Time.

According to Hayden anything that has happened in the past happened “yesterday”.  So, imagine the awkwardness when I overhear her telling her teacher that she went swimming at the beach yesterday… and it’s clearly the middle of January. 

I’m having a hard time explaining to her the theory of time.  If you really think about it, it’s not an easy thing to explain to a child.  How do you have them understand the difference between five minutes and five hours- or even harder, last summer versus last fall? 

At first she would say things like “Mommy, five more minutes before bed… okay?” and I happily agreed.  Figuring, okay, she understands that five minutes is a little bit longer.  But then, after five minutes she would scream and protest.  Then she would keep asking for “forty-three more minutes”…  Well, she gets that 43 minutes is longer than five… That’s good right?

So, in true Mommy form,  I had to come up with a way to teach her time.  So, for a lack of a better plan, I started relating time to her favorite television shows.

Remember yesterday, when Mickey Mouse traveled to outer space?  That was YESTERDAY.

Remember when that annoying show that Mommy hates started?  Dino Dan?  That was LAST YEAR.

Your friend will come over in half an hour, that’s one episode of Dora.

One minute is the length of one commercial.

I didn’t say my method was perfect, but it kind of works. 

The other day she said to me “Mommy, it’s dark outside.  That means Bubble Guppies will be on TV soon”. 

Overall, a tremendous success, I think.  I have no idea who the Academy of Pediatrics thinks they are saying that television is bad for children.  Old school thinking right there.  Old school.  Next, they’ll say they don’t want us to give our children iPads.  Hayden can work an iPhone like no one’s business.  Let’s be realistic here- When she grows up and goes to high school, do you really think she’ll need to know how to write in cursive?  Or will she need to be fluent in operating a Mac and a PC?   She knows what an app is, she asked me the other day what chalk was… and honestly, she doesn’t need to know.  But she does need to know how to tell time… unless they come up with an app for that too.

What Would Michelle Obama do?

Growing up, I was the fat kid.  It’s a weird thing to be the fat kid, because no one tells you that you’re the fat kid until about age eight or nine.  Then some jerky ten year old looks at you and says “You’re fat”- You look down and realize that it’s true.  You look at your friends and they all are wearing jeans and you’re wearing gym pants with an elastic waist.  The cool thing about being the fat kid is that you usually end up being the funny kid too.  That was my experience.  I loved being the class clown.  Even as I got older and thinned out- I kept that sense of humor.  Getting the superlative “Class Clown” in high school was a strange but fulfilling achievement.  I was also named “Loudest” and “Class Dreamer”.  I am ridiculously loud.  I was named “Class Dreamer” because I slept through first and second period religiously every day for all four years. 

Anyway, it’s one thing to be the fat kid and it’s another thing to be the unhealthy/fat kid.  I was the unhealthy fat kid.  Before age ten, my cholesterol was ridiculously high.  Like over 200 high.  That’s horrible for a fat 70 year old man, let alone a ten year old school girl.  I was sent to specialists who taught my mother how to control my high levels.  By exercise and diet alone, I returned to normal.  I remember the first day I could fit into jeans.  My Mom put them on me and took pictures of me before I left for school.  I remember being so proud that day.

I have that similar feeling nowadays.  After getting married, I managed to gain a lot of weight again.  Last year, I got rid of it.  The good old fashion way, diet and exercise. 

As Hayden and I were getting our nails done last week (yes, Hayden gets manicures with me- she loves them) I heard the Spanish girls that give massages talking in Spanish about how big Hayden was.  I have never let on to them that I totally speak and understand Spanish.  It’s more fun that way.  I like to listen to them whisper about all the customers while I get my massage.  Unlike the Korean manicurists, I actually know they’re not talking about me.  At first, I thought they were just commenting on how “big” she is as in “old”- then I realized that they meant “big”, like “heavy”, like (gasp) “fat”. 

Gordita.

For the first time, I turned and looked one girl right in the eye and told her that Hayden was very healthy and she just happened to like her pasta a little too much.  She quickly shut up and looked at me in surprise.

