C'mon, Let Us Adore Him

Each Christmas we discover something new. Considering how many songs are repeated, how many ornaments are the same, and how many traditions are reenacted, finding the new is nothing short of miraculous. This year? We've found the Lou Rawls Christmas album which, I promise you, is unlike any Christmas album you've heard before. Check it out. Put his version of O Come All Ye Faithful into Pandora. You will get into the Christmas spirit.

Also, we have a new Nativity tradition. Ryan and I have always included some interesting characters who've come to see the baby Jesus. Our scene has often looked like this:

This year, however, we've added a second Nativity scene, a creation of Her Majesty:

That's right! We now have a Nativity/Disney debutante ball.

Oh, well. As long as we all remember who's in the center of the scene, I suppose.

The Death of Feminism?

Her Majesty likes to disappear.

I usually start looking in all of the places she shouldn’t be, and I almost always find her in front of my make up drawer. This morning, she has slipped away and I find her poised in front of the open drawer running her fingers against the end of a large brush.

“What are you doing?” I know the answer, but for some reason motherhood requires I ask the question anyway.

“Making my eyes pretty,” she says with a grin.

I put her glasses back on and pick her up to better examine her eyes. “But your eyes are already pretty. You don’t need make up.” I twirl her for good measure and place her back on the floor.

She points proudly to her left eye. “But this one is prettier because I put the pink stuff on it. I like the pink stuff.”

I sigh. “I know you like the pink stuff, but are you supposed to be in my make up?”

“No.”

I usher her out of the bathroom, through the bedroom and into the hall where she turns to look at me. “You forgot to put your make up on!”

“Maybe I don’t want to put on make up.”

“Why?”

“Maybe make up is based on the needs of a now defunct patriarchal society but advertized as a necessity in order to drive up sales for a product I don’t really need.”

She considers this for a minute. “But it would make you prettier. Maybe if you added a little lipstick…”

And it’s moments like these where, for just a moment, I think I’m having a conversation with my mother instead of my daughter. 

Her Majesty and the Royal Wedding

So, I had no intention of watching the Royal Wedding.

Once upon a time, I was involuntarily roused at o'dark thirty to see the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Di.  I also saw Andrew and Fergie's wedding.  In the interest of curtailing divorce among the Royals, I felt it would be best if I left William and Kate alone.  To tell you the truth, I had forgotten all about it.

Her Majesty requested one of her favorite programs, The Cat in the Hat Knows a Lot about That, or as she likes to say, The Hat in the Cat.  I dutifully turned to PBS only to discover they were covering the Royal Wedding--I'm guessing it was a replay.  Her Majesty says, "What's that?"

"The Royal Wedding.  Do you want to go back to the Disney Channel?"

"No! I want The Hat in the Cat!"

I bite my tongue to keep from commenting on how that arrangement must be painful for the cat.  "Sweetie, they've pre-empted the cartoons to cover the Royal Wedding."

"But why?"

"Because there are a lot of people who want to see it."

"But why?"

"Know how we don't have kings and queens in the United States?"

"Uh-huh."

"Great Britain still has a king and a queen, and one of the princes is getting married.  People see it as a sort of fairy tale.  Kinda like watching Ariel's wedding to Prince Eric or Tiana's wedding to Prince Naveen."

"I'd rather see The Hat in the Cat."


"Your dissent is duly noted.  How about Little Einsteins instead?"

No answer.  Only an impressive royal pout.  Apparently, the only Royal Wedding that's going to matter to Her Majesty will be her own.

The Apocalypse is Nigh, or What Happened as I Put the Dawdlekids to Bed

I should have known I was in for an interesting evening when brother and sister hunched around the trash can to peel their clementines together.  While humming Stars and Stripes Forever at the top of their respective lungs.  Another clue I was currently residing in an alternate universe centered on how Her Majesty has been singing a variety of songs to the tune of the Peaches and Herb classic: Shake Your Groove Thing.  We started with “It’s April Fool’s Day, April Fool’s Day…yeah,yeah” and progressed to “I am awesome, I am awesome..yeah, yeah” to “Take my shoes off, take my shoes off…yeah,yeah.”  It is possible I have exposed my children to entirely too much disco.  I blame Pandora.

Anyhoo, the littlest one took her turn at Just Dance and went to the bathroom willingly only to request a “manzana” immediately after her bath.  How better to stall a former Spanish teacher than to demonstrate you’ve learned a new word in Spanish?  I, of course, caved and let her have an apple.  The Hobbit fixed his own cereal then went to the bathroom with considerably more prodding.  He, of course, had to see a man about a horse.  Why equine negotiations can’t take place at another time of day, I don’t know.  I suppose I could scout out the stables to see if the deal was legit, but I really didn’t want to.  By the time he emerged, I was trying to dry Her Majesty’s hair.  At this point, he had to poke his little sister until she giggled causing her to move around and making it very hard to dry her hair.  Even better, the two of them started singing her rendition of You are My Sunshine. You know, the one that includes the verse “you smack me happy when skies are gray.”  Much playful smacking ensued.

