Saturday, April 21, 2007
Russian Lessons…in Preschool?
A four-year-old girl named Enga moved from Russia to our town very late in the school year. Every day at drop-off time the other kids, who’d had six months of practice, would file into school calmly, waving good-bye. I felt so bad for this girl and her mom as Enga would erupt into tears, screaming and clinging every morning for over two weeks.
“Why don’t you try to be her friend?” I asked my kids. They told me they couldn’t because she didn’t speak any English.
“Well, try to teach her. You can wave and say, ‘hi.’ Or show her your necklace and say, ‘necklace.’” (The female bond of accessorizing is universal, I’m sure.)
One day my daughter came home and reported back: “I said something to Enga and she said something back.”
“That’s great. What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, she was talking in Russian.”
The next day my daughter came home and proudly declared, “Momma, Enga said her first English word today and it was all because of me...”
“Awesome,” I said, expecting something profound—the kind of sentiment that brings nations together or fosters world peace. . .something like “necklace” or “hello” or “friend.”
“Well, Mom, she was running around the corner and she bumped right into my head....When I picked her up off the floor she said ‘Ouch!’!”
“Ouch.” Well, it’s not world peace, but I’ll take it.
A four-year-old girl named Enga moved from Russia to our town very late in the school year. Every day at drop-off time the other kids, who’d had six months of practice, would file into school calmly, waving good-bye. I felt so bad for this girl and her mom as Enga would erupt into tears, screaming and clinging every morning for over two weeks.
“Why don’t you try to be her friend?” I asked my kids. They told me they couldn’t because she didn’t speak any English.
“Well, try to teach her. You can wave and say, ‘hi.’ Or show her your necklace and say, ‘necklace.’” (The female bond of accessorizing is universal, I’m sure.)
One day my daughter came home and reported back: “I said something to Enga and she said something back.”
“That’s great. What did you talk about?”
“I don’t know, she was talking in Russian.”
The next day my daughter came home and proudly declared, “Momma, Enga said her first English word today and it was all because of me...”
“Awesome,” I said, expecting something profound—the kind of sentiment that brings nations together or fosters world peace. . .something like “necklace” or “hello” or “friend.”
“Well, Mom, she was running around the corner and she bumped right into my head....When I picked her up off the floor she said ‘Ouch!’!”
“Ouch.” Well, it’s not world peace, but I’ll take it.
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
The Preschool Visit or “Hopefully, Honey, They Accept Bribes”
My kids are at the age where they have no edit key.
“Mommy, I like the hair on your chin.” [Note to self: Buy face cream]
“When are you having your baby?” [Said enthusiastically to the woman had her baby eighteen months ago.]
This is why, as we ushered them around the manicured lawns of Very Pricey Private School for their campus tour, I experienced more armpit wetness in fifty-nine minutes than during my ten-hour wedding day.
Arrive in Waiting Room On Time: [Note to prospective parents: The admissions committee strategically tells you to arrive twenty minutes before they will actually greet you; this is to see if little Billy will pick his nose, bite his sister, or have a meltdown as he tries to wait patiently.] While we waited we were allowed to preview a video. Cut to Opening Scene: A toothy, handsome, very preppy 20-something is sitting on the lawn at Harvard. He’s the valedictorian of his class… all because of Pricey School. While I was ready to sign the tuition check on the spot, my son was not impressed: “Do you have a Thomas the Train DVD?” he shouted… very loudly. Too loudly.
Ten Minutes Later: Fidget, fidget. Is that the beginning of a whine? And then: a piercing noise took me back 34 years—a fire drill!
The siren sent my daughter, who is very sensitive to noise, covering her ears and running around in spastic circles. Is this a set-up? A clever plot? I envisioned the Admissions Staff: “What can we do to make these kids crack?” Okay, maybe not.
