Momnesia

Emmie had a boatload of sugar at her cousin Sheridan's birthday. She was one bite short of vibrating.

At home, I try desperately to calm her down, but she wants to play.

"Emerson, take some deep breaths, please. It's time to chill out."

"ButbutbutbutMama! Less play! Less play Picnic!"

"No. It's time for bed, now, darling."

""Less play Shadow Puppets!"

"NO. Lay down and hush."

"Less play I Spy!"

"Okay." I click the lamp. "I spy something dark."

Hee.

Emmie and I are playing Picnic in the car. We're bringing apples, bundt cake, "Cococola," dark chocolate, eggs, fiddleheads, gum, horseradish, ice, jelly beans, knuckle sandwiches, lemonade, mashed potatoes, noodles, octopus sushi, popcorn, and quail.

It's my turn for 'r.'

"... and I'm bringing..." I pause to think.

Emmie interrupts: "You should bring roller skates for 'r,' Mom, 'cause I'm bringing snakes for 's,' an' you might wanna leave dis picnic."

Emmie will have a week off from camp during the week of July 4, and we're trying to decide what to do. We discuss camping, swimming, sights to see, visiting friends and family, and our perpetual favorite activities in Atlanta.

"Well, it sounds like our choices are the city, the mountains, or the beach," I say. "Which do you prefer?"

"Ummm... da beach," she says. "Because I lite to kill jellyfish."

...what?

"You just get dem out of underwater, and chop dem in half."

When did you do that?

"Oh, I do dat never. I just don't want dem to sting me."

And commence discussion on the value of all living things in three... two... one.

Email to A.C.: "You know, I was thinking that it might not be anxiety I feel. I think it's my mad ninja skillz. Leaves me with heightened sensitivity to threats."

Email to me: "Why are you up so late emailing me? Anxiety, not ninja skills."

Email to A.C.: "Excuse me, but I am busy defending my home against attack."

My friend, A.W., and I were talking about an all-day Excel class she took at work. It sounded like torture.

"It was, Stacey. It was," she said. We agree about the necessity of the software and the usefulness of it. But there are few professional tasks that I despise more than devising an Excel formula.

"That's about as exciting as actuarial science," I said. "I'd rather study taxidermy. At least then I'd know what to do with the body when an actuarial scientist dies of boredom."

In the perpetual game show "Why Can't Anything Go Right?" that is my life, my dad and I had to drive 30 minutes to retrieve my bank card from my sister, who had accidentally absconded with it. Say that five times fast: accidentally absconded. It's really hard.

Anyway, Emerson wanted to go with us. She loves to ride in her "Dadada's" (grandfather's) enormous Ford F-150, and she likes to chatter. She kept us entertained all the way there by drawing cartoons of each of us in humorous states of fear. "Dadada Steps on a Snake and Runs Away" was my particular favorite.

When that grew old, she tickled my neck. Y'all! I hate being tickled! I'd rather you punch me in the neck than tickle me. I can't explain it, except that I have to really struggle to contain violent anger whenever anyone tickles me. I've gotten better at controlling it these last few years because Emerson does it all the time.

"Emmie!" I cried, exasperated at having to repreatedly use my ninja-like swiftness to catch her fingers before she could wriggle them into my neck. "Cut it out, lady!"

"Why?" she giggled.

"Because I hate being tickled!"

You'd have thought I'd chucked cold water on her.

"But... but why don'tchoo lite it, mama?"

"I don't know. I've always hated it."

"Wull, I lub it!" she laughed.

"I know you do, Doodle. That's why I tickle you all the time," I said, and wriggled my fingers in her armpit. She shrieked and giggled, and I cut it out so my dad didn't smack me. No one likes high-pitched squealing while they're driving in Atlanta traffic.

"But, Mama, you should like tickles," Emmie said, eyebrows creased.

"Why?"

"Because! Iss fun!" she said.

"Not for me," I said.

"But tickles are good," she insisted. "Good tickles mean good times."


