The Operation Has Been Totally Compromised

I found the V-meister engrossed in this book yesterday:



It's Deceptively Delicious by Jessica Seinfeld. You know, the one where you trick kids into eating healthy by pureeing the daylights out of vegetables and hiding them in more palatable fare?

(Probably ain't gonna happen.)

Vocabulary Lesson

As the J-dog was staring out the car window en route home from a weekend road trip, something magical caught his eye:

J-Dog: "Mama! I see a MackDONALD ovah dare! Right dare I see a MackDONALD!"

P-Dawg, feigning blindness: "I don't see a McDonald's, do you, Rima?"

Rimarama: "What is McDonald's?"

V-Meister, clutching her stomach and moaning: "I'm soooo hungry! Can we go to McDonald's, Mama? Puh-leeeeeeeeze? I think McDonald's would make my tummy happy. Because my tummy is very sad."

Rimarama, sighing dramatically: "Don't you guys remember what Daddy and I were just discussing? We are not going to eat at McDonald's today. It is not healthy. We are going home for lunch, and then we are going to visit some schools, capische?"

V-meister, resigned: "Cupeesh, Mama." Then, turning to her brother, "We can't go to McDonald's, J-Dog, because Mama and Daddy were disgusting, and they said, 'No'."


(Note: This picture is from a previous road trip - they did NOT get to go!)

But Nothing Could Be More Horrifying Than Nellie

I happened upon my old copy of Little House in the Big Woods the other day while looking for something in my ancient keepsake chest. It was one among only three books I'd apparently deemed worthy of saving (the other two were Ramona and Her Mother and a Catholic Guide to Sex) and I thought it would be fun to read aloud from it with the V-meister every night before bed.

A few nights ago, we curled up on the couch together and started.  Things were pretty much as I'd remembered them in the Big Woods, except that by page three, there was talk of wolves eating little girls.  Ten pages in, someone had been attacked by a panther, Pa had shot a deer, butchered a pig and rigged its carcass up in the yard, Ma was making entrail stew, Laura and Mary were tossing the pig's inflated bladder around the yard, and my rainbows and unicorns reading voice had morphed into an apologetic whisper.

All this Blood and Guts on the Prairie took me quite by surprise - I didn't rememer any of it from back in the day.  And so I took to muffling and sometimes flat out dropping words like "dead", "killed," and "carcass," but the ever vigilant V-meister was reading along and consistently calling my bluff.  So like any good mother concerned with preserving the rose tinted facade of modern life in the 'burbs, I skipped to the chapter about Christmas. I told myself it was because I wasn't in the mood to explain entrail stew just then, when the ulterior motive was essentially to shield the V-meister from unpleasantness of any kind and faciliate her current belief that chicken nuggets come pre-fabbed and batter dipped straight from the heavens.

Oh, sure, we've talked about death: I accidentally rented the story of Babar and his mother when V-meister was two.  And when my grandmother passed away, I explained my beliefs about the afterlife in the most benign and pleasant way I could, making it sound like the awesome passage I'd like to convince myself it is.  But one day V-meister will have to learn that not everyone dies peacefully in their sleep, that awful things can happen to good people, that there is pain and suffering, that the meat we eat for dinner was butchered.

Ours is a whitewashed, Photoshopped, and airbrushed world.  And it's not that I really believe in protecting my babies from all of its harsh realities, but rather that I don't know how far to peel back the glossy veneer, how much of the gritty core to expose, or when.

I remembered how upset I was with a friend some time ago when she relayed to me a story about being at a museum with her young daughter at the same time as a pair of conjoined twins.  To my horror, she explained that she wasn't able to herd Mary out of the exhibit in time to prevent her from glimpsing the twins, but proudly recounted how she'd explained, post facto, that they were "kind of like Zack and Weezie on Dragon Tails" and therefore nothing to be afraid of.  How dare she keep her daughter away from those little girls as though they were some kind of monstrosity?  How could she compare them to a cartoon character, rather than providing an honest explanation? 

But judging from the cold sweat that Little House in the Big Woods provoked in me, I see that I'm no better.  I'll admit I initially insisted that Babar's mother was "just sleeping" (I later had to renege because, even at age two and a half, V-meister wasn't buying it.)  I couldn't bring myself to tell her what was inside her great-grandmother's casket.  I make it a point to flip the news channel when war footage is being shown,  and I regularly omit the word "chicken" in front of "nugget" just so my kids would eat.

The funny thing is, I actually learned a lot about life from watching Little House on the Prairie reruns.  And  - wonder of wonders - witnessing countless unmedicated labors, amputations, fires, and gruesome illnesses through Michael Landon's deft lens didn't actually make me any worse for the wear.  If anything, I was pleasantly surprised to learn as an adult that my chances of contracting smallpox or dying in a covered wagon accident ware actually quite slim.

