The Daily Fuss

A Three Year-Old's Interpretation

Leighton: Why does she say "damn"?

Mom: It's not very nice, but those are her lyrics.

Leighton: "Damn" is a bad word.

Mom: Yes.

Leighton: Sometimes big people say "damn"?

Mom: Yes.

Leighton: Sometimes singers say "damn"?

Mom: Yes. Now stop saying it.

Leighton: Why does she say "damn"?

Mom: I don't know why she chose that word. I guess it goes with the song.

Leighton: She's just mad because strangers are in her bed.

 

Katy Perry: Last Friday Night

There's a stranger in my bed

There's a pounding in my head

Glitter all over the room

Pink flamingos in the pool

I smell like a minibar

DJ's passed out in the yard

Barbies on the barbeque

Is this a hickey or a bruise

Pictures of last night

Ended up online

I'm screwed Oh well

It's a blacked-out blur

But I'm pretty sure it ruled

Damn

Last Friday Night ...

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Wutz Up? B/F/F

God bless my mother's tendency to hoarde things. The other day she brought over an incredibly insightful bag of junior high nostalgia: pictures, artwork and hold on to your catholic school-issued plaid ... my NOTES!

The notes I took in World History?

Um. No.

She saved my entire collection of passed notes labeled 7th Grade and 8th Grade respectively.

I clearly felt that these exchanges were of uber import. Needless to say, I sat rather quietly with a glass of wine whilst inspecting these carefully-organized adolescent scrawlings.

It only took an hour to make some solid observations about these communications drafted by thirteen and fourteen year-olds.

For your reading pleasure, I have included a few candid photos. These were taken with my very basic kid-cam that I received for Christmas in seventh grade. Please note the bangs, the cousins and awkwardness of it all.

Dear tweens and freshly-dubbed teens, I have some advice to give so that the thirty-five year-old version of yourself may be somewhat impressed with you twenty years from now:

1) Stop telling everyone how bored you are all the time. Examples: "This class is so boring. I am sooooooooo BORED it's not even funny." 

We get it, you feel the need to explain that you would not have been compelled to write a note absent extreme boredom. That simple fact is implied in note-writing itself. Skip mentioning this fact. And, remember, you must have interests to be interesting.

2) Stop apologizing for brevity. Examples: "Sorry this is so short" or S/S/S and "I would have written more but ..." Keep these things to yourself.

I can assure you that the person receiving the note will not feel slighted by your pithy commentary until you point out how much time you spent writing to someone else.

3) Get to the fucking point, kids. Per the foregoing, I must say my collection of notes contained lengthy expositions and equally verbose closings.

From a sheer productivity standpoint, you could have written ten times as many notes and learned algebra in the same time it took you to write one senseless message.

Example: "I'd write more, but I have to go. My mom wants me to finish my book report two days early and I want to watch the new episode of 21 Jump Street. Richard Grieco is on tonight."

Arguably, this is an important bit of information. They gave the guy his own show for Pete's sake.

4) End your quest to find clever new ways to misspell words. Trust me, "Wutz up?" "welps or whelps" "geeez" "cuz" and "luv" look a little bit stupid two decades later written on paper. We will discuss texting in a moment.

5) Keep the Top 5 lists coming. These are incredibly entertaining. When you save these notes, please categorize them by grade and author and include a yearbook. It really helps jog the memory years later in relating names to faces frozen in time. Future you will not care about bordem, new-fangled spellings or the reason the note is so short. Top 5 lists are exciting!

6) Please include a legend for your closing acronyms. b/f/f and w/b are easy ones. Then there are a number of others: G/F/A.   F.I.T.E.    F/F     U/B/G/F/A

A few other observations:

Girls are very good at expressing every single feeling they have, when they feel it.

Boys are ... not so much.

Sixth grade girls are meanest. Seventh is brutal. Eighth grade seems to soften them a bit.

Sixth, seventh and eighth grade boys wish the girls would stop fighting and let them touch their boobs. Or see their boobs. Or just have boobs, actually.

