Motherhood Uncensored

Girl Scout's Honor

The only neighborly visitor we’ve had in the two weeks we’ve lived here was from the resident girl scout.

“Do we need girl scout cookies?,” my husband yells from the door.

Now what kind of messed up rhetorical question is that? I mean who really ever needs girl scout cookies? The fat content in those puppies is enough to simultaneously re-clog the arteries of an entire cardiac unit.

That’s not generally something my heart or my ass needs. Ever.

It’s one thing when they set up shop outside of the local supermarket and before you know it you’re signing your life away for a box of Do-si-dos that you consume on the way home just so you can hide the evidence. Hell, I’ve seen grown men make it through an entire cookie aisle and fully stocked bakery emptyhanded only to be suckered into a case of cookies by a couple of little girls wearing their brown and green uniforms complete with side pony tails and freckles.

But when they knock on your door, they’re a bit harder to escape. I mean what grumpy old miser says “no” to a $5 box of cookies from a little girl and her fully stocked wagon goodness. In fact, I’m pretty sure they carry around a credit card machine and a check swiper since most people don’t have enough cash stashed in their house for two damn boxes of those things.

Meanwhile, there we stood. The new suckers neighbors caught with our extra big cookie-needing pants down around our ankles.

“We shouldn’t have answered the door,” I whispered to my husband as I approached him from the kitchen. He ignored me, entranced by the complicated ordering chart already full of cookie orders that were bound ruin some poor person’s new year’s resolution and inevitably end up left on the work “snack table” or turned into a pie.

“So what do you want?,” he asks me.

“Um, what are those called, tinfoils or something” I ask, sort of jokingly to the eight-year-old standing on my doorstep.

“Trefoils” she said, unamused, pointing to their picture on the box with her very pointy pen.

“No,” I said. Those aren’t it.”

“Well, everyone likes the Thin Mints.”

“Ew. No way.” For me, chocolate and mint together is like some terrible incestuous relationship.

“What’s the one that like a square dance move?”

“Do-si-dos.” She points again, her little Ked-sneakered foot tapping.

“Okay. I got it. You know, the ones that have the coconut and the caramel and are like 12 grams of fat each. Yeah those,” I say, challenging her cookie knowledge.

“Oh. Samoas.” I swear she rolled her eyes.

“Right. Apparently we need two boxes of those.”

Here’s hoping we’ve moved before they actually end up on my ass our doorstep. I suppose there are benefits to moving a lot.

Taps

I spent all morning trying to find something for Quinlan to do while we're here.

And all I came up with is tap.

Tap dancing, that is.

I don't really like tap dancing. I know... Savion Glover, Shirley Temple, hell 42nd Street bla bla bla. How can you hate on Gene Kelly in "Singin' in the Rain" you ask? Sorry. It's like learning to play an instrument without getting the music theory. Tap as an offshoot of dancing is fantastic. But as the thing that starts my daughter on her career as a famous dancer?

Not so much.

I admit that as a young three year old ballet dancer, I envied the tappers. They always had better costumes, complete with swingy fringe and a plastic hat. Plus they got to wear those loud shiny black shoes and slide around the floor. And their music was insanely catchier.

Damn you Good Ship Lollipop! I WISH.

But it always seemed like the girls that were in tap were the ones whose parents just wanted to put them in something to keep them busy and burn off some energy bouncing around in their little clappity clappity shoes doing steps that just looked like they had lost complete control of their feet.

But ballet? That was where the serious three year old dance types were. Hair in a bun, black leotard and pink tights, and pink ballet shoes.

None of those shiny blue leggings, crazy skirts, or ponytails.

Honestly, I still remember my first ballet class. In fact, my daughter is hopping around in my actual first pair of ballet shoes right now. I loved every single thing about my classes -- Miss Charlene, the beautiful overly made up anorexic ballerina turned teacher. My pink polyester leotard that my mom sewed my name in that I later accidentally-on-purpose pooped in.

After years as a semi-professional ballet dancer (didn't you know?), ballet was and still is, the love of my life.

So, it can't be tap. It just can't. My child will not shuffle off to buffalo before she learns first position. And she won't time step before she jete's. 

But considering it's the ONLY thing I've found (no Music Together, no art classes, no nothing), I might have to suck it up. Because in these parts, I hear it's either that or Tae Kwan Do.

And since I'm already getting my ass kicked by my preschooler AND my near-one-year-old (can you believe it?) on a daily basis, I don't want to give them any more opportunities to hone their skills.

You Can Take Away My His and Hers Vanities, My New Bedroom Set, and My Shiny Hardwood Floors

But my Bravo? Did you have to take away my Bravo?

Woe is me, people.

The Not-so-Midnight Train From Georgia

All is well, particularly after two straight viewings of Cinderella.

But then, the twilight zone.

All hell breaks loose.

A good straight hour of screaming makes for one hell of a mall walk.

Except then you have to chase after him. Hmmmm... screaming isn't so bad.

So it's a little smaller than our other house, but I hear ones this size go for at least half a mil in NYC.

Thankfully princesses don't care how big their castles are.

At least that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

When They Say "Little," They Are Not Kidding

Heh. Get it?