"Why?" and the Case for Boarding School

Just try to send us to boarding school...

I am intently curious who coined the term "the terrible twos." Did this person give their child up for adoption on the eve of their third birthday? Send it to boarding school for pre-schoolers? Because if this person let the kid stick around, they'd have found out the threes ain't no picnic.  And the person who coined this phrase is guilty of leading all stressed out mothers of two-year-olds to believe that they only need survive until the kid's third birthday for things to get better. BAHABHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!  The joke's on us, ladies! Because they don't get better at 3. They are just as big of a pain in the ass with the added bonus of an expanded vocabulary with which to torture you.  And with the high twos and low threes comes the very bothersome "why" stage.  Following is an excerpt from a recent discussion with Lulu:

Me: Lulu, what are you doing? (I asked this because I looked over to see her with her finger up her nose up to her knuckle while out in a public venue.)

Lulu: (matter of factly)  Mommy I'm picking the boogers out of my nose.

Me: (wondering where she learned the word "booger" because I assure you I have never uttered that word.)  Well... don't pick your nose.  Do you want to blow your nose?

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because nobody wants to see you pick your nose.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because it's not very polite.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because it's yucky.

Lulu: Why?

Me: Because... (thinking of how to explain that nobody likes to see a kid digging for their own snot)

Moxley: Because you should use the blue thing when we get home. (the blue thing is that nose-suctioning device)

Me: (slightly annoyed a 3-year-old is smarter than me) Right! We should use the blue thing!

Lulu: Why? (as she goes to hand me her "boogers.")

Me: Because mommy doesn't like to be given boogers!!!! (annoyed she got me to say "boogers")

Lulu: Why?

The conversation about boogers actually continued for quite a bit longer and it occurred to me as I tried to explain my distaste for nasal residue being placed in my hand that I once routinely sat in meetings during which the strategic direction of a Fortune 500 company was discussed.  I'm pretty sure I am exactly who Leslie Bennett had in mind when she wrote The Feminine Mistake... Leslie, I can assure you that I will never have to support my family alone because my husband would be too terrified of me to ever leave. Shoot himself in the head to put himself out of misery, sure. But leave me while he still has a pulse, no.

Oh, and isn't it lovely that aforementioned "blue thing" is a nose plunger / sometime lollipop holder? Very hygienic.

So speaking of boarding school, I used the think such a concept was the sinister making of morally bankrupt people who had way too much money on their hands and couldn't be bothered to take care of their own kids. I mean, what kind of mother outsources her parenting duties to the extent they don't even live at home? Everyone knows it's your responsibility as a parent to allow offspring to live at home until they reach 18 at which time you pray to God they get into college -- preferably one at least a two-hour drive away. Then you suffer through them coming home for Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks at which time they will barely acknowledge your annoying presence except when they want to borrow the car, which they'll probably crash at some point and not even apologize unless they happen to kill somebody. They will be non-rent-paying squatters at your home for the summer too, in between partying with their high school pals and making minimum wage in some useless job that will make them look like directionless losers on their resumes.

In the old days parents needed only suffer through this cycle for four years before their adult children limited their visits to the holidays with their own families in tow. Not anymore! College now can stretch on for YEARS. Graduating in four years is for overachievers only. And when they do finally graduate do you know where they expect to live? In their old bedrooms. Which they demand be in the exact state they left it four / eight / twelve years prior. And grandchildren? With the rampant arrested development epidemic not to mention fertility treatments you'll likely be senile and/or blind before your kids reproduce. Perhaps if your children are never permitted to live at home in the first place, they don't expect to return there to live as adults.

So my point here is: the rich who ship their kids off to boarding school at a young age aren't morally bankrupt. They are enlightened VISIONARIES.  Alas, my children will attend Chicago Public Schools. And I didn't see a room and board option on the form.  

Food Issues

We like cake so what's your freakin' problem?

I quit a lucrative job to stay home when my twins were born because I was convinced my constant presence in their fragile little lives was of utmost importance. Looking back, perhaps it was in their best interest to ship them off to an orphanage upon birth and ask that they be returned when they turned 25, assuming Angelina Jolie didn't adopt them first. Add "proper nutrition" to my growing list of failures as a mother, which currently includes not potty trained, still drinking milk from a bottle, general menace to society.