Do kids even write notes anymore? Or do they just text in class? In which case, this is more of a data storage issue than a folder of handwritten missives.

Either way, I will keep my collection, at least until Leighton and Mairin are old enough to  write their own. Junior high seems rougher now in hindsight. I just want to be grounded, prepared and sympathetic for when that day comes. 

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Date With Leighton

Leighton needed some mommy time. Okay, fine. Maybe it's the other way around, but no matter. Lei happily accepted my offer to take her to her very first movie in the "thee-ay-ter".

The Muppets.

It's playing at Northbrook, so we decided that Ryan and Mairin would mill around the mall while we went to the movies. We would regroup afterwords for dinner at California Pizza Kitchen.

Sidebar: I love CPK. The food is consistent. Prices are reasonable. There are plenty of healthy options for kids and grownups and they serve alcohol. Perfect. Did I mention that they serve alcohol?

Leighton carefully readied herself for our date in a way that let me know she understood just how important the outing was for me. I haven't spent a large chunk of time with just Lei for a while now and was looking forward to some bonding.

My peanut picked out some textured tights, pink corduroy skirt and a white top with tulle at the collar - a good look for a two-and-a-half year-old to be sure.

We sang and danced to Let's Go To the Movies from Annie while we dressed.

Lei then took it several steps further and accessorized herself with sparkly shoes, a hair bow clip, a necklace and one of my purses from I couldn't even tell you when.

I think "embellishment" is one of her favorite words. In fact, I'm certain of this.

As we walked through the mall, Lei turned heads with her confident little gait. "What a girly girl." "She's so cute." "Look at those shoes."

She was oblivious to the attention, which pleased me immensely. She was only going about her business, after all.

We left Mairin and daddy at the entrance to the theater, picked up our tickets and headed straight for the snack counters. Out of all the candy, crap and junk food she could have chosen, Leighton settled on fruit snacks.

God bless her.

So I talked her into ordering a white cherry ICEE to wash them down. She later admitted that it was a smart decision.

She was mildly irritated by the previews, but loved the Toy Story short film and Muppets feature. She bounced around during the musical numbers and clapped at the end.

We saw a two-hour kids version of The Nutcracker last month and she got antsy half-way through. But for these Muppets, she made a little camp in her seat, ate her snacks and gingerly sipped her ICEE - taking it in and out of the cupholder a thousand intriguing times.

For the undisputed littlest ticketholder in the thee-ay-ter, she behaved perfectly.

We had a lovely dinner, fish tacos for mom, bbq chicken salad for dad, banana and avocado for Mairin and grilled chicken and broccoli for Leighton. She cleaned her plate and we made our way home.

We stopped at Walgreens on the way home to get more kid toothpaste (mint is too "spicy") and Lei said she couldn't wait to brush her teeth. She went straight upstairs and did just that when we arrived home. And put on her PJs and went to sleep.

Thank you my sweet little Leighton for the absolute best date EVER.

Please Mommy Dad

I have yet to explain to Leighton that Feliz Navidad is a song about Christmas, sung in Spanish.

This occurred to me while I listened to her singing her spin on the happy tune.

Please mommy dad

Please mommy dad

Please mommy dad because you know I know a fuzzy dot

She's so cute, I can hardly stand it. Someday, the little lisp and Jersey accent will disappear and I will miss it terribly.

The Littlest Bride

Regarding gender roles, the whole little-girl-dresses-up-as-a-bride thing just hits you right over the head doesn't it?

We really aren't the kind of parents who encourage extreme girliness. We certainly don't discourage it either. Still, we expose the girls to a wide range of experiences and some things seem to stick more than others.

I've mentioned the unstoppable force of Disney, and it's obvious that we haven't tried too hard to hide it from the girls. They can figure out on her own exactly which princesses are most lame and why.  Lei appreciates Buzz and Woody, but identifies the most with Jessie. She really doesn't care much for animals and prefers pink over ever other color. That's just how she is.

