Egg Hunt Etiquette

April 16, 2006 by Black Belt Mama · 4 Comments
Filed under: Growing Pains

My memories of Easter egg hunts are pretty tame. The most common place for an egg hunt for me was at my grandmother’s big back yard. The competition was my little sister, so it goes without saying that I was always a pretty happy camper post egg hunt.

I also have some memories of an egg hunt that my parents used to take us to at a local park. I honestly don’t know why they even call them egg hunts because really, who has to hunt for them when they’re right out in front of you? They really should call them "egg free-for-alls" because isn’t that what they usually end up being anyway? You show me an egg hunt, and I’ll show you at least a hand full of kids who leave with hurt feelings and some pent up frustration. The egg hunt etiquette that I followed at the local park egg hunt went something like this:

When someone starts the knee bend descent towards an egg, that egg is off limits. Once someone has "engaged" the egg in this manner, it’s time to move along.
If I am in the knee bend descent and another person should swoop in and try to take the egg that I have engaged, all bets are off, as in, do what needs to be done. You may: tell on kid, yell at kid, kick kid, etc.
If all else fails when dealing with a knee bend descent swipe attempt, quickly stomp on egg so that it really is pointless for anyone involved. Follow the "if I can’t have this egg, no one can have this egg" mentality as a last resort.
If someone does successfully swipe an egg once I have engaged the egg, then I am free to hate that person for all of eternity, and/or possibly "accidentally" tip their basket while they’re in the process of swiping someone else’s egg.

I believe it is a parent’s responsibility to teach their children these unwritten rules of childhood. I certainly don’t want or condone either of my children being bullies. However, I want them to know that it’s o.k. to stand up for themselves too. Which brings me to today’s events. . . Big I has never been to a regular egg hunt. Her experience is much like most of mine were. The egg hunt takes place at Mom-Mom’s house and she has had no competition and probably won’t from Lil C until at least next year. This year, I decided that it would be fun to go to a different egg hunt to let her be around other kids. After all, children must be indoctrinated into the egg hunt free-for-all at some point.

I wanted to give Big I some "tips" before the actual hunt, but she spent the two previous nights at Mom-Mom’s house, so I didn’t have the time to really pass on my knowledge. Seeing as the egg hunt actually took place at a church, I was unsure if my egg rules would really be appropriate. O.k. I know they’re not appropriate, but even kids at church can get competitive, right?

So, the egg hunt started with an Easter party that involved story time and crafts. The kids traced their hands and then pasted cotton balls onto the hand print to make it look like a little lamb. I’m not a particularly crafty person so I was pretty lost. I think Big I was too, judging from the way her lamb turned out. I mean, it’s cute and all, but it looks more like a hand with cotton balls on it than anything else.

Then, there was the little boy sitting across the table from her who kept "smelling something" (that I’m sure he dealt himself), and accusing someone in the vicinity of letting loose with their nether-regions. My husband and I recently taught Big I another unwritten rule of childhood, to use the phrase, "he who smelt it dealt it," but instead she just glared and kept on gluing. I’m telling you, teaching your children the childhood rules are just not easy these days, and getting them to follow through with them is even harder!

So, finally it was time for the egg hunt. The kids were grouped according to age and Big I was one of the youngest in the group, having just turned 5. We made our way to the starting line and the eggs were all lying out in the grass for everyone to see. There were eggs and candy and I thought for sure that Big I would feel like she hit the lottery and come back with only candy. The kids started and everyone else started running, doing the practically walking on all fours thing, to get to the eggs and candy faster. Then there was Big I.

Big I tentatively walked into the field and contemplated each egg. She would notice one, take some time to observe it, maybe bend a bit towards it, and then slowly pick it up and put it in her basket, if the mood moved her. Then she would walk a few steps, ever so slowly, and start the observation/contemplation process all over again. I couldn’t help but say to my Mom, who was along for the fun, "What is she doing?" My competitive nature made me yell out, "Come on! Pick up the eggs!" Still her process continued at the same pace.

