Airport Security

I am always fearful that David is going to lose his temper when going through airport security in NYC, and that we’ll miss our flight, at best, and be locked up in some secret dungeon at LaGuardia, at worst. I don’t fault him, really, for getting so perturbed. When you’re going through security with two little children, one of whom is utterly unmanageable -- making sure your daughter doesn’t run down the up escalator while you’re taking off your shoes; remembering to remove laptops from backpacks; locating the boarding passes; explaining the liquids in your sippy cups – well, its stressful enough. Add to that downright unfriendly security people and you’ve got yourself a disaster-in-the-making.

David hates it because he always feels like he’s breaking rules that no one ever explained to him in the first place.

“Sir, you need to remove the laptop from the sleeve,”

“You. Again. You can’t put anything else in the bucket with your laptop.”

“And your belt. Gotta come off.”

“Sir, sir, SIR! You need to push the buckets through.”

That just about did it for David. “I have to push it through? Since when?” he muttered as we put on shoes on, “I have to do EVERYTHING now?”

When we flew back from Knoxville, however, it was an entirely different story. While I was busy collapsing the stroller (which incidentally, the security man offered to do FOR ME) Seconda dashed over to the X ray machine where Primo, who’d been paying attention at LaGuardia, was helping to push the buckets through. Except Sec was just sticking her hand in the machine.

“Honey, don’t do that!” exclaimed a security worker about my mom’s age.

At which point I reached over and yanked her back.

Then the woman APOLOGIZED to me for startling my daughter. Who was, incidentally, totally unfazed. It would take the Nimean Lion to startle this one. Still, the woman said to me, sweet as cherry pie, “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to alarm her, you know, but I was just scared since she was puttin’ her hands right on inside.”

“No need to apologize,” I replied.

Then the security worker on the other side of the machine suggested I have a seat while putting my shoes back on and told me – get this – to take my TIME. Toto, I don’t think we’re in New York anymore.

Did you know they have wooden rocking chairs in the airport in Knoxville? For your PLEASURE. Not only regular rocking chairs, but tiny kid-sized ones, too, and double-wides, in the event you want to snuggle with your loved one. They offer you rocking options, is what I’m saying. Free of charge. Take your time. Have a lulling rock. And a free refill of sweet tea while you’re at it.

I’m not saying New Yorkers aren’t friendly – hell, I’m a New Yorker myself and I’d like to think I’m compulsively congenial – but the man told me to TAKE MY TIME. Going through airport security. Amazing.

The South has its merits, I’ll tell you what.

Country Time

We've just returned from a week in the country. Summertime in Tennessee sure is sweet. I now know how Huck Finn felt. I mean, we found a TURTLE, a living box turtle just hanging out in the woods near my father-in-law's house. The kids didn't really care that much, but I was over the MOON. I was like, "Guys! This is some Bambi shit. We found a PET, a bona fide pet, not a water bug, just walking home." Then my father-in-law said, "Yeah, we eat turtles here. They taste good. Course we don't eat the littleuns like this; not enough meat on their bones."

We also spotted an owl that day. Are you getting this? Sec said, "Mommy, there's an owl." and I was like, "OK, honey, sure. I'll play, I see a Tyrannosauras Rex!" And DAvid was like, "There is a owl, up there in the tree." Insane.

The other thing we stumbled across, considerably less cute was a RATTLESNAKE. Man, can you imagine me coming across such a thing? While we were swimming in the river? Thankfully, I didn't see it and David and his sister didn't tell me about it til after they'd speedily ushered us out of the river. So, I guess that's what you get with nature - one day its a cute little turtle you encounter, the next a venonomous viper. Its why I try never to stray too far frm asphalt.

But, that's behind us now. Here's some highlights from our country holiday.

Catching tadpoles and feeding catfish in the pond:


Making elf houses:

For the record, 'twas I who made this house, not Primo and not Seconda, though they did scout for sticks and stones. I say this to point out how difficult elf-house-construction is. Or maybe I'm just a lousy naturalist. I mean, I never made a gnome home in my childhood. I read books and played Barbies all summer long. Have you done this shit before? It is freaking complicated.

What's NOT complicated is picking red ripe raspberries by the side of the road. Tasty little suckers. Sec went Blueberries-for-Sal style and ate all the berries up before they could land in her bag.



Playing with the garden hose. I know this doesn't sound thrilling to you but keep in mind that the only hose we have in our hose is the panty variety. Instant sprinkler!

