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The Quickie with Stephnie Weir

2011-12-20T11:08:57Z

When did the acting bug really sink its teeth into you and how did your parents react?

My Dad was a local celebrity, of sorts, known for his extensive stage work in community theater. By day owned a junk yard and used carlot, but by night he was the Burt Reynolds of the Odessa, Texas theater scene - if Burt Reynolds was more of a stage actor. I got the bug watching him play Noah in The Flowering Peach. My parents have always been supportive, although my mother, who was the Postmaster's secretary, couldn't comprehend me passing up a career as a mailman.

Growing up, what comedy shows resonated with you?

The usual suspects... Mary Tyler Moore, Carol Burnette, The Bob Newhart Show, Cheers, All in the Family, MASH... And my family loved, LOVED, Fawlty Towers with John Cleese. There were only twelve episodes and we watched them any time they were showing on PBS. John Cleese laid the foundation for my love of physical comedy.

You are famous for your tremendous character work on MadTV. We have to ask, which character was your favorite?

Am I? Famous? Really? Wow. I thought it would feel different. Anyway, my favorite character is Angela Wright. The eighth grader who made home videos. She was me. I loved Dot, too. And Mrs. Campbell. Children and old people. Those are the comedy targets I go after.

Would you rather have your character Dr. Kylie Johnson as your OBGYN or your kids' pediatrician?

Both!! I have great respect and admiration for women who have the courage to dress and behave like sexy babies.

As a young girl, which cartoon or live kids' TV character did you have a crush on?

I maintained platonic relationships with all my favorite cartoon characters, it's just easier that way. But, as far as live TV characters, I had crushes on Peter Brady, the Professor from Gilligan's Island and Mike Nesmith, from The Monkees. Which, I'm realizing is so odd because my husband is like all three of them rolled into one.

If you created a kids' show (endless budget and everything was possible), what would it be like?

It would be a live action, ridiculous fantasy like The Bugaloos (they were a cute, young band of "bugs" who lived in a forest and were tormented by the evil record producer Martha Rey, who lived in a Jukebox). Mine would be about a misfit girl who finds a fully furnished, perfectly preserved, deserted castle in the forest behind her house and...then something else happens with talking animals, I'm not sure, yet. Or a grand variety show like the Kroft Supershow.

When did you first find yourself "in the weeds" as a parent and how did you recover?

When I was traveling alone with my three year old and six month old and thirty minutes in to a four hour airplane flight the oldest turned to me and said, "I'm done." It was all down hill from there. The trip culminated with my usually sweet child taunting me with a booger on the end of her finger. She could see that I was desperately trying to nurse the little one to sleep and was trying not to jostle him around so I couldn't wrestle the booger away from her. She kept waving it around saying, "I'm going to eat this booger. I LOVE to eat boogers. Yum." I finally snatched it with the burp cloth when she got sloppy with her dodging and weaving. She spent the remainder of the flight wailing, "Give me back my booger! I want my booger!" Exiting the airplane, I took the walk of shame with my head held high and told my daughter to do the same because we've all had bad days and eaten a booger or two.

I vowed to never take the children on a plane without my husband. And then promptly did it again.

As a working actress, writer and mom, what is your secret to maintaining the balance and your sanity?

I have broadened the scale. I don't strive for daily balance, I shoot for weekly, sometimes monthly balance. There are stretches where I don't see the kids enough and I balance it by capitalizing on those stretches where I can spend every moment with them and we can play hooky and spend all day at the beach or go to a museum or have play dates at home. Same goes for exercise, date nights, cleaning the house, socializing with friends... I trust that there is an ebb and flow and I try to seize the opportunity that is in front of me. I've also REALLY relaxed on the house cleaning. As much as I relish a spotless kitchen, I remind myself that the house will not always be this messy. And that my children are not going to be children for long.

Your husband is also a brilliant improviser. How has being improvisers helped you as parents?

Sadly, not at all. Children are terrible improvisors. They say "No" to everything. The have no group mind, it's always "me, me, me." And you can't even "Yes" their ideas because...well, this goes against the very essence of non-judgmental ensemble improv, but...their initiations suck. They do. Children shouldn't be driving cars. No one needs a banana at 3am. You can only ring someone's doorbell and ask for candy on Halloween. The list is endless...

