Zoe vs. the Civilized Meal

My father was fond of the old phrase, "Children should be seen and not heard." Around dinnertime, when my sister and I were young, he'd take it out and shake the dust off it if either of us was acting silly.

He was kidding, mostly. He quoted the W. C. Fields version just as often: "Children shouldn't be seen or heard from . . . ever again."

My sister and I would roll our eyes, but we had to be careful he didn't see or he'd then channel Rodney Dangerfield: "No respect, I tell ya. No respect at all."

Next one to move gets it right in the giblets.

My sister and I were hardly wild, or loud. Our obnoxiousness was of the stealthy variety. Zoe can be stealthy as well, but she is also loud and wild. This has made going out to dinner with her quite the adventure. 

In early days, it wasn't a problem. If we timed it right, she slept. But as soon as she could walk, that was all she wanted to do. We'd try belting her into a high chair, but she'd soon escape her bonds like a young, non-Hungarian Harry Houdini.

The thrill of walking was the thrill of exploring. She tottered from table to table asking everything from "Who's that? " to "What are they eating?" to "Why are they eating?" Usually wrapping up with, "Hold the phone, are those stairs? Why wasn't I notified!?"

When I get loose I'm gonna
annihilate that buffet.

If there was a window, she wanted to go outside. And so for a while I spent more time just outside of restaurants rather than inside. At my table. Enjoying dinner.

As for Zoe's dinner, her preferences were limited. Chicken fingers and fries, or pasta. If I ordered pasta for myself, not wanting to squander a full meal on her, she wouldn't share. If I ordered something else, she wanted what was on my plate. Until she had it. And then she'd make a puke face and lunge forward as fast as an Amish kid on Rumspringa, barely waiting for me to proffer my hand---something that when I was childless I'd never envisioned doing so automatically.

Not just air guitar, electric air guitar.
(paulrichardjames.deviantart.com)

By the time we left, her part of the table and the floor beneath looked like a crime scene after a tsunami had hit.

Depositing a pack of wild Amish.

So Zoe strenuously objected to high chairs, but regular chairs didn't work either because she couldn't reach the table without climbing on top of everyone. The Husband and I would pass her back and forth, alternating bites.

Of our meals, not of her. She didn't learn that behavior from us and I'll pinch anyone who says different.

After she turned three she explored the restaurant's environs less because toys could now provide distraction. For a bit. Then she wanted to leave, usually before the entrees had even arrived. On one occasion we bribed her by saying when we were all done eating, she'd get ice cream. The rest of that meal was set to the music of her little voice piping, "Is it time for ice cream yet?" Eventually she got up and stood by the kitchen door, accosting the waitstaff who emerged by inquiring about the ETA on that ice cream. (Large tips were dispersed.)

The next couple of times we went out we were saved by two items generously donated by family: a portable DVD player and Frozen. The only contentious point with having her watch a movie at the table was how high the volume should be, but overall it was a success. In fact, mesmerized by Elsa and friends, she once fell asleep with her head on the table, inches from her untouched plate. 

I was positive we would soon have a socially acceptable little person when dining out. And I may never have written this post if not for our experience at brunch this weekend where she was seen and heard by all. 

Our first mistake, maybe, was neglecting to bring Frozen. And by "maybe" I mean definitely.

I had brought toys but lately the way she plays is very loud and very dramatic. Whenever she has two toys in her hand, they are bitter enemies and yell at each other, trash-talking gibberish and stamping around.

Take a good look. It's not gonna happen.

There were muffins on the table, so she ate one and then, naturally, wouldn't eat her chicken fingers when they came. Fine. We'd take it home. But that "kid's meal" she didn't eat also came with, you guessed it, ice cream, as the waitress perkily informed all of us. Zoe paused in her toy-slamming to properly absorb that piece of intel.

We could've said no, but it's better if she's ignorant altogether. Once those words are out in the world, you can't take them back. Just ask Pandora.

