It was only a few weeks ago, but already it seems months have passed.  Nothing like an historic presidential election to make you forget about a silly children’s holiday.

But I did want to post a quick blog about my daughter’s first excursion into trick-or-treating.  After a fun party at her school, she straightened her little pink wig and sashayed out into Nana and Papa’s neighborhood (which is her mom’s childhood neighborhood).  Auntie Sandi, Mama and “Deedee Doodlebop” ventured out promptly at 6 p.m.  Her first stop ever?  At Nashua mayor Donnalee Lozeau’s house (we like to do it up big around here). 

And, having a latent hippie/activist mother, said Doodlebop had a different refrain after she rang the doorbell: “Trick or Treat for UNICEF!”  I figure she has another ninety years to be victim to her genetic predisposition to sugar addiction; at age two, she can still have the fun of going door to door, without the bucket of toxins.  (Yeah.  Hippie.  I told you.)

My little fundraiser was slightly annoyed at the overwhelmingly cheerful response she got at every house.  She often never got the chance to a) ring the doorbell and b) give her UNICEF schpiel, before the adoring residents cooed about how cute she was, offering her handfuls of candy.  Once they were duly informed as to her mission, however, everyone was super-nice about rushing around the house looking for loose change.

After about three streets, my daughter had managed to raise a whopping $19.53.  I’d like to thank all the folks in the Shore Drive neighborhood for being so generous and kind to her – and a huge thank-you to all my friends who contributed to her online UNICEF fundraising page (ah, the 21st century).  In total, we sent over $175 to the cause.

Go Goo!

I worked in retail for about eight years.  Anyone who’s also done time in the dank depths of this particular circle of hell will tell you that, like dog years, retail years need to be extrapolated out.  So, I worked in retail for about 64 years.

When my friend Sue and I worked for Zayre (oh yes, we’re going waaaaay back, folks.  Strap yourself into the time machine), we used to entertain ourselves by mocking mothers with young children in tow, and how exasperated they’d become.  We’d even made up a skit where we’d imitate mothers who punctuated every word with a smack: “I * told * you * never * to * touch * anything * !”  Of course, this was over twenty years ago, when you were allowed to discipline your child without the SWAT team coming and taking you down.

One day, Sue and I were aghast to discover an opened box of Pampers in the Infants Dept., and worse, a used diaper left on a shelf.  “What kind of person does this?” we asked, disgusted.  For my part, I definitely had some nasty stereotypes whirling around in my imagination.

Fast-forward 23 years…

So last week, after taking my daughter to a pancake breakfast hosted by the costumed characters of Actorsingers’ upcoming “Seussical: The Musical” – my daughter was very annoyed that Thing 1 and Thing 2 were not in attendance – we traipsed over to a nearby Halloween store in search of a costume for her.  We had an hour until they opened, though, so we went next door to Fashion Bug, purveyors of fine fashion for those over 20 – in age and/or in size.

They were having an awesome “buy one item, get the second for 99 cents” sale.  At this point, my daughter was hopped up on orange juice, and was mostly a blur.  I would be afforded one or two seconds to look at an item before I had to snap my head around and state her name loudly, with a tinge of panic in it.  “You need to stay where you can see Mommy, please,” I repeated, over and over.  Regardless, she continued to run up and down the main aisle, weave in and out of the racks, and slog through the hangers like a vehicle in a car wash.  She was having a great time.

I foolishly attempted to try on three shirts, during which time my amped-up toddler crawled, G.I. Joe style, back and forth underneath the dressing-room door.  As I tried to pay for my items, she efficiently snapped shut all the jewelry boxes on display near the register, despite the gentle urgings to the contrary by a store associate.

As the other associate rang me up and tried to explain their credit-card promotion in between my “don’t do that, please”s and “put that down”s, my daughter abandoned the small breakables and again began wind sprints up and down the main aisle.  I kept straddling the register and the aisle to keep her in my sights.

At one point, she unexpectedly stopped in the middle of the aisle, about twenty feet away. “What are you doing?” I asked.  “Please come here.”

A pause, then: “I’m peeing.”

