Reasons I Am STILL Sitting In My Car

(Even though I pulled into this parking spot 15 minutes ago)

1. I needed to check my email. I needed to check ALL of my email.

2. It's cold out there.

3. The kids are super annoyed that we're just sitting here, in this car, and that's good, because they need to learn that the world does not revolve around them.

4. I'm waiting for it to stop being windy. 

Because I'm just so scared.

5. That guy just pulled into the spot next to me, and he'll think I'm weird if I just suddenly get out of my car right now. He needs to think I'm just chilling here for a reason. Like, maybe I'm waiting for someone, or maybe I'm checking my email, or maybe I live in this car. This man needs to believe I'm reasonable. It's important.

6. I'm an introvert.

7. The angry neighbor lady is ranting near the dumpster again, and she might be unstable. Leaving the car would be risky.

8. This NPR story is probably about to become fascinating.

9. I'm about to beat this level.

10. This song will be over in a minute.

11. That school bus just dropped off a bunch of high school kids feet away from my car. And everyone knows it's best to maintain a decent amount of distance between oneself and teenagers. 

12. There are lots of kids out riding bikes today and it would be better to stay in my car because what if my sudden presence outside of my car startled one of them and they fell, and maybe sustained head injuries and it would be ALL MY FAULT.

13. Existential crisis.

14. My house is messy, so it's better if I don't go inside of it.

15. I have to make a list.

16. The cat is mean and prone to biting. She is currently not in the car, so I am safe here.

17. It's much better for everyone if I just keep to myself...here...in this car.

18. I finally got the heater to kick on and actually work, and it would be a crying shame not to at least spend a few minutes basking in the glorious warmth.

19. You just can't be too careful these days.

20. I can't go out there looking like this.

21. Opening car doors is hard work, and it's such a very long walk to the building, and I've just worked so hard all day long, and wouldn't it be best for me to rest myself a little while?

22. Those construction workers over there might judge me for my sweatpants.

23. Those construction workers over there might accidentally drop a shingle on my head again.

24. The UPS truck is parked on our street, and it is entirely possible that it will be delivering to my house, and if I'm walking up to the house at the exact moment the UPS guy is, that would be so awkward.

25. Change is hard.

Saved by the (Taco) Bell, or Where Babies Come From...Kind Of

As you may be aware, I've been successfully avoiding having the talk with either of my children for years now. I almost had it a month or so ago, but the book I was going to use was checked out from the library. (Did I say "talk?" I meant to say "throw a book on her bed and pray for the best"). Look, I had hoped that the topic would come up in the natural course of conversation, and that I would be able to address it without any trace of awkwardness, as if it were no big deal. But that didn't ever happen. In reality, it turns out that I am really great at being vague, and at changing the topic of uncomfortable conversations, so that my Anarchist did not even know what a penis was until just last year (I'm actually not even sure that she does now, to be honest, but at least she is comfortable enough with the word to shriek it ad nauseum at Christmas brunch).

Precious baby. Loud, expensive, and
very beloved.

The problem is, if I don't get to it first, the school might, and heaven knows what they'll teach my darling offspring. They might tell her that if she ever has sex out of wedlock, she will give birth to a six-headed demon baby and burn in hellfire for all eternity, or they might take a page from my ninth grade health teacher's book, and tell her that literally everyone her age has already had sex, and that if she says she's never participated in a full-on orgy, she's a total liar. Either way, no thank you. I'd like her to view this beautiful and completely natural act for what it is: totally awkward, over-hyped, and potentially resulting in loud, expensive, and of course, very beloved children.

So now I've been pretty much looking for opportunities to discuss intercourse with my children. But suddenly, they've stopped presenting themselves. Suddenly, all my children want to do is discuss Minecraft YouTube videos and computer games with strange animals who collect rare objects and constantly report one another for "scamming." Not helpful.

So imagine my joy when, as I was walking my children to an all-organic, locally sourced cafe for a healthy, after school meal  we drove to Taco Bell's drive-thru for after school nachos, my children helpfully brought up the topic all on their very own.

Anarchist: "When do people start needing deodorant?"

Me (just feeling the perfect, totally-not-awkward sex talk moment coming on): "All different ages. It usually happens some time between now and when you are a teenager. Your body starts to change because it's getting ready to grow up and do things that grown up bodies do. The change is called puberty, and it's totally natural. It happens to everyone...blah, blah, blah, etc."

Anarchist (playing right into my hands): "What other changes happen to your body?"

Me: "Well usually, you need deodorant, and you'll need to shower more because your skin produces more oil. Later on, you'll start your period." (There! I said it. Out loud. Ha!)

Dictator (even though we've totally talked about this before): "What's a period?"

Me: [explains menarche in the perfect, natural, non-awkward way, doesn't use the word "menarche," because seriously, who talks like that?]

Dictator: "Oh yeah."

Anarchist: "Why does your body do that?"

Me (deep breath, this is happening): "Because some day you might want to have a baby. This is your body's way of getting itself ready to do that."

The amazing Dictator. Because sometimes
the "medicine" doesn't work. And sometimes
we're really glad it didn't.

Anarchist: "Oh. I don't think I want to have a baby. I think Boyfriend and I will adopt. I don't want my body to make the baby. How do I stop it from doing that? Is there medicine?"

Me (feeling rushed): "Umm...actually there is. It's called 'birth control.' It can keep your body from having a baby if you're not ready."

Anarchist: "So if I take this medicine, it will work for sure, right? Because I really think I don't want to have a baby grow inside my body."

Me (totally sidetracked): "Well...I mean, it's supposed to work, but it doesn't quite always work. Sometimes people have babies even when they don't mean to, even when they're taking medicine. [Nods meaningfully at the Dictator, who we totally conceived while on "medicine." I promise she didn't notice the nod, as she was blissfully absorbed in drawing pictures of Minecraft YouTubers]. That's why it's important to make sure you're with someone you want to spend the rest of your life with when you decide to have a baby. It would be very nice if you were married. It's also ideal if you have somewhere to live, and enough money to take care of the baby. Otherwise it can be very, very difficult. So that's why you need to be wise about having a baby."

Anarchist: "Yeah. Well, if I ever have a baby, I'm never working again. So I'd want to wait until we had some money. Otherwise, Boyfriend would probably have to work day and night at three different jobs, and I would never see him. Poor Boyfriend! That's too much work for one person...but I'm not going to work. Not if I have a baby. That will be for poor Boyfriend to do. And I will have to feel so bad for him."

Me (dumbfounded by her unabashed laziness): "Oh."

Anarchist: "Okay. But I have one important question, though. So...if sometimes the medicine doesn't work, can I wait until I'm ready to have a baby? Maybe I should just tell the doctor to stop putting that baby inside of me...when the doctor starts doing that...when it's time."

Me: "Sweetie, the doctor doesn't put the baby inside of you."

