Category Archives: Partying with the Ponies

February 5, 2014 · 11:21 pm

Accepting My Son and Every Other Brony in the World

I found myself in tears tonight, reading the story of 11-year-old Michael Morones, a young boy who was bullied into a suicide attempt, just because he loved My Little Pony. It wasn’t just his story that gnawed at my heart, but I couldn’t help but think of my own sweet son who also likes “girl things” like My Little Pony.

When I was a kid, I LOVED My Little Pony. I had the toys, watched the cartoon and wished beyond all hope that I would wake up a pony. Preferably a flutter pony. So, when I discovered My Little Pony had been brought back for a new generation of impressionable kidlets, I was excited. I could share my childhood joy with them. This desire to share my youth with my kids also extends to playing Bon Jovi in the car, explaining jelly bracelets and making them play Mouse Trap.

We started watching My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, and the kids loved it! It entered heavy rotation in our house, alongside Doc McStuffins and Octonauts. Of course, when the cartoon love consumes a child, the toys, books and DVDs are not far behind. Now, can I admit something? I bought the DVDs thinking the kids would share them, and the stuffed animals for my daughter because she is a hoarder of plush. There are pony toys that are sold as “blind bags” or, as the kids and I called them, “mystery ponies.” You never know what kind of pony you are going to get. It could me one of the main 6, or it could be someone you’ve never heard of. Hence, the mystery. Initially, my daughter wanted them, but then my son wanted to start his pony collection. I paused. I wondered if I should encourage something that was “for girls.” I am ashamed to think of this now. Eventually, I mentally slapped myself and realized that it doesn’t matter what he likes as long as it isn’t hurting him or anyone else. So, I bought him the mystery ponies. I felt up so many bags to determine if they were pegasi, unicorns or earth ponies, that I felt like a predator.

I didn’t mind, but eventually, there came a point where my son minded. You know, as much as I had “pause” over his pony love, I had great sadness when he decided to give his ponies to his sister. There was one pony in particular, Princess Celestia, that he was ECSTATIC to receive. It was my touchpoint. My affirmation that I was doing the right thing. And he gave it away. His friends in school did not watch ponies. They did not get excited over Princess Celestia. Once, his sister was in the car when he was dropped off and she was watching some asinine Barbie movie. He made my husband turn the movie off because he didn’t want anyone to think HE was watching it.

And this is at the heart of why I was devastated by Michael Morones’ story. There are kids who feel they cannot be themselves because of how other children will treat them. I know it is not a new concept; I have horrible recollections of being teased for my frizzy perm and glasses. But, this is MY baby. He is my first born. Sensitive, smart and, yes, living with ADHD. I don’t know if that makes him somehow more sensitive to the world around him, or if it is just a part of his personality, like the way he enjoys My Little Pony.

When I first learned of bronies, or guys who liked My Little Pony, I thought they were weird. I mean, who likes Twilight Sparkle when they are “old enough to know better?” Admittedly, this was the same time my kids were learning the joys of Twilight and her pals. But, somehow, my kids were “different.” Then, I researched the brony movement, watched the documentary and made a few conclusions.

They are my son, at different ages. There are probably a few fruit loops in the group. Every group has one, just like every family has the one relative who spews crazy at the holidays. But, overall, they are just guys who happen to love the message these ponies serve up; friendship, kindness and honesty. What more can a mother hope for from her kids?

So, here I am. If I can support my son, then I will declare myself a Pegasister and wave my Twilight Sparkle flag high. All hail the ponies of Equestria. I shall also offer up a prayer for the family of Michael Morones. Please, dear Lord, let this boy recover and may our world become a little more accepting of the people in it.

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February 3, 2014 · 11:01 pm

There is No ‘I’ in Team

I have never been athletic; even tae bo had too many movements at once for me. Somehow, I had hoped that it would be different for my kids; that they would be able to jab, jab, kick without looking like they were fighting off an unseen spiderweb.

My family tree is chock full of writers, educators, nurses; in other words – creative, helpful types. I cannot bring to mind a single one that ever played a sport. My mother likes to tell the story of how my father played left field in her company’s softball game. He’d stand out there, chain smoking and drinking beer. When a ball would head his way, he’d put down the beer can, and, cigarette dangling from his lip, would casually stroll out to catch the ball. Not exactly All Star material.

My husband played football and ran track, so I had high hopes the kids would take after him. Unfortunately, they are like him; tall, skinny and wired for engineering.

Nonetheless, I pushed them, I mean pushed ahead, and signed them up for anything that seemed remotely interesting to them. It did not go well.

THE BOY

Soccer: The boy picked at the grass, and when I shouted at him to get the lead out and chase the damn ball (I mean, I encouraged him vociferously), he would run the length of the field and then declare he was too tired to take another step. His highness would then flop down in one of the lawn chairs we had hauled out to the middle of a muddy soccer field to watch his farce of a game, and he would refuse to get up. I begged, pleaded and bribed him to get out on the field. Sighing, he would drag himself out onto the field and the cycle of grass pulling and flopping would begin again.

