IT TAKES A VALIUM

Last week I talked about the book “Bringing up Bebe,” in which an American mom talks about how French moms view parenting. Now I’d like to go to the other side of the globe and review “Battle Hymn of a Tiger Mother.” For those of you unfamiliar with the book, it’s the story of a very successful mom of two daughters who is raising them “the Chinese way.” In short, this means she demands perfection in every aspect of their lives, and when she doesn’t get it she acts like a spoiled brat.

I give the author, Amy Chua, some credit for putting all her ugliness out there for the world to see. It can’t be easy being one of the most hated moms in America and she certainly put up with her share of flack. Then again, that flack has also helped her sell some books. It’s probably a lot easier to deal with being called a horrible mom/person while you’re watching your book climb up the New York Times bestseller list. I’d be willing to put up with some name-calling if my blog would take off. But I digress…

Everyone hates this mom except her older daughter and her husband. Her younger daughter, on the other hand, likens her to Lord Voldemort. I’ve read all the Harry Potter books and I think that even Voldemort has a tad more humanity than Amy Chua. To illustrate: When her kids presented her with handmade cards on her birthday, she angrily told them to take them back as the gifts were unworthy. She berated her younger daughter in public. She mocked her, ruined the card and then threw it back at her, demanding something better. She repeated the process on the older daughter, lamenting that she hadn’t written her a poem. The girls, by the way, were seven and four. I couldn’t get past this. Forget the fact that she made the kids practice the piano and violin at the expense of sleep, meals and friends. Forget that forced them to practice while on vacation before they could go out and see any sights. Forget that she didn’t allow them to have playdates and sleepovers. It all hinged on those fucking cards; I couldn’t forgive her. She, on the other hand, seemed very proud of this fact as she dedicated a whole chapter to this scene, aptly named “The Birthday Card.”

I also felt that the theme of the book was misleading. According to the cover, the book “was supposed to be a story about how Chinese parents are better at raising their kids than western parents. But instead, it’s a story about a bitter clash of cultures, a fleeting taste of glory, and how I was humbled by a thirteen year old.” The book did not deliver. As a matter of fact, the author used her 229 pages to brag about her family’s accomplishments: how smart, clever and talented they all are; how well-travelled and culturally superior they are to most Americans; how much praise she receives from everyone around her for her parenting skills. There was merely a glimpse of her daughter “humbling” her: they were away on vacation in Russia and as the author was verbally assaulting her younger daughter for not eating caviar, the girl finally rebelled and stormed away. From that point on she refused to play the violin, on her mother’s terms. Big deal. Instead, she decided to pursue her own passion: tennis. Did she suck? Of course not! She exhibited exceptional talent, most likely because she was committed and practiced diligently, like any good Chinese daughter would do. Amy, remind me again how this Chinese parenting thing failed you? When exactly did the book change from being one that was “supposed to show” superiority in Chinese parenting but went another direction? Please. I wish she’d been more up front about the tenor of the book. We’d still buy it; we’d still hate her but for different reasons (i.e. her nasty demeanor, as opposed to being a pretentious twit).

I will admit that she makes one think twice about the benefits of raising kids the Chinese way. How many serial killers, psychopaths and losers are Chinese? Not many. Remeber Long Duc Dong?  He might have been a nerd and a pervert but he was going places.  Many people of Chinese descent are accomplished.  They are scientists, doctors, musicians, engineers – often very successful because their parents have pushed them to excel, and they in return love and respect their parents, taking care of them as they grow old. Can we Americans say the same?

While acknowledging that all parents want what’s best for their kids, the author differentiates Chinese parents from western ones by how they define “best.” Western parents want their kids to be happy, have self-esteem and pursue their true passions. Chinese parents, on the other hand, want to prepare their kids for the future by arming them with skills and confidence.

This got me thinking. As a kid I dabbled in a few things:  art lessons, ballet, softball, all of which i gave up when it got ”too hard.”  I even tried playing the flute but lasted as long as you can say “Pied Piper.” I blew a few times, made no music and pretty much gave up. Good thing I didn’t try for a career in the porno industry.   In school I studied occassionally but was happy to skate by on decent grades rather than really apply myself and shoot for the moon.  This continued into adulthood as my work ethic always sort of sucked too.  I liked working, but I also liked bullshiting with my co-workers, taking long lunches and occasionally calling in sick, even when well.

