I'm really exhausted right now and I'd love to go to bed, but cheerleading practice went late and then when we got home at 8:30, my younger daughter told me her bathing suit was dirty. So Mommy needs to wash it. The children's summer camps were combined for this week - indoor and outdoor mixed all together, and my younger, being that she's been in the indoor camp, doesn't understand how to change into her bathing suit in an outdoor changing hut with a dirt floor without rubbing the bathing suit in said dirt. And the other bathing suit? Giant skid mark in it. Because I teach my children how to wipe their asses really well, apparently.
Cheerleading practice. Not for me. This was the girls' choice for their fall activity, which will also be their winter and spring activity. For $180 each, it needs to last through the whole fucking school year is what I think. We've done fall soccer, winter indoor soccer, spring soccer, ice skating lessons, swim lessons every summer, gymnastics and karate. These children should be the most well rounded athletes who are still in their single digit years ever. I bitch about it, but for real, I'm incredibly grateful that we live somewhere where my daughters have so many choices, and I'm even more grateful that The Ex and I have been able to provide this to them, in terms of the financial and emotional commitment. The emotional commitment would be because either he or I have volunteered to coach almost every freaking thing they've done. Plus the volunteer work I've done for the school and the PTA. And the non-profit board I'm on. Plus my career. Holy crap.
This year I have volunteered to coach the flag cheerleading team. Named so not because they are using flags, but because it's five and six year olds, and the football team for that age group (I assume, I haven't seen the practice because I'm so busy trying to get five and six year old girls to stop wiggling at the wrong times) is a flag football team. On the first night of practice, I had absolutely no intention of volunteering for squat, except to watch the practices from my brand new folding-packable chair. On the first night of practice that I had no intention of volunteering for, I heard the call for coaches and still resisted. That was, until my older daughter said, "Mommy, will you volunteer?" I thought, fuck. Why does she always want me to volunteer? And so, I volunteered.
If you know me, you know I'm not some do-good liberal freakshow. I'm working on not being the martyr and learning how to just tell people to kiss my pretty ass with the crazy tattoo on top of it. I really just want to sit around and watch my kids do shit while I think of weird stuff and laugh to myself. But my kids think it's great that Mommy volunteers, and so I volunteer. A lot of this has to do with the fact that my own parents were so uninvolved and unconcerned with my childhood and teenage years, other than to punish me. I couldn't drag my mom to anything involving my school and I don't recall if she ever met any of my teachers in middle school or high school. Her payback for that was me giving her the honor of meeting the entire school board in person right before they suspended me for six weeks. I was always one of those kids whose parents were conspicuously absent, or maybe not, but that's how it felt with the group of kids that I ran with. My mother's current husband (#3) has gotten a pretty good glimpse into her parenting skills and announces periodically that it's amazing to him that I'm even alive. I kind of have to agree with him. It is a fucking miracle that I am not only alive, but a productive, tax-paying, law-abiding and sober member of society. I'm pretty damn proud of myself. My father... could not have cared less about me, or at least, that's how it feels now. As long as he didn't have to give up more than two weekends a month and didn't have to pay extra child support, he didn't give a rat's ass. So I'm pretty proud of myself that I was as awesome of a daughter to him that I was. Eulogy, obituary and all.
I was moderately involved in activities and such in high school, because it was the best way to get out of being at home without getting into trouble. But I never did cheerleading. I'm not going to get into the psycho-social-racial makeup of where I grew up, but cheerleading was never an interest to me. I didn't even watch the cheerleaders at any of the sporting events I went to because I thought the whole thing was pretty dumb. This has not been lost on me now that I'm coaching this shit. Me coaching cheerleading is like asking Helen Keller to teach a paint-by-numbers class. Yeah, it's that bad. Thank God, I've got a 15 year old who is the assistant coach and she knows all of these routines and cheers, because it's a learn-as-you-go kind of thing with me.
