The Pirate's Life For Me

Jarrah is not a princess-y girl, thank heavens, so when she mentioned that she'd like a pirate theme for her birthday party, I was pleased. In the aftermath, however, I told David: "Next year, the theme of her party is going to be 'Happy Birthday.'" "That's a great theme," David agreed. "They probably sell tons of stuff with 'Happy Birthday' on it."

The party had another theme of sorts because we held it at the gymnastics academy where she had camp this summer. Right now my theory about birthday parties is that, until she complains, they will all include a portion devoted to running around and screaming, because the day will come when she thinks that's lame. Until that day, gym-related venues fit the bill.

This year it was hard for me to plan the party, because I wanted to invite my friends and just hang out, but Jarrah had some definite ideas about who she wanted there, including her entire preschool class. I mean, hello, is she paying for it? The very idea. By the time I'd invited everyone on her list, we were at the maximum. I rationalized that at least Jarrah would know everyone there.

The pirate theme got a significant boost when David mentioned it to his co-worker Jake, whose family (for reasons not divulged) collects costumes and stuff relating to costumes. One mention of pirates brought a thorough list from which we were invited to pick our favorites. A flag, sea lantern, treasure map, chest, anchor, chains and CD of pirate songs later, we were the best-kitted out kid's party in San Diego.

A toast of gratitude must be raised to my dedicated staff, without whom I'd be no one. While I enjoyed a great relationship with our contact, Crystal, before the party, we started having communication problems when we arrived and found that the 30 minutes we'd been promised for set-up had become 20. Which was more like 10. My sister Lindsey, and future BIL Thomas, quickly departed for ice cream and ice and a stain stick, since in the car I'd managed to dip my boob into the buttercream-frosted cake. (Oh, the cake. David and I made it ourselves--isn't it cute?)

Also on the scene 30 minutes early: Mary and Joy, and Stephanie, Shaun and Nathan, all of whom reported for duty with a cheerful attitude about being put to work transforming the room into a pirate wonderland in 10 minutes (and extra kudos for blowing up all those black skull-and-crossbones balloons--I raise a glass of mead to ye.) Another shout-out to Melissa, official Bagel Organizer, and Phoebe, mistress of Dixie Snack Cups.

Only about six kids were accounted for at the official start time of 1:30, but the sour-faced babe who came to escort them to the gym was hardly flexible. "Oh, you're welcome to wait as long as you like," she said sweetly. "Just know that we'll finish at 2:30 no matter what time you start." Em, okay then. Eventually all the kids made it down there. Parents were not encouraged to join their children on the mats, but we could watch from the upstairs observation deck, and clearly the coaches were well-prepared and had planned a lot of fun for the kids. There was a very involved obstacle course, sprints down the running trampoline into the marshmallow pit, a jump house, and a giant parachute. They looked like they were having a blast.

Meanwhile, the parents upstairs (that's my mom and dad and sister in the photo) were enjoying a little downtime to schmooze and eat a bagel (though when we headed home at 4:00, I suddenly realized I hadn't eaten anything since that morning) while we set up a ring-toss that caused a sensation when the kids returned--nothing says "free for all" like a blanket covered in unwrapped prizes. I repeated, "Sweetie, can you wait until we play the game?" so many times, I got a little light-headed. The actual playing was adorable, though--David was impressed how each child graciously accepted the item their ring landed on, and we all cracked up when Jarrah's class bud Amelia knelt over her chosen item, carefully placed the ring over it, then looked at us like "Got anything to say?" Not at all, ma'am. Have at it.

Then it was time for cake (none of the kids took an interest in the freeze-dried fruit and string cheeses I had put out for them) but, whaddaya know, a car jammed to the roof with party stuff had apparently not had room for one teeny ol' box of matches. Shaun saved the day by heading out for a lighter (another reason the location bugged: no matches? At a place that hosts several birthday parties a day?) After the singing, scooping and gobbling (I swear I was sweating from all that slicing), we had another game that David had made: Pin the Eyepatch on the Pirate Girl. Most of the kids enjoyed being blind-folded and spun around, but Hannah was especially competitive, going back four times to perfect her previous score. Which was fine, since we weren't looking for a winner per se. All the kids got to dip into the treasure chest for Mardi Gras beads and gold coins after their try. It was pretty cute seeing them all in their sparkly necklaces.

There was an impromptu balloon battle, which made me think "Note to self: no need to over-plan these things. The kids take care of it." Wonder how many more years of parties before that self-evident truth sinks in? In the mean time, I learned (once again) that I don't really have the personality for the barely restrained chaos that is a preschool party. "You're a good planner," David corrected me. "But you're right--you're not calm." I can accept that, since I don't think there's a rehab for it.

