Interviews With Makayla!

I think Makayla is a super interesting human being.  When she was five, I compiled a list of questions to ask her and this is how that interview went:

April 11, 2010

1. What is your favorite TV show? Max and Rubie.

2. What is one thing you like about yourself? Well, you're supposed to love everyone you know and you're supposed to love yourself too.

3. What is your favorite thing to eat for supper? Pizza.

4. What is your favorite color? Pink.

5. What do other kids think about you? I think they think I'm an artist.

6. What is your favorite song? The songs Jake sings to me.

7. What do you like best about mommy? You're funny.

8. What is your favorite school subject (or is this case, what are you excited to learn about in school when you start?) I'm excited to learn some more Spanish words.

9. What is your favorite video game? Dora.

10. How do you feel when you have to do chores around the house? Happy!

11. What do you least about your Mommy? Mommy!  I like all of you!

12. What do you like best about your teacher? She's not in school yet, so this one went un-answered

13. What is your favorite movie? The Barbie movie that Nikki has.

14. When do you think your bed time should be? Eight.

15. What do you like to do in your free time? I really like to do art and watch TV.

16. What do you want to be when you grow up? An artist.

17. What kind of people do you like? I like nice and happy people. And I like you.

18. What is one thing you would change about yourself? I would be better at video games. And I'd turn into a band.

19. What kind of people do you not like? *GASP!* I love everybody.

20. If you had lots of money, what would you do with it? I would put it in my allowance and wait and buy a toy.

A year later, here are her responses to those same questions:

May 28, 2011

1. What is your favorite TV show? Spongebob.

2. What is one thing you like about yourself? That I’m a good friend.

3. What is your favorite thing to eat for supper? Biscuits and gravy.

4. What is your favorite color? Rainbow because I like all the colors.

5. What do other kids think about you? They say I’m a good gymnast.

6. What is your favorite song? Justin Bieber.

7. What do you like best about mommy? Everything Mommy!  You’re like, just so hilarious.  And you’re really sweet, even in your bones.

8. What is your favorite school subject?  Music.

9. What is your favorite video game? Oooooh, Mario Brothers.

10. How do you feel when you have to do chores around the house? I feel bored.

11. What do you like least about your mommy?  I like everything about you, Mommy.  Except for when you tell me to hold on.    

12. What do you like best about your teacher? Her name.

13. What is your favorite movie? Never Say Never

14. When do you think your bed time should be? At midnight.

15. What do you like to do in your free time? The monkey bars and at home I like to play soccer with Matt.

16. What do you want to be when you grow up?  A doctor.  But I’m just saying that as a kid, I think.  Maybe when I grow up I’ll decide.  You better not be typing that on there because I can read you know.  Just say “a doctor.”

17. What kind of people do you like? Every kind.

18. What is one thing you would change about yourself? I’d like to not wear skirts all the time.

19. What kind of people do you not like? People who are mean to me.

20. If you had lots of money, what would you do with it? I would go to the claw machine and get something out of it.  And I would save most of it.

Miss Makayla is Sweet and Sour...but Mostly Sweet

       Today was Makayla’s last day of kindergarten.  Matt went and picked her up from school at noon since it was a half day.  I hadn’t gotten home from work until 3:45 and after I showered and wound down, didn’t get to bed until after 4:30.  So I was still sleeping at noon.  I was asleep in her bed because I wanted her to wake me up when she got home from school.  I had been so tired this morning as I got her ready for school that I did her hair, brushed her teeth, and all the other in my underwear which she found hilarious.

“I didn’t even know I didn’t have pants on!” I told her, “Oh my gosh, how silly.  I’m just tired.”

So she got home from school and I was passed out.  I was startled awake my her little hand caressing my forehead.

“I brought you some water, Mommy,” she said, “do you want me to rub your back?  You are like a fairy when you sleep.”

“If I am like a fairy when I sleep then fairies must drool,” I said, sitting up, “you’re so sweet to bring me water.  Thank you.”

“You’re so funny, Mommy!  Fairies don’t drool!”

“I would rather be a ninja than a fairy,” I told her.

She looked at me with huge blue eyes and I thought I was about to get a lecture on how un-cool ninjas are compared to fairies but she said, “You are the sweetest lady I have ever known before.  And you are really funny.  A lot of mommies aren’t funny like you and they aren’t as nice as you.  You are always making me happy.”

I was a little uncomfortable with the compliments but said, “It is easy to be sweet to you because you are so awesome.”

“You are sweet to everyone.  Sometimes grown-ups are not nice all the time like that.  Are you even a real grown-up yet, Mommy?”

“Yes.  Maw Maw is a grown up and she is even sweeter than me. Did you know I have never, ever seen her be rude to anyone, not even once in my whole life?”