I was raised, as most of my American counterparts, to believe that life should be fun and if practicing or studying didn’t make me happy, i gave it up.  Admittedly I pushed that philosophy to the max, but I didn’t turn out so bad.  I did get myself through law school, traveled around the globe, and ran a marathon despite my hatred of the sport.  But could I have been more?  I wonder what my life would have been like had I been raised the chinese way.   Would I now be a famous prosecutor, responsible for putting Casey Anthony behind bars? I know she was found not-guilty but I bet if Chinese Kim had been the prosecutor the outcome would have been different.  Ditto for OJ. Would I be a concert flutist? Or a major porn star? Perhaps I would have my artwork on displaly at the Guggenheim. Who knows.

My sons are too young to be pushed; they are only 5 and 2 and I don’t yet have them in any organized activities. This is partly because we’ve been unsettled now for almost a year but also in part because I want them to be kids and play for as long as possible, with no responsibilities; nowhere to be on a Saturday morning except home in their PJs making pancakes and watching cartoons. I imagine once my kids start trying out the various and sundry activities available to them, I will give them a pass once they get bored.  I can’t picture myself pushing my son to practice guitar for six or more hours a day. Not only does it sound like a colossal waste of time, it seems dreadfully boring and painful, for both of us. Imagine listening to a budding musician practice for six hours a day? Not without ear plugs!

After reading Amy Chua’s book, however, I realized that I want my sons to experience success.  I want them to find their bliss and develop   expertise at something they love.   I don’t want them to give up easily like I did with the flute.  I don’t want them to be entitled little assholes, thinking the world owes them everything because they’re special (which they’re not, by the way). They should know that to be great they need to work for it. I might not agree with the author’s methods but her kids are wildly talented and successful. There is something to be said for commitment and pushing ourselves beyond our comfort zones.

At the end of the day I can safely say that Amy Chua will not be my new guru. She did, however, make me reconsider my role as parent and hopefully I will be able to devise more of a happy medium: part Chinese; part American. You know, sort of like those chicken fingers they serve in Chinese restaurants.

Stay tuned next week as I review my final potential guru: Jane Nelson. She advocates firm but kind. I’m still working on crazy but medicated.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

In my last entry I promised you a review of my recent parenting reads.  Here they are in no particular order:

• “Bringing up Bebe” by Pamela Druckerman
• “BattleHymn of the Tiger Mother” by Amy Chua
• “Positive Discipline” by Jane Nelson

Let’s start with “Bringing up Bebe.”  If you aren’t familiar with this book, the author is an American living in France who has discovered why French moms (or more specifically, Parisian moms) have a laid back, easy-breezy attitude toward parenting.   I wasn’t sure about taking parenting advice from a woman who gave her husband a threesome for his fortieth birthday but what the heck (by the way, read her article on that subject; it’s rather hilarious).

The book is a good read and I recommend it if you’re interested in seeing how the Parisians raise their young.  While I certainly didn’t take everything to heart, I did enjoy reading how those skinny French bitches put themselves first, always.   They take care of themselves:  physically, emotionally and sexually (as in, they still have sex and seem to enjoy it).  Some of their parenting philosophies definitely resonated with me.   First, they use free play to stimulate their young ones, as opposed to flashcards, listening to Mozart or taking as many classes as a toddler’s schedule will allow.  This made me smile as I am loathe to partake in any class that makes me sing “The Wheels on the Bus.”  Also, I like the notion of letting our kids explore their world with a little more freedom and independence.  How much harm can a kid do in a big grassy field?

Second, they draw a clear distinction between child activities and adult activities, and rarely do they coincide.  I love my kids but, as controversial as this might sound, I have little interest in playing with them.  I do not enjoy following their every move at the playground as I’d much prefer to read a book or chat with a friend than to squeeze my adult-size ass down a kiddie slide.  I am not craftsy nor am I chock full of kid-friendly activities to do on a rainy day.  I admit I do like to color and draw; I have been known to make a fabulous pyramid and sphinx out of legos, and I really enjoy setting up the Thomas train tracks.  Seriously.  I sort of have a problem.

At the end of the day, however, I refuse to be the pink Power Ranger or play Mommy cheetah/baby cheetah or any game that I find treacherously boring.  I’ve tried.  I’ve said “ok, but just for five minutes,” at which time I set the timer and barely last thirty seconds before I’m staring longingly at said timer.  Go off already!  I just can’t do it so I stopped completely.  Now when my five-year old asks me to play I say “sorry, that’s why I gave you a brother.”  When my husband comes home from work, he won’t say no because he’s been away from the kids all day and wants to give them some attention.  I see him sitting there on the couch, holding the red Power Ranger, pretending to shoot some invisible bad guy.  I laugh and think “better you than me sucker!”

