What I Think About in the Bathtub

 So I’m trying to unwind in a nice bath but it’s hard when staring at me is a gigantic fireman rubber ducky on the faucet there to protect my kids from injuring their heads. I say fuck it and pour bubble bath into it’s head and watch luxurious bubbles pour out of it’s face. Calgon take me away. But instead I fall into “The Spin” that happens occasionally.

My kid just ate raw hamburger off the floor. Is that okay?

My kid talked to me through a kazoo for the entire day yesterday. Is that okay?

When my kid meets new people she serenades them with Biz Markie. Is that okay?

I tell my child, who will only wears dresses that a long shirt and leggings are a dress and tights so she’ll wear them. Is that okay?

My kid likes to sleep with an apple and a VHS tape. Is that okay?

My kids speaks as though English is her second language. (Ice cream, you want?) Is that okay?

My kid draws Tim Burton-esqe people with alien eyes. Is that okay?

My kid is deathly afraid of jumpy castles even though she is an Olympics qualified couch jumper. Is that okay?

My kid kept a shrimp in her mouth for a hour (until it became liquified) in an act of defiance because she didn’t want to swallow it. Is that okay?

 I take baths while leaving my children unsupervised. Probably not okay.

 I listen. It’s entirely too quiet in the next room.

 “Everything okay out there?”  I yell out to the girls. “Love Monster, is your sister okay?”

 “Yeah,” Love Monster says. 

 I’m pretty sure she’d say that if Smirker was bleeding out her eyeballs.

 I hear Smirker laugh. The eyeballs are intact for now.

 It’s the new year and I need some validation. 

 I worry that it’s not okay. Is it (dare I say this word) normal? Yeah I know. Who cares about normal? Your child is an individual. Like a snowflake. Blah blah. Whatever. But normal is comforting sometimes.

 I get out of the bath, put on my robe and check on the girls. Love Monster is playing with play dough and Smirker is feasting on it like it’s thanksgiving dinner. Great.

 “Mama, she’s eating my art,” Love Monster says.

 I remove Love Monster’s (non toxic)  sculpture from Smirker’s mouth. They look at me and smile. 

 “You happy, mama?” Love Monster asks. 

 Smirker licks her finger to get a last taste of play dough deliciousness. 

 “I can give you hug, you want,” Love Monster adds.

 Of course it’s okay. You know why? Because...Sing it with me Love Monster: “Oh baby you, you got what I need...”

My Initiation Into the world of Girl-dom

 I thought I knew all things girl. Pink, ponies, princesses. Despite having a mean tomboy streak, my three year old loves these things. She adores fashion. She needs to wear a dress (sometimes more than one) everyday and even turned to me while watching Tangled and whispered, “Do you think he likes her dress?” I smiled. Oh honey. That’s the eternal question isn’t it?

 One thing she doesn’t like is dolls. Never has. Dolls are just squishy things in the way of her trucks and trains. But when home in Chicago for Thanksgiving this year I had the bright idea to check out American Girl. It was more of just a passing idea. I’d heard of it. I really thought nothing more of it than a giant store for kids. Something to kill some time. I had no idea what I was getting myself into and the subculture I was about to be immersed in. 

 When we walked in I was equally terrified and impressed at the same time. The story is two impeccable doll filled stories. I immediately felt underdressed. LIttle girls and their mothers packed the place dressed for Sunday tea with an occasional father stuffed in a suit looking like he’s hoping to black out the next hour or two. But they are not alone. It’s them AND their American Girl dolls. Pushed in strollers, carried in baby backpacks, cradled delicately by their “mommies.” 

 And when you enter American Girl, your doll is treated as if she is real.

 I’m serious. 

 Well maybe not exactly real, but they are acknowledged, you can have a personal shopper and given many perks. That I will get to in a moment, but let me back up.

