40 posts tagged “petunia”

Petunias

Today, during their tennis lesson, Petunia's 9 year-old friend Bee asked her how often she showers.

"Once a week," Petunia answered.

"Ewwww, that's not enough," Bee scolded.

Petunia already had her grump on today -- which is always comical, as she's only in a foul mood maybe three times per year.   She left her court and stormed over to me.  "Mama," she spat, "What's the deal with someone asking me how often I shower?  It's not like I stink!"

"How often did you tell her you shower?" I asked.

"Once per week!" she rolled her eyes, and threw her hands in the air, and crossed her arms.

"That thing that we do every other night, or every night after swimming, where I fill the bathtub with soapy water..." I started.

"THAT'S TAKING A BATH.  THAT'S NOT TAKING A SHOWER," she more or less shouted.

I called Bee over.  "Bee," I explained.  "Just so you know, there seems to be some confusion over showering versus bathing.  Regardless, Petunia is cleaned almost every day.  I promise."

Petunia looked ready to choke me as Bee said, "Oh, I figured that," and skipped away.

"Mama," Petunia asked, "Why did you do that?"

"Petunia," I answered, "Let's think about this.  Do you like to hang out with smelly, dirty people?"

"I'M NOT SMELLY AND DIRTY," she pouted.

"Exactly," I said, "And now Bee knows that.  Telling someone you clean yourself once per week doesn't really convey that message."

"Whatever," she sighed, and, with another eye roll and a turn on her heel, she returned to her tennis lesson.  She hit tennis balls furiously hard and well.  I'm thinking that maybe I should piss her off before every lesson.  (Kidding!  Maybe.)

Just for kicks, much later in the day, I looked up the definition of Petunia on Wikipedia.  Since I've used the nickname "Petunia" for her pretty much since her birth, I figured that it was time to make sure that "Petunia" had no nasty secrets to it -- like only showering once a week or something.  And there appeared my answer to raising her up right: "If growing petunias, it's best to leave them in full sunlight and only water them when their soil is dry to the touch."

So, in other words, when the mud of the lake is caked on her feet, and the Har-Tru grit of the tennis court is sticking to that mud, and the zinc oxide sunblock has trapped all of the grime transferred from her hands over the course of the day, and it all dries, then it's time to get clean.  Okay, then.  Bathtime!

My Aunt Ess is in Afghanistan for a year as an attorney with the Department of Justice (after spending last year in Iraq), and she had the privilege of shaking future President Obama's hand.  My mom said that her sister's take on Obama was: "Nice ass, but I'm still voting for McCain."  Sigh...

*****

The kids, the au pair, Petunia's new BFF and I spent the day at Ben & Jerry's and running around Montpelier's state capital building, where there is this awesome portrait of former governor Howard Dean.  I love how Dean eschews convention by ditching the suit, tie and throne and, instead, had himself painted off-center with a canoe.  Does anyone else think this Presidential election has gotten dull?  I miss Dean and his barbaric yawp.

Where was I... oh, yes, today's travels reminded me just how glad I am that Petunia has a good friend up here now -- a friend that is the type that I'm happy to have over, to take anywhere we go, to spend the whole day with -- just a good, sweet girl like my Petunia is.  This friend, who we'll call Bee, is even patient with Dash.  Perhaps I should call her Angel for that reason alone!

In any event, the kids had a blast, and so did I -- and it's rare that I don't need three Motrin and some Goldschlager after a day-long outing with three kids, so that's really saying something!

*****

Lastly, Dash might have possibly decided that it's time to maybe start thinking about perhaps growing up a little bit. 

This came about because he woke me up four times last night saying "I want milk (which he prounces mee-yollk), I want milk..."  -- and I decided I've had it with sleepus interruptus.  We had a frank discussion in daylight about how there will be no more milk in bed at all, ever, because Mama can't get any sleep, and no sleep makes Mama crabby, and Daddy's gone, so crabby Mama means Dash might sleep in the bathroom closet if Mama can't take it anymore...