I threatened him to within an inch of his life and he jumped in the shower, but I still had to brush Her Majesty’s teeth.  While I wrestled with the toothpaste cap, she flung back the shower curtain to hear her brother squeal like a girl.  At some point anti-Justin Bieber sentiment was also expressed.  Why that came up in the bathroom, I’ll never know.  

Now, here’s the kicker:  before she went to bed, Her Majesty WILLINGLY started picking up toys without being asked.  Again, it’s really late and she needs to be in bed, but what am I supposed to say?  Quit cleaning your room? I think not.  I have prayed for this day.  I had not, however, prayed she would be singing Rick Astley as she cleaned.  (If you haven’t seen Beaker as Rick Astley, you really must) Just as I get her settled into bed, the Hobbit emerges wearing nothing but a towel and shouting “To-ga party! To-ga! To-ga! To-ga!”  I have to chase him from the room amidst Her Majesty’s giggles.  In retrospect, I probably should have at least paused to complement him on his creative over-the-shoulder fastening of said toga/towel, but I guess I’m just not a good mother.

By that point, I knew I needed to write all of this down so I came in and started to type.  I realized it was quiet.  Too quiet.  I went to turn off The Hobbit’s light, and he asks oh-so politely, “Can I please finish the last chapter?”  Foiled again!  Not only am I sucker for reading, but he’s reading a classic—The Time Machine—and he knows I know he needs to take more AR tests at school.  So here I am typing while he is finishing his chapter.  Here I go to hopefully put the last Dawdlekid to bed….

And, miraculously, he has finished the book and is ready for bed.  It’s 9:08, at least 30 minutes later than when the two of them should be in bed.  If anyone had told me having children would be, at times, akin to living in an episode of The Muppet Show, I would have laughed in her face.  But I would have been wrong.

And if you think this is some kind of elaborate April Fool’s joke, you, too, are wrong.  I’m a writer, and I can’t make this sh*t up.

The Cereal Bar Standoff

I often thank the good Lord He saw fit to have me teach for a while before I had children.  Believe it or not, teenagers and toddlers are not that different.  For that matter, teenagers and four-year-olds are not that different, either.  Who knew those eight years of figuring out who was chewing gum, who had the cell phone that was ringing, and who actually threw the paper wad would all pay off some day?

Her Majesty doesn't like breakfast, an it is a struggle to get her to eat anything other than Cheeze-its or, say, a bowl of shredded cheddar.  This morning I fixed chocolate milk and handed her a cereal bar.  She gamely ate two thirds of the cereal bar and drank about three quarters of the milk before trying to hand both back to me.  I said, "You need to finish your breakfast.  Then I'll get you some blueberries."

Normally the promise of blueberries would inspire great feats like lifting one end of an Escalade, but today? Nothing.  I walked over to the chair and saw that she had neither cereal bar nor milk.  My eyes shifted to the breakfast room table where the sippy cup of milk sat across from the trash can.  My eyes narrowed.

"Lorelai, did you put your cereal bar in the trash can?"

[In the distance a lonely western whistle. Tumbleweeds float across the living room behind me.]

She cocked her head to one side. "Did you SEE the cereal bar in the trash can?"

My eyebrows leaped up to my hair line because I no longer had to see to believe.  "Did. You. Put. Your. Cereal bar. In. The. Trash. Can?"

Her eyes shifted to the left. "Yes."

I blow away the figurative smoke from my figuratively smoking six shooter and break out the standard mom lectures on the importance of a) not lying to/misleading your mother and b) eating breakfast.  Today I won the showdown of truth and cereal bars.

But tomorrow I may not be so lucky.

Her Majesty: The Musical

So, yesterday afternoon was fun.  Her Majesty decided to sing all of her responses between one and three.  It started in the potty. (italics indicate song)

Me:  You okay in there?

Her Majesty: Yes, but I have to poooottt-ttteeeee.

Me: You gonna let me know when you’re done? (A question I asked because there was a plunger in that bathroom. And I was deeply concerned.)

Her Majesty: I am done, I am done, but now I have to wiiiiiiipe my bot….tom.

Me: O….kay

Her Majesty: I have wiped my booty-booty, and I now I MUST…..wash my hands, wash my hands, wash my hands.

