Proud to be a Street kid

On Tuesday, Sesame Street will officially turn 40. According to the AP, Tuesday's episode will be the 4187th time "Sunny days" will be "Sweepin' the clouds away." Yeah, right. I think we hit 4,187 times hearing that theme song on our last road trip. They must mean "officially."
Now, 40 years after Jim Henson's "good idea" that TV could be used to educate and entertain became a reality, Sesame Street is shown in 140 countries worldwide. According to CBS Sunday Morning, that makes it "the longest street in the world," made even more remarkable by the fact that each country's version of the Street (or Plaza, or Takalani, etc), is not an English translation of the American show. Each country has individual characters and plots, and is aimed toward the needs of preschool children in that country--which is why a muppet on the South African version of Sesame Street is HIV positive, like a large percentage of the children there. Plus, of course, it's all put on by Sesame Workshop, which is nonprofit. As if I needed another reason to love Sesame Street.
So, while the media, and world, and even almighty Google pay homage to the home of Big Bird, Telly Monster, Grover, and company, I must admit that it's just not enough. I would be an ungrateful fan indeed, if I didn't take a moment to explain what Sesame Street means to me.
Like many children, I was raised on the Street called Sesame. Unlike many children, however, I probably had exposure to Bert, Ernie, and the gang for a longer period than my preschool years. My brother is nearly 5 years younger than me, and my sister nearly 12, making me one of the few teenagers in my school who knew about Elmo's daily happenings. Just as one of us grew out of it, another child was just discovering the secret zen of Oscar the Grouch. Heck, I logged a lot of babysitting hours, and was more than happy to let Zoe (my sister's favorite Muppet) share the load from time to time. A lot of what happened on Sesame Street has stayed with me over the years. Even though he died about a month before I was even born--thanks to reruns, I can't even talk about Mr. Hooper without getting choked up. You really have to hand it to Sesame Street for being willing to tackle head on an issue like death in a way that preschool children could understand. The fact that they pulled it off so well is nothing short of a miracle.
Although my rhythm is questionable, and I've got a lot more to move these days, I can still "Do the Pigeon" and "The Batty Bat." Thanks to my repeated viewings in my early years, my mother involuntarily shudders if anyone mentions the words "Follow that Bird."
Today, I'm proud to say that I'm raising a Street kid. Sam loves watching Sesame Street every day, and can name all the characters (except The Count, who is named only by a loud "Ah Ah AH!"). There's no way she would know all her letters by now if it wasn't for us singing the many many alphabet songs I learned on Sesame Street, and loudly sounding out the letter of the day along with the TV. One day, as we headed home from somewhere to "go watch Sesame Street," some nosy parent chimed in with "I never watched Sesame Street, and I don't let my kids watch TV either."
I don't know any other way to say this, but you were deprived. And your kids are deprived. Sesame Street is fan-freakin-tastic.
Part of what makes it so great, is that while it's educational, it throws in laughs for adults who are inevitably stuck watching episode after episode of their kids favorite shows. I know I get more laughs than Sam out of "Law and Order: Special Letters Unit" trying to find a missing M, or "Meal or No Meal," when the banker (Cookie Monster) tries to get contestants to trade a healthy balanced meal for varying amounts of cookies. In all reality, I doubt Sam really knows or cares who Jamie Foxx is, his appearance is all for me. I'll take that over Dora any day of the week and twice on Sunday.
So I'm grateful for Sesame Street. When it comes to educational programming, the original is still the best. In fact, my devotion to Sesame Street is so deep, that we decided to combine Sam's abiding love for Elmo with my excitement over the 40th anniversary this Halloween. Here we are at a trunk-or-treat with the scenery we made, Daniel as Bert, me as Ernie, and Sam as Elmo. We also piped classic Sesame Street songs from the windows of our car (and house on Halloween). Because we're just that proud to be a part of the magic that is Sesame Street.
Happy Birthday, Sesame Street! We love you!

Let's all hope she's smarter than she looks...

Sam has officially decided that I am in fact, an idiot.

Although I'm not surprised that a daughter would turn on her mother like that, I must admit, I thought I had at least a decade before the whole "my parents are stupid" thing came to pass. Boy, was I wrong. Eighteen months, and she's just done with me.