We’ve been toilet-training.  She was not wearing a diaper.

I saw the puddle spreading out in a widening circle of karma.

I turned to the associate helplessly.  She was already on it, gathering up paper towels and disinfectant cleaner.  To her immense credit, her face betrayed not one iota of disgust or annoyance.  I took the supplies from her, mopped my daughter’s jeans down, and tackled the floor.  “At least urine is sterile,” I offered with a half-hearted smile.

As we slunk out of the store, my first thought was how incredibly patient, polite and unaffected both staffers were, despite the running, yelling and um, yeah, the peeing.

My second thought was, it may not be instant sometimes, but karma’s definitely gonna get you eventually.

I love camping.  I never went as a kid, but during my decade in California I dated enthusiasts who opened this world to me.  It’s been a pretty cushy world because of that, since the man was the one to set up the tent, start the fire and lug all the stuff to the site.

My daughter and I were invited to join my friend Glen and his family on their annual camping trip to Greenfield State Park on Columbus Day weekend.  Continuing my non-roughing roughing it, Glen obtained, transported and set up the tent, air mattresses and sleeping bags for us before we even arrived.  I only had to bring toddler stuff and food.

The ride from Nashua to Greenfield was absolutely spectacular.  It’s a good 50 minutes, but the foliage display that entertains you on the way up was more than adequate diversion.  My daughter and I pointed out our favorite trees, blazing with color in the autumnal sun.

Well, she just loved that tent.  She figured out the zipper and occupied herself going in and out a dozen times, rolling around on the bed, and ‘reading’ books to Snoopy inside.  This afforded Glen and me the opportunity to actually read our “Twilight” series books uninterrupted for a whole twenty minutes (Glen has no idea how luxurious this was).

We did only moderate nature exploration, much to my disappointment – I did manage to show my daughter a black and orange fuzzy caterpillar and saw a small snake slithering across the campground road – but spent some time at the playground across the road from the park entrance.  Glen cooked up some hot dogs on his bright red new grill for lunch, and I tried, to no avail, to get my daughter to take an afternoon nap.

Dinner with his family was a bountiful occasion.  Glen grilled some chicken to perfection, which was supplemented by my salad and rice, corn and bread.  Unfortunately, because she hadn’t taken a nap, my tired toddler started to melt down at the dinner table.  We scarfed up the rest of our meal, and I carried her back to our tent.

I was a bit worried about how cold it might be in New Hampshire in mid-October (not a real concern in California camping, despite what those wusses will tell you – just kidding, guys!), but I’d planned and packed well, and we were both snug and cozy, with knit hats, layers and many blankets.

By this time, it was becoming apparent that her sneezing was getting incrementally worse – it looks like she inherited my allergies, despite the longevity of my breastfeeding regimen.  We tried for two hours to get her to stay asleep, but she kept waking herself up by sneezing, which in turn led to frustrated crying (hers, not mine, har har).

I finally gave up, bundled her up in a blanket and carried her to our car.  Not wanting to bother Glen at his family’s campfire singalong, I left without saying goodbye and wearily drove us home down the long and winding road. I settled her in my bed, gave her some medicine, and plopped down next to her.

We returned the next morning to retrieve our stuff and hang out with Glen for a while longer.  It was another sunny day, and the drive was just as beautiful.  I’ve never been through Lyndeborough or Greenfield, and they struck me as perfectly quintessential New England towns.  I love old farmhouses, rolling hills and little town centers.  And of course, this is the season for our state’s peak awesomeness.

I’m glad I was able to take my daughter “camping” at such an early age, but look forward to her having the whole actual experience (sleeping in a tent; clothes smoky from hanging around the campfire at night; nature walks and all the learning and fun therein).  I’d love to take her to California someday for camping during the glorious wildflower season in mid-April.  That’s Shangri-La.

Much thanks to Glen and his family for allowing us to “crash” their weekend! 

Since I became a single parent, I’ve definitely curtailed my extracurricular activities. But I do crave adult-only time occasionally, and have realized that I needn’t despair if I can’t find someone to join me. I saw my first movie alone this year: “The Simpsons Movie.” I’d waited so long since its release that I had the entire theater to myself. I felt like a celebrity having a private screening.