When the tour guide finally arrived, my daughter was still covering her ears. She brought us into the library and held up a book: “What does this say?” she asked my son. Wait a minute….Foul! The brochure said they didn’t teach reading until kindergarten…This means my son has a whole year…
Phew, he said it right. She picked up another book. What is this, the Great Reading Inquisition?! The poor boy was concentrating on the title. Hard. So hard that his brain hiccupped and he farted. A silent, but very smelly fart. Should I take the fall and pretend I did it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. How could she NOT notice?
I could just see his application: In the space earmarked for “Any Special Talents” she would write: “Silent But Deadly.”
As we exited the library, and my son’s giant stink bomb, we visited some classrooms: children making “Faberge eggs,” a science room with a live iguana. This was a far cry from when I went to school: “Do your work,” as they handed you a mimeographed sheet with a cartoon hippo on it so you could practice your cursive.
Again, my son was harsher critic.
“I’m bored!” Bored? No, he didn’t say bored, he said, “I’m a boy!” He’s very gender aware. Did I really just say that?!
Ten minutes to melt-down mode. Thankfully, for us, the tour ended just shy of nine minutes.
Next week is our “activity visit,” where our kids will join eleven others in a Survivor-like game show called Pricey Preschool Showdown. There they will spend an hour rotating through seven interview stations. While my husband insists the only question that matters is, “How big is your parents’ bank account?,” I know that spaces are limited. (The Florida public school system doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, especially with all the changes being implemented now.)
Even so, I have resisted the urge to drill my kids with flashcards and play Spanish CDs while they sleep. But, if all else fails on interview day, I am not above trying the fool-proof, never-fail diversion tactic: Pull the fire alarm.
My kids are at the age where they have no edit key.
“Mommy, I like the hair on your chin.” [Note to self: Buy face cream]
“When are you having your baby?” [Said enthusiastically to the woman had her baby eighteen months ago.]
This is why, as we ushered them around the manicured lawns of Very Pricey Private School for their campus tour, I experienced more armpit wetness in fifty-nine minutes than during my ten-hour wedding day.
Arrive in Waiting Room On Time: [Note to prospective parents: The admissions committee strategically tells you to arrive twenty minutes before they will actually greet you; this is to see if little Billy will pick his nose, bite his sister, or have a meltdown as he tries to wait patiently.] While we waited we were allowed to preview a video. Cut to Opening Scene: A toothy, handsome, very preppy 20-something is sitting on the lawn at Harvard. He’s the valedictorian of his class… all because of Pricey School. While I was ready to sign the tuition check on the spot, my son was not impressed: “Do you have a Thomas the Train DVD?” he shouted… very loudly. Too loudly.
Ten Minutes Later: Fidget, fidget. Is that the beginning of a whine? And then: a piercing noise took me back 34 years—a fire drill!
The siren sent my daughter, who is very sensitive to noise, covering her ears and running around in spastic circles. Is this a set-up? A clever plot? I envisioned the Admissions Staff: “What can we do to make these kids crack?” Okay, maybe not.
When the tour guide finally arrived, my daughter was still covering her ears. She brought us into the library and held up a book: “What does this say?” she asked my son. Wait a minute….Foul! The brochure said they didn’t teach reading until kindergarten…This means my son has a whole year…
Phew, he said it right. She picked up another book. What is this, the Great Reading Inquisition?! The poor boy was concentrating on the title. Hard. So hard that his brain hiccupped and he farted. A silent, but very smelly fart. Should I take the fall and pretend I did it? Maybe she wouldn’t notice. How could she NOT notice?
I could just see his application: In the space earmarked for “Any Special Talents” she would write: “Silent But Deadly.”
As we exited the library, and my son’s giant stink bomb, we visited some classrooms: children making “Faberge eggs,” a science room with a live iguana. This was a far cry from when I went to school: “Do your work,” as they handed you a mimeographed sheet with a cartoon hippo on it so you could practice your cursive.
Again, my son was harsher critic.
“I’m bored!” Bored? No, he didn’t say bored, he said, “I’m a boy!” He’s very gender aware. Did I really just say that?!
Ten minutes to melt-down mode. Thankfully, for us, the tour ended just shy of nine minutes.