Fill in the blank:

If my kids see the video of the time I had to throw-up as Rue Callahan they will never stop making fun of me.

I want to be my child for one day just so I could dress like a gypsy hobo magician.

If you could outsource any aspect of parenting (aspects of pregnancy and childbirth included), what would it be?

Making their meals. I'm a horrible cook. Even I'm disgusted by what I make. I thank my lucky stars that my husband is a great cook and takes over that duty.

Going to the Drive In

2011-12-20T11:07:14Z

I truly believe that my husband's Grandma Joyce is the best mom, grandmother, person I've ever met. She'll tell you until she's blue in the face how much she enjoyed being a stay-at-home mom, and how much she hated for school to start because it meant she would not get to see her kids all day. Grandma was a Boy Scout leader, a Brownie leader, and a coach. At 74, she still gets on her knees to scrub her kitchen floor, gardens, bakes her own bread, cans jams and jellies, crochets, sews, and drives around town in a red 1979 Corvette. But even someone as wonderful as Grandma Joyce has their moments of bad parenting. The following story, told from her perspective, reminds me that even the best parents have their moments!

There was a time when the Drive-In movie was a popular form of entertainment because it was cheap and easy. Dutch, the kids and I could go on carload night and be able to pay for everyone to get in. The drive-in was easy because we didn’t have to worry about the kids getting out of the car, corralling them to actually make it into the theater or getting them to actually sit still and be quiet long enough for everyone else in the theater to enjoy the movie.

One night, Dutch came in and said “let’s pack up the kids and go see a movie.”

It had been awhile since we were able to afford a movie, so I was tickled at the idea. I scurried around the kitchen making all kinds of snacks to keep the kids occupied. As I stood over the kettle making popcorn, Dutch ordered the kids to change into their pajamas because he knew that as soon as the movie was over, the kids would pass out in the car, and it wasn’t worth the fight of getting them in their pajamas when we got home.

So off to the drive-in we went, the boys and Melanie packed snuggly in the back of the car, snacks loaded and drinks chilling in the cooler. Sure enough, it didn’t take long before the kids started to drift off, one by one, to sleep. Dutch and I didn’t mind, we enjoyed the movie and the rare moment of quiet that we got to have together. From the back of the car came the soft snoring and sighing of six content kids sleeping, covered in popcorn crumbs, and I couldn’t help but think how good of an idea the drive-in movie had been that night.

Dutch turned the car onto the long drive-way that led up to the house we were living in at the time, and we made our game plan of getting the kids upstairs and into bed. When the last kid was tucked in, Dutch and I headed to bed ourselves, Dutch having to get up before the sun rose to be on time to the construction site where he was working at the time.

The next morning, Dutch and I woke up and had a cup of coffee together while I packed his lunch. He headed off to work, and I gladly climbed the stairs to our bedroom, grateful the kids were still sleeping, and I could grab a few more winks before the day started.

I had just settled back into the comfy spot in our bed when I saw headlights flash outside the window. Just as I was gathering the motivation to get up and see who was stopping by so early, Dutch came flying through the door of our bedroom and demanded “Do you know where Joe is?”

“In bed?” I stammered, wondering why this question, to which he knew the obvious answer, would bring Dutch back home in such frenzy. Of course, by this time, I was out of bed, and following him out of the room to check the boys’ room to assure myself that Joe was sleeping soundly with the others.

As I opened the door to the boys’ room, I felt my stomach lurch when I peeked in and saw that Joe was not in his bed, and the bed was perfectly made as it had been since the previous morning. “Joe didn’t sleep in his bed? Oh my god Dutch,” I screamed running down the stairs, “where is Joe?”

Dutch then proceeded to tell me that his drive to work had begun as normal. He drove out to the main road that ran alongside our driveway, and was busily fiddling with the radio when he looked in the rearview mirror and saw these bright blue eyes staring back at him. He slammed on his brakes and turned around to find Joe sitting there with his typical grin on his face, still in his pajamas. “Hi Dad,” he chirped, nearly sending Dutch into cardiac arrest.

“Joe, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in bed?” Dutch questioned the sleepy boy.

