finslippy

Helping out Nie

Yesterday an auction began for blogger Stephanie and her husband Christian, who were severely injured in a plane crash. The couple are the parents of four small children, and the recovery from their terrible burn injuries will be slow and difficult—and expensive. To help raise funds, Gabrielle, aka Design Mom, coordinated this auction. It's still going strong with over 300 items for sale, and if you want to take part, this post links to the many, many generous people who are pitching in. Donations, prayers, and well wishes are also needed, of course.

I don't know Stephanie, but she must be an amazing person to inspire this kind of effort on her and her family's behalf. It's stuff like this that makes me fall in love with the Internet all over again.

About kindergarten.

So Henry starts kindergarten next week.

Kindergarten around these parts--did I mention?--is a half-day affair.

Half day. As in not a full day.

The program was supposed to be changed to a full day, but then at the last minute it wasn't, just like that. We could discuss the pedagogical arguments behind the half-day versus the full-day program, but actually we couldn't because I wouldn't know what I was talking about and would just nonsensically throw around some jargon I Googled. So let's skip that, for the good of all mankind.

I'm just not quite sure how this schedule is going to work for us. In many ways, I think (I hope) that it will all work out just fine. Henry's pretty self-sufficient and will spend entire mornings playing with Legos. And me, my work involves writing a sentence then walking in circles and then writing another sentence, so it's not like I have anywhere to go. He's in the afternoon session, so we can both do our thing each morning; we don't have to rush out the door, he can Lego it up in his pajamas until noon, and then we can take a leisurely stroll over to the school. I picture him quietly constructing masterpieces while I'm, uh, writing masterpieces. This is what I imagine when I'm in an optimistic mood.

On the other hand, BLAAAAARRGH. Henry's been in preschool for the past three years, and last year he was in school for a full day. He is so ready for school. Real school, not these afternoon shenanigans. And this half-day? It's three hours. Three. Not four. Three. Actually it's about ten minutes less than three, and when you factor in the fifteen-minute walk back and forth, that leaves me with approximately ten minutes to get any work done. I am certain my math is correct. But then, I was in a half-day kindergarten, so what do I know.

There are programs I could put him in for the other half of the day, but, oh, the bottom line is I don't want to. I don't want to spend any more money on school, and also I think he'd get just as much, if not more, out of doing his thing over here. All that said, the time is drawing nigh, and the year is stretching out before us, and I'm getting a little nervous.

Dear neighbors.

Today on the way home from the playground we ran into Brian, aka Looky Daddy, and his clan. Henry had his t-shirt hiked up so that the headhole was circling his face. He asked Sharon, aka Mrs. Looky Daddy (I think she's going to pummel me for calling her that, but oh well) if he looked cool, and she observed that he looked like a "white ninja." Because the t-shirt was white, you see. I believe she might have said something about white ninjas being the coolest, or extra-super dangerous. Something.

So when my son was running down the block, shouting, "White ninjas are the best! If you want to be a good ninja, you have to be a white ninja! WHITE NINJAS RULE"? That was why.

Just so we're clear on that.

Business time.

So I'm in this book, The Best Creative Nonfiction, Vol. 2. For reasons beyond my understanding, the editors asked if they could use one of my posts; needless to say I agreed. I've added a link over to the right, as well as the one above. I'm a little embarrassed to have my blog post, which probably took me a half-hour to write, published alongside essays by Heidi Julavits and Pagan Kennedy—essays I'm guessing took them each a bit longer than a half-hour to write. You know, real essays, written with, like, care, and stuff. Obviously I'm not too embarrassed, or I wouldn't be telling you about the book at all. Once again, Alice, you have fooled no one with your half-hearted attempt at self-deprecation. At any rate, I am here to tell you that you should purchase this book. It is a good book, chock full of pages with words on them.

In other news, a colleague of mine is looking for birth stories for an upcoming project. She has asked me to ask my wondrous readership for contributions. Please email me (finslippy AT gmail DOT com) with links to birth stories, either ones that you yourself wrote or your favorite story from another site. UPDATE: okay, well, I asked for that. I was deluged with birth stories, so I'm going to ask that you hold off for now. I thank you for your patience. More later!

Clumping action, ho!