This year I also attended my first concert alone – well, if you can call a concert at the Verizon Wireless Arena with thousands of screaming Rush fans “alone.” I managed to be just as enraptured by Neil Peart and the boys by myself.

In contrast, last weekend, I attended opening night of the Nashua Symphony Orchestra (“Rush? Classical music? Dang, that chick’s so interesting!”). I’ll be the first to admit it: I was nervous. Striding up to the Keefe Auditorium at Elm St. Junior High on Saturday, I fretted that sitting through an evening at the symphony might be tantamount to watching paint dry. I would be the youngest audience member by half; I would be lost in a sea of white-haired patrons of the arts, stealing longing glances at the exit signs as the night dragged on.

Boy, was I wrong.

From the moment charismatic new musical director Jonathan McPhee bounded onto the stage, I knew this wasn’t to be a stodgy event. McPhee grabbed a mic and welcomed the audience to his formal debut at the helm of the Nashua Symphony Orchestra. After sharing his enthusiasm for the new season and new experience, he then painted a scene for the audience to envision as we listened to the first piece, Smetana’s “The Moldau.” “Visualize yourself throwing a stick into a river, and riding along with it,” he began. “As it travels down the river, it passes villages; the river becomes wider, more powerful. It goes through rapids. Eventually, this (Moldau) river takes us right into Prague.” And indeed, as the music began, you could imagine a stick, gently beginning its journey down a river, as embodied by a sweet flute line. You felt the river expand, saw the villages… certainly, we felt the rapids! The music was perfectly evocative of a river journey. The piece was a lovely way to be introduced to live classical music.

I slipped down to be closer to the stage, and enjoyed having a row to myself off to the side (affording me a better sidelong view of McPhee as he bounced through his conducting duties). I was alone, no toddler tugging on my leg, just kicking back and enjoying some live music. It was most excellent.

The Nashua Symphony Orchestra’s next outing will be in conjunction with their Chorus on Nov. 22, when they tackle the old-school stylings of Bach, Schubert and Mozart, to name a few. I’ll be there, and looking forward to seeing how McPhee ties “Regina coeli in C Major” to Nashua. Well, surely there’s at least one person named Regina in town, right?

And I’ll smile and say “yes, it’s just me tonight.”

Do they make dryer sheets for toddlers?  Because mine has a serious case of static cling.

After eight days in school, my daughter has her first ear infection.  Bilateral.  I have had a very, very long weekend. 

It began when I tried to leave for work Friday afternoon, at 3 p.m.  She began to shriek and wail the likes of which I have never seen.  Granted, she’s been much more clingy and upset about my departures since she began going to school a couple days a week.  But I’d never seen anything like this.  I gave my aunt a pitying wince and bolted out the door.

When I came home that night at 11:15 p.m., I was met with the unique and unfortunate sight of my aunt, sitting in the darkened living room, holding my daughter in the recliner.  “This isn’t good,” I ruefully concluded.  “She’s been up the whole time,” my aunt whispered.  “The second I put her down, she begins whimpering and calling for you.”  Oy.

I rush to get my own pajamas on, and gingerly take my fretful daughter in my own arms, in the other recliner.  She sobs that she’s very glad I’m home, and I soothe her in the dark as my exhausted aunt silently takes her leave.  After about twenty minutes, I decide to move to my room.

Sixty hours later…

We haven’t left my bed, or at least, she hasn’t left my side.  She sleeps in only fits and starts, in fifteen to forty-five minute intervals.  We’ve moved back to the recliner for a few hours here and there, and the hardbacked rocking chair in her room (where I desperately attempt to return her to her crib, which either nets me thirty minutes of non-cling or immediate wailing).  Most of the time, however, she is not only with me, but on me: a leaden, shallow-breathing lump of molten-hot baby.  You know how hot towels are when you just take them out of the dryer?  That was her.  And anyone who knows me, knows I already run a little hotter than everyone else.  So, yeah.  It’s been a toasty weekend.