Next week is our “activity visit,” where our kids will join eleven others in a Survivor-like game show called Pricey Preschool Showdown. There they will spend an hour rotating through seven interview stations. While my husband insists the only question that matters is, “How big is your parents’ bank account?,” I know that spaces are limited. (The Florida public school system doesn’t exactly have a great reputation, especially with all the changes being implemented now.)
Even so, I have resisted the urge to drill my kids with flashcards and play Spanish CDs while they sleep. But, if all else fails on interview day, I am not above trying the fool-proof, never-fail diversion tactic: Pull the fire alarm.
Labels: preschool admission frenzy
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
SpotScout…Obviously Not for Moms
Ah, the agony of finding a parking space. Not for the faint of heart. Especially in in cities like LA or Boston where you'd rather face mass transit than try to drive around (and around) searching for a coveted spot. Enter SpotScout.
“SpotScout Inc. hopes to create an online marketplace where drivers armed with mobile phones can not only reserve private spaces in garages and driveways, but also swap public parking spots in real time, with vacant spaces going to the highest bidder.”
Swapping in real time? I can barely back out of a Publix spot without caving under the pressure of the irritated person waiting behind me. And with cell phone calls to make and pulling rolling water bottles out from under my brake pad, I don't think I can handle anymore multitasking while en route. But yet... with all the driving I do maybe I could make some money. “SpotScout envisions drivers posting information about their planned departure times and offering the space to the highest bidder.” Surely my big-ass minivan would draw some big bucks. Pricey private school here we come. I can see it now…
Mom to Potential Bidder: “Yes, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Mom to Child #1:“Okay, please put your shoes on. No, that one goes on your left foot. What do you mean, they're too small...Okay, where are your other ones? Dog doo?"
Mom to Child #Two: “No, we can’t bring the dog with us. Where's the dog? Who let the dog out? Cindy, come Cindy, come...Wanna cookie Cindy?...."
Mom to No One In Particular: “Where are the keys? Keys…for-got the keys.”
“Hello, Bidder Number One, make that a twenty-one minute ETA. Oh, you already got a better spot. Alright, maybe next. . . Hello?”
Okay, so maybe I’ll just have to think up some other money-making venture, as I keep driving around, looking for a parking space. And driving. And driving.
Ah, the agony of finding a parking space. Not for the faint of heart. Especially in in cities like LA or Boston where you'd rather face mass transit than try to drive around (and around) searching for a coveted spot. Enter SpotScout.
“SpotScout Inc. hopes to create an online marketplace where drivers armed with mobile phones can not only reserve private spaces in garages and driveways, but also swap public parking spots in real time, with vacant spaces going to the highest bidder.”
Swapping in real time? I can barely back out of a Publix spot without caving under the pressure of the irritated person waiting behind me. And with cell phone calls to make and pulling rolling water bottles out from under my brake pad, I don't think I can handle anymore multitasking while en route. But yet... with all the driving I do maybe I could make some money. “SpotScout envisions drivers posting information about their planned departure times and offering the space to the highest bidder.” Surely my big-ass minivan would draw some big bucks. Pricey private school here we come. I can see it now…
Mom to Potential Bidder: “Yes, I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Mom to Child #1:“Okay, please put your shoes on. No, that one goes on your left foot. What do you mean, they're too small...Okay, where are your other ones? Dog doo?"
Mom to Child #Two: “No, we can’t bring the dog with us. Where's the dog? Who let the dog out? Cindy, come Cindy, come...Wanna cookie Cindy?...."
Mom to No One In Particular: “Where are the keys? Keys…for-got the keys.”
“Hello, Bidder Number One, make that a twenty-one minute ETA. Oh, you already got a better spot. Alright, maybe next. . . Hello?”
Okay, so maybe I’ll just have to think up some other money-making venture, as I keep driving around, looking for a parking space. And driving. And driving.
Labels: Spot Scout
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Uncrustable or Inedible?
