It happened. I knew that it was just a matter of time. After all, I occasionally like to pepper my speech with less-than-ladylike utterances. Oh, who are we kidding. I cuss like a sailor on leave. (In my defense, I also work in a restaurant. I can cuss in at least three languages.) So its little wonder that my kid dropped the F-Bomb.
According to my mother my favorite naughty word when I was little was the S-word. Ironically (insert sarcasm) it was the word I heard her utter most often. To be fair, she graduated to such adorable phrases as Son-of-a-Biscuit-Eater, and Firetruck later in life. But, early on, it was always the S-word. She says the first time I uttered it I flung a bowl of vegetable beef soup off my high chair and informed her that I wasn't eating that S-word. I find this hard to believe, as I love vegetable beef soup. I myself recall attempting to carry all of my barbies downstairs at once, dropping them, and not just yelling the S-word, but also attempting to blame our Cocker Spaniel Ike. So apparently I was a liar as well as a potty mouth. My point, however, is that there is a good chance that I am to blame for my daughter's language skills. This is not our first go-round with the naughty language . When she was a toddler she picked up the GD word. I'm sorry, but do you know how hard it is not to laugh when you hear your three year old scream at the cat, "GD-it, Mino, I just cleaned this room!" Our next go-round came in the second grade when I overheard her tell a boy who was bothering her that she was going to kick his a$$hole. I had no choice but to inform her that if she was going to use inappropriate language she could at least use it correctly. Had she learned nothing from all her years of witnessing my road rage firsthand? "No, honey. We kick people's a$$es. The people themselves are a$$holes. Do you see the difference?' I walked her through the basic swear words and how they were used. I made her repeat each one back to me, in the hopes that they would lose some of their power. After all, they are just words. It seemed to work for a while. The kid doesn't even say Dummy or Stupid. And then it happened. I was picking her up from a sleepover this weekend; one where there was no sleep. She was tired and cranky. They were eating s'mores for breakfast and swimming when I arrived to get her. She was wet and covered in chocolate, tired and cranky. I must have asked her a million times to change clothes, wipe her face, and make sure she had all of her things before we left. Driving down the road, I happened to glance at her in the rear-view mirror and noticed that she still had chocolate smeared all over her faced. "I told you to wash your face before you got in my car," I admonished her. "I though I F-ing did!" It was about half a beat before either of us could process what she had just said. Fast forward past ten minutes of me trying to stifle my laughter, and ten minutes of her begging me profusely not to tell Daddy. We had the talk again. Not ladylike, blah, blah, blah, more intelligent ways of communicating, blah, blah, blah, when you're an adult, etc, etc. So- final point. Am I a bad parent for being glad that she at least used it correctly this time? What was your reaction the first time you had a "Where did you hear that word?!' moment?
0 Comments
I've made no secret that our family has been going through a stressful time lately. And, when stressed, I usually deal in one of three ways: cook, clean, or write. Today I did all three, if that tells you anything.
Just another day in my life where I found myself begging, cajoling, bribing, and yes, even threatening, my daughter in an effort to get her to school. She met each of my tactics with faking sick, crying, trying to make herself vomit, and passive resisistance. We did finally get her off to school, only to have the teachers call us later to come pick her up before the day was over because she couldn't fully calm down and was (big surprise) refusing to participate in anything. Anyhow, tomorrow is another day, and this post has a different point. While taking a Mommy Timeout in my room, I stumbled across an old blog I had written about my Irie Girl during the GODFORSAKEN toddler years. It was a great reminder for me that even at the lowest point, that point when you're sure you can't carry on, or that moment when you wonder if its too late to leave your child on the steps of the local fire station (just kidding, I'd never do that. We've had so many field trips to the Wailea Fire Station I'm pretty sure they'd recognize her and make me come back for her), all is not lost. It will get better, and you might even find some humor in it all some day. So, here's a brief look into a day in our life as Mommy and Toddler Irie Girl, circa 2009: I was always an anxious child. A perfectionist bordering on obsessive, rigid and unyielding. The clothing in my closet was, and still is, organized by style (i.e. dresses, skirts, pants), further subcategorized by sleeve length, and finally broken down by color. My idea of playing with Barbie was to set them up in elaborate scenes for display. A fun day for me often included rearranging my bedroom furniture and refolding the clothing in the dresser drawers. No need for spankings or groundings as a punishment for any rare misbehavior. Simply tell me you're disappointed and send me to my room to mentally berate myself for a few hours, and relive every mistake I've ever made. (I'm still upset with myself for the time I pulled a chair out from under Carrie Strehlau in the fifth grade, causing her to fall on the floor. Sorry, Carrie.)
