Beloved children's characters who should die

This post was inspired by a blog post from the Bad Moms Club : Calliou Makes Me Stabby. It made me think, which characters from cartoons and children's programming make me anywhere from annoyed to homicidal?

Calliou:
Pronounced ky-you.The author of that blog post had it right. Ugly kid. Ear-pieringly horrid voice. Stupid name.

Gerald from Sid the Science Kid:
You are not a rock star, kid. And I'm certain that your parents should take you to be evaluated for Ritolin. When Teacher Suzie says it's rug time, sit the hell down.


Curious George:
Doesn't anyone care that this monkey screws everything up? He's touching people's food in restaurants, he's dicking around with instruments at a train station, he's always making a huge mess everywhere. The yellow hat jerk always just smiles embarrassingly and apologizes, as if that is enough when your monkey lets zoo animals out of their cages. And why does he visit the zoo? He's a monkey. It would be like me staring in my neighbor's living room window.

Abby:
I know I'm not making any friends here. But it's as if some Sesame Street executive was sitting around a conference room with a bunch of marketing people saying, let's create a monster specifically for what we believe a girl is and should want to be. She has to be pink and purple. There must be sparkles somewhere. She should be wearing makeup. Oh, girls like fairies-- make her a fairy. And Abby is in the top ten names of the decade, so little girls can relate to it. Wait, could you make her voice a little more irritating? Yeah, that's it!

Mr. Lopart from Handy Manny:
Um, what the hell is wrong with this guy? He lives with him mom and has picnics with his cat. I think he owns an ice cream shop or a candy store. Is he registered?









Luckily, Norah really is only in love with Abby, and she has just average fondness for the monkey. I think mostly because she likes to dance like a monkey. I think once she hits Hannah Montana age, we'll just get rid of TV all together.

Yours and Mine

Now that Norah has mastered the art of "MINE!", she has started to take notice of what belongs to others. And she really doesn't like it if someone has something that she has deemed belongs to another. Especially if that object belongs to Mommy.

It started a month or so ago. Ryan slipped on my flipflops, which I wear embarrassingly too often, to run out to his car. Upon seeing this, Norah dropped her Weeble and screeched, "Mommy shoe!"

Ryan, being Ryan, either didn't hear her, or wasn't paying attention. Norah took off after him and grabbed his leg.

"MOMMY! SHOE!"

He stopped and looked at me, confused. She bent down and tried to pull off the flipflops and he braced himself against the wall so as not to topple over. He dropped them both off of his feet, one by one, and she grabbed one and ran to me. She took the flipflop and set it on top of my foot.

"Mommy."

"Yeah, Baby?" I said, putting on my flipflop, as I could tell she was waiting for me to do so.

Then she went to retrieve the other one.

"I guess I can find my own shoes," Ryan said, laughing. I laughed, too. It was nice having a protector.

Then it happened a few days later. It was a weekend Ryan didn't work, and it was his day to sleep in until-- wait for it-- 8:00 am! Around that time, Norah started getting anxious to see him, so I said, "Let's wake up Daddy!" She tore into the bedroom, only to find that Daddy had rolled over onto my pillow, blissfully sleeping away. Norah stopped in her tracks.

"MOMMY! MOMMY!" she yelled, and tried to climb up on the bed.

"What is it, Baby?" I asked, slightly concerned. I hoisted her up on the bed as Ryan half sat up, groggily. She made her way through the covers on all fours and grabbed the corner of the pillow.

"Mommy!" she said, right in Ryan's face.

He blinked. "Sorry?"

"Mooommmeee," she said slowly, as if to help him understand. He shifted himself off the pillow, and Norah tugged on it with all her might, finally releasing until it was just resting on top of her.

"Thank you, Silly Goose Egg."

My stuff isn't the only thing she protects, although she probably knows my stuff and Ryan's more than anyone else's (she tried to get behind the counter at the eyeglasses place when the gal was adjusting my frames! "Mommy! Glasses!"). She knows Ryan's favorite blanket. Hannah's dog biscuits and yellow chew toy. Papa's measuring tape and miscellaneous tools. Nana's shoes and purse. Don't mess with other peoples' things, or you will hear about it. And then she will deliver your objects to you, as if you've been wronged.

