This. Is. Serious.

I am a big fan of Sesame Street. Have been since I was a little girl (we’re talking pre-Elmo here if you can imagine that far back; think old school 1-2-3-4-5, 6-7-8-9-10, 11, 12222222 days). I love the fact that I have been able to share it with my older girls, and now again with Harper, who has what some might call a small “obsession” with Elmo, or as she says, “Melmo.”  

I also dig a lot of the new shows too, particularly The Wonder Pets. It’s clever and cute. As soon as the opening chant comes on “Wonder Pets, Wonder Pets,” Harper is mesmerized, and slowly drifts over to the TV, a glazed look on her face. At only 21 months, she’s already learned what a vast majority of adults have yet to figure out—what’s gonna work…its teamwork, people.

While we have learned a lot from these programs—everything from how to count to five in Spanish and why Oscar loves trash, to how to save the baby chipmunk…stuck in the bird feeder and how to MacGyver a flyboat from a few classroom items—there is one thing that drives me flipping CRAZY about both of these shows (or maybe I just don’t get it)…the characters with lisps. That’s right. I’m talking about Ming Ming and Baby Bear.

I appreciate the great lengths shows like Sesame Street has gone to in embracing differences, from its Hispanic and African American cast members, to its HIV-positive Muppet, but this I don’t understand. Maybe I’m being harsh, but these are educational shows teaching children how to count and speak properly. I’m sure it would be just as cute if Ming Ming exclaimed “This is serious!” instead of “This is sewious!” or if Baby Bear could pronounce his own name correctly (unless it really is spelled Baby Bewar?)

I guess we’ll just have to forgo saving baby animals and Elmo’s World until Harper gets her “r’s” down. In the meantime, we’ll just have to break it down and have some dancey dance time with our Yo Gabba Gabba friends.

TFLMS. URWkewl.

I like to have a little reading material when I go to the bathroom (TMI, I know). So, as I was looking around for a shampoo bottle or something exciting to read, I discovered a crumpled piece of notebook paper on the ground. Being the incredibly nosy person that I am (and the fact that I’ve read our shampoo bottles like a zillion times already), I picked it up and read it. It was a note to my daughter from her boyfriend. There wasn’t anything juicy in there (bummer) but I was having a hard time reading it. It’s not like the boy’s handwriting was bad—in fact, it was quite impressive—but in the middle of sentences like “this weekend when we hang out lets take a walk…” there would be things like “colon capital D” or “greater than symbol three” and “colon parenthesis.”

WTF?

Then that mental “WTF” I had two hours later made me realize what he was saying. The text talk. The internet slang. Now, I think I’m pretty hip (my kids, of course, would highly beg to differ) I know the LOLs, the BRBs, the OMGs and G2Gs, the ROFLMAO’s even. But now we’re spelling out smiley face icons? Couldn’t he have just drawn them? One would think that would be much simpler.

I recently saw a commercial that intrigued me, and made me think of this note. It’s for AT&T’s ReThink Possible campaign—take a peek at it: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ESMwyVxapck

The idea here is that the internet and smart phones are making “kids these days” smarter. They are able to access and are exposed to so much information at the click of the mouse or the tap of a keypad. Gone are the days of the Dewey Decimal system. This is the age of the Google machine. I wish we had been this far along when I was in school; to write a report, I had to look up information in our hardbound Encyclopedia Britannica set. Do those even exist any more? Google would have been so much simpler. So their brains are exposed to an insane amount of information—I’ll agree they’re getting smarter. I’d like to think I am too. But I just have to say it—now their spelling sucks. And that really makes this commercial ironic.

Since when did “going to” become “finna,” “your” become “ur,” and “what” become “wot”? Is our world so fast-paced now that we can even spell out you or to? Maybe it’s the anal writer in me, but I can’t remember the last time I got a text from my kids (or friends for that matter) that didn’t have something spelled in a shortened or misspelled version. (Side note: My daughter was happy to celebrate a momentous occasion this week–Having the most texts at her school for the month of May with a whopping…are you ready for this…15,000 texts. In a month. Seriously.)

Is this the effects of Twitter and Facebook, which make us sum up what we have to say in 140 characters or less? Or perhaps this is the after-effects of my Gen X being Hooked on Phonics? That’s how everything seems to be spelled these days—just how it sounds. Every text reminds me of the license plate game—I rack my brain to figure out the secret message on the silver Pontiac before the light turns green—or the next text message comes through. I guess I’ll have to either continue my mental spell check, or just give in to the trend. Until then, HAG1, and colon capital D.