If we were French parents, society would expect us to say “no” to child’s play.  Even my husband would probably be given a free pass, so the kids would be left to play on their own while he and I enjoyed a glass of Beaujolais together. The problem I have, however, is that the French moms never seem to do anything with their kids.  From the author’s perspective, it seems they are too focused on being skinny, sexy and put together.  Their kids don’t come first, but they don’t even appear to come second or third.  One mom made her kids quit their tennis lessons because driving them back and forth was too “constraining” for her.  I don’t recall once reading in the book that a French mom snuggled with her baby or had fun with her kids.  Maybe “having fun” is just too American?

There were a few other things that made me wince:  All of the kids go to daycare, whether the moms work full-time, part-time, or not at all.  There are no playgroups or mommy and me classes because every middle-class kid is in daycare.  The author attributes this to the fact that every French mom wants to return to work and the French daycare, subsidized by the socialist government, is fabulous.  I think it’s wonderful that moms in France have options but it sort of bums me out that an entire culture has given up on taking care of their own kids.  No mom wants to be home.   As a stay-at-home mom I understand completely – the work is grueling and the pay sucks – but what does did this say about how French society views motherhood?  French moms rarely breastfeed after a month or two and I doubt you’d see one wearing a baby in a sling as it would surely ruin her outfit.  They don’t seem to practice anything we call attachment parenting, which, whether you agree with it or not, is certainly not something to be condemned by an entire country.   While Americans might certainly be too child-centric, are the French too me-centric?

A final point of contention:  French kids go to summer camp for eight days, starting at age four.  You read that correctly:  age four.  Never in a million years would I send my four year old off to camp by himself.  It’s not because I’m afraid he’d get molested or harmed in someway; I just think four is too young to be away, with strangers, for such a long period of time.   Even the author had a hard time with this one.

I’ve always fancied myself as worldly and felt certain I could hang with my European counterparts, no problem.  After all, I enjoy eating dinner late, am a socialist at heart, and wear black almost daily.  As such, I expected to read this book and become a convert.  In the end, however, the laissez-faire style of French parenting was a bit too much, even for me.  The French moms definitely seem more laid back and relaxed about parenting, but it’s probably because someone else is raising their kids while they have sex, get their hair done and go shopping.  Also, I got a bit tired of reading how the author could always spot the American moms as they were typically wearing sweatpants, interacting with their children, and, horror upon horrors, greeting her in a warm, friendly way.  Is that so wrong?

I guess at the end of the day I’d rather be known as a friendly, involved mom as opposed to a cold bitch with a great wardrobe and a killer body.  And as for the sweatpants, leave us the fuck alone already.  Yeah, we’re American moms and we wear sweatpants…and sneakers.  Get over it.

Next entry: Battle Hymn of the Bitch on Wheels

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

After Monday’s entry about my monstrous day, I received a few emails and texts from friends:  Was everything ok?  Was I losing it, again? (Thank you, by the way, for your concern.) I want to assure my handful of readers that I am fine…I’m almost always fine.  Perhaps my prior entry needs some explanation:

Remember that Time magazine cover a few weeks back;  the one with the hot mom breast-feeding her three year old, casting a “go ahead, mock me…I dare you” sort of stare?  Well I’m a lot like her.  Ok, so I’m a little heavier, a lot older, shorter, brunette, and while breastfeeding my 2 ½ year old my boob looks more like an empty pastry bag than a delicious short stack, but other than those differences we are the same.  We are moms who breastfeed our toddlers at an age that makes most other people shudder.

This is not something I readily admit.  I am not necessarily ashamed or proud of the fact that I still nurse my two and a half year old a couple of times a day.  It’s just something we do.   I weaned my older son before he turned two but with the baby I know he’s may last child and we’ve been so unsettled this year, moving cross country, living in several temporary homes, buying our first house, etc. that I just wanted him to have that one thing (ok, two things) that he can count on.  I’ve stopped telling friends because the reaction I get is rarely positive.  I’ve been commanded to stop and told it’s time for an intervention.  I get asked “are you still nursing?” with a tone that implies “please say no!”  Even my husband would like this takeover of my breasts to be done already.  I’m not sure how I feel about it but I know I’m terribly frightened of what my breasts will look like when all the milk has dried up.  Yikes!

