A Suburban Horror Story: The Return of Chuck E.

When most people hear the name Chucky, two things come to mind: a demonic doll who terrorizes mankind and a mouse who pushes pizza and skee ball. Or maybe they are actually one in the same! GASP!

chucky and chuck e cheese
Look away…it’s terrifying

 

Think about it. Have you ever seen them in the same place at the same time? And they have the exact same M.O. They both worm their way into our lives through our kids as if they are harmless byproducts of childhood fun, only to later strangle the life out of us and our well-meaning desire to make our young ones happy.

A disgust for Chucky from the Child’s Play horror movie franchise is normal; but what do I have against Chuck E. Cheese, you say? Many of you already know my seedy background with this over-sized cartoon mascot. But if you don’t, I suggest you first read my post, “Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father,” before proceeding. Everything will become crystal clear after that…I promise. Don’t worry. I will wait for you…

…I know, right? What can I say? I’m blessed. Anyhoo…

So here is the next chapter in the ongoing horrific saga of me and Chuck E. He’s stalking me. I am completely convinced of it. I thought I had managed to escape from his clutches oh so many years ago, but I didn’t count on having children…children he would end up using as pawns enabling him to come back into my life and terrorize me.

It is true that since becoming a mother, we have visited Chuck E. Cheese restaurants on numerous occasions, mostly for school fundraiser nights and a few birthday parties. But I honestly thought that Chuck E never noticed me, that the wear and tear of motherhood and almost two decades had rendered me unrecognizable to him. But I should have known he wouldn’t show his cards that early in the game. Silently, and unbeknownst to me, he patiently endeared himself to my two kids with each passing visit. A high-five here. A free extra token there. How were they to know they were playing right into his grubby, freakishly large paws?

And it worked. About a month or so ago, these words oozed from my daughter’s lips: “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese this year.”

Despite the many, many, many other options I offered to her, she was staunch in her desire. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, she begged. Fine. I am not a victim. If this is the game you’re playing you sick bastard, I’m in. I’m not scared of you anymore. Me OR my 6 foot 6 enormously giant husband who once ripped a life-sized wrought iron wagon wheel lawn ornament straight from the ground. We will see who is going to be squeaking in their boots.

After trepidatiously making the reservation for the party, I tried to calm my nerves by being rational about the situation. That was a long time ago, Kelly. He has probably changed. Certainly a nationwide franchise wouldn’t risk their reputation or the threat of lawsuits by keeping a sleazebag of a mouse around for so many years. Would they? So I decided to do some research of my own. What I found wasn’t pretty. I should warn you; the following pictures may be disturbing. Please make sure your children aren’t present, and I apologize in advance for scarring for life the child that resides in your heart. But the truth must be known…

Are you really surprised? I mean, the guy has spent over 35 years unfazed by the background noise of arcade games and corny song parodies. This also explains why you feel hungover after leaving the place. I bet he circulates it through the vents.
Are you really surprised? I mean, the guy has spent over 35 years unfazed by the background noise of arcade games and corny song parodies. This also explains why you feel hung over after leaving the place. I bet he circulates it through the vents.

 

chuck e cheese tickets
I swear I’ve heard him whisper “Make it rain” when he throws out those free tickets.

 

See? SEEEEEE??!! I TOLD you he was a creep! I wish I didn’t feel so justified.

 

chuck e cheese hug
From the looks of the fashions in this picture, the harassment has been happening for decades.

 

chuck e cheese and helen henny
The worst part is that it seems his girlfriend Helen Henny has no idea of his evil alter ego.

 

On the day of the party, my guard was up. I secretly took vengeful satisfaction when Chuck E. emerged to greet our party and my daughter’s friends ran up, encircled him, and started poking and prodding his mouse parts. My mouth mumbled a dutiful but half-hearted, “Girls, don’t assault Chuck E.” However, my mind was screaming, “NOT SO FUN TO BE GROPED, IS IT, YOU ANTHROPOMORPHIC CREEP?”

Payback
Payback

 

But Chuck E. knew where to hit back where it hurt: my kids wanted a picture with him. Now he would forever be a part of our sacred family memories on film. I could feel a panic attack begin raging through my body as my finger pressed down on the shutter release.

Wipe that grin off your face, you dirty rodent.
Wipe that grin off your face, you dirty rodent.

 

And he wouldn’t just leave us be after that. He insisted on being part of that special moment, when we sang happy birthday to my daughter and watched her blow out her candle. I felt violated by his blatant photo-bombing.

Look at him, staring right at me. He knows what he is doing. He is trying to see the fear in my eyes.
Look at him, staring right at me. He knows what he is doing. He is trying to see the fear in my eyes.

 

But it was almost over. The party was nearing the end. At one point, my daughter came over to me, looked at Chuck E. and said, “Don’t worry, mom. I’m sure it’s a totally different guy in that costume than the time he creeped you out.” Those were her exact words. My keenly perceptive, incredibly astute daughter said that during her birthday party. Listen to the children, they say. She was right. I finally felt like I could breathe again. I was being silly. Here I was giving the stink eye to someone who was probably not even born when that long ago Chuck E. made a pass at me. I needed to let it go. Besides, it was time for my daughter to take her turn in the ticket blaster machine, and for Chuck E. to make his exit back to the break room.

The sun came out again, and in its glowing rays, Chuck E. Cheese didn’t seem like such a menacing place after all. Everyone was smiling. We had made it. We had survived a birthday party at the place where a kid can be a kid. We made it out alive.

I stood among the group of 8 year olds crowded around the ticket blaster, watching my daughter try to ineptly grab tiny tickets flying around her. At first, I thought some of the air had escaped the machine, until I recognized the familiar stench of Limburger breath linger on the back of my neck for just a moment before it disappeared into a purple door adorned with the sign “Employees Only.”

My son, gluttonous for his own turn in the ticket blaster, turned to me and said, “I want to have my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese, too!” 