“I don’t know Dad, I just woke up and I was here. I thought maybe you were going to let me go to work with you” Joe replied.

Dutch led me to the car as he was telling this to me, and there, sitting in the back seat, was Joe. “Hi Mom,” he said. I hugged Joe tightly, pulling him out of the car, thankful he was alright.

Somehow, the night before, one of us had miscounted kids and thought they were all inside, snug in their beds. Poor Joe had slept in the car all night, but he did not care. I don’t know he if remembers this, but I’ll never forget feeling like the worst parent in the world. Come to think of it, there were a lot of times that might have made Joe think that I didn’t really like him much!

A Walk on the Wild Side

2011-12-20T11:06:32Z

I like to think I’ve been through a lot in life. In my early twenties, I got engaged, graduated college, got married, lost a baby, had a baby, got divorced. It was a busy 5 years. But I think these next 30 days may rival those 5 years. I turned 31 and I finally feel some sort of accomplishment. My ex-husband got remarried so our family unit continues to evolve. Batman Boy lost his first tooth, told me he doesn’t need me to walk him into daycare anymore because he’s “getting to be a big boy now, you know” and he started kindergarten. I’m getting married in a month. We also decided that planning and paying for a wedding on our own just wasn’t enough so we also spent the past 6 months finalizing and approving plans to add on to our home (the appraisal is this Wednesday, which entails a whole other never-ending to-do list of home improvements). The Ball and Chain is also building a “home away from home” at his farm (purely used for recreation) – he and his dad decided to build a mini-cabin from scratch – so his weekends (and some of mine) have been spent on endless trips to Menards and trips to the property to build this shack. We had to replace our furnace during one of the hottest weeks of the year. And the list goes on and on.

But most importantly, my first-ever bachelorette party was this weekend, and we did it up like it was 1999 (in 1999 I was an age that wasn’t quite legal to be in a bar but is probably a more appropriate age for a bachelorette party). I never had a bachelorette party the first time around. It was truly a night of debauchery, with a theme of “Last WILD night out!” which entailed everyone – my mother and MIL included – to wear something with animal print.

Now, for those that know me this may not be shocking but I planned my ensemble for a month. It also shouldn’t surprise you that I wore a silver and black satin leopard-print dress, sequined 4-inch heels, and had turquoise feathers put in my hair.

I quickly learned that partying like that now requires a minimum 2-day recovery period. I am also damn proud to tell you that we are STILL piecing together the whole night as bits and pieces of memory come back to me. I’m not typically one to brag about “going out and getting hammmmmmered” but this is just too good not to share. I knew it would be fun – but I never envisioned an all-girl version of The Hangover.

And now, the highlights:

Multiple posters of my fiancé hanging around my friends house wearing nothing but the neon-green Borat thong. If you haven’t seen it, google it.NOW. (and to complete the visual, Dusty didn’t get waxed for the photo shoot)
Opening lingerie in front of my MIL (who also got to stare at the pictures of her son wearing the Borat thong)
A strip-tease video by – you guessed it – Dustin wearing – you guessed it – the Borat thong. I also got to watch this with my MIL in the room.
The pimpest party bus ever, WITH stripper pole which I am not ashamed to say was where I spent most of my night
My mother won “pin the penis on Dustin” and was awarded with a pair of brand-spanking-new purple handcuffs
My mother won the downtown bar crawl scavenger hunt…and its not only because she was the only one playing. She came home with not only one but TWO PAIR of men’s boxer shorts, got a kiss from a bearded man (I have photographic evidence), and a business card from a truly unique business (a family tree company) among many, many other things.
I'm told that at one point I was walking (not sliding) around the stripper pole and with each pass past my friend she would hold out a chicken wing and I'd take a bite.
Upon arriving home from the bars my mother sister and one of my bridesmaids insisted on getting in our hot tub. I passed out, but the joke was on them. I never turned on the heater when I set everything up. When they got out and decided they were freezing, they broke into our Master bedroom using a bobby-pin (I wisely locked them all out when I passed out) and proceeded to pull out every long-sleeved t-shirt and sweatpants of Dustin’s they could find to sleep in
Headed back to the hostesses house in the morning to discover 2 pink (and presumably, stolen) purses lying in her front lawn. Still trying to figure that one out….