Mom: You know, we didn't even have kitty litter, when you kids were little. We used shredded newspaper for our cats.
Me (not really listening): Mmmm.
Mom: So when kitty litter was invented—wait, not invented, that's the wrong word—when it was discovered—
Me (snapping to attention): Mom, kitty litter was invented. There was no discovery of kitty litter.
Mom: Right, of course. Right!
Me: I mean, I'm pretty sure prospectors never sifted any kitty litter from the California rivers.
Scott (from the other room): There's odor-control crystals in them there hills!
Mom: You're going to write about this, aren't you.
Me: It hadn't occurred to me. UNTIL NOW.

Sometimes being disorganized is a gift.

Like when I find posts that I wrote three years ago and then promptly forgot about.

Actually I think I discarded this post because it made my son sound like he ran around beating everyone in sight. Now that he's a pacifist 5.5-year-old, though, I feel pretty safe letting you read this. Go ahead, judge the Henry of the past. He only beat the kids who deserved it.

---

To the mother I met yesterday at the playground,

I am sorry. I am. I never thought, before I had a kid, how much injury that child could inflict. I never realized how quickly a toddler’s mood could darken, how little time it took for his pudgy fist to wrap around a dump truck and raise it high over his head. And then bring it down on someone’s skull.

Is the swelling down? I hope it’s down.

I realize that at first, your upset was due largely to the fact that you hadn’t been looking when your child was struck by mine. I realize now, duh, that when you picked up your hysterical child and asked me what happened, I shouldn’t have shouted, “My child attacked your child OH GOD I’M SORRY!” I should have been calmer. I should have said that my child lightly tapped yours with a dump truck.(I will remember this for the future: “Tapped.” Not “attacked.”) I caused you to panic. Forgive me.

I should have known the precise moment when my child felt threatened by yours that it was time to haul him out of the sandbox and bring him to some less emotionally challenging portion of the playground. Your daughter—who is precious, by the way, did I mention that? Those eyes!—was an innocent bystander. All she did was point at his truck, but to Henry, she was all but declaring ownership of his truck, which he at that moment realized was the most perfect dump truck ever, so able to dump, so truck-like, its wheels so round and big, and she was going to take it and she had to be stopped. He had already been pushed to the brink by a 3-year-old who tried to “help” fill his bucket and by a smaller child who had leaned on him--twice. It was all he could take. Then your little girl pointed. And Henry snapped.

I hope you noticed, at least, that there were ramifications to Henry’s actions. The dump truck? Taken away. Henry? Sad. True, I could have left the playground with him, I could have really taught him a lesson by dragging him home, but it was the first time I had been out all day. So I let him keep playing in the sandbox. And he was being so good. He kept asking other children to play and then looking over at me like, see? See how good I can be?

He can be so good! You should see him be good!

I do wish you had been more gracious in the face of my apologies. Look, your kid wasn’t badly injured. A little bruise. That’s all! She was wiped up and happily playing in no time! It was alarming to look right in someone’s eyes and apologize sincerely and get a cold stare in return. Yeesh, lady. I didn’t hit your kid, after all. Can’t we have a laugh about kids and their lack of playground etiquette? Do you remember laughter?

All you said was, “How old is he?” In this disgusted voice. Like, what, doesn’t he know better? And when I told you he was 2, you were shocked. Did you think he was 7? Yeah, I know, he’s a big kid. He’s big. He’s Lenny from Of Mice and Men.

Anyway. Kids! Am I right?

All my best, Alice

To the parent with the attitude at Barnes and Noble,

Really, now. I wish Henry hadn’t pushed your child—okay, in the face, which I realize isn’t the nicest place to push someone if pushing is absolutely necessary. Except when a kid is crawling, they tend to kind of lead with the face, you know? And when we’re reading a book and he looks over to see what’s rubbing against his side and it’s your kid’s little moon-face, what else is he going to push away? I didn’t even see her until the pushing had already happened, in fact, I couldn’t even feel it but he shouted so I guessed something was broaching his personal space, and there was your kid, shimmied right up against him. And where were you? Ten feet behind us, curled up in a corner reading “Marie Claire.” Of course you were glaring at me. Because I’m the bad mother, right? Because I can’t control every one of my child’s muscles while I’m simultaneously reading him a book and trying to turn off the ringer on my cell phone? Did I interrupt your article on 20 Mascaras That Won’t Clump?