Well, now we know that she's apparently aiming for a career in advertising copy writing.

Dear Atlantic Station H&M Male Sales Clerk -

"Hi. Do you have this bag in black?" I asked. You hardly glanced up at me.

"Nooooo," you mused, eyebrow raised, while adjusting your horrid neck scarf. "It doesn't come in black. Why would you ask that?"

"...beeeeecause I prefer black?"

"Wellllll... I suppose they could make it in black, but personally I feel it's more authentic in brown. It's the color Hermes used when designing their Birkin, which is, of course, the inspiration for the bag you are now holding. They also did it in red, but... hmmm... noooo, we don't have it in red, either."

Riiiiight. Look, sir, do you see me trailing two sugar-coated, wind-blown schoolchildren in various stages of meltdown? Did you notice me wearing the same jeans-and-sweater combination that has carried me through the last 6 winters-and-schizophrenic-Southern-springs of motherhood? Have you - like me - already grown tired of me snapping my fingers and whistling to get the attention of the children, who have no desire to be in your store and are T-minus-30-seconds from tolerating my attempt at retail therapy no longer?

Now that you've noticed the telling characteristics of the customer standing before you, let's be clear about a couple of things. The only reason I am even in here is because I did not bring a purse that was large enough to sneak convenience store snacks and drinks into the ridiculously-overpriced movie theater that is right behind this store. Coincidentally, I also need a new laptop bag, because the handles are falling off of the one I bought at Target just over a year ago (Thanks, Target. That was $50 wasted).

Despite your elite position as one of 87,000 H&M employees, and regardless of your hard-fought victory to enroll as a "fashion" student at one of the FORTY-FIVE campuses of the Art Institute of WhereverTheyCanGetaLease, I did not ask for a history of the cheap knock-off you are passing off as couture. I asked you one question. It was about color. It requires only this: "No, it only comes in brown."

I tend to shy away from religious discussions. I was raised Presbyterian, which is a quiet, non-charismatic faith sometimes joked about as "The Frozen Chosen." Displays of fervor make me feel uncomfortable.

But this is an overwhelmingly Baptist area, so I have grown accustomed to such displays - although only slightly more adept at dealing with them without clutching my chest and swooning.

I wasn't prepared for how this would impact Emerson. Scott's family is mostly Baptist, and they're very strong in their faith. I suppose they discuss it with her a great deal, because she's always very interested and vocal about Jesus when she returns from spending time with them. This is not a bad thing; but without regular tutelage, some things get twisted in a 6-year-old's mind.

The other night we were reading a book called, "What Should I Be?" In it, a little princess goes from adviser to adviser, asking the best way to be when she grows up. Her mother, the queen, wants her to be kind. The admiral tells her to be a strong swimmer. The prime minister says she should be clever. The maid says the choice is up to her. The princess just wants to be tall. Her little brother thinks she already is. It makes the point that the best qualities are a matter of perspective.

"I fink we should choose good choices, so we can be whatever we want to be," Emmie said, when we were discussing the book's message.

"I think that's lovely," I said.

"But I already know the best way to be," she said, with frightening intensity.

"Oh? How?" I asked.

"Dead," she said, with utter sincerity.

Whaaaaaaaaaat?

"And why is that?" I asked, cautiously.

"Because! Den you get to be wif God up der in heaven!"

I made a note to spend more time on faith. Methinks something got lost in translation.

It's 9 p.m., and Emmie is just crawling into bed. We're an hour late tonight, because she had crazy tons of homework owing to the fact that she forgot to bring home her homework folder the day before. But usually we read for a half-hour, so it's not as though she's way off her schedule. You wouldn't know it from her behavior. She's tired and grumpy.

"Mama!" she whines. "Why we hafta sleep so short?"

"Hey, who are you calling short?" I tease, and she heaves a massive sigh that says that I am Getting On Her Nerves. Hooookay, then. Joke time is over.

"Okay, Attitude. I don't understand what you're asking."

"Wull, we go sleep for a short time, and when we wake up, iss still night time."

