The Story of Christmas Brunch: In which we celebrate incarnation in our own special way

We've always been kind of matter of fact about human anatomy and sexuality with the kids. If it comes up, we talk about it. If they ask questions, we answer them. But if it doesn't come up...well, let's just say, no thank you. I'm not rushing things. Because we've discussed this. I have the mind of a prepubescent boy. I can't say "scrotum," or "labia" without giggling like an idiot.

But human sexuality has come up before. The Dictator has asked questions in the past, and we have answered them. Both of the children have been present for these discussions. However, it turns out that the Anarchist did not actually hear anything. Probably because she was too busy having a conversation with her farts. Or smashing the cat. Or having a tantrum about some imagined injustice. Really, the possible Anarchist distractions are endless.

Of course, we hadn't realized that our dear, seven-year-old Anarchist was not up to date on the subjects touched on in previous talks. And I'm not the kind of mom to double-check these things. Because...scrotum...tee hee hee.

This brunch is fancy. See the candles?

Which brings us to this year's Christmas brunch. My mother hosts one every year. It is always an incredibly classy affair. You can tell because it is held  in the dining room and the plates are made of china. Also there are candles. Seriously, my mother decorates the entire dining room in matching decor that changes from year to year, glitters like crystal, and would put Martha Stewart to shame. And we all do really wholesome family things, like holding hands and saying grace, and asking each other to "please pass the fruit." This thing is epic.

So of course, every year, over the course of the meal, the conversation eventually turns to our digestive systems and embarrassing childhood stories. (Did I mention that my mother has a framed photograph of The Pretty One and me sporting undergarments on our heads and fake mustaches in her fancy dining room?) This year included embarrassing childhood church stories...probably because we had exhausted all of the "Do you remember the time The Pretty One smeared fecal matter on the wall?" stories last year. In one story in particular, toddler me is sitting near the front row of church being extra-adorable, and extra-precocious. Toddler me, upon hearing the refrain "Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again," matter-of-factly yells out with great conviction, "Christ will not come again!" Just to clarify, I was two...so...not a heretic.

In another story, toddler me is once again sitting near the front of church, and once again being precocious. It is quiet, and toddler me has an epiphany that "Father Baldwin has a penis!" Yes. I had that epiphany out loud. Probably while poor Father Baldwin was trying to be all serious about the body and the blood or somesuch. It's a miracle my parents continued taking me to church. 

Anyway, we were recounting this story to The Pretty One's husband, and got to the end and sort of censored ourselves. We did this because it was a fancy brunch. And because there were children present. But everyone knows that if you censor something around children, it just piques their curiosity. And then you have to tell them. But we still didn't want to say it. Because...penis...tee hee hee. The conversation went something like this:

ANARCHIST (delighted by the possibility of scandal): "What did Father Baldwin have?"

ADULT: "You know...that part of male anatomy that girls don't have."

DICTATOR: "OH...I get it now."

ANARCHIST: "What?! What?!"

ADULT: "Anarchist, what is the part of the body do men have that women don't?"

ANARCHIST: "Butts? Hair? Eyebrows?"

ADULT: "Um...no? What part of the body do men pee out of that is different from the part of the body that women pee out of?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! VAGINAS! Men have vaginas!"

(The Bureaucrat gets up to leave, blushing and horrified that his pure, precious flower just yelled "vaginas" during fancy brunch.)

ADULT: "Not usually. Sometimes. Never mind. No. Men don't typically have vaginas. Anarchist, what do men pee out of? Not vaginas. That's women. Men, Anarchist. Where does the pee come out on men?"

ANARCHIST: "OH! Their belly buttons, of course! Men pee out of their belly buttons!"

ADULT: "Uh...no. I hope not. No."

ANARCHIST (confused, but still trying earnestly): "Is it their dimples?"

ME (whispering, because there is a china plate in front of me and there are real candles on the table): "Sweetheart, men have penises. That's what it's called. A penis."

ANARCHIST (squealing with the genuine delight of making a wonderful discovery): "PENISES! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! PENIS! MEN HAVE PENISES! PENIS! (etc., ad nauseum...)"

The child squealed penises with more excitement than she had mustered for Santa Claus, our Elf on the Shelf, or the incarnation of the Christ Child put together. She squealed forever. I think the Bureaucrat died a little inside with each repetition. I think my mother, who clearly had taught her young toddler the proper names for human anatomy at the ripe-young-age of too-young-to-not-yell-it-in-church, was shocked at my parenting neglect. I think that The Pretty One was relieved that we weren't once again discussing her escapades in fecal matter. And I'm almost certain that I broke at least one rib laughing and weeping hysterically as I rolled around on the fancy hardwood floor of the formal dining room, gasping for breath and wiping tears away. 

And that, my friends, is the story of the Christmas Brunch Penis. Because what is the Incarnation, without the very reality of the human body? I know. We are so theologically inclined. And we wanted to share our enlightened discussions with you. You're welcome.

And also, penis. Tee hee hee.

The First Noelle

Much fanfare has been made (by me) about the miraculous birth of the extremely premature Anarchist. Admittedly, her birth and subsequent thriving-ness does make a pretty good story. But every year I realize that I have once again neglected the Dictator. Her birth was, by normal standards, unremarkable. But if she's going to take over a small Central American country someday, someone is going to have to write her biography, and that someone should be me. So without further ado, the otherwise neglected birth narrative of a Dictator:

Dictator Noelle

One early Christmas Eve morning, a young, beautiful, and totally pure virgin close-enough-to-a-virgin left her small apartment for her job managing a bagel shop. It was an unromantic job, and one for which she was clearly overqualified, being that she was also a genius. But she was a hard-working martyr with aspirations of graduate, or maybe divinity school. She was also heavily addicted to bagels.

The girl was childless, and as her no-skid shoes crunched  through the new-fallen snow, she congratulated herself for staving off her maternal urges, making the wise choice to put off childbearing until after she had earned her Ph.D. and could selflessly grace the world with her many gifts. Then, she assured herself, she could move into a quaint, craftsman style home in some nice college town, and set about being probably the best and most humble mother ever. And also a genius.

