We went to friends’ house who hosts several parties a year. The last one we went to was just last month, their eldest son’s fifth birthday. Sophia didn’t do so well at that one. It started at a local bouncy house party place where she screamed and cried for an hour straight and then cried all the way to their house. She was fine once inside the house.
She must have remembered that party, because as Kurt and I approached their front door Sophia grabbed Kurt’s finger in an attempt to drag him back to the car. After we got through the door and into their playroom for a few minutes, she was fine.
We had five, count them FIIVE, two-year olds, a three year old, a five year old, and a six year old. The place became rather loud. At some point those of us in the house were trying to pawn off children to those in the garage with the homemade beer and projector screen TV, but they all kept coming back. I didn’t catch all of what was said, but at some point the husband of the hostess was apologizing for the kids coming back. She said it was ok because we’ve already missed about half the game, and I said, “there’s a game on?” Not that I care, I didn’t even know who was playing. Well, ok I could name one team, but I don’t know who won this year. I don’t understand the game anyway, and I was busy feeding Sophia brownies (not that kind!), chips and a Reese’s peanut butter cup.
It was a day of a lot of firsts. Sophia didn’t just play along side the other kids, she actually played with them for a bit. She also said about ten words to our host who was just tickled by it since Sophia warmest look towards him has always been a scowl.
After the game was over and one of the toddlers went home, the rest of the younger kids were put into PJs and set loose. I don’t know how it started (probably by the two older kids) but they all started running laps around the inside of the house. One of the toddlers took a corner a little two sharp. That’s gonna be a huge welt on the forehead, but he literally shook it off and got back in the race. Round and round they went, then the kids started to change directions. You know this is going to end badly. Sophia seemed to take the longest to realize the traffic flow had changed, either that or she’s just like swimming upstream. Round and round they went some more.
It was the two eldest kids that collided. The boy received a tooth to the forehead and the girl partly tore the bit of skin that is attached from the upper lip to the gums. The girl seemed to be in more pain. She was sitting on the counter having her mouth inspected by her personal nurse. Sophia offered a hug. The host, the one Sophia typically only scowls at, lifted her up so she could give her hug. My child has empathy. If she didn’t look exactly like us (mostly me) I’d be taking her right back to the hospital and demanding they give me my real child. This just isn’t possible. It’s like a genetic anomaly that between Kurt and I we have a child with empathy. It must be a phase.
While the older kids were having their injuries inspected Sophia and the older girl’s toddler sister each grabbed one of Kurt’s hands and forced him to run laps with them. No joke. He didn’t actually run, I mean the man is 6’4”, but apparently the girls wanted someone to boss around and Kurt fit the bill.
As we were all leaving, Sophia and her sidekick gave each other a hug. I think these two may become best friends. Over the summer at one of the parties from the same hosts, these two even kissed…on the lips.
Many encourage bans on ‘bad’ words attempting to render all language inoffensive. It’s not possible. Other terms will convey the same meaning soon becoming offensive. Use of “Joe Six Pack” during the vice presidential debate offends me, what about my rights? Blue vans collecting donations read, “Northwest Center for the Retarded”. Should they change too?
Flash Fiction Friday is hosted by g-man. You may also visit Flash Fiction Friday 55’s, a blog dedicated to hosting 55 Flash Fiction Friday posts.
Letter to Honda
Dear Honda
A couple weeks ago I was doing a lot more driving than I would like, much more than the usual. This translates to exposure of an unusually high amount of stupid drivers, and that makes me rather grumpy. The specific type of driver that I’m thinking about is the one that not only wants to share the road but the specific space I’m occupying at the same time. In order to inform such a driver that this feat is impossible I require a loud horn. You, Honda, have faithfully provided this. However, we need to chat about the location of this horn. In my futile attempt to gain the attention of my fellow driver I merely pounded the living shit out of the airbag.
I understand that for safety, many people like airbags and a very convenient place for that item is the center of the steering wheel. If it is impossible for the horn to be in the center with the airbag behind or to the sides, I contend that your loyal customers should be given a choice. Either an air for the occasion that one might get into an accident or a horn in the center of the steering wheel in order to avoid an accident. I would happily take the latter as that scenario happens with more frequency than the first for me.
Thank you,
Loyal Honda Driver
This weekend since we had a birthday party to go to on Sunday, we (Kurt) spent Saturday doing little projects around the house that he hadn’t completed when we moved in six years ago. Shut UP. When we moved in Kurt put in hardwood floors and sealed most of the nail holes with putty, but not all.