I am sure there is more but key takeaways are these: we had more fun than the boys, I’m officially ready to get married (I’m convinced I would die if I ever pulled a night like that again), and I might even be ready to think about considering having more babies. Maybe that bachelorette party actually did prepare me to settle down. Stay tuned….

Balance is for Suckers

2011-12-20T11:04:48Z

A few years ago, I heard Gary Keller (real estate guru, author, founder ofKeller Williams Realty) give talk about balance. The gist of his presentation was that when you excel at something, frequently you will be out of balance and that's okay. So, according to his theory for example, if my real estate business is going like gang-busters and I'm selling lots and lots of houses, chances are my life is out of balance because I am spending a lot of time on my business and not enough time with, say, my family. So, now maybe it’s time to take a family vacation and cool it with the long hours dealing with buyers, sellers and our booming market. After about a week or so, I'm having a great time with the family but I am going to have to really put in some time at the office when we get back from Fiji to make up for all the lead generating missed and hot stone massages enjoyed.

This is what I gleaned from Gary's take on balance: balance is really about juggling periods of imbalance. Okay, I can see that but, I'm going to take it a step further, people; life is good only when you are juggling periods of imbalance because "balance" itself is boring. It is lame. Balance, is completely overrated. And, people who manage to "balance" everything all the time are not only boring they are BORED as well. These people don't laugh or cry or get mad. They never fail or excel or risk. At best they are like drones, living out all aspects of their lives in carefully scheduled moderation. I shudder at the thought. At worst, they are creepy pod-people.

I know, it sounds crazy but hear me out. When one excels at something (I think the example Gary used was Tiger Woods pre-golf club to the windshield.) chances are, there has been a lot of "time on task" to master that skill. Time on task plus talent plus more time on task is what it takes to get to be an elite athleteor writer or artist or carpenter or whatever. You can’t get really, really good at something without a lot of practice.

So, using the Tiger Woods example, we can say with a degree of certainty that when Tiger's golf game was at its best, he must have been really focused onGOLF. Tiger didn’t get to be the best golfer of a generation because he had a ton of other hobbies. I promise you he skipped parent-teacher conferences, playing in the Windermere Corn-Hole Tourney and Banjo lessons. When his golf sagged and his marriage crumbled, we can assume that his time on task was spent on activities other than driving, putting and taking his wife out to dinner. Being a multiple-mistress cheater does require A LOT of time on task, though. Still not father of the year but at least he was having fun, right? Okay, maybe Tiger isn't really a good illustration for my balance theory. Too extreme. He may needs meds or at least a personality over-haul.

Instead, take me as an example. No, I'm not an elite athlete or elite anything for that matter. I have a full time job. So, automatically, there goes 40 hours I could be spending on learning to play the banjo or knitting or plotting the downfall of the GOP. What? Cool! I can take that last “to do” off my list. That has been taken care of by busy former foster-mom Michelle Bachman and reality TV star, mistress of political intrigue and Mother of the Year Sarah Palin.

Like a lot parents, my remaining time spent awake (just assume I am getting like maybe 6 hours a night, if I really apply myself.) can be divvied up into these categories: Kids, Husband, Parents, Housework, Cooking, Baking, Yard Work, Exercise, Recreation (almost entirely made up of HBO, Vampires and Zombies in our family) and Writing. Baking is a whole category? Yes, well I am trying to get to the point where I bake all of the bread we eat at home. I will deal with the ‘whys’ another day.

Sometimes I am the world’s best daughter. While my dad was in and out of the hospital and homebound recovering from surgery this past spring and summer, I spent a lot of time actively in the Parent category. As a result, I did almost zero yard work, my house is a wreck (yes, I blame cancer for my untidy home) and I slacked off on my workouts and I watched my (self-imposed) first-draft deadline come and go. But that’s okay. I am grateful for the time I got to spend helping care for my dad. Mom and I bonded and shared a lot of delirious, sleep-deprived laughs.