But all of this isn't really my fault, right? RIGHT? It's clearly theirs. I've long suspected my children have devised a sinister plan to slowly drive me insane. So slowly that I wouldn't really be sure when in fact my mind reached the brink of a breakdown at which point some very big men in very white jackets would show up at my house and take me to an undisclosed location where my brain would be subjected to severe electrical jolts. Which might actually feel like a vacation right now. I would think of it as an all-inclusive Sandals-like resort for the mentally ill. With the added bonus of being paid for by insurance.

My girls' food issues about have me near that point. Men in white / travel agents? You know where to find me. My children will only eat a subset of foods which require a diabolical amount of work on my part.

--Raisin bread with the raisins picked out. This went on for months until I finally scoured The Jewel bread aisle wherein I found a cinnamon loaf that looks and tastes remarkably like raisin bread sans raisins. Lulu looked at it and had the balls to indignantly demand, "Where are all my raisins?!" "YOU HATE RAISINS IN YOUR RAISIN BREAD AND MAKE MOMMY PICK THEM OUT LIKE A DERANGED PSYCHOPATH!" I concede that perhaps I uttered this a decibel too loudly.

--Blueberries muffins minus the blueberries. Fellow coffee shop patrons don't seem to appreciate my decimating baked goods in their presence.

--Chocolate chips cookies without the chocolate chips. Do you see a pattern?

--And perhaps most problematic, bagels with the crust cut off. Have you ever tried to explain to a pre-schooler that bagels are in fact SURROUNDED BY CRUST?

They won't try any new foods unless it contains 99 percent sugar. The other 1 percent should be some kind of artificial coloring. While other mothers lament their kids will only eat mac-n-cheese and chicken fingers, I would throw an elaborate party to celebrate this breakthrough and gladly serve it every night. And I wouldn't get all Jessica Seinfeld-y about it and sneak in pureed cauliflower and such.

So today Moxley nonchalantly looked at me while I attempted to gut a bagel, and says "Will you put jelly on top please?" My child, who won't eat foods "touching" other foods, requested a condiment, if in fact jelly is a condiment. No matter what food group, the kid asked for jelly! Thank you Caillou, the slightly slow and more-than-slightly annoying Canadian kid who loves jelly sandwiches! See the evidence of some nibbling:

Strangely, while they won't try delicious treats like hamburgers, bacon or chocolate, these kids love squash. Love it like I love Daniel Craig. Except they get to lick the object of their affection. Even grosser (them, not me), they like to eat the cubes I freeze. A SQUASH POPSICLE. I'll wait while you regurgitate. This is what a gnawed cube squash popsicle looks like. And yes, there sits a side dish of banana split lollipops. Oh, please, like you don't consider that a serving of fruit...



I'm already worried about packing their lunches for kindergarten in 2013. I don't think I can send squash popsicles.  Of course I can just send bags of Dum Dum lollipops and explain my theory that if the flavor has a fruit in the title (banana split, strawberry shortcake, coconut, tangerine...), it counts as a serving of fruit. Then see how many days it takes DCF to pay a visit.

PS -- Lest you be worried about my children's well-being, perhaps I should mention my kids also eat apples, carrots, sweet potatoes, peas, green beans and McDonald's french fries, a grossly under-appreciated member of the vegetable community.

Mission Aborted. As Usual

"Halloween is over when I say it is..."

I skipped happily into my girls room the other morning, much like I did on the day of their first hair cut with presents in tow and a chirpy voice one should only hear from that crazy bitch on Sprout who wears pigtails and a handkerchief around her neck.  It was potty training day and these two kids were gonna poop in the potty whether they liked it or not. As was the case, not.

I presented them with Hello Kitty baskets full of brightly colored undies and promised them all kinds of big-time presents if they cooperated.  Lulu seems intrigued and began pawing through the undies deciding which ones to put on (a pair that said "Wednesday" even though it was Saturday but I was going to pick my battles that morning). When Moxley realized what was going on she ducked under the covers screaming "NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET!" and hurled the basket of undergarments in the general direction of my head.

That set Lulu off and a second basket hit me in the shoulder and she too hid for cover. I stood in the middle of their room with Baby Gap underwear strewn about with no clue how to proceed. So I did what I've always done (getting them off the bottle, getting them to give up pacis, getting them to accept that other humans live on our planet) and immediately gave up. Mission aborted.

Lulu, who often serves as the official spokesperson on issues of grave concern, said they "were not ready yet." I asked when she thought they might be ready and after giving it some thought she answered, "Seven weeks and two days." I'm not sure how she came up with that interesting timetable, but it won't allow me to meet my self-imposed deadline of their third birthday, which is in exactly 5 days.

