The Car Seat: And Then There's Reality

Recently a carpooling situation has been introduced into our daily routine, which relieves us, in theory, of multiple trips back and forth to Sydney's pre-school.  My husband brings Sydney, her schoolmate, and Lauren (by default) to the school, and then her schoolmate's mother brings Sydney and her son back to her house, where I will pick her up on my way home.  This arrangement works well, in theory. 

But in order to accomplish this, a rotating saga of carseats must occur.  A third carseat must somehow be inserted between the first two car seats of the car, since  Children Can Be Seriously Hurt Or Injured by the Passenger Side AirBag!! Children are ALWAYS Safer in the BackSeat!! 

It is nearly impossible to put this third car seat into the car without going through major bodily contortions, and it is completely impossible to do it within fifteen minutes.     Add to that the other two car seats were recently removed from the car because Sydney and her sister went somewhere with Grandma the other day, and we can all be pretty much assured that something, somewhere, is going to be buckled in either haphazardly or possibly not all.  The end result is three most likely "improperly" installed car seats and a possy of parents who are now exceedingly late to their destinations. 

The LATCH system?  Well one car has it and one car does not, and anyone who thinks this finger pinching system is easier than the seatbelt contortion is high on drugs anyway... but when you're dealing with multiple people trying to install carseats in multiple different cars you don't add multiple different ways to install them.  So we only use the seatbelts.  Which means there's this large metal object dangling from all three car seats, ready to smash someone on the head in the event of an accident, and also a whole group of child car seat safety experts shaking their heads in disbelief.

A recent study shows that most car seats are installed incorrectly.  The study tries to fault lack of awareness, but that's not it at all.  I'm perfectly aware that our hurried installation of merry-go-round car seats are likely lacking in some way.  Sometimes I discover they're not installed at all, due to a miscommunication from Party A with Party B.  It's a lack of time and resources, also a very real lack of safety features in the car itself.  Here's the thing, corporate America, I shouldn't have to buy separate pieces of equipment to keep my children safe in your car.  Your car should be made safe for my children.  My 1 1/2 year old should not have to ride backwards with her feet scrunched up against the ill-fitting back seat for another three years because we can't be bothered to make a back car seat which can comfortably and safely accomodate her.   And I should be able to fit three children into the back seat without spending half an hour installing car seats badly or, alternatively, buying 16 car seats and a minivan.

You know, sure, on paper, we should all slow down, relax, make sure that all our t's are crossed and our i's dotted before setting out on any adventure.  We should all brush our teeth daily, eat a good breakfast, exercise for fifteen minutes, sleep 8 hours a night, get a little me time in there somewhere and make sure our children's car seats are installed properly by stopping by our local police station and having them double check our installation (which in our situation would be several times a day).  Yeah, doesn't that seem properly reasonable?  Except we all slept late, we're out of milk, I can't find one of my running shoes, I stayed up late last night doing laundry, I'm not sure when I last had a free moment and all three car seats are outside on the driveway soaking in the morning dew.  Oh, and our friendly local police only work part time.  Also, we're already half an hour late and the car needs gas.  What do you think is going to happen?

Lipstick on a Pig

Sydney came home one day with a picture of a dinosaur she had drawn during one of her outings—the library or preschool, I don’t remember which. It was a girl dinosaur, she informed me, because it was wearing lipstick.

Uh oh. Gender minefield, my brain said.

See… I don’t wear lipstick. Or eyeshadow. Or blush, or nail polish, or any of the other body painting items that I presume 90% of my fellow women use. I don’t even own these items, nor have I ever understood how or why I would use them. Furthermore, most of my stockings get used for practical things like sucking up unwanted ladybugs in the vaccum in the winter or shoring up tomato-laden plants in the summer. I own a few dresses but rarely wear them, all of my shoes are comfortable and usually scuffed up, my regular jewelry consists of one plain gold wedding ring, and basically I’m lucky if I manage to put all of my clothes on right side in and get to work without spilling something on them in the morning. In short, I don’t get the whole feminine body image thing. I don’t even think about it.

Add to that the inherent stereotypes created by a society which assumes that “lipstick is for girls, trucks are for boys” and my need to create for my daughters a caring and open childhood free of added burdens simply because of their physical sex while at the time time not dooming them to freakdom and ridicule by their less open minded peers and parents, not to mention trying to explain (for example) the symbols on the bathroom door for practical purposes such as not going into the wrong toilet by mistake, and what exactly do I say? Clearly, an older person or a peer informed Sydney about the lipstick=girls connection. And since Sydney’s mother doesn’t have or wear lipstick, that part probably had to be explained too. And now here I come along, bent on undoing Sydney’s developing understanding of why her dinosaur is a girl.

