When our daughter, Dimples, was about three, she inexplicably started saying, “the guy” at random moments. Sometimes she would point at her dad, sometimes at baseball caps. We could not figure out what she was trying to tell us.
Then we took her back to SeaWorld for the second time. We sat down at the “Viva” show, which had mesmerized her the first time we went. The show was filled with leaping dolphins, graceful beluga whales, and amazing feats of gymnastics and diving. Despite all of that, it stunned me that she didn’t fidget the entire program. She never clapped or smiled, just watched with wide-eyed wonder.
Determined to repeat that experience, we brought her again about 3 weeks later, carefully arriving about 15 minutes before the beginning of the show so we could be sure to have the same seats as the first time. When you find something that works well with a toddler, you don’t mess with perfection.
We sat down, and suddenly Dimples started saying, “The Guy! The Guy! The Guy!” with great excitement.
And then I saw who she meant. Before the show started, a man entertained the crowd with goofy antics in the audience, pretending to try to “fix” a leak, and splashing water everywhere. He wore a cap. And last time, I had pointed him out to Dimples by saying, “See the guy over there? See what the guy is doing? Isn’t the guy funny?”
From then on, whenever we went to SeaWorld, it was required for us to attend the Viva show to see The Guy.
And if there was a substitute Guy? Dimples was not happy.
This week, Dimples and I went back to the show. It’s been 7 years since “The Guy” appeared in her life. Since then, the show has morphed into a new one, “Azul”, but it’s always had pretty much the same theme.
And it still has “The Guy.” And he still fills a baseball cap with water and puts it on the head of a very surprised member of the audience.
“But it’s a different guy,” Dimples noted with disappointment this week. I felt myself preparing for her inevitable announcement of a Day Ruined. But it didn’t come.
Because now we go to the show to see someone else. Now, Dimples is a synchronized swimmer, and her coach is performing in the Viva show. Now, Dimples is on her way to the Nationals, and her mind is on holding her breath, standing during her lift, and pointing her toes. Now, she is noticing technique and stamina, not the silly man who does pratfalls into the water.
Will I sit in that stadium seven more years from now and be watching Dimples performing with the dolphins?
I don’t know. But I will always associate that open-air theater with a little girl watching her idol with bright eyes of adoration.
And my frantic mental telepathic warnings to The Guy that he Better. Not Come. Anywhere Near Me. With that Cap Full of Water.
I was reading the Sunday paper and came across this quote in an article about the recent spate of parenting books written by inept moms, “There wasn’t this acceptance about being this sort of less-than-perfect mother, but all of a sudden it feels like that is becoming the norm, rather than the exception.” This was spoken by Jill Smokler of scarymommy.com.
Well, that explains what I’ve been doing wrong. I need to stop talking about what I’m doing wrong, and start talking about what I’m doing right because there are far too many other people who are talking about what they are doing wrong, and they are doing it far better than I am. The wrong, I mean. Well, and the talking.
So, from now on I pledge to stand out from the pack and tell you all of the things that I am doing right as a mom. Starting today.
1.) My daughter has eaten hamburgers three days in a row.
Why is this right? Well, I am so glad you asked. Even though I would think it should be obvious. It’s right because my daughter has eaten three days in a row. Duh. Plus, she loves lettuce and cheese on her hamburger. So, there you have it – all 10 food groups in one meal. Three times. Two more and I will have Food Bingo.
2.) I bought my daughter a dress for her 5th grade graduation while we were shopping for clothes for me on Mother’s Day.
Why is this right? This is another no-brainer. We made one trip to the mall, and now I don’t have to make another trip to the mall until August. Possibly even September if I can find a post on Pinterest on how to transform a yellow lacy dress into a backpack.
3.) Oh. My. God. That is the best idea. Ever. I am going to quit my job and support my daughter by making Graduation Dress Backpacks.
Why is this right? Because my daughter will see how important it is to pursue your passion in life instead of saving up for retirement.