My revised goal is to have them potty-trained by next August when they start pre-school. The tactic then will be shame. "Nobody likes kids that crap their pants" perhaps I'll say as I hold my nose in disgust. But this goes to a larger problem with my parenting style: avoidance. I avoid the hard things, apparently, which makes our life day-to-day very pleasant and a barrel of laughs but perhaps I'm not preparing them to deal with the real world. They don't seem at all ready or willing to move on to next stages, and I just enable it.

Like they are still wearing their Halloween costumes every day and it's mid-November. I figure maybe by March they'll start wearing the little Christmas tree t-shirts I bought them at Target.

Plus, I see a glimpse into my future, and it's not very pleasant. They will be 35 sitting ass on my couch and when I inquire why they don't have a job they'll scream, "NOT YET NOT YET NOT YET!" and instead of kicking them out so I can fulfill my dream of dying in peace at The Villages, America's Friendliest Home Town, I will be 74 years old and supporting two no-good daughters who use up my entire Social Security check on Depends because they STILL crap their pants.

Happiest Place on Earth Observations

"Really, I would pretend to have fun if I knew my parents mortgaged the house to be here."

Can we agree that whomever deemed Disney World "the happiest place on Earth" never rode the monorail home filled with a gazillion screaming toddlers after a long day? Did you know that all Disney employees are called "cast members?" And that if you stay at a Disney resort every verbal exchange ends with "Have a magical day!" It's sort of tolerable the first 20 times and then you want to give the "cast member" a magical punch while smiling "Have a magical migraine!"

Here are a few tidbits from our trip. Let's start with the most horrendous part so the post gets more pleasant as we go:

--There is an abomination of an event called "The Princess Lunch." Perhaps you've heard of it? It's where little girls are first presented with the notion that a white horse with a rich, handsome prince will someday save them and take them to a castle where they will wear bejeweled crowns and learn to curtsy. And eat very bad food. Let me preface this by saying I'm not a "foodie." It is my wish to gather every person who defines themselves as a "foodie" into one room and make them eat Subway sandwiches and bags of pork rinds until they puke. My ideal meal would be a Bennigan's deep-fried Monte Cristo sandwich paired with The Bloomin' Onion from Outback Steakhouse. (Seriously, those two franchises should team up, merge or acquire each other in what would be the best chain restaurant coup since Dunkin' Donuts combined with Baskin Robbins.) I have never sent a meal back at a restaurant. I don't recall ever really complaining about bad food. I think whoever came up with the two cheeseburger meal deal at McDonalds should be given one of Obama's Czar positions. Maybe Czar of Pure Genius or similar. Get the picture? So when I was presented with the "baked chicken with risotto accompaniment" at the Princess Lunch (and I use the term "lunch" loosely) I thought, "How bad can it be?" despite the vaguely sock-like odor emanating from the plate. I dug in because being around royalty renders me ravished, and almost broke a tooth on the un-cooked rice in the risotto dish. Plus, my children, who swore they wanted to meet a bunch of princesses, cowered and whimpered and refused to get their photo taken. Granted, these princess bitches were scary, but still. Each adult entree was $35, $21 for kids and since my kids don't eat normal food, theirs sat untouched as well. But the special Tinker Bell punch was only $6.50 a pop and came with some Tinkerbell thingie that lit up. Well worth sitting at a depressing round table as my children hid under the table while Cinderella tried to lure them out. My sister, whose 7-year-old appreciated the princesses more than my 3-year-olds, told me to move some food around on my plate so the waitress didn't feel bad. Something tells me if you're serving food to a bunch of "little princesses" dressed in majestic garb you have bigger problems than how much one cranky-assed mother ate. (Note: Our kids did not wear princess clothes to this lunch, the photo above is from Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party wherein Lulu was a princess. I feel the need to make this known for reasons still unclear to me.)

--Oh no. I'm not done with the princess lunch yet. Not only were most kids dressed as their favorite princess with crowns, hair glitter and even makeup (my favorite was the toddler dressed as that mermaid princess with her belly bared and fins so tight she could barely waddle around), there was a couple there WITHOUT KIDS snapping pictures of the princesses like they were the paparazzi at Chateau Marmont. I so wanted to go tap them on the shoulder and whisper, "Pssst. They're not real princesses. Plus, you're weird.")

--I've never been a cost/benefit kind of gal. But the Dumbo ride made me think a bit more mathematically. Does it make any sense to wait for 63 minutes in line with two screaming toddlers for a ride that lasts exactly 90 seconds? Don't make me whip out a calculator but the percentage of pain versus pleasure doesn't work for me.