But on the other hand… what if she wants to be the icon of feminity when she gets older? Who am I to impose my own views of gender on her? I certainly don’t want to limit her possibilities just because I happen to be an unrepentant thirty-something tomboy with a penchant for motorcycles and excavators and no fashion sense at all. What if she’s destined to design the next Ralph Laurenesque line?

And what will happen when she does start toeing the line in the makeup department? How will she interpret her mother’s complete lack of competence in this arena? Where will she learn to wear lipstick and eyeshadow and what purse to carry in the fall if not from me?

All this was going through my head as I finally said, carefully: “Boys can wear lipstick too, you know. And I don’t wear lipstick, and I’m a girl.”

To which she replied: “But mommy… you do wear lipstick! You put it on whenever your lips get dry!” Proving that even though she is out in the world she still sees the world largely through the actions of her own parents. I do indeed wear Chapstick, mostly in the winter, and so does Daddy, so we decided it was still a girl dinosaur but her lips were dry which was why she was wearing chapstick/lipstick.

With that settled, Sydney rattled the picture in my face. “ROAR!!!” she said.

Phew. Dodged a bullet. May she think Chapstick and Lipstick are the same thing for many years to come.

Royal Arguments

In the ever growing, complicated saga that is Sydney’s daily existence, there are times when she is reprimanded and feels maligned by the process. Which is to say, most of the time.

Sydney doesn’t like to be caught doing something wrong, be told what she is doing is not nice, or find out that what she thought was right was actually wrong, which bodes well for her future behavior, I suppose, but makes the whole process convoluted and drawn out in the moment. Take for instance this exchange, in which I had just reprimanded Sydney for yelling at me while I was in the midst of talking to someone else:

“Mommy! I have to tell you something.”
“What, honey?”
“When superheroes are serious to princesses, they fight.”

Possibly in retrospect, I should have realized that this matter of fact statement had already been discussed and agreed to during the day by Daddy and Sydney. Apparently the agreement was that princesses and superheroes are equal, but when they are serious with each other it sometimes leads to fighting, which is why she assumed that I had gotten mad at her for yelling at me. But I didn’t know that at the time, and assumed that what Sydney was trying to tell me was that a) I was a superhero but I was being mean b) that she was a princess and therefore people couldn’t tell her what to do and c) she didn’t want to fight. Apparently I was wrong on all counts, so the conversation rapidly went downhill:

“Well, I can be serious to princesses.”
“No! Because princesses don’t like it when people are serious!”
I don’t even know where this princess thing came from, but I wasn’t buying it. “Well, princesses have to be strong which means they can’t cry when people are serious with them.”
“Why?”
“Princesses have to rule the country, right?”
“Well, I’m the ruler! And I don’t want you to be serious!!”
“Honey, I have to be serious with you sometimes when you yell at me for no reason.”
“I said I was sorry!!! I’m going to my room for 55 hours and I’m never coming back!!”

At this point, a seriously over-dramatic Sydney mopes slowly out of the living room – or stomps madly, depending on the circumstance, but reappears well before 55 hours are up with a sad expression on her face.

“What’s up, honey?”
“You shouldn’t be serious with princesses!”
“Honey—“ where’s the fast-forward button? – “Honey, I will always be serious with you when you yell at me.”
“But when superheroes are serious to princesses, they fight!!”
“Well I don’t think they should fight at all!”
“DADDYYY!!!”

After many tears and sobs and a version of the story that in no way matches mine, Daddy finally comes in to clear up the matter between the two of us. Apparently, superheroes and princesses need some kind of moderator when they start to fight. I’m not sure who won the final negotiation, but at last we reached a compromise:

“Honey… what will make you feel better?”
“You have to tickle me.”

That, I can do.

To Sydney on her 4th Birthday

When you were born I had no idea what to expect in the years to come. And up until now, though you outgrew your baby clothes and started walking and talking and eating real food, you were still our first little baby. But the other day you showed up nonchalantly at the sugar house, having walked down the snowy, wooded trail all by yourself, and you thought nothing of it. I, on the other hand, was completely thunderstruck.

Actually, you’re doing that a lot to me, nowadays. Instead of the scribbles and fanciful colors upon the bottoms of which your teachers have dutifully translated what the picture is for us, you’re actually drawing yellow suns and red houses and birds with wings in their relatively correct places. You wrote your name, in recognizable letters and in fairly recognizable order the other day, although the E had a few extra lines in it for good measure and a few of the letters were backwards and one was over in the corner of the page by itself. I’m not saying you’re all grown up, but you’re definitely not an infant, a toddler, a three year old anymore.