This week has been heavy on Kids stuff. Our son turned nine. We did back to school shopping. I made some last minute work schedule changes to allow time for hanging out with the kids the day before school starts. Now school has started and I am monitoring homework, managing backpack contents and taking calls on the treadmill during lunch to speak with the nurse and secretary to deal with minor crises at school. Birthday Boy’s party is this weekend and I need to get busy on the yard (to the untrained eye, our patio is invisible under a ratty blanket of weeds) and cleaning my filthy house. But, here I am, all unbalanced, trying to finish this blog for today’s (Sahmmy imposed) deadline. I am pretty frazzled right now, yes. But, I have really had a lot of fun with the kids this past week. The three of us spent the last weekend before school started at Falcon Camp’s Alumni Reunion. We slept on bunk beds, swam, paddle-boarded, played Gaga Ball, went horseback riding, sailing, did rifelry and archery. But, my DH stayed home. I feel a bit guilty because the Husband category has not been not getting a ton of air time. In a few weeks though, DH and I are going camping with another couple—plumping up both the Husband and Recreation categories in one weekend!

During the past year and a half or so, I have un-earthed my inner athlete in the Exercise realm. I spent a lot of time on task training for a 10K, a bike race, a 5K, the Warrior Dash and a Super-Sprint Triathlon. I have enjoyed getting fit and I like competing. I decided, however, that I need to shorten my lunch-time work outs because I remembered that I need to eat at lunch-time. I was feeling harried and manic, racing back to my desk, usually almost late and always sweaty and starving. Hey! That’s pretty balanced-ish. Except now I have to figure out how to eat less since I am not burning as many calories. Crap. This is why balance is bad, people.

I have tried to be “balanced” and scheduled. Mostly, I can’t manage it. Sometimes I really feel like working on the yard. I will drop everything to weed, plant and fuss with the patio, my gardens and pots. Likewise, when I get a yen to dust and vacuum, everyone get out of my way because who knows when the urge to clean will hit me again. I try to write at least a little every day but some days I can’t stop writing. All the sudden its dark out, the dishes are piled in the sink and I can hear my kids’ stomachs rumble from the other end of the house.

For the kids’ sake, I would like to be more organized in my juggling act. Jugglers have to know at all times the location of each ball. Or else they’ll drop them all. Tiger Woods was trying to juggle chainsaws and clearly he was distracted by her boobs. Again, obviously, I don’t think poor Tiger is the best example for me to use. I guess what I’m saying is I would like to be able to sketch out (in pencil or dry-erase, of course) a somewhat broadly defined schedule of the next year-ish. I want to be able to set goals with plenty of room for additions or revisions that are flexible enough to withstand life’s curve-balls. I want to keep working out and doing these races keeps me motivated. I want to run a half-marathon but I am not willing to add that much time to the exercise piece of the pie so I will do the Towpath 10K again with the goal of improving on last-years’ time. I know, it sounds balanced but I am pretty sure I will be neglecting my dust spray and weed whacker until at least mid-October after this weekend’s birthday party, so there.

Here’s why being imbalanced sets a good example for kids. 1) If you try to do everything, you won’t be good at anything. I am not going to join the PTA, volunteer at church, organize a recycling program at my kid’s school or learn to play the banjo. These are all activities I have considered but I came to my senses. Maybe next year. This next year I want to be a kick-ass baker, an attentive mother, wife, weekend warrior and writer. I’d like to generate enough income to hire a cleaning lady and get one of my kids into weeding. I have enough on my plate. If I commit to all these other activities as well as to the ones I am already promised to (like my Husband and Kids) I will be overwhelmed and drop my balls.

A period of imbalance shows the importance of passion. If I get lost or carried away when I am spending time with the family that shows them how much I love them. When I get absorbed in writing I am demonstrating the importance of giving credence to my dreams. When I spend time away from the house training for an up-coming race it shows my kids that it is fun to be fit, to compete especially when you know you won’t win and to follow through when you’ve set a goal.

In the spirit of Scheduled Imbalance, in the second week of September I will be guiltily, gloriously, and gratefully living in the Writing category. I will spend seven days alone—like Kalle Effing Blomqvist, in a creative, productive river of coffee and sandwiches, floating on my laptop and (I hope) a very meaty outline of my WIP. So…freaking…excited!!