I don’t get it. Apparently my head has been in the sand to the latest way to overcomplicate things for mothers. Smucker’s Uncrustables have become all the rage, with sales topping $30 million this past year. In case you haven’t heard either, Uncrustables are poised to become the next generation in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches:
“The easy way to PB&J--just thaw & serve!” Memo to Smucker’s Corporate: Was this a typo? Did you fire your copywriter? The “easy” way to PB&J? Was the “old way” so hard?
“Soft bread gives kids the fresh taste of homemade!” True confession time: PB&J was the ONE meal I actually could make homemade without messing up. Please don’t take that away from me.
“Kids love no crust!" Yes, this is true. Kids love a lot of things—like cotton candy for breakfast and eating only white food for three days straight, but this doesn’t mean it’s a good idea. “No crust” was obviously the brainchild of someone who HAS no child: Give kids yet another reason to denounce crust while adding bad grammar to the whining process: “But, Mommy, I want my pizza uncrus-tit-able!”
For those who might be more open to change than I am, here are the directions:
KEEP FROZEN UNTIL READY TO USE.
THAW 8-10 HOURS (So now I have to “plan” to eat an impromptu snack, much like I intend to—but always mistime— the thawing of the $50-a-pound Whole Foods wild salmon? Isn’t PB&J the last-ditch terrible-mother offering you throw in the kids’ lunchbox when you forgot to buy something better? Now you have to actually PLAN to serve something inadequate?!)
And the best part, the ingredients:
BREAD: ENRICHED UNBLEACHED FLOUR (WHEAT FLOUR, MALTED BARLEY FLOUR, NIACIN, REDUCED IRON, THIAMIN MONONITRATE, RIBOFLAVIN, FOLIC ACID), WATER, HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP, YEAST, PARTIALLY HYDROGENATED SOYBEAN OIL AND/OR SOYBEAN OIL (AKA trans fat!), CONTAINS 2% OR LESS OF: WHEAT GLUTEN, SALT, DOUGH CONDITIONERS (MAY CONTAIN ONE OR MORE OF: DIACETYL TARTARIC ACID ESTERS OF MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES (Just like Mom used to make!) (DATEM), MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES, ETHOXYLATED MONO AND DIGLYCERIDES, SODIUM STEAROYL LACTYLATE, CALCIUM PEROXIDE, ASCORBIC ACID, AZODICARBONAMIDE, L-CYSTEINE), YEAST NUTRIENTS (MAY CONTAIN ONE OR MORE OF: ONOCALCIUM PHOSPHATE, CALCIUM SULFATE, AMMONIUM SULFATE), CALCIUM PROPIONATE (MAINTAIN FRESHNESS), CORNSTARCH, ENZYMES (WITH WHEAT). PEANUT BUTTER: SELECT ROASTED PEANUTS (Phew, glad to see peanut butter somewhere!), DEXTROSE, VEGETABLE MONOGLYCERIDES (FROM PALM OIL), SALT. GRAPE JELLY: GRAPE JUICE, HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP, CORN SYRUP, PECTIN, CITRIC ACID, POTASSIUM SORBATE ADDED AS A PRESERVATIVE
Now, if we could only pull up a chair and drink some C-rations of powdered milk we’d be all set. Oh yes, that’s right, we’d be all set in eight to ten hours.
In case you’re looking for a healthier alternative to breakfast, or even as a snack, here’s a great recipe adapted from The Gold Coast Cure book. You can prepare it ahead of time, refrigerate it and serve it for up to three days. If you prepare it the night before, just reheat in the microwave for about a minute. See The Gold Coast Cure at www.amazon.com or www.goldcoastcure.com.
No-Fuss Baked Banana Toast Casserole
Serves 4
Canola oil cooking spray
4 pieces whole-grain bread (like Alvarado Street Bakery California Style Complete Protein Bread)
2 bananas, thinly sliced into rounds
Cinnamon, to taste
¼ cup plus 1 tablespoon ground flaxseeds
¾ cup soymilk or low-fat milk
2 eggs plus 1 egg white
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
¼ cup nut butter of choice
1. Preheat the oven to 425. Spray the bottom and sides of an 8-x-8 inch square baking dish with canola oil spray.
2. Tear bread into bite-size pieces and loosely arrange in two layers on the bottom of the dish. Lay banana slices on top of the bread and season with the cinnamon. Sprinkle the flaxseeds on top.
