That YouTube Family and Me

Oh no. My kids have a few days off of school. Which means they are going to want to entertain themselves, not with the entire room full of toys they have upstairs, not with their creativity and their brilliant brains. No. They are going to want to watch YouTube videos. The Anarchist, in particular, is already itching to watch her particular favorite kind of YouTube video, the family vlog. These families are wholesome, adorable, happy, and well-off. The Anarchist has begged multiple times for me to let her join one of these YouTube families. At this rate, I am losing my patience, and am about two seconds away from taking her up on her offer. Then, at least, I would not be subjected to watching video after video of each and every detail of their super-great lives.

Why that YouTube Family is better than us:

Adorable. Wholesome.
Prayerful. Sweet.

They are just so CUTE!
Fair enough. We are not that cute. I mean, the kids USED to be cute, but they are no longer chubby-cheeked cherubs like the four, yes FOUR kids under eight in this ridiculously precious family. We just can't compete on the cute level.

They have a toddler.
The toddler has the world's sweetest voice. The toddler says the world's cutest things. We don't have a toddler. We have two whiny tweens and a cat who meows like she's whining. YouTube family for the win!

They say prayers all the time.
I do, too, thank you very much. I say, "Please God help me not toss my whining children out the window. Please, God, let me not die of exhaustion." I just say these things quietly, instead of loudly in front of a camera. I am secretly pious. Or secretly whiny at the Eternal Creator. Whatever.

They dress up for church.
Never mind that the one time I tried to get my kids to put on pants without holes for church the raging fit that ensued could be heard around the neighborhood, my children are apparently jealous of this family dressed in their Sunday best. The Dictator hasn't worn a skirt or dress in a year (except as a costume), but apparently she would don a frilly dress and patent leather shoes if they would just let her be a part of YouTube family. Or maybe my kids just wish I would curl my hair and put on a tank top for modesty under my already-modest v-neck dress. Not gonna happen, kiddos.

Their mom always has a sweet voice.
Yes, yes, the voices again. Maybe my kids don't remember, but if you go back and listen to all the recordings I made of myself with my children when they were tiny, my voice was sweet and kind, too. Because of the camera. I bet this lady groans and sighs and uses exasperated tones the minute she turns off that record button. At least I hope she does.

They make their own food.
Hey! So do we! I make food! I DO! Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean it isn't food, beloved offspring. Oh, they bake bread, do they? I used to do that too...when I didn't work. (Full disclosure: I was terrible at baking bread, which is why all of our "fresh baked bread" now comes from a can. Yes. We are a canned bread family. No one is perfect...except YouTube family).

When the kids hit each other, mom still uses her sweet voice, and the only bad thing that happens is that they get to kiss each other.
Which is exactly how it works in real life, right? You get into a bar fight and law enforcement shows up and uses their sweetest voices to ask you nicely to "hug it out," right? These kids are going to be so shell-shocked the first time they commit assault as adults (they're totally going to commit assault as adults, I can just feel it).

They live in tornado alley, but it's okay, because they have a TV in their finished basement.
My kids hear about a tornado happening a bajillion miles away in Topeka, and they are trembling in terror and weeping for the lives they have already assumed they have lost. But they would go live in this family and endure seventeen tornadoes a day, because this family is cute! And their basement is so fancy! And there's a TV down there! And their mom is using her sweet voice! And they are praying such nice things, so loudly!

They are so creative. Like, they do projects all of the time!
Yes, it seems that YouTube mom is one of those mythical homeschooling moms. I still don't know how anyone can do it, but props to those of you with enough patience to try. So, the projects are part of their schooling. I tried to explain to my kids that they are probably only taping the really fun projects, and that probably they usually just do lame math and handwriting worksheets. I also tried reminding them that when I try to get them to do creative projects, they just roll their eyes at me and turn on YouTube. They do not seem to care. They seem to genuinely want to join this family as they glue things to other things, even though they never want to glue anything to anything at our house. Sigh...

They do service projects for the community.
The last time I tried to get my kids to do a service project, the Dictator rolled her eyes, and huffed, and hid, and the Anarchist tried to eat snacks instead of helping, so I'm not sure why they think it would be different with this family...oh...because YouTube family's service project involved playing with Legos...and it was filmed for YouTube.