--Is it me or is there something disconcerting about grown men wearing Mickey Mouse sweatshirts?

--Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween Party is pretty much as billed: not scary, except of course for the price (about $60 pp). Lulu dressed up as a fairy princess, Moxley was a monster from Yo Gabba Gabba whose name currently escapes me and I went as a 40-something exhausted mother of twins. My costume was the most authentic and surely would have earned me first prize had there been a contest.

--We planned to, at the end of the week, allow the girls to each pick out one souvenir, or parting gift so to speak. Ah, but that clever Walt Disney had another plan in mind. See, Walt cleverly places gift shops in locales one cannot avoid. Going on Winnie the Pooh's Honey Pot ride? Well, great! Because you have to go through the Winnie the Pooh gift shop to get out. So here was gift number one (times 2 of course) and yes, Her Royal Highness was exhausted on the monorail home after the "Spook-tacular" fireworks show.

At Epcot, they threw a very public tantrum which I decided to placate with an undeserved present to reward bad behavior when they demanded these fashion-forward hats. They came with a bonus pair of sunglasses which broke several hours after purchase. If you've ever seen an uglier piece of head gear, please send photos:

Oh, and conveniently located near the only place we could get food at our hotel were these pajamas, for the low low price of $24.95 each. The enthusiasm for their new evening attire has long since waned:

Of course, the most fun they had was when doing free things, like burying each other's torsos in sand:

Despite the price (geez, I'm becoming one of those grumpy old cheap people who stock up on canned goods when they're on sale), we had a great time as evidenced by the following exchange the day after we arrived home:

Moxley: Why do we live in Chicago?

Me: Because daddy's job is here. You don't want to live in Chicago?

Lulu: No!

Me: Where do you want to live?

Moxley: I want to live on vacation.

You and me both, sister.

Snippets

People, I awoke this morning as I would imagine a soldier might when he knows he'll be engaging in life-threatening, hand-to-hand combat. Except instead of doing push-ups and perhaps a few shots of tequila, I put on the most over-the-top, peppy, faux elation persona and burst into their room first thing singing like a lunatic what a SPECIAL SPECIAL SPECIAL day we were about to have! Here are your new SPECIAL Hello Kitty t-shirts made especially for first haircuts! Have whatever you want for breakfast! Halloween cookies? Excellent choice! What do you want for lunch? French fries and ice cream at McDonalds? Yes, ma'am would you like another!

All the while I kept reminding them there was a SPECIAL SPECIAL SPECIAL present awaiting them after they successfully got their hair cut. Really, it's best I don't star on a reality show like those other freaky moms of multiples -- I'd be committed to the nearest psychiatric facility or at the very least mocked to high heaven for the way I carried on today. At least nobody witnessed the idiocy except for a couple of 3-year-olds who kept looking at me all day like, "Calm the f@#$ down lady." And all the gifts and my manic antics (if you saw me today you might have suspected we won PowerBall) was all for nothing, given nobody was really protesting. The only voiced resistance to the proposed haircut was when Moxley said "Lulu has to go first." Conveniently, Lulu said she wanted to be first. I kept waiting for the terror to set in. The howls. The bat-shit crazy reaction that used to happen when strangers came too close. Nothing. I almost wanted to scream: "You bitches are getting YOUR HAIRCUT TODAY! BY A STRANGER! WITH SCISSORS! DON'T YOU GET IT!!!???"

But we calmly walked into Snippets and they were presented with lollipops and by God, my twins got their first hair cut and everyone, including the stylist, is alive. (It would have been so much of a better story if they went berserk and the stylist stormed out hysterically mid-cut and her body was later found in the Chicago River with a suicide note that simply said "TWINS!")

The outcome: New haircut and new sparkly shoes as promised.

On the down side, who knew two children's haircuts could be so expensive:

Actual haircuts including overtipping because I was so very joyful: $51

Hello Kitty t-shirts from Old Navy: $24

McDonalds lunch (I had a McFlurry and not one of those pansy-assed snack sizes either): $9.33

Cook and bake roll of sugar cookies plus two tubes of orange decorating frosting: $10.63

Lelli Kelli sneakers plus shipping: $147.94

Not having kids that have Heath Ledger hair: Priceless but slightly sad given Halloween is in 18 days and The Joker would have been funny

Total: $240.90

I'm pretty sure even JLo doesn't pay this much for a hair cut.

