Monday

My sentiments exactly.

(Frustrated) Writer in Residence

Last evening, Chicken Noodle asked for some time with my computer. Having exhausted my abuse of it for the day, I obliged. After all, she’s seven now. From what I’ve seen of her writing she might make better use of the thing than me.

I left her to her craft. Ten minutes of silence. Then wailing.

I returned to my office to see her crumpled in my chair, sobbing with vehemence and anger.

On the screen were these words:

The scarf

A poem

By Libby Mae Findling

A decent start. But now, tears. “The letters are wrong! I don’t know what to do! What are those squiggly lines? Why does my L look that way? What if I don’t know how to spell things? What will it look like when I’m done? What if no one reads it? What if no one likes it?”

Ah, the crux of it. At seven.

Insert here much writerly/motherly cajoling about how what matters is not how it looks, just getting the words down, thinking your own thoughts and recording them, who cares what anyone else thinks, I can’t wait to see what you write, we’ll fix the font later, Mommy will love whatever you write, I’m so proud of you, someone fix me a double vodka martini, etc.

To no consolation. She hurtled some incomprehensible existential misery at me. I left to make dinner. If it wasn’t too much to bear, or too close to home, I’d have thought she was Hemingway reincarnated, and searched the desk drawers for whiskey and pistols on my way out.

Ten minutes of silence. Then wailing. I returned to the artist’s space.

On the screen was this:

The magic scarf

A book

By Libby Mae Findling

Once upon a time

Modest improvements. But still. “I can’t do it!” she sobbed. “I can’t! It’s too hard! I want you to write it! I’m bad at this! I’ll never be a writer!”

I feel your pain, girlfriend. Been there. Will be there again.

At this point, I called in Captain Daddy for back up. Code 3. Patient agitated, hyperventilating. Possible anxiety attack. He coerced her from the room with firefighter tough love and macaroni and cheese.

At dinner, when it felt safe to venture in again:

“What’s your story about, Noodle?”

No hesitation.

“A boy. He’s going to this adventure thing but he trips in this hole and falls into a fuzzy tree. And a baby bird falls out of its nest and he says where am I and then there’s some magic stuff.”

Wow. I want to read that. Stay tuned as I figure out how to nurture a first grader past a wicked case of writer’s block.

Evil Mommy At It Again

Chicken Noodle: That’s not fair! You never let anyone do anything fun! You’re not fair about anything!

Chicken Little: That’s because she’s your mother, Libby.

Happy New You to Chicken Little!

This baby…

…is five today!

And sweet as Tupelo honey. Love you Boo Boo. xo, Mom

Happy New You to Chicken Noodle

This baby…

…is seven today!

We’ve come a long way, baby. Love, Mom

Take Me Higher

These days, every wall is an opportunity.

She Knows Her Mother Well

Me: Boo, you’re amazing. Where did you come from?

Chicken Little: The store. You found me in the beer case.

I Need A Wife

Wife For Hire

Duties include:

Finding more outfits for Chicken Noodle, who has announced she will only wear red until January.

Composting the pumpkins that are still on the front porch.

Scraping art clay off the woodwork from last summer’s sculpting project.

Managing the situation when Chicken Noodle decides she’s the shark and her little sister is Brittany Hamilton.

Christmas shopping.

Painting over the crayon on the wall.

Redecorating the Christmas tree that the chickens already decorated.

Vacuuming the uncooked oatmeal out of the heater vent in the kitchen.

Addressing 125 Christmas cards.

Shopping for a disco ball for New Year’s Eve.

Going to couples’ therapy with Captain Daddy.

Locating a costume for Chicken Little’s ballet recital this weekend.

Recycling pounds of kid art without any kids noticing.

Writing a novel. (OK, fine. I’ll do that one.)

Start date: Immediately.

Hours: Endless.

Pay Rate: I’ll pour you a glass of wine.

Applicants: Show up at my front door, you’re hired.

Daylight Savings, Harbinger of Evil

Did yesterday last 141 years? Maybe it was just me. I am sure I’ve complained lately about not having enough time, but I didn’t mean I wanted more time single-parenting on a cold, gloomy, occasionally-snowing Sunday in November. I wasn’t asking for more housecleaning, more refereeing of rounds of girl-on-girl-wrestling, more moody brooding.

More scraping cheerios off the wall, as my mother used to say.

It was enough to make a girl want to start drinking vodka straight out of the bottle at 3 p.m. Which had been 4 p.m. only the day before. And which I didn’t do, by the way. Bad Mommy is trying to get a grip.

The day did finally end, only to begin again at 4:37 a.m., when the most beautiful saucy vixen of a four-year-old Chicken Little awoke, demanding entertainment.

“Mommy! When will it be morning?”

Whenever you declare it so, my little angel-devil-pie.

I groped blearily for the first thing at hand and thrust it at her.

Soon, I will likely regret introducing her to the charms of my brand-new $500 Ipad. But she did create some lovely images, didn’t she?

My favorite is the two-headed monster.

Negotiation Lessons from the Very Young

Chicken Noodle lost her third tooth yesterday. Old hat at this tooth fairy business and growing more savvy by the moment at the ripe old age of six-and-a-half, last night at bedtime she crawled into bed, pencil and paper in hand, and jotted this note.

Daer tooth Fariy,

Can I still get muny if I don’t give you my tooth? just so you no I’m not going to give you my tooth. Also I have a note for signing by you. Love libby from libby”

Note the added touch of a contract for the fairy to endorse, ensuring that there would be no going back on this unique deal in the future.

I feel there are lessons to be learned here, especially since the Tooth Fairy not only left the tooth exactly where it was under Miss Noodle’s pillow, but also deposited two dollars and a nice personal note granting her wish. (The handwriting was familiar, eliciting vague memories of love notes once written to me by Captain Daddy. But that was a very long time ago, and I couldn’t be certain of the comparison.)

Might we all be asking a bit too little from our own personal universe of wish granting fairies? I will ponder this today as I figure out where to keep greying bits of toothy bone not carted off by the tooth fairy, that old softie.