3. In a medium bowl, mix the milk, eggs, egg white, and vanilla and mix well. Pour the mixture evenly over the bananas and bread.
4. Bake for 20 minutes. Allow it to cool for 10 minutes before serving. Spread the nut butter over the top to serve or serve with a little pure maple syrup.
For more recipes like this one, check out The Gold Coast Cure. www.goldcoastcure.com.
Labels: no-baked French toast, Uncrustables, whole-foods breakfast
Friday, January 19, 2007
Take a Sick Child to Your Work Day - January 17, 2007
It wasn’t my son’s quivering lip or his “Mommy-don’t-leave-me” wail that stopped me in my tracks: It was a sneeze. More specifically, a really wet mutant sneeze that erupted from the south quadrant of the room. With neck hairs bristling, I spun around to identify the culprit: Trevor, with a fresh stream of green nasal discharge running down his face.
Germ Freak Conscience: Do I stay or do I go? Will anyone notice if I abduct little Trev for the first annual Take a Sick Child to Work Day?
Rational Mom Conscience: Breathe, but not too deeply or you'll inhale his sneeze. Remember, you can’t shield your kids from every germ.
So, I did what every self-respecting Germ Freak Mother would do: got in my oh-so-sexy minivan and drove to work, where I spent the remainder of the morning Googling “mutant sneeze”. Thankfully my son was impervious to the sneeze and remained unscathed. . . for that day anyway.
But the experience points to an issue that all parents are grappling with this cold and flu season: How can we reduce the number of times our kids get sick without losing our sanity or raising the next Howard Hughes? While nay-sayers cling to the “Hygiene Hypothesis”—the fact that today’s homes are too clean—I don’t agree. (Maybe because my house is always such a dump) We as a generation are exposing our kids to more germs earlier than we were. For example, I took my first plane ride when I was ten, whereas my four-year-olds are already wracking up their frequent flier miles; my family went to restaurants on special occasions only, whereas most kids today eat out at least once or twice a week (Do you know who’s coughing on your kid’s mac ‘n cheese?)Since kids are out and about a lot more than ever, it makes sense to take reasonable steps to teach them how to wash their hands and when; to avoid eating other people’s food and to avoid coughing on, sneezing on or otherwise gooping their playmates.
I’d love to hear from other parents who are fighting the good fight. Do you have any tips to keep your kids healthy? Any great immune-boosting recipes that kids will actually eat?
Here’s a product I just ordered. I think this is a great idea if you have kids. www.squidsoap.com. I'll let you know how it goes.
Labels: Take a Sick Child to Work Day
Sunday, January 07, 2007
“Extreme Mom” Makeover - January 7, 2007
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Thank you to the person who gave my daughter a pink Barbie Vanity Mirror with matching makeup table and chair for Christmas. I have to say, upon opening the box, I was a little annoyed. Not just because it came with a thousand packing peanuts and disparate parts the week after my house was picked up and the assembling tools put away. No.
Annoyed because I don’t want my daughter to know what vanity is at four. Given that I’ve overheard five-year-olds complaining that they’re fat, I’d like to avoid having my daughter hung up on looks until…say…she’s over her Barney fetish. Despite the fact that I feel fat, I don’t use the F-word in front of my kids (okay, I use the “other” F word on occasion). I want my daughter to have a few years before she won’t go to school because her hair isn’t perfect or because her thighs are too big.
I had succeeded in avoiding the superficial…until today…when I turned the corner to discover that the Barbie Beauty Salon was open for business, with Head Hair Stylist in full motion.
“Hey, Mom, look at all the makeup.” Yes, I see. “What would you like?” Botox would be nice, maybe a cute personal trainer named Sven.
“Here’s some lipstick.” Dab. Dab. Dab.
