Let us Give Spanx (Repost)

The following post is another little gem I found while sorting through my old Myspace blogs. It was originally posted August 2007 - back when I was just  flirting with Spanx, before I got into a long-term relationship with that thick, skin-toned, fat-hugging, elastic chubby chaser. 

I am pretty sure that aside from people showing complete & utter selfless love to their fellow mankind, nothing warms God's heart and makes him chuckle more than watching me attempt to shove my extra-extra large body into a pair of Spanx after a shower. The NASA-quality Lycra fights like a burmese python when it comes in contact with human flesh forcing me to yank, jump, bend, and squat my way into my undergarment.

They should change that Biblical proverb about a rich man getting into heaven and the camel going through the eye of a needle. Well, the wealthy man's path to heaven may be slightly easier than me ever getting into a pair of those mothers in under 30 minutes. I am pretty sure if that if I have to take a break and rest while I pull on an article of clothing, I need to call Jenny.

Two cars, one tow truck.

My husband says you 'can't script' the situations in which we often find ourselves. But, just in case, I'm going to write down some of this nonsense in the event someone actually does want to script it and can pay us for it. That'd be especially convenient since 87% of the crap we deal with is generally related to our lack of funds.

It is the lack of funds has consumed us lately, but I will forgo my sob story. The truth is -most of us are struggling with money - it's just the manner by which Gary and I get slammed into financial conundrums that is more interesting than most.  

Getting a lil' extra cash is among the reasons my husband traveled to Bowling Green Saturday night. He went to judge a Hardrock MMA show. He could go, carpool with some folks and gain a small profit- basically enough to pay our gas to work and back a couple times this week. I stayed home, even though Gary originally planned to drive us both to Bowling Green. I had mentioned the need for a MMA fix since I hadn't seen people bash each others' bodies in a while, but fiscally it was totally irresponsible, so I was going to have to get my violent, aggression-voyeur fix elsewhere. Hey, I'll go visit my parents! Kidding. Totally joking. 


So I hung out my parents and played with Charley until she finally crashed at 11 PM. Sometime around 1 AM I woke up, took her to bed and called Gary. I can never sleep when he is on the road after fights.  Mostly because I am certain something bad will happen.... call me Miss Cleo. 


Unable to sleep and without TV, I played on my phone and did laundry while I waited for Gary to get home. I called him at 2:30 to see where he was- he'd made it Mt. Sterling and he was stopping for a drink. He promised to call me when he got to Bath County and again when he got to Rowan County. I requested something in the chocolate candy department and went back to my chores. Looking back, I realize my body stress eats, even when it senses stress in the near future. (Do you like how I say 'my body eats' as though I have no control over it?! Ha!)




At 3 AM, as I am organizing my kid's closet, Gary calls and says: "Bad news." Please judge accordingly, but I swear before he uttered his next sentence I thought for sure he was going to say: I forgot and/or ate the chocolate you requested. If only it were that simple.




Gary was stranded on the side of the road in Bath County. Complete and utter destruction to his tire, wheel and fender. We had been planning to take his car in for maintenance after our next paycheck - too late.




Charley was asleep, so I made the decision to not take her with me on the road. I called my mom and planned to drop her off there so she could sleep and I did not risk her waking up mid-trip and asking 4500 hundred questions that all begin with 'why' - and her safety, of course. Of course, I was also considering her safety. In addition to being on the interstate in the dead of the night, watching her mother and father lose their sanity could lead to years of therapy we clearly can't afford.




I get to my parents and shamefully walk into their room to dump my kid on the bed. My dad is sitting straight up with his AAA card in hand. I grabbed the card and I felt like I'm 10-years-old all over again, as he had been hounding us to get Gary's tires fix for awhile now. He mumbles something about a free tow and off I go to rescue Gary from the side of the road. Rescue is a strong word. Honestly, it was not as if  his situation was incredibly urgent. Only my husband could be on the shoulder of the interstate at a very safe distance, with cell service, a wi-fi-connected computer, his dip, and plenty of snacks. So, he is basically in his recliner at home.


