The Problem With Princesses

I'll tell you a secret. I've always wanted to dress up like a princess. As a child I wore dresses to play outside in the dirt. And when all my friends were buying Guess jeans in middle school, I still preferred a skirt. Then there were formals and proms and the ultimate...my wedding. I chose puffy sleeves and skirts with lace and roses and all the romantic touches so important to my inner princess. But alas, I grew up, and this new, less romantic, less idealistic person rejects anything even remotely resembling a ruffle. (Ruffles, you know, accentuate all those things I am now busy trying to hide.)

Though my days of ball gowns are over, my inner princess resurfaces now and then, but only when an occasion arises that merits her highness enforcing her monarchical rule. Fortunately, or unfortunately, I have two girls who inherited the same princess gene. When my youngest wanted a Sleeping Beauty dress for Christmas, I was giddy with excitement. Truth be told, I may have even planted the idea in her unsuspecting little head. How would you like to have a fluffy, pink, Sleeping Beauty princess dress for Christmas? Would you? Huh? Huh? It was the epitome of selfish, vicarious acts, I know. But it worked. And we placed an online order for the dress, the sparkling tiara and bejeweled shoes, all matching in shades of gold and pink. After all, when the inner princess speaks, it is within your best interest to obey. My little one's joy on Christmas morning almost matched mine as she paraded around in her royal accoutre. She was a confection.


Then, of course, a few weeks after Christmas, I discovered the Sleeping Beauty costume and all it's glittery accessories on sale at the mall. As I was checking out the discounted price tags and feeling kind of sick about the money we narrowly missed saving, I noticed the pink brocade Sleeping Beauty shoes seemed different than the shoes we received from the online Disney Store. These shoes before me were bejeweled, with large pink plastic gems to delight the eye of every potential princess aged 1 to 101. I remembered then that the online photo showed the same shoes, but the shoes we actually got were absent of jewels. Not only did I pay full price for the shoes, but I didn't get what I ordered. The inner princess was not happy. What good are simple pink brocade slippers with a glittery heel when there are jewels to be had?! Off with their heads!
That evening I went home and sent a short and sweet email to the good folks at DisneyStore.com. It simply said:

"In early December I ordered the Deluxe Sleeping Beauty costume for my daughter, along with the tiara and shoes. However, the shoes pictured online have jewels while the shoes I received do not. Why?"

Two days later I received a generic email from Guest Services asking for my name, order number and item number of the shoes. Alas, I did not save the order number, because that would require thought and foresight on my part. I had blindly put my trust in Disney, not even recognizing the mistake until weeks later, after my daughter had practically worn them out. Does that sound like someone who saves order numbers to you? So I sent them back another email with my name and the item number, letting them know that I did not save the order number. The very next day, I received this super chipper email from the UberDisney Store employee, Joe, who is so very happy to help, I wonder if he has had too much Pixie Dust:

"Thanks for the email and the chance to help!
I was so pleased to hear from you and would be happy to assist you in resolving your concern. Regrettably, I will need additional information in order to do so. At your earliest convenience, please send your full name, address, telephone number and online order number. We will review your order and will get back with you as quickly as possible.
Please include any other emails you may have concerning this issue, so we will have a full understanding of your concern.
We look forward to hearing from you again very soon!
Have A magical Day!!
Sincerely,
Joe"

I'm not sure I've ever had anyone thank me for the chance to help me, and especially not with an exclamation point. I didn't know if I should feel honored or creeped out. Yet the inner princess was pleased with his posturing, even if he did ask for the flippin' order number again . I replied to Joe to let him know that the order number was still an enigma floating somewhere in cyberspace and happily supplied him with the remaining information.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, I got a reply. On the dot. Joe had passed the request to his friend, or possibly twin sister, Jessica, who was equally enthusiastic and exclamation point happy. Jessica thanked me for allowing her to bring more magic to my experience and apologized profusely for my inconvenience. Without question, without hesitation, Jessica offered to send us a brand new pair of shoes free of charge and no need to return the jewel-less shoes.

I'll be honest. I wasn't expecting that kind of painless service. I expected her royal highness would have to make an appearance and throw around her weight a little bit (which is quite a lot at this time in her life) and probably still not have resolution because I didn't keep the order number. But, the Wonder Twins, Joe and Jessica, came through for me, exceeding all my expectations.

