Wild Things

I know I’m a bit on the late freight with this movie, (I wait for them to show up at the three dollar theater, because I’m broke) but Where the Wild Things Are was fantastic. It was part child's fantasy, part sentimental deepness and part furry’s wet dream.

The movie is an embellishment on the classic children’s book, which was short, sweet and effective. The film gives more depth with a back story to Max’s tantrum and then personifies his emotions as giant monsters that live in the forest of his mind. Contentment, anger, insecurity are all there and more.

I found myself looking over at Snot Face because it seemed I understood her just a little more. I forget sometimes that she is a little person and it is possible for her to have angst.

When she gets upset I either coddle her or freak out, depending on the situation. I realize that while I have to be sensitive to her, more than anything she has to learn how to work though some of this stuff on her own.

How Jonze pulled off making a six page book into a masterful peek at my daughter’s little soul, I will never know, but I thank him.

I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus

I never understood the significance of that song until recently. I used to laugh at the thought of Santa being unfaithful to poor old Mrs. Claus.

“HoHoHo, honey, I’m sorry but I’m running a little late.”

Only it’s not about the secret life of Santa, it’s about the parents getting caught. Mommy wasn’t kissing Santa, mommy was kissing daddy dressed as Santa.

When do we get to tell our kids there is no Santa? As parents are we even allowed to?

I found out when I was seven. I slept on the couch so I could catch Santa. I heard the rustling of presents and tree branches, opened one eye, and there was my mom, unsuccessfully sneaking our gifts under the tree. Her cover was blown, but I never said anything for the sake of my little sister...and the presents.

I feel like that was an organic discovery. That’s not the same as having your parents crush your little fantasies of St. Nick. But which is worse, Santa not giving you what you want for Christmas or knowing that your mom is Santa and she can’t get you what you want? But being Santa is hard.

So, Snot-face is now ten and still believes in Santa. Her Christmas list this year is impossible. She is asking for parts to make a working robot. WTF!!!!

I want to let myself off the hook... I wonder how San Francisco feels about putting on a big red suit?

How Did I Become the Go-To Mom?

As I stepped out the bathroom, Snot-face came running up stairs asking me if I know how to get New Moon tickets.


“At the movie theater,” I said awkwardly, “it’s not a concert, you just go…”


“But they’re sold out,” she cut me off, “and Sierra really wants to go!”


First of all, what am I, a pre-adolescent’s version of a drug dealer? Snot-face will ask me for the most random of things for her friends; hey, do you know to get the new Black Eyed Peas song for free, Hanna wants it….Can we get a whole pie so I can take it to school to share with my friends…. Can we get one for Kacie, her mom won’t take her to get one?


Next, I can barely keep up with my own kid’s needs and wants, let alone those of her whole posse. I’m broke. I’m busy. Today, I’m sick and have tons of homework.


Last, I’m not even cool, I always say no. And I don’t condone this fascination with fake vampires. It’s the stupidest thing. Vampires don’t sparkle in the sunlight. They burst into flames.


I ended the conversation.


“Honey,” I said, “it will be in theaters for a long time, it won’t always be sold out. Plus, it’s not my job to get Sierra tickets. Her mom needs to do that for her.”


San Francisco snickered from the bedroom.


“Okay, Mommie.”


I know, I’m mean, but I had to nip this in the bud.

I Think I've Seen One of Those on T.V.

Yesterday was yet another god-I'm-getting-old moment. San Francisco returned home from helping his mother move with a real treasure- a 1970's vintage record player, the kind with cabinet doors, an analog tuner and an 8-track. It's beautiful.

Snot-face stood staring at it for a minute.

"What's that?" she finally asked.

"It's a record player," San Francisco told her, but her head cocked to the side like a dog, "You know, it plays records, music."

"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I think I've seen one of those on T.V. I think they had one on The Cosby Show."

Snot-face has recently developed a love for my childhood favorite. When she saw her idol, Raven Symone, from Disney's That's So Raven, played Cosby's adorable little Olivia, she became fascinated.

"Look at Raven," Snot-face squeaked, "she's so little and cute."

Back to the record player: San Francisco proceeded to teach Snot-face how to use it, so she won't scratch the records. As he gave his lesson, he remembered when he was a kid he wasn't even allowed in the room this player was in. (I guess that's how bad he was.)

It’s the little things that make you realize how much things have changed. My daughter had never seen a record player in real life until yesterday. When Michael Jackson died she discovered his music, like many kids did, as if he were a brand artist. She asked me why she didn’t know about him before he was dead, and was sad that there would be no more from him.

Why didn’t she know about him? Did I not do my duty as a culturally hip mom? Am I depriving my child by keeping treasures like the magic of MJ, the silliness of Bill Cosby and the sweet crackle of vinyl to myself? Am I negligent for being surprised that Snot-face doesn’t know them already? Cause if I haven’t shown her, who else will?