Truth be told, I still love breastfeeding my little man.  I’m a big proponent of breastfeeding and many other things that fit under the umbrella known as “attachment parenting.”  I know this might sound surprising as I seem more of a “get my kids the FUCK away” from me kind of mama, and truthfully that’s how I feel most days, but when it comes to certain fundamentals, my inner hippie has emerged.  Both boys were born naturally (i.e. without drugs, not just through the vagina tunnel):  Cole at a birth center; Gage at home.  Yes, it was planned.  My boys are anteaters (i.e. uncircumcised); I used cloth diapers, wore them in slings, made my own organic baby food, and never let them cry it out.  Sounds like the chapters of the Dr. Sears’ Baby Book, right?

Despite my commitment to this type of parenting, I did not become a martyr for the cause.   I did not adopt this practice because I thought it was the right way to parent.  I just felt it was right for me.  Interestingly enough, however, when you do certain things with your baby (i.e. breastfeed him in public, wear him in a sling, etc.), you get labeled.  You are an earthy/crunchy, hippie-dippy mama.   Although I am definitely left of center, I am certainly no hippie.  I eat meat, shop at Target, and love my non-organic, non-local wine.  Nonetheless, the label was firmly attached.  Moms who knew me often assumed I was a vegetarian, pointing out the veggie burger option at the playgroup barbeque.  They went so far as to apologize to me personally for driving big SUVs (“we really need that third seat!”…as if I give a shit).  I believe I saw several of them checking out my underarms for excessive hair.  Let me assure you that if they found hair there, it was not because I was making a statement against shaving; it was merely the fact that I hadn’t showered in days and my hair grows like a weed.  It’s tough being of Italian heritage in Southern California!

I did not judge, nor begrudge, other moms who parented differently.  I will, however, admit that I felt pangs of jealousy when they talked about how their babies were sleeping peacefully after a few nights of sleep-training, or how they still worked out at the gym and had dates with their husbands.   I, on the other hand, walked around in a sleep-deprived coma for the first year of life. As for sitters and the gym, it just didn’t feel worth the effort.  I remember joining the Y, where they had free childcare and a great yoga class.  I left my son in the hands of a cute but ridiculously young-looking babysitter who had been charged with watching over an army of snot-ridden toddlers.  I felt slightly guilty as I snuck away, but I had to try, right?  Inevitably about 20 minutes into class I would see that teenager walking toward the door in her Y polo shirt.  I knew she was coming for me.  My baby had been crying since I left; they couldn’t calm him down.  Could I come and get him?  Ugh… Everyone told me to stick with it but it was really hard to relax and be all zen, knowing that my baby was screaming for me.  Ok, he wasn’t really a baby…I believe he was almost two but that didn’t make it any easier for me.  I know many moms who dropped their babies off the first day they were allowed:  age six weeks.  I just couldn’t do it.  Do I wish I had done it differently?  I’m not sure.  The sacrifice felt worth it since babyhood is such a short period of time and I have my whole life to sleep, do yoga, and have dates.

The problem is that I went and had another baby thus prolonging this period of deprivation for longer than ever imagined.   So here I am, five and a half years later, and life is starting to feel like Mommy prison.  Things have gotten better, I admit.  I do use babysitters fairly often and have actually had several full nights of sleep.  But at the end of the day, I am having a hard time putting my needs ahead of theirs, and, as you can probably tell if you’ve been reading this blog, they often drive me bat-shit.  I yell; I scream; I rant; I’ve even spanked a couple of times.  Hell, I’ve done and said things I never would have thought possible.  Who’s kidding who?  I’m no “attachment parent” anymore.  I’ve become a crazy person, looking like white trash as I swear at my kids, while dragging them kicking and screaming out of Target.  Dr. Sears would never write a book advocating my current parenting practices.  I feel fairly certain that Dr. Sears would instead write me a nice script of anti-anxiety meds and tell me to drop the charade.

So now I’m in search of a new guru.  Stay tuned as I’ll review the books I’ve read, and discuss their impact on my parenting, in my next entry.   Yes I still read…something I do while breastfeeding.  So there.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

It rained the other day and after several days of rain and staying in the house I could no longer stand the sight of my children….and the feeling was mutual. So I decided to take my kids to one of those indoor play places. These places are particularly useful here in New England where the weather is often horrendous. I sometimes wonder why there aren’t more of them because what else are parents doing when it’s 100 and humid or raining or freezing or snowing?  Then again, what the hell did I do as a kid in the bad weather? I sucked it up and played at home or endured the bad weather, right? I really don’t remember. I just know that for my kids, staying home for more than one day is not an option, at least not without copious amounts of complaining and television viewing.

