I’m having a problem lately with buying things. I finally broke down and took my daughter to the dollar store to buy some headbands because one, her hair kept falling into her face and causing her to have accidents; and two, it was spring break and we really didn’t have anything else to do before our 2 pm WIC appointment, so we went to the dollar store.
I hate the dollar store. I mean, it’s great because everythings a dollar but, I can’t help but think of how those things got to be only a dollar. Ever see, “What would Jesus buy?” I haven’t, but a friend of mine told me about how she never buys new things either, except once, she bought those little Christmas lights to string on her tricycle couch for burning man. Then, she watched the aforementioned documentary and there was a woman with the most heartbreaking story about working in one of those factories screwing in the little lights.
Anyways, I just read a blog by a rather famous mother who encourages people to radiate authenticity and spirituality in order to improve upon the universe (her words, not mine), and talks about potty training her son by purchasing underpants with some commercial logo/character dude on them from K-mart.
Okay, so what am I missing here? My 4 yr-old daughter still wets her yellow flowered hand me down panties with the elastic all stretched out; and I’m feeling anxious because my husband has been talking about needing new socks and underwear. I bought him underwear, or rather didn’t buy but acquired by returning Christmas gifts, just last pregnancy. And we got socks together five years ago!
After school all the moms take their kids to the toy store, or to Baskin Robbins while Naima takes a break from climbing on the bike racks to snack on half a sweet potato in a jar on a park bench. She often throws tantrums. But maybe she wouldn’t if I bought her a Happy Meal.
We’ve recently returned from a week in Santa Cruz. We surfed often; went out for breakfast on Dylan’s birthday at Zachary’s on Pacific; drove the van around a lot, exacerbating the leaky fuel pump, perhaps; and parented together 24/7.
Our first day surfing we went to a beach off highway 1. I surfed for like twenty minutes before becoming totally exhausted. It was not a longboard spot. Dylan surfed for a little longer, and then Naima and I took an ambitious walk together, just the two of us, barefoot and half naked, scaling rocks, and running around them as the waves receded from the beach. After each obstacle surmounted, we’d find ourselves on another beach, and then another, and another. How the road forward does beckon. She wanted to keep going, and going, despite our lack of footwear and family members, and I was once again reminded that yes, this is my daughter.
We returned to a still napping Sora and a cold father holding the still napping Sora. While buckling everyone in, a reddened irate hairy surfboarder approached us yelling at us not to come back and asking whether or not we were the ones solely responsible for bringing agroup of about fifteen long boarders to “their” beach. We told them we had not, and they proceeded to peel out of the parking lot, flipping us the bird, and wasting a lot of fuel.
However, we took their advice and did not return.
How do we explain to children exactly what an “asshole” is, or the signifigance of the middle finger held aloft while tricky steering maneuvers are attempted. None of it makes sense.
Anyways, Dylan turned thirty-five. I’m still thirty-four, and Sora gets older each day. Naima gets louder.
I started talking about the van again. Maybe because the weather is warming, the cockroaches are coming out again by the hundreds, and our landlord is asking us if we want to stay another year. I’d like to say, “no. We’re getting in the van and looking for free parking.” But, alas, no assholes have any WVO for us, save for Jack’s except they were cleaning out their fryers the night after we left town. Everyone has a contract with some collection company or other, who is now paying them for their “Hazardous Wastes,” an issue I won’t get into at the moment, but, it is making it rather challenging for the individual collector breezing through town, or not breezing through town.
I must apologize for these posts. They’re often done, as in now, with a sleeping baby propped on the desk and resting on my shoulder. Or, a screaming pre-schooler asking, “How come? How come?!” Which, out of all the ridiculousness in this world, seems to be the most sensible sentiment, and to which I usually answer, “Because.”