Facebook me

So I’m on Facebook (Melissa Erbes, if you’re interested in having a new friend).

My kids are appalled. They’ve been on it for years (and evidently so has my cat and recently deceased beagle—seriously—feel free to friend Boots Van Cuddlesworth the cat or Sylvia the beagle) and now that I’m on it, it’s not cool anymore. I mean, that’s our job, right? To make everything uncool for our kids? I tell them I’m going to friend them. They tell me they’ll deny my request. But I at least try, and they accept. Sweet.

Now, I respect their privacy. I’m not one of those moms who needs to know her kids’ passwords and read every email they send (okay, I may have sneaked a peek a time or two when they had theirs open) and we have had multiple talks about appropriate behavior online—no friending pervs or people they don’t know, no bully-type comments, no posting phone numbers or addresses, etc. Now and again I’ll read their posts to see what’s going on in their worlds (sometimes I am amazed to read that they are at all these fabulous places doing all kinds of fun stuff when they’re really sitting on the couch right next to me…) My oldest has even been daft enough to get herself busted by posting her middle of the night escape plans to meet up with a friend. She unfriended me after she was grounded for a month after this experience, but luckily enough, she has found it in her heart to refriend me.

A number of their friends have friended me now too, which is kind of cool, or weird—not entirely sure on that one. I received a request from one of their guy friends and thought, hey, why not. The next day at school, the boy went up to Taryn and told her that her sister was hot. He thought I was her sister. She was mortified. I l-o-v-e-d it. Recently, Taryn’s boyfriend’s mom friended her. She thought that was cool, him, not so much.

My parents are also on Facebook, and have friended us all. My dad and stepmom share an account, and he feels the need to post a profound response to everything we say (thanks for the love dad). He doesn’t get it. Doesn’t understand why people post random things about what they’re doing, one liners about how I’m in the mood for a rice krispy treat and wasabi, or something like that. This isn’t a place to be incredibly deep….plus, there’s a word count limit here folks. Personally, I like those random details of my friends’ lives. I’ll read about your weekend, I’ll “like” your TGIF’s, look at your vacation pictures, read about your hatred of Monday’s and desperate need for coffee. I draw the line at requests to join your Mafia, your Farmville, or take quizzes on what animal best represents you. Sorry, I have my limits.

So while my girls may hate me now and again when they don’t get their way, or tell me how much I am ruining their lives (by, like, walking alongside them at the mall—how horrible of me!) at least I know we’ll always truly be friends—well, at least on Facebook anyways.

Work it girl

We don’t watch much TV in my household, but lately, our family bonding time has involved watching RuPaul’s Drag Race.

If you’re not familiar, let me school you—RuPaul, drag queen and singer extraordinaire (come on, admit it) of the 90’s classic “Covergirl,” is the host of this reality show that discovers America’s top drag queen. They have to dance, they have to sing (or as Ru says, “lip-sync for your life,” because, hey, it just is that important) and make clothing. First off, I never knew that queens were such great seamstresses. Impressive. And second, some of these contestants are gorgeous—and look more womanly then I do. Not to mention the fact that a few had some great booties. So jealous.

I digress.

So, my girls are intrigued by the transformations these guys make into lovely ladies. They start asking questions. Why do they do it? Are all drag queens gay? How do they keep those wigs on? And, of course, most importantly, where do they hide their junk?

Now, we celebrate and respect diversity of all kinds in our house—whether you’re black, white, like boys or girls, and even if you enjoy wearing a wig and belting out Liza Minneli. I think it is healthy for my kids to experience it as well. So what better way to get their questions answered then to see firsthand.

We head to a drag show.

My mom is aghast. She wonders how could I possibly take my kids to a drag show, and even more, how could I take someone ELSE’S kid to something like that?  I don’t understand.

Her first argument: It’s inappropriate, she says. Uh, mom, we’re not going to a strip club. These queens are fully dressed.

Argument number two: It promotes sexuality. Uh, mom, I’m not sure what is sexy about a thick man in a floor length sequin gown singing Streisand. Let’s talk about that Brittany Spears CD you bought the girls back when they were seven and five….