My nightmare continues…

* Disclaimer: While based on true events, this post is entirely for entertainment purposes only. At no time did anyone employed by or associated with Chuck E. Cheese restaurants harass or behave inappropriately toward me, my family, or our party guests. In fact, I would actually recommend having a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese (did I just say that?????). Despite it not being MY favorite place to go as an adult, it was a very easy and relatively inexpensive experience. In fact, we ended up having to cancel our party at the last-minute due to an incredibly ridiculous and unexpected snowstorm (at the END of MARCH?), and the manager was extremely understanding and did not penalize us at all. Everything, including our bonus tokens for originally scheduling on a Sunday, were transferred to our rescheduled date (which was not a Sunday) with no hassle. Our party attendant was attentive, easy to work with, and she even ended up giving my kids bonus tickets for no reason. It was literally the easiest birthday party I have ever thrown (see my Birthday Party Planning Junkie post to understand what I mean). All in all, happy kid and happy mom. As for the mouse…he was completely harmless.

Photo Sources (in order of appearance): gamingbolt.com/chuckecheese.com; fark.com; outpost81.com; nursethehateblogspot.com; dulutheast86.com; fanpop.com. The last three photos are mine.

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Star of Video and Print, But Still Just an Acceptably Mediocre Mom

Whew!

It has been something else around here. Thanks to my minivan music video, this blog received more hits in a few days than probably the last two years combined. Next, the Life Sherpa of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch devoted his entire column to my post “Apparently All-Inclusive Attitudes Aren’t Part of the Resort Package,” where I took issue with an earlier piece he had written chiding parents of young children. And then he went and briefly mentioned me again in this Sunday’s column. It appears that a younger woman offering to buy an older man a beer is newsworthy. I will take it, especially considering the fact that when my version of “Texaco, Texaco over the hills to Mexico” differed from my daughter’s, she told me that now they sing it different from how we did in “the olden days.”

I feel a little like a celebrity. I mean, the video has caught on like virtual wildfire. My daughter said  that her friend told her that her older brother told her that practically the entire 6th grade class has seen it because a boy in their 2nd grade class showed it to HIS older brother who then showed it to all his friends when they came over. Um, did you follow that? Basically, I’m the Justin Bieber of the elementary school. Not quite Taylor Swift yet, but give it time. All I know is that I’m kind of a big deal in the parking lot at pick up time. And my daughter has been dubbed “famous” for her starring role in the video. Part of me hopes this doesn’t make her too popular though, as I have decided it is better for my kids to be nerds. Not tortured outcasts, mind you. I simply want them to have just enough social clout that people find them likable, but not enough that I will have to spend my Friday nights waiting up for them…because they will be at home watching 80’s movie classics and eating cheese balls with their nerd friends.

mary catherine gallagher
SUPERSTAR!

But these past weeks have also taught me that I am semi-uncomfortable with semi-fame. Compliments are like a funky little form of sadomasochism. They make me feel good, but at the same time, a part of me feels very uncomfortable. My immediate way of dealing with compliments is to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal: Oh, the video wasn’t really that hard to make. They have programs that any dummy can use. OR I’m just weird like that. I don’t know why I spend my time doing this stuff. OR Thanks, but it was just a fun little family project. The kids were just happy to be hams in front of the camera. In reality, I do spend a lot of time and effort on most things dealing with this blog. And I am over-Saturn’s-moon-slap-me-jazzed-do-a-high-kick-yell-SUPERSTAR-like-Mary-Catherine-Gallagher-happy when people respond to it in a positive way.

Then I got an email from a friend I went to high school with. This is what she said:

I just have to tell you that the reason I had been thinking about you is because in between all the mom stuff, house stuff, grocery shopping, etc (YOU KNOW!), I feel like I can get extremely short and cranky with my family and when I read your blogs and posts, I am truly inspired by your zest (decided to use a good word like that, with your love for words and all) for life and how much fun you seem to have.  I seriously think of you and think of how lucky your kids are and your husband is and how much fun you have, while still being a great mom and teaching your kids what is right and wrong.

First off, that email made my day, more than the excitement of all the hub-bub that had been surrounding my blog at the time. To know that something I enjoy doing somehow helps other people navigate through their lives in even the smallest way is the gold medal of compliments. But here comes that flip side of accepting something nice said about you. She painted such a glowing reflection of me, a reflection I feel on most days I can’t claim to be mine. I joked with her that while reading my blog might help her stop being cranky and short with her children, I am usually JUST THAT with my own children while WRITING THE VERY BLOG she feels inspired by. Wow. I felt a little like a fraud. I stumble through motherhood just like everyone else; I just usually choose to only write about the more lighthearted moments of it. I don’t like to complain too much in public, mostly because I have little patience for others who do. But in doing this, am I unintentionally portraying a false image of my life? Am I somehow making other mothers say things to themselves like, “Why can’t I be more like THAT kind of parent?” Trust me, I am no model mother…nor do I want to be.

But I had to realize that wasn’t the point of her compliment. And you know what? My kids ARE lucky to have me: an imperfect mother who loves them like no one else can and who lets them star in music videos. And every mom who reads this has children who are lucky to have her: another imperfect mother who loves them like no one else can and who sometimes needs to read about the funny, heart-warming moments of my life to remind her that she has moments just like that in hers.

Needless to say, it has been nice that things have settled down a little around here, at least on the blog front…because my darned life won’t take a break long enough to let me ogle my site stats to find out exactly how many people have been reading my posts or let me plot my next strategy for taking over the viral world. In the meantime, here is a link to a post by Rage Against the Minivan that will make all parents feel better about striving for acceptable mediocrity most of the time. Happy Easter!

The Slacker Mom’s Guide to Dying Easter Eggs with Small Children

dyed eggs
Um yeah, ours don’t look anything like this.

My Minivan Isn’t Cool, But My Music Video Is

It has been a long time coming, but the deed is done. I told my husband to just look at it like ripping off a band-aid. He still wants to throw up a little in his mouth every time he sees it, but I am not going to pretend I feel anything but that a destiny in my life has been fulfilled.