I almost grabbed my mom's keys as I walked out because my car was about out of gas (and I love her Sirius radio), but feeling like the biggest burden in the world already, I jumped in my car and searched for a 24-hour gas station. 



I hit 64 and said a prayer- Lord get us home safely, without further incident.

Now, 
Gary says I mumble. He can never hear me. I contend he is a poor listener. Tonight I confirmed God is male- he only heard half of what I said.


At mile-marker 130 I started losing speed and I heard a loud whirring behind me that interrupted The Doors (stoners take over the radio at 3 AM). 

The repeated thud from my driver's side back tire confirmed God's incredible sense of humor. 


I pull over as far as possible, but I was seconds away from the Bath County line, which crosses a bridge over the LIcking River. I get completely off the road with only a foot to spare. (Did I really just say spare?)




Completely manic and hysterical - I called Gary sobbing and cussing. Other than telling me I have to calm down and shutting down my irrational suggestion we just walk 'til we meet each and watch the sun come up...he convinced me to call my mom.




Lord. It's that phone call to your parents where you're telling your mom what happened and your dad starts asking questions and commenting from the background, so then my mom is talking to two people trying to relay messages and give instructions all at once. She spends majority of the phone call trying to clarify to whom she is speaking. Never mind, me folks, Ill just sit here on the interstate while we work out this convo. Their only advice 15 minutes later: "Call AAA, you have the card for free roadside assistance. See what they say and call back."




A girl takes one customer service professional development and she becomes an expert- AAA is the worst service I've yet to deal with. 


My favorite question was her first one- 'Are you in a safe location?'


'Why yes, ma'am. I am on the side of the interstate at 3:30 AM near a wooded area watching semi's whiz pass me at 80 mph. I've never felt safer. Matter of fact -I should open a preschool for visually impaired children in this exact location." Seriously?




Even after being as detailed as I could, Rhonda Roadside could not figure out where I was located. Apparently, I needed the longitudinal coordinates of my location because if she was not precise this whole deal was off-- i.e: 'ol girl couldn't move on 'til her computer allowed her.

I calmly endured the 15 minutes of her fumbling around with my location. I didn't snap when she thought I was in Connecticut. I said nothing rude when she asked me to list all the major roads I was near or just passed. When the woman told me the services could not be offered unless I could get 'my friend, Charles' to confirm my use of his card, I apparently became (as Kathy Griffin would say) a strong, black woman.




No way was I going to play phone tag and take more time for the already estimated hour until I receive assistance. I explained to her it was unsafe as it was, I was his daughter, and he is watching my 4-year-old as I was in this predicament because my husband was stranded on the side of the road (albeit comfortably) 6 miles ahead of me.




When she suggested I calm down and call the police if I felt 'that unsafe.' I lost it. 




'Ma'am at this point my safety is not my biggest concern, so unless the police drive up here passing out new cars and/or wads of money to fix this mess - I don't need the po-lice, I need to get to my husband and back home." And with the enunciation of po-leese, I was suddenly pretending to be a member of Honey Boo Boo's family on an episode of Cops. God help us all. I plea insanity.




Alas, I was approved for roadside assistance (she must've known I was hardcore). But by assistance - she meant a guy from Steve's Towing would be there in 45 minutes to get me and charge me $3 per mile after the first 5 miles, all due at the time of my tow.



Umm, no. Not happening.




I called my dad asked about the free tow? (Keep in mind, we have ruled out the spare. A. Not sure that I had one. B. I didn't want to be responsible for someone changing my tire while in the right lane of 64 at 4AM. C. The tow was supposed to be free). 


Irate and crazy, my dad sent my mom out the door to get me, wrote down AAA's number and promised to inform Rhonda Roadside where she can go and what she could do to herself. New discovery: I turn ghetto, while my father goes Clint Eastwood via RNC upon dealing with incompetent service peoples. Oy.




Remember Gary? Yeah, his car was completely dead at this point, but he was still perfectly entertained. Grasping at straws for a ride home, he decided to call his folks to get him, since my ETA was very uncertain - he made this decision prior to my dad losing his mind on AAA. Also, my mother is a nervous driver so with the fog and dark night she could've been a while. I decided to settle in sans snacks or computer hook up.




