Sunday, March 25, 2012

Perspectives in Parenting

I would like to relay a conversation that happened in my house today. My daughter and son had gotten into a full-scale war over a toy. It happened to be a fake bottle of ketchup. Why must it be that we have room upon room (in a house with not so many rooms) of toys—fun, brightly colored, expensive, sometimes even educational toys—and the one which my kids decide to go guerrilla over is a fake bottle of ketchup? So I, being of sound mind as long as no one is losing their shit over a BOTTLE OF KETCHUP, took it away. My three-year-old son then came to me, weeping from the depths of his being. And this was what followed.

I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

I know, love.

I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

I know you do.

I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPP!!!

I know sweetie, I'm sorry.

I WANT THE KETCHHHHHHUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!!!!!

I want a Porsche.

......I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUPPPPPP!!!

I want a personal assistant.

.......I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

I want a four hour massage.

........I want the keeeeettttchuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuup.

I want 12 straight hours of sleep.

......

I'm not sure this deep lesson on perspective had any impact on my son's psyche, but he did give up in confusion and leave me alone. AND he forgot all about the plastic ketchup bottle full of air. So I take it as a win.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

I blame Lucky

Lucky Magazine (which, in full disclosure, I receive) is chock full of wack-a-doodle fashion tips that they make sound like good ideas. They'll say, in their oh-so-cool and seemingly fashion-wise way, "Just because it's winter doesn't mean you have to cast aside your favorite shorts. Pair them with a pop of colored tights and a fun sweater and voila! You're an instant fashion maven." I'm making this up, not quoting, but this is exactly how they sound. So in the know. So cool-girl-you-wish-you-were. So there you are, considering it, and then they show you a picture that looks like this:


And you start to think "Woah, that's a little koo-koo. Not so sure anymore." But then they do cute girlfriendy things like drawing arrows toward the tights with a little handwritten note that says "The orangey color really off-sets the drab brown shorts!" Or one towards the bizarre owl-infested jacket with a note that says, "Pair with a funky top for a vintage feel!" And you look again, and yes, on this 6 foot tall, 100-lb woman, perhaps this look is not so bad. Perhaps I, a normal person without 60-inch legs and chiseled cheekbones, perhaps I could pull something like this off. I do believe I will rummage through my closet to find a pair of shorts, colored tights, and a vintage-y sweater. Which is how people end up walking the streets of San Francisco looking like this:


(Thanks to my friend Andrea for capturing this gem.) Mind you, this is not frump, because this person is really trying. And I bet $1,000 that if I were to take a poop in this woman's bathroom, I would find about 17 issues of Lucky Magazine neatly stacked next to the toilet, ready to read. Though I doubt I'll be invited to do such a thing after this post.

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Orange

Every Thursday, a babysitter shows up at my house and sets me free. I love love love my life with the kids but I look forward to her arrival with the anticipation of a five year old on Christmas eve. Because, for five hours, I am me again. Not mom, or carpool driver, or grocery shopper, or diaper changer, or nose wiper or... what have you. I make an effort to not do errands or work out during this time, though that would be wise for efficiency sake. But I find that I NEED to escape for a while and just be me. With myself and by myself.

That said, I can't escape the fact that I drive a minivan full of carseats and toys and books, even during my me time. (Anyone have a vintage convertible Porsche I can drive once a week for a few hours?) This past Thursday, while I was driving around and doing my me things on my me time, THIS started coming from the back seat:

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."

The kids keep books in the car and one of them has colored buttons that say their color when you push them. Apparently, this lovely little tome got stuck somewhere under a seat and every few seconds, it would talk to me in a robotic woman's voice.

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."

It was so relentless and annoying that I actually got the giggles. There by myself, in my minivan, sipping my cappuccino and listening to NPR, trying to pretend for a few minutes that I'm not a straight-up suburban mom, with a little voice reminding me every few seconds about my reality. And apparently, my reality's favorite color is:

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."

"Orange."