Do You Know The Muffin Man? ('Cause if he's anything like the Ice Cream Man, he's a jerk).

We bought our first house and moved to our current neighborhood in August of 2007, when I was about 6 months pregnant (so many things wrong with that sentence). One hot summer evening as I sat on our newly purchased stoop, swollen and miserable, sweaty and generally overwhelmed, I heard the far-off tinny strains of "Turkey in The Straw". In our last neighborhood, the only thing that would be left of the ice cream truck after one round would be the windshield wipers; everything else would have been stripped and sold. So I held my breath and waited, and sure enough, like a frosty beacon of hope, a white van emblazoned with pictures of snowcones and fudgesicles turned the corner. As a group of shrieking, giggling children formed a line, waving their dollar bills in the air, my eyes filled with tears at the purity, and nostalgia, of the scene. One day, this unborn child and I would hear the same schmaltzy music, and run for the truck together. After all, The Child and Ice Cream were destined for long and beautiful friendship. By the time she was six months along, her blood was pretty much composed of 33% Frosty, 33% Mint Oreo Blizzard, 33% Ben and Jerry's Chubby Hubby, and 1%....boring biological stuff.

Which brings us to today. We've had a tough time nailing down the ice cream truck's schedule. We either hear the truck and can't locate it, or we see it pass and then can't make it stop. I hated seeing her little crestfallen face when she realized each time that she wasn't getting a neon yellow Spongebob popsicle with bubblegum eyes yet again(I know, I know, gross and nutritionally appalling...but, it's the experience that counts, right? RIGHT?? Well...no one asked you :-P.). Failure is no longer an option. Tonight, we are finding that truck, and you and me, kid....we're getting you that ice cream!! *cue "Eye of The Tiger", neon warmup suits, Mr. Miyagi, etc etc.*

And then....it happened. It was like kismet. Like providence. Like...God just wanted us to eat ice cream.


It was 7 PM, and we were making delicious play-doh burgers with bright purple french fries. At the first few notes of "Turkey in the Straw", The Child and I froze, all senses on alert. As the notes became louder, we inched, slowly and deliberately towards the door, like a pride of lions stalking a delicious brightly colored frozen zebra. (Okay, at a grand total of two, we would be a pretty pathetic pride, but roll with it.) When I carefully opened the door and saw the ice cream truck parked off to the side, it was on. "GO MACKENZIE GO!!!!" The Child held the screen door open, as I shoved The Dog back with one hand and grabbed my purse with the other. There was a brief struggle as the door handle tried to claim my purse, but I was victorious. Unfortunately, that quick battle cost us valuable time. Once I got detangled and to the bottom of the steps, I was met with teary eyes and a quivery bottom lip. "He did not wait, Mommy. No ice cweam tonight." Sure enough, the truck had moved on. As The Child slowly came back up the steps, Mommy Lion came alive. Oh. Hells. No. "Come on, MacKenzie. We're getting ice cream." She looked up. "But I don't even hear da music." We. Are. Getting. Ice. Cream.

I grabbed her hand, and started stomping down the sidewalk, looking left and right, searching for any sign of the truck. We covered blocks in seconds. Then....victory. In front of us, a couple of streets away, sat the elusive ice cream truck. Tonight was going to be the night. It was our time!!! But all of the sudden - the truck suddenly started, and the music began playing again. Is it leaving?? There is no way that I am chasing this damn truck all over the neighborhood. It is now or never. And I was off.

What I neglected to remember in my determination and focus was that I really initially intended to just run to the truck, grab an ice cream, and run back to the house. So I was wearing terry cloth booty shorts a couple of sizes too big, a spaghetti sauce splattered white t-shirt, and no shoes. Unfortunately, in my awesome warp speed, I began to lose my shorts...so I yanked them back up with the hand not holding my precious child. Again, unfortunately, I was a little enthusiastic with my yanking up, so I just as quickly began tugging them back down again before the neighborhood watch started tucking dollar bills in my waistband. So basically, anyone out for a quiet post-dinner stroll either stared in fascination or ducked for cover at the barefoot, sloppy frizzball who couldn't figure out if her shorts were on or off, hauling a maniacally giggling toddler tucked under one arm, all the while hollering "YOU BETTER NOT GO ANYWHERE, ICE CREAM PERSON, SO HELP ME GOD!!!!!"

