This is not Going to Help

Best break-up ballad for passive-aggressives the world over

Complete with fucking beautiful picking, I might add.

Holy shit, get a load of my adorable niece!

NYC OMG

I took the kids to the AMNH yesterday to see the last day of their butterfly conservatory.  We had been before, when Franny was about Henry's age.  She had never forgotten it, so I thought Henry should see it, too.  That didn't really turn out to be the case.  Henry did not wish to walk into the butterfly room.  He thought it was too scary.  Franny convinced him that it was good to do, but when we got in there and he saw all the butterflies flying up by the lights, he shielded his head with both forearms, yelling:  "BEES!  BEES!"

Here they are after he got over himself:

And here's where a butterfly decided to inspect Franny's stuffed bat.

Franny outside Grand Central.

Finally, Henry's dark blue eyes.

We arrived at the museum around 3 p.m.  The kids needed more of a snack than I'd brought, they were already sort of tired from the train trip and the walking.  I was tired from my weeks of insomnia.  It was not a good combination.  Just seconds after we saw the butterflies, Franny started inquiring about the gift shop.  Let me just say how much I hate this!  And how it is completely my fault.  At some point I noticed that we had begun capping off nearly every such outing with a trip to the omnipresent and overpriced gift shop, and that the trip to the gift shop had become the highlight for Franny.  I don't want her to view these otherwise lovely museum visits as just another excuse to acquire more crap.

Don't get me wrong, God knows I'm all for the occasional souvenir.   I love buying crap!  I just didn't care for the sense of entitlement that was wafting off the girl that day.  She was pretty cheeky about it. 

Anyway, Franny and I can usually work things out without anyone falling apart, but, for whatever reason we really squared off against each other on this issue.  When I said that we wouldn't be going to the shop that day, she cried.  And cried.  And that sucked for all of us, really.  Henry didn't really know what the issue was, but her bad mood became contagious, so we left the museum quite a bit earlier than I expected.

And this poorly-written and mediocre tale about half-assed parenting is finally at an end.   

 

Party faces

So.  Today I was the mystery reader in Franny's class.  I baked her favorite cookies and brought her favorite book to read aloud.  I honestly don't think I've ever done anything that has made her happier.  

After, I took her out to lunch at our favorite soup joint, because it is still frigid here.  And raining.  And, yes, we're still having to eat hot soup to stop the (my) constant weeping over the weather. 

When we got home decided to make party invitations out of National Geographic coloring pages.  She has a list of five kids she'd like to invite.  She asked me to photograph her making five different "party faces" so that she can include them with the invitations. 

Here's an example of a party face, in case you'd like to try this at home.

And here is the wording of the invitation as dictated by Franny:

IF YOU HAVE TIME TO COME OVER ON ANY DAY, THAT WOULD BE GOOD 

FOR MY ANIMAL PARTY.  THERE WILL BE 5 KIDS OVER AND YOU HAVE  

GOT TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH THEM, BECAUSE THEY ARE MY FRIENDS.  IF YOU 

CAN’T MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY FRIENDS THEN WE WILL HAVE TO HAVE 

 IT ON ANOTHER DAY AND THEN WE WILL SEE IF YOU CAN BEHAVE  

BETTER.  SO, YOU’VE GOT TO PROMISE TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY FRIENDS.

  I’M SERIOUS ABOUT THE ANIMAL PARTY.  WE’RE GOING TO HAVE TO CANCEL THE  ANIMAL PARTY IF YOU CAN’T MAKE FRIENDS WITH MY OTHER FRIENDS.  

OK. 

LOVE,

FRANNY

 

I will go ahead and point out that it is not at all surprising that a daughter of mine would find a way to nag and threaten her friends in a party invitation.  Sounds like fun, no?  Make friends or else, dammit!

The voters have stolen my nomination

OK, this is in extremely poor taste, but I cannot help myself.

Sedate me until August, please

My Clinton fatigue has morphed into a feverish case of itchy, inflamed, crawling, pacing hatred.  I think Hillary won Indiana because of this.  Normally I'd have skimmed this headline, but yesterday I spent an hour making Indiana calls for Obama.  Of the five or six people I actually talked to, TWO said that they were republicans who had voted for Hillary to sabotage Obama.

Still life with polycarbonates and BPAs

About once a week, or maybe not quite that often, I let my kids stay home from school if they don't seem eager to go.  Don't get me wrong, I don't, say, cave to whining (that often) but if they are (or I am) sleeping late (thank you Jesus!) or really busy doing something else, I will let school slide.  By school I mean "school" of course.  They are 4 and 2, so let's be serious and say that this is not really school.  I feel like I will lose them to (mandatory, real) school soon enough and am happy to have these mornings together doing wholesome things like eating Cocoa Krispies and watching an episode of Sponge Bob three times in a row.  If only Norman Rockwell could paint us.

Most mornings, though, I have things I need, or, to be honest, things I would rather do without them, and I'm glad to take them to school where they can socialize and sling paint and learn to function in a group.  I don't kid myself, though.  I do nursery school more for my convenience than for their edification.  It is a lovely place, true, and they like it quite a lot, but I feel properly guilty when they are there and not slogging through the morning's errands and such with me. 

I have friends who are appalled that I would even consider sending my tender wee ones to something called school at this age.  And I have friends who are shocked that I pay for nursery school and don't take them every day.  I second guess myself about this (and nearly every other) parenting decision at least occasionally, at most constantly.  Like right now when I should really be watching the Tudors.

For instance, here is Franny at about 8.30 a.m. one day last week.  She had constructed this scene and had an elaborate story line going on.  I went in to check on her, because she was so quiet.

When I asked if she was all right, she said yes but that this big dinosaur was trying to keep the sleepy dogs from coming down and getting eaten by the wild animals and so on and so forth.  And there was another area constructed down by her feet that she was working on, too.  I'm sure if I'd said it is time to go to school, she would have been willing, but who could blame me for not wanting to break the spell?  And she played like that, in her strawberry nightgown, until lunch time.

What am I saying?  I have no idea.  I guess I'm trying to convince myself that the way I do things isn't that damaging to all of us, or at least to provide a record of exactly what I did wrong, so that the kids can just print this out and had it to their therapist. 

Oh, dear, I've eaten too much cheese product again.  Night night.