The Burbs

Shortly after emigrating from Northeast Portland to the suburbs, Party Girl formed a Bunco group. I was the first member enlisted and also the only member that lived 20 miles away. The rest of the group comprised her neighbors of varying upper income levels. These Bunco events are a whole story unto themselves and can be addressed later.

Anyway, each month the members of the group take turns hosting the party at their house. Since I’m the only geographically, economically and spatially challenged member, and no one wants to pay the gas for their SUV to trek over to my side of town, part of the deal of my being willing to come across the tracks was I would have use of Party Girl’s house when my time to host came. Last month was my turn to host, and after witnessing first hand the lengths to which Party Girl goes to have a sparkling domicile and after standing around ineffectually for an uncomfortable amount of time (hey, I did offer to help), simultaneously apologizing and thanking her again and again and again for the use of her home, I grandiosely offered a night of babysitting, anytime, at her house, for payment in return for all her hard work, to which she judiciously agreed.

As it turns out, the date she had in mind was a day I was working. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t looking forward to a day that started at 5 a.m. and ended after midnight, where the highlight was watching a 6-year-old and a child under 2. I don’t like looking after my own child after a day of work, much less someone else’s.

For anonymity sake, we’ll call Party Girl’s offspring E1 and E2 (E1 being the elder 6-year-old child, Vaughn’s now estranged old buddy, and E2 being the afterthought). True to my form, I had planned to employ my best Supernanny skills and plop them in front of the TV for the next 2 hours until bedtime. Unfortunately, when I got there I was informed the electricity was out on the whole block with no estimated time of return. After circumventing the inevitable wail of abandonment from the 1-1/2-year-old (E2) as the parents left, we stood there staring at each other for a good 20 minutes or so before concluding that we were in danger of entering that 4th dimension where hours pass like minutes if we didn't come up with some kind of entertainment quick. Several rounds of Candyland and Shoots and Ladders later, all the while wrestling E2 off the game board and rescuing innocent game figures from the fate of spending a day or two wandering E2’s intestinal tract, I convinced E1 to go outside to the backyard, hoping for a more child riveting/slothful adult diversion. As we started on our tour, the first thing on the dog's to-do list was to promptly poop in the great expanse of meticulously groomed greenery they quaintly call their backyard. E2 was immediately drawn to this, requiring me to carry her little doll-like frame around the yard to keep her from playing patty poop with the dog’s feces. However, she developed a disturbing fascination with the dog's pile of poop, continually redirecting me with her "oop, oop" and thrusting her pudgy little arm in her attempts to conduct me to make the poop pilgrimage across the lawn multiple times so we could gaze on the dog's mound of elimination, counting the ever increasing crowd’s of flies progress in their maggot production. That seemed to be the most entertaining aspect of the evening for her. Of course, every time we admired the dog's sculpture of excrement, I felt increasing guilt over not cleaning it up off an otherwise immaculate lawn, inventorying just what I thought babysitting duties entailed and if they should include dog waste disposal.

After an untold number of less than subtle glances at the clock, it was finally getting late enough that I could pronounce it bedtime and perform the bedding down festivities, at least with E2.

One thing about babysitting other people’s kids is it allows me to do comparison checks. Now, being accustomed to Vaughn’s remarkable aversion to all things sleep related, I was preparing to fend of the nocturnal resistance for the remainder of the evening. Fortunately, I have a black belt in this particular form of warfare, having had plenty of practice for the last 6+ years.

As I’m putting E2 down to sleep (per parental instructions, including bedtime bottle of milk) and begin to leave the room, I marvel at her feather-light weight, being more familiar with Vaughn’s generous proportions. I don’t think I ever experienced Vaughn at that size, maybe at birth. E1 is supervising the bedding down process, reaffirming to me why I enjoy the pre-speech stage of child development so much.

"My mommy holds her and walks her back and forth before she puts her down." (Yeah, well…Allow me to introduce myself. Vaughn's Mom, otherwise known as Slacker Mom. Slacker Mom ain't down wit dat.) Of course, E1 continues to advise me on further bedtime techniques employed by her parents, as I'm looking over my shoulder at E2, who at this point is collapsed on the mattress of her crib, mouth slacked open with nipple of bottle hanging precariously from one lip and nothing but the whites of her eyes showing beneath her cemented shut eyelids. As foreign as this behavior is to me, I'm pretty sure I'm safe in assuring E1 that her sister has been expeditiously engulfed in Mr. Sandman's generous sprinkling of sleeping dust, in this case sleeping potion, and the pacing of the floor will be unnecessary this evening.