In the meantime, a very nice off-duty, MSU police officer stops and checks on me. Officer James. He offered to either drive me to Gary or get Gary and bring him to me, but since both of us had rides coming to us we declined.  Before he left, though, he flashed some light on my tire to expose to me what was left of my tire. Ugh. He was nice, but offered me no money or a new car. 




My mom finally made it to me. We passed Gary on the interstate. His dad was just ten minutes behind us and since he did not own a cell phone, we couldn't call him off his rescue mission.




Gary and I made it home, safely. Without incident? Hardly. 




Mom just called an Charley sounds horrible- coughing and complaining of a sore throat.  But, God love her, she is worried about how we are getting to church today. I am worried about how we are all getting to work tomorrow. We have a few hours to figure out how to get our cars off the interstate and fixed.




We are safe and (despite bouts of obesity) physically healthy. I think our emotional and spiritual health is compromised some- but by now we know the drill. We have been here before -often, too.damn.often. Nevertheless, we always seem to get exactly what we need to make it. 

Well, except that chocolate. I never got my chocolate. 

There's no swagger in my wagon, but can I offer you a seashell?

Four years ago Gary allowed me to make a pregnant lady decision. I insisted we needed a new car and it needed to be able to ride 7 people because we were adding just one small, tiny person to our family. I guess the enormity of my  personal weight gain during pregnancy made me miscalculate exactly how large my newborn would be and exactly how much space she'd require. Assuming I'd be chauffeuring Charley plus a small herd of wayward highwaymen daily,  we bought a Chrysler Pacifica. It was spacious and had a family car feel without that godforsaken sliding door that I will spend my life trying to avoid. I really enjoyed the car when I wasn't dealing with air conditioning, tire, wheel, tie-rod,  radiator, alternator, or remote-start issues (let's hope the dealership people don't read this). My love for the car mimics the similar feelings I've expressed for my daughter - she is perfect... when she's asleep (that car is incredible...sitting in my driveway). An increased commute has solidified  my desire to trade-in  the Silver Spaceship. 

Shopping for a new vehicle requires a lot of work. No, not researching and looking for deals- the Internet has made that a no brainer. I now realize the hard work apparently comes the night before when you have to clean out your old vehicle in a desperate attempt to slick 'er up and pretend you've kept it in pristine condition all along. 'No...that's not melted chocolate and dog hair permanently hardened into the carpet.' This is especially difficult when you've been using the vehicle as an extension of your home for 60+ minutes a day. By that comparison, I'm not sure I am willing to publicly admit which part of the home we use our vehicles for. 

I will say that the deep cleaning and total purging of my car has made me consider a few rules for my next car. 
Most people enact the standard no-eating-in-the-car rule, but that alone would not encompass the entire problem- even though I now know how Charley ate all those yummy sweet potato fries so quickly last month. 

I'm extending the ban. Based on the recent findings in my car the following will be forbidden in the new car: 

