Great changes are afoot, and many things are conspiring to keep me on my toes. I do not like to be on my toes. I like my feet to be planted solidly, nay, bolted down with metal rivets to giant steel girders of non-change.
I finally registered Gianluca at a new daycare after weeks of deliberation. I had it narrowed down to two, and the last tour I went on clinched it. The director actually thought she could intimidate me. She began by telling me what would get me and my child kicked out of the school; she danced around my question about staff turnover by admitting her reputation for being insanely strict; and closed by saying her program was too good for the state of Arkansas, so she had no intention of meeting state guidelines to be labeled a quality-approved school. Check this, Frau Crazystein, if I’m giving you my kid, I’M the one telling YOU how things are going to be. YOU will fear ME, and you will jump to meet MY standards. That’s how this works. The daycare I chose is moving to a newly constructed building, which is good because their current building needs to be razed. They’re hoping to move at the end of this week, but aren’t sure. So I don’t know where Gianluca’s first day will be yet.
As for Paolo, his pedo-partial broke again, so he’s missing his front teeth until a week after he starts school. (I’ll skip over the dentist visit where they took an impression of his teeth while he gagged and screamed and I cried, and then they had to do it again.) Poor Paolo is also scheduled for surgery this Wednesday to remove his adenoids and put in another set of ear tubes. So it’s really helpful that his school moved its Kindergarten popsicle party to Wednesday evening, because I’m sure he’ll be in the mood to socialize. Maybe he could get a Vicodin pop, and share with his mama. I also just found out he is starting school next Monday, not next Wednesday as we were told at registration. I had to call the school to find this out. I guess this is not information that merits distribution.
Paolo is over-the-moon excited about starting Kindergarten and soccer next week. He’s got his school supplies, a new backpack and lunchbox, and the cutest pair of soccer cleats in existence. He’s also fortunate to have a dad who remains unstressed by all this upheaval and kindly uncurls his mama’s fingers every night.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
House of Louse
I got the dreaded phone call last week: come get your kid; he’s got lice. No, not the five-year-old, the BABY. Clearly, I thought, he’s been hanging with the dirty kid in the baby room. Except he was the only kid who had it, so he IS the dirty kid in the baby room. Damn. I can’t even blame it on Forrest Gump, who is now on my shit list for biting Gianluca twice. Lucky for Forrest, it’s beneath even me to exact retribution on a baby with leg braces.
The lice situation definitely stole my thunder as I handed the director my one-week’s notice. In the letter, I complained that the daycare center had moved to a crime-infested barrio, and I would not have child molesters yards away from my babies. Still, it was an uncomfortable paradox to declare that my boys are too good for the place while removing them before they gave other kids bugs.
Once home I washed sheets, pillows, blankets, carseat and highchair covers, and vacuumed anything too big to fit in the washer. That night we resembled a monkey house at the zoo, taking turns checking each other’s scalp for intruders. Three days, fifty gallons of scalding water, and seven hours of nit-combing later, the lice count is one bug (removed at daycare) and two eggs that I combed off the baby. Are we done? Is a lice episode of this minortude even possible? Maybe they’re regrouping for an infestation of epic proportions. Does my nape itch?
The lice situation definitely stole my thunder as I handed the director my one-week’s notice. In the letter, I complained that the daycare center had moved to a crime-infested barrio, and I would not have child molesters yards away from my babies. Still, it was an uncomfortable paradox to declare that my boys are too good for the place while removing them before they gave other kids bugs.
Once home I washed sheets, pillows, blankets, carseat and highchair covers, and vacuumed anything too big to fit in the washer. That night we resembled a monkey house at the zoo, taking turns checking each other’s scalp for intruders. Three days, fifty gallons of scalding water, and seven hours of nit-combing later, the lice count is one bug (removed at daycare) and two eggs that I combed off the baby. Are we done? Is a lice episode of this minortude even possible? Maybe they’re regrouping for an infestation of epic proportions. Does my nape itch?