Lei likes garlic chicken and chili and tilapia and pomegranate and broccoli. She tries a variety of foods and some just keep reappearing on her requested menu.

I'll admit this bride stunt tripped me up a bit. I was putting up a few final holiday decorations and I overheard Leighton rummaging through items in the family room. She thoughfully chose a swaddle blanket and said to herself, "This will be my veil." Then, she picked a faux flower bouquets out of a vase on the side table and said, "My lovely bride bouquet." 

She asked me to secure the blanket dress and blanket veil, so I cinched her get-up with a few binder clips and she was "bride walking" down an imaginary aisle before I could fire up my camera flash.

 
 
 
 
We weren't sure whether to laugh or cry. We didn't know what to say. So, we simply said, "Congratulations!"

The little bride reports that next time she gets married, she will hold her flowers down a bit so we can see her face. Good to know.

Excuse Me?

A toddler can turn a ten-minute car ride into an hour.

A toddler who needs to stop to pee in crowded downtown Chicago on a friday night on the way to your brother-in-law's rehearsal dinner can turn that ride into a circus sideshow.

Ryan, his mom, Leighton, Mairin and I packed into the minivan for the brief trip from Navy Pier to Maggiano's. As soon as the last seat-belt clicked, Lei informed us that she had to pee. I said, "We will be there in five minutes. You can pee at the restaurant.

Traffic was horrendous and we made a wrong turn. A series of wrong turns and one-way streets led us a bit north. The whole time, Leighton was calmly repeating that she needed a rest stop.

Mairin started crying.

Lei's volume increased. "I have to go potty. I have to go potty." In a sing-songy cadence.

The radio was on. (Don't ask me why).

My mother-in-law dug frantically for an address.

My husband began sweating.

I focused on breathing in my nose and out of my mouth. I was feeling car sick.

Finally, it became obvious that Lei felt she needed more attention. "I HAVE TO PEE DAMMIT. DAMMIT I HAVE TO PEE. DAMMIT. DAMMIT. DAMMIT."

Whoa.

We stopped at a restaurant and Grandma whisked Lei out of her seat. We were parked around the corner from the entrance (another one-way situation) so we couldn't readily see that this particular restaurant was closed.

Grandma came back twelve minutes later, sweating, carrying Lei in heels, back aching because the toddler insisted on being carried the five block trek to find a suitable potty and Grandma obliged.

Ryan's brother was married in July (feel free to go back and reread that knowing it was 85 degrees outside). Until yesterday, I had forgotten about that car ride and how we spent the remainder of it trying not to laugh at Leighton's proper use of such a naughty word.

Yesterday afternoon, Lei was goofing around on a chair and knocked over my external hard drive. As it crashed to the floor I yelled "Dammit Leighton". She happily skipped around the house yelling "Dammit Leighton" for the next five minutes.

I no longer have to guess as to where she learned that word.

Big Girl Shoes

She begged me to let her try on my shoes.

I said, "no". And she asked, "why?" And I told her, "I don't want you to ruin them before I even get to wear them."

And she asked, "why?"

I didn't have the time to explain that I felt I deserved to wear them for the first time - damage free.

And, I didn't have the heart to tell her that with those sparkly Badgley Mischkas comes much more responsibility than she could possibly understand.

I would have to tell her that those shoes come with a job ... nay ... a career attached to them.

I would say that I must drive to and from meetings in the city, in my minivan on conference calls while pumping and doing my makeup so I can wear those shoes.

I would explain how desperately I try to wrap up my work work day by 5:30 so I can send the nanny home and be truly present while getting the little ones fed and bathed, so daddy can get some quality time in before putting Lei to bed.

Those shoes come with a tremendous amount of concern over bumps, bruises, choking, cavities, sunburns and bug bites and excessive fear of the day my kids will be old enough to drive a car.

Those shoes come with mortgages and retirement accounts and a roof that needs fixing and a garage that needs rebuilding and condo tenants in need of a brand new dishwasher because they somehow managed to break the one we have.

Those shoes ignore my husband sometimes and that isn't fair. 

