Shake Your Groove Thing

Playing on the living room floor with Wiggles in the background. Vaughn suddenly stands up, gets this trancelike look on his face, and starts shaking from the waist down in a weird vibrating/gyrating fashion.

"What's up?"

"I'm shaking my pee-pee."

"Do you need to go potty?"

"No."

"Are you naked under your pants?"

"No." [starts gyrating more intently with a stern look of concentration on his face]

"So, what are you doing?"

"I'm shaking my pee-pee."

So this is how males view dancing, huh?

Where Are You Christmas?

I hate Christmas. I find it totally ironic that the time of year that is supposed to signify the birth of the Savior of Mankind puts so many of Mankind into a deep depression, myself included. All I want for Christmas is to curl up into the fetal position under a down comforter and hibernate until May.

I don't know when I started hating Christmas, but it's been a long time. Without this time of year, I think my life would be much better. So, to punctuate this holiday season, I thought I would make a little (or a big) Christmas list of Why I Hate Christmas:

1. (These are all related so I decided to include them together) Traffic, reckless driving, and harried and rude shoppers, which begins 2 days prior to Thanksgiving and continues to progressively accelerate with each passing day of December until it peaks on Christmas day. I don't have a lot of faith in human charity anyway, and this time of year seems to remove what little faith I have. We've eliminated Christmas shopping for the adults in our family, but still I would rather stay homebound for the entire month of December because even though I'm not shopping for Christmas presents, everybody else is, and consequently, hordes of merry Christmas shoppers everywhere you go.

2. Next comes the Christmas cards, with each Christmas card I receive screaming at me my inadequacies because I know I'll add this to my To Do list, but as with most things on my To Do list, it will never get done. Yet another pound of guilt to add to my load. My Christmas cards will never get sent out because I'll have all these grandiose ideas about putting together a Christmas slideshow CD, and after spending countless hours that I do not have to spend, I will tally up just how many of these buggers I have to burn off, label, address and stamp, and my finished project will gather dust in my archive files on my computer. Actually, I think that's worth two pounds of guilt: One for not sending ANY Christmas cards out and two for having wasted the hours on a Christmas greeting I will never mail.

3. Then comes the money crunch because although we don't buy Christmas presents for the adults, somehow this has crept into giving "little things" to each family because they started giving "little things," and then, of course, parents don't count as adults because they still give an embarrassing amount of money every year, once at Thanksgiving and again at Christmas, to the "children," so with this big chunk of change comes the guilt-ridden obligation of giving them something fractionally equivalent. Of course, since they have everything, I inevitably end up buying them something that will sit on a shelf somewhere, like the MP3 player I bought my dad last year, and he STILL would like that portable CD player. And my mom, well, I still owe her a Mother's Day gift from last year.

So with this nice seasonal monetary grant from my parents we should be doing fine, and I should have plenty to spend; however, because it is such a generous amount, there is that impulse to squirrel it away because typically at this time of year my husband's work drops out, and we're left holding our breath for the first 4 months of the New Year wondering whether we're going to make the mortgage payment. So, consequently, I'm working my arse off doing what seems like an inordinate amount of overtime to make sure we have a "pad," but by the time my paycheck arrives, makes me wonder why I bothered.

4. The Christmas spirit. What the hell is that? I know what our impression of a Christmas spirit is, and consequently, what our expectations are, and there lies the problem. Frankly, watching "It's A Wonderful Life" once a year just doesn't seem to cancel out the thousands of holiday TV commercials beaming in a steady stream into your living room night after night, starting days before Thanksgiving. I know this is terribly cliché, but Christmas IS commercialism, and consequently, Christmas is all about THINGS. Things you get, things you give. The things you want and hope to get. The things you give or have to give or should give. If you want to give, why not give all year round? Why MUST we give this month? Give toys for the toy drive, give cans for the hungry, give blankets for the homeless, give presents to your family, give cards to our friends, give food for the Christmas party, give a Christmas party. Give, give, GIVE! (The whole month reminds of a never-ending PBS telethon.) I know this is the inverse of what you typically hear. Usually, people bemoan the getting, but I find that only truly applies, I think, to children. When you become an adult, it then is all about the giving, and not in a good way. I know typically giving is a good thing, but not through emotional blackmail, which is what I feel it comes down to this time of year. With all this giving, I still do not feel the Christmas Spirit. On the contrary, I feel guilt because I haven't given enough or I haven't given what I feel I SHOULD give.