She needs people to have their own stuff, and she also needs to have things the way they're supposed to be. Cookie Monster does not belong in Go Go's swing. Bear Bear does not go on Daddy's head. Not exactly... flexible. Or as my sister would say, she's OCD. I really, truly hope not. That's actually kind of a crippling diagnosis. Hopefully her fastidiousness will wane later in life, as Ryan and I aren't exactly sticklers on the everything-in-its-place philosophy. Until then, Ryan wears his own flipflops and I wear mine.

Working at Home

A few months ago, I started working for an amazing company: Atomic Learning*.

This job allows me to work from home, as I'm recording video tutorials and I need quiet. I'm really quite lucky-- interesting work, super cool co-workers, fun techie stuff, still education-related, and I get to wear sweatpants. So, what's the problem?

People do not understand what it means to work at home.

Here are my top three most annoying misconceptions I encounter:


3. "Come on, you can do that whenever. You work from home."

Here's the deal: maybe some people can do stuff whenever, but I do keep office hours. That means two small breaks during the day and a lunch period. I am on at 8 and off at 5. Yes, there is some flexibility if need be, but these are my regular working hours.

That doesn't mean that if Ryan is off and home with Norah, that I will be readily available for feedings and diaper changes (i.e. anything that isn't fun). I love having Norah run to the office and give me a hug during the day, and being able to play with her on breaks. But I can't just up and stop working because someone stuck their hand in the toilet and needs washing.

Also, that doesn't mean I can just go shopping, take a 2-hour lunch, or just take a half-day whenever and work at night. And I don't want to work at night. I want to sleep.

2. "Oh, you 'work from home,' wink, wink."

People automatically think you're watching TV, sleeping, or playing games online all day long. Nope. Actually working. Yes, AL employees do have fun. But these are some majorly hard-working people as well. I am proud to be one of them.

1. "It must be wonderful being home with your daughter and work at the same time!"

Well, it's not. It's impossible. People say this to me all the time, and I think either they don't have kids or they have forgotten what it's like. Which is fine, but it makes me feel guilty and horrible.

Norah is 20 months. I can't even take her grocery shopping anymore. She's the Tasmanian Devil.  She requires constant attention or she'll find something sharp or poisonous or esophogous-sized. I can't look at my computer screen for more than 60 seconds.

So, Norah goes to daycare Tuesdays and Thursdays, Nana's Wednesday, Grammy's Friday, and Ryan has her Mondays sometimes at home, if I'm not recording, and sometimes at a grandmother's or the park or something.

And even though I am fully aware that caring for Norah and working simultaneously is not an option, every time I hear someone say this to me, I feel terribly guilty. A former co-worker whom I didn't really know was gushing over my good fortune right before my last day at the college, and I felt so bad that I actually just smiled and nodded. I felt pathetic.


A lot of the time, though, I do realize that I'm doing what I need to do. Norah is happy. I would feel guilty about something no matter what. I think that's just a mother thing... guilt. And I'm really lucky to actually like my job. Misconceptions about working from home are just another thing that I need to let roll off my back. And that's the life of a parent-- and lots of non-parents, too-- people make judgements about you and you decide whether or not it's going to tick you off. I just need to be a little more resilient.

*Atomic Learning is a company that provides technology training and solutions to schools and universities (and companies, too). Wanna know how to use Word 2010? Go to AL. Photoshop? AL. Blogs and wikis? You know it. And I get to be one of the people who creates the training! Each tutorial we make is one to three minutes and captures just one little task. So you don't need to view a 30-minute seminar just to learn how to do a hanging indent. It's awesome.

Greatest. Day. Ever.

The Liberty Bell Chair is officially out of my house.

Background: My father bought the ugliest chair in the history of furniture at an auction, and it soon became the property of my husband, through no fault of my mother, so she says. Let me see if words can do it justice: The color scheme is orange-y rust, brown, olive green, and brown. The arms are scratched up wood. The patter is-- now really try to see it-- historical icons, such as the Mayflower, and, you guessed it, the Liberty Bell. It's old. It's faded. It can't even be cleaned anymore. It sounds like a cannon exploding when you recline it. And twelve years I've had to look at this piece of shit. And finally, finally, it's gone.

