Pretty Little Liar

See that face? That is the face of addiction. No, not my face; though I do appear to be a potential model for unfortunate souls addicted to Zebra cakes and self-tanner (if Snookie and the mid-90's version of Roseanne had a love child...). No, the face I am referring to is that sweet, little face of the sweet, little girl I'm holding in my lap. Yes, she is an addict. She is so addicted that she can't even tear herself away from her addiction for just one second to capture a loving memory. My baby girl is a recovering TV addict. Look at how lovingly she is gazing at the soft glow of the big screen. She's got it bad.

I'm pretty sure the pre-parent version of myself would be totally disgusted with allowing this to happen, but the post-parent version of myself just wanted to take a damn shower where I could wash my body, hair and shave all in one session - so, I chose my battles and somewhere along the way Charley went from a hit here and there to an every day, all day habit.

There was no intervention, no surprise family gathering, no letters telling her how her habit was making us feel (we are saving that for her teen years). Gary and I just pretty much decided in May to kick our Dish Network habit cold turkey. The bill was getting on my nerves and Gary still may have been slightly rattled by Charley's three-year-old check-up where he received a tongue lashing from the pediatrician about our borderline morbidly-obese toddler. Oops.

So here we are - one month mostly TV-free. We still watch DVD's, but Charley's our seemingly endless access to hundreds of channels is over. Her time in front of the TV has been significantly reduced (until she goes to my parents' house - the classic enablers - who have informed me that taking TV away from a kid is 'primitive bullshit'...thanks for the support on this one, folks).

If you read any legitimate parenting blog or research-based article, they would applaud this move (like, I almost feel I should buy her an organic T-shirt and give her some hummus for lunch) as I am saving her from the societal ills of violence, promiscuity, obesity, acts of disrespect...blah, blah, blah.  I don't buy into all of that. Now, I'm not a complete crazy radical who lets Charley watch South Park (mostly because I don't want to have to some day explain to her preschool teachers why she kicks babies), but I'm not so sure that TV is the root of all evil (ahem, Parent Television Council). In fact, folks, I would like to present a  very compelling case for TV. Over the past month I have noticed some alarming and unhealthy behaviors that seem to indicate she needs TV. The truth is my darling, little addict has accelerated into a cold-hearted, compulsive liar since we have cut out television.

The first set of lies were kinda cute. They went something like this:

Me: (responding to a hateful tone in Cat's voice) Young lady, I can do without the nasty attitude.


Charley: (eyes get dewy and big) No, mommy. I no have attitude. I juss teesin'. 


We even laughed when she came up with the following little fib:


Me: (looking sternly into my rearview mirror) Charley Anne, you best stop the whining and crying. 


Charley: (immediately stops crying and throws on a big, fake smile) No mommy. I not crying. I juss coughing, see...(and she proceeds to hack into her hands like she has TB). 


I gradually became a little more concerned when her pretend-play became extremely elaborate: the hour-long tea parties she hosts while completely naked except for a pair of pink plastic pumps. If anything I'm just scared to death her tea party obsession may send her down the rocky path of Republican.

In isolation, I am sure the above incidents should be shrugged off as just products of an overactive imagination, but when paired with the most recent event, I believe these have all been warning symptoms to her compulsive lying.  I became extremely concerned last Monday.

As I was cleaning out her closet trying to figure out why the hell we still have unopened toys and clothes with tags on them, Charley played at my side delighted with all the new discoveries. At one point I noticed she dug got at all of her coloring pencils - my biggest concern is that she doesn't color on the walls or furniture (again) so I tried to keep an eye on her. It took me a few glances, but I finally noticed that Charley was propped against her desk and giving me some crazy smirk -obviously up to no good. I pretended to ignore her in an attempt to catch her in action (this is clearly the only way when dealing with liars). Then I saw it. My daughter, staring at me the entire time, taking a long, slow drag from her Passion Purple coloring pencil. She inhaled and exhaled with the slim pencil poised between her thumb and her index finger. I'm not certain, but I think squinted a little as she inhaled. This is where I suck as a parent. This is hilarious. I want to burst out laughing, text everyone I know, send out a tweet, write it in her baby book, take a pic...I am NEVER prepared to discipline. Seriously, what do you say when you see your tiny kid smoking?