We got a minivan.

minivans are cool
image from http://www.thetruthaboutcars.com/2010/09/the-booth-babe-chronicles-can-a-minivan-be-cool/

For some reason, society likes to brand this parental milestone as the epitome of being un-hip, or that it is the final nail in the coffin containing a person’s sense of individual self. But I think that is just plain ridiculous. What WOULD be ridiculous is trying to deny the fact that I AM a parent who needs to take my children into consideration with every single decision I make, including what car I drive. Not that I am saying a minivan is necessarily always the best choice, but it was for our family. I like having the extra room to cart around toys, groceries, Girl Scout supplies, projects, and every other random thing that might need to be transported. I like that we will be more comfortable on road trips, and the kids can sit in separate rows if they start getting on each other’s nerves. I like that I now have enough seating to carpool or let my kids spontaneously bring a friend home to play after school without it involving a scheduling chart to see who can drop off and pick up when. And I like that I now drive a big, sturdy car that gives me a snowball’s chance in hell should I mingle steel with some birdbrain who is texting behind the wheel of an SUV.

I am also not the kind of person who determines how cool she is by the kind of car she drives. But I am the kind of person who has probably never really been cool anyway. So with that said, I will say loud and proud: I LOVE MY MINIVAN!

In fact, I love my minivan so much that a regular old blog post didn’t seem enough to announce its advent into my life. As I searched for inspiration, the same line kept popping into my head…I like minivans and I can not lie…

So without further ado, I give you the very first “Are You Finished Yet?” Music Video!

A big thank you goes out to my husband and kids for spending pretty much an entire Saturday shooting the video and dealing with this first-time actor/director. Now I know how Tom Hanks feels. Thanks also to Sir Mix-a-Lot for introducing a song into our cultural fabric that is always ripe for a good “Weird Al-esque” parody. And thanks to Weird Al for just being Weird Al.

 

*the picture of the river barge in the video was from                       http://www.boldts.net/album/D-RiverBarge.shtml

 

 

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Sharing is Caring

At the very moment I sat down to write this blog, my kids started fighting over their keyboard. So we had our two millionth lesson about sharing. I am obviously doing something wrong here. The “experts” are always yapping about how effective it is for parents to model good behaviors for their children. So instead of sneakily retreating to my room, closing my door, hoarding the last of the Cheez-Its, and pretending to put away laundry, I am going to model the desired behavior and share. Not once, but twice.

The first thing I would like to share is a piece by Jerry Mahoney, who is the mastermind behind the blog Mommy Man: The Adventures of a Gay Superdad. All parents find themselves completely unprepared at one point or another when their children drop one of those atomic bomb questions that we haven’t yet thought about how to answer. Jerry, thankfully, is there to help a straight parent out if and when your child becomes curious about gay parents (which he or she will inevitably encounter in today’s society). His advice packs a punch of good old common sense, and helps parents use the right kind of language to encourage acceptance, tolerance, and a whole lot of “everyone is different and that’s okay.” Plus, he references Brainy Smurf, so you know it has to be good. Check out his post, “How To Talk to Your Children About Gay Parents, By a Gay Parent.” While you are there, stick around. He has a lot of other great stuff about just being a parent…gay or otherwise.

Now if I could just find a piece called, “How to Talk to Your Children About Not Picking Their Noses and Eating Their Boogers, By a Reformed Nose Picker Who Ate His Boogers.”

The second thing I want to share is this:

banana slicer

 

Okay, I just realized this was maybe not the best picture to have in the same post as one that talks about gay parents, but stay with me here. This is the Hutzler 571 Banana Slicer, available on Amazon. Yes, it is a completely ridiculous uni-tasker (as Alton Brown of Food Network would call it), and a bit funny simply by its mere existence. But a friend of mine posted the link to this on his Facebook page instructing everyone to read the reviews. So I did. Hi.Lar.I.Ous. My husband and I were actually in tears from laughing so hard, starting off with the review, “No More Winning for You, Mr. Banana!” This is literally the best thing that has ever been on Amazon. So do yourself a favor, and go read a few of the 3,101 reviews (yes, seriously) of a banana slicer. I dare you not to at least crack a smile.

See, kids. When you share, everyone is happy.

Chuck E. Cheese Could Have Been Your Father

This is a post I wrote about a year ago, but I felt the driving need to re-blog it today as I will be heading to Chuck E. Cheese’s with my children for our preschool’s fundraiser night. Please pray that tonight I don’t encounter another reason to ever write another post like this…

Chuck E. Cheese’s.

That is all you have to say to hear a collective, audible grunt from every parent within earshot. It may very well be the place “where a kid can be a kid,” but it is most certainly the place where a parent can get a preview of one of the circles of Hell. Okay, that may be a bit of an exaggeration. But a place where your money gets you a mediocre pizza, a temporary tattoo and fun size Airhead candy for a mere 100 tickets, and a lingering sticky film over your entire body is not what I envision Heaven to be. Maybe Purgatory.

But I can deal with all of that. And I understand that in the eyes of my children, Chuck E. Cheese’s is the ultimate restaurant. After all, as a kid I felt the same way about its predecessor, Showbiz Pizza. So when faced with having to take my own kids to this pizza funland for a birthday party or fundraiser night (because those are pretty much the only circumstances under which we set foot in there), my audible grunt is not rooted in my disdain for the place. My distaste for Chuck E. Cheese’s comes from the mouse himself.

Yes, Chuck E. has scarred me for life. Let me take you back in time to the day it all happened…

The year was 1993. I was a sophomore in high school. For some reason completely incomprehensible to me now, but which clearly made sense to the idiot teenage brain, I went to Chuck E. Cheese’s with a few friends. Maybe we really wanted a neon pillow shaped liked an alien head and figured the best way to get one was to earn tickets playing Whack-A-Mole for an entire afternoon. Anyway, I remember it clearly. I was in the middle of one of my personal best rounds of skee ball when I felt a large, cartoonish presence next to me. There stood Chuck E., mimicking my skee ball maneuvers. Ha ha. Funny Chuck E. Now move along and go high-five some six-year-old. But he did not move on. He stood there for a little while, looking at me. I tried to ignore him and continued playing until he left. To my dismay, he did not stay away for long. He followed me, silently, creepilyfrom one game to the next. Don’t you have to go perform “Disco Chuck” or “Rockin’ Robin” with your band right about now? It was incredibly disturbing.

Finally, it must have been Chuck E.’s break time, because he scampered away behind a door, and I started breathing easy again. That is, until I turned around and found myself standing face to face with a Chuck E. Cheese employee – a human one this time. I thought maybe he was coming over to apologize for Chuck E.’s annoying behavior and to treat me to five free tokens for my inconvenience. I was mistaken. Here is how the conversation went down:

Employee: “Chuck E. wanted me to come out here and tell you that he thinks you’re cute.”

