Excerpts from Blow-Drying the Frog and Other Parenting Adventures

The Lesson that
Wouldn't End

by Laura M. Jones

Let me admit up front that I know it was all my fault. I wouldn’t have ended up in the situation if I had been paying attention and following the rules.

It began the day I went to visit a good friend who lived about thirty minutes away. I always loved to go to her home: my three-year-old son, Nate, would play happily with her two children who were close in age, and my five-month-old daughter, Rachel, was content to observe all the activity. So I lingered too long over my last cup of tea, and got everyone organized and into the car much later than I should have. My friend quickly drew a map of a shortcut to the highway that might save me some time, and we said good-bye.

As I juggled her map on my lap, I tried to follow my three-year-old’s flow of chatter and make a mental list of all the things I needed to do before we left for vacation the next morning. We were going to stay in a small cabin in a state park in West Virginia, so I was supposed to have already bought groceries to take along. I should have done the laundry and organized some toys and supplies. As I worried, I twisted the map, trying to get oriented.

That’s when the flashing lights on the car behind me got my attention.

“Mommy! Why did you stop? Is that a police car?”

I explained that I had probably been speeding. I did have a vague memory of zooming along a little fast as my thoughts had zoomed around my head.

“Mommy! What is the policeman’s name? Why were you speeding? What is speeding? Is he going to take you to jail?”

Why did Nate sound so pleased at that prospect? “No, he won’t take me to jail. Please be quiet while I talk to the policeman.”

He duly arrived at my car window, took a look at my wide-eyed son, sleeping baby, scrawled map and driver’s license, and went back to his patrol car to write out my ticket.

“Mommy! What is a ticket? How much will you have to pay? Can I be the one to tell Daddy?”

I agreed he could tell Daddy. I was glad he was looking forward to it, since I certainly wasn’t. My husband is not a big fan of wasted money.

The rest of the drive home was uneventful. Daddy was fully informed of the incident, I promised everyone that I would be more attentive to speed limits, and I paid my debt to society. I considered the lesson learned and the event forgotten. We had a pleasant vacation, despite my poor preparation.

After we returned, the children and I made one of our frequent trips to the grocery store. Nate immediately trotted down to the end of the first aisle and waited for me to catch up. This was unusual, but I didn’t worry. He was just standing there, waiting. As we approached, he leapt into the center of the aisle, palm upraised in the classic stance.

“STOP! You are going too fast! I’m going to have to give you a ticket!” he announced in the powerful voice he had inherited from his father. He whipped out an imaginary pad and pencil and started to write up my imaginary ticket.

The incident had obviously only been forgotten by me. I looked around at the other adults in the aisle. Was that woman contemplating one-percent versus two-percent milk snickering over there? The man picking out a carton of eggs was openly grinning at me. I smiled sheepishly back, paid Nate in imaginary money, and zipped around the corner to the next lane.

“Nate, wouldn’t you like to help me pick out some crackers? You can choose what kind we’ll buy.”

He wasn’t about to be distracted. He again trotted down to the end of the aisle and waited. As I approached him, I suggested he might like to help load the cat food into the cart, but he didn’t hesitate.

“STOP! You are going too fast!” The scenario was starting again. I proclaimed that I had already paid my ticket, I wasn’t going too fast, and did he want to choose the ice cream?

Even the prospect of ice cream wasn’t equal to the pleasure of his new game. I had to pay my second imaginary ticket and Nate ran around to wait at the end of aisle three.
We went through the game again. An elderly man picking out peanut butter looked over and laughed. “Had a little run-in with the law, did you?” I pleaded that I hadn’t really been going all that fast, it was my one and only speeding ticket, that I was usually a very careful driver, especially when I had my precious children in the car.

By aisle seven I wasn’t feeling all that appreciative of my precious son, however. I was feeling totally out of imaginary money, but Nate had an endless supply of imaginary tickets. We finally reached the checkout counter.

“My mom got a ticket from a policeman!” Nate announced.

“She was speeding!” Not for the first time I regretted my son’s eagerness to talk to strangers.

“Oh, really!” the clerk looked at me with raised eyebrows. “How fast was she going?”

Luckily Nate didn’t know. “It wasn’t that fast,” I hurriedly explained. “I don’t normally get tickets.”

“Uh huh,” the clerk answered dubiously. Nate was clearly very familiar with the process and told her all about it.

The policeman-in-the-aisle-of-the-grocery-store game went on for weeks. It was the lesson that wouldn’t end. Nate learned to read the car’s speedometer and would keep me informed as to my speed. He started to sound quite professional, and I began to fantasize about his future career in law-enforcement. He seemed a natural, with his law-abiding temperament and delight in handing out tickets. I wondered if that policeman had any idea that day just how many times I would have to replay my transgression.

But like I said, I know it was all my fault.

The Nutcracker: Men in Tights

by Francesca Huemer Kelly

“The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar plums danced in their heads... “

I simply can’t help it: Clement Moore’s famous poem conjures up my ideal family Christmas. However, my son just handed me his Christmas list and I’m not seeing any sugar plums on it. Plastic droids, CD-ROM war simulation software, cold hard cash--those things are all on the list.

Was there really a time when kids asked for “oranges and sweetmeats” to be tucked in their little shoes? If so, it wasn’t in my lifetime. I have to admit I didn’t want Santa bringing me any fruit either.

