Oh, The Horror.

Consider this post a special program in honor of Halloween in which I preempt my usual chronicling of the life and times of the kid as if this were a broadcast of It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. While I may, at a later date, write about the great costume debate of 2011 which pits Pooh Bear against SpongeBob, at the moment I feel the need to reflect on something truly horrifying, like, um, writing guides. Stay with me. It's frightening. I swear.

You see, I started this blog because several people seem to enjoy my tales of parenthood. But I also started it because I love to write. Unfortunately, I don't do it nearly as much as I should. And when you’ve spent a lot of your life plink-plunking around writing and not actually doing it, which usually translates into having taken a million fiction workshops and reading a billion writing guides, the consideration of purchasing yet another book that might tell you how to write, all the while secretly hoping it will just make you write, is frightful. It’s like being addicted to diet books and imagining that just reading them will cause the pounds to plummet directly from your hips. It’s scary shit.

Recently, during a rare bookstore visit, I wandered over to the writing reference section. I say “wander” as if I had involuntarily drifted off of a predetermined course. Of course, this was not the case. There I found myself, yet once again, among the shelves stacked with writing guide on top of writing guide when my eyes fell upon what looked like a lovely hardcover with a picturesque white country house and its cellar doors on the front. The book? Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft. Scary shit.

But now that I’ve read it, not scary shit all. Actually, totally and utterly delightful shit. I must admit that I have a great love for Stephen King. He is one of the most prolific writers of our time and one of our best storytellers. I think he’s a genius and I admire him immensely.

Unfortunately, I’ve never read one of his books.

Why? Because I am the world's biggest wuss. I can barely walk down the horror book aisle in a store, let alone actually read one of them and don’t even mention watching a horror movie. I’m still traumatized by the few I’ve inadvertently seen or been forced to watch. And at  41 years of age, I am still afraid of the dark.

I believe this fear can be traced back to 1977 when the ads for Suspiria caused me to burst into howling tears. I knew the commercial by heart back then: the back of a lady’s head with glowing, luxurious hair, and then the voiceover: “Roses are red, violets are blue, something something something That will be the end of YOUUUU!!!!” And then the head turns around and it’s a freaking skull in a wig, which is hideously disconcerting. You’d think I would have seen it coming since I saw that commercial on an almost daily basis. Why did I never change the channel? Did I constantly mistake the head for one of a Breck Girl? It’s possible that because it was 1977, channel changing entailed actually getting up off the couch and walking to the television, which would place me in much closer proximity to the offending head. God only knows why I continued to torment myself, but my phobia of horror movies—and I mean phobia as in I’m not just afraid to watch them, but their entire existence sends me into a hyperbolic panic—was cemented that year and only grew worse as I got older.

In the sixth grade, dressed as a lawyer for a Halloween party (don’t ask), I had to brave Friday the 13^th, Part 2. I thought I could just lower my head so that the brim of my lawyer’s hat (It was 1982, every business woman worth her salt hat a great hat) would shield me from the television, but I inevitably couldn’t stop myself from looking up at the worst possible moments. This marks the day that I first saw what I fear more than anything in a horror movie: decapitation. No, I didn’t really enjoy the two kids having sex who got skewered together by a stake coming up through the bottom of the bed and subsequently, both of their bodies, but it was the loss of heads that really got me.

Then there was the 8^th grade school Halloween party which I had been planning not to attend for years in advance (I went to the same school nursery through twelfth grade. Again, don’t ask.), knowing full well that it involved the viewing of a horror movie. However, my near decade-long plan was thwarted when my mother made me attend as punishment for walking home from school that day, instead of taking the bus, which I did in order to purposefully miss a ballet class I didn’t feel like going to. I was forced to watch Vincent Price’s Theater of Blood, in which a disgruntled actor kills theater critics in various manners from the works of Shakespeare. You would think I could have overlooked the gore in appreciation of all the literary references. And you would be wrong. Very wrong. Included in the seven or eight gruesome and grisly deaths, there was indeed a decapitation and one that still plagues me. While a couple is in bed, good old Vincent cuts off the man’s head with some ginormous gardening shears (And I cannot even begin to imagine what Shakespeare play this is from.). The wife merely rolls over accusing her hubbie of snoring again until she wakes up in a Godfather-horse-head-in-bed pool of blood, shakes her husband to see if he’s all right, and wouldn’t you know it, his head rolls of the bed. Now when I sleep next to my husband, I sometimes become too petrified to move, afraid that his head might spontaneously detach from his body.