It wasn't until halfway through her arduous work shift, while scraping salmon cream cheese from the side of a broken toaster, that a startling thought occurred to the girl: the time of her uncleanness was nigh. (Shut up. It's a totally natural thing. I'm allowed to put it in the story.) In fact, the time had come and gone and--what, with her work feeding orphans watching HGTV in her pajamas--she had hardly noticed.

The girl took no breaks at work, because she was a martyr and such, but paused long enough to call her humble, hardworking husband on her gigantic cell phone to request that he run an important errand for her before the many church services they were to attend that night. (No. For real. Like, we went to three or something. It was insane.) 

And so it came to pass that the noble Bureaucrat marched purposefully to the Meijer checkout line and confidently purchased a snow shovel, cat litter, tampons (shut up), and a set of inexpensive pregnancy tests. "Rough day?" asked the cashier.

Upon her return to the modest apartment, the young, beautiful genius girl of humble purity fell upon her bed, exhausted, and certain that she was mistaken about the time of her uncleanness. She was just so pure and also so good at planning things and doing everything just the right way. It was all certain to be a silly mix-up.

But curiosity got the better of the girl and she made her way into the inner sanctum of the apartment. And lo, the angel of the pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, confused one! You may or may not be pregnant! This little blue smudgy plus-ish sign is really difficult to read! The Lord may or may not be with you this day!"  And so the girl tried again and again. And again it came to pass that the urine yielded no clearer sign. Panicked now, the girl called her sister, the Pretty One, and screamethed unto her, "HELP!"

And so it came to pass that the Pretty One, risking her own lily white reputation, made her way to the nearest Target and bought the priciest, most top-of-the-line, fancy, gold-embossed, ridiculous pee stick money can buy. And she brought it unto the girl. And the girl peed upon it.

And the angel of the fancy pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, terrified one. You are totally, unambiguously pregnant. Like, you are super, obviously, clearly with child. You should be totally terrified because you have no health insurance, no respectable career, no graduate degree, and no second room for the baby to sleep in. You are totally screwed. And now you will conceive in your womb (where else?), and bear a child, and you will name it Dictator Noelle. It will be the offspring of the most underemployed. The child shall reign over everyone who crosses its path forever, and its control over its environment will have no end."

And the girl said unto the fancy pee-stick, "How can this be, since I am not yet a Ph.D.?" And the girl also said all of the expletives.

The fancy pee-stick said to her, "Were you aware that the birth control pill is only, like 99.5% effective? Statistically speaking, someone's gonna get pregnant while on it, sister! What made you think you were somehow immune? For nothing is impossible with God."

And the girl said, "Here am I, the servant of my circumstances; let it be with me according to your blinking digital "PREGNANT" indicator."

In those hours, the girl set out and went with haste to pretty much all of the church services. And in every sanctuary, a picture of another more-perfect, more-beautiful, younger, and even-purer girl was displayed. And in every sermon, the terrified genius girl was reminded that the perfect/beautiful/young/even-purer girl had to give birth in a dirty cave, with no access to health insurance, child birth classes, or clean sheets. That even though she was giving birth to  the Son of the Most High, she probably had to squeeze rocks, or bite down on twigs, or something to deal with her birth pangs. And the genius girl cried out, "Woe unto me! For I am very, very screwed!"

And, financially speaking, the girl was correct. But little miracles abound, and the girl did not have to squeeze rocks and bite twigs alone in some cave. She got insurance, and a doctor, and a hospital with clean sheets and a nice nurse who gave her morphine (don't judge). And she gave birth to her firstborn daughter and wrapped her in a hospital blanket and named her Dictator Noelle, because the girl would never forget that fateful Christmas Eve when her life changed forever, and unto her was born the most beautiful, unexpected, terrifying, wonderful gift she could ever receive. Her beautiful Dictator. The one who made her a mommy.

The Birds and the Bees Revisited

When we last left the romantic lives of the Dictator and the Anarchist, things were getting a little out of hand. The Dictator was being avidly pursued by an amorous neighborhood boy stalker. The Anarchist was planning her marriage to an American Girl doll "in a state where that's legal." And I was trying to find the attic so that I could lock them in it for an untold amount of years (read: forever).

Things are looking up. This pile of dolls
is no longer a pile of potential
daughters-in-law.

Flash forward: the Anarchist has stopped trying to wed the cat, the neighborhood boy stalker hasn't been seen in months, and I think that I'm getting close to locating our attic.

Things are looking up.

In fact, the Dictator has stopped associating with boys altogether. Having reached the age where associating with boys is considered "weird," she has successfully found for herself a group of (very tomboyish) girlfriends. She is the token girly girl, a shining pile of pink fluff and sparkle in a sea of jeans, tennis shoes and Minecraft shirts. And she is safely tucked away from the prying eyes of little Romeos. This is good, because while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about my nine-year-old having romantic escapades. I'm not sure at all.

Meanwhile, the Anarchist is gradually moving away from her romantic interest in inanimate objects/nonhumans. Which is good, because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, I'm not sure how I feel about the grandchildren having plastic limbs/furry cat ears.

But we're not in the clear yet. Because the Dictator is nearing the age where the school starts trying to educate her about the birds and the bees. And we can't have the school doing that because the school also teaches the children Everyday Math.

So:

man parts+lady parts=baby 

might very well become:

man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3.  

And, while I like to consider myself progressive, that just sounds like the work of the devil to me.

Clearly, I've got to find a way to teach the Dictator about the birds and the bees. The perfect way. The good, wholesome, evolved-parent way. The way that will turn her into a self-actualized feminist intellectual who is also totally not interested in sex until she is at least 30.

So I've decided to awkwardly leave a copy of What's Happening to My Body on her bed and hope for the best. Maybe I'll mumble something helpful about being willing to answer any questions she might have. Unless those questions involve the word labia. Or the word scrotum. Because, while I consider myself fairly progressive, it turns out that I am not. I have the mind of a twelve year old boy and I giggle like one every time I hear those words. Every. Single. Time. And I have a feeling that this is neither perfect parenting, nor evolved parenting. So maybe I will just tell her to go to the internet with her questions. That's what Google is for, right?

Okay.

I just thought that one all the way through. And no. I suppose I will not encourage my precious child to Google labia and scrotum. That actually sounds like the Very Worst Idea. It will probably be better if I just raise my eyebrows disapprovingly when she asks these questions and say, "Nice people don't discuss such things in polite company." Or somesuch.