  I’m thinking Love Monster will start throwing dolls on the floor at any minute since that seems to be her go to move when she sees one, but something is different... Her eyes are wide. She walks to one of the displays and touches the doll’s hair softly. She is transfixed.

 “I want a little Love Monster,” She whispers.

 What kind of drug are pumping in here? There is something in the air. I turn to my mom to share in my shock, but she’s got the same look in her eyes that Love Monster does. Whoa.

 A saleswoman comes up to us and asks if she would like a doll. The idea in the American Girl Universe is that you pick a doll that looks like you.They have any hair, skin, and eye color combo to pick from. I see Love Monster look at the display of all the types of girls. For a moment I see her eyes stop on a dark haired and dark skinned doll. I wonder if she will break the unwritten rule I’ve imagined exists: “The doll must look like you!” Buck the system kid, I find myself chanting in my head. But she wanders over to a blonde blue eyed mini Love Monster and says, “That one. That’s my little Love Monster.” I’ve never heard her speak with such tenderness when it comes to... well anything. Who is this kid??

 Now if this isn’t strange enough, on the second floor we entered the Twilight Zone. You can buy accessories like tennis rackets, bowling shoes or whatever extracurricular you might be into so you doll is just like you. Okay, that seems pretty standard. 

 You can buy matching outfits. This I had seen evidenced of all over the store. Weird, but I was prepared for that.

 Then I saw the headgear. 

 Yes, you read that right. Headgear. If you wore headgear, your doll could too. Why would you want to subject your doll (or you!) to that?? That is a travesty! I mean (snorting laugher) that’s RIDICULOUS. Who would want... anyway moving on.

  Your doll could have a broken leg or arm, if you had one. Love Monster noticed the trend and asked if she could give her doll a black eye.

 Let me explain. 

 She had had an unfortunate incident with a counter corner when she was running wild at my parents’ house that had given her a black eye the day before. So she wanted LIttle Love Monster to have one too. This they didn’t have. At least I didn’t think so. I doubt the domestic violence edition existed (I know. Inappropriate, but that totally popped into my head).

 They also have historical dolls complete with books and accessories from the time period. I hovered around Julie, the doll from the seventies and couldn’t help but wonder is she had any joints to go along with her beret, roller skates and fondue set.

 We emerged from the accessories section and into the craziest part of the store in my opinion. There is a hair salon. For the doll (for the price of a regular kid haircut by the way). A photo studio. A cafe in which  you have “a fun and fancy dining experience” with your doll. The doll has its own seat and food too. I maneuvered Love Monster away from here. Maybe next time. Who knew what they would charge for the doll’s fake tea.

 There is also...wait for it... a doll hospital.  My mom, the nurse, watched as a girl brought her broken doll to the hospital. The “doctors” dressed the injured doll in a hospital gown, admitted her and wheeled her away in a wheel chair. Wow. They really take this all the way.

 “Maybe when I retire, I can work here,” My mom says with a laugh. I don’t think she’s kidding.

 All I could keep thinking was: Is this place for real? Not only is this is little girl heaven, but it’s marketing genius. Like I said, equally terrified and impressed. I’ll admit, as much cynicism as I have, I would have loved this place as girl. A lot. 

 And NOT because headgear was available and maybe the doll’s headgear would get caught on the pillow too and we could bond over that. NOT because of that. 

 Because my doll could be into horse back riding and kittens. Yeah. That’s it.

That Kid

I finally have a bit of freedom. Three hours, two days a week. Preschool. I’m in line to pick her up and I make some small talk with the mom behind me. “Who do you have in the class?” I ask.

 “Brian.” She answers sweetly. “Who’s yours?”

 “Love Monster. She loves it here.”

 “Brian’s pretty rambunctious. Not shy at all.” She adds.

 “Love Monster is too,” I say, so glad I’m not alone in a having a highly energetic child.

 We reach the front of the line and look into the classroom. Brian’s mom points inside. “There’s mine.” She indicates a boy sitting quietly on the rug along with the other kids. Rambunctious? And as if on cue, Love Monster tackles him.