“Maw Maw is not a grown up though.  She is an old Maw Maw.  Have you ever been rude to someone?”

“Yes,” I told Makayla, “I have a temper sometimes and when people annoy me, sometimes I say something that isn’t nice.  Or I guess I used to do those things.  But you know what?  Since I know that saying rude things to people is not OK, I learned how to control my temper and not be rude.  I’ll always have a temper but I can control how I handle my temper.  Does that make sense?”

She nodded.  “You did not have a mean tempter to that little boy yesterday at the park.  Or at that mean man.  I wanted to kick that man but I bet I would have gotten in trouble.”

“I’m glad you didn’t kick that guy,” I told Makayla, “not only would that have been mean, that guy was clearly a raging idiot.  He might have done something scary.  It’s best to just leave people like that alone.”

“I would save your life if he was scary to you,” Makayla said.

“I appreciate it but if that guy had actually been stupid enough to hit me or something, you would run away and find help and stay out of it.”

“No I wouldn’t.  I would save you.”

I figured the chances of me getting into an altercation like that again were pretty slim so I decided not to argue with her.

“You are the sweetest, best little girl I have ever met before and I love you with my whole heart.  And my whole toes,” I told her.

She laughed at the toes part and spread her little arms as wide as they would go, as she formed a dramatically excited expression on her little face and said, “I love you even bigger than this.  Bigger than the whole universe.  What is bigger than the universe?”

“I have no idea,” I told her, assuming she’s too young for my theories on such a thing, “but I love you so much my head could just explode.”

She laughed hysterically and demonstrated with sound effects and jazz fingers what an exploding head would look like.  Then she suddenly stopped, looked at her fingers and said, “Mommy!  Bones can’t move!  So how do my fingers move?”  She started pumping her arm, and in an anxious, alarmed kind of way said, “Mommy!  Then how do your arms even move!”

With an anxious, flabbergasted expression, she examined her moving fingers and arms.

I am not a professional bone scientist so I tried to find a simple way to explain to her.  While I was thinking, she basically screamed, “I don’t UNDERSTAND!  I’m CONFUSED!”  She spoke like this was a critical emergency.

“Hang on Makayla, I’m trying to find a way to tell it to you,” I said.

She looked at me intently which was distracting but I was able to say, “OK.  Your bones cannot move but there are things called joints in your fingers and arms and other places that…bend so you can move your arms and fingers and stuff.”  I pointed out the joints in her arm and fingers.

“The bones stay still but the joints around the bones help us move stuff on our bodies.”

“I know all about joints,” Makayla said, “My grandma is always telling me about them.  I thought joints were things that make you sick all the time.”

“Some people’s joints start hurting when they get older.  Joints just make your body move and stuff.”

“Well, if your bones broke then they’d move,” Makayla said.

“Yup,” I agreed, “Good point.”

“Are you still sleepy?” she asked.

“Yes,” I told her, “do you want to lay down with me?  I don’t think I can go back to sleep.  I’m just going to rest for a minute.”

“Your breath smells like a burrito,” she said.  She sniffed again, “and milk.”

“Gross,” I told her, “I’ll brush my teeth shortly.  Want to lay down with me?”

“Nope,” she said, planted a smooch on my forehead, and hopped off to go play with Matt.  I lied down and felt total happiness and pride for Makayla.  I did end up going back to sleep for a little while and when I woke up, Makayla said, “I missed you!  Let’s do stuff together!”

Matt left for work and she hid her various child items around the house and drew me a treasure map so that I could find them.  The map was really good but she would get so excited as I got close to discovering one of her treasures that she would tell me exactly where it was.

“Makayla, it’s not as much fun when you tell me where stuff is,” I told her, “let me use the map.”

She laughed and made a show of putting her hands over her mouth so she wouldn’t tell me where stuff was.  When I found the last item on her list, she said, “OK, now go find the stuff that isn’t on the map!”

“You just hid stuff from me and want me to find it?  How can I find it if I don’t know what it is?”

“You have to figure it out,” she said.

“I’m not doing that,” I told her.

“Then you ruined everything!” she wailed and presented me with a look of utter travesty.

“If you put it on the treasure map I’ll look for it,” I told her.

“No!  That’s not the game!  You’re destroying my soul!”

“That’s a little dramatic, Makayla,” I told her.

“YOU’RE dramatic!” she wailed, “You ruined my whole day!”

“Cut it now right now,” I told her, “calm down.  Let me get you some water.”

“I don’t want water!  I’m not going to drink it!” she yelled from her room as I fetched her a glass of water.  When I went back to her room to give it to her, she took the cup from my hand and angrily slammed it onto her desk, splashing water everywhere.  How annoying.