And I'm willing to bet this is what it all actually boils down to. My kids just want a family that films its every move for the YouTube viewing public. They would be willing to clean, bake, glue stuff, dress up, pray, and help their community, as long as it was being taped and broadcast. Maybe we would all be better people if we knew that random families were constantly watching us. Maybe we would pray more. Maybe I would use my sweet voice. Maybe we would acquire a precocious toddler to say adorable things at us. Maybe no tornado would dare approach our immaculate basement. Maybe we would all laugh when my kids got into all-out brawls. Maybe I would curl my hair for church. You know what? Never mind. Nothing is worth curling my hair over. Not even internet fame. Sorry kids.

The Anarchist and the Dictator Go to the Doctor, and I Die of Embarrassment

We took the whole day off for dental/doctor appointments yesterday. The Dictator was despondent most of the day, because she knew she was getting a flu shot, and her pain tolerance is pretty much zero. The Anarchist was giddy for most of the day because going to the doctor's means a captive audience, which for the Anarchist is very best thing.

Aww...look how wholesome, and normal,
and NOT embarrassing they look! Looks
can be deceiving.

 THE DENTIST APPOINTMENT

The dentist appointment was fine, except that I maybe broke their Keurig machine and didn't tell them. Also, some kid who looked like he could be one of the college students I work with came trotting out of the back yelling, "Molly? Molly?"

Me: Yes?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Hey! Um...so one of your kids. Uh...there are two of them, so I get confused...uh...the Dictator. You know her chipped tooth?
Me: Um...no?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Yeah. You know. The bottom tooth that's all grey and chipped?
Me: I...uh...don't look into her mouth ever. Mouths are gross.
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid (whispering conspiratorially): Ha! Well, the chipped tooth came out in shards and I had to extract each shard separately. I didn't charge you, though.
Me (wondering if Twelve Year Old Dental Kid pulled one over on his dental superiors and if he might get fired for not charging for a shard extraction): Uh...thanks. We appreciate it.

[Twelve Year Old Dental Kid skips away...probably to play video games or whatever boys that age do]

You guys. I found out from my kids afterward that there was no way Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was going to get in trouble from the grown ups in the office. Because here's the thing...Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was not a hygienist. He was not a tech. Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was the DENTIST. He has already been through dental school. He is the Doogie Howser of teeth, probably. (Please help me, I'm getting old. This is what aging feels like, isn't it?)

The Doctor's Appointment

To set the scene, imagine me holding 17 coats (okay, three coats, but they were puffy), the Dictator in the fetal position next to me, glaring at the Doctor, and the Anarchist on the Doctor's stool, spinning ceaselessly. Then imagine the Dictator intermittently getting up to practice pirouettes and pique turns, then sitting down when she realized she was supposed to be angry.

The Fat Assassin has issues.

Doc: How is everyone?
Dictator: [lifts head and glares]
Anarchist: GOOD! Except the Dictator never plays with me and our cat is mean!

Doc: So, Anarchist, who lives in your house with you?
Anarchist: My mom, dad, sister, and the cat.
Dictator (under her breath): You mean the murder kitten?
Doc: And how is everyone getting along?
Anarchist: Everyone is getting along great. Except the cat. She has issues.

Doc: Who's going first?
Dictator (snarling): I'm going never.
Anarchist: I WILL! Because I'm braver than the Dictator. Also, she never plays with me.
Doc: So, are you ready for a hearing exam?
Anarchist: Oh my GOSH! I LOVE those things! A hearing exam is how I got my glasses!

Doc: Do you take vitamins?
Anarchist: Yeah. When my parents remember to buy them for me. Dictator doesn't though, because they NEVER remember to buy her kind.
Doc: [raises eyebrows at me]
Me: [sinks into puffy coat pile]

Doc: Do you guys drink pop?
Me: (furiously pantomiming to children that they must answer "no" because don't they remember last time?)
Kids (joyfully and emphatically): YES!
Doc: About how often?
Me: Well, usually only about once a month...
Kids (drowning me out with their enthusiasm): ALL OF THE TIME!

