For twelve long weeks, I toted my tiny ballerina to “Creative Movement” class and for twelve long weeks she barnacled herself to my side for the 30 minute class duration. The miniature dancers tip toed into pretend sticky cake icing. Punky clung to my legs. The toddlers roared at the bear in the cave and hopped over the river. Punky froze next to me, staring at the performance. The girls hula-hooped, and held hands and laughed. Punky clawed at my body as if to crawl back into my womb.
Us Novaks are not quitters. So every Tuesday morning I took her, her baby sister bjourned to my chest and I encouraged Punky to join the class in my sweetest non-threatening teacher voice. This was the little white swan who dances in her tutu all day long, at home, by herself.
My frustration was bubbling over since she always wanted to go to class but she didn’t want to perform. Parents looked at us funny. They stopped asking me questions about my shy ballerina. They stopped looking at us. Every week we watched the other tots happily prance and plie around the studio. Every non-dancing dance class made me feel more and more like a zitty middle schooler sitting by herself at lunchtime waiting for someone to say hello. No one was ever going to friend us at this rate.
One Tuesday morning I didn’t feel up to getting two kids under three ready for an hour to sit on a dance floor studio for 25 minutes while my upper lip sweat gave away that I hoped against all logic that today was the day she was finally going to start dancing. That morning, and with my pediatrician’s permission, we quit.
I was watching “Parenthood” last week and Lauren Graham’s character was talking her teenage daughter through her performance anxiety. The gist of her speech was that no one warns you when you have a child that they are not you. “You look at them and think they are you but they are not you”. Simple enough but hard for my brain to accept. The mom was trying to protect her daughter (and possibly herself) from the audience’s reaction to the music she was going to play but instead the mom made the daughter second-guess herself and wilt. I don’t want to do the same.
Punky’s anxiety gave me anxiety and I had no clue how to handle the situation. I am pretty sure that parental insecurities are exactly what make people insane, Barbra Hershey-like stage moms. And I for one will not be featured on “Toddlers and Tiaras” anytime soon.
I think Punky and I both need to sit out this dance season. We will go back at some point in a year or two. Until then, Punky will be performing every day, by herself, in her living room, and usually to Michael Jackson.
Hi. My name’s Alexis, I’m a Florida native, and I don’t Disney very well. Please don’t tell a soul. As I write this I fear a gangsta Mickey Mouse will appear on my door step and break my knees. It feels so sacrilegious to confess my anti-Disney thoughts. Think Walt can hear them up in Disney Heaven?
I don’t like Disney and Disney definitely doesn’t like me. There, I said it. I don’t speak their language. I don’t feel the magic. It isn’t the happiest place on earth. All the hoards of people. All the manufactured joy. The sheer desperation to make sure your kids eek the most fun out of the pricey experience. I sense it all and it just makes me anxious. I’m not even going to blame the pre-pubescent New Jersey cheerleadering squad on “It’s a Small World” who joked that my baby looks like she has Downs Syndrome. Or the lady that shoved my toddler aside so her older child could get on the Dumbo flying ride first. (And that was just our first few hours). There is something about Disney madness that brings out the worst in people. I would prefer not to witness the greedy ugliness or ugly greediness so close up. The anxiety to have fun is palpable since most families have saved up all year to ensure a good Disney time. And a good Disney time is an expensive one.
I tried to dig Disney our first family trip. I wanted to like it and experience it through my toddler. She did experience moments of big fun that she is still talking about. She also threw epic temper tantrums brought on by over-stimulation and exhaustion that continued after we returned home. My daughter said her favorite parts were riding the “school buses” and “sleeping in the bed”. That reminded me of when your child likes the box the toy came in more than the toy.
In fairness to Disney, we arrived about three years too early. Everything scared my 2 and ½ year old and my 9 month old was pissed her nap schedule went haywire so she cried the better part of two days. I left every show about five minutes in when Punky started screaming “Too SCARY! Let’s goooooooooooo!” at the top of her lungs. Even at Disney people stared.
Maybe I am overthinking it. I have been accused of this my entire life. When my daughter asked me “Where is Wonderland?” after meeting Alice at breakfast and “Is there a big world?” after riding small world then I knew that this “thinking too hard” thing was genetic. My kids are doomed. They will also have trouble swallowing the over-branded and canned joy that the Disney machine shoves down our throats as cheery music surges through the loud speakers.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve given up on Disney entirely. It is a necessary parenting evil that isn’t going anywhere. I am going to learn how to Disney well if it kills me. On the ride home, my husband and I have made Disney guidelines for our possible future trips. Never again until every child is potty trained. Not until all kids have graduated to one nap or are nap-free. Next time bring a grandparent or babysitter so we can go out at night at least once. And next time our meal plan will include alcohol. That’s all we could come up with. I am going to try to stop thinking now.
How well do you Disney? And what do I need to know to get this Disney thing right next time?