Also, it is CHRISTmas. I was talking about this aspect with my husband. I told him, here I am helping out with the Christmas festivities at Vaughn's preschool, stuffing stockings, playing Christmas music, buying gifts, etc., and yet, I don't FEEL like it's Christmas. I don't FEEL in the Christmas spirit. Then it hit me. I guess it's a little difficult to feel the CHRISTmas spirit when you take the religion out of it. I mean, really. Then what is it all about? Christmas is a micro-example of having a faithless life and yet still trying to manufacture some kind of meaning and reason for existence. This all then forces me to reflect on the lack of spirituality in my own life, which further depresses me.

5. Christmas is for children, and as a result, Christmas is about me as a parent making this Christmas special, and in my efforts to make this Christmas special, my child is miserable because I'm so stressed out about needing to make this Christmas special.

I'm sure there are countless other reasons for my hating Christmas. Frankly, they are too numerous to enumerate, and I already feel like I've crossed that fine line into grinchy ramblings.
Once again, when all the wrapping is strewn across the floor and that feeling of relief settles in that Christmas has finally passed (and also that deep sense of loss and regret that we missed out on something better), I will make my yearly resolution to make NEXT year's Christmas better.

Oh, and lest I be remiss in my Yuletide obligations: Merry Christmas!

PS: I wonder if Jews go through this during Hanukkah? If not, I think that it just might be worth converting.

SOUR KITTY

Since our adult cat is so Vaughn-o-phobic and Vaughn is so crazy about cats, we decided a cute Christmas present would be a new addition to the family in the form of a kitten. Now, typically, I get my pets from the Human Society, but frankly, their prices have become exorbitant, and I decided to look elsewhere this time around. I found some kitties listed by a non-profit low-cost spaying and neutering clinic. They had cat pictures posted on Petfinder and they wanted a nominal fee, so I e-mailed an inquiry. It turned out that they were located in Eastern Oregon and there would be no way to meet the kitten before committing to it. I decided, probably unwisely, to trust the person I was corresponding with, and after e-mailing back and forth about what we were looking for (a sturdy, not-too-young, not hissy or wild kitten who likes to cuddle. Actually, that sounds like a description of my husband, except for the kitten part. Hmmm), we committed to a little tortoiseshell. She sounded great, except for the one small glaring word "shy." Now, shy can mean a whole host of things, but from my experience with kittens, it's rarely good. Going against my better judgment, I decided to commit and pick her up on the scheduled drop off date. She was so cute, but very tiny. I really have no idea how old she is (they didn't say), but she is most definitely not the recommended adoption age of 4 months old.

I got her home and put her in a room where she couldn't hide, or so I thought. She immediately leapt out of her carrier and lodged herself between the wall and the entertainment center, requiring me to move an 100+-pound entertainment center to extract her.

Two days later, she still hides the minute you come into the room and acts as if she's never met you before. Once you catch her, she does purr and cuddle, I'll give her that much. This whole time she rarely ate, and consequently never peed or pooped. Until today, that is. Evidently the litter box that is 20 times her size and we have strategically placed right next to her carrier where she sleeps was not enough of a hint. When she finally did poop, she pooped in the carrier, where she sleeps.

I have now come to the conclusion that we have a lemon (not, as my husband commented, "lemon-fresh") kitten. As disconcerted as I was about her waste drop-off point, Vaughn was excitedly commenting that the poop will "Grow bigger and bigger, and then it'll grow into poop flowers and we'll have a BIIIIGGGG CELEBRATION!" Not if these "poop flowers" blossom in my carpet.

