The Hall of Justice Is Under Attack

When Wonder Women entered the Hall of Justice, she was expecting another typical day in Metropolis. What she didn’t know was that this was a day of reckoning. Today, she would face one of her greatest challengers. We call her, “Taevy.”

To celebrate the Halloween Season, we took our children to Six Flags New England to trick-or-treat and experience the family- friendly happenings of Fright Fest 2008. But neither ghouls nor goblins, witches nor zombies captured my daughter’s attention as much as the prospect of meeting “the real” Wonder Woman. (My apologies to Linda Carter!)

We waited patiently in the Hall of Justice, chatting casually with Batman, Flash, and the Green Lantern. The attendant, a college boy who took his job surprisingly seriously, introduced the children to the posters of villians on the wall, and educated them about arch-enemies.

“Where’s Wonder Woman?” Taevy asked the attendant.
“She’ll be here in about 10 minutes,” he answered. “Why don’t you go ride the Cat Woman coaster while you wait?”

My male companions, hubby and friend, were more than happy to wait by the Cat Woman statue while I rode the coaster -- three times. (Apparently, she not only has a great set of boobs, but an ass to die for as well!)

When we returned to the Hall of Justice, Wonder Woman was just entering the room. Now having been to Six Flags many times, I expected my daughter and her friend to pose for a quick picture and then head to gift shop where they would beg me buy it for $20.

But this time, my six-year old had other plans.

“I really like you,” she told the young Wonder Woman. “But there’s a problem.”
The teenager smiled and did her best to get into character. “What’s that?”
“Well, I was you for Halloween last year because I really think you’re pretty. But Cheetah Girl is really pretty too, and she’s your arch-enemy. I don’t think you should have an enemy. You need to get a peer mediator so you can work it out.”

Wonder Woman looked suddenly concerned. There is, apparently, no script for this conversation.

“Cheetah girl does some mean things,” Wonder Woman said.
“Well, it’s not so nice to tie people up with your lasso, either,” my daughter countered.
“So what do you think I should do?” Wonder Woman looked desperately around for some assistance. Where are those other Super Heros when you need them?

I looked too, but the red bat phone was nowhere to be seen.

“I think you should start teaching Cheetah Girl to be a Super Hero,” my daughter said. “Invite her to the Hall of Justice. Have a playdate.”

It was all I could do to keep from laughing.

“Um... I suppose we could do that,” Wonder Woman said. “Hey! Would you like to have your picture taken with me?”

My daughter shook her head. “Not really. Maybe next year. You and me and Cheetah Girl can all take a picture together.”

As we exited the exhibit hall, I whispered to the befuddled Wonder Woman: “Look out. Justice has a new name...”

It's Not Easy Being Green

Today I handed my daughter a sack of rotten apples and a paper bag filled with garbage. I kissed her goodbye and sent her off to school. Ten years ago the teachers would have been calling DSS, claiming a failure to protect my children’s health, but today my actions earn me a gold star for being a “good mother.”

Children in today’s world are more aware of environmental issues than ever before. “Going Green” in my day, meant turning a sallow shade just before puking your guts out. But for today’s children, it’s a mantra of responsible living.

I am a very reluctant learner when it comes to this issue, but my children, with patience and perseverance, are teaching me to leave a slightly smaller carbon footprint. They bring their lunches in reusable containers, and berate me when I cop-out and use disposable sandwich bags. They ‘suffer through’ my laziness when I toss frozen juice boxes into their totes, and remind me that ‘other kids’ use washable Rubbermaid containers. They collect my ‘junk’ and bring it to school to be reused as art materials. And they remind me, almost daily, that garbage makes great compost that can be used in the school gardens, which in turn, yield fresh vegetables and flowers.

I am not a gardner, nor will I ever be the poster-child for environmental awareness. I am too in-love with my single serving coffee pot with it’s environmentally unfriendly K-cups, and I enjoy keeping convenient Poland Spring water bottles in my gym bag and in my car. I’m not ready to give up those luxuries. But today, instead of running my garbage disposal, I filled a bag with orange peels, moldy tomatoes, egg shells, melon rinds, and apple cores, and I sent it to school for the compost bin. My daughter’s smile and uplifted brows said, “See? Was that so hard?”

It wasn’t hard at all.

Star Gazing

On Saturday night, the sky was filled with stars. I walked under them without seeing, my head too full of obligations, trivial concerns, and to-do lists.

“Mom, that do you see that one right there?” My daughter stood frozen on the back porch, her index finger aimed at the sky. “That’s my lucky star. I made a wish and it came true.”

