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Friday, December 26, 2008

wonderful christmastime

According to several recent magazine articles, the above mentioned tune by Paul McCartney, was voted the most annoying Christmas song in readers polls.  Though I myself love holiday music, I don't enjoy the songs we hear in department stores.  I prefer classics by great singers like Ella Fitzgerald, the Harry Simeon Choir, Nat King Cole (excluding the overplayed "Chestnuts")--you get the picture.  So I found myself in total agreement with these articles.  

However, this is not a post about the joys and groans elicited by holiday music.  Instead I'm writing to say that this has in fact been a wonderful Christmas time.  Though its also a time of stress as we are moving some day to be determined but very, very soon, like next week soon, we have truly enjoyed the holidays.

STEP ONE to suddenly enjoying Christmas the way you did when you were a kid:

Have a three-year-old.  

This was the first time Eliza really got into Christmas and the whole idea of a tree, decorations, Santa, delicious desserts and presents.  Everything, from decorating the tree, to listening to Christmas music, to making pumpkin pie to opening presents has been a blast.  When C walked with the tree last Sunday, Eliza jumped up and down with joy.  She put the first ornament on the tree, a Hello Kitty ornament my stepdaughter purchased for us last year.  Ornaments with Rudolf, ornaments that made music, miniature Empire State Buildings, everything caused Eliza to squeal with delight.  Eliza and I baked cookies and heated up apple cider the day we trimmed the tree--all this brought her great joy--especially the cookies.  

STEP TWO:

Start a real tradition with that three-year-old.  

This holiday has been a lot about time side-by-side with Eliza in my tiny kitchen.  I'll admit its been mostly making sweet treats that cause her eat like a shark in a feeding frenzy, then bounce off the walls for hours when the effects of the sugar rush take hold.  I rolled out the cookie dough, Eliza cut out star shapes, I put the star on the cookie sheet, Eliza sucked down a gumball-sized scrap of dough, repeat.  We made pumpkin pie together, or rather I should say I made pumpkin pie and she licked the pot I'd used to make the sweet chiffon filling.  

Christmas Eve was the evening we established our real tradition.  Coming home from church, I washed my hands and set up to hand-make pasta spaghetti.  I haven't made spaghetti in about five years but since Eliza has a new interest in the mechanics of the kitchen, I thought it might be fun.  It was messy, a little tense and my dough didn't turn out quite right but it was more fun than I thought it would be.  Eliza worked the crank and together we made handmade spaghetti.  My first real tradition with my little girl.  Next year, Christmas Eve dinner, homemade sauce, homemade meatballs and hand made pasta.  Eliza wolfed it all down, proud of her contribution to this meal.

STEP THREE:

Get that kid a fair number of fun presents.  I overbought this year.  I would have done just as well gifting Eliza with half the booty she ended up with but she loved it all, really loved it.  The book I got for her about ballet class, the fake Melissa and Doug cookies, the little doll kitchen--her main gift the one thing she'd asked for and a new doll with some doll clothes.  She loved all of it, unwrapped every gift like she was the luckiest girl in the world.  Even a little ornament with a kitten dressed in a tutu was like the greatest thing in the world to her.  Everything she opened had to come out of the box right away so she could play with it.  She didn't open all of her presents before breakfast because she was having too much fun playing with the first few she unwrapped.

I felt the letdown that Christmas was over for the first time since childhood last night.  When we got home from the lovely intimate dinner party we attended last night, I looked at the tree and wanted to cry because Christmas was over.  My little daughter knelt in front of her new kitchen with her new doll, happily enjoying her new toys and I felt that great wonderful feeling--

all was right with the world.

Monday, December 22, 2008

Naked Blowtorch

Although I've yet to set fire to my hair, I've called a hair dryer the "blowtorch" for at least two decades.  I've always hated the loud, blasting whine of the hair dryer.  Just bending over to remove it from the cabinet below the sink fills me with dread.  It's this nasty, garrulous dart gun of heat that's need will always annoy me.

You see, I've got bad hair and no hair dryer, hair product of fancy haircut will fix this.  But this isn't an ode or lament to my bad hair.

Eliza's been sick for over a week now so I've taken to blow drying her hair.  After a few days, the hair is too dirty to ignore but my pet peeve against wet hair with nasal congestion has led me back to that lower cabinet in the bathroom in the hope of not sending my daughter to bed with wet hair.  (Oh, the bed head, the horror!)

Well Eliza loves it.  Although she complains that its "too noisy," the York Peppermint Patty sensation of the wind in her hair elicits whirls of giggles.  She crinkles her tiny nose, mouth open and shakes her head side to side.  