Doc: Anarchist, hop up on the table.
Anarchist: Why? Are you going to check all my cat bites?
Doc: Your what?!?!
Anarchist: What are you going to check?
Doc: What do I usually check?
Anarchist: My butt?
Doc: Uh...your ears and nose and throat?
Anarchist: And my cat bites?
Doc: Do you ever take the cat to the vet, Anarchist?
Me (apologetically): Well, it's been a while...a lot longer than it should have been. We actually need to do that...
Anarchist: NEVER! We NEVER take her! And she's still alive! Maybe that's why she bites me...
Me (hiding in the coat pile): Well, I mean she's an indoor cat, so...
Anarchist: When she dies we can get a puppy! A puppy will play with me, because the Dictator sure won't.

Doc: Anarchist, how are your bowel movements?
Anarchist: Do you mean POOP?! [proceeds to detail every bowel movement from the past several weeks in detail, with sound effects, song, and alarmingly specific descriptions...this conversation lasts close to 5 minutes, and can most likely be heard from the lobby...of the neighboring building]

This one can make
up lyrically impressive
songs about feces
on the spot.

Doc: Dictator, how much sleep do you get?
Me: Well, she goes to bed at 9, but she reads, so it's probably later. We try, though...
Anarchist: THE DICTATOR STAYS AWAKE UNTIL ALMOST MIDNIGHT EVERY NIGHT! I SEE HER!
Me (defensively, reasonably, with great fear of being judged): It's probably not quite midnight, Anarchist. I'm sure she...
Anarchist (butting in): It IS! I check the clock! But I sleep in, so it's fine.
Doc: Dictator, you need to get more sleep.
Dictator [very seriously, while crashing into the wall mid-pirouette]: I can't. I have to read.
Doc: Well, maybe read for a shorter period of time.
Dictator (leaping/crashing into the counter): If I did that, how could I possibly finish reading everything there is to read? Be reasonable.

Doc: Dictator, how's school?
Dictator: Boring.
Doc: Really? What kind of grades do you get?
Dictator: All A's
Doc: So what's your favorite subject?
Dictator: Science? No...Math? No...uh...none of them. I don't like any of them. I just want to dance all the time.

This one's probably plotting
the untimely demise of
her pediatrician.

Doc: You want to be a dancer when you grow up?
Dictator (appalled): Of course not!
Doc: What do you want to be?
Dictator: Uh, NOT getting a shot?

Flu immunizations enter the room. The Dictator runs to a corner and proceeds to behave like a terrified, trapped animal. The Anarchist sees this, and decides that all of the drama cannot belong to the Dictator. She immediately launches into fake tears and fake trembling, cowering behind me while shrieking and pointing at the nurse. The Dictator is chased around the room. The Anarchist screams as much as possible. Flu immunizations occur. The Anarchist laughs. The Dictator looks betrayed and enraged. She glowers a death glare at the doctor.

Doc: You can hit me if you want, Dictator.
Dictator (because hitting him wouldn't kill him, and she clearly wants him dead): No.
Anarchist (gleefully): I'LL hit 'im for ya! [proceeds to whale on doctor's arm the entire way down the hall to check-out].

All of the nurses at the nurses' station were laughing hysterically at us as we exited. I'm pretty sure the meaning of our existence as a family is to provide entertainment with our crazy antics. We are like the jesters of suburban Michigan. But while I enjoy entertaining people, I think the Bureaucrat gets to take them to their next doctor's appointment. I'll be at the vet with The Fat Assassin (murder kitten)...she's far less embarrassing.

Earwax, the Musical

It is the second week of Christmas break. My kids are bored, loopy, and not getting along. The Anarchist is actually threatening to off herself/others less than usual, which is a positive for sure, but the amount of squealing and thrashing in my home has increased to epic levels. My nerves are shot. I want to go home. Oh wait, this is home. So when the Anarchist begged the Dictator to play with her for the thirty-thousandth time, the Dictator answered with an emphatic "no," and the Anarchist looked like she might die of sorrow, the Bureaucrat and I lost our minds and made a desperate suggestion.

