Stop Dressing Your Six-Year-Old Like a Skank

by Celia Rivenbark

  Besides, there are plenty of folks who should have stopped at one kid. Or none. Like Michael Jackson, who, when he’s not fighting child molestation charges busies himself playing with the Elephant Man’s pelvis.

  Frankly, I don’t have the patience for more than one kid. I have plenty of mom-friends who smile dreamily and Madonna-like as their many children crawl on them, draw on the walls, and throw up on the carpet.

  Still, it’s surprising when strangers take it upon themselves to comment on the sad state of the only child.

  “I had a friend who was an only child,” the lady in line at the drugstore volunteered. “She used to spend all her time talking to her imaginary brothers and sisters, poor little thing.”

  Save your pity, toots. One is only the loneliest number in bad Three Dog Night songs. Believe it.

  9

  Toyland, Joyland

  Is That a Bratz Boot in Your Sofa Cushion, or

  Are You Just Glad to See Me?

  My daughter says that what she really wants for Christmas is an American Girl doll named Nellie. Sophie even circled the picture in the catalog and scribbled Please!!! in blue Magic Marker.

  For those who don’t know, every American Girl doll represents a specific time in our nation’s history. Nellie, it turns out, is the cute-but-economically disadvantaged waif friend of rich American Girl doll Samantha. She costs $108.

  Some waif.

  The American Girl catalog is beautifully photographed. Heck, by the time I finished looking at it, I could barely stifle an urge to order Kit, Molly, and especially the plucky Josefina complete with her authentic reproduction New Mexico sleigh bed.

  Thank heavens I was reminded by the big, bold letters of the catalog’s very first page: “True friendship is the greatest gift.”

  Indeed it is, and that’s why my little girl is going to become good friends with the Nellie look-alike I found on sale for twelve bucks last week and slyly named K-Martha.

  K-Martha is absolutely gorgeous and, although she doesn’t come with her own line of books, bedding, and matching human-size clothing, I think she’s going to be a hit.

  Although they’re undeniably beautiful, AGs are way too fancy and expensive to play with, so you put them up on a shelf or in a glass case and admire them. K-Martha, on the other hand, you can drag by the feet and use for the cat’s pillow and it’s no big deal.

  Each American Girl doll comes with her own bio. Kit, who represents 1934 in our nation’s history, “went from rich to poor overnight but still has spunk!” says the catalog. Oh, those wacky poor kids; at least they make us laugh!

  Samantha, the most famous AG, is “a generous girl with a curious nature living in 1904.” She’s the one who just starred in her own TV special, so I imagine the other dolls have taken to hissing and sniping and calling her Miss Thang behind her back.

  Molly represents 1944 and, for ninety-eight dollars plus shipping, comes with a “pretend steel penny.” Oh, you shouldn’t have.

  If you get tired of watching them look historic, you can take the Girls for a pretend ride on the official American Girl horse. He costs sixty dollars, but he looks just like a horse from the Family Dollar Store to me.

  There is only one lonely American Girl boy-doll, and he’s no Ken, let me tell you. Even on the catalog pages, Bitty Boy Twin looks as if he wants to scream.

  I wonder why. Perhaps it’s because he’s sick of being dressed by chubby little hands that don’t take proper care of his Fall Frolic outfit or his Festive Plaid knickers. Or maybe it’s because he just read his “biography” and realizes that the high point of his life is going to be having “not-so-clean fun making cookies” with his twin sister. Hey! Who needs PlayStation?

  Truthfully, I suspect Bitty Boy looks so horrified because he just read his own shipping charges or maybe he learned that all his siblings are on back order. Again.

  What could possibly be more American?

  How about the Easy-Bake Oven, which Sophie has begged for this year, no surprise to any mother of a little girl. But when I actually went out to buy one, I felt that awful mix of panic and disappointment I’d felt earlier in the day when I discovered they’d taken beets off the Pizza Hut salad bar. Is nothing sacred?

  The new Easy-Bake Oven looks nothing like the one I remember as a tot. It’s a microwavey “snack center” contraption. At least it still operates on a 100-watt bulb that every parent forgets to buy. It’s a parental rite of passage to spend most of Christmas Day trying to figure out which bulb in the house can be unscrewed and substituted so you can watch a single “brownie” cook in just under eight hours.

