When exactly did we start taking our fashion cues from boat enthusiasts? I suppose if we all lived in Water World it would make sense. But then I would just live in a pair of flippers, because quite frankly I think they are actually more attractive than the new popular shoe of choice.
I noticed them on a few errant teenage girls, but just chalked it up to the South (like every other questionable fashion blunder choice I encounter around here) and went on my way. But when I recently visited every 14-year-old's favorite shop "Journeys" (thanks to my three-year-old who couldn't take her eyes off the pink Vans) and saw the shelves stacked with them, my worst fear was confirmed.
They are "in." Or wait, is it "back in?"
Either way, it's pretty fucking scary.
Far be it from me to judge what has got to be extremely comfortable footwear. I mean, if almost every single 65 year old man in my family owns a pair and my heinously unfashionable dad lived in them, they've got to be light on the tootsies -- especially for quickly maneuvering from the bow to the stern of your yacht.
Exactly what young 16-somethings are looking for in a shoe.
But clearly if we're all looking to AARP instead of Bazaar for style hints, then why not go for shiny cordovan loafers with tassels? I mean those are at least barely attractive and somewhat flattering on old greasy men. But topsiders, docksiders or "boat shoes," as my dad called them, have absolutely no aesthetic appeal whatsoever.
But wait you say, what about pink? or better purple? Oh right, because a purple shapeless leather boat shoe with annoying leather laces that never stay tied is soooo much better. I might as well just go buy a pair of purple crocs. At least those were not popularized by the senior citizens of America.
An no offense to the great-grandparents of this world, but what's next? Reading glasses? Applique sweaters? Depends?
The next thing we know, these damn shoes will be back in style and our kids will be begging us to drag them out of the deep recesses of our closets.
I admit to whole heartedly believing that the haze of poop, drool, and what I'm chalking up to two-years of teething might be the hardest thing I've ever had to endure. In fact, aside from the amazing and frequent moments of pure and utter joy that I wish I could freeze in time forever, I'm often surprised that people do it again.
But the challenges of babydom are truly no match for what essentially was "just keep them alive and off your fancy carpet" to "oh shit they can talk back now and open the front door on their own" parenting.
It hit me one night during a morbid obsession of trying to figure out what would happen if for some reason my daughter found me injured and I couldn't call for help. And then I realized that perhaps I've been living with my head stuck up my whiny, hemorrhoid infested ass that just can't keep up with my almost running 10-month-old when really the hard stuff has only just begun.
So not to send myself into a complete and total panic that would involve me waking her up and teaching her everything on my newly constructed massively long list of everything she needs to know, I instead talked to a friend and put a highly recommended book on my reading list for the new year.
And then I searched the blogs, although I suppose teaching your kid your phone number and explaining how it's okay to say "no" to an adult are not the most interesting blog topics. But boy could I use some hilarious posts about how silly parents think a cranky baby is soooooooooooo hard until they realize their cranky baby is now a little cranky person who doesn't know where the hell she lives and how to wipe her ass.
Oh wait. That's me.
I am trying to teach her our phone number, to the tune of "Twinkle Twinkle" in fact, to which she corrects me with the correct words. And we did have the private parts conversation, to which she told me that everyone can wipe her "bum-bum."
Perhaps we'll need a bit of work.
And I'll be honing the fine art of presenting this material (along with her father) in a way that gets her attention but doesn't scare the living shit out of her. Considering that I have the finesse of a large bull, that will probably be the hardest part of all.
Too bad they don't teach you that in the birthing class.
If you've got suggestions, resources, assvice, or an extensive panic-inducing list of what your kid knows, feel free to share!
It has become quite apparent to me that I'm not only that mom, but I'm that mom to one of those kids. You know. The mom who says "no" exactly 17 times to a child that obviously does not yet understand the meaning of the word "no" but still believes he'll get it at least before she gets to 20.
I'd like to think it's because he speaks fluent Chinese and French, and therefore has had little time to master simple English.
But no, he's just one of those kids.
I'm certainly not one to label or single out children based on their behavior, but if I saw my little paper-eating terror disguised as a cute smiley baby I'd run.
Trying to put a diaper on him is like trying to put a diaper on a slippery hog, except no one would ever be dumb enough to attempt to put a diaper on a slippery hog. And trying to dress him in anything that involves more than one snap is just pure unadulterated hell, however I bet in hell, there are none of those high pitched glass-shattering "You're killing me softly with those 5,000 snaps" screeches.
He's figured out how to open the toilet bowl so that he can swish his hand in pee, toilet water, and wet toilet paper, and then slam the top down on his fingers about four times. He enjoys pulling hair, preferably both mine and my daughter's at the same time while laughing increasingly louder the more we scream. And don't dare take any dangerous items that might not necessarily be considered dangerous but when he throws, eats, spikes, or hammers them they become lethal weapons from his tight grasp or he will scream for very long and tiring minutes.
I suppose if I had birthed one of those kids my first go round, I wouldn't be so surprised. But my daughter knew that paper was not for snacking but rather for drawing total and complete faces at 18 months old. And she'd much prefer learning the function of electrical sockets as well as how to spell them rather than sticking her finger in one.
But now I'm that mom running around after that kid. You've seen them, right?
Oh wait. Strike that. You've seen the fuzzy resemblance of a mom running after her children at playdates. Their ass never hits so much of a seat before they're running to rescue all small children, animals, and hell, toys from the tight fists of their child, all the while spouting apologies and excuses that are barely audible because they're mixed with "stop that, don't do that, put that down." They enter the room and immediately scan it for any possible device, toy, weapon, or non-edible (but extremely tasty) item before letting their child loose. After introducing themselves they do the pre-emptive "he's just very active and loves to be around people" speech which really means "hold onto anything of value sister because my kid is going to knock it to hell and back before you can say 'spinach dip anyone?'"
And even then the kid still ends up with carpet fuzz, a piece of a Pottery Barn Kids catalog, and some kid's hair in his mouth. All of which the mother has to scoop out while her child screams like an angry baboon much to the displeasure of the other moms who are happily discussing their new chocolate chip recipe.
And being that mom to one of those kids now entails protecting your older child and all of her belongings. And your house now looks like you've just been robbed because you can't even keep a ball of foam on your shelves because well, he'd eat that too. In fact, it wouldn't be so bad if you were robbed because then that would leave about fourteen less things for your kid to try to climb, eat, and run into.
On the plus side, your ass never looked better. Too bad you don't get to stand still for anyone to actually see it.