Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better

Hey y'all -

Your dad and I are competitive with each other, but only in the dumbest of ways.

We never try to one-up each other when it comes to career or money or even who's smarter because 1) That'd be toxic for any marriage and 2) We're so completely different there'd be no point. We're each brilliant in our own equal and opposite ways, although I can't balance a checkbook and he doesn't understand subject/verb agreement.

Instead, we reserve our competitive impulses for ridiculous tests of physical endurance or plainly stupid feats of strength.  We once tried to make paddleboard jousting a thing (only one of us was smart enough to wear a life jacket). Walking home from date night, we'll be two blocks from home when your dad will suddenly say, "Race ya!" We've done spouse vs spouse paddleboard relays. At a party last week, your dad did a pull-up on the tree house, so I had to do a flip on Laney's rings. (Sprained my toe. Still worth it.)

At the lake a few weekends ago, the water was freezing cold, but your dad jumped in, so I had to dive in behind him.

I came home from "Buzzed Yoga" at the brewery - this is Missoula, so you know I'm not making that up...yoga class and a pint for $10! - bragging about how I had done a handstand on a hill. 

...so the following weekend, your dad did one on the paddleboard.

We are short, wide, middle-aged people who have no business acting like this, but boy is being married to your dad a ton of fun. 

I know - we're ridiculous. We're embarrassing. 

We're your parents. 

You're welcome. 

Love,

Mom

Everybody Was Kung Fu Drifting

Dear Hagen,

A month or so ago, I attended your parent/teacher conference at preschool. Your teacher expressed some concern that you never (ever, ever) seem to want to do what the rest of the class is doing. You have no interest in sitting in a circle with 30 other kids. You don't want to chase a ball with a shrieking group of students outside. You mostly want to be left alone to do your own thing. It seems that while everyone else is playing a big, group game, you'd much prefer to be by yourself in the corner, pretending to be a pterodactyl.*

I suggested that the teachers shouldn't let you get away with so much - you pull that "I just want to snuggle" routine on these women, and they eat it up. She explained that it wasn't so much "letting him get away with it," because you're never "naughty," you're just not participating. And in the meantime, there's always some other kid biting somebody or peeing in the potted plant, and that tends to take priority. I imagine teaching preschool is one long triage situation. 

I assured your teacher that I didn't have any concerns about your overall development, and was reasonably confident that you are just the product of your two parents: the drama major who likes to put on a show, and the semi-reclusive scientist who doesn't like to play with others. Hence: Pterodactyl In A Corner, The One Man Show. 

That conversation was rattling around in my head when I read the announcement that Missoula was once again having Unplug and Play Week. This is an annual week-long event when businesses all over town host free activities for kids to get them up and moving. We did the scavenger hunt at Fort Missoula, taste-tested vegetable dishes at a local restaurant, and on a whim, decided to do the drop-in class at the Taekwondo studio. 

The teacher was GREAT. He was stern but compassionate. When you wandered off your spot, he made you come back and start over. When you flopped down on the ground instead of following instructions, he gave you a time out, but explained why (It's not safe to be on the ground when everyone else is running around; you're a tripping hazard.) I knew this was a man who wouldn't fall for the old "Snuggle me" routine. YES!

I decided to take you back the next week. I called your dad and suggested he leave work early and come watch your class, just to confirm it was as good for you as I was feeling it was. Your dad came and watched with a great goofy grin on his face, and when class was over, he scooped you up in a hug and said, "FINALLY! Somebody doesn't think you're CUTE!"

So we signed you up, wrote a check, got you the outfit (the dobok) and now you're officially a student of taekwondo...by far the smallest student, but still. 

If there is anything cuter than a 4 yr old martial artist, I swear I don't know what it is. 

In your last class, your teacher suited you up in pads for some kicking, and you told him, "Well, this is just way too big for me." "Maybe," your teacher said, "but it's the smallest one we've got so you're just going to have to deal." I shot a minute of footage with my phone before I had to give up and start laughing. But here's how it looks when preschoolers spar:

You have ninja mission drift.

You forget what or who you're supposed to be kicking. You catch sight of yourself in the wall mirror and get lost in your own reflection. But for the most part, you are following directions, participating, and having a good time doing it. We're calling this a big win. 

Love,

Mom

* She actually suggested that your behavior might be the result of an undiagnosed Autism Spectrum Disorder, and urged me to have you tested. I was shocked, but I did it. The psychologist determined you were "Quirky, but also average or above average in all areas of development." You don't go to school there anymore. 

Then and Now

Six years ago today:

And last night:

Field Trippin'

Dear Laney,

You're currently at an age when you're TOTALLY STOKED if I go with your class on a field trip. So I like to go on as many of them as possible, because I know it's only a matter of time 'til you act like you've never seen me before in your life and you spend sleepovers talking about how LAME I am. 