Regardless, I need to come up with something. Fifth grade is fast approaching.


And there's also the Anarchist.

Yesterday, the Anarchist came home from school giddily skipping.

"There's a boy who loves me!" she said. "He sat by me on the bus. He wants to get off the bus with me and walk home with me."

(Aww...so cute!)

One of the Anarchist's multiple suitors.
Note the ominous kissy lips.

"He wants go to snack time with me and go to dinner with me."

(So sweet!)

"And he wants to go to dance class with me. And then he wants to come home and to to bedtime with me!"

Nope. Nope. Nope. That's where Mommy draws the line, dear Anarchist. Because while I like to consider myself fairly progressive, no child of mine will go to bedtime with anyone until she is at least 40, thankyouverymuch.

Why? Because anatomical words still make me squeamish. And because I'm secretly a puritan. And most importantly because man parts-lady parts + (baby+baby+lady parts-cat/dodecahedron)=a grid with all the pennies lined up in order of shininess+a magical box filled with all the different ways you can say "ovum"/3. 

THAT'S why.

And don't even think of challenging me, lovies. Because I think I've finally located the attic.

Six Simple Steps for Never Spending a Cent in Disney World Again!

Disney World is known as the "happiest place on earth." And that's lovely, and all, but I imagine it's only the happiest place on earth if going there doesn't force you into foreclosure and untold debt. Sure, wearing sparkly Mickey ears and watching magical light parades and fireworks may be fun in the moment, but not when you end up having to pawn those Mickey ears in order to feed your now poverty-stricken family. Obviously, for many people, simple financial planning, a system of saving, and a little penny pinching here and there will go a long way to getting you on the Disney vacation of their dreams. Or maybe you already have boatloads of cash. Good for you! Get that week-long package deal with first class plane tickets, deluxe resort accommodations, high-end champagne and caviar dining packages, and a cadre of Disney-themed servant monkeys, or whatever it is you wealthy people do on vacation.

Watching the balloon go up and down. This
is free, so pretend it is fun.

But the rest of us still seek the silver bullet of going to Orlando on the cheap, and my friends, I have found it. My family went to Orlando this past week. We were less than 10 minutes away from the happiest place on earth. Our children emerged happy and delighted at the outcome of our vacation.

And we didn't spend a single cent on theme park tickets.

Yup. Not a cent. And I'll tell you our magical secret.

We have our children convinced that they do not want to go.

That's right. We have two little girls who grew up on a steady diet of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse and Disney Princesses who have no desire to go to Disney World. These children, who treat the movie Frozen like it's their religion, did not once beg us to allow them access to the Magic Kingdom. How? Well, we're just about the smartest parents ever, that's how. And now I will share our trick with you.

1) Raise children with low tolerance for extreme temperatures, especially heat. Live in a place like Michigan. Experience a polar vortex or two. Your children will feel confused and betrayed by extreme heat. Sweat will terrify them. They will be convinced that they need to either go inside or die immediately. Encourage this. It will pay off later.

Convince your kids that when the sign says
that Disney World is "Where Dreams Come True,"
what it actually means by "dreams" is sweat-soaked,
agoraphobic nightmares. 

2) Create impatient children. In the age of technology and immediate gratification, this shouldn't be too hard. But just to be sure, make sure at least you or your spouse has an impatient temperament. You're sure to pass of this genetic predisposition to at least one of your children. I have enough impatience for the whole Morton clan, but the Anarchist also got her fair share.

3) Raise lazy children who hate moving around. I suggest video games and television, but you do whatever works for you and your family.

4) When you first enter the Orlando area, walk a long time and wait in a long line for something relatively boring.

5) When your dear offspring complain about how awful and unbearable the heat is, and how they're probably going to die from all the walking and standing, and how they are entitled to somehow never, ever have to wait in lines, say this:

"I don't think you'd like Disney World very much, then. The lines are even longer than this, you have to walk everywhere, and it's SO HOT."

TIP: Don't mention the various forms of transportation, Fast Pass access, or indoor attractions at Disney. What they don't know won't hurt them.

6) Pray that your child responds like my Dictator did:

"Yeah. You're right. That sounds awful. I don't think I would like Disney World very much. Maybe when I'm older."

And then just take advantage of your hotel pool, which my kids claimed was the most fun thing they'd ever done in their lives. Yup.  Free swimming. I am like, the most brilliant cheapskate mom, ever.

Have a "character meet and greet" with the
Seven Dwarfs (statues outside of the Lego Store).
Or maybe pretend this is a sort of mine ride. Have
your kids jump up and down to simulate the
vertical motion of a roller coaster. Neato.

"But why on earth would you go to Orlando, if you weren't going to a theme park?" you ask. Well, our family went for a dance convention. I don't know why you would do such a thing, it sounds kind of insane to me, but if you find yourself stuck in Orlando with no money (maybe you're there for the National Kung Fu Convention? No. For real, they have those*), I really think you should try convincing your kids that they would hate Disney World.

Mine sure hate it. And they've never even been there. But I'll tell you one more thing, when I finally get a big-kid job, my first order of business is to plan the most funnest of all times Disney World vacations. Because I know how magical it is, and I so badly want a pair of those sparkly Mickey ears. And maybe I'll even splurge on some servant monkeys.



BACKUP PLAN: If your kids are very young, or very naive, maybe you can convince them that Downtown Disney is a theme park. Buy them some mouse ears, stand around watching the hot air balloon go up and down, maybe splurge on a carousel ride, and have lunch at a themed restaurant. We went to T-Rex and had a great time. We probably could have convinced the kids that it was "Prehistoric Land" or something, but that just didn't seem honest. And we're nothing if not honest.

The Dictator and I enjoy a meal
at what shall henceforth be known as
"Prehistoric Land," the newest (fake)
Disney theme park.

*The ambulance was at our hotel multiple times. I'm convinced that this was because people were Kung Fu-ing each other to death. They carry around real live weapons! In a resort! Hard core.

How To Be The Bestest Dance Mom EVER

By now, you've all at least heard of the TV reality show about dance moms, with its horrifically insulting teacher and its pushy, emotional dance moms. If you have little dancers at home, you might have also noticed the dance world's response to this portrayal of dance studios, dancers, and their parents. "Real dance moms aren't anything like that!" insist the rest of us. This horrible show is giving real, supportive, nurturing parents who happen to be raising little dancers a bad name.