I suppose I could have couched my denial of her request in terms that she'd somewhat understand - such as, "Those shoes are worth a thousand poopy diaper changes and hundreds of 2 a.m. feedings." But it wouldn't have mattered. She really really wanted to try them on.

Admittedly, tied to those shoes is a strong desire to be more fashionable than I actually am at this phase of my mommy life. The shoes do help that cause. I swear.

I still need to lose the baby weight I packed on with Mairin and those five inch heels make me look two pounds thinner than my four inch heels. Somehow, five minus four equals two in this instance.

I need those shoes.

And they need me.

And I promise you, those are the ridiculous things that went through my mind when she begged and pleaded and whined until I let her try them on.

She struggled a few smiling, shuffling steps on her tippy toes in those shoes and then gingerly stepped out.

She assured me, "These are too hard mama. These are your shoes."

I smiled and nodded and said "no shit" to myself. Someday I will explain the whole thing to her.

Someday.

What's In a Name?

The funny thing about nicknames, is that we really don't choose them - they choose us ... or our pets or our babies as the case may be.

Luella has had roughly fifty nicknames over the years. The names that we do use in any given week range from, "Lupsie Dupsie", "Lue Duperson" and "Lulie Kaboops" (when beckoning her to come hither), "Luesmella" (when she needs a bath or toots) "Luella Dickerson" (when she's dicking around with a toy or food or something annoying in bed) and "Luella Parsons MacDougal McGee Freeman" (when she's peed somewhere she shouldn't have or is otherwise in big big trouble).

Each of these names evolved over time and just sort of hung with our little Luebird. A myriad of words rhyme with "Lue" so, I won't lie, it's been a fun little game.

With Leighton, it took the better part of a year for any nickname of any kind to stick.  And, "Lei" is really the only one that works for her. I think it came more out of writing about her than anything. "Lei" or "Lei Lei" is the extent of my subconscious level of creativity regarding Leighton. She had a line of clothing from 3-6 months that had a hula theme to it and whenever she donned an ensemble from that collection she became "Lei Lei the Hawaiian Bebe". Yay mom for being so incredibly clever.

After choosing a proper name for Miss Mairin Isabel, I had a wild idea that I liked the way "Maisy" sounded for a nickname. My friend has a Mazie - Mary Elizabeth. Our kids are far apart in age, live in different cities and (as of this moment) have never met - so I felt that misappropriating the nickname would't be that big of a deal if it worked.

No need to worry. So far, it's not looking good for "Maisy".

What is working undeniably well is "Marinka Dinka". Skidamarink-a-dink-a-dink. Skidamarinka-doo. I love you.

We also frequently refer to Mairin as "Marinks Dinks" or "Marinkie Dinkie" or "Dinka" or any loving combination or abbreviation therein. This week, for me, she's simply "Dinkie".

My wee bit of babe is so easygoing, I don't believe she minds.

In the image above, Dinkie is sporting a single velcro roller in her wisp. She was helping big sis ready herself for her debut as flower girl at Uncle Jon and Auntie Susan's wedding this past weekend.

Drama

By the time dinner had ended, I wasn't quite sure which name to use to address my child. Dorothy? Are you there? Where are you Dorothy? Annie? Rapunzel? Let down your hair.

Kit Kittredge? Is that you? Are you going to eat your carrots, Kit? Can Toto have them? Daddy Warbucks made salmon. Yummy? Are you waiting for Flynn Rider to give you a kiss? Are you going to save him?

It may be a jumbled mashup of fairy tales to you, but in Leighton's mind, she is the star of a very complicated, detailed, two year-old fantasy built on the cornerstone of the unstoppable force of Disney.

She's incredibly dramatic. I love it.

I bought the Rapunzel wig a few months ago as a "poop-on-the-potty" present. (See? I just can't escape it - even in print.) She loved it for five seconds and then lost her shit completely because the long synthetic strands tickled her arms and then got caught on her hands, in basically the same fashion as each of the Tangled Rapunzel dolls we bought for her.

