Kodak Moments

Is there anyone else who hates motherhood as much as I do, I mean, with the exception of the crack whore who finds herself in the family way? These days I find the only way I can truly enjoy my son is through pictures. Pictures are such great things, aren’t they? I mean, the experience could have been something awful, but a few cheerful moments captured on film is all we need to manufacture a whole new reality, a whole new false memory that gives us pleasant thoughts about the event after we’ve gotten over the trauma of it. We don’t usually photograph the child thrashing on the ground in a grand mal tantrum. We’re too busy trying to avoid the flailing appendages. Besides, who wants that in their photo album? No, we want the cute, albeit phony, pose that shows our child grinning from ear to ear, even if we had to launch a thousand threats to get that “precious moment.”

The Hawaii Experiment (as it has come to be known) was honestly a truly horrendous exercise in human torture, but I look back at the pictures, and I’m awash with all these warm fuzzy feelings of sentimentality, actually dreaming about when we can return. Yes, the memories are still there of our first night with Vaughn scream-whining in the bathtub for literally hours (well, not all the time in the bathtub), begging us to go back home, the echoes amplified by the bathroom acoustics and traveling up and down the hallway of the hotel for our fellow lodgers’ listening pleasure. And that was the FIRST day. We were there for 6 days and (lest us not forget) NIGHTS and MORNINGS. But the pictures. Ah, the pictures. Set a little James Blunt to the slideshow and you’ve got yourself a truly beautifully fabricated memory of warm sun (it was overcast the majority of the time, with side dishes of rain), water frolicking (until it literally made me seasick), and joyful faces (which the next minute had brows furrowed [mine] or scrunched up ready to launch into one of many whinefests [Vaughn’s]). *sigh* Memories.

Springing ahead

I didn’t do my usual crabbing about the time change this season (even though this is my most hated one. There is absolutely nothing worse than “losing an hour,” especially of sleep.). For one thing, it gets a bit redundant, and for another, I actually, for once did not have the difficulty with it that I usually do. Of course, it helped a lot that my son went into this weird hibernation mode and starting sleeping in until 9 for a few days. My God, that has GOT to be some kind of record. Now he’s back to his chirpy 6:30. I loathe morning people. Well, except my son, of course.

This is the first year that I have actually started swapping out wardrobe for the seasons. Uncharacteristically organized of me, I know, but hey, baby steps. I have concluded a few things from this exercise:

1. I am way too far in debt due to manic purchases of clothing for me and my son. My poor husband gets the short end of the stick on this one.

2. There is something to be said for having 2 or 3 rotating outfits, which is my husband’s creed; hence, why he has not benefited from my clothing expenditures.

3. I have added yet another pro to my list of reasons to move to a static tropical climate. Frankly, I do not enjoy the changing of the seasons and would be quite content to forever live in eternal sunshine and the warmth of summer. It’s the kind of monotony I could thoroughly enjoy.

4. Bottom line: Rotating clothing every season is a pain in the ass.

Mangled Monikers

Okay, I just have to vent here about people giving their children weirdass spellings for ordinary names. This is one of my greatest pet peeves, especially given my occupation. I hate, absolutely hate having to verify spellings on names like Alexandra, Kira, Karen, Steve, Robert, Bill, George, etc., but I HAVE to because you have these idiot parents that don't have the balls to actually name their child something unique, so instead, they give them a boring, common name and give it a "unique" spelling, so that the poor kid is forever having to go through life spelling David. "That's David with a D-e-a-v-y-y-d-d." Unfortunately, I am not exaggerating here. I came across a woman who was very "creative" in naming her kids; that is, with the spellings, not the names--Elexzendryia, Korbin, Caydence, and Hayleigh. I think this woman should get a special place in Hell just for the Elexzendryia name. Even if the child wants to shorten the name and go by the nickname, she will be constantly spelling it--"No, not Alex. Elex." Yeah, but sounds the same. Jeez.

Oh, and then there are some spellings that are so odd that you know when someone sees it spelled they're going to totally mutilate the pronunciation because they don't recognize that Alyszandra is just Alexandra.