The Pumpkin Patch

Can someone please explain to me what is not fun about a pumpkin patch for a three-year-old? You pick pumpkins, go on hayrides and pet ponies. If that's not a honkin' good time for a toddler, then I need a briefer on what is. Plus this place has a big huge jumpy thing, a giraffe (I doubt South Barrington, Ill. is the ideal habitat for a giraffe, but then again I'm not a zoologist) and tons of awesome Halloween decorations. Good old-fashioned fall fun! Plus, it was a beautiful weekend here.

And my kids bitched and whined and moaned. All. Weekend. Long. I warned them: "It's going to be freezing out soon and we'll be locked in the house like that movie where Jack Nicholson goes bonkers and you'll be so OUT OF YOUR MIND nuts you'll start howling 'Red Rum' over and over! Now it's 80 degrees in Chicago in October! Let's have fun or at least pretend like we are!"

They were not the least bit appreciative of our planning what we thought would be the perfect outing. Okay, they're three. But the problem is that by the time they do acknowledge all of the sacrifices their parents made for them -- if they're like me -- they'll be about 40. Which will make me 79 and most likely well into advanced dementia. Which means I will never get the full satisfaction of hearing them articulate their unbridled appreciation for my taking them to pumpkin patches at ungodly early hours to beat the crowds and having to eat $16 worth of tickets for a large inflatable pillow they decided last minute they didn't want to jump on and for the pony ride they didn't want to take for reasons still unclear to me.

And here is my real concern about this less-than-satisfactory outcome at the pumpkin patch: we are heading to Disney World on Saturday for a week. And if these two don't man up and love the freakin' crap out of that Mouse, I'm going to be one unhappy bitch at the happiest place on Earth. The good news is they are not yet three, so they're free. The bad news is my husband and I are not free. And by "not free" I mean we have to pay something like $60 each to go to Mickey Mouse's Not- So-Scary Halloween Party and something like $70 each to break bread with some fake princesses.

My best memory of Disney is the Haunted Mansion. I'm assuming that would be frightening for a couple of 3-year-olds. But maybe it can be used as a good scare tactic. Drag them on that ride the minute we arrive and tell them that's where they'll be staying all week at the first sign of a grumble. Wow, you know what? I was originally just kidding, but seeing it in writing makes it seem like a viable option. If you've used that approach yourself, please post a comment and let me know if it worked and if you had to enroll them in therapy sooner than originally planned.

Anyway, I've been doing an absurd amount of research on preschool-appropriate Disney activities, and received some very distressing information after we got our tickets: It's a Small World AND The Teacups are "closed for refurbishment" during our stay. I think we should get a discount for that. That's like going to Outback Steakhouse and after ordering drinks being told they are out of the Bloomin' Onion. Kind of important information to know up front.

Regardless, I will report back after the trip. I fear the report may start something like this: "Can someone please explain to me what is not fun about riding on a flying baby elephant named Dumbo for a three-year-old?"

PS -- I am aware their hair looks crazy. I am dragging them to Snippets this week and bribing them with the sparkly Lelli Kelli sneakers they keep pointing out and plan to tell them the princesses won't associate with girls who look like rag-a-muffins so we must get our hair cut before Disney trip if we want to hold court with royalty. Bribing and lying: my top two parenting tools.

PPS -- What are the chances they get the shoes but no haircut? Waffling / not following through on threats: my third top parenting tool.

PPPS -- Wendi Aarons, one of the funniest women alive, almost has me convinced to paint their faces like Heath Ledger as The Joker to make Mickey Mouse's Not-So-Scary Halloween party so frightening that everybody flees The Magic Kingdom and we'll have the place to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, that would be worth the $120. I might have to forgo our Snippets appointment...

The Holy Grail: Chicago Park District Gymnastics

Because my kids have such intense separation anxiety, I decided we'd wait for pre-school until next fall, and they'll still have a full two years of "socialization" before kindergarten. Also, if we started now they would probably get kicked out and we'd lose a year's worth of tuition. And I'm cheap like that. I mean, as of late I make banana muffins so I don't waste a few pieces of overly ripe fruit. WHO HAVE I BECOME?

So, I made a pact with myself that in this interim year I'd get them acclimated to structured activities, not just "open play" scenarios, so when they do go to preschool next year and are told to sit down or similar, they don't laugh in the teacher's face and throw a juice cup at her head and demand a lollipop or something. (Which is what they do to me, but all kids do that to their mothers, right? RIGHT??!!)

