Permission to Twerk, Please.

At five, my kid knows what many adults don't - the meaning of the word, "twerk." Depending on who you are this either makes me a shitty mom, a liberal mom (to some of you those last two are synonymous) or a totally normal mom. Unintentionally, my daughter came across the viral video of the girl who twerked and then caught fire through a revine on my Vine account. She has since discussed the twerking incident at school with her teachers and at home has asked if she was allowed to twerk. By most people's standards I should be ashamed of my poor parenting skills, not publicizing them on the Internet. But if those are your standards, please take a second to come down from your high horse that prances through your glass house and bite me.  This parenting gig is hard as hell, so please cut me some slack. The fact that my daughter knows about twerking doesn't mean I have failed at life - I've still got her teen years left; I'm just warming up, folks. Rather I'll dig a little deeper into this particular incident. She, in fact, reported to her teachers her disgust, that the young dancer didn't stop, drop and roll when she caught fire. Furthermore, after talking about twerking with her dad and me she is pretty aware of its inappropriateness for a girl her age. We have talked to her about not twerking in public. So, it is completely normal for Charley to hear music at our house and ask her dad or me permission to twerk. Her version of the dance move is no more than putting her hands on her knees and shaking her butt - it's  like a really bad, drunk-middle-age-white-woman-at-a-wedding-doing-the-Cha-Cha-Slide kind of move. It's hardly promiscuous. I've seen those Gabba Gabba creatures do more suggestive moves.

When most parents may see total failure, I see a lot of success. First of all, Charley recognizes her father and I as authorities (it's about gosh darn time) as she asks us for permission. It's in the open - there is no secret twerking going on up in this house (unless...Gary?) Second, she is able to recognize the difference between public and private activities - Thank you, Jesus! and may this lesson last through her Twitter years. Finally, for the love of fire safety, my five-year-old knew a stop, drop and roll moment!

As a mom and a middle school teacher, I make it my job to stay relevant. I seek out knowledge of the latest apps, songs, fads and styles. Please note: I am not doing this research as a means to be a hip teen myself. Lord knows, I wasn't cool or stylish when I was a teen, so there isn't a chance in hell, the adult version of myself can be cool when it involves pants labeled "skinny" and dance moves that involve violently shaking my oversized, loose-skinned body against gravity. I simply want to understand the people I encounter everyday- including my own kid. I do not want to be that uninformed, naive mom who is honestly shocked when she finds out exactly which body parts her daughter has been Snapchatting since she was 9. You can put your head in the sand, but good luck keeping your kid's head down in that hole with you. Being a teacher several years before being a parent, I knew that I would have a lot of nasty demons to fight bringing a daughter into this world, and I could not fight them with blind folds and ear muffs. 

At the same time, I am not purposefully parading filth and sin in front of my daughter on flashcards in between sessions with her sight words. I am staying informed so when she (and she will) encounters some of the tougher topics in her life, I can tackle them without my mouth agape and eyes wide - the raised eyebrows and tears falling from your eyes, kinda screws up your credibility. 

So here I sit fresh from viewing the newest video from the queen of twerking herself - Miley's, "Wrecking Ball," and trying to decide how I feel about it. I am in the same place that I was a few weeks ago after watching replays of Miley's VMA performance and seeing her video for, "We Can't Stop" - I'm not affected.  Just hearing the song (without the image of a skinny, naked-girl on a huge metal ball before me) - I like it. But I am 32 and have a pretty solid grip on my self-image. I'm just over here wondering how she avoided some pretty dangerous chaffing, while also impressed with her inner thigh strength. Now, I'm not going to let Charley watch it, but it's not just the nudity that prevents that - what would my 5 year old know about difficult break-ups? So why would she even need to hear this song?  

So, I think I am supposed to be disappointed in Miley and admonish her for destroying her Hannah Montana image and leading thousands of little girls into the evil land on twerking with teddy bears. But I'm not. Miley isn't my kid's mom. Miley is a celebrity and she doesn't get a vote in my house. Charley doesn't ask for Miley's permission to twerk - she has to talk that over with her daddy. If Charley were older, much older, she and I may even chat about the obvious self-expression (and millions of dollars) this former child-star is trying to make. While I am disappointed (to put it mildly) in the irreversible effects Hollywood, Disney, Mattel, and Disney have had on the image and sexualization of young girls, I am going to avoid spending all my time tongue lashing them. I would love to unite millions of women and our daughters in a campaign against these God awful, dangerous images of girls in media. Alas, demonizing Disney is not going help me win my biggest battle - the vicious battle that is curled into a ball, snoring on my lap at this very moment. 