When everything was finally picked up, Big I made her way back to me and had five eggs in her basket, which was WAY more than I thought she’d have considering how she practically gave each one a job interview before picking it up. In her basket there was not a piece of candy to be found. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had it in her head that since I had been talking about taking her to an egg hunt, perhaps she thought eggs were the only thing she was allowed to pick up. "Maybe since we’re at a church egg hunt, she thinks the candy was put there by the devil to tempt her," I said to my Mom. One little girl standing nearby heard us remark that Big I was without a single piece of candy. She offered some of hers to Big I. I mean, obviously this was not your average egg hunt; and it’s probably good that my rules were kept to myself.

Before heading back in, I asked Big I to give me one last smile with her basket of eggs (o.k. actually a first smile because there were no smiles during the course of this hunt.)

Man, she was thrilled. Can’t you tell?

Inside, when she realized we were leaving she finally gave up the pearly whites. Apparently, competitive natures are not passed down in the genes; and I need to seriously start making some peace with that NOW.

Tags:

Weirdness

April 12, 2006 by Black Belt Mama · 8 Comments
Filed under: Tales from the dojo

I have become accustomed to about 60 visitors a day to my site. So, you can understand why I seriously almost sent my iced tea flying out my nose when I checked my visitor stats and saw 535 visitors this afternoon since midnight. What the? Amalah.com Amalah.com Amalah.com-referring website? Huh? I mean, I know I tagged Amalah last night, but I never expected that Amalah would be such a good sport. Even if she decided to complete the tagging task, I NEVER in a million years thought that I would get not one, but TWO links from her post back to my site. As it stands this evening, I have had 1050 visitors today. OH. MY. GOD.

I remember when I first discovered Dooce, and I read on her bio page about how "dooced" had become a word with multiple meanings. One of the definitions was to be "dooced," as in she mentions you or includes a link to your site and you experience a HUGE, mind-blowing influx of traffic. Well, I am here to say that I have officially been "amalahed." All you blog traffic sites ain’t got nothin’ over being amalahed. I hope that some of the Amalah traffic will like what they read enough to come back again sometime. And now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .

Tonight at karate I found out something weird about myself. If you have any experience in the martial arts, you know how to make a knife hand and can skip to the next paragraph. If you don’t, a knife hand is a strike in karate, like a punch. Instead though, your hand remains straight, not balled up in a fist. All fingers stay smack against each other. It slices through the air like a knife, thus the name "knife hand." When you make this knife hand, your thumb is supposed to be slightly bent in, towards your open palm.

Since I became a 5th kyu green belt a few weeks ago, my instructor has been watching me like a hawk it seems. Now seems to be the time to go back and reexamine everything, even the simple stuff. Is my punch aimed at the right spot? Are the knuckles facing the right direction? Are the blocks ending at the right place? etc. etc. etc. Tonight, my instructor came over while we were reviewing the 10 step blocking drill and started staring intently at my knife hands. Something was obviously very wrong.

"Bend your thumb in when you do knife hands," my instructor said. And then a strange thing happened. I bent my thumb the way I was supposed to. . .and my pointer finger came along for the ride. Not all of it, but the portion from the top knuckle to the end of my finger. I tried again. The same thing happened. My instructor stared more intently. "Can you keep your other finger straight?" Apparently, I can not. Everyone else can do it: my classmates, my husband, my daughter, even my Mom because I called her to trick her into showing that she has a pulley thumb too so I could blame genetics once again. . . the woman, her hands work properly. What is up with that?

I can see myself now, having to explain to the panel of black belts at testing a few years from now, why my knife hands just don’t look like everyone else’s and how they should just pass me anyway. I’m unique; who cares that my thumb and forefinger are apparently very in touch with each other? That one can’t move without the other. It’s weird. I wish I had known this last night for the whole weird post.

Speaking of explaining things, would someone please tell me how to explain daylight savings to a 5-year old? Whenever we go anywhere in the evening, we have this conversation:

Big I: Mommy, is it morning (pronounced "more nang") or night?

Me: It’s night.

Big I: Well (said with ‘tude), it looks like morning.

Me: Well, it’s not. It’s evening or night, whatever you want to call it.

Big I: But it looks like morning.

Me: Listen, Big I, there are three parts to the day: morning, afternoon, and evening. Right now is what we call ‘early evening.’ It’s closer to bedtime than it is to breakfast.