  The hot toys this year talk a lot more than the ones in the past, and I’m not sure this is a good thing. Diva Starz dolls, we’re told, “speak fashion-related phrases!”

  What the hell is a fashion-related phrase? Oh, I get it. Stuff that supermodels say. Stuff like, “I’d like a single leaf of arugula on a Wheat Thin, please, and then I’ll go throw it up” or “I’d like to act, but I have no talent!”

  There’s also the Lil Chefs Talking “Smart” Kitchen, a seventy-dollar plastic kitchen programmed with fifty sounds and phrases “typically heard in the kitchen.” I’m hoping that includes the mantras from my kitchen: “Let’s just throw out this slop and go to Wendy’s” or “Don’t answer that; it’s a telemarketer!”

  Maybe your kid aspires to be a fry cook. The McDonald’s Food Cart comes with a little headset just like the drive-through guy wears, presumably so you can pretend to mutter unintelligible gibberish to whoever you’re playing with and they can scream, “What? What did you say?” just like the real drive-through.

  There’s even a talking Lemonade Lisa who dispenses lemonade-type product to a pretend customer while uttering “10 fun phrases!” Personally I’d prefer a mini-Starbucks stand where pretend customers would complain nonstop about spending nearly five bucks for a large latte.

  I may settle for a Fisher-Price Sweet Magic Kitchen, which has pretend food that turns colors to let you know it’s done. Ohhhhh. So that’s how you can tell.

  Of course, the best toys at this stage always seem to involve Barbie & Co. My daughter’s little friend gave her a pregnant Midge doll for her birthday this year. It was a regular stroll down memory lane, I tell you. When I was a kid, I had Barbie and my sister had Midge, a perky, freckle-faced redhead with a Dutchboy hairdo. She was the girl next door, the pretty-in-pink-plaid pal, the also-ran to her hottie friend, the Barbster.

  I always felt a bit smug that I had Barbie while sis had Midge. You just knew things were going to be harder for Midge. And now she’s knocked up.

  The funniest thing is the brouhaha from the freaks that are offended by this sort of thing. Turns out some Wal-Mart stores, exposing retail spines of Jell-O, have taken to hiding the massive Midge behind the counter during the Christmas season so shoppers wouldn’t be “offended” by the bun in the oven.

  Wonder what they do with those pictures of Mary riding the donkey into Bethlehem and great with child. Is that okay, you think?

  Frankly, we love pregnant Midge. The baby’s daddy, says a rather defensive Mattel, is her longtime husband, Alan, who has been chronically inferior over the years to the buff Ken.

  While Barbie and, to a much lesser degree, Ken have been carving out careers in everything from aerospace engineering to professional surfing, Midge and Alan have just been getting by, shopping the sales and buying extras for their tacky-but-clean single wide with S & H Greenpoints. And now, the blessed event!

  Turns out Baby Doctor Barbie (yes, there is one) is rumored to have delivered Midge’s baby, at least so says Mattel in a press release. Oh, it just always has to be about Barbie, doesn’t it? You just know she patted Midge’s swollen fingers and said condescending things about how she’d get her shape back just like she did. Why, Midge, says Barbie, you’ll be back to winning Olympic gold medals in no time, just like me.

  Of course, she’s Midge, so we know that she’s Every-woman, operatin
g on real-world rules that mean her butt will remain as lumpy as undercooked grits for the rest of her polystyrene life.

  The pregnant Midge doll, much to Sophie’s delight, actually delivers the baby sans soap-opera squealing scenes and similar unpleasantness. No “Push! Push!” words of encouragement from Alan, just lift up the rounded belly flap, and out drops the curled-up infant! What could be more fabulous? (Having had a C-section, I can relate to Midge. I should warn her that, for the next three days, nosy Dr. Barbie will be in her face demanding to know if she’s “passed gas yet” while Alan uses this as a chance to invite the nurse to pull his finger, so very Alan.)

  I have to wonder what Midge and Alan must make of Barbie’s recent, uh, dalliance.