Back to the indoor play place. As I said, I marvel at the fact that there are so few choices here in Rhode Island. I also marvel at how poorly these places are run. I am not digging the management or complaining about the options for my kids. Instead, I am complaining, very loudly, about how dreadfully boring these places are for moms.

First and foremost, these places are every lawyer’s wet dream. Throw a bunch of kids into a room ripe with overstimulation; add a ton of toys and things to climb upon and I smell a lawsuit! As a result, these places have more rules than Singapore. Parents and/or guardians must keep an eye on their children at all times. As a matter of fact, in one place I’m supposed to remain within arm’s reach of them. Have you ever tried being within arm’s reach of two children at the same time? Unless they are Siamese twins, this is impossible. So I stand there like a sentry on guard, watching my children have the time of their lives while I count dust motes floating in the air.

Second, everything is all about the kids. The place I visited last week did not allow outside food and drink. They did, however, provide snacks for a fee. Take a look at the menu. Is there anything on there that is even remotely appetizing to a person over the age of 12? I think not.

Finally, assuming my children are safe and having fun, there is still NOTHING there for adults to do. Oh sure, they throw around some magazines for you to review. The selection, however, is typically worse than a doctor’s office as I found myself last week reading about how to keep kids from getting sick this winter and speculation that Brangelina was finally getting married. When I’m foolish enough to brave these places without a friend, I start praying to meet another friendless mom who will chat with me. Otherwise, I’m in for the longest two hours of my life.  (by the way….thank you Millicent).

It’s unfortunate because in San Diego (where I used to live), the indoor play places were fantastic. I never quite understood why since the weather there is almost always perfect for outdoor play but for some reason they got it right. There are even a few restaurants/bars that have playrooms for the kids. The food sort of sucked but what did I care? I was drinking a beer and hanging with my hubby while my kids happily played in a contained area. Damn I miss that place!

Rhode Island: show me what you got! You can do it! Forget about the damn kids and think of the moms for once! Here is my wish list for making these indoor play places more parent-friendly:

• Please hire people who are capable of watching my kids and enforcing your rules. I don’t know your stupid rules. Am I supposed to guess that only one kid can go on the jumpie at a time? It seems foolish since they are ensconced in rubber and air.  I personally can’t think of a safer place for a kid and am therefore feeling nonchalant, yet you seem annoyed at me because I’m not making my kid wait an unreasonable amount of time for his turn. Take me out of the equation and have someone else watch out for my kids’ safety. I’ll pay extra. Besides, if my kid breaks his arm there, I’m suing you either way (just kidding )

• If I can’t bring in my own food and drink, kindly give me the option of purchasing some coffee and a baked good. If you’re not up for installing a coffee bar, for god’s sakes splurge on a keurig and buy some Entemann’s.

• Have something other than reading dated magazines for mom to do. You could set up some desks and offer free wireless internet so moms can bring their laptops and work, shop online or watch movies on netflix. Better yet, bring in a masseuse for a chair massage, or offer manis and pedis. You might even host a yoga class or parenting seminar. Stop complaining about the cost: people will pay!

• Have a TV. No, not to broadcast cartoons! It’s not all about the kids you know! Show something most of us can at least tolerate: Ellen, the Food Network, Project Runway. Even better: show a movie. How hard can this be? I’m not asking to watch “True Blood” (though it would be nice) but something with minor entertainment value would sure make my visit more enjoyable. Even Regis and Kelly would be better than those dust motes.

That should get us started. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. Anyone with some entrepreneurial spirit could really get something great going. Let me know if you’re up for the challenge. In the meantime, I really need to find something else to do on a rainy day!

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

 

Do you take your kids to church?  Did you go to church growing up?  I grew up Catholic but that didn’t mean we went to church.   We were those “holiday Catholics,” also known as CEOs, who went only on Christmas and Easter.  Regardless, religion played a large role in my upbringing. My grandfather was a Eucharistic minister and Grand Puba of the Knight’s of Columbus.  I received my first communion, was confirmed with the name “Rebecca” (oblivious to the fact that Rebecca is a traditionally a Jewish name – should have been a sign) and my first marriage was conducted by a Catholic priest.  I never intentionally ate meat on a Friday during lent, though I was known to forget occasionally…but only with chicken, I swear!