Anarchist: "Okay. Then I have another important question."

[Deep breath. Here goes...]

Me: "Yes, Anarchist?"

Anarchist: "If the doctor doesn't put the baby inside your body, then how does it get there?"

Me (ready to launch into "the talk" for real this time...I might even go all out and say "scrotum..." out loud): "Well, when you're ready to have a baby...

Nice Taco Bell Drive Thru Girl: "Welcome to Taco Bell. You can go ahead with your order."

Me: "Oh! Hi. Umm..could I please have.a side of nachos, a side of rice, a soft taco supreme, a soft taco...no, that's two separate tacos, one regular and one supreme...right, right...and two nachos bell grande no meat, please. That will be all. Thanks so much."

Yeah. That's right. That's how my "talk" ended. Because I am a coward. And I have bad timing. And also because I have a strange attraction to bad, albeit convenient, queso.

In my defense, I tried to bring it up again. As we were driving away, arms-deep in crunchy chips and shredded iceberg, I turned to the Anarchist and said, "I'm so sorry we were interrupted by tacos, Anarchist. Wasn't there something you wanted to ask me?"

Anarchist: "No? Why would I ask you something? Can we please go home now so I can eat tacos and get scammed in computer games involving strange animals?" (that last sentence may be a paraphrase...)

Me: "Actually, I think you were asking a very important question about how babies were made, and I'd love to tell you all about it over our vegan, locally sourced meal. In fact, I never want you to feel uncomfortable discussing anything with me, especially something as natural as sexual intercourse. Also, I will happily define anatomical terms for you, including 'scrotum,' 'penis,' and 'labia,' and I will do this without flinching or giggling, or anything, because I am an adult and an ideal parent."

Actual Me: "Yes! Let's go eat tacos and remain ignorant forever!"

And so we did.

Listen. It'll be totally fine. At least I didn't tell them they would produce six-headed hell demons, or encourage them to have orgies. I mean, I'm sure they never really need to know where babies come from, right? After all, as the Anarchist is quick to point out, they can always adopt.

The Anarchist, Half-Nelsons, and Me

A not-creepy "special surprise."
Yes, I know my sheets don't match my
duvet cover.

The Anarchist has always been...well...an anarchist. She's also always been a feisty little fighter. It's why she's still alive today, actually. So of course, we maybe encouraged this character trait in her just a teensy bit too much. She threw--oh, who am I kidding, throws--epic tantrums, often in public (usually in public). She lashes out physically when she's frustrated. She likes hip hop more than ballet. And she' recently taken up a brand new hobby. She calls the hobby, "I have a special surprise for you." It sounds like something a creepy guy in a windowless white van would play, but it's not creepy. It just hurts. A lot.

This photo got enough
"likes'" that I was
eventually freed.

 See, it started off as a "surprise" tackle hug every night after I blew her hair dry. It was kind of cute and delightful...until she wouldn't let me go. And lest you think I was just humoring her/playing along, consider this: The first night that "I have a special surprise for you" got serious, I had to use my foot to kick my phone up toward my hand (while she wasn't looking) so that I could text the Bureaucrat for help. He didn't see the text, but the Anarchist finally released me on the condition that a I post a photo of her triumph over me on social media and get enough "Likes" to satisfy her little ego. It was just good, wholesome fun, of course, but her super-human strength was a bit disconcerting ("My knee's on your chest. Do you really want to try to get up with my knee on your chest, Mama?"). 

So I decided to look up local girls' wrestling leagues. Turns out, they don't exist. Seems there's a low demand for places where delicate little girls can pin each other to the ground/exhibit their wiry strength. So "I have a special surprise for you" has become "I have a bad surprise for you," and now it sounds something like this (if this sounds familiar, it's because I posted it on Facebook a bit ago...although this time she wasn't holding me hostage while I did it):

Me (from beneath Aine, as she pins me to the ground): "We need to get you into wrestling."

Anarchist: "You're never gonna get up. Try.Just try. TRY! Also, what's wrestling?"

Me (putting forth a valiant effort at upending myself and getting nowhere): "Exactly what you're doing now. Pinning people down so they can't get up."

Anarchist (using her legs to hold me down): "Oh my GOSH! We need to get me to the nearest wrestling court FAST!"

Me: "Sure. Just let me up and I'll try to find a 'wrestling court' for you."

Anarchist (accidentally giving me a bloody lip): "NEVER! You'll NEVER GET UP! Hmm...but I think maybe I'm too sweet and too delicate to wrestle people, don't you?"

Yes baby. Too sweet. And too delicate. Like my lip. And all those ribs you almost broke.

My fragile flower. So sweet. So delicate.

Suffice it to say, if anyone knows of any local girls' "wrestling courts" please send their information my way. If I don't respond immediately, it's probably because she has me in a half-nelson, and I can't quite reach my phone. 

All in good fun, of course. (She's just so passionate).

It's the Most Emotional TIME of the Year!

It started about a week ago. I was at work, and I saw a baby. I started weeping (on the inside of course, because I am a professional...barista). I figured it was some fluke, some weird maternal urge, ten years too late. I ignored it. And then I saw a pumpkin spice latte. And I teared up a bit. I wasn't too alarmed. After all, I hate pumpkin spice lattes and all that they/their "PSL" fans stand for. But still. Tears? Who cries about a latte? (A crazed PSL fanatic last year, when she discovered they were back early, that's who). Nevertheless, it was probably an isolated incident, I thought. But then I saw a scone...and I cried. I was washing dishes and some of the delicate little soap bubbles popped...tears. I swept up a muffin crumb and threw it away...and it was gone...forever. I had to go into the back room and pull myself together. I couldn't let anyone see bubbles, and pastries, and lattes (and then ice cubes, and napkins, and the sound of birds, and the voices of children, and the wind, and a trash bin) reduce me to a puddle of weeping. What was going ON? Did I really just hate pumpkin spice that much? Had I not been getting enough sleep? Did I need to be admitted to a mental institution?

But then I remembered.

This happens every single year. I start crying when I see commercials, leaves blow in the wind, when sparrows look at me funny. Every single year, right around the end of summer, I turn into an emotional basketcase. Every single year, other parents are rejoicing, relishing the prospect of freedom from the siblings bickering, the constant noise, and the endless cries of "I'm BO-O-ORED!" And every single year, I start to rejoice, and then all of the sudden I find myself, stroking the hair/cheeks of my children as they sleep like some creepy stalker, whispering to them about how much I love them (also like some creepy stalker), and crying like a fool. 

Every single year, at the end of summer, for one week only...I become sentimental. 

I am not a fan of this state of existence. Oh yeah, I'm sensitive, and squishy, and emotional, and easily traumatized all year round, but not sentimental. Never sentimental. I've built up quite the arsenal of defense mechanisms against that nonsense, thankyouverymuch. So it's hard to recognize at first. And I think I've gone off my rocker. Because I'm laying on the floor of my living room weeping because those crayons in the pile of school supplies smell so new. And there are less crayons than there were last year. And more pencils. And ohmygoshtimepassessoquickly. Sob. 