“You know better than that,” I told her, “you can stay in your room until you calm down.  Relax.  When you stop acting like this, you can clean up the water you just spilled.  And then we’ll talk.”

“I’ll talk now, I’ll talk now!” she screamed, “Don’t leave me in here!  I’m calm!”

“I’ll talk to you when you’re all the way calm,” I told her as I left.  She yelled at me from her room, “I AM all the way calm!  Please, Mommy!  I am So CALM!”  She started blowing on her harmonica as hard as she could, I’m assuming trying to annoy me because she knows how much I dislike that dumb thing.  I went to her bedroom door, and said, “That’s probably a good way to get calm.  Blow into that thing as hard as you can.  You’re doing great.”  I have her a thumbs up sign and closed her bedroom door.  She opened it and blew her harmonica right at the door.  I went back to the door, guided her to the middle of the room and said, “You know to shut the door when you’re playing that thing.  You can open your door when you’re done.”

I left.  She blasted her harmonica a few times and then opened her door.  It was quiet for a few seconds and she started blowing on her recorder, which is equally as annoying as her harmonica.  This amused me so I had to wait until I could stop smiling and went to her door and said, “The door stays shut when you’re playing that thing too.”

“But you SAID to close the door with the harmonica!” she wailed, “this isn’t fair!  I’m calm.  Just look at me!”

I did.  She was all red in the cheeks with a very un-calm look on her face.

“Get calmer,” I told her and shut the door.

She opened the door after seeing that blasting her recorder wouldn’t get her any attention.  Then she stood at her open door and whistled for a few minutes.  I ignored it.  She started making herself burp.  I ignored that too.  Then she got a pair of shoes and clapped them together.  She would clap them for a while, stop, wait a few seconds, then start again.

“I bet you don’t like that noise!” Makayla hollered at me, “I bet it’s annoying to you!”

“It sounds great!” I hollered back to her, “it’s like drums!”

She clapped them a few more times and then stopped.  Then I didn’t hear anything for twenty minutes.  Usually when Makayla is told to go calm down in her room it doesn’t take more than ten minutes.  I finally went in to see what she was doing.  She was sitting on her floor, surrounded by all of her shoes, and they were all upside down.  She was using various things to hit the bottom of all of her shoes.

“What are you doing?” I asked her.

“I made some drums.  Look Mommy, all the shoes make a different noise.  And if you put stuff in the shoes and then hit them, then it makes and even more different noise.  Come do it with me.”

I sat with her and we pounded shoes.  As we pounded she said without looking at me, “the thing is, is that I hid a lot of my stuff and I wanted you to find it because I forgot where I put it.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I asked, as I continued pounding shoes, “if you told me that, I wouldn’t have minded helping you.  But if you tell me to find things and you don’t even tell me what those things are, how can I find them?”

“I forgot what I hid too,” she said, “and actually, it was your stuff I hid, not mine.  I thought you would have fun finding your own stuff too but then I thought you would be mad at me for losing your stuff.”

“I’m not mad,” I told her, “we can still find it.  Try to remember exactly what of mine you hid and maybe we can figure out where you would have put it.”

She stopped pounding shoes and tapped her lips with her forefinger while looking up at the ceiling.  I looked up too but realized she was just contemplating.

“Your flip flops.  Your make-up bag.  Those little things under the cabinet.  The ones Bubba thinks is candy.”

Tampons.  Lovely.

“Did you hide the box or just pull the little things out and hide them?” I asked.

“I took them all out and hid them all.”

“In the same place or did you hide them all in different places?”

“All in different places.”

Dang it.  Searching the house for twenty plus tampons did not sound like a fun idea to me.

“Don’t get into those again,” I told her, “anything else?”

“I don’t remember.  I’m sorry I was yelling at you.”

“I forgive you,” I told her, still a little distracted that there were tampons hidden everywhere, “Do you remember earlier when we talked about a temper?”

She nodded.

“Well, when you get scared or upset, you have a temper too.  It’s OK to be mad and scared but you have to figure out a way to get the mad out without yelling.  Like blasting on your harmonica.  Or turning shoes into drums.”

“How do you get your mad out?” she asked.

“I shoot the BB gun.  Or I just clean stuff.  And then once the mad is out, you can talk to people and figure stuff out.”

“I feel bad that I was being mean to you,” she said, looking at me with a total look of regret, “I feel like, just terrible and sad that I was mean.  I was just playing with my harmonica to make you annoyed and I feel sad to do that to you.”

“Well, remember how you feel right now the next time you want to yell and do things just to upset someone, and maybe it will help you figure out another way to calm down.  And you apologized and I forgave you and so all that stuff is POOF!”  I used my chopstick as a wand and flicked it as if to flick away all “that stuff.”