How do you suppose that makes me feel?

Like a princess.

Changing of the Guard

Today I left my children.

I left them for nearly seven hours. And from the looks of things, I will leave them five days a week for the next ten months. I left them at a school.

Of course this doesn't sound so dramatic if you don't know I have homeschooled them for five years and neither of them - ages nine and six - have ever been to school before.

After a harrowing school year here at home last year while trying to juggle mine and hubby's continuing educations and the kids' educations and hubby's job and all the other stuff life has to offer, we made a decision to send the kids to school on a two-year plan. In the span of that two years I would return full-time to finish my degree. At the end of that two years my oldest would be ready to start middle school and my youngest - age three now - would be ready for Kindergarten. The perfect time for reevaluation.

Much struggle came with that decision, but in the end we did feel it was the right one. So in May, the plan was made. As long as that plan stayed looming in the future, it was easy to live with. Kind of like that long distance relative you send a Christmas card to but never really want to invite over to stay for the holidays. It was great in theory.

I started feeling some nerves about its impending approach last week, waking up in the middle of the night in a panic, sometimes not able to go back to sleep. However, I was holding up pretty well. Surprisingly well. I was able to talk about it without getting emotional even though everyone else seemed ready for me to break down at any given minute. Friends called and emailed me, poised to step in and pick up the pieces, but the pieces never fell. I even managed to make it through enrollment and school supply shopping without even a hint of drama.

But it was very surprising - nay, freaky - that this morning while I walked them to their classrooms in their tidy uniforms and bulging backpacks, I didn't even feel a lump in my throat. I even worried a bit at my lack of emotion.

But see, that's the great thing about denial. I never really believed I would be leaving them. I never really believed the day would come.

It was only after I kissed my daughter's soft cheek and began taking those first steps away from her to the double doors that would separate us did I come to feel what had been hiding beneath all along. I taught them their letter sounds. I showed them how to put them together to form words. I made paper solar systems and peanut butter playdough. I was there for every lightbulb moment to see the spark of discovery ignited.

For the first time in their lives, I had made a commitment to turn those moments over to someone else.

My steps became quicker and more frantic as I raced against the tears I could no longer control. When I arrived at the van, hubby had the tissue box ready. He knew it had to come. Not sure why I didn't. Walking out of that school and coming home without them was...wrong. Leaving them there without knowing what they were doing for seven hours with people they didn't know...it was wrong.

Even though I know it was right.

I have applied makeup twice today in the hopes of fooling my face into feeling good. But it has only been washed away.

I miss them.

The picture above was taken just before I walked them into the building. I would like to tell you that they are indeed crying at the prospect of being apart from me, but the truth is that the sun was in their eyes. I would have taken another picture, but they were in a hurry. Sniffle.

Chasing Lovely

"Oh my god, did you see that woman in the gingham swimsuit?" My friend and I are sitting in the kiddie pool at the water park watching our little ones. What started out as a conversation about suits we like has become a critique of the bodies filling the swimsuits and I am becoming uncomfortable. She is three months pregnant and looks more svelte than I. I suck in my stomach a little to try to shrink the roll around my middle and simply say, "Yeah, I don't really like that suit." A woman in what looks like a knee-length sundress made of Lycra swimsuit fabric crosses our line of vision. "Now that I like," I quip, pointing her direction. "Lots of coverage. I wonder if it comes in floor length...with long sleeves...and a turtle neck." She laughs at my obvious self-deprecating joke and the conversation takes a turn elsewhere.



I am not a small girl. In fact, one could argue that, on the cusp of my 35th birthday, I am not a girl at all. But since I am being frank about the matter of size, I should be allowed the kindness of lying to myself about my age. So, let's pretend I am a "girl". The truth is, I have never been small. Not even at my smallest have I been considered small by our freakishly waif-obsessed society. And now, let's just say I am not at my smallest. I spent the first seven years of motherhood hiding somewhere on the fringe of the confident-in-a-swimsuit crowd, never getting in the pool, sometimes donning shorts and a T-shirt if necessity required. I mean, I didn't even think about a swimsuit. But somewhere along the way, I grew some wisdom with my gray hairs and I finally decided I wasn't going to let my insecurities ruin the fun I could be having, especially with my children. So when it came time to suit up last year, I actually shopped for a swimsuit. I bought the cutest suit I could find - sort of conservative with a little bit of sexy - and jumped in. This year, I didn't even flinch. At times I've even felt myself feeling - dare I say it? - confident. Dimply thighs and all. After all, who is anyone else to tell me I can't be beautiful the way I am? For crying out loud, it's the kiddie pool, not Miss America.