And then there’s the classic, Nightmare on Elm Street, which was the movie of choice at a 9^th grade slumber party. By this time I was wise enough to remove myself from the room entirely so I didn’t even see a single scene of this one, but I’m still hideously afraid of Freddy Kruger. A few years ago, I had a dream in which Freddy appeared as a Rastafarian dressed in a spiffy white tennis ensemble, adeptly playing doubles on my high school’s courts. One would think that would make me warm up to the guy—no burn pun intended—but no. Still petrified.

There was also Death Ship. I don’t even know where this piece of crap came from. No one’s ever heard of it. I think my friend’s brother had it so we thought it would be a bright idea to pop it on the old VCR. What was I thinking? It was about some haunted World War II Nazi boat by which some poor survivors from a boating debacle were rescued. I recall something of someone drowning in a sea of skulls, but not just plain skeleton skulls. They were somehow green and goopy. As if plain, dry skulls weren’t enough.

And the piece de scaredy cat resistance: the TV movie version of The Shining with Steven Weber. I could never get near the Jack Nicholson version so I thought I’d try this one thinking I couldn’t possibly be scared of the guy from Wings. Apparently, I was wrong. I had an utter meltdown during a scene in a room with skeletal heads on pedestals or some such vision. I’ve never been so happy for a commercial break in my life.

So now I’m reading this memoir and I am falling in love with Stephen King more and more with every page. However, the one night, while I was in the living room reading a section of his book on how to write strong dialog in a novel, I started to become obsessed with the notion that there might be a severed head in our refrigerator (Which is not even from a Stephen King book. That’s a hideous Friday the 13^th, Part 2 flashback in action). I ran upstairs to read in bed with Stu, but he’d already gone to sleep and I had to get in bed in the dark and there I was, convinced, yet once again, that his head had been cut off, just waiting for me to discover its detachedness.

Maybe I was right. Writing guides are HORRIFYING.

Was it Professor Plum in the Study with the Rope or Was it Thie Kid in the Music Room with his Right Hook?

The names in this post have been changed to protect the innocent.

During a dinner last week, from behind his plate of pizza, the kid, in an unsolicited confession, calmly stated, "Acally [translation: "actually"], Mommy, I did not hit Larry for Beluga. Did push Sally Mae. I did."

Stu and I looked at each other. We'd become accustomed to this aspect of toddler communication. There are full sentences. Sometimes impressive full sentences. But they are not always full sentences that bear any relation to sentences that make any sense in our adult reality. So, as we do numerous times a day, we went to work deciphering and deducing.

Larry is the kid's cubby-mate. Stu and I had believed Larry to be a ghost child as his parents never seem to pick up any of the art work that has piled up in the cubby and I'd actually [translation: "acally"] never seen Larry until one morning last week when his mother brought him into school in a rush of stress, announcing, "I'm the worst mother ever! I forgot to pack Larry's lunch! Is there anything you can give him?" The teachers reminded her that there was a Rite Aid across the street, to which she replied "I can't go there! I have to be at the airport in 20 minutes!" Luckily there was instant Mac and Cheese on hand for hungry Larry. Between the abandoned artwork and the lack of lunch, I was rather unpleased when it turned out that whoever picked Larry up from school one day last week took home the kid's rain jacket. I was quite certain it was never to be seen again, but I have to give the Larry family credit as the jacket was returned to the cubby the next morning. So they've got that going for them.

Sally Mae is another classmate of the kid's whom I'd heard by name, but had not seen until Charlie pointed her out at the playground this weekend. She is a doe-eyed brunette with soft, straight bangs that hang perfectly above her round, chestnut eyes. I had to wonder how the kid could push this chick. I imagine if any harm came to her, woodland creatures of all species would have rushed to her aid.