 “I love him!” Love Monster proclaims.

 “And that would be mine,” I say wincing watching the two teacher’s aids pry her off him. I’m guessing that a play-date is out of the question now. Brian’s mom smiles tentatively and waves it away like it was no big deal. But I know what she’s thinking. Just like I know what all the mom’s are thinking when I take my little Love Monster to the park and when I try to go shopping at target and she insists on making a Close Encounters type mountain of stuffed animals in middle of the toy aisle.

 They are thinking three things: 

1. Get her away from my kid!
2. Her mom must be doing something wrong.
3. Thank god she’s not mine that looks exhausting.

 In turn I think:

 1. She means well!

 2. F off.

 3. Ya think?

I have that kid. The kid other adults shake their fingers at. The kid when staying home sick from school, the teacher feels a bit relieved about. The kid whose mom they look at disapprovingly. Yep that’s me.

 Before I had kids if I saw a parent on street with one of those leashes attached to their child I’d get all up on my high horse, “How dare they. That’s horrible. What? Is your kid a dog?” I’d say out loud, within earshot.

 Yeah. I totally get the leashes now.

 Never used one, but I feel my hand pull ever so slightly toward them in the store.

 Love Monster has always been… energetic. She decided to be born five weeks early. She’s always been in a rush to do everything. She’s enthusiastic. That’s the positive spin on it. Those who are more on the negative side might refer to her as crazy, spastic and out of control. And I won’t sugar coat it, it sucks. A lot of the time. It’s created irrational fears. I picture myself when she’s 30 careening after her as she runs wildly into the street. She bit a kid. When I asked her why, she said she was hungry. I worried for a good hour that she was a cannibal. What did Jeffery Dahmer’s parents do? I have to do the opposite.

  She can’t sit still for a second, but she’s good in the car seat. Am I going to have to invent a seat belt for her chair at school when she’s in first grade? 

 Sure she ripped off Raggedy Ann’s arm and replaced it with a trumpet, but that means she’s going to be a surgeon right? I didn’t spend a day worrying she would be a serial killer that might be featured on Dexter. No.

 But I must say, boy there is some great entertainment value to having a kid whose imagination and energy level are through the roof. She is very resourceful. After finally seeing Toy Story she wanted to dress up as Woody, but we don’t have any cowboy stuff. So she used what we had: a fishing hat, button down shirt and rain boots and played cowboy all afternoon looking like Bill Murray from Caddyshack. And she can make me laugh like no other. Once, I told her she had a time out and she looked at me and in all seriousness said, “Don’t be silly mama” (The time out still happened, but I couldn’t help but be proud of her smart assy-ness).

 And for those parents out there that just don’t get it (Gigantic sigh). Well, good for you for having the perfect kids. Kids that follow the rules. I’m not bitter. Nope not me. When your kid is still living at home at 25 afraid to leave mommy, mine will be taking the world by storm! Okay, that was harsh. You guys are lucky… (sigh again). Be glad you don’t have to spend countless hours practicing sitting on the carpet so she doesn’t get kicked out of preschool. I wish I didn’t dread going to parties where I know she will get over stimulated and run through the non child proofed house like Steve Martin in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (Oklahoma! Okalahoma! Oklahoma!). Believe me, we’re trying everything we can to controlled this crazy ball of toddler chaos. Do you think I like it when she thinks she decides to hand wash her stuffed animals in the bathroom and dry them with toilet paper (I swear all I did was change the laundry and came back to that)? Do you think I’m not wanting to rip my face off in frustration??  Breathe Beth breathe… 

 Our pediatrician says there’s a large range on what’s normal for a toddler (Double sigh). I’m not going to worry too much. I am thankful for the little bugger. I just wish the judgmental bunch out there (which is not you I’m sure), could see what I see. The amazingly calm, cuddly, loving side that peeks out every now and then. Sure those moments are fleeting, but they make all those tantrums worth it. She holds me close and whispers, “I love you mommy.” Then before I can squeeze back… she’s up and ripping down the blinds. 