1.  Phone chargers. I may not be able to offer your car battery a jump, but I can give your cell some juice- Nokia? Nextel? Apple? Pick a cord...any cord. 
2. Straws- especially those that come with juice boxes and will stab your hand as you blindly reach beneath the seat.
3. Anything that has the potential to melt: crayons, chocolate, cough drops, suckers, raisins, ice cream, my kid without a nap...
4. Cups with lids
5. Cups without lids
6. Removable straps  that are supposed to keep certain 'cups' comfy and secure.
7. Bottles with caps- the caps are everywhere.
8. Bottles without caps- too many spills related to excess tobacco juice. (Our daughter knows to cautiously ask before drinking from any bottles...life lessons from her daddy). 
9. Anything that can be crushed: cookies, crackers, goldfish crackers, biscuits, cereal, chips, my hopes & dreams...
10. Discount/club cards for stores I frequent maybe every 6 months and never have with me in the store, but I still get the discount because I punch in my phone number- genius!
11. Hairbows, hairbands and bobby pins- I could open a Claire's from my backseat.
12. Shoes that can not be tied and double knotted to the wearer's feet. 
13. CD's both with and without cases- and especially burned CD's wherein the creator assumed it would not be necessary to write a title, date or other info- because accidentally popping in Gary's angry-teenage-boy mixed CD instead of Charley's Kid's Bop is never unsettling to my passengers. 
14. Anything that can easily rest above the sun visor without being seen and then unexpectedly attacks  my face when I go to check my make-up
15. Important papers that have clearly expired, but because I'm fuzzy on the time period in which they should be kept, my console becomes napkin disposal and an ancient artifacts museum. 
16. Clothes hangers: wire, plastic, children's -"Nooo wire hangers!!"
17. Baskets/crates/tote bags  that are suppose to be organizing the crap all over the car. Good effort guys.
18. Stickers.Especially those shiny ones of cartoon characters that are obviously made by the Gorilla Glue Co. and obviously belong on a window.
19. School supplies- pencils, pens, highlighters, paper clips, paper, post-its, textbooks, binders, common core standards, curriculum maps, etc. Just in case you wanna align curriculum on the go. 
20. Wallet sized and mailed holiday photos (including/especially-those featuring my own daughter).
21. Seashells. I was driving around with a box of seashells? 
22. Toys and dolls. The time will come when I am mistakenly arrested because someone saw Polly-Pees-Herself strapped in the back seat and reports me for leaving a baby in the car. 
23. Tampons/pads. Regardless of how or where they are stored they always wind up in the passenger side floor board, mangled and fully unwrapped (usually on days I have to cart a guy in my car).
24. Chapstick/lip gloss. I have it for two days, but inevitably open it after it has sat in 90 degree temps and it liquifies all over my lips or lands in gob on the floor mat.
25. Pennies. Sure they add up, but even if I have 300 and take the time to collect, roll and cash them in- I still don't have enough to cover the price at my next car wash vacuum session. At 75 cents a session, I need a small loan to tidy up my upholstery.  


The list could go on, but ultimately I should probably just ban people (at least my filthy lil family) from my car. While I'm ranting and raving over the disaster our vehicle, Gary stands by and dreamily lists the great times the car has seen: the first Thomas family vacation to Florida, a couple of trips to TN, Sunday trips to visit family, bringing our daughter home from the hospital...

'Are you going to miss it? It was our first family car with Charley.'

When you have scrubbed chocolate milk on the verge of spoiling from the carpet right below your precious offspring's seat in 90 degree heat, or sat uncomfortably behind the veil of tinted windows in the Target parking lot trying to breastfeed at midday despite the clear view offered to people passing the extra wide front window, or listened to your child scream from Owingsville to Christy Creek, or driven 25 miles with a crazy-terrified cat clinging to your steering wheel while your 100lb dog wants to climb to the front seat to lie in your lap, or sat in Lexington traffic 9 months pregnant when the AC goes out and the power to the windows stalls during abnormally hot temps for April...you somehow block out the sweet car memories. 

'Oh, this car can only transport one person? Where do I sign?' 

So they loaded up the truck and moved to....Clearfield.

. 

Almost four years ago exactly, Gary and I hammered a couple of 'For Sale' signs in our neighborhood and yard. I'm think I'm supposed to remember the hope and excitement we had that day, but mostly I just think about how clean my house was. Seriously, my house was so clean the day the realtor came over to take pictures. We even really mopped, and not just Swifter mopped. Actually, that may have been the last time we really mopped? I remembered it smelled so freaking good.

---------------------> Fast forward 4 years. 

I think it smells like wet dog, foot, and apple cinnamon in here. We are clearly trying to cover up the smell with every Glade product on the market. 

For every single item I pick up, Charley drags out four equally or larger sized items. Isn't that a Newton law or something? 

Hang on. Charley just ran into the living room to ask me if she can help cut daddy's hair - she is wearing high heels and underwear. Awesome - this means hair all over the bathroom floor and/or another trip to the ER. Shout out to Gary. It's good he is teaching her a trade. Maybe beauty school will keep her off the stage. But really, today? We need to do this right now???

You know back in 2008, when our house was immaculately clean, moving would have been a breeze. I hadn't gone back to grad school yet. Gary wasn't neck deep into operating a MMA media business in addition to his real job. Charley was a tiny little infant confined to a crib and had tiny little toys instead of a 75 lb music stage. 