Bureaucrat: "Why don't you guys put on a play with your dolls together?"

Dictator: "Oh yeah! We never showed you guys the Belly Button Lint Show! We could do THAT show for you!"

Bureaucrat (who won't be around this evening, and is clearly a total jerk): "That's a GREAT idea!"

Anarchist (singing, to the tune of "Do You Want to Build a Snowman"): "Do you want to build a LINT MAN??"

Dictator: "Wait. I remember performing that for them already."

Anarchist (crestfallen): "Oh. Yeah."

Dictator: "Well, I guess we can't play together, after all."

[At this point, the Anarchist looks like she's about to fling her plate across the table and start shrieking like a monkey, which is a thing that can actually happen in our family at dinnertime.]

Me (really desperate, now): "Uh...what about a sequel? A sequel to the Belly Button Lint Show. What about...uh..."Earwax?"  Uh..."Earwax, the Musical?"

Anarchist and Dictator (in unison, and harmony, and peace forever): "YES!!! Earwax, the Musical! It's gonna be all improv...'cause no one wants to deal with reading scripts."

Guys, I brought this on myself. I know I did. But please help me share the load. It's too much for one woman. I need a village. A village to watch Earwax, the Musical with me. Please take your seats, silence your electronic devices, and refrain from eating in the theater (it really distracts the plastic actors). The show is about to begin.

The Cast L-R: Dictator, Responsible Doll, Phoebe the Earwax victim,
Anarchist Jr. the wounded, Anarchist. This is before the onstage nudity.
Onstage nudity is totally okay, because it's for the sake of art, and we are
all about that in our super-classy family.

Oh geez, guys. There's a curtain.

The curtain is the Dictator standing behind a fleece Unicorn blanket. The curtain is undulating.

From behind the curtain, the Anarchist emerges to introduce the show, and reveal some unpleasant information (while jumping up and down without ceasing):

"Hello, and welcome to our show, Earwax, the Musical."  Hang in there, because it might be a pretty darned long one!"  


(Oh, lord, I am doomed.)

ACT I

The curtain does a little pirouette and then struts away. A handful of dolls emerge from a pile behind the Bureaucrat's chair. One, who I assume is the lead character, is covered in bandages and casts, and limps out on crutches is flung onto the stage next to some crutches. All of the characters launch into a song and dance routine song and bouncing up and down routine which contains the opening (and, I fear, ONLY) musical number.

"Phoebe has a lot of medical problems from pee to belly button lint. Phoebe has a lot of medical problems, and we don't know what to do about IT! [dramatic tempo change] Phoebe has medical prob-LEMS. We never know what it could be. Phoebe has medical PROB-lems. And now she's really gotta pee!!!!"

The song continues on for quite some time, and considering its unscripted nature, it is actually decently in unison. More bodily functions and maladies are listed, and there is a lot of bouncing.

Then, a doll (the American Girl knock-off with the feral-cave-woman dreadlocks, who is usually relegated to playing the bad guy) in a white dress collapses, and the other dolls crowd around her obviously concerned. She begins thrashing. The other dolls act startled.

DOLLS, in unison: Oh no, Phoebe! Are you okay?

"Wait, who's she?" I ask. I thought Phoebe was the totally-wounded looking doll.

"It's Phoebe. Duh!" my kids reply, totally breaking character.

"Then who's the doll with all the broken bones and bandages?"

"That's Anarchist Jr. She just likes to break body parts to get attention, but she's not important in this show."

ANARCHIST JR., melodramatically: OHHHH! MY LEG IS KILLING ME! CAN I SIT DOWN?

An exam is ordered for Phoebe (the doll on the floor, not the doll in the casts). An exam that requires doll-nudity. This poor doll always has to get naked. Good thing she has crazy dreadlocks with which to cover herself.

The next scene is basically stage directions spoken aloud. Poop and pee samples are taken into a party hat. A fight breaks out over who gets to take the earwax sample. Anarchist Jr. talks incessantly about how much her broken body parts hurt. The scene fades with everyone talking distractedly, while the naked earwax-having crazy doll continues to thrash around on the ground.