Thirteen Confessions of a Freaky (or not so freaky?) Mom

Am I the only one? I can’t be… I probably am, aren’t I?

The following are moments may, or may not be true – depending on if you have sense of humor. If you have the balls to admit it, it would give me some comfort in knowing that maybe there are others like me. Either that or I am a complete freak. Whatever. I’m letting my mother freak flag fly.

13.  “Crybaby”

Sometimes I think is really fucking hilarious when my kids cry. I know, I know, that might sound bad… ok, perhaps just plain cruel… but- listen sister - before you go and call DCFS and tell them I’m a sociopath, what I really mean to say is, when they fake cry. I might admit to having a picture (okay maybe one or two) of my one year old, Smirker crying on my phone. So if you see me look at my phone and giggle, you know why. I just needed a little pick me up - it never fails.

12. "Stockholm Syndrome"

You know that horrible news story where some out of control teacher has duct taped a kid to their chair because they are out of hand? When that story comes on people around me gasp, “Oh my god. They should be fired! She should be locked up! What’s wrong with her?!” And then the 10 year old kid comes on crying and says they are traumatized (whatever it’s duct tape). I chime in with my, “Those poor kids…” as well. But inside there is a tiny… no… big… piece of me that gets it. Mind you, I would never do it... But I get it. I sooooooo get it.

 11. “Leaving Las Vegas”

Benadryl… Airplane.

10.  “Paging Doctor Mama”

I kinda, sorta like it… when my toddler is sick. My squirmy girl is suddenly cuddley. She doesn’t eat all our food and is so super calm is crazy. I leave the room and come back to find her in… the same place! What?!? And she makes that cute little sicky voice. AND, perhaps most importantly, she calls me Doctor Mama. But man, it’s not long before she’s her crazy manic self.  Antibiotics are way too effective.

 9. “Pulp Fiction”

I tell my toddler some very not candy like food is candy so she’ll eat it. So much so that when Halloween comes she’s doesn’t know what the hell is going on. “Where is the carrot candy, mama?”

 8. “Annoying You: A Love Story”

I will take a toy away from my baby just to hear her make that cute cry noise. Don’t worry. I give it right back because the smile of satisfaction she gives me is just as cool. Ten take aways usually gets me my fix.

7.  “Beauty Sleep”

There is one really awesome thing about summer ending and the days getting shorter. Something to pull out in emergencies when the day has been so freaking long you want to throw every tiny little Lego piece that been scattered around the room away and set fire to that talking Elmo that’s super warped and running out of  batteries. I’ll tell my toddler it’s bedtime an hour earlier than normal and she won’t give me the “But it’s still light out” excuse. Dammit! Mama needs a break, and quite possibly a beer. I just use my keen justification skills and tell myself that the extra sleep will be good for her.

6. “Treat Torture”

When my toddler is misbehaving one of the most effective punishments is taking her dessert privileges away. One time I really wanted to drive the point home,  so I ate the dessert right in front of her. And all we had were the mint chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches that I detest. I choked it down and act like it’s manna from heaven. That’ll teach her to mess around during nap time, I thought. “Mean mama!” She said. I never did that again. 

5. “Damn Doppelgangers”

Sometimes when I see dogs in commercials they remind me of my one year old. “Oh my god she totally makes that face.”

4. “Golden”

I get unusually excited about nap time. I’ve made up songs about it. I look like a crazed clown trying to get my toddler excited about it.  The look of glee on my face when the clock strikes two… Nothing is more wonderful than that sudden silence.

3. “The Sidler”

My phantom baby scares me. Seriously she’ll show up anywhere. I’ll set her down on the carpet in the living room. Go to the kitchen and seconds later she’s next to me. It freaks me out.