We did leave the house once, to go to the doctor (thank heavens my doctor’s office is open seven days a week).  I was informed of her “really bad” dual ear infections, and given antibiotics.  She’s still hot as an oven, but I guess I have to be patient.

I just managed to disengage her little clinging limbs fifteen  minutes ago, when she collapsed, exhausted but still protesting, into her freshly-made crib.  I am typing as fast as I can, mentally listing all the things I need to do in this brief respite I have from on-duty mommynursehood.  Dishes, laundry, litter box, gee, a shower would be nice…

I don’t believe it.  She’s calling for me.  I got 25 minutes.

Man… I can’t get wait to get back to work, so I can relax…  J

Today was day three of my daughter’s ‘school’ career. She wasn’t too happy when I began to extricate myself from her grasp to head to work. She began crying and begging “I want to go home now!” and “Don’t leave me!” It was brutal.

I hugged and kissed her many times and assured her that I would be back at 1 p.m. to pick her up. I professed my love and slunk away.

After a gut-churning commute to work, I eventually relaxed into my workday. I began to research two feature articles I’m writing, and became thoroughly engrossed. At some point, my stomach reminded me that it was lunchtime, and I looked up at the clock.

It was 1:20 p.m.

It was like one of those nightmares that parents have, except it was real. I was really twenty minutes late to pick up my daughter, and twenty additional minutes away. I shrieked obscenities and dashed to my car.

I called the school as I bolted down Rte. 3 at 80 mph. One of her teachers placated me minutely by assuring me that she was not, as I fretted, sobbing uncontrollably and wailing my name. She had teared up briefly, but was able to be distracted with a sticker project.

I ran down the school hallway (setting a fine example) and peered in the classroom door. Relief flowed over me as I saw my sweet daughter calmly working at a little table, affixing stickers to colored paper. I tiptoed in (as the rest of the class was already down for their nap), and approached her. “Mommy!!!” she exclaimed happily, rushing to me. “My mommy came back!” she blissfully informed the dozing class. “I’m so glad you’re here, Mommy! I’m so glad to see you!”

My mother had already warned me that certain events in my parenting experience would “haunt” me for the rest of my days. Chalk up my first, horrible one.

One hundred years ago, when I started kindergarten at the now-razed Eastman Lane Kindergarten in Nashua, I was at least five years old, possibly six. Up until that time, I had enjoyed my toddlerhood and burgeoning kidhood by romping through the neighborhood and woods with the other children, playing with my toys, drawing and watching way too much television.

Apparently, in the 21st century, this would have relegated me to 3-5 years behind my youthful compadres, putting me at a distinct disadvantage and way behind the learning curve.  Allegedly.

My mother taught me everything I needed to know before I saw my first show-and-tell.  She taught me to read, write, draw human figures, the alphabet, counting… I was so well-prepared that by the time I got to elementary school, they skipped me ahead a grade.

Nowadays, with women having to rush back to work as early as six weeks after giving birth (I personally cannot even fathom this, based on my own experience.  You women that did it are amazing to me!), children are getting put into daycare-cum-early childhood education centers earlier and earlier.

Why do we keep eroding that already-fleeting time of commitment-free, stress-free, goofing-off childhood?  Why must we parents feel pressured into getting our children “into a program” before they’re even out of diapers?  They’ll be sleep-deprived, pressured-to-succeed, overscheduled schoolkids soon enough.  Where is the freedom of early childhood that their parents enjoyed?

OK, I fell off my soapbox.  And I’m checking into “Overhyphenators Anonymous.”

I have checked out some of these centers in town.  There are pure daycare centers, that are basically just babysitting your child, and there are centers that have a classroom environment.  One such school starts with practically newborns, and goes all the way to sixth grade, all in one complex.  The one I went to yesterday focuses solely on pre-elementary, also with an infant room.

Initially, I was merely looking at these places as an opportunity for my daughter to get some socialization with other youngsters her age.  She’d gone to music classes for about a year, and enjoyed them, but I knew it was time for more interpersonal interaction.  So I took my mother and my daughter to see the school yesterday.