At some point, however, the Catholic Church and I had an amicable break-up:  they no longer wanted me (courtesy of the fact that I got divorced and had broken every commandment.  Hey, don’t judge me; you probably have too.  Read the fine print!) and I no longer wanted them (after prosecuting child sexual abuse for a number of years, that priest-alter boy scandal left a bad taste in my mouth…no pun intended).  So I chose a more accepting religion: Unitarian Universalism.  For those of you unfamiliar with the religion, it’s the type of church where we sing Kumbaya, wear rainbow pins and idolize Martin Luther King, Jr.   Our children are “dedicated” as opposed to christened and we never take communion, unless you count the mini-bagels at the coffee hour after the service.  There is no dogma or creed; there are no commandments to break.   Instead, UUs, as we affectionately call ourselves, honor things like the democratic process and mother earth.  It’s a place where divorced people aren’t shunned and the ministers are allowed to marry, even someone of the same sex should they so choose.  It’s definitely not for everyone.

Aside from acceptance of all adults, the religion is also extremely kid-friendly; so much so that no one minds if your kid blurts out an answer to a rhetorical question or playfully runs up and down the aisles.   UUs don’t get mad.  Instead you can practically hear a collective “how adorable!” being ushered throughout the congregation.  The Catholic Church, on the other, is a bit more formal than my kids are accustomed.  So I was interested to see how Cole, my 5 year old, would react to a catholic ceremony when I took him to his friend Allie’s first communion.  On the way to the church I tried explaining the ceremony to Cole.  Big mistake.  First of all, I was never a devotee and barely remember my bible lessons so I was not the best person to explain the whole blood/body of Christ thing.  Second of all, have you ever tried explaining to a five year old that people eat the blood and body of Christ?  No simple task. It went something like this:

Me:  Communion is a way to honor Jesus Christ by drinking his blood and eating his body.

Him:  What???

Me:  Well, not really.  You drink wine and eat bread.

Him:  Mommy, you shouldn’t say that.

Me:  Say what?

Him:  Jesus Christ.  It’s a bad word.

Me:  No it’s not honey.  Jesus is the son of God.  Remember we talked about this at Christmas and Easter?

Him: Yeah… Am I going to have to drink blood?  Will Allie drink blood?

Me:  No, it’s not real blood.  I told you – it’s wine to symbolize the blood.

Him:  Allie gets to drink wine?  How come I can’t drink wine?

Me: Well, she won’t drink wine; she’ll just eat the bread, which is more like a cracker.

Him:  Then why did you say she’d drink blood…I mean wine?

Me:  Because I’m a fucking idiot, ok?  Does that make you happy?  (ok, that’s not what I said…but it’s what I wanted to say.)

Him:  Do I get to eat the bread?

Me:  No.

Him:  Why not?

Me:  Because we’re not Catholic and you’re too young.

Him:  Grrrr…

Next we arrived at the Church.   He was in awe of its size and the beauty of the stained glass windows.  This church had many of them, as well as a fresco of angels in the ceiling.  He asked me who was in each window and if I saw a woman I said “Mary” and if I saw a baby or a man I said “Jesus” even though I had no clue who was pictured.  Thus began the non-stop dialogue:

Mommy, people keep disappearing! (referring to the fact that people would go to the pulpit and then leave).  Are there ghosts in church?  Look!  There goes another one!

Where are the kids?  Where’s the bread?  Where’s Ethan? (Allie’s older brother).  Watch out Mommy, I think those angels might poop on us!  Here comes Allie.  Hey, why is she wearing a wedding dress?  Can I see Ethan yet?  You look pretty Mommy.  I’m touching your boob!   Where are those crackers? I’m hungry!  This is sooooooo boring.  Look, someone else disappeared.  Mommy, I’m shooting the singer…pow, pow (with imaginary gun pointing toward the organist in the loft).  My penis hurts.  Are you praying?  Why not?  What’s everyone saying?  When will they eat the bread?  Can I eat the bread?

I explained to him that it was for the kids he saw earlier, the ones wearing white:

Him:  But I have a white shirt?  I should have worn my white shirt so I could have communion!

Me: You’re not old enough and you’re not Catholic so you still wouldn’t have been able to have communion.

Him:  I want to be Catholic.

Me:  If you’re catholic you have to come to a church like this every Sunday.

Him:  Never mind.

Queue organ music:

Him:  Ooh, mommy…this looks like it’s about to get scary.

Me:  I don’t think so honey.

Him:  I do.  I bet someone else will disappear!

