If You Belonged Here

Polly Chases the Dream

I figure most people who find themselves in the business of procreating--you know, making babies--don't stop until they're in over their heads. In other words, they stop just after one kid too many. So long as the number of kids people have is manageable and fun, they just keep going because hey, this is great.

Until it's not so great.

So if you see someone really struggling with two, three, or even six kids, there's a good chance that they  had a handle on the situation just one kid prior. It's the last kid that did them in. Up until then, they could keep up.

Now, as you know, I only have one kid: Secret Lulu.

I like to say that Secret Lulu was born an only child. I always knew I wasn't cut out for more than one kid. Other people might not approve of my having just the one--and believe me, many didn't--but I was determined to be honest with myself.

Maybe not completely honest. Because I once mentioned the thing about me only being cut out to have one kid to Mr. Poppins and he said, "don't take this the wrong way, honey, but I'm not sure you were cut out for having any kids."

Right.

So I stopped after one. Which, in keeping with my hypothesis, is just one kid more than I could really conveniently manage. Not counting my imaginary kid, James. I could manage him no problem. He was really surprisingly easy.

Anyway.

One kid. And I totally adore her of course. Because not only was she born an only child, she was also born a godchild. As in she doesn't actually, so far as anyone can tell, have a legitimate eat-your-vegetables mother. Just a godmother.

Namely me.

Sure, I gave birth to Secret Lulu and all, but you wouldn't know it from watching us together. Seriously. You'd think that I was her childless aunt and today was the kid's birthday.

Every day.

Secret Lulu doesn't know any different. She thinks that's the way things are meant to be. Actually, she's really quite sure of it.

My mother likes to remind me that she always told me that one day my kids would walk all over me. And she did always tell me that. It's true. But it's not particularly helpful to bring it up now, is it? I mean, how about a little less gloating and a little more sympathy, right?

The upshot is that, while Secret Lulu does occasionally (name the occasion, any occasion) take me for granted, she also adores me with all of her little Secret Lulu heart. Sometimes, her adoration crosses the line into stalking, but on the whole it's quite nice. And while she won't share her candy with me, she is more than happy to let me eat her broccoli.

I take what I can get.

So this is the dream: one day Secret Lulu will be a lovely adult. Absolutely lovely. And she will think I was a wonderful mother and did an amazing job raising her and, really, have just not a single bad thing to say about me in therapy.

Ha!

I said it was a dream, people. But why not? I mean, it's the new year and time for self-evaluation and the compiling of the resolution list that, if adhered to, will bridge the gap between who I am and my  realization of myself as perfected and awe-inspiring being. Because, let's face it, if I lost fifteen pounds and started running every day and sending out timely correspondence, I really will disappear into a silver glow of light and become one with the universe.

For real.

In the meantime, it's New Year's Eve and I plan to party like it's 1999. Which was--and I firmly believe this is so obscene that, ACLU be hanged, it should be outlawed--over a decade ago.  Truly indecent. I don't know how we can go on in light of such disturbing information.

But in spite of the perverse and unchangeable fact that I am no longer twenty-four, I persist. With dazzle. I do. Because Secret Lulu needs someone, namely me, to provide a stellar example of what it means to live and love, to do and be. I want to be that example. I really do.

I resolve to be that example.

So that some day, when Secret Lulu is dancing around in a tank top and a feather boa, sipping wine and eating gourmet cupcakes with her best and favorite most-fabulous friends, she can say that she is living a dream come true because she always wanted to grow up to be just like her mama and her mama's friends.

Alice Plays Dirty, But Not That Dirty

I've played an embarrassingly high number of pub games over the course of the previous seven days and won exactly zero. Darts - bad aim. Foosball - too many handles, not enough hands. Pool - the stick is unnecessarily long. Ping pong - a person needs cat like reflexes to smack a ball that fast.

I'm a lot of things but a pussy cat isn't one of em'.

Throw a few beers and a vodka cranberry in that mix and I go from worse to worser. So I wear a mini-skirt and hope that if nothing else I can distract some people while I cheat a little to help my cause. 

I've never been good at any sport, except golf and that was once upon a long time ago. In fact, I'm not even sure what you can consider a sport and what you can't, really. Like golf. And ping pong. Sports?

Not a clue.

I generally say if it's televised on Sports Center in tournament or championship form then I'm calling it a sport and that's final.

My long non-career in athletics started the summer between my 4th and 5th grade years. I awoke at an ungodly hour, rode my pink banana-seat bike to the community swimming pool and plunged into a cold sea of failure each and every weekday morning.  I would then make the 3-block trek home, wet towel around my neck and silver handle bar streamers flapping in the wind, feeling hopeful about Saturday's meet against whichever rival swim team we would be competing against. Only to receive no better than a participation ribbon.

I should have known then. But my parents clearly found my flailing around like a hamster in the water way too amusing to discourage me from returning year after year.

In the 7th grade I made it through almost 15 minutes of cheerleading "pre" tryouts before blasting out of the gym and walking home in tears over my seemingly unique 10-year-old girl inability to perform a cartwheel or anything that resembled one.  The closest I got to cheer leading from that day on was in front of the full length mirror  on the back of my bedroom door.

Hey, a girl can dream.

I made the middle and high school basketball teams. Although, out of the sixty or so total games of that era, my total playing time could probably be calculated by a 2-year-old with an abacus.