"Oh, Mom! You're so
calm and stress-free!"
says the Dictator, never.

As someone who has just emerged from almost a week surrounded by exclusively dance moms, I can promise you that this is true. The vast majority of dance moms are kind, mature, supportive, friendly, helpful, and not too aggressively obsessed with their sons' or daughters' dance skills, scores, or status. But, as someone who has just emerged from almost a week surrounded by exclusively dance moms, I can also promise you that a tiny, little, minuscule bit of icky, bad, nasty dance mom probably exists somewhere in the darkest, most shadowy recesses of most of us, just waiting to claw its unwelcome self out at our most vulnerable, stress-filled moments.* These are the moments when we can point to the exploitative reality show and say, with great relief, "Well, at least I'm not as bad as those dance moms."

Nevertheless, most of us would prefer that this ugly dance-mom demon never once rears its ugly head. The trick, of course is to remain invulnerable and utterly stress-free. Which, of course, is like, the easiest thing in the world for yours truly. Having achieved a constant Zen-like state of meditative calm, and a transcendent selflessness that allows me to feel nothing but good thoughts for all of humanity, pretty much all of the time, especially in traffic, I am clearly the one to provide sage wisdom to all other dance moms. Especially when you consider my whopping three whole years of navigating the competitive dance world. Yeah. I'm your guy. Prepare to be blown away, people. I am here to de-Dance Mom-ify you us. You're welcome.*

1) Be kind to everyone. The dance moms on TV are really only nice to each other when they want something. Which isn't very nice at all. When we spend so much time with the same people under stressful conditions, sometimes the stressed-out unkindness wants to slip out, whether it be to the little hooligan who just body-slammed your precious ballerina, the other dance mom who wants to remind you about how fantastic her child is, or the teacher who doesn't seem to be giving your kid adequate attention. But I've found I regret about 99% of the unkindness that I have ever let slip. Because little hooligan body-slammer might very well have been provoked by precious ballerina, other braggy dance mom is probably just relieved, proud, and excited (which is wonderful, right?), and how the heck do I know how much attention my kid is/isn't getting (unless I'm peering sideways through the slats of the blinds on the dance room, which I'm totally not...I swear)? Plus, if there's one thing this world needs more of, it's kindness. And also narwhals. The world needs more of those, too.

The Bureaucrat:
an awe-inspiring dance dad.

2) Be like the dance dads. There are so many amazing dance dads out there. We have one at our studio who keeps bobby pins in his wallet. I can only aspire to be like him. The best thing about dance dads (besides their awe-inspiring dads' dances) is that they are always there when their kids need them, and completely out of the way when they don't. They don't hover, fuss, worry, stress, complain, push, give helpful dance advice, direct the teachers, or take things personally. Now hovering, fussing, worrying, stressing, and the like are inherent to who we moms are. We can't help it. We just care so much. But maybe we can tone it down a bit. Because if there's one piece of advice that my darling Dictator gave me over the weekend that I can share with you all it's, "Mo-om! I know! Just go away!"

"Great, Dictator! Now hold your head up.
Realign those hips. Pull that leg up. Smile!
No! Don't roll your eyes...how am I going to
get an impressive picture if you're rolling your
eyes? NO! Don't walk away in a huff!
I'm not done yet! I need to post this picture
on social media to get a thousand likes and
boost my self-esteem! Dictator! Come back!"

3) It's not about you. It's about them. We dance moms love to say this, "It's not about us. It's about them. We're here for the kids." But let's be realistic, it's at least a little bit about us. We mostly say this to make it true through the saying of it, like a mantra. We so badly want it to be true, but if we are being realistic, we are spending bajillions of dollars on dance/costumes/competitions/make-up/shoes. This is an investment. And we want it to be worth it. It's not unfair that we have some personal stake in how hard our kids work, how much fun they have, and whether or not they succeed. Also, we care about our children so much that we often identify with them. This is super maternal of us, and is therefore okay and natural...mostly.

The problem is, it's hard for us to step back, draw a neat line at a rational point between where our interests end and theirs begin. We tend to get all bound up, not only in their successes, but their status, their social lives, and the million other things that
happen when we start living vicariously through our children. For example, I need to stop caring about if the other moms like me. It doesn't matter. I'm there for the Dictator. (But maybe I can make them all like me, anyway? That would be so pleasant....I'm very nice. And also maybe if the Dictator could just push herself a little harder and get her splits. And honestly, why does she keep sickling her foot? Dear heavens, what is that about?!  But it's not about me. It's about her. Obviously.)

The Dictator puts on the
shoes I totally remembered to
pack for recital. Stand in awe of
my remembery-ness.

4) Never forget anything. Ever. Not a single bobby pin, not a can of hairspray, not one pair of tights, not a sparkly hairpiece. Nothing. Ever. Not even if you have ten billion costumes and no organizational method aside from a series of plastic baggies and a giant plastic bin (it works, I swear!). Not even then. Super easy. You can totally do it.

5) If you fail to execute tip number 4, please see tip number 1. Hopefully, you have flawlessly executed tip number 1, so that you have created a culture of kindness in which there are numerous lovely souls from whom you can beg/borrow/steal that extra safety pin/mascara. If both tip number 4 and tip number 1 have proven themselves problematic, please see tip number 2. Find the nearest dance dad and send him to the drugstore for some mascara ASAP.

6) Be a model of good performance etiquette. Lead by example.

I'm still adjusting from a strict upbringing of hyper-sophisticated performance etiquette regulations: Don't cough. Don't rustle your program. Don't breathe. Don't. Move. A. Muscle. I do really well in super-serious opera houses, orchestra halls, and the like. I get really upset when ignorant Aunt Mable unwraps her cough drop mid-pas-de-deux.

But I gather that performance etiquette is a bit difference for twelve-hour competitions than it is for real performances. For example, people get up and down, necessarily talk a bit, and occasionally have to check phones for important messages. But this doesn't mean we get to turn into thoughtless idiots. Try not to stand in front of the people behind you for any extended period of time. Clap like a crazy person for every number, even the ones you don't love. Don't shove small children over in an effort to get backstage to help with a costume quick change. Things like that. It's for the good of humanity, I promise. (And I hereby vow not to let the Anarchist make cat noises that are too, too loud during your daughter's quiet and intense lyrical solo...at least, I'll try.)