Safety first

Its the time of the year when we're all hitting the beaches and pools and I thought I'd share a link to this article called Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning. I found it absolutely terrifying but was glad I read it. Here's the main idea:

The Instinctive Drowning Response – so named by Francesco A. Pia, Ph.D.,
is what people do to avoid actual or perceived suffocation in the water. And
it does not look like most people expect. There is very little splashing,
no waving, and no yelling or calls for help of any kind. To get an idea of
just how quiet and undramatic from the surface drowning can be, consider
this: It is the number two cause of accidental death in children, age 15 and
under (just behind vehicle accidents) – of the approximately *750 children*
who will drown next year, about *375 of them* will do so within 25 yards of
a parent or other adult. *In ten percent of those drownings, the adult
will actually watch them do it, having no idea it is happening* (source:
CDC).

Didn't mean to bum you out at the start of the weekend but forewarned is forearmed.

My daughter's weird, macabre obsession

My daughter used to be obsessed with Alice in Wonderland but now she’s obsessed with booboos, including but not limited to burns, scrapes, splinters, cuts, broken bones, blisters, bruises and burns. Oh, and animal bites. It is so macabre.

“Do you have any booboos?” she will ask upon greeting someone.

If the person does happen to have a booboo, she will ask to see it, and persist in asking until the person shows it to her, even if the booboo is located in an intimate location, like the upper abdomen or underarm area. She just won’t take no for an answer.

“Tell me the story of the booboo,” she will go on. And “I fell off m bike” will not cut it.

She will fire off a barrage of follow up questions, more thorough than a medical examiner.

“Did you BLEED?”

“Did your skin come off?”

“Did it hurt you so much?”

“Did you cry?”

And her weirdest, most pressing question, “Was there a hole?”

I think she’s referring to the epidermis but honestly, I’m not fully sure what she is talking about.

If you don’t happen to have a booboo, she will seem so disappointed that you will end up apologizing to her. At least my aunt did last week, when she couldn’t come up with anything gory enough for Seconda.

“I’m sorry Sec,” she said, “I don’t have any booboos. I can’t try to get some for you next time.”

At her parent teacher conference a month or two ago, her teachers mentioned that she was very fascinated by what they called “body integrity.”

“You mean, she’s obsessed with blood?”

“Yes, she always wants to hear the stories of everyone’s booboos.” Her teacher explained, “And it’s totally normal and in fact a very common thing we see in this age group. Kids who are 2 and 3 start really thinking about body integrity and are interested in hearing about how our bodies have the ability to heal.”

“Really?” I asked, “Because it seems so macabre.”

What really makes her booboo obsession seem cuckoo is that when someone does happen to have a whopper of an injury she is DELIGHTED. It’s like she’s hit the jackpot. A friend of her friend broke both her wrists, so both forearms were covered in casts, and Seconda was positively smitten. And recently my sister who’s in California, had a plate glass shower door fall and shatter on her. She called and said, “Put Seconda on the phone! She is going to LOVE this!”

“Hold on -- are you OK?” I asked.

“I have a whole bunch of cuts all over my hands and there was glass sticking out of m foot,” she said, “Let’s video chat! Seconda will be thrilled!”

“I’m not sure we should encourage her to revel over the fact that you’re a nutface and somehow managed to break s shower door all over you.”

But I allowed the video chat, and Seconda was, indeed, enthralled.

“Was there BLOOD?” she asked, breathless.

“Yes,” said my sister, “LOTS of blood!”

“Oh my GOD!” shrieked Sec.

I just hope that the kid will turn out to be a surgeon. Otherwise this fascination could lead me to worry.

She never does nothing nice and easy

My new favorite pastime is to find musical metaphors for the behavior of my three year-old daughter. Besides being diverting, this also serves as a distraction for me from the growing level of frustration, dismay and panic I have about Seconda’s off-the-charts awful behavior. Because, really, why seek to ADDRESS the issue when you can DISTRACT yourself from it?

The other day, for some bizarre reason I was humming “How do you solve a problem like Maria?” from the incomparable Sound of Music and I realized, “Hot damn! This song is about my daughter!”

Consider:

How do you solve a problem like Seconda?
How do you catch a cloud and pin it down?
How do you find a word that means Seconda?
A flibbertijibbet! A will-o'-the wisp! A clown!

Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her
Many a thing she ought to understand
But how do you make her stay
And listen to all you say
How do you keep a wave upon the sand

Oh, how do you solve a problem like SECONDAAAAAA?
How do you hold a moonbeam in your hand?

This afforded me great relief. “The problem is that I am trying to make Sec into a nun!” I thought, “when she should really be a governess!”

No, that’s not right. In any case, she is a MOONBEAM! You can’t expect a wave to stop running when she gets to the playground gate. Why not embrace the free spirit that she is? She will turn out all right. Maria did, although of course she’s a fictional character. But she did escape the Nazis, had perfect pitch and even hooked a rich guy. No need to worry!

