I am SO not the “no more than 1/2 hour of TV a month for little Timmy,” kind of parent. We are a TV loving family, and Jr is no exception.
When he was teeny tiny and sitting in his little buzzing seat on the table, he LOVED the theme songs for “King of the Hill” and “The Big Bang Theory,” (even when he got older – one of his first words was BANG! which he would yell at the end of the latter, before giggling his baby head off.)
On Sundays I would park his Rock and Play next to me in the main room of the Tree House and make an ass of myself interact as we watched Play With Me Sesame, and Elmo was his first baby love.
Now that he is older and more interactive (he will be two next week. TWO! Sob, stop time, stop – TOO FAST!) he sings and giggles and dances and repeats and generally woops it up in front of some Sprout/Disney Jr/Nick Jr programing.
I can’t say I will be losing any sleep over that, so whatever.
HOWEVER – pre-kiddo, I will say that I thought Barney would NEVER show his puffy purple kissser in my casa, no way, no how.
Um yeah.
Barney is awesome. Barney could roll up in his Barney bus, unpack his Barney bags, and take up residence here and I would be totally down, (might need to tail-proof some things, but I will make it happen if needed.)
Who is NOT awesome?
Dora. Dora is a Shouty McShouterson. Dora (and her cousin or brother or WHATEVER, Diego too,) needs to take it down about a bajillion notches. Instead of that, however, Dora is constantly telling MY KID to say things louder.
“We need to call ice cream trucky RIGHT NOW – will you help me?”
:::pause for kid to respond:::::
“LOUDER”
Hell no, not “louder” Dora – mommy no likey the screechy. Cierra la boca, por favor! (See, I did learn something other than how to ask for the bathroom pass in Spanish class – suck on that “Senora Tried-to-fail-me.”)
Who else is NOT awesome?
Cailou. Did I spell that wrong? I don’t care. Because I agree with his internet nickname “Cryou.”
What the hell did we do to you Canada, that you have sent us this whiner to infiltrate our TV time? I am uber-ok with expressing our emotions, with showing images of boys who aren’t ashamed to cry, etc, but that Charlie Brown looking pre-schooler WHINES everything.
Growing up is not so tough, except when he’s had enough (always,) and then he whines like the whineiest whiner EVAH.
Stop. No really. I don’t actually want my kid to think that whining is an acceptable form of communication.
Zip It, baldy. And your little cat, too.
Every time I hear him screeching, I hear the chorus of this gem from the South Park Movie
Here is the thing – Barney is nice. Barney has a good message. Barney makes my kid want to come give me “a great big hug and a kiss from me to you.” Barney is anything but annoying.
Give me some Barney and plenty of Sesame Street (I mean really – Sesame Street, fun for kids, fun for adults, and the things my kid knows that have come from Sesame Street AMAZE me,) and we will be singing and dancing and giggling with glee – no shouting or whining allowed.
Sunny dayyyyy, sweepin’ the clouds awayyyyyy……
Filed under musing
The neighbors.
The neighbors are all nice enough people, for sure. We wave and say hello and there are the occassional BBQs or football game viewing incidents and everyone is friendly enough, you betcha.
But there seem to be two distinct groups that get a lot of social action in the subdivisions, and anything in between gets – well – not-so-much.
Group 1 is the stay-at-home moms. These women stay safely tucked away inside their little homes in the mornings, attending to morning rituals for their families behind closed blinds and plantation shutters, prepping for activities later in the day. The only interaction you may have with one of them alone and before 2:30 pm is a quick wave if you happen to be passing by as they back the mini-van out of the garage and speed away to swimming lessons or music class.
It is in the afternoon and evening that they emerge, in pairings or threes, to stand on lawns sipping Starbucks (I feel like someone must have one built into her basement around here – they always have S-bux, but no actual S-bux run seems to have been made,) and laughing as they supervise their combined broods at play on various bikes, trikes, scooters, etc…
In the suburbs you can spot them by looking for one of these:
Image from Amazon – click if you need to identify your own group of S-bux sipping mommies in the yard.
Now I am all for safety. Oh, and kiddos. I love me some kiddos – I believe that children are our future, teach them well and let them lead the way. Fo’ Sho’.
However, with the amount of play equipment strewn all over in between the houses where these various mommies live, there is little doubt, even without the glowing plastic child waving a flag and staring at me from under his ball cap, that there are wee ones at work in the area. I digress.
So there are the Moms and the Starbucks cups and their neon plastic watchman all hanging out in front of where a group of variously aged offspring are cavorting – this SEEMS like a great time to grab Jr and go make nice.
Except as you rattle your little red wagon full of kid and ball and bubbles and other fun-time peace offerings toward the group the laughter stops. The moms stop chatting. The kids stop playing. Birds stop flapping their wings and fall smack out of the clear blue sky, (ok, that isn’t true, but still,) the air almost seems to stop moving. They all stare at you, pulling the bundle of cutie kiddo who wants to play up to them. Moms stare. Kids stare. Neon plastic guy stares (one eye at a time.)