In keeping my pact, I signed them up for a gymnastics class through the Chicago Park District. Lest you think that sounds relatively simple -- signing one's children up for a class through the Chicago Park District -- let me assure you it's not. It entails sitting poised at your computer on registration day at 8:45 am logged into the CPD web site gazing at a timer counting down until 9:00 am when about 4 trillion mothers are vying for a minuscule number of spots for various relatively inexpensive activities to keep their children busy all winter. Some moms actually get babysitters that morning specifically so they won't be distracted with unimportant aspects of their child's well-being like feeding them -- if you wait even one second too long, you're screwed. The stress involved is sort of like if you are about to be electrocuted for a murder you didn't commit and the executioner is mindlessly counting down "10, 9, 8..." and you know BIG BIG things are going down in 7 seconds. Because being stuck inside with your children all winter in Chicago IS LIKE A DEATH SENTENCE. In fact, being electrocuted is probably more kind. Actually, the Park District should offer volunteers to come to your home and execute those moms who don't get their toddlers into one of the pre-school programs. It's the least they can do.

So anyway, there I was, beads of sweat rolling down my forehead, fingers ready on the keyboards to get the girls into a 45-minute gymnastics class and then the clock hit 0 and I spun into action quicker than Lindsay Lohan did a line of coke after being sprung from the clink. I've never typed the names of my kids so fast in my life, it was like I was vying for a $1 million a year slot in the typing pool. I entered Lulu in a frenzy, hit order and boom! We're in! I silently congratulated myself on being the kind of mother who gets important things accomplished. I type in Moxley and a message pops up -- the worst message a mother can receive within Chicago's city limits -- telling me the class is full. I start to feel light-headed and nauseous like I might possibly puke. Then clarity kicks in and I think: "These are reasonable people, they will let Moxley in the class since her IDENTICAL TWIN got in, right?" Riiiiggggghhhhhttttt.

August 16, 9:15 am: Approximately 10 minutes after receiving the news that the class was full, I high-tail it to the place this gymnastics class is going to go down and speak to a boy of about 12 behind the counter. I explain my predicament. I don't use words like "predicament" because I'm not sure 7th graders have had that vocabulary word yet. He listens. He seems sympathetic. He lets me talk for a good 10 minutes without saying a word. I stop talking. He stares. After an awkward silence I say, "Well, can I sign the other twin up for the class?" And he says, "What twin?" and I say, "My twin who didn't get into the class" and he says "What class?" and now I'm slightly agitated and yell "THE GYMNASTICS CLASS!" He then tells me he doesn't have the authority to sign students up for classes that are full and that the person who does is at lunch. I want to ask who goes to lunch at 9:25 am but I decide to sit on the bench quietly until this person with authority returns from her unconventional lunch hour. Or I should say "lunch hours" because I sat there for nearly two hours and she never came back. I leave to go grocery shopping.

August 16, 2:00 pm: Surely one doesn't lunch from 9:25 am to 2:00 pm, right? I mean, even government workers, right? That would be some lunch! The kid sees me coming and looks slightly scared. This gives me immense pleasure. "Remember me?" I ask. "Yup" he says. "Is she back?" I ask. "Nope," he says. "She likes lunch, huh?" "Yup." My sitter is leaving soon so I call it a day, and vow that WE WILL GET IN THAT CLASS. I implement that technique from The Secret wherein I believe my wish has already happened and picture my two girls, vaulting and cartwheeling and doing triple axles with twists at the end of their balance beam routines.

August 16, 2:30 pm: I call the office and get the voice mail of the lunch-loving lady. I leave a very pleasant message detailing my problem and ask for a call back. I am impressed with my ability to erase all signs of sarcasm when I say I hope she had a nice lunch.

August 20: Having not received a call back, I once again go to the office. There is another kid, albeit not the same kid, manning the desk. This one actually has an IQ that might be at or above the 25th percentile range. This pleases me. He gets out a list. He shakes his head solemnly. He writes my name down but tells me signing people into over-booked classes "is above his pay grade." No, the woman whose pay grade it's not above is not available. I'm beginning to think she's like the Wizard of Oz. I leave a note for her. A very pleasant note with my phone number and a smiley face. I feel a sense of resolve. I am getting Moxley into this class or I will die trying. If the latter, their father can explain their mother was a very brave woman of conviction who died for a noble cause. The cause of trying to get Moxley into a 45-minute gymnastic class for 18-month to 3-year-olds sponsored by the Chicago Park District. And if that's not worth dying for, really what is?