And then, she will be happy to support me in my twilight years (although I may have to explain that this is a different kind of “Twilight”) as she pursues her lifelong passion to teach bulldogs synchronized swimming.
And then we will bond even more.
Just Don’t Mix Up What Goes in Your Eyes and What Goes in Your Hair and What You Plan to Drink with Breakfast Tomorrow Morning
Okay, raise your hand if you knew that pineapple juice is good for getting Knox gelatin out of your hair. Now, raise your other hand if you don’t know what the heck I’m talking about. Okay, put both hands down because you look kind of funny. Not as funny as I looked with Knox on my hair a couple of nights ago, but still kind of goofy.
Now, you’re probably tempted to Google everything in my first paragraph, and you will probably find confirmation for the milk thing, maybe in the goofy thing, too. Because the internet will confirm everything you want it to. But, if you think the internet is the best place to learn things, then you obviously have not attended a synchronized swimming tournament. You will get all kinds of information that you never knew you needed to know if you stick around a natatorium for three days with a bunch of experienced synchro families.
For example, if your eyes start burning from the chlorine in the pool, put milk in your eye. Yep, you read that right. Grab a pint from the corner store, tip your head over backwards, and douse yourself with the stuff. Of course, it helps if you can keep the eyes open while you do this – which might explain why that home remedy didn’t work for my poor daughter. To be fair to the milk, none of the more conventional eye drops purchased from the pharmacy helped, either. So, I guess we can’t say that we debunked that myth, just that my daughter claims that it helped, even though she still held her eyes tightly shut for the next two hours and spurned the sun like a real vampire (not like those contemporary pseudo vampires who can apparently go wherever they want.)
You can imagine my skepticism about the whole pineapple juice thing. A bunch of the moms mentioned their daughters had tried it, and that it really helped to get the Knox out of their hair faster. But I have a tendency to disbelieve completely subjective statements. If someone will conduct a scientific experiment in which everything is the same except the pineapple juice variable, and I mean everything – including the amount of Knox that was on there in the first place, then I might just give it a whirl. Maybe.
In my Knoxing internet searches, I found a thread about using Elmer’s Glue to make your mohawk spikier. (It’s amazing how quickly an internet search can devolve into something completely not what you were looking for.) And I thought it might be fun to surreptitiously spread the word throughout the synchro circles that I’d heard you should mix glue with the gelatin to make the perfect shiny hair helmet. Just to see how fast it would get sprinkled all over the internet and back to me.
But no one would be dumb enough to believe that.
So, I Knoxed my hair tonight; what have you done for your daughter lately?
Here was our conversation in the car today:
“The coach says we need to be at the pool by 7:15 am. Knoxed.”
“Hmm. I guess I’m going to have to Knox your hair then.”
“But you’ve never done it before!!!!” Complete panic.
“We’ll, I’ve got to learn some time.”
“But not now!”
“What’s wrong? Don’t you trust me?”
Full confession, My daughter has been involved in synchronized swimming for three years, and I have never Knoxed her hair. Oh, it’s been Knoxed – just not by me. And if you don’t know what I mean by “Knoxing”, it’s the wonderful secret of waterproof synchronized swimming hair. Mix hot water with Knox gelatin (unflavored, though we’ve all secretly been yearning to experiment with cherry because it could taste good and give your hair a nice tint) and paint it on wet. Then it hardens into a nice plastic helmet.
Ask 100 Synchro moms about their Knoxing technique, and they will tell you a hundred different ways to do it. The variables aren’t just the water and the unflavored gelatin packets. You can do the hair several ways, and use a variety of utensils to do the mixing and painting – including, but not limited to, a paint brush or a basting brush.
I didn’t want to fight with my daughter at 5:30 in the morning, so I thought I better settle the issue tonight. I decided to prove to her that I could mix the concoction to the right consistency since she seemed pretty doubtful that I could even do this, much less paint it on her hair. (She is right to doubt me. My sister, Crash, once tried to make Jello. It sat in the fridge for a week and never jelloed. I used to tease her relentlessly about this, and I have a feeling there is such a thing as Knoxing Karma.)