Yup. Putting the class into classy. That's us.

Needless to say, the ice cream man's attention was grabbed, and the truck turned back off. As we skidded to a stop in front of the pass out window, I was torn between a sense of superhero triumph and absolute and abject mortification. Meanwhile, The Child struggled out from beneath my arm and shot the man a beautific smile. "Hi dere. I'm MacKenzie. I like yo' car's music. I fink that's my jam." The ice cream man was struck speechless, and seemed torn on which of us to be more concerned about. Yeah, we get that a lot. All that matters is that we made it. The fact that he didn't have Spongebob didn't even phase The Child...apparently Tweety Bird made a more than acceptable substitute.

And so we sat there on the curb, licking our hard won, well-deserved, and rapidly melting treats. I glanced over, and watched a sunbeam bounce off of my daughter's curly head, as she turned and grinned sloppily at me. "I sure love ice cream, Mommy." So do I, baby girl. And this moment was everything that I had hoped it would be on that hot evening a few years ago. <3

Anti-Breakfast of Champions

Sleep is not a term I'm terribly familiar with. Sometimes because of work - either of the clickety-clackety variety, or of the "OMFG THERE'S NO WAY THREE PEOPLE CAN ACCUMULATE THIS MANY DISHES" as the dog-hair tumbleweeds amble by" variety. Sometimes by choice, because the house is so very quiet and peaceful when everyone is sleeping, and I can catch up on email and the latest episodes of award-winning television like "America's Best Dance Crew" or "Ice Loves Coco" in peace (Don't you judge me. That's some good stuff right there.) . And sometimes because The Child - regardless of how deeply ensconced she is in a Daddy's Girl phase - feels the need to ask ME burning questions at 3 AM like "Where does air goes when the fan blows it?" or "Do you fink I can wear a dress later?" or "Is the sun behind the moon at nighttime?" I am also the go-to gal for nightmares, any illness, monsters chasing, and the 6 AM pancake request. Don't get me wrong - I wouldn't have it any other way. But I do forget what 4 consecutive hours of sleep feels like.

Sunday was one such morning. Due to customers taking "endless coffee refills" to a whole new level, I got home from waitressing around 11:30 Saturday night. I took care of a couple of things, chitty-chattied with the hubby for a few minutes, and probably went to bed around 1 AM. Around 3 AM, I heard little shuffling footsteps, followed by "Mommy? I got bad dreams." Aww, baby, what's wrong? "Dere's spikes falling on my head, and fishies jumping out of da water to eat me." ....even at 3 AM I can recognize the Water World level of old school Super Mario Brother's 3. No more Nintendo for you. "I'm just gonna sleep wif you." Come on in. For approximately every 15 minutes after that, she shifted, rolled, starfished, ninja-ed away my pillow, snatched the covers, and in one unfortunate personal decision, suggested I move to her bed so she and Daddy had more room. I finally moved to the couch for my own sanity. Imagine my dismay when a half an hour later, I opened my eyes and was staring into two little white eyesballs an inch from mine. "Hey Mommy. Is you lonely??" It was almost a relief when we got up at 6:15.

Unfortunately, I was a complete zombie. When she announced she was hungry, I pointed wordlessly to the kitchen table and then got out a box of cereal. "Hey Mommy, how about panc...." - a single Mommy glare quelled that request before it could even come to full fruition. I poured her a bowl, sliced in some bananas, tripped over the dog, splashed in (and around) some milk, and then stumbled to the table. I set down the cereal bowl, said "Eat", and collapsed in my own chair. When I didn't hear the scraping of the spoon on a bowl, or the crunchcrunch of delicious Rice Crispies, I blearily looked up to see what the problem was. There, in my daughter's booster seat, properly belted in and smiling vacantly, cloth arms open in welcome, was a Cabbage Patch Kid doll. I paused, trying to get a grasp on the situation. Hallucinating? I hope not. I looked around, but The Child was nowhere to be seen. "Uhh...MacKenzie?" No answer. I poked the doll with the spoon, half-expecting it to yell "Ow!" or "Surprise!!!" Luckily, there was no answer.