Then it dawned on me.  Not that Hayden is fat.  She’s a healthy kid- but I let her eat crap.  I let her eat pasta for lunch, then for dinner if she wants it.  If we’re out and she wants French fries, I get them for her.  If she’s watching TV and asks for a piece of chocolate, I hand it to her.  I let her eat crap that I wouldn’t even eat anymore. 

What would Michelle Obama do?

So, my New Years Resolution is to change Hayden’s eating habit in a more healthy way.  Will I deprive her?  No way.  She’s just a kid.  But will I eliminate all the junk from her diet?  You bet.  The kid also needs some cardio, so I’m looking into a baby treadmill or maybe just some kind of new cardio-intensive gym class.  Do they do weight training for kids?  I did buy her some one pound weights at the Sports Authority.  She needs to start somewhere.

At the end of the day, I never want her to look at that ten year old boy who just told her she’s fat and realize it’s true.  I guess as Mommy’s that’s what we want to do, protect our kids. 

I want her to win superlatives like "Most Gorgeous, Smartest, Caring".

'Tis the Season

‘Tis the Season…

‘Tis the Season… to be an emotional wreck.

                I was at one of my Christmas parties.  This one was for the real estate company that I work for, William Raveis in Norwalk.  Here’s the thing you probably don’t know about Realtors- most of us have a sick, hilarious sense of humor.  You kind of have to have a screw loose to be a Realtor.  I knew when I started at this fine establishment six years ago, I had chosen the right place to call home.  As we sat at our wine-infused luncheon (at Noon on a Monday) everyone started to talk about where the “after party” would be held.  I had just finished a set (yes, I perform standup comedy and yes, when asked I will perform at my own Christmas party)and the topic of conversation was whether to meet at a bar or another restaurant.  Our favorite appraiser said to me-
“Anna, where should we go?”- and for the first time in six years, I said that I couldn’t go.  I had promised Hayden that we would go see Christmas lights.  He paused then said “Just go another night”- I laughed.  She remembers everything, and I had promised I would take her tonight.  He then said that children don’t have long term memory until age three.  My girl friend who sat beside me quipped, “you could get hit by a bus and die- then I would marry Paul and move in to your house and she would have never have known you were your mother”.  Now, you may think that’s harsh, but that’s actually the sick, twisted sense of humor that we have.  I laughed and told her to go (beep) off.  And as a good Mommy would do, I missed the night of partying and went and grabbed my child and took her to see the lights.  But all I could think of was that if I died tomorrow, she would never remember me.  I’m not going to lie, I laid in bed all night horrified at this thought.  I tend to become even more of an emotional wreck around the holidays.  ‘Tis the season.

‘Tis the Season… to be amped on Red Bull and Dunkin Donuts coffee.

                I know there are people out there who really enjoy this whole Christmas season.  I applaud them.  I, unfortunately, am not one of them.  Here’s the thing- I feel pressure whenever I have to buy presents for people.  I feel like there’s some sort judgment on whether the gift is thoughtful/appropriate/exciting.  Every year my list grows and grows despite my best efforts to cut people off this list.   This year I bought for a whopping 32 people.  Meaningful presents for 32 people isn’t the best scenario.  I raised the bar too high.  Long ago, I was told that I give great presents and I felt the need to live up to that.  This year I’ve decided that I don’t want to be known for giving cool presents, I want to be known for giving crappy ones.  Despite this revelation, I still needed to buy, wrap, and organize all these gifts.  This past Tuesday, I had a meltdown.  It’s one of those moments when you’re standing in the middle of Hallmark frantically searching the aisles for anything that will be deemed “touching and sweet”- Friggin hell, it’s Hallmark, isn’t that what they’re known for?  Hayden’s running around the store screaming “Frosty the Snowman was a jolly happy hot dog” (again, she has a sick obsession with hot dogs… more on that later), and I’m scanning my list desperately looking for gifts for her preschool teachers.  I went home, Paul walked in the door and I blew up.  I don’t even know what I was yelling about- I knew I had lost control when I had ordered so much online and I had no idea what had arrived and what hadn’t.  I was sent to bed by my husband, and when I awoke Wednesday morning, I doubled up and Red Bull and Dunkin Donuts and I was ready to tackle Christmas and get this crap over with.  ‘Tis the season.