It was all too simple. 

So here it is, March 31st. We finally sold our house. It happened very suddenly and unexpectedly. Technically our house wasn't even on the market, but through word of mouth and God's wicked sense of humor we finally sold our doublewide to a sweet elderly couple, who really need to live here. 

Yeah, sure. I should be jumping up and down and crying tears of joy. This is everything I've wanted! But all of that is a little suppressed right now as full on debilitating panic sets in. Here's the catch: 

                                                                  We have to be out by April 15th. 

15 days. 15 days to pack and move almost 10 years of our lives. 

Add in the following: I am recovering from strep. I have 495 assignments to do for grad school and my job. Gary is preoccupied with a MMA fight this week.  Charley is, well - a pain in the ass. She's acting like an emotional, bipolar 13 year old. She goes between full-on euphoria that we are moving, to crazy-sobbing depression that we are leaving her 'house, her home, her Baff County." Plus, she is extra pissed that we are, in fact, not moving into a castle. When she's not going full-on Lindsay Lohen crazy she's just being 3 and making messes. Everywhere. 

Yeah. This is more like it. This is exactly how I dreamed our moving day to be: the hope and excitement all buried deep beneath dysfunction, chaos and dirty laundry.

Pictures of our house - Pre-Charley. 

That rug was destroyed a few months later in a candy corn meets Gunner vomit incident. 

Whoop-dee-do and I love you...

I wrote the following memoir  in 2006. I was working through the realization that my Mamaw was starting to battle dementia/Alzheimer's. Mamaw died last night at the age of 86, but I feel as though I have been saying goodbye to her for years now. The Mamaw I remember is strong and funny and loving – not the frail, quiet lady I said good bye to last night. Many of you may remember Mamaw at her most famous station - the Walmart service desk. I remember my Mamaw in her chair.

Last week, my husband Gary and I made our first adult purchase together and bought a brand new leather couch. As we spent our first Sunday sprawled on the new monstrosity that barely fits in our small living room, I noticed that we had claimed our sides. I prefer to lounge on the end that allows me to reach the nearby shelf so I can spread my clutter all around, and Gary sits on the opposite end for optimal remote control use. As I looked at our defined positions I was amused by how quickly we surrendered to this seating arrangement, but really not all that surprised. I don't know about my husband, but I am, in fact, genetically predisposed to such territorial behaviors. Most people claim a place in their home, but my Mamaw Gib, is someone I most associate with distinct pieces of furniture.


I can remember hazy summer days in the old brown house. My Mamaw arranged her body and most necessary belongings at the kitchen table. Mamaw controlled her domestic universe from this common location. As though she wanted to make sure we knew she was chore ready, she'd be dressed in ragged, bleach-stained shorts and an oversized sleeveless, yellow, cotton T-shirt with elbows carelessly on the table. Her back grazed the washing machine and dryer, while she was within a few steps from the stove and, most importantly, only a flick of the wrist from her Merit Ultra Lights and a worn deck of playing cards.


I don't know what drew me to her side at the table, whether it was the leftover biscuits that hid under a paper towel or the easy view of Pappy Duke's blaring TV, but I found it so comfortable to plop myself at the table, still damp from the dish rag she swiped across the surface to remove sausage gravy. She would scurry around the kitchen folding underwear and dropping dumplings all at the same time, while I just rambled about my 8-year-old dramas: mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends. In between her hurried tasks, though, she would always rest back into her chair, shuffle the deck of cards, and sometimes even deal me in a hand of Double Solitaire.

The first time I saw my Mamaw cry was at that very table. We were watching the final episode of The Golden Girls and I looked to my right to see a tear drop quietly from Mamaw's eye just as Dorothy hugged her girls goodbye. Without skipping a beat, Mamaw huffed, slapped my shoulder, and let out a "Well, shit, Ab!" (her favorite phrase, beside "Whoop-dee-do") as if to curse away this frivolous TV indulgence and instance of weakness. This moment creeps back into my memory each time I watch the Lifetime rerun of that very episode. I am not touched at the sentimentality of the episode, rather the tenderness of my Mamaw.

