33 Things That Don't Suck about the Birthday Princess

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

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

Deep breath. 

Here we go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

12. I am not a serial killer.

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

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

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

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

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

18. Okay, this is getting really hard.

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

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

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

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

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

23. I am not a fascist dictator. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That will bring us back to Do(h!)

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

Apparently, that's the school's job:

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

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

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

The child is six. 

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

So that's what it should be all about.


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

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

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

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

Dance of the Sugarplum Wildebeest

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

I did not do that some day.

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

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

I have an active imagination.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Update (12/5/2014): 

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

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