There was one old-fashioned Christmas tradition I did enjoy, though. My mother took me once to see Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet, The Nutcracker, at Lincoln Center. The sets were magical, the dancers romantic, the music stirring. Manhattan sparkled with tinsel decorations and silver Christmas trees. Salvation Army Santas rang bells on every corner, and you could buy roasted chestnuts and pretzels from the street vendors. The windows at Lord & Taylor enthralled children and adults alike with their mechanized winter scenes of skaters and snowmen.

With a memory like that, it’s no wonder that I don’t feel that holiday magic when the new movie releases have names like ‘Twas the Fright Before Christmas or Venison: When Santa Turned Evil. Nor do I feel all warm and fuzzy about extended hours and syrupy piped-in music at the mall. That’s not what Christmas is “supposed to be.”

But memory can be a tricky thing. People tend to edit out the bad, remember only the good, forget that people are human and kids will be kids.

Last Christmas, when tickets for a live performance of The Nutcracker went on sale in our rather provincial city far from New York, I called my mother right away.

“Mom! The Nutcracker is here! Do you remember when we went together?”

She paused for a moment. “Well, I remember taking one of you children to it. Whoever it was never stopped fidgeting.”

Hmm. Not I, certainly.

I was not going to let this window of opportunity pass me by while my four children were still school-aged. Who knew when there’d be another Nutcracker in town? I bought the tickets. Now, it wouldn’t be enough just to show up with my kids on performance night. Oh, no. They had to be prepped. Coached. Drilled.

Throughout December, Tchaikovsky’s lush harmonies were playing constantly as background music in the house and in the car. We brought out the colorful pop-up Nutcracker book for incessant perusal. One day I persuaded the kids to dance some of the parts, using props like a toy nutcracker and swords for the rat soldiers. (With one girl and three boys, sugar plum fairies were in short supply.)

Another day, full of good intentions, I sat them down on the sofa and started the video version starring Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland. Within a very short time--before Baryshnikov even made an appearance--the children drifted away and I was left watching it alone. This was not a good sign.

Yet I was not to be deterred. I explained concert etiquette to them: You don’t wiggle in your seat, or loudly announce that you need to use the bathroom.

There would be no popcorn. No giant sodas. This was The Ballet, and it was very, very special.

“Yeah, yeah,” they said tiredly whenever I repeated the ballet hype. “We know. It’s the ballet.

It’s very, very special and we gotta be good.”

“If we are good,” said my oldest son, “can we watch ‘Star Trek’ when we get home?”

Just when the family was on the verge of cultural overload, the big night arrived. Dressed in our holiday best, we drove downtown. Our excitement grew amidst the jostling of the crowd and the smell of wet wool coats as people poured into the hall out of the December snow.

When the curtain rose and the overture began, my youngest son exclaimed, “Hey, I know this music!” Clara flitted about the stage in a white gown, and a slightly scary Herr Drosselmeier put on a puppet show under the giant Christmas tree. Within three minutes, The Nutcracker had us in its spell.

I sneaked a peek at my children’s enraptured faces and experienced one of those parental moments that are hard to explain: a mixture of pride and nostalgia, a way of experiencing something over again, but even better this time.

My glow was short-lived.

A whole flock of men in tights bounded onto the stage, and I suddenly realized, too late, the one aspect of classical ballet for which I’d forgotten to prepare my children.

“Mom!” yelped the three boys in alarm.

“Uh, Mom?” asked my adolescent daughter. “Are they wearing any pants?”

“Shhh!” I hissed. “They are wearing tights. See how strong their leg muscles are?”

That kept them quiet for about thirty seconds as they watched ten sets of masculine calf and thigh muscles flex and strain. I recalled asking my mother the same question at Lincoln Center.

“The male form is so beautiful,” she had answered, “that it’s traditional to show it off as much as possible. It makes all those gorgeous leaps and jumps look even more breathtaking.”

Interesting explanation, rather sexist. Ah! Now I finally understand why all those society matrons just adore going to the ballet. Patrons of the arts, indeed.

“Look!” said the youngest boy to his brother, forgetting to whisper. “They have really big--”

“Codpieces,” I said quickly. “Those are called codpieces.” Or were they dance belts? I couldn’t remember, but it didn’t matter--whatever they’re called, they had completely upstaged the sets, the costumes, the music and even all the other parts of the dancers’ anatomy.

“What are they for?” asked my older son.

“To protect the men while they’re dancing,” I said. I resisted the very great temptation to make a nutcracker joke.

The children soon settled down again and concentrated on the ballet. Finally, the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause.

Our excursion had been a resounding success. All four children were chattering on about it afterward and humming the tunes all the way home.

You might even say that visions of sugar plum fairies danced in their heads.

On Christmas morning, we opened the usual presents: miniature spaceships, bright plaid flannel shirts, and crisp greenbacks in holly-decorated envelopes.

Later we watched some of the Nutcracker video, the children nestled snugly around me, now experienced ballet-goers. This time we got great close-ups of all the dancers. No one even mentioned the tights.

Would you like to read more humorous tales about parenting? Check out our NEW book: Blow-drying the Frog and Other Parenting Adventures.

Francesca Kelly is the editor in chief of the online magazine for people moving or living overseas, Tales from a Small Planet, at www.talesmag.com.