August 27: I have received no phone call. No returned messages. But I am not irritated. I am empowered. I saunter into the office and smile sweetly at the lady behind the counter. This one is old and I sense she is not Oz. I sense she is an underpaid, disgruntled, hardened grandmother who wishes she was retired but can't because her no-good ex-husband took off to Vegas with their retirement savings and a hooker. I spend 7 minutes (I timed it) explaining my desperate circumstances and reference "the list" on which I saw the young gentleman write down my name. Grandma is unaware such a list exists. Did I get the guy's name who wrote it down? I did not. She frowns at me with a look that calls me a liar. I don't take it personally -- poor woman is used to liars. Her husband ran off with a prostitute after all. I ask if the Grand Poobah of the Park District with unlimited powers is by chance in. She is not and I'm beginning to think I want this woman's job as I could get paid full time and still be a stay-at-home mom to my two kids. And get them into any Park District program I please. I'm told to check back next week when people may have canceled their registration thereby opening spots. Grandma knows as well as I do that NOBODY gets into a CPD class and cancels. Nobody. I don't let her know I'm onto her scam and leave peacefully. "I'll be back" I whisper sinisterly.

August 31: I leave another voicemail. I sound rather casual and sing-songy like this is all no big deal and I look forward to getting Moxley in the class with her sister so she's not forced to sit on the sidelines like a fourth-string reject on a football team. I hang up, satisfied with my non-confrontational tone. I am going to kill Oz with kindness. Literally, I hope.

September 3: I am starting to channel Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction. "I will NOT BE IGNORED, PARK DISTRICT!" I do some breathing exercises wherein I try to picture butterflies but instead picture bunnies boiling on the burners of this thus-far faceless person. Perhaps she doesn't even exist, I begin to think. Weirder things have happened in Chicago. Dead people routinely vote here, so it'd be no big deal if someone was scamming an extra paycheck from a phantom government worker who was allegedly in charge of registration for the city-sponsored pre-school sports program. Maybe this is bigger than my gymnastics dilemma. Maybe I am destined to expose a giant corruption scandal that will bring down city government as we Chicagoans know it! At this point, we are on our way out of town for Labor Day Weekend and I have no time to go to the office. I leave a very loving message noting in a very non-accusatory manner that this is about the millionth time I called and won't someone please do me the courtesy of a return call? Please and thank you!

September 10: It dawns on me I actually might not get Moxley into this class. It dawns on me that I might be a failure as a mother. It dawns on me that I have become a deranged lunatic over a 45-minute, once-a-week class that given the age group will consist of somersault instruction. I have a defeated aura about me as I shuffle into the park office. There are about 14 people in front of me with varying issues (none as urgent as mine!) and then I notice an unfamiliar face behind the desk. Could it be? I feel like Dorothy when she finally laid eyes on the Wizard of Oz: unimpressed and duped. But I also feel hopeful. At least a decision maker is in my midst! I wait about 55 minutes and am sort of nervous, like I'm about to meet a rock star. Albeit an aging rock star wearing a pink hair scrunchy and nylon gym shorts. I introduce myself. No glimmer of recognition at the name. I wonder if perhaps she routinely gets 500 voicemails from the same mom every registration session so it's no big deal or if she simply deletes her voicemails without listening to them because she's too busy lunching during breakfast time to bother. I explain my situation. She gets out "the list." I see my name. She tells me several names are ahead of mine so there's nothing she can do. I admit defeat. I ask for a refund for Lulu and figure we'll join something more expensive like The Little Gym instead. No big whoop. And then she says: "You needed to ask for a refund two weeks before the start of the class." I feel a vein in my head explode and wonder if I'm going to die of an aneurysm right there in the Chicago Park District Office. I joked about dying to get my 3-year-old in gymnastics but I'm REALLY GOING TO DIE TRYING TO GET MY 3-YEAR-OLD IN GYMNASTICS. I sort of lose my mind and start spouting an unintelligible crazy rant I barely recall about how do I tell one twin she can't participate while the other twin is doing backflips and shit and how can they not give me a refund when I've been trying FOR WEEKS to get this resolved and who the hell eats lunch in the 9:00 morning hour anyway?!!!" She shows no emotion. She looks at me and says calmly, "We may be able to get you into the 11:30 am class instead of the 10:30 class. Would that work?" "Yes! Yes! For the love of God, yes!" I felt a flood of emotion one should only feel in therapy. Then she says: "I have to go over the list again, I can't promise anything." SHE SAYS SHE'LL CALL ME.