Next I start on E1, figuring this is where my veteran bedtime combat experience will finally be engaged. She sweetly and thoroughly brushes her teeth, swiftly changes into her pajamas and quietly listens to a quick bedtime story, lights out, never to be heard from again. I stumble downstairs, stunned and confused, unsure of what I just experienced. It had all the earmarkings of bedtime but completely unlike anything I have ever experienced before. Is this what average children are like? Is this usual or unusual behavior? Were their bodies snatched when they moved to the burbs and replaced with these odd Stepford children? Hmmm. If so, this just might be reason to seriously consider moving.

Waking Dream

Vaughn employs every diversionary tactic at his disposal to extend his bedtime. Each evening after being put to bed, he makes his customary quota of trips upstairs to our bedroom for one reason or another, always something legitimate, of course, some emergency of one form or another. Last night after summoning us downstairs numerous times and making the predictable 20-30 trips upstairs, his approach was heralded once again by dramatic sighs, thumps and other assorted noises intended to maximize the parental emotional response. Finally, after much anticipation, his head crowns the top of the stairs, and after a long, theatrical sigh, he looks at us with as much woefulness as he can muster and pronounces:

“I’m having a bad reality.”

Yeah? Me, too.

Wordsmith

Vaughn was watching me open a package from Nordstrom’s, my eagerly anticipated arrival of Diorshow, a mascara that promises to give me the appearance of wearing false eyelashes without actually having to exert the energy involved in applying them. I pull out the Diorshow package that’s a flashing sparkly silver color. Frankly, I’m more impressed with the packaging than the mascara. As I’m oooing and ahhing over the packaging and commenting on how pretty it is, I can see Vaughn looking at it hungeringly, a glint in his keen packrat eyes.

“Do you want the package? It’s pretty, huh?”

“Can I?! Yeah, it’s pretty. It’s…DAZZLING!”

Hmm. Not the kind of vocabulary I would expect from a 6-year-old boy. There just might be a future in fashion for this one.

“Where did you learn that word? School?”

“Nope. Word Girl. It means: ‘To be so bright as to be almost blinding.’”

“Yes… I’d say that describes it rather nicely.”

Who says television isn’t educational? All that electronic babysitting is finally paying off.

Teacher, Boobs, Crush (I knew that would get your attention)

I have a crush on one of Vaughn’s teachers. Granted, he was probably still breastfeeding when I was getting my driver’s license …oh wait…give me a moment…Teacher Hottie breastfeeding…Okay. I’m done. Hey! I’m married, not dead (though the two bear some striking resemblances at times). Anyway, that’s my nickname for him: Teacher Hottie (partly because he’s hot and partly because I can never remember his name). Whenever I see him, I get all tingly and flustered, and I transform into this inarticulate, twitter-painted, infatuated teenager, and the best thing I can ever squeak out whenever I have the good fortune of encountering him is a breathy, “Hi,” while my 6-year-old perkily greets him, “Hello, Mr. B.” Dave, of course, is well aware of this crush, having that strange H. family anomaly of lacking the jealousy gene, and will listen at length as I opine the hotness of young Teacher Hottie. In Dave’s ever practical mind, as long as it doesn’t lead to playing squish and squeeze, my Teacher Hottie crush is his gain. Now…back to Teacher Hottie breastfeeding…

Vaughn and the Giant Squid

I live with 2 packrats. If I weren’t married to Dave, I would be convinced that Vaughn was a changeling swapped out by a hoarding rodent. Unfortunately, there is too much genetic evidence to deny the origins of Vaughn’s squirreling proclivities. Lest I'm being remiss in conveying the scope of Dave’s obsession, an example of "Something I might have use for later," includes an electric razor, minus the head, that has long since gone on to Norelco Nirvana, with globs of whiskers still clinging to its razor skeleton. This was one of the many priceless treasures that, much to Vaughn's delight, his daddy allowed him to collect from the seemingly endless treasure trove that is otherwise known as our basement. It is a veritable packrat Utopia, our basement. Vaughn's enthusiasm could not be curbed as he collected the various "supplies" that would be needed to contribute to his current invention-- *big movie announcer voice with reverb* "The Giant Squid Catcher." *Catcher,Catcher, Catcher, Catcher* Other essentials were discarded nylon clothes line, the handle from an old garden shovel (with chipping red lead paint), an old shower head (the kind that detach so you can get to those hard to reach places, you know who you are), and other sundries soon to be buried in what I like to call Dante's 1st Circle of Hell--"I am the way into the city of woe," a.k.a., Limbo, a.k.a. Vaughn's room.