As I was mixing, it suddenly occurred to me that I should paint it on my own hair to put everyone’s doubt to rest. (I have a feeling that it is no coincidence that my medication usually wears off about the exact time of night that I had that genius idea.)
It worked, though. My daughter couldn’t believe I was doing it.
“I bet no one else’s mom can say she’s done that,” she said, proudly.
Okay, I said it. But she agreed with me.
The only problem with this great plan was that I then had to get in the shower to wash it off. That is when I realized that my daughter is not exaggerating when she complains about what a pain it is to get that glop out of her hair. I rinsed 5 times, got out to dry my hair, and realized there was still an entire section over my ear to which the goop had stubbornly clung.
So, tomorrow, if you see a 40 year old woman with hair sticking straight out of her head over her left ear, don’t point and laugh. Bend over to your child’s ear and reverently whisper, “Now there goes a great mom!”
My hair; don’t worry, I got better on the other half of my head.
There is nothing like a weekend spent out of town with my 10-year-old daughter at a synchronized swimming tournament to re-affirm my complete ineptitude as a mother.
Once again, I was faced with the fact that I am unable to do the following: brush my daughter’s hair, put it in a ponytail, make a bun, mix Knox gelatin with warm water to the right consistency, paint the Knox gelatin on my daughter’s hair without burning her scalp, attach a headpiece to the plasticized hair without skewering her with a bobby pin, apply garish eye makeup, make the judges give her first place in everything, be the cool mom that lets her stay up late with her friends the night before she has to be at the pool at 7 a.m., bring her parka to keep her warm despite the fact that she told me in no uncertain terms that she would not need it, take pictures that don’t look like I was having an epileptic seizure that lasted the entire 48 hours.
I am not Swim Mom. I am Teach Her How to Program a Robot Mom. I am Sure, I’ll Ice Skate with you Since Your Friends Won’t Leave the Wall Mom. I am Let’s Ride the Roller Coaster and Get Scared Out of Our Wits Again Mom. I am Thank God You’re Finally Old Enough to go Ziplining with Me Mom.
And I thought that was enough. But a weekend spent confronting my own shortcomings in the Swim Mom department was a bit defeating. Particularly as I listened to my daughter’s pained yelps every time I attempted to do anything that might involve her scalp.
By the time we returned to school on Monday, I was feeling like one of the most incompetent mothers in history, rivaled only by the leathery mom who gave her daughter a sunburn in the tanning bed.
I halfheartedly invited Dimples to assist me in a “practice eye dissection” after school, and she agreed, “because then I don’t have to go to after-school care.” She hates after-school care. Another failing on my part.
When I pulled the sheep eyeballs out of the jar, the other adult assisting me had to “take a moment” before we started cutting in. But Dimples surprisingly seemed untroubled by holding a detached organ in her gloved hands. She approached the task of slicing the eye with great gusto that, quite frankly, had me a bit concerned about her own detachment.
Her favorite part was the inside section called “the vitreous humor”, and she plopped it up and down zealously, fascinated with the consistency. I had a vague impression that I had seen this substance before, and finally realized where – it looked exactly like the unflavored, dissolved Knox gelatin that had been painted on her hair all weekend.
“Gross, Mom,” she groaned when I pointed this out. But she grinned.
And I thought, “How many other daughters get to hang out with their own mother dissecting a sheep eyeball?”
You may bond with your daughter by teaching her the art of the perfect ponytail, but my daughter and I will always have our successful hunt for the optic nerve that brought us closer together.
We were out of town at a synchronized swimming competition this weekend and I am absolutely exhausted from trying to mark time between my daughter’s performances. So, I gift you with this wonderful motivational poster that I made with a new app I downloaded. Feel free to share and make it the newest internet meme. Just make sure you give Wonderbutt the credit he deserves. He’ll eat your sofa cushions if you don’t.