As an early celebratory act, Vaughn decided he would poop as well to mark the occasion, resulting in one big poop-fest. Ah the stench. Fortunately, at least one preadolescent in this house knows where to put his poop.

The Fine Intricacies of Bowel Movements

"Mommy, hurry home."

"I can't, Vaughn. Look at all these cars in front of me?! Why? Don't tell me you need to pee again."

"No. Poop."

"Oh, great." [Sitting at a standstill, bumper-to-bumper traffic, in the fast lane with no exits to be seen.] Well, you'll just have to hold it."

"Poop can't hold."



"Mommy, what's so funny?"

"Nothing."

Prologue: Back at home after half an hour of white knuckling the steering wheel.

"Don't you have to poop?"

"No, the ear went away."

"What ear?"

"The poop ear. It went away."

Well, hallelujah.

CELEBRITIES AND POOP STEAK

We went to Vaughn's first attendance of a theatrical production last night. Christmas at the Pops or something. It was my mother-in-law's idea. We got there a little late because of the rare occurrence of a "snow storm," which generally entails some freezing rain and 1/8 inch of snow.

When they let us in for the next performance, our ears were assailed by this screeching of "O Holy Night." I'm sitting there thinking, "I majored in music around here. I went to student recitals that were stratospheres above this. This is the best they could come up with among classical singers in Portland? I guess Portland really is a small town." I'm scouring the program guide trying to find what the background on this person is, making a note to never bother getting season tickets for the Portland Opera. Then I see it, put two and two together, and realize this is their Featured Celebrity, some local media personality that has been around for decades. Okay. Pleeaaasseee tell me she paid to perform because otherwise she should be shot for subjecting us to not one but three agonizing performances (the first of which, thankfully, we were spared because we were late), ending with the butchering of "Baby It's Cold Outside." My mother-in-law was so suprised--"I didn't know she could sing!" Well, evidently, for good reason...She can't.

With the exception of these atrocities, the rest of the program was quite enjoyable, that is, when they brought out the REAL singers and professionals. There was an awesome performance of "Christmas Carol" where one actor did the narration (more like one-man performance) while various characters pantomimed his dialogue. I felt my thirst for theater reemerging, and I actually got a little choked up reminiscing about my thespian days. Yet another thing I abandoned when I got married. Ah well.

After that, my mother-in-law had the truly ludicrous idea of finishing the evening with an intimate dinner at an expensive posh restaurant, you know, just the place you take a 3-year-old. She's always coming up with stuff like this. I really don't get it. Were her mothering days so in the distant past that she doesn't realize that rather than a nice adult treat this is cruel and unusual punishment to subject us and, consequently, all the other ADULT diners to---a tired, hungry, hyperactive 3-year-old?

So, I'm scanning the menu looking for something--anything--that my son will at least attempt to eat. Of course, this is after he has made his order of chicken nuggets and fries. Fortunately, the waiter did offer that there was a burger they could come up with that wasn't listed on the menu. Of course.

In the meantime, to keep Vaughn entertained while we were waiting for our meals, I decided to grab him for a photo op in front of the restaurant's Christmas tree. At that point, evidently inspired by the Christmas program we'd just seen, he decided to give me an encore performance from his preschool Christmas pageant, singing the ever popular "O Come Let Us Adore Him," complete with hand motions, which included his Baby Jesus Boogie--the sign language for Jesus, but adding in the hips, boogying down with the driving in of each nail sign into his palm.

So...He does know how to move his hips.

Thankfully, after what seemed like several hours of corralling Vaughn, our meals arrived. I had ordered the aged Black Angus steak. Now, this is the second time I've eaten in this restaurant and had to choke down what I ordered. What is it about aged Black Angus that tastes like what I imagine feces would taste like? Anyway, I made up for it by getting blitzed on martinis and left the rest of the childcare to Daddy.

