Something in My Boot

My feet are in constant danger -- and I blame Pixar.

Yes, that Pixar, the one that makes adorable movies for children using computer animation and the voices fo A list celebrities. You may recall that several of their movies, in fact, their sole franchise, feature a cowboy named Woody. Woody is not only a cowboy, but a toy as well, one that spouts various phrases when someone pulls his string. One of those phrases is "there's a

snake in my boot."

I wear boots almost every day. I love my boots. Meg loves Woody. Meg loves saying "there's a snake in my boot."

I think you can see where this is headed. Thank God we don't have any snakes in the house.

Every morning now I have to shake out my boots to see what treasures may be inside waiting to hobble me. Jewelry is one of Meg's favorites. Refrigerator magnets are too. The other day I put my foot in a boot without checking it first and pulled it out to find a plastic ballerina impaling my instep. I swear it was laughing at me.

Today's boot haul. The hat belongs to you know who...

Of course, every time I find one of these treasures Meg is right there to make sure I say the right thing, with the right inflection. With every thing I pull out and catalog her laughter gets a little louder. Then I ask her if she knows who put it in my boot and she says "no," even harder. I grab her and tickle her, asking over and over "did you put something in my boot" until she collapses into my arms for a cuddle. Then I put my boots on, and go off to work, thankful for the great kid I have.

Maybe I shouldn't blame Pixar. Maybe I should thank them. After all, what's a little toe pain in exchange for moments like that?

Still, I'm glad we don't have any snakes.

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Color and Race

I bungled my first conversation with Meg about race. To be fair though, I wasn't expecting it -- especially not in the middle of watching "Toy Story 3."

We were watching the movie the other night when Meg asked me if Woody's hat is black. No, I said, it's brown. Then she asked about Mr. Potato Head, was he black? Nope, I told her, he's brown. She asked about slinky dog next, and Mrs. Potato Head, and about Buster (the dog in the film). I told her none of them were black, they were all brown.

Then it dawned on me what was going on.

Somewhere Meg had picked up that she is black, and that it has to do with the color of her skin. Being the smart kid she is, who knows her colors, including the difference between black and brown, there was now some confusion. And I was doing nothing to help the situation.

I paused the movie and looked at Meg.

"Baby," I said, "your skin is the color brown. People may call it black, but it's color is brown. And no matter what color it is it is wonderful skin, and I love you very much."

"Is your skin brown," she asked.

"No, it's pink," I said. I figured that would be easier than explaining "pasty."

"Is Daddy's skin brown?"

"No, his is pink too, but we are your Mommy and Daddy and we love you."

Then she asked me to turn the movie back on and snuggled in.

After she went to bed I laid awake for about two hours after that wondering how I could have better handled it. Her skin isn't black, but she is. That black really has nothing to do with color and more with racial construct. That there are some people that have much darker skin than hers that will never be identified as black.

I started wondering if I should have brought up Dr. King. Then I remembered she is two.

I am hoping the next time I am better prepared. I am also hoping the next time is as innocent, and doesn't involve her feelings being hurt because of racism, or feelings of rejection due to a realization about the differences in our colors and what they mean.

I know those conversations are coming, I am just hoping that I am better at this when they do.

Oh, and that she still wants to snuggle with me after we are done talking.

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It's NOT for Dinner

One of the New Year's resolutions made in this household is to not eat out as often. We are doing it for all the normal reasons: to save money and cut calories -- in addition to the fact that restaurants currently seem to turn Meg into a Tasmanian devil type creature bent on destruction and visiting the bathroom at least a half dozen times.

Things have been going pretty well. We only ate out once in the past seven days, and that was with my parents, so among the four of us we each only had to take Meg to the bathroom twice. I had this week planned out perfectly too. Not only had I bought all of the food for (some of it with coupons!) but I had made a menu plan using items we already had in the freezer and the pantry.

It all went to shit tonight.

I had made Cholent before. Barley, beans, brisket -- beautiful and basic. Of course, before I had just let it cook on high in the crock pot for four hours. Today I had a meeting so I thought it would be okay to leave it on low for nine.

When I got home there really was no sign there was anything wrong. The house was still standing, and there was a lovely smell of beef and garlic in the air.

And that's when I looked in the crock pot.

What I found can best be described as cremains. Cremains covered in beef fat. All of the liquid was gone. The beans and barley had formed a crust around the pot that I am still trying to soak off four hours later. The beef was more than jerkified. I took a bite, thinking maybe it just looked bad, only to find it tasted worse.

All of that work. All of that planning. All of that not admitting I hate cooking at home, and smilingly making grocery lists and menu plans. All of it was now laughing at me, and filling my nose with the smell of ruined dinner.

I almost threw the damned thing through the plate glass window.

Ryan walked in during the middle of all of this and saw what was going on. With few words he scooped Meg up and took her to eat and see the bathroom at the burrito place down the block. I took the crock pot to the garbage outside and emptied the sludge, then went inside to make some pasta. Then I called my Mom and ugly cried about the whole thing.

And now?