"It's 6:15 in the morning, Em," I correct her.

"But I don' get enough sleepies," she flops her arms and legs on the bed, whining.

"Well, we have to get up at that time. If you need more sleep, we'll have to go to bed earlier," I explain. No way, I think, will she ever agree to that.

"Less do dat," she declares.

"You... want to go to sleep... earlier?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Tomorrow we'll go to sleep one hour earlier."

"Fanks, Mom."

You're welcome...?

EXHIBIT A: My beloved, comfy loafers - which I have in both brown and black.

EXHIBIT B: An entry on The Sartorialist.

My friend and I are discussing some emotional stuff, and she offers some words of wisdom.

M.S. (concluding a beautiful and insightful thought): "... sometimes it is the dream that we hold onto when the reality is steadily kicking the shit out of us."

Me: "Wait, are you quoting lyrics from 'Rent?'"

M.S.: "Um, no, but I can - LOL! I played Mimi in college."

Me: "Oh, no, that last line isn't a song lyric. Although, I'd love to see someone rhyme 'steadily kicking the shit out of us.'"

M.S.: "We can do a new musical!"

Me: "That would work perfectly in the zombie musical I'm writing in my head, with such hit songs as 'I am Zombie, Hear Me Roar,' and lyrics like, 'Steadily kicking the shit out of us, older zombies they got more pus.' Le Chat Noir would stage it."

M.S.: "Yeah, but the choreography would be a little stiff."

When waking up in the night to go potty, try to remember that you laid your clothes out before bed. That is not a headless intruder by your armoire. You do not need to wake your child and neighbors with retarded screaming.

Just in case that ever happens to YOU. Not that it did to ME... heh heh.

We took Emmie to the Turkish restaurant in Evans. It's grilled and roasted meats, we reasoned. She'll be fine. Plus, she adores olives.

They brought out the basket of pita bread.

"Mmmm, quesadillas!" she squealed.

That should have been our first warning.

The rice was "gross and slippery." The meats were "too spicy." There was "salad on everything."

After taking her requisite one-bite of everything, which is our rule (you don't have to like it, but you have to try it), she refused everything else.

"Emmie, you won't get anything else to eat before dinner," I tell her, sternly. She whines and flops onto the seat of the booth. We order her to sit up.

She sighs heavily: "Do you guys see any udder kids here?"

'We guys' look around: "No, honey, why?"

"Because! Dats means they don't like dis food!"

I tried to hide my laughter, but Scott burst into gales right in front of her.

"You have to admit she has a point," he guffawed.

She did. Some things just do not appeal to kids' developing taste buds. And they are much more sensitive to spices.

We got her the feta cheese appetizer. She loved it. One day, she'll love Doner Kebab, too. Just not today.

I'm out with friends, talking silly crap and walking back to the car after some "lounging," when A.W. says that she wants to write a screenplay based on a short story by Shirley Jackson.

"Who's that?" I ask.

"She wrote 'The Lottery.'" Alice says.

"What's that?"

"Really?" she asks.

"Really?" A.C. asks.

"What?" I say.

"You never had to read that in middle school?" A.C. asks.

"I dunno. What's it about?" I ask.

"It's about this town, where once a year they draw names and stone those people to death," A.W. answers.

"I think I vaguely remember something... Why did they stone people?"

"That's one of the things you have to figure out. It's a classic short story," A.W. says.

"I think it has something to do with the crops," A.C. says.

"Ugh. That sounds like a horrible place to live. Why don't they just move?" I ask.

They laugh.

"What? Did I just reduce great literature to, like, one stupid question?"

"Yeah, kind of."

The blogosphere - including the atrocious comments section of our local daily paper - has been ablaze lately with opinions about the 11-year-old Texas girl who was gang-raped in an abandoned trailer by 18 men and boys.

It hurt me to hear this story. I know plenty of 11-year-olds, and I can't imagine the pain and humiliation - not to mention disease and pregnancy fears - she must be enduring. I was an 11-year-old girl, and sexuality was not a presence in my mind, or the minds of my other 5th grade classmates.