Monday, July 28, 2008
Northwest Arkansas Crime Report, July 22-24, 2008
July 22, 9:12 a.m. A woman at 10910 S.E. Campbell Road, Fayetteville, reported a male acquaintance keeps calling, telling her how high he is and that he won’t give her father’s chain saw back.
Could this be why?:
7: 31 p.m. A woman at Ultimate Tan, 1810 W. Sunset Ave., reported a man exposed himself to her.
That was a misunderstanding. He just really, really hates tan lines.
July 23, 7:26 a.m. A woman at 16185 Osborn Road, Winslow, reported a man took a bus from her mother’s yard that was full of her mother’s belongings and it’s sitting in front of the TNT Diner.
5: 23 p.m. A caller at 11122 Cannon Road, Lincoln, reported parts stolen off of several vehicles parked on their property.
You think the people whose houses resemble ships floating on a sea of crap don’t know what’s in their yards and might even be pleased if some of it should disappear. You are incorrect. Also, TNT Diner is the best greasy spoon name ever, edging out Terry’s House of Heartburn. It’s always nice when a dining establishment lets you know what will happen to your insides should you eat there.
July 24, 9:11 p.m. A woman on Southeast A Street reported her ex-boyfriend broke into her residence, ate her food and had been in her bed.
10:01 p.m. A man at 2552 E. Neely Road reported he left his door unlocked and someone trashed the residence and ate his food.
Their porridge was juuuuust right.
Friday, July 25, 2008
A battle of wills in which no one wins
At daycare this morning, we were in the baby room dropping off Gianluca. Paolo was playing chase with a kid in there who has Forrest-Gump-style leg braces. The kid is a ball of sunshine and damn quick for having to lug those things around. As I was finishing up getting Luca settled, I told Paolo he had to let the baby catch him once before we left the room.
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes. That is how you be nice to babies, and you will be nice to this baby. Now.
No.
By this time, since Paolo was standing still, the baby wasn’t chasing him anymore. I told Paolo to say goodbye to the baby so we could go to Paolo’s classroom.
No.
Say. Goodbye. To. The. Baby.
No.
I had no idea this was a hill Paolo was prepared to die on. I threatened the first thing that came to mind: I told him I’d take his swim clothes with me so he couldn’t participate in Water Day with his classmates. He made a tragic face but wouldn’t budge. I scolded, cajoled, counted to three, and then gave up and pushed him out of the baby room. I don’t even want to know what the two teachers in there thought of our ridiculous exchange. There we were fighting to the death over social niceties between a five-year-old and a baby with the attention span of a goldfish. I knew how little it mattered, but once it started, I couldn’t back down. “Consistency in Parenting” and all that.
In Paolo’s classroom, I explained that I wouldn’t take his swim gear with me, but I WOULD take his “ticket.” He’d found a dollar bill on the sidewalk yesterday and was eagerly waiting for the weekend to buy a toy with it. Well, that started the tears. I hated doing this. I HATED it. I hated myself, I hated parenting, I hated this stupid situation. So I did something I’m pretty sure a better parent wouldn’t have. I asked Paolo, if he had one more chance, would he do things differently, would he say goodbye to that baby? I was prepared to take him back into the baby room, let him grunt at little Forrest, and all would be forgiven. But what was Paolo’s response, through his lost-ticket tears? No.
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes. That is how you be nice to babies, and you will be nice to this baby. Now.
No.
By this time, since Paolo was standing still, the baby wasn’t chasing him anymore. I told Paolo to say goodbye to the baby so we could go to Paolo’s classroom.
No.
Say. Goodbye. To. The. Baby.
No.
I had no idea this was a hill Paolo was prepared to die on. I threatened the first thing that came to mind: I told him I’d take his swim clothes with me so he couldn’t participate in Water Day with his classmates. He made a tragic face but wouldn’t budge. I scolded, cajoled, counted to three, and then gave up and pushed him out of the baby room. I don’t even want to know what the two teachers in there thought of our ridiculous exchange. There we were fighting to the death over social niceties between a five-year-old and a baby with the attention span of a goldfish. I knew how little it mattered, but once it started, I couldn’t back down. “Consistency in Parenting” and all that.
