The things we do for love

Last night I found myself standing in the bathroom wearing a cheap looking, platinum blonde, waist length, curly costume wig. I think that I will pause a minute and let your mind go with this one......



Okay it really wasn't for some kinky role playing game with my husband. My oldest daughter's school is having a "dress up like a rock star" day this friday. Can you guess why? Because drugs DON'T rock. That's a bit of a stretch don't you think? If they really wanted to get the message across wouldn't the school have them dress up in jail uniforms and chain them to their lockers for the day? That would be much more effective I would think, but then again I sure don't have a teaching degree. *shrug*

The ONLY rock star in my nine year olds mind is "Hannah Montana".
"Mom, I need to look JUST like Hannah Montana. Now SHE'S a rock star." I had the urge to list MANY rockstars who live somewhere other than Preteen Planet, stars really worthy of impersonating, but I know that would have only gotten me the "Mom, you just don't know anything" stare followed by the "Thank goodness I have the Disney Channel or I would be SO uncool" eye-roll.

We headed to Target to find the perfect blonde wig. Thank goodness we're nearing Halloween, there was an entire AISLE devoted to cheap wigs.
"No, no, no, no. Ummmmmm...no." All the way down the line she went. Nothing was right.
"We're just going to have to go to a different store mom," she sighed in her best diva voice.
I tried to explain to her how the cheap Halloween costume and wig industry works with all major retailers, but I just got The Stare.
I spent the next 20 minutes attempting to convince her that each wig looked JUST like Hannah's long and straight blonde hair. She wasn't buying it. Or rather, she WAS and that was half the problem. She was pitching in her own money for this thing which means that I wasn't allowed to pull the standard 'grab something, deal with it or get a job to buy your own stuff' line. She had a pocket full of birthday money that she knew bought her the right to be picky.
Thirty minutes later we stood in the checkout line with a Barbie Rapunzel wig that she'd finally settled on. It was blonde and it was long, but it was a mass of curls instead of smooth and straight like it was supposed to be.
And that is exactly how I found myself standing in my bathroom wearing a cheap platinum blonde wig. You can't just hold a wig to style it because you need both hands. I had to WEAR the thing. Not just wear it, but use a round brush and blow dryer with special attachments on it. My husband walked in and nearly fell on the floor laughing...I am SO glad that he has no idea where the camera is.
So the wig is straight, $15 of salon hairspray later. I can't wait until she comes home from school with the wig in knots, destroyed from 6 hours of hair-tossing, pose-striking and playing on the playground.