Big I: But it’s light outside.

Me: I know, but that’s because of the time change. We change the clocks and then it looks like it’s still day time but it’s really night.

Big I: I don’t get it.

Several minutes pass. . .

Big I: Is it morning or is it night?

Me (defeated): Night.

Big I: Do I have to get in jammies when we get home?

Me: Yes, please.

Big I: But it looks like morning.

And it continues. . . sort of like shampoo instructions, "lather, rinse, repeat" except in this scenario, it’s just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, until the last strand of sanity is completely washed down the figurative drain. I seriously start to get annoyed and then just start cracking up laughing, (which annoys and confuses her worse).

Occasionally, she gives me this line after this endless loop of a conversation:

Big I: Never mind, I will just ask my daddy when I get home. . . he’s really smart.

This is what she pulled on me the other night when she asked how dinosaurs had babies. When I told her they hatched out of eggs, she cracked up laughing, said, "no, no, no" and then the whole "I’ll ask daddy thing," which really burns me up. I mean, I know I married a valedictorian and all, but it’s not like I’m the missing link or anything. . . but come to think of it. . . has anyone seen a monkey’s hands?

Tags:

Six Weird Things

April 12, 2006 by Black Belt Mama · 10 Comments
Filed under: 100 Things and Other Stuff

I was just enjoying some late night me time, surfing through my regular reads in the blog world, when I was tagged by The Pajama Mama. I’m feeling sort of honored and all, since I don’t really have any personal friends in the blogging world. Then again, the pj lady tagged everyone who visited so I guess I’m just a victim of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. 😉

So, after wracking my brain for 100 things the other night, now I need six weird things, as if there wasn’t enough weirdness in my list to begin with.

I have action plans for everything.
I have ridiculously long arms. Seriously, it is a rare find when I bring home a long sleeved shirt that truly has long enough sleeves. (My karate instructor tells me this is an asset for sparring; all I know is that it’s made dressing myself a lot more difficult.)
I love the beach, but only go in the ocean up to my knees. (Sharks, duh!)
I never tried any type of seafood until I was in college (unless you count fish filets drowned in ketchup.)
I like my eggs scrambled with salsa and cheese.
I have never had a cavity.

I am now required to choose six people to tag, and according to The Pajama Mama, "after YOU get tagged, you have to go back to the blog of the person who tagged you and let them know you have fullfilled your tagging obligation and put up your list of six things. That means you have to come back HERE and let me know you put up a post with your six items."

I don’t know if any of you will do this or not, but I’m one of those people who gets the silly forwarded emails and decides I have to send it along to exactly seven people or else bad things will happen, so it only makes sense that I would feel a strong obligation to complete this task as well. So, I am tagging:

Mrs. W or Butterbean’s Biscuits
J of Thinking About. . .
City Slicker Mom
Amalah, who I’m guessing will probably pass on doing this, but I would LOVE to see her weird things.
the weirdgirl
Jody of and baby makes 6!

If I didn’t tag you, but the mood moves you, feel free to let me know your six weird things too! That means you, lurkers and non-blogging friends!

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Soaring to New Heights

April 11, 2006 by Black Belt Mama · Comments Off
Filed under: Growing Pains

Today we had well visits for both Big I and Lil C. It was fun, let me tell you. Of the two: a 5-year old or a 6-month old, who would you guess would be the problem child? If you guessed the 5-year old, you would be correct. Big I is an awesome kid; she just doesn’t particularly care for doctors. If mothers earned "belts" for accomplishments in motherhood the way students earn belts in karate, I would be a black belt easily after making it through today.

Unfortunately, my eldest daughter takes after me. I hate doctors, always have, and always will. This is why I had a midwife deliver Lil C, because I was not going through it with an MD again. From the moment Big I woke up today, she was MISERABLE, whining, complaining, and asserting that she simply would not go to the doctor’s appointment; she would instead hide and we would "never ever ever find her." In the end, she dragged her sad little feet out the front door and into the car. As we pulled in to the doctor’s office, she left out one final wail of defeat. Lil C sat there smiling at her.

