Absolutely Bananas: Seattle mom blog

The dark side of Bella

Bella is a GOOD dog. She is fluffy and a cutie-wootie and she has a big black nose and Zsa Zsa Gabor eyelashes. She knows how to sit and she rings a bell to go outside and she is endlessly patient with CJ.

BUT.

Bella has a dark side.

A dirty little secret.

Sometimes, in the darkness of night, Bella sneaks around the house and eats things.

Inappropriate things.

Things that are not food.

I’ve started a list. Because somehow that makes me feel in control of the situation.

(I find it soothing to sing the list to the tune of 12 Days of Christmas. Feel free to join me.)

In the last six months, Bella has EATEN:

4 brand new bras

3 tennis shoes

2 crocs

3 sandals

and a brand-new pair of flip-flops

1 remote control

2 DVDs

the July Real Simple

my rain coat

Buzz Lightyear’s face

and a whole bunch of tiny dinosaurs

lots of Legos

a spatula

2 leashes

an x-wing fighter

darth vader

and a whole bunch of newspapers

a plastic sword

also a nerf sword

a tiny car

Tinker Toys

and A PARTRIDGE IN A PEAR TREE

(Ok, not the last one. But everything else is for REAL!)

This is the hidden cost of dog ownership. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!

A Public Service Announcement about Six

I’ve had a six year old for over two months and already I’ve noticed that SIX IS NOT THE SAME AS FIVE. It’s also different from four, three, two and -you guessed it- one. So now you’re thinking, Thank you Captain Obvious, but before you get all sarcastic, let me explain. The other birthdays - before six- transitioned more slowly and seamlessly. When CJ turned five it wasn’t all that different from four only now he was five and gradually he grew older. Which was hard but at least I had time to adjust.

With six I honestly feel like aliens beamed up my precious CJ and beamed down a whole new boy.  And while he looks familiar, I feel a need to keep my distance because something isn’t quite the same.

For those of you who haven’t yet entered this lovely era, I have compiled a list of observations about six.  I sum them up with one word: RUN.

If I had any tea he’d definitely be dumping it in the harbor

“Mom, I’m gonna go ride my bike around the block.”

“Well, CJ, the thing is… I’m not really comfortable with you riding around the block all by yourself.”

“But Mo-om,” (with vehemence), “I’m SIX.”

Right.

In CJ’s mind, six is the new eighteen. He should be allowed to vote, drive, light fires, toodle around the city of Seattle completely unsupervised, and make all his own choices. Bedtime, schmedtime.  Didn’t you hear that he’s six?

Any and all rules and regulations… even gentle attempts at guidance… from mom are strictly forbidden and highly offensive.

In the little world of our house, CJ is Paul Revere and I’m the British trying to enforce taxation without representation. The thing is, I have a problem with my six year old claiming his independence and seceding from the family union.  This can only mean one thing: civil war. Bloody and bitter, the battle rages on.

He loves me, he loves me NOT.

CJ bumped his knee the other day and then charged at me with a very clear intent to kill. It’s not that he’s a bad kid with murderous tendencies it’s just that the knee bumping was MY FAULT! and now I deserve to DIE!

In case you didn’t know, I am THE WORLD’S MEANEST MOM! and THE BEAST! On a daily basis my little son with the green eyes that perfectly match mine tells me that he HATES me with fervent sincerity.

It’s all rather discouraging.

Until the moment where he decides he loves me after all and throws his arms around me with such unabashed adoration that it melts my heart into a little pool of goo.

Mercurial.  That’s the word I’m looking for.

Tweezers and a jar full of honey

The good thing about six is that it comes with a whole lot of imagination and attention span. Combine these with that independent spirit and we have AT LAST OH HALLELUJAH AT LAST the holy grail of parenthood: independent play.

Yesterday CJ took a jar and filled it partway up with honey and then wandered around the yard with the jar and some tweezers looking for bees.  For an HOUR.  He constantly invents activities that he becomes completely immersed in, leaving time for me to do things like read my book and fold the laundry.

The downside to all this is that invention is the mother of necessity by which I mean CJ creates messes and usually they’re sticky. If that sentence doesn’t make sense it’s because you don’t have a six year old. Or maybe I just need coffee. Let’s move on.

CJ’s favorite plaything is my baking drawer which includes supplies like POWDERED SUGAR (a fan favorite), chocolate chips and granulated sugar, which although not as nice as powdered sugar, will do in a pinch. And by “pinch” I mean EAT IT BY THE CUP FULL. CJ likes to doctor up his yogurt with a handful of powdered sugar and a smattering of chocolate chips. He also likes to play “cooking” usually when I’m in the other room for long enough that he can create a massive mess.  Did I mention Sticky?  Sticky is a big part of six.

Coping mechanisms

Don’t worry, you can stop banging your head against the wall, because there are several proven strategies for dealing with your new six year old.

First is my favorite option which involves shrieking at your husband I AM WORN OUT AND DEAD TIRED TAKE THIS CHILD FROM MY SIGHT I NEED TO REST. This can work well if you yell with a banshee-like scream and give him crazy eyes. It usually guarantees you at least three hours of solitude where you can play Solitude or Tetris or (my favorite) the game where you make little hamburgers on an assembly line.

I guess that’s the only strategy I’ve come up with so far.  But if I think of more I will definitely let you know.