Ordinarily I sit her on my lap for her blowout, but tonight, I placed her on the floor naked and sat on the closed toilet seat, aiming the dryer at her head like a gun.  Eliza saw this as an opportunity to enjoy some mobility as I sparked the torch.  Lately, Eliza topless has reminded me of a young Mick Jagger--the moppy hair, the skinny ribs, the grinning, kind of snarly face.  Savoring the moment, as she spun around and offered me the back of her head, I aimed the dryer at her butt, her little legs, her shoulders.  Eliza squealed happily and turned around, cupping her face with her tiny hands and tossing her head back.  Deep knee bends, some hip shaking and wild dance moves accompanied these ten minutes of pure pleasure.  Perhaps this night will foreshadow my daughter's adult life as a video music star (she's got the moves and her love of the hair dryer might lead to a future passion for gusting wind machines).  However, I hope as an adult she wears clothes.  

For tonight, its one tired Mom, one extraordinary girl and hopefully, a forever mental picture of my girl grinding to the roaring blast of the blowtorch like a young rock idol.  At least the next time I bend down for the dryer, I'll have happy associations as opposed to the usual disgust with my pathetic bad hair.

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

so so so

Today was not a good day.  Too much laundry, too little patience, too much anger directed at my little girl because she refused to use the potty.  But then the evening rolled around and after I'd had some bad moments with my girl, we went on to have a wonderful night.  

As I taped on her overnight diaper, I apologized for my bad behavior and told her that my bad mood was due to my impending return to work.  

"You don't want to go to work?" she said.

"No," I said.  

This isn't entirely true.  There's something liberating about walking out the door alone, no toddler in tow.  All I have to do on the days I work is dress myself and walk out the door.  I don't have to ask, "Diaper or underwear?"  I don't have to beg some dwarfish version of myself to put on her shoes and wear a coat.  I don't have to slice apples, skin pears and wipe up shit.  Work is not all bad.  Its the transition to work and after work that's the tough part for me.

"Oh its okay," she said.  "We'll play together when you come home from work.  And you always bring me lots of toys."

I laughed at her simple logic.  She doesn't really miss me when I'm at work.  She knows I'm coming home eventually and she likes the time with other people.  After my untaming of the shrew impersonation, who could blame her?

"You like it when I go to work?" I said.

"Oh yes," she said.  

"Why?" I asked.

"My Tima comes," she said.  

This is Eliza's babysitter, a young student I've come to care for very much myself.  

"You like your Tima?" I asked.

"I love Tima," Eliza said.  "I love her cause she's so, so, so chocolate."

Chocolate was not the word I expected to hear after all those sos.  Nice, fun, plays games with me, happy.  But not chocolate.  My daughter has apparently noticed the differences in skin tones, ethnicities.  Pretima is from Guyana and her skin is dark.  

"You and I are vanilla and Tima is chocolate," Eliza said.

A place scarier than Hades, more frightening than Oz...

Welcome to the nap-free zone.  This is my world now, the world of the big-girl bed.  Without the crib to keep her prisoner, my daughter howls when I leave the room, demands I read one more bookie than demands "one more toy."  When I give in and offer the toy, the call to battle "one more toy" sounds again from that tiny mouth.  

In my last day as full-time Mom before my return to work, I find our day surprisingly lacking in fun mother-daughter bonding time.  Instead, I fold laundry, clean the bathroom, toss out old food in the fridge, skin and cut apples ("more apples Mama"), wipe up pee, pack up summer clothes (I'm moving in less than a month) and shut my daughter outside my room when she won't stop crying.  In short, a day I've looked forward to since Thankgiving reared its poultry scented head last week is turning out to be a bust.  

I envisioned fun trips to the book store, a visit to the library, perhaps mother daughter pedicures.  Instead I find myself completely overwhelmed by work prep, household chores and a daughter who demands more than I can give right now.  Finally, hoping the nap would give me the time I so desperately need to read or do something for myself, has vanished.  With the bed comes the freedom to get out of it.  Oh she is leaving me alone, I am in my room by myself while I type this with no cries for Mama.  It's a blessing.  But instead of the peace and simple quietude I'd hoped for, I hear legos being tossed around the room, the sound of items falling from closet shelves, what the song "Row, row, row your boat" would sound like if sung by articulate, ravenous, wile coyotes.  

I still savor my time in the my room alone, typing at the computer.  And I will miss my girl as I rush from one errand after another while Eliza is at school tomorrow.  But oh, how I long for a rewind, a way to go back to the start of the day to make it better.  I'd hold off on the laundry or the packing until tonight.  I wouldn't yell at Eliza because she seems to have given up on the potty.  I wouldn't be so damn exhausted.  

Let's face it, Eliza is three and just because she seems incapable of using the toilet consistently doesn't mean she can't develop in other ways.  Many three-year-olds no longer need naps.  She's moving forward, growing up and as long as she plays by herself, at least I have an hour or so to myself without whining.  

Now I have to scare up the energy to get dressed, put in my contact lenses and get out to enjoy something of this day before C and the stepkids descend on me, ravenous for dinner.