I Wish I Was a Little Bit Taller; I Wish I was a Baller…
Today was an absolutely beautiful day and so we spent most of it outside. Our first outing was to the park. Big I wanted to play on the playground. My husband had a different idea. Considering Big I will soon be five and she’s as tall as the average 7-year old, my husband is convinced that she will be a stellar basketball player and that it is his mission in life to help her get there. That’s all fine and good, but I keep telling him he needs to face the fact that Big I may have inherited my basketball genes, and that is simply not good. My husband also insists that with the proper training, at 5’9" I "should be" good at basketball too. Although I hit that height in about the 9th grade, field hockey was always my sport and basketball and I just never meshed. Honestly, I never understood a sport that has such ridiculously high scores. I mean, seriously, at least hockey players appreciate every goal they score because they may have worked 20 minutes or more for it. How exciting is it when there’s a point every two seconds? But anyway, back to the park. . .
While I set up camp on the bench with the sleeping Lil C, Mr. B coaxed Big I out onto the court as she longingly looked at the playground equipment. Picture this, Daddy wearing sweatshirt, gym shorts, baseball hat and sneakers bounding off to the basketball court with energy. In direct contrast, Big I is wearing flowered capri pants, light-up magic wand sneakers, a pink princess shirt, and her prized Disney Princess sun hat, dragging those light up shoes along the grass like she was a dead man walking. Despite this, it started out well enough, with my husband lifting Big I up to shoot baskets. But then my husband decided it was time to practice passing. "Let’s pass the ball," he said excitedly as he tossed the ball in her direction. Let’s just say that what happened next can only be described as Big I trying to catch the ball with her nose. It wasn’t pretty. Crying erupted, tears rolled their way down her face, and I seriously thought all was lost. We made our way to the playground as we wiped tears and this time it was Daddy dragging his feet.
The playground proved to be quite fun though. My husband and I decided that we should all play a spirted game of tag. Mr. B and I decided to play all out and chased each other around the playground until we were out of breath (about two minutes). Big I didn’t quite get it. She was "it" and ran towards me to tag me. I stopped and faced her, squatting slightly so I could easily get away in either direction. She took it as an attack stance and ran the opposite direction screaming. We tried to explain that she was "it," so there was no reason for her to run from us, but it just didn’t sink in. She continued to play on the playground while Mr. B and I toyed with the idea of starting an adult tag league. We finally gave up on the playground since Mr. B convinced Big I that it was time for Part II of basketball training.
We made our way over to the court, with Lil C still sleeping soundly in her stroller. It was soon obvious that Big I had absolutely no interest. I thought I would try to encourage her and asked Mr. B if he’d like to play HORSE. Big I could be my helper, which consisted of us cheating by stealing the ball from Daddy whenever possible. There was lots of whining from Big I, and I wasn’t too happy either as I quickly became a "HO." Soon after my husband found it hysterically funny that I was now a "HOR." As he laughed, the inevitable happened. . . the basketball hit the backboard and beaned Big I right in the side of the head. This time the crying was about twice as loud and we knew our time at the park was over. We drove away from the park with Daddy trying to convince Big I that no one is good when they first start playing. I tried to convince Mr. B to come to grips with the fact that I very well may have given birth to someone who would just rather sing princess ballads than play sports. Sigh. . .
Basketball Daddy? Did Cinderella play basketball? I think NOT! And in case you were wondering, YES, those are socks on my hands! I prefer to call them "gloves."
NOISE!!!
A few days ago, my 5-month old started a new sound. It’s something like a deep inhale, a noisy gasp for air, that had me thinking that something was definitely wrong. Granted, I’ve been around the parenting block once before so I should know that new sounds happen. It’s just that "Lil C" is so good at making these sounds that are so unique and LOUD, that sometimes they kind of scare me. "Big I" was a much more quiet baby. So, it’s taken some getting used to, the fact that Lil C is always trying to outdo her sister. It scared me until I noticed the sheer joy on her face after said sound was once again made. I guess Lil C figures she has to keep up with her big sister who has no shortage of "sounds" to put it nicely. It seems that Lil C has to continue inventing new sounds just to try to keep up with her Big Sister who happens to have big sounds constantly lately.
