Today was orientation for students and parents at Zoey's preschool. This year, Zoey will be attending three days a week (last year she did two) for three hours a day. Five of the seven children she went to school with last year will be in her class this year, along with six new children. One of her teachers from last year will also be one of her two teachers this year.
So, needless to say, she's pretty psyched.
Zoey l-o-v-e-d preschool last year. All summer long, she pretended she was one of her friends and I would be another one of her friends. Or she would take on the role of one of her teachers while I acted like one of her friends or the other teacher.
You get the picture.
Since she talked about her teachers so much, I figured she would be beside herself when she saw them again. As soon as we got to school, we saw Mrs. Smith (the teacher from last year who would not be her teacher again this year) in the hallway. Mrs. Smith bent down to talk to Zoey. Zoey smiled and kept on walking. No hugs. No squeals of joy. Just a smile. Talk about being too cool for school. This kid was on a mission: to find her friends.
When we got to the classroom, Mrs. Jones (the teacher from last year who would be her teacher again this year) tried to talk to Zoey. Poor Mrs. Jones didn't even get a smile. Zoey had already spotted one of her friends, so she walked on by Mrs. Jones without even acknowledging her presence.
Once all the kids and parents arrived, the teachers gave us a brief introduction of what was expected of our children and us during the school year. The teachers then played and talked with the children while the parents stood nearby. One of the moms needed to go up the hall and speak with the preschool director. She asked me, since her daughter and Zoey are such good friends, if I would keep an eye on her child while she ran up the hall. Sure. I'm already watching Zoey and Zed. What's one more? You sure you wouldn't rather have the Mom with the three-year-old, two-year-old, and the crying infant in the corner watch your child?
As soon as the mom left the room, her daughter needed to go potty. That figures. I immediately relinquished my duties to another mom. There was no way I was following her daughter into the bathroom. Not in this day and age.
The teachers then passed out the rulebooks along with a questionnaire before taking the kids outside. Here was my questionnaire:
Q: Does you child have a "security item" (a favorite toy, pacifier, blanket, etc.)?
A: No. Why? Is this something I should be concerned about? Is she incapable of feeling? Should I line up a kiddie shrink as soon as possible? Please advise.
Q: Does your child have any pets? If so, what are their names?
A: No. Just imaginary ones. And they're all named Freako. And they're all dead.
Q: Is your child a leader?
A: Does the term alpha female mean anything to you? But you'll find that out soon enough. And so will the other poor children.
Q: Is your child capable of voicing his needs and concerns?
A: See above answer.
Q: Is your child capable of "going potty" by himself?
A: Yes. However, she feels the need to strip from the waist down (including any footwear). And, well, let's just say she has problems putting her clothing back on. So if she's in there for more than ten minutes, you might want to go in there and help her figure out which way her panties go (Why do they not put tags in the back of children's underwear? Do they secretly hate parents?).
Q: Does your child have a favorite color?
A: Pink. And I pity any other little girl who shares this color. Tears will be shed by both parties.
Q: Please provide any additional information that may be of assistance to us during the school year.
A: I am one of those "hands-on" parents. I will want to know what she did at school, how she did at school, and anything else I can wrestle from your memory. When you see me coming, you will cringe because you know you're in for at least a five-minute conversation. I apologize in advance for any and all inconveniences I may cause. Wait... I bet you wanted more additional information about Zoey. Sorry.
(Dis)Orientation
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day Three
Today was the culmination of the three-day Zoeypalooza 2005 festival honoring Zoey's third birthday: her official birthday party. As I stated in an earlier post, we held it at a place with a bunch of inflatable jumping thingies. Counting Zoey and Zed, there were twenty children at the party, all under the age of four. Yes, we're insane. Thanks for asking.
And because I sometimes feel the need to feed my inner statistician, here are the breakdowns of the kids at the party by age and relationship to Zoey:
Breakdown By Age
6 to 11 months -- 2
12 to 23 months -- 3
24 to 35 months -- 6
36 to 47 months -- 9
Breakdown By Relationship To Zoey
Relatives of Zoey* -- 3
Preschool friends -- 6
Gym class friends -- 2
Long distance friends** -- 8
Neighborhood friends*** -- 1
*Consists of Zoey, Zed, and their cousin.