This nail putty is nail polish remover with wood chips in it. Just pick a can the coordinates with the color wood and when the polish remover evaporates, presto, little wood plug.
I went around the house doing laundry and collecting trash from our many little trash cans. Sophia occupied herself in her room for once, but after about twenty minutes, she became bored and wanted to play with daddy. At this point Kurt was working on the steps leading to the top floor, so much like a cat would while you read a paper or book, Sophia laid right in the way.
Kurt was filling the holes on the bottom step and Sophia laid across the step above with one arm and one leg dangling in the way. His routine was adjusted accordingly to, move toddler arm, putty, putty, move toddler leg, putty, putty, move toddler to next step up.
Last night Sophia was laying across the steps again. Kurt told me about telling this story to a coworker then asked Sophia, “Do you remember helping daddy finish the stairs?”
“YES!”
“Did you get your first contact high?”
“YES!”
Tiny Voice Pillow Softball
After work Kurt’s job is to entertain the child while I fix dinner. If she’s too rowdy to sit on his lap and watch the news they start roughhousing and he’ll swing her by the arms and toss her on the couch…repeatedly. If I happen to be upstairs at the time, Kurt arrives from work it becomes our bed instead of the couch.
Instead of swinging her by the arms it more of a pillow softball game, Sophia will stand up on the bed giggling uncontrollably and Kurt will swing a pillow at her. He doesn’t swing nor hit her with enough force to actually knock her down, but she purposely falls upon impact. This game could go on forever.
Last week Kurt and Sophia played this game. On one occasion after knocking the toddler down, Kurt put the pillow down at the head of the bed. Sophia got up from her fall, saw that Kurt didn’t have his ammo, retrieved a pillow, and handed it to him to continue the game. Kurt laughed and obligingly hit her with the pillow, then set it down to come tell me about it.
As Kurt tells me the story we hear the most pathetic little cry, “daddy”. She sounded like she was either in tears or near tears. Kurt ran up the stairs to see her leaning off the edge of the bed, holding a pillow.
Notes to other drivers
The last few days I’ve had ‘to do’ lists three miles long and much driving to get things accomplished. Sophia has been quite the little trooper and has done really well. I actually think the more I need to do the less tantrums I get from her. Either way I get worn out. I never really win.
With the vast amount of driving around I had to do I have a few things to tell the drivers around me.
- To the person on the freeway: I am an only child. I don’t share. There are white lines dividing YOUR side and MY side. Respect the fucking lines and stay in your own lane while I’m using the space right next to you. I don’t care that you used your fucking blinker. You need to look beside you before you move because I was *right there* the entire time. Blind dumb ass.
- To the person at the intersection wanting to go straight: When you sit at an intersection through four light cycles because the cross bars for the train are down but no train is coming, it’s time to assume that the lights and cross bars for the train are fucked up and choose a different fucking route already. That happens A LOT at this crossing. You should be familiar with other routes, if not get a fucking GPS, because this isn’t the first time I’ve been stuck behind YOU for the same reason. I’ve seen you before, it’s hard to miss that piece of shit pick-up you drive. So don’t get your panties all in a wad because I drove up on the left side of you in the left-hand turn lane, turned RIGHT, and crossed right in front of you. It’s called taking initiative. The long line of idiots behind you should maybe take some notes on the tactic so they can move as well. I gave you a chance. I gave you three chances. I have shit to do, so either move or I’ll go around. Fuckin’ breathing roadblock.
- To the lady on the side of the road next to a van holding a sign: I know that times are tough and that people are loosing their jobs or have been jobless for many months. I understand that money is tight for a lot of people even if they have jobs, but when you’re prepared enough to carry cardboard and a marker to create a sign I just don’t believe that running out of gas was an accident. I’m guessing you do this A LOT. Maybe you should figure out how much income you have and budget better for gas. I know I’m a cold heartless bitch, but it’s people like you that cause me to not give any money to beggars. I give food and clothing to places that help people in need, but I will never give you money. Fuckin’ career beggar.