"Mo-om! I know! Just go away!!"

7) It's not their fault. It's not your fault that I didn't organize my costume pieces adequately and am now missing one zebra print glove. It's not the Dictator's fault that I average four hours of sleep a night, and am now so irritable that the sound of her hair rustling against her neck fills me with rage. And it's no one's fault but my own that I didn't get up early enough to drink my cup of coffee before I left the house for the competition, and now I have a half-filled travel cup of Starbucks, a withdrawal headache, and a brand new coffee stain on the Dictator's sparkly costume. So why am I curt to the nearest innocent bystanders, angry with the Dictator, and complaining bitterly about the person who scheduled her group to dance so early? Because I love scapegoats, that's why. And I suspect that I'm not the only one. So if I accidentally whip a bottle of hair gel at your face in a fit of fury, please know that it's not your fault...and that I'm working on it.

8) Appreciate the dance teachers. Getting one precious child ready stresses me out. Teachers are responsible for multiple dancing people. The hyper ones, the moody ones, the daydreamy ones, the bossy ones, the shy ones. All of the little dancing people. Also, they have deal with all of the dancing people's parents. The hyper ones, the moody ones, the daydreamy ones, the bossy ones, the shy ones...you get the idea. These teachers are saints, I think. Appreciate them, because one day they will see more of your children than you do.

9) Adopt some extreme meditative practice/spiritual discipline that will allow you to transcend/banish all of your stress/fear/tension so that you can achieve the spiritual state of Dance Mom Yogi or somesuch.  That will make all of these other tips happen so easily. You will be able to remember hairnets, say kind things to other people while under extreme duress, give your dancer his/her space without concern for the security of his/her costume, get through the day without so much as a cup of tutu-destroying coffee, etc. Actually, don't do that. If you are that good at being a dance mom, it will be a little creepy. And then we will have a really hard time not being afraid of you. And then you will have caused us to fail at tip number 1. And then you will not be a team player. And you want to be a team player, don't you?

I love mine, too! I haven't even
forced them into indentured servitude, or
fed them questionable apples. Score!

10) Love your dancer. Hooray! Something we already do (unless you are an evil Disney villain stepmother, in which case, maybe this is the tip you can really focus on). And of course, recognize that every other dance mom loves her dancer, too. It just might look a little bit different. Some will be more intense than you. Others will be less intense. Some more organized or on-time. Some less. Some will seem more critical. Others will seem cheerfully oblivious. But, unless you see a dance mom offering her precious dancer a poisoned apple, or making her scrub the floors while wearing rags and singing to rats and birds, it's probably safe to assume that she loves her dancer just as much as you love yours. And so now we can all just link arms and sing Kumbaya and be nothing like those dance moms on TV.

Unless you forgot your bobby pins. Because then you just ruined the whole competition for everyone. And I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to throw a shrill, screaming fit. Probably while weeping. Because that's extra dramatic. And maybe I'll whip a bottle of hair gel at your face. Just for effect. And then maybe they'll put my dramatic self on TV. And I'll be a star! But it's not about me. It's about my dancer. Obviously.**

*For moms, a moment or two of human weakness and irritability is totally normal and nothing to be alarmed about. However, if you ever notice any of your child's dance teachers regularly behaving in the manner of reality show dance teacher, She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named...flee! There are so many good dance teachers out there who are kind and respect their students. Find the nearest one and hand your child over. It's for the good of your dancer the universe. 

**I also neglected to mention the very important tip: have boatloads of money. Even if you have a nice dance studio that keeps costs low (like ours does) boatloads of money are still useful when it comes to paying for costumes, competition entries, pictures, workshops, t-shirts, shoes, tights, makeup, solos, programs, the endless snacks your ravenous dancer will want to consume, crystal-encrusted hairbows, hairspray, etc. If you don't have boatloads of money, become an enthusiastic fundraiser. So far, I have failed at both having boatloads of money and fundraising boatloads of money. I mean, I was an English major, so this is to be expected. Nevertheless, I urge other dance moms out there to do what I cannot, and be super-filthy-rich. Maybe have a yacht or something. It will make you better at this, I promise. Or else really love selling cookie dough door-to-door. I hear that works, too.

Seven Things I Love About My Seven-Year-Old

The Anarchist turns seven today. Seven years ago, at about this time, I was happily shoveling large forkfuls of spaghetti from my hospital tray to my mouth, convinced that I was surely not in labor. Seven years ago today, about two and a half hours from now, I vomited said spaghetti all over the poor OB/GYN intern whose sole purpose during my emergency C-section seemed to be to hold the barf pan. And seven years ago, about three hours from now, the impossible, piercing screams of a supposed-to-be-lungless 2lb Anarchist filled the labor and delivery wing of Saint Joseph Mercy Hospital. Three months early, and full of feisty life nonetheless.

She is feisty, she is full of impossible, ridiculously glorious life, and she is one of the most difficult and amazing miracles I could ever dream of. Here are just seven of the billions of things I love about the Anarchist:

The Anarchist's lungs working really, really well.

1) The Anarchist's lungs work. They work really, really well.  This is notable because the Anarchist's lungs were not supposed to work. "Maybe two weeks to live," "probably on life support most of her life," "brain damage," "chronic pulmonary disease," and all that nonsense. Whatever. The Anarchist came out shrieking for her life, and she's been shrieking ever since. Frequently. In public. But we're working on that. I told myself I wanted my children to fearlessly use their voices. I meant that in a more literary/metaphorical sense. But beggars can't be choosers. I got my wish. The Anarchist is loud. Really, really loud. And unless we're at church/in the library/driving through a dangerous intersection/at the park/dining at a fancy restaurant, I'm really, really okay with that.

2) The Anarchist loves animals.  Just ask The Fat Assassin, who has been a victim of the Anarchist's impassioned tackle-hugs on numerous occasions. This is the child who runs at snarling, unrestrained guard dogs yelling, "HI CUTE PUPPY!!!! I LOVE YOU!!!! COME HERE!!!! I WANT TO HUG YOU AND KISS YOU!!!!" And so far she hasn't been mauled or anything. Even The Fat Assassin, who is notorious for regularly sinking her fangs into residents of the Morton household, has only bitten the Anarchist a handful of times. We attribute this to some secret understanding between Anarchist and Assassin (we're only a little bit scared of the possible implications of such an understanding). Maybe her affinity for all things furry has to do with the fact that the Anarchist herself is a little bit feral. That's okay. At least she's adorable while she's growling.