Your child didn’t seem upset. In fact, she continued to smoosh her face against Henry’s torso while he cried out in fear. She didn’t cry until you ran over and whisked her up and shouted in horror when you saw her face. She has a scratch across her cheek! You announced to the entire children’s section. Your child pushed her and gave her such a scratch! Now she’s crying! I am sorry, I said, but you only glared at me and went back to inspecting your kid’s face.

I saw you looking at Henry’s hands, I know what you were thinking. Does she ever cut his nails? And yes, Marie Claire, I do. The nails seem to grow to twice their length every other day, but I am vigilant and the child struggles in vain as I clip away. The thing about cutting a child’s nails, though, is that then you’ve created sharp edges that can slice you to ribbons if he gets you in just the right way. And don’t talk to me about filing his nails, please. Even I have my limits.

In short: shut up.

Very truly, Alice

To the mother at the library,

I knew the minute we walked in that we were in trouble. Your son is a little smaller than Henry—exactly the size he likes to take on. An exceedingly push-able size. And he was determined to be part of Henry’s world, to make his presence known. Every time Henry so much as glanced at a book, your son would grab it and wave it in my son’s face. Something was going to happen. I could feel it.

And then it happened. Henry tried to make a grab for the book your kid was waving around, and your son hauled off and whacked him with it, knocking him right down to the ground.

God, you were horrified. You should have seen the look on your face! You apologized again and again, and I’m sure you thought I was angry as I whisked Henry away. But in fact I was laughing. Because this time it wasn’t us! Whee! I went to find you after Henry had calmed down, but you had run off, no doubt in horror.

So: thank you. Also, please come back. I need you. I need you both.

I mean it,
Alice

Down here on earth.

A few days ago I was lying on my bed, talking on the phone with my friend Jessie. I was telling her the grim details of the horrific flight I had on my way home from BlogHer. I haven't said too much about my homeward flight, because every time I think about it I end up hyperventilating under my duvet, and one fewer trauma to relive would be nice. All I can say about it now, without the flashbacks driving me to peel the skin from my face, is there was some turbulence. And by "some," I mean "a lot," and by "turbulence," I mean "death was a near certainty." Except it wasn't. So that was a relief.

At any rate, I apparently felt well enough while talking with Jessie to really let loose on the whole ordeal, including the panic attack that kicked into high gear as all the conscious passengers were gripping our armrests and praying fervently. I didn't realize, while I was talking, that Henry was in the next room. So there I was recounting the hours of dry-heaving into an air-sickness bag as my tears soaked my copy of O , when my boy strolled in and asked, "What's a panic attack?" I was still on the phone, so I screeched, "You hush up while Mommy has her Me Time!" Actually I stared at him, wondering how much he had heard, and then I told him we'd talk after I hung up.

Then he asked me thirty more times in rapid succession. Making it really hard to say goodbye to my friend. I still did it, though, because I am able to both talk and wave dismissively at a child. I am a professional.

Again he demanded to know what a panic attack was, and was I really going to die on that plane? The second part was easy, because I definitely did not die on that plane, so obviously those thoughts had more to do with my panic than with the brain-rattling shaking I hyperventilated my way through. "But what's panic?" Henry wanted to know. I contemplated telling him it was a fun new video game I was playing on the plane, but instead I went for the boring, awful truth. I tried to explain, but it sounds pretty silly, all the fear-over-nothing and adrenaline and nausea and so forth. I hope he never has to find out firsthand what a panic attack is. It doesn’t look good for him, given his family history, but a girl can dream.

"Are you having a panic attack now?" he wanted to know, which was silly because I wasn't on a plane convinced that I was going to die at any minute. Except, whoops, I was having a panic attack, actually; I've been gripped by stupid low-grade panic since I got back. There's something so embarrassing and ridiculous about being this panicked all the time. How do you express that feeling to someone else? How little sense does it make that I feel like each step I take is the last one before I hurtle off a cliff?

"Nope," I said, "Come lie down on the bed with me." Which he did. And we laid there for a while. He stared at my face while I looked out the window, attempting to approximate some kind of contented expression.
"You had a bad look on your face," he said to me. "Are you having a panic attack?"
"Not at all," I said. It's really hard to lie to him. Damn it all.
"I'll be okay," I told him. Which felt like the truth.