Well, sort of. Ryan has yet to bring it to the dump. Sigh. Baby steps.

Is that what she's wearing?

Ryan is color blind. I'm not really sure how it works, to tell you the truth. What I do know is that monochromatic colors seem to kind of bleed together for him. Reds and oranges are pretty similar. Blues and purples. If a color is pretty muted, it just looks grey to him.

I used to be fairly sensitive about it. Making fun of someone's disability is one of the douche-iest things you can do. But then one day, this happened:

"Are there no clean t-shirts in this house?" Ryan is notoriously bad at finding things that are in obvious places. Like in a drawer.

"Your purple shirt is clean," I said, trying to be helpful.

"What purple shirt?"

I rummaged a little and pulled out the shirt triumphantly. "This one."

Ryan blinked. "That's... purple?"

"Yeah."

He took the t-shirt in hand and looked confused. "What color is this stripe?"

I knew that this wouldn't end well. Because he had had this t-shirt for years and years. He has worn in a million times. Obviously he didn't know that he was wearing a purple shirt with a pink stripe on it. I didn't think of it. Who the hell cares if a shirt is purple and pink? Well, Ryan does, apparently.

"...Pink."

"Oh, that's it." He chucked it in the trash can.

Now I can't not make fun of him.

But I try not to be a shrew about it. He's really trying hard. He has Mondays off, and that is Daddy/Daughter day. He is in charge of dressing her. This is where I use every strength of my being to remind me that it doesn't matter what she's wearing. She's clean. She's happy. She's warm/cool or whatever the weather dictates. It doesn't matter....

Of course, sometimes I fold under pressure. For instance, if they're going out in public. I try to be subtle about it, like, oh-- she got a little stain. Let me change her. Or, I think she needs something warmer. Or I'll lay out an outfit on the couch for her, hoping he won't be offended. But for the most part, I really try to let it go.

Sorry, Daddy

Recently it's become a little game. Will Daddy pick out a cute outfit for Norah? We've been popping her in front of the webcam, letting a couple friends be the judges. I think I'm undefeated.

But I know in the grand scheme of things that it doesn't matter. She's not going to have less fun. She's not being harmed. She's just a toddler with an unattractive outfit. So, this is a good lesson for me-- letting go of the control freakness and just enjoying the ride.

Fun and Fear

Norah and I went to the Benton County fair with Sara, John, and her little pal, Samantha. It was here where I discovered I may never actually have pure, unadulterated fun ever again.

It's not that I don't like a good ol' county fair. Quite the contrary-- I love animals, fried food, beer, and midway games. I'll drop $20 without a second thought if someone gives me a dart and some balloons to hit. Sure, the prize may be a tiny stuffed alligator that cost .03 to make, but I love it. In the past, it was a great time to get together with friends, listen to local bands, and drink cheap beer. Now it's a different story.

And it's not as if Norah didn't have fun. I doubt she could have had more fun had we gone to Disney World. She desperately loves animals and with each new one she saw, she got the same amazed-aghast-thrilled look on her beautiful face. Mouth wide open, eyes searching for me as if to say, "Are you seeing this?!" and laughter that could barely even escape from her throat. I couldn't even feel my normal pity and sadness for the animals trapped in the cramped petting zoo in the sweltering humidity and heat because Norah was so flippin' happy.

Girls having fun, me worrying about duck bites

John took a rabbit out of a little rabbit house for Samantha and Norah to see. Was this allowed? I highly doubt it, but John usually doesn't care about details like that. Sara took pictures. Soon John was swarmed by happy children wanting to pet the bunny. He also took out a baby duck, which was beyond adorable, and the girls quacked at it.

The girls rode ponies, and again, even though it was hot, the ponies had probably been walking slowly in a circle all day in the heat, and they had to endure miserable little kids sweating and dripping ice cream on them, I pushed those thoughts out of my head and tried to memorize Norah's look of pure joy. She got off the pony and politely said, "Bye, Horse," and gave him/her a pat on the nose.