September 17: I have not received the promised phone call. I leave her a voicemail. I sound like a wounded, yelping dog on its deathbed. I think this woman could work magic at Gitmo. She is a master manipulator. I am ready to confess to anything to get into this class, including but not limited to that I, not Drew Peterson, murdered everyone he's ever been married to. I go to the office, she's not there. I leave her a hand-written note on scratch paper with a bitten, inch-long pencil provided to me by the kid -- the slightly more intelligent one -- working behind the counter. I briefly look at the note and realize it looks like it's written by a psychopath. Which it was. I fold it, press it into his palm and beg:"Give it to her, won't you?"

September 20: This class, in which only one of my twins is registered, starts in 48 hours. My feelings toward this woman have become so complex I wonder if we knew each other in a past life. I think about her more than I've ever thought before about someone I barely knew. (Except Daniel Craig, I guess that goes without saying.) I lay awake wondering why she wants to deny my children access to toddler gymnastics and thereby possibly someday the Olympics, why she hates me so much and if she is just a figment of my imagination, which would at least explain why she won't call me back. I get in my car. I slump in the drivers seat for way too long, wondering if this woman sits around thinking of ways to make me miserable while she eats lunch during breakfast-time and asking myself if she eats lunch at breakfast, when does she eat breakfast? After much internal debate I decide she must eat breakfast for dinner. I drag my tormented soul into the office. I wonder if I should have gotten a $100 bill out of the bank to bribe her. All city employees in Chicago take bribes -- why didn't I think of that before? Our eyes meet. I see a flicker of recognition in her eyes. Yet I have to explain AGAIN why I'm there and she replies "There is no movement" on the waiting lists for any of the pre-school gymnastics classes and reiterates that they can't refund the registration fee for the twin who did get in the class. I sigh, I am done. I give up. Keep my $50 City of Chicago! I no longer wish to serve as a pawn in your very twisted game! I turn to go and hear her voice call out: "Can you do the 9:30 class instead?" I whip back around. She wants to get my hopes up so she can tear me down, right? She continues: "I can switch Lulu into the 9:30 and sign up Moxley right now." I grab for my credit card before she changes her mind. I hear the machine accept payment and am handed a receipt. Lulu and Moxley are official students in 9:30 Chicago Park District Gymnastics! Victory! VIICCCCTTTTOOORRRRYYYY! I think of Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Russell Crowe in Gladiator. Daniel Craig in Casino Royale, not because he survived an epic battle but because I always think of him and that day was no different. I walk amongst heroes. We have faced tough battles and come out winners. I am one with greatness.

September 22: It is our first day of gymnastics class. I practically scream with glee when I go to get them in the morning: "WE HAVE GYMNASTICS TODAY!!!! ISN'T THAT EXCITTTTIIINNNNGGGG?" They are not quite as enthusiastic as I am. All morning I say things like, "We'll do cartwheels and balance beam and have soooo muucccchhhh fun!!!!" I wonder if someone slipped an Adderall in my coffee. We arrive early and head toward the gym. I pass other moms in the lobby and want to shout, "You bitches have no idea what I went through to be here!!!" There are 2 floor mats, one small bouncy thing, one pair of rings, one colorful wedge apparatus and two balance beams. The girls head for the rings and begin playing. Okay, this is fun. I take several pictures. It's now 9:25 and we're walking on the low beam. At about 9:28, the entire toddler population of Chicago storms the gym, sort of like a reenactment of Spain's Running with the Bulls but far more dangerous. The ratio of kids to equipment is approximately 4 million to 1. We wait in long lines to roll down the wedge apparatus which has several holes with foam sticking out. An understandably frustrated child charges the rings knocking into Lulu. It's 9:45 and the moms start wondering where the teacher is. One mom takes charge and goes to the desk. Oz appears wearing her trademark gym shorts but really mixing it up with a purple striped scrunchy and informs us THERE IS NO TEACHER. "This is a caregiver-led gymnastics experience," she snorts condescendingly.

Doesn't the word "class" imply it is in fact TAUGHT by a TEACHER? To summarize a very convoluted and long-winded post, I LOST SLEEP and more importantly MY MIND over getting my kids into a "caregiver-led gymnastics experience" during which after 20 minutes my children informed me they "think it smells poopy in here" and "never want to come back." Mommy doesn't want to come back either, I told them.

PS -- Anyone ever do Little Gym? We have a free trial class on Tuesday. Five minutes after I registered for it online, a very nice woman called asking if I have any questions, what to expect during class and other welcoming niceties. BITE ME CHICAGO PARK DISTRICT.

PPS -- Just in case you think I'm exaggerating, which I'm prone to do, the Chicago Tribune reported that some CPD class spots fill up within "less than half a second" online.