About as fun as gum in my hair...

There's so many ways this story could begin, and just typing this I thought of even more background information, but I don't want to overwhelm anyone with the dangerous levels of ridiculous in this house.

So, Sydney loves gum.  The evidence of this can be found in many indiscreet places: a seat-belt buckle in my car, hanks of hair that had to be cut off her head, the sidewalk in front of our house, the leg of her night stand...I could go on.  Until last night.

She is taking a shower and insists that I be in there with her because someone convinced her that there is a "shower ghost."  Apparently I am the only one capable of scaring it off.  So as she's showering (and singing Tove Lo, also super-appropriate for a 6-yr old), I am tidying up their frat-house of a bathroom.  As I'm putting things back in cabinets, I pick up a large, half-full bottle of mouthwash, only to find not one, but TWO wads of chewed gum FLOATING IN THE MOUTHWASH.

"Sydney!" I exclaimed.

She peeks her head out from behind the shower curtain, demonstrably chomping on a wad of gum.

"Syd...I don't even, why would, ugh....I'll be right back."

So I stomped off to find a trash can (their trash can became a meta trash can last weekend, an entirely different, although no less ridiculous, debacle).  Jack and a friend are playing video games as I barge by, both chewing gum. I gave them the stink eye.

"WHAT!" they asked.

"Sydney is hereby banned from gum.  Do not give that child any gum, no matter WHAT she tells you."

They giggle.

After Syd is dried off, lotioned, brushed, and dressed, I make her spit her gum out and tell her, in my most serious voice (yes, there is ONE), that she is on a gum hiatus.

"'Till when!?" she asks, about to get grumpy.

I blurt out, "For awhile.  We can re-evaluate on your birthday."  Which is in about 7 weeks.

"Ooooooo!" she hoots excitedly, "is that because you're giving me a giant gum present for my birthday!?"

Yeah, I think to myself.  A bottle of mouthwash with chewed up gum in it.

Life is a Beach

It's funny the things that you realize about your childhood only after having kids.  And by funny things, I mean realizing that kids are self-centered assholes. So the a big focus of my parenting has been to find and encourage patience and thoughtfulness.  In myself.  Most of the time I can see it.  

Growing up my parents made it a priority to take us to the beach for one week each summer.  We typically went with my father's entire family, including cousins and grandparents.  It was the HIGHLIGHT of my life until I turned 15. (Then driving ANYWHERE became the highlight of my life).

In preparation for the glorious week of sun and sand and squealing, each summer, as the date neared, our small dining room would turn into the staging ground for the things-that-only-happen-at-the-beach: cases of soda, candy bars, bags of chips, those miniature boxes of cereal that come in a variety pack, the list goes on.  All things that were not bought the other 51 weeks of the year.  

As the piles of bacchanalian supplies grew, so did the anticipation and excitement to GET TO THE BEACH.  I had trouble sleeping.  I was not allowed to wear any clothes that were going to be packed.  Everything was organized and prepped and ready to go and it was painfully, ecstatically, dangling in my future.  I dreamed of the boardwalk, the waves, a week with so much adult attention, and all of the food!!!  

Needless to say it was always amazing, the week always flew by, and I accumulated so many happy memories; enough to provide a lifetime of smiles and eager summer months.  So now, as a grown adult, when I take my children to the beach, it is those memories that sustain me.  

They sustain me through:

• Combing through listings of 47,129 beach house listings for ones that are a) close to the beach, b) not gross, c) allow dogs, d) have enough beds, e) are not hideously expensive, and and f) available the actual week we manage to all be off of whatever we're usually on (work, school, black tar heroin, etc.)
• Buying all of the items for the dining room stockpile o' junk
• Lists
• More lists
• Washing all of the clothes
• Realizing no one's bathing suit fits from last year and doing more shopping
• Answering 5 million questions about exactly when we are going to the beach (these kids need a calendar)
• Staging and packing all of the clothes
• Getting yelled at that there are no clean clothes because they're all packed (sure, you only have 7 outfits to your name...mmmhmmm)
• Cramming, carrying, folding, and tetris-ing all of the things into the back of the car.
• Doing all of that without losing my temper (HAHAHAHA)
• Making it to the beach without choking anyone who asks how much longer until we get there
• Unpacking everyone
• Making beds
• Telling small people, that you do in fact realize that the ocean is RIGHT THERE, however you're still busy unloading the car and cannot escort right this second
• Braving the grocery store for the 19 items that you still need and ice
• Hating the grocery store for the 19 lines of 5 customers each waiting to check out
• Hating yourself for hating the grocery store
• Unpacking all of the groceries and then answering 500 questions about where the snacks are

Overheard

Now that the kids are older (ish), they can get themselves up on a Saturday and fix a modest breakfast.  So on the weekends, Dan and I typically sleep in.  For me that means 9:30am, for Dan...well, let's just say he has the whole hibernation thing down.