Of course, no expensive meal can be complete without a little voice announcing loudly, "I NEED TO GO POOP!" And then, after returning from completing his task, loudly giving us a full detailed description of the product of his efforts, "IT WAS A REALLLYYY BIIGGGGG, LOONNGGGG POOP!"

All things considered, Vaughn did amazingly well; nevertheless, the bites on my tongue are still healing from my chewing the inside of my mouth from anxiety. At least the alcohol deadened it.

Spanking

I've now had my hand slapped twice this week by people who have never even seen me, much less met me. Once was in the form of a handwritten note left underneath my windshield in an outdoor store's parking lot because I was not perfectly aligned in my parking space. NO. I was not over the line, this being the first thing my husband asked. That was not what this person spent an unknown about of time writing a tablet page's worth of criticism about. No the complaint was that I was not perfectly spaced in my parking area. Hmmm. I wonder if he got out his (no, I don't know the sex of the person, but based on the handwriting, I'd say it's a good bet it was a neurotic man) handy-dandy measuring tape that I'm sure accompanies him everywhere and measured the exact dimensions.

The second time was from a potential buyer. I posted some things on the Internet for sale, outgrown baby stuff, etc., and I get umpteen inquiries on his car seat. Of course, every one of them wants it REALLY bad, but then none of them ever want it bad enough to actually come pick it up. So, I have learned to re-post and continue to re-post until I have cash in hand while I watch them leave my house with said item. So, I get a nasty e-mail. One of those "but" ones that I've talked about previously. You know, "I don't mean to be rude but..." then the person proceeds to verbally assault you.

Anyway, evidently she had been e-mailing me to set up a time to come "see" it. Okay, I've got a ridiculous amount of people that are making bids on it and wanting to come get it sight unseen, nothing committed, and I'm supposed to set up a time with you to come "see" it? Evidently in this case, a picture is not worth a thousand words. At any rate, she "know you've been on line" because "I've seen you re-post the car seat twice since I've e-mailed you." Oh, so now you're cyber stalking me?

Long story short, (Reader's Digest version: computer worked on, reloading browser software, e-mail f----d) I didn't get any of these e-mails. Well, not until the last "not rude" one that ended with "you lost out and I lost out." We-hell, not exactly. The car seat was picked up last night and they paid $5 bucks more than you were willing to pay. La-whoo. Sa-her.

Oh, I kid, because I hate. These incidents actually really unreasonably upset me. I guess the irony is, I try to go out of my way to be considerate--thanking cashier's profusely for ringing up my candy bar and telling them to have a nice day, opening doors for shoppers, giving to every friggin' bell ringer I pass, letting cars in my lane, etc., etc., etc. Of course, it still boils down to: I'm just a cold-hearted, thoughtless bitch. Bah-humbug.

The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

I feel extreme guilt for not keeping up the recommended two-entries-per-week blogging. Well, if anybody ever read/is still reading, my deepest apologies. So I'm now doing yet another taboo--writing in here when I have nothing to say. Well, nothing terribly clever. Let's face it. I just don't have the energy to be riveting ALL the time.

My son had his first Christmas program last night. Unbelievable. Preschools have Christmas programs. My husband and I found ourselves entering that bizarre vortex that we used to mock: The school-program-audience proud parent. Yes, there we were. I with my digital camera and he with the antiquated video camera recording for posterity every grimace, wiggle, nose pick, and raspberry that emitted from our darling budding performer. And there were plenty. They had the "4's" class performing alongside the "3's," which was a good thing because they seemed to be the equalizing force on the stage. Amazing what a difference one year can make. It gave me hope.

