Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Wardrobe Wednesday

I get it.

The bikini is so cute you can barely stand it.
It has little cherries hanging on the front of it.  She looks adorable in it, as does her baby sister.


Unfortunately, it is totally useless as a functional garment.

I heard this 3 year old's mother ask her to hitch up her drawers no less that 10 times in a 30 minute period.  I couldn't get a photo of the baby crack in action, but trust me, it was epic.

I am no prude.  Bikinis do not offend me, per se, but if the bathing suit cannot maintain purchase on the posterior, it is only a nusance to the child.  She would have been better off naked.

I kept wishing she would rip off the polka dot bottoms in protest.

Saturday, November 1, 2008

The Exquisite Minutia of Stuffed Animal Management

In the wee, small, dark hours of this morning I awoke to the sound of Violet complaining, loudly, in her room. She wasn't crying, just bitching. When I got to her bed, she was sitting up and staring intently at the pink, plaid pattern on her flannel sheets. Vi pointed at the design as if to say, "Why plaid Mommy?"

Me: What is it?
Violet: whining
Me: I don't speak whine.
Violet: exaggerated whining
Me: Use your words.
Violet: wounded animal sounds
I gave up trying to plumb the depths of her mind for evidence of plaid fears and took her to use the potty. The change in scenery usually shakes her from her weird dreams, so she can get back to sleep. Of course, removing her from bed means that I will have to endure the torturous rearrangement of the babies. Violet must have Knuffle Bunny (you know Mo Willems, right?), Baby Rojo and Honey Bear all in her arms. All of their faces must be visually accessible and even with Violet's head. No one is permitted to do this for her. Violet must arrange the menagerie herself and then she directs the placement of the blankets over herself and the trio of lovies. There is a bizarre precision involved here that only my OCD husband can appreciate or understand. When I am tired and suffering from insomnia (as I have been lately), the fuse on my Mommy Bomb is very short. Violet's malcontent act is very hard for me to handle without resorting to clenching my jaw and saying the mean things that my cave woman brain pushes to the surface in the eerie glow of an Ikea nightlight ( a light that simultaneously frightens and comforts my persnickity child).  I managed to hold it together this morning, largely by imagining the blog post I could write. Words, are my salvation...

Monday, September 22, 2008

Does this Sweater Go With My Dora Panties?

When my sister's kids were visiting this summer, I discovered just how easy going I am. My 13 year old niece had a suitcase full of perfectly coordinated outfits. They were all purchased from the same pre-teen fashion store and looked as if they had been taken directly off the mannequins in the window. This is NOT how I grew up and I was taken aback by my sister's willingness to fund this kind of excess. I mean the kid had 7 different colored tank tops with 7 matching pairs of bermuda shorts. When I was 13, all of my summer clothes were cut-off school clothes.

As it turns out, Breanna's taste in expensive clothes is only part of the story. While getting ready to leave one afternoon, Bre asked me sincerely if her clothes had to match. After a little digging, I found out that my sister exerts a fanatical amount of control over her daughter's wardrobe. My brother-in-law does not permit Bre to cut her hair and she is constantly being nagged at to brush the hair that she would rather cut short. This is in direct opposition to my parenting style. It felt like a punch in the gut to know that my sweet, beautiful niece is being subjected to this kind of pointless tyranny. I immediately offered to get her a haircut and to take the heat for it. Bre demurred, fearing that her parents would get into a fight over it. So, I took her thrifting instead and let her spend her own money on whatever she wanted. Let's just say, her brainwashing has been thorough and her purchases were barely recognizable as second hand. The whole experience made me realize that I not only tolerate my child's taste in clothing and accessories, but I also encourage her to wear strange things sometimes. I have allowed her to wear a fairy costume to dinner at the Cheesecake Factory. In the winter when she wants to keep wearing her summer dresses, I layer pajamas under them. I draw the line at dirty and/or torn clothing and I try to make sure that all of Violet's clothes fit properly, but that's about it. Aaron tried and failed to implement a playground uniform of long blue jeans (to prevent scrapes) and now let's Violet do who own thing. We add socks and panties and tights when necessary. I guess if I bought all of Violet's clothes new and they all had matching pieces, I might be inclined to direct her more. When someone gives us a gift of clothing, I do make sure that it gets worn properly (for show) at least once, but I just think that's polite.