She thought that was funny.  We put her shoes up and started looking around the house for my stuff.  I still have not found a lot of the tampons.  I’m sure they’ll show up.  After we were done looking for my stuff, she asked to watch TV and I told her I’d rather her do something creative.  She went to her room to work on a masterpiece and I got to work cleaning stuff, totally proud of her super sweet self. 

Some People Should NOT be Parents

Yesterday at the park, there was a little boy, no older than seven, with headphones in.  As he played, he sang along to whatever it was he was listening to, uttering some disgusting profanities and referring to people as bitches and ho’s.  Makayla ran up to me after it had been going on for a couple of minutes with wide eyes and said, “do you hear that boy, Mommy?  Isn’t that terrible?”

“Maybe his mommy will say something soon,” I told her, “just sit here for a little bit and maybe he’ll stop.”  We sat there for a while, a good five minutes, before I went up to the little boy after he was done on the slide.  I got down on one knee and smiled at him.

“Where is your mommy?” I asked him

“I can’t hear what you’re saying,” he said, “Huh?”

I plucked his ear phones out of his ear and put them in the palm of his hand.

“Where is your mommy?” I asked again.

“She ain’t here,” he said.

“OK, who are you here with?”

“My sister,” he said, pointing to a girl who couldn’t have been more than a year or two older than him.

“OK.  What’s your name?” I asked.

“Andrew.”

“Andrew, there are lots of kids here littler than you,” I told him, “you seem like a good boy.  I bet you’re really smart.  Do you think you could not say those bad words on the playground?  Words like that are not OK to say around lots of people, especially little kids.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Yes ma’am.”

I went back to sit on the bench and Kayla went to play and before I got all the way to the bench some dude approached me.

“Are you that boy’s mamma?” the dude asked me, “I got to believe you ain’t that boy’s mamma since he done told you his mamma ain’t here.”

“Do you know him?” I asked the man.

“I ain’t got to know him to know you best not be goin’ around tellin’ other people’s children what to do.  You ain’t got no right playin’ like you’re that boys mamma when you don’t even know the child.”

I was becoming irritated with this lunatic but decided this was a prime example to show Makayla how to resolve a conflict.  I smiled at the dude and said, “The first thing I asked him is whether or not him mom was here.  I asked him who he was with.  I asked him politely to stop cussing.  I’m sure as a parent you don’t want your own children hearing words like that?”

“It ain’t your business what I want with my children and it ain’t your business what another person’s child is doing so mind your own damn business.”

“I really think you should lower your voice considering there are children all around us,” I told him, “and you don’t seem to be doing a very good job of minding your own business right now.”

“Bitch, I will talk however I f*** want and I will protect my own kind from some stuck up white woman tellin’ everyone what to do!” He had taken a step to me and puffed out his chest while putting his face threateningly close to mine, because that’s how cool men scare women.  I considered puckering up for a kiss to freak him out but I was too annoyed that this idiot was not participating properly in my educational lesson to pull shenanigans.

“I do not want my child hearing that language, especially towards her mother.  Please get out of my face.”

He started in again, spewing cuss words at me.  I glanced over at Makayla and saw her standing at the top of the slide, a look of horror on her face.

“You’re scaring my daughter,” I told him, “please let’s just stop.  How about this?  How about I agree with you?  Next time, instead of asking a child to stop cussing, I’ll just leave.”

This seemed to make him madder and I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere with this weirdo and would have to speak his own language in order to get across to him.  I erased my “let’s resolve our conflict” smile, glared in his eye, and then said softly so Makayla wouldn’t hear, “Listen.  You aren’t scaring me or intimidating me.  You know what you’re doing?  You’re pissing me off.  If I wasn’t trying to set an example for my daughter on how to deal with a bully, I’d rip out that ridiculous grill or whatever that crap is on your teeth and shove it up your ass.  Quit being a goddam lunatic or I’ll stop being nice and resort to being a bitch.”  I pointed to my eye and said, “I sustained this injury during a physical altercation with a man of your ethnicity only he was much bigger than you.  This was the only hit he got.  He was in the hospital AND he no longer has teeth.”

For good measure I bucked at him and he flinched.

“Oh, and referring to the people of your ethnicity as your own kind is ignorant.  Human being beings are your own kind.  Adios dude.”

“You ain’t gotta get all personal and be makin’ fun of people’s looks,” he muttered and lurked over to the bench he had been sitting on.  I told Makayla we were going home.

“Mommy that man was so mean to you!  Oh my gosh, are you OK?  Those little kids said they called their mommy and she is going to come up here and kick your….”  She hesitated.