I pretended to know exactly which star she was pointing to, but in fact, her pointing simply directed me to the sky and I was mesmerized by what I’d failed to notice -- a sea of sequins on a backdrop of black.

“What was your wish?” I asked.
Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. “I can’t tell. Star wishes are secret!”
I smiled. Star wishes --- it’s been a long time.

Later that evening I tucked my daughter into bed and she hugged her new stuffed pig close to her chest.

“My wish wouldn’t have come true without you,” she told the pig.
I waited, confused.
“Piggie is a SHINING STAR stuffed animal,” she said, flipping his hoof to show me the silver star stuck to the bottom. “When you have a SHINING STAR, you get to make special wishes.”

The childhood ritual of wishing on stars has been, for my child, corrupted by commercialism. Instead of seeing the magic in a twinkling light, she has equated star-gazing with owning the toy-0f-the-week. Those who own the toy have “the power.” I couldn’t let this slide.

“Stars have their own magic,” I told her. “SHINING STARS are just a reminder to look around you and notice when magic happens. Even if you don’t have a SHINING STAR, you can make wishes on stars. I never had a SHINING STAR, but I made lots of wishes on real stars, and sometimes my wishes came true.”
She nodded with the wisdom of six, and put her piggie to the side.
“What did you wish for? What came true?” she asked.
A piece of me wanted to parrot: “Star wishes are secret!”
But her eyes were wide with curiosity and wonder, and I decided to tell her:

“One time I wished for a daughter with a wonderful imagination who believes in magic all around us.”

She smiled and gave me a big hug. “I guess your wish DID come true. You got me!”

After tucking her in, I went back on the porch and watched a star race across the night. I haven’t actually seen a shooting star in years.

I tried to push my to-do lists out of my mind and focus on just one thing -- the contrast between black and the white. I closed my eyes and let the sounds of the Autumn night fill my head. And I made a wish.

I’d tell you what it was, but I can’t: “Star wishes are secret.”

The Tooth Fairy Bites the Dust

I think I killed the Tooth Fairy. I didn’t do it intentionally -- really, I didn’t. But her death was both untimely and unpretty.

Last week my six year old lost her first tooth. Unfortunately, her loss came on the same day that she gained another pound of “teen attitude”. All day we had been butting heads:

“I’d like you to make your bed.”
“And I’d prefer not to, thank you.”

Huh?

Anyway, at about nine in the morning, she presented with a very, very slightly loose tooth. I told her to leave it alone and let it loosen over time. So she, of course, played with it all day and eventually yanked it out during dinner. (Much to the ‘delight’ of my blood-phobic son...)

Although I was frustrated and furious, I did my best to muster some enthusiasm for this momentous occasion. I took her little tooth (actually, I find teeth kind of disgusting...) and held it up like a treasure.

“Wow! The tooth fairy is going to LOVE this one.”
Her face fell. “I’m not giving it to her,” she said.
“But if you leave it under your pillow, she will come and give you a shiny gold coin!”
“I’m mad at her.”
“Why?” I couldn’t imagine.
“Because when we lose teeth, she only gives us a dollar. But when Alison lost a tooth, she got five dollars. That’s not fair.”

I wanted to strangle Alison’s mother for failing to initiate a “tooth fairy conference” on “equal pay for equal work....”

I was about to say something, when my husband interrupted. “I’ll give her a call and address that problem.”

We all stared dumbly.

“You have the Tooth Fairy’s phone number?” My eight-year old said, looking doubtful.

I couldn’t control myself. I started to laugh at my husband’s inane comment. And then out of nowhere I found these words slipping out of my mouth: “Yea, right. The Tooth Fairy has an iPhone and Dad’s been IM-ing her all week!”

My savvy son picked up on my sarcasm. “She does have an iPhone,” he said, matter-of-factly. The pause was just long enough for dramatic effect. “You carry it in your purse every day, Mom.”

The cat was out of the bag.

I gazed at my innocent daughter, expecting tears, anguish, and heartbreak. But she simply pasted on her new jack-o-lantern grin and held out her hand for the bloodied tooth.

“You owe me five bucks, Mom. Or else give me back my tooth.”

I tried to backpedal my way out of the situation, but it was way too late. The tooth fairy was dead and buried. So, I paid my daughter the five dollars -- out of guilt, mostly -- and put the offensive body part in a ‘treasure box’ in my dresser. (Afterall, what kind of mother swiftly annihilates a treasured childhood icon with biting sarcasm? Perhaps that little sharp nub will serve as a reminder to bite my tongue...)

In the end, my kids were fine with the demise of the mythical fairy who steals bloodied bits of dislodged bone. But guilt weighed heavily on my shoulders.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I found myself thinking about Peter Pan. I laid in bed, quietly clapping my hands, muttering a tiny apology to the evening stars: “I do believe in fairies! I do! I believe...”