You can help out now, and not in the way that your little sister “helps out” by removing all the tupperware from the drawers and scattering it all over the kitchen, or the way you once helped Mommy and Daddy “put the corn to sleep” which involved pulling out the corn plants, laying them on their sides and covering the whole thing over with dirt and then patting them hard (we didn’t have a very good corn patch that year). When asked to bring knives and forks to the table, you take them courteously and you put them right where they are supposed to be. You’ll entertain your sister for awhile so that one of us can make dinner. And you’ll relay messages between parents, although not always with the necessary accuracy (“Honey, Syd says that you said to tell me the washing machine is burning up? I’m sorry, can you explain that again?”) You’re growing into a pretty reliable, well-adjusted kid.

That’s not to say you aren’t still hilarious. At your birthday circle at pre-school, I arrived to find you in crown and cape, and the teacher informed me that Sydney had taken a “birthday vacation” and left Prince Charming to stand in her stead. Super Prince Charming, to be exact, not to be confused with Buzz Lightyear, Mighty Mouse, Super Dorothy, Tin Woman, Emergency Buzz (for those times when you don’t have time to say “to Infinity and Beyond!”) or Super Max. It becomes a bit of a challenge, at times, to keep up with you, especially when you announce out of the blue that you need oil (Tin Woman drinks oil, you see. Because water makes her rust.) or that I have to take off your spacesuit before you can get into the bathtub. But once I do catch up it’s just a pure pleasure to immerse myself in your world, for all its chaotic, illogical orderliness.

The most amazing thing about you growing up is that it turns out that I am growing up too. Now that I find myself having to concentrate through a haze of conflicting conversations between Daddy and Mommy, Daddy and Sydney, Sydney and Mommy and Sydney Talking To Herself, or trying to drive in a straight line while also trying to right a suddenly up ended water container, I’m a lot more sympathetic. Patience has become my middle name. Trying to come up with definitive answers to seemingly obvious questions such as “how do they make light bulbs?” has made me realize that I really don’t know all that much and that what I do know isn’t really black and white. Most of all I’ve learned that you cannot cook the best steak in the world at the same time that you are trying to prevent your almost 1 year old from climbing up the stairs and your 4 year old from writing on the walls. Multi-tasking means compromising at best.

So, Sydney, we’ve made it to four. In another four years, you’ll be eight. In 4 times 4, you’ll be learning to drive. And 4 after that you’ll be out on your own. But that’s a lot of fours down the road.

A Majiggy

The other day Sydney found her long lost Wiki Sticks (or is that "stix") in the bottom of the toy box, and she was so grateful that she decided to be generous. After finally managing to unravel the sticky, colorful ball, she told me that before I went to work she would make me something.

"Great, honey," I said vaguely, rushing around and as usual late for work. As promised, a little while later she held out a Wiki Sticks conglomeration vaguely amoeba shaped, and told me I should keep it on my desk at work.

"Thanks honey," I said, holding out my hand for my gift. "....what is it?"

"A thing," Sydney said, who had already embarked on a completely different project involving scissors and playdough.

"What kind of a thing?" I persisted, because heaven forbid six months from now I call it an amoeba and it turns out it is really higher on the evolutionary timetable, say a dinosaur, or a cow, or Buzz Lightyear.

"It's a majiggy," she said absently.

And so I went to work and placed on my desk a genuine Thing, A Majiggy.

All in a Name

A few months ago Sydney saw a homegrown, musical variation on the Wizard of Oz. Ever since she has incorporated pieces and parts of the story into her play; the wizard, Toto, the witch, the lion, scarecrow and tin man. She has also been watching a good deal of Sesame Street, and has attached herself to the idea of SuperHeroes, mainly in the person of Super Grover. All was well until one day she insisted to me that her name wasn't Sydney anymore.

It was Dorothy.

Super Dorothy, to be specific.

Super Dorothy and Super Grover fly around saving people, sometimes with liberal doses of help from the witch, the wizard or Abby Cadabby. This super hero game can go on for hours and is never ever boring, I guess, since when we finally decide that we have to do something else, like wash dishes for example, minor catastrophes ensue which prevent us from leaving SuperHero world just then.

Sydney had insisted so many times that she had changed her name to Dorothy that I was beginning to despair of ever calling her by name again when we watched Toy Story and Toy Story II over the holidays, and she stopped insisting her name was Dorothy.

"am beyond!! PHHIISHH!" she hollers as she sticks her arms out straight and prepares to save people in her new iteration.

"My name isn't Sydney!" she insists, "it's Buzz LightYear!!"

To infinity. And beyond. At least we're going somewhere.