3) The Anarchist is really into self-expression. Even after she figured out that it was funny, and not glamorous, to wear knee socks over her leggings, the Anarchist insisted on doing it anyway, because dorky looking legwear is an expression of who she is inside, apparently. So are ridiculous hats, masks made of notebook paper, mismatched shoes, hand-drawn Sharpie marker tattoos on her neck and face, and her delightful "poetry" and "novels."

Also underwear. She
likes to make jokes about
underwear.

4) The Anarchist knows what "scatalogical" means and can use it in a sentence. This sentence generally describes herself and her "humor." While most first graders are big into potty humor, the Anarchist is the queen of all things disgusting-yet-maybe-mildly-amusing-if-you're-seven. She doesn't limit herself to just jokes ("Knock, knock! Who's there? Poop! Poop who? Poop and pee all over your VOMIT!!! Hahaha!"), but has broadened her horizons to poems and novels as well. She is currently looking to publish her first series of novellas, entitled "Jorja and Cally," about a young boy and girl and their adventures in gross stuff. These works of fine literature make liberal use of the "butt" motif, presumably as a metaphor for endings and passages...presumably. Because, after all, the kid is brilliant. I mean, she does know what "scatalogical" means.

5) The Anarchist loves her some coffee. Okay, she doesn't really drink coffee. She tried it once and hated it. But she's been my coffee buddy since her toddler years. She loves 120-degree hot chocolate, overpriced organic chocolate milk boxes, dry oversized cookies, bad mixes of world music and bland acoustic pop, and everything else associated with coffee shops. Which is good. Because I'm a barista, and I can totally hook her up with a discount.

With her beloved chocolate milk.

6) The Anarchist is not interested in your opinions of the way the world should work. Who says she can't marry an overpriced historical doll, her cat, or her best girlfriend? The government? The church? Your grandma? Pssht...the Anarchist doesn't recognize your cultural authority, entities of the world. She's a grown seven-year-old, and she'll do what she wants, thankyouverymuch. No race car driver costumes in the girl section of the Halloween shop? That's cool. The Anarchist just slid right over to the boy section and purchased herself a very nice one, topping it all off with a fluffy tutu, just to show you she won't be penned in by your gender roles. That's my baby. The Race Car Ballerina, wife of not one, but two American Girl dolls...and a cat. Anarchy!

The famous "race car ballerina" costume in action.

7) The Anarchist is very much alive. I mean this literally. The Anarchist had a very real chance of not being alive, but she is in fact very alive. She's vibrant, excited, angry, passionate, hilarious, ridiculous, and delightful. She is living her life with joyful intensity. It's like somehow she knows how lucky she is to have it and she's determined to milk it for all it's worth. I love that about her. And I hope she never loses her zealous desire for more and more life. Even if it means the cat gets squeezed a little too hard, the "butt" jokes are a little too loud, and she drinks more than her fair share of fair-trade organic chocolate milk.

Happy Birthday to my delightful, anarchy-y Anarchist! You make us smile every day!

The Anarchist with her newest potential-future-wife.
She rejects your social mores...and also your logic.

You Are What You Score, and other fun new lessons for 21st century childhood

I'm trying to figure something out. Something important. I'm trying to figure out how I feel about scoring/judging/competition for young children. And I'm just not sure.

There's the Tiger Mom camp. The parents who feel like teaching kids to compete and excel early and often prepares them for later in life, gives them resilience and a realistic understanding about how the world works. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. That's life, kid.

Then there's the Let Them Be Kids camp. The parents who eschew any form of competition or judgement for their kids. Everyone wins at sports. No soloists in the choir. That sort of thing. Everyone gets a gold star. No one's self esteem suffers.

And here's the thing. I don't think I like either camp. But it's not for any solidly arguable reason. It's certainly not based on any parenting studies (I am so sick of parenting studies). It's just that my gut and my heart tell me that the answer is somewhere in between. Kids aren't idiots. They know when other people are better at certain things than they are (usually). If they're too little to know, then they're too little for you to bother telling them. They're still young enough that it's safe to let them think that they are the best thing since sliced bread...always. But eventually they figure it out. Even the Dictator has figured it out. They're also smart enough to know that games are more fun if there are winners, and if those winners don't include EVERYONE. They know "you're ALL winners" is a lie. And, besides, competition is fun. It's exhilarating and challenging. I'm not against it. It makes sense...to an extent. The Dictator competes in (rather low intensity) dance competitions. She learns to be proud of herself, work as part of a team, take constructive criticism and manage disappointment. She doesn't always get high scores. She learns that there are people better than her. She learns that she has things to improve on. She learns to grow for next time. This is healthy. I can tell because...it feels healthy. She is growing and learning without being put in a position that would subject her to criticism that she's not yet ready to handle. Easing into things seems to be the trick.

But I also don't want everything to be a competition. I don't think everything needs to be a competition. I also don't think everything needs to be scored and critiqued...at least not formally, not so young. I am SO TIRED of assessments, standardized tests, charts and graphs of student scores, etc. We're on our third set of standardized test scores for the year and we're not done yet. These aren't just occasional, mildly useful benchmarks. These are a central focus of their schooling. And do you know what those scores have told me? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Other than that the Dictator was alert and interested in testing in September and tired and bored out of her skull with it in the winter. Either that, or she went from brilliant to a touch slow within the course of half a school year. Maybe it was all the video games...

We send these kids such mixed messages. We say things like, "Don't let other people determine your self worth." But the charts and graphs and numbers and scores that get sent home with them so very regularly tell them something very different. These numbers with their names on them implicitly tell them this: "These numbers matter so, so much. These numbers dictate who you are. These numbers are so important that we report them constantly. We put the results on a graph in the school's entryway. These numbers are you. You are what you score."

We don't say that, of course. But kids aren't stupid. When something's emphasized enough, they understand that it's important. When a graph/chart/score with their name on it is given that much weight in their lives, they know. Other people don't determine their self worth in these cases, but numbers do. Isolated moments in time do. "Hey kids, your value is in your score!" Not healthy. Not worthwhile.