People watching at the mall
December was a hard month to keep any sort of schedule. We went to Hawaii (yeah I know poor me) then had a week off, then Michigan for Christmas, and then home again. We didn’t do swimming the whole month because, what is the point? We were gone half the month, and in the last week none of Sophia’s other classes were in session. So just for some diversion I took Sophia to the play area of a nearby mall. I’m not a shopper. As far as Sophia knows the mall is just a bunch of hallways with a play area at one end. Oh, and they have some pseudo Chinese food there too.
The last three or four times I went to the mall there was this odd guy. He doesn’t look odd. He acts odd. Every time I see him he’s holding balloons filled with helium and carrying on a conversation with various kiosk employees while standing five feet away and slightly bent at the waist as if he’s just about to bow.
I use the words “carrying on a conversation” rather loosely. The last couple of times I came across him he was actually giving the weather forecast while his captive audience stood uncomfortably wondering what to do. I know he sounds a little creepy but he seems harmless. I don’t mean that I’ll have him baby sit my kid, harmless, but if I were stuck sitting by him on a bus I would be ok. I wouldn’t sit in perpetual defense, on guard for inappropriate behavior of a sexual nature.
The poor kiosk employees. It’s funny to watch them react to him. I’m sure they’re all used to him on their own level. I’m sure some of them even welcome the diversion from begging stay-at-home moms to try their product.
I little tip to the kiosk employees…if a woman walks past you zone wearing a men’s sweater, clearly doesn’t wear makeup E-V-E-R, and pushes a $17 umbrella stroller she’s not a big spender. She won’t even consider your product because she knows it serves no purpose. Her house is not one filled with knick-knacks. Try approaching the woman that wears so much perfume you can still smell her ten minutes after she has passed. The one wearing all the labels that the previously described woman wouldn’t even recognize. The woman who, if she’s pushing a stroller it would be the one weighted down with bags of newly purchased items even in a down economy. If her child were a girl, she would be covered in Pepto-Bismol pink as well as all the child’s accessories including the stroller. That’s your target. Your other target might be the man that has is eyebrows plucked.
This is what I do when we have no classes to go to and it’s crappy outside. I watch other people. I’m not sure this stay-at-home stuff is for me.
With every question I had after every pre-therapy hoop, I was told I’d have to ask the speech therapist. Almost two full months after Sophia’s qualifying evaluation for speech therapy I finally got an appointment and then the day before it was to happen I received a cancellation call. The therapist was sick, but I didn’t care. I was pissed as hell all day. All the hoops, all the forms, prior evaluations, first time consultations with occupational therapists, meetings over expectations, all we really wanted was this one therapy.
We are sure that if we could just get Sophia talking many of our other frustrations would be minimized. It took two months to get the appointment despite having good, nay awesome insurance. They couldn’t just assign a different speech therapist to come to our home or have me go to the office though they say it’s not as effective. I don’t care. Just get me into the final phase of the system!
I received a call the following Monday, the day before we were to leave for a week for Christmas in Michigan, and was asked if we could meet in two hours. Absolutely! Every first time meeting is just a head-nod getting-to-know-you session and this one was no different. I wasn’t impressed and I don’t think she likes me much either.
I got the feeling that she didn’t see Sophia as a valid case since I was beaming over new words she picked up over the week in Hawaii. She seemed to forget that I signed up for this shit two months prior and at the time Sophia had less than twenty words. All through the therapy session, the tips and pointers she gave to helping Sophia to speak were pissing me off. “Use short, simple phrases,” “Add descriptive words to the words she says.” “Ask her questions.” “Give her choices.” I’m sure there are some people that completely ignore their child all day and then wonder why the child doesn’t speak. I’m not one of those. I didn’t give any acknowledgment to the therapists suggestions. Her tone wasn’t at all condescending but the fact that those were her main tips made it sound like anyone with a two year old who doesn’t speak must be an inept parent and fucking idiot. Either that or this therapy is a joke. Seriously, if better tricks don’t come out of the bag next time I’m going to forget about the speech part of Sophia’s therapy.
The therapist began to give examples of questions I should ask Sophia as if I couldn’t come up with them on my own. Actually, she was trying to explain how to make talking fun for Sophia. “Is this blue?” She asked Sophia holding up a red Tyco Super Block (big Legos for toddlers). I had just explained to her that Sophia was using signs from her Signing Time video that she didn’t seem to understand. Red, was one of the signs. I waited to give Sophia a chance to answer. Sophia moved on with whatever was going through her toddler head without any acknowledgment that a question was even asked of her.