No really, you can have them back

I have an in home daycare. In the south they call this "keeping kids" which is a saying that I just can't get used to. I've given in to "y'all" and sometimes even hear myself uttering the dreadful southern phrase "might should". As in "Honey, you might should bring the dog in, it looks like it's going to rain." My husband laughs at me every time I use it because he knows how much I hate it. But it gets IN YOUR PORES, this deep south speak. Honestly, after a month or so you feel it start to seep in. Six months and you're immersed in it so deeply you gasp and choke for just one last breath of yankee air. After a year, it's hopeless. You've got it bad and there's no washing it off. This stuff is permanent.
Last week while I was headed to the mall, two high school kids in the car behind me decided to pull a very bold and dangerous stunt, nearly running over pedestrians and street signs. Luckily for those reckless teenagers, I was right there to set them straight as soon as they stepped out of their vehicle about a mile down the road in the Target parking lot. Who knows what sort of life they would have gone on to lead if I hadn't used my mastery of the english language to turn their lives around.
I jogged to the double doors, catching up just as they were entering the store. "Y'all OUGHT NOT drive so selfishly!!" I hollered. In my mind I'm thinking "Ought not?" I have no idea where that came from, but I have a feeling that southern stuff I was telling you about had seeped into the "chewing out stupid people" part of my brain. That's unfortunate, because I used to be rather good at it. But the 'ought not' must have gone in and polluted all the good stuff and snappy comebacks with the politeness of an elderly grandmother.
The two teens offered an apology. "Yes ma'am, we're so sorry. It was our fault, we shouldn't be so careless." Hmm. Now what do you say to that? That's the thing with these southern kids. They can sure raise some hell, but they're awful polite to their elders while doing it. I decided to let them go with a finger wagging and a firm "tsk" (now where did that come from??) satisfied that they had learned their lesson.
So back to the kids that I "keep". One is a pure joy and rays of sunshine. The other is evil incarnate. I have another who is only about 7 months old so I am not sure yet if he's on the side of light or the side of darkness. It's just too early to tell.
Evil Boy has been taught the ways of the southern child. One moment he's slashing my sofa open with the jagged edge of sippy cup that he's slowly sharpened to a point on the netting of his pack-n-play, and the next moment he's batting those big brown eyes at me from the time-out corner. "I sowwy Miss Yeeah, I sowwy!" And every single time I fall for it. I firmly believe that it's a power that southern children are taught from birth. I know this because both of my own children are northerners and I never believe them.
So with that said, I do believe that "keeping kids" is an awful phrase. Come five o'clock if you're not here I will certainly not be keeping them, they will be waiting at the curb. (Evil Boy may even be out there at 4:30) And telling your co worker about the woman who keeps your kids implies that you for some reason no longer want your kids. Or are at least boarding them at a kennel for the week.
Thankfully my other day care mom, the one with the angel child, is a northerner like me. We're both from the same state as a matter of fact, and nearly the same city. How we ended up here must be fate. She is my breath of fresh yankee air, every day reminding me of home. We can talk about rhubarb, sweet corn and teenagers who will yell swear words in your direction when you scold them in the Target parking lot. Ahhh, memories.
Just this morning as we're standing in the doorway reminiscing about October snow, she glances over my shoulder "Uh, Leah? Do you think that you should take that sippy cup away from him?"
"Whoa!" I say as I lunge toward him, "I guess I might should do that!"
Noooooooo!

What my dog taught me about raising my children

I now own more puppy raising books that I do parenting books. That's really no indication of my priorities, I swear. It's just that after nine years of parenting, I figure I'd better have this mom stuff figured out by now. And if I don't, it's likely too late anyway. The puppy, on the other hand, I've only had for a month and a half. The way I figure it, I have plenty of time left to scar HIM for life.
After reading so many parenting and puppy-raising books, I've noticed an alarming (or maybe enlightening) trend. THEY ARE THE SAME BOOK. Really. Just replace the picture of the baby on the dust jacket of any parenting book with a picture of a furry little labrador puppy, and you'd never know the difference. They both have chapters on "Developmental Stages and What To Do", "How They Learn", "Surviving the First Nights Home" and "Housebreaking". Housebreaking you say? Yes. I just finished housebreaking my toddler, thankyouverymuch. Trust me.
I have recently begun training my puppy to do all the same tricks that we teach our children. Sit, lay down, be quiet, stop chewing on the refridgerator cord....and have realized that the methods are the same.
You begin by showing the child/puppy what you want it to do. You then repeat yourself over and over again as the child/puppy gazes over your shoulder at something more interesting than you. You make a few attempts to become the center of attention again by patting your knees excitedly and talking in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. Child/puppy yawns. Then you get frustrated, throw up your hands and admit that you will never have a well behaved child/puppy that you can take to the park to play with other children/puppies and have any expectations of acceptable behavior. You compare your child/puppy to everyone else's and wonder if yours is normal and learning properly for it's age. You then take it to the pediatrician/veterinarian who assures you that it's just a stage and your child/puppy will outgrow it "soon".
Really though, I have noticed some eye-opening similarities. After nine years and about fifteen books all telling me someone else's version of how to be the perfect parent, I've finally realized that it isn't as complicated as it's made out to be. Enforce the rules without emotion. Be matter of fact and consistant. Don't give any attention to any behavior that is unacceptable and praise like a mad woman when they do what you ask.
So this great puppy book I'm reading, I wonder what kind of response I'm going to get when I give it as a gift at the next baby shower.

In the beginning

Well look at me! Blogging! I had to do something to share my thoughts and I knew that it just couldn't be myspace. I'm not positive, but I think that my dog even has a myspace page. There's no way to know for sure, since the profile is set to "private", but I'm pretty sure it's him.