“My ass?” I asked, “Wow.  Let’s just find another park to go to.  This is the second time we’ve encountered a herd of psychos here.  I believe we might be in the ghetto.”

The day before, Makayla cried in horror as a woman slapped a baby multiple times in the face and screamed the f word at her kids from across the playground. 

“She slapped the baby, Mommy!” Makayla screamed as she ran up to me, tears running down her face, “Mommy, go help that baby!  That lady was slapping it!”

I tried to get her to lower her voice but she was hysterical.

“You best tell that child to mind her own business ‘fore I forget I’m a lady,” the evil mother yelled across the playground at me. 

“Sorry!” I yelled back and Kayla and I started towards the car to leave.

“She shouldn’t be slapping a little baby!” Makayla was still screeching as we left, “My whole heart is just breaking!  Mommy!”  She wailed, “Mommy!” like it was a plea for something, a desperate attempt to express the horrible feeling of sadness she had.

“If that was my child I’d have done whooped her ass by now,” the woman hollered at me, “you best teach that child to mind her own business ‘fore she mouths off to the wrong person.”

Naturally, I wanted to approach the woman, properly kick her ass, and then steal her child and raise it myself so it wouldn’t grow up to be as disturbed as its mother.  I have no idea how to go about kicking a person’s ass however, and I am aware that taking her child would land me in prison.  I also know that any retort from me to the woman would only make things worse.

"Why didn't you save the baby?" Makayla asked angrily from the back seat as we drove home.  I fixed my mirror so I could see her face.  Her little eyes were still full of tears only fury had replaced the horror.

"Makayla, that woman would not listen to me or anyone if someone tried to talk to her.  She would have yelled and screamed at me and maybe even done something stupid.  I know it's so sad but there was nothing we could do.  I don't like seeing that baby get slapped either but I wasn't going to do anything that would be traumatic for you.  If I said anything to that lady or tried to save her baby, she would have terrified you."

Makayla told Matt about the evil woman and the next day we both told him about the cussing kid and the weirdo guy. 

“You guys need to find a new park,” he said, “I can’t believe that loser talked to you like that.  I’d like to hunt him down and-.”

“Watch it babe,” I said, “Little ears.”

“That guy said bad words at my mommy,” Makayla said, “I thought he was going to kill her.”

“No one is going to kill me,” I told her, “no worries.  We’ll find a new park.”

“Good,” Makayla said, “I’m bored with that one anyway since I already learned how to do those circle monkey bar things.”

The creatures Makayla and I encountered at the park are creatures I hope will…never mind.  Too mean. 

Counting Sheep

So I was minding my own business, focusing on the algebra tutorial I’ve been working on to ensure I finally pass the class next semester, when Makayla walked into the living room and told me she couldn’t sleep.

“You’ve been in bed for over an hour,” I told her as I took her hand, “tomorrow is your very last day of kindergarten.  You will never get another last day of kindergarten ever again.  You need your rest so that you will have a good time.”

“I don’t care about kindergarten,” she told me, “kindergarten is so easy and it makes me bored.  We have to read baby books and do math stuff that even a baby in your belly could do.”

“Even more the reason for you to be excited that tomorrow is your last day,” I told her.

“The only way to make me go to sleep is to read to me some more.  That is the only way I will get sleepy.”

“Enough,” I told her, anxious to get back to my studying.  Then I felt guilty and tried to think of something to say that would make me feel like a good mother again.

“Listen,” I told her as she lied down and I covered her with her blankets, “sometimes I can’t sleep too.  And I just count sheep.  Only you don’t just count them.  Counting sheep is a process.”

“Like meat,” Makayla said, “because you buy processed meat.”

I was thrilled with her genius mind but said, “The process I’m talking about means the steps you take to do something.  Like, it is a process to get you out of bed in the morning because I have to turn on the light, rub your back, remind you that you have to go to school, try to pick you up, and resort to threats.  That is a process.”

“So is a process like cleaning my room?  Because first I have to clean my toys and then I have to pick up my shoes and then I have to vacuum it?”

“Exactly,” I said, “that is what a process is.  And counting sheep is a process.”

“Wait,” Makayla said, sitting up and thrusting her little palm into my face like a stop sign, “am I counting sheep for real or just in my imagination?”

“When you count sheep, you get super comfortable in bed and close your eyes,” I told her, totally making things up as I went along, “and all of your sheep are scattered all over a meadow and you have to imagine yourself putting them all in a very straight line.”

“Like that Peep girl who lost her sheep!” Makayla shrieked as she sat up, “like that, right Mommy?”

