Archive | April, 2011

Are you a Tigger or an Eeyore…or worse?

28 Apr

While driving in the car the other day with the kids, and yes, all four tires were working this time, the boys began a conversation about Winnie the Pooh.  We had heard somewhere that there is a character on Winnie the Pooh to represent every type of personality.  So, their conversation went something like this:

Kaiden:  I would be Piglet, because he’s so shy.

Tristan:  I’m Tigger…boing, boing, boing!

Kaiden: No, I’m not Piglet, I’m Roo.  Because he likes to play and go on adventures.

Tristan:  I’m Tigger…boing, boing, boing!

Kaiden:  Dadda’s Eeyore.

There was no need for explaining, we all agreed on that one.

Kaiden:  Who’s Mama?

Now of course I was expecting him to say Kanga.  You know, the mother of the group.  The one who tends to all the creatures in the Hundred Acre Wood.  The one who nurtures them, cares for them, supports them.  But when I went to open my mouth with my chosen character, my son beat me to it…

Kaiden:  Mama’s RABBIT.

RABBIT?  Are you kidding?  Now it doesn’t take an expert to realize that out of ALL the characters on Winnie the Pooh, RABBIT is the least lovable.  RABBIT is the yellow starburst of the Pooh world.

RABBIT is bossy.  RABBIT is controlling.  RABBIT is a NAG!  They don’t even make stuffed animals to represent RABBIT; a self loathing Donkey, yes.  But RABBIT…Never!

Me:  I don’t think I’m Rabbit.  I think I’m more like Kanga.

Maybe they simply forgot about Kanga.

Tristan:  No Mama…you’re RABBIT!

Even my 3 year old is in on it.

So what started out as an entertaining conversation has now turned into an internal evaluation of my own character.  I don’t want to be RABBIT.  Perhaps if I were more timid, I would be Piglet.  Or if I hid my intelligence I could pass for Pooh.  If I channeled my energy I could be Tigger, or if I were more of a know- it-all I would be Owl.

But instead…I’m RABBIT.

Isn't he LOVABLE?

Oh well, I guess I’m off to tend to my garden and yell at everyone.

Who would you be?

Advertisements

Damsel in Distress and Proud of it!

15 Apr

SAVE ME!!!

I’ve only ever lived in an age where women were strong, independent and powerful.  I had parents who embraced this value and instilled (or forced) it on me.  When other little girls were taking Ballet in their cute girlie Tutu’s, I was taking Karate in a variety of colorful belts.  When I turned 16 I learned how to drive a stick shift, change a tire and the oil, and (to my protest) pump my own gas.  I was taught girls can do anything boys can do.  After all, I was a woman.  And a woman can bring home the bacon, fry it in the pan, and give birth to a baby all at the same time without even breaking a nail. 

We are women, hear us ROAR!!!!

But…when my car blew a tire yesterday on the freeway and I barely made it safely to the next off ramp, did I roll up my sleeves, grab my bag of tools and fix it myself?  No, I called every Man in my life to come to my rescue.  I called my husband, my brother, the men at Les Schwab tires, and anyone with even the faintest amount of testosterone.  Did I call my fellow women to come help me lift up the car with our bare hands and rip off the old tire with one swift motion?  No…I did however call my sister in law for a ride, and emotional support.  And as I was making my various phone calls I found random men from who knows where rushing to my aid.  They wanted to help, they knew how to help, they needed to help!  Because despite all our advances in equality, to them I was a damsel in distress, and a primal instinct in every man I came across told them to rescue me; just as a primal instinct told me to be rescued. 

Could I have changed my tire on my own?  Probably…but I didn’t want to.  Could I have figured out how to jump start my battery with the assistance of another car?  (Because on top of the blown tire, my battery also died) Probably…but again, I didn’t want to.  Could I have pushed my car off the road to a safe place for jump starting?  Hell No!  Those things are heavy. 

So call me lazy, call me girlie, call me a sorry excuse for a strong woman living in a feminist society; but yesterday turned out perfectly in my eyes.  My Men got to fulfill that heroic desire to rescue their fair maiden from danger, and I didn’t even have to get my hands dirty.

So the moral of the story is…even a strong woman should be rescued every once in a while.      

Ah, 3 year olds. When did they get so smart?

3 Apr

While I was getting ready in the bathroom one morning, my 3 year old Tristan came in and said…

Tristan:  Mama, I want you to stay in the bathroom.

Me: Well, Mama’s almost done.

Tristan: No, NO!  Just stay in the bathroom.

Me: (curious now)  Why?

Tristan: I just want you to stay in the bathroom.  I don’t want you to come in the kitchen.

(Now it dawns on me, he’s up to something)

Me: Well, Mama’s almost done.  What are you doing in the kitchen?

Tristan: (with a huge ‘I’m doing something I’m not supposed to be doing’ smile) Nothing…I’m not eating anything.

(That wasn’t my question, but now it is)

Me: What are you eating?

Tristan: Nothing.  (and with another mischievous smile, he runs out of the bathroom and into the kitchen)

I follow him since he has basically ratted himself out and I find he has pushed a chair up to the counter, where the freshly made brownies were sitting.  Not only is he eating them, he’s nearly eaten ALL of them.  They are all over the counter and there is a little trail of crumbs where he must have tried to get a towel to try and clean up the evidence.

So, faced with a long clean up and a 3 year old about to go into the Mt. Everest of Sugar Highs, I did what any good parent would do…

I went back to the bathroom.