 
Crying ensued and I hung the wig up for a spell. Until she asked for it last night. Right after we finished watching the first half of Kit Kittredge: An American Girl while playing with Barbies, babies and wearing a Sleeping Beauty nightgown with her ruby slippers.

Ryan is putting Princess Annie Rapunzel Kittredge to bed right now. She was pretending to sleep for a thousand years anyway, so we convinced her that it would be much more comfortable to await her true love's first kiss in the comfort of her own cozy little bed.

Luckily, she agreed.

Polite Conversation

As a mother of a five month-old and a two year-old, I am definitely in a place in my life where many of my daily conversations revolve around boobs and poop.

I'm sure one day, Ryan and I will be sitting on the couch enjoying a glass of wine, and one of us will say, "Wow. We haven't talked about boobs and poop in such a long time. I really miss having little kids."

I'm not saying that I don't enjoy having wee ones. I absolutely do. I'm simply commenting on the frequency with which I say those words - "boobs" and "poop" on a daily basis. It's stunning really.

The whole "boobs" talk has everything to do with breastfeeding. They're either sore or exploding or Leighton just jumped on my lap and kneed me in one of them or they don't fit in my shirt or I need to pump while driving my minivan to the city for a meeting while taking a conference call and putting on my makeup. Kidding, of course.

The "boobs" talk will terminate when Mairin turns one year old. I will cry like a baby on that day and I can't really go there mentally, so right now I refuse to take the "boobs" talk for granted. Mairin eats like a champ and has since the day she was born. Many moms and babies struggle with breastfeeding and we don't. So yay for small victories and yay for boobs.

As for the "poop" talk, Leighton has been completely and totally potty trained for a while now. Still, most of the time, she tells us what she's doing on the potty when she's about to do it, is doing it or has already done it.

Lei has no idea that the running commentary on her business is not polite conversation. It's so normal for her to announce to everyone in the room, "I have to poop" - mostly because we've been making such a big deal out of it for some time now. And, because we have no less than eleven books on the subject. When she first started using the potty, we would cheer and clap and call grandmas and grandpas and tell anyone who would listen "Did you know Leighton poops on the potty?"

So yes, of course she believes that our neighbors and friends want to hear about it. They do, or they should, because the fact that my twenty-seven month-old poops on the potty every day without fail is AMAZING.

I am a proud mama. I celebrate the simplest things and tiniest victories - several of which involve poop and boobs today.

Indoor Cat

 
Name: Mairin Isabel

Disposition: Cheerful, talkative, doesn't take herself too seriously.

Skills and Activities: Fluent in jibberish, expert at tummy time, can nap nearly anywhere and suddenly will Houdini out of just about any swaddle.

Enjoys: A good wet razz, long soaks in a warm tub and being tickled by her sister.

Dislikes: Sun, clouds, wind, rain, humidity, lack of humidity, bugs, nature, wildlife and basically anything having to do with the out-of-doors.

Anniversorry Part III: Oh Yeah, We Trashed My Parents House in Less Than 24 Hours

I can't discuss our fourth anniversary without mentioning the fact that my parents' house needed professional cleaning from our stay that lasted roughly one day.

Before we left the girls with my parents, we poured ourselves glasses of wine. Ryan set his on the tea table near the couch where Mairin lay. I took off my jacket to change her, and in pulling off my right sleeve, knocked the glass.

It tipped over and spilled on the carpet. I grabbed paper towel to dab, dab, dab and figured the glass must have been nearly empty, as there was far less damage than I feared.

There was one ugly spot several spatter marks, so I headed to the basement to retrieve the Oxy Clean.

SIDEBAR: You should know that I spill a beverage (usually red wine) EVERY SINGLE TIME I visit my parents. It's ridiculous and I feel awful, but it happens and I have no clue why. I spill quite frequently at home too, but I destroy my parents' house more than any other place. And so, this incident did not alarm me in the least.

I was alarmed when I saw the trail of wine dribbles through the kitchen, leading past the powder room, to and up the stairs. What the Fuss?