You know, I think it's been worse just this last generation, too. Perhaps, I'm completely misreading (no pun intended) the situation. Maybe it's just a product of our very deteriorating public school system: These parents just don't know how to spell or they were taught that spelling is subjective. Or maybe pop culture is to blame for adding a "y" in place of every "i" and a "z" in place of every "s" just to add that extra pizzazz!!! Or is it pysass. Or pissass. I mean Byll is just ever so much more hip than plain old Bill! Never mind the fact that unless you see it written, the kid is still Bill.

This whole epidemic of "original" spelling of children's names is the epitome of narcissism, and I think there should be a penalty for this child abuse (because it is abuse. Would you want to constantly have to spell the name Donna for people? Never mind the fact that you know their name is always going to be misspelled on just about every written material they receive for which they were not personally there to verify the spelling). I haven't quite come up with an appropriate punishment yet, other than burning in Hell for the next 1000 years, which might be a tad harsh (assuming there is a Hell). The best alternative I can come up with right now is that the parents should be "pounded" (as my son puts it, courtesy Charlie Brown) by the victim of this selfishness each and every time the child has to spell their uniquely common name.

So here is my final comment to these imaginative and original parents on the subject of distinctively ordinary christenings: The only thing that's going to be exceptional about your child's name to other people is that it's going to be exceptionally annoying because they are never going to know how to spell what is otherwise a commonplace name. Inuf sayd.

Bad Boys, Bad Boys

Vaughn had his first trip to Chuck E. Cheese today. We went with Party Girl and her daughter. It almost looked like it wasn’t going to happen because Party Girl’s daughter evidently has issues with the big mouse. When we pulled into the parking lot, she started having a panic attack, jabbering on about all the unimaginable things the giant furry rodent would do to her. We basically dragged her kicking and screaming into the place (yes, we’re of the compassionate parenting philosophy), with Party Girl promising her that she would perform scout duties in our covert operation to spot the mouse. Having given the all clear, we proceeded to pay for our meals. Of course, right after having done this, the big rat showed his grotesquely huge head and Party Girl had to be defense, blocking his approach as we weaved and dodged our way to a table. He did finally leave after making his short obligatory appearance, and things went fairly smoothly after that. A good time was had by all, with the exception of the fact that just before we left my son apparently bitch-slapped Party Girl’s daughter. She had this big red mark on her cheek with a complimentary scratch (because I’m too darn lazy to keep my son’s nails trimmed). Fortunately, Party Girl was pretty cool about it. I felt mortified that my son is evidently developing into a future wife-beater. On the way home, I asked him why he did it. Of course, then it comes out that she smacked him first, which is probably true. I was wondering why she seemed so nonchalant about this big red mark on her cheek. Anyway, we’ll see if we get invited to any more “play dates.”

The Next Mozart?

Vaughn, of late, has really showed little interest in pursuing a future in music, being primarily concerned with conducting trains, engineering train landscapes and becoming a kitty when he grows up. He still sings when he's playing and likes listening to music, but doesn't really show much interest beyond that. Both being musicians, we have decided not to push it. My husband believes if one has a passion for it, then one will pursue it on one's own with no coercion. I'm more of a mind to induce the passion, but thus far, keeping with my current apathy, have really done nothing to influence him. Okay, he's enrolled in one "music" class, but it's once a week for 45 minutes and to call it a music class is really stretching the definition of music. It pretty much entails a bunch of preschoolers running around with scarves singing some ditty hastily composed by the teacher.

Well, yesterday, when I was downstairs working, I could hearing vigorous pounding of the piano up above, which isn't that unusual. Vaughn usually likes to use it to punctuate his mood or periodic outburst. My husban told me later that Vaugh was looking at his (my husband's) music and asked what the treble clef was. My husband told him, and then Vaughn wanted my husband to draw one. So my husband got some music paper and started to draw one, but Vaughn then insisted that he could do it. He then evidently scratched out a few other things and then proceeded to perform his "compositions." As I understand it, he's quite prolific and composed 2 or 3 within 10 minutes. I believe the first one was titled "Boats on the Water," and the second one, predictably, had something about a train in the title. I'm not sure what the third one was. My husband said he performed them with feeling and dynamics with good articulation of his fingers. Unfortunately, much to my dismay, they were purely instrumental, but it's a start.

I'm still kicking Dave for not grabbing the videocamera.