Saturday, January 23, 2010

Further proof that I am an irresponsible mother......

Because my work involves programs for the younger set, I was invited to a pre-school fair the other day. The fair was being put on by a local Mom's Club and had been advertised all over the community, so there was a huge turnout. The programs I run are more along the lines of "Parents Morning Out" drop-in-when-you-need-it programs, as opposed to traditional preschools, but there were enough similarities that I thought it'd be a good event to attend. And it was -- there was a lot of interest in what we do -- but that's not my point.

My point is that I stood there, in the midst of a sea of stroller pushing mothers, watching with unbelieving eyes what was happening all around me. And I'm not saying that what was happening was bad.... Just that it was so foreign to me. Mothers were walking from pre-school director to pre-school director and interviewing them about their curriculum. Seriously hard-core interviewing them. Like these pre-school directors were heads of state. They brought pads of paper and pens! And they very studiously took notes as they all talked.
  • "And do you have a foreign language curriculum?"
  • "Do you have weekly themes?" And what's your process for structuring that?"
  • "And what is your music curriculum like? Because dance and movement and music? It's VERY important in our household and I need to make sure you will reflect that here."
  • "What, exactly, does your typical day look like?"
  • "Are you a peanut-free zone?"
  • "What sorts of leadership opportunities will my child have?"
  • "How much reading do you do? I really want my child to be reading."
  • "What does your free-play area look like? Is there a kitchen? I want my son to be exposed to kitchens and cooking."
  • "What do your mornings look like when other parents are dropping off? Is there structure? I don't want my child just milling around in the mornings....."
nod. nod. scribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribblescribble...............

And I stood there and laughed to myself. Because I'm not sure what it says about my parenting, but here's the process I went through to figure out what pre-school my child would attend:
  • "Yo'! Amy...."
  • "Whad' up, Kafsky?"
  • "Are you sending Will to preschool this year?"
  • "Yeah."
  • "Where are you going?"
  • (She tells me the name)
  • "Do you like it?"
  • "Love it! The director rocks. You'd love her."
  • "Awesome."
Then I called them up and registered him over the phone. And I'm going to admit right here in this public forum for all to see that I am so irresponsible I didn't even tour the facility.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010


Attilla The Hun showed up at my house on New Year's Eve, and I accidentally let him in. It wasn't really my fault because he was cleverly disguised as my sweet little niece, so I didn't recognize him until it was too late. But it was him alright, looking for new territories to ravage. And also concealed somewhere in that little pint-sized body was his vicious army, hungry for blood and poised for invasion. They're amazing riders, those viral horsemen. And they knew just how to infiltrate the enemy. Skillfully. Stealthily. On command. And as night was falling, the command came hurling from her small body in the form of two lengthy barfs in the middle of our kitchen. Those well-armed, toxic little warriors were off and running, and there was no stopping the onslaught that was about to befall us.

We fought back (valiantly even!) but to no avail. One at a time, they took us all down. There's a reason Atilla and his army of Huns have a reputation for being cruel. Rapacious.* Fearsome. Trust me y'all. It's well earned. In fact, I'd describe the aftermath of the war-zone for you just to prove my point if my own mother wasn't involved. But I won't. Because frankly, she'd kill me.

But there were a few highlights that came out of that horrible night. I will warn you that they are, naturally, based around bodily-function humor. But even though they're kind of gross, they're still funny. And of course they are all attributed to Gibson -- the poor kid -- who bore the brunt of this brutal invasion. My sweet little Gibby, who, without meaning to tends to be one of the funniest kids I know, and can somehow make me crack up even when I feel like I want to die. Which is a gift. Even if he doesn't know it yet.

And so, without further ado, I present to you:

"Sincere Questions and a Brief Conversation with Dad over the Toilet in the Bathroom at 3:00 in the Morning".

Gibson: (Understanding that he is heaving from the very depths of his small body, yet not really understanding the concept of stomach bile.) Dad? Am I barfing pee?

Gibson: (After a particularly long and suffocating heave in which his body is trying to push out substance that is no longer there.) Dad? I think my barf is trying to kill me.

Gibson: (Speaking to his own body while hanging over the toilet.) Barf? Why do you hurt so much?

And my personal favorite......

Dad: (Cleaning up the first barf that happened on the floor.) Hmmmmmmm... Looks like there's some gum in there.

Gibson: Ummmm.... It's not mine.


* Are you impressed with my word? I was proud of myself when I wrote it. Here's the definition in case, like me, you need it:
1. Taking by force, plundering
2. Greedy, Ravenous
3. Subsisting on live prey.

Totally appropriate, no?

In case you are wondering, here's Atilla, in disguise:

You can see why I didn't recognize him.