TL;DR: I'm a typical Virgo. In the days of my childhood, however, anxiety, depression, and suicide weren't openly discussed. They were words whispered behind closed doors; family secrets hidden away. This compulsive need I have to organize, clean, and arrive at least 15 minutes early everywhere in life were just some of the ways I learned to deal with and cover for my anxiety and depression. Both anxiety and depression run amok in my family. So it really shouldn't have come as a surprise when my daughter began displaying symptoms as well. I just never expected it to show up so severely at such an early age. Well, I did it. I finally broke down and chose this past month as the moment to initiate my nine-year-old daughter into the world of slumber parties.
I feel like most kids get introduced to the concept of sleepovers by spending the night with Grandma and Grandpa, or maybe with cousins. But our family is on the other side of the country, so this wasn't an option for us. Coupled with my borderline helicopter parenting and memories of a certain sibling who was notorious for calling our Mom for middle-of-the-night rescue missions, I elected to delay the inevitable as long as possible. We started small last year by choosing one friend to sleep over at our house first. I pulled out all the stops, going overboard as I am prone to do. Tent in the backyard, pizza, cookies, smores. Nothing but the best for my Princess and her BFF. Strike one- BFF informed me that she does not like Pepperoni Pizza. Oops. I shook it off and went into recovery mode. Bedtime was fast approaching. I know at sleepovers that it is customary for little munchkins to stay up as late as possible, but my munchkin goes to bed at 7:30 most nights, maybe 8:30 if she's really feeling wild. Strike two- BFF is apparently a night owl. So I tossed and turned all night, attempting to fall asleep, listening to BFF talk to my sleeping daughter while watching the tablet and shining her flashlight in our bedroom window every few minutes. I was determined to stay awake as long as she was. I still don't know who fell asleep first, but it was around 2 a.m. the last time I peeked at the clock. (I should note here that I am exceedingly cranky when I don't get enough sleep. Therefore I took a perverse amount of pleasure in waking both girls at 3:30 a.m. so that we could drive up the mountain to behold the beauty that is sunrise on Haleakala. BFF actually laid down on some rocks and fell asleep while we were up there. She was a trooper.) For those of you who don't know, I live on a smallish island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I am not telling you this to brag (although it is mostly amazing), but so that you understand where I'm coming from.
You see, one of the issues with this island is that I love food and I love to shop. Okay, those are probably more of a character flaw than an issue with the beautiful island of Maui. We have beautiful beaches, waterfalls, friendly people, and warm weather year round. We do not have Olive Garden, Chic-Fil-A, or decent Chinese food. But, and I have yet to decide if this is a good thing or a bad thing, we do have a Target. I don't consider myself to be a "Basic Bitch." I've never owned Uggs or a velour jumpsuit with the word Juicy across my nonexistent ass. I just tried a Starbucks Pumpkin Spice Latte for the first time last week, and I hated it! (Is it supposed to taste so chemically artificial?) I was never part of a sorority in college. I don't post gym selfies (because I rarely go to the gym.) But, I do have an incredible Resting Bitch Face, and I love Target. Target is my downfall. As soon as I walk through the doors its as if I go into some sort of trance. Seriously, even if I think I'm only going in for Toilet Paper and Cat Litter, I still grab the big shopping cart and roll up and down almost every aisle in the store. Except the baby aisle. Let's face it, I don't need that kind of karma in my life. So, here's my last shopping trip as an example. Every Target shopping Spree starts with the Bulleseye Dollar Bins. I know I'm on a budget, but it's a dollar (or three, or five.) You never know what goodies you'll find, assuming you can squeeze past the hoarders emptying bins into their own carts. Lately I've been really into BuJo's, and I have found some really great stickers and notepads in this section. Bullet Journaling is amazing, but that's a conversation for another time. So then I decide to head to the craft section for some new pens and washi tape. Conveniently enough, I am also grabbing