**There are the kids Zoey rarely sees, the children of our friends. She only sees these kids at birthday parties, baptisms, vacations, and the occasional dinner.
***We invited her buddy Elmo, the co-creator of Extreme Wiffle Ball. Last year for Zoey's birthday, we invited all the kids from the neighborhood (six additional kids, now aged five to eight) because we held it in our backyard. This year, because the kids would be jumping in such close proximity of one another, we didn't invite any child four years of age or older. Sorry. I realize this holds no possible entertainment value for you, I'm just trying to make myself feel better for dissin' my 'hood.
See? It's not like we were just going up to people off the street and inviting them to her party.
Anyway...
While the kids were jumping all over the place, I went around from parent to parent, chatting and making sure everyone was having a good time, while watching Zoey and tending to Zed every so often. I was wreaked with guilt the whole time because I didn't feel that I spent enough time with the parents of the guests or with my own daughter. Yes, I realize there's something wrong with me if I'm overcome with guilt at my daughter's birthday party.
After ninety minutes, the party was moved into the "cake and presents" area. Ella and I didn't have this nice of a cake at our wedding. It was a three-tier cake made to look like a castle with Dora and Boots figurines sitting on top. It was amazing. A lot of the parents came up to me wanting to know where we got it. Remember, lady, next year's cake is free.
We lit the candles and turned out the lights. Zoey blew out the candles, the lights went up, and everyone started singing Happy Birthday. Zed immediately began screaming. I don't know what it is about that song that sets off something in my children. But he was upset for the rest of the party.
We gave all the kids cake and Zoey began opening her presents. The whole time I'm staring at the clock because for every ten minutes you go over your allotted time (you're allowed thirty minutes in this room), you're charged an additional fifty bucks. Fifteen minutes ago, I was feeling guilty for not talking to these people more. Now, I'm trying to push them out the door.
All in all, it was a great party (despite my neuroses). Kids and parents alike had a great time. In fact, one of my friends came up to me at the end and said, "Thanks for ruining birthday parties for the rest of us."
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day Two
For day two of Zoeypalooza 2005, we took the kids to the zoo, one of Zoey's favorite places. We started out with the kangaroos. I don't believe these were real kangaroos. Every kangaroo I've ever seen on television is constantly hopping around and always has a baby 'roo popping out of its pouch. Every time we see them at the zoo they're just lying on their sides. If you stare long enough, one might scratch its stomach, but that's as much action as you're going to get from them.
We then went and checked out the polar bears. Actually, the polar bear. It was too hot today for two of the polar bears, so I'm assuming they were behind the rocks in their air-conditioned igloo. The lone polar bear brave enough to bear the heat (I know, bad pun) was lying motionless on the rock.
No one told us it was Sedate The Animals Day at the zoo.
We then went to the underwater observation area and then the fun began. The polar bear climbed off the rock and came to the edge of the water. The crowd in the underwater observation area went crazy, as if they were cheering for a guy on a skyscraper ledge to jump. Finally, after teasing us for about ninety seconds, he dove into the water, delighting the crowd (and most importantly, Zoey).
We then walked down to the seal and sea lion underwater observation area. There were three sea lions and one spotted seal racing by the window, as if they were performing for the crowd. About forty-five seconds later, all four would come racing by the window again. On their third time through, the seal pooped as it went by.
Zoey exclaimed, "Look! He lost one of his spots!"
Should I let it go? But she didn't give me a chance. "Why did his spot fall off, Daddy?"
I thought for a moment. Do I tell her the truth? Ignore her? Make up a lie and save myself the headache of explaining the whole digestive system of a spotted seal? I opted for the truth.
"That wasn't a spot, honey. He pooped in the water."
She scrunched up her nose. "He poops in the water?"
"Yes, honey. You poop in water, too." That comparison either satisfied her or confused her, but nonetheless I didn't receive another question about the seal's lost spot.
I then spent the rest of the day praying we wouldn't happen upon two monkeys having sex. I am so not ready for that conversation.