The Anarchist wept the first time the Dictator boarded a bus.
"I very miss the Dictator." The Anarchist is pretty much
always sentimental.

I guess all of the school-supply-specific feelings are what tipped me off this year. Even I don't generally cry about spiral notebooks.

But I finally did identify the source of all these horrific feelings. And I addressed them. And I worked through them, like any healthy, emotionally mature adult would. And I was fine.

I was stable and okay enough to reassure the Anarchist that no one at her new school would hate her for "being ugly," or would punch her in the face, or steal her boyfriend. And that, yes, the classroom caterpillars probably would still be pooping, which is apparently the highlight of third grade, which was enough reassurance to get her to sleep last night. 

I was stable-ish enough to take a deep breath and just let the Dictator wear hideous, friend-repelling socks with shoes that should always remain sockless on her first day (after putting up a fight, of course...I'm very passionate about footwear). 

But mostly, I was distracted from becoming a ball of sentimental nonsense on my children's first day by the terrifying prospect of having to enter the new school building/office, drop off allergy forms (that I probably should have dropped off weeks ago), and (gasp!) talk to adults. I had hoped I could pawn this responsibility off on the Bureaucrat. After all, forms and offices are very Bureaucratty things. They're practically part of his job description. But no. The Bureaucrat wanted to be all reasonable and force me to face my fears. And force me to be an adult. And also force me to drop off forms because he really didn't feel like doing it. Whatever. At least I was now shaking in terror instead of crying in a sentimental heap

So, after snapping a pic of my adorable children in their first day attire (the Dictator in all owls and those hideous socks, the Anarchist in "my cute outfit and my cutest ponytail so that my boyfriend will see it, because that's the reason I am going to school"), I donned my mommest mom outfit of khaki shorts and an Ann Taylor top (something that really says, "I swear I'm an adult, and I don't normally forget to turn in forms until the first day of school, it's just that I'm so responsible, that I'm full of responsibilities, all of them child related, of course, because look, khaki shorts. Also, I will probably join the PTO, volunteer for everything, and generally be a model parent. No. Those forms aren't wrinkled. They are purposefully folded. And no, that wasn't a tampon and an old sock you just saw fall out of my purse. They couldn't have been. Because I'm wearing khakis), and strode purposefully to the school building. 

All owls. And those socks. And a boyfriend-pleasing
ponytail/skirt combo. Sigh.

I helped the Anarchist find her classroom, tactfully avoided getting anywhere near the Dictator's classroom (because apparently, moms are more embarrassing than bad sock/shoe combinations), and acted like a total, composed grown up as I faced down my social anxiety and talked to office-y adults. 

"Here. I brought these allergy medication forms to you at the last minute on purpose. Because I totally intended to do things this way. Because khaki shorts. And I'm professional. See how professional I am? I'm sure you think I work in an office of something. Just like you. So I'm not even acting scared at all. And also, I'm not even an emotional basketcase. Because I cried my last tear over pencil sharpeners and fluttering leaves days ago. Just here to do mature, adult, thing/kid dropping off stuff. Totally devoid of extraneous emotions. Just like everyone else. Thanks. I appreciate it. Have a great day."

And then I breathed a sigh of relief. 

And I stepped out into the school hallway.

And I wept.

And all the crying kindergarteners took a brief pause from their separation anxiety to stare at the crazy lady. And I decided that I didn't care.

Having all the feelings...despite my power-khakis.

Because here's the thing. I don't think it's reasonable to expect to savor every moment. Life is full of lots of reality, and it's not fair to beat ourselves up for not reveling in every waking second of parenthood. But now and then, there are times when you notice. When time does stand still for a second. When the big, stoic, fifth grader comes into your room in the middle of the night with her arms full of all her stuffed animals, half asleep, and says, "Mommy, I'm scared. I had a bad dream." And you haven't heard those words in years. And you realize you might never hear them again. And you gather her up, and all her stuffed animals with her, and you hold her in your arms, and you're late for work, and you don't care. Because this is one of those times when you realize how precious it is and how fast it goes, and you can be a little sentimental. And you can hold onto that moment for just one second more. Or when the third grader in the line to go into school tells you that you can leave if you want, because she's not scared anymore (because caterpillar poop makes all things well), but that you can also stay if you want. Ya know...for your own benefit. And then she hugs you, but she holds on so hard with her little fingers, just like she did her first day of preschool. And you feel how fast it all goes, and how beautiful it all is. And so maybe being sentimental isn't the very worst thing. Maybe it's just slowing down a little and noticing. And maybe that's okay. 

Maybe crying in power-khakis alone in an elementary school hallway is a totally normal thing that all emotionally healthy parents do. If it isn't please don't tell me. I've totally made peace with all of this, and I and my khaki shorts would like to keep it that way.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go cry into a pumpkin spice latte while I watch sad soap bubbles pop, and think about how fleeting it all is. 

Happy first day of school.

Birth, Diarrhea, and Bottles of Alcohol: A conversation with the Anarchist on the miracle of life

Inspired by the Dictator's tenth birthday (the annunciation of which I've recounted HERE)*, the Anarchist wanted to discuss birth. Just kind of in general. This is the conversation we had in the brief five minutes while I brushed her hair after a shower. God help me.

Anarchist: "So...is the Dictator ten yet? I mean, what time does she turn ten?"

Me: "Well, she was born in the afternoon. I'm not sure exactly what time. I was a little out of it."

Anarchist: "Oh. Okay. So she's still nine. I get it. What time was I born?"

Me: "In the evening. Around 8 pm. I remember because we had to call Daddy away from his school board meeting when you were born."*

Anarchist: "Okay. But exactly what time?"

Precious Anarchist. Born at I'm-not-sure o'clock in the evening-ish.
Because I am bad at numbers, and not because alcohol.

Me (embarrassed): "I don't know. Eight-ish. I don't remember exactly because I'm bad with numbers, and also because I was very tired."

Anarchist: "I see. So how many bottles of alcohol did you have, then? The night I was born?"

Me (confused): "Uhh...none? No bottles of alcohol? You don't drink alcohol when you're pregnant. It's not safe for the baby."

Anarchist: "Well, then what were you drinking?"

Me: "Uhh...nothing? Ice chips?"

Anarchist: "I mean, how drunk were you?"

Me (wondering how on earth she even knows what "drunk" is...I swear we're a rather sober people...especially around our children): "Drunk? I wasn't drunk at all."

Anarchist (confused): "Well, I mean, don't they get you alcohol when you have a baby to get drunk? For the pain?"

Me: "Lord, no, Sweetie. They gave me an epidural for the pain."

Anarchist: "Then why did you forget what time I was born...if you weren't drunk?"