So, back to the kiddie pool. My friend begins telling me about a conversation between her and a mutual acquaintance. This particular acquaintance - I will call her Marni - has been divorced for several years and was sharing with my friend about how much she would love to be married again. "Of course I didn't say this to her," she says, "but I was thinking that if she really wanted to, she could do something to make herself more...well, you know...fix herself up a little."



I feel a hot flash completely unrelated to the summer heat rise up the base of my neck to my ears and pound inside my head. I hold back the anger that is my initial response. I am pretty sure I know what she means, but I ask anyway, innocuously. "What do you mean?"



"Well, she just dresses so old and looks much older than she really is. She could change some of that if she really wanted to meet someone."



I ponder for a split second that perhaps I should just sit in silence or make a joke that might distract her again, but the words are coming out of my mouth before I can even think about what I really want to say. "Well, that's where I just feel like she should probably wait for someone who loves her the way she is."



"Yeah, but even you fix your hair and makeup before you go out with your husband."



Then my little one needed a minor rescue and the conversation was left dangling. But it ate at me the rest of the day and into the next. She was right. I do spend extra time on my appearance when I go out with my husband. But that somehow seemed unrelated to undergoing a makeover to land a man.



And I left there feeling as if there were whispering going on behind my back. You know, that Supermom would be so pretty if she just lost some weight. Look at her thighs!

Why this preoccupation with appearance?

I want to say that any effort I put into the way I look is just for my own sense of self esteem and has nothing to do with anyone else.

But I can't.

Ultimately, I want to be admired, by my husband and yes, by others.

I'm not saying that is necessarily bad. I believe we were created to work that way. It is called Survival of the Species.

But why is there still this association that beautiful equals good? I read an article once that went so far as to say pretty babies get better care from their mothers. I have no personal experience on which to base this because all my babies were heart-stoppingly, breathtakingly beautiful, therefore I cannot compare. But isn't that what every mother thinks? Don't all moms think their babies are the most beautiful creatures to grace the planet? What happened to beauty being in the eye of the beholder? Are pretty babies easier to love?

We want to see beauty that holds no weakness or flaws. We would rather look upon the taut mom in the bikini rather than the soft, bulging stomach in the gingham swimsuit. Why? Because that woman has a weakness she cannot hide, a struggle manifested in her ample body. And her weakness makes her bad. I actually heard a preacher from the pulpit talk about keeping your weight down so as not to be a stumbling block to others. Of course, I am paraphrasing here, but he said if you were overweight, everyone could tell you obviously wrestled with the sin of gluttony. At the time - fifteen plus years ago - it made perfect sense to me. But then again, I also believed the whole premise of Christianity was to make myself as sinless as possible.

While the mom in the bikini could be a raging alcoholic that beats her children, her beauty is hailed as the standard by which we should all be measured. Because if you look good, you obviously have everything else together, too. And God forbid that you not have everything together. If you care enough about yourself to look good, then you must approach everything else in your life with as much attention to detail. After all, you can't love others until you love yourself, right?

At the risk of sounding completely "After School Special", I believe Marni needs something on the inside more than the out, obviously. However, it seems mean and unfeeling to try to tell her she should be okay with being alone because I am not. I cannot even pretend to know what she is going through. But I certainly will not tell her that the secret to having a lasting, lifelong, intimate relationship with someone is all in buying a new wardrobe.

I find myself at a crossroads. I want to rail against this, but at the same time I perpetuate it. I will shop for clothes that camoflauge my hips and thighs, though there is no hiding them. I will color my hair to disguise the premature gray I have been growing for ten years. I will put my best face forward, yes, to please myself, but moreover because it pleases others. After all, were I on a desert island with no one around to admire me, would I take the same pains "just for me"? Maybe I would. But there is something about knowing what others find attractive that drives my idea of beauty and makes me want to strive for that. Why is it important for me to feel attractive? It means acceptance. In the end, it is still more about society than myself.