I yelled up to my dad, "Dad, is your wine glass cracked?" 

"No. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

There were little red drips everywhere and NO FOOTPRINTS. I cleaned up quickly and surprisingly (probably because it was cloudy at that very moment) no one seemed to notice.

We finished our wine, grabbed our bags and kissed our girls goodbye ... Leighton, Mairin and Luella. I bent down to kiss Lue and my lips met a stiff and matted little dog. What?

Why was my teensy pup trembling and why was she rocking bangs like a Milwaukee-bred seventh-grader circa 1989?

Ryan was laughing and wheezing so hard he could hardly get the words out, and it dawned on me (almost as quickly) that our beloved little four-pound Yorkie was the recipient of the contents of that tumbled wine glass.

She stood behind me (as per usual) like a little shadow, when I spilled. And, on a not-so-humorous note, she tracked no less than a billion droplets of vino all about the house.

My mom was rightfully peeved. Fortunately, she had already consumed her glass of wine, which kept her commentary about how "Lue pees all over the house so what's a little wine added to the mix" to a minimum while we skated out the door.

Once we left, Grandpa entertained Leighton while Grandma spent nine, desperate hours trying to feed Mairin. Toys,  bottles, burp cloths, blankets and spitup clothes were surely strewn about until the morning.

The evidence was all but gone when we arrived in the AM. We sat about, marveling at the previous night's events, enjoying coffee and breakfast. Mairin gorged herself on boobie dish to make up for her hunger strike, and we crafted details surrounding Luella's wine-soaked misfortune.

We giggled and snort-laughed and as I put Marinka Dinka over my shoulder for a burp, she launched the entire meal on and over my shoulder into every nook and cranny of the wingback chair, my top, pants and bra. We all sprung into action - handing off baby, pulling out cushions, scrambling for spitty rags, tearing off clothing. It was horrifically silly.

To top it off, I stepped in a puddle of Lue pee on my way to toss my spitty soaked clothes in the laundry while wearing only my underpants and Ryan's overcoat.

Mayhem is the only way to describe it. Me screaming, Ryan laughing, my mom mad at Ryan for laughing, my dad scolding my mom for being mad at Ryan for laughing because "this is what happens when you have dogs and kids" and Leighton seizing the opportunity to stand in the corner and poop her pants without consequence because "pooping on the potty makes me fer-us-ter-a-terd."

Or should I say fer-us-ter-a-turd?

We will let the dust settle before dropping the girls at my parents' house again for a night out. And, someday we will look back on this and laugh. And, oh yeah, today is that day.

Sorry mom.

Anniversorry Part I: The Game Plan

We were married only four years ago, yet we managed to pack quite a bit of drama into the last fourteen hundred and sixty days.

The blessed nuptials occurred on May 12, 2007.  Shortly thereafter, we closed on the condo, had a miscarriage, renovated the condo, had a baby, bought a house, renovated the house, and had another baby.

No wonder we feel like, "Hey we had Mairin three months ago and have done NOTHING since." Unless you count the scramble to prepare for Leighton's birthday party, the recent slacking is out of character.

Every anniversary, we pull out our wedding photos and discuss the fact that we had the GREATEST WEDDING EVER with nauseating detail. Then we relive our honeymoon in Hawaii and make the same wild claims that it kicked so much ass and we'll NEVER EVER dare take such an extravagant vacation again. By the second glass of wine, it's as if we're arguing with another imaginary couple about who's event was better.

I love anniversaries. SIGH.

This year, we thought it would be brilliant to commemorate another year of wedded bliss by leaving the girls with my parents to spend a romantic evening in downtown Milwaukee. It's a simple plan and, given the fact that Leighton loves her grandparents and Mairin is as pleasant as a baby could be, it should go off without a hitch.

We made a reservation at Bacchus, the restaurant where (after a meal that could only be described as gastronomical perfection) we decided that our rehearsal dinner meal must concocted by their James Beard award-winning executive chef. We have been there since - the food just as amazing and the service still impeccable. Why not play it again?