So, to all you alien souls living in the Host bodies of our neighbors, get out and go home. No human is that perfect. Or boring. I know you’re in there. I can see it in your eyes! Hmmm, maybe I need to account for a Stephenie Meyer column in my excel worksheet.

Of cut chins, broken arms, and nervous parents

2011-12-20T11:03:57Z

Our preschool-aged Girl likes five things more than anything else in the world.

1) Talking. To anyone, about anything, for amazing amounts of time. When she’s a teenager hopefully cell phones are replaced by something less intrusive and considerably less expensive or my wife and I are in trouble.

2) Unicorns, fairies and princesses, preferably all three at once. A Unifairiess* comes with a horn, wings, a tiara, is often purple or pink, dances like a figure skater and barfs glitter.

3) Macaroni and cheese with tuna.

4) Being a ballerina.

5) Torturing her brother.

It’s this last one that worries my wife and I and has recently prompted us to qualify the Girl’s answer to the first question people have asked her for the past two weeks.

“Where’d you get that cast?” they ask.

The cast is a beauty, by the way, with pink and orange stripes as per the Girl’s instructions, and covers her right forearm.

“He did it,” the Girl always says, pointing to her slightly older brother who outweighs her by about 30 pounds.

Ouch. That sounds a bit like neglectful parenting.

“They were wrestling,” is our usual defense, which is OK because it’s true. “He fell on her arm.”

With that, the person who asked scrunches their face in the usual “I bet that hurt but I don’t know because, hey, look at my arm, it’s fine” kinda way.

But the Girl’s cast isn’t the beginning of the story. That would be the Boy’s chin.

Coming home after taking my 15-year-old son for a driving lesson, hoping for a few minutes rest or preferably a cocktail, the telephone rang.

“Jason,” a family friend said, trying to sound like nothing was really wrong. “Go to the emergency room. Your family’s there. The Boy cut his chin.”

Nobody can say those words like nothing’s wrong. Nobody.

The emergency room is a terrifying place, mainly because the word “emergency” figures so prominently in the title. You know what kind of medical cases they handled on the TV show “ER”? Emergencies. I don’t care how strikingly attractive a medical staff can be on television, when you rush into the emergency room expecting to see your child, in this case a first grade boy, gushing fluid from his chin like it was a rain spout, the ER loses a bit of its romance.

His chin wasn’t, by the way, gushing anything, and it only took four stitches to close. The cut wasn’t even that big of an emergency. He’d jumped into the swimming pool and cracked his chin on, not concrete, but … wait for it … some other kid’s head.

Yep, he takes after me.

Four days later we were back in the same ER, in the same bed with the Girl cradling her arm like it was a kitten. We also got the same doctor.

“You guys are having a bad week,” she said, looking at us like she probably wasn’t going to call child protective services. Thank you. “What happened?”

The Girl pointed at her brother.

“He did it.”

*Back off, Disney. I have patent pending on this.

And They Called It Puppy Love ...or, how I stopped worrying and learned to embrace the haunted toy

2011-12-20T11:02:43Z

A few weeks after she came home, we stopped separating the cats from Simone when we deduced the tiny killing machines were largely
indifferent to our new noisy bundle of poop. They would venture close, sniff and walk away. They were a lot more clear about Scout, a green and white stuffed puppy with buttons on each paw for music, games and interaction given to us as a gift no less than three times by friends and family. After connecting the toy to the computer and downloading amysteriously large program, you could program it to say your child' name, her favorite color, food and any of a short list of songs. It offered music and games and cuddly fun for infants on up.

The cats, of course, peed on it.

We had mixed feelings about that:

- ANGER: We should punish them. Which one? Should we rub their noses in it or just force them to listen to a song about bananas?

- BEFUDDLEMENT: How do you clean it? Would that give the cats carte blanche to do it again?

- RELIEF: No more hearing, "Hi..." [brief pause from the
Exorcist-esque voice] "...Simone!"

- GUILT: Should we have cleaned the litter boxes more? Cordoned the cats? Programmed Scout with their names instead?

- FEAR: What about the other two creepy toys? Were they planning revenge?