‘Tis the Season… for inappropriate Christmas cards.

                I absolutely refused to spend a ton of money to hire a professional photographer this year.  I had bought one of those high tech camera’s last year and my reasoning was that if I had a good camera, then I would eliminate the need to spend hundreds of dollars every year on professional photography.  Well, there’s a reason why those fine people get paid what they do- They actually know what they’re doing.  I spent a full hour and a half outside with Hayden trying to get her to smile.  She looked adorable, she was all dressed up and the picture perfect model- yet, the simple task to please look at the camera and smile was much too daunting of a task.  That night I sat down to review the 132 pictures I had taken.  There wasn’t one I could use.  Not one.  She was cross eyed in one.  Not looking at the camera in another.  Crying in several.  So, the next morning, I threw her into a regular old dress and tried again.  I was annoyed that I had to do this again and was relieved that  in only fifteen minutes I had snapped a cute picture of her smiling.  I ordered the cards, stamped them and they were sent.  Cross that off the list of Christmas things I hate to do.

                All seemed fine until my Mom said that she heard Hayden’s tushie was in the air on the Christmas card.  I laughed it off.  She was crouched on a rock.  Next call comes in from a good friend of mine who has two boy- she told me that Hayden was a “pin up” and was hanging on the wall next to her son’s bed.  Hmmm.  Then last night, I was at one of my college friends Christmas parties.  Clearly we had all been drinking way too much wine and the giggles were in full swing.  One of my loving sorority sisters said that she had loved the Christmas card.  I laughed and said that I was thankful because I was starting to worry that it was inappropriate.  She told me that she thought I had picked that photo on purpose to be inappropriate.  She then proceeded to grab all the Christmas cards with children on them and lay them out- She asked “Which child will grow up to be the whore?”- She’s an asshole, but I guess I should have reviewed my selection a bit more carefully.  No worries.  I only sent it out to 140 people.   Some people take pictures of their kids doing cute things and put them on their Christmas cards.  I take pictures of my three year old doing Playboy type poses.  Sigh.  ‘Tis the Season to be embarrassed.

‘Tis the Season… for no explanations.

                Why my child is obsessed with hot dogs, I’ll never know.  After waiting a full 90 minutes in line to take a picture with Santa at the mall, she asked him for a hot dog.  I could see his confusion that perhaps he had misheard her- but no, she asked Santa for a hot dog.  She has altered the words of songs so she can reference hot dogs in them. 

We frequently sing songs like “Old McDonald had a hot dog”… or in the theme of Christmas, “Jingle hot dogs”.  When I picked Hayden up from school yesterday, one of the teachers asked why she kept insisting that Santa was bringing her hot dogs for Christmas, so I told her that she had asked for that. .. and no, I would not be wrapping up any hot dogs.  She told me the other day that she had a hot dog in her pants and then cracked up laughing like she had just performed the best set of standup in the history of comedy.  I can’t explain it.  I don’t know where/why this obsession has come from.  Does she eat hot dogs?  Yes.  More than the average kid, I don’t think so.  ‘Tis the season for me to be puzzled.

We’re in the home stretch.  Only a couple more days until everything will return to normal and I can’t wait.  But it’s not all humbug- because let’s be honest, watching the joy in their faces is amazing.  The magic of Christmas really only exists for them- and it’s beautiful.  Plus, the threat of Santa leaving all of her gifts for my nephew has worked swimmingly.  As of December 26^th, the threat of the Easter Bunny not coming will begin.

Merry Christmas! 

It's not that bad, right?

Lies I tell my two year old

Lies I tell my two year old…

The other day, Hayden and I were sitting in a booth at the diner.  She kept insisting that she wanted to stand up and say hello to the ninety year old couple sitting behind us.  Truth be told, I have no idea if they were cranky old people or if they were the nice old couple that love children.  I assumed they didn’t want my two and a half year old staring at them while they ate their apple sauce and pancake dinner.  I didn’t blink an eye and I simply told Hayden that she couldn’t go see them because they hate children and they steal kids and lock them up in their basement at home.  For good measure I added that they make the kids take three naps a day.

Hayden sat down.