Zoeypalooza 2005 -- Day One
Today was Zoey's third birthday. Ella, Zed, and I started the day by going to her bedroom and singing Happy Birthday as she woke up (well, Ella and I sang; Zed only smiled and grunted every so often). Unfortunately, this didn't go quite as planned. Zoey looked at us as if it to say, "People, let me have my coffee and read the paper before you spring this crap on me." She then puffed out her bottom lip. Ella picked her up before the crying began.
Nothing like tears to start your birthday!
We took her downstairs and gave Zoey her gifts. We got her a chalkboard (it's an easel-shaped contraption; on one side you use chalk and the other side you use dry-erase pens) and one of these Dora thingies (even though she rarely watches Dora The Explorer anymore, she still loves All Things Dora). That evening we took her to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese's.
We interrupt this entry to bring you the following trivia question:
Which is more expensive?If you answered c, congratulations! Not only are you correct, but you're also a parent!
- fifty pounds of filet mignon
- ten pounds of caviar
- dinner for four and a half at Chuck E. Cheese's
Here's what we got:
- a large pepperoni pizza
- four salads
- four drinks
- one kid's drink
I believe Chuck E. Cheese's could possibly be one of the circles of Hell. If you go there on a Friday night, the place is wall-to-wall kids. Add to that the cheesy animatronics animals, the cheesy videos, the racket coming from the skee-ball and whack-a-mole games, and you've got the recipe for a migraine.
I will give Chuck E. Cheese credit for one thing, though. When you enter the premises, they stamp you and your child with the same number that can only be seen under a black light. They might take all your money while you're there, but at least they make sure you'll leave with your child.
Don't Tell Me How To Raise My Kids And I Won't Tell You Your Eyebrows Make You Look Like A Clown
Today, Zoey attended her friend Helen's gymnastics class. It was "Bring A Friend To Class Day," but a more appropriate title would've been "Bring A Friend To Class And Giver Him/Her A Taste Of Our Crack Class And Hopefully He/She Will Fall In Love With It And Pester His/Her Parents Until They Finally Relent And Enroll Him/Her Day."
As I stated in an earlier post, Zoey already attends a gymnastics class, which is much more kid friendly than the one she attended today. Helen's class was in an Olympics training facility. Well, not really, but there were all these eight- to ten-year-olds doing flips on parallel bars and balance beams. It was pretty impressive. And over in one small corner was the "kid area," which consisted of a few mats, a balance beam, some obstacles, and a rope ladder.
Unlike Zoey's class, the parents aren't allowed in the gym with the children; instead, the parents stay in another room and watch the kids perform through windows, giving the place a zoolike feel (which, if the other kids are anything like Zoey, is a fairly reasonable comparison).
There were a bunch of Soccer Moms talking about Soccer Mom Things in the viewing area; as usual, Zed and I were the only representatives of our gender present. Through my travels with my children, I have deduced that there are two types of Soccer Moms:
- Type I: those who view me as a hero for what I do (which I am not) and instantly include me in on their conversation.
- Type II: those who view me as a pariah, almost like a sexual predator (which I am also not), and instantly shun me and keep a watchful eye on me lest I get too close to their children.
Anyway, I was walking Zed around the room, trying to keep him occupied while feigning interest in the conversations around me. One woman (hereafter referred to as Ms. Bea Yotch (I'm assuming that's not her real name)) whom I did not know and had not spoken to said, "If he gets too heavy, I'll hold him for you."
You don't think I'm capable, do you, woman? I do this all day long, sometimes with Zoey in the other arm. Besides, I still get a little nervous when other members of our family hold him. Like I'd really trust a complete stranger.
"I'm fine," I replied. "I'm used to carrying this big fellow around." I then went into my spiel about how big he has been at various stages in his life (it's a wonder I don't carry his developmental chart around with me) just to make friendly conversation.
Zed began to get cranky so I gave him a bottle. Ms. Yotch was staring at us the whole time. Finally she said, "Most husbands wouldn't do what you do." I always pity the women who say things like that to me (I hear it a lot) because I know what they really want to say is "My husband would never do what you do."