The worst thing is that the cheerleading side of the athletic association is that it's really poorly organized. And when I say poorly organized, I mean like, it's as poorly organized as a small African or Asian country that suffers from a military coup every few years and allows the media in to take photos of all the eight year olds running around with AK's. Take race and corruption of the athletic association equation, and it's like New Orleans post-Katrina. Seriously. This wouldn't bother me if I was unorganized. But I'm a Type A personality, if there is any such thing. I would more or less categorize myself as an alpha female. And the woman running the show - not an alpha female. Which makes me want to kick her ass for being alive. Tonight uniforms were distributed. Can you say circle jerk? In fact, because I'm such a fabulous wordsmith, I'll up the ante. It was a uniform bukkake. Yep, I went there. Literally, the woman running the show was in the middle of all of these parents, throwing uniform parts and pieces about. I wanted to die. I wanted to grab the clipboard from her hands, bash her in the head with it, punch a couple of parents to serve as the examples of what can really happen when my anger management techniques go awry, and then line the rest of them up like convicts going to the chow hall for fried chicken night. Except there is no more fried chicken in the state prisons in Virginia because it caused too many problems. But I'm old school, so I could pretend. And then the uniforms would be issued out with military-like precision and if something doesn't work for your child, well then, it will be addressed in an orderly fashion.
But that's not the way the world works, because I don't run the world. And that's not the way the cheerleading team works, because I don't run the cheerleading team. I am a coach. I am learning how to lower my expectations with some people because they aren't me. I'm beginning to realize that it's not fair to them for me to go through life thinking that they are just like me. Maybe this incredibly disorganized mess is the absolute best that this woman can do. Maybe this is her A game. I'm trying to learn this and learn how not to feel superior, because I don't want to be that asshole anymore. I hope I left her at the house with The Ex. As for volunteering, I'll keep doing it for my kids. They enjoy it, they know that Mommy is super-involved in everything they do and takes an interest in everything they do. Maybe I'm just overcompensating for my childhood, but don't we all do that to some degree? I hope they grow up and laugh about all the crazy shit their mom did when they were little. And that will make it all worth my while.
Showing posts with label skid mark. Show all posts
Showing posts with label skid mark. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Head Lice and Skid Marks
Our outdoor day summer camp experience is complete. Head lice have determined that my older daughter's clean blond hair is a great place to ride the wave into elementary school. Ha! Caught your little asses before that could even happen, motherfuckers.
It started Thursday morning, though not with the hair, but with an ear. She woke up a little whiny and said her ear hurt. The child's almost eight, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor or not. I know that sounds a little too democratic-parenting bullshit to some, but for real, it's her ear. She'll let me know if it starts to get out of hand. She said no, let's just wait and see. I was down with that, because I had a dentist appointment scheduled for the younger daughter and I was already going to be late for work, but I didn't want to be dentist appointment AND doctor appointment late. Thursday night I asked about her ear, she says it's fine. But her head itches in this one spot. Hmmmm, I sure hope that's not lice. But it can't be. She washes her hair everyday, specifically so she won't get bugs in her hair.
Our daycare had a lice outbreak a few years ago, five years ago to be exact. I remember this because it was shortly after the younger daughter had been born and I had just returned to the SHITTIEST job in the whole entire world from my maternity leave. Seriously, it was a horrible job and I hated everyone there and I hated myself for having to go there every day. Anyway, our daycare owner, who could also be called the Daycare Nazi, like the Soup Nazi, declared that any child who got lice would not be admitted into her facility until the parent had a doctor's note that the lice had been treated and were eliminated. Obviously, you see where I got the Soup Nazi reference from. There were daycare workers stationed at the front door every day checking each child's hair before entree was granted. If your child had lice, well then, NO DAYCARE FOR YOU! I used to imagine her saying that with a Russian accent like the Soup Nazi.
I immediately spazzed out, because I had just taken three months off from work on vacation leave. I didn't want to burn up any more vacation time, because I would need that to call in sick to go on job interviews because did I mention this was the shittiest job ever? So I went old school on my older daughter. I used the old country ass/prison trick of rinsing her hair with vinegar every night in the bathtub, because this was what the prison system used when hosing down all of the convicts coming in from the local jails. Worked for them for decades before they switched to lye shampoo. Yes, the child was stinking horribly for about two weeks, but no lice. Mommy had prevailed. Take that, you dirty lice.