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: He’s a really nice guy. He wanted to know what you thought of his tail.

Me: <crickets chirping>

Employee: So when he comes back, you wanna hang out?

Me: I don’t date mice.

That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. I WAS HIT ON BY CHUCK E. CHEESE. Of all the celebrities whose eye I could have caught, that was my one shining moment. Pathetic. Disgusting. And down right Creepy with a capital C.

Chuck E. Cheese
“Is that your tail or are you just happy to see me?” photo from arcadeheroes.com

And THAT is why I hate Chuck E. Cheese’s. Since that very unfortunate day, I shudder a little whenever I hear Chuck E.’s nasaly voice on a commercial. When we are at the restaurant, I get weirded out and have the urge to hide whenever Chuck E. starts walking the floor. But I grin and bear it, all so my kids can have their fun.

And that is exactly what I did this past Thursday when Michael’s preschool had their fundraising night at Chuck E. Cheese’s. I bought my pizza and tokens like a dutiful mother. I helped Grace score extra points on the basketball game so she could earn more tickets toward junk I don’t want in my house. And I even alerted Michael when I saw Chuck E. sauntering among the customers (no doubt scanning the crowd for some unsuspecting female on whom he could work his “playa” moves). Michael loves Chuck E. Cheese, and when he saw the mouse, he ran up and gave him a hug. As I watched, a bit horrified, I had the thought, “Oh Michael. You have no idea. Chuck E. Cheese could have been your father.”

Then I threw up a little in my mouth.

(The Chuck E. Saga continued a few years later. For the next chapter, click here.)

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Miss Sassafras

Can somebody tell me when little girls started becoming teenagers at age seven?

My daughter may look like a seven-year-old. She may still dress in clothes from Gymboree and have crooked teeth not quite yet ready for braces. But she has the sass factor of a sixteen-year-old. And frankly, I am a little tired of it.

I have recently been relieved that I am not the only mother struggling with this. I have witnessed the behavior in some of her friends and have heard exasperated “I-can-not-take-this-anymore” ventings from other moms. And just the other day, my friend Heather said of her young daughter, “I think she just finds being difficult an acceptable hobby.”

Well, that made me laugh out loud, of course. Yet it also confirmed my worst fear: we are facing an epidemic of sass among little girls. This is likely a by-product of years of letting girls in elementary school dress like teenagers planning to give it up on prom night. Little did we know that teenage fashion was simply the gateway drug to teenage attitudes.

I, for one, am not going to stand for it. I will not be made to feel irrelevant by my daughter until she is AT LEAST in middle school, like in the good old days. So I took immediate action.

And my immediate action wasn’t very successful. I can’t imagine why. Whenever my dad stopped dead in his tracks, glared at me with white-hot anger, and bellowed, “WHAAAAT did you saaaaay?,” that was enough to keep me on the path of straight and narrow. (My grandpa was also successful using this method the time I had just seen Little Shop of Horrors and decided to quote Audrey II’s line, “tough t*tties” to show my lack of sympathy towards one of my cousins. In my defense, I was too young to know what that meant. In grandpa’s defense, he didn’t care.) But apparently my fury does not strike the fear of God in my daughter. Instead, she ended up crying that I was”hurting her feelings,” then she went to her room, slammed the door, and proceeded to say sassy things about her horrible mother behind my back.

Well, that backfired.

Oh hells no! (photo credit: tweenparenting.about.com)
Oh hells no! (photo credit: tweenparenting.about.com)

Next I tried the extremely mature tactic of sassing her right back. You wanna go down this road, little girl? Because you have no idea who you are dealing with. Not only could I post some major sass points in my day, but I also used to teach rooms full of teenage girls, some of whom were very privileged. Rich, spoiled teenage sass is about as top-notch as it gets. So between my own natural-born talent and my ivy league education in the art, I believe I have earned the equivalent of my B.A., Master’s Degree, and Ph.D in Sassology. But I guess the fact that I don’t use these degrees very often anymore (because I tend to communicate like, um, an adult) made me a little rusty. Grace matched my sass every time…and then raised the bar.

Admittedly, part of me wanted to throw in the towel. But that is not what moms do. So finally I decided to try a more thoughtful approach. Maybe I need to create that magical little panacea called a “teachable moment.” Grace’s usual defenses when she has done something wrong are “I didn’t realize I was doing it,” or “It was an accident.” While I know this isn’t true all the time, I can also give my daughter a break in realizing that sometimes the sass probably does fly out of her mouth before she has time to thoughtfully construct her words. Heck, that happens to me…and she is only seven, after all. So I came up with a plan.

I told Grace than whenever she speaks to me or anyone in a disrespectfully sassy tone, I would give her a warning by simply saying, SASSAFRAS. That is her cue to change her attitude, and if she doesn’t, then there will be a consequence. Pretty smart, if I do say so myself. My hope is for a gradual training in appropriate attitudes towards people. And I was certain Grace would be appreciative of my calm and reasonable treatment of this matter…

Grace:Sassafras????? I don’t even know what sassafras is!!”

Me: “Right now all you need to know is that it means you are being sassy and you need to stop.”

Grace:”Why don’t you just say Miss Sassy? Sassafras is stupid.”

Me: SASSAFRAS!!!

Grace: “What?”

Me: “You are doing it right now. SassafrasStop being sassy.”

Grace: “When I have a daughter, I’m going to use Miss Sassy. And she is not going to be sassy at all.”

Sigh. Despite the rocky start, I am going to stick with this plan for a while because I do think it has merit. But right now it feels like the only thing I am going to get out of sassafras is possibly a tasty microbrew.

Apparently All-Inclusive Attitudes Aren’t Part of the Resort Package

I’ve got a little bone to pick. And I’m warning you…I might get a little sassy.

This morning I sat down with my Cinnamon Chex and the Sunday funnies. Before reading the 74,502nd joke Dilbert makes at his boss’ expense, I immediately opened to the middle section to read one of my favorite columns, Life Sherpa by Joe Holleman. While I don’t always agree with his opinions, I really enjoy the common sense approach he applies to life; and he is usually good for a chuckle or two. Sometimes even a snort. He is kind of like a funnier, cooler, more likeable version of Dr. Phil. And he seems like a decent guy to have a beer with, which is one of my more discerning qualifications for liking people.