It dawned on me that I regularly make up outrageous lies to get Hayden to behave.  I don’t quite know when I started doing this, but I think it dates back about a year ago.  Hayden was going through this phase where she constantly would run away from me whenever we were in a public place and I would freak out.  I remember telling my trainer about this and she said that when her daughter was younger and would run away in a store, she would point to an older man and tell her quietly that the man was planning on kidnapping her if she didn’t stay right by her side.  I mulled it over.  I didn’t want her to be afraid of all older men, but then I realized that unless it’s her father, uncle or grandfather, I don’t want her talking to strange old men anyway.  Seemed to make sense.  I was told by an in-law that this was ridiculous and would give her a complex, but I figured a little fear was a good thing.  (And not for nothing, but cough, cough, Sandusky, cough, cough).

We walked into Wal-mart which is full of crazy people anyway, and the moment she made a run for it, I grabbed her.  I pointed to an older man that was missing half his teeth and walking with a cane and calmly explained that he worked on a farm and he stole little girls that ran away from their Mom’s and made them sleep in a barn with the cows at night.  Clearly, it would have been enough to say that the old man was watching her, but my general nature was to elaborate. 

It worked.  She didn’t leave my side and constantly was looking over her shoulder.  Mission accomplished.

As time went on, my lies got a bit more exaggerated and spanned many topics. 

“Why do I have to have to take a nap?!”

“Because your brain can only handle so much information at a time and if you don’t take a nap and recharge your brain battery, you’ll forget who everyone is.  Do you want to forget who Mommy is and have to go live with a stranger that doesn’t know that you don’t like asparagus?”

“….no.”

Some things are ridiculous.  Our “Elf on a Shelf” who is named Friendly, actually has a magic carpet that that he flies on to the North Pole.  I told her that because I couldn’t think of a more logical answer and I saw her Aladdin movie out of the corner of my eye. 

Or better yet, if she doesn’t behave, Santa will bring all her presents to her cousin and she’ll have to sit on Christmas Day and watch him open all her gifts.

Here’s a small list of lies I have told Hayden:

-That Stop and Shop is owned by Santa’s elves and they are watching her at all times when she is in the store.  They will bite her toes if she doesn’t stay in the shopping cart.

-That Santa Claus is on a diet and has diabetes so we can’t leave him cookies, but we’ll leave him some carrots.

-That whenever she has an “accident” (we are fully potty trained!) an angel cries in heaven.

-If she doesn’t eat broccoli every day, she’ll never be able to poop again and explode.  (This is by far the smartest thing I’ve ever told her- because she panics if she doesn’t eat some “vegge-tables”)

-The “scary” cow at Stew Leonards is made out of marshmallows so he could never actually hurt her. 

-When our gold fish died, I told her that he ran away to join a Beatles tribute band.  I added that he was Paul McCartney just to make it more believable.

The list really goes on and on.  It could be something simple like “Mommy, why are you wearing a white shirt?”… and I’ll respond “Because today is wear a white shirt day to thank all the people who raise money for animal charity’s”.

For now it works.  When I sense she is getting a complex, I’ll ease up.  It’s important to note that when she asks me anything that’s serious, I answer truthfully and honestly.  She understands about how Mommy’s have babies.  (Well, as best as a two year old can understand).  She knows that there are poor people and people going hungry and that we have to help them.   She knows that Mommy has tattoos, or as she calls them my “stamps”.  When she saw me with a tampon in my hand and wanted to know what it was, I told her in simplified two-year old terms.  I actually wish I had hid that stuff a bit better because she opened all my tampons and lined them up down our hallway last month…  and peeled a pad and stuck it on her shirt and called it “my favorite new sticker”.

Never a dull moment… Never a dull moment.

Pre-School University

Pre-School University

When you teach your child ridiculous pet names for their privates, you don’t really think that one day you will have to explain those names to their teachers.  There’s something amusing about making up a word and using it whenever referring to their little tushies/butts/behinds/bums- or in Hayden’s case, tookus. 