Ryan booked a room for us at the Iron Horse hotel. It's newish, niche and amazing. The smell of leather and aftershave meets you at the door of this boutique beauty. Deliberately exposed steel, brick and timber are glamorously paired with animal hide, Edison bulbs and Harley paraphenalia.

Here are a smattering of shots. We stayed in a corner suite with the layout in the last picture, which really doesn't do the room justice. I give it two Fussworthy thumbs up.

 
 
 
 
 
 
 

We were both so looking forward to our weekend. Work has been stressful, kids add their own brand of busy to the mix, and we needed a night to hang out and reconnect. This was a fancy little plan we could hatch - staying close enough to our babies, but far enough away to focus on each other AND get an uninterrupted night's sleep.

I can't frame up this game plan without mentioning the expectation surrounding the evening in question. Once I had kids, I started to see myself a certain way and I'm not exactly talking about a sexy, independent type-way. I grew accustomed to being covered in spitup, pulling foreign objects from the toilet and uttering the words "poop" or "boobs" several times each day. 

That said, it can be fun to don the hot, bronze, metallic, textured-silk skirt and ruched black fine-wool top that finally fits post-baby and hit the town as my alter ego with my wonderful, handsome husband ... otherwise known as "Daddy".

Bracket Hopping

Today is my 35th birthday. Ryan and the girls gave me a new iPad this morning, with which I am immediately obsessed.

In the process of frantically downloading tens, if not hundreds, of dollars worth of new apps, I must register my iPad with iTunes.

Name, email address, occupation, primary use, age of primary user ... blah blah blah.

Well, damn it if turning thirty-five doesn't kick me to a whole new marketing demographic. I've been in the 25-34 group for so long.

35-44?

Really?

At least I'm the youngest in my class again.

Miss Nomer

Um. Lady. I don't know how to tell you this (again) but my name's not Stephanie.

She's a mom at Leighton's school and we'll call her Céline. She knows everyone, talks super loudly, is always running late and still stops to chat.

Plus, this brief story just wouldn't be the same if I failed to mention that she has French accent as THICK as molasses.

Yes. Molasses.

So let's go ahead and mentally call me Steffah-nee', shall we? Because that's the imported, sing-songy pronunciation that makes my ears bleed every morning and/or afternoon.

I met Céline on Leighton's first day of school. She seemed incredibly nice and introduced herself immediately in the parking lot during drop off. "I'm Say-leen - Collette and Dah-veed's muthair." You get the idea.

"Hi. I'm Jennifer," I said as a prelude to warning her that she will rarely see me in anything other than yoga pants. She laughed in an empty, superficial kind of way and we bid farewell.  And now that I think of it, I've never, ever seen her in anything other than matchy-matchy sportswear complete with headband herself so I seriously doubt she was judging me.

I see her every single day. More often that not, she rolls into the parking lot honking at someone as if to say Wait. Don't leave yet. I need to talk to you. It's my guess that each time, the victim sees Céline coming up the drive and is desperately scrambling to load her kids and pull away before Céline's too close for the woman to pretend she's out of ear shot.

She's never honked me down, but somehow, I frequently manage to pass her on the way in and out. And, she's always got something to say. And, it always ends with comma Stephanie.

Bonjour, Stephanie! How are you, Stephanie? Leighton has such cute shoes, Stephanie. Where is your coat, Stephanie? It's freezing out here, Stephanie. Are you coming to the birthday party, Stephanie?

I have corrected her no less than three times, "My name is Jennifer [Dzen-ee-fair], Céline." But it matters not. As I initially suspected, Céline doesn't really listen to a word anyone else says. So, this past week when she asked if Leighton was coming to Collette's birthday party, I simply said, "Yes. We'll see you Sunday."

So my question to you, dear readers, is this ... Has my window to correct Céline expired? If not, when will that be? And, should signing the birthday card "Jennifer" be enough of a hint to her? Please leave a comment and share your fuss with us.