The only upside is that there were no weeds on the field when that kid was done with the season. They organizers could have paid us. At least our time would have been worthwhile.

Baseball: See soccer and replace, “picked at the grass” with “made dirt mounds as the shortstop.” Throw in a little bit of chasing my daughter and missing everything but the dirt mounds, and you’ll get an idea of what baseball season was like.

THE GIRL

Ballet: My wee little princess wanted to dance, and her bestest friend in the whole wide world was taking a creative movement class. Creative movement is for younger kids and pretty much consists of prancing around a room in expensive leotards while wearing expensive pink ballet slippers, followed by even more expensive tap shoes.

The first couple of lessons were ideal; she threw on her leotard and skipped out of the house. I thought, “O! I have finally found her ‘thing.'” Then, I was invited, along with the other parents, into the studio for observation day. What I observed is my daughter, running around in circles, stopping to hug me, hug her best friend, hug anyone that looked like a grandmother and generally screwing around. I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt and thought she was just acting out because I was there. No. As the lessons progressed, I could hear the teacher instructing her to pay attention, stop touching other people and to please pipe down!

When the session ended, my daughter’s friend was asked to continue on to formal ballet classes because she had, “Natural dance ability.” My prima ballerina was told that she, “should probably take some time off,” and, “some children aren’t ready as quickly as other children are.” In other words, my kid was being put in the corner with the dunce cap. I knew ballet wasn’t for her, but still. I was really offended. That’s my baby! I decided not to say anything rude, mostly because my kids already say things they shouldn’t after hearing them come out of my mouth, but I thought very rude thoughts. Repeatedly.

EPILOGUE

My son asked to play basketball. I worried it would be a repeat of soccer and baseball, but at least on the hardwood floor he wouldn’t be able to pluck or create anything. He has very little hand-eye coordination, and I catch him twirling his hair instead of playing sometimes, but he likes it. He at least goes after the ball and will run without turning into a limp noodle. That’s a victory in my book.

My daughter decided to try ballet again with another dance studio and she seems to enjoy it. She still doesn’t display, “Natural dance ability,” but I’m ok with that. Have you seen Black Swan? That girl was crazy. So, suck it stupid other ballet teacher. My little swan is awesome.

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January 30, 2014 · 4:18 am

Unicorns and Rainbows, Or, What Parenting Isn’t

I think if there is one thing that having kids has taught me, it is that you should never take yourself too seriously, because the minute you do, you’re going to find that you’re taking a very snarky tone with someone while sporting baby vomit in your hair.

I really wish other women would realize this.

Yesterday, I jokingly posted to Facebook that schools should just make kids tough out the cold in a hat instead of canceling. I would think that anyone who has ever met me would know that I do not want any children turning into kidsicles (at least not my own kids). But, alas, I received a very sternly worded reply about how many kids can’t even afford hats. I do believe the unwritten second part of that reply was, “You selfish woman, why do you want children to catch frostbite and lose all of their appendages? Would that make your day better?”

I have no way of knowing whether or not she had baby vomit in her hair while typing her comment, but I’m pretty sure she was wearing a wimple. It was that holy.

I started the week with a big box of patience. The box is empty now.

Photo found on Pinterest

I was flabbergasted. Where the hell did that come from? Then I saw another post from one of her friends about how people should appreciate the time with their kids instead of bitching about snow days.

Do these people not really have kids? Or, do they have kids who ride unicorns and fart rainbows? If they do, then I was clearly in the wrong line when they were handing out offspring.

After three days of being trapped inside, my children are whining puddles of goo, and no amount of popsicle stick crafts will soothe them. I’m lucky if I can get them to zone out to Sheriff Callie for a half hour. And they love that lasso-toting cat!

No, after three snow days, I will drag them to school and barely slow down to 5 m.p.h. before tossing them out on the sidewalk. I will then do a victory lap, complete with doughnuts, once I clear the school zone. Once I get home, I may even put on Geto Boys and destroy the popsicle sticks Office Space-style.

I wonder if these parents who seem to love every second of being a parent really do. I know that kids grow up way too fast, and that there are horrific things that could happen to my child, therefore, I should cherish every second. And I do hold onto their good moments. I squeeze my daughter tight when she says she wants a cuddle. I play Pokemon with my son and let him tell me about every power and evolution the monsters make. I know it won’t last forever, so I take those times and brand them into my heart. It might make the teen years more bearable to remember them when they were soft and sweet-smelling.

What I do not want to hold on to is all the crap that goes along with motherhood, like telling my daughter to stop picking her nose or asking my son to cover up his private areas. And, honestly, aren’t we all doing each other a disservice if we won’t share those parts of our lives that are less than picture perfect?