But I would be lying if I didn’t say I was a little miffed with today’s column. A reader by the name of “Eliza Dooalot” wrote in to vent her annoyance with parents who bring children to Mexican resorts or places like Las Vegas, thereby ruining the vacations of all the hard-working adults who paid good money for their trips. (Needless to say, I doubt I would want to have a beer with her. She would probably get all snippy that I brought my kids to the bar.) But I had no doubt that Sherpa would at least partially come to the defense of these parents she spoke of, seeing as how he is a man who usually acknowledges both sides of an argument.

I was wrong.

Instead, I felt a little betrayed. He painted parents of young children as people who think “the whole world finds their children as precious, fascinating and accomplished as they do.” He also states that the kids “can’t help that they were born to selfish people who are incapable of grasping the notion that they might have to give up some of their fun because they had children. And why should they? It’s so much easier to spoil everyone else’s good time than to deprive themselves.”

Oh, Sherpa. I would elaborate on more of what he wrote, but it’s just too painful to read again. But you can do so here, while I try to pull this knife out of my heart.

Now, I want to go on record as saying: Sherpa, I still love you. And I am smart enough to realize you don’t feel this way about all parents of young children. After all, you yourself are a parent, and your children were once young. And I will give it to you: there are irresponsible parents out there like those you speak of. We have all seen them, experienced them, perhaps even known some. I know I do. But if there is one thing that annoys me, it is generalizations. I can honestly say that 99.9% of the parents I know are NOT the kind of people described in the column, and they can’t be the only ones. It would be pretty silly to think I simply hit the jackpot when it comes to friends and acquaintances with children. Furthermore, if there is anything that gets me fired up, it is a misguided attack on something close to my heart.

So here is my rebuttal.

Kids Deserve Vacations Too

kid on airplane
Stock Photo by Sean Locke http://www.digitalplanetdesign.com

Let’s start with the obvious: flying with young children to a Mexican resort. Please correct me if I am wrong, but Mexico has about as many vacation resorts as they do tortillas, many of which are designated as “adults only.” Problem solved. And if it is the “flying with children” part of the scenario that seems “inconsiderate,” well, let’s take a look at that. Flying with kids can admittedly be a disaster of epic magnitude waiting to happen. So, of course, “considerate parents” would simply choose vacation spots to which they can drive, therefore keeping the horrific deeds of their naughty children confined to their own family vehicles, right? First off, this notion suggests that certain people have more of a right to fly than others. But that is just ridiculous, so I won’t even address it. Believe it or not, in today’s economy, flying can often be a cheaper alternative to driving, especially when long distances are involved. Not only have gas prices been insane, but many parents who travel for work enjoy the benefit of frequent flyer miles which they save up and use to pay for family vacations. (Also astonishing is the fact that resorts, like those in say, Mexico, can also be paid for with points. And before you say “use your points at DisneyWorld,” I will mention that I can practically fly and stay at TWO Mexican resorts OR fly across the ocean to Ireland before I have enough points for a family of four to go to DisneyWorld. That’s what you call a Magic Racket.) Considering the rising costs of raising a family, maybe these parents aren’t being so selfish after all. Maybe they are just treating their children to a memory-making vacation while at the same time, saving money that can be used on more important things. Like college funds. Or mortgage payments.

What Happens in Vegas Isn’t Your Darn Business

Now, onto Vegas. I, for one, would never choose Vegas as a destination for a family vacation. I don’t think most parents would. Those card flippers on the strip are enough for me to keep my children outside a very large radius of the city…you know, the guys who hand out naked pictures of girls to promote Caesar knows what. However, it could be possible, just possible, that a family with small children might be in Vegas for another reason, like a convention or a tournament, of which they had no control over the location.

girl and showgirls
Photo from an article entitled “Family Fun: Expert advice for planning a kid-friendly Vegas trip.” Boo-ya!

Case in point: my brother played club volleyball as a kid. One year, Nationals were held in Reno. While Reno isn’t as soaked in debauchery as Vegas, there isn’t a whole lot more to do there than gamble. And guess what is in every hotel? A casino. And guess where the food court and restaurants were in the hotel? On the other side of the casino from the elevators up to the rooms. So every time a poor kid wanted a meal, he had to walk through the casino floor filled with chain-smoking old ladies at slot machines, groups of drunk guys yelling profanities at the craps table, and scantily clad bar maids wiggling what God gave them. The gamblers probably didn’t want the kids there, but neither did their parents. I guess the parents could have not let their children leave the hotel rooms, but no one wants to see or hear what happens when kids are confined for too long. Either be annoyed while gambling or have your sleep disrupted by adolescents bouncing off the walls next door. Your choice.

Basically what I’m saying is don’t assume you know the reason a family with young children might be in an unlikely place. The only thing unlikely about the situation is that the parents are “selfish people who are incapable of grasping the notion that they might have to give up some of their fun because they had children.”

Does This Look Like Fun to You?

annoying kid
Totally precious…not

Which brings me to another can of worms I want to open: kids misbehave. It is a fact as true as the laws of physics. And guess what? Even kids of good parents, well-intentioned, attentive, responsible parents, misbehave. And yes, it is annoying. But here is the most shocking part: NO ONE IN THE WHOLE ENTIRE WORLD IS MORE ANNOYED AT MISBEHAVING CHILDREN THAN THE PARENTS OF SAID CHILDREN. Is there a kid at the pool being a brat, yelling the theme song to “Go, Diego, Go” and splashing everyone within five feet of him? I suspect this might be the type of “other people’s children” that Miss Eliza Dooalot must suffer and “put up with” on her vacation. But who is really the one who has to put up with it? Sure, for people like Eliza and other bystanders, this behavior can be disruptive and agitating. But Eliza has a choice; a choice to find another area by the pool to relax, a choice to crank up the music in her earphones, a choice to leave. This child’s parents do not have that choice. They not only have to be badgered by it, but they also have to do something to remedy it. And might I add that most parents are not only frustrated in their child’s misbehavior despite trying to teach them manners and respect every chance they get, but they are also embarrassed that their failings are on display for all to see, and their reaction to it is likely being judged.

