Sighing, along with eye-rolling, are her primary means of exercise.

I’ve been expecting the long, drawn out sighs, the eye rolls, and the sarcastic comments.  I had been preparing for them since that day in my OB/GYN’s office, when I first learned that I was carrying a girl, and she was, thankfully, not twins.  I was expecting this sort of behavior to surface when she was around fourteen, maybe earlier if all the talk about hormones in milk and accelerated puberty is true. I wasn’t expecting it at four.

What’s she sighing about? Oh, many things:

-Not being able to match her toenail polish to her pants. (She’s big into the madras trend and I just don’t have that many nailpolish colors.)

-Not being able to choose the theme of her new, big-girl bedroom. (She’s outgrown Disney princess and now wants a Hannah Montana, ICarly or Lady Gaga room.  I shudder to think what a Lady Gaga room would look like.  I imagine it as a cross between the backstage of an Erasure concert circa 1988, a MAC counter having a sale, and that dungeon scene from Pulp Fiction. With florescent chenille pillows.)

-Not being able to sleep over her friends’ houses. (Her friends include kids she meets in the checkout line at the grocery store, and the toothless vagrant we always see wandering around town. I told her his home is very likely under the highway overpass, but she thinks camping out there would be a great adventure, and even volunteered to bring the marshmallows.)

Chief among her many complaints is the fact that we don’t have a dog.  She’s bored with the cats, just as they’re  finally getting used to her. Link, and occasionally Zelda, will wander up to her and nudge her, looking for a scratch behind the ears or the leftover milk in her cereal bowl.  She’ll sigh at them, and will pet them rather reluctantly.

“I wish you were a dog,” she tells them.  “You’re so boring.”

Not a dog

Millie has dog-dar.  If there is a dog in Target, a bichon-frise tucked under someone’s arm or a Jack Russell sprinkling the patio-furniture display, speeding up that rustic, lived-in look, she knows.   When we go to the park, she immediately locates the nearest Pit Bull and makes a beeline for it.  She is always careful to ask the owner’s permission before patting a dog, because Joe from Blues Clues taught that this was proper dog etiquette.

She’ll tie her jump rope around her brother-his waist, not his neck-and walk him around the house, the yard, and the neighborhood.  She’ll fetch him a cookie if he’s done some especially good trick.  Her brother, patient kid he is, just loves the attention. I think he’d be a llama if she asked him.  He’s already quite good at spitting.

Also not a dog

I wouldn’t mind having a dog. Hell, I’d have a whole menagerie if we had the room for it.  I love animals. (Except for birds, but they’re tiny dinosaurs, and also evil.  You allow them into your house at your own peril.)

I had two dogs growing up. The first, Bruno, was a mutt who was already an established part of the family when I arrived.  I don’t remember much about him, only that he would jump up onto my bed during thunderstorms. He ran away one day. If I was a romantic, I’d say it was because he ran off to find my father, who left a week or so prior, but I’m a realist, and I think he probably met the business end of a mack truck.

Poor Bruno.

When I was in seventh grade, I went to the mall one day and come back with a puppy.  Sandy, a pure-bred cocker spaniel, was a pet-store/puppy mill dog, adorable, sad-eyed, but boy, he had lots of issues.   He had epilepsy. Digestive issues. And he was extraordinarily over-sexed.

Looking back, we should have gotten him fixed, but we thought we were going to breed him, and raise adorable little puppies.  Sandy never got his chance to…er…spread his pure bred genes, so he…er…took his frustrations out on other things. People’s legs. The furniture. Every stuffed animal I owned.  During my high school years, friends would come over just to toss a stuffed rabbit in Sandy’s direction.  The boys, in particular, enjoyed doing this.

Poor Sandy.

I’ve been looking at Petfinder, just doing some introductory research, trying to figure out what the best type of dog would be for our family.  I want one that’s good with kids and cats, obviously, but I don’t want one that’s too yappy or one that needs a ton of exercise. (We’re lazy.) I also don’t want a dog that can, or would want to, nestle inside a pocketbook. To me, that isn’t a dog. That’s a tamagotchi. Or a chunky bracelet that’s developed sentience.  I’d like a mutt, ideally. Some scruffy looking creature that needs a good home. Todd agrees with me, and thinks dog-walking  would be a good way for him to get his cardiologist recommended daily exercise.  He wants to name it Dexter, after his favorite fictional serial killer.

