Princess and the Arachnid

There’s a phrase they use in theater that I’ve always found fascinating – “playing against type.” It’s when an actor, who is known for their roles in one kind of part, plays the opposite. Like when Robin Williams dropped the wackiness and played a doctor in Awakenings.

I’m trying to keep this phrase in mind now that Mireya has her first speaking part in the school play.

First, let me say, that anyone who decides to have a play with sixty first graders deserves some sort of medal of honor - after they return from a long trip to the Bahamas. I’m still amazed that they get that many children through the lunch line in school, let alone through stage direction in the auditorium.

But I was shocked when Mireya came home with her role. She had been completely confident that she’d have a speaking part, due largely to the fact that she can read.

So I was anticipating something interesting, but not too demanding.

Mireya is the spider.

My shock had nothing to do with the role. In fact, the role of the spider isn’t a bad role at all. From what I gleaned, her character undergoes a transformation from bad to good. And many great actresses excel as villains. Plus she is going to have the coolest costume ever, thanks to Grammy and a few black socks.

No, it was the enormous irony of the role. Mireya is terrified of spiders.

Run-screaming-from-the-room-from-even-microscopic-spiders terrified.

Yet now she’s going to be a GIGANTIC spider (as spiders go).

“Wow. You’re going to be the spider?”

“Yes.” She looked at the script a bit skeptically, as if it might grow legs right in front of her.

“That’s really great! You think this will help you not be afraid of spiders anymore? I mean, you’ll kind of have to get in touch with your… inner spider.”

She looked at me as if I’d lapsed into Swahili. “Um, no, mommy.”

“Oh. Okay.”

A few days later following her costume fitting, she made it clear she’d gotten more excited about her part.

“You know what is so cool about my part in the play?” she said.

“What?”

“I have more arms than anybody!”

Which begs the question: do you tell a 1st grade spider to break one leg before the big night, or two?

(Mireya after her successful debute)

Fish out of water

(that's me, when I was waaaay smarter. At least as smart as a goldfish.)

Just recently two people I have known for a long time as young and footloose childless people have become expectant parents. And they've got that look. That deer in the headlights combined with intoxicated over-the-top happiness look.

I want to help them, I really do. Because I remember vividly how completely clueless I was when I was pregnant the first time. And the worst part about it – I had no idea I was clueless.

Outwardly I pretended to be aware that this was a whole new adventure I knew nothing about. But inwardly I was sure I knew what was what. I'd listened carefully to all the advice and act as if I was taking notes. I might even have written a few things down, like "carry a bottle of antibacterial soap at all times" (still the best single bit of advice I received).

But inside I just knew I had it all figured out.

Right. It's like the goldfish in its bowl thinking, "Man, if I could just get out of this bowl, you wouldn't believe the places I'd go. I'd rule the world!"

That goldfish thinks we're all swimming out here.

I knew, for example, I'd never panic over a mild fever. In reality, we went to the emergency room when I was pretty sure Sierra's cough sounded just like a barking seal.

I knew, once again, I'd never stick a lollipop in my kid's mouth just to have some peace and quiet on a long drive. In reality, there's a box of them in my car.

I knew I'd never park my child in front of the television. In reality I would never have gotten through a shower for the first five years if it weren't for the combined power of Dora the Explorer and Blues Clues.

And there was absolutely no way my children would have anything but a balanced breakfast. In reality, Sweeties Donuts are a regular feature in our 'we're running late, let's eat kolaches' dietary plan.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to the days in the fishbowl when I was so much smarter than I am now. I knew everything and there was a certain comfort in that skewed reality.

But once you jump out of the bowl, there's no going back.

Out here, mommies and daddies just have to flop our way through as best we can.

 Boxes of Christmas

(this is a coffee filter angel created by mixed media artist, Mireya)


They say Christmas doesn’t come in a package.

That’s because they’ve never been in our attic.

In our attic is a really large amount of Christmas. Not all of it, and definitely not the most important part, but let me tell you, we get pretty close.

By Sunday we had recovered enough from the turkey haze to bring out 2 of the 523 boxes of Christmas from the attic.  One was the after-Christmas-sale unassembled  (sorry Daddy) reindeer and the box containing, among other things, the all important advent calendar.

Almost immediately the negotiations started.

“I’ll take this day, then you can have the next, then it’ll be my turn,” said Sierra, moving the giant wooden snowflake among the mittens.

Mireya, alert to being taken for a ride by her older sister, counted through and noticed she might not be the snowflake holder on Christmas Eve. “How about I take this day and you take that day…”

Full of Christmas spirit (and a realization that sisters get considerably smarter when they hit 6), Sierra suggested they BOTH move the snowflake on Christmas Eve, regardless of “turn.”

Further down in the box were the mismatched Christmas villages. Buildings right out of It’s a Wonderful Life mixed in with houses from some long abandoned train set. Little dogs were placed close to their fire hydrant and a giant snowman strolled the street, looking for iced latte. Santa was perched on top of a tiny house like one of those huge inflatable pink gorillas they use at car lots.

By the end, the top of our piano was transformed into a sort of Gulliver’s Travels meets A Christmas Carole with a little Vegas style lighting.

Only one hand painted wreath was in the box, which means the rest of the real Christmas treasures are somewhere in the other 521 boxes. The snow scene made of salt on black paper, the Santa with the cotton ball beard, and the reindeer with antlers made of handprints and a bright red pom pom nose—they are somewhere in there, waiting to make time turn on its head and bring eleven years of Christmases back to life.

Yes, a good bit of our Christmas is in those boxes. And I look forward to hauling out every last bit.