Blue-Haired Old Ladies Have Nothing On My Kid

Be careful what kind of deals you make with your kids! I lost a bet and now my son has a kelly-green grass strip growing down the middle of his head.

Early last Spring my eight-year old caught on to a local trend and had his head buzz-cut with a “designer motif” carved in the back. He debated between a Kenpo Karate fist and a Yin-Yang, and eventually chose the latter. But having a five inch symbol on the back of his closely cropped skull was not enough -- he wanted to paint one half red and the other half blue. I convinced him that a rainbow on the back of his head would not be satisfying, and hoped that might be the end of things.

But two weeks later, he saw “Kameron” on “So You Think You Can Dance”, and fell in love with the fire-engine red mohawk. (Yikes!) Nate begged for a blue counterpart. I compromised and let him get some electric blue hair gel with the promise that if he still wanted to dye his hair by the end of summer, I would let him. I was sure the novelty would wear off in a week or two.

Today is the day of reckoning. He still loves his bright hair. And it was time for me to make good on the deal. So we trekked out to my girlfriend’s hair salon, he chose his color, and she gave him a permanent electric green landing strip down the middle of his skull. He loves it.

I’m still not sure how I feel about the aesthetics of green hair, but I do feel good about keeping my word and about encouraging a safe form of self-expression. It’s just hair...and hair grows!

Eating Soap

I have come to the conclusion that my children are subsisting on a diet of liquid soap and toilet paper. Yep. It’s the perfect explanation for why they are never hungry when I put their well-balanced meals on a plate in front of them, why my toilet paper holders perpetually display stripped cardboard tubes, and why the liquid soap in my shower is always three drops away from empty.

Seriously, I put two rolls of toilet paper in each bathroom on Sunday. This morning I went to pee, only to discover one lone square of paper dangling from the roll like a lost feather fluttering in the wind. And I’ve taken to adding bottles of shower gel to my cart where ever I am...CVS, Stop and Shop -- heck, I even put a quarter in the vending machine at Fitzy’s car wash because they offered trial size bottles of Dial. Last week I thought I’d hit on a system; I bought the 20 gallon drum of ‘Soap em’ Up’ at my local wholesale club. (So what if it smelled like motor oil? It was cheap!) I figured this baby would last us at least a month. Boy was I wrong.

This morning I was greeted by the the all-too-familiar farting bottle of air. Apparently, when there is more soap available, it is simply an invitation to use more.

I’ve explained the “dime size blob” theory, demonstrated the use of a bath sponge, and sung the praises of those marvelous little perforations on the toilet paper roll. But apparently, my lessons have fallen on deaf ears.

Then again, both my children are healthier and more fit than I am, so maybe they know something I don’t...

The next time my husband asks ‘what’s for dinner’, I’ll let my kids take the lead: “Charmin and Ivory for everyone.”

But there's no boys...

Early in the summer my children signed up for a week at gymnastics/dance camp. They had a great time and both of them asked to sign-up for the second session, offered in August. Today we drove to camp and they were happily talking about learning “flips” and “dances” and “kick-overs.” But when we walked into the main building, we were met with about 60 boys, dressed for soccer camp, and ten girls dressed in leotards. My son’s dark skin blanched, nearly reaching the same pasty color of mine.

“Do boys take gymnastics and dance?” my son asked in a voice so quiet I could barely hear him.
“Of course,” I said. “C’mon, let’s see who else signed up.”

We approached the counselor and checked out the list: Fourteen girls, and Nate.

I really didn’t know what to do. He seemed so unsettled, I wanted to wrap him up and take him home, but I also wanted him to learn that he could follow his own interests and be his own person -- and I hated the idea of gender restrictions.

I left my son holding back tears -- him and me. I worried about him all day. Had I forced him into a situation of social ridicule? I felt awful. I ate a box of Lucky Charms. I didn’t even have milk.

At four-o-clock I met Nate camp where he stood among soccer players and gymnasts, wearing a smile that swept the room with sunshine.

“Did you have fun?” I asked. (I wanted to add, ‘even though there were no boys’!)
“I can do a back walk over!” he proclaimed. “And we learned the beginning of a cool dance.”
“Did any other boys come?” I asked, hesitantly. I just couldn’t let it go...
“No. But I don’t care. I was crazy to think that boys can’t do this. Neil ( ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ contestant) does gymnastics AND dance, and I want to be just like him.”

He munched his crackers and sang along to the music on his iPod, and for the first time ever, I said a prayer of thanks for T.V. My son has a hero, and so do I.