Then we moved on to the last and final argument: People will just be there making fun of them, and the girls don’t need to see that. Not the case at all. In fact, I’ve never been to a place where individuals are accepted for who they are and free to be themselves then at a drag show.

And then I get what’s really going on here. “Mom, do you want to come too or something? If you want to come you can,” I say. 

“Oh, well, I already have tickets to a concert Friday night, but let me know when you’re planning to go again,” she says. Ahem. I see.

So back to the show. The girls invite friends, and we soon grow to a party of eight, including boys and girls. We grab a table at the show (we’re talking Hamburger Mary’s and their early show, totally appropriate for kids) and order food (which, by the way I highly recommend their bbq burger if you go—fantastic!) The kids are full of anticipation, dancing along to the music in their seats. The lights dim. The curtain parts, and out she came.

The kids stare in awe as the first queen makes her way around the room. The next comes on stage and they loosened up, dancing along. By the third one, they’re asking me for money. I doled out one dollar bills, and they slowly crept their way up to the stage, unsure of what to do or where to stick it. The queen came up, kissed them on the cheek, and moved on to shake her booty. They do that run/walk back to the table with a look of excitement on their faces like they just sat on Santa’s lap for the first time or something. 

“Oh my gosh. He kissed me. And I have his makeup all over my face!” exclaims one.   

“You know, you’re supposed to call them she or her, not he or him. They are queens,” replied another.

 “Can we have more dollars?” they all asked.

Our magical night of cutlets, wigs and sequins wrapped up, and in the car ride on the way home, I listened in on their conversation. It wasn’t about how it was weird that these men chose to dress up like women; they talked about hard and strenuous it was to do what they do. I mean, seriously, could you keep a wig on your head as you danced to “Dontcha Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me” in 6 inch stilettos? I’m lucky if I can get the Running Man going in flip flops. You go girl.

Dear MTV (specifically, the producers of My Super Sweet Sixteen):

Thank you for giving my children an unrealistic view of what a birthday party should be.

Gone are the days of “pin the tail on the donkey,” “musical chairs,” (and for the older crowd, “spin the bottle”), chips and dip, and presents like a nice necklace, outfit, or CD.

Instead, the expectations you’ve set are live HORSES (or the occasional tiger), musical GROUPS (I’m not talking the local band, think Rihanna or Kanye), caviar and Evian, Beemers and tricked out SUVs.

Seriously.

My daughter Taryn turns 14 this week. You’ve given her delusions of grandeur.

Now she JUST HAS TO have a big party. Specifically, a prom-like party, with limousines, a live deejay, and the entire 8^th grade class dressed to the nines in taffeta and tuxes. And, of course, now that she’s old enough to drive, she needs a 2010 Escalade. In pearl. With rims. Never mind that I’m driving an absolutely ANCIENT 2006 Alero with dents in the door from certain people (Taryn) banging it into the garage door, she couldn’t possibly be seen in that or our van. Reality check time, sister.

Reality check time, MTV.

How about you show a realistic view of how the rest of the world celebrates a birthday party? Think dark basement, some tunes, a few snacks, some pop, and a Wii. Or perhaps a barbeque with some friends, a boom box (does anyone still call it that?) some hot dogs, marshmallows and a volleyball net. I’ll even give you the dance party thing at a local venue with a deejay—just not the Ritz. Now I’m not cheap, but I have to imagine I’m not the only mom who thinks trapezes and elephants are a bit extravagant.

So she’s weighed her options (meaning, she’s realized that I am the world’s worst mom who won’t give her a prom party, a live deejay, or a shiny new Escalade) and decided she would rather get braces.

That’s right. She wants braces.

So…maybe I was better off with her prom party idea.

On redheads and ‘tudes

I’m going to stay on the topic of hair again today.

My baby’s hair is red.

Like, Carrot Top red. Little Mermaid red. Flaming Hot Cheeto red. You get the idea.

It wasn’t a surprise to us that she was born with red hair. I have red hair. Half of my husband’s hair is red—kind of—his ears are the divider between his brown hair and red beard. In fact, I even recall my husband saying, “If she isn’t born with red hair, I’m going to think you were with the mail carrier.” (That would be a miracle of science—our mailperson is a female). So it’s not a big deal to us. Evidently to the rest of the world, it is. I can honestly say that I cannot think of one trip to the store, the doctor, up the block, wherever, when someone didn’t stop us to comment on her hair color. We even make a game of counting how many people comment when we go grocery shopping.