And so on…it truly did not stop until we got up and walked out the door.  I was slightly horrified and embarrassed as I thought my son was a loud, entitled, non-catholic, pain in the ass.  A wonderful thing happened, however, during the exchange of peace.  I turned around to shake the hands of the people who heard and saw it all.  Cole also shook their hands and said “Please be with you.”  I held my breath waiting to get dirty looks or a snide comment about that fact that I should have put him in the crying room (do they still call it that?).  Instead, people commented on how adorable and well-behaved my son had been.  I was shocked.  Really?  Why couldn’t I see this?  I was so concerned that he wasn’t sitting still, was talking too much, was saying and doing inappropriate things.  Let’s face it; the kid shot the organist, touched my breast and got the peace sentiment wrong, to say the least.  Did I set my expectations too high?  I didn’t think so.

The bottom line:  church is D-U-L-L.  Expecting our kids to sit still and pay attention for an hour-long service is madness.   That’s why the UUs send their kids off to religious education classes halfway through.   This was just another reminder for me that kids are kids and should be treated accordingly.  We can’t expect them to act like adults (this adult, by the way, had to restrain herself from taking out her iphone so she could play a game or check email…not a model of good church behavior).  Instead we should celebrate their fresh view on life and vibrant sense of humor.  This is often easier said than done, especially when the rest of the world is watching.  In the meantime, let’s be grateful that there are people out there who won’t give you a rash of shit because your child misbehaves.  The rest of them?  Well, they can just go to hell.  That’s where I’ll be after all.

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.

 

 

Happy Mother’s Day! This year Mother’s Day happens to coincide with my wedding anniversary. This was very poor planning on my part as I once again get screwed on the gifts (my birthday is also near Christmas), but when we picked this date seven years ago I wasn’t even sure I wanted kids so coinciding with Mother’s Day was not a concern. Silly me.

Anyway, I though I’d share my wedding story with you today, rather than write some sappy story about how great it is to be a mom. Don’t worry; there is NOTHING sappy about my wedding day. Read on:

As you may know, marrying Chris would not be my first time down the aisle. That, coupled with the fact that all our friends and family were 3,000 miles away, led to our decision to elope. Since I can’t keep a secret to save my life, we didn’t actually “elope” because we told everyone what we were doing. We did, however, jaunt off to Hawaii by ourselves to get married on the beach. I wanted a simple affair, just the two of us on the island of Kauai. I spent more money on my new bathing suit then I did on my wedding dress ($20 at Macy’s). The only missing detail was who would marry us?

After googling “weddings Kauai,” we found a would-be officiant here on this site:  www.hawaiiweddings.com. Captain Howie was prominently featured as the man of the hour. He looked a bit like a monk with long hair, a beard and a parrot on his shoulder. That coupled with the name of his site (“Above Heaven’s Gate”) admittedly caused some concern that we’d never return from Hawaii and I would become his twelfth wife. But we were drawn to his seemingly gentle nature and the folksy manner in which he performed his ceremonies: simple, on the beach, with no pretention. His photos seemed a bit cheesy, I will admit, but we weren’t that concerned about the photos; we really just wanted a meaningful ceremony by someone fun and cool. We had a phone consultation with Howie’s wife Deva; she seemed warm and friendly and extremely accommodating. We learned that they no longer did weddings in Kauai, only Oahu, but we really liked them so we changed our plans and a booked a date: Friday, May 13th. We met on a Friday the 13th so we figured it was an auspicious day and why mess with a good thing.

We arrived in Hawaii a few days before our wedding. Captain Howie asked to meet us the day before the ceremony. We assumed this was so he could get to know us and plan the ceremony. We were wrong. We arrived at his self-proclaimed hobbit house and were greeted not by the gentle monk-looking man with a beard and long hair but a freak of nature with a completely shaved head, but for a rat tail. Warning sign #1. He zeroed in on me and acted as though Chris didn’t exist. Warning sign #2. He showed us his hobbit house and “Pukalani falls” which was a small, staged waterfall in his backyard (for which he charged extra by the way, if you chose this locale over the beach). Then he led us inside to select a photo package. He showed us sample photos of a bride looking longingly down at her new husband who was on bended knee, and a close-up of the couple’s hands, crossed to showcase the wedding rings. This type of photography might have been cool in 1971 but in 2005 it had no place. But as I said, we didn’t care about the photos so we picked the most modest package and soldiered on. He talked me into buying a crown of flowers for my head and having my hair and make-up done beforehand, telling me how beautiful I’d look as he leered at me with his crazy eyebrows. I left feeling confused and a bit deflated: was I getting married or was I about to star in some bizarre production of Mama Mia?