So I gave her my stock reply, "I wouldn't trade it for the world," because:
- It's the truth.
- It's no big deal and don't know why others make such a big deal out of it. They wouldn't say the same thing to a woman.
- I have trouble dealing with compliments, especially from complete strangers.
"No," I replied, "he'd end up in a large pool of sweat." She was quiet for a few seconds before adding, "Their body temperature drops when they're sleeping."
Evil Chag was ready to curse this woman out. He began wrestling control of my mouth from Good Chag. But then the kids entered the room, so he slinked back to the dark recesses of my mind to think his evil thoughts.
One of the little girls in Helen's class took one look at Ms. Yotch and said, "Mommy, where are her real eyebrows? Why did she draw some eyebrows on her head?"
Evil Chag laughed. I promptly invited the little girl over to my house for milk and cookies. Her mom just looked at me funny and rushed out of the room. Guess she was a Type II.
Zoey's New Hairdon't
At 5:00 PM today, Zoey returned home from a long weekend at Granny's house. Ella wasn't home from work yet, so I got all the kisses and hugs and I missed yous all to myself for a change. It was nice.
Ella came home around 7:00 PM and I went to pick us up some subs at a nearby deli. On my way there, my cellular phone rang.
Me: Hello?
Ella: What happened to Zoey's hair?!
Me: What are you talking about?
Ella: She has a huge chunk of hair missing! Your Mom didn't tell you?
Me: No.
Ella: I can't believe you didn't notice it. If I get half a centimeter of my hair cut off you can spot it a mile away.
Me: Let me call my Mom.
So I called my Mom.
Granny: Hello?
Me: Were you hoping we wouldn't notice Zoey's hair?
Granny: Oh yeah. I meant to tell you about that.
Me: Yeah, I bet.
Granny: Really, I forgot to tell you. I meant to...
Me: You told me every little detail about this weekend and you accidentally omit the part where she cut her hair off? What happened?
Granny: I just left her alone for a minute while I used the bathroom. She had been cutting paper with her scissors when I left.
So she left Zoey alone with a pair of scissors to amuse herself with. What? There wasn't a gun or a chainsaw available?
Granny: And when I came back out she said, "Granny, I snipped my hair."
Me: You know you can't leave her alone for a second.
Granny: I know that now. But they had rounded edges.
Now I know there comes a time in every child's life when the child does something to his/her hair (put gum in it, stick a lollipop on it, cut it when Granny leaves the room, etc.) that forces parents to rectify the situation and try to salvage the remains into a semi-fashionable 'do. I just wasn't expecting this moment at such an early age.
In the interest of full disclosure, Zoey gets to play with scissors at our house as well. And our scissors have rounded edges just like her Granny's scissors. But our scissors are plastic, so the only thing she can really cut with her plastic scissors is Play-Doh (which she does day after day after day. Thank God for hardwoods!). But she's never unsupervised when she's playing with her plastic scissors. I also make her wear a welder's mask and gardening gloves when she's using her plastic scissors, but that's a different story altogether.
Anyway, I returned home from the deli and surveyed the damage. Sure enough, there was about a 1/2" x 1 1/2" strip of hair missing.
The bad part? She had cut her bangs. So we're really only left with three options:
- Buy a wig (Maybe if it was winter, but it's still too hot for that).
- Cut the rest of her hair the same length as the offending hairs (But this would leave her sporting a Boys Don't Cry-era Hilary Swank 'do. Um, no thank you.).
- Let it be (Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner!).
And this is why.
Next Time, Just Shoot Me An Email (Or Just Shoot Me)
Despite this being an age of cellular phones, text messaging, email, instant messaging, and (gasp!) video conferencing, some of my clients still prefer updates via the old face-to-face lunch. Which is fine with me (I'll never pass up a free lunch) as long as the restaurant is kid-friendly (noisy).
After pawning Zoey off on her Granny, Zed and I met a client (mine, not Zed's) for lunch on Friday. I arrived at the diner a few minutes early so I could feed Zed and hopefully get him to fall asleep before my client came.
Didn't work.