ACT II

Scene I

The scene opens as some doll or other manages to extract a bloody, yes bloody ear wax sample from the unfortunate Phoebe. Then, in a moment of supernatural majesty, four aging Cabbage Patch dolls sporting tiaras and wands emerge from Phoebe's ear are tossed haphazardly onto the stage.

EARWAX SISTERS (singing-ish): We are Millie, Maggie, Michelle, and Maddie and we are the Earwax Sisters! Oh, we are your earwax, yes, we are your earwax, oh we are your earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax...repeat, ad nauseum.

(Okay. So I lied. There was kind of another musical number. But really, this was more like bad Gregorian chant sung by gross Muppets. It doesn't really count.)

At this point, one of the sisters, whose names the Anarchist and Dictator had obviously forgotten (I reminded them, as I had been taking copious notes to keep my sanity), spoke.

MILLIE, OR WHOEVER: "Hey Phoebe. We've been livin' in your ear since you were two years old. Hee hee hee. WE SNEAKY!" 

OTHER, RESPONSIBLE SOUNDING DOLL (i.e., one belonging to the Dictator): Can you guys please go back into her ear?

MAGGIE, OR WHOEVER: Okay! G'BYE Chicky Poos!

PHOEBE (overwhelmed, by the singing ear wax, or her hair, or something): Can I put my clothes back on now?

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: No. We need to obtain further information.

ANARCHIST JR.: Can I sit down? My legs are killing me!

At this point, there is some sort of twinkly-ish sound effect, as yet another doll is lowered in from above the Bureaucrat's chair. We are told that she is Joy the Fairy. Just to drive the point home, She announces herself as well.

JOY THE FAIRY, who is clearly mildly insane: I am Joy the Fairy. I will give you answers. 

The other characters turn to her, expectantly. Earwax mysteries are a big deal.

JOY THE FAIRY: You will need to go to the doctor for answers, because I don't actually contain any answers. 

Oh, thanks a lot, Joy. Fat lot of good you turned out to be. Luckily an elderly doll (we are told this fact by an omniscient offstage voice) enters the scene. Her name is Doctor Brown. She has a strange, elderly person accent, rendering about half of her dialogue unintelligible. 

DOCTOR BROWN: I believe you have a severe case of the...

OTHER DOLLS (frantically): Please leave! Please leave! Please leave! It's not a good time!

(First they send the ear wax back into her ear, then they reject any attempt at a diagnosis. I'm starting to believe these other dolls don't really want  to see Phoebe cured. Jerks.)

DOCTOR BROWN: ...a severe case of the Earwax Family!

Offstage Omniscient Voice: "No, Anarchist! They're not family, they're just sisters!" 

DOCTOR BROWN: Oh yeah. Okay. Earwax Sisters. Anyway, get to an ER right now.

OTHER DOLLS: We don't have enough money to go to the ER, stupid!

These dolls must have our insurance.

DOCTOR BROWN: Here. Take all the money I have. But only spend it on the ER.

OTHER DOLLS: Okay!

ACT III

The Mall
An End Table by the Couch

DOLLS: Doctor Brown just gave us two million dollars. She won't even notice if half of it is missing. Let's go to the mall!

The aftermath of the mall trip. No one bothered
to buy Phoebe any clothes, but at least she got
a noisemaker.

The dolls proceed to "shop," decking themselves out in leis, party hats, and old New Year's noisemakers that they purchase with their ill-gotten gains.

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: We're just gonna deprive her of all her money, because that's what we do.

JOY THE FAIRY (entering noisily and without her headpiece): You need to go to the MOUNTAIN. NOW!!! You must find the TREE! FIND THE TREE! (And I need to find my headband), but you guys should FIND THE TREE!

Her voice makes me want to stab my ears out, but I sit politely, because these are my precious children.

The Anarchist and the Dictator become a flurry of activity. It appears the scene is shifting. When they settle again. Joy the Fairy is decked out in all green, and is perched atop a foot stool.

The other characters ask her where they can find the tree.

Joy smiles mysteriously and then reveals the truth.

She's the tree.

Joy's flippin' insane.