In the end, like a lot of things in those early, sleepless months we
stuck it in a plastic bag and tried to wish it away. When that didn't
work, we threw it out and returned the other one, remembering
afterwards the third one, also in a wished-away plastic bag but
located in a less convenient corner of the room.

The cats had not peed on this one. Maybe they were telling me something.

I gave it another shot. Simone was larger and starting to enjoy
buttons and noises and we were less paranoid about her smothering
herself in soft things, so I hooked it up to the computer and fired it
up. I figured the worst that could happen was that she would destroy
it with the buckets of drool her mouth produced every hour.

It was a hit. Lacking the ear for linguistic subtleties, and never
having seen the movie Magic or any of its derivatives, Simone was
not afraid. She mashed buttons with glee. At bedtime, music drifted
from her crib as we crept toward the door, the sliver of light
illuminating her delighted face as our little monster cuddled with her
littler monster. Even better, "Puppy," as she called it, lay next to
her in the morning, an opportunity just crying out to press buttons
instead of wail for parental attention. Were we bad parents for
treating our daughter's toy like a stuffed snooze button? We don't
care! We've already gone through the emotional ringer! [See above.] If Simone loved it, then so would we.

Now if only we could do something about those cats.

School Daze

2011-12-20T11:01:34Z

It’s my parent helper day at Frankie’s preschool. They have eight chickens and six free roaming bunnies and a hose in the gigantic sandbox that the kids have free reign to use. This is not going to go well.

We are starting a new preschool after the last Nazi like regime tried to crush Frankie’s soul (sitting in squares, potty training madness. you might have read that one). I’m not going to lie. When I had to sit through a meeting where I’m sure normally very nice woman told us that Frankie was not allowed to come back, I could barely keep it together. When looking for another school we opted for somewhere that couldn’t be more opposite of that hell hole. When I read in the current school manual that (and I’m paraphrasing), kids are like flowers. They need to bloom. We need to let them be themselves. I was sold. Frankie needs to be able to be herself! Bring on the hippiness and free love! Sure there is required parent participation, but this will be worth it.

Now I stand outside the quaint wooden fence that surrounds her classroom and I’m not sure about this. I’m the worst with other parents. They are another species and I’m the impostor. I don’t blend. I don’t get it. Do they not see how under-appreciated they are? They all look so... snowed.

Every time I’ve picked up Frankie up from this new school, she’s either soaking wet, sans clothes and soaking wet or wearing a princess dress with the clothes I dressed her in no where to be found (They’ve lost at least three outfits) and soaking wet.

Frankie looks up at me tugging on my arm chomping at the bit to get inside, “Come on Mama!”

But she’s loving it here.

Sigh. Let’s do this.

We open the gate to what looks like a farm over run by children of the corn.

My first job is taking the month old chickens out of their incubator and put them in their coup. And they just poop. Whenever and wherever they want maybe especially when my hand is under their ass.

Their teacher, who all the children know on a first name basis, but from here on out I will call Miss Lippy, waves me over, “Hi Frankie’s mom.” I think her voice is infused with THC. “Can you set up the paints and paper?”

I can’t find any of the supplies. Yes, I could ask, but I will not let the other two parent helpers know my short comings. I know shit. I will look through ever freaking cabinet.

I find everything eventually. Set it up. Yeah!

“Frankie’s mom? Horizontal not vertical. We must not waste paper,” Miss Lippy smiles and ambles away. “How about you sit with the blocks?”

Preschool teacher shaft of the highest magnitude. I plop down at the block table and do nothing.

I’m trying to concentrate on failing at being the best parent helper ever, but I’m distracted by the task of trying to keep track of Frankie. I have to make sure she’s being good. Paranoia sets in.

“Stop that!” I yell in her general direction. I get eyes on her and she’s looking at me like, “what?” She wasn’t doing anything, but she’ll understand. I thought I heard a cry and I have to cover my bases. I am on it. It’s not because of me that she’s out of control. At least I think the other adults present are buying that.

I get my first customer at the block table, a girl named Gwendolyn though her name tag reads Cassie Jean.

“She has a different name everyday and makes sure her wardrobe matches the name,” I am informed by a kid wearing a T-Rex hat.

“Cassie Jean” is wearing killer cowboy boots and a vest. I normally do not really like other people’s kids, but she is cool as shit. I’m hanging out with her. But she is whisked away to play at the shaving cream table.