Sour-faced girl came in again to say--in her best passive-aggressive style--"Just wanted to let you know you're welcome to stay as long as you like, but we'll charge you 15 dollars per 15 minutes starting at 3:30." I was dumbfounded. 3:30 was the official end time.

"But you're not going to charge us to clean up?" I asked, rhetorically I believed.

"Actually, we expect that you're sort of cleaning as you go and ready to leave at the end of two hours," she said. HUH? I'd never heard of this at any other 2-hour kids party venue.

"Well, you should really mention that up front," I said. "And there's no clock up here. We didn't even know it was 3:30."

"It was in your contract," she continued, really pushing it.

"I guess I didn't read the fine print," I said. My loyal team sensed the change in mood (thankfully, most people had left or were leaving by then) and began breaking down the set, and with their help we had most stuff packed up in 15 minutes. And I must say we left the place very clean.

I guess that Crystal, my original contact, felt bad about the altercation because when it was time to leave, she apologized for the mixed messages, and may have charged us a bit less to put it right. I think I was pretty gracious about it; hopefully I didn't convey any of my annoyance to the guests. There was also a classic moment when Sour Girl asked Joy if she was the birthday girl, and I said "No, this is," pointing to Jarrah, and SG looked baffled and said, "Wait. Really? Why do they look alike?" and I growled, not even trying to disguise my annoyance, "They don't--they're just both Chinese." As the pirates would say, ARRRRRR!

It sounds like I'm doing a lot of bitching here, but I do think that Jarrah and the other kids had a lot of fun. It was a great venue for a party, just a little controlling (like a police state.) The real problem is me. Next year, I'll be looking for a place where all you have to do is show up.

Oh, and here's a little indication of how important the pirates were to Jarrah. When David and I were shopping at Party City, and had just spent the bulk of two hours feverishly arguing about the virtues of different styles of eye patches and were finally on the way to pay, Jarrah announced, "Mommy? I want Sponge Bob party."

"Just keep walking," I murmured to David. "Pretend like you didn't hear her."

It's A Big Day!

I've already posted today (twice?) but couldn't resist when David offered to scan this...Jarrah just wrote her name for the first time! And (I puff up with pride) quite legibly, too!

Anyway, what good is a Mommy-blog (shudder) if I can't brag a little? So let me continue: we've never shown her how to write her name (and they don't at her school, either) so somehow she figured it out for herself!

I tell ya, I'm kvelling. (That's Yiddish. I am a Jewish mother, after all.)

My Daughter, The Poet

Today on the way home from school Jarrah announced: "Today we went to see a room full of signs and all my friends came, too."

Sam: What did the signs say?

Jarrah: The first one said "THE MOONLIGHT DOESN'T MATTER."

Sam: (incredulous) Really? It said that?

Jarrah: And the second one said "HOUSES BREAK WHEN THEY FALL DOWN."

Sam: Wow.

Jarrah: The third one said "DO NOT KNOCK ON THIS BUILDING--IT'S FILLED WITH GLASS STUFF THAT WILL BREAK."

Sam: Okay.

Jarrah: The fourth one said "DO NOT KNOCK ON THIS TRUCK--IT'S FILLED WITH BOXES MADE OF METAL."

Sam: Sounds like there were a lot of signs.

Jarrah: A whole room full of signs. And the moonlight doesn't matter--it doesn't matter at all.

It's Kinda Normal

I thought this was hysterical. Especially because I'm married to an engineer. ;)

Hope everyone is enjoying the first Monday after the holidays. I know I am. Thank you, preschool!

Getting an Education

Here goes: a birthday alphabet for Jarrah. Next time won't you sing with me?

A is for Apple. (what else?) Jarrah asks for apples almost every day, but not because she likes them. Back in September, her school celebrated Rosh Hashanah with apples and honey and she thought that was the bee's knees. She uses the apple slices as porous spoons, then leaves them, unbitten, on the plate.

B is for Big-Girl Bed. She's ready for one, but currently sleeps in her old crib with the side off. It's only been six months, but already it's hard to remember a time when she couldn't get up in the wee hours and make us crazy with mysterious thumping sounds.

C is for Candy. The child lives for candy, cupcakes, chocolate and other confections. All bribes and threats must revolve around sugary goodness. Recently, we were at Big Lots! and she picked out a toy. David and I offered to buy it as a "treat." She looked at us for a moment, wheels furiously turning, then responded "And can I also have a food treat?"