Given my recent struggles with depression, an inefficient colon, and a bulldog who hates Halloween, I decided to drop out of the United States presidential election for this year. So, don’t write me in or anything. I don’t think you really want someone who mentally decapitates the person who spelled her name wrong on an offer for a free oil change for the car she sold 6 years ago to lead your country. Or, maybe you do.
If I was still running for president, you can bet that I would add some more pertinent issues to the national debate. Most of the topics being hurled back and forth seem to deal more with domestic problems, and I tend to have a more global view.
For example, one of the top priorities of my campaign would be to lean on the International Olympic Committee to eliminate their archaic sexist policies. They seem to think they are free and clear now that woman can box, but I refuse to turn a blind eye to the two last exclusionary sports – rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. It’s completely unfair that men cannot compete in these sports. They have just as much right to cake on the makeup and paint their hair with Knox gelatin as the rest of the population.
And, come on, a few more handsome men in speedos or leotards certainly couldn’t be detrimental to the numbers of viewers tuning in.
More and more men have been participating in synchronized swimming, in particular, and I think it’s an international tragedy that their talents cannot be showcased on the world stage. If Martha Raddatz does not grill Obama and Romney in the October 11th debate about their intentions for rectifying this situation, I will lose all faith in Martha and her journalistic ability to cut to the chase.
Of course, when I run in the next presidential election, I will make this a priority in my platform, as the next Summer Olympics will be right around the corner. But I will expect the men to refine their performance a little bit more by then…
To most of us, “Barracuda” brings to mind a fish – or the song by Heart. (By the way, I looked up the lyrics to that song in the hope that I could find a good quote to use as my lead. I realize now that I have never understood that song and never will. It just sounds cool.)
Anyway, to a synchronized swimming participant, “Barracuda” is the name of a “figure” – a particular position for which you can be judged during competition.
When I first heard that my daughter would be learning “Figures” in synchro, I was impressed that mathematics would be included in her twice weekly practices. And a little hopeful that this meant I would not have to be the one who would have to teach her how to balance a checkbook.
Alas, “Figures” in synchronized swimming have a vastly different meaning. They are also much more difficult than checkbook balancing – although I imagine some sort of balancing comes in handy for this event.
In Figures events, there are 4 judging groups situated around the pool. The participants all wear black swimsuits and white caps. Split into 4 groups by a random draw order, the girls are all assigned numbers. When told, they enter the pool individually, swim in front of the judging station, and perform the figure that is called out. Then the judges hold up scores, which are called out and written down. The swimmer then moves on to the next judging station, continuing until she has performed 4 different figures.
This all sounds very straightforward. But I have never attended a meet in which mass chaos did not erupt during Figures. And last weekend lived up to my expectations.
Say, for example, that your daughter is number 31, and she is the first person at Judging Station #3. When she is finished at #3, the next logical step would be to move to Judging Station #4, then #1, and lastly #2.
This was what Dimples started to do, as directed by one of the Adults in Charge. The rest of the Judging Station #3 group lined up behind her at #4 while they waited for the group that had begun at #4 to finish.
But when Dimples got in the water, finally, at #4, and they called a number, it was not her number. And when she told them her number, they told her that she was in the wrong place.
After discussion amongst 3 different Adults in Charge, Dimples’ entire group, like a line of ducklings, was walked over to the other side of the pool to a different judging station. With different Adults in Charge who did not agree with this change in rotation. After more discussion, the line waddled back to station #4. Where they were told in no uncertain terms to go back.
Keep in mind that all of the scorers have papers for every participant, by number, so wherever they landed they were eventually going to be scored anyway.
Also, keep in mind that the girls are wet and cold out of the water, and probably a bit rattled after being given conflicting directions from a variety of adults within the span of 10 minutes.
Finally, Dimples’ group was shuffled to a completely different judging station, where they continued their Figures competition.