We were all very impressed.  I thought it was extremely well-organized, beautifully designed, had a comprehensive curriculum and friendly, well-educated instructors.  My mother found nothing to criticize.  (Reread this sentence; allow its astonishing significance to sink in… Love ya, Ma!  ) 

And as for my daughter, well… she found a tiny little chair, pulled some toys from a shelf, and made herself at home.  When we went outside to see the children on the playground, she raced away, joining the throng and disappearing into the boisterous crowd.

She may as well have said “don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Mommy!”

As has been the case in many families, I’ll wager, I’m pretty sure the one who will suffer the most from separation anxiety will be me, not my toddler.  She might have a moment of trepidation, but within seconds of being offered a fun new activity, she’ll happily jump right in and join her new little friends. 

I’ll be the one sobbing in the PT Cruiser out in the parking lot…

One of the great things about having a toddler is the impetus to get out and do stuff.  Granted, I’m not the most energetic, get-up-and-go mom in my circle, but the last two weekends my daughter and I definitely got up and went.

This past Saturday, we took Auntie and went to Greeley Park for Children’s Day festivities.  It seemed well-attended, with most kids still in the single digits.  There was live entertainment – when we arrived, it was a guitarist doing fun kids’ songs – along with a bounce house, caricaturist, snow cones, game booths, watermelon eating and egg toss contests.  My daughter wasn’t too jazzed by the costumed characters working the crowd – a person dressed as Oakhurst Dairy’s “Oakie the acorn” was warily observed from afar, but Chik-Fil-A’s cow mascot was a bit too tall and foreboding.  “I need to go NOW!!!”  The small stuffed-animal version of the cow that she received at their tent went a long way towards placating her, however.

We went to Triangle Credit Union’s tent and got a child-safety ID packet.  They took a Polaroid of her to attach to the packet, which included a fingerprinting kit, DNA swabs, and comprehensive instructions.  Then we got some free popcorn and watched the bigger kids cavort in the bounce house and work the hula hoops.

The funniest thing that happened was when we went to the face-painting table.  The woman doing them was no longer there, but the supplies were.  Well, my daughter had recently discovered a love of tattoos (her mother winces and tries not to visualize her alabaster-skinned daughter sporting sleeves of ink in the future), so I rummaged through the box and found a ladybug stencil and some red paint.  What I didn’t notice as I applied it to her leg was a line of about a half-dozen kids appearing out of nowhere.  “Could you do a dragon on me next?” an earnest young man implored.  “And I want a Devil Dog!” cried another (alas, he didn’t mean the delicious snack cake from Drake’s, which would have been darn easy to draw).  I tried to explain to the kids that I was merely an attendee of the event, too, to no avail.  My aunt raised her eyebrows and smirked.  I thought about it for about a second, shrugged, and said, “Hey, I was an art major.  Sure.  I’ll draw you a dragon.  Step right up.”  I also did the Devil Dog, and then edged away from the growing throng, encouraging their moms to take a crack at it themselves.

Sunday, my daughter and I went downtown to the Multicultural Festival on Ash St.  We were there for the first 2 hours, which were sunny and blazing hot.  She loved the Afro-Brazilian drummers (she is at this very moment using a spoon and a cup to drum her way around the living room), clapping and swaying along.  There were several delicious choices of ethnic food to choose from, which made for a difficult decision for lunch.  We sat under the tent and watched the drummers, enjoying a lunch of Jamaican jerk chicken, rice and beans. 

My father and I walked over to the Hispanic festival happening at St. Louis de Gonzague, but they were just setting up.  I could have used some alimento mexicano auténtico; I’ve been jonesing for it since leaving California three years ago.

I did score some of my beloved Portuguese sweet bread from Lucia’s Bakery tent, so that was a bonus.  There were a lot of great jewelry and handiwork displays as well, making me wish I’d brought more cash.  I spent my last bills on a sticker book for my daughter, after which we watched some awesome breakdancers and then a ten-year-old violinist.  After each song, my daughter clapped and yelled “Yay, boy!”  Kinda like a very Caucasian Flava Flav…

 I look forward to what the next weekend will bring.  I’ll have to check my local paper…