Me (still baffled that she seems to understand the concept of "drunk"): "Having a baby makes your body very tired...and your brain very tired."

Anarchist: "Oh, yeah. I get it. Diarrhea makes your body very tired, too. So it's just like diarrhea."

Me: "Uh. Yeah. Just like that. Just like diarrhea."

And no. She still doesn't know how babies are made. I wonder if she thinks it's a little bit like vomiting...I think I'm not going to try to find out.

Me in the hospital, not getting trashed in
preparation for the Anarchist's birth.

*Yes, I keep pushing it on you, because it is my very favorite story. I think it's hilarious. Well, it wasn't hilarious at the time. I might have been traumatized for weeks. Poor back-in-the-day me! But now, all is well, and I laugh hysterically every time I think about all of the pee sticks, and all of the stupid nativity scenes, and all of those degrees I could have had..

**Because OF COURSE a Bureaucrat would be at a board meeting on the very night of his child's birth. She probably became an Anarchist in protest...

Things Mortons Hate

In the spirit of trying to be more positive, here is an updated list of all things the Mortons positively hate. Please avoid these things for your own safety.

The Dictator: water (like, any of it ever) beans, cleaning, the outdoors, excited puppies, any fruit that isn't a strawberry, cats in close proximity, tornadoes, when other people try to clean things, "spicy things" (including garlic, black pepper, and probably parsley, if we're going to be honest with ourselves), clothing with too much embellishment, physical contact with another human being, walking anywhere, when people don't like puns, being interrupted...even if the house is on fire...even if she herself is on fire, practicing anything, melted cheddar cheese, not having a phone, sleeping, brushing her hair, having her hair cut, bees, gummy fruit snacks, having people mistake her for belonging to the wrong Hogwarts house, when servers bring her drink in completely offensive lidded kiddie cups at restaurants (this is the very worst thing of all the things)

The Dictator hates hugs,
the Anarchist hates resistance to hugs

Anarchist: restraint, silence, any moment that isn't completely full of friends and parties, when cats don't let her snuggle for long enough, when dogs don't let her hold them tightly enough, sitting, laying, standing still, long distance relationships, when animals die, when other people get hugs, when someone is crying and that someone isn't her, basically when anyone besides her is getting any attention at all, noodles, potatoes, melted cheese (who ARE these people?), having to use an inside voice, broccoli, cleaning, stopping to use the bathroom, not snuggling, having to be wary of strangers, shoes, shopping anywhere ever, bees

Bureaucrat: losing an argument, losing Monopoly, losing control of his emotions, losing control of anything, clothing of the wrong texture, finances, being hurried, my bad aim when shooting hoops into the garbage can with various garbage items, the fact that I even think that shooting hoops into the garbage can is a thing, the way I load the dishwasher, Michigan, feet

Me: chewing noises, swallowing noises, breathing noises, unnecessary movement, loud voices, practical things, vacuums, having to wear socks, long division, the white part of hard boiled eggs, humidity, being trapped behind someone walking too slowly in a stairwell/narrow hallway, sad animal movies, throat clearing noises, mostly just any noises, any meal without cheese, injustice, answering the phone, pretty much all the phone calls forever, being awake in the afternoon, slow talking, the song "Boogie Shoes."

The Fat Assassin: when the hugs from the Anarchist become too passionate, when there is one bite missing from the food dish and the idiot people don't refill it, that thing where the people sit on the couch and leave her the *exact perfect spot,* but it is not exactly perfect *enough,* and she is forced to bite someone because that's what one does when a couch spot is only *almost* perfect,  defecating in the litter box, dogs, that woman person she lives with, other cats, pretty much all living creatures, thunderstorms, light rain, when the people won't let her in the bathroom to bite their legs while they pee

The Fat Assassin also hates accessories

All of the Art Songs I Half-Remember in an Unfortunate Nutshell

I took voice lessons in high school, so I got to dabble in the odd art form of the "art song." Art songs are weird, and also really culturally specific. Here is what I remember of them, melded with what I remember of various types of choral music. I bet it's super accurate:

Italian Art/Choral Song:

"The world is full of love, and roses. This beautiful woman is like a rose, so I love her. I also love roses. And love. I love that, too. Because it reminds me of beautiful women...and roses"

Spanish/Portuguese Choral Song:

"The sun burns me by day. The moon moons me by night. And all of the time there is a fire. So much fire. The fire is inside my chest like the sun. But not so much the moon. Beautiful women are like the moon. Also, I like to sneak out with them under the moon. Because of the fire. The one in my chest. Pretty much there is fire everywhere. And of course, roses. Always roses. (Also, if I wasn't completely clear, I'm totally going to have sex with the beautiful moon/rose/fire woman now. At night. With the burning)."

Latin Choral Song:

"Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord have mercy. Seriously. We're all gonna die. Die in deathy death. Have so much mercy. Have all the mercy. Amen."

French Art Song:

"And I can't even smell the lavender, because of all the tears!"

"Higher-level, semi-sophisticated metaphors about love and beauty. Probably there is a bird somewhere in this song. Way superior to all that other junk. Because we are French and we said so."

German Art/Choral Song:

"I am in a boat. A big, sturdy boat. On a cliff is a house. A big, sturdy house. The big, sturdy house reminds me of my lady. She is big and sturdy like a house. This turns me on. I'm going to go knock on the door of her big, sturdy house until she lets me in. No. This song is not actually about sex. It is about architecture, of course. Architecture and sturdy women. I'm not sure what else there is in the world to concern oneself with."

English/Scottish/Irish Art Song:

"I love Johnny so much it makes me cry. Because of course, Johnny is not here, here in this field of lavender/thistle/wildflowers/various herbs with me. Johnny is gone. Gone far, far away. To war, or maybe on a boat for some reason, or maybe he ran off with some woman. And here I sit. Tragic and poor. Tragic and poor in this beautiful, sad field of lavender. And I can't even smell the lavender because of the tears. My mom says to suck it up. This is life. I'm poor, I just need to gather some lavender and get over it. But I'm so sad. And also it is raining. So I'm probably going to fling myself off this lavender-covered cliff into the sea, now. But first I will run to the market. Because I need to sell this lavender, and probably also some herbs, and a bolt of really British looking wool. The wool is a metaphor for my sadness. So is the cliff. But the rain? The rain is just British."

American Art Song:

"Babies are sleeping, so I'm singing about them using stuff I totally, unashamedly lifted from slave spirituals. Or maybe I will sing about mermaids. Mermaids are things people sing about in art songs, right? Right guys?""

Literally the ONLY Anarchist Without a Smartphone

I need a favor. I need someone to please, please, please tell me that I'm not alone. That I'm not "UGH! The ONLY mom EVER who cares about phones and ipads!" That I'm not the only one depriving my children of their very own, high-priced electronic devices. Please?