As for Beluga, in addition to being a caviar, to which I'm quite certain the kid was not referring as I can barely get him to eat anything more exotic than organic chicken strips, it is part of the song Baby Beluga which I believed to be sung in music class. 

Now, how to piece it all together: did the kid acally hit Larry during an all too exuberant rendition of "Baby Beluga?" Did Sally Mae sidle her way in between Larry and the kid's fray? The kid knows he's not allowed to hit. He's been carried up to his room on more than one occasion for pulling his arm back, curling is fingers into a fist, and all out clocking me in the face. If you ask the kid what happens when you hit, he will say, "Daddy comes and takes you upstairs. Do not visit Mommy and no playing. Have to say 'I'm sorry, Mommy,'" which the kid does in the smallest whisper imaginable. He knows the rules. It's just a matter of when he chooses to apply them.

So did he hit Larry and did he say that he did "not" hit Larry as a preemptive cautionary maneuver? As of yet, there are no rules about pushing as we've never acally seen the kid push anyone. And what is so important about "Baby Beluga?" Personally, Raffi makes me want to shove a few people around, but the kid really digs "Baby Beluga." Maybe he loves it too much? There are questions here. Questions without answers.

The mystery-solving forces of The Hardy Boys, Nancy Drew, and Scooby Doo combined could not crack this one. I had no choice but to approach the kid's music teacher the next morning. I explained the confession. Her first response was "Baby Beluga? We only sing that song during the summer sessions. Charlie hasn't heard me sing that since July. And no, I didn't see him hit or push anyone. Does he ever hit anyone? I can't imagine that!" In the immortal words of John Bender, "You wanna come over some time?"

Alas, a full-time working mother's time is never her own. By the time I finished my discussion with the music teacher, I had to flee in order to catch my subway and acally get to work.

At this time, the investigation is still open. Anyone with any leads should contact the proper authorities immediately.

Make 'Em Laugh: Of Wheat Bread and Quesidillas

Yesterday, I came to the realization that toddlerhood might be my undoing. After a rather tumultuous morning involving the now-usual chases around the house as I wave a sweatshirt in front of the kid as if he were a bull I am hoping will charge right towards me (after which I hope that he will magicially fling his arms into the shirt rendering him ready to go to day care), and the attempt to manhandle him into a stroller, which is followed by the walk to day care, during which I am forced to field numerous requests to go the other way or go into the drycleaners  or hand him water and then take away the water and then put on his sunglasses and then take off his sunglasses and then hand him his lunchbag and then pick it up when it falls of his lap, after all of this, as I was finally walking down the street, alone, towards work, I found myself cursing, aloud and loudly, at my Droid, which among numerous other annoyances had begun to refuse to hang up any calls. An out loud declaration of "You've got to be kidding me!" was followed by numerous expletives as I poked and shook my phone in a repeated huff of exasperation. I knew then that parenting a toddler was getting the best of me.

However, even though Stu and I have agreed that this part of parenthood "sucks," it is not to say it is without humor, even in the midst of sheer frustration. My two favorite examples of late are as follows:

Wheatbreadgate

The kid's latest whine-fest usually revolves around requesting numerous pieces of wheat bread between 6:00pm when he gets home from day care and 7:00pm when we have dinner. It's a constant and grating whine that is only quelled by giving the kid two small pieces of wheat bread at a time. For the past week or so, I have given in to this request with great fervor as it keeps that bewitching hour mildly calm and frankly, I don't really care if he eats several small pieces of wheat bread before dinner. People do it at restaurants all the time, right? Plus, we don't go through loaves of bread fast enough before they begin to mold, so I feel like the kid's new habit is really helping us avoid wasting money. Stu, however, felt that we should attempt to put a stop to this habit, which, if I really thought it through, was perhaps, for the best.

So the other night, Stu and I stood together. A united front against extraneous wheat bread consumption. I gave the kid his two small pieces of wheat bread and we said, "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." Of course, much whining began. And continued. And continued. 