When I was in the sixth grade the small city of Morehead was deciding to develop its budding commerce. This meant that the beloved old brown house behind the Pizza Hut would be demolished and Mamaw's kitchen table was to be moved all the way across town to Clearfield.

The new house, though, was perfect. Mamaw could still sit comfortably with her back to the washing machine and dryer and she still was just a shuffle away from the stove and sink, There was one distinct change that incurred at this new residence, which ultimately affected her favorite furniture inclination. Due to breathing problems, my Pappy Duke was forced to rely on the clear plastic tube of his oxygen machine. This meant Mamaw would have to enjoy her Merit Ultra Lights outside in order to avoid the disastrous explosion that could transpire if Mamaw and her lit flame came too close to Pappy and his relaxing breathing aid – I knew about this dangerous fusion between these two, long before the oxygen machine moved in. Quitting her habit was never really an option because being a woman of habits it was much easier for her to simply occupy a new site. She chose the white wicker rocking chair that sat in the corner of her small front porch.

At this time I was devoting my winter schedule to basketball practices and games; therefore, my visits with Mamaw were more frequently in the summer when I could keep her company during long and frequent smoke breaks. Somehow, with the razing of the old house, my Mamaw's chores were lessened and we had more time to just sit and chat, which was good, because now a teenager I had more serious problems to tend to, even though mean teachers, unfair parents, and best friends still remained on the agenda.

Mamaw would rock and I would talk as neighbors walked through the street in front of us. Despite the constant traffic just a few feet away, I always felt secluded on the porch with Mamaw. Maybe it was because we were away from the chaos of the blaring TV that hadn't been turned down since they lived on Barber Court and that we were not near the heavy humming of Pappy's newest noise maker, but it was out on that porch I suddenly started talking of things more feminine despite my desperate attempts to remain the resident tomboy. On that porch one late summer afternoon, Mamaw became the first family member to know about my first serious boyfriend – a taboo subject I had avoided much longer than my two cousins who have talked openly about the opposite sex while I was still passing boy cooties to my neighbor in the lunch line with ‘no-take-backs.’ Giving a comfortable shrug, Mamaw just rocked back in her chair, ashed her cigarette on the concrete and asked questions about his family, while I slowly gushed about my secret crush.

The evening chat about boys on the porch suddenly became a childhood memory, as it wasn't long before I walked up the porch step, looked at the empty rocking chair to realize I was a 20 year-old college student. Mamaw no longer had any time for that front porch post, as she was forced to quit her nicotine addiction and move inside where she was needed by my Pappy Duke. Pappy was diagnosed with cancer in late July that year and Mamaw forgot to smoke as she gave her every second to her husband. She perpetually sat in his recliner beside his hospital issued bed until his death in early November of the same year. As it was for my entire family, those brief months centered around Pappy, so I honestly can't recall any significant moments with Mamaw; she became displaced during the shuffling of doctor appointments, pill bottles, home health nurses, and everyone's last visits with Pappy. Somewhere in that house she just sat quietly to the side while we all dealt with Pappy's death in our own ways.

Had I not been so overwhelmed and focused on Pappy during his last days, I'm pretty sure I would have laughed at Mamaw who was courageous enough to settle into Pappy's massive recliner that boasted a structure and aura much larger than the fragile lady relaxed in its sunken seat. The recliner was Pappy's place and for anyone to sit in it, especially with him in the same room, was a blasphemous sin comparable only to not cleaning your plate at mealtime. It wasn't until months after the chaos of Pappy's death that I even noticed Mamaw's new, absurd location.

At this very moment I can walk into the living room to find Mamaw dressed in loose cotton PJ's, cross-legged, and hunched in Pappy's recliner under a sour cloud of cigarette smoke. Mamaw may have abandoned her former seats, but she soon reunited with the familiarity and comfort of her embrace with that long, smooth stick.