And other times it is people who we let determine their self worth. Arbitrarily. Subjectively. Sometimes competition and judging is completely healthy and fine--the Dictator handles low dance scores with matter-of-factness and grace--and sometimes it's not. You can feel when it's not. Sometimes it's too much too soon. Sometimes it's not given adequate context. Sometimes it's the wrong time, place, judge, kid. And maybe sometimes it's just too much. Too intense. Too frequent. It's just one more thing on top of all the ways we score and chart and graph them. Maybe they just need a break.

Which is why I kick myself for letting my kids do the stupid reading fair today. I never like doing these things to begin with because they are exhausting, but I hated it even more today. Because I do not handle it well when someone with no aesthetic/literary sense or wit judges my child. I don't do injustice. Or poor judgement. Or things that make my stoic baby cry in public. I may or may not become livid. And inarticulate annoyingly-articulate with rage. My response may be a bit over the top. I go into a trance-like state of maternal protectiveness. My actions are beyond my control. I can't help myself.

But I can rethink the ways I subject my kids to this world of scoring/judging/testing. I can be smarter about how to help them glean lessons from their experiences (today's was: Some Judges are as Dumb as Dirt...probably not my best). And I can learn to mitigate my furious wrath (I will NOT send a scathing email to the school. I will NOT send a scathing email to the school). And I can show you aesthetic/literary/witty folks just how creative and inventive my kids are.* I know you'll appreciate them. You will appreciate them. If you know what's best for you.

*The back story to my reading fair-related rage (that I need to really calm the heck down about because it is just a reading fair after all) will be recounted here soon. Complete with pictures (of me not strangling the superintendent/reading specialists/principal). I promise to make it funny. Because I'm pretty funny when I'm angry. Just ask my kids.

33 Things That Don't Suck about the Birthday Princess

Okay. On the Dictator's 8th birthday, I wrote a post detailing 8 things I liked about her. Rereading that, I thought to myself, "Gee! I should really do that for everyone in my family". I missed out on the Bureaucrat's birthday, but I will catch him the next time around. I was looking forward to doing it for the Anarchist, and then I thought, "Huh. I definitely wouldn't be able to do that for myself!"  

But then I got to thinking. I am the Birthday Princess, after all. And I am struggling to come to terms with the ceaseless march of time that has brought me to my 33rd birthday. And they do say that you should focus on the positive, the things you like about yourself. And what better, healthier, more self-helpy, and annoying way, than writing a totally non-self-deprecating blog post of all the ways I think I'm super-awesome? I'm sure I can come up with 33 things I don't hate about myself. Right guys? Right?

Deep breath. 

Here we go.

1. I am (generally) not cruel to animals. Stepping on my cat's tail is always an accident, I swear.

2. I smell like coffee sometimes. Sometimes more than I'd like. But I guess that's better than smelling like dead fish more than I'd like.

3. I know how to pronounce this word: ARTISAN. 

4. I know how to pronounce this word: ARTESIAN.

5. I know that ARTISAN and ARTESIAN are not the same words.

6. My name is "Molly," and even though that's probably the name of your golden retriever, I actually really like my name. It makes me sound like an optimistic and energetic toddler. Never mind that there is nothing energetic or optimistic about me. At least it sounds like there is.

7. Sometimes, when I  cook things, they are edible. This is better than no times. 

8. I am introspective. Do not read "introspective" to mean "self-absorbed" or "neurotic," or this will sound like a negative and I will have to come up with something else.

9. I am not super materialistic. Like...I can sit on the same, tipping over, cracked and broken, nasty plaid couch for years on end and it won't even phase me...which is good, because this couch has become a permanent fixture of my living room. 

10. I'm strong and composed. I don't cry at the drop of a hat. Unless I watch some sort of touching commercial about motherhood...or a movie with dying animals...or that part in Forrest Gump where the music swells and the stupid feather is swept into the air by the wind *sob.*

11. I have loads of empathy. I can feel your pain. I can say,"I feel your pain" in my best Bill Clinton voice and actually mean it. (It would be really great if you could only feel nice, pleasant, happy feelings around me, if it's not too much trouble. Thanks.)

12. I am not a serial killer.

13. But I can empathize with serial killers (see #11).

14. I am not even a one-time killer.

15. In fact, I have never even been arrested. 

16. Heck...the one time I was pulled over, it was for a broken tail light. 

17. I can do hard things. Like, sometimes, after I take the laundry out of the dryer, I even fold it and put it away. Sometimes.

18. Okay, this is getting really hard.

Also, I made these hilarious little people.
That counts for something, right?

19. I am polite. I say "please" and "thank you" a lot. But I say "sorry" most of all.

20. I would make an awesome Canadian (see#19). 

21. I can write really concise, really articulate impromptu essays. This really hasn't been relevant for at least 10 years, but this is getting hard, so I'm stretching, here.

22. My kids think I'm funny. You might not. My poor coworkers might not. But my kids do. At least for now. I have the sense of humor of a 7 year old. Neat.

23. I am not a fascist dictator. 

24. I have not even considered becoming a fascist dictator.

25. I am a nerd. And I actually don't hate this about myself anymore.

26. When I sing, it (usually) doesn't sound like cats dying. 

27. Speaking of which, I haven't (accidentally) killed The Fat Assassin yet. She still alive and biting my fleshy calves.

28. I am (mostly) more mature than I was ten years ago. Mostly.

29. I am clumsier than you. This makes you feel better about yourself when you are clumsy. Therefore, my clumsiness performs a service to humanity. So I can be okay with it. Right?

30. I'm never disappointed. (Never mind that this is because I expect the worst...like, the apocalyptic, we're-all-gonna-die worst. Let's just focus on the positive, shall we?)

31. I don't engage in "positive self-talk." Positive self-talk, while probably a good and beneficial thing, is the single most infuriating and obnoxious phrase known to man. Therefore, my staunch abstention from positive self-talk is actually a good thing. 