“Oh look at that red hair!” Gush the women (and men, I’d like to note) when they see her. I’m never sure how to respond. Do I say yes, you’re right? Or maybe, yep, that’s red alright? Or do I acknowledge the statement with a smile and a nod? I usually go the smile and nod route, until we’re asked this question, “Where did she get that lovely red hair?” Uh, I know my baby is beautiful and all, but have you taken a second to look at me? It gets a bit awkward then when you have to point to your own head of hair with a knowing smile.

Somewhere along the line, redheads got a bad rap. I’m not sure who messed it up for the rest of us, but there must have been some auburn-headed individual who was a real sassy thing, and they set the stage for the rest of us. After we get the whole “wow, look at her red hair” conversation out of the way (or sometimes strangers just jump to it) we get, “Oh, I bet she’s a feisty one with quite the temper!”

Now, Harper is the sweetest, most loving baby, but I would be lying if I did not admit that that girl has a stomp your feet, holler like she’s done lost her mind temper. So maybe there is something to that. Moving on.

Growing up, I hated my red hair. It was “different.” I can’t even begin to count the times I begged my mom to let me dye it to no avail, she would use the excuse that if I went blonde or brunette, I could never get back the original color, and the typical momma line—you’re so special how just how you are. What does she know, with her brown hair. So I had to resort to my own dye job with her black mascara. Side note—it doesn’t last long, it doesn’t plump up your hair, and it clumps.

Now that I’m older, I love my red hair. Sometimes I’ll even steal a bit of the baby’s thunder when people to stop to comment on my hair color, which seems to always result in the same follow up question—did you dye it? Last week, my husband was stopped by someone at a gas station who asked if the baby’s hair was dyed as well. Um…she’s a baby…and honey, you can’t get this (pointing to my hair) or that color (pointing to the baby’s) in a bottle.

Maybe momma was right. And we both have the attitudes to prove it.

I’ll just come out and say it. I suck at doing hair.

I came to this realization last night after my eighth attempt at French braiding Taryn’s hair. My final attempt was messy and uneven, but I told her it looked great (I mean, she can’t see the back of her hair, right, and it was 9 p.m. and I was ready for bed).

I always thought my older girls were kind of wussy when it came to hair time. They would literally cry as I brushed through their hair, begging for mercy. I thought I had a gentle touch. I certainly didn’t mean to cause them any pain in the name of beauty. I mean, I brush my own hair every day, and I don’t bring myself to tears (ok, so maybe my hair is stick straight and baby fine and theirs is curly…)

 This realization was reaffirmed this morning when I pulled out the basket of hairbows and the baby went into hiding. While I understand daycare isn’t a fashion show, the child needs her hair out of her eyes. Pigtails are purely a safety precaution. So after much coaxing and a little leg-locking, I was able to secure her hair in small red tufts which looked as if they were antennas spouting out from behind her ears. So maybe they weren’t exactly even, per say, but, if she tips her head to the right just so, they look straight. Kind of. And lets be honest, I can’t expect her to go around with her head cocked all day because her mom can’t get her piggies straight.

So I sent her to day care with crooked hair. I’m sure the other babies won’t notice. Tomorrow, I’ll let her hair flow freely, her jagged, mom-chopped bangs can hang in her eyes, with her looking like a garage kid. Way better than the alien look she has going on today, I’m sure. On second thought, she does look good in a hat…

Uh, mom? We started the house on fire.

So today is day one of Spring Break.

We’re not even five hours into it when I get the call.

“Uh, mom, hi, this is your daughter Dorian (she can be so formal sometimes). We started the house on fire.”

What???!???!!???

“Well, you know those candles on top of the TV., and well, it was weird, somehow they were lit, and I was blowing my nose, and the Kleenex started on fire, and then I dropped it because it was burning me, and then the carpet started on fire, and then I ran to the kitchen for water, and then I put out the fire, but now there’s a really big black stain and the living room is all wet,” says Dorian in one breath. She then follows up with, “You should really be mad at Taryn, she just stood there and didn’t do anything while I almost died.”