And I think he decided that the tile in that bathroom closet is cold and undesirable, because tonight, I didn't even bring up the no-milk-in-bed thing, and he calmly settled in and asked, "May I please have some water?"

I don't have to go to the fridge for water, so that's a big maybe, but let's see how often he wakes up and asks for it...

At least it's a step in the right direction.  Maybe.

To her father this morning: "I like it when I can buy lunch at camp, because Mama's not there, and it's private."

Mama's response: Yeah, that and you think you can get away with buying total crap to eat... But I'm onto you, sister, because I got a printout of your meal purchases.  Cakesters?  Let's see if you're allowed to buy lunch next year.

*****

To her father this evening: "We play this game for twenty points, you versus me.  Whoever wins gets to be the boss of the day tomorrow, and that's going to turn out very well for me."

Mama's response: Of course, because if you win, you'll think you're the boss, and if daddy wins, you'll still end up being the boss because he's a SUCKER.  Since you two have such a swell boss-day planned, can I have tomorrow off?

*****

Of course, not to be outdone, Dash had some last words for me before bed: "Mama, tomorrow I'm going to find some big, huge men, and do you know what I'm going to say to them?  PREPARE TO GET BEANED."

This morning, we all had a hard wake-up.  I spent last night in a tent in the backyard with Petunia, and my air mattress deflated halfway through the night.  Since I also kayaked yesterday, I already had a sore tail end, made no better by half a night on the hard ground.  But since I really enjoyed listening to the wind rustling our forest of tall trees as I watched the sun rise, I'm not complaining -- I'm just sore.

That left the Guv to wrangle Dash in bed all night since Dash wanted no part of sleeping in the tent.  The Guv claims that Dash slept from 9:30 - 4:30 uninterrupted -- but the Guv lay awake for a long time listening to Dash snore and fighting Dash's sideways turns and kicks to his ribs.  When Dash finally woke up around 8, I dragged walked him to the potty straight away.  He wanted me to lift him onto the big potty, so I did.

And I lowered his foot into the toilet. 

Splash!

When something happens that Dash doesn't like, he acts as though you ripped the head off of his favorite teddy bear in front of him just to be mean.  "All hell breaks loose" doesn't describe it.  He has a way of imposing guilt that would make my sixth grade teacher, Sister Mary Rose Anne, beam with pride. 

"I'm sorry, baby, I'm sorry," I said, washing his feet in my tub.

He got over it and asked to play Wii with his sister.  After a few games of slot cars, he turned to me and said, "Mama, you're scary."

"Why am I scary, Dash?" I asked.

"Because you're the only one to put me IN the toilet, Mama." 

Fair enough, Dash, fair enough.

Dash decided that he was ready for "The Big Man Pot" today.  He also called it Petunia's Pot -- but he's since decided that it's Dash's Pot, and no one else can use it.  It's a good thing that we're spending the summer in a four-toilet house!

Since he wanted to use The Big Man Pot but was fearful of falling in, I hit K-Mart today to buy one of these rings that make the gigantic toilet seat toddler-sized.  Dash pronounced it "gurrly" (how he says girlie), but climbed aboard anyway.  I think he might have sat on the cushie thing for about four hours today.  He was particularly proud of the splash his #2 made.  Then I was floored that he commenced an attempt to wipe himself...

... which leads me to a funny Petunia story.  [Side note: this is the kind of story that is probably going to tick her off many years from now, but, one day, God willing, she'll have her own kids and see the humor in it!]

When I was five months pregnant with Dash, Petunia and I joined the Guv on a two-week long business trip to London.  It was the Best Vacation Ever.  Petunia was just over four years old, and she loved everything.  We spent every other day in an art museum, and she never tired of looking at art in any form.  At the Victoria and Albert, we spent the entire day imagining how the ancient furniture might fit -- or not -- in our home.  She loved the collection of porcelain bunny teapots best of all.