“Let me do your hair….” Brush, brush, brush. Hm. It feels good to have my hair brushed. Maybe I was a bit extreme about the looks thing … maybe a Barbie beauty treatment won’t set feminism back or give my daughter an eating disorder at eight. “There…you’re all done, Mom.” Feeling relaxed for the first time all day, I turned around to give thanks to the Hairdresser--my son.
Just then my daughter ran up with paper and crayons in hand: “Kyle, we got to move all this stuff; I have some work to do on my Barbie desk.
A desk. Feminism 1, Barbie 0.
Labels: "Extreme Mom" Makeover
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Ick Happens . . . The Holiday Blues (and Bluey)
Everyone knows that caring for a fish is harder than caring for a dog. Which is why, as we exited the birthday party and saw the live-fish-as-parting gifts, I wracked my brain for an excuse not to take one. Before I could say no, my kids sealed the deal: They named the damn fish.
My son dubbed the blue one “Bluey” (so much for originality); my daughter named the red one “Rosie”.
A few weeks later It happened: The once-radiant Bluey started looking grey (“Mom, we can’t call him Bluey anymore because he’s grey; let’s call him Grey-ie.” (At this pace he’ll be Dead-ie very soon). The Great Google helped widen my paranoia exponentially: Our fish either had Ick, Sepsis, Shock, Fish Tuberculosis, Popeye or Dropsy (since my butt is suffering from a permanent case of Dropsy maybe I’m the carrier?).
Einie meanie mienie mo, what Bluey has I’ll never know…One woman on the Internet actually performed fin surgery on her Betta fish. Yikes—MacGyver moves for minnows…. While I Googled away, the kids kept watch over the tank.
“Do you think he’ll die, Mom?”
“I hope not,” was my Really Lame answer. My mother-in-law had recently passed away and we were still trying to work through it. (“Why do people die?” “When will she be back?” “Will God have licorice jellybeans to welcome her to heaven?”)
Off to Pet Supermarket we went. Fifty dollars, some antibiotics and Ick Cure later, a surprising thing happened: the little guy rallied.
“Mommy, we can call him Bluey again. He’s swimming at the top of the tank. We took good care of him!”
On Christmas morning, the kids woke up at 6:00. After watching them tear through gifts, I went to feed Bluey. He ate his fish pellets with gusto and fluttered his fins. All was right with the world. No fish was dying under my watch.
As close to the Acceptable Time to Wake the Neighbors as we could wait (8:30), we went outside to “rollerskate.” (The packaging calls them skates but they’re really just plastic shoes that your kids clomp around in looking like giant bumblebees with yellow helmets, and elbow-and knee pads). After a few fun-filled minutes of falling down on the pavement, we went inside.
I saw him the instant we walked in: Bluey, now Half-Whitey, floating face down. I didn’t want to make the kids sad or start any bad holiday karma, since this was our first one spent without extended family and without my husband’s mother. I was doing my best to inject some Yankee Christmas traditions in our south Florida landscape without calling attention to the fact that we were alone. No table cloth, no place cards, no table extension needed this year. Could I wait a day to tell them? No, I couldn’t stand to see the poor thing drifting around the tank.
“Kyle, I’m very sorry. Bluey has gone to heaven. “Oh, I feel so bad. Can I get a puppy?” Thankfully my daughter didn’t try to upgrade the deceased before he was out of the bowl (maybe it’s a guy thing?!). She cried and then scurried around the house collecting a bowl of “fish toys” for him to take to heaven.
We buried him out back in the flower bed.
As we sat down to eat, my daughter said what probably a lot of people feel on Christmas Day: “I’m very happy today because of all my presents but I’m also very sad because I miss Bluey.” Yes, a day to be happy and a day to be sad.
After the kids said the prayer, neither my husband or I added our families’ customary: “And God bless those who are in heaven.” Why didn’t we say it? Maybe it was just too soon.
Sometimes Ick just happens in life and you’d rather not deal with it.
And then my daughter said, “I know why Bluey died today.”