Despite the several years that I have had to adjust to her new furniture preference, I still get the feeling that the scene is just out of place, like a curious toddler who slips on daddy's giant work boots. It's sweet that she sits in Pappy's room, but this is not her place. Mamaw now faces the less used washer and dryer and doesn't even bother with stove or sink a room away. For the past three Christmases I have bought her a new deck of playing cards, but they remain unopened as she no longer has the sturdy kitchen table always before her. The TV plays on loud as ever, but even she will admit that "it's just for the noise." I am slowly coming to terms with the realization that Mamaw's new chair extends beyond just a change of scenery.

It is no secret, nor is it a surprise, that Mamaw's memory is fading. Somehow her sharp tongue, coinciding chores, and patient flips of playing cards have become lost somewhere in this life long game of musical chairs. The odd appearance of her latest arrangement is sharply outlined by the ever progressing derangement of her mind. The repetitious questions have the warmth of my caring Mamaw, but they lack the sincerity of the woman who has always sat close by to listen and hear me my whole life. Over the years it has become my habit, my inclination, to turn to this woman as my confidant and close friend. Now I have to share my seat with the uninvited consequences of aging.

(Sidenote: The couch that referenced in the first paragraph is now, 6 years later, worn, ragged and sagging – but, dammit, isn’t that what Time does to us all?)

Cool-Hearted Snake

3 years, 6 months, and 9 days. The milestone that most parents must wait for their children to reach well into their teen years, was knocked out of the park tonight by my precious, darling toddler. What did the gifted (clearly) tot accomplish at such a young age? Well, she confidently and emphatically declared to the household (and, in reality, the rest of the neighborhood) that I, her mother and giver of life, was 'not cool'. Her exact words, through the tears and snot: "Not cool, mommy. Not cool."

Oh, really?

This would almost offend me - had I not lost every ounce of 'coolness' from the time I conceived this little gem. Cool left me the day I had to use my toes to pick up objects off the floor because I was too fat pregnant to bend over. Cool walked out on me the day I decided that fabric infused with the constricting powers of a tropical anaconda was suitable for underwear. Cool is sucked out of me every day I sing along with Justin Beiber while driving my mid-size, 'crossover' SUV that is one sliding door away from being a mini van. Cool was long gone the second I became interested in various methods of turning average vegetables and snacks into fun insect and/or animal shapes. So tonight - the pint-sized, vocalized affirmation that I was 'not cool' brought me distress ONLY because I had to fight back the urge to burst out in laughter.

So, what was 'Joe Cool' doing to earn the badge of lameness? I was forced to remove the 1,498 toys from my daughter's possession for 7 days. Not my raddest moment. So as I jammed dress-up clothes and potato heads into the closet, my daughter totally wigged out. As each toy left the shelf Charley wailed a heart wrenching, dissertation as to who got her the toy and how it was her most favorite. She snapped when her 'best-favorite-purse-her-Lulu-bought-for-her-forever' was tossed into the closet. (I think she was going with the nonsense-filled sentences to try and build an 'insanity defense').

Background: Charley received a report today from preschool that she was sent to timeout more than once for not picking up her toys. Unfortunately for Charley her mother is a crazy, neurotic public school teacher who privately fears that her kid will grow up to be THAT kid in class, so said mother may slightly overreact to otherwise developmentally normal instances.

But don't worry my kind-hearted friends - in the spirit of the Christmas season that is upon us, the delinquent was allowed to keep 3 parent-selected toys that fit into a small basket. She outgrew her gold, frankincense and myrrh last year, so she was allowed to keep a ball, a book, and baby doll. I actually just needed a way for her to intentionally, practice putting away toys every night (That's right. I even have my three year old child completing daily formative assessments...Stiggins - the next Dobson).

Being told I was 'not cool' was slightly off-putting, however it can not compare to the comment uttered as the last toy was being put away and the tears had eventually stopped. With the biggest smile and sweetest voice, my kind and oh-so-innocent child walked over, wrapped her arms around my leg and said, "Mommy, you are so pretty."

Ah, there's my little sociopath. Good to know that the initial results from my earnest attempt at scrupulously doling out consequences, included mud-slinging, followed by manipulation. I bet Barbara took away all of George W.'s toys back in the day.

How much in therapy fees will this stunt cost me? Or will she be old enough to pay for her therapy herself? 

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.