Making media the bad guy will not ensure that my daughter grows up to be a good girl. 

Constant conversations and realistic awareness on behalf of myself, her dad, and her wider circle of influence (teachers, coaches, youth group leaders, aunts, uncles) are what is going to shape my kid. So you can be pissed off at Miley while your daughter watches her lick a mallet or you can turn the channel to watch Diana Nyad kick ass. Either way, you are in the room with your child and you are talking about what you value. 

Maybe you still think I'm a shitty mom. As the kids say these days, #sorryI'mnotsorry. 

Shadrach, Meshach, and Malaprop

If I knew anything about babies prior to having a child, I knew that during the first five years of their lives their brains are little sponges, which is why these are considered the crucial formative years for our offspring.

As May approaches, we are about to enter the 5th year with our little sponge-head, and, so far, she has given us quite a demonstration on exactly how much information she can soak in. I've come to embrace the sponge analogy that is most frequently used to describe the brains of our little ones. In fact, I can take it a step further: not only are 0-5 year-olds absorbing everything around them, but like a real sponge, the information doesn't always come back out the same way it went it. So with a good hard squeeze of the sponge, the water comes out looking murkier or even mixed in with unknown particles. Sometimes when my Charley Anne gets a firm squeeze, her absorbed contents pour out that unique blend one can only get after swiping a publicly-shared microwave oven. You just never know what all has been spilled in there. 

Since March, Charley has taken an intense interest in reading her Bible. Her nightly readings may be partially responsible for her recent tantrum over not being able to physically see Jesus in her bedroom when she needed help to stop crying. It has been nice, though, to hear her discuss and ask questions about the Bible. I am impressed at how well her Bible keeps the stories perfectly age-appropriate - even for my kid who almost turned a question about Mary's baby-daddy into a complete discussion about where babies come from and/or an episode of Maury...Joseph, you are NOT the father! 

Additionally, our Spring Break trip to Tennessee intensified Charley's already existing love for music. After seeing a few live performances, she has taken a particular interest in the twangy sounds of bluegrass and folk. This has prompted me to play a little more Sara Watkins, Nickel Creek, Old Crow Medicine Show and Punch Brothers on our daily commutes. It's not much, but it's an enormous win for me. I may have to give up Bob and Tom in the AM, but at least I am not listening to Beiber, Nicki Minaj, or those god-awful Kids Bop CDs that pretend like it is totally normal for a 7-year-old to belt out "I Set Fire to the Rain." Ummm, please tell me how 1st graders can relate to tormenting love.

And this is where it gets tricky. 

As we rode home from Tennessee, I played a few tunes for Charley. She really latched on to "Wagon Wheel," or "Rock Me" as she mostly calls it. We still listen to that song. A lot. Do you know how many times you can listen to "Wagon Wheel" in a 45 minute commute from work to home? A lot. Other than the chorus, she has a few lyrics she loves to scream from teh backseat: "I pray to God I see headlights" and "He was headed west from the Cumberland Gap to Johnson City, Tennessee." (Amazingly, it is not "I caught a trucker outta Philly/ Had a nice long toke"). I know that she really likes the latter line because it specifically references Tennessee and she loves to talk about her family trips to Tennessee.

But pray to God I see headlights? I could never really get that one? 

Initially, I assumed that due to her recent conversations about God, she was just relating to OCMS for their recognition of God. (God? I know him!!) But she actually almost went Buddy-the-Elf on me when she heard him say the line. With her surprised face, "Mom! Did you hear that? Did you hear them? Pray to God! Headlights!"

So as the official English teacher of the car I did what I am best at and sucked all the fun out of the song by interpreting. I go into an explanation of how "praying for headlights" is another way of saying "I hope a car passes by soon." To which she cluelessly nods and continues to pick her nose, not caring one bit about what I just said. 

Fast forward to Monday.

I pick Charley up from school and get the usual 'smh'-look from her teacher. "Oh no. What did she do this time?" 

With a laugh she says, "She has been talking about dying and heaven all day. She kept telling people they have Jesus in their hearts."

"Ummm-yeah. She gets pretty passionate about heaven and angels and God." 

"Yeah. She told us all about the story of Shadrach, Meshach & Abendego."

"Oh, yeah. She's all about that fiery furnace." (So that may have got me on the short list of parents who need a visit from Child Protective Services).  

Of our friends and family, Gary and I are the least likely to be voted Most Likely to Raise a Evangelical-Bible-Thumping Daughter. Even so, I want to handle the conversation with her teacher and with her very carefully.  I had absolutely no issues with what she was talking about. I think it's kinda cool. Actually, it's awesome. So on our car ride home, I probed her regarding the day's events just out of curiosity. 