As luck would have it, the V-meister wasn't too impressed with Little House in the Big Woods, anyway (too many words, not enough pictures), so for the moment, I've been spared the ole' "How to Avoid Being Eaten Alive by a Panther" speech.  I think I'll put Little House in the Big Woods back in the chest with the Catholic Guide to Sex until she's . . . about thirty.  But I will make a conscious effort to answer her questions about the harsher realities of existence honestly and in an appropriate context for her age, whatever that may be.

I guess it's time to start calling a spade a spade. (Or a chicken a chicken.)

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get my rabbit stew on.

Good Thing I Passed on the Fruit Loops

J-dog and I ran into our family pediatrician in the supermarket checkout line today.

Dr. W is young, hip, and witty, which is why I spazzed out, turned beet red, and had nothing constructive to say when she greeted me.

Would I be forced to tell a bald-faced lie if asked how J-dog's potty training was going? What if she wanted to know whether I'd finally signed V-meister up for Safetytown? I tried to shield my purchases from view and chucked a box of Uncrustables into the gum display. How did this junk end up in my cart? Gawd.

But as I was attempting to pay for my groceries with my library card, I noticed that Dr. W was herself looking visibly frazzled. Her twins were climbing out the back of her grocery cart, and darned if that cart wasn't chock fulla Valentine's Day candy and artificially flavored grape juice.

I think Dr. W was having a bad morning. She tried to make small talk with me while her babies moved along the conveyor belt, but you could tell her heart wasn't in it. I'll bet she went home and popped in back-to-back episodes of Dora the Explorer.

Thing is, I almost followed her there. Because I've decided I would like to be her best friend forever. Would it be awkward to stalk your pediatrician in that way?

Obstinate Toddler Snubs Foods with Co-Mingling Ingredients

J-Dog Rama, 2, has been refusing to eat vegetables and foods whose ingredients touch, reports his exasperated mother.

“I slave away in my new gourmet kitchen with the granite counter tops and the double oven I have no idea how to operate, to prepare him nutritious and delicious organic meals, and this is the thanks I get,” snorts Rima Rama.

“The other day, I presented him with an exquisite bowl of chicken and dumplings, made from scratch. I myself found them so appetizing that I had to refrain from inhaling a second helping, but the little J-dog pushed it away with great disdain saying, “I no eat dis, Mama, I no eat dis.”

If he is not offered more palatable fare, the J-Dog will often skip dinner altogether, preferring to derive what sustenance he can by scavenging rogue Cheerios and dried bits of Play-Doh off the kitchen floor, then break his fast in the morning with milk and a waffle.

“He will only eat things in the brown/beige color palette” reports Rima. “The only exception is peanut butter and jelly sandwiches,” she continued, “But even then, he has specific requirements with regards to presentation.”

Reportedly, J-dog insists upon crustless triangles.

"And don't even think about trying some fool stunt, like blending spinach into his smoothie" warns Rama, adding "I'm looking at you, Jessica Seinfeld."

"That kid can sniff out vegetables faster than a hound on a blood trail. It’s enough to drive you totally (redacted) crazy” she said, shaking her head. "In fact, it’s a wonder he hasn't developed scurvy.”


"Whatchu talkin 'bout, Mama? I just ate some a dis here Play-Doh."

Tastes Like Chicken

Dear waiter dude at (insert name of local eating establishment here),

My kid just started eating meat, oh, maybe three days ago? Prior to that, she was a dedicated carbovore/herbivore (but not so much with the herbivore part, really.)

Imagine our elation when the V-meister deigned to sample a fish stick slathered in ketchup the other day at dinner and deemed it "pretty good."

It was a shining moment in parenting.

Anyway.

Yesterday, during our super-duper special mother-daughter bonding lunch, she worked up the courage to order a plate of chicken fingers and a Sprite (shut it, people) from your greasy old dog-eared menu, all by herself.

Yes, the V-meister beamed with pride at this accomplishment and me, well, I was practically humping the booth divider out of the sheer joy of protein.

Why, then, did you find it necessary to wag your stubby, bloated 'ole finger under her delicate little nose and taunt:

"Chicken fingers? Are you sure you want to eat chicken FINGERS???? Heh, heh, heh."



Then later (after I'd explained to the little V-meister that it wasn't so much chicken fingerz she'd ordered as lips and a$$ [kidding!]), when you overheard us talking about the (dumb) joke you had made, did you have to pull up a chair and tell us the one about the first time you ever witnessed a whole chicken being boiled? About how the chicken legs looked just like human hands, heh heh heh, and lawdy, lawdy, but it was the most disturbing thing you'd ever seen, you daresay it was?



I had to chuckle bitterly when, as the V-meister and I were preparing to leave your fine establishment, you swung by our booth one last time and, noting the untouched meat on the V-meister's plate, asked, "Aren't you gonna eat those, hon? You want me to box 'em up for ya?"

I would like to box something up for you, champ.

(How about a chicken knuckle sandwich????)

Regards,
Rimarama
Drama Mama


(The irony in this post is that, while writing it, I was eating a frozen chicken penne pasta marinara lunch product and damn if I didn't gag on a knuckle. Or something.)



That is all.