I honestly don’t know which is worse: having to go twice (once for each kid), or going once and getting it over with. We left this house at 2 p.m. We returned home at 3:50. The doctor was running an hour behind. NIGHTMARE much? When we finally made it back to the check-up room, my husband and I had to split up. I went with Big I for height/weight, eyes, and ears. This was the first time that Big I had to do the hearing and vision tests. You would have thought she was having teeth pulled. I honestly felt like the child had eaten lead for breakfast and that it had settled in her feet as I dragged her from ear test to vision test and back to the exam room.

Lil C? Smiled at the nurse weighing her and reached up for her to hold her. My husband definitely had the easier job.

When the doctor finally came in, Lil C grinned ear to ear at him. Big I sulked and cowered in the chair beside her daddy. She went first and did fine, except for the fact that every question the doctor asked her, had the response of "doh," Homer Simpson style instead of a simple, "no." She finished up and Lil C was ready to roll.

When Big I was a baby (and even now), the doctor had to take our word for it that she could: roll, sit up, push up, stand up, etc. She never behaved particularly well at the doctor’s office. After she turned a year old, I needed to start training in order to be in shape enough to hold the child at the doctor’s office. I left in a sweat each time and with a massive headache. Lil C is nothing short of a show-off. When placed on her belly, and the doctor asked us if she was pushing up or attempting to crawl, she got onto her hands and knees as if on cue and started rocking back and forth while cracking up laughing.

The doctor finished up and the nurses came in to double team Big I since she needed two vaccines. We were of the "wait and see if she gets the pox" thinking. She didn’t get it, so she had to get that today in order to enter school in the fall. She also needed a DTaP vaccine. She squirmed and cried, yelled and moaned, and only stopped after we were back inside the safety of our home for a while. As we were exiting the doctor’s office, I’m pretty sure she scared the daylights out of at least three waiting room dwelling children with her proclamations of, "It HURT sooooo bad," and "My arms hurt." Throughout the evening, she still had an occasional crying jag, just thinking about the horrible horror nightmarish hell of it all. Lil C had to get one vaccine today. She pouted and started to fuss and then wrapped it up with a grin within about 10 seconds. Could these girls be more different?

So, after all the measurements today, here’s how the gals stack up:

Big I- 97th percentile for height; between 75th-90th for weight

Lil C- off the charts for height and has been for the last three visits; between 75th-90th for weight

It got me to thinking about how tall they will be when they’re fully grown. I went on those height predictors on the web at about.com and this is what it said about Big I.

Your Child’s Predicted Height Results:

A (female) child who is 3 feet and 9.25 inches at 5 years of age has a predicted future height of:

172.5 cm, or

5 feet 7.9 inches

This seemed rather short to me considering the skyscraper genes that this child has. So, I plugged in the numbers based on my height (5’9") and my husband’s height (6’3") and it told me this:

Your Child’s Genetic
Potential for height is:

5 feet 9.5 inches

I was still a little surprised. Reason being? My mother is 5’4". My dad is 5’10". I am 5’9". So, I plugged in my parent’s heights; and apparently I have exceeded my genetic potential and then some because I got this:

Your Child’s Genetic
Potential for height is:

5 feet 4.5 inches

So, based on this, I am going to add 4.5" to Big I’s genetic potential height and that would make her 6′ 1.5" when full grown. Look out Gabby Reese! You may have some competition coming. Then again, considering all the drama today, Big I may be better suited for a career in theater. We’ll find out soon because she just started an acting class. I’m hoping that maybe she’ll learn how to at least act the part of a warrior at karate class. And, let’s be perfectly honest, isn’t every parent secretly hoping their kid hits it big and eventually buys them a beach house as thanks for all those classes that were so crucial during the formative years?

To be honest though, I’m just glad today’s festivities are officially over. I’ll worry about the beach house later.

Tags:

100 Things

April 9, 2006 by Black Belt Mama · 3 Comments
Filed under: 100 Things and Other Stuff

I’ve seen these on a lot of blogs I read. I thought it would be fun to try. It took me FOREVER. Enjoy!