32. I can twist anything to work in my favor. 

33. I have follow-through. I made it all the way to number 33, and I didn't even have to resort to lying drivel. I just wrote down a bunch of negatives and made them positive instead. See? I'm resourceful, too!*

*I had to throw an extra positive into #33, because it turns out that #18 was not actually a valid thing I like about myself...or even a valid fake thing I like about myself. And I'm not a cheater. Ooh! Did you catch that? I threw a bonus thing into the footnotes! Do I get extra credit for that?!

That will bring us back to Do(h!)

My beautiful Anarchist is six years old. My Anarchist loves to sing loudly, and exuberantly and without inhibition, the way six year olds do. She loves it more than anything else. Sometimes she sings so loudly, and joyfully, and freely that she gets a bit off-key. But that's okay, because she is learning to love music, and express herself through the medium. She's learning that music is joyful, and beautiful, and exhilarating. She's getting a sense of rhythm and phrasing. She's learning to fall in love with an art form. We love this, and we love that her lungs even work, so we don't mind if, now and then, she's just not hitting the pitch. We don't fuss, or fret, or point it out to her.

Apparently, that's the school's job:

Now, the Anarchist is six, so her vocal chords aren't completely developed. Neither are her defense mechanisms, so the child is extremely vulnerable and sensitive. But it turns out that, at six, her reading skills are rather well-developed, as is her natural sense of curiosity. So, too, is her awareness of what "matching pitch" means (she comes from an extended family of music educators). So I was more than a touch concerned when I realized that she had probably read this report card over my shoulder.

Now, I've heard enough horror stories from adults who were singled out as "pitchy" singers as very young children who now refuse to sing a note, ever, not even in the shower. Someone killed their joy very early on in life and now they won't even try. Silly me, I thought we left that style of music education in the fifties along with the angry, ruler-wielding nuns. Nope. Nope. The Anarchist got a "2" in singing because she can't match pitch. At six. 

If the child were sixteen, and singing in a high school choir class, I would certainly hope that someone would be working on matching pitch with her, would point it out and attempt to correct it, would indicate on a report card that she had yet to acquire that crucial skill. No one likes singing next to the misguided diva who thinks she is God's gift to singing, but doesn't bother to even try to hit the right notes. I certainly wouldn't want her to grow into one of those infamous American Idol first-episode auditionees. I don't want her to be oblivious or delusional...when she's an adult.  But, in case I've neglected to mention this:

The child is six. 

The Anarchist heads off to school to
be tested, graphed and analyzed...
on her singing ability?

Now, I'm not saying her teacher is singling her out in class, making her feel bad, causing her to hate singing. I imagine her teacher is probably rather sensitive and kind, and is simply working on this skill with the entire class, and maybe giving the Anarchist the attention she needs to develop a better sense of pitch. That would be fine. That would be lovely. But the report card thing...not so lovely. The report card thing gives rise to a variety of questions and concerns.

The report card thing makes me wonder if this is just another attempt to quantify/measure/assess certain aspects of childhood--heck, of life--that cannot and should not be quantified/measured/assessed. My children spend more time taking standardized tests than they do being creative, exploring, or learning to interact with one another. They are charted, graphed, and analyzed at every turn. But the really valuable things in life can't be measured this way. And music and art, I had hoped, were the last bastions of creativity and non-standardized humanity in an increasingly statistics-saturated/test-centered school system. I had hoped. But why are they bothering to report (and why do they care to tell me) that the Anarchist is singing out of tune unless they are intentionally measuring or testing for such a thing...unless the schools are required to report some tangible outcome to legitimize the existence of a music class in the first place. With music programs being cut from schools left and right (congratulations, Lansing, you're famous for this, now), I wouldn't be shocked to discover if my Anarchist's teacher was required  to assess and report such a thing, just to justify the very presence of music in schools.*

Or maybe it's like the time the Dictator's kindergarten teacher suggested hand-writing camp (I kid you not, it's like boot camp only way, way, more lame) because her letters were a bit squiggly...because she was, ya know, five. Maybe our school has the time and resources to afford to be unnaturally nitpicky and ambitious. Maybe.


The report card thing also makes me wonder if the music program's priorities are quite right. I understand as well as anyone that singing is a nuanced skill that can be taught, but takes practice, hard work, and coaching. I get that my daughter should be learning to develop basic musical skills. But I also know that, unless I'm trying to create a virtuoso or thrust her into the children's chorus of an opera, I should let this take a natural amount of time. I should not be concerned that the skill isn't coming quickly enough. She's six. Of course she doesn't always sing in tune. This is the age where children learn to love and embrace the art form...where they become enchanted by, and engaged with its depth and richness, by its exciting variety.** Why does her teacher not report about her joy and love for singing? About her eagerness to participate in music class? Why not focus on the things that won't alter drastically in six years when her voice does?

More than anything else, I'm concerned about the report card because my Anarchist is six, my Anarchist is sensitive, and my Anarchist can read. If she saw what I think she saw, I will be very surprised if she doesn't go the way of the traumatized adults who keep their mouths clamped shut during the music at church, who won't sing in the shower, who don't find freedom and joy in singing. And (I'm sure I'm being a bit sensitive here...you don't hear me complaining that she got a "2" in math***) that would kill me.

Because her lungs work. And she uses them. And she uses music to experience joy. And she's six. 

So that's what it should be all about.


(This has been a melodramatic rant-fest by the daughter of disgruntled arts educators. She may be taking this a touch too seriously. But she loves the arts, hates all this testing nonsense, and is maybe just a little bit protective of her children's feelings. Their feelings. Not their physical selves. She lets their physical selves dive off of bunk beds, get into wrestling matches, ski down the stairs, and eat pennies. The Anarchist once ate half a bottle of sunscreen before she noticed. But their emotions? Yeah. That's when she gets all helicopter-mom.)

*Or maybe the Anarchist is just singing so loudly, and so out-of-tune, that the poor music teacher just can't take it any more and is reaching out to me, begging, pleading for me to please do something at home to help make the bad noises stop. This is a very real possibility. And one that I'm prepared to brazenly ignore.

**I'm not suggesting that my elementary school education was much better. We mostly spent the entire hour of music class watching, horrified, as our teacher spun in unattractive circles, clapping, and loudly crowing such classic hits as "La Cucharacha" and "Old Dan Tucker." But at least no one felt the need to tell our parents that we couldn't sing. Ahh...the good old days.

***Although, math actually is something that is easily quantified and measured. Because it's...uh...math.