Twenty-six

The Good Ship Amy, she's a-teeterin'.


I don't know if it's the last post, and my mind stretching to wrap around all those hungry adults sending their kids out to murder other children (whatever, so I'm not into sci-fi, I guess).


Or if its from trying to stretch my admittedly feeble brain around a neighborhood watch guy deciding the kid he sees walking home with candy in his pockets looks too scary to just be walking around on the sidewalk, plus what is it with that sweatshirt, so he handles that swiftly with his gun, and then goes home and (who are we kidding, you know I'm right about this next part) eats Hamburger Helper for dinner, then tucks into a warm bed for the night.


Um, last I checked "Neighborhood Watch" was like a clear-eyed liaison group who reported sketchy situations to the police so they can come handle it. Because, you know, it's their job and everything. I kinda doubt that Zimmerman's volunteer description said, Definitely kill whoever looks like they may or may not have Skittles in their pocket...it could be a weapon, and anyway, you know how crazy kids get when they're on sugar. Shoot on sight.


WTF?


And then I was folding laundry last night (the whole time I was thinking how easy it would just be to lay down right on top of it and go to bed) and I ended up SOBBING after getting sucked into the '19 Kids and Counting' episode (SPOILER ALERT for all of you people who watch the show religiously - no pun intended) where they go for an ultrasound to find out if their 20th baby is a boy or a girl and instead they discover the baby has no heartbeat. Here's me, folding socks and crying away, just sniffling and crying, because their baby girl (they discover she's a girl when she delivers her a few days later) is gone. Evidently it didn't matter to me that they already have a boatload of kids, poor little Jubilee Shalom had no heartbeat. And her name meant joyful celebration and peace, as if I wasn't already crying hard enough amongst the underwear and tank tops.


Are you crying yet? Maybe it's just me.


In any case, it could be hormones or PMS or lack of sleep or trying to figure out how to work full time and prep meals in advance that all four of us want to eat so I don't have to run from work to home to voice lessons for the girls and back home then back past the voice lesson class to puppy school in the pouring rain all the while checking work emails and planning Spring Break and wondering what I'm wearing this weekend and oh yeah, what the FRICK am I going to pull out of my ass for dinner since the flat iron steak I had in mind is not getting put on the bbq in the rain.


Or maybe it's the movies and the Florida boy and the twentieth girl that are all floating by the Good Ship Amy, wreaking more than a little havoc. On top of which, I've been fighting the flu for 5 days and all I want to do is curl up by the fire and sleep.


Hmm...crying...kids...boats...maybe a Disney cruise is what I need. Disney IS made up of the happiest stuff on earth (and also probably lots of crying kids on a boat). Obviously when we win the lottery tonight that will be the first thing I make a reservation for.


God, I can't wait. It will be the most expensive and fun vacation I have ever slept through.

Twenty-five

Innocence doesn't suck.

I was a naive kid and I think that's okay. I'm all for kids being kids for as long as they can be. Children are exposed to adult concepts at an earlier age now, and their little burgeoning minds are filled with questions and confusion more than ever before. I'm not unrealistic. I realize it's not all heffalumps and kittens until age 13. And I know it's impossible to put kids into an opaque bubble where they can be protected from the horrible things this world is full of (I've tried. They won't stay in there. Some excuse about needing oxygen.). Just turn the radio on and you'll hear all sorts of interesting lyrics that are catchy but wildly inappropriate for the nine-and-under set. In my car, Nine will belt out "Make me come alive, come on and turn me on..." with no idea of the meaning. The side of me that's on the cover of Bad Parent Magazine each month thinks it's sort of funny, plus I like Nikki Minaj and David Guetta too, so yes, Nine, I will pump up the volume. The responsible side of me is like, man, where's the Disney station when you need it.

I was in Boise, Idaho last weekend (which I love), seeing one of my oldest and closest friends and her family (who I love - whom I love? {don't start with me, I love them and I majored in design, not English, so whatever}), and I was lucky enough to be there to judge a state dance championship (which I L-L-LOVE). Some of the teams were fantastic, and some of the teams just made everyone want to say bless their hearts. But overall, it reminded me of how it felt when I was on a competitive dance team, and how many hours are devoted diligently to that opaque bubble.