Because I apparently just can't take a clue when it lands on my head, I tried out for volleyball and was (politely!) asked to keep score instead. Which I did and did quite well if I do say so myself.  I'm proud to report that we had a great season and I could rattle off stats to the school newspaper reporters like nobody's business.

Take that, Sports Center.

And then there was golf.

Oh, sweet golf.

I was good at golf, people, really good. Not hole-in-one good. Not full-scholarship-to-college good. But close. I'd love to go on and on about how fantastic I was at golf but just the mention of the word makes me think of the Tiger Woods shenanigans and how the hell have we not talked about that yet

In the words of Polly, that boy shamed his Mama. 

Go ahead, shake your head. I can't believe the nerve of that guy either. I'm bad at sports, pub games, I'm even bad at exercise but man-o-lordy, that Tiger Woods is bad at marriage and I'm pretty sure a mini-skirt isn't going to help him look good while, ahem, cheating. 

Tell me, people, what sports are you exceptionally bad at and why? And how about that Tiger??

Diosa, Trouble, and the Holiday Spirit

Trouble--that's how I refer to my oldest--is eight going on fifteen. Really, he'll be nine in April, but he has all the sass of a tween, all the angst of a tortured adolescent, and all the whine of a sick two-year-old. He has a girlfriend now.

She wants to kiss, he tells us.

I told him he can't kiss until he's fifteen. Blackstone, my husband, told him he can't kiss until he's thirty. Slightly harsh in my opinion. Trouble was nonplussed.

"You're just jealous," he responded, "because no one wanted to kiss you when you were eight."

Um. Burnnnnnnnn!

Have to hand it to him, kid's got style. And timing. It's seriously impressive. There's a part of me that can't help bursting with pride. It may or may not be the same part of me that wants to cut out his tongue with a carving knife on occasion.

No, seriously, I'm joking. And since DCYF is likely just one more pumpkin carving mishap away, let's keep it close to the vest. Especially since that last complaint from Trouble to his teacher about how abusive his parents are.

True story.

My point is, Trouble's already at that age. You know the one. The one where all innocence is about to be lost forever? Right now, he is still very much a wide-eyed, completely trusting, little boy. But while Trouble is still a goofy hair-free kid, I can already smell the stench that is puberty approaching on some of his friends.

This is Trouble's crucial Christmas year. He still believes, but it's tenuous, tainted with rising doubts, pockmarked with reality.

We brought the boys on the Polar Express ride this year. The Newport Dinner Train puts it on. It's about a 30-minute ride to the North Pole. Then Santa gets on the train and rides back to Newport with you, because who doesn't want to go to Newport?

Hot cocoa and cookies are part of the fare. You can order dinner off a limited, but reasonably priced, menu. And they do serve beer and wine, because let's admit it, the whole experience for parents is a little more enjoyable with a glass of Merlot.

The trip is nothing earth shattering, and certainly nothing as impressive as the movie. If you're expecting the waiters to dance on the ceilings and create tables out of table cloths, you'll be sorely disappointed. However, there are Christmas tattoos for the kids, activity books, a sing-a-long with maracas, and a visit from Santa himself.

And of course every kid gets a bell from Santa's sleigh to wear around their necks.

 

I wasn't sure how Trouble was going to respond, in all honesty. But he loved it. He's been telling everyone about how he took the Polar Express to the North Pole. It definitely helped reaffirm his belief. It was truly heart warming. I overheard Trouble asking his best friend if he still believed in Santa. Trouble rang his bell for him to see if he could hear it.

I know that as a kid, I kept believing in Santa until I was about twelve, way past the time when my subconscious knew the truth, but I was loath to let it go. I wasn't at all worried about not getting presents or anything like that, but somehow not believing in Santa was giving up on all magic, almost on hope itself. I couldn't let it go.

And in some ways, I've never stopped.

I still believe that beneath all the commercialism, toys, candy and food, there's something special about Christmas. Every year while I'm racing around decorating, baking, shopping, wrapping, writing out cards--I remind myself that this is all worth it. Sometimes--most of the time--I have my doubts. It just feels like another job. And the stresses of paying for all the presents, of how I'm going to get it all done, can induce a level of anxiety just this side of a heart attack.

And they're getting harder to shop for. They mark things in the Toys-R-Us catalog like X-boxes, iPods, DVD players, laptops, dozens of video games, motorized vehicles...

They're not getting all that.

Santa is generous. He's not a rich, immoral uncle with an endless bank account devoted to spoiling little boys to the point of  inducing brain damage, while most certainly degrading moral fiber and work ethic.

But I try to remember that it's not about all that at all. It's really about the gift of magic and hope you're giving to your kids. And if they're getting so big that nothing's going to do that short of a Lamborghini or some bling, well, you might as well realize that your little kid is not so little anymore.

So, I feel I better make the most of this Christmas with Trouble, while he's still full of hope and belief. Even if that hope and belief is almost lost in his constant complaining and sarcasm.

And there's always LT, Little Trouble, who's five. I've still got a couple of good years left in him. You know, if his older, wiser, and corrupted older brother doesn't spoil it for him early.

Ah, the joys of Christmas. I can hear the angels singing now.

(And, no, you don't need to point out where he gets it from.)