Chapter Forty Four; Peanut Butter the Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister (PB titled this one....can you tell?!?!?)

“Okay, now slow down. Good job. Big bump here. All clear. Let’s go. Hey, don’t pass me. Watch where you are going. Tree! Hello! Geez, kid!”

Peanut Butter, my soon to be second grader, has learned to ride a two wheeler this summer.

She is officially a big girl.

And I don’t think my life is ever going to be the same again.

This child is a maniac. And an old soul. And in one of her past lives, she was some distant relative of Lance Armstrong because this kid is killing me.

One week into finally giving up the training wheels she is making up for lost time in the biking department by running her mother into the ground. Well, at least all over the ground. We have put on an average of seven miles a night and I am not even a little kidding.

Jam Jam, my teenager, is far more girly (a fancy way of saying lazy). And it was awesome coasting along that parenting highway, let me tell you. Two times around the bock when she was this age and she was ready to head back inside and get back to her Barbie business.

Oh, the good old days of parenting when air conditioned activities were the staple.

Now, this kid comes along and I find myself not only covered in sweat but having to invest in a gel-filled seat cover for my ass. On top of that, the future Tour de France winner and I are biking so far into unknown territory (I think we may have been in Canada this time last week) that I needed to buy a bike lock because half the time I don’t even know where the hell we are when we do finally stop (i.e. I collapse.)

I will stop whining briefly and admit this is a ton of fun. I am having a blast playing biking mother hen with my little chick following behind me ever so obediently. At every intersection, I check the traffic and wave her on, “Okay! We’re good!” and pedal, pedal, pedal she just clicks along behind me, big fat smile beaming from beneath her big helmeted head.

We fly past Moms strolling fat happy babies, Dads walking behind little boys on their hot wheels, and grandparents trying to keep up with little girls on Hannah Montana scooters.

Peanut Butter and I are on to the next level, we are a team, and we are flying by the competition.

This week’s weather has been excellent, and only once did we get caught in a brief rainstorm down by the river. We took shelter under the Main Avenue bridge where I pointed out the cardboard that was serving as a bed for a homeless person. As the traffic whizzed above us and the rain poured just beyond our reach, my daughter was struck only by the sadness of this vagrant’s life, “Oh, Mom, can we come back here later and bring them some money?” The compassion on her little face, if I could bottle it, would end every war this planet has ever seen, I am convinced. I promised her the next time we biked this way, I would definitely bring some money. And I tell you something, that kid won’t let me forget it either.

The rain stopped as quickly as it had begun and we were soon back on the trail, full speed ahead.

I call out directions, “Now use your break, its a bit of a hill here. Alright, good job, now we’ll take a left. Excellent!” as we rode home into the summer evening.

She passes me and I let her, because the rest of the trail is smooth sailing all the way back. And as I watched her little form scoot ahead of me I am struck by how small she is in this very large world. Yet she forges ahead unfazed and oblivious to her microscopic presence.

For now, I yell out instructions and she heads them. I applaud her for following them and she hears me.

For now.

But time is a thief that will eventually steal these abilities from me in the very mundane and expected outcome that is simply, growing up.

I sieze the moment before its gone, and call out again, “Great job, honey! Look at you go! Keep it up! I am so proud!”

And she glances back momentarily to flash a smile as she yells, “Thanks, Mom!!!”

And there she goes. On her little journey. With me right behind her guiding and cheering.

My big girl.

Getting bigger every day.

In an even bigger world.

********************
Jam Jam reads my blog and on occasion I'll read an entry to Peanut Butter, especially if she's in it. The three of us sat on my bed last night and I read this one aloud to both of them. When I finished I asked, "Okay, I am thinking just something like 'The Adventures of Peanut Butter' will work? What do you girls think?" Peanut Butter contemplates and then announces, "Hmmm, I think Peanut Butter the Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister, and Prettier too," would be good? "Nice!" Jam Jam objects! But soon we all agree it can definitely work, we just have to take off the "prettier" part . . . because that is just too long. Plus not true. "Mom is the most babe-olicious one in this family," I tease....they pummel me with pillows . . . but the title is decided: "Biking Princess Genius who is better than her Sister" it is.

Chapter Thirty Six; Pancake's Laser Eyeball

“Its Pancake . . . and she gots a laser . . . eyeeeeeeeeeee . . . baaaaaaaaallllllllll!”

I am attempting to put my seven-year-old to bed but somehow the process ends up with her singing this little made up song to me.

Pancake is her well-loved homemade rag doll, complete with button eyes and yellow yarn hair. Who apparently possesses the ability to burn you to a crisp with her vision.

I am giggling and Pancake is being hurled this way and that to the spontaneous tune. (Pancake is not only violent, she also quite the dancer.)

“The word is has," I correct her while tickling home the point. “There is no such word as gots.” (Fine with me if her doll can kick my ass but I draw the line at poor grammar in this house.)

“Details, detail,” she squeals, her typical attempt to once again sound like an adult masquerading as a first grader. My tickle attack has sabotaged that effort because she is definitely screeching like a little girl at the moment.

I cease with the torture and we get back to the business at hand: getting this kid to sleep at a reasonable hour.

Although this story starts out with a lot of laughing, it is actually all about crying.

