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.

16 Reasons Why I Can't Just Let it Go and Enjoy the Fifth Grade Graduation Ceremony

1. Because I CAN'T SEE. Not just because some unreasonably tall man is sitting in front of me wearing a hat. Not just because I didn't get to the school a full 45 minutes early, and so I had to sit near the back. I can't see because there is a mob of people selfishly standing directly in everyone's line of sight despite repeated requests/demands by so many other parents that they get out of the aisle return to their seats so that people can see their own children graduate.

2. Because this is the mentality that got us the Trump candidacy. It is here. Right in front of me. Manifest in yoga pants and dad jeans that refuse to sit in chairs for the good of humanity.

3. Because I don't want to care that the lady standing directly between me and viewing my precious offspring has absolutely awful underwear lines, but she has put her underwear lines right in front of my eyes.

4. Because I cannot quell the rage seething up from inside, and I might actually murder someone in a second, so maybe it's better if we just addressed this whole awful scenario instead of pretending that no one is being overtly selfish (aisle mob), and that no one else (ahem...me) is being overtly self-righteous.

5. Because the meek shall inherit the earth, but apparently not the photo opportunities at this graduation ceremony, which seems patently unfair and so can't these people who feel like they are the center of the universe get just a little bit smote or something? Puh-leez??

This is how a smug, morally superior person
photographs their child. Poorly. With lots of
parent shoulders in the shot. But no one else's
view was sacrificed for this amazing
photograph. (Dictator is the one in shades...in
the interest of privacy, the other children have
been turned into hamsters).

 6. Because the PTO Facebook page is full of parents fearfully reporting their children almost being run over by other parents at the crosswalk, because these people are actually driving into the crossing guard and young children while they cross the street, because it's not their children crossing the street, so why should they care? Same mentality.

7. Because I'm probably actually a Pharisee and you are breaking the rules.

7.1 (because I fail at counting): Because this is what you get when you promote being "proactive" in a society that already has a problem with acting wisely and considering others and the long-term consequences of actions. You get people "proactively" shoving their way into whatever space they damn well choose, to get the perfect photo of their kids at the expense of the less proactive/more considerate parents. You get that. And a Trump candidacy.

8. Because this song is sad and touching, and the ever-stoic Dictator is fighting back tears as she sings it, which is pretty emotionally intense for the Dictator. I would like to be crying for sentimental reasons, and instead I look up and have to cry for dad-jeans-in-my-face reasons.

9. Because we're all here to celebrate that several hardworking teachers spent years painstakingly teaching our children to share, take turns, think about others, and be polite, and then Yoga Pants, Underwear Lines, Dad Jeans, and Shove-y McGee and their dozen or so friends over here are undermining all those years of hard work in one horrific bad example of how to behave in groups.

10. Because I actually want to believe that most people are inherently good, and you're absolutely ruining that for me.

11. Because it's so lovely up here at the top of Kohlberg's moral pyramid, reflecting on universal principals and my own self-righteous superiority, and I feel it's only fair to drag you up from self-interested level two, where you've currently planted yourselves. Please. Come. Ascend the heights. Join me in the revelry of fretfully over-analyzing every single potential decision for its moral value until we're all paralyzed and inactive together, constantly debating the best  course of action, and never taking a single photo of our kids, because what about the negative consequences of our cameras' flashes for the people around us? Doesn't that sound fun?

12. Because you're better than this.

13. Because I'm pretty agoraphobic, and a dozen mom butts in my face is really not helping.

14. Because both of my parents were music teachers, and I have impeccable concert etiquette, which is pretty transferable to all performance/ceremony situations. One really central part of this etiquette is remaining seated like not-a-jerk for the duration of the performance/ceremony. You are being really bad at that right now. It is causing me physical pain to watch you be this bad at it. I want to help you. I want to teach you. I want to physically force you into your seat and pin you down until you stay put like a good audience member.

15. Because really, though, when we let nonsense like this happen, we create a culture where no one is accountable for the harm they cause others. This is a little thing, but it's the same mentality that leads to the bigger things. Our children are watching. Our children are learning. They are learning to take what they want, without worrying who they are taking it from. They are learning to do what pleases them, without concern for who they are stepping on in the process. They are learning that rules and compassion are for other, "weaker" people. They are learning to bully. They are learning that "winners" push and shove and ignore pleas to stop. They are learning that "losers" are those who follow the rules. They are learning that adults should act like children. They are learning that they are the center of the universe. They are learning 'murica. They are learning a Trump candidacy.

16. Because we're all better than this. So I'm not going to just let it go and enjoy the ceremony. I can't. Because when I let it go, when we all let it go, we forget to remind each other to be human. My kid already walked. I already got my picture. That's not the point. I'm not going to quietly accept that other people can't see their kids. I'm going to keep telling you to sit down. I'm going to keep reminding us that we are human. And I'm going to keep reminding myself to be human, too. Deep breaths. Be decent. Shoving people down like dominos will not grant you the moral high ground. Surrender. Sigh. Hug your kid. Write a blog post.

Look! I got a lovely picture of the Dictator,
and I didn't even harm any ne'er-do-wells
in the process!

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).

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.

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.

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.