When we looked at different pre-schools for Hayden, it felt like the college search process.  We visited different schools in different towns.  We had to consider their tuition, their teaching philosophy’s, their credentials, whether Hayden could get in (waitlists? Are you kidding?)- Really, as a society we’ve done an incredible job of making the selection of a nursery school the most stressful experience for a new parent.  It’s seriously almost a status thing- I remember calling one pre-school and when I heard the tuition was over $30,000 a year, my heart skipped a beat.  One friend justified it though- She said it was the “it” pre-school.  Really?  There’s such a thing as the “it” preschool?  Most these kids still crap their pants.

We finally found our perfect balance of affordability (and I use the term “affordable” very, very loosely), location and got that “warm fuzzy feeling”.  The night of orientation for parents, I immediately fell in love with Hayden’s new teachers to be.  They were young and seemed fun- and I knew Hayden would love them too.   I was right.

After having panic attacks for many weeks, the first day of school came.  I can guarantee you that I was much more nervous than she was.  We walked into the classroom and something happened that I never suspected- Hayden ran up to one of her teachers and gave her the biggest hug ever.  She was so excited to meet her teacher and be at “big girl school”.  I was relieved, but the reality was I had to face the music.  I had to explain to these normal looking adult women, who were in charge of my child, all of her quirks.  I had planned it in my head exactly how I would calmly explain her slang words, weird actions and hardships- but when the smart/pretty young teacher asked me if there was anything special she should know about Hayden, this is what I said… (imagine me stuttering and speaking ridiculously fast)…

“Um, yeah, she calls her rear end a tookus, her vajajay is called a stellina which translates into Italian for little star (nervous giggle)- She’s afraid of puppets.  She watches way too much TV, it’s kind of my fault and I know that the Academy of Pediatrics doesn’t suggest that, I’ll stop keeping it on so much.  She doesn’t know any of her colors, my Mom thinks she might be color blind… oh, and she’s completely OCD about washing her hands.” 

Insert awkward silence.

“Don’t worry, most two year olds don’t know their colors yet.  She’s probably not color blind”

Sigh.

Hayden loves school like no other.  She can’t wait to go in the morning.  She adores her teachers.  Every ounce of work we put into finding this place and every penny was well worth it.  My good friend sent her daughter there as well.  We thought it would be a good idea to send them together so they would each have a familiar face.  This has worked out incredibly well and the girls love each other. 

One night, my friend and I were out having dinner and cocktails (NOT with the girls)- after a few glasses of wine, I checked my iPhone and sure enough there was an email from the director.  For the record, I wasn’t aware that the woman in charge of the school was called a director.  In the email, she asked if both of us would be the room mom’s for all the two year olds.  Of course, it was coincidental that we were together when seeing this email- and also coincidental that we had been drinking… So here is the response we sent…

“Dear Head Mistress,

We would be honored to be the room mom’s.  We feel as though there should be some mandatory uniform for us to wear to events.  We will absorb any costs related to this uniform. We also like name tags, please let us know if you would like for us to pick some up for our first meeting.

Thanks again!”

We thought we were so funny and hip.  We were humiliated the next morning.  I knew we had picked the right place once again, when the “head mistress” responded that she knew she had made the right decision asking us.  I’ll never know how stupid she thinks we are- but she does a great job acting as though we are normal Moms.

Ready for the part of the story where things get really sad?  Our pre-school burnt down last Sunday night.  Yep… It. Burnt. Down.

My heart is broken.  All Hayden’s stuff in her locker, the pictures she painted hanging on the walls, photos of all the kids laughing- gone.

I keep telling her that we’re on “vacation” from school and she doesn’t know any better, but she keeps asking when she can go back.  We’re having a meeting of all the parents this Thursday to talk about what will happen now.  I’m praying they can secure another location to finish out the year.  Out of all the dumb things that can happen… No one was hurt, fire is still under investigation, and the community out pouring of support is amazing. 

I’ll let you know what happens…

Potty Training 101

Potty Training 101

Everybody wants to give me parenting advice.  Let me tell you the truth, most of the time I pretend like I’m listening and take it in, but in reality I’m paying no attention.  But when it came to potty training, I was terrified.  I really had no idea where to start.  I listened carefully to everyone’s advice.  That may have been the wrong thing to do since I ended up with a mash up of weird, cockeyed approaches. 