However, I am going to the water park today. I am wearing my swimsuit. And if you can't stand the sight, too bad. I'm not hiding anymore.

Phantastic Phourth

So, whadja do on the fourth? Cookout? Fireworks? Sweltering heat? More of the same?

What did I do? Well, nothing much, really. I only sat in an air-conditioned theatre and watched a live performance of the longest running Broadway show in history.

The Phantom of the Opera.

(Cue driving organ theme.)

In the eighth grade I had the soundtrack memorized, never even knowing what the show was or was about. Two years ago when the movie came out, I bought the DVD out of sheer curiosity. It was then that I finally put the music with the story and could fully come to appreciate the hype about Phantom.

On Mother's Day of this year, I received the Mother's Day gift to end all Mother's Day gifts. Tickets to see the show on July 4th, with a dear friend, no less, to spare my husband the, ahem, experience. Independence Day? Celebrate our country's freedom? Screw that. Momma's goin' to see the Phantom.

Walking into the already crowded Performing Arts Center my excitement was bubbling over in the form of schoolgirl giggles. Had I not been surrounded by theatre patrons I would have jumped up and down clapping my hands in child-like glee. It was better than Christmas. Better than blowing out birthday candles. Better than...well, I should be careful. Suffice it to say, I was excited. Silly, sappy, crazy excited.

We found our seats on row N, dead center. That is thirteen small rows from the very front of the stage. And we waited breathlessly. "You know," I said to my friend. "My favorite part in the movie is the beginning, when the chandelier lights up and the organ starts booming out the theme. You think they'll have that in the play?"

"Uh, maybe," she replied, pointing to a large tarp covered mass on the stage. "That might be what's under that sheet that says 'CHANDELIER'."

Hey, how could I possibly be expected to read or spell under such thrilling circumstances?

Soon, the lights dimmed and the MC came out to introduce the show. "...and now I am pleased to present to you, The," Pause. "Phantom," Pause. "of the Opera." Riding high on waves of electric applause and elated expectancy, I found myself getting teary-eyed, a reaction I did not expect. And then we were in the opening scene at the auction. The auctioneer auctioned off the poster, the skulls and the grinding organ monkey music box. Then he came to "lot 666"...the chandelier. He told of the phantom folklore surrounding it and informed the crowd that it had been reworked with electric lights. "Perhaps," he leered, holding up two light switches. "We can scare away the ghost with a little...illumination." He hit the switches and sparks showered the stage with a thundering explosion, ushered in by the simultaneous drive of the eerily familiar pipe organ theme. The chandelier came to life in a blaze of glory. I jumped in my seat, deliciously scared, and for the next two hours and fifteen minutes lost myself. I pouted at the interruption of intermission, wondering how these people could so quickly get up from their seats and walk out for a Coke as if reality had not escaped them. I mean, the masquerade ball was next! Who needs a bathroom break with a masked gala at hand and a killer on the loose?

But it was only fifteen minutes and before long I was at the ball singing "Masquerade" under my breath and crying with Christine in the cemetery. Spellbound.

The end came all too soon and I had to tear myself from my seat to offer a standing ovation to the cast, especially The Phantom. He was brilliant. I clapped so hard my hands stung and my shoulders ached. Could I hide under a seat unnoticed until the next show? Probably not. With leaden feet and an even heavier heart I turned to go, trying to memorize all the beautiful details I knew I could never recall the next day and the last note still ringing in my head. I would have to come back. I resigned myself then and there to be one of those Phantom geeks who have the airbrushed mask and rose on a black license plate on the front bumper of their car. I will have to buy the T-shirt. I will have to drive people insane discussing the wrenching dichotomies and subtle messages within the story, singing the songs throughout my day in ear-splitting operatic falsetto.

As it is written, so shall it be.

I have been obligingly sing-songy ever since. My family LOVES it. Loves, loves, loves it. Really. Yeah, they do.

Wait till I buy the soundtrack.

Alone In My Mind

“Mama, what are these called?” my three-year-old holds up the crunchy cellophane cereal bag, almost as long as she is tall.