Before I could really panic, MacKenzie wandered into the kitchen. "I had to go potty." Awesome. Thank you for making me question my sanity before 7 AM. Eat your cereal. I waited to make sure she was actually going to start eating, and put my head back down. Then a high, squeaky voice said "I sure am hungry." I lifted my head and met her angelic expression. "Mommy. I fink my baby is hungry." Path of least resistance. I got up, poured cereal into a ramekin, put one piece of banana and a tablespoon of milk in, found a baby spoon at the back of the drawer, and set it out in front of the doll. I almost dislocated my arm mentally patting myself on the back...surely this makes me eligible for some sort of parenting award. I had just settled back in with my eyes closed, when the high squeaky voice said "I wish someone would feed me some ceweal." You. Have. Got. To. Be. Kidding. I didn't even look up. "MacKenzie my love, YOU are the mommy. When you were a baby, I fed you, because I was the mommy. Since this is your baby, it is your job to make sure she is happy and fed. I...am the baby's grandma."

Blessed, beautiful silence.

"I wish Grandma would feed me some ceweal. She is da best Grandma ever."

I opened my mouth, to yell, to scream, to plead for help, but all that came out were waves of helpless giggles. Soon MacKenzie joined in, as the dog ran around us barking, and the baby doll smiled on benevolently.

Just another Sunday morning. :)

Lessons in Tantrums

To say that The Child has a temper would be like qualifying the Civil War as a tiff.

The sheer magnitude of some things is not easily conveyed by a word.

Temper and tantrums are to be expected in toddlers – apparently it’s their way of asserting independence, of discovering and pushing boundaries, and of expressing emotions and feelings that they haven’t begun to be able to yet identify. (I say apparently because I did experience a motivational period of being a better educated, better informed parent and went to Barnes and Noble to tear through their Parenting and Behavioral Sciences sections, but I only made it as far as reading the summaries on the back covers. I believe that I had the best intentions to purchase the tools to follow through with my enlightment, but was distracted, and my enlightment purchases turned into a latte and a scone. Stupid in-store Starbucks.)

The Child is (in my unbiased opinion, of course) naturally beautiful, frighteningly smart, hysterically funny, and alarmingly charismatic. She is also uncompromisingly stubborn, willful, and mulish. After witnessing The Tantrum, family, friends, even strangers assure me that her… independence is promising, and that this too shall pass. But even as they try to convince me, I can see the dregs of horror still in their eyes from what they’ve just experienced, and the unmitigated gratitude that they don’t have to take her with them.

The main problem with The Child’s tantrums is that there is no segue, no warning sign. One moment she is joyous, and then the next, furious. She doesn’t need to hear “No, you can’t,” or “No, you need to”. She doesn’t even need to hear the letter “n” being formed by your tongue on the roof of your mouth. She sees the intention of admonition in your eyes, and at the inhalation of oxygen to even being the sentence, she throws herself down on the floor. In the space of a second, she seems to have been transformed into some sort of mythical beast, with multiple appendages and a harpy-like shriek of agony.

After several months of Tantruming, I have come to the following conclusions:

1) Although tantrums do happen at home, they will most likely happen in public. Generally at a time when you cannot easily remove yourself from the situation – in a toilet stall (added bonus for the acoustics of a public bathroom), in line at the grocery store with all of your purchases already on the conveyor belt, in the doctor’s waiting room (again, added bonus if the tantrum is paused for the expelling of some bodily fluid and then resumed).