Most of the dialogue - if you can call it that - has focused on where we should lay the blame. Parents, perpetrators and the victim all trade places at the top of that hierarchy. Race has, hatefully, played a central role in the discussion.

But one man - one gentleman, I should say - has posted a thoughtful response on the blog My Brown Baby. Author Nick Chiles, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, does not focus on blame. Instead, he looks towards the future - because he allows the young victim to have one - and offers her a guideline to choosing her relationships in the future. Please read it here - and say a silent prayer of thanks that there are such men in the world.

So, as many know, some friends of mine just lost their jobs. It's crazy. But some of them have already been very fortunate in their job hunt...

A.W.: I think I got the job!
Me: Yay!
A.W.: And it's full-time, not part-time, like I thought.
Me: That's great!
A.W.: If I get the job, will you have lunch with me in the student center? :-)
Me: Of course! And maybe the temporary job will turn permanent.
A.W.: Yeah, that's what I'm hoping. But in the meantime, it will give me a chance to hone my admin skills, to add to my being awesome skills.
Me: LOL! 'Being awesome skills'! I'm going to add that to my resume's skills section. Proficiencies: Adobe Creative Suite, AP Style and grammar, training techniques, media sales, and being awesome.

A.C. texts me: "I am trapped in a rocking chair with sleeping kids on me, in case you were wondering. I can't reach the remote, or my magazine."

"Need rescue? Call 911?" I send back.

"No. I am bored out of my skull, and burning up in a sweater. There is a heating pad behind me, it's on high, but I can't reach the control. And my dog just passed gas."

And just like that, my sink of dirty dishes seemed much less annoying.

We're planning our group trip to Vegas.

"Depending on how many are going, I might just get us a suite at the Bellagio," A.C. says.

"Okay, fancy. I was going for a HoJo."

"What's a hojo?" she asks.

"That's the lady on the corner of 5th and Broad."

Emmie made a series of mistakes today that earned her a red face at school. This is not acceptable, and it means she loses privileges. No TV, no computer, no Wii. She ate dinner, did her homework, bathed, got ready for bed, and then we read a story. She really wanted to watch "Harry Potter," and I wouldn't let her.

"Mama? I'm goeend ta get my priviledgeth back tomorrow?" She lisped, her two front teeth having come out over the weekend. She was flipping through a big storybook in the bed beside me.

"If you get a green face," I answered, turning the page of my book.

"What if I get a yellow fathe?" She asked.

"Then you'll lose some privileges, but not all," I answered.

"Leth keep thith thimple," she lisped, flipping her story book pages as though chatting about the weather. "If I get a green fathe, I looth no privilegeth. If I get a yellow fathe, I looth one privilege. If I get a red fathe, I looth all privilegeth."

I stared at her in amazement. She was asking to standardize our system of punishment for poor behavior - to codify it.

"That... that is simpler," I stammered. She nodded without looking up.

"Um, well, how about I bring your suggestion to Daddy, and we'll decide together, tomorrow."

"Okay," she agreed, decisively. Then she laid down her book, closed her eyes, and instantly fell asleep.

We moved and it sucked. But told Emerson that part of it was her responsibility. She was to help, without whining. And she did. It must have been a Herculean effort for a 6-year-old. She did have to drag some of her little boxes up the front steps, but she didn't ask for help, and I let her work it out as much as she could on her very own.

We were almost done. While she was dragging the last set of boxes up the front steps, she sighed heavily. I could tell that she was tired, and ready for the move to be done with. I was sporting sore muscles in places I didn't even know I had muscles, so I understood and appreciated how much she had put into the process. I was so proud of her!

"Oh, sweetie-pie, you have been such a helper! Mommy really appreciates your hard work and your excellent behavior. You are just fantastic!"

She heaved her little box up the last step and hardly glanced back at me: "Yup. 'Funtassic' is my name!"

I had to put down my box until I stopped laughing.