It all started with my personal nemesis, the leftover Halloween candy. Now, I love it, but I'm trying not to eat it, and this year, I have the added joy of keeping it away from Sam. She isn't generally allowed to have candy, but with the bowl out there, and a sweet tooth she's developed (I blame G and Grams, not myself, by the way), it's constant begging. Still, I can't bring myself to throw it out, because it's only been a few days since Halloween and we bought a ton of candy--it feels like I'd be tossing little dollar signs into the trash. And I just can't do it. So I have a couple pieces now and then, and send Daniel to work with little piles, and sometimes I let Sam have a treat.

My favorite candy to give Sam is Smarties, because they are low fat (yes, high sugar, but most candy is high fat and high sugar, so I figure this is better), and I can control how many little tablets she can have. Plus, they're too small to be taken out of her mouth and played with, and even if they are removed, they aren't sticky--a lesson I learned from the affectionately named "Tootsie Pop Incident of 2009." So yesterday, I let Sam have some Smarties.

As soon as the last Smarty (is that the singular?) was gone, Sam was pointing to the bowl on the counter and saying "More? More? Mama...More? Puh!? (please)" If she had been saying "Mine" she would have sounded just like those seagulls in Finding Nemo. She just kept doing it.

I crouched down and looked her in the eyes in a way that would have made Supernanny proud, and said "Sam, I know you want more, but you have had enough candy today, and you can't have any more right now. No more candy." I thought it was odd that Sam just looked at me and cocked her head to the side, instead of erupting into a full-blown screaming tantrum--which is her new favorite activity upon being told "no." As an added bonus, tantrums now come with added stomping, completely for free!

But she didn't scream, stomp, or lose the ability to stand on her legs. Instead, Sam walked to the garbage can and opened the lid. She sighed as she reached inside and I exclaimed "Sam, we don't play in the garbage." She looked at me like "I hope you're smarter than you look," and pulled her arm out of the trash with something in her hand. I hate it when she gets garbage back out, but this was particularly embarrassing, since I was chatting on the webcam with my sister and dad, so I had witnesses to my kid's most disgusting habit. I was just hoping she wasn't getting a dirty diaper to show G her "poo poos." There's precedent. Sam, however then came over holding the empty wrapper to the Smarties she had just finished, held it up to me as close to my face as she could reach and said "More mama. More. More."

Apparently, the only way she could fathom me telling her "No" was that I was too stupid to understand what she wanted. So she had to dumb it down a few shades to get her point across. She must have been shocked when after this obvious tutorial, I still said no, because that's when the crumbling, screaming, and stomping started. Because, not only was she not going to get her coveted candy, but Mommy is obviously not as dumb as she looks.
Bummer breaks, kiddo.

Daddy or Mommy's Girl--it's a toss up

Today, Sam went to the doctor.
She is in the 98% for her height and 56% for weight.
Way tall and kinda skinny.
Talk about stats that have never, ever, ever, in my entire life applied to me. I was there when she was born, but I can't help but wonder sometimes where she came from. Not to mention, she's still pretty bald, completely opposite her monkey-looking mommy's baby pictures.

Just when I was trying to figure out if Daniel's genes are really that much more powerful than mine in every respect, she held up a W flashcard to the doctor and said "Wha! Wha!"
He looked at her and said "What did you say?"
I said, "She telling you what a W says."
Doctor turns back to Sam and says: "How would you possibly know that?"
I said, "Sam knows all the letter sounds--if you count that 'Q says Quack.' It obviously doesn't actually, but that's what she thinks so we go with it for now."
Apparently that's good for 18 months. Sam responded by holding up an H card with a Hat and saying "Hah, Hah, Hat!"

Then it hit me--Sam is a know-it-all!!! She may be a little beanpole, but she's all mine after all! If she ever yells at a guy for buying booze at the grocery store, and reminds him not to drink and drive, the circle of life will be complete (and yet another generation will mortify my mother).

So, you're saying this is a big deal?

I saw a commercial the other day that I just didn't get. It was for those new Purex sheets that go from the washer and dryer with the soap and stuff already in them. Sure, it's kind of a cool idea, I'll listen. The lady in the commercial went on to say something like this:

"I mean, I'd take a small improvement to my day, but this makes my life a thousand times better!"

My first thoughts went something like this: "Um. Okay. Really? A thousand times better? Do me a favor and let's NEVER trade lives, okay?"