  It was tres shocking when we learned recently that Barbie had actually given Ken the old “I need some space” speech and taken up with Blaine, a “hunky Australian surfer dude” several years her junior.

  At the time, those of us who have applauded Barbie’s enviable ability to morph from movie star to pet doctor to airline pilot were worried about her mental stability.

  After all, Ken, whose only downside was waxy buildup on his hair, was always supportive of Barbie’s myriad career changes. Only adult ADHD, or perhaps a movie-star acceptable level of manic depression, could explain this compulsion to try so many different careers. No matter what she undertook, Ken was always there, in his cardigan and khakis or swim trunks or dinner jacket, championing his beloved’s latest lark.

  Blaine, on the other hand, just doesn’t seem that reliable. He’s the type who would cheat on Barbie with one of those Bratz sluts and then lie about it in the morning, even as Barbie discovered the creepy telltale amputeed boot in Blaine’s sofa cushions.

  Barbie didn’t pick a great time to start thinking outside the (cardboard) box. Blaine, it turns out, isn’t selling all that well. The only question left is, now that third-quarter earnings are down 26 percent, will Barbie reconcile with Ken?

  Ken, if you’re reading this, don’t take the ho back. You’re too good for her. Don’t let the suits at Mattel try to put you back by Barbie’s side. She dumped you after forty-three years for a tanned boy toy in board shorts, and you’re gonna come crawling back?

  Dude.

  Those of us who have looked up to Barbie for her career achievements recognized Ken as the wind beneath her wings. And not just professionally. Ken would be the one who would lovingly wipe the rice pudding from Barbie’s perfect chin when the two of them eventually relocated to adjoining rooms at Mattel’s assisted living complex. Blaine? He’s too busy chasing other Sheilas, pounding Foster’s lager, and hanging out with his surf buddies, all of whom look depressingly like Ashton Kutcher.

  Barbie’s new beau is, from sales figures and appearances, simply not working out.

  So, what to do? First, hire a publicist to handle the inevitable media hordes that will want to know where their love went. An immediate “they will remain good friends” press release must be distributed.

  Ken and Alan should start hitting the bars together. Alan, as we all know, probably has a tab at every watering hole in Mattelville. Maybe with Ken in the mix, he’ll actually be allowed back inside one or two of them.

  Expect Ken to play hard to get for a while, but I predict he’ll be back. After four decades, he’s proved to be a capable lapdog. I only hope that he reminds Barbie every now and again that he could’ve had Midge any time he wanted.

  But then, again, who couldn’t?

  10

  Slacker Moms Unite!

  Say Adios! to All That Guilt

  Everywhere I turn lately, there’s a magazine cover, newspaper headline, or book jacket screeching about how the modern mom is trying to do it all and failing miserably.

  Shuttling her kids from soccer to fencing to swim class to flute lessons, today’s Supermom is frazzled, resentful, and depressed. In interview after interview, she wonders why motherhood isn’t the fun gig she imagined.

  Maybe because I came to motherhood a bit later in life than most, I’ve never really tried to overachieve and now, at last, my slackness has been rewarded.

  Slacker moms are in!

  Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Anna Quindlen wrote glowingly about her own slacker mom recently. The woman couldn’t even drive, and she usually answered, “I dunno, he’s around here somewhere” when one of Anna’s brothers went missing, but “wherever she was, was home.”

  She didn’t worry about her kids not getting accepted in the town’s best gymnastics class; she just told them to get out from under her and play outside. Radical!

  Ever since I gave birth, I’ve watched with a mix of horror and admiration those mommies who do it all. They work full-time, lead Scout troops, and volunteer to host foreign exchange students. They exercise for an hour every day, shuttle their kids all over town, cook nutritious meals, and collapse every night for five hours of tortured sleep.

  Finally, they’ve gone from a low hum of discontent to a full-fledged whine. And all I can say is this: It’s About Damn Time.

  It turns out that “slacker moms” like me are considered to be the ones who are truly mentally healthy. I know—scary isn’t it?

  The mantra of the slacker mom should always be: “Do just enough to get by.” Try saying it, supermoms. It’s really quite exhilarating.

  Here’s how we do it.