Today, I went with your class on a field trip to the Agricultural Center. I even rode the bus. 

(Ms. Lynn, wishing we would behave, probably)

The Ag School is owned by the school district and high school students work there, raising crops, pigs, sheep, goats and chickens for sale. At the start of the visit, the lead faculty member gave us a little presentation about the working farm and the animals who live there, and I swear to all that's holy I thought I had accidentally taken a bus ride to a Coen Brothers movie.

(In the movie, he would be played by Steve Buscemi).

Instructor: ...And sometimes, an animal has to be euthanized. Does anyone know what "euthanized" means? 

Chorus of Montana children: It means you have to put them down!

WHAT?!?

I learned that Jewel the sow had to be put down because she broke her leg and refused to eat any more. I learned that Mr. Slippers the boar had to be put down because he attacked a boy on a field trip and "ate the shirt clean off him." The old mare (whose name I can't remember - R.I.P.) had been put down because of broken ribs and arthritis, but they decided to CUT HER OPEN to study her out front in the parking lot, and it made a pool of blood "the size of this classroom."

The children were absolutely unfazed, but I was traumatized. 

Then he asked if there were any questions. "Dear God, NO!" I may have said aloud. But a little 6 yr old up front raised his hand and wanted to know HOW they sent these animals back to their maker. Answer: bolt gun. "And it turns their brains off right away, so they don't feel any pain."

We could have just stayed at school and watched No Country For Old Men. 

But we did get to pet some stuff, so there's that:

Farmers are special people. Thank God for them, because the Venn diagram of Drama Majors and People Who Can Put Stuff Down With A Bolt Gun would look like two completely separate circles on either side of a bloody parking lot. 

Love,

Mom

Hagen's Animal Jeopardy

Dear Hagen,

Your dad and I like to watch Jeopardy together in the evenings because we're big nerds. Also, as we get older, we're starting to appreciate all those commercials for clip-on sunglasses and prescription meds that will reduce our skin irritation.

You have this fun new habit of letting us get halfway through "Potent Potables" or "Famous Virginians" before yelling "CAN WE PAUSE IT FOR A SECOND? AND WE CAN PLAY ANIMAL JEOPARDY?"

Here's how that works:

- You drag a stool in front of the TV, climb up, and with your best 4-year-old Alex Trebek voice, start giving us clues about an animal.

- The clues make NO sense. Seriously: none.

- You never choose ahead of time which animal you want us to guess; you just start in with random clues, hoping that the sum of the clue's parts will be a recognizable animal.

- You choose the winner of each question based on who you like best in the living room at that particular moment. This makes your sister almost certifiably insane, because she actually tries to follow along with your wackadoodle clues and give an educated guess, and it never ever pays off for her, because you like me best. I have never lost. I am the Ken Jennings of Hagen's Animal Jeopardy. 

- When in doubt, the correct response is always "What is a giant squid?"

Example:

Hagen: This is a bird that is purple and it flies and it's also a dinosaur and it has eyes like this and maybe wings like this, but it is NOT a pterodactyl and it does not live under water and it has claws...

Me: Buzzz!!! What is a pterodactyl?!?

Hagen: YES!!

Laney: OH, COME ON!



It's my favorite show. I love everything about it.

Love,
Mom

Practically Perfect In Every Way

Hey y'all-

There is no better place in the world than Montana when it's warm. Actually, even when it's not warm, we still hit the lake and get out on the water because HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PLACE? Incredible. Even when the high is in only the mid-60s, Laney wears a bathing suit and resists wearing any kind of cover-up. Hagen wears sweat pants and snow boots. 

This past weekend, we (prematurely, maybe, but whatever) kicked off our serious summer paddle boarding season by joining some friends at nearby Seeley Lake. It was almost magically beautiful, with snow on the surrounding mountains, lily pads starting to come up in the water, tall grasses that we could paddle through and watch blue herons...Perfect.

I tucked the camera into my life jacket to capture a little of the day:

Sigh. 

Love,

Mom

Unsolicited Advice

Hey, y'all - 

My cousin Reed is pregnant with her first baby. Her shower is this weekend, which I won't be able to attend because we live in Montana and it seems like it costs $5,000 to get anywhere east of Salt Lake City. I immediately shipped her a big box of diapers. (Childless friends give cutesy cloth diaper "cakes" with tchotchkes stuck in 'em. Friends who are parents give big boxes of actual diapers, because they know what's up.) 

As I was putting together a gift basket for the shower of useful items, I took the opportunity to think back to the two occasions when I was a mother of a newborn. To be honest, it feels like a lifetime ago. There was so much I couldn't even remember - I remembered being tired, for sure, but not much else. I even went back and read old blog posts to see if it would help. 

