By Shannon Magsam, Ladybug’s mother

Yesterday afternoon I ran out the front door on my way to a holiday event — barefoot. My black high heels were still in the car from the last work thing I’d attended. I’d slipped them off in the car in favor of a cushy pair.

When I stuck my right foot into the shoe I could feel something weird near my big toe. Upon further examination, I saw that it was a petrified French fry. I looked around my car and saw exactly how a greasy, hardened French fry could end up in my shoe. You see, it’s a little harried around here right now and we’re scarfing down way too many take-out meals. When you pull up to a drive-through and have to throw away three used cups to make room for the next one, you’re eating out way too freaking much. At least I know I’m not alone. Fast-food restaurants never used to have trash cans near the drive-through window, but now they all do. Because people are practically living out of their cars!

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, I’m busy. I know, I know, who isn’t, right? We busy ourselves to death. Right now I’m really paying for it with the kid. She has been a bit, er, argumentative lately. Yes, I know she’s at an age where she’s learning waaaay too many smarty pants phrases at school (”Uh, yeah, mom, I get it”), but she’s really over the top lately. The other night as we drove home from a fun birthday party she got mad because I said no when she asked to go to Red Robin for dinner. I wanted to scream at her about being ungrateful, how she just got finished with a birthday party, for gosh sakes, not to mention all the other fun things we’d done over the weekend, but I resisted the urge and gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

When she started kicking the back of the seat in a tantrum reminiscent of her 2-year-old self, I broke. Through clenched teeth, I hissed: “If you say another word about Red Robin or say another rude thing to me, or kick the seat, or yell, or whine (you gotta be specific, what with all the loopholes this kind of ultimatum can have) you will go straight to time out when we get home and stay there for a very, very, very long time.” And then I added, because Lord knows we sometimes fail to follow through, “And I mean it!”

Within seconds she was making sounds which would definitely not qualify her for a loophole. I didn’t say a word. When I stopped the car at home, I got out to escort her to her bedroom. To prevent that, she transformed into a living boulder and clung to her booster seat. It took all my strength (she’s 50-something pounds and I’m really short) but I hauled her screaming Linda B Blair self out of the car and into her room. My blood pressure was so high I thought I might have a stroke any minute. She stayed in her room (after the half-drag, half-carry it took to get her there) and I took deep breaths in the kitchen. When my husband made a move to go into the room, I halted him with a scathing look that said, “I started this, I’ll finish it.”

At one point, she yelled out, “You don’t care one thing about me, mother! Not one teeny tiny bit!” I recall the transition from using the words mom and mama to MOTHER when I was a teenager.
In the end I asked my husband to go in to talk to her. After he chatted with her for a long time she came out, contrite, to apologize. I still felt quite disgruntled, but said “Of course” when she asked if I would forgive her. Good example and all that.

Understatement of the year: Sometimes this mothering thing is just … hard.

Hi, dearhearts. No real post here today. Gwen and I are tending a booth at Candy Candy Lane at the Clarion Hotel in Bentonville from noon to 8 p.m. Come by and say hello! I’ll be the one with the bad haircut. Can somebody please tell me why, when my normal hairdresser was unexpectedly out when I arrived for my appointment last week, I said yes to letting a different person cut my hair? And can you also tell me why, when the haircut was finished and I really wasn’t satisfied, I gave said hairdresser a better tip than I give my regular one? These are mysteries, truly.

So, anyway, come by Candy Cane Lane if you can and sign up for a Bath Junkie gift basket or get some free candy-cane scented Bath Junkie lotion from our booth. Talk to you next week when my head is not about to explode (I hope). Did I mention a sinus headache that has lasted a week? Well, it hurts. The end.

P.S. — My head is also hurting because my daughter divulged a secret two nights ago. It seems she’s “in love.” Doesn’t that make your head hurt?

By Shannon Magsam, Ladybug’s mama

Well, it seems when Ladybug’s elementary school had a mock presidential election, “Rock” Obama emerged the victor. That’s what Ladybug said anyway.

I found it interesting how much she had gleaned from conversations at school. I know a lot of parents discuss their political leanings with their 6-year-olds, but our conversations had been mostly bipartisan. We discussed how important it is to vote – how women weren’t always allowed to vote — but I didn’t think it was necessary to worry her about who may or may not win the presidency. Apparently many parents do discuss politics at the dinner table. Ladybug came home Tuesday talking about “Rock” Obama and John McCain. She voted for McCain because, as she put it, he likes Jazz and adopted 17 kids.