2) It is best to have some sort of magazine, Sodoku puzzle, or Rubik’s cube with you at all times. Should Epic Tantruming commence, – the longest tantrum was clocked at 46 minutes, after which The Child proclaimed hoarsely “Mommy, I tired. No more mad.” – it is best to have entertainment. And something to hide behind.

3) Along with The Tantrum comes the Trio of Toddler Superpowers:

- Super Voice: loud and high enough to crack glass

- Bonelessness: The Child dissolves into a Little Person Puddle at the start of all tantrums…regardless of what body part you try to wrangle, they slip through your fingers like water. Do not attempt to pick up Puddle Person. You will only strain some muscle and cause yourself embarrassment.

- Super Human Strength and Speed of Movement: I have combined these because they work in tandem. One second, she is rolling around in the Dry Goods aisle, screaming at the top of her lungs, and then a split second later she is at the other end of the aisle, beating the shit out of a Keebler Cookie Elf cardboard cutout with a can of soup. (Uhh, please note – this only happened once. And I made her apologize to Poor Ernie. He may never have little elves, though.)

Again, after so many months, I have learned to identify and recognize The Stages of Public Tantrum Acceptance. **And I realize that both these stages, and my reactions to them, are situation unique. I’m sure that you handle these circumstances differently, which is fine. Unless your kid doesn’t have tantrums, then good! (And by good, I mean bite me). Or you don’t yet have children, in which case you totally should. (And by should, I mean… you can borrow mine. Like…now.)*** ANYWAY.

The Stages:

1) Shock - What the hell just happened? My child went from toddler to shrieking wildebeest in, like, 1/10^th of a second. I didn’t even get to assert authority, or use my mean voice, she just…collapsed.

2) Panic – Ohmigodohmigodohmigod. Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop. Soembarrassedsoembarrassedsoembarrassed. Whymewhymewhyme. Whynotherfatherwhynotherfatherwhynotherfather?

3) Authority and Firmness – “That’s enough. Enough. I said…...excuse me. You on the floor, causing the chaos and rioting. That’s enough. What did I just say? Stop. Right now. I mean it.” (Please picture a stern face and firm voice.)

And yes, the ineffectiveness is being very accurately conveyed, which leads to…

4) Bribery – “If you calm down, you can have a cookie. A whole cookie. A couple of cookies. The bag of cookies. The cookies will be in the glovebox of a sedan. A convertible. A Porsche. On your way to an all-expense paid trip to Disneyworld. COME ON!”

5) Denial – You know what, that’s probably not even a tantrum. That’s probably not even my kid. Mine is simply yawning extensively and silently, and there’s probably just a couple of misplaced mating hyenas in back. (While you’re in denial, be sure to blame daycare and red dye 40. It is definitely not your fault.)

6) Acceptance – The most peaceful part of the process. Simply block off The Child as much as possible, utilize the aforementioned magazine or Rubik’s cube, and wait it out. Should fellow shoppers catch your eye sympathetically, smile and shrug. Should fellow shoppers make a snotty passing comment about brats and poor parenting, simply smile and remind them that at some point your child will stop tantruming, but they will never be able to reverse the effects of being beaten with a massive Ugly Stick.

Right now, tantrums take up about 30% of our time together. As much as they frustrate me and interrupt my day, they can’t hold a candle to the amazing other 70%. I know that this too shall pass. And to those of you who laugh knowingly and say that age three is worse than two…shut it.

Department Store Lessons

Holidays.
I love them.

I've always adored the celebrations - reasons for themed candy, family meals, big sales. Since having a little girl, I've found yet another new reason - themed outfits in various stages of floofiness. Halloween? Gonna be a bee, with irridescent wings, a black tulle skirt, and little yellow antennae. Christmas? Gonna have to be green velvet, with a little white satin collar, a big white satin sash, and an unfortunately large bow smashed onto the side of a sweet little head. Fourth of July? Red and white striped sailor shirt with little blue capris, and little white sandals. And now Easter. Some sort of pastel poof, with a veritable explosion of ruffles and ribbons, leaving an unsuspecting passerby with a vague impression of narrowly escaping being attacked by a cupcake.