Later, when Dimples saw the Figures results, she was devastated that she was not in the top 3. And much later, when the hosting team realized they forgot to include their own team members in the results, my poor daughter’s rank fell even more.
I sat in the stands wondering: A.) why does this happen at every meet?, 2.) how hard is it to put numbers on the judging stands and tell the swimmers to go to a certain number?, III.) you would think in a sport with this many rules, they would have a
rule International Law about going clockwise or counter-clockwise EVERY time to avoid this confusion,
and 4.) If I was a barracuda, I would totally rip those judges to pieces.
Witnessing this inescapable disarray at every meet is even more stressful than balancing my checkbook, and that’s saying a lot…
When we last left our young heroine – me – STOP LAUGHING! Are you laughing at the “young” or the “heroine”? Both?!!!!! Fine.
When we last left our young heroine – my 9 year old daughter, Dimples – we had just arrived in Irving, Texas after a grueling (okay, it wasn’t as grueling as the time leading up to the ride when we were trying to pack up the car) 6 hour car ride to find that we had forgotten to pack one slightly important item for her two-day synchronized swimming tournament – her swim bag.
I should probably educate you on what is generally in the swim bag of a synchronized swimmer participating in one of these mega events: a black swimsuit, a team swimsuit, at least 4 towels, nose plugs, team warm-up suit, goggles, team swim cap, white swim cap, black flip-flops, and yoga mat. Some swimmers also pack their knoxing supplies (boxes of Knox gelatin, bobby pins, hairnets, combs, paintbrushes, and cups).
We realized the swim bag had not traveled with us from San Antonio at about 8:30 the night before the competition. Each of us thought one of the other two family members had put it in the car.
Before I noticed the bag’s absence, and told anyone not to panic, I did a quick mental inventory of what I knew we had. Fortunately, I had packed the knoxing supplies and towels separately, and had some extra nose clips and goggles. Not Dimples’ favorite nose clips and goggles, of course, which almost sparked
a the first meltdown of the weekend once I made my announcement about the swim bag that had go AWOL.
For some odd reason that actually seems logical, Dimples packed her suits in her suitcase, instead of her swim bag. The suitcase somehow made the cut when I was weeding out things that did not really need to ride with us to Dallas, such as the ten receipts from recent veterinary visits. Lest you think that I have some kind of rational approach to packing, I should also tell you that we brought along enough bottled water to survive a nuclear holocaust and some other extremely important survival items – like my umbrella. In case it decided to rain at the indoor swimming pool.
Dimples got a new team swim cap at the Team Meeting that night.
The yoga mat has always been a luxury item for which a towel can substitute in a pinch.
That left the white swim cap, which would be needed at 7:30 A.M., and the black flip flops.
After a year of doing this, I have learned that I am the only inept mother in the group. I was pretty certain every other mom not only had their daughter’s white swim cap, but also brought extras. I was right. They also could have given me cases of nose clips or goggles.
Disaster #1 averted. Mostly. (Our Dallas friends came to the rescue with some black flip flops, fortunately.)
I would like to point out that, although I forgot my daughter’s entire swim bag, guess who was the only mom who had a Sharpie with which to write everyone’s initials on their new team caps?
That’s right – our youngish, heroine, who can always be counted on to remember trivial items. Me.
I was sneaky today, and did not tell you in my post title that this is one of my monthly Dead Rubber posts. For the uninitiated, Dead Rubber means boring, I really do try not to post anything boring but this is what I like to call my posts that are done “on the fly” – so to speak.
It’s Cinco de Mayo here in Texas, which sounds like a holiday adopted from another country, and it is. However, we like to take minor holidays from around the world and make them into bigger events in Texas because, well, everything is bigger here.
Anyway, if you’ve read my posts on my daughter’s favorite past time, synchronized swimming, then you can probably guess what I am doing this weekend from the photos below. This has made my Dead Rubber post a necessity today. I thought you might like to see that synchro teams have a sense of humor, though you can judge on your own how good it is…