The Anarchist's birthday list. Note the last
item before "SUPRISES!"Only "if possable,"
of course. She knows us too well.
Maybe she hoped to manipulate us with
an adorable self portrait?

Because at first when they claimed that all of their friends had iphones, I didn't really believe them. I mean, those things are pricey, and I don't know about your kids, but you should see what has happened to the Dictator and Anarchist's expensive American Girl dolls that we told them they must treasure and handle as if they were baby kittens. Let's just say Molly is half naked, wrapped in paper, sporting unintentional dreadlocks, and Caroline is buried in an avalanche of books, rubberbands, stuffed animals, and scattered Nerd candies. I can only imagine what would happen to pricey technology. I don't know, maybe other parents have children who do things like pick up and put away. I don't have those children. I have little whirlwinds of destruction. Those phones wouldn't even see it coming.

Heck, the Anarchist would probably trade hers for half of a chicken nugget at lunch. I am not exaggerating. She totally would.

So yeah. I figured no one else would think it wise to put technology that I cannot even afford for myself into the hands of people who still publicly pick their noses and eat it, but then I looked around. It really, truly does appear actually ALL of my kids' friends do, in fact, have smart phones, or at least tablets of some sort. The Dictator and Anarchist really, truly, may be the only children on the face of the universe (or at least on the face of suburbia) who languish for lack of access to mind-numbing games, and all those newfangled social media apps like Snappychat and Kicky or whatever. 

And I started to feel guilty. For like, a split second. But then I remembered this:

The American Academy of Pediatrics recommends that kids only engage in this kind of media for one or two hours a day. This is in contrast to the whopping seven hours a day that the average child consumes.

Seven hours.

That's as much time as they spend in school.

Seven hours.

Nope, nope, nope.

And I also remembered this:

The Bureaucrat and I can barely afford our own fancy technology. So, we are certainly not going to be nice enough to give it to our kids. We are not even nice enough to share our candy with them. 

And I also remembered this:

I am lazy and exhausted. 

Lazy and exhausted results in not a whole ton of micro-manage-y child oversight on my part. I am a free range parent without even meaning to be. It's not neglect, exactly. It's mostly just more Cheetos than they should probably be given in any given time period coupled with a few too many Minecraft You Tube videos, topped off with a bit of "whatever" when it comes to room cleaning. Let's just say I'm a Type B mom. That sounds respectable. And good for my heart. 

But not so great for controlling the screen time. Other kids may only use their phones when their homework is done and their rooms are clean, but if my kids had their own devices, they would lock themselves in their room with their eyes glazed over and their thumbs permanently glued to the screens while I watched Netflix and cried about poetry made a wholesome dinner and scrubbed my floors. They would be totally and completely unsupervised. The ideal one hour would turn into eight hours, and I'd be all like, "They're fine. I'm sure they're reading Dostoevsky and knitting mittens for orphans." Meanwhile, the Dictator would have taught herself code, become a female gaming blogger, been subjected to threats by idiotic, misogynistic boy gamers in capes, and become embroiled in Gamergate II, a fact that I would probably only discover from obsessively scanning my own phone in a vain attempt to not feel so alone.

And the Anarchist would have run off with the first guy/girl/cat/inanimate object she met on Tinder.

Capes and cats, people. This is terrifying. At least when they watch a batrillion hours of television, I can see what they're watching (British people playing Minecraft, it turns out). 

Thusly, despite the Anarchist's adorable birthday request, I cannot allow my innocent children to have their own electronic devices (until such a time as they wear me down with their incessant whining). I know plenty of parents who do a great job managing the screen time of their kiddos, but I know myself, and I know I would never supervise my kids' technology use adequately. Also, the Dictator is enough of a zombie. And the Anarchist already has the attention span of a flea. And zombies and fleas are not things I want to unleash on the universe.

So I will continue repeating my super-annoying mantra, "Boredom breeds creativity. It's great that you're bored. Go be creative," and hope that they don't resent me too, too much (but if they do, I hope they channel that resentment into super-angsty art). Also, I will hope to find at least one other parent in this world as mean as I am. Because it would be lovely to counter, "I'm literally THE ONLY ONE without a phone!" with, "No, you're not. And stop overusing the world 'literally.'"

Man, that would be satisfying. Literally, the most satisfying thing ever.

*Closes blog. Returns to mindlessly and obsessively scanning social media for signs of life.*

It's The Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

It's that time of year again...no. Not spring. C'mon, really? Do you really think I have time to look outside and notice the weather? Of course I don't. Because it's that time of year again. No. Not Lent. As if I have time to reflect on esoteric things and giving up meat. Not this time of year. Nope. This time of year is Dance Competition Season. It's the season where I do things like stand in front of a wall of tights, trying to distinguish between "suntan" and "caramel." It's the season where I get to yell, "beauty is pain" an awful lot, like some horrid stage mom. And it's the season where I go to the store for things like "fruit and eyelashes." Yes. It's the most wonderful time of the year, marked by performances and medals, tap dances and trophies. And it's already halfway over.

"So, how did your little dancers do?" you may ask. "Did they win? What place did they get?"

These are fair questions, because of course, I just said "competition." But to be perfectly honest, I have no idea. Dance competition placement is complex and multifaceted, and also I am bad at math and remembering things. Another mom asked me the same questions immediately after a competition, and I had no idea of the answer. And, as it turns out, I don't care. I don't care if my kids get silver, or gold, or platinum, or titanium, or whatever. I'm excited for them when they get first place and whatnot, but for me, the answer to "how did they do," has nothing to do with scores and trophies. It turns out that sources of my pride lie elsewhere.

This year, these are the things I was proud of:

1) The Dictator has started making deliberately funny faces. I think funny faces are entertaining. Not raunchy faces, mind you. Raunchy faces are terrifying, and bad raunchy faces--where the girls open and close their mouths so many times it looks like they are chewing sandwiches instead of smiling--are the worst. But funny faces are great in funny dances. And this year the Dictator had a funny dance. And she hammed it up. It was delightful. Let's just hope she knows to tone it down for her ballet dances.

The Anarchist nailed her pivot turns, because
it turns out that practicing is a useful thing.

2) The Anarchist (sort of) learned to do pivot turns. Prior to this year, the Anarchist had taken two years off of dance because "they keep the big doors open in the summer and it gets too hot." I suppose that's as valid a reason as any when you're five. Anyway, she missed a few fundamental building blocks as a result. Like shifting her weight. And going the same direction as everyone else. There was an entire section of her jazz dance (the pivot turn section) in which she kind of just spun aimlessly, like a dog chasing its tail. So one day, she asked me if she had danced perfectly. I had so wanted to say "yes, you are a flawless miracle," because I am totally that mom. Luckily, I had just read somewhere that this kind of affirming behavior would turn the Anarchist into a raving, unlovable narcissist forever. So instead, I said, "It's getting closer to perfect. Would you like me to help you work on pivot turns so that you can get even closer?" And not only did that kid say "yes," but she asked to practice every single day until the competition. And lo and behold, the child pivoted the right way, every single time. I almost fell over. Who knew that my honesty and her hard work would pay off (probably everybody, that's who)!