D is for Dora Game. She still loves Dora the Explorer, but especially the shrieky, repetitive version emanating from the laptop, where she will happily walk Dora and her friends through mazes for an hour, the only sound "Great!" and "Try again!" She often asks for a Dora game at night to stall going to bed.

E is for Eurythmics. Her current favorite song is "I Saved The World Today," and while I find it mysterious, it probably seems tidily sensible to her: "Hey hey, I saved the world today/Everybody's happy now; the bad thing's gone away/Everybody's happy now; the good thing's here to stay/Please let it stay." As a huge fan of Buffy, she probably thinks the song is about slaying.

F is for Faces. Sometimes she'll fill an entire page with faces, body-less, like a sea of amoebas with eyes. Often they have a big shock of hair, like Troll dolls. Even more frequently, they have what resemble ear muffs. When I ask Jarrah to sign cards, she draws one trademark face and hands the card back. It's like she expects her retainer to be higher before she commits to two.

G is for Gymnastics. She's showing some aptitude without having had lessons. Already she does the splits purely for her own amusement. Oh, and not really related but awfully cool: she taught herself to pump on the swings about four months ago. She sails into the air, and I marvel that my pushing days are already over.

H is for Hilarious. As in, when she said out of the clear blue sky, "You know what I love, Mommy?" "What do you love, sweetheart?" "I love how you say 'I don't think I'm in a very sexy mood tonight!' in your play. That is SO funny." I can't imagine how she has this line verbatim when she never saw my play. Except on the video. Must have a conversation with her father...

I is for Imaginary Friend. There have been many, but currently we don't go anywhere without Maine from Maine. Maine is based on the daughter of my friend who actually lives in Maine (hi, Miss J!) but Jennifer did not actually name her child after their state of residence. It is also pertinent that Jarrah and "Maine" have never met. Today I had to "buy" two smoothies, two quesadillas, Purell two sets of hands, buckle two car seats, put on two pairs of socks and shoes...and hear about Maine, seemingly without breathing from the commentator, for about five hours. So far.

J is for Joy. Always, Jarrah loves her Chongqing cousin like a sister, except they hardly ever fight. I can motivate her to do absolutely anything by invoking her name. "If you blow your nose you might prevent a cold, which would mean you'll be able to see Joy in a few days" even worked.

K is for Keyboard. Jarrah can now type her name, either into the laptop or David's GPS. Writing it--not so much.

L is for Leaving. A protracted process of grieving, necessitating an emergency support group for "people who find it hard to say goodbye to friends." The pain is just as acute when the departed is someone she has known only an hour, like a little girl named Leah whom she befriended at a holiday party last week. She reminds me of Cecily Cardew in The Importance of Being Earnest who has this gem: "It is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. The absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. But even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable." Oh, so painfully true.

M is for Mac & Cheese. Still her favorite food, though I'm very proud of her--she's not a picky eater, and eats what we eat. Given her druthers, though, it's the orange stuff, every day (if I'd allow it.)

N is for Naps. Sadly, they are on the way out. She still wants them--three hours of them--but then it will be 11:30 at night and she's saying "So, where are we going now?" like we're on a cruise ship. If I let her sleep just an hour and wake her up, I pay and pay and pay with crying and kicking and all the things I'd like to do when my naps are cut short.

O is for Olfactory. She has a particularly finicky nose. She often recoils from my "stinky" hugs in the morning. One day she burst out "I just can't handle a stinky mommy!"

P is for Pretend. Most self-play is elaborate situations with multiple characters right now. I hear the characters negotiating about going to school or the park, and sometimes there is yelling and My Pretty Ponies who have to go in a time-out.

Q is for Queen. As in Drama Queen, totally to the max. Raising my voice slightly or expressing any kind of disappointment sets her wailing, instantly and lustily, with rivers of tears and so much volume people come running, assuming she's hacked off a finger.

R is for "Arrrrrrrr!" What pirates do. Jarrah is very into pirates for some reason, and looks so freakin' cute when she's imitating them. When I asked her what kind of birthday party she'd like, she replied enigmatically, "A pirate ship with a flower coming out of the top." And that's not a fluke--she's mentioned it several times. I'm not sure about the flower, but I did order her a Fisher-Price pirate ship--complete with booty.

S is for Stage. Not as in, "she's going through one," though that would apply, too. She speaks constantly of how she's going to be on stage, and "come out from the cor-tens," and while she sobbed when I told her no children were allowed at my play, she rallied quickly. "Well, I'm in a play, and no grown-ups are allowed," she told me. "They have to stay home with the Mommy-Daddy babysitter."