She rambled on about many of her favorite stories and then requested that we listened to "Wagon Wheel" - of course. As I fumbled with the cord for the iPhone, she continued her sermon and concentrated on her favorite fire tale trio. I'm half listening as she declares that Wagon Wheel is about God's people. Say what? And with utter disgust at my offensive ignorance, she throws up her hands and exclaims, "Headlights!" 

I'm lost. But quickly assume that she is not hearing the line correctly. "No Charley. He says 'I pray to God...' not people of God." The singing begins and she could care less about my explanations. Glad I can end my day with as much teaching success as I have throughout my day. 

About two "Wagon Wheels" later it hits me. Bless her heart. 

God's people. 

Headlights. 

Israelites.

Her Bible's exact words are "Israelites are God's people." All this time Charley thought ol' Ketch was praying to God he saw Israelites on his trek to North Caroline. Maybe he would have after that nice, long toke.

We have one more year to prime our kid's brain and build the foundation her future depends upon.  I resolve to be a little more careful with the scope and sequence at which I let her encounter new material. The last thing I need is for her to confuse Tom Petty's Mary Jane for the Virgin Mary doing a final waltz "once last time to kill the pain" of childbirth. 

Miniature Disasters and Tiny Catastrophes

I hoped yesterday would be a nice, relaxing fun day home with Charley. Apparently, when I pray for these things I really need to be more specific. Very specific.

From infancy, I prayed that Charley would be full-of-life and bring our family joy. Um. Again - too vague. There is joy all right. Complete and utter, manic-madhatter, if-you-don't laugh-you-will cry kind of joy. And as for being full of life? Sheeez. These days I just want her to stop spinning and prancing long enough to cloth her properly, which is something I have to attempt frequently seeing as how she NEVER wears clothes. I feel like I am dressing a marionette puppet whose strings are being controlled by a Tilt-O-Whirl. 

From Tuesday afternoon until about midnight last night (quite frankly, I'm fuzzy on the details for yesterday evening because I am pretty positive I was dozing off before her ---- don't judge me) the kid has been one disaster after another. Nonstop destruction. And truly it is not like she isn't being closely supervised. I'm not talking about me lying on the couch painting my nails, chatting on the phone and catching up on my stories, while my daughter is in the east wing juggling knives.  We have a trailer, people. Albeit a doublewide, but our walls are practically a few pieces of card stock layered with wallpaper. In fact, Gary is asleep in the other room right now ("down the hall" if you will) and I can hear his every snore. 

But this kid is relentless. Charley can go from 0-90 in a millisecond. This has to be some stage or development change because it has never been like this before. I can literally be inches from her, turn my head for a second, and she is suddenly wreaking havoc. It's like supervising a junkie who is waiting for me to turn my back so she can go score a fix - her disaster fix. 

Here's the timeline: 

11/22: (Sometime before I got home) Charley grabbed the baby powder and covered herself and our bedroom in white dust. Her response to Gary, who could've sworn she had fallen asleep: "I was itchy." (by the way-I've already discussed with Gary the importance of taking pics of these moments - he says he will do better). 

11/22: (11:00PM)  Charley was in bed with me and I thought we both were asleep. Her eyes were closed. She gets up out of bed and proceeds to put my mascara on her eyes. Thank goodness Gary comes in and catches her in the act. You instantly wake up when you hear, "Go show your mother what you did."

She was apparently filling in her eyebrows.

11/23: (10 AM) I leave Charley in the bedroom while she is eating and watching a Scooby Doo movie. Food and subpar animation - her two most 'still' events, so I'm confident I can plug my phone in the other room while I talked to a friend. Less than 10 minutes later she comes prancing - I mean she is in full hip-swaying, catwalk stride- into the living room. "Look mommy! I'm ready for my concert!" Epic. Fail. 

My favorite is the Snooki-style self tan she's got going on her chest.

11/23: (11AM) Charley is convinced she can get her own drinks now and I applaud the independence. But for about the next 30 minutes every time I go into another room to pick laundry, I hear the fridge door open. Always report to the kitchen immediately when you hear this - too many massive ounces of spilled red Kool-Aid are my motivation. She keeps saying she is thirsty or hungry. I finally get her settled in and give her a glass of milk. I walked to the back of the house, start sweeping and look around to see her walking in behind me with a new topped, off 24oz glass of chocolate milk and a plate of donuts (that were being store on top of the fridge). Alright - it's official. She is a donut-crazy ninja who goes into stealth mode when she needs sugar.