A perfect example of this unfortunately happened to a friend of mine several years ago. She was moving her family from St. Louis to London after her husband was transferred. He had gone to London ahead of the family to start work, so she was poised to make a trans-Atlantic flight alone with three small children. Things got off to a rocky start, and her kids were already whining and pushing limits as they boarded the plane. As she made her way to her seat, juggling three children and all their carry-ons, another passenger made some snide comment loud enough for her to hear. She turned to him and said something along the lines of, “If you think I’M having a good time here, you are SORELY mistaken.” If I had been on that plane, I would have given her a standing ovation.

The Moral of the Story

All of these above reasons are why I got so angry reading that column. And I am not an unreasonable person. I am actually probably a lot more “old school” than most older generations would accredit to someone of my generation. I have even proclaimed myself to be the world’s youngest cranky old woman. So for me to take offense to these attitudes means something. Parents KNOW their kids can be annoying to other people. We do get it, since other people’s kids annoy us sometimes, too. We are just able to cut them some slack because we know in our hearts that parenting bites everyone in the backside every now and again. And we don’t think everyone thinks they are cute and adorable. Heck, there are times when even WE don’t think that. So to imply that we are clueless, self-centered people who are not mortified if the actions of our children inconvenience other people is grossly irresponsible. Even worse, to imply that we are negligent enough to abandon our parental judgment to allow ourselves to have fun at the expense of our children and everyone else is downright hurtful.

Obviously, everyone has a right to feel however they want on this issue. All I am really asking is instead of rushing to judgment, perhaps adults without young children should consider the fact that they don’t have the whole story. The world revolves around no ONE person; we all have to share this planet, and occasionally a Mexican resort. That means we will step on each others’ toes sometimes, even if there is no malice intended. I can empathize with a hard-working person who is just looking forward to a relaxing vacation; hopefully that person can also empathize with the fact that parents on vacation with children really aren’t on vacation at all. But we go, for our kids. For our family. And to be frankly honest, it’s a free country and we can choose to vacation wherever we want. So do you.

So let’s mend the fences, Sherpa. I can respect your opinion. And now you know mine. All is forgiven. And if you want to hang out with some really fantastic moms who hold absolutely no delusions about the strengths AND faults of their children, usually posting the good and the bad on Facebook for you to block, come have a beer with us. It will even be my treat, since you’re still one of my favorite columnists. I’m even enough of a good sport to let you invite Eliza Dooalot. But she has to pay for her own beer. I work too hard trying to raise future productive members of society to waste my well-deserved mom’s night-out money on her unsympathetic attitude.

Like a Rolling Stone

It feels a little weird to be blogging. I mean, it has been exactly twenty-three days since I last posted something (not that I have been counting or anything). That is apparently long enough for the WordPress site to stop automatically logging me in, causing me to have to actually type in my username and password…which I almost couldn’t remember. It’s a good thing I am not entrusted with any classified information. I am pretty sure they don’t have a “remember me” box to check when logging into the nuclear launch codes. 

checking the fridge
Oh hey, Twitter. I forgot you were in here. (photo courtesy of iStockphoto.com)

I guess I can chalk up my lack of blogging to taking to heart the idea that “life grows sideways.”* I have been rolling with the punches. And the punches just haven’t seemed to be landing on blogging lately…or Facebook…or Twitter. (Actually, the punches NEVER land on Twitter. My Twitter account is pretty much like those leftovers you know you should throw out, but you put them in Tupperware anyway because you just MIGHT find a use for them. Like you just MIGHT become one of those people who researches creative ways to reinvent leftovers into a brand new meal. But you never do. But you are also one of those people who is not so good at cleaning out your fridge, so the leftovers just sit somewhere in the back next to the jar of barley malt you bought last year because you needed one tablespoon of it to make homemade bagels, which of course you have never made since. Are you sensing why I am not so good at capping my thoughts to 140 characters?)

What I HAVE been rolling with is basketball practices; indoor soccer games; tumbling classes; birthday parties; First Communion meetings; Brownie meetings; overseeing the selling of Girl Scout cookies; making Walmart my unfortunate second home; powder puff derbies (well, just one of those); sporadic workout schedules; ice skating; school volunteering; randomly deciding to reorganize the kitchen on a Monday afternoon; realizing that a freshly reorganized kitchen “needs” some pops of color by way of new utensil, flour, sugar, and tea cannisters; “sacrificing” my time to scour Pier One and T.J. Maxx for said sources of pops of color…you know, typical mom stuff. Because typical mom stuff is how I roll. Just consider my theme song “Roll With It” by Steve Winwood. That’s right. Winwood. Hey, that brassy 80’s tune worked for my grade school soccer team. Get it?…roll with it…like a ball. Uh huh. We even had a little sideline dance. Take that David Beckham.

I have also found myself, as always, rolling with the hilarity and awkwardness provided by my children. Here are just a few noteworthy moments:

– My son can be rather creative in his dress-up play. He is fearless when it comes to making bold and daring choices. Some of you may remember this ensemble from a previous post:DSCF8800

He has also proven to be unfazed by gender stereotypes, following in the footsteps of young male actors during the time of Shakespeare and stepping into a female role…or the role of a robot monster who also happens to be wearing a dress:DSCF7799

And then just today, he designed this outfit for “Wacky Wednesday” at school:774274_10152446747505532_1366605929_o

But the real beauty of his fashion choices are in his interpretations of what the dressing-up transforms him into. Last week, Michael came up to me in just his skivvies and asked me to tie a piece of crepe paper around his neck. It ended up looking like a bow tie. Let me just reinforce that picture for you…skivvies and bow tie. He said he was being a sea monster, which came as a huge relief to me. Because my first guess was Magic Mike.

chicken and rooster
“Hey, chickie. How ’bout you and me do a little egg fertilizing?” (photo source: Wikipedia)

– Just before Christmas, I mentioned that Grace’s advancing age is bringing on all kinds of questions I am not ready to answer. I also mentioned that I was more comfortable answering her questions about sex than I was about Santa. Well, I may have spoken too soon on that one. The questions I was referring to in the previous post were ones she was asking about anatomy, mostly female. No problem. Last night, however, my husband and I got the “big one.” And it all started with hard-boiled eggs. At dinner, Grace was proudly recounting how she had learned to hard boil an egg. Which led to this:

Grace: “What exactly is the yellow part of the egg? (a bit fearful) Is it the baby chicken?”