2. “Hold my hair”

I love my toddler’s midnight pee trips when I’m a bit tipsey.  She all of a sudden makes perfect sense to me. I’m totally in sync with her stumbling. Her gibberish ramblings are kernels of wisdom that I drink up (Ice cream makes me have sweet dreams, Mama). While she holds onto me on the toilet, it’s like talking to your trashed girlfriend in club bathroom when it really takes two of you to pee. “I love you mommy. You are so pretty.  Soooo pretty. I love your face. I love you forever. Thanks for helping me.” That connection. You completely get each other.  Wow. I really will do anything to remember the good ole days.

1. “Drinking the Kool-Aid”

I get annoyed when I see everyone’s perfect little fb posts about their perfect little kids and their perfect little lives. I mean really? REALLY??? I swear, I’m totally happy for you that little Bobby learned how to put on pants today. I have those moments too. But REALLY? Every bloody day??? (And they have a freakin elastic waist, come on). Oh look! Smirker just did that cute crinkle nose smile! Dammit. I’m posting it. Shut up- don’t judge me.

My Reign as The Poo Poo Fairy

I was convinced my three year old was going to crap her pants forever. She and I laid in the backyard watching the clouds. She stands up and leans over me, “Mama, change my diaper.” This is never going to end. Now I know, most parents have this thought when they’ve started potty training. I know this is not unusual to believe this. But let me be clear, I was certain it was true. Positive. She was the exception to the rule.

 She was going to crap her pants forever.

 Well, dating is a worry I’ll probably never have. I’ll have to figure out how to explain to her college roommates why there was a box of Depends in the bathroom…. I’ll have to learn how to sew so I can design her clothing to make it more diaper friendly. All do-able. And diapers bags are so cool now; she’ll always have a great bag. I had made peace with it.

 But unfortunately the preschool parent handbook wasn’t with me.  

Chapter Five Sub-section B

Toilet trained policy: All Children must be toilet trained. They must be able to use toilet tissue by themselves and wash their hands thereafter. DIAPERS OR PULLS UP ARE NOT PERMITTED. If a child experience frequent accidents it will result in 

dis-enrollment.

 “Love Monster is going to be expelled from preschool,” was all I can think. They have to be able to wipe themselves and wash their hands by themselves too?? That’s a whole other level of toilet trained-ness! Do they get detention if they color outside the lines too? Her first day of school was approaching. I couldn’t go through everyday of picking her up at school peeking in the window and praying that she still had the same clothes I dropped her off in. I had to make this happen. 

 We tried everything. Poop and we’ll give you and M&M. Poop and we’ll give you a cookie. Poop and we’ll give you a DVD. Poop and we’ll give you any goddamn thing! And farting into the toilet doesn’t count!

 I repeatedly was told. “You can’t rush it. They will do it in their own time.” Yeah yeah. Tell that to our preschool principal and her excrement free facility.

 I made it into a game. Poop on the Cherrio. It’s fun! Try to aim!  Whatever. She had no interest at all. She would look at me like, “Poop on the Cheerio? Are you serious mom?”

 Then after talking to many moms I knew, I was told the secret.

 The Poo Poo fairy.

 I know it sounds silly.

 One morning I sat my three year old down and told her a story.

 “Once upon a time there was a little girl…” I started. And I told her the story of a little girl who pooped in the potty and the poo poo fairy would bring her a present. And she bought it. She not only bought it, but obsessed about it. When’s she coming? Will I meet her? Where will she leave my present? Can I talk to her on the phone? She tried pooping on the potty, but nothing happened.

  Every night after she was in bed she would come out. “I’m sure I have to go.” But nada.

 One day she ran up to me and said, “I did it mama!” And sure enough poop was in the potty, but then after examining the evidence (her hands and skid marked underwear) I realized that she took a dump in the pants and transferred the poop into the potty. 

  “Do I get present for trying?” she would ask sweetly. 