Before I discovered the amazing cadre of moms on the internet who fail in a spectacularly funny fashion, I thought I was all alone, screwing my kids up as other women created smart, well-rounded progeny. As I started reading their books and blogs, I saw myself. I laughed, cried and cheered with them. I was encouraged and I realized that maybe I wasn’t raising tiny serial killers. I let go and, in my mind, became a better parent because if it.

I don’t know, but if there are parents who think every moment of every day is a sparkly fun-fest, then more power too them. I just hope they let my kids borrow their unicorn on the weekends.

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January 28, 2014 · 3:02 am

The Game of Life as a Tool for…. Life

After a very long day trapped inside by the snow and cold, our little family decided to play a few games. I don’t mind when the kids cheat or refuse to follow the rules, but I do try to use the time for teachable moments on sportsmanship, be it for winners or losers. Like broccoli hidden in a brownie, I will find a way to squeeze in something that’s good for you without you knowing about it.

Now, on this particular night, we played Trouble followed by Life. Trouble had all of the typical ups and downs of game night (Son: she’s not supposed to move that piece! Daughter: why did he get a 6?! Me: pass me the wine…), but Life brought an education for all of us.

Let me preface this by admitting that I had enjoyed two glasses of wine by this point. I mean, we were in the middle of game 2. It’s to be expected, right? You somehow have to fill the void when the losing child storms off to pout. Plus, wine is delicious. Wine and Life

The kids reached the point on the board where you gain a spouse, which entails popping a second person peg into your car. You don’t have to pay an obscene amount of money for the privilege of having this peg in your car, which would be a lot closer to the real experience of getting married, but I digress.

When my son reached the marriage square, he picked a pink peg and named it after a girl in his school. A small part of me thinks it’s sweet and the other part thinks, “You’re 7. You wear underwear with Skylanders on them. How do you have a wife candidate already?” My husband picks a pink peg and says it’s me. Good boy.

My daughter has gathered up all of the pink pegs and claimed them for herself. She tends to do this, absorbing pink items like a black hole. Or, a pink hole, as it were. I digress, again. Anyway, I told her that she could always put a pink peg in her car since she has already gathered every available pink peg. She said that she could not because. “Girls marry boys.” And then my son chimes in with, “That would be weird.”

Two pink pegsI don’t always climb on my high horse, but after two glasses of wine and a VERY long time at the gaming table, I leaped onto that horse and rode it off into the sunset.

I started off calm enough explaining that it wasn’t wrong and that boys can marry girls or boys and vice versa. Now, mind you, we had just gone through this on Martin Luther King Jr. Day when we discussed discrimination in today’s day and age. And, frankly, I expected more out of my kids. Aren’t kids supposed to be without prejudice? I know we didn’t teach that. So, I decide to take my uppity stand, and when it’s my turn, I pick a pink peg. Well, wrestle it away from daughter is more accurate. I go through the game, and my partner and I buy a lovely beach home, live an artists’ life and make some money in the stock market.

It wasn’t until it was time to adopt twins, and I announced, “My partner and I will adopt these twin boys,” that my son pipes up with, “Mom, you can’t be married to a girl.” Mildly incensed, I ask why. His response? “You’re married to Daddy. You need a blue peg for him.”

So… my kids are not against same-sex marriage. They are just against their mother being with anyone aside from their father. Much chagrined, I ate a bit of humble pie. It is easily washed down with a little wine.

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January 26, 2014 · 3:01 am

A Voyage Into the Second Circle of Hell

Every time I take my kids with me on a quick trip to the grocery store, I have this delusion that they will be well behaved and that I will somehow get through it with a shred of my sanity still intact. Alas, that has yet to happen.

Albert Einstein

Seemed fitting.

I am reminded of the quote, which may or may not have come from Albert Einstein, “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” It probably comes to no one’s surprise, that by this standard, I am quite insane.

Take today, for instance. I wanted to dash ever-so-quickly into the store, grab some milk, grapes, and whatever will help make the polar vortex (part deux) bearable. My son suggested at first that I should leave him and his sister in the car.

Hubba what?

There is no way on God’s snowy Earth that I would do this. Now, I know my parents left me in the car to run quick errands, and while they were gone, I’d read, pretend to drive their brown whale of a Cadillac, eat all of the Certs I could find, and play with the cigarette lighter. No kids were harmed in this act of temporary abandonment and I am clearly not too scarred by this. Now, I, on the other hand, have two bundles of joy that would get bored in about two seconds, find some way to put the car into gear and proceed to run into other cars, shopping carts and delicate old ladies.

So, I try to nip that in the bud as I find a parking space. Since the world figures it’s OK to park like an a-hole because it’s snowing, it takes me awhile. The whole time I hear, “But mom, we’ll be good. I mean, Papa lets us do it all the time.” Papa is my father-in-law. I make a mental note to have words with him later. Or, have my husband talk to him, because I am a wuss.