My favorite childhood holiday memories involve December nights when my mom would let my brother and me sleep under our Christmas tree in our sleeping bags. My mom decorated our tree with a strict aesthetic. Nothing blinking. No garish tinsel. I loved our tree’s simple beauty with its homemade ornaments, plain white lights and popcorn garland we strung together. But falling asleep under the glow, the real tree smell was my favorite part. Our tree slumber parties fostered pure Christmas wonderment- a feeling I hope to nurture in my own daughters.
Then when I was in seventh grade my mom married my fake-tree loving stepdad.
For reasons unbeknownst to me to this day, my stepdad wouldn’t budge on the tree issue. For years, my brother and I would roll our eyes and curse when we saw the huge box marked X-mas in our living room. It meant that we would have to measure each branch against the other to determine which plastic tree level was its home until at last all the branches together vaguely resembled a lop-sided Fraser Fir. My mom compensated by spraying “real tree smell” on it which always reminded me more of a hanging car freshner than the real thing. One year my fake-tree hating aunt and I co-wrote a snarky song entitled “Fake Christmas Tree” to the tune of “Oh, Christmas Tree” that we sang to my step-dad as he arrived home from work. You can imagine his excitement. This song and the only verse we remember, “Fake Christmas Tree, Fake Christmas Tree, your plastic branches frighten me” is now a classic family story since my step-dad became my former step-dad not long after our sarcastic caroling. From then on, I promised myself that my Christmas trees as a grown-up would always be real.
Since I have been married we’ve had real trees and real tree disasters. Not only am I not a green thumb, I am more like a Grim Reaper of living green things. This can be witnessed by my greyish yard with its total absence of plants. One year I completely forgot to continue watering the tree which resulted in a carpet of pine needles on my floor. Another Christmas, my cats that fought like brothers and sisters knocked it over during their high speed chase and left glass shards in their wake. Now, I leave the tree naked from the waist down to avoid choking hazards and baby tree-tipping.
But this year for the first time ever I went so far as to entertain the idea of a fake. No unpleasant shedding. No hour spent twisting the screws into the tree trunk and re-adjusting ten times while the tree fights back with sap. No weird balding sections that ornaments can’t camouflage. I can’t help but think too that going faux might be nicer to not only me but also real trees. I tell my mom this. That I would like to imagine Douglas Firs on the side of a mountain somewhere northern where snow might actually collect on their branches instead of them dying a slow death in my sweltering Florida living room. She popped my romantic illusion by informing me that Christmas trees are now farmed. Squished tightly together. For the sole purpose of being chopped down. So we can enjoy that real tree smell. Oh.
My husband believes in real trees only. He says my practical momness is starting to freak him out; that being practical is overrated. I decide to let this one go. This December anyway. I am driving my new minivan after all.
We know you are already scouring the pre-Christmas sales looking for the perfect gifts for your angelic grandchildren to excite them on the big day. Here are a few small reminders of gifts to kindly pass by.
Noise-Makers- If the toy goes “WHOMP WHOMP WHOMP chang ching chang ching LOOOOOP LOOOOOOOOOOP LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOPPP” like a car alarm in the middle of the night or a Vegas slot machine, keep walking. Even if it is Princess-themed or Sponge Bob or my child’s other favorite. We already own enough of these migraine makers to last the next decade.
Messy Ass Anything- Toys with paint, water squirters, science kits that house ants and worms, slimy and sticky parts that attract dirt and general dusty funkiness. Must I explain further?
Over-sized items- As you have witnessed and joked about there was a hostile toy takeover in my rapidly shrinking house so if the toy measures larger than 12 inches by 12 inches, keep it at your house for when we visit. Your house is 200 percent larger than mine and is inhabited by ½ the people mine is. I suck at math but I think this means some of your closets still have usable space.
Parts Galore- We loved the puzzle with 1000 pieces from last year, especially since so many went missing which we discovered the one time we tried to complete it. If there are more than 10 small parts gift it to the long-distance cousins.
Musical Instruments (please refer back to number 1)
Stuffed Anything- No one can scientifically prove to me that stuffed animals don’t reproduce when we aren’t looking. Yes, your granddaughters love on and hug them for a few weeks, then their fur gets nasty, I toss them in the spin cycle, their guts come out, and I throw them in the trash. This happens weekly. Yes, this is what happened to that sweet green dog you gave Punky for her birthday. Really, anything, ANYTHING, would be a better gift than a stuffed animal.
Toys that require intense assembly (and therefore have crap instructions)- This may be my number one gift giving pet peeve- a gift that requires 20 hours plus of assembly! It morphs from gift to hassle very quickly. A few times I have had to wing it with the assembly which always leaves me puzzled about what I did wrong (damn that lop-sided Exersaucer that taunts me!). I’ve also given up and gotten rid of things that I never found the time to devote to putting together. I have no time. If you don’t want to assemble it, neither do I.
All that aside, you really are great gift givers. Merry Christmas! Feliz Navidad! And remember that I am the easy one to shop for- just buy me jewelry.
by Alexis Novak
