The Lowest Rung

This is the official sign that I'm at the lowest rung of Stage Motherdom. I'm now the proud owner of a Dream Duffel. This not-so-little gem is the hallmark of a stage mother. It's a duffle bag. It's a costume rack. It's an ice chest. It even has a stool.

I've resisted buying one of these for 9 months, but staring down the barrel of another dance season I knew I had to do something. The reason: Carly has to make a costume AND hair change this competition season. Yep that's right, we've got curly hair one minute and a bun another. And I sort of panicked. I mean, how could I do that with a couple of garment bags and a curling iron? SO- I started watching what other mothers use. This bag caught my attention.

First, I loved that I could use it as a screen for La Nina to change behind. I simply extend the telescoping arms, hang a towel and she's got a little privacy, not that she cares. Then there was the stool. Do you know how many hours I can end up standing back stage waiting for costume changes? It can be HOURS. Now, let's talk about the ability to organize. There are pockets for the shoes (sometimes as many pairs of shoes as costumes), pockets for accessories (no costume is only one piece) and a plastic case for make-up. This is a dance mother's dream.

Alas, the down side is the weight. It's easily 40 lbs empty. I have no problem moving it around empty, I haven't tried to move it once it's filled. But I've seen many a dad hauling these babies to the stage door, where the mom grabs it and takes it the rest of the away.

Of course, it also a sign, I'm finally accepting dance is La Nina's passion and probably will be for some time. She's already talking about next year and it's only going to get more complicated s time passes. Until she's old enough to handle the hair, make up and costumes, I'm her support team and I may as well be comfortable doing it.

Straight from the Mouth of Babes...

Tonight over dinner, the Dad was cracking himself up. The Magster brought up carbon dioxide and the Dad went to town with every bad environmentalist joke.

He called the Magster a risk to global warming because she was breathing out carbon dioxide, he told the Magster her emissions would have to be regulated, he even went so far as to tell her, "You're a green house gas producer every time you exhale. "

The quizzical look crossed the Magster's face and she innocently asked, "What's that?"

The Dad answered, "Green house gases are the gases that cause global warming."

The Magster thought for a minute, then answered, "Dad, does that mean your butt is green? Is that why it's green gas?"

The Dad had no answer for that comeback and I'll never be able to listen to the theories on the ozone layer again with a straight face.

New Eyes

If you have good eye sight or had good eye sight until you were in your 40's I hope you are grateful. I've struggled with my eyes since middle school when I put on a friend's glasses and realized you were supposed to see every leaf on a tree, not just blurry green things at the end of each branch. But I've hit a new low in my ongoing vision struggles.

When I finally got glasses my sophomore year of high school, I was thrilled to see. Yet, I quickly learned, glasses had their draw back. They steam up sometimes, slip off your face when you get sweaty and generally, get in the way of any activity from hiking to softball...and don't even think about playing soccer in glasses. Sunglasses are impossible unless they are prescription too. So, by my senior year, I was trying contacts.

But they too had draw backs. First I had to touch my eyes. Ick. Then I had to get used to having something in my eye all the time. Ugh. Then, I had to take care of them. Boring. Why couldn't I just have good eyes?

I even went so far as surgery in my quest for good eyes. In the late nineties, I had Lasiks. Honestly, it was the best thing I ever did. For a good five years, I had twenty-twenty vision. Yes, I had the halo effect at night for a year or so, but it went away. But I didn't care. I could see my alarm clock in the morning. I could wear regular sunglasses. I could snorkel without getting a special mask for blind people. It was a miracle.

Alas with my 40th birthday, my eyes began changing again and not the way you think. I didn't start stretching my arms to read things or complaining about the lack of light, street signs started getting blurry again. I was so bummed. I got glasses and I only had to wear them for driving for a while, but my eyes kept getting worse and soon I was wearing them all the time.

So, in the full circle leap of the century, I'm back to contacts. I think it's my 5th go round with contacts? Something like that. When I went for my fitting last week, I had the lenses in my eyes before the woman even started explaining how to do it. And man, it was great. I could see across the room. I could read the eye chart. Free at last from glasses again. I could dance with joy. Then a little problem cropped up.

I couldn't read the fine print on the brochure. Damn! If it isn't one thing, it's another. I'm happy to report, I passed the close up reading pass with the contacts in. BUT, it was close. So, what am I going to resort to now? Reading glasses with contacts? I tell you, getting old bites.

Getting Worked

Every Monday, the Magster takes piano lessons. She is probably the only kid in the country who begged me to take piano lessons and says that Mondays are her favorite day because it is piano day.

This Monday, she had music theory homework. Now, you have to know, when it comes to practicing the piano, the Magster plays probably 20-30 minutes a day without me or the Dad asking. But when it comes to music theory, oy vey, she's not a happy camper. She whines, she complains, she procrastinates. Her usual style is to wait until minutes before her lesson begins, then with much goading, she'll struggles through the assignment. She's only 6, so who can blame her for feeling reluctant about reading music?