The only downside of that trip was the noise of the weekend.  We stayed at the Sheraton in Belgravia, a convenient location from which Petunia and I could walk to Harrod's or Buckingham Palace.  On the weekend, though, nearby Sloan Street was a major draw, and it was majorly loud.  So, being the light sleeper that I am, I slept with some earplugs, after instructing Petunia to make sure and yell for Daddy if she needed anything (we all shared a very nice, large room, with her on a roll-away nearby). 

Well, she didn't yell for Daddy when she decided that she had to go #2 in the middle of the night, and let's just say that she was far from able to wipe herself adequately yet.  In an attempt to do so, she soiled every single towel, handtowel, and washcloth in the place trying to get herself cleaned up -- after she had overstuffed the toilet with paper, of course.  Her banging around finally woke me up, earplugs and all.

And when I got in the bathroom -- and I'm sorry, there's no delicate way to put this -- it looked like there had been a shit explosion.  I stood there, gawking, speechless, surveying the mess.  Petunia was so proud at herself for her valiant effort that I couldn't be angry.  At least it wasn't in our house, I kept thinking...

So after I showered her off, using a t-shirt of the Guv's to dry her off, I piled all of the soiled towels in the tub until borrowing a trashbag from the maid the next day.  I handed it back to her, full, and tried to apologize and explain, but guess what?  Hotel maids in England don't speak English either, and I have no idea what she spoke, because Spanish didn't work either.  It was a major bummer, because they had a major mess on their hands, much (but not all) of which I had attempted to clean up... So, to this day, I wonder if they understood and took pity on my four year-old or if they exacted revenge in some particularly unpleasant, undiscovered fashion.  Some things are better left unknown.

I spent a lot of time that trip teaching Petunia how to clean herself off adequately, so I told myself that I would try to teach the next kid a little better, a little sooner.  I never figured that he'd take over that teaching himself.

By the way, when I asked Petunia why she didn't wake me up, she said: "Mama, you need your sleep."  That's why there aren't a ton of stories on Rox and Roll about my good girl.  She has few antics to report -- and a shiny, golden halo over her head most days.

We've seen little evidence of moving-related stress in our easygoing Petunia.  She has always wanted nothing more than having her dad around has much as possible, and she understands that this move makes that a reality.  She can't wait to walk to meet him for dinner sometime, and she hopes that, every once in a while, she can do her homework in his office.  She's dying to meet her West Coast cousins and is generally excited about exploring California.  Her to-do list includes things like camping in Yosemite, checking out Tahoe and riding over the Golden Gate Bridge.

Dash, on the other hand, does not want to be from California.  He wants to be from New Jersey for the rest of his life.  "Mervont" (what he calls Vermont) is okay only because we could, and did, always go home to New Jersey.  In part because of the giant moving truck that took away all of our stuff, Dash is finally understanding that we don't live in America's armpit New Jersey anymore, and he's not taking it well.  Here are some examples of our very frequent conversations:

Dash, at least twenty times each day: "Why did we sold our house?"

Mama: "We sold our house because we're moving to California."

Dash: "When we're done with California, and when we're done with Mervont, then we move back to New Jersey."

*****
Variation 1:

Dash: "Why did the moving truck take all of our stuff out of our New Jersey house?"

Mama: "The moving truck is taking our stuff to our new house in California."

Dash: "Okay, but after they get there, and after they put the stuff in our new house, can they put it back on the truck and take it back to New Jersey?  Back to our house?"

Mama: "We're going to live in California, Dash, for a few years."

Dash, with increasing anxiety: "No, Mama, we live in New Jersey.  I want to be Wally and Beaver's neighbor.  Can we live at their house next time?"

*****
Variation 2:

Dash: "Where did my swingset go?"

Mama: "A nice family with four children bought our swingset because the people who bought our house in New Jersey didn't want it."

Dash: "Is my swingset going to be in California?"

Mama: "No, but there's a park at the end of our street."

Dash: "When we move back to New Jersey, can I have my swingset back?"