I look up from my book – my third in three weeks – and give her a succinctly sufficient answer. “Crisp Rice.” It is a dark, rainy June morning and I have just started reading a new book with perfectly brewed, perfectly sweetened coffee in my bright yellow sunshine coffee cup at the kitchen table. It is a lazy summer Monday that feels like an autumn Saturday. Just me and my book. And those three underage people who live in my house and depend on me somewhat for their existence and livelihood. But other than that, I’ve got the day to myself. I keep reading.

“Mama, I want some cwisp wice,” comes the inevitable response. “In a cup. With a spoon. NO MILK!”

I put my open book pages down on the table to signify that my pause is brief. Bookmarks actually denote a much longer break. Let it be known I am not putting the book down. I am only pausing. I take the bag from her as she holds it up to me. “Really?” and I look at her expectantly.

“Pwease?” Ugh. She’s so cute I could almost forget she has interrupted my pretend day off. She doesn’t play fair.

“Sure, I’d be happy to.” I stand to oblige.

The other two are watching TV in the living room and I had managed to slip by them unnoticed. Apparently my disguise as a mere passer-by looking for coffee and a good read coupled with the distraction of television was effective on them, but this one is cunning. She caught scent of my trail quickly and followed it here to the kitchen table. I’ve been flushed out into the open.

I pour cereal into a small plastic cup and grab a plastic spoon, crunching some as I shove it hastily in. “Here.” I offer it to her and she takes it back to the chair beside mine to eat. She no longer has to climb into the chair the way she did last summer, but simply stands on her tip-toes and finds her bottom level with the seat and slides in.

My book – a memoir – has me riveted from the beginning. I am only ten pages or so in, but I am hooked. Exotic locations. A spiritual journey. And though I am by no means a fan of romance, there is even a bit of that added to the delectable mix. The author is locked in an embrace with a mysterious foreigner and the sexual tension is palpable.

He is about to kiss me, I know it. His breath…Mama…is close and warm. His eyes…Mama…are liquid blue and drawing nearer. I close my eyes…MAMA!

No one can say the girl isn’t persistent. I look up at the third and most exasperated chant of my name. “What?” I ask my dark-headed elf, trying to act as though I hadn’t been ignoring her, lost in a juicy, somewhat seedy, scene. I am, after all, immune to such twaddle. Really.

“I pee pee in my pants,” she answers matter-of-factly, continuing to shovel cereal into her mouth with her plastic blue whale spoon. I sigh and look down to find the chair beneath her dripping into a puddle on the floor, mingled with bits of crisp rice. She is looking at me, chewing noisily, awaiting a response. Her face shrinks a little in mock naivete that works in her favor. Large and crystal blue, she can have anything at all she wants in life with those eyes alone.

“Why?” I ask, knowing full well she will have no good explanation for peeing in the floor, but needing to seem as though she should have one.

Crunch. Crunch. “I dun know.” She abandons her spoon and resorts to eating her cereal with her fingers, one infinitesimal piece at a time.

I could jump up and clean the mess, and probably should, but it is my self-declared day off and I’ve already made her breakfast, for crying out loud. She doesn’t seem bothered, as she hasn’t even broken stride feeding cereal into her hungry little pink mouth and the puddle isn’t going anywhere. I continue to read.

After a few minutes, I cannot help but notice from the corner of my eye some motion that seems unrelated to eating. A glance in her direction tells me she has dumped her cereal from the cup and is crushing crisp rice with her thumb. She then sweeps the crumbs to the floor and repeats the process again, further complicating the situation beneath her chair. I sit and watch her in silence, trying to decide if I should say something to dissuade her from doing it or continue to let her experiment. I mean, she does seem very engrossed and it could quite possibly be one of those rare educational moments of self-discovery that could lead to a breakthrough of historical proportions - Something like Ben Franklin and electricity or Marie Curie and radium. Who am I to interfere with destiny? But I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out that a solid and a liquid, once mixed, form…well, sludge, and once they are unified, there can be no separation.

“No, honey, don’t do that,” I say, feeling more than a little irritated with this, the second and slightly more labor-intensive, interruption of my day of leisure. “You are making a bigger mess.” I scoop up the remaining intact cereal and dump it back into the cup, also making a pile of crumbs out of her reach to be left until I am ready to tackle the clean-up process, which is, at the very least, a chapter away. I may even leave it until tomorrow.