My client, John, showed up and we were able to talk shop for about five minutes before all hell broke loose. Zed was in his carrier (Yes, he's too big for it. No, I don't use it in the car. Yes, I have a regular car seat for him. Look, he's too big for the carrier and not old enough to sit in a high chair. What am I supposed to do? Any more questions? Good.) when he started screaming. I got him out, bounced him on my knee, stuck his pacifier in his mouth, and tried to talk to John.
Didn't work.
I felt his diaper. Of course, he was wet. So I excused myself and took him to the restroom.
Before I continue, I must inform you of another one of my many neuroses: I have a hang-up with public restrooms. And, unfortunately, I project that hang-up onto Zed, as I hate changing his diaper in public. I don't know what my problem is. I don't know if somewhere inside I think I'm secretly being filmed for an upcoming episode of America's Funniest Diaper Changes (don't laugh, they're really running low on ideas for new reality shows) or if there's a secret panel of judges watching me behind a two-way mirror, but for some unknown reason I freak the hell out. I need medication.
So I went into the bathroom and thankfully there was one of those baby-changing stations in the handicapped stall. I pulled the station down and realized that I didn't have his mat to lay him on. So I went to get paper towels and, of course, the restaurant only had those automatic hand dryers, so I had to resort to toilet paper. After throwing the first few sheets in the toilet (because God only knows who had touched them), I carefully began constructing rows of my toilet paper defense system on the changing station. Then, just to be on the safe side, I put another level of rows on top of the ones I had already placed on the changing station. Then I put him on the toilet paper defense system, undressed him, and opened his diaper.
And wouldn't you know the little bugger had a bigger surprise waiting for me? Since Zed has only recently started eating peas, carrots, green beans, and the like, I had forgotten baby poop's chameleon-like ways. Opening a diaper is like opening a bag of Skittles. Only not as tasty.
So I put the wipe container on the station with him and began cleaning up his mess. Of course, he kicked the container onto the floor. I picked the container up, wiped it off with another wipe, put it back on the changing station, and proceeded with cleaning up Zed's mess when he kicked the wipe container onto the floor again. This time, after wiping it clean with yet another wipe, I held it in my hand.
So there I was: the diaper bag was draped over my shoulder because it couldn't touch the restroom floor, the wipe container was in the same hand I was holding his legs up with, and I'm wiping him with my other hand while trying to ignore the manic thoughts of "Christ, I hope no one's been watching me." and "I've been in here forever. John will be in here any minute wondering if everything's ok." racing through my head.
Finally, I finished cleaning him up. I put on his new diaper, dressed him, threw the toilet paper defense system in the toilet, and went back out to the diner to continue my lunch/meeting.
Of course, he cried for the entire meal, so I had to scarf down my sandwich as quickly as possible, take notes, and try to pacify him at the same time. Not much was accomplished.
So, if for some reason you would like to use my services one day (which is highly doubtful after reading this and some of my other posts; you'd probably be too afraid I'd flake out on you before the project was done), make sure I leave the kids at home.
Is This Extreme Enough For You?
Today, Zoey and her friend Elmo decided to invent their own game. Although they never mentioned what it was called, I refer to it as Extreme Wiffle Ball. If you would like to start your own game, here are the basic rules and guidelines:
OVERVIEW
Extreme Wiffle Ball is like regular Wiffle Ball with a few variations. In Extreme Wiffle Ball, there is only one player per team. One person is the pitcher and the other is the batter.
EQUIPMENT NEEDED
No uniforms or protective equipment are needed for Extreme Wiffle Ball (it's pretty much a come as you are affair). In fact, the only items needed are a large plastic bat and a small hard plastic ball, roughly the size of a ping-pong ball.
HOW TO PLAY
The pitcher and batter face each other, roughly eighteen inches apart. The pitcher puts the ball in his/her mouth and spits it out with as much force as he/she can muster, causing it to ricochet off the batter's forehead. The batter then hits the pitcher in the side of the head with the bat. Both pitcher and batter laugh. Repeat.
OBJECTIVE
The object of Extreme Wiffle Ball is to repeat the above actions as many times before panicked parents come rushing over, take away your bat and ball, and send you to timeout.