My son even had an impromptu solo, well sort of a recitative. After performing one song, as all the 3's proudly applauded themselves (which they did after every song) for the remarkable feat of not wetting themselves while singing "Away in a Manger," my son waited until the clapping died down, at which time he said in a loud voice, "I can clap reallllyyy hard, see?" and then proceeded to demonstrate just how loudly he could congratulate himself. Ahhhhh. Proud moment.

Impulse Buying

So I'm in Safeway (buying much needed wine after this hellish week) and the whirling dervish is uncontrollably spinning away from me. I catch up with him, pinning him up against a magazine rack that is strategically placed at child's eye level, and I see Sheryl Crow staring back at me with her iron abs on the cover of Shape magazine. As I'm lecturing my son about coming when called and doing as I say, I am simultaneously (almost subconsciously) pulling the magazine off the rack (I'm a multi-tasker). We continue to the checkout with one bottle of wine and now one Shape magazine (something a little incongruous there) with a 43-year-old singer on the cover with less fat on her entire body than what is in my little finger. Anyway, the little sideline on the cover is "Sheryl Crow's Body Secrets" or some other such nonsense. I have no idea what compelled me to buy this thing, knowing full well that between the depressant of alcohol and the onslaught of perfect body images, I'll be in a deep depression by the time the night is through. At least I was inexplicably relieved to read that she "RUNS" at least an hour every day, and if she's not doing that, she's biking 40-55 miles with Lance the Adulterer. (I don't know what it is, but their whole relationship just ticks me off. Admittedly I do not know the details, but it just HAS to be wrong.)

Anyway, I find it refreshing when these celebrities are at least honest about the sacrifices and work they have to do to keep up these faultless bodies. I was reading in TV Guide one time about Kelly Ripa and how she doesn't really exercise. Yeah, right. Listen, you don't get that bony, defined chest by, as she put it, "pushing the kids in swings." Let me tell ya, I've done PLENTY of pushing swings, and my chest never ends up looking like I do 58 chest presses a day.

Back to the adulterer and his band whore. Sheryl's newly diamond-bedecked finger was prominently displayed on the cover. Do you notice how in interviews there's never mention of his kids? What is the deal anyway? Oh, but they're in love. I guess his previous wife just wasn't supportive enough, what with the cancer and all. Sheryl will stand by her man. Oh, wait. That was the FIRST wife. He's in remission now, right? Rough.

TURKEY, CRANBERRIES, AND OTHER MUNDANITIES

What can I say? It's the holidays. The absolute worst time to keep up a blog, for me anyway; however, one would think the holidays would give me plenty of fodder to fill each day with new antics of a dysfunctional family. I guess my immediate family just isn't that dysfunctional. Our family events are relatively uneventful.

Now, when my mother's side of the family used to get together for the holidays... Now, there's a book that could write itself. One schizophrenic (maybe two), a druggie, a recovering alcoholic and ex-convict, a meth-head (recovering?), a pedophile, two welfare mommies, unknown quantities of illegitimate children, two bipolars "and a partridge in a pear tree." If my Southern gay cousin had ever made it to these holidays, we would have fulfilled our holiday fruits and nuts requirement. Ah, the good ole days.

My time currently is being spent rushing around frantically trying to make this holiday memorable for my son so his head can be filled with false memories of what a good childhood he had. Unfortunately, these machinations usually end up becoming more traumatic memories for him than happy, with me screaming at him that he is using too much glue on his crafts and wasting glitter. Ah, the holidays. Add to this stress the fact that I'm putting in as much overtime as I can at work while trying to intersperse my time with these "precious moments." As if that isn't stressful enough, my husband and I have absolutely no time to practice music for my niece's wedding that is coming up the first weekend in January in which I will yet again have a happy reunion with all my husband's ex's who will undoubtedly be scrutinizing every thing I do. MERRYYYYYY CHRISTMASSSSSS!!! (Happy Holidays, for those of you who are easily offended).

Tomorrow I take the yearly trek downtown with my son to get a picture of him with Santa Claus, which probably isn't going to happen this year because evidently with all the threats of naughty and niceness, he believes Santa Claus is just one big tease and he has absolutely no interest in meeting with the jolly fellow.