She looks at me, again with the eyes, and reaches her hand out to touch a vagabond grain of crisp rice. Never taking her eyes from mine, she pulls that one, tiny grain back to her slowly – oh, so slowly - underneath her index finger. Unblinking, she slides it off the top of the table, holding it there between her finger and the rounded edge. Then, eyes locked onto mine, in true Easy Rider, “stick it to the man”-fashion, she crunches that little grain into oblivion. I sit, speechless. I could not have been more shocked if my sweet, little cherub-faced toddler had jumped up, flipped me the bird and shouted obscenities across her mushed up, milk-less breakfast. She may as well have said, “What the f---, woman?! Step off, b—ch, and let me eat my ceweal in peace!”

We stay frozen in a standoff stare, both of us somewhat bewildered by what just happened. Her look changes from one of defiance to wide-eyed horror of slow realization. It is written somewhere in that book of unbreakable rules for mommies that thou shalt never allow blatant, outright disobedience to go unpunished. And punishment for such behavior should be as painful and unforgettable as said child might endure, like no Dora videos for a week or hiding all the Barbies. And if the mommy of the offending child fails to follow through, she will be sentenced to a lifetime of bratty behavior.

We sit.

We stare.

And somehow, in the end, it’s enough for me today that she appeared to be afraid. All my correcting, directing and objecting will have to wait until tomorrow. Today I am off.

I pick up my book and continue to read.

Rock N Roll

There's an obnoxious squeaking in my ears.





Two weeks ago we celebrated Brother's ninth Birthday. A couple of days before the party a friend calls me on her way home from birthday present shopping.





"Okay," she says. "First of all, tell me thank you."


"Thank you?" I'm nervous.


"I found the coolest present for Brother with lots and lots of tiny pieces," she gushes. My knuckles tighten on the phone. "But I knew you would kill me if I got it, so I got something else." Ah, good friend. It's always great to have a sympathizer. She went on to tell me that she got him something equally cool and how excited she was for him to open it and that I would, of course, love it, too.





In that case, I thought, it must be a magic wand. After all, what could be cooler than that?





Party day came and Brother got some pretty cool stuff. None cooler, however, than the present from the afore-mentioned friend. It was a rock tumbler!!





What the heck is a rock tumbler, you ask?





It is - and I quote - "A high-tech tumbler that transforms rough rocks and minerals into smooth, shiny gemstones."





Well, I guess if I, uh...I mean, Brother, can't have a magic wand, a rock tumbler is the next best thing. It comes with beautiful agates and semi-precious stones in the rough and jewelry findings to make your own jewelry.

Oh, yeah. What nine-year-old boy doesn't dream about this day?

I couldn't wait to get started tumbling. I mean...Brother couldn't wait. The first thing we do is read the instructions. We learn the first step takes 2 to 4 days. Then the second step takes 3 to 7 days. The third step another 3 days, at least. And the final step a minimum of 4 days. We can expect to have polished, beautiful gemstones in a mere 2 to 4 weeks.

So, it's a process. We can handle that, right?

Then we move on down to the Helpful Hints section and find that tumbling rocks is noisy. Again, I don't think too much about it. I figure I can plug it into the laundry room with a towel underneath to absorb some sound and we will hardly notice. A little noise is a small price to pay for such a rich educational experience.

So, a little noise for a couple of weeks. I'm game.

However, while I expected some noise to be generated from rocks rolling around against each other inside a plastic barrel, I wasn't quite prepared for the noise emanating from the machine itself.

Here. Take a listen. Be sure and turn the volume up so you can enjoy it as much as I do.



The towel on top has a dual function.
1.) To muffle the sound.
2.) The darned thing won't go without pressure on the lid.

And we get to hear this for 2 to 4 weeks.

But hey, no little pieces!

How To Know It Is Past Your Child's Bedtime

When you ask them to put away their shoes and put on their pajamas they dissolve into tears and shriek, "WHY DO YOU MAKE ME WORK LIKE CINDERELLA?????!!!!!!"

In the event this happens to you, you will know, without a doubt, that said child has been pushed past the appropriate limit for being awake and you should drop kick, (ahem), I mean, deposit them as quickly as possible in the nearest sleeping recepticle.