That form of questioning really makes my as twitch. I have no idea what I was really like at the age of two. I do have memories from that age, but I don’t know if I was talking or how much. I told the therapist that Sophia isn’t just a lot like me, she is mini-me. Several friends have commented that her attitudes are mine exactly. I know that Sophia is only two and may not actually know the answer to the question, but in continuing to give some background in how Sophia I told the therapist that when I was little I always thought people that asked that type of question were stupid. With a touch of contempt in her voice she said, “Well some kids think it’s fun.” Clearly, I hit a nerve. She continued to tell me that she wouldn’t use that sort of question with say, a seven year old. In the specific memory I have of being asked such a question I wasn’t seven. I was four. I was just trying to give her some insight into our attitude, so bite me.
Sophia started throwing a ball around the room and the therapist said the word “ball” to her. Sophia then said ball for the first time. “Wow,” I said, “I guess I’ll be adding that one to the list.” I was informed by the therapist that, “the tend pick up words spontaneously like that after they’ve reached fifty words”. Indicating that my count must me off. Including the new word of the day, she only had 37 words at the time. I’m not counting the signs she picked up from her video because she really doesn’t seem to know what they mean. For her they all are ways to tell me she wants to watch the video again and that’s it.
Sophia got to be a bit of a pest with her ball. She kept saying, “ball” and started throwing a ball AT me. I asked her not to do that and she said, “dahp et” The therapist and I both laughed, “yes,” I said, “you need to stop it.”
I told the therapist of my attempts at getting Sophia to talk including the four months (between the ages of 18 and 22 months) I didn’t give her anything (aside from scheduled meals) unless she signed or asked for it. I wasn’t responding to finger pointing or grunts anymore if I knew she had a word or a sign for a particular want. In an almost snotty tone she asked, “and how did that go for you?” I really wanted to be a smart ass and ask her if it wasn’t obvious since there is a speech therapist standing in my house, but I refrained. I’m such a big girl…sometimes. I told her it resulted in a lot of tantrums and joked, “but I can be stubborn too.”
“Well you reap what you sow.” She told me. Seriously, what a bitch! I didn’t ask what she meant by that and she didn’t offer any explanation, but I didn’t take it as anything positive. I have another appointment with her next week. I’m fuckin’ overjoyed.
The first day in Hawaii we spent just kicking back at the beach. That’s what you’re supposed to do in Hawaii when you come from a place where beaches have grains of sand the size of your fist and the water is so cold that is could actually cause arthritis with a single touch.
Our hotel was across the road from the beach and Kurt chose it for that reason. That section of the beach also had a wall in the Ocean built to create a large tide pool for kids. During high tide the wall was covered by water but during low tide their was a pool that was no deeper than four feet. I have some cool photos of the waves crashing up against the wall as the tide came up that I’ll share later.
Even though there is once place in all of Washington state that has actual sandy beaches and I took Sophia there a few times over the summer, she was still reluctant to touch the sand or even go in the water until I took off my shirt and she saw my swimsuit. Suddenly she was all about taking off her shoes and getting in her swimsuit. She didn’t mind walking through the sand to the water with me right beside her.
Kurt took her out in the water for a while, then I walked in and out of the water several times with her. After a while I went to sit by Kurt on the beach mats he bought. Sophia was far from done with the water. She kept at it, running in and out. She never went further than knee deep on her own and was never more than five feet from us.
There was a tiny step down just beyond the mini surf where the waves had carved a two-inch step in the sand. Sophia always paused at that spot to step down. On one occasion, the spongy sand caused her to loose her balance and she fell in the six inches of water. No water hit her face. Kurt and I watched intensely waiting for her to stand on her own. She was fine, but sat there on all fours for a minute. A mini wave came in raising the water another inch though the kid pool. Then for no reason at all she rolled over on her back. I didn’t wait for any flailing. I was mommy on the spot – I ran to her and grabbed her arm. Her eyes were wide open with fear. I think in that moment I thoroughly tested her for Marfan syndrome. I yanked on that arm lifting her whole body up and out of the water, and the limb stayed attached with all that weight.
She was scared and had completely scared me. She didn’t cry and wasn’t coughing up water. I don’t think her nose or mouth actually got any water in them. I move at mommy-lightning-speeds. Just don’t test me again. E-V-E-R. Please.
Sophia didn’t go to the water on her own for the rest of the day. She played in the sand for a while after that and then would grab one of our hands if she wanted in the water again.