I came down the stairs one Saturday morning to find Sydney playing in the sunroom (her "classroom") and Jack on the couch watching cartoons.  As I am nearing the bottom of the steps, she calls to him politely, "Jacky, can you please help me with something?"

"Sure Syd, what is it?" he asks as he walks into the sunroom.

I stop, and hover on the stairs, not sure I'm fully awake.

"I can't open this marker" she complained.

"Oh, here, let me try...there you go!"  He turns to leave. I continue to eavesdrop.

"Thank you Jack!" She hollers at his back.

"You're welcome Syd."

"I love you Jack!!"  Even louder.

Patient but weary, Jack says over his shoulder, "I love you too Syd."

Never one to be satisfied, she calls loudly, "Can I have a hug too?  Just a real quick one."

"OK," Jack mutters as he turns and plods back into the sunroom.

One quick squeeze and it's over, he's back on the couch, she's back to bossing around imaginary students.  A fleeting moment of brotherly-sisterly love that brought me to tears.  Then the tears continued when I saw the mess in the kitchen.

Gotta love them.

She's Always a Woman to Me

Who knew that being 6-years old would be an utter maelstrom of indignation, independence, neediness, affection, stand-offish ness, and most any other impossible and contrary collection of emotions imaginable.  The cool thing about it is that you never have to wonder when her mood will change, because it's inevitable.

With all of this burgeoning womanhood occurring (WAY EARLIER THAN SCHEDULED), I try to find the really cute little-kid things that she still does and hold on to them like they are the reigns of a 12-horse runaway wagon.  Mostly I love the way she dances when no one is looking, and doesn't really stop when someone does watch...she actually dances HARDER if that is even possible.  She still smiles with her gappy tooth smile and cares not about the booger in her nose or the strawberry jam on her cheek.  She has scuffed sneakers and skinned knees and bruises abound.  She is proud of the fact that she can brush, braid, and put her hair up in a ponytail herself, yet neglects to do any of those things on a daily basis without throwing a huge amount of sass my way.  She cries if you win during a game, but cheats like a mo-fo if you aren't looking and refuses to see any shame in that.

Recently on a family road trip, we were listening to ALL of Billy Joel's songs.  This is how we like to torture our children.  (Typically the hubs and I will decide on an artist, preferably from our childhood, preferably ridiculous, and exhaust their song catalog, and our vocal chords, to entertain ourselves on the road while the children cover their ears in the backseat.)  Well, you can guess what song came on, and you can guess who we immediately thought of.

She can kill with a smile

She can wound with her eyes

She can ruin your faith with her casual lies

And she only reveals what she wants you to see

She hides like a child

But she's always a woman to me

She can lead you to love

She can take you or leave you

She can ask for the truth

But she'll never believe

And she'll take what you give her as long as it's free

Yeah, she steals like a thief

But she's always a woman to me

Oh, she takes care of herself

She can wait if she wants

She's ahead of her time

Oh, and she never gives out

And she never gives in

She just changes her mind

She will promise you more

Than the Garden of Eden

Then she'll carelessly cut you

And laugh while you're bleedin'

But she'll bring out the best

And the worst you can be

Blame it all on yourself

Cause she's always a woman to me

Oh, she takes care of herself

She can wait if she wants

She's ahead of her time

Oh, and she never gives out

And she never gives in

She just changes her mind

She is frequently kind

And she's suddenly cruel

She can do as she pleases

She's nobody's fool

But she can't be convicted

She's earned her degree

And the most she will do

Is throw shadows at you

But she's always a woman to me

Brown Hair Don't Care

Sydney is 6.  SIX.  That means it's been roughly six years since I've added anything to this blog.  Because that is how much LIFE Sydney takes.  SIX YEARS WORTH.  I know that I may sound dramatic, and to those of you who agree, I will bet you $14,000 that you have never met Sydney.

Tonight, during our bedtime routine, she asked to brush her teeth in my bathroom.  As a clean-tooth fanatic, we have toothbrushes in practically every bathroom in this house.  I agreed, and as I stood there watching her watch herself in my mirror, the mirror that I critique myself in each day (well, each day that I pay attention and actually put on makeup, so let's be generous and say every-other day), I was truly struck by the fact that I had created a woman.  Albeit a tiny one, but a budding woman-child who is so excited to greet (and conquer) the world and has not yet been defeated by anything, especially an older brother.

I tried really hard not to tear up.

OK, I tried really hard to not show that I was tearing up.