*****

I have to be blunt: this move wasn't hard for me at all.  From the looks of it, our idyllic little town, straight out of Norman Rockwell painting, was the perfect place to raise children.  And I loved many of the people and places there. What wrecked that dream was my husband's long commute and frequent travel, coupled with constant sickness (Dash's especially).  It makes sense to choose to live in a better climate where the Guv can walk to work.  We'll all be together, and well, in one place. 

But it does break my heart that Dash doesn't understand that.  He invokes our beloved neighbors, the Cleavers, almost every day.  Today, he even said, "Can Wally and Beaver move too?" and when I told him that no, the Cleavers were remaining in New Jersey, he cried his little heart out. 

I'll miss them too, Dash, but I won't miss not being able to breathe from spring through fall, or my constant worrying about air quality for your sister, or the repeat visits to hospitals in Philly to address your many issues.  I won't miss feeling like your dad's never home, so much so that I had to outsource my sanity to an au pair.  It's time to move on, hard as it is.  You're only three, but I bet you'll remember this move -- hopefully for the good that's coming more than the heartbreak you feel now.  We can always visit your beloved New Jersey -- but no, we're not moving back.

Today, I checked off one of the many things on my "Stuff I Must Do Before I Leave the Greater NYC Area" -- I took Petunia to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Inspired by our recent reading of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg, we trekked to the Met to find the objets d'art referenced in the book.  To boot, a friend of mine from college, whom I'll call Mo, located me on Facebook recently, and we reconnected after having lost touch some fourteen years ago; since Mo's in Brooklyn, he came into the Met to meet up with us.  While spending time with an old friend was the highlight of my day, here are some others:

En route to the train, a mad dash since Petunia had tap dance class this morning:
Mama, to Dash: What are you going to do for your men's day with Daddy?
Dash: First, Daddy, we have to go to the bank.  We have to see if they have a lot more money there for Hot Wheels and maybe Matchbox cars.

Post-train, hopping in a cab:
Mama, to cab driver: We're going to the Met Museum.
Cabbie: Okay!  West Side!
Mama: NO!  East Side!
Cabbie: MoMA's on West Side!
Mama: We're not going to MoMA, we're going to the Met!
Cabbie: I don't think I understand you!
Mama: Yeah, me neither!  Let us out, please!

In the second cab, after stopping at the cab stand to make sure I knew the exact address of the Met, just in case every cabbie on line was also on week one of both English classes and driving in the City:
Mama: Would you please take us to the Met Museum?
Cabbie: Sure, no problem.
Mama: Can you tell me where it is?
Cabbie: Upper East Side, 5th between 82nd and 83rd.
Mama: You're awesome.  We were just in a cab and the guy thought that MoMA was the Met.
Cabbie: New guy, probably.  Are you running late?  [He caught me glancing at my watch; it's 12:53, and we're scheduled to meet Mo at 1.]
Mama: Not really.  We're meeting a friend at 1, but we can be a little late -- it's around 15 minutes away right?
Cabbie: Don't worry, I'll get you there right on time.

After death-defying cab ride:
Kissed the ground and vowed to take public transportation for the rest of my life.

At the museum:
Petunia: You know, being in this museum is like going around the world!  There's stuff here from China, Japan, Egypt, America... This is awesome!

And that comment eased the blow of our learning that the objets d'art referenced in From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler are not, in fact, in the Met Museum.  So, we did not find Michelangelo's "Angel" sculpture, a fountain outside the cafeteria, the bed they slept in... But Petunia successfully imagined Claudia and Jamie climbing the big staircase, and she went on to wonder if they could've hidden in the Ming Scholar's Retreat successfully.  She didn't seem the least bit disappointed but, rather, seemed to soak in the wonder of that whole, huge museum.  The highlight of my day was reviewing our outing together on the train ride home, from Petunia's enjoyment of meeting one of my college friends who used to draw the Rugrats through to our taking in a street gymnastics performance while sharing some warm roasted nuts.   We are both exhausted from all of the walking but have vowed to take in at least one more museum before we head West.