“Why?” we asked, half expecting one of her silly knock-knock-type riddles of late. “Bluey died because Nana Louise loved fish, so we sent her a fish to heaven for Christmas.”
Made sense to me. And with that, I was able to remember some of the happiness that goes with the sadness, and dove into a plateful of soggy stuffing and extra-dry turkey. Pass the gravy please.
Everyone knows that caring for a fish is harder than caring for a dog. Which is why, as we exited the birthday party and saw the live-fish-as-parting gifts, I wracked my brain for an excuse not to take one. Before I could say no, my kids sealed the deal: They named the damn fish.
My son dubbed the blue one “Bluey” (so much for originality); my daughter named the red one “Rosie”.
A few weeks later It happened: The once-radiant Bluey started looking grey (“Mom, we can’t call him Bluey anymore because he’s grey; let’s call him Grey-ie.” (At this pace he’ll be Dead-ie very soon). The Great Google helped widen my paranoia exponentially: Our fish either had Ick, Sepsis, Shock, Fish Tuberculosis, Popeye or Dropsy (since my butt is suffering from a permanent case of Dropsy maybe I’m the carrier?).
Einie meanie mienie mo, what Bluey has I’ll never know…One woman on the Internet actually performed fin surgery on her Betta fish. Yikes—MacGyver moves for minnows…. While I Googled away, the kids kept watch over the tank.
“Do you think he’ll die, Mom?”
“I hope not,” was my Really Lame answer. My mother-in-law had recently passed away and we were still trying to work through it. (“Why do people die?” “When will she be back?” “Will God have licorice jellybeans to welcome her to heaven?”)
Off to Pet Supermarket we went. Fifty dollars, some antibiotics and Ick Cure later, a surprising thing happened: the little guy rallied.
“Mommy, we can call him Bluey again. He’s swimming at the top of the tank. We took good care of him!”
On Christmas morning, the kids woke up at 6:00. After watching them tear through gifts, I went to feed Bluey. He ate his fish pellets with gusto and fluttered his fins. All was right with the world. No fish was dying under my watch.
As close to the Acceptable Time to Wake the Neighbors as we could wait (8:30), we went outside to “rollerskate.” (The packaging calls them skates but they’re really just plastic shoes that your kids clomp around in looking like giant bumblebees with yellow helmets, and elbow-and knee pads). After a few fun-filled minutes of falling down on the pavement, we went inside.
I saw him the instant we walked in: Bluey, now Half-Whitey, floating face down. I didn’t want to make the kids sad or start any bad holiday karma, since this was our first one spent without extended family and without my husband’s mother. I was doing my best to inject some Yankee Christmas traditions in our south Florida landscape without calling attention to the fact that we were alone. No table cloth, no place cards, no table extension needed this year. Could I wait a day to tell them? No, I couldn’t stand to see the poor thing drifting around the tank.
“Kyle, I’m very sorry. Bluey has gone to heaven. “Oh, I feel so bad. Can I get a puppy?” Thankfully my daughter didn’t try to upgrade the deceased before he was out of the bowl (maybe it’s a guy thing?!). She cried and then scurried around the house collecting a bowl of “fish toys” for him to take to heaven.
We buried him out back in the flower bed.
As we sat down to eat, my daughter said what probably a lot of people feel on Christmas Day: “I’m very happy today because of all my presents but I’m also very sad because I miss Bluey.” Yes, a day to be happy and a day to be sad.
After the kids said the prayer, neither my husband or I added our families’ customary: “And God bless those who are in heaven.” Why didn’t we say it? Maybe it was just too soon.
Sometimes Ick just happens in life and you’d rather not deal with it.
And then my daughter said, “I know why Bluey died today.”
“Why?” we asked, half expecting one of her silly knock-knock-type riddles of late. “Bluey died because Nana Louise loved fish, so we sent her a fish to heaven for Christmas.”
Made sense to me. And with that, I was able to remember some of the happiness that goes with the sadness, and dove into a plateful of soggy stuffing and extra-dry turkey. Pass the gravy please.
Labels: Ick Happens and the Holiday Blues