I am not a morning person, at all.
I have auditioned for two reality tv shows.
One rejected my husband and I because we "looked too good." (A Makeover Story)
I have dated two valedictorians in my life.
I married the second one.
I was the first one of my friends to get married.
I was the first one of my friends to have a baby.
My favorite alcoholic drink is the margarita.
Bass is my favorite beer.
I drink entirely too much iced tea.
I’ve been to Disney World six times.
I honeymooned in St. Lucia.
I HATE the Sandals resort and will NEVER go back ever ever ever.
The only bone I ever broke was my finger.
I broke it when I got hit by a car while riding my bike.
I have always wanted to learn karate.
Until age 29 I was too afraid to try.
I have beat up three people in my life.
Two of them were guys.
All of them deserved it
All of them were pre-karate.
I was in a major car accident while in college.
I’m still terrified of tractor trailer’s because of it.
I love the Outer Banks, NC.
I have been there at least 15 times.
My favorite color is blue.
Almost every shirt I own is blue (sad, but true).
You know all those political signs on the sides of roads? I put them there last election.
I voted for Bush, and am proud of it. (Please address all hate mail related to this comment to yourself. You’ll feel better getting it out of your system; and I’ll feel better because I won’t have to waste time hitting delete.)
I love playing fantasy football.
I HATE losing.
I am EXTREMELY competitive.
I met my husband when I was 19.
I got married when I was 23.
I had my first baby when I was 26.
I cry when I pack up baby clothes that is too small.
I had two babies and never got an epidural.
I had looonnnnggg labors.
I only said two mean things to my husband during the course of those labors, one for each baby.
I did swear quite a bit.
My first concert was Vanilla Ice.
I once looked like Vanilla Ice when my aunt waxed my eyesbrows and seriously screwed up.
As an adult, I went to see Justin Timberlake.
My husband and I were the only ones old enough to drink beer (unless you count the dad chaperones).
I love Prince.
I’ve been at concerts from his last two tours and they were awesome.
And I did wear purple and black.
People tell me I look like Meryl Streep.
myheritage.com tells me I look like Jennifer Aniston, Emma Thompson, and Sarah Jessica Parker
I hate Star Wars.
My husband hates that I hate Star Wars.
I suffered through the last movie in the theatre while extremely pregnant.
I studied French for five years.
I only know the swear words.
I studied Spanish for one semester in college.
I only know what Shakira has taught me.
I have been published a hand full of times.
I love Mexican food.
I don’t like to cook.
But I make a great chicken marsala.
Until adulthood, I was always better friends with guys.
Now, I have a hand full of great girl friends whom I couldn’t live without.
I am very opinionated.
I am easily annoyed.
I am NOT a touchy-feely person.
Guys in high school were afraid of me.
With good reason (see # 21)
I considered myself a feminist until I took a women’s studies class.
Now I think that a lot of feminists screwed things up for women. (Regarding hate mail, see #28)
I gave birth with the help of a midwife.
I went home the same day I gave birth.
I’m obsessed with 24, Lost, and Grey’s Anatomy.
I played field hockey in high school.
I play tennis now.
I don’t feel like I’m in my 30’s.
Most people don’t think I’m in my 30’s. (At least that’s what they say.)
I am extremely overprotective when it concerns my daughters and my little sister.
I like rap music.
I LOVE to dance.
I don’t like to work out.
I do love playing sports.
I am addicted to dark chocolate.
I am not a fan of anything Clinton.
I am a brutally honest person.
Probably too honest sometimes.
I have a hard time saying "No" when asked to help/volunteer, etc.
I check on my baby’s breathing at least four times each night.
I hit my husband and tell him to roll over because of his snoring at least four times each night.
I can’t stand people who litter.
I have parking lot road rage.
I have about 4000 pictures of my kids displayed in my house.
I still don’t think that’s enough.
I’m tall for a girl.
But I can’t play basketball to save my life.
I will occasionally sing karaoke, usually after a margarita or four, but only when I’m out of state.
If I do, I usually sing Macy Gray, Pebbles or B-52’s.
But, I am most amused when my husband sings ACDC. He is seriously good!
I never intended to be a stay at home Mom.
I changed my mind when I felt my first daughter kick.
I feel that staying home is the best decision I have ever made.