Kurt: “No, because the eggs we eat aren’t fertilized. It only becomes a chick if the egg is fertilized.”

Grace: (satisfied, but only for a millisecond) “Oh. What does fertilized mean?”

Me: “You know how human babies are made from part of a mom and part of a dad? Well, it is the same with chickens. The eggs we eat only have the mom part, not the dad part.”

Grace: “But how does the dad part get to the mom part?”

Me: (hoping desperately that she is talking about chicken parents) “Uh, I am not exactly sure how the dad part gets into the egg…” (can you feel my uneasiness?)

Grace: “No, not the chickens. Like people. How does the dad get his part into the mom?”

Me: (DAMN YOU CHICKENS AND YOUR UNFERTILIZED EGGS!!!!! DAMN ME FOR BUYING REAL EGGS INSTEAD OF EGG BEATERS THIS WEEK!!!!  DAMN, DAMN, DAMN!!!!)

Kurt: (Eating tomato bisque, just ignoring the whole conversation by this point, mostly because he loves my tomato bisque, and our chatter was ruining the moment between him and his soup spoon. And now that I think of it, I am really annoyed at his timely love affair with tomato bisque when he was the one who brought up fertilizing in the first place. Stupid enginerd.)

Me: “Well, I would love to tell you about that, but it is kind of grown-up stuff, and the dinner table isn’t really the place to discuss it.”

Grace: “Why not? We’re just sitting here, eating and talking. The food doesn’t care.”

Me: “But Michael isn’t quite old enough to know about that kind of stuff yet.”

Michael: “I hate eggs. Chickens have eyeballs. I hate this soup.”

Me: “Um…well,…you know maybe we…(trails off into undefinable mumblings)…HEY! You,  little miss, have not told me ONE thing about how school was today!

Grace: “Oh, it was really good! Our class got our 100th marble today for doing good stuff so we are going to have a movie day with popcorn.”

Me: “Wow! I want to hear ALL about these marbles…fascinating…”

Roll with it, baby. Ain’t that right, Winwood?

* quoted from The American Gene by Michael Nesmith

I Am A Liar. And It’s All Santa’s Fault.

It can be stressful to have a seven-year-old at Christmastime. Why? Because there is questioning. A lot of questioning. You know, about that plump guy in the red suit.

I have to be honest; Grace’s prying questions about Santa make me more uncomfortable than the few questions she has already asked me about S-E-X. Questions about sex, while a little awkward, haven’t been that hard to answer because I am making sure she has accurate facts, giving her knowledge that not only makes her feel okay about her own body, but will hopefully lead to informed and responsible decisions in the future. I subscribe to the very wise motto of G.I. Joe: Now you know, and knowing is half the battle.

But answering all these endless questions about Santa means I am doing the exact opposite: I am perpetrating a lie.

santa's secret
To tell…or not to tell? Copley Photo

It all started at the very beginning of December. We were in the car, sitting at a stoplight. The car behind us caught my eye in the rearview mirror because it had those little reindeer antlers on either side. I glanced at the driver for a glimpse of this person with undoubted Christmas cheer, and lo and behold…it was an older gentleman, with a round face, a long, fuzzy white beard, and a red shirt. I couldn’t believe my luck! Last year we happened upon a reindeer in our backyard just before Christmas, and now this! So I announced to the kids, “Look who is driving the car behind us!” They both quickly turned around, and Michael yelled, with an energy like the one that comes from eating too many pixie sticks, “SANTA!!!!!!”

Almost on cue, the man behind us smiled and waved at the kids. It was, for lack of a better word, precious. Just as I was feeling my own giant boost of yuletide glow, Grace said, a bit accusingly, “What would Santa be doing driving around here?” I explained that maybe he was making the rounds, checking up on kids, getting reports from all the Elves on the Shelves. She was quiet for a second. “I kind of think Santa is real. But I kind of think he is a fairy tale.” Well, isn’t that just Grinchy. And then the questions began…

I know what she’s doing. I can tell she is conflicted. She wants to believe Santa is real, but that maturing brain of hers is feeding her more and more of this thing call “logic,” and she’s not so sure she likes the taste of it. Therefore, instead of coming straight out with the question, “Is there really a Santa Claus?” she is asking every possible question about his practicality to see how I respond. Grace: What is Santa’s address?….Me: Just write “Santa Clause – North Pole. The post office will know where it goes because there is only one Santa….Grace: But if no one has ever seen Santa and his workshop is secret, how does the mailman know where he lives?….Me: (crap)

What am I supposed to do? Tell her that I am incredibly impressed with her abilities in deduction, throw up my hands to the fact that I will likely soon be out-smarted, and say, “Congratulations! I think you have just about figured it out. I will spare you the last two zillion questions you were going to ask me and just confirm what you are hinting at. THERE IS NO SANTA CLAUS. And your parents are liars. Merry Christmas.”

Nope. That is not what I do at all. Instead, I conspire with my husband to dig ourselves even deeper in this jolly old lie. Ladies and gentlemen, witness our deception:

Grace's Email from Santa
Grace’s Email from Santa

A few days ago, I was at the computer sending some emails when Grace asked me if the reason Santa knew all this stuff about her and Michael was because I emailed him. I confessed that I had absolutely no idea what Santa’s email address was. So Miss Smarty Pants said, “Just Google it.” I hesitantly typed in the words “Santa’s email address,” fearing that an entry would pop up saying something like “Trick your kids with this fake email address to Santa…because we all know Santa is not real.” Luckily, the first entry was an actual site where kids could send emails to Santa. And it was adorable. Grace entered her information and her note to Santa, then hit send. A screen popped up with a message that the email was being sent…then it said Santa was reading the email…then it said he was writing one back to her. Within a few minutes, Santa’s email was ready for her to read. She was a bit skeptical that he had written it so quickly, but that doubt was soon squashed once she read the email. It was very personal and even somehow had picked up from what she had written in the free-form comment section the fact that she had a brother. I was relieved to see she seemed quite satisfied.