On the ride back to our hotel we debated cancelling the whole affair and finding someone else, but we really wanted to get married on Friday the 13th so we kept our plans. When we arrived early on our “wedding day,” Howie’s wife told us the make-up artist would be late and that we should go hang at Subway for an hour or so. God forbid she invite us to enjoy the hobbit house or offer us a glass of water. No dice. This was not exactly the warm, fuzzy partner I spoke to on the phone. Warning sign #3. We went for a ride and came back to meet my make-up artist who was clearly used to making up drag queens.  Truth be told, he was the nicest person in the place and I harbor no ill-will towards him. I just wish he hadn’t made me up to look like a Hawaiian Rue Paul.

After a 90 minute hair and make-up session, I donned my $20 dress and my $100 flower wreath, and exited the changing room. I was greeted by Howie, who was wearing a golf shirt and a sarong. His freakish bald head was gleaming in the sun and something in my gut told me that he was wearing nothing under that sarong. Warning sign #4. He was anxious to get going on the photos. Again he greeted me in a friendly though leacherous way and acted as though Chris were invisible. We started at the falls; meanwhile at the hobbit house his wife and their two employees were busy working in the background. Ah, such romance!

We finally moved on to the beach; the only place we’d really wanted to be. The grueling photo session continued and at one point he asked us to sit in the sand for a more relaxed view. As we got down, so did he, and that’s when the unthinkable happened. His sarong fell and I get a view of the crown jewels. There were no tighty-whiteys to obscure the view; just a lovely shot of two saggy balls hanging in the breeze. This is not something I wanted to see on my wedding day, not even if they belonged to my soon-to-be husband. I felt angry, betrayed, shocked, grossed-out. Most of all I felt panic. How would I look this man in the face during the ceremony? I just wanted to get this over and done with.

We finally finished our photo shoot after over an hour of posing. He went off to bring his camera home while we waited alone on the beach. I am not a romantic but the thought of this guy marrying us was starting to make me physically ill. So Chris and I married each other alone on the beach. We exchanged rings, kissed, did it all. Our ceremony was even blessed by a mangy dog who decided to rub up against us while we waited for Howie. This really felt like the cherry on top of our shit-sundae because the dog was beyond mangy: filthy dirty, open sores, foaming at the mouth. Again, exactly what a bride wants on her wedding day.

After more than twenty minutes he finally returned (his house, by the way, was across the street; a two minute walk). Rather than rush to us he stopped to talk to a neighbor, I believe she was the owner of the mangy dog. Could this guy be more of an asshole? He finally approached us and was about to start when he realized he didn’t know one thing about us. He barely knew Chris’s name. We started to tell him about our spiritual philosophy, for lack of a better word, when he cut us off and said “yeah, yeah, you’re spiritual but not religious. I got it.” In answer to my question: yes. This guy could be more of an asshole. The ceremony was fine; it lasted about five minutes. We were married. We went back to his house to sign the marriage certificate. I thought to myself: this is where they’ll get friendly! They’ll pop open some champagne and congratulate us! But sadly no one at the hobbit house gave a rat’s ass about us or our wedding. They kept their heads down and continued with their work. Even Howie neglected to congratulate us. All he cared about were his ridiculous photos. He sent us on our way, another newly married couple who could come by anytime to view our photos. No thanks.

Where was the fun, friendly Captain Howie we’d read about on all those testimonials on his website? Where was the romance, the caring, the support from his lovely wife Deva? They were nothing of the sort. Why am I surprised by this when there were so many warning signs? To put my feelings in as few words as possible: they sucked. Fortunately we stayed at an incredible hotel: the Kahala Mandarin, and they treated us like royalty, saving our wedding day. On our way to dinner a waitress took this photo. It cost us nothing and ended up being the only photo taken on our wedding day that we liked.

Captain Howie: I sit here on my wedding anniversary and recall the most unromantic, cheesy, inappropriate wedding ever to take place. Fuck you for ruining my wedding. I hope you read this, as well as some potential clients, though I seriously doubt you’d remember us since our presence barely even registered in your life.

If anyone out there has ever had a similar experience with Captain Howie, please comment here. I’d love to hear about it!

One further note: Don’t feel bad for me that my wedding was ruined. We had a wonderful time in Hawaii and now laugh heartily when we think of the experience. We are definitely going to renew our vows in three years for our 10th anniversary and throw a big bash. It will be a casual affair; wear what you want, but underwear is an absolute must.

 

© 2012 KIM KINZIE. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. REPUBLICATION OR REDISTRIBUTION OF CONTENT, TEXT OR IMAGE, IN PART OR IN WHOLE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED WITHOUT PRIOR WRITTEN CONSENT FROM THE AUTHOR.