3) The Bureaucrat does not yell "Work it baby!" and "Give it to 'em hard!" to his little girls during their dances. Not that I expected him to (if he did, I feel like that would be valid grounds for divorce), but apparently doing this is a thing. A horrifying, horrifying thing. Yes. There are fathers who yell these things at their young daughters, sometimes while their daughters are doing ballet. These fathers also blow whistles and clang cowbells during artistic performances. So, kudos to the Bureaucrat, I guess, for not yelling stripper things at his babies and for not behaving as if he were in an arena, rather than an auditorium. 

4) The dance studio kept the focus on the children treating each other well and learning something. I love this thing. This is the reason my children dance where they do. Because I like kind people (the other type of people are scary) and I want my kids to learn. Winning is nice, and they do that a lot, too. But kindness and learning are the best. They are, like, my favorite things. Yay, dance studio!

Anarchist and Dictator after a day of learning
and (hopefully) being kind.

5) The Anarchist has found something she loves. The child loves to dance. She is ecstatic when she comes off stage. She asks for more dances. She hates breaks between classes because she would rather be dancing. I am excited for her, because that's what it's all about, after all.

6) The Dictator has learned to take, and apply criticism. "What was your favorite part of what I did?" she'll ask. But she'll also ask, "What part can I work on?" And then she will practice. This is brand new. The Dictator used to think that she was perfect. She used to refuse to work. This development is so exciting. It means she will grow into a functional adult. It also means that she will do her darndest to keep her hands on her hips during her tap dance. Hooray!

7) All the kids were troopers. They were very sick troopers. At the last competition, most of them had what we have affectionately dubbed "The Dance Studio Plague." The dressing room was a scene of absolute misery. The Anarchist came down with a fever right before she was supposed to go onstage. All of the poor wretched children were dropping like flies. Except they didn't drop. They got on stage, smiled giant, sparkling smiles, and danced their hearts out. There's no way I would have done that. If it had been me, I would have collapsed dramatically on the floor and moaned loudly. The Anarchist did that, but then she also did the smiley stage thing. It was so amazing. They are all much stronger people than I will ever be.

The Anarchist was a
very dramatic trooper.

8) Speaking of me, let's discuss how I didn't forget anything. Not a thing. We had all the tights, all the shoes, all the pins, all the eyelashes, all of the sparkly costume pieces. Everything. I'm very impressive. I'm very proud of myself. I want a titanium medal, or whatever.

So yeah. The kids got some trophies and medals and things. There were ribbons and awards. We clapped and cheered. But I wasn't clapping for the medals and trophies. I was clapping for my kids. I was clapping for who they're becoming: hardworking, disciplined, thoughtful, considerate, passionate, delightful, growing, maturing people. And of course, I was clapping for myself, too. Because, honestly, what greater accomplishment is there than to remember to pack all of the things? None. Absolutely none.*

The Dictator with some medals, or whatever.
The real accomplishment here is that she has
the correct hair piece, and  both fake eyelashes.
I am the best dance mom in the universe.

*Wait. There is one greater accomplishment. The Bureaucrat somehow just inherently knows that it isn't okay to say "shake it" and "bring it home to daddy" to his offspring. I feel like that's huge. But I'm going to go ahead and refrain from calling him a flawless miracle. Because I wouldn't want him to become a narcissist.

Poor-ish-ness (In which I talk about money like some tacky, uncouth beggar)

"Ugh. I HATE being poor!" moans the Anarchist on the way home from dance. According to her, we are the only family who cannot afford to purchase the totally optional sparkly rhinestoned t-shirts with the studio logo, and she's feeling left out.*

 "Why do we always have to be so poor? We are the poor ones every time!"

I take a deep breath. I know the feeling. I pretty much constantly have that feeling. I am forever the only mom saying "no" to simple things because we can't afford them. Every once in a while is no big deal. But every single time is a bit taxing. But I also know that, in reality, it's all about context. So then I say a thing that makes me feel like Supermom.

The Anarchist with her (only!) two American Girl
dolls.  Note the third doll is a relic from my
privileged childhood. Note that it is dressed in rags.
You can go ahead and blame my desire to analyze
Hindu ritual for that one.

"Anarchist, we aren't poor at all. No, really, we aren't. We have food to eat every single day. We have a house that has running water and electricity. You can take dance classes, get birthday presents, go out for Slurpees sometimes, have lots of clothes to choose from every morning, and can have an allowance. It's just that we spend time around people who have a lot more money than we do. So it seems sometimes like we are poor. But we aren't. If we were poor, we wouldn't have all the thing I just talked about. So even if we can't go on lots of fancy vacations or have sparkly t-shirts every time they are available, it doesn't mean we are poor. We just have to be careful about how we spend money. But we should really try to appreciate all of the things we do have without worrying about other people having more."

This is hard for her. The Anarchist is all about fairness. Fairness is her thing. But I just said a Supermom thing, and Supermom things are hard to dispute. I glow for a few minutes as a result.

But here is the problem. This is hard for me, too. And so really, after glowing, I go into a terrible downward spiral of self-loathing, envy, and shame. I feel inadequate because I can't provide Disney cruises and sparkly things for my children. I feel terrible because they have maxed out at two American Girl dolls apiece, and those were the result of a large group effort on the part of our families. I avoid carpools because our cars are falling apart and rickety. I become enraged when they need school supplies or field trip money on short notice because sometimes I simply cannot give it.

And I feel like I have exactly no excuse for this. I had potential. I was a smart kid who did well in school. I came from a middle class family and I went to college. Theoretically, I should have a nice house in the suburbs, a stable career where I sit at a desk all day and drink coffee, a leased family vehicle that doesn't have chunks of metal falling off the side, and the ability to pay for extracurricular activities without driving myself into bankruptcy. But I don't. I was an English major. It seemed really cute and intellectually rebellious at the time. I was a very smug and proud-of-myself 19 year old. And now my poor kids are paying for it

This afternoon I tried to explain to the Anarchist that she couldn't have her allowance money until Friday because it simply wouldn't exist until Friday. I owe her $5, but until I get my paycheck, it's not happening. She was enraged. "Well, then GET the money!" she said. She sounded like a seedy landlord, or maybe some sort of mobster. I didn't blame her. After all, she's being denied what was promised to her because Mommy just had to spend that semester really enjoying the heck out of Poststructuralism.

And then I feel guilty for feeling like it's hard. "For Pete's sake, you greedy jerk!" I'll tell myself, "You're worried about money for dance competitions like the world is ending, and there are people who are literally starving! You are for real the worst person I can think of!"