She spotted it immediately.

"What is wrong with you?" she asked, toothbrush half-out of her mouth and a string of toothpastey-drool hanging down.

"Me?!" I asked, as I feigned having something in my eye.

She looked at me skeptically as she continued her messy dental cleanup.

I took a deep breath and braved her new world.

**ASIDE:  You see, she's SIX.  And not just SIX, but a really brilliant SIX.  She remembers EVERYTHING.  She's already reading at a 3rd grade level and she is only halfway through Kindergarten.  She is savvy.  She is saucey.  She GETS it.  I know that the things that are already happening to her and the things that I tell her will live with her always, and shape the person she grows into being.  DUDES.  This is a huge responsibility.  I'm pretty sure I did not sign any paperwork on this when conception occurred.

"You're weird," she reported, accurately.

"I know.  But that's OK.  We all have our own version of normal, and there will always be people that disagree with that."

"Don't I know it!" she exclaimed, Dolly Parton-style, and completely honestly, as she rinsed her toothbrush and put it in the mug.

**ANOTHER ASIDE:  If there has ever been anyone in this world that can render me speechless, I'm pretty sure that she's the only one.

She turned to leave the bathroom, but looked back at me to see if I was coming.

"Are you just going to stand there looking gorgeous?" she asked.

"No baby, I'll take a break from that and follow you anywhere." I replied.

Please, please World, do not do anything to change this inexplicably precocious and wise woman-child that has wonderfully fallen into my mama-lap.  I cannot live without her.

Trail of Tears

Stanley: Oooh, it's raining?  I can't poop in the rain.
Me: Well, you're not coming in until you do it.
Stanley, standing in the rain: I REALLY DON'T HAVE TO POOP!  LET ME IN!
 ...20 minutes elapse...
Stanley: I totally don't know why, but someone pooped in the living room.  

Bedtime Stories

Sydney has graduated from having stories merely READ to her, and now often demands tales spun on the spot.  Here's last night's:




A long time ago, in a far away land called Virginia, a happy young girl lived a peaceful live, devoid of children.  She had only to worry about her own dirty laundry, dishes, and occasionally pick up the poop of her puppy, Stanley.  It was glorious.

Wait, I was going somewhere with this.  Oh yes, The girl's parents lived across the river in a place called Maryland, and to get to their home, she had to cross a mighty bridge, called the American Legion Bridge.  This bridge had six lanes going in either direction, and usually a lot of assholes driving across it at any time.  As the girl often traversed this route, she noticed a peculiar thing: shoes.  There would be random shoes, never in pairs, scattered on the shoulder of the bridge.  Sometimes only one boot.  Sometimes several differing varieties.  But never, upon crossing that bridge, did the girl NOT see a shoe.

This perplexed her (as did many things in that far away place), and she began to develop theories while she sat in the hours of miserable traffic trying to cross that bridge.

Perhaps a boot truck overturned earlier that morning?

Perhaps star-crossed lovers who couldn't be together left each other reminders of their love on that bridge via footwear.

Maybe the bridge was haunted by a shoe manufacturing magnate who drowned in an unfortunate kayaking incident on the river under the bridge.  His soul can never be set free until child labor laws are passed in Indonesia.

OR, maybe there is a wind tunnel that sweeps over part of the bridge and sucks the shoes off of unsuspecting passengers who are, at that exact time, hanging their feet out of the window...as one often does when driving in DC traffic.

Sadly, the mystery was never solved, and the girl and her dog moved away to a magical place called North Carolina and never missed their old home.

Until one day many years later.

Over the years that silly girl and her silly husband had decided to have NOT ONE, but TWO!!! children.  (They should have listened to the dog.  He protested when they got the not-as-smart, and overly-poopy second dog.)

The second of these two children was a beguiling and beautiful girl, who often disobeyed her magnificent, albeit sometimes silly, mother.  Her mother was kind-hearted and let the child survive, however not everyone was happy about this.  (Including the dogs.)

One day, as the little girl was getting ready to leave for school, she could not find her shoes.

"I can't find my shoes." She announced, unhelpfully.

"Where did you have them last?"  Her mother asked.

"On my feet."  The hideous child replied.

And so began the long, and weary hunt for the shoes.  They could find ONE of many different pairs of the child's shoes, but alas, a matching set eluded them.

Then it occurred to the mother that maybe that gigantic bridge in her past was the mecca for lost shoes!  They all congregated there, in an effort to be seen by as many people as possible, in hopes that one day they would be found and reunited with their twin!

With that in mind, the mother set about crafting for the child a new set of cardboard shoes for the long walk to Virginia.  A gift, so that one day, she too would have bedtime stories to tell her own children.