Hayden has been ready to be potty trained for well over two months.  It was me that wasn’t ready.  I have this fear of being in the car, in traffic, on the 95, and Hayden screaming “Mommy I have to poop”- and me not being able to get her to a toilet in time.  Or worse, being at the mall and Hayden having some kind of accident that not only ruins her outfit but leaks brown diarrhea all over mine.  Yeah, I have a lot of issues. 

One day we were in the car, and she simply said “Mommy, I have to do pee pee”- and I answered “Just go in your diaper”.  I had a feeling that’s not what you’re supposed to say to a child who has been asking to use the potty and wear “big girl underwear”.

But an important thing happened, one of my good friends who has older children listened to me dramatically complain about my fears and she looked at me and said “You know, it all eventually works out, right?”  Duh.  I don’t know any college kids that still wear diapers.  I mean, I knew plenty that regularly went in their pants but it was usually after drinking way too much.  Pace University was a weird place, but alas, that’s another story for another time.

So when her pre-school offered parents a “potty training seminar” with a trained professional, I jumped all over that.  Granted, I spent a week trying to understand what kind of person makes their life work about getting kids to crap in a toilet, but to each his own.  Clearly, I couldn’t wait to go so there was a demand for this kind of speaker.  (Note to self: if this whole real estate/radio dj/baking this doesn’t work out- think about teaching my own potty training 101 class).

The class, although informative, did exactly what I was afraid of- it confused me even more.  I had yet another method to add to the 37 that had already been suggested. 

Last Monday morning, Hayden woke up and promptly said “Mommy, I go pee pee in the potty?”-  I took off her diaper and let her go.  More importantly, I didn’t put it back on.  I put on some old school gangsta rap to get my head in the game and went at it full force.  It was potty training time. 

I put down some newspaper down on the carpets just in case there were any accidents upstairs- For the record, no one suggested that to me, I thought of that all on my own.  When and if I teach a class, I will include that nugget of valuable information. 

One Mom said, keep her naked the whole time you’re home.  So, I kept her naked at first.  “Mommy, I’m cold”.  “Mommy, I want to wear pants”, “Mommy, can you be naked too?”- Hm- that wasn’t working out.  So I put her in underwear and pants. 

Things were going well, like another Mom said, every ten minutes I put her on the potty.  After a couple hours, she was ready to kill me.  “Mommy, I don’t have to go potty!!”  I spaced it out to 30 minutes.  At one point, she became so engrossed in Minnie Mouse on tv that she pee’d on the floor.  (No problem, I had the newspaper down)- So I changed her underwear, put her in new ones. 

Another Mom suggestion, bribery.  “If you pee in the potty, I’ll give you chocolate.”  Hayden’s a smart kid.  She could literally pee four drops, eat a piece of chocolate and go back and pee another four drops for another piece.  That wasn’t working.  So I made a deal, she could get a lollipop for poop.  That was a good compromise.

Mom number 13 suggested not leaving my house for five days while I was potty training.  Let’s be honest, there’s no way in hell I was sitting trapped in my house for five days.  So every morning, I would race the back roads to my Moms house so I could drop Hayden off for her to potty train her for a few hours while I ran to the gym/office/bar. 

Miraculously, she never had an accident for my Mom. 

Day 4, we had friends over.  Hayden was so involved with playing with her friend, that she pooped herself.  I freaked.  I took her upstairs and sure enough, it was disgusting- so I heard my hairdresser in my head… “Make it a dramatic show, cut the underwear off her, show her how you throw them in the garbage”…  Okay.  I ran downstairs and grabbed the kitchen shears.  Ran back up to her bathroom as she stood in shock and silence while I crazily explained that I had to cut her Cinderalla underwear off and throw them away because she pooped them.  She seemed pretty calm while I literally cut a pair of underwear off of her.  As I threw them in the garbage with a huge sigh- she looked at me and said “Okay Mommy, get me another pair”.  Hmm… Not the reaction I was hoping for.

Here’s the conversation I had with our babysitter…

“If she poops her underwear, go into the kitchen and get the big scissors in the butcher block, take her upstairs and cut them off her and throw them in the garbage… it would help if you cry a little and show her how disappointed you are in her.”