"Want a piece of bread. Want two ones. Want two of them. Want all the breads." Yes, it sounds cute. No, it's not. Stu and I remained strong. We mustered our courage and repeated our mantras: "That's it until dinner. You can eat when it's dinner time." The kid's face grew longer and longer and the whines grew whinier and whinier.

Then, in the midst of the dramatic whining, Stu opened the basement door to head downstairs to obtain one of his nightly beers (or at least feign the need to retrieve something that resided anywhere but wherever someone was repeatedly asking for bread). The minute the door closed behind him and the kid and I could hear his feet stepping down the stairs, the kid's eyes lightened and widened and his face brightened.

"Mommy!" he whispered with a quickened, quiet voice, "Mommy! Want some bread! Get the bread! Right now!"

Seriously?

"Mommy! Go get the bread! Go get the bread right now!"

I barely knew what to say or do. There was a part of me that wanted to just get the damned bread already and part of me that knew that if I broke the spousal united front, it would be bad for all involved. Me, the kid, Stu. There were all kinds of implications. And I too, like the kid, knew that I only had a matter of seconds in which to take action.

The kid pleaded again, "Mommy! Right now! You could get the bread right now!"

I took the high road just in time for Stu to return to the kitchen to hear me say, "No, buddy. We have to wait until dinner. No more bread for tonight."

"What's up?" Stu asked as he came back from the basement.

"Oh, nothing. Just asking for more bread." As if.

The Quesidilla Crisis

On a tired Sunday evening, Stu and I were having the "what's for dinner?" conversation. No one was up for cooking (read: Stu was not up for cooking and I never cook) so clearly, take out was the only option. Mexican from the joint across the street was decided upon, but there was much discussion as to whether the kid was also getting take out or we were going to make him something in-house. We agreed that some chicken strips was a perfectly suitable and less expensive option than the cheese quesidilla from the restaurant. Unfortunately, the memory of that decision fell out of my head shortly thereafter.

While Stu went to the restaurant to order and wait for the food (a task for which he always volunteers as it allows him approximately 20 minutes of alone-beer time on a somewhat regular basis), the kid and I hightailed it to the playground, where we had a lovely time. Our walk home, however, wasn't all that lovely as the kid melted down when I wouldn't allow him to run back towards the playground in order to watch an ambulance back into the fire station across the street, after which he prolonged his meltdown by not settling on which side of the street he wanted to walk on and had me carry him across said street numerous times before I told him to just pick a side and stick with it.

I believed that the most brilliant distraction from all of this melting down would be to discuss the dinner for which we were in the process of returning home.

"What's for dinner, Mommy?"

"A cheese quesidilla! Your favorite!"

The tears magically disappeared and we practically ran all the way home. We burst through the door expecting to see a great big, delicious cheese quesidilla on the table, only to find Daddy cutting up some chicken strips.

The tears. They came back. They came back in great numbers. Greater numbers than before. And in between each sob, was a woeful wail, "I DON'T WANT CHICKEN!!!! I WANT A QUESIDILLA!" 

The guilt was unbearable. It was all my fault! I was the one who had forgotten about the chicken strips! And now my child! My poor, miserable child! My heart was breaking over his lack of a quesidilla!

I knelt down beside my weeping child and launched into a pathetic mea culpa.

"I'm so sorry my sweet pea! Mommy made a big mistake! I thought there was going to be a quesidilla, but there isn't one. I am so sorry! Mommy made a mistake!"

Somehow, through his wails, he managed to let us know that he would eat the chicken if--and only if--it was accompanied by some bread and cheese. Needless to say, I acquiesced and the remainder of the evening progressed rather uneventfully.

That is, until I plugged in the kid's monitor after putting him to bed, only to hear the following:

"Bert, Mommy made a big mistake today. I DID NOT have a quesidilla for dinner. I had chicken. That is NOT a quesidilla. That is CHICKEN. NOT a quesidilla. Mommy made a mistake."

Can't believe my kid ratted me out to a muppet.