I bundle the kids up and get them out of the car. The stomp on, squish, and shuffle their way through every pile of black, scummy snow in the parking lot. Of course they do. Because that looks like oodles of fun.

The first fight we have is about what cart to get. They want to get the cart with a car attached to the front. I hate these things with a passion. They are unwieldy, the cart part itself is smaller than a standard cart, and my kids only stay in them for approximately three aisles, or until they see something they just have to touch. Repeatedly. That I means I am left pushing this monstrosity into cereal displays, canned goods, and generally looking like I am a character in a comedy sketch, rather than the super competent mother I am. I would rather shave my eyebrows than get one of these damn carts. 

Somehow, I win the cart battle but then lose my daughter to a pouting fit because I won’t let her ride one of those germ-infested kiddie rides the grocery store has that, frankly, she is too big for. I need milk, not pinkeye.

I could regale you with my adventures once I was in the store, but I don’t want you to suffer the way I have. You might start to twitch and feel compelled to soothe yourself by singing “Soft Kitty” or with a magnum of wine. It was pretty much an endless stream of, “Please don’t touch every apple… No, we do not need doughnuts… I am not buying a $20 piece of As Seen on TV crap, I don’t care how silky it makes your hair… Where the hell did you wander off to now?”

I finally get to the checkout and think I am just a credit card swipe away from freedom, when the kids see it. Sweet mother of all things holy. It’s a GIANT flipping plush animal display. Surrounded by candy. The grocery store wizards decide to put their Valentine’s Day goods right next to the checkout lanes. Oh, I know why. It’s so children, just like mine, see the teddy bears the size of a calf and want them with every fiber of their little being. They LOVE these smiling pink unicorns SO MUCH that they become limp, crying noodles at the sight of them. Now, Jeremy Renner with a pink unicorn? Then we can talk. Until, then kids, get it together.

Let’s just forget for a moment that if I did buy the damn thing, wrestle it home in my car and lug it up to my daughter’s room, she would play with it for all of a day and then move on to another plushy friend.

Typically in these situations, I create a little song and dance about how we can’t get it right now, and what ever holiday may be next on the calendar is coming, so we can get it then. Every time. I don’t care if the next holiday is Arbor Day. I will say anything to get them away from the shiny, pretty thing they have fixated on. I know that some people are thinking, “Just say no. Discipline your children and they will learn they cannot have everything they ask for.” Uh huh. Because I’ve never tried that before. My children have worn me down to the point where I am a desperate woman. I am almost at the point where I will offer them Doritos and a Mountain Dew if that’s what it will take to move them along. I am not proud. I am practical. I value my sanity.

I make it out of there by the skin of my teeth. But, like any good horror story, it’s not over. Not by a long shot. Because I’m pretty sure we’re going to need dog food, toilet paper, or wine. And I am willing to risk a expedition to the grocery store for wine.

To be continued…

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January 19, 2014 · 4:36 am

Let’s Pretend…

I absolutely hate playing pretend with my daughter. I know that this sounds heartless, but when I hear her sweet little voice say, “Okay, let’s pretend you saw this kitty and you wanted to adopt her,” it is all I can do to not roll my eyes so far back in their sockets that I look like Little Orphan Annie in her comic strip incarnation.

Don’t get me wrong, I play. I will be the best kitty mama, pony queen, or pet buyer this side of the Mississippi. Scratch that. Both sides of the Mississippi. I know drama. I throw it daily. But the only reason I even entertain the thought of prancing with my hooves held high is because I don’t want to scar my daughter and have her go into therapy claiming no one ever loved her enough to play with her and that’s why she’s now a neurotic cat hoarding mess.

I am not a cat hoarder, but I don’t remember my parents playing games with me when I was younger. At least not games geared to my age range. Candy Land? Nope. Chutes and Ladders? Didn’t even know how to play until I played with my own kids. We played Trivial Pursuit, Facts in Five, or anything else that required useless knowledge. I am not bitter. In fact, I have a great love of useless knowledge and a nerdy passion for research. Did you know that there have been two yellow Labs on Downton Abbey? The first was Pharaoh and the second, Isis. Pharaoh was there for season one, died somewhere between seasons one and two and was replaced by Isis. True story. You’re welcome.

So, I may not like playing pretend, I do it. I do it because I love my daughter and I want her to have happy memories of the time we spend together. But, if she doesn’t remember this and chooses to remember the time the cheese slipped of my cracker and I screamed like a banshee when she didn’t put her shoes on when I asked her to, well, then I might become a crazy cat hoarder. Which is really a shame because while I like cats, I am not a huge fan of litter boxes, cat hair or animals with abscesses and mucousy eyes.

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