“Lie down,” I told her, “and yes, like that.  You can even wear a bonnet and hold a cane and wear a giant pink dress if you want.  But what you do is get all your sheep in a single line.  And you have to really think about it.  Make sure they’re even in the line and make sure that the lambs don’t run away.  And then you put a fence in front of them and stand back and count them as they jump over the fence to get to the other side of the meadow.  And really imagine each and every sheep jumping as you count.  Imagine how their wool looks and how the line of sheep is getting shorter as each sheep jumps.”

“What if I run out of sheep?” Makayla asked.

“You won’t.  You have millions.  You’ll fall asleep before you run out of sheep.”

“But what about the sheep that don’t make it over the fence?” she asked, “A wolf will probably eat them because I’ll be sleeping.  I’m going to need a scarecrow.”

“Well, this is just imaginary so when you fall asleep, your pretend sheep won’t get hurt.  But you can put a scarecrow in there to scare the wolves off if you want.  Except I think that scarecrows are for birds, not wolves.  This is your own day dream so you can make it any way you want.  And you can say that wolves are not allowed.”

“I don’t know how to count past one hundred,” she said.

“If you do it like I told you, you won’t even make it to one hundred.  You’ll get so sleepy you’ll forget you’re even counting and you’ll go right to sleep.”

“Do you do that Mommy?” she asked.

“All the time,” I lied.  In reality, when I can’t fall asleep, I take a shot of Nyquil and read a textbook on a subject I find boring until I pass out.  Whatever.

I smooched her on the forehead and nose and she puckered up her lips and stretched her head off the pillow to kiss me.

“You are such a smart mommy,” she said, “when I used to spend the night with Charlie (friend she had when she was with mom) if I couldn’t sleep, Charlie’s mommy told me to be quiet and not get out of bed again.  She never even told me about having sheep.  What a good idea!”

I smooched her again and tromped into the living room.  Ten minutes later, Makayla walked in.

“It didn’t work?” I asked her.

“It’s working because I’m getting sleepy but I ran out of names for all of them,” she said, “and is it OK if some of them are pink or something?”

“Don’t focus on their colors; that will just keep you awake.  And their names are the number that you’re counting.  The first sheep’s name is One, the second sheep’s name is Two.  If you think about it too hard, you won’t go to sleep.”

“Thanks mom,” she said, as she knocked over a folded pile of laundry to come kiss me.

“Your laundry is in my way,” she said as she walked back to her room.  I went in a little while ago to check on her and found her fast asleep with colors, markers, and paper all around her.  I examined her drawings and saw pictures of colorful sheep and a little girl sleeping.  In some of the pictures, there was a tiny Makayla holding the hand of a giant who represented me.  I know it was Makayla because she always portrays herself with blue eyes and brown pig tails in her drawings.  I know it was my hand she was holding because she always portrays me as a stick with giant boobs and a huge nose.

“You have a really big and pointy nose, Mommy,” Makayla told me when I asked her about drawings, “and your boobs are huge.  So I made you.”

I really, really like my kid.    

Completely Unfortunate

So, I was minding my own business, creeping through the hallway in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, when I tripped on Makayla’s stool in the bathroom.  It was actually pretty dramatic, with Matt rushing in to find my nose and eyebrow bleeding and me, still dazed from going from half asleep to kind of injured.  When I fell, I hit my eyebrow on the toilet seat and when I tried to stand up, got dizzy and fell onto the wall of the shower and busted my nose.  Matt who had been woken up by all the noise was greeted by blood and a confused girlfriend.  Luckily, the result of my incident had left my teeth intact and did not result in stitches or a concussion but un-luckily, the result was a cut on my eyebrow and a black eye.  The next morning I examined my face in the mirror and announced that I looked either like an abuse victim or a ghetto hood rat who fights other ghetto hood rats.  Matt assured me that the bruising would look worse in a few days and Makayla was utterly horrified and instructed me to drink lots of water and take a vitamin. 

“I’m so sorry this has happened to you, Mommy!” she said as she poked the bruise under my eye, “that looks terrible.  You need to be careful.”

“Please don’t poke my eye, Makayla,” I said, “that hurt.  And it looks worse than it is.  It doesn’t really hurt.”

She would look intently at my face during reading or Candyland or dinner and say, “that is the most terrible thing I have ever seen.  It’s really bad looking, Mom.  It’s all I can even tell about you when I look at you.”

I forgave her insults as child like honesty and told her it would get better soon. 

Last night, as I brooded over my eye, I told Matt, “Something has just occurred to me.  If people don’t think you whacked me or think I got in a fight with some freak, they will assume I am a drunk and just fell over.  Do you know how it sounds to tell people that you tripped on a stool and hit your head on a toilet?  This is worse than the black eye I got when I first started my roller-blading dodge ball team.  At least then I had witnesses to account for the fact that the reason I had two black eyes is because I caught a roller blade with my face when I missed the ball.”