She said “Rock” only cared about rich people.

“Who told you that?” I asked, surprised.

“No one,” she said mysteriously.

We told her neither candidate was just for the “rich.” Later Tuesday night she was transfixed by the election coverage on television. Every time a newscaster uttered McCain’s name, she acted like she knew him personally. She had lots of questions about the election process. Her father and I got to tell her that we’d spent two hours casting our ballots earlier Tuesday because we went to the wrong polling place first (I would have sworn it was the other church), but it was very important that we exercise our right to vote. While I checked my e-mail at the kitchen table, Ladybug yelled out: “John McCain winned?!”

Her dad had to explain that he won South Carolina, not the whole election.

While keeping her eyes glued to the t.v., Ladybug was steadily dressing a baby doll in toilet paper (the baby looked like she was headed to a toga party). At one point there was a great cheer on the television and Ladybug lifted up the doll and yelled, “The baby won! The baby is the new president! The baby says everybody has to speak a new language: Goo-goo, ga-ga.” M’kay.

Then she got serious again. She and her father got into a discussion about how votes are counted. After a while, he jokingly asked her, “If mom and I were running for election, who would you vote for?”

“I would do two votes,” she said thoughtfully, diplomatically.

Maybe it’s good we started the conversations now — I think she might have a future in politics.

By Shannon Magsam

The grown-ups in this house don’t get out much. We talk about a date night, but it seems we’re all talk and no action. I know you understand. And I know you’ll also understand what happened when those grown-ups finally did break the chain to flee an hour away for dinner.

It was over the weekend. Ladybug’s first sleepover away. The plan was for her to be picked up at 6 p.m. on Saturday, go to a kids’ Halloween party then head over to her friend’s house for some jewelry-making, pizza rolls and general girlie fun. All day Saturday we had the count-down, the one parents hate and try to avoid at all costs. “How many more minutes?” she kept asking. “More like HOURS, Ladybug,” I told her, but that didn’t help. In desperation, we decided to leave the house for a while. We hit the pet store (where a wolf/dog tried to eat a small Yorkie dressed as a princess), Lewis & Clark and Worlds Underwater for a new balloon-bellied Molly fish.

By 5 p.m. Ladybug was manically riding her bicycle around the cul-de-sac (did you know she just learned to ride without training wheels? No? Remind me to tell you about it). Of course, they were late. By the time they came in, we took pictures of the girls in their Halloween costumes and they left, I was ready to just sit down and stare at a wall. So I did.

Then from the huz: “Are you ready?!” Just when I thought I’d much rather dive under the couch, I suddenly, somewhere, felt the tremor of a date vibe. Or at least a small tingle. I quickly changed clothes, added a little lipstick and said I was ready to go. We talked non-stop to Bentonville until I suddenly remembered something I’d forgotten: my cell phone. How the heck did people with kids exist without cell phones? I went from relaxed, flirtatious wife to anxiety-ridden mama in a matter of seconds. What if the sleepover mom needed to call me? What if there was an accident? My husband asked if I wanted to go back and get the phone.

“No,” I said without conviction. Then I said it again with confidence. I figured I’d bum a phone from someone at the restaurant and at least let the mom know I didn’t have the phone if she tried to call. And that’s what I did (thanks, complete stranger Derek who doesn’t have kids but was totally indulgent anyway). As we sat down, I tried to continue the happy banter my husband and I had started in the car. It fell flat. I wasn’t able to relax, even though I was telling myself I was being ridiculous (in my head). I looked over the menu, but couldn’t read the words for the thoughts swirling in my head. The cell phone is like an invisible cord between my daughter and me anytime we’re not together.

Suddenly a happy thought occurred to me.

“She’s a nurse!” I said with a smile. I meant the friend’s mom. It suddenly made me feel better to know Ladybug would be in capable, nurse’s hands.

I was finally able to read the menu in peace so I made my dinner choice and sat back to enjoy my husband and my iced tea. After a few minutes I decided to use the restroom. As soon as I walked in the door, I saw a blonde, blue-eyed little girl about Ladybug’s age. I started praying again. I knew it was ridiculous to get so worked up, but I couldn’t seem to shake the mood.

I came back to the table in a funk.

“I should have turned around and gotten the phone,” my husband said with a sigh.

I considered his statement and said brightly, “Well, maybe when dinner’s over we could just swing by the house and get the phone. Then we could go somewhere else close to home.”

By then, dinner was over.

Yay for date night.

*Ladybug fairy courtesy of A Kid’s Heart