Joy the Fairy is a tree. Joy the Fairy is nuts.

ACT III

A Vomitorium?

This whole scene can be summed up in three lines. 

JOY THE FAIRY: Do you guys want answers? Then you need to barf. That's all you have to do to get answers.

PHOEBE: Who wants to eat the barf? I call the puddle of pink barf!

OTHER DOLLS: Do we all need to eat the barf, or is Phoebe the only one who needs to? To be safe, let's just all eat the barf. 

ANARCHIST JR.: Oh! My legs!

ACT IV

Scene I

A Garden Grove, on a Hillside

A  Battered Footstool

JOY THE FAIRY: I've been stupid all this time. It's time for me to actually tell you what you have to do. Journey for two hours to the forbidden sea and turn left at the unicorns.

You guys. Act III never had to happen. I could have spent the time I was using to cover my eyes and rock back and forth to self-comfort during all those barf scenes to do yoga, or commune with nature, or clean my house play word games on my phone.

Okay, so maybe Act III was really a moment of self-discovery for the dolls. Like, maybe they realized how interrelated their fates are. Or maybe they realized their carnal cravings. Maybe they will grow from here. Maybe Act III was a symbolic turning point! Probably my kids are artists. They are geniuses and this is a masterpiece. It is just too deep for my comprehension.

Anyway, the characters at some point board an invisible submarine. We know this because they mutter things about being on a submarine. Eventually, they find the unicorn.

UNICORN (in dignified tones): Go where I have spit my beautiful barf. There you will find your answers.

Artistic. Geniuses.

Scene II

The Undersea Realm of the Unicorn's Beautiful Barf

My IKEA rocking chair

The dialogue in this scene is mostly unworthy of print. But the plot really picks up here.

First, the characters discover a giant, underwater seal. I don't think that the Anarchist and Dictator had really planned on the discovery of the seal, but the Anarchist's seal just happened to be in the path of where the characters were headed in their search for unicorn barf, and it was just too imposing to ignore.

DOLLS: Oh my gosh! The Giant Seal of Answers. IT will give us answers! 

They proceed to spend a great deal of time discussing how the giant seal might do this. I proceed to spend a great deal of time wondering why they didn't just trust elderly Doctor Brown's diagnosis in the first place. I also spend a great deal of time wondering if it would be rude to get up and get myself a snack. Or maybe two snacks.

EARWAX SISTERS (who have apparently reemerged from Phoebe's ear during this odyssey): We have followed you here to get answers...oh no! The water! It isn't safe for us! We're disintegrating! DISINTEGRATING!

Okay. So my kids ARE geniuses. Joy the Fairy may have been loony as all sin, but she knew what she was up to all along. They needed to undergo this journey together. To sing together, to barf together, to ingest barf together, to search for unicorn barf together. They thought the answers were in these things, and maybe--in an indirect way--they were. The wax that clouded their ability to hear the truth could only dissolve once they had discovered that it wasn't just Phoebe, the dreadlocked pariah, who was sick. The sickness was in all of them. It was only when they underwent the trials of their quest and were plunged into the seal-infested waters of rebirth could they reemerge as self-aware dolls, connected as a community, healthy and whole.

EPILOGUE

Doctor Brown's Office

PHOEBE: Hooray! I'm better!

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: Not so fast. We just underwent a treacherous journey. We need to have you checked by the doctor again to make sure you aren't worse. Take off your clothes.

PHOEBE: Really?!

OTHER DOLLS: DO IT!!!

DOCTOR BROWN: Well, your bloody earwax is gone, but I'm afraid you have endless diarrhea. You will have to keep eating barf until you are better.

PHOEBE (defeated): When will that be?

DOCTOR BROWN: Christmas time.

PHOEBE: But...but...wait! That's a whole year!

Uproarious laughter ensues.

Phoebe is once again the naked, wild-haired social outcast. Order has been restored in the doll kingdom.

The Earwax Sisters return to the stage and sing a rousing reprise of the Earwax song.

Everyone cheers.

ANARCHIST JR. (staggering, dramatically): Owww! My poor broken leg!

The End.

You're Welcome.

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 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.

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 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.

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.