink. Like I said, I'm rebounding.

The Dictator, the Idiot Tooth Fairy, and Me

This might not have been the first time I've done it.

"Gappy," as we like to call the toothless
Dictator. For some reason she abhors
this name. She also doesn't want her
picture taken..."because it's
emBARrasing!" So I tickled her
while she was snacking on pretzels
(yes, that's chewed up pretzel in her
mouth), snapped a pic, and posted
it on my blog for all to see.
Have I mentioned that I'm a bad parent?

My precious Dictator came skipping home from school two days ago clutching a plastic sandwich bag with a big grin on her face. "Guess what, Mommy?!" She thrusts the bag in my face and I catch a glimpse of a tiny, bloody canine tooth. Then she grins and jams her face up against my eyes so that my eyelashes mash into her mouth. "Do you see?! I lost another TOOTH! And Makayla says it's a LUCKY tooth because it's POINTY! I'll probably even get EXTRA money tonight!" (The Dictator is nothing if not mercenary). I make a note of it in my head. Must not forget tooth fairy tonight. This is important. Because I've forgotten before. 

The good news, in our family, is that we've already established that the tooth fairy is pretty much a moron. We have a saying: "You can rely on Santa Claus. You can count on the Easter Bunny. But the tooth fairy is all like 'Blahahahahah!"  

Really. We actually go around saying that. The last part sounds like ditzy, flaky, confused blonde exclamations. We're just a house full of dorks, really. 

But this time, I'm not going to forget. I write reminder notes to myself everywhere. I set an alarm on my phone. This is important. 

So naturally, I fall asleep on the couch while the Bureaucrat is out doing social-person things that night. I wake up in a sleepy stupor at 1 am, stumble upstairs and fall into bed. I sleep peacefully, dreaming about alien takeovers, kindergarten classrooms, and lattes...obviously. And in the morning...

"Mom! The tooth fairy FORGOT AGAIN!" 

Yup. Again. 

But don't worry. This is the Dictator we're talking about. She knows who she's dealing with. Tooth fairies are all like "Blahahahah!" They're morons. They need patience, guidance, and most of all, passive-aggressive letters.

"Because when I woke up, like four times to see if you had come--you thoughtless, insensitive harpy--it was still there...because you're inconsiderate, self-absorbed and slow in the head!"

"And even though my tooth is very small, it's still there...MORON!"

The Bureaucrat said that he recently read somewhere that the phrase "please advise" is business speak for WTF. As in, "We still haven't received those documents. Please advise." I think that if the Dictator had been aware of this useful bit of business info, "Please RSVP" would most certainly have read "please advise," and would even more certainly have implied something which, as this is a PG rated blog, is unrepeatable here.

Anyway, the problem was resolved quickly, as the repentant fairy immediately deposited a double sum of tooth reward money (a guilt offering) the following night. And thusly, the passive-aggressive wrath of the Dictator was satiated by cold hard cash.

Guilt offering. Nice and blurry so you won't
notice that the blithering idiot fairy
committed a federal offense by defacing
federal currency with an apologetic,
pink "oops!"

Fairies might be dumb as dirt, but at least they're easily manipulated. And that's all the Dictator ever really asks, anyway.