So what's my problem? The babies had a blast. I was there with my pals. There were minidonuts. Utopia.

But I realized that night, as I tried to fall asleep, that I will always and forever be in a different state of mood. I will never be able to let go and have fun. Ever again.

I had a good time, yes. But there is always a very prevalent feeling of alertness and worry. No matter if we're at a county fair in central Minnesota or camping or shopping or at the splash pad or wherever. I have two streams of thought above all else-- Norah is having fun! She is so cute and awesome! This is great! and then I have the low drumming of strangers... keep her in sight... animal bites... dirty... too many people... weather... too warm/cold.... hurt... danger... 

Even camping I had felt like this. The whole time. I wondered if my companions felt the same, if Ryan did. He was happily giving wagon rides to the kids and picking wild flowers. I was doing the same sorts of things, but also thinking bugs... injuries... sun... weather... keep her in sight... I don't know that one second went by that I just felt... content.

Even at Play Land at the mall. She's having a blast with the other kids. I'm thinking Why is that freak sitting over there looking in here? Those kids are running too fast. They're going to run over Norah. Can she get a foot disease in here? These kids look dirty. 

It's a dark and heavy feeling in my chest. A dread. I'm ok when we're playing in our living room. I'm ok at Sara and John's or my Mom and Dad's. But I feel like I should be carrying a first aid kit (or just go back for some kind of medical degree), have my black belt in karate, and be concealing and carrying when doing pretty much anything else. Because there's a real threat at the Waite Park Public Library. Psycho.

Does this ever go away? I may have to call my mom and ask her if she has ever had fun in the last 32 years. Maybe I don't want to know the answer.

Full of It

I'm slowly starting to realize that Norah is a little person, rather than just my little snuggle monkey. She surprises me every day with her thought capacity, that is, what she all understands and how she makes decisions and her favor over one thing or another. It's amazing. I know it's kind of dumb, but it's difficult for me to think of her as a little person, rather than an I'm-hungry-tired-wet-comfortable-uncomfortable-amused little baby. She's becoming so much more complex.

And thusly, she has finally discovered that her mom's full of shit.

We were coloring the other day. She just learned the word "yellow," and now declares every color to be yellow. She triumphantly held up a crayon and pronounced it yellow, and I gently told her the real color. Then she went for another color.

"Yellow!"

"That's red."

She looked down, unfazed, and grabbed another. "Yellow!"

"Orange."

She dropped it and picked up a turquoise crayon. "Yellow!"

"Blue, Baby."

She picked up the blue one. "Yellow!"

"Blue."

Then her little brows knit together. She still clutched the blue crayon, but looked down with a frown and snatched up the turquoise crayon. Then she looked at me accusingly.

I had dumbed down "turquoise," thinking the word was too hard to learn right now. And now she looked at me like I was either screwing with her or I was an idiot.

"Yellow..." she muttered. Then she took the crayons and scribbled side-by-side, one in each hand, as if she was examining them more closely. Could Mommy be right? Could they both be blue?

I stammered, "See, Honey, they are both blue-ish. They're different shades of blue."

She lost interest immediately when Ryan came in from the kitchen, thankfully, and ran to him. Was this it? Was this the end? Had I lost all credibility? Was I no longer Mommy, Queen of the Universe?

If she sees a butterfly flitting around the yard, she squeals in delight until it disappears. Then she quickly turns to me with a deadly serious expression on her face and says, "More," while smashing her fists together (the baby sign for more). As if Mommy could wave her arm and make butterflies appear.

She points to all the images in all her books and looks at me expectantly to name the item. Curtain. Moon. Mouse. Clock. As if I'm the keeper of all the words.

She calls to me in the night when she can't get back to sleep, and knows that a few minutes snuggled warmly in Mommy's arms will do the trick. The Sandmom.

And now? I'm either a liar or a dumbass. Not very good options. But at least now I know that she's more clever than just a baby, and deserves to not have me dumbing things down for her. And hopefully she's still trust me enough to ask me what letters or numbers she sees. And to summoned more bunnies in the yard.