Polka Dots

29 Dec 2009 Uncategorized

I made an observation while school clothes shopping this fall. My five-year-old is tall (like her dad) and as a result, is already in a size six. In addition to making me feel exceedingly old and depressed—this also makes me feel really, really cheap.

Here’s why…

When my oldest crossed over from clothes sizes that ended in “T” she also crossed into the land of the of pre-teen clothes. Size six clothes are the same as size fourteen clothes as it relates to style and, well, price. This mean that I not only have to watch out for hootchie clothes intended for a twelve-year-old that want to reach out and kidnap my sweet, innocent five-year-old, but I also have to watch my wallet. Once the “Ts” disappear from the tag, so do the prices on clothes. Gone are the days of three-for-ten at Old Navy. Forget about a Circo deal at Target. Nope, I now have to pay what feels suspiciously like the prices that I pay at Macy’s for my own pants—gulp—I actually paid $20 for a pair of pants for Ava.

I am not sure what was worse, trying to stomach this new level of financial commitment to a wardrobe she will outgrown in about 15 minutes or the indignity I suffered trying to stuff her into a 5T with her yelling at me in the dressing room—“Mom, my vagina hurts in these pants, I need a bigger pair!”

True story. And, NO WAY to do I want to be responsible for childhood psyche scaring due to early camel toe experiences. No. Fucking. Way.

So, I bucked up and paid the extra dollars to buy her age-appropriate clothes in her correct size.

It is still sad, though. Gone are the days of cute Gymboree matchy-matchy outfits with her younger, size 3T sister. Sadly, the thing I miss the most are the polka dot pants.

Polka dot pants are awesome. I mean, I could never wear polka dots across my ass, but on a kid as cute as mine, nothing looks better. Since the size six clothes are the same style as the size fourteens, I’m sure that no self-respecting clothing manufacturer is going to waste their money making polka dot pants for the Hannah Montana set. No one would buy them but me.

Sigh.

Given all this, I delighted on Christmas morning when Ava tore open a gift from her Aunt Kris. This gift was like mana from Heaven. It was a wonderful, perfect pair of black pants with white polka dots.

Ahhhh….another year of innocence to celebrate. Bring on 2010—I can take it now that the polka dots have shown up.

Tags: childrens clothing, innocence

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Thanks

23 Nov 2009 Life Lessons

Every once in a while, my life presents me with a “greeting card moment”.

Greeting card moments are when something so sappy and sentimental takes place that the only way to describe it is with overly dramatic, cursive writing. If it’s a really over-the-top greeting card moment, there will be a flower border with butterflies embossed on the edges. Oh, and maybe a rabbit. Rabbits on greeting cards connote an overflowing sense of schmaltziness. A puppy or kitten work, too. Actually, maybe a puppy or kitten would be better…a rabbit on a greeting card screams Easter. This is fine if you are sending an Easter card. The fact is, I actually prefer blank greeting cards. I like to write my own message because I’m not usually satisfied with the pre-packaged messages that made Hallmark a multi-billion dollar empire.

Greeting card moments are probably lost on people who float through life on a rainbow or people who continuously sing Disney Princess songs. These folks miss the greeting card moments because they live within a perpetual greeting card context. I, however, do not live within a greeting card context. The only times I come close are when I am having a cynical, snarky day. Those days, my life might approach one those sarcastic square-shaped cards…you know…the ones that require extra postage with a vintage photo. What’s with the extra postage, anyway? There are enough of those square cards around these days that the post office should get with the program and update its letter-sorting equipment to accommodate these square-shaped cares. So annoying.

In any case, I had a greeting card moment today. The events and circumstances too personal for public consumption via blog, but suffice it to say, the moment was dripping sentimentality. Sentimentality underpinned with the truest and most authentic sense of gratitude, affection, and—well—sadness I have possibly ever felt.

Should the object of this sentimentality ever happen to read this post, to you I say “thanks”. Words have eluded me both today and the month leading up to today. So, thanks…for helping me become the person I never knew I wanted to be.

Tags: gratitude, Thanksgiving

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Instructions

14 Nov 2009 Uncategorized

Instructions

There’s an adage that people can’t wait to throw at you as soon as you bring home your baby:

“Kids don’t come with instructions.”

Well, to this I say…bullshit.

Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.

I first became aware of what a load of bullshit this was while my oldest daughter was still in utero. Don’t believe me? Spend some time perusing the pregnancy/parenting aisle at any bookstore (in person or online). Google “pregnant” or “baby” or “infant care” or “breastfeeding” or “get your freaking baby to sleep through the goddamn night” and you’ll find plenty of—ahem—instructions.

In fact, there are so many instructions, you can quickly feel totally inundated with information that you are sure you’ll never absorb with any meaningful consequence. If you factor the blogosphere into this equation, you’ll be clicking your way into a black hole that you aren’t likely to ever emerge from (my blog being no exception, mind you).

Some of these instructions are actually opinions disguised as instructions. For new parents, these lines are blurry and confusing. I found myself gravitating to “instructions” that aligned with my personal philosophy on life (and what turned out to be my parenting philosophy). To be upfront, I am planted firmly outside the Alarmist Parenting Camp. My kids are permitted to fall down, play in mud, stir hot pots of spaghetti while supervised, and occasionally ride their razor scooter without a helmet. Sometimes they don’t even wash their hands before the eat snacks. Oooooh…and my five-year-old is even allowed to carefully take steak knives out of the drawer to set the table.

I have plenty of friends who dip their toes into the Alarmist Parenting Camp and even a couple who live there permanently. I have friends whose philosophies differ from mine on vaccinations, television, discipline, and Koolaid. I like this diversity. It keeps me on my toes and makes things interesting. One thing I have taken for granted for the first five years of motherhood, however, is my relative control over these instructions. Until recently, I was able to pick and choose the instructions I followed diligently and which I approached more lackadaisically.

Actually, now that I think of it, my general approach to instructions is lackadaisical. This probably explains why my husband intervenes when anything needs to be assembled. Especially things from Ikea. Ikea’s instructions are ridiculous. I am a quarter Swedish, I can state this without reproach.

The turning point on instructions came this past August, when Ava started kindergarten. Actually, it started about five days before kindergarten, when the “new student” packet came home. Included in this packet was page upon page of instructions—I was very overwhelmed. The momentum continued for the next three weeks when back-to-school-night came around and has hit a full-orchestra crescendo as we have approached the first progress report and parent/teacher conference. These instructions usually get sent home on astrobright paper that has been run through the school’s mammoth-sized copy machine and include such enlightening gems as: what they should eat, wear, do in their spare time, how they should write their lower case “k”s, what time they should arrive at school, which elements should be included in their drawing of their best friend, where they should hang their back packs, how they should wash their hands, what color pants they should wear if they are going to be a pilgrim, what color shirt they should wear if they are going to be a Native American.

To me, all of this instruction and wasted paper seems like total overkill. I spend a lot of time feeling as if I am stuck in a video loop of The Wall watching the kids neatly lined up walking like comatose droids from one room to the other. Never mind the fact that I’m not organized enough to keep all of these stupid details straight in my head—a problem that is exacerbated by my natural aversion to list-making.

Luckily for me, Ava seems to be soaking it all up—even assimilating easily into the world of “living according to instructions”. I have even suffered the indignity of being corrected by her when I have sidestepped the instructions.

I’m sure this will all change once fifth grade arrives and the door slamming, eye rolling, and “you don’t know anythings” begin. But for now, I will continue to sift through the mountain of bright orange paper and continue relying on Ava to remind me which day is library day.

Tags: organization, parenting styles

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