a birthday present for one of Irie's friends from this aisle. Must get back on track before I get distracted by all the pretty journals and notebooks. So I swing through the clothing section, and nothing goes into the cart. Yay, me! I'm saving up for my next Stitch Fix shipment. Browse the toys on the lookout for any good sales, because it's never too early to shop for Christmas. I prefer the adrenaline rush of last minute Christmas shopping so I keep on cruising. Ooh, Halloween clearance. Candy, candy, candy! Pumpkin spice Oreos (gross.) Nestle pumpkin spice morsels, pretty sure I can work with those. Caramels (for candy apples). An idea is starting to form. What did I come in here for anyways? Where's my grocery list? Shoots, left it at home. Time to browse home goods. Eh, I have like 10 pillows on my bed already. Seriously. New candles?...no. Stay strong. Ooh, cute mason jars. And they're on sale. Into the basket. Towels? No, Hubby always brings some home from work. Groceries. Wish I had my list. Let's see. Chips. Pasta. Pasta sauce. Bread. Beer. Candy. Wait, already got candy. More candy. Granola bars. Coffee pods for the Keurig. Lunch meat. Yogurt. Cheese. Ground beef. Chicken. Bacon. Apples, grapes, berries. Better throw in some veggies, too. Milk. Okay, stick to the budget. Check Cartwheel for deals. Hmm, toothpaste. I can always use new mascara. Almost out of conditioner. Plenty of shampoo. Why do we always run out of conditioner first? Okay, losing focus. Gotta get out of here. Check out. Shoots. Forgot to bring my bags in. Yes, I'll buy five more reusable bags. Yes, I'm using my Target card. Throw in some gum and a soda. Make it out in one piece. Load everything into Annie's trunk (what, your car doesn't have a name?!) Return cart. Get in car and maneuver out of parking lot. Fog is beginning to lift. Crap!! I forgot the toilet paper and cat litter. Shrug it off. I'll can always come back tomorrow. Its no secret that Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. I like dressing up, and I love candy. So the opportunity to combine these two once a year really makes me happy.
I have fond childhood memories of dressing up in the crinkly plastic costumes of yesterday and wandering the neighborhood begging for candy like some sort of street urchin. My brother and I could barely wait for it to get dark before we set off on round one, often having to swing back by our own house to dump some of our stash before heading back out for another circuit or two. Most years, once we were finished lapping our own neighborhood, we would pile in the car and Mom would drive us to our grandparent's neighborhood for more goodies. (A few of their neighbors even gave out the Holy Grail of Trick-or-Treating: the full-sized candy bar!) I can't tell you how many years my brother and I stood anxiously on the front porch our Grandparents' house while Mom hid in the car down the street. "Trick-or-Treat," we would exclaim when Grandmother opened the front door (this being one of the few times that anyone used the front door.) "Grandmother, guess who's under these masks!" Yeah, I was probably eight or nine before I finally figured out that we gave away the secret every year. But, bless her, she always acted surprised when we tore off our mask to reveal ourselves to her. Then off we would go, round the neighborhood, to collect enough candy to last us until Easter. When the excitement wore off Mom would bundle us back into the car and we would wave to Grandmother, who was shutting off the lights in the hopes of discouraging the late night rush, and to Granddaddy, who was on the lookout for the kids who toilet papered his yard every year. At home we were usually met at the door by a gleeful Dad, who couldn't wait to examine our candy under the guise of safety. In reality, I'm fairly certain he was making sure he got first pick of his favorites. I noticed his Snickers and Three Musketeers were never as squished as our candy that had to be checked for razor blades. The sugar high led to the inevitable sugar crash, and I'm sure we often fell asleep dreaming of a magical Willy Wonka World of candy and chocolate. Does anyone else remember the Friends episode "The One with Phoebe's Cookies?" Let me break it down for you. Short version- Monica tries to replicate Phoebe's grandmother's cookie recipe, and hilarious hijinks ensue. The particulars of the episode aren't that important. The important part is why Monica spent days slaving away in the kitchen in an effort to duplicate the Madame Neslee Toulouse recipe- she