New Material, Girl

The book Lyla picked for me to read to her and Rowan at bedtime was something by Madonna.  I hadn't seen it before, but I suspect it came from last Saturday's gift opening marathon with Julie's side of the family.  A children's book written by the singer of "Like a Virgin" will be a perfect gift for a kindergartner, someone thought.

Spoiler alert in case you plan to read this book yourself, but it's about a group of girls who shun another girl because they're jealous of how she's perfect in every way.  Then there's an Ebeneezer Scrooge-like dream in which a fairy godmother shows the four of them--simultaneously, because they're all, like, having the same dream at the same time--that the shunned girl's life really isn't so perfect after all.  Among other things, the girl's mother is--oh boy.  I closed the book.

"Uh, I'll be right back."  I headed downstairs with the book and found Julie.

"Julie!  This Madonna book is about a girl whose mother is dead.  What do I do!?  I'm halfway through the book and the kids are waiting."

"I think it's fine."

"Seriously?  I don't think it's fine."

"Well, then you're going to deal with the kids' wrath."

Back upstairs, I told the kids I didn't want to finish the book because of something sad in it.  They could pick any other book as a replacement.

"WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!" they replied in unison.

Earlier this year, my friend, a mother of two who blogged here, died of cancer.  I admit that perhaps I overreacted to this children's book due to the rawness I still feel about her.  But I wasn't prepared for what Lyla said next.

"Daddy!  We know the sad thing is that her mom is dead!  We know!  Can you please just finish the book?"

Rowan chimed in, "Yeah, Daddy.  We know she's dead."

So I finished the book.  Lyla and Rowan listened intently, and then they went to bed.  And of course I came to the simple realization that by trying to protect them, I was really just protecting myself.

Thanks a lot, Madonna.

Wardrobe malfunction

On Monday, Julie and I took the kids to daycare so we could live a day in the throes of childless debauchery, a spiral of destructive, overindulgent behavior glorified by the dumbest rappers.  I'm pretty sure Lorde's writing a song about us as we speak.  It's called "Ceiling Fan Shopping in the Suburbs."

Later, we picked up the kids and found Rowan in the midst of a significant wardrobe malfunction.

"Nice legs, buddy."

"Yeah.  I don't have any pants on."

"Indeed."

"Yeah.  I peed on dem at nap time."

"Got it."

A teacher walked over.  "He just woke up.  And he doesn't have any backup pants in his locker, so I was about to put him in these."

Light purple fleece girl pants.  I did not smack them out of her hand, but I thought about it.  See, here's how they sent him home a couple months ago:

Look again at the photo.  Those are capris.

"So, the light purple fleece girl pants are the only option in the communal pants box?"

"Yep."

I glanced at Julie, who then uttered a five-word day-saver.  "What about his snow pants?"

Brilliant.