This is probably true. But for whatever reason, saying it doesn't help.

I've tried surrounding myself with other poor-ish people like myself. Friends who had kids early, bought houses at the wrong time, ran up credit cards trying to scrape by, and entered the career markets with the wrong degrees in the wrong year, like we did. These friends help me to feel not as alone. But for some reason, I am even more depressed when I leave them. This is probably because our conversations lead to the inevitable conclusion that there is no hope. We will all be working full time, and we will all be doing worse than our parents. If our kids have nice childhoods, they will not be able to go to college. If we save any amount of money for college, they will be miserable and deprived for the 18 years leading up to college. And then they will probably want to go to college and spend four years reading Edith Wharton and not making money...because that's probably genetic.

So what is a not-at-all poor, but relatively poor-ish mom to do? How do I explain to my kids that we have more than plenty, while simultaneously denying them 90% of what their friends have? The Bureaucrat suggests moving far, far away from the yuppieland in which we reside. That, or winning the lottery. I'm more a fan of viewing Living Simply as a spiritual practice, and then failing to view
it as a spiritual practice, and then becoming depressed because I suck at being all austere and whatnot, and then spending money I don't have to buy bagels and donuts and entire loaves of cheese bread to ease the pain of my depression. That method has been my go-to for the past several years. Why stop now?

And really, I just need to suck it up. Like I told the Anarchist, we are not poor. We are just not wealthy. We are not suffering. We just don't have the ability to take multiple vacations per year. I mean really, I'm just an entitled Millenial who's disappointed that being my own, unique, individual, Jane Austen-loving snowflake didn't lead to fame and fortune.** And I need to get over it. And so do my kids.

In the meantime, I think that the Bureaucrat might be on to something with this lottery nonsense. After all, there's a high probability of winning, right? And I know a lot about probability because I spent a lot of time studying statistics in college.

Oh. Wait. Nope. Nope.

I spent a lot of time studying the negative theology of female mystic poets across religious traditions.

Of course I did.

Better go buy those lottery tickets.

* I am well aware of how super-tacky it supposedly is to talk about money in polite company. But I feel like this is a rule that rich people made up so that they wouldn't have to hear me whine. Plus, this is not "polite company." This is a blog. I'm not wearing pearls, or readily distinguishing between a salad fork and a dessert fork, or anything. So I think we're cool.

** Speaking of Jane Austen, I think that a more apt description than "entitled Millenial" might be "that character from a Jane Austen novel who complains about being the poor relation, but really only has a few fancy Edwardian dresses instead of many, and needs to stop whining, because at least she's not the scullery maid!" I like that better.

What I Learned at the Museum

I haven't chaperoned an elementary school field trip in years, mostly because I am not one of those go-getter parents who gets their "I WANT TO BE A CHAPERONE ON EVERY SINGLE TRIP OR I WILL DIE" forms turned in the minute there is a the mere hint of a field trip in the air. See, most of my kids' teachers take chaperones on a "first come first serve" basis, and there are literal death-matches to determine who goes. As a lowly barista, I am not able to ascertain my schedule for the day of the field trip for at least an entire 24 hours after the field trip forms have been distributed. It's not that I'm not brave enough to participate in a tooth-and-nail fight to the death for a spot on a smelly school bus, it's that I'm not priveleged enough to be able to participate in such a glorious battle. As such, I've grown isolated from my fellow fourth-grade families. I had assumed they were mostly like my family.

On the bus with the
(apparently naive) Dictator.

But as it turns out, I had no idea what those people have been up to.

However today, having won the school chaperone lottery, I was allowed to accompany the Dictator and all of her friends on one of these highly coveted trips. It was quite the experience.

I learned a lot at the Charles H. Wright Museum of African American History today, most of which has woefully little to do with African American history, and a lot more to do with the very fascinating lives of fourth graders.

• Most of my daughter's classmates are well-versed in horror movies. I'm not talking an accidental peek here or there of a monster movie, or even sneaking in a scary movie when the babysitter is over. These kids are full-blown horror movie aficionados. Our lunch conversation consisted of in-depth discussions of the plots of Paranormal Activity and Annabelle, with every sweet-looking little girl chiming in...every sweet little girl except the Dictator. Because she's nine. And ohmyword. And I value my sleep, which is hard to get with terrified little girls clinging to your face because they now associate dolls with demons. And because she's nine. 
• Most of my daughter's classmates have also seen Bambi, and do not understand why she has never seen it. "It's tragic!!" is my impassioned response. "So?" they say, "It's not like it's going to hurt her." Maybe not, but it will for absolutely certain hurt me. You're talking to the lady that fled the theater as a young child when stupid Feivel the mouse was separated from his stupid tragic mouse family on his way to the New World. Because no one should have to sit through sad animals. No one.
• All of the kids know all of the explicit lyrics to all of the songs ever. All of the kids. Even my Dictator. I'm sure of it, though I've never heard her utter them in front of me. And she won't belt them at the top of her lungs on the bus during a school trip, either. But her classmates will. Loudly. So loudly. 
• Inappropriate songs are still vastly preferable to hearing Let it Go even one more time, ever. They tried singing that one, too. I wanted the inappropriate ones back immediately.
• All of the kids are apparently lushes. There was a mock-up of a bar at the museum. The kids flooded in and sat down at the counter. They then commenced ordering their drinks "straight up" and "on the rocks." They called for "another round" and marveled how much cheaper scotch was back then. For real. These little people were more comfortable ordering in a bar than I am. Yikes.
• Most children are really, really well-versed in geography. They knew about Kilimanjaro, that the Nile was the longest river in Africa, the location of Timbuktu, and all that brainy nonsense, answering the tour guide's geography-related questions like they read atlases for fun or something. The Dictator is an absolute expert in the geography of her words in Minecraft, but in real life, not so much. I think that she knows that she lives in a state that is shaped like a mitten and is called Michigan, but I could be wrong. 
• Speaking of Minecraft, while most of the children really seem to love that game, the Dictator is widely recognized as the class Minecraft expert. Friends turn to her for advice, instructions, and overall nuggets of Minecraft-related wisdom. She has started to sit cross-legged in a cave at the top of a mountain like some sort of sage wiseperson or something. When I asked her the meaning of Minecraft, she hit me on the head with a pixellated staff and muttered a koan. We really need to cut back on her screen time.
• Except that, "every other kid in the whole school gets to play video games on weekdays!" This was confirmed by every other kid at our whole table, which I admit is a decent sample of the whole school community. The Dictator's parents are such jerks. Such awful, awful jerks.
• Speaking of jerks, even though terrifying horror movie discussions and explicit song lyrics are totally okay, it is still not acceptable for the children to say "jerk" at school. Seems inconsistent.
• Chivalry is still a thing. Both the tour guide and the Dictator's teacher insisted that the boys allow the girls to enter rooms first and whatnot. I was absolutely dumbfounded. Why? What did the boys do wrong that they had to slink to the back of the group just because? Are they there to guard all of those weak little girls against sneaky attack-ninjas? Are they aware that most of those girls are twice the size of most of the boys? Do they think this is somehow a corrective for years and years of not getting to vote? "Sorry you don't get paid what you are worth, and that society is pretty much structured to your detriment, and that you are constantly being objectified, but here, we'll let you go into this room first. Hope there aren't any demon-possessed dolls or tragic mice inside! Good luck!" Yeah. Not a fan of chivalry. But then, I'm a total jerk.
• In spite of being a video-game-restricting, chivalry-shunning jerk, I am considered "one of the nice parents" for no apparent reasons. All of the parents seemed nice. All of the parents were about equally permissive. None of the parents beat, insulted, or otherwise tormented the students. Maybe the kids just liked my super-flashy smile.
• The kids are really good people. And they are super-funny. And even if they sing too loudly, and are allowed to watch horrific movies, and know unnatural amounts about geography,and open the doors for girls, I think that this next generation is going to be all right.