And as I drift off tonight, I'll try not to obsess over having come to realize that I'll miss this quick and easy access to NYC more than anything else in this area.  My kids love going into the City, and I know fear that San Francisco won't compare.   At least the City that never sleeps will still be singing its siren song whenever we return, hopefully often.

The Guv has returned from his annual golf vacation, rested and (finally) victorious, cradling the trophy for the year.  He has many funny stories to tell, and tonight, I will enjoy hearing them.  That's right, I will enjoy -- a word that hasn't been seen in my last few blog posts! 

There is peace in our kingdom, for daddy is home at long last.  Dash, who was beginning to take on a rather sickly appearance, decided to EAT!  in celebration of his father's triumphant return.  He munched on some of his favorite Starbucks vanilla scones, Burger King french toast sticks, cheese pizza, katsu chicken, rice... he ATE!  And, needless to say, he was pretty much instantly a different child -- an enjoyable, happy, fun little boy with whom I wanted to spend time.  We kicked rocks all the way around the cul-de-sac.  We posed dead worms.  We counted three deer, one bunny, one squirrel, one robin, one very angry bluejay and too many dandelions.  We laid on the grass and looked up at the cloudless blue sky.  This is how every day with him should be.  Instead, this is one of very few days we've had like this over the past school year.  I will remember this day next time he's refusing to eat, because I need to believe that he eventually will eat.  I also need to figure out how to convince him that eating makes him happier -- because think about it: if YOU didn't eat for four days straight, wouldn't you be miserable (and make everyone around you miserable) too?  Thank God that soon, after his ear tubes are placed and especially when we hit the Green Mountains for the summer, he will be pleasant like this more days than not.  I'll play with dead worms all he wants to if he never cries at me in anguish all day again.  Too bad he's too young to make that (gross) trade.

So tonight, the Guv put Dash to bed, I read Petunia a very scary section of the fourth Harry Potter book (the Guv should expect a middle-of-the-night visitor over that one), and I held some guinea pigs, who have been sorely neglected as I've struggled to keep my head above water over the last few days.   It's a nice way to end one of the roughest patches of my parenting career.  And end it, we have.  Guv, get the Goldschlager!  Time to celebrate.

On Thursday morning, the Guv left for his 8th annual boys' golf vacation, this year to Barton Creek in Texas.  This trip with the same four guys (two from NY -- one of whom flew in from Dubai one year -- and one from CA) is the highlight of his year, and I am truly happy for him that he has this special weekend.  This post is not meant to detract from that at all.  BUT...

Seriously, though, this is the end of day three with no daddy around, when daddy is ALWAYS around on the weekend (just ask Dash, who reminds me of that fact every five minutes), and I'm losing my freakin' mind.  Speaking of Dash, he has been nothing short of horrible.  True, he doesn't feel well, with his umpteenth ear infection.  But I don't feel bad enough for him to condone his biting his sister repeatedly.  He was never a biter until two weeks ago, and now he bites and, if that doesn't make the bitee yield to his will, hits.  If this was behavior that came with sickness, he'd have been doing it for a much longer time.  He's just being rotten because he can -- because people are always doing his bidding.  Case in point, we're having leftovers for dinner tonight, and Dash requested chicken.  (BTW, chicken was not a leftover.)  I made the chicken.  He didn't want the chicken; he wanted rice.  I made rice.  (BTW, rice also was not a leftover option.)  He didn't want the rice.  He wanted Dora Yogurt.  I had one left.  He didn't want Dora Yogurt.  I strapped him into his high chair -- thank you, inventor of the five-point harness! -- and informed him that he would not get up until the Dora Yogurt was gone.  His response?

"Mama, you're punished," said with some serious power behind it.

Oh yes, Dash, I am punished.  I am punished every day, because that is the nature of being a mother -- but I am also rewarded more than I am punished, and that is why I let you live on days like today.  Days when I'm thinking Thank God the au pair works tomorrow so that I can take Grace to church, because I need to get out of this house (!!!) and I need some church to remind me of what a sage friend once said: "When you ask God for patience, he doesn't give it to you; he gives you opportunities to learn it."  And man, am I getting schooled right now!