After staring at the floor and a couple of deep breaths, I finally composed myself enough to slowly ask in my I'm-talking-so-calmly-you-should-be-scared-that-I'm-a-lunatic voice, "Charley, what did you just do with that coloring pencil?"

And at that, she jumps up, shoves the pencil behind her back a says, "Noffing." Holy crap! Are you kidding me? Not only is she SMOKING, but my three year old is trying to hide the damn evidence. Good thing I confiscate cell phones and lame notes for my day job - I knew exactly what to do from here.

"Charley, what is the purple pencil you are holding behind your back?"

"It's noffing. I juss moking."

OMG. What do I do? Do I go into a presentation on the affects of smoking with a slideshow on lung disease? Plus, how does she know how to smoke? What the heck? Or do I address the fact that this little shit just lied to me?

I go for the lying - somehow in my head it's worse. However, as I am putting her in timeout I couldn't stop myself before blurting out, "Young lady, you will ALWAYS be in more trouble for lying than smoking." Well, that just tops the charts of stupid shit I've said as a parent.

I walked out of her bedroom leaving her to cry, knowing she doesn't have a flipping clue as to what just happened. I'm not so sure I know what just happened. I sat down and wondered how she suddenly became a calculated, lying delinquent who smokes in between her topless tea parties.

The only answer I could come up with is - she needs TV. None of this dishonesty ever occurred when she had Dora, Ming Ming, and Carly Shay in her life. Sure, she may have been a Nick Jr. junky but, by God, she was honest. So there it is. The choice we must make as parents. Do we expose our children to the alleged hideous sins of TV or do we raise bold-face, compulsive liars?

For now, I choose lying (obviously for selfish reasons - it cracks me up, it saves me money, and it's ten times more entertaining than watching those twin boys who tell corny jokes on Disney). In the meantime, I'm going to call a few boarding schools to get their minimum ages for enrollment and pray that she doesn't start doing shots out of her princess tea cups after hiding the "juice boxes" under her bed.