It has to be the perfect dress. So I coralled The Child and drove to our nearest Kohl's. I am blessed/cursed with a child who is unfailingly enthusiastic about...anything. We walked in through the front door, and she stands just inside the door, and gasps "Mommy! It so boot-ful here! I love this store!" As the other shoppers stop to stare, I mutter something about us being more of Wal-Mart people, and steer The Child towards the children's section. As we begin the trek, she announces "I go by myself!" At least, that's what I think she said - I only caught the beginning of the pronouncement as she took off at a dead run. She is luckily blessed with some sort of otherwordly navigational system, allowing her to zoom around obstacles like displays, carts, and, you know, shopping people, all without breaking warp speed. I am not blessed with the same gifts (I blame the heels and flared slacks), so I was left to teeter/trot after her, muttering apologies, and trying to pick up the crap I knocked over while not losing sight of a couple of bobbing pigtails.

God bless whomever in Kohl's management decided to put their small toy section right next to the children's clothing section - it's like a brightly colored Fisher Price kid snare. When I finally caught up with her, she was sitting peacefully in the middle of the aisle, calmly thumbing through a Dr. Seuss book. Luckily, The Grandma ended up meeting us there, so I had an Assistant Wrangler while I immersed myself in all that is girly and right with the world. I collected armfuls of frothy dresses, weighing each option carefully, rating them based on a system I'm not sure even I was 100% understanding. When I finally narrowed it down to three, I brought them over to The Child - who stood considering stuffed animals with a sand bucket on her head - and asked her which pretty dress she would like. She looked at each of them carefully, seriously. My heart swelled with pride and the realization that I had given birth to a future holiday clothingist. She finally pointed to one and announced "I wear boots. And a bucket."

Hmm. Perhaps not.

I debated with The Grandmother instead (the relative NOT wearing digging accessories) and we agreed on one dress. As we made our way to the front, The Child paused in front of a trio of elongated, headless mannequins and stared.
"Mommy. What's dat?"
"Those are mannequins. They make the clothes look pretty so people buy them." I waited for my analytical, inquisitive child to take her gaze to the top, and tried to figure out a reasonable explanation for their missing heads.
"Mommy. They so big!"
"Yes. They are very tall."
"Mommy, they so boot-ful. Hello Tall Person!"
She carefully climbed on the short platform for a closer look. She gently ran her fingers down one shiny plastic leg, and then stopped abruptly at the large screw and rod coming out of one calf, securing it to the platform.
"MOMMY."
"Yes, honey, that's a pole to..."
"No Mommy. Look at her shoes!!! They are so pretty. They my fway-vwit. You go buy them!!!"
I glanced down at the absolutely breathtaking black patent leather open-toed stiletto pumps, and decided that The Force was indeed strong with this one. She can wear a bucket hat all she wants - my child has exquisite taste in footwear :).

We went to stand in the checkout line, and The Child caught a glance of her Easter dress. "Mommy! Is dat my dress? It soooooooo boot-ful! It my fway-vwit too!"

Yes, there will come a time when my little tomboy figures out that she doesn't have to wear the floofiness, and these silly, voluminous dresses will sit in the back of the closet. But for now, my child and I will love her holiday dresses.

At least, I thought as I threw the Easter dress down on the ground, sprinting after my child as she made a run for it and managed to get out the door, we will if I manage to catch her.

HEY PEEPS!

So.
Enough people have inquired, so I'm going to reserve a small corner of the worldwide web for MacKenzie. Or, at least, MacKenzie's popular antics. I will try to update every day, or every other day, or as often as MacKenzie does something odd, or funny, or beyond her years. Which should be about every day. I don't expect a lot of people to read here, but I am excited about sharing without worrying about being fettered by character limits!
Thank you for you being touched and amused (although no one seems to be as exhausted or exasperated) by my silly daughter's self.
Here's to the future!