11/23: (3ish): At this point she is on lock down and by my side every.  However, I let her go to the potty by herself (Look, after years of diaper changes hundreds of bathroom trips with her at my feet - I'm going to indulge myself a little and let the kid potty alone if she can. Imma big girl, we have a small bathroom and now that she is self-sufficient in there, I'm going to sit this one out.) Welp. Another bad decision. Though we didn't see it until later - she had unrolled all.the.toilet paper and was clearly using it as ribbon stick for a dance routine.

11/23: (4PM) Gary is home by now and privy to the toilet paper/rhythm gymnastics fiasco. While he is dealing with that I am in the bedroom cleaning while keeping Charley in sight. I am on one side of the bed. She is on the other. I simply bend over to pick up the dust pan.  She go-go-gadgets her arms and swiped the SpicNSpan in order to spray down our computer screen. Seriously? I'm right here!!!!! 

The poor kid jumps when I yell at her, as she is most definitely happy with her helping-mommy moment.

Not so much. 

11/23: (5PM) I am cleaning the bathroom and Charley is in the living room with her dad. She comes in every so often to check on me, tell me a story or ask for something her dad has said 'No' to. At some point her little crazy eyes catch a glimpse of the tub of glitter I found while cleaning. I'd set it aside and forgot about it. Oh, don't worry. Little Miss Crazy Train caught sight of the shiny object and went straight in for the kill. I hear, "Oh, pretty!" and then "Oops." By the time I can get to her - she is tossing the glitter in the air and doing snow angels. 

At the sound of my cussing, Gary comes stomping to the bedroom. He has the nerve to say, "This kinda stuff never happens on my watch." 

Really, powder boy? 

And then questions my classroom management - "How do you take care of a classroom full of kids?" 

"I don't know? They are older and obviously not out to destroy me? Our kid is crazy. And is taking me down while sitting inches away!" (Keep in mind throughout this conversation Charley is squealing and thinks she is jumping in a pile of leaves.) 

At with the glitter incident I conclude that I can't take it anymore, so I decide to take our freak show on the road. "Put your panties on, Pearl! We're going to Walmart."

45 minutes later... she is finally dressed and ready to leave: PJ pants, skirt, hoodie, straw hat, sunglasses and plastic mismatched pumps and her microphone. 

Somehow my mom ends up harboring the the little heathen while I go stare at ribbon in the craft aisle at WalMart. And by stare at the ribbon, I mean sit and gawk at all the awesome crazies that parade by. WalMart holiday season is a Godsend. 

11/23 (9PM) We finally make it back home and I start digging in the craft cabinet. For my pet lover friends. You know that moment you dig into the food bin for your dog and they coming running at you and whine and waller practically on top of you while you try to pour their food out? Well, THIS is exactly the same reaction my kid has when she senses the presence of glue and construction paper. So I compromise and take out her Colorwonder paper and paint. This is the stuff that lets kids paint their precious fingers off, but the color only reacts to the special paper.  The thing is, it is only foolproof if you are sure you have really, really, really hidden the real finger paint. Five minutes later. Five feet away from me. Your girl: 

What you can't see it the 14 items behind her she decided to touch with her Smurf paws..

11/23 (10PM): I'm finishing up her ribbon turkey shirt that Pinterest has convinced me I could make. She comes over to look. I give her clear parameters as to what she can and can not do while sitting beside me. She wants to "draw letters" (I'm a writing teacher for God's sake- she knows my weakness) to which I approve. In the time it takes me to reach over and grab the glue gun, Picasso has decided to change mediums. She went from paper to her brand new white shirt that is practically in my lap - all in 2.5 seconds. Cue angry-mom-yell #264. She runs to the couch and cries. Gary and I just stare at each other.

Clearly I caught it before she completed a full Sistine Chapel - but, c'mon?!

We finally get her to the bedroom. She is flanked by both Gary and me, like CIA bodyguards and we are begging her to stop talking, stop moving and just close her eyes. 

So here I sit. As the holy terror sleeps soundly, I'm rethinking my nice, fun, relaxing day at home. Pondering if it's inhumane to put a bell around your 3 year-olds neck and....laughing.

My friend, Cathy, says, "I'd rather tame shrew, than breath life into a corpse." Yeah - I get it. (But seriously though...good grief...did I get the queen shrew??)

In light of all the miniature disasters, I am thankful for the vibrant and healthy little girl. Who IS full of life. I am thankful for the way God interprets my prayers (I'm telling you - He is a funny, funny guy). And I am thankful for the memories that come from fun, relaxing days at home. 

But before I have anymore children - I am thinking about a house with an open floor plan, alarms on cabinets, and not one damn crafting supply within ten miles from our home.

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.