Tough Lovin' Two's

We are in the middle of Age Two in all its schizophrenic, drama-infused glory at our house lately. My daughter Madelyn turned two this past September, and although she gets measurably cuter each day, we are never quite sure which version of our daughter will emerge on a minute-to-minute basis: Maddicakes or Madditude.

I have a longer history with Maddicakes, thankfully, and find her to be utterly endearing and charming. She carries a book around with her wherever she goes and channels John Travolta when she dances and asks for “just a little bit of chocolate” nearly every day. She says “Thank you for my yummy lunch, Mommy” and “What a pretty outfit you have on, Nana” and “I love you, Daddy” all on her own without any prompting. She likes to snuggle with me while we dance to her favorite songs (currently Glee’s rendition of Lean On Me), and I bury my nose in her gorgeous curls and inhale her warm scent while carefully cataloging this precious moment for the sob-fest that will inevitably be her first day of college. I love, love this girl.

In recent weeks, however, I have become all too familiar with Madditude. At her best, she is feisty and sassy, and truthfully, I’m ok with that—a little (harnessed) spit and vinegar serves a girl well, I think. But at her worst, she is oppositional, histrionic, and downright domestically violent. She looks away when she’s being asked to pick up her toys and runs away laughing every single time we need to put shoes on and head out the door. She gets within inches of my face and screams “NO!” and thrashes on the floor like a fish out of water if she isn’t allowed to do something totally by herself. She has also been known to look me straight in the eye and slap me across the face, just to see what I would do about it. I challenge anyone who does not believe in an inherent carnal nature to spend one day with a toddler and see if that theory stands. She is capable of voice inflections and behaviors that she has never witnessed, certainly not in her own home, and yet they come as naturally to her as her newborn root reflex once did. There is a very specific reason that humans were designed to enter this world as chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed babies and not pimple-faced, snaggle-toothed adolescents: we are much less likely to harm something that is cute.

I wasn’t spanked often as a child, but the few times I was, I remember my parents telling me after the fact that spanking me hurt them much more than it hurt me. When your bum is still stinging from the wooden ping-pong paddle that, I swear, had holes in it for aerodynamic efficiency, this is not something you want to hear. I’m learning, however, that along with most of the parenting observations my parents shared while I was growing up, that statement is absolutely true: disciplining my child and making her cry when all I want in the world is for her to be happy and at peace just breaks my heart. Tough love, indeed.

Here’s another thing I’m learning about discipline: laughing at your child’s misbehavior grossly undermines your authority as a parent and confuses her understanding of right and wrong, but oh my goodness is it hard not to. Hitting, biting, kicking…those offenses are easy to swiftly consequence without a hint of amusement, but most toddler misbehavior is just plain hilarious.

Awhile back, Madelyn got a lollipop from the man pumping gas at our local station. (Ordinarily, accepting candy from a stranger is not something I would condone, but it was Christmas time, he was jolly, and it was an all-too-rare root beer Dum-Dum. Please don’t judge me.) We were on our way back to our house for lunch, so I told her that she could hold it but she couldn’t eat it until after she finished her lunch. The whole way home she beamed and held that lollipop like the Olympic torch for all to admire and covet. Immediately upon entering our house, my phone rang, so I quickly took her shoes and coat off and then sat on the couch to talk to my mom for about five minutes which, evidently, was long enough for Maddie to get into trouble but not quite long enough for me to notice. After calling her name several times with no response, I finally found her lying on her tummy in a slightly hidden corner of the kitchen with her hands covering her head and the end of the lollipop sticking straight out of her mouth. My hand barely made it to my mouth in time to stifle my laughter. I must’ve stood there for two full minutes desperately trying to conjure a depressing enough image to regain my composure (and I work in child welfare!). She lay there the whole time utterly silent and motionless except for the frantic suck-suck-suck of the lollipop. I’ve been known to have similar, clandestine escapades with the last chocolate cupcake or, heck, the last third of a pan of brownies, so for a moment I wondered if I had any right telling her this was against the rules. (Although, if we’re going to use that logic, I would also have no right to tell her not to tantrum. I, not infrequently, pitch quite an artful tantrum. I just try to limit them to times when she’s not around to take notes.) “Madelyn,” I finally squeaked. “What is going on here?” She told me, and then I told her that because she disobeyed, the lollipop would have to go in the trash. I even made her throw it in there (tough Mommy!). We both shed tears but for very different reasons.

Ah well. Being two is hard sometimes, as is parenting two. But our Maddicakes moments far outweigh our Madditude moments, both in quantity and quality, and really, two hasn’t turned out to be nearly as terrible as its reputation would have us believe. Nevertheless, as I close my computer and prepare to slumber for the night, I can’t help but wonder who will greet me in the morning…

Tickling the Ivories

This past New Year’s Eve, I had the absolute pleasure of attending a Pink Martini concert at the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall here in Portland. First of all, I’d attend just about any show at the Schnitz. Steep stairs, tiered balconies, red carpeting, marble pillars, ornate walls, stained glass ceiling... it’s the only place in Portland where a gal can be dripping in diamonds and not look ridiculously out of place. (Incidentally, we learned that you still do look out of place in a backless, skin-tight, leopard print dress and gold platform shoes.)