 “No way,” I replied (Gotta be hardcore).

  But I noticed a pattern. She would always hold her poop until nap-time. Inevitability, I’d open her door when nap-time ended and it would smell craptastic. She’d flash her best smile and say, “I need you to change my diaper.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me you had to go?” I whined.

 “I was sleeping,” She said matter-of-factly.

 Hmmmmm. Really? Something was up here.

 I told this to a friend of mine and I got a crazy suggestion. Insane I tell you.

 My friend told me… during nap-time. No diaper. No underwear. Nothing.

 No way! I imagined her room walls smeared with poop like a mental hospital’s extra crazy wing! So I went through a couple more weeks of… Nap. Crap. Nap. Crap. Nap. Crap. Ugh! My friend calmly told me again. I’m serious. Try it.

 I had run out of options. 

 “Fine. I’ll do it,” I said. “But I’m calling and bitching to you when I’m cleaning shit off the ceiling fan.  You will owe me. Big time.”

 Nap time commenced. My only protection was a beach towel I laid down in the bed. 

 “I am going to sleep with my booty?” She asked.

 “Yep, just your booty. This is like a… beach nap,” I said.

 “Cool. Do I need suntan lotion?”

 “Not on this beach,” I put her potty next to her bed and said, “if you have to go there’s the potty.”

 “Okay mama,” she said getting into bed bottomless. Right. Sure.

 I closed the door. I swear to god, not even five minutes later she opened the door and said mama, “I grew a tail in the potty!”

 And there it was. Gorgeous and wonderful in all it’s glory. She had pooped in the potty. I screamed and jumped up and down with her. When she got up from her nap, The Poo Poo Fairy had left her Toy Story Two, a Toy Story Two book and a monster truck. And a note that read: I am so proud of you! Keep it up!

 And she never turned back. Sure a couple accidents here and there, but not for long. Between the magic of The Poo Poo fairy and beach naps, my little Love Monster was potty-trained right in time for school. Sure, now during naps she will ration out her poo so she goes a few times to get more pieces of candy. But hey, it’s my kid. Of course she knows how to work the system.

 It’s a whole new world having a fully potty trained child. Now, instead of looking for shapes in clouds, she and I now find them in the toilet bowl. “Look mama! A dragon! A snake! A dinosaur…and it’s wearing a hat!” That’s right baby. I’m so proud of you. 

Top five things my daughter has told me while on the Potty

1. “My gasser’s in there!” Then she looks. “Where is it? I don’t see it!”
2. Mama, It’s right there. It’s at the door.
3. Mama I don’t have to go. It went back home.
4. It went down the slide!
5. That poop looks like Smirker’s head! (Smirker is her little sister)

She's Crafty

 I’ll admit it. I can be pretty half assed about my motherly duties. Mainly because most of the time I can’t believe 

I’m a mom to begin with and maybe this is just a long babysitting gig. And come on who really watched the kids the whole time when you were babysitting? So there it is. That is until I discovered craft time. 

 We’re watching Nick Jr. (Or Mick Jr. as my three year old calls it which makes me laugh every time. I immediately picture a channel devoted to small Irishman). Their slogan is “It’s preschool on T.V.” so that justifies hours of 

watching wonderfully. But today is different. We’re watching and I notice their suggestion for craft time and 

something in me changes. I sit up from my normal lounge position, put down my Twilight book (Team Edward!) 

and the inner virgo in me takes over. I must organize a craft time!

 I make a list: construction paper, paints, crayons, paint brushes, glue, bags of glittery crap that’s gonna get everywhere and egg cartons. I need egg cartons and toilet paper tubes. I know we can make shit with those. I’m making a frittata tonight and I scream to my three year old to “go to the potty so we can make some art,” which she makes complete sense to her.