Things have changed in dog world.  I’d hoped we’d just be able to visit a shelter, fall in love with a dog and bring him home.  Not that fast, Marmaduke.  Most shelters require you go through a lengthy screening process before they’ll even let you look at a dog.  You can browse adoptable pets online, but by the time you fill out the application form, write a mission statement, explain your thorough ten-year plan for the dog’s obedience training and education, and get sworn affidavits from the dog-owners in your life, the pooch you fell in virtual love with might already be adopted.  I swear some shelters do bait & switch marketing. They’ll post pictures of a lovable, slobbery dog but the only ones they have actually up for adoption are the foul-tempered, skittish, losers of recent dog-fights. I feel for those dogs, I do, but I don’t have time to devote to socializing a traumatized animal.

I have my hands full with the human animals in my care.  Have you seen Quin lately? Good.  He’s not ready for polite society.

So, the dog search is on hold, for now.  It would be great if we could get Millie a dog for her 5^th birthday, if only to put an end to some of the sighing. But we’re going to wait until the right dog comes along.

In the meantime, maybe we’ll get a pink, rhinestone collar for Mr. Link.  Maybe then Millie will pay attention to him.

Poor Link.

My heartache did not come from a boy. Pfft, boys.  I’ve had bad romantic break-ups, sure. They’re quite normal for me, actually. I got over them.  I’ve never experienced a break-up that was truly soul-shattering. A new haircut, a box of Cadbury Snack, and a flirting session with a cute barista usually took the sting out of being dumped.

It wasn’t a boy that sliced and diced my heart with a blunt-edged ginsu knife. It was a literary agent.  Ok, it was SEVERAL literary agents. My life’s one great heartache came at the expense of the publishing industry, that fickle, fickle bitch.  I tried so hard to capture their attention, but soon realized that all of New York’s literary elite were just not that into me.

And once my hopes and dreams were a mush of soggy julienne fries, I put my literary ambitions aside, and tried to get on with Normal Life.

It took a decade to get back up on that horse again. And that horse was stinky, bad-tempered, and lousy with flies.

I’ve been writing since I was a kid.  My first story was a comic book about my cat. Inspired by the genius that was Sweet Valley High, I later went on to write a series about a middle school rock band.  I typed these up on my sister’s typewriter, writing in all caps, and I even designed the covers.

Guess who is the villainess? HINT: The one with the whorish make-up.

When I was sixteen, I started my own version of the Great American novel, and for eight years I wrote and polished that damn thing until it sparkled like a Cullen.  I wrote other things too-angsty short stories, terrible screenplays for my film classes, snarky newspaper articles. My novel was my first love though. I brought it to writing classes, and when we took turns reading aloud, my heart nearly burst from my chest every time someone laughed, or said “awww” or responded in any way to what I had written.  Friends came and went, but none would be as dear to me as my own lost Lisa.  Boys too, a bit more frequently, but those poor schmucks couldn’t compete with my sarcastic Erik.

There was one boy who seemed to realize how important these characters were to me.  On our first valentine’s day together, he eschewed the traditional flowers and chocolate and instead gave me a leather bound, printed copy of my novel.

No surprise, that boy is now my husband.

When I sent my baby out into the world. I did all the right things. I joined critique groups. I researched the market. I targeted specific agents.  So when the rejections started pouring in, form rejections mind you, with maybe one or two personal notes, I was mystified.  And so completely devastated.

Looking back, the project was so not ready for Primetime, but I wouldn’t admit that. I crawled back into my fortress of solitude to lick my wounds. I threw myself into my career…er, careers. Though I tried to make a go of it in TV…and Radio…and Advertising…and Publishing…and Real Estate…I never really found my niche.  All I’d ever wanted to be was a writer. I wasn’t good at anything else.

I got married and had a couple of kids, and finally found something I was good at.

I make some damn cute babies.

Not as portable as a hardcover book, and also very slobbery.

Despite my best efforts, the urge to write didn’t stop.  I moderated a writing community on livejournal, and took a part-time job in a library, where I got to read, and recommend, lots of YA Fiction. I started new projects, and rehashed old ones, but they weren’t real, serious attempts.

It’s hard to be serious about anything when you have to deal with a wailing baby, a cat that likes to vomit in the fruit bowl, and a toddler who thinks it’s funny to paste bologna slices to the living room wall.

The kids got older, a bit more self-sufficient, and I was able carve out daily writing time. Over the past year I’ve completed two projects, one humorous adult fiction, the other the first in a YA series, a very different one from Hillside Jr. High, thankfully.

Today I start querying agents.  There’s a good chance I’ll be rejected again. I’m older and wiser now, though, and a rejection isn’t going to incapacitate me this time.  If this project doesn’t work out, I’ll move on to the next one.  Maybe I’ll serialize it as a web-series. Maybe I’ll tuck it away until my kids are old enough to enjoy it.  I have options now, and a life outside my writing. The world will not end with a form rejection letter.