“Don’t worry about it so much,” he said, “it’ll get better soon.”

“I could wear sunglasses and be one of those freaks who wears sunglasses indoors.  Or perhaps people will just assume I’ve had work done.”

He either didn’t hear me or ignored me and I decided I am not confident enough to go around the moms at Makayla’s school sporting a giant black eye and gash on my brow so I made Matt take her and get her from school.  Today that was not an option and I had to take her and get her from school.  When I took her, I dropped her off, sporting giant sunglasses and then sprinted back for my truck.  When I went to get her, her class was having a party and Makayla didn’t want to leave so I was forced to stand there surrounded by other mothers who were being forced to stay by their children, wearing giant sunglasses, knowing I looked like a flippin’ weirdo.  The other moms pretended not to notice until Makayla took it upon herself to announce loudly to no one of her friends, “my mommy has a black eye.  That’s why she’s wearing those glasses.  She’s just embarrassed to take them off because it looks REALLY bad.  It’s the worst black eye she’s ever had.”

Blast.  My child has been subjected to many of her mother’s black eyes during her childhood.  One was from her toddler brother slamming a toy truck in my face.  One was from an encyclopedia falling from a top shelf as I tried to pull the one beside it out.  Actually, that was more of a bruised middle of the forehead at first but the bruise ended up spreading to both of my eyes.  Twice in my grown up softball days I received a black eye: Once from horribly misjudging where the fly ball was going to land and the second was from not being aware that someone was throwing a ball at me.  Or my face I guess.  Then there was the roller-blading dodge-ball fiasco.

“My mommy said she is accident thrown,” Makayla said to her friend as I saw parents and the teacher whip their heads around to Makayla’s loud information, “that means that she is clumsy, I think.  Because she is wearing those sunglasses and she tripped on my stool because she left it out after she gave me a bath.  That is why she should have put it up.”

She was right.  Makayla is very good about putting her stool in front of the sink.  I was so tired that night as I sat on the stool and washed her hair that I neglected to put it back where it went.

“I hope your eye feels better,” Makayla’s teacher said as we left, “I thought you had your pupils dilated.  Your sunglasses are awesome.”

“Thank you,” I said, “she is right.  I am accident “thrown.”

She smiled at me and said, “some of us are,” and extended her leg so I could admire a giant bruise on her calf, “car door.  Don’t ask me how I did it.  I have no idea.”

Makayla and I went home and a little while later sat down to play some hot battles of Candyland.  On our last game, I was nearly to the end, excited because Makayla had won the four previous games and I was eager to win at least one.  But then I got sent back to the Peppermint Dork and Makayla said, “Oh no Mommy!  It’s just like your eye that you got sent back there!”

“What do you mean?” I asked her.

“Just completely unfortunate,” she said.

Hardy Har.

My Attempt at Being a Wise Parent

       Makayla chooses a book to read together before bed every night and tonight she presented me with “The Virtue of Humility.”  At the bottom of the title, “Cinderella” was written so I started off highly suspicious that this book would not be a good book to be reading.  I was right.  She wanted me to read it to her and I got through the first page with only minor annoyance.  It wasn’t too bad, just talking about how Cinderella was the most beautiful, sweetest, kindest person to ever walk the face of the earth and that she had two unfortunate looking step-sisters and an even more unfortunate looking step-mother who were evil and treated her like a servant.  It discussed how Cinderella loved to sleep and dream and she always dreamt that a Prince of some sort would come rescue her.  I wasn’t able to get past the second page, describing how abusive the step-sisters and step-mother where but Cinderella didn’t care how badly they treated her because she was so kind.

“Listen,” I told Makayla, “you can be an extremely kind person and still have respect for yourself.  The thing about this girl is that she has no self respect if she doesn’t even care that people are being cruel to her.  She also has no brain if she thinks that it’s OK to live a life of misery just hoping that someone will come rescue you.  Smart women are able to get themselves out of bad situations.  Sitting around being miserable hoping some dude will come rescue you is insane.  This girl is an idiot.”

Makayla just kind of looked at me and I said, “anyway, do you want me to keep reading?  I can teach you some lessons about how not to act.”

She kind of mumbled and shook her head.

“Did I ruin it for you?” I asked.

She nodded and looked at me like I was a crazy person and went to get another book.  She returned with a book about animals and before we started reading it, I told her, “Remember The Princess and the Frog movie we saw last year?  Now THAT was one smart girl.  She worked hard and didn’t let people treat her badly and she was kind and honest.  That’s a good fairy tale.”

“I know!” Makayla shrieked, “she liked her job and she was really smart.  She worked a lot of jobs so that she could make a restaurant!”