My mind is reeling as I try to connect the dots between candles and her blowing her nose and how the two combined equal my house on fire. Now these kids are more than old enough to be on their own. Other people even pay them to watch their children. Why is it that when they get together, trouble happens?

On their last day off, they decided to make cookies and experiment with food coloring, which stained their hands and my kitchen counter purple for over a week (the cookies were actually delicious once you got past the fact that they were purple). Over Christmas break, it was the hot glue gun and glitter incident all over my dining room table (and still all over my dining room table, which I now think is kind of festive). And last Spring Break, I walked in the door to wails of “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!” to find the faucet in the bathroom broken off and water shooting up everywhere (they thought covering it with a towel might stop it—no such luck).  Don’t even get me started on the time they decided to shave off their eyebrows.

I suppose it could be worse.

The cookies could have been inedible. They could have hot glue gunned themselves to the dining room table. I could have walked in two hours later than I did to find my kids floating down the stairs. They could have shaved off their heads instead of their eyebrows. They could have burned down the house.

I suppose what really matters is the fact that they are safe, and that they told the truth. They could have hid the stain under furniture or toys (it wouldn’t be a first) and pretended like they knew nothing about it, but they didn’t. So for now, I’ll be happy with that (or at least until I get home from work and see the burned mess firsthand).

Hopefully day two of Spring Break is flame resistant.

A Good Day for Hooky. Or a Shamrock Shake.

When I was younger, St. Patrick’s Day was one of my favorite holidays. It was the one day out of the year when I didn’t hate my fair skin, green eyes and red hair. The nuns at the Catholic elementary school I went to would leave green “Leprechaun” footprints all over our classrooms and mess up our desks (those magical, devious creatures—who knew they had a penchant for Hello Kitty erasers). Darby O’ Gill and the Little People was the one movie I looked forward to watching every year (until it became un-PC and disappeared from television). Those afternoons when my dad would pull me from school for a day of hooky (cough, cough-sore throat or something?) to grab a Shamrock shake and check out the downtown parade were some of my best memories.

Now that I have kids of my own, I try to carry on some of those traditions. My fair-skinned, flame-haired babe is dressed from head to toe in green today (she’s even sporting a green binky). Not sure if the older girls are wearing green—I’m just hoping they changed out of their pajamas before the headed to school. My girls have awoke more than once to find our house messed up by the work of a sneaky little Leprechaun, chairs turned, books stacked in the middle of the living room, green glitter trails across the floor, leading to a hidden pile of plastic, gold coin treasures. We tried to watch Darby O’ Gill, however, they were terrified with “Death” (I couldn’t get them near a horse and stagecoach for years), and lack of CGI-infused video (how inferior!). They tried their first Shamrock shake this year, and were not that impressed (it wasn’t infused with candy, after all). I have yet to take them to the parade, (although I did just get a text from my daughter telling me she felt “sick”). I think I feel a sickness coming on too. Cough, cough.  Nothing a parade can’t fix.

Jazz hands!

Both of my girls are in show choir, so at any given time someone is either singing or dancing around our house—especially at night when they are supposed to be sleeping. After a whirlwind three weeks of day-long competitions, this weekend will be the last middle school show choir event, for at least a few months.  

I have to admit, at first, when they told me they were going to do it, I thought it was cheesy (but I was supportive). I mean, jazz hands and spankies…enough said. Then I went to the first competition—and I was blown away. It is serious business.

Gone were the skinny jeans or pajama bottoms and sloppy ponytails. These kids were professional and well polished, and all the never-ending after school and weekend practices paid off. They were now (at least momentarily) more concerned with their diction and facials (expressions) than boys and cell phones—which is good. The commitment these kids make to this sport is phenomenal—and what a sport it is.  

It was as exciting and energizing as any basketball or football game I’ve been to, if not more. It made me want to get up and sing and dance along with them. The schools had fans (Go Harding Middle School’s Classic Innovation!), and they cheered loud and hard. I cheered loud and hard. When their group made it into finals last week, I was on the edge of my chair with anticipation, even though I have no clue what makes a first place show choir champ.  

The kids seem to have fun at these competitions as well, sometimes engaging in the occasional “show choir-off” with another school. That’s hard core.

So, okay, I was wrong. Show choir isn’t cheesy after all, and I’ve since learned that jazz hands are technically called “blades.” I’ll have mine out in full force this Friday as I cheer on my girls and their group.

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