Pink Martini, for those who have not been introduced, is a band comprised of a dozen or so classically trained musicians, including several violinists and cellists, a few trumpeters and trombonists, a flutist/clarinetist, a smattering of percussionists, one pianist, and one lead vocalist. Their four studio albums provide a whirlwind musical world-tour through jazz, salsa, bossa nova, polka, and swing, to name a few, and are often infused with well-known classical themes and melodies. “If the United Nations had a house band in 1962,” quotes their website, “hopefully we’d be that band.” Their lead singer, China Forbes, sings in no fewer than six languages (ironically, Chinese is not one of them). Their music is soulful and sensuous one moment and then playful, witty, and whimsical the next—not unlike many of my favorite people.

Listening to Pink Martini is a delight, but watching them is pure joy. They look fantastic, to start. The band is almost always in black-tie attire, and China wears the most splendid, flowing, bejeweled gowns complete with glittery eye shadow and sultry red lips. (Is it too much to ask to have a job where I, too, must wear gowns? From now on, I am going to do all of my parenting in the one floor-length dress that I own, just to see what that might be like. I think Madelyn will respond well. Children understand the importance of feeling fancy so much better than adults do.) These musicians play their instruments with their entire bodies; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if they burn as many calories during one concert as a pro-athlete burns during one game. The pianist, Thomas Lauderdale, is my favorite. He practically dances from his piano bench, but he is so connected to those 88 keys that no matter how much his arms might sweep, arc, or bounce or how much distance lies between two notes, his fingers always land precisely where they mean to. He is a marvel to watch, and by the perpetual grin on his face, you’d think it took no effort at all. I was rivoted and awed... but the more I watched him, the more familiar he seemed. Where had I seen these fanciful piano stylings before?

Ah yes! Josh!

Growing up, there was a boy named Josh who lived a few houses down from us on the corner of Tamarack and Basswood. He was an only child, if I’m remembering correctly, and he was perhaps two or three years younger than me.

Josh, my sister, and I all took piano lessons from the same teacher. I’ll get back to Josh in a minute, but I must pause to briefly introduce you to one of my life’s greatest characters: our piano teacher, Mrs. Hickey. Even as a youngster I knew that her name was giggle-worthy although I couldn’t necessarily articulate why. She was a petite, fifty-something woman with a crisp, bobbed haircut and conservative but expensive clothing. Her wardrobe consisted primarily of long skirts and high-necked blouses, and she peered at us through a pair of perfectly Dumbledore-esque half-moon bifocals. She had smooth, well-moisturized skin, and her make-up was flattering and current without being overly trendy. All the right pieces were present for Mrs. Hickey to be a classy, put-together gal, but, as is often the case with gifted artists, something always went a bit awry in the assembly. To begin, the buttons on her blouse were frequently misaligned, and as luck would have it, the gap always seemed to be right between her breasts, showing off her unexpectedly lacy braziers. (Those lacy braziers were a source of genuine confusion and concern for me. Mrs. Hickey seemed like a decently moral person. I was pretty sure she even attended church, but I was confident that you couldn’t attend church and wear lacy undergarments. It was a bon-a-fide mystery.) Her lipstick, while always a lovely shade of raspberry or plum, was inevitably smudged across her front teeth or in one corner of her mouth. And without fail, she would spend the better part of our hour lesson searching for her bifocals that were perched solidly and predictably on top of her head. She called me “Kimbuhlee.” As far as I know, she was born and raised in the United States without any identifiable speech impediment. I’m not quite sure what happened to that “r,” but hearing her speak always reminded me of the actresses from black-and-white movies who spoke with an accent all their own seemingly fabricated solely to sound glamorous.

Who can be bothered with buttons, lipstick, and “r’s,” however, when you routinely guest-star with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and experience music in all five of your senses? Mrs. Hickey had perfect pitch, and given that she frequently closed her eyes and furrowed her brow while giving us instruction, I suspect she “saw” music as well. One of our favorite requests of her during group lessons was to ask her to transpose a piece of music from the key in which it was written to a key of our choice, an impossible feat for us students that she accomplished with perfection down to the last eighth note almost as soon as the request left our lips. She was a stickler for accuracy in our notes, but I think her true goal was to teach us to feel music—to identify with the notes and express some part of ourselves using our entire bodies to play them. She would stand behind us and lean into us while we played, placing her arms along the top of our arms and her hands on our wrists showing us how to move within the phrases of the music to coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note.