“And when she got into trouble she figured out what to do.  And she asked for help from people when she needed it and that’s a good thing to do.  But she didn’t just sit around and wait like a moron.  Also, Jasmine in Aladdin was a good princess in a Fairy Tale.  She respected herself and expected other people to respect her too.”

“And Thumbalina,” Makayla said, “she’s good too.”

“I’ve never seen that,” I told her, “also, Snow White and Sleeping Beauty are not very smart people.  They just sit around and wait for some guy to come get them out of bad situations.  Smart women figure out ways to get themselves out of bad situations.  Expecting some guy to come save you when your life gets hard is not cool.”

“Nope, we have to be smart and ask for help and get our own selves out of bad stuff,” Makayla said, “and if people are mean to us we should not let them do that.”

“Exactly.  The reason Cinderella is always sleeping and dreaming so much is because she is severely depressed.  Depressed people sleep a lot.  She is depressed because she has no self esteem or self worth and allows herself to be treated badly.  She and the prince got divorced because she has no self esteem.  You have to love yourself before you can love someone else.”

We read her new book and after we were done, she said, “let’s give that silly Cinderella book to Goodwill.  I am NOT a girl like that.”

“We are throwing that book away because no child should ever have a role model like that put into their head,” I told her, “and it is awful to portray pretty people as good people and ugly people as bad people.”

“It’s so mean Mommy,” she said, “but you said that it is terrible to ever throw a book away.”

“Well, not that one,” I told her as I took her to bed, “the girls in those books are portrayed in a way that makes them look like they should be looked up to.  We should feel sorry for them, not want to be like them.  I don’t care if you are thirty, if you were acting like that, I would bend you over my knee and spank you.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Makayla said, “and I would never be like that anyway.  I can take care of my own self and you can take care of me too.”

“Strong women love themselves and are kind and respectful to others.  Weak women might seem like they are kind, but really, they are just afraid.  And when you’re married, it’s OK to let your husband take care of you and take care of your husband too.  But Cinderella was miserable and just sat around sleeping all the time, hoping some guy would get her out of her situation.  A smart girl would have gotten a job and told the people being mean to her to leave her alone and she would have taken care of herself.  She would have made friends who could help her when she needed help, just like the princess in The Princess and the Frog.”

“But in the movie, Cinderella and the prince love each other when they meet each other and he rescues her anyway,” Makayla said.

“In the movie, they say they loved each other from the very second they saw each other, which isn’t real, number one.  And if she loved him and she knew he loved her, then why didn’t she tell him about what was going on at her house that night?  Why would she lie to him about who she was?  If he really loved her, for real loved her, she would have known that she could tell him ANYTHING and he would still love her anyway.  But she wasn’t very bright.  If she had told him the first time they met what was going on, she wouldn’t have had to go back home.  He would have understood and never made her go back home.  He wouldn’t have had to search the whole kingdom for her.  When a man loves you, you know for a fact that you can go to him with anything and he will always take care of you and never let anything bad happen to you.  He will protect you and take care of you.  I feel sorry for the prince, really.  He’s the one who ended up with that silly girl and he’s the one who she lied to.”

“That’s why they got a divorce,” Makayla said, “because she didn’t have a brain.  And not telling him that her dress was from her fairy god mother was a lie.”

“Showing up in a carriage and horses that weren’t real and making him believe she was a princess was a HUGE lie,” I told her, feeling like an idiot over the whole divorce thing, “if they really fell in love that night, she would have been able to tell him about everything.  But Cinderella is just a very silly Fairy Tale and it is not a healthy thing for little girls to believe.”

We hugged and kissed goodnight and Matt determined I was basically a lunatic and said I went way over board. 

“It’s just a little kid’s book,” he said.

“Those idiot heroines in those books are portrayed to be something little girls should look up to,” I told him, “books aren’t just books.  They influence you and help shape who you are.  I don’t want some garbage like that crap being in her head.”

He just kind of looked at me.

“Do you think she will grow up and think I am a raging weirdo?” I asked him.

“No sweetie, because she will think you’re normal.  Whether that’s true or not.”

Hardy har.  So the result of my youthful parenting may in fact be a severely disturbed individual.  Maybe I am a raging lunatic and maybe Makayla was disappointed that I disliked the book and maybe she was just trying to agree with me when she was agreeing.  Which is why I am not throwing this idiotic book away, but will offer to read it to her tomorrow.  I’ve already got my lines planned out:

“You know, it’s OK to read things you don’t agree with.  It’s even OK to enjoy things that are just totally silly.  If you want, we can read Cinderella for real and I won’t say anything.”

At this point, I’m assuming I’ve brain washed her enough that she will not idolize the idiot heroine.