Life is so much more interesting and fun when I get to walk around with this kid, instead of a Baby Gap model.

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Thursday, August 21, 2008

Dear Barack Obama, Let's Have a Sleepover!

When I was about ten years old, I had a friend who lived down the street from me. Her name was Uganda and she had an incalculable number of siblings. I loved hanging out with her big family and yet I always had this weird sense of NOT belonging. This "sense" was really just my mother Deb and her quaint way of reminding me that I was white and Uganda was black. Anytime I was drawn to a person of color, Deb would make it perfectly clear that even though we were not racists, we should stick to our own kind (that's white trash, don't ya know). When Uganda's little brother kissed me on a dare, I was immediately sick with worry that my mother might have seen me and then I felt guilty for feeling sick about the kiss. It was an awful way to grow up and I count myself extremely lucky that I knew better, despite all the efforts of the "adults" around me. I tried for a long time to incorporate Uganda into my social life, but I was thwarted by Deb at every turn. I knew that I was fighting a losing battle when she gave me this explanation for refusing a sleepover with Uganda:
"She'll ruin our pillows."
Had I been more of a smart ass (like I am now), I might have suggested that Uganda could bring her own bed linens, but I was too disillusioned to reply. I didn't make friends easily as a child (I still don't) and I was hurt by mother's lack of awareness and sensitivity, not just for sweet little Uganda, but for her own socially inept child. It was just one more demerit on Deb's ever growing list of parental infractions.
I still struggle with the confusing racial messages of my childhood. I think most people do. It is the very thing that prevents us from all coming together. Some folks are aware of the quiet bias that exists in their family, but many don't realize that they have been conditioned to behave like they do. Knowing is half the battle. Admitting to the subtle racism gets it out there where it can eventually dissipate on the breeze.
Now, my politically savvy little Violet is deeply enamored of Barack Obama. We've been watching a lot of MSNBC (because of the Olympics) and every time she sees him, she shouts, "That Beropp Obaba!" Everyday that I encourage her affections gets us another day closer to the world that Dr. King dreamed about. I really do think it is that simple. I am not going to point out to her that the good senator happens to be black. It is irrelevant. This is how I will do my part to change the world. I swell with pride every time Violet says his name (I also giggle a little because it's so stinkin' cute). Just like my husband valiantly hides his EXTREME fear of spiders for Violet's benefit, I will continue to ignore Mom's voice in the back of my head. Oh yes, there will be multicultural sleepovers at the Heathen Family house! I guarantee it.

Saturday, March 29, 2008

A Letter to My Mother

Dear Mom,

As a child, I believed with my entire soul that you had an ever expanding list of rules. A list that included bizarre, nonsensical commandments, designed for your own personal amusement and our general chagrin. It is 20 years later and I have my own child and my own household to run. It is through this lens, that I am able to the see wisdom of one very persistent edict of yours. Curiously enough, it is not my child who has brought me around to your side Mother, but my husband. The issue is the opening of foodstuffs. When I was a girl, you strictly forbade the opening of any UNopened packages, particularly cardboard boxes and milk cartons. I believed this to be a simple show of power on your part. It was a way for you to control what we ate and when or perhaps to conserve resources given your distaste for going to the store more than once a month. I now know the truth. It has nothing to do with eating, but more to do with packaging itself. I have found myself flying into a rage over a cereal box, so poorly accessed that the it is no longer fit to contain the remains of the product. Worse, I find these boxes and bags and cartons put back in their place without any effort to remedy the leakage of food. So, it is with some shame that I say to you; "You were right Mom".
*This statement should in no way be construed as an admission that you were right at any other time or that you will be right in the future. This statement is neither retro-active, nor future-active. It is simply an expression of my feeling on this one, very specific and somewhat insignificant issue of food preservation.

Your loving daughter

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