Then a few days later, I was talking about Tina Turner to Primo (who knows why, but this is what happens with your firstborn, at least my firstborn – they indulge your grown-up subjects of conversation and even seem interested). That was when it occurred to me that my daughter is pretty much exactly like the song Proud Mary,

You know, every now and then I think you might like to hear

something from Sec, nice, easy

There's just one thing

You see, Sec never, ever does nothing nice, easy

She always does it nice and rough

And that’s what we WANT from Tina and Ike. I mean, the slow opening is great and all but it’s only because you know the fast part’s coming. Otherwise, it’d be a bust.

All of which seems to indicate that my intractable hellion is going to be great, better than great, legendary. And you should always trust musical metaphors to prognosticate.

Pipe Dream or Nightmare?

So we were in the car last weekend, listening to a song David wanted to play for me and the kids. It’s called “Spanish Pipedream” written by John Prine and performed by the Avett Brothers. Its not a particularly kid-appropriate song, but I only learned that just now when I googled the lyrics, which make it clear the song is actually about falling in love with a "topless lady" who is "on the road to alcohol" but you can't really understand what the hell those Southerners are saying until the chorus which is really funny and G-rated and it goes like this:

Blow up your TV

Throw away your papers

Move to the country

And build us a home

Plant a little garden

Eat a lot of peaches

Try to find Jesus

On our own

I said, “Instead of a pipe dream, this sounds like a nightmare, at least where Primo is concerned.”

Primo smiled, but he didn’t understand, “What?”

“What would you do if we blew up our TV, throw away all the papers you draw on, and moved to the country?”

“I wouldn’t like it at all!”

“I know. And what if we planted a little garden and made you eat a lot of peaches?”

“YUCK!” he yelled. As you may recall, Primo has a serious, abiding aversion to fruit of all kinds. It literally makes him gag, the way a ball of dog shit would make most people dry heave.

“And you can’t find Jesus!” he exclaimed, getting into the joke now, “because he’s dead!”

I could not keep from laughing. Of course he imagined that the task was to try and locate Jesus in person, a la

Where’s Waldo? What on earth would lead him to believe any different?

So I explained that the singers actually meant that they would try to find the spirit of Jesus, but this confused him even more, because of the concept of the Holy Spirit which he doesn’t fully grasp. So I said they were trying to act like Jesus, kind and forgiving and loving and that seemed to make sense to him.

“So that part of the dream is not so bad,” I said.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “But the peaches part is really bad. That IS my nightmare.”

Don't repeat that joke

“Oh Mommy! Mommy! I have a good joke for you!” cried Primo the other day while we were paying for groceries at the supermarket.

“I want to hear it!” I replied. I really can’t ever say no to either of my kids telling me jokes, no matter no nonsensical, or singing me a song.

“There were these three girl sailors and they found a bottle in the ocean. And what should come out of the bottle but a genie! The first sailor said to the genie, “I want to be wise!” And the genie said “Poof!” and made her wise. Then the second sailor said, “I want to be wise,” and then genie said “Poof!” and made her wise. Then the third sailor said, “I want to be a THOUSAND times as wise as them,” and the genie said “Poof!” and made her into a BOY!”

He smiled broadly at me, waiting to hear my laugher.

“Who told you that joke?” I asked him, trying hard not to sound mad.

“Zoe,” he said.

“Zoe??” I asked, “Really?”

“What’s the matter Mommy?”

“Well,” I said, choosing my words carefully, because I know how easily Primo’s feelings get hurt and how much he wants my approval, “Let me ask you a question. Why is that joke funny?”

“Because you can’t be a THOUSAND times more wise than someone!” he smiled.

“Oh, is that what it is? What do you think the message is?”

“The message is, ‘everything in moderation.’ She doesn’t get what she wants because she gets greedy and asks for too much.”

The kid has a heart so pure and sweet I hated to even tell him what the real message of the joke was, hated even introducing such a stupid, offensive idea into a head that couldn’t even imagine something so mean.

But then I worried that he’d go around telling this joke to everyone, as he does when he takes a fancy to something, so I told him, “You know what honey ,sometimes people like to tell jokes which are insulting and I think that’s one of them. I think the message is that a boy is a thousand times more wise than a girl, and that’s insulting to me, and to your sister and to all girls, including Zoe.”

He was embarrassed and continued to maintain that it wasn’t the insulting variety of joke, but rather a cautionary tale about greed and immoderation.

“Yeah, maybe,” I said, “Just do me a favor and don’t tell that joke to anyone else.”