Yes. You read that correctly.

I survey the activities: The sandbox where my Frankie D is. She is by herself with the hose creating a giant moat. Nice. The shaving cream table. Blobs of shaving cream colored with food coloring. Aren’t they worried about kids eating that? My kid isn’t the only one who might eat that right? Hello? Anyone? Moving on. And a flour table. Tins of flour also with food coloring.

No wonder no one is at my boring block table.

“Is that a good idea?” I say indicating the flour and shaving cream to Miss Lippy walking by.

“Our philosophy here is that the kids know what they should be doing. Give them freedom to choose.”

Oh do they? Because that kid is putting shaving cream in her shoes and making the chickens have beards.

“I got to go potty,” a boy says to me.

I look around. Miss Lippy is nowhere to be found. “Sure.” I say.

The communal bathroom is by far the most interesting place here. Second to maybe Studio 54 circa 1976. There are no stalls just five tiny toilets lined against a wall with a trough sink across from it. Kids from all classrooms are in here. I take potty boy in.

“Okay. Go for it man,” I say.

He looks at me then down at his pants. I help him open the fly.

“All the way down,” he says.

Oh it’s number two. Sweet.

And he goes, with me watching like a reluctant prison guard. The whole time I’m mentally prepping for the wipe. Which I force him to do after he pulls his pants up without one. (Gross!) The boy walks out of the bathroom and before I can clear the threshold Miss Lippy thrusts a tub of glue crusted craft supplies in my hands.

“Thanks,” she says and breezes out of there.

I go to the utility sink next to the potties and try to enjoy the silence. The other door opens and in walks a boy from another class. He gives me a curt nod and proceeds to stand at the toilet closest to me (no one else is in here! Seriously you have to be right next to me?) whips it out and pees.

“You Frankie’s mom?” He asks.

“Yeah,” I say. Everyone here seems to know Frankie. Hmmmm.

“How do you like helping out here?” He says. He’s still peeing.

“Umm, pretty fun,” I say completely uncomfortable.

“Looks like you’re doing a good job,” He says. Who is this kid?? He’s acting like he’s 40.

“Thanks,” I say feeling pretty boosted.

He’s finally done peeing.

“Can you help me with my pants?” He says suddenly 4 four years old again.

Again with the fucking pants man. And I am so not used to dealing with little boy nakedness. I’m pretty sure I bust his elastic waist to make sure don’t accidentally touch his junk.

This day has been long. I almost step on a fucking bunny for the eighth time. I’m put in charge of story time and Frankie freaks out that I’m reading to other kids and they pelt me with cheerios. During snack time the kids are supposed to pour their own water from a pitcher and serve themselves food. Oh lord the control freak in me needs her meds. (“We need to promote independence!” Shut up Lippy.) I do what she says and still get evil looks from the other parent helpers because my table is smeared with broccoli quinoa and it’s one big pond.

Let’s A.C.T. this bitch shall we. Oil is to water as Beth is to A. sunlight B. blue cheese. C. preschool.

Well all of the above, but preschool wins it. I don’t care what pee boy said to me. I suck at this.

And then the bunny gets run over by a bicycle.

And to top it off I see Frankie playing alone again. And I get sad. We are the rejects. We are the outsiders. I’m sorry Frank. I didn’t mean to pass the loser gene onto you.

“I like Frankie. She’s so fun.” A boy with long hair, Nick, says to me without any prompting at all I swear!

I smile. “She is isn’t she?” I say a bit too excitedly.

“She thinks I’m a girl. But I’m still her best friend.” Nick runs off and jumps in the moat Frankie is currently working on.

Okay. I’m alone in the reject column and that is just fine. She has a best friend and doesn’t even get that he has a penis. I am so cool with that.

The day ends. Chickens are put back in their incubator and the bunnies in their hutches. I grab my soaking wet love monster and strip her out of the Snow White dress.

“She is so spirited,” Miss Lippy says.

“Yeah. She’s great,” I say. “I have a lot to learn.”

Miss Lippy nods like a stoner.

Frankie runs naked toward the shaving cream.

This is the perfect place for her.