But back to the story at hand. She's scratching a little bit on Thursday night, but her ear feels all right. Okay, maybe this is just something that's psychosomatic about being back with me after spending a summer with her father whom I am pretty sure just let her do whatever in the hell she wanted. Friday morning, her ear hurts again and she agrees that we should probably go to the doctor. She's asymptomatic for an ear infection, but she always was. And her head still itches, same place. So MommyKemosabe has a little look-see, and honestly, I didn't know what in the hell I was looking for. I didn't see much, other than three or four white flakes that I assume is dry skin from all the scratching. We'll have the doctor look at that, too.
Off to the doctor's office. Swimmer's ear and a middle ear infection. Glad as fuck I caught that before the weekend, because The Ex would have been miserable had it gotten worse, since this is his weekend. I was actually more relieved for my daughter, because screw him. And yes, we have nits. Lovely. I guess nits are baby unhatched lice. I didn't ask because it was gross either way. According to the doctor, lice like clean, light colored hair the best. Who knew? I guess I can stop strong-arming her into washing her hair every day and just go for every two or three days like she really wants to do anyway. I will continue to insist that she at least rinse her ass off every day though, preferably with the soap that I have kindly placed in the shower for that purpose. Off to the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled, because apparently lice have become resistant to the over-the-counter treatments. Ewwwwww. Or this is just part of a larger conspiracy of the drug companies to get us to buy their shit. Whatever, I don't care at this point. The good news is that it's not a full-blown infestation, it's localized to that one spot. Thank God. And the doctor gave me refills in case the younger daughter gets it. Or in case I get it. What??? Uhhh, what the fuck are you talking about, in case I get it? Oh, hell no. Hell no. Mommy will not get lice. That would totally mess up my chi. Sorry, but quiet time with my vibrator will just not feel the same if I have head lice. It would be like that time I broke my wrist and had a hard cast. I refused to have any kind of sexual relations for the entire duration of wearing said cast because who has sex with a cast on? Seriously, who does that?
My older daughter was quite excited by all of lice-n-nits drama. As I was running her over to summer camp, I cautioned her that this is really something we should just keep to ourselves. Let's not tell any of your friends at camp, because they might make fun. When she asked how they might make fun, I felt this immediate sense of relief, as this was my biggest clue yet that my daughter is not a mean girl. I had to explain what making fun of someone was, and how badly she would feel if someone made fun of her because of this. She asked about telling her camp counselor, and I was like, noooo, this is something we just want to keep in the family. But you can call Nannie and Popeye and tell them if you'd like. I felt absolutely no concern about taking her to summer camp with an active case of head lice. That's where she got them at, so let's just take them back one last day for a little visit. We'll have this knocked out before she returns to the Daycare Nazi for before and after school care, and I will know I narrowly slipped through the net and got one over.
As for skid marks, I don't have much to say about that, other than exactly how old does a child have to be before they actually begin to apply the toilet paper directly to their ass instead of just waving it around down there? Really, it just made for a better title.
It started Thursday morning, though not with the hair, but with an ear. She woke up a little whiny and said her ear hurt. The child's almost eight, so I asked if she wanted to go to the doctor or not. I know that sounds a little too democratic-parenting bullshit to some, but for real, it's her ear. She'll let me know if it starts to get out of hand. She said no, let's just wait and see. I was down with that, because I had a dentist appointment scheduled for the younger daughter and I was already going to be late for work, but I didn't want to be dentist appointment AND doctor appointment late. Thursday night I asked about her ear, she says it's fine. But her head itches in this one spot. Hmmmm, I sure hope that's not lice. But it can't be. She washes her hair everyday, specifically so she won't get bugs in her hair.
