Because things have been going almost too well, I thought I should make a grocery list that covered two weeks and take the kids to get groceries after school. Three and a half hours in the store was a little too much to ask, especially in the midst of the Christmas/rush hour crowds.
My family is very jokey. We crack ourselves up with comedic genius, such as answering every comment with "Your face." (I'll pause while you compose yourself. Being exposed to such hilarity can be dangerous.) So, at the store, our second cart was nearly halfway full and a woman needed something on the other side of it. I offered to move, and she smiled and sweetly said, "You're fine, honey. I'm going to just reach across and I'll be out of your way." My sweet, quiet, and ever so up-on-the-slang five year old said, "Your face gets out of my way."
Oh yes he did.
I froze.
"DONOVAN! WHAT did you just say?"
"I said 'your face gets out of my way.'"
"WHY?!?!?!?!"
"I was joking. It was funny. 'Your face gets out of my way.' That's funny."
Dec 22, 2012
Dec 15, 2012
iPad Parenting and Sir Reachy Head
On Thursday, Madilynn had her second grade school program. I was only 45 minutes early, which meant I had to sit in the second to back row, because my children attend a school full of children whose parents are a tad psychotic about loving to stand in lines for hours and be crazy early for stuff. I am not that sort of parent, I like to be crazy late, but this time, I swear I was early and I still couldn't get a good seat.
So my family and I hog up an entire row of seats, and then this smaller family sits in front of us. But they weren't smaller in size, just in number. Well all right, fine. They were skinnier, too. But the man with them was terribly tall and he was also extremely reachy.
What I mean is, out of all seven of our seats, I couldn't find one to sit in so that I could see around this man. Seven seats, you guys. He was a super villain, too. Because no matter which direction I leaned, he leaned the same way at the exact same time. And he couldn't see me. I am typically pretty patient, except for anything that has to do with school, so maybe that played a role here, but it took him less than three minutes to thoroughly piss me off. And it wasn't like slight annoyance I was feeling. It was rage. I hated that guy. I still hate that guy. That guy and his reachy head haunt me.
So then, when the program started, I was trying to sort of extend my vision in an impossible arc, over the guy's head and back down onto the stage, when I was met with this view:
This is a very high-quality photograph of exactly what happened, as you can see, lest you be tempted to doubt my story.
If you look real close at that one dude's iPad, you can see my daughter in the video he's taking. Lesson learned: when you live in an affluent school district, you will not be able to watch your kid in a school play live, however if you squint, you can watch them on the iPad of the parent in front.
This is another pet peeve of mine. I love technology and gadgets. If I had the money, I would so own an iPad, and probably a mini one and I'd be on the waiting list for iPad 27 or whatever it ends up being called by then. But honestly, I don't want to live my life in digital. If my kid is doing something cute or amazing, or more likely completely bad, I want to be there in the moment and experience it - not watch it through a 4 inch screen. And especially not through a tiny screen I don't even own.
I propose a segregation. (That's right. I do. I realized it the moment I typed it, but I'm too lazy for backspacing so just hear me out on this.) I propose that iPad Parents sit on one side, and Real Life Parents sit on the other side. This means two things. One, I will not be forced into iPad Parenting; and two, I will have one side of the cafeteria/theater all to myself.
Oh, and bonus point: Sir Reachy Head is on the iPad side. (Like I had to tell you, amirite?)
So my family and I hog up an entire row of seats, and then this smaller family sits in front of us. But they weren't smaller in size, just in number. Well all right, fine. They were skinnier, too. But the man with them was terribly tall and he was also extremely reachy.
What I mean is, out of all seven of our seats, I couldn't find one to sit in so that I could see around this man. Seven seats, you guys. He was a super villain, too. Because no matter which direction I leaned, he leaned the same way at the exact same time. And he couldn't see me. I am typically pretty patient, except for anything that has to do with school, so maybe that played a role here, but it took him less than three minutes to thoroughly piss me off. And it wasn't like slight annoyance I was feeling. It was rage. I hated that guy. I still hate that guy. That guy and his reachy head haunt me.
So then, when the program started, I was trying to sort of extend my vision in an impossible arc, over the guy's head and back down onto the stage, when I was met with this view:
If you look real close at that one dude's iPad, you can see my daughter in the video he's taking. Lesson learned: when you live in an affluent school district, you will not be able to watch your kid in a school play live, however if you squint, you can watch them on the iPad of the parent in front.
This is another pet peeve of mine. I love technology and gadgets. If I had the money, I would so own an iPad, and probably a mini one and I'd be on the waiting list for iPad 27 or whatever it ends up being called by then. But honestly, I don't want to live my life in digital. If my kid is doing something cute or amazing, or more likely completely bad, I want to be there in the moment and experience it - not watch it through a 4 inch screen. And especially not through a tiny screen I don't even own.
I propose a segregation. (That's right. I do. I realized it the moment I typed it, but I'm too lazy for backspacing so just hear me out on this.) I propose that iPad Parents sit on one side, and Real Life Parents sit on the other side. This means two things. One, I will not be forced into iPad Parenting; and two, I will have one side of the cafeteria/theater all to myself.