T is for Teaching. Jarrah has been exhibiting a pedagogical flair. For instance, when I made a wrong turn and said we were a bit lost, she said "And what have you learned? That you should really listen to your children more." On another occasion, when I regretted losing my temper with her and apologized, she squeezed my arm and said "That's okay, Mommy. You learned your lesson." An empath, too!

U is for Upside-Down. That's how she likes to watch TV, with her head on the seat and her legs flipped up over the backrest. She gets into this pose from a full run, canonballing into place.

V is for V----a. Recently, Jarrah announced that "some of the boys at school have an extra piece in front." (Quoth David: "Some of them?") I took a deep breath and explained that all boys have those. Then I told her the piece's name. "What's a p---s?" she asked. And then I did something very mature: I cracked up for about 10 minutes. When I was done, I said that it's a body part used for peeing, and that girls have a v----a for peeing. "'Cept I don't have one of those," she answered, with surprising conviction. I assured her that she did, and that it was like "a little hole in front." (Whaddaya want? I'm new to all this.) When David came home, I widened my eyes and said "Daddy, ask Jarrah what she learned about body parts today." "I learned that I have a penis, and it's like a little hole," she said. "Well, that's very...close!" I responded. The fun new terms have not come up again.

W is for Witches. Mean witches, only. "Nice witches don't have powers." She didn't even get scared watching The Wizard of Oz, because "I'm not afraid of witches--I'm a witch, too." So I guess it's a union thing. (That movie scared the crap out of me until I was like 12--flying monkeys, anyone?) Recently, there has been disturbing talk of switching allegiances from witches to ballerinas. She told me she might have to be afraid of witches now. "Oh, but I think you still have immunity," I said. "Huh?" she said.

X is for her favorite letter. She makes hundreds of them on sheet after sheet of paper, and also enjoys fashioning them out of my bobby pins.

Y is for "Yeah, but." This is her response to absolutely, positively everything in the entire universe. I could shout "The house is on fire! Run!" and she'd say "Yeah, but I'm kinda busy cuz I have to Scotch tape this magazine insert to one of your socks right now."

Z is for Zimbos. I'm not totally clear on who the Zimbos are, even though I invented them. Originally, I believe I was thinking of the Oompa-Loompas, but must now disguise that piracy since she's seen the movie. At any rate, the Zimbos live in Candyland, have the ability to turn anything into candy, and the power to put Jarrah to bed at night--the very last thing she asks for is "a Zimbo story." Guess who has to tell it.

It Has Come To Pass

According to The Girlfriend's Guide to Toddlers, I no longer have one. Starting today, Jarrah is four, and that is the cut-off. I'll be sure to remind her of this pertinent fact next time she has a tantrum. In the mean time, I am marveling that I've been doing this motherhood thing for nearly three years. How did that happen?

I am working on a special birthday post for my girl, but like so many of my best-laid plans, it's going to have to wait another day. Today, there is birthday cake to decorate, latkes to slather with apple sauce (it's the last day of Hanukkah, too!) and a new experience to be had--Mary, Joy and I are taking Jarrah ice skating for the very first time. Will she love it? Hate it? Cry? Laugh? Cling to the side the whole time? Who can know? And that's the beauty of each day, isn't it, Readers?

She is becoming her own little person. All I can do is stand back and watch her glide.

And offer my hand if she gets a little wobbly.

Career Choices

Jarrah likes to play this game in the car she calls "What Am I? You suggest that she is something ("You are a doctor!") and she says "Noooooo!" And then finally she decides what she is (always something different) and she yells "You are CORRECT!" Here was today's version:

Jarrah: Okay, what am I?

Sam: You are a kid!

Jarrah: Not just a kid.

Sam: You are an artist!

Jarrah: Not just an artist.

Sam: You are a dancer!

Jarrah: NO. Do you want a hint?

Sam: Yes, give me a hint.

Jarrah: I am...a ballerina!

Sam: That's a great hint. Okay, you are...a ballerina!

Jarrah: You are CORRECT! Good job!

Let Them Eat Real Cake

Yesterday we went to the Firehouse in La Jolla for a performance of Richard Scarry's Busy Town, a teeny, adorable show with children dressed as various animals singing about their career choices. Jarrah, who is an ace theater-goer already, watched in rapt attention throughout, only occasionally shooting me disapproving glances when the girl in front of us did not use her inside voice.