"Aren't you excited about Santa Claus coming."

"Well, not really."

"What?!"

"Not really because he'll just tease me."

Okay...I guess we'd better lay off the whole coal-in-the-stocking bit. Not that that really works. Since my son is so into trains, he actually WANTS coal in his stocking. Add to that the fact that he is still on Halloween. Everything is "this is the best Halloween Christmas party ever!" I wish I had a sense of time like that.

Hallmark: When You Care Enough

I remember when Vaughn was just a wee one and a friend of ours (the same friend who said pick your children's friends, The Analyst, emphasis on Anal) talking about the "Hallmark Parents" in a derisive tone, if you couldn't guess. He went on to talk about a book about parenting that was refreshing and validating because it wasn't about Hallmark parenting, and that it felt good to hear about another parent who had felt like tossing their newborn out the window during a particularly lustful sceamfest. At the time he was saying these things, in my foggy-progesterone-ridden-just-fell-in-love-breast-feeding state, I listened in horror as I gazed adoringly down upon my angel's glowing countenance.

I now completely understand what he meant by Hallmark Parents. I derive guilty pleasure when I read another parent writing in less than positive tones about their bouncing bundle of joy. Which brings me to a wonderful, and evidently popular, blog site: Dooce.com This woman is hilarious. I tire so listening to other moms and their seemingly endless patience and adoration of their children. It makes me wonder, "What the heck is wrong with me?" To further add to my guilt is all the time, energy (emotional and physical), money, pain, etc., that we went through to conceive our little Popsicle tot, only to have days when I'm actually thinking of listing him on Craigslist.

The majority of the time I feel I am the anti-Hallmark parent, which completely baffles me when for the first year of Vaughn's life I was utterly enamored with my son. Looking back on it, of course, it seemed so much easier. For one thing, he couldn't talk, so I never heard the words "Go Away!," when telling him he can't have yet another box juice or "Icky" when serving him his favorite food, which has now, inexplicably, become his UNfavorite food. Or deciding that he must be dressed in yellow from head to toe because this is his favorite color (after I have purchased an obscene amount of Gymboree-coordinated outfits, no yellow among them). When he was 6 months, he never threw a tantrum in Costco because he didn't get his OWN receipt. (This new fascination with receipts is a complete mystery to me.) I never winced, bracing myself for the inevitable "NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" when I forget and accidentally open the front door, instead of letting His Majesty do it. Everything was blissfully predictable. Now I never know who I'll be speaking to: Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde.

I think the other thing that makes this job particularly difficult is the fact that it's forever changing. This is the one job that I have had in my life that I am incapable of mastering and excelling at. I remember the thing I always hated about a new job was the training. It was a constant struggle smashing in all the new polices and procedures into my brain. Then finally I got beyond the training, and things started to settle and pretty soon I didn't even have to think about it and I would "exceed expectations." Not so with this parenting job. Just when I think I've got it down and I've figured out how to handle one phase, it ends and the next one comes along. I keep approaching parenting with this thought that eventually I'll get through the training phase and things will get easier and I'll finally master these parenting skills. I'm now starting to resolve myself to the fact that it's never going to happen, and I find that extremely frustrating. I don't deal well with failure, and I feel like I'm failing dismally at this job. Now I have to bask in those few moments when I can think, "Wow, that was very smart of you. Well done. You actually were a good parent just now."

I think I must be some kind of weird evolutionary anomaly. I mean, aren't we supposed to be better parents than our parents? But my mom was a loving, patient, caring mother. That I remember anyway. I mean there was the bipolar part, but hey, she had three kids. I'm on antidepressants already and I only have one child. Those manic phases are some of my fondest memories, at least before she started becoming psychotic. That part wasn't as much fun. However, having a mother that thinks she has hypersonic hearing is entertaining.

*sigh*

Good times, good times.