Our daycare had a lice outbreak a few years ago, five years ago to be exact. I remember this because it was shortly after the younger daughter had been born and I had just returned to the SHITTIEST job in the whole entire world from my maternity leave. Seriously, it was a horrible job and I hated everyone there and I hated myself for having to go there every day. Anyway, our daycare owner, who could also be called the Daycare Nazi, like the Soup Nazi, declared that any child who got lice would not be admitted into her facility until the parent had a doctor's note that the lice had been treated and were eliminated. Obviously, you see where I got the Soup Nazi reference from. There were daycare workers stationed at the front door every day checking each child's hair before entree was granted. If your child had lice, well then, NO DAYCARE FOR YOU! I used to imagine her saying that with a Russian accent like the Soup Nazi.
I immediately spazzed out, because I had just taken three months off from work on vacation leave. I didn't want to burn up any more vacation time, because I would need that to call in sick to go on job interviews because did I mention this was the shittiest job ever? So I went old school on my older daughter. I used the old country ass/prison trick of rinsing her hair with vinegar every night in the bathtub, because this was what the prison system used when hosing down all of the convicts coming in from the local jails. Worked for them for decades before they switched to lye shampoo. Yes, the child was stinking horribly for about two weeks, but no lice. Mommy had prevailed. Take that, you dirty lice.
But back to the story at hand. She's scratching a little bit on Thursday night, but her ear feels all right. Okay, maybe this is just something that's psychosomatic about being back with me after spending a summer with her father whom I am pretty sure just let her do whatever in the hell she wanted. Friday morning, her ear hurts again and she agrees that we should probably go to the doctor. She's asymptomatic for an ear infection, but she always was. And her head still itches, same place. So MommyKemosabe has a little look-see, and honestly, I didn't know what in the hell I was looking for. I didn't see much, other than three or four white flakes that I assume is dry skin from all the scratching. We'll have the doctor look at that, too.
Off to the doctor's office. Swimmer's ear and a middle ear infection. Glad as fuck I caught that before the weekend, because The Ex would have been miserable had it gotten worse, since this is his weekend. I was actually more relieved for my daughter, because screw him. And yes, we have nits. Lovely. I guess nits are baby unhatched lice. I didn't ask because it was gross either way. According to the doctor, lice like clean, light colored hair the best. Who knew? I guess I can stop strong-arming her into washing her hair every day and just go for every two or three days like she really wants to do anyway. I will continue to insist that she at least rinse her ass off every day though, preferably with the soap that I have kindly placed in the shower for that purpose. Off to the pharmacy to get the prescriptions filled, because apparently lice have become resistant to the over-the-counter treatments. Ewwwwww. Or this is just part of a larger conspiracy of the drug companies to get us to buy their shit. Whatever, I don't care at this point. The good news is that it's not a full-blown infestation, it's localized to that one spot. Thank God. And the doctor gave me refills in case the younger daughter gets it. Or in case I get it. What??? Uhhh, what the fuck are you talking about, in case I get it? Oh, hell no. Hell no. Mommy will not get lice. That would totally mess up my chi. Sorry, but quiet time with my vibrator will just not feel the same if I have head lice. It would be like that time I broke my wrist and had a hard cast. I refused to have any kind of sexual relations for the entire duration of wearing said cast because who has sex with a cast on? Seriously, who does that?
My older daughter was quite excited by all of lice-n-nits drama. As I was running her over to summer camp, I cautioned her that this is really something we should just keep to ourselves. Let's not tell any of your friends at camp, because they might make fun. When she asked how they might make fun, I felt this immediate sense of relief, as this was my biggest clue yet that my daughter is not a mean girl. I had to explain what making fun of someone was, and how badly she would feel if someone made fun of her because of this. She asked about telling her camp counselor, and I was like, noooo, this is something we just want to keep in the family. But you can call Nannie and Popeye and tell them if you'd like. I felt absolutely no concern about taking her to summer camp with an active case of head lice. That's where she got them at, so let's just take them back one last day for a little visit. We'll have this knocked out before she returns to the Daycare Nazi for before and after school care, and I will know I narrowly slipped through the net and got one over.
As for skid marks, I don't have much to say about that, other than exactly how old does a child have to be before they actually begin to apply the toilet paper directly to their ass instead of just waving it around down there? Really, it just made for a better title.
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