Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Parenting FAIL

I don't know why it continues to surprise me, but it does, every time:

Kids latch on to the absolute LAST THING you want them to repeat.

Say ONE bad word, and it becomes the repeated mantra for the next week. With, like, your inlaws or the Sunday school teacher.

So, yeah. <sigh> Color me surprised.

I'm a musically inclined person. I sing, write songs, listen to all kinds of music, and dance if no one is around to be traumatized or trampled. Monkey's dad (Daddy Doodle) is also very musically inclined; he plays guitar, bass, and drums, and is currently rocking out as a member of our church's handbell choir.

My family has a long history of talented singers. Both my parents, my late brother, and assorted other relatives have great voices. Daddy Doodle has a family history of musicians and singers, and his great-grandfather used to own a music store back in the day.

Thus, genetically, it's a given that this kid's alllllllllllll about music. She loves dancing and makes up her own songs all the time.

Monkey can sing pretty well for her age-- stays relatively on-key, and remembers lyrics REALLY well.

Maybe, uh... TOO well.

The other night, we had a get-together for the aforementioned church handbell group as an end-of-the-season celebration. Families were invited to join the ringers at a restaurant for a fun dinner out.

My job was to pick up Monkey from GoG (Gift-of-God = our sitter) and go meet Daddy and the bell ringers at the restaurant.

This should NOT have been complicated. Ha ha.

However, I was told the meeting time was 6 PM. That meant boogie-time to get me from work to GoG's, then through rush hour traffic to the restaurant.

We got to the lot at 6:05.

I'm thinking, "OK. Close enough, with a toddler and rush hour." Patting myself on the back, I park the minivan.

Didn't look like anyone I knew was there yet, but this group is even tardier than *I* tend to be, so that's no big surprise.

Monkey ate @ GoG's so she's set, food-wise. I'm feeling confident. We can chill.

Have you ever attempted to sit in a parked vehicle with a toddler strapped in a car seat, and nothing to look at or do?

Seriously, FIVE minutes went by and I was sure it had been at least thirty.

I decided to let her stretch out a bit. Got her out of the car seat-- we were PARKED and NOT GOING TO MOVE anyhow, so it's safe-- and brought her to the front seat to hang with Mommy.

I plopped her in my lap. The engine was still on so we could keep the heat going.

Because, it's June in Chicagoland and yes, sometimes that means you need HEAT in the car. Global warming, my rear.

Sitting in my lap, Monkey promptly reaches out and tries to use the windshield wipers. AGGGH! No touch!!

Monk, sweetly: "Is this how you dwive?"

Me: Sort of. This is where BIG PEOPLE sit to drive, when they're going to drive-- but we're NOT driving because we're already here, and if we WERE driving you'd have to be in your seat.
She looks around, and starts poking at buttons.

"*I* can dwive."

Me: No, dear, you can't. And, that's the radio. So stop asking. We're not going anywhere except INTO the building, once Daddy gets here.

"Show me how to dwive!"

Ummmm HELL no!

Much more nicely presented as, "No, honey. That's not happening."

Location change: I tried to get her to sit in the passenger seat and color.

That lasted all of 42 seconds.

I finally switched on the radio, moved the front passenger seat back, and had her "dance it out" on the passenger side.

And I'm thinking: see, this is GOOD. This will burn off some energy before we sit with grownups and attempt to eat in a restaurant, and speaking of which, where on the **** is everyone?!!

Monkey is happily dancing. Minivans are good for a little dance space, I guess.

Distracted by the passing time, I text Daddy Doodle with an irritated: Uh, where R U?

His response: Well, we just now started practice... the reservation is in <the director's> name, for 7 PM.

Had I been a cartoon, my head would have blown up in squeeze-y, pulsating bursts. I even felt a little pop in my eyeballs. 

WHY then was I told to be here at 6??? I have a toddler I'm trying to entertain... AAAAAAGH!

His response: We'll be there soon.


But at least Monkey was having fun dancing.

It was only 6:30. I waited another 10 minutes, then took her in for a pre-dinner potty trip. By the time we were done, everyone had arrived and we were seated.

She did fine during the meal, largely because she was already full. But it did run late, and we were nearing bedtime...

Also known as Leaving Da Building-time for Le Monk.

She got like, sloppy-drunk and was all floppity and goofy. Pure entertainment.

We waited for our bill (for FOREVER!). As we were getting ready to go, Monkey was singing to herself but struggling since she was so tired. She asked for help with the song.

I asked her which song it was.

"Sing the PJ song!!"

Hmmm... there's a song called Pajama Time by Sandra Boynton. Did she mean that?

I sang the start of the chorus.

"NOnononoNO! Sing the *P* *J* song!!!"

Clueless, I asked her to sing part of it so I could help her.

She was standing between Daddy and Mommy. Then my sweet little just-past-babyhood baby promptly stuck out her cute little toddler butt, WIGGLED it, and sang:

"PJ, turn it up-up-up!!!"

I convulsed in "OH DEAR GOD!!" followed by maniacal laughter.

...Daddy, who does not have anything to do with pop music if he can avoid it, stared at me as if I lost my mind.

Which I kinda did, since I was all snorting and red-faced.

He very calmly asks what the heck she's singing.

So I told him... it's that vile Ke$ha song that the hip-hop class danced to at Big Sister's dance recital.

He immediately remembers the uncomfortable clapping after watching 9-year-olds in green glitter lipstick inappropriately lip synching to "looking sweet and sexy-fied." Horror befell him.

Then, lasers shot out of his eyes.

I ducked them and apologized profusely...

Then ever-so-sweetly pointed out that had I not had AN HOUR to kill entertaining a toddler in a minivan, this might not have happened.

Bottom line:

Epic fail. Times two. :(

1 comment:

  1. Editors note... it was not my great-grandfather with the music store, it was my grandfather. :)