In Paolo’s classroom, I explained that I wouldn’t take his swim gear with me, but I WOULD take his “ticket.” He’d found a dollar bill on the sidewalk yesterday and was eagerly waiting for the weekend to buy a toy with it. Well, that started the tears. I hated doing this. I HATED it. I hated myself, I hated parenting, I hated this stupid situation. So I did something I’m pretty sure a better parent wouldn’t have. I asked Paolo, if he had one more chance, would he do things differently, would he say goodbye to that baby? I was prepared to take him back into the baby room, let him grunt at little Forrest, and all would be forgiven. But what was Paolo’s response, through his lost-ticket tears? No.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
The longest three minutes of my life
I had just finished my afternoon pumping session and walked out of my designated room to return to my desk. A wonderful, engaged co-worker of mine was standing a couple feet away with her fiancée, who was in town so they could get their marriage license. I had never met him, but I am very fond of my co-worker, and from what she has shared, he sounds like a great guy. I politely shook his hand and introduced myself. He smiled, introduced himself and began to small-talk. His eyes gleamed. Wait, was one eye gleaming more than the other? Why is that one eye so shiny? Maybe he’s allergic, or emotional. Shit, is that a glass eye? Whoa! Glass Eye! No, surely it’s not, or is it? He kept turning his face away while he was talking and I couldn’t get a good enough look at it. It’s incredibly rude to stare at someone, ESPECIALLY if you’re trying to sort out whether they have a prosthetic body part, but damn it, YOU try to look away from a glass eye. It can’t be done.
The whole time I’m arguing with myself about whether or not this delightful man that my co-worker is in love with has a fancy marble in his eye socket (not that there’s anything wrong with that), this delightful man has been talking to me. And I have not heard a word. I tuned back in just in time to hear, “So where are you headed?” I assumed he had confused me with another co-worker who is moving, so I explained that I was the one staying behind. Both he and his fiancée stared at me like I’d lost my mind. I got the feeling that tidbit had been mentioned while I was zoned out. My co-worker said helpfully, “No, I think he’s talking about the bag you’re carrying. It looks like you’re heading out.” Oh, right, my bag, my pump bag, my “discreet,” enormous, ugly, black bag containing my electric breast pump and newly expressed breast milk. Oh, that. My brain got sucked into a black hole of embarrassment, and I couldn’t speak. My helpful co-worker jumped in again and stumbled her way through an explanation while I stood there like an idiot, nodding and mouth-breathing.
Then, unsurprisingly, it was time for the happy couple to go. Ever the gentleman, the fiancée said it had been great to meet me (and my breast milk). Oh, it was implied in the awkward way he could no longer meet my eyes and didn't reach to shake my hand, presumably covered in breast milk gore. "Yes," I agreed, "it was nice to meet you, too" (and your glass eye).
The whole time I’m arguing with myself about whether or not this delightful man that my co-worker is in love with has a fancy marble in his eye socket (not that there’s anything wrong with that), this delightful man has been talking to me. And I have not heard a word. I tuned back in just in time to hear, “So where are you headed?” I assumed he had confused me with another co-worker who is moving, so I explained that I was the one staying behind. Both he and his fiancée stared at me like I’d lost my mind. I got the feeling that tidbit had been mentioned while I was zoned out. My co-worker said helpfully, “No, I think he’s talking about the bag you’re carrying. It looks like you’re heading out.” Oh, right, my bag, my pump bag, my “discreet,” enormous, ugly, black bag containing my electric breast pump and newly expressed breast milk. Oh, that. My brain got sucked into a black hole of embarrassment, and I couldn’t speak. My helpful co-worker jumped in again and stumbled her way through an explanation while I stood there like an idiot, nodding and mouth-breathing.
Then, unsurprisingly, it was time for the happy couple to go. Ever the gentleman, the fiancée said it had been great to meet me (and my breast milk). Oh, it was implied in the awkward way he could no longer meet my eyes and didn't reach to shake my hand, presumably covered in breast milk gore. "Yes," I agreed, "it was nice to meet you, too" (and your glass eye).
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