wanted to be the mom who baked the best chocolate chip cookies. I can relate. When my daughter was born I had elaborate fantasies of meeting her at the door after school in a freshly pressed apron, perfectly coiffed hair, and a tray of ice cold milk and delicious fresh baked cookies. I also had elaborate fantasies of murdering the rooster next door in Wile E. Coyote fashion every time he woke me up from the 20 minutes of sleep I was getting a night, but that is a story for another time. Although a southern girl by birth, I did not grow up in a house dedicated to food as many southerners do. My mom, although a fine cook, had neither the patience nor the creativity to be a baker. She does, however, make an awesome pot roast (love you, Mom. Don't be mad.) There were plenty of sweet teeth and sugar addicts in our family, but our satisfaction had to be got via Oreo, Hostess, and Chips Ahoy. On a special occasion we even made some cookies from the famous Pillsbury cookie tube. Although, usually the tube was consumed raw way before it ever had a chance of making it into the oven. So, needless to say, there was no multi-generational cookie recipe to be handed down to me like some priceless family heirloom. So I set out on my quest to find the Ultimate-Oh-My-God-My-Mom-Makes-the-Best-Chocolate-Chip-Cookies-In-the-World recipe. At this point in my life I considered myself to be an adequate/moderately decent cook. I had mastered the art of following a recipe for the slightly more complicated meal du jour. I still struggled, and still do, with the more simple items like scrambled eggs (dry and tasteless), grilled cheese (burned and stuck to the pan), rice (dry and crunchy), and pancakes (doughy and stuck to the pan). But somehow I could almost effortlessly pull off an amazing veggie lasagna, chicken cacciatore, Filet Paulette, and even Beef Wellington. So I figured as long as I had a recipe to follow, what could go wrong? Well, there was the time I set a small oven fire. (To this day there are still remnants of flour residue on the bottom of my oven that my husband threw on top of the fire to smother it.) Many times I forgot to add an important ingredient. (Eggs and baking soda are surprisingly important to cookies, as it turns out.) On more than one occasion I have dropped an entire pan of cookies because I burned myself pulling them out of the oven (5 second rule, they still tasted pretty good once you knocked the cat hair off of them.) I have forgotten to set the timer and burned many a batch. And once, just once, I completely forgot to turn the oven on ( I blame that one on sleep deprivation and that damn rooster!) And all those recipes, all those disasters, all those calories, have helped me reach a few important conclusions: 1. The first ingredient whenever you're baking (or cooking) should always be LOVE. Seriously, I put my heart and soul into every batch of cookies I have ever made. I love giving the gift of home-made sweets to someone, especially if they've been feeling down or stressed, or just to let them know Ive been thinking of them. 2. Necessity is truly the mother of invention. I have learned that fat is fat in any recipe, be it butter, oil, crisco, or margarine. Try applesauce if you're out of eggs. Make your own buttermilk with lemon juice and milk. If you've run out of some important ingredient, don't panic. Odds are there's a way to work around it. 3. Plan ahead. This keeps you from running into the above issues and makes the whole experience less stressful. 4. Don't worry about fancy equipment. Cookies that I've mixed by hand with a wooden spoon taste just as delicious as the ones that I made with my kitchenmaid. (And I should know- I've licked that wooden spoon hundreds of times.) 5. ALWAYS make more than you think you need. You will lose lots of cookies to taste tests. You'll want to give some away, and you will definitely want to keep some for yourself. 6. Experiment. Be creative. Taste Test. 7. Take advantage of the options that are out there. Sign up for an on-line baking class. Check out Pinterest. Browse some cookbooks. If you have a friend that is an amazing cook/ baker, ask for his/her favorite recipes. Watch some Food Network. 8. Never get discouraged. Keep trying. If something turns out wrong, throw it away and start over. Take it as a learning experience. I am not, nor will I ever be the best baker in the world. I will never have my own cooking show or cookbook, but that was never my goal. My goal was to make amazing food for my family that they love. |
Archives
February 2018
|