But apparently her wheels had been turning all afternoon, because at dinner time she informed us she had a sneaky idea. She wasn’t so sure Santa had actually written that email, or that there really was a Santa to even email. So she had devised an “experiment.” She wanted my husband to go back to the site and enter in his name, but say he was 6-years-old and from Canada. By her reasoning, if Santa was real and really writing these emails, he would certainly know that Kurtis was actually an adult…and not living in Canada.

Well, *%$#@. But I have to admit, she is kind of a genius. And a little maniacal.

We knew we couldn’t talk our way out of this, so my husband agreed to do it. He went downstairs and started the email. All of a sudden, he came racing back upstairs, whipped into the family room and said in a hushed voice, “QUICK! Get on the Kindle, pretend you are Santa, and send an email to me saying that you know I was tricking you!” OOOOOH! You handsome devil you! But there was just one problem. I panicked, “But the site doesn’t send it to your email address! Santa’s email just pops up on the site after a minute or two!!!” But my enginerd had already taken care of that. He had unplugged the router so when they hit “send” nothing would happen. Then when he plugged the router back in, he quickly opened his email to find this message waiting in his inbox:

Subject: Naughty, Naughty

HO HO HO! You tried to trick old Santa! I know you don’t live in Canada.

Love, Santa

P.S. Rudolph thought that was a funny joke!

I know. The tangled web of lies we weave. But I have to say, it was totally worth it to see the look on her face and hear her exclaim, “YES! The email was really from Santa!”

Maybe I am setting her up for a bigger disappointment when she finally does learn the truth. Maybe I am being selfish. I know that the elaborate lengths my husband and I have gone to in order to keep Grace believing are in part for us. We see her losing pieces of “little” every day. Sure, her innocence still outweighs her worldliness. But childhood starts to look different around this age. It isn’t necessarily better or worse, but change is always hard. Every parent knows that faint tug of longing that comes whenever you catch a glimpse of a photo of your child during younger years. Remember…that squeaky voice…the way that tiny hand felt around your finger…that unquestionable belief in anything that could be imagined…it was adorable.

My Cutest Christmas Angel when she was 1 year old
My Cutest Christmas Angel when she was 1-year-old

But seven-year-olds can be pretty adorable, too. Grace reminded me of that when she took a bit of offense to Santa’s use of the word “joke.”

“It wasn’t a joke. It was an EXPERIMENT.”

Maybe I will remember that line when Grace finally does come to the real conclusion about Santa Claus. And then I will let her eat the cookies her little brother leaves for him. I might need a lot of cookies.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!

Believe
Believe

Unanswered Prayers

I can not think about it.

I can not let myself think about it.

But still, it creeps in. My minds tries to push it out with its entire weight. Like when I act on an impulse to rearrange a room by myself, and I try to move a bookshelf full of books using my whole body because I don’t want to be bothered with removing each piece and re-shelving it.

I can not have these images in my mind. Not when I look upon my children’s faces, faces that are of the same ages as those tiny victims. I can not look upon my children and imagine the horror that raced within those children. I can not feel my imagined grief knowing it could never mirror the gut-twisting, bone-weakening, heart-strangulating, living hell that has enveloped those parents. I just can’t.

Yet I do. Because I am a parent. Because I am a human. There is not one person who can hear of the tragedy that happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut and not be touched…except perhaps the kind of person who would do this in the first place.

MEDION DIGITAL CAMERATonight, my mom said very simply, “None of those children will ever come home from school.” And it made me so sad. Ironically, that is the exact moment I heard about the shooting. When my child was coming home from school. The only television that got any air time at my house today was Nickelodeon, so when a friend of mine mentioned it as we stood in the school’s parking lot waiting for dismissal, I had had no idea. I didn’t even know the whole story yet. All I knew was that my children both came home from school.

Tonight after I put my daughter and son to bed, I silently prayed over them, as I do on most nights. God protect them always. I bet those parents in Connecticut have prayed those same words over their children. Unanswered prayers. It is so easy to wonder about unanswered prayers.

But I can not think about it.

I can not let myself think about it.

Beyond that, I can not think of anything else to say. But I did read something today that was about the only thing I felt I could hold onto in regards to tragedies like this. Thank you Matt Chambers at Ethoshift for your wisdom:

“[I]f you were to ask me during the greatest moments of my life exactly how and why it happened, why God chose that moment…that person…that circumstance…I’d never be able to explain it. It’s like trying to stare directly into the brightest spotlight to try and see the very center of the lightbulb. You just can’t do it. You know the light is there, you know you are in its beam, but it’s simply impossible to look into the center of it while it’s shining…

…[I]f you were to ask me during the most horrific moments of my life exactly where God was…why he didn’t stop what happened…how he could let it happen in the first place…I’d never be able to explain it. It’s like standing at the bottom of an abyss and trying to figure out exactly where the darkness begins. You know the darkness is there, you know it’s there because light is absent, but you’ll never be able to completely understand why…or how to get out.

Somewhere along the way, I imagine we’ve misunderstood the exact relationship between Heaven and earth. While a small minority are quite at peace with their understanding of it, I’d say the vast majority of us will struggle and wrestle with this for our entire lives.

While we grapple with and attempt to cling harder to our faith, there will always be a portion of it that in these moments is impossible to understand, explain, or describe. All I know is, every day around the world, tragedy like this happens. When it’s far away from us, it’s easier to stomach, but the closer it gets, the more vulnerable we feel, and it forces us to raise the questions we never wanted to talk about.

Yet, here we are…asking…begging for answers, and somehow still know that the answers we’re begging for probably won’t ever come. Besides, even if someone was able to provide an explanation of some sort, would it really help? I’m convinced explanations don’t magically end grief, or bring back people we love who have been taken away far earlier than we ever would have imagined.

This is a scenario when explanations are pointless. It doesn’t matter how genius the theology is or how many Bible verses we quote. This is that space that’s beyond anything we’re ever prepared to answer for. And that’s probably for the best. Most of us are experts at trying to fix things, but fall far short when it comes time to simply walking with people through their darkest or brightest days.”

Excerpts were taken from Matt Chamber’s post, “Where is God When 20 Children Are Murdered?”