Oh they wave and say hi, and the kiddos do too, but the wagon keeps rolling because there is clearly no room at the inn, and as you walk away you hear snippets of “oh, SHE works outside the home, he’s in daycare somewhere.” 😦
They are thick as thieves and the door is NOT open to moms who might be closing down a conference call to cul-de-sac it for a bit. Working moms need not apply for membership into that crew.
Group 2 is The Husbands.
Sigh. Sad but true, this group cares not about employment or anything else – you just straight up have to have a wang to get in. It actually includes guys in their teens all the way up through the silver fox set, and everyone in between who can pee standing up. The Mr. was welcomed right into the fold, drinking beers on the driveway and bonding in that special way that dudes do:
(thanks, King of the Hill)
Yep.
Attempts to elbow in on this behavior have not gone well. A largeish group of bros yucking it up over beers on the curb will scatter quickly if say, a super awesome, (and pretty, and funny, and cool,) wife comes sniffing around, even if she holds up her beer and says “yep” and attempts to siddle up next to them without making waves.
Also – cue the side-eye from my own husband, who seems to think I am jeopardizing his status in the pack.
Giant super pouty sigh.
It’s cool. I have my kid, we have our wagon. We both like to roll with roadies when we take it for a spin; and I usually go in for something stronger than S-bux on those occasions, although this is interesting:
Thank you, Cheezburger.com
Plus we usually have a few Sesame Street characters along too, so we roll mad deep, yo.
Oh Mr. Rogers – you always made it look so easy.
(PS – is it because I say things like “we roll mad deep, yo”? Oh well – can’t change the spots on this leopard.)
Filed under musing
6 months ago I sold my soul to the devil for a walk in closet.
Ok – that MIGHT be the tiniest bit of a less-than-totally-true version of the way it all went down.
The memory is clouded by months of jockeying for position in the toddler school parking lot, against mothers of 4 in mini vans with their “mom uniforms” of yoga pants and performance fleece and pony-tails sticking out of baseball caps; with perfectly lined eyes and bumper stickers proclaiming allegiance to their sons’ and daughters’ insanely competitive youth sports teams in their windows.
:::shudder:::
So I think maybe I kind of can’t remember now the entire series of events that led me to this point in time.
Maybe it isn’t really important – the how-in-the-hell-did-I-get-HERE of it all.
Doesn’t matter.
6 months ago, in an uncharatericistly cold June rain, I wedged the last thing (a half bottle of Vhino Verde that kept me company the night before,) into the last itty bit of space in the last SUV load of our lives and pulled out of the parking garage underneath the perfect treetop level city condo where we had spent the past 7 years, and pointed it toward a future in the suburbs.
Pausing please. Deep breath. Gulp of wine.
Heee Hee Hooooooo…… Hee Hee Hooooo.
(We took the one day “express” version of prepared childbirth before we had our son, because my birth plan was “whatever is in that syringe, please give me two, and a smack on the head with a frying pan,” so I didn’t really see the need for the breathing and concentrating and crap – but when I talk about how we ended up here, I find myself doing the “I’m in labor” breathing without really even thinking about it.)
However it happened, it happened. We left the city.
Maybe it was inevitable, destined to be, but I prefer that theory least of all.
Because it isn’t just ANY ‘burb. Oh no.
The awful truth is – I grew up here.
Quelle horreur.
(I don’t speak French, by the way. But sometimes English just leaves me needing more, so I long ago stole that little beauty from an Audrey Hepburn movie.)
The Mr. was oh-so-over the urban living, and I prefer to think that I was under duress from months of barely saving my kid from smacking his giant Charlie Brown head against our beautiful, but VERY hard, stone floors.
However it happened, there was no looking back and 1,2,3, baby don’t think twice, just like that we had a brand new life. (One, evidently, where I quote Keith Urban songs, incidentally.)
It has its perks. There is that walk-in closet, to begin with. My closet and I have a relationship that leaves people looking away so as not to blush as I caress it’s contents. I do love that closet.
Oh, and the ample (and FREE) parking out here. This place is just LOUSY with parking spots, everywhere you turn – right up next to places you actually want to go! Seriously, we have been here months and I still feel like the Hamburgler having just rolled Grimace every time I come out of a place and there is no ticket on my car. I just assume if a spot is that good, it can’t really be open.
Then there is the space. LOADS of it. Huge open areas where Junior and Binky-the-wonder-dog can run and run and run with no fear of cars or harried bicyclists or all the other crazy things that seem to come at you when you try to stake your claim on a little patch of green alongside the street in the city.
AndPlusAlso – my parents. The parents whose wings I was (pretending) that I was SO ready to be out from under all those years ago when I packed up my old Cherokee and tore out of this little town? Yeah, they are by far THE big positive about our temporary insanity decision to be out here. Soaking up all of that glorious family time for my kiddo and for myself is huge.
HUGE.
But I feel I must explain something right now – to the minivan driving, fleece wearing, supahstar soccer mom giving my kid’s Ramones T-Shirt the side-eye, and the whole army of Stepford scaries coming at me everyday.
Know this now:
I will not be assimilated.
Filed under musing
Reluctantly Suburban 