Want to know why??? It’s March. . . birthday March. For at least the past three years, March has arrived with a new temperament for Big I. Last year, when the birthday song singing commenced, my turning 4 year old, disappeared from the dining room with grandeur, screaming at the top of her lungs. As I was pregnant at the time and extremely emotional, I about cried on the carefully prepared Little Mermaid cake before Big I eventually decided that she would come down for cake and to continue her party, but only if we all promised there would be no singing. There was no singing, the party resumed and Big I started the beginning of the terrible 4’s, which are way worse (in my professional parenting opinion) than any terrible 2’s that could ever come my way. No one ever tells you about the Terrible 4’s! Terrible 2’s times two because they come with ATTITUDE!
Now, only nine days into March, Big I has started what I will lovingly refer to as "The Boisterous 5’s." In like a lion, these past few days have been full of all out screaming. The theory behind this one is, "she who screams loudest wins." When she doesn’t like the instructions you just gave her. . .talk louder than Mommy and she thinks she wins. When Daddy and Mommy are having a conversation and she wants to be heard, talk louder than both combined, double points. Big I has forced me to wonder why when children are born, there are not volume controls attached. It certainly would make parenting a bit easier. . .
Missed a Season
Filed under: Mental Strain for Mama
I was pregnant starting January of 2005. My spring/summer and early fall wardrobe consisted of oh so flattering maternity clothes (seriously, who am I kidding?). This was my second pregnancy and I know from the first one what a hit your wardrobe takes after missing the styles of last season. My wardrobe is lacking. . .my capri’s are all the wrong length apparently and frankly, I’m wondering how I’m going to pull off spring in general. Men’s styles just don’t change that often; they really should be the ones having the children. Women miss one season and as Heidi Klum of Project Runway would say, "You’re out!" So, tonight, I was trying to be "in."
For my birthday in February, my Mom gave me a new Vera Bradley backpack in one of the new spring colors, Java Blue. I love it, but how great is the bag if you’re wearing warm up pants and sneakers with it? So, my mission was to go to Old Navy since my gift card was burning a hole in my new bag and see what I could find.
Going shopping for clothing for yourself after having a baby is sort of like visiting a foreign country. All of the styles look a little off to you, and you feel like you’re in a strange and unfamiliar land. You also start to wonder if you’re just too damn old to be dressing like those "Daddy O" girls on the commercials. It’s also challenging when you have your two children and slightly disgruntled husband along for the ride, especially when there is so much ADORABLE children’s clothing. But, I looked at the kids clothing only briefly and promptly turned my back in search of my new fashion forward spring/summer wardrobe.
I went off to the dressing room with two skirts, four tanks and a sweater set. I was trying desperately to not be "me." I tried the same thing at the Clinique counter a few weeks ago and ended up buying a crap load of make-up that makes me look more like I should be working the streets than preparing for visits to the park with my girls. Anyway, that’s another story. I also took my 4-year old to the dressing room with me because she is brutally honest. Did I mention we went there after karate so we were both wearing our gi pants? (Picture white droopy poopy pants and you have a pretty accurate description.) The teen workers stationed in the dressing room were probably having the time of their life.
So, the skirts went well, so well in fact that I had to ask the girl working there exactly where on my waist/hip area the skirt was supposed to sit. This experience was sort of reminiscent of the Justin Timberlake concert I attended a few years back with my husband. (Yeah, I know, get your laughs out now.) I could not for the life of me understand what the heck the opening band called themselves, so I casually leaned over to the teenager beside me and asked her who they were. She looked at me like I was a complete loon when I coolly asked her if they were the "LMP’s" because that’s what it sounded like! Turns out they were the Black Eyed Peas. Who knew? They really should speak more clearly. Anyway, my Old Navy helper teen determined that I needed a smaller size and I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I stepped back in shock and awe, touched my chest and exclaimed, "Wow! Really?" as her helper teen went to retrieve my smaller size. My daughter said I looked "beautiful," and I knew they were both keepers. On to the tanks. . .