It may tilt a little, but it’s not going to end.

Beware the Ego-Monster

My daughter is one of the most popular kids in preschool. When we arrive at the school, half a dozen little kids rush over to show Millie their new shoes, a hello kitty keychain, or introduce, for the third time, their younger siblings.  All the teachers and a few of the older kids know her by name, and they stop to ruffle her hair or say hello as they make their way to their own classrooms.  I watch this with interweaving feelings of envy and pride.  I was a shy, awkward kid, and I’ve grown into a shy, awkward adult, slow to make friends. Granted, she’s only four, but will my daughter break the cycle of shyness? Will she win miss congeniality, be elected class president, and rule over the school as head cheerleader?  She’s got plenty of self-esteem, and is stubborn to boot.  It’s not hard to imagine her reaching for the stars.  In fact, she’d probably be able to talk the stars down from the sky, or rope someone else into snatching them.  It would be much more efficient than doing all that work herself.

Last week, I stood in the corner, watching my alpha-girl as she led all her classmates in a robot dance. “Take me to your leader,” they all said, in a perfect monotone, as they followed Mills up and down the hall.  After a while she decided it would be more fun to be zombies, and soon ten tiny little voices started wailing for brains.

Then, I noticed an odd thing. One of the girls, small, bug-eyed, sweet, tried to wiggle her way to the top of the parade. She presented Millie with a stuffed chick.

“See?” She spoke with a slight lisp. “I made it.”

Millie gave the chick a precursory glance, but her face was clearly bored.  She reached out a little hand and pushed the girl away.

I was horrified. I rushed up to my kid and pulled her away from her friends.

“That was not nice,” I scolded. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t like her,” Millie said, shrugging. “She’s boring.”

After I apologized to the girl’s mother, I went back to my car and sat for a while, watching the empty buses pull out of the parking lot.

Shit, was all I could think.  Is my kid growing up to be an asshole?

Bullying is all over the news lately, with reporters and analysts and staff psychologists acting befuddled, like it’s a new phenomenon.  It’s not.  When man first crawled out of the primordial ooze, the first thing he probably did was crack at joke at the expense of a smaller, weaker fuzzy primate.  Twitter, facebok, texting, and the rest of the new technology hasn’t really changed bullying, or made it more prevalent, it’s simply the evolution of those wicked anonymous scribbles in the bathroom, and the notes, the slambooks, and the catcalls in the hallways.  Kids are cruel. They have always been cruel.  The internet just enables them to spellcheck their taunts before they send them out to the universe.

I was both a bully and bullied.  Junior High was a horrible time, the stuff of nightmares. I was an ugly kid with braces, headgear, and a horrible home haircut. I won’t get into specifics, as, thankfully, I’ve blocked most of it out, and what happened to me wasn’t as horrific as things that have happened to other kids. It did shatter my self-esteem, and truthfully, I’ve never fully recovered.

In high school, I was a bit of a mean girl, safe in my posse of black-clad bad girls. I remember harassing a particular overweight underclassman, shouting “Whoa” as she trudged down the hall.  She never seemed to hear, but I bet she did. Ironic really, picking on a girl for being overweight when the first thing I did when I got home was to weigh myself and monitor every calorie I dared consume that day.

I fully expect my kids will be bullied at some point.  Millie’s bound to butt heads with another Queen Bee, and Quin, well, he’s my special snowflake. If ever a kid walked to the beat of a different drummer, it’s my little man. He’s not dancing to the beat, he’s dancing to the melody. And he doesn’t care.  And I love him for it.

When I first became a parent I was determined to instill a good sense of self-worth in my kids.  I vowed to tell them every day that I loved them, and to make sure they know that my love was unconditional.  I might get a bit peeved if they set fire to the cat, or scribble on my autographed Terry Pratchett books, but no matter what they do, I’ll always love them to pieces.

I’ve also taught them not to be intimidated by other kids, even if they seem to be from entirely other worlds. That hulking kid in the homeroom? The ice princess in the lunch line, the one with the perfect hair? They’ll seem terrifying or unapproachable, but they’re kids, just like them.  Those intimidating people have dreams and fears, just like them, and if that is hard for my kids to believe, I’ll assure them that both the hulk and the princess have had, or will have, a wretched bout of lower intestinal distress. Yes, my children: Everyone Poops. Hard to be intimidated by someone when you imagine them stuck on the crapper, calling for a new roll of TP.