You Know, McDonald's Is A Lot Cheaper And It's Not Like She's Going To Remember This Five Years From Now
Today was the birthday party for one of Zoey's friends. Well, she isn't actually Zoey's friend; she is the daughter of one of Ella's lifelong friends. So, Zoey and she are merely friends of convenience.
We didn't go. Why?
- It was on a Monday afternoon. Who the hell has birthday parties on Monday afternoons? Since Ella was working, I would've had to take both kids by myself.
- It was about one hundred miles away.
- I would've had to take both kids by myself.
- It was a pool party. Zoey is deathly afraid of swimming pools so needless to say, I would've spent my time trying to coax her into the water and dealing with her screaming while still trying to keep Zed fed and dry.
- I would've had to take both kids by myself.
I had always assumed there were only two very important birthdays in a young woman's life: sixteen and twenty-one (and possibly eighteen if she's ultra eager to vote (doubtful)). But apparently, the three-year birthday is very close to the top of the list.
At first, we were planning to have her party at the place where she takes her gymnastics classes. And then one of Zoey's little friends had to ruin that idea by having her party at a place called Pump It Up. So Zoey wants to have her party at Pump It Up as well. It's amazing how peer pressure rears its ugly head at such an early age.
All Zoey has been talking about since late May is her birthday party. It's like dealing with a personal shopper; everywhere we go, when she sees something she likes, she makes a mental note of the item and says, "Maybe we should have that at my party." And maybe you should get a job to help pay for this shindig, young lady.
Here are some of her must-have items:
- a merry-go-round
- soccer players (the hell?)
- clowns
- elephants
- tigers
- face painters
- a few of those people who make weird shapes and hats out of balloons
And if you think that list above is bad, you should see what she wants us to buy her for her birthday.
Because Nothing Says Safety Like A Free Hot Dog
Tonight was National Night Out at our subdivision. We observed (celebrated? commemorated? attended because we had nothing better to do and just wanted to get the kids out of the house for awhile?) this occurrence at our subdivision's playground.
The whole affair was fairly docile. There were free hot dogs, hamburgers, soft drinks, cotton candy, and ice cream (which was brought to you by the fine folks at Big Expensive Grocery Store Chain Near You, who implores you to shop with us instead of driving an extra mile to Wal-Mart where you can get the same stuff for half the price. Now if only there was a way to do your grocery shopping at Wal-Mart without actually having to step foot into a Wal-Mart.).
There was also a disc jockey spinning the right mixture of classic dance tunes (Macarena, Whoomp! There It Is, Electric Slide, etc.) with some of today's edgier fare (Gwen Stefani's Hollaback Girl, Will Smith's Switch, etc.).
Oops. Sorry. Please, take this towel. I seem to have dripped sarcasm all over your nice shirt. Won't happen again.
Basically, there are two types of people in this world: those who become giddy and dash to the dance floor when they hear the first few notes of Electric Slide and those who recoil in horror, frantically searching for the nearest exit while trying to resist the urge to plunge pencils deep into their ear canals. Still, there is a morbid fascination in seeing these soccer moms, who were so prim and proper just seconds before, lose their shit and start flailing their arms about as if they were possessed by some demon seed. You can almost smell the embarrassment when the music ends.
And yeah, Zoey got out there and tried to join them. But at least she looked cute doing it. Plus she was too young to know any better.
There were also fire trucks and police cars at the affair, which the under-five set were treating as their own personal playground. The actual playground equipment had been overtaken by a group of early-to-mid teenagers who were just kind of hanging out on it. Dude. You're fifteen. You have no business hanging out on top of the slide (unless it's after midnight, in which case you're free to smoke pot there or deface it with graffiti).
And the purpose of this whole festival of fun (sorry, here's that towel again) was to "heighten crime and drug prevention awareness." The hell? How does passing out free hot dogs prevent drug use or crime? I know that scoop of chocolate ice cream made me feel safer when I tucked my kids into bed.
<WARNING>SEVERE PARANOIA AHEAD</WARNING>
If anything, wouldn't National Night Out increase crime? Think about it. Everyone's out of their homes, several cops and firemen are tied up babysitting children—it's an arsonist or a thief's wet dream!