Good luck.  (You’re going to need it.)

The messiness of real life as seen from our living room window

In front of my house on the sidewalk stands a pile 45 feet wide and overflowing with furniture, pictures, bedding, pots and pans, clothes and more. So much more. It’s the entire contents of our neighbors’ house.

I stand back from the window as I look out because I don’t want the neighbor man to see me watching as he rifles through his stuff. I try to keep from spying but I find myself repeatedly drawn to the mini-drama taking place on our front lawn.

Yesterday morning a truck with a trailer pulls up in front of the house and out climb eight high school kids wearing medical masks and work gloves.  A sheriff sits down in front of our house in the shade of a tree while the kids carry pile after pile out of the neighbor’s house and onto the sidewalk.

“Can I offer you some lemonade?” I asked the sheriff, “and also what is going on?”

Our neighbors have been evicted. The house that had been in their family since it was built was sold by the rest of the family and after two years of court battles our neighbors have lost.  The court case. Their house. And their dignity.

“It’s their own fault,” says the tall man who is overseeing the teenage workers, “they were giving warning after warning. They had time to move out.” The conclusion of everyone who knows about the situation is the same: our neighbors created this mess.

We know it better than anyone.  How they threw garbage off their deck into the enormous trash pile in their back yard. The shouting and screaming and crying that we heard through our windows. The refusal to care for their property. These were people with problems.

Still, when the family shows up and starts desperately trying to retrieve their things before they’re hauled off to the dump, there’s pity gnawing at my stomach.

It’s going to be such a relief to have them gone. To have normal neighbors.

And anyhow, it’s their own fault.

But. While it’s true that it’s their fault I still feel sorry for them.  I feel sorry for their two teenage children - for the daughter who is sitting on the curb at midnight with her head in her hands.

I wonder where they’re going… where will they take the moving truck that they’re piling full and will the next place have room for the fourteen bins of Christmas decorations that sat in their front yard from November through April?

I pat my neighbor on the back and ask him if he’s ok and he carries on like a madman about how this is NOT HIS FAULT and I think how strange it is to be worried about what we think while their stuff is sitting around us on the sidewalk. He smells like he hasn’t showered in weeks and his face has aged 20 years.

The man with the trailer knocks on our door and says that all the stuff will be taken to the dump at 5:00 tomorrow.

I close the windows so that I can sleep while the neighbors continue their pilfering through the night. They’re still there this morning.

I wish they were gone.

It’s easier to judge this situation when it’s abstract; when I don’t have to see the daughter’s drawn face or the father’s desperation.

It’s easier to be happy about what’s going on when I focus on the giant hedge between our houses that can finally be trimmed to a reasonable size and ignore the pile of coats and shoes pulled directly from our neighbor’s closet.

It’s easier to rationalize when I don’t have to see the messiness of real life; when I can pretend that things are black and white and right and wrong. When I don’t have to witness the massive expanse of grey that clouds this very black and white situation, blurring the edges until there’s only a swirling mess of sadness.

A memo to the sick devil who designs toy packaging

On Friday CJ turned six. This means that,

A) Our baby is a year older and,

B) Jay and I had to fight the bitter and bloody battle against TOY PACKAGING.

724 twist ties, 15 lbs of cardboard, 72 bits of sharp and jagged plastic, 861 staples, 13 paper cuts, and 52 curse words later… and we ALMOST had the toys opened.

It makes me wonder…

IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK THAT A CHILD BE ABLE TO ACTUALLY PLAY WITH A TOY ONCE IT’S BEEN PURCHASED?

Seriously who are these monsters that design toy packaging?  Why do you need 16 metal twist-ties binding a tiny plastic car to three sheets of cardboard and does this all really need to be wrapped in wickedly thick plastic that turns into a nightmarish skin-piercing weapon when cut open?

What exactly are toy manufacturers afraid will happen to these toys that they need such protection and where do all the twist ties come from?  I’m starting to think that twist ties grow on trees in China.  Have you been there?  Can you confirm?

Tonight after a particularly vicious battle with a SPY TOY SET I sit at the table munching on french fries with dark thoughts of revenge.  Whoever you are… YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE… laughing with diabolical glee as you twist twist twist the toy into cardboard purgatory…  I WILL FIND YOU AND I WILL DESTROY YOU.

I will tie you up with tiny metal twist ties that bind into your skin and are impossible to remove EVEN WITH WIRE CUTTERS AND A FIERCE GRIP.  I will encase you in layers of cardboard and thick plastic sheeting.  I will STAPLE and TAPE you and did I mention the twist ties?

And then I will throw you in a land fill with the 4 million billion tons of cardboard and plastic and twist tie that you have oh-so-unnecessarily created.

And ON THIS GREAT DAY when I have my revenge the parents of the world will rejoice! We will link arms and skip and dance and sing songs of love and harmony. And the children will open toys that they can PLAY WITH without the help of wire cutters or scissors or a crow bar.

Free at last.

Yesterday

Today was CJ’s last day of kindergarten.

Tomorrow he turns six.

Wasn’t it yesterday that I walked my little boy to school the first time, his hand clenched tightly in mine?

Wasn’t it yesterday that he turned five?

What happened in between yesterday and TODAY?

For the thousandth time I renew my committment to being present in this moment.

Because this moment is zooming by.