Yesterday it was the typical pre-piano rush. As she sat at the counter, shoulders slouched and eyes downcast, I hovered over her reminding her the notes between the lines in treble clef spelled FACE and the notes between the lines in bass clef spelled ACES. She just couldn't keep things straight. After 20 minutes her head hit on the counter and she couldn't even remember the alphabet to G. It was too hard, she said. So, I took a big step back and quit pushing it. She looked at the book a few minutes longer, asked for some milk and before she could take a drink her teacher was at the door.

The best part of having in home piano lessons is I get to listen. So, I hear the teacher ask Maggie about her homework and she squeaks out it isn't done. I'm waiting for the teacher to bust her. I have to admit, I'm a little gleeful. Simply because with me she wasn't even trying. The teacher begins to quiz her. I'm in the kitchen practically jumping for joy.

"What's this note?"

The Magster, "A"

"And the second up from that note?"

"C"

"The second down?"

"F".

On and on it went. The darn kid didn't miss a friggin' note. She's firing off notes to the teacher like she's Mozart. She's got the bass clef right, the treble clef, she even throws in a flat. She's getting the note counts correct, even the rests. With me, I would have sworn my daughter couldn't spell her own name, let alone read a note of sheet music. Now she's ripping through her music theory like it's finger painting.

The ultimate was when the teacher asked her to site read a line of music and the Magster played it flawlessly. See if I ever try to help her with her music theory homework again. She worked me. Cearly, she doesn't need my help when it comes to music. After 5 years of playing the flute, I never could site read with any competency.

The Ten Meal Morning

My last food post was tongue and cheek, then today happened and I just had to continue the thread...

The sign of a good morning is when I've made 10 meals before I walk out the door: 3 breakfasts, 3 lunches and 4 dinners. This morning counted as a great morning. I made breakfast for the girls and I, lunches for the girls and I and put dinner in the crock pot. FYI: Since the Dad is an adult, he doesn't get breakfast or lunch, only dinner. He's a little bitter about my policy, but this is how life is for him. I can only do so much.

Dinner this morning was easy. A little chicken cacciotore in the crock pot: 4 thighs, 4 drumsticks, some tomato sauce, onions, kalamata olives (I know, I didn't have bell peppers or mushrooms) and garlic. Set the thing on low and behold, the traditional italian hunters stew is ready upon my return from work. I carefully set up the crock pot, layering the chicken and the sauce like the recipe described. I adjusted the temperature, plugged the thing in, then packed up the kids, the lunches, the homework, the water because La Nina has PE every Tuesday and headed to work with a hop in my step because I didn't have to worry about dinner tonight.

Tuesdays I almost always use my crock pot. La Nina leaves for dance 45 minutes after I get home from work, so it's really the only way I can feed us all so quickly. Sometimes I use leftovers on Tuesdays, but I find left overs work better in the week when I more frazzled.

At work, I have a standing Tuesday meeting with the same group of people. All of these people happen to be working moms and every single time we get together one of us is getting text messages, phone calls or emails we are sure our male counterparts do not receive. We've gotten questions about homework, the location of dishtowels, the status of babysitters and the reports on vomit when someone's kids has the stomach flu. No one in the room judges the recipient of these messages as at any moment you are likely to receive the next text. Today, it was my turn.

The first message arrived at about 3pm from the Dad: "Is the crock pot supposed to be hot?" I read this and thought...hmmmm...that doesn't sound good. Since I was in a meeting and technically supposed to be paying attention to the topic, not my phone, I answered "in a meeting". A second later, the next message came in: "Major crock pot malfunction. I'll deal with dinner."

With the second text, I was officially no longer listening to the meeting. Why would my stupid crock pot not work? I hope I didn't forget to plug it in again. What can he make in 30 minutes? Should I stop by the store on the way home? Couldn't he have checked it earlier? For crying out loud, what am I going to do with 8 raw pieces of chicken that have been out of the refrigerator for 6 hours? On and on my mind twisted like a limp piece of spaghetti in a strong wind. My great morning was ruined by a silly $30 appliance. How annoying. Depression and defeat set in.

Finally, I noticed there was a pause in the meeting and I looked around the room to find two sets of eyes staring at me like I was supposed to provide input on something, but what I had no idea. So I made up some semi-intelligent statement about doubling timelines and tripling budgets. I'm a project manager. Nine times out of ten, all people want me to tell them is how much it's going to cost and how long it's going to take. Of course, this is all they wanted to know as they carried on with me completely distracted by the disaster at home.

Once I got there, I discovered that my crock pot had indeed died. I guess I should be grateful it didn't happen Saturday night when I was using it for a party. The Dad had pulled a major advanced housekeeping trick in the kitchen and found some leftovers in the freezer. Dinner was saved by some frozen pork, Trader Joe's rice and a bag of broccoli. Thank goodness he was around this afternoon or it would have been canned soup and a couple of stale saltines for the four of us. He didn't gloat despite his success. May be I'll make him breakfast tomorrow.