I’m looking forward to the pysch bills….

I’m having Josie start dance lessons this Saturday.  I say that “I’m having” her take them because she really does not have a choice in the matter.  Don’t get me wrong, she’s not against taking them, I mean…what self-respecting 3 year old doesn’t want to wear pink and be a ballerina, but she also isn’t, like, begging, or even asking, for them.

I had childhood of dreams of being a dancer, jazz to be exact.  I took Jazz for 3 years in pursuit of that dream.  I even took gymnastics in hopes of acquiring skills that would improve my jazz. 

Internet, there was NO improving my jazz.  Just try for a moment to imagine a 3rd grade Average Mom, just as wide as she was tall, in a black sequin leotard, bangs high as the sky, desperately trying to leap more then a few inches off the ground.  If you can’t, don’t worry; you’re better off. 

I pursued this dream even into high school, as one of four dancers in our schools version of “Guys and Dolls.”  I thought I was amazing.  Looking back at the video evidence, it’s clear that someone (ahem, Quentin) made a very, very poor casting decision.  Off beat and out of sync while being in the wrong tempo made for some memorable moments on stage, ones I can look back and laugh at once I’ve drank a glass, or 5, of wine.

In college, I limited any dancing other then the standard bump & grind to our weekly nights out at Flashbacks, a disco bar with a light up floor.  In the din of the smoky room (when you could smoke in bars), with “Brick-house” pounding in the background and the floor aglow under my black stilettos, I completely let go and danced like I was that chick who boogied with John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.  Now, I was definitely NOT that chick, in fact I most likely resembled the housekeeper from The Facts of Life, dancing around the living room with her vacuum (remember, when she sucks up the fish?!?!) But I danced like I was THE dancing queen and those were some of the best nights I remember (kind of) from college.  Until they closed Flashbacks, like, 3 months after it opened.   

So I am forcing my dream onto my daughter.  Someday she will be the Ginger Rogers I had always hoped to be.  Will she love me for it?  Probably not.  Will she thank me for it?  Definitely not.  Will she look adorable in her pink tutu outfit?  Abso-freakin-lutley!

We are raising her right (as in correct, not as in conservative!)

This morning as I was helping Josie put on her glitter-covered Cinderella underpants, she burst out in song (right in my ear.)  Was it “Part of Your World?” No.  Was it the Dora the Explorer theme song?  Wrong again!  Was it “Hey Jude” by the Beatles? Nein!

Instead, at the very top of her surprisingly pitch-perfect lungs she sang; “Welcome to the jungle. We got lots and lots of games.”  Now, I know she had the words a little misconstrued, but my heart swelled with pride anyways.  Her first Guns N Roses lyric, ahhhh…what more could I really ask for in a child? 

 

 

 

The Before….

Four years ago today was the day of conception of what is now known as “THE REST OF OUR LIVES!!” (!!!!) 

12 days later, I had a positive pregnancy test while broiling a pork tenderloin for our good friends who were coming over for a weekend visit.  2 days later I started Grad-school and “life” as I knew it officially ended.

 

261 days later, I delivered she who screams at me for combing her hair.  And now, I have an after and like most afters, it’s better then the before.

Holy Crap!

Toilet training has been HELL challenging.  We’ve essentially been teaching our kid to not crap in her pants for about a year to no avail. 

Today was SUCCESS!!  FINALLY!!  Poo-poo AND pee-pee on. the. potty.  She even read a book while she was getting her business done.  Just like her momma (and her grandfather and her great-grandmother.) 

I don’t think I have been this thrilled since, well… ever!  Now I just need to teach her how to make Momma a Mojito.

Like a whole in the head…

One of my biggest pet peeves in the whole entire, messed – up, degenerating world is back seat drivers.  May-hap this because I am an “aggressive” driver, or because I was taught to drive by a former NYC cab driver (my dad…) or because my high school sweetheart regularly played “car tag” with me in the passenger seat and then later, with me, as we drove home from school/work/Erin’s house everyday.  Regardless of the reason, I. Hate. Backseat. Drivers.  If someone doesn’t like the way I drive, then by all means…drive the car yourself.  I won’t mind, I promise.  If anything I would appreciate having a DD! 

But nothing gets my panties in a  bunch more then someone in the passenger seat, or backseat, or ANY seat of my vehicle letting me know where to go, or how fast to get there or even worse; not saying anything but gasping and clenching their fists every five seconds. 

Unfortunately, Internet, my karma sucks because I have birthed a backseat driver, even worse: a car seat driver.  My three year old is a constant pain in my ass commentator on my driving.  She has determined the purpose of street lights.  This seemed cute the first few times she pointed out that the light was red or green and what the relevant instruction to that color was.  It was cute the first few times she said “oh Mommy, we’re going fast,” even though I was totally doing the speed limit.  This adorable commentary has manifested itself over the past few weeks into me dreading having to drive her anywhere (I have a similar dread whenever her father gets in the car…)

Imagine this scenario: we are calmly driving down the streets of our fair city to daycare in the morning.  My coffee has yet to kick in.  As I turn the corner, there is a red light three blocks up.  Three.  Blocks.  Up.  From the back of the car my daughter bellows “RED LIGHT!!  STOP!!!”  When I don’t stop, because the red light is three blocks away, panic ensues as my daughter react as if the street light monsters are going to come into our still moving vehicle, take her Lamby away and guillotine the fluffy sheep in the middle of the town square.  Screaming.  Yelling.  Desperate crying.  Until I finally come to a stop, or the light turns green which cues Josie’s delightful reminder that “GREEN MEANS GO, MOMMY!”  Thank you, Josie.  They didn’t cover that on my permit test.  Or my driving test.  Or at the safe driving classes that I took to eliminate my many speeding tickets. 

I don’t know how I managed to drive 12 years without your instruction, my little traffic cop.

BFF

Yesterday, before we ventured out into the wild to a pot-luck extravaganza, my daughter and I were sitting on our front steps putting her sparkly, sequin bedazzled ballet shoes on. 

My daughter is much like me in her attachment to her footwear.  I still wear shoes that I have had since high school and I have Chucks that I still wear from 8th grade.  I regularly get my shoes cobbled and even when my feet grew while preggo, I refused to give them up.  Josie is much the same way, she wears the same two pairs of shoes until she actually can not get her feet in them.  The shoes she was set on wearing last night are near to the end, and they hurt her feet but she wears them anyways.  She knows that there no beauty without pain….

Anyways, once we had struggled and finally forced her feet in the shoes, she looked up at me triumphantly smiling, took my face in her hands and said “Mommy, you are my best, best friend.” 

Our first bonding moment over fashion.

That was a close one….

I thought I’d never love something as much as I loved dark chocolate with a glass of Pinot Noir.

Whew.  Turns out I do!