Soon, however, I saw the light. This can not possibly be a insane marketing ploy, this must be true! They wouldn't say it if it wasn't true! Firstly, laundry is in fact--despite the near magic washing machine and electric dryer--the worst thing that has happened to me or anyone else in the world--move over AIDS in Africa. I can not tell you how many times I have cried myself to sleep over the burden of being able to afford decent clothes that I am nearly crippled by the responsibility to keep clean. The weight on my soul is crushing. Also, while I'm pointing this out--if I were to change just one thing about how I do laundry it wouldn't be the pre-treating, the sorting, the folding or hanging up of clean clothes, or the touching of other people's dirty skivies. Oh, no! It would be to eliminate the 10 seconds it takes me to fill the little cup and downy ball with soap and fabric softener, and the .5 seconds it takes me to reach up to the shelf to grab a dryer sheet and toss it in the dryer with the clothes. Ten point five seconds saved equals a one thousand times better life.
Who wouldn't take that deal?
Besides, the fact that it will take an extra hour of overtime to pay for the difference in price between the liquid and the 10.5 second saving miracle sheets, is my husband's problem, not mine.

Thank you so much, marketing world. You have once again offered some much needed perspective and shed light on a true tragedy--ten second increments of precious time going utterly wasted.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch some more commercials. I hope that one with Kelly Ripa tossing cookies to kids while closing the dryer with her toes comes on so I can get even more cranky!

Not it.

I'm not usually a fan of making up increasingly lame excuses to justify behavior. If you believe something is right, just do it, and don't make up a million dumb reasons to make yourself feel better. If you have to make up a million justifications to feel better, maybe you aren't making the right decision after all.

Today, however, I thought of a perk to going back to work putting my kid in daycare that suddenly doesn't seem like a lame justification at all.

It would be really nice to be able to assume someone else taught my kid to yell "Me Nakie!!!!" and run around the house like a lunatic, and leave it at that. Because as of right now, I honestly don't know where she got it...and she pretty much only hangs out with me...and I have no memory of yelling about nakedness. Plus, she was fully dressed at the time, so I really have no idea what new concept got completely twisted around in that little mind of hers. She's definitely coming up with weirder and weirder words and things these days, and when Daniel looks at me like "where did she come up with that?", so far my only response is to defensively shout "Not it!"

There has to be a better, more adult way, to shift the blame for my bizzare toddler.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

As I write this, my daughter is watching Yo Gabba Gabba, her first and only true love. She adores this show, and I don't mind the episode she's watching because Jack Black is on it, and he totally cracks me up. Another reason I like this episode is because of the song that's on now. It's a show aimed at preschool kids, and here are the lyrics:
You can't always get what you want
(no, no, no, no you can't)
(no, no, no, no you can't)
You can't always get what you want
(no, no, no, no)
It won't help if you keep on asking!
(la, la, la)
It won't help if you whine!
(la, la, la)
It won't help to complain!
Repeat repeatedly.

As a mother, it's a message I appreciate being passed on to my kid. Nothing drives me crazy faster than whining. As a human being with a sense of humor, I find the song hilarious in and of itself. Of course, Sam is only a year and a half, so thus far the message has fallen on deaf ears, but someday...she'll get it. I hope.
Hearing this song quite a bit (we watch this episode A LOT), brings two things to mind. First of all, I wish it wasn't quite so true. It is though--gospel truth. You can't always get what you want, no matter how much you ask or whine. I have yet to whine myself into a size 6, and let me assure you, it's not for lack of trying. As it turns out, I have to work for the things I want, and even then, there's no guarantee.
Secondly, why are they marketing this song to preschoolers only? From looking around the world we live in, it seems to me it should be required listening for everybody everywhere. After all, where to we think our kids picked up the whining and complaining? All too often, I see people going crazy about other people's choices. Usually, that person is me. So, I'm adopting this mantra--I can't always get what I want, it won't help to whine or complain. Sometimes when you are dying for justice, you see mercy, and the reverse is true too. Sometimes I am hoping against hope for mercy only to feel the swift kick of justice squarely in my behind. And although I've given whining more than ample time to work out in my favor, it hasn't panned out. There are truly things in this world that you just can't control, I can think of nearly 7 billion of them off the top of my head. It just took a slightly creepy kids show to remind me. So thanks to you, Yo Gabba Gabba--they should play this song on every radio station, every morning. Spread the knowledge around a bit, you know!

By the way, for the record and the continuation of this blog, pointing out injustice is not the same as complaining about it. As much as I am trying to let things go, no amount of singing will turn me into a lie down and take it kind of person. I still am what I am, but now I will focus on attitudes I do have a shot at changing.