Hunting squid is just the latest in Vaughn's phases. Let's see, first there were trains, and that went on for a good 2-3 years or so, long enough to have collected a plethora of all things trainlike that are now collecting dust in various locations in our home. There was a brief dalliance with racecars which somehow morphed into a fascination with all things oceanic. Now, he has chosen to focus his research and specialize in the Giant Squid--a noble calling.

Happily, his basement hunting expedition fulfilled 2 of his main tools that he had on his list for the construction of his Giant Squid Catcher, and yes, he had a list. I believe it read something like this--"Baskits rop." The fact that he scored a gaudy fake gold toilet paper dispenser out of his basement foray was purely a fortunate happenstance.

He has now informed me that he and Daddy will be heading out on a second basement pilgrimage tomorrow, something I await with bated breath. Perhaps he’ll uncover the missing toilet seat that matches the gold toilet paper dispenser—the Holy Grail, as it were, of the basement tomb.

Those Hallmark Moments

A few days ago, I was meditating on the fact that it's been quite some time since I've heard the words "I HATE YOU!" spewing forth from Vaughn's mouth. I figured that the time had now come for a brief reprieve before the teen years set in and patted myself on the back for my superior parenting skills in subduing that particular rebellious preschool behavior. Then… there was today.

While driving home from school, as usual I was denying His Majesty some demand or other, hearing the predictable "Harrumph" and unintelligible grumblings from the back seat. Then I heard a sinister whisper in my ear,

"I...don't...L-I-K-E...you."

One of the many mixed blessings of parenting a kindergartner--being proud that he can spell and wanting to throttle him for being such a smartass.

It’s Fun To Stay At The Y-M-C-A

When Vaughn started school, the YMCA was offering kindergarten and afterschool care on the school grounds. Vaughn has never been fond of daycare (the rare times he has experienced it), but this seemed like a good deal. We promptly devised a number of reasons why we should take advantage of this opportunity. It was cheap. His friends from Kindergarten would be there, no big kids, and it would acclimate him to next year when he would be in school all day. And, of course, it would help us stay sane--three blessed days a week he would be in school from 8:30 to 3:00.

As the school year has progressed, Vaughn has begun to increasingly dislike the Y. I have made multiple attempts to query him as to the exact reason for this, to no satisfactory avail. Up to this point, his dislike of the YMCA has remained a mystery.

Of course, his YMCA outbursts have logically prompted us to try to concoct ways to provide Vaughn with a more positive association for the YMCA.

After hearing Vaughn utter the “I hate the Y” mantra once again, Dave was inspired to get out his DJ gear and put on his disk of the Village People’s infamous performance that no wedding reception would be complete without. This resulted in the following picture:

Music is blaring from the speakers in the living room, Vaughn is scowling murderously at us with his arms crossed, trying to kill us with his death stare, and his loving mommy and daddy are bouncing around the living room, enthusiastically singing along, “It’s fun to stay at the Y-M-C-A…,” complete with Village People hand motions.

Vaughn was not amused. For those of you who are curious, this is what it’s like to have musicians as parents. As Vaughn will willingly attest, they torture you unmercifully with music. It’s much like living in a musical from Hell or, as I like to call it, “Cats.”

Boys' Night Out

We were visiting my in-laws, C & S, today, a little H. family get together for upcoming Mother’s Day. The boys had decided to extend the evening by going to a movie. No, they weren’t being chauvinist pigs. Worse. They were going to a movie that none of the female set had the remotest interest in seeing—a documentary. As Auntie C. is trying to find child-friendly entertainment in their DVD collection (I have no idea why it didn’t just occur to me to put Vaughn to bed somewhere, since he was having entirely too much fun in their massage chair), she says, “Who’s Leslie Sansone? What’s a walk workout? How do you walk in your home?” Now, I could has said something smart like—“First you raise one foot and then put it down, and then…”--but uncharacteristically, I kept my mouth shut as I listened to her then go on to mock those that stand in front of their TV walking in place. (I still wonder why she had a workout DVD she was completely unacquainted with and had obviously never used. I suspect her husband was secretly rendezvousing with Leslie Sansone without C.’s knowledge.)

The thing is, I knew who she was talking about because I owned several of those DVDs. I held a brief frenetic conversation in my head as to whether I should divulge my little secret, but sleep deprivation won out, and I blurted, “I have several of her DVDs. It’s actually quite a good workout.” She’s staring at me, gape mouthed, like she can’t believe how she’s overestimated my intelligence all these years. “I mean…you don’t just walk. You do other stuff…” and then I lamely mumble other inanities, as her eyes are narrowing and naked skepticism is plastered all over her face. Of course, this didn’t stop my rambling.