When Gunner Met Sally

My tenure as an 8th grade language arts teacher has secured me a place in the tumultuous lives of adolescents. I can't count how many conversations about my job prompt the outsider to sigh or stare at me with eyes wide open when I reveal what age group I teach. Almost every person immediately comments upon the wild and unpredictable 'hormones' associated with this particular age group, to which I just smile and think - "Man, you have no idea."
Young love can be a very sweet and innocent experience - that is if Walt Disney is producing the plot and you have beautiful child actors dramatizing the antics in 30 minutes or less complete with life lessons and a musical number. In reality, young love is obnoxious, obsessive melodrama that always leaves one or both (mostly both) parties acting like ridiculous idiots. No gender is particularly more guilty than the other. I have watched girls as their conversations grow louder and hair flips almost dangerous when a certain fella walks by. Of course lest I forget the giggling. God. The giggling.
I have watched boys puff out their chests and take on strides through the hallway that beg an Animal Planet voiceover about awkward mating rituals.
There are those that display their love through pain: the locker punchers, ear piercers, and fighters. I am often annoyed by the artistic Romeos that scrawl names and hearts in Sharpee all over their arms and jeans or scribble on my desks, and God forbid, the really blatant fools who add their one-true-love's name to their homework.
Then there are the love sick fools who refuse to eat in front of their crush or are too heartbroken to consume a calorie because fasting like you are Gandhi will summon the love gods of peaceful protest and send him/her running into your arms.
Last but not least, the crying. If there is one truth to all the talk about hormones, it is the underdeveloped control these little love junkies have over their emotions. I have consoled both boys and girls through mascara smearing, sob sessions where I've handed them snot rags in between their adamant swears to the Lord above that they can love nobody else. I mean seriously, imagine if we all married our childhood sweethearts?! Well, uh,wait a second...no comment.
But anyway, one perk of my job is that I get (or shall I say, deserve) a short two month break from all the infatuation nonsense when summer rolls around. When spring hits and love is in the body-odor-covered-by-cheap-cologne-filled air, summer can not come quickly enough for middle school teachers. But not this year. No. It followed me home.
Here I sit, at 4:30AM awakened by never-ending whines of my once sweet and mild-mannered 'first born' who is beside himself in love. For the past three days Gary and I have been overwhelmed with a love drunk, 100 lb, 8-year-old Great Pyrenees. At this moment he standing in front of me whining, barking and intermittently throwing his heavy paw on my leg in a pitiful teenage-like plea to let him go outside and rendezvous with the love of his life. The object of his affection is 10 lb beagle-mix mutt that showed up at our house a few weeks ago. "Sally" (as Charley has named her) has my dog in fits. He paces through the house, digging his nails into our laminate floors and  frantically moving from window to window hoping to get a glimpse of his mangy Juliet . He jumps onto the window barking and beating his paws on the glass as though he was Dustin Hoffman in the The Graduate. He will do this for hours. Hours. He has not slept and has stopped eating - at any minute I expect to walk in and see 'Gunner + Sally 4-ever' written in Sharpee on his white fur that has been doused in Axe body spray. In the brief moments when he actually lies down, the entire time he pants and whimpers a constant, sad cry - I think can make out 'Sally' from his groans. Occasionally, he will let out a long sigh - sorta like that hiccup noise Charley makes when she has cried too hard and long and is finally trying to get her breath.
I can't even take him outside to pee. We normally just leash him up to the porch for a bit throughout the day, but in his aggressive struggle to get to Sally he has stripped his leash to a breaking point. When he is outside it beyond hilarious to watch the huge beast prance around the little pup trying desperately to hook up. Drunk men dancing at bars have more swagger than poor Gunner. He throws a flirty paw and smashes Sally into the ground. He jumps to mount and gets nothing but air. Meanwhile, the little floozy flops over, displaying her goodies right before she sprints just beyond his reach. I once had a female student who walked by a certain classroom daily and purposely plummeted full-on faceplant to capture the attention of her crush  - now I kinda see the connection.
It must be noted that Gunner is the dog who refused, on several occasions, arranged opportunities to express his affections with female Pyrs. After a handful of failed attempts to vend Gunner's 'stud services', I wrote him off as a confirmed bachelor and was ready to sign the family up for a pride march.  I mean, Gunner doesn't so much as lift an eyebrow unless he hears you pouring food in his bowl or he notices that you are not paying attention to the food you just pulled from the oven. Clearly, he has a passionate hankering for straggly, little brunettes from the other side of the tracks.

As pitiful as it all sounds, I am about to go completely mad. He has ensured our insomnia, ripped the curtains off the window, and panted until slobber pours from his mouth; my windows and floors are covered in a foamy shine. 

According to the Internet, this bitch (pun intended) could hypnotize my Gunner for the next 3-4 weeks, which is basically the rest of my summer. I don't think so. I will NOT be confined to the house with a hyperactive three-year-old and a lust-crazed beast (to be clear, I'm still referring to Gunner). My house will not become some brothel for dogs. We're trailer park people, but not that level, yet. 

So please - I am taking any and all efforts to save my sanity and the rest of my summer break. Stop by and pick up Sally - other than being a little promiscuous she's a real sweetheart, my dog will confirm this. Gunner is available for adoption, as well - I think my little boy has grown up and is ready to leave home. Maybe even donations to board him until this bewitching passes?

In the meantime, I can only pass along the expert advice of our favorite former game-show host, Bob Barker: Help control the pet population, have your pet spade or neutered! As for the twitterpated teenagers? The only fix we have for them is patience, Jesus and turtlenecks.