OK, random topics. But it’s because I’m exhausted and my mind is a mush of random thoughts. Also, the photo has nothing to do with the subject of this blog. It’s just kind of cute.
And I’m Off…To Work
This is a picture of Chloe jumping for joy at the prospect of my imminent return to work, because when Mommy’s at work, Mommy can’t bug her. Yep – it’s official now. Today was my first full day at the new job. So far, so good, at least as far as the office goes.
Attack of the Killer Sophie
Sophie was in one of her funny moods tonight. Her word of the evening was an emphatic “no” every time we tried to talk to her, laugh at her or smile at her. She circled the dining room table like a shark, waiting to pounce on us for any perceived slight, or any hint that we were enjoying ourselves at her expense. Our daughter is extremely amusing, so she had occasion to pounce quite a bit.
My Last Day with Sophie
The title of this posting is a little melodramatic, I admit. But as I was contemplating what I was going to write about this evening, it occurred to me that today was my last full day with Sophie before returning to work full-time on Monday. Wow.
Hip Hop Mama
I finally returned to the gym today, but I wasn’t really in the mood for my usual 40-minute torture workout on the elliptical machine. I noticed that there was a hip hop class and I was intrigued. Perhaps inspired by my two girls’ dancing to the “High School Musical” soundtrack every night, I decided to swallow my pride and give it a try.
I am not a good dancer. I am able to clap to a beat, but that’s about the extent of it. My husband and I took dance classes together before our wedding. Ballroom, rock ‘n roll, you name it. The lessons were useless. Our wedding waltz was charmingly laughable. His excuse was deafness in one ear. I had no such excuse – my ears are fine.
The class this morning was filled with women of all colors, young and old, thin and fat. And looks are truly deceiving. Some of the women you would think least likely to be able to carry a beat were amazing dancers. The 40-something Jewish mom, a Rubenesque woman with greasy hair pulled back in a ponytail, a tiny Asian woman… It was a celebration of girl power, for sure.
We danced (I’m using that word extremely loosely) to Timbaland’s “The Way I Are.” We learned about 15 different moves. And I realized that I have absolutely no coordination. The woman in front of me was a natural, and I tried to follow her lead. But as soon as I mastered a few steps, I was rarely able to remember what came next. The teacher initially threw watchful glances my way, but after about 1/2 hour, she had turned her attention to more promising candidates. By the end of the session, my mind was mush and my body ached all over.
In spite of my fatigue and awkward moves, I felt exhilarated. The thing is, I won’t be able to return to this class any time soon, since I will be tapping my feet to the beat of computer keys in my new office starting next week. However, the gym offers a beginners’ hip hop class on Saturdays. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
Chloe’s “Buddies”
When I was about 12, I cuddled a different stuffed animal every night. Using a list I had created, I kept track of each animal’s turn so that none of them would feel left out.
I mentioned this anecdote to Chloe a few weeks ago. Evidently, my obsessive-compulsive behavior inspired my big girl, because last week, she created her own list. And she laid out her animals just so, using Sophie’s old baby blankets for both covers and mattresses, and tissues for pillows. Her toys sleep dormitory-style on the floor.
Because the animals are on the floor, they often get knocked around. Every evening, Chloe lovingly ensures that they are back in their proper tissue beds, cozy and happy.
Her m.o., however, is a bit different from mine. Rather than limit them to cuddles at sleeptime, she has daytime buddies and nighttime buddies. And two separate lists, with all of the animals’ names meticulously written down. She’s very proud of her system, of course.
The apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree. I think I’ll refrain from telling her, at least for another 10 years or so, that I had a system to categorize my record and book collections.
New Year, New Job
This is it. My first day of work is tomorrow. Even though I’m only going in for a few hours, and my first full day isn’t until next Monday, it’s the end of a mini-era in our household.
Top 10 Things I Won’t Miss When I Return to Work
Note: It goes without saying that I won’t be totally off the hook when it comes to the following crimes against Mommy, since mornings, evenings and weekends are still fair game, but I’ll take whatever reprieve I can get.
10. Waking up in the morning without set plans for the day (which sometimes was actually a nice thing, but mostly not).
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Top 10 Things I Will Miss When I Return to Work
10. Being able to wear jeans everyday.
9. Free time! In particular, having the luxury to really appreciate these last few months at home with the girls.
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“I Want to Be Sexy!”
Earlier today, our New York City family adventure included a stop at the legendary Ricky’s Costume Shop, a warehouse containing the largest Halloween costume collection I’ve ever seen. It was impressive, and the kids got a kick out of all the disguises.
Chloe was particularly enthusiastic. At one point, she took me to see a costume that she would have liked for herself. I pointed out a couple of problems with it. The first being that it was a woman’s costume, not for a child. Second, it consisted of a bra and a nanoskirt. But because it was so tiny, Chloe probably thought it was for girls. When I told her the costume was too sexy for her, she said, “But Mom, I want to be sexy.”
WHAT?!?!?!? I didn’t have an immediate response to that. After a few seconds, I replied, “You’re too young to be sexy. You’re too young to even think about the word sexy. You are six years old and an adorable little girl. Sexy is for grown women.”
“Mom, what is sexy?” I breathed a sigh of relief. But then I realized I had another problem. How to explain sexy? For a fleeting moment, I considered giving her a quick tour of the XXX-rated accessory section in the store. OK, not such a great idea. Instead, I made a feeble attempt to define “sexy” in a way that would cause her to reconsider her aspirations.
My monologue was clumsy, at best, and went something like this: “Chloe, you don’t want to be sexy yet. Men like women to be sexy. Little girls are not allowed to be sexy (I didn’t mention the child beauty pageant exception). When you’re 30 you can be sexy. Besides, Santa Claus does not let his elves deliver presents to sweet little children wearing outfits like that.”
Here’s a close version of the
costume she coveted. It’s called the “Sexy Santa Velour Set.”
costume she coveted. It’s called the “Sexy Santa Velour Set.”Shoot me now.