I don’t know, maybe I shouldn't have had listened to all the advice.

I did get this text from my husband last night while I was out:

“Hayden sh*t her pants!! Started to clean her and she reached around a grabbed a handful… gross”

I’m not going to lie, I’m glad I wasn’t there for that.  I would have had a heart attack.

So needless to say, this is a work in progress.  But it’s getting better every day. 

Here’s the best part, Paul had to cut her nails and scrub under them to get the poop out from her reach around.  Thank God I missed that- and I'm not going to lie, I laughed at what he had to go through.  Why should only Mommy have fun with potty training, right?

Ms. Libby Sucks

Ms. Libby Sucks

I, like many Mom’s, have fallen in love with Groupon.com/Livingsocial.com- Imagine my excitement when I saw a class for children in Greenwich being offered for only $49 for four classes!  I assembled a small mommy group and we signed up.  

I should have known this was probably too good to be true- I’ve spent literally over two thousand (shh, don’t tell my husband) dollars on ridiculous classes for Hayden.  She’s gone to a private ballet school for two year olds (in my defense, they had mandatory cute uniforms)… She’s belonged to a kids gym long before she could walk… She’s taken art classes… Story groups before she could talk… Gymnastics… The list goes on and on.  So, this class, at only $49 sounded affordable and fun. 

The moment I walked into the class (after sitting in traffic for a full 50 minutes to get there), I knew I was in trouble.  The teacher introduced herself but I didn’t hear a word she said.  All I could do was keep staring at her outfit.  She had on this dress that she clearly bedazzled herself with glitter glue and buttons.  At that moment, I named her Ms. Libby (clearly from the Billy Madison movie with Adam Sandler).  I would not remember or ever hear her real name again.  You always hear about how actors “test chemistry” with each other before they are hired- and I’ve been in interview situations where I had to “test chemistry”- so I know how it works.  And I immediately knew that Ms. Libby and I did not have good chemistry. 

I have a problem with teachers who have overly high expectations for their two year old students- and a double standard too.  Why in a million years, would you lay out tons of instruments and then demand that the children do not touch them?  To me, that’s like pouring a deliciously frozen extra dirty Grey Goose martini- then telling me not to drink it.  It just doesn’t make sense.  There were several situations like these over the never ending class. 

Apparently Ms. Libby plays favorites because when a rowdy three year old boy ran at me, full force, and cracked his large head into my crotch, she smiled… and his mother said nothing.  It hurt.  Really.  How embarrassing, I was just head-butted in my lady parts and I have to smile and pretend that I really want to teach my kid how to count to ten in French.  Let’s be honest, no one here in America, unless your family is from France, really needs to know French.  Not for nothing, I’m more concerned about Hayden learning how to count in English first- then obviously Spanish. 

So at this point, I strongly dislike Ms. Libby and I plain hate the mom of the boy who tried to make me unable to have any more children.  “Oh, he’s so spirited!” Ms. Libby says- Spirited?  Is that what we’re calling bad now?  I kept my mouth shut.  So Mr. Spirit then decides it’s a good idea to throw his maracas right at our heads.  Hayden, being the follower she is (I’m working on fixing this), also immediately throws her maracas too.  Mr. Spirits mom says nothing- I turn thirteen shades of red and grab Hayden.  We have a “talk” in the corner.  Mr. Spirit get’s a little too physical with all the smaller children and twice sits on Hayden.  No word from Ms. Libby (who at this point is rolling around on the ground singing about lady bugs)- No discipline from Mom.

The last straw comes when Mr. Spirit begins to throw rocks at the animals in the courtyard.  Hayden grabs a handful of rocks and joins in on trying to kill the poor chickens.  I grab her and tell her not to ever do anything that the boys are doing- Well, that finally got a reaction from Ms. Libby.  I was told that I was going to raise my daughter to be inferior to men.

Really?

Because I thought I was teaching my kid how to behave like a normal child that wasn’t going to grow up to be a serial killer.  But that’s just me.

I never went back to that class.  They can keep my $49.  From now on, I will stick to buying restaurant vouchers on Groupon.