You know this whole layering look? I tried it and I bought two tanks (color coordinated with my new bag although I will NEVER admit to anyone who asks if I did that on purpose.) I don’t know if I’ll actually wear them layered. My daughter looked a little puzzled and said to me, "Mommy, why did you put that shirt on top of the other one? Did you just not feel like taking the first one off?" It’s hard to explain to a 4-year old that you’re trying to be "cool," so I didn’t try. I just said, "yes," and moved right along to the sweater set.
The sweater set was great and I bought it too. I bought it because I only own about 200 sweater sets right now and I could not live without this shade of blue. So, I will probably wear it with my wrong length capri’s and sneakers and decide not to leave the house in it until its sandal weather. This is what happens to me every spring. . . fashion dementia. This spring, it is multiplied because of the whole baby issue. I’ve been wondering why they don’t have a "Gymboree" for mommy’s so that we could be all coordinated and adorable the way our kids always are.
Oh well, at least my girls always look cute; and maybe I’ll decide to brave my new looks out of the house by the end of summer. For now, the tags are staying on until I make up my mind.
Karate Girls
I’m not really a black belt. . . at least not yet. But I will be some day soon. I am currently a 6th kyu green belt. I earned that green belt while eight months pregnant so I am quite proud of the fact that I could even kick at that point considering I was quite large, carrying oh so low and it was about 9000 degrees. (I had my daughter 10.4.05).
I was inspired to take karate by Laci Peterson, Lori Hacking, and other random female victims whose crimes against them just plain outraged me. Not that I am afraid of my husband, because I am not in the slightest. We’re fine. But, when the whole Lori Hacking thing was happening, I woke him from his sleep at about 1 a.m. after watching about three hours of constant coverage on the story to just let him know that if he ever tried that kind of crap on me, even if he succeeded, my ghost would come back and make his life a living hell. He laughed; he’s used to me.
I started taking karate with my then three-year old daughter and we both continue to go to this day. The proof that my soon-to-be five year old can kick butt??? Ask her Daddy to show you the quarter sized bruises all over his body from when they "spar." She can throw a wicked forearm and if you ask her where to hit a bad guy or gal. . . well, let’s just say that you shouldn’t really ask her that question in places like church, a restaurant, or well, anywhere in public because she will tell you, and loudly.
The cool thing about our karate is that we’re also learning how to use weapons. My personal favorite is the bo, which is a six foot long stick basically. Think back to the days of men or women carrying water jugs on either end of a long stick. It made a handy weapon. So would my swiffer to be quite honest; and don’t think for a second that I don’t practice with that thing while I’m making dinner. My daughter’s bo is actually a dowel from Home Depot and she knows how to use it too, although she prefers pretending it’s a "horsey" from time to time in class. Our instructor is quite amused at her imagination and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t think it was quite funny myself.
While I have the love affair with the martial arts, my daughter has a love/hate relationship with it. At home, she will rail on her daddy; but ask her to spar in class with a layer of padding thick enough to confuse her with the Pillsbury Dough Boy and she’ll demurely tell you that she "doesn’t want to hurt anyone." Regardless, I figure if its in her head and we reinforce it enough, she’ll remember it in case she ever needs it, God forbid.
I’m planning on starting my five month old daughter as soon as she can stand and kick. She had a jump start while in utero. My friends and family may think I’m insane for training my young daughter in karate already, but I figure if we start now, then by dating age they will both be black belts (along with their mama), and I’ll be able to relax a bit more than I would otherwise. Can you imagine the look on a young boys face when he shows up and sees his date’s mother whipping around a swiffer with gusto??? Priceless.
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