When I was a part of that world in an active sense, I danced 7-9 hours a day at the peak. Combined with school, that doesn't leave a whole lot of time for getting into trouble. Plus I loved it, so I wasn't itching to get out of my bubble and into stuff I for sure wasn't ready for. And I was surrounded by several opportunities to do just that growing up in Los Angeles. But I just went to school, and went to dance practice, and came home to eat, do homework, sleep, and wake up to another day of the same.

(No this isn't turning into a dance resume and also? Disclaimer: Um. Allegedly there were boys and beers and other not so G-rated activities sprinkled in there from about 10th grade on, but there wasn't even a hint of inappropriate early on. It just didn't occur to me. All that busy bee dance practice and whatnot. And? No wonder my body has gone from rock star to rocky road. Who can do all that dancing anymore? Okay, I'm sure people can and do, but obviously, that ain't me no mo'.)

Back to the subject at hand.

Life isn't simple anywhere, for anyone, but in a town like Boise, with all those nice people and poised dancers and wholesome activities, it seems like it could be. I love that. I like a simple life, especially for my kids. I want their little busy lives to be mostly about field trips and math problems and swim medals, and fighting with each other and sleeping amongst pink lava lamps and stuffed animals and zen music (and dog hair). It's my job to teach them about the hard parts of life - death, disaster, mental and physical illnesses, etc. - in bits and pieces as needed. It's hard enough at this age and stage for them to wrap their brains around how come that friend wasn't nice to me today, and what if I'm allergic to something, and what does "diffuse" mean, and no I don't have a crush on that boy, doooon't teeeease meeee. I am not ready to expose them to the crazy scary parts of life yet, and I don't think they are ready for it, even though they beg me to let them read/see/do stuff.

Such as. The can of worms that is The Hunger Games. I know it's trendy, and people do love it, and I'm sure it's a fantastic piece of literature and breakthrough filmmaking. I'm a huge fan! 

Except I'm not. I'm out. I refuse. From my admittedly outside perspective, I see it desensitizing violence and devaluing life. And among children. I've never been one to enjoy watching a fight, and my heart sinks when I think of settling in to watch a child's innocence slipping away and into violence at the hands of an adult. Ick.

Granted, I'm the girl who can't watch "The Lovely Bones" because the thought of something like that happening to my daughters makes me feel like I want to crawl out of my skin, which isn't necessarily how I want to feel while I'm watching a movie. I'm supposed to feel transcended and entertained, and at the very least, so engaged that I forget for a minute just how much buttery popcorn I'm shoveling in.

Which takes me back to seeing The Hunger Games. In real life, we're all advocates for our children and we work to take those kinds of images out of their environment, so for me, it doesn't make sense to fill their minds and eyes with visions of children being forced to literally rip other children apart. Um, no. You're NINE. Howzabout you grab a snack and go play outside instead? Make up a silly language with your sister and try to teach it to the puppy. How about if the most traumatic thing I expose you to today is me making you finish your vegetables. Let's understand the social dynamics of being a pre-pre-teen and get comfortable with that before we start watching kids killing each other and being torn apart emotionally while doing it - all in the name of entertainment. I can think of at least a couple other things I'd rather my kids engage in for the sake of fun. (Witnessing the murder of a child probably isn't on that list.)

I'm not on a high horse, I wouldn't even know where to find one, and while I'm on the subject, I'm afraid of heights, so there. I am positive you wouldn't agree with some of the movies I watch or music I listen to. And you can call me a prude, but just know that if you do, it doesn't make you all creative and potent because Nick Bell beat you to it. He called me 'prude' in 7th grade on the blacktop. I was wearing my green/gray reversible gym clothes and I was only offended for a second because I knew enough to know he was probably right, even though I let him give me my first real kiss the year before. He tasted like carrots. To this day I don't know why.

So if not letting my kids read or see The Hunger Games makes me a prude, then maybe you and Nick Bell are right. And hey, if the gym shorts used to fit...

I'm sticking with the whole innocence doesn't suck thing. I'd rather hold onto that than a movie ticket for now. But feel free to bring me some popcorn to go. 

:)