It started to come back to me. 

I decided to write Reed a letter and include it with her gift. I'm pasting it below, because I don't think she'll mind. 

________________________________________

Dear Reed,

Congratulations on your impending arrival! In honor of this momentous occasion, and in light of my recent parenting experiences, I went to the store and picked up a few things I thought you might need:

ONE OF EVERY KIND OF PACIFIER TARGET OFFERS - Each baby seems to like one - and only one - brand of pacifier. They have the brand loyalty of a 1950s housewife. Try to give them another brand and they will literally spit at you. Babies are such assholes opinionated gifts from the Lord.

A TINY SCREWDRIVER SET - Every baby toy or appliance ever invented requires a Phillips head screwdriver so tiny it could also be used to repair eyeglasses or adjust the setting on the Hope Diamond. Now you're ready.

“D” BATTERIES - The size your swing takes. One day, your swing will die and you will love me SO MUCH. 

BABY MEDICINES, ASSORTED - Because babies only get sick when it’s 2am and it will somehow be your husband’s fault that Walgreen’s isn’t open. I’m including these for Ned. 

A BOOK LIGHT - Because when you’re breastfeeding in bed in the middle of the night, just a teeny little light is all you need to make sure everything’s going okay and keep the baby sleeping peacefully. Remind your husband of this when it’s his turn to feed the baby and he turns on every light in the house and stomps around like it’s a disco dance party. This will later become one of your baby’s favorite toys: “I just blinded myself for a second, and it was AWESOME.”

MY PERSONAL COPY OF PAJAMA TIME - I read this to each of my kids 57,648 times. Actually, I “read” it three times, then just started reciting it. There’s something about this book in particular that they found oddly hypnotic. If you ever need a five minute break, give me a call. I will be happy to use my advanced theatre degree to do a dramatic interpretation of this book via speakerphone. 

AND NOW, SOME UNSOLICITED ADVICE (The best kind!) - 

You will hate your husband for the first 6 months or so of your child’s life. This is not a joke. This is normal. His boobs are useless. He doesn’t do things exactly how you would do them. If he were hired help, you would fire him. But you can’t. He means well. Don’t have him killed. You might need him later.

Don’t invite anybody to your house for the first three months of your baby’s life that you’re not 

comfortable being topless around, because sometimes putting on a shirt is too damn hard.

Friends will come over and visit with you and the baby. REAL friends will come over, not speak to you, leave a casserole on the counter, unload your dishwasher, and leave. Feel free to forward a copy of this letter.

Your parents will want to come over and babysit so you can have “a fun night out on the town!” This is sweet, but stupid. It’s been so long since they had a newborn they don’t remember that the last thing you want to do is get dressed up. Or move. What you’ll REALLY want is somebody to come over and take the baby away from the house so you can lie down and watch America’s Next Top Whatever in silence. Feel free to forward a copy of this letter.

It’s okay to stand in your kitchen with balled-up fists and scream “THIS SUCKS!” because sometimes, it does. It’s also the greatest thing ever. Both can be true at the same time, even. 

When you’re not holding your baby, you will find yourself rocking back and forth anyway, like a nut with an inner ear imbalance. This goes away. 

The first time you have a sitter and you leave the house without your baby, you will feel like an amputee…as if you’re suddenly missing your favorite appendage. I cried in a four-star seafood restaurant in Spokane because Laney was 6 weeks old and half a mile away. The waiter asked what was wrong, and I sobbed, “It’s my anniversary…” This is normal. I mean, it’s crazy, but it’s normal. 

Do not read the comments on parenting websites. Nobody knows your baby like YOU know your baby. Humanity is a crazy, judgmental mass of hysteria, and it hangs out on babycenter.com.

Someone far wiser then me once said, “Parenting is made up of the longest days and the shortest years.” Man, is that true. 

Everything you say you would never do, you will. And it’s okay. Despite your fine southern upbringing, in less than a year you’ll be asking the cashier at the grocery store to ring up a stack of empty containers of food your child has already eaten on the way to the check-out stand. 

At some point, you will walk through a doorway and accidentally whack your baby’s head against the doorjamb. Everybody’s done it. No one admits it. Kids grow up smart, anyway. 

If you can, keep in mind that the thing you are freaking the hell out about right this minute (and you should! parenting is HARD!), you might not remember a few months from now. I spent a lot of time crying over my C-section, failed breastfeeding, etc., and then yesterday I went to Target and stood in the middle of the baby section and honest to God didn’t remember what half that stuff is used for. Now I’m on to field trips and boxed lunches and cheering for my first grader in the role of Snow Chicken #4 in the school play. Perspective. 

Call me. 

Love,

Brooke