Some people don’t believe in letting their children see them cry. I think that is a big huge stinking pile of steaming fresh cow crap.

Since when are parents supposed to be stoic super humans? If that is the case than everyone with spawn should just start saving for the therapy bill now. Because that’s a ridiculous expectation.

Being a parent is just about being a person and trying not to model glaringly idiotic behavior such as how to slam a beer or hot wire a car. Those are the basics. It’s actually not that complex. Amazingly, some people can’t meet this minimal parental criteria. (One minute of reality television is evidence of this sad fact.)

This week was a hard one for me. And I have been wearing crabby pants the whole time because of it.

But now the day has wound down and my irritation is evolving into sadness. I just felt the urge to finally cry, and oh well; my kid was in the room when it happened.

“Oh, Mommy. Are you sad?”

“Yes, I am sad,” I sniff.

“Why?”

“Just a grown up reason. I’m okay, I will be fine. Everyone gets sad sometimes. Even mommies.”

Her big blue eyes, rimmed with compassion, suddenly brighten, “Pancake can do a song to cheer you up!”

I sniff again and smile. “Okay, let’s hear Pancake’s song.”

One laser eyeball later my tears are temporarily forgotten and the antics of one wild and crazy rag doll fill the room.

And yes, my daughter saw me cry, but does that mean I’ve failed her? Somehow shaken her sense of security?

I believe the opposite is true actually.

I can’t shelter her from everything, as much as I wish I could. Someday she is going to grow up. And as much as I wish I could protect from ever having to cry at all, I know that that is not going to happen.

The only thing I can do is model the best response I can when life gets a little tough, and that certainly does not include pretending to be made of ice.

All I can do is hope that by my being honest, that in some distant future when the end of a bad day/week/year brings my grown up little girl to tears, that she remembers how her strong mother also had some days that just made her cry. And hopefully those memories will remind her that those moments don’t last forever. They are just something we must all go through in this life. The key is to just accept them when they come, and understand that only by going through them can we get to the the promise of happier days awaiting us on the other side of the sadness.

But I will admit. It is a whole lot easier to get through the tears with this kid around.

Because who can possibly cry in the presence of a silly little girl with a silly little song sany by her silly little doll she named Pancake . . .

. . . who gots a laser eyeball?

Certainly not me.

Chapter Twenty Four; The Attack of the Modesty Nazi

I feel sorry for my children.

And not because their parents are divorced. I feel sorry for them because their mother is a nut. And not a loony nutty, unfortunately I am completely sane (I say unfortunately because I literally have no convenient excuse for the off the wall commentary that often falls out of my face.) And being a nut isn’t bad. The problem is I am an opinionated nut. And opinionated nuts, well, we have opinions. And we are nutty enough to tell you what they are. Like it or not.

Last week a letter arrived at my home. From my daughter’s Catholic school.

The content of this correspondence was intended to inform the parents that the upcoming graduation dance is upon us. Okay good. I can use a reminder letter from time to time. I am blonde. I’ll take it. I note date, time, etc. All the logistics. Got it.

And then I hit the paragraph on attire “requirements.”

“Please be informed that the dress for this dance is to be reserved in nature. The boys are to wear button down shirts, dress pants and ties.”

And had I been the mother of a son it all would have ended here. But oh no. No, no, no, no, no, no. Little did I know, the girls at my daughter’s Catholic school are in danger of becoming heathen harlots who must be closely monitored by the modesty Nazis.

The next two paragraphs proceeded to outline instructions that her principal obviously photocopied out of Good Housekeeping circa 1958:

“When choosing your daughter’s attire for the evening please note: hems are to be below the knee, hair is to be done modestly, no spaghetti straps or strapless dresses are allowed without an appropriate shawl or sweater, make up shall be applied lightly, and all jewelry is to be subtle and not flashy.”

Jewelry? Too flashy? Isn’t that the purpose of jewelry? To add a little flash? What do they think I’m going to have her wear around her neck? A knock off of the hope diamond? Or perhaps I should make sure she’s all pimped out in no less than ten gold chains? Or maybe they’re worried about her donning full sleeve tattoos and a dog collar?

After reading this I was half tempted to dress my daughter up like a call girl and march her into the dance while belting Reba’s classic, “Here’s your once chance, Fancy, don’t let me down.”

Give me a break, give me a break, break me off a piece of that Kit Kat bar.

I take this parenting gig seriously. I could be driving a Lincoln Navigator with the money I voluntarily choose to invest in her educational and spirtual upbringing. Or maybe I just send her to Catholic school for show because obviously I can’t decide what is and is not respectiable attire for my own child without micromanagerial monitoring or blatant instruction from the prude police. According to the implications of this letter, she runs around town in sexy stilettos and daring Daisy Dukes when she is not in a school uniform.

I sat on the archaic letter for a few days in order to let myself calm down/hatch a plan/plot revenge.

Two days later I left a voicemail for Mr. Piously Proper Principal. And no, I did not leave a message diplomatically letting him know I am capable of discerning for myself what is and is not appropriate dress for my own child.

Oh no, not nutty opinionated me.

I offered to chaperone.

After all, I can't think of a more perfect place to don my new leather mini skirt, sequin tank top, fishnet stockings, and four inch black boots.

Can you?