But back to Josh. Josh was Mrs. Hickey’s pint-sized protégé. With his feet still short enough to swing from the bench and his repertoire consisting only of single-note melodies, Josh swayed his tiny torso and approached every note with the arc and trajectory of an Olympic high-diver. From any vantage point, his index fingers could be seen rising and falling, often above his head, to, well, coax even the tiniest nuance out of every last note. My sister and I thought this was just hilarious and would frequently mimic him while practicing at home. We weren’t making fun of him, necessarily, and we were never unfriendly to him, but, come on, outside of Mrs. Hickey, who really played like that anyway?

Well, touché, Josh. I stood (or sat, rather) humbly corrected in my Mezzanine seat at the Schnitz as I watched Thomas channel your patented piano panache to dazzle and delight thousands. I hope, wherever you are, you’re still playing. Shoot, for all I know, you are Thomas Lauderdale and you’re really having the last laugh.

It's a Wonder-Full Life

I am a hopeless magazine junkie. I do read lengthier literature, but I am not at all above diving into virtually any magazine and pouring through it cover to cover, often in one sitting. I love the combination and juxtaposition of the text and the graphics; it almost (almost) makes me understand how people can love comic books. I have subscribed to many magazines throughout my life and have eagerly anticipated the arrival of each crisp new issue in my mailbox, but only a few collections have earned a spot on my bookshelf, permanently safe from the recycle bin.

Wondertime was one of these publications. Like many of my favorite delicacies in life, my sister introduced it to me. It was a parenting magazine, but, with all due respect to all other parenting magazines, it was safely in a class all its own. First of all, its pages were larger and slightly more square than a typical magazine—kind of like some fancy photography journal. And said pages were in a matte finish. Let me repeat: a matte finish. Sigh. My eyes just love a matte finish. My fingertips just love a matte finish. Matte is all about understated sophistication, and if I can be truthful for a moment, I secretly, vainly hope that people describe me in the same way: “Oh Kimberlee…she’s all about understated sophistication.”

But beyond those gorgeous pages, the heart and philosophy of Wondertime was true to its apt name: articles, featurettes, and gallery-worthy photography celebrating the magical, wonder-filled years of childhood. It wasn’t so much a “how to” magazine like most other parenting magazines, repeatedly covering ear-infections, tantrums, and the on-going immunization debate. Wondertime was more of a “get to” magazine as in, “Well isn’t it just the bees-knees that I ‘get to’ be a parent?!” Each issue was packed cover to cover with information that was genuinely fresh and interesting, even to research-obsessed parents like myself, and the overall approach was decidedly get-on-your-knees-and-look-a-child-in-her-eyes rather than affectionately-pat-her-on-the-head.

Alas, as you have undoubtedly deduced by the past-tense verbs, Wondertime is no longer in publication. I have no idea why. I sang its praises to everyone I know, and I am really loud. There wasn’t even any warning or big going-away fanfare; I happened to notice one day that I hadn’t received any new issues in awhile and then put two and two together that the flimsy, sensory-assaulting “family” magazine that had been randomly showing up in my mailbox was in fact its obscenely sub-standard replacement. It was like trying to pass off polyester for cashmere, skim milk for cream, flat-leaf parsley for cilantro; it simply can’t be done. Sure enough, March 2009 was its final issue. I was, and continue to be, genuinely disappointed.

I am under no delusion that I can simply pick up where Wondertime left off. I have nowhere near the artistic skill or experience to even attempt it, and I’m pretty sure that even using the same name would be illegal somehow. Nevertheless, I believe in its purpose, and I think that someone, somewhere needs to carry its torch, even if it’s more like a pocket flashlight. I adore children—even the naughty ones. I love their chubby rolls and wobbly walking and toothy grins. I love their lisps and grammatically incorrect sentences and sticky hands. I love their crocodile tears and lovies and unconditional trust in their caregivers. And I love their ceaseless curiosity and shouts of delight as they discover and learn about the world around them. Children are absolutely essential to the well-being of a grown-up’s spirit. It is a humble privilege to parent a child, care for a child, or even befriend a child.

This, then, will be a space devoted to celebrating all things directly or remotely related to children and the “wonderlust” that fills their lives and rubs off on those of us blessed enough to be around them. I anticipate lots of personal anecdotes and observations, some soap-box editorials, and perhaps even a few pieces that will demand I crack a book or two. Most will be humorous and heart-warming, I hope, but I can already feel a few weightier, more sobering topics tumbling restlessly about in my heart demanding to be discussed. Childhood is not all snuggles, kisses, and blissful exploration for all children, and their stories need to be told, too; I am a child welfare social worker, after all, and I truly can’t help myself.

You should also know that, personally, this is a bit of an “out on a limb” moment for me. I dream of being a writer someday, but until someone else is willing to hire me, I’ve decided to hire myself (the pay is measly, but I get to make my own hours and choose my own topics). These posts will make excellent practice for me, but truthfully, if no one ever reads them besides my husband and my mom, it will all still feel worth it for the joy of writing itself. Nevertheless, if someone else does stumble upon these missives, I welcome any feedback. Really, I mean that.

Enough said. Thus, I embark…