 Complete euphoria fills me. I have found my thing! My purpose! I am a crafty mom! I fantasize about how my 

to show off to the neighbors and friends who come over. “Oh this? Yes, isn’t Love Monster amazing? I thought of it. No big deal.” Inside they will be thinking, she isn’t such a half assed mother after all. Yes! I don’t totally suck at 

daughter and I will bond over paper plate masks and popsicle stick houses. At the end of the day we’ll have a great 

piece to the neighbors and friends who come over.

 “Oh this? Yes, isn’t Love Monster amazing? I thought of it. No big deal.” Inside they will be thinking, she isn’t such a half assed mother after all. Yes! I don’t totally suck at this!

I get ready for craft time number one. I carefully spread out a plastic tablecloth. Line up all necessary supplies: toilet paper tube, white paint, paint brush, glue, white construction paper, scissors, black marker, and pink fuzzy balls. We are making octopuses. And I’m-I mean she’s going to make the best freaking Octopus ever.

 I throw an old tee-shirt of mine on Love Monster and it almost fits (Jeez I used to wear that in public? How did I 

ever find a decent husband?). 

 “It’s craft time!” I announce.

 “Yay!” She says matching my fervor. God bless her.

 “We are going to make an Octopus today!” I say.

 “Pussy!” She says. That’s my girl. Oy…

 “And how many legs (arms?) do Octopuses have?” I ask. I’m going to make this a learning activity too. Mom high!! I am good at this! 

 “Four” my daughter said confidently. 

 “No, eight. But you’re three so I’ll let that slide.” And I let her into my arts and crafts sanctuary.

 Now would be a good time to mention I have a very… enthusiastic toddler.

 She storms in and jumps up on the chair. “Paint sticks!” she screams grabbing the paint brush. Duh.

 “Freeze!” I yell. She freezes to my surprise.

 And we embark on the pussy making journey.

 Step one: paint the body (TP roll) white. 

 “Go ahead paint it.” She gets the paint everywhere but the freakin’ tube. Finally I take the brush and do it. 

 “No. Like this,” I say painting it perfectly. This is just to show her how to do it, I tell myself.

 Step two: Cut the tentacles.

 A toddler with scissors? I better do this too.

 Step three: glue on the pink balls (suckers) and attach them to the body

 “Go ahead, put just a tiny bit of glue there,” I tell my daughter who is going nuts in her seat to do something. 

Handing her the glue is absolute torture. 

 “Just squeeze it. There you go. Harder. Come on. No! Too hard. Dot, dot, not a lot!!! Dammit it’s everywhere! Give it to me. Don’t touch anything! Don’t frickin’ touch anything! Hands up!” 

 Yeah. This must be super fun for her.

 I glue this monstrosity together while Love Monster holds her gluey hands over her head.

 “Mama? I do eyes?’ she asks sweetly.

 I take a deep breath. It’s okay. Relinquish the control, Beth. You can do it. I hand her the black marker, my hands 

trembling.

 “Make two dots,” I whisper. Breath in and out. She can do this.

 She grabs the not yet dry Octopus pushing a couple legs out of alignment. I bit my knuckles. It’s cool. I’m fine. You can do it, kid...

 And she makes lines. 

 Not even horizontal! Horizontal, and I could have made that work. The octopus could have been Asian. How hard it is to make dots?!? I mean come on!

  I look at my daughter and you should see the look on her face. She loves this octopus. Loves it. The pride in her 

eyes makes me melt. She stares at it for a good half hour then naps with it and names it Dale.

 I’ve gotten better at our craft time. I let her do the painting. Let her glue. I’ve let go of the fact that the fridge

paintings you see on T.V. shows will never be the art that hangs around my house. I am very serious about that by 

the way. The “kid’s” art you see hanging the background on T.V. sets are probably done by some art department 

intern. If my kid’s art looked like that I would send her to RISD now. But hell, I always end up loving the piece of 

crap Octopus, caterpillar or finger-painting. Because it’s my kid’s piece of crap and it looks lovely on my fridge.