My Husband Is Worst Parent of the Month

Photo: frhuynh/Stockvault.net

Mr. Embee had the award for “worst parent of the month” all wrapped up on the first day of November. You think I’m exaggerating things because he has that pesky Y chromosome and I’m harder on those people, but NO. He agrees. Worst Parent, November 2010, goes to Mr. Embee.

Sally and the Mr. talk about all sorts of things on their morning drive to school–how the air conditioner works, how many stripes there are on the American flag, why we burp, etc. This Monday, the day before elections, there were lots of people on street corners holding signs that said things like “Vote Joe Schmo for city councilman” and “No on Prop. 593.” Sally is highly entertained by people who enthusiastically wave signs on the street. So they got to talking, and the Mr., who is actually a mutant being born with a super-enlarged sarcasm gland, says: “We should roll down the windows and yell ‘Get a job.’ “

Even when he heard the bzzzzzz of the backseat window rolling down, it didn’t occur to him that 4-year-olds don’t GET sarcasm.

Imagine, if you will: You are holding your sign for your beloved gubernatorial candidate. You are feeling pride that in your country you can stand up for what you believe, right there on the street. And this SUV’s window rolls down to reveal a bright-eyed, blonde preschooler with bows in her hair and a chubby-cheeked smile. And she screams, “GET A JOB!”

Mr. Embee nearly ran off the road.

Mortified, he had to explain that he was kidding and that was NOT a nice thing to say. Sally, considering this, replies, “Well, maybe they SHOULD get a job. There are plenty of jobs they could do.” So he has to explain that actually, no, right now there are not enough jobs for everyone, and anyway most of those people probably do have jobs but they’ve taken a day off to be involved in our election and that’s a nice thing, and either way we don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. All the while checking his rear view mirror to make sure nobody is chasing them.

He swears they were past any people and that nobody heard her. I hope that’s the case. At any rate, I’m just glad that for once I am not the worst parent. Congratulations, darling. You win.

Career Aspirations

Some days, Sally wants to be an astronaut. Other days, she wants to be the guy who dresses up as a sandwich and waves to people on the street. Today was a sandwich guy day. So naturally, being mom of the year, I nurtured her dreams. Behold:

Sally's idol and mentor. Photo: Lefty91/flickr

Officially making us the crazy family on the street.

That's my kid. On the corner. Waving to cars.

Quickie: Car Talk

**During the month of July, Mom-Colored Glasses is taking a bit of a break. There will still be posts, but not twice per week and I’ll do some shorter things, which I’m going to call Quickies despite the obvious innuendo there. I’ll also post a few “short stuff” items and post them on Facebook. It’s “summer lite.” Now, back to your regularly scheduled program. . . .**

kaisersosa67/iStockphoto

We made two stops on our two-hour drive home from Fourth of July festivities on Monday: one for a milkshake to keep super-tired Sally awake during the late-afternoon car ride, and one potty break. So when she announced –five miles from home –”I’ve gotta POOP!” we told her to keep her pants on, we’d be home in five minutes. This child could enter bladder- and bowel-control competitions, so trust me, this is not a big deal. She could wait. But she shot back, “Poop wants to come out NOW.”

“Well, tell poop it has to stay in a few more minutes.”

. . . Sometimes I forget how literal kids are.

From the back, Mr. Embee and I hear a high, constricted voice: “Sally, I need to come out now.”

Sally’s voice: “You can’t, Poop. You have to wait. I’m sorry.”

“But I really need to come out!”

And on, and on.

Mr. Embee looks at me from the driver’s seat. “Is she having a conversation with her poo?”

“Yup.”

“Huh.”

“What are we doing for dinner?” When you live in Sally’s world, you just accept some things, like full, voice-altered conversations with fecal matter.

Road Trip

Last week the Embees drove to Los Angeles for a vacation. You may have seen us–we were the pasty white ones without botox. The drive was about seven hours each way, which is darned near miraculous time with a 3 1/2 year old in the backseat. Bladder Of Steel Sally only needed to stop a couple of times to use the restroom, we packed lots of snacks and toys, and for a couple hours we even had Awesome Auntie M in the car for entertainment. But really, we owe Sally’s incredibly patient, calm, happy road-trip behavior to one thing: The portable DVD player. Eight inches of full color, remote controlled love.

I was reluctant to purchase this wondrous item a couple of years ago. It seemed like cheating on a test. Road trips are supposed to push a kid to their behavioral limits. Growing up, our car entertainment consisted of reading, staring at fields out the window, and arguing with siblings. Whole wars have been waged over someone–or someone’s stuff–creeping over THE LINE on the car seat. And that was just in the middle of the minivan with my youngest sister. God only knows what criminal behavior ensued between our brother and sister in the Way Back.

Anyway, even with Sally lacking siblings to engage her in cruel and unusual punishment, when she was younger I thought she, too, should go through the incredible boredom that is driving all day. Until my parents heard this and looked at me like I was bonkers. Turns out they would have sprung for a TV in the car in a heartbeat if it had existed. So I caved. And it may be the thing I would save in a fire.

We only pull it out for super long trips and airplane flights–so that she remains a social user, not a full-on addict. Man, was it great. We brought upwards of two dozen DVDs, but she only cared about two: Princess and the Frog, and the three hours of Berenstain Bears the Mr. put on disc for her. I popped the DVD in, then sat back and enjoyed the ride. Sally was in heaven: Seven hours of parent-encouraged television viewing. What more could a kid ask for? All I needed to do was toss a few snacks to her and occasionally wipe the zombie-brain, movie-induced drool from her chin. I will need to be hypnotized to get the Berenstain Bears theme song out of my head, but it’s a small price to pay for a great vacation book-ended by lovely travel days. Thank you, Sony. I owe you my sanity this week.