Earlier in the day, we’d gone for pedicures, but my foot massage had to be limited to one foot because a month ago I had seriously strained my ankle and it was still tender to the touch. I now confessed that this had happened during a Leslie Sansone session. Now she’s looking at me like surely I am sh**ting her and thinking there is absolutely no possible way one can trip and strain their ankle while walking in place in front of their TV, so I proceeded to demonstrate. By the time I was done, my sister-in-law and niece were looking at me like I had just dropped several IQ points in their estimation of me.

My niece, God bless her, then asked, “Hey, have you seen that show on TV where the old lady is sitting in the chair exercising? I think it’s call ‘Sit and Fit,’” probably thinking this was just right up my alley.

I know I am dangerously teetering on the edge of dotage when I’m working out with Leslie, but I can’t help it. I actually like her DVDs. I don’t have to stare at a bunch of buff 17-year-olds, and many of her “friends” are rather plump, which makes me feel positively young and svelte whenever I play them. Besides, it’s an easy, lazy workout.

Leslie can be a bit too chipper for my tastes and only slightly less annoying than Denise Austin, but Denise is creepily cheery, in a Stepford fitness instructor kind of way. Denise Austin says you can workout anywhere, even doing butt squeezes in your car while you’re sitting in traffic. That to me is just too much effort; however, I do confess to the occasional Kegel workout in the grocery line, though it makes me feel a touch naughty. ;-)

Demon Barber of Glisan Street

I went to take Vaughn for a haircut today. It's been a few months. I can always tell when he's beginning to need it because it resembles a sparrow's nest with bad organizational skills when he gets out of bed in the morning. This is especially a problem when we're rushing out the door to school and I'm chasing him around and around in a circle with him screaming bloody murder in an effort to at least get the upper layer to lay flat over the hair mass, giving some semblance of effort on my part of making him presentable.

I usually take him to a kids tailored hair salon that’s supposed to make the whole seemingly tortuous ordeal of getting a haircut more child friendly. This place is wisely equipped with a toy strewn play area, salon chairs in the shape of various vehicles of transportation with TVs strategically placed in front of each one, unceasingly broadcasting something animated, and lollipops to sooth the tears from having suffered the shocking loss of ¼ inch of hair. He’s been going to this salon for about the last 2 years or so, but now that Vaughn has turned 6, I was feeling a wee bit conspicuous bringing in my 50+ pound Kindergartner to a place that is largely frequented by the under 4 set. His size has reached the point where he was getting dangerously close to giving the hairstylist a hernia trying to haul him into the little red airplane chair, and he was starting to freakishly tower over the other little midget sized patrons. Add all this to the fact that it is inconveniently located across town and I was getting tired of paying $20+ for a 2-minute haircut, so I decided that it is time for Vaughn to graduate to Old Faithful—Great Clips.

Now I know I have a tendency to not communicate my needs adequately, which can have disastrous implications at a hair salon, and once again, that situation must have occurred because when I said, "Just take 1/2 to an inch off," of Vaughn's 24 inches of length, the hairstylist evidently heard, "Oh heck, just scalp the little bugger," and proceeded to do just that in short order so that by the time we left the salon, Vaughn looking strikingly like a monk, complete with tonsure. I could have saved myself some bucks by just placing a small breakfast bowl on his head and shearing off whatever unruly locks were hanging below the rim.

I probably should have said something when the hair piling up on the floor exceeded the amount still on his head, but I have yet to figure out in the hair styling world at which point there is time to save yourself and at which point you should just pull the plug. The other hairstylist, who was sitting in the chair next to Vaughn (and had a tenuous grasp of English, at best), was sitting there gazing at the stacks of hair piling up under Vaughn’s chair and said something like, "Dat luk lie mo dan won itch, eh?" (Translation: "That's one hell of a lot more hair than an inch, Sweeny!") To which the Butcher of Seville, busily hacking away at what was left of Vaughn's hair, looked down at the floor with a maniacal grin plastered on her face then back up at the sane hairstylist and said, "Huh…You think so?," not missing a beat in her seemingly endless pruning of Vaughn's head, hands and scissors a whirling blur, with tufts of hair spraying hither and yon.

After the ordeal, poor Vaughn, who is customarily completely oblivious to his appearance, started showing an acute awareness of the new wind stream power generated by his head as he streamlined his way out of the salon and into the parking lot. It probably didn’t help that I kept saying, “Oh my God! Oh my God! What did she do to you?”

Looking at the bright side, I don’t believe he’ll need a haircut for the rest of the summer.

Addendum: One month later and Vaughn still looks like he got the bad end of a rumble with Daddy's electric razor and a soup bowl.