Little La and Aunty Me

The Pretty One and I were supposed to have our children at almost exactly the same time. I mean, we weren't planning on going into labor within minutes of each other, expertly coordinating the the breaking of water and cutting of umbilical cords. That would be so, so creepy. And The Pretty One and I are not creepy (in that way). But we had big plans to have kids around the same age at the same time. To practice living out this very well-coordinated future, we employed our very favorite baby dolls, Carie (yes, don't challenge the spelling, five year old Me doesn't care how it's supposed to be spelled) and La. Yes. La. (Now, don't you feel bad for making fun of my doll's name's spelling, when the Pretty One over here named her precious plastic offspring La?) I know. But she was a toddler. And the box the doll came in was labeled "La Bebe." Very French. Also, the Pretty One had a goldfish named Chuck E. Cheese, presumably because themed pizza/gaming joints were on her mind at the time. I think we can all see what kind of naming style the Pretty One has.

The Dictator, Aunty Pretty One and Me...but where oh where is La?

Anyway, Carie-with-one-R and La spent every waking minute of their baby/toddlerhoods together. Aunty Pretty One and Aunty Me took turns running the show, playing both ideal mother and indulgent aunt with deftness and grace, because we are amazing. And because our children were made of plastic. And because, in the case of The Pretty One, the child's eyes were stuck permanently closed, rendering her even more docile than the sometimes-wakeful Carie.

The Dictator and Anarchist ADORE their
Aunty Pretty One

Not that we didn't face our share of parenting challenges. Both Carie and La suffered from a rare allergy to everything but Applebits.* I know. You can't even begin to understand our struggles. But we were strong. And we had each other. Such a brilliant support network of sisters, aunts, mothers, rolled into one, feeding plastic beaded Applebits to our sightless plastic offspring with unlimited optimism and poise. I never once imagined being a parent without The Pretty One pushing a stroller at my side, my delightful hyper-allergic niece or nephew reaching into my little imp's stroller, cooing its love for its Aunty Me.

But, as we all know, grown-up life is not what we imagine in our youth. I don't know too many Ballerina-Princess-Firefighter-Doctor-Millionaires with flying ponies and a herd of well-trained kittens. Or, as young Me imagined, Female-priest/Supermom/Author/Musician/Eccentric College Professor/Woodland Cottage Dwellers with rooms full of books and a herd of well-trained llamas. It turns out certain life events happen when the time is right, whether we plan on them or not. And sometimes that means doing things without our sisters. Like having beautiful, surprising children before we've even had time to break the glass ceiling/get ordained/author life-changing literature/get a PhD and buy all those llamas. Sometimes lovely Dictators come into the world before their Aunts are ready to have beautiful babies of their own.

And so the plans were a little altered, the timing shifted a little, but some things were as we foresaw them. Some things were just a given. Although she was not made out of plastic, my Dictator was born allergic to almost everything, and, blessedly, with her eyes wide open. And the Pretty One was a fantastic Aunt, even if she did completely terrify herself by dropping a TV remote on the days-old Dictator's head. And then she was a fantastic aunt to my not-plastic Anarchist (born with her preemie eyes clamped shut).

But now I want my turn. I want to see The Pretty One be the lovely mommy I know she will be. And I want to be the indulgent Aunty Me that hands the baby back at the end of a visit, secure in the fact that I will not be the one waking up 87 times to feed it. I'm getting anxious. I want to meet real-life La Bebe.

And guess what? I'm going to super-super-soon! THE PRETTY ONE IS HAVING A BABY! I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNT!

The Pretty One is going to be, like, the bestest mommy EVER!

You guys, I'm going to be so good at this thing! It might not conform to our idyllic childhood dream of force-feeding plastic beads to oddly named, strangely well-behaved children who happen to be exactly the same age, but I think it's going to work out okay. Like, I will buy that kid all the sugary things. All of them. And I will watch it and let it stay up super-disgustingly late. And I will tell it to challenge authority. And I will probably even let the Anarchist babysit that thing! That will be one heck of an exciting social experiment. Because I have a feeling that The Pretty One is going to be such a fantastic parent, that this kid will need a dose of imperfect reality...and I am SO going to be that dose. Yippee!

Also, I get to revel in The Pretty One hopefully having a baby just like The Pretty One. Hopefully, the Pretty One's baby will take off its diaper and paint itself and its designer nursery with the contents. Hopefully. Hopefully it will scream its adorable little head off the vast majority of the time, and just at the last minute (before someone chucks it out a window), it will open its gigantic adorable eyes and melt every single heart in the room. Hopefully. Hopefully it will refuse to be held for a single split second...unless then the garbage truck is near, and then hopefully it will fling its terrified little self into the waiting arms of its loving mommy or daddy and refuse to leave until that stupid loud monster is gone. Hopefully. Hopefully, it will writhe its way out of every stroller and every high chair, and hopefully it will eat hard crushed candy off the filthy mall floor and dirt out of the garden, and convince its sibling(s) to eat Play-Doh and forbidden cookies. Hopefully.

The baby Pretty One was such a trip! Here's hoping her little
person will give her as much fun as she gave her family...

And hopefully it will be as sweet, and feisty, and charming, and full of life as its beautiful Mommy and wonderful Daddy. And most of all, more than anything, regardless of its gender or looks, I hope beyond all hopes that she will name the child La. Because that is what I will call it, both here and in real life. So she might as well go ahead and make it legal.

Because, while The Pretty One is the one of us more attached to tradition and sentiment, I can be stubborn and sentimental, too. And there are certain childhood dreams that I refuse to let die.

So, welcome, little niece/nephew La! Your Aunty Me loves you to pieces already. And she even promises not to drop a TV remote on your head. Hopefully.




*Applebits are small, colorful, plastic beads, ideal for doll allergies.