  ANNOYING WELL-INTENTIONED PERSON: Hi, Celia! I was just wondering if you’d be willing to organize (host, train, serve as, volunteer, mentor, etc.) so-and-so?

  ME: No.

  See how easy?

  At first you’ll no doubt feel guilty, but stand firm. Your sanity is at stake. Put your feet up; watch Oprah. Let your kid play. Do Just Enough to Get By.

  I’m sure that a few of you diehards are saying, “Well, that’s fine for you, but that leaves us to do all the work!”

  I know! Isn’t it fabulous? Look, martyrdom’s overrated. If you resent it, stop the hell doing it.

  Here at Slacker Mom Central, I will continue to do just enough to get by on the extracurricular front.

  Okay, to be honest, as soon as my one term as Spanish coach is over.

  See even we hardcore slacker moms can get sucked in occasionally.

  After telling everyone that slacking off and refusing to volunteer for anything is fabulously freeing, I heard myself say, in a small voice, yes, when I was recruited to help with the after-school Spanish club.

  I don’t even know how it happened, so just let this be a lesson to all of you aspiring slackers. Perhaps an exact transcript of the conversation can help us figure out what went wrong.

  NICE MOM: Celia, will you help with the new Spanish Club after school? I know your daughter’s signed up, and we desperately need volunteers.

  ME (snorting): You must be desperate, toots. The only Spanish I know is Nachos Bell Grande and Jose Cuervo.

  (See, so far, so good. I’m standing firm. So why am I now riding around with a backseat full of piñata-making materials?)

  NICE MOM (cheerily): Oh, that’s okay! You don’t have to speak Spanish to help out.

  (Now here’s where I should have sniffed el rat-o. She’s killing me with kindness, and I’m falling for it. See what happens next.)

  ME: You don’t? (I thought this was strange. Does this mean that I can finally perform surgery without having to attend that pesky medical school?)

  NICE MOM: Heck no! (Okay, here’s a bad sign; never trust cheery women who say Midwesterny-sounding things like “heck!” There’s just something not right about them.)

  NM: Really, we just need people to help pass out materials and maybe keep the kids from getting too loud.

  ME: Uh, okay, I guess.

  I have no idea what hit me. Was it because she was so relentlessly cheerful? Was it the thought of being able to jerk a knot in somebody else’s kid for a change?

  The next day, I reported for duty at the school cafeteria, where one of the mom-leaders came over and asked if I’d mind reading
a book or two in Spanish to the kids.

  I’d been hoo-doo’ed by the chipper Midwesterner. Of course they expected me to speak Spanish.

  “No hablo español,” I said weakly.

  “Oh, good! You’re fluent!”

  Another corralled volunteer looked at me helplessly. “I’ve had six years of French,” she said.

  “No problemo,” I assured her. “It’s probably a lot the same. Just substitute a lot of choppy sounds for that jeh-jeh-jeh-joosh stuff the French say. Oh! And be sure to add an o to the end of everything. I seem to remember that from high school.”

  “Okay-o,” she said gamely.

  Once the kids learned to count to twenty in Spanish, it was time to play Spanish Bingo, which is a lot like English Bingo except with a lot less cigarette smoke and black hair dye.

  I looked at my watch and realized that we’d been at it for about twelve minutos. What on earth were we going to do for the rest of the hour?

  Thank goodness, our fearless leader (“I had to learn Spanish cuz I married me a Mexican”) was on the case. Everyone would learn how to say his or her name in espanol.

  This reminded me of Spanish 1 class when we did the same thing. While I had fantasized that my Spanish name would be exotico, it turned out to be exactly the same as it was in English.

  “But I want to be Rosalita or something,” I had whined to the beleaguered teacher.

  “Oh, yeah?” she asked. “Well, I wanna be Doris Day, but that ain’t happening either.”

  Muy harsh.

  So, I’ve lost some of my slacker mom street cred, but not all of it. A few days after Spanish Club ended for the year, a coven of Supermoms approached me about helping with a new Brownie troop.

  “No @##$ way,” I said, feeling the smug surge of power that comes from being such a committed slack-ass. The only Brownies I had any interest in, I told them, came out of a Duncan Hines box.