There was only one moment when Jarrah felt compelled to alert the crowd that the emperor had no clothes, and I saw it coming from a mile away. Towards the end, the actors wheeled out a huge, hot-pink layer cake--pretty obviously (to me, anyway) cast in paper mache (do kids still paper mache with the frequency and gusto I did in elementary school?) I knew--as sure as I know my own face--that this development would put Jarrah on high alert, and I did not have to wait long for confirmation. In the lull before the curtain call, Jarrah rose to her feet and shouted:

"When do we eat that CAKE?"

It got a big laugh, like she was an audience plant. I laughed because it was funny, and even more because I'd so called it. (Luckily, the show organizers are not cruel: there were tiny cupcakes on offer just outside.)

Later, however, when the glow of the day (which included more cake at Yea-Yea's house in honor of HER birthday) had faded, and we were home with no frosting in sight, Jarrah's thoughts returned to the strange oversight:

Jarrah: Mama, why didn't we get to eat the pink cake?

Sam: The pink cake was pretend, lovey. That's one of the wonderful things about theater.

Jarrah: Why?

Sam: Well, you know how Mommy is in a play?

Jarrah: Yeah.

Sam: You've seen me in the video--I have a husband. But am I really married to him?

Jarrah: No. You are married to David.

Sam: Right! And the man in the video is John. Is he my husband in real life?

Jarrah: Nooooo. He's not your husband.

Sam: Right! Just pretend. That's what's fun about the theater. All the pretend.

Jarrah: Okay. But why didn't we get to eat that cake?

The Story of My Nocturnal Life

I skim the New Yorker cartoons every week, and usually they just trigger a slight smile, but when I saw this one I laughed out loud. And then I started a giggle fit, which I couldn't shake for half an hour even though I was alone. Every time I looked at the cartoon, I started giggling again.

Because it's as if she climbed in my brain at 3:00 a.m., Readers. These are the exact categories I furiously shuffle into the wee hours, and for which I want to kick myself in the morning when I am haggard. I've always thought Roz Chast was a genius, but this time her insight is downright spooky.

Talk amongst yourselves--I'll give you a topic. A quote from Sartre: "Three o'clock is always too late or too early for anything you want to do." Discuss.

Where In The World Is Sammy San Diego?

My friend Michelle politely requested that I update this freakin' blog, so even though I've been feeling strangely mum of late, I'll comply in her honor. Hi, Michelle! (Readers, go check out her blog--she's far more disciplined than I am and updates nearly EVERY day.)

I haven't actually been a blogging slacker; rather, I've been blogging feverishly and incessantly on my secret drama blog, which you'd know if you'd ever asked for an invitation. The fact is, I'm deep into this theater thing right now, and can think of little else. And not just because I'm busy--because I'm EXHAUSTED. Turns out this dramatic lifestyle is better suited to the young and the retired. The past two weekends, I haven't hit the pillow until 1:00 or 2:00 in the morning, though a certain person who is nearly four isn't much interested in my beauty sleep, and comes a-callin' at 7:00 as usual. It takes me most of the week to recover. And it's not just Friday and Saturday nights--we've been having full-length "brush-up" run-throughs on Thursdays as well.

Well, yada yada yada, you might be thinking, and right you are, too. I signed up for this with my eyes open, and despite my kvetching, I'm having a total BLAST. My scene partner, John (who's on his sixth production with the troupe) asked if I would consider coming back for another show, and without hesitation I answered "Just try to stop me." Oh, Lady of the Lights and Greasepaint, your siren call must be answered!

And because, like all good performers, I suffer from a lifelong, deep-seated complex of inadequacy mixed with narcissism, I must share with you Readers--of which I have already boasted in the secret blog--that we had a critic at the show last Saturday night, and while he included a pretty comprehensive overview of every scene in his review, he only singled out particular actors for mention by name. Here's one snippet of interest:

"A too-good-to-be-true husband drives his wife nuts with his perfection, until he comes up with the perfect solution. Daffodil (Samantha ___) and her husband Ira (John ___) do a masterful job, hitting every line."

Did you catch that, Readers? Catch what, you ask? Oh, just a certain adjective...did it escape your notice? Please allow me to gently guide you back, then. The adjective I'm referring to is MASTERFUL. And no, I haven't met this critic. There was no furtive pay-off in the alley. I just got up there and did my thing (looking like a giant, pink inflatable doll in my vintage costume) and, well, there's just no disguising talent. It outs itself, like a blazing star. I gotta be moi. Okay, I'll stop now.

More to follow shortly, in which I beg for your guidance in managing my no-longer-toddler who I think may have been replaced by an alien pod.