So one bowl of chocolate ice cream later, she was keyed up. Like the Energizer Bunny except wired.* By that point we were leaving and I decided to take her to the park to get the sillies out.

I didn't even bother cleaning the ice cream off her face, and later I noticed she had a little dark mustache on her lip. The effect was Hitleresque. If Hitler ever wore a pink helmet and rode a pink tricycle.

Eventually she crashed. Sugar-wise, not tricycle-wise, though there were a couple of close calls. And she actually went to bed early for once. At which point it was time for my ice cream. No sillies involved. Eating ice cream is serious business for this Mommy.

Zoe: 51; Universe: 0

*mixed metaphors intentional

Zoe vs. "King of Pain": A Song Parody

When I was putting Zoe to bed the other night, before I fell asleep (because that's what usually happens, while she continues her one-way gabfest), I asked her what she dreams about.

What? In my nightmares, she's the one
squatting on my midsection.

She looked at me, one of her attentive looks that said I'm actually going to take in the next words you say, and waited. I told her what I dreamed about, that sometimes it was based in reality and sometimes not. For instance, the night before I dreamt I was riding the subway (all too real), and the night before that I dreamt our cat Harley was doing long division (fantasy, most likely; I can't prove it since I don't know what she gets up to all day when we're gone).

So what did she dream about? Maybe her friends at school? I suggested. Or her Hello Kitty doll?

Zoe thought for a moment and then said, "A spot."

"A spot? What do you mean? Just, like, a spot?"

"A BLACK spot."

Okay then.

There are many possible interpretations, none of them good, but in any case they reminded me of "King of Pain" by the Police. So today I'm rewriting the lyrics, substituting queen for king.

Queen of Pain

(inspired by Zoe's dark and, literally, one-dimensional dreams)

There's a little black spot on your son today.

          My daughter put it there.

She tortured that same kid yesterday.

          She rules that day care.

She's streaking again; someone call a cop.

         She hates underwear.

There's no reason to nag, but her whine won't stop.

         She's my cross to bear.

I have stood here before, a mom who screams in vain

While my child turns in circles running round my legs

I guess I'm always hoping that she'll end this reign

But it's a mom's destiny to be the queen of pain . . .

King of paisley

There's a Cheerio trapped in our cat's front paw.

        My daughter put it there.

Watching Frozen again, want to end it all.

        I'll do it, I swear.

There's a toddler pulling me every which way

        My pajamas tear.

She never listens to a word I say.

        She don't even care.

[Repeat refrain]

There's a doll on the floor with its hair torn out.

There's a stain on my collar whose source I doubt.

There's a toddler sleeping straight across our bed.

She keeps adding more butter to that crust of bread.

There's a mom playing horsey with a broken back.

        Help, Obamacare.

Watching Dora again, she's Hispanic crack.

       Chiquita has flair.

There's a little black spot on your son today . ..

She tortured that same kid yesterday . . .

[Repeat refrain]

Queen of pain, I'll always be queen of pain . . .

[Fade out]

Thank you, Police. Someday I will turn my attention to your other songs that could also have been about Zoe: "Don't Stand So Close to Me," "Driven to Tears," and "Wrapped Around Your Finger," to name a few. Until then . . .

Zoe: 48; Universe: Zenyatta Mon Nada

Zoe vs. "Let It Go" from Frozen

Desperate to escape hearing "Let It Go"
for the umpteenth time, Doug jumps,
hoping the cord will mercifully break.

Hey, parents, you know that song "Let It Go" from Disney's Frozen? You may have heard it once or twice. And by "once or twice" I mean a bajillion times. And by "may have heard" I mean your ears are bleeding, and the only way you can rid your mind of Idina Menzel's constantly cresting power ballad is to replace it with whatever comes to mind first, even if it's 2 Live Crew's "Me So Horny."

What? Isn't that song always jumping the turnstile in everyone's brain?