Usually, I could say "At least Petunia is behaving," but even she is under my skin today.  It started with a comment in the car about how she and Dash both want a cat (let me make this clear: I DO NOT LIKE CATS), and how it sucks that people in our family are allergic to cats... and how, when they're all dead, we can have cats!  Oh. My. God.  Is that my dear, sweet princess talking, or was that the horror film child with the spinning head?  I am quite sure that Petunia understands the error of her statement now, and I'm quite sure that I know the talk SHE'D BETTER be having with God in church tomorrow...

And the day is not done, nor is this long weekend.  Because of a business commitment tacked on to the end of this trip, the Guv is gone until Monday night.  Thank God he said "no" to going to California to look at a house that I really like on Tuesday, because I'd surely be over the edge by that time.

These children, I love them dearly, so much it hurts.  Sometimes that's a good hurt, and sometimes, that's a bad hurt, like today, when I am punished.  I've lost my temper, forced a kid to eat by strapping him down (note, though, that it did work), and made another feel pretty bad about her very nature after wishing people dead so that she could have a cat.  (Clearly that's not exactly how she meant it, but I promise you that she will never have a cat in her life now.)  I'm pretty far from a perfect mother, but the Guv tells me often that "the perfect is the enemy of the very good."  And I think I've done "very good," because I've given them hugs all day when, on a couple of occasions, a good spanking would've done more good.  But I don't believe in that, so hugs it is. 

Hopefully, on Monday eve, the Guv and I can polish a golf trophy together, and I can hear about his trip and think about how nice a four-day escape would be.  One of these years, maybe they'll find a way to golf near Canyon Ranch, take the mothers of their children, and call in the grandparent cavalry to wrangle kids for the weekend.  Then, everybody wins!  Do you think it's okay to pray for that in church tomorrow?

Over the weekend, the Guv took the kids to McDonald's.  We have a general rule that Petunia, our tall child who's built more like Emme than Kate Moss, is allowed to have seven of her brother's fries (because she's seven) but has to order apple slices as her side dish at McDonald's.  (She's okay with that; she actually likes to eat her fruits and veggies.)  Dash, on the other hand, who's built more like Kate Moss than Emme, woofs down fries and chicken nuggets whenever the opportunity presents itself.  Here's our conversation about their dinner with dad:

Mama: Where did you guys go?

Petunia, groaning: McDonald's.  We always go to McDonald's.

Mama: What did you have to eat?

Petunia: A hamburger and fries and fruit-punch mixed with Sprite.

Mama: Uhh, fries?  What happened to apple slices?

Petunia: Yeah, I don't know what's up with that.

***

And Mama doesn't know what's up with that either.  On the one hand, we've talked a lot with Petunia about healthy eating, and she does eat more healthfully than any kid that I know.  On the other hand, I really don't want her eating fries.  I actually don't want Dash eating fries either, but, totally seriously, he couldn't live without them since he only eats five things, and forms of potato are the first three.  Pizza is the fourth, and lollipops are the fifth.  I wonder, actually, what other people do in this situation where one kid has more of a need than another to eat more healthfully than the other.  We have made great efforts to carefully manage Petunia's diet and to carefully teach her good eating habits so that she remains at a healthy height/weight balance.   But fries?  Soda?  McDonald's at all? 

I think we're going to stick with Whole Foods for subsequent Daddy dinners.  There, Petunia loves to raid the salad bar, making a beautifully colored plate that usually holds broccoli, carrots, Skyr yogurt, melon, granola, half an egg and maybe a little cheese.  This, when she can have anything in the store.  Dash can munch on pizza, and she chows down on granola with a big smile on her pink-cheeked face.  Perhaps I fret over nothing.  Or perhaps Mickey D's needs to get with the program and offer more healthy choices geared toward little kids.