My daughter was three years old. It was her first year of Sunday School and Christmas was on its way. I picked her up from class and she asked, “You know all about Kristen, right Mom?’
“Who’s Kristen, Honey?”
“You know, from Sunday School.”
“A girl in your class?”
“No, the one who makes leaves and sticks. She lives at the North Pole… or South America. I forget. She has a lot of houses. Her birthday is Christmas.”
“Do you mean Jesus?”
“That’s it — Jesus. Her last name is God, right?’
When my daughter was seven years old, she and my husband went to Florida to stay at my in-laws for a week. It was not a good visit. My in-laws had no interest in varying their routine and my daughter was not comfortable in their house and had no idea how to occupy herself. My dear husband was clueless.
Jamie called me many times a day in distress. Food was the main problem. There was never enough or there was food she was not familiar with. One conversation went like this:
“Mom, we’re having something disgusting for dinner. Do I have to eat it?”
“What is it?” (My MIL is an old-school hard-core Italian cook. I’m thinking tripe or pig’s knuckles)
“I don’t know but it’s kinda white with bumps all over it and it’s the grossest thing I have ever seen”
“Put your father on”
“What’s up?” He asks (clueless, as usual, that there is a crisis).
“Jamie is tramatized about the dinner food.”
“Yeah, Grandma’s making roasted chicken.”
“Put Jamie on.”
“So I don’t have to eat it, right Mom?”
“Jamie, it’s roasted chicken just like we eat all the time.”
“But your’s isn’t disgusting like that.”
“Honey, mom buys it already cooked from the deli. Grandma is going to cook it herself.”
“Yuck, that’s what it looks like before they cook it? I’m never eating chicken again.”
I hear the rumblings. African-American women are upset. They finally get a black princess and she spends most of her time as a frog. To make the situation even worse, she ends up with a white prince.
I get it. Really I do. But come on ladies. The more important question? Does she have a mother? A dead mother? Does the mother die during the movie? Or is she simply non-existant? I haven’t seen the movie but I’m just *dieing* to know.
The last movie I took my daughter to see was Finding Nemo. I think she was nine at the time. Not only does the mother die on screen but there was some sort of brutal attack by a gang of killer fish. My daughter is scarred for life. She has never been to the movies since. Oh sure, she says its because she hates sitting still for so long but I know the truth. The image of that dead mother fish is burned into her brain. Being in the movie theater brings back the traumatic feelings.
Does anyone know if this new movie is safe for sensitive teens?
We didn’t see Little Mermaid 3 but I understand they go back in time just so we can find about the brutal crushing death of Ariel’s mother.
And Bambi? Was that movie really rated G? Rugrats is rated PG because there are poop jokes. Really? Poop jokes need parental guidance?
My husband and my daughter are both born under the sign of Leo. I am a Capricorn. According to Astrology.com.au
“You couldn’t find two more diametrically opposed characters than Capricorn and Leo… Leo’s fire and your earthiness are not elements that blend well.”
It gets better…
“Leos born between 14 August and 23 August (my husband) are not compatible with you. They’re highly motivated, but not amenable to your advice or your way of doing things. “
“Be cautious with Leos born between 23 July and 4 August (my daughter). They are double Sun characters who can burn up your cool demeanour and create difficulties for you.”
Let’s try another website:
“[Capricorn & Leo] are both representatives of independent signs of the zodiac that inclined to dominate in everyday life. These two are almost complete opposites and in case of a love affair their distinctions can appear insignificant, but in case of marriage they will never be happy together.”
Geez, and I thought I was happy.
The Birthday Cat
My daughter, Jamie, was seven at the time of Oreo’s first birthday. She thought he should have a party and made invitations. Oreo invited our other cat and the teenagers who worked for me. We all ate tuna, sang Happy Birthday and had ice cream cake with a candle. Jamie wrapped up some of Oreo’s cat toys and “helped” him open them. Of course, the cat was completely unimpressed with everything but the tuna. He did lick some ice cream cake off a spoon but threw up.
The tradition continued for a few years. When we moved the business outside the house, the teenagers were no longer invited but we did eat tuna and ice cream cake. A few more years went by and we stopped having cake but Jamie and I still shared a can of tuna with the cats.
Today we celebrated Oreo’s eighth birthday. My daughter is now 14. She opened up a can of tuna but only the cats ate it. I sang Happy Birthday by myself.
Being a cat, Oreo is quite satisfied with the changes in our tradition. As a mother, I am a little sad.
According to my teenage daughter, only losers blog. AND I should never, ever, blog about her. (Oops.) What did she expect me to blog about? Crafts? Like what kind of glue to use with craft foam?
The thing about teenagers (at least teenage girls… I’m not so sure about the boys) is that they always have an opinion and they always share it with you. “Mom, you really shouldn’t go to sleep with your hair wet. The back dries weird.” I could have gone my whole life without ever worrying about the back of my head and she had to go and ruin it for me. Now, I have to worry about the front AND the back of my head. I still go to sleep with my hair wet but now I have to check to see how weird it dried.
My daughter is like the Simon Cowell of crafts. She doesn’t ever make any crafts but she takes one look at what I’m working on and knows exactly what’s wrong with it. “Mom, that would look sooo much better if you made it in pink and orange instead of blue and green.” The problem is that she’s usually right. Harsh, but right. Just like Simon.
Welcome to my blog. Thank you for reading. Please feel free to leave your comments and suggestions. You too can be a loser… just like me. Ask you daughter.