Let's do the Timewarp

Today I was driving in the car for an appointment with the Optometrist, and the song "Jumper" by Third Eye Blind came on the radio. Suddenly, from the words "I wish you would step back from that ledge my friend..." I felt exactly like I was transported right back to Jr. High. I can't explain it, but it was almost an out of body experience--all the emotions of that time came flooding back as if they were happening right then. I was in Jr. High again (shudder)--forget the fact that I was driving, with my daughter in the backseat no less, and she was trying to poke me with the crocs she had removed from her feet against my protests yet again, while wearing a paper Krispy Kreme hat.
*May I just interject here to admit to one thing--no, we hadn't been to Krispy Kreme that day. My car is officially what my husband would consider "disgusting." On the plus side, we went yesterday, and what my husband considers "disgusting" when it comes to car cleanliness is probably what most people would call "perfectly acceptable." I maintain the fact that no matter how long it's been since you went to the donut store, one paper Krispy Kreme hat on the backseat does not a "pigsty" make. *
Back to the task at hand, for one moment I forgot that I was older, fatter, and considering my errand, even blinder than I was then--I felt 14 again. In a word, it was bizarre.
Now, it's no anomaly for me to hear songs from my Jr. High or High School days on the radio. I exclusively listen to the radio stations for people who don't quite qualify for the oldies station yet, but crave the familiar while lying to themselves that they have some semblance of relevance today. The truth is, I find Lady Gaga's appearance unbelievably frightening, and know nothing more of Rihanna than the fact that her ex-boyfriend is a scumbag and the repeated syllable "ella...ella...ella." Listening to stations that mainly play songs I recognize while throwing in the occasional Taylor Swift number (take that, Kanye!) or even the rare "Just Dance" is as modern as I get, musically speaking. A song has to be pretty far ingrained in the mainstream before it reaches my ears these days. Sheesh, just writing that makes me feel like a geezer.
The point is, every song I hear from my formative years does not have that effect on me. This experience got me thinking about the songs that I hear rarely enough that they give me a instant trip down memory lane to Jr. High or High School. You might be confused by the fact that a lot of these songs came out in all different years, thinking I don't even know my own age, but these songs didn't necessarily come out when I was in this age group, but it was in my formative years that I discovered them, listened to them ad nauseum, and cemented them in my memory. If the timeline confuses you, well, deal with it.
Here is what I came up with:

"MMMMmmmbop" by Hanson. Am I proud that this song is in my age group's legacy? Heck, no! Every time I hear it (which is thankfully rarely), does it totally take me back? You bet! (Also in this category, but still too soon to talk about is the "Macarena." I have very embarrassing memories of my only Jewish friend's bat mitvah I'm still not ready to dredge up.)

"I Want You" by Savage Garden. Anyone else for a Chicken Cherry Cola? By the way, if you are thinking about telling me that I am wrong and feel the need to inform me of the actual lyrics, you are years too late. I know it's probably not correct, but Chicken Cherry Cola is a part of me now.

"Leaving on a Jet Plane" originally by John Denver. Yeah, it's a classic, and from way before my time, but I didn't fall in love with the John Denver version. I fell in love with Ben Affleck singing it to Liv Tyler in Armageddon, which is still one of my favorite movies. Discovering the song was just a bonus.

"Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" by Green Day. Yes, this one came out just before my senior year and was therefore used in every video montage documenting this time in my life or anyone else I knew. Every. Last. One. Oddly enough, I still like it.

"Stay" by Lisa Loeb. Actually, pretty much anything by Lisa Loeb takes me back instantly, because I listened to her stuff constantly, but they don't play it on the radio much anymore--not even on my "still want to be hip, but only listen to songs from at least a decade ago" channels. That makes me kind of sad.

So there you go. You now know just how out of touch I am with music. If you've been paying attention, that means I have recently done posts about my lack of fashion sense, mentioned my embarrassing TV habits, and this just in, copped to listening to "a shade shy of geezer" music. You will have to conclude from the evidence that I am just not cool. In fact, I am starting to have a sneaking suspicion that I will soon surpass my mother--who used to time her work by cleaning the entire bathroom during one play of "MacArthur Park"--by journeying into uncharted areas of uncoolness. Speaking of which, some Journey would really cheer me up right now...
Yes, I just upped the uncool factor again, what of it?

Stick around, this could be epic.