Now I am just hoping the crock pot is clean by tomorrow so I can make chicken and noodles.

After all, a resolution is not a resolution if it only lasts until January 17th.

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Unnecessary Qualifier

I have a new pet peeve: pointing out when a child is adopted in any form of media.

Why do we have to mention that a child is adopted? We don't point out when they are born c-section, or conceived via IVF, or delivered by surrogate (except perhaps at birth in People magazine), so why is it so important to point out that adopted children came into a family that way? What is added to the story by knowing that detail?

I find it particularly disturbing because in most cases where adoption is mentioned, it is seemingly excusing the bad behavior of a parent, or trying to deify them for "saving" a child. For instance, in the past two months I covered two stories involving children that were very pointedly described as being adopted. In one case a father had raped several of them repeatedly. In the other the mother had killed her child, but now was begging to get out of prison to take care of her "biological" kids.

My daughter is adopted. However, I never think of her as my adopted daughter. I don't think of her adoption when I comb her hair in the morning. I don't think of it when we are driving in the car singing "Bohemian Rhapsody" at the top of our lungs together. I don't think of it when she has a nightmare and crawls into bed with me, rubbing the peach fuzz on my cheek to go back to sleep.

That is not to say I don't acknowledge and appreciate her adoption. I do every day. I see her birth mom in her all the time, and we talk about her "Mama" (I am Mommy). However, the fact Meg is adopted does not affect how I care for her, or my hopes for her, or how much I love her. I definitely would never use it as a justification for ways I failed her, or hurt her, nor would I ever use it to try and make myself seem like a better person.

No one else should either.

So, here's my thought: unless it is absolutely pertinent to the story, adoption status should not be mentioned. Oh, unless the adoptee themselves wants it so. After all, most of them had no say in the adoption, so they should have a say in how it is perceived now.

Deal?

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Itsy Bitsy WHA?

Meg has become a voracious reader. Luckily, ever since the day she was born the people in our lives have given her tons of books. Unluckily, I think some of them didn't read them before they passed them our way. Or maybe they did, and thought we would find them quaint. Or maybe they didn't, and it was a regift. Hell, whatever the reason, we ended up with the most bizarre collection of books of children's songs ever.

From the outside they look normal, even kinda cute. But it's inside that things go wrong. I first noticed it when I heard Ryan reading Meg "Wheels on the Bus." The bus driver doesn't say "move on back," but rather "beep, beep, beep"; and the bus doesn't go "all through the town" but instead "all day long." I pointed it out to Ryan, and he said it was probably just a regional difference, and that maybe in Delaware that's how they sang it. I told him I had been to Delaware. He gave me that look that let me know I am slowly driving him insane.

I was going to leave it alone, until I heard him reading Meg the book containing "row, row, row your boat." The end of that one was enough that I went in to examine the page, and even took a picture.

That's right, life is not a dream in this version of the song. Instead it is a place where carnivorous reptiles can pop up at any moment and you have to scream your lungs out and pray to God that someone can hear you.

Oh, and that's not even the most bizarre one. That comes to us from "the animals marching two by two." First of all, I didn't know this was a "beloved" children's song, and second of all, I had no idea it ended like this...

Apparently the rain is so bad the singer lost all grasp of the English language. Never happened to me, but maybe I've just never seen that type of rain.

Thank God for "Good Night Moon." And thank God we own at least four copies of it. Maybe ten.

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Have Fun

There is an amusement park near my house, and on every ride, right before you take off, the 12-year old running it tells you to "have fun." It doesn't matter how terrifying it is supposed to be, or vomit inducing, the last instruction you receive is to "have fun."

I always hated that.

I mean, of course we were all going to at least try to have fun, weren't we? After all, we had come to an amusement park, hadn't we? It wasn't like we had come to "root canal land," or "tax audit town." I always wondered why the forced merriment. Now, though, I have figured it out, largely because I have stared saying it too.

It started as a joke. When a reporter would head out the door to cover a particularly gruesome, or mind numbingly boring story, I would tell them to "have fun." Depending on their religion they would flip me off, or groan. Over the years though it moved from being a joke, to just being how I say good-bye -- and I have found it annoys some people almost as much as it did me at the amusement park.

My husband in particular isn't fond of it. When he has a meeting he doesn't want to deal with or is heading back from a school break it makes him especially grumpy. I try to tell him I'm not mocking him, that it's just something I say, but he doesn't buy it. Once I tried to tell him that it was just my way of reminding everyone that life is precious, and that we should look for the fun in every moment. He looked at me like body snatchers had taken his wife and replaced her with an automaton.

So, now I need to find a new good-bye. I want something catchy, but not too "slick." Maybe something with an ironic twist, like "hello, or is it?" That seems to wordy though. Maybe I could stick with the amusement park thing and tell people to "hold on tight" or "please don't puke."

So many possibilities.

Until a new one is found though -- have fun.

I mean that.

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New Post, Just Not Here

So, I have some news, but it's not here... It's over at Tired and Stuck.

Hope you all are enjoying 2012. I mean, since it is the year the world will end and everything...

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