Oh, and bonus point: Sir Reachy Head is on the iPad side. (Like I had to tell you, amirite?)
Dec 14, 2012
Today
There are many times throughout the last eleven years when I have sworn to never be in a car with my children again. It started with my oldest, who cried every second he spent even near a car seat, and went through Emma, who liked to spend car trips bursting ear drums with her screaming.
Through these years, I have dealt with kids who won't keep a seat belt on, who lean out windows and tell policemen I'm buying drugs, who reach up from the back seat and pull siblings' hair right out of their heads. And the screaming. Oh, the screaming.
But let me tell you about today. Today, I was early in the line to get my kids from school.
Today, as I sat waiting in the street, there was a police truck parked in the grass at the front of the school.
Today, the principle was standing in the front of the school, speaking to each daycare bus driver.
Today, as I saw the teacher who announces that my children should come outside, the teacher who always had a smile for everybody, she wouldn't meet my eyes.
Today, as I rounded the corner of the school, instead of the usual sight of five little people joyfully bounding to my car, I saw a policeman guarding the door.
Today, parents rolled down their windows and thanked him for being there.
Today, my little bundles of glee were led by the hand to my car, and passed to me by a somber but kind teacher, who understood that it was not a day for discussing homework or missing library books.
Today, as my children piled in the car on top of each other, shouting the news of the day all at once, my eyes welled up with tears.
Today, I stopped halfway though to the loop and twisted around to the back seat to give them each a hug.
Today, while they fought over space in the seat, pulled hair, and complained about homework, I thanked God for every sound they made.
Today, I drove a little more slowly, savoring this time of closeness, forced by the confines of the car.
Today, choked on tears every time one of my babies said "Mommy."
Today, I am overwhelmed with gratitude that my kids are coming home for the weekend.
Today, I am on my knees in grief for the mommies who dropped their babies off this morning, only to never see them again.
Today, housework and homework and trifles of the week fall away, dimmed by the brightly shining importance of this moment now.
Today, I pray for those students who have lived through an ordeal that no child should ever be able to imagine, let alone experience.
Today, I hope for comfort for the teachers, the emergency crews, the support staff, and every mom, dad, brother, and sister in Newtown, CT.
Today is not a day for more division in America. Today is a day for unity and purpose.
Today, I will wipe tears from eyes with every glance at my children, and I am aware that each moment with them is dear.
Today, I wish I could wrap my arms around the parents who lost their precious kindergarteners, and whose children spent their school day filled with terror. And I wish that it would help.
Today, I know I join thousands of other parents as I hug my kids a little tighter, whisper a prayer for their protection, and face the reality that we just never know.
Today, I have not lost hope, but I pray for mercy.
Today is a different story, one that, to some degree, will change all the stories to come.
Lord, have mercy on us all.
Through these years, I have dealt with kids who won't keep a seat belt on, who lean out windows and tell policemen I'm buying drugs, who reach up from the back seat and pull siblings' hair right out of their heads. And the screaming. Oh, the screaming.
But let me tell you about today. Today, I was early in the line to get my kids from school.
Today, as I sat waiting in the street, there was a police truck parked in the grass at the front of the school.
Today, the principle was standing in the front of the school, speaking to each daycare bus driver.
Today, as I saw the teacher who announces that my children should come outside, the teacher who always had a smile for everybody, she wouldn't meet my eyes.
Today, as I rounded the corner of the school, instead of the usual sight of five little people joyfully bounding to my car, I saw a policeman guarding the door.
Today, parents rolled down their windows and thanked him for being there.
Today, my little bundles of glee were led by the hand to my car, and passed to me by a somber but kind teacher, who understood that it was not a day for discussing homework or missing library books.
Today, as my children piled in the car on top of each other, shouting the news of the day all at once, my eyes welled up with tears.
Today, I stopped halfway though to the loop and twisted around to the back seat to give them each a hug.
Today, while they fought over space in the seat, pulled hair, and complained about homework, I thanked God for every sound they made.
Today, I drove a little more slowly, savoring this time of closeness, forced by the confines of the car.
Today, choked on tears every time one of my babies said "Mommy."
Today, I am overwhelmed with gratitude that my kids are coming home for the weekend.
Today, I am on my knees in grief for the mommies who dropped their babies off this morning, only to never see them again.
Today, housework and homework and trifles of the week fall away, dimmed by the brightly shining importance of this moment now.
Today, I pray for those students who have lived through an ordeal that no child should ever be able to imagine, let alone experience.
Today, I hope for comfort for the teachers, the emergency crews, the support staff, and every mom, dad, brother, and sister in Newtown, CT.
Today is not a day for more division in America. Today is a day for unity and purpose.
Today, I will wipe tears from eyes with every glance at my children, and I am aware that each moment with them is dear.
Today, I wish I could wrap my arms around the parents who lost their precious kindergarteners, and whose children spent their school day filled with terror. And I wish that it would help.
Today, I know I join thousands of other parents as I hug my kids a little tighter, whisper a prayer for their protection, and face the reality that we just never know.
Today, I have not lost hope, but I pray for mercy.
Today is a different story, one that, to some degree, will change all the stories to come.
Lord, have mercy on us all.
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