If my kids wander over to that other side of the fence, if they become the bullies, I will be a complete and utter failure as a parent. This is why I was so shaken when I saw Millie’s healthy ego venture over into mean girl territory.   I thought I’ve made it clear that she is no better, or worse, than anyone else.  Her feelings shouldn’t trump the feelings of those around her.  When she got home, I sat her down and had a talk, hoping to repair any damage that I might have done.

“Why were you so mean to that girl?”

“I wasn’t mean,” Millie insisted, all wide eyed innocence.  “If I was being mean, I would have TAKEN the chick before I pushed her.”

I guess four is too early to start talking about these things.

I think you're an autumn

Last week I broke down and bought one of those lunchable snack packs. Yes, I know that they are the worst possible things that you can feed a child. Artery clogging disgusting little packets of certain death, but they were on sale, and I had a coupon, so I tossed them in my cart figuring my finicky kids would probably never touch them, and I’d be the one risking my coronary health as I succumbed to late night munchies.

I woke up the next morning to find Millie sitting at the kitchen table, and the open lunchable packets thrown across the floor. She was assembling the little cubes of ham and cheese-like product into neat little sandwiches, marching them in a line across the table and into her mouth.

Oh, and this was the day after we watched Babe: Pig in the City. I might have been a bit icked by this if the ham in lunchables was in any way a by-product of a pig. I’m not sure what animal those meat cubes come from, but I’m pretty sure it’s not one you’d see on an actual farm.

Unless that farm is in hell.

“Mom,” she said, holding up a miniature cracker. “These are the best things ever!”

Thinking this may be a way to break the pancakes-waffles-PB&J-chicken nugget stalemate lunchtime has become, I bought ingredients to make my own, healthier lunchables. Real cheese. Whole wheat crackers. Low fat, low salt bologna. I used cookie cutters to cut the cheese and bologna into little shapes, and it went over spectacularly, with both kids making (and eating!) different sandwich combos.

The bologna, in particular was a big it. Soon, Millie started asking for the whole slice. Then Quin, the consummate chicken nugget man, asked for “bwoney.”

Yesterday, when I was sitting at the kitchen table, writing my Christmas cards, both kids went into the fridge for more bologna and, this time, slices of cheese to go with it. Happy they were getting their own snack, and not bugging me, I let them do it, and continued peeling labels and stamps.

It wasn’t until I went to plug in the Christmas tree that I realized my mistake. It’s a universal fact that kids won’t eat bologna rind. I sure didn’t. I remember tossing it to my dog, Sandy, who would catch it in mid-air. It was the only little bit of grace that poor dog possessed.

There were no rinds on their plates. None in the trash. None stuffed under the sofa cushions or inside Lightening McQueen’s hauler truck.

Behind the Christmas tree, on the wall, there was a work of post-modern art that would make Jackson Pollock proud. Right before he puked.

A crooked line of circle bologna and square slices of American cheese, arranged in a pattern.

Circle.

Square.

Circle.

Square with a nibbled corner.

I recognized Quin’s teeth marks on that one.

At first they had used scotch tape to hang up the slices, but realized they didn’t did it as bologna has a sticky cohesiveness of it’s own. A couple of slices had been up there for days, right over the heater, baking behind the lights of the tree. They had hardened to plastic, one actually seemed to have become part of the wall.

I had to use a scraper to get that one off.

I should be pleased they like shapes and pattern recognition and all that. Even so, I think we’ll stick to chicken nuggets for a while.

What can we destroy today?

-Wake up

-Brush Teeth

-Beat each other about the head

-Watch Blue’s Clues

-Recreate scenes from Finding Nemo in toilet with pages from Finding Nemo coloring book and Mommy’s favorite bubble bath.

-Test absorbency of new toilet paper brand by throwing entire roll in toilet.

-Paint toenails, toes, and most of calf using red dry erase marker.

-Practice writing alphabet on hardwood floor with dry erase marker.

-Beat each other about the head.

-Watch Caliou

-Make neighbor child cry.

-Gnaw on some tasty tree branches.

-Run into street and laugh at oncoming cars.

-Watch Super Why.

-Beat each other about the head.

-Terrorize postman by grabbing his hand when he tries to put mail through the slot.

-Shampoo each other’s hair with apple juice.

-Sprinkle juice on sheets, comforters and pillows to make them smell pretty.

-Decide kitty litter is actually sandbox, and a good place to hid matchbox cars.

-Bite Mommy when she tries to pull you away from kitty litter and cars.

-Pull Mommy’s favorite books from bookcase, assemble them into crude stairs, climb them to reach the dry erase marker Mommy has hidden on top of bookcase, and continue coloring fingernails and hands with dry erase marker.