Then, she started singing about snack time:

Me: Okay, little lady, what do you want for your snack?

Her Majesty: (in an almost Figaro-like melody) Blueberries, blueberries, blue…ber….RIES!!!!

And then as she played with her new Princess Leia doll:

Her Majesty:  Now you need your man look, your man look, your man look.  Then you’ll wear that girl look, that girl look, or THAT….girl….look.

(And for those of you wondering, Leia’s “man look” is the sweat suit looking outfit she wears on Hoth in The Empire Strikes Back. The “girl look” includes any and everything from the infamous bikini to one of her other dresses.)

A Typical Kilpatrick Sunday

Things get tense in the Kilpatrick house when The Hobbit is signed up for sports.

First, he inherited absolutely no athletic ability from his mother.  Second, his introverted nature is such that his natural inclination is to shy away from large groups of people, a tendency that does not bode well for sports like soccer and basketball.  In the meantime, Ryan and I have to wrestle with Her Majesty who can't understand why the spotlight isn't on her.  Today's refrain was, "I'm hungry. Why can't I have a snack?"  No matter how many times I pointed out to her that only the athletes had snacks, she persisted in her need for a Capri Sun and some Cheeze-its. 

So, while Ryan clutched the Flip and I wrestled with Her Majesty, Connor sat out the first part of the game.  Then the second.  Finally, as the opposing team put their first string back in, he got to enter the game.  As the only guy among girls.  Suffice to say, he didn't have a great first basketball practice/game.  On the way home, a general discussion about his surly attitude led to a discussion of gratitude.

Me:  You've got to start focusing on what you have instead of what you don't have.

The Hobbit:  (with curled lip) What does that have to do with anything?

Me:  [insert typical mother's rant here about children who don't have food, clothing or shelter much less enough toys for a small specialty shop] So, you can see you have a lot to be grateful for.  There are a lot of children in this country who are going hungry tonight.

Her Majesty:  Like me!

Me: (under my breath):  Help me, Jesus.

Her Majesty:  Oh, He will.  I'll make Him help you!

And, thanks to the littlest one, the tension evaporated into laughter.  Now all are fed and sassy, and I'm left to contemplate how Her Majesty got a direct line to the Big Guy. 

Well, and to wonder what possessed me to sign the oldest child up for basketball.

Her Majesty's Treatise on Bears

This all started with the song Lorelai was singing on the way home from preschool, a song in a Native American tongue that I have yet to identify.  I swear I have to start tape recording these car conversations:

Lorelai sings her song

[pause]

Lorelai:  I’m so hungry I could eat a bear.

Mom: You need to be careful because the bear might eat you.

Lorelai:  Do you want to eat a bear?

Mom:  No, they’re probably tough and all gristle.

Lorelai:  Indians ate the whole bear and the gristly skin.

Mom:  Yes, Indians believed in using every part of any animal that they caught.

[pause]

Lorelai:  But you can’t eat bears.

Mom:  That’s right

Lorelai:  Because they will eat you.

Mom:  They might.  It’d be a good idea to stay out of any bear’s way.

[pause]

Lorelai:  And bears will scratch you with their sharp fingernails.

Mom: Claws?

Lorelai:  Yes, bears have sharp claws, and they will scratch you.  Or eat you.  Or maybe scratch you.

[pause]

Lorelai:  Some bears are mean.

Mom:  Just some bears?

Lorelai: [deliberates] No, all bears are mean.

Mom:  Okay, all bears are mean.

Lorelai:  Except gummy bears.  Gummy bears are nice.

Mom:  Okay, all bears are mean except Gummy bears.

Lorelai:  Some bears live in the jungle.

Mom:  Do all bears live in the jungle?

Lorelai:  Noooooo!  Yes, all bears live in the jungle.

Mom:  What about polar bears?

Lorelai:  [decides to ignore that exception to her blanket proclamation] But bears will eat you if you try to eat them first!

Mom:  [Noncommittal agreement noise]

Lorelai:  Can we go to Chick-fil-a?

Why Her Majesty Wakes me Up...

It's five o' clock in the morning, and Lorelai is shrieking. As any good mother would do, I race down the hall and throw back the door.
"What's wrong, baby?"

She's sitting up, but I can only tell that by the shadow. Her little shoulders shake with sobs, "You pushed the elevator button."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Next time I'll let you push the button. Now, go back to--"

"No, the doors closed and you left me! You left me!"

"It was just a bad dream, now put your head on the pillow and dream of something nice like ice cream."

"Okay."

The door creaks as I close it, and I shake my head. Three months ago SHE was the one who jumped in the elevator and let the doors close on ME before I raced down three flights of stairs to catch her. So, who should be having the nightmare here?