Using popular search engine Ask Jeeves, I plugged in "My toddler is obsessed with 'Let It Go' from Frozen. Send help." And even without phrasing it in the form of a question---a style Ask Jeeves co-opted from Jeopardy! (bad Jeeves!)---my search yielded, well, lots of hits. So I know this is well-covered ground.

But you'll have to excuse me. You see, for many weeks I didn't know she was singing "Let It Go" since she'd only been scream-singing one line, and it was not "Let it go." It was "I don't care," which occurs in the song only once but which Zoe had fastened on for obvious reasons. (She don't care.)

So I figured she'd taken to belting out her apathy, aka, slapping new style on the same old substance. Like New Coke. I hadn't even taken her to see the movie, figuring she'd never sit through it. Her grandmother and aunt though, being both braver than me and more successful at Zoe-wrangling, took her.

And, prepare to be blown away: She behaved! I'd wager my cat's soul that if I had taken her there is no way she would've sat still. But anyway, my point is, that was why I didn't know what she was singing until she finally started adding other lines.

They all are willing to build a snowman with you
and then sit, gently holding your hand, till it melts.

Zoe sings "Let It Go" while lining up her toys. While taking a bath. While lying in bed at night before going to sleep.

Her other grandmother bought the DVD. And so now, 24/7, Idina Menzel's voice is in my head, dramatically rendering Elsa's pivotal moment in the otherwise icy silence of my mind.

You may be thinking, Wait a minute. This is not Zoe vs. "Let It Go." The little Evil Genius clearly loves the song. True. What Zoe really opposes is the meaning behind the song. That is, letting go as general policy. And I'm not referring to potty training here. At least not just that.

I'm talking about Everything. Objects. Ideas. Emotions.

For example, Objects: In order to clean her face each evening I must wait till she's distracted, both hands occupied, before I swoop in from behind with the washcloth, and I usually only get one swipe in before she yanks the cloth away and then won't let go.

Other objects she won't let go of: books (when I say we're done reading), my umbrella (open, pointy end advancing toward the cat), inappropriate attire (she wanted to wear shorts in a blizzard, probably under the mistaken belief the cold wouldn't bother her anyway). I've bellowed out a few "let it gos" myself while trying to wrest these items from her grip.

Next there are Ideas Zoe can't let go of. E.g.: She doesn't need sleep. It's reasonable for her to have dessert before, during, and instead of dinner. Or wear her favorite shirt every day even if it's covered in dirt, snot, and tomato sauce.

Tio Pepe's movie theater was known
for its understated marquee.

Finally, Emotions.

Sometimes it's like there's a storm inside her and she can't handle it. (Paging Elsa!) Tears will overcome her when she has every reason to be happy.

The other day we were getting ready to go to the park when I told her she'd get a surprise when we came back. Two exciting things! One of which she would not get immediately! Result: nervous breakdown.

She threw herself on the floor and cried. Refused to get dressed. Said she didn't want to go to the park. She just wanted to lie down on her bed. I lay down with her and through tears she told me a boy at school had pushed her.

Now, she often tells me, apropos of nothing, that this same boy pushed her. All she ever means is that she's overcome with emotions she doesn't understand and has to pin the blame on someone. And this boy at day care is her poor patsy.

In this case it was the excitement of going to the park combined with anxiety about going to the park, plus having to wait for a surprise she'd get in some uncertain future because, if we're going to the park, that's what we're doing, and later, what's that? Does anyone really know!? But anyway, it's not Now, which is The Time for Getting the Things!

I sympathized, saying that if someone pushes me I feel sad and I feel mad, and I don't like feeling that way. She mulled this over while playing with her hair. Then said she was ready to go to the park.

She gets similar emotional flooding from watching Elsa sing "Let It Go." Apparently the scene elicits such a powerful thrill within her that The Husband and I are not allowed to look at her when she's watching it. She needs to be alone with her experience (just like Elsa believed!). So clearly, no matter how much she loves the song and how much she sings it, she hasn't really absorbed the message.

Will she ever get it? I'm letting that go.

Zoe: 41; Universe: 0