-Pull stuffing from sofa pillows and toss it around living room to make it look like it’s snowing.

-Try to make snowman with pillow stuffing, using yogurt to help it stick upright.

-Make Mommy cry.

-Beat each other about the head with wet, apple juice soaked sheets pulled from laundry bin.

-Tell Mommy you don’t love her anymore, then try to give her eskimo kisses with snotty, runny nose.

-Greet Daddy when he comes home, snug in PJs and acting like perfect angels.

-Eat cookies Daddy has brought home as treat for good little children.

-Go to sleep.

You look down at that eagerly anticipated first cup of coffee and see little black specks flittering around the rim. You freak out, because in your dream clouded mind, they look like bugs, and you have a thing about bugs. Hate them in fact. So you quickly drop the cup, and when it shatters into half a dozen, very sharp pieces, you realize that they were just coffee grounds, escaping from the filter because you did a piss-poor job of placing it in the basket.

While cleaning up this mess, you step on a shard, and curse. Your youngest child hears you and decides this curse is the coolest word EVER, and begins to recite it in an almost melodic chant, which, though annoying, does drown out the older child roaring for waffles in the other room.

After making another cup of coffee you sit down at your computer and realize you are three days behind on your new year’s resolutions. You haven’t written a thing in days, the house is a mess, and your WiiFit instructor is going to yell at you the next time you log on.
At least you remembered to eat your low-fat oatmeal this morning, instead of gorging on the kid’s pop-tarts or starving yourself until lunchtime. A balanced, healthy diet is your most important resolution. And oatmeal is healthy….but disgusting. So no one would blame you for adding some raisins to it.

Ok, so maybe they shouldn’t have been yogurt covered.
Ok, Ok, they were chocolate-covered.

I adored all these shows, but my favorite had to be Voltron, a fairy-tale like story featuring a princess and a witch and robot lions (robot lions!) that formed an unbeatable giant robot. I would race home from school each day to watch this particular show, but if any one in my family came into the room I would rush to shut the TV off. For some reason, I was certain that Voltron was a boy show, and therefore I should not be watching it, and I definitely could not admit to liking it, or I would be teased mercilessly.

That Christmas I carefully wrote out my list to Santa. I was nine, maybe even ten at the time, probably too old to believe in Santa. I didn’t think we had a lot of money for presents that year, so if I wanted anything truly special, Santa was the guy to ask. I wrote a bunch of nonsense at the top of the list, but at the bottom, in big bold letters, I put to paper my own true wish, Voltron, my own personal Red Ryder BB Gun.

Before I handed the letter over to my mother, I panicked. I was sure I’d be scolded for wanting a giant robot instead of a Pound Puppy or Strawberry Shortcake. I’d been laughed at for wanting to play Star Wars with the boys at a classmate’s birthday party. I went to edit my letter, carefully cutting out the last line with my safety scissors before handing it over. I didn’t think I had sabotaged my Christmas dreams though, as Santa was all knowing and certainly knew what I really wanted.

Christmas day came and went. I can’t remember what I got that year. It could have been a pound puppy. It might have been strawberry shortcake. It certainly wasn’t a shape-shifting robot. Later that year, I found out the truth about Santa, and I wasn’t really surprised.

September 21st, 2008. Todd and I celebrated our sixth anniversary. We dropped the kids off with the in-laws and went to a movie. I haven’t been to the movies at all this year so just sitting in a dark theatre, without kids screaming for my attention, for almost two hours, was heaven. I didn’t expect a gift. Truthfully, I didn’t want a gift because that would mean I’d have to reciprocate, and money is a little tight right now.

So imagine my surprise when a package arrives the next day and this is in it:

Defender of the Universe

Dear lonely teenaged sadists,

Stop confusing motherhood with Precious Moments figurines. Having a child isn’t a guarantee of unconditional love. Chances are, your kid might not even LIKE you. This afternoon, I told my three year old to turn off Spongebob, and she stamped her foot and told me, quite succinctly, that she hates my guts. She has holed up in her bedroom, where she is probably plotting my demise.

His explanation:

You remind me of a ferret. Ferrets are cute pets, but in the wild they’re ferocious little things. Out in the wild, you wouldn’t want to mess with a ferret. Even as pets, they’re still kind of vicious. But when you see a ferret, attacking a slipper, you’ve got to laugh cause it’s a ferret. Attacking a slipper. And they may be going nuts, tearing into it, but it’s freaking cute, cause it’s a ferret. Attacking a slipper.