Marnie Piazza

Dinosaur Road Trip

We had a good family day this weekend.  It actually didn't have the makings of a good or even decent day.  Our youngest son had just recovered from a stomach virus, leaving me wondering if the vomiting was really over.  An extended family member's illness had just taken a turn for the worse and we didn't know what would come next.  My husband and I were both drained and not feeling particularly chipper, to say the least. 

But the morning showed signs of the first spring-like day of the season.  We had no sport or birthday party commitments.  The kids starting going stir crazy before breakfast, and when we asked what they'd like to do, they somehow remembered a place I'd mentioned occasionally called Dinosaur Crossing.  It turned out to be opening day for the season there, my husband wearily said he was fine with the two hour drive, so instead of waiting at home for vomit or bad news, we packed up and went.

The first five minutes of the drive made me wish we were back home.  There was bickering in the back seat, my husband did not look happy, and we were going to be in the car for a long time.  But then it started to turn around.  The boys began playing nicely with the plastic dinosaurs that they had brought to meet the giant dinosaurs at our destination.  They both seemed equally excited about our adventure, which isn't always the case.  When they were ready to watch a DVD, they were engaged enough in the show that my husband and I got to really talk to each other without interruption (well, the portable DVD player fell over a few times and once appeared to have broken, but it was nothing compared to the normal level of distractions in our house.)   I'd say it actually counted for quality time.   

As we switched from highways to local roads, the children helped watch for Dinosaur Crossing.  The directions read “Look for Monty, the giant t-rex” and that kept my kids happy and excited.  We enjoyed the last bit of the drive too.  It made me realize that I do, in fact, live in the suburbs and not the country, because this is the real country with unique looking stores, lots of open spaces, and a subtly different feeling.

When we arrived, there was, in fact, a giant sculpted t-rex named Monty in the parking lot.  As a result, instead of a mad rush to get to the next thing, the boys settled in to hang out with Monty while we unloaded and cleaned out the car. 

Dinosaur Crossing turned out to be a low key, kitschy, quirky, friendly country place.  The highlight is a wooded trail with life-sized dinosaurs every few feet or so along the walkway.  I can’t imagine who thought of this, but it is genius.  I was worried that it would be cheesy compared to our usual and admittedly more high brow dinosaur-themed excursion to the American Museum of Natural History in New York City, but I was actually impressed with the sculpting and painting of these giant creatures, and they looked accurate enough to me to be educational.  And needless to say, the kids loved them.  The hourly erupting volcano (steam and water, not flames or smelly smoke fumes) is pure Disney flash and perfectly fun.  And the fact that this whole walk is actually beautiful from a purely natural standpoint - it loops around a scenic pond with live turtles sunning themselves on rocks and logs - adds to the overall appeal.

The boys had a great time at the unique playground at the end of the loop.  It has a fantastic spider web style climbing structure and a large triceratops skull model for climbing, as well as other play options.  It was great for burning off energy before and after the indoor activities.  And it is the type of playground where I ended up playing too.  In fact, I think the new "in" work-out should be web climbing strength training.

Inside, my kids did the three main activities - panning for gold, gem mining, and fossil digging.  The space for all this action is large and comfortable.  The gold panning involves cold water and was probably my youngest son’s least favorite, but still worth it to get the bag of pyrite he panned.  The gem mining is in an attractive mock mine where kids dig for gems among small pebbles.  The boys ended up with nice-sized buckets of pretty polished stones which could be identified at roomy desks with picture guides.  The fossil dig is in a pleasantly-themed room with a caste of an actual dinosaur fossil under sand.  The guide kept up the enthusiasm of the group of mixed-aged kids, who got six small fossils each at the end of the dig.

The dangerous part is the giant gift store.  It has everything from gems and fossils priced in the thousands to reasonably-priced toys, including a huge variety of dinosaur ones, from plush to plastic to puzzles.  My older son wanted a giant amethyst geode which I think costs three thousand dollars.  We made it out of there with our rocks, fossils, a few nice plastic animals for each boy, and plans to return with my mother who will buy the boys anything, though presumably not the giant geode.

The one downside was the food.  Next time we’ll pack hearty lunches to eat at the picnic tables and just buy some cookies and coffee there.  As my husband put it when I started to get a little neurotic, "The hot dog is not poison.  It just tastes really bad."

I was worried that four hours of driving in one day wouldn’t be worth it.  In fact, the manageability of the place, as well the pure entertainment value and variety of it proved to be well worth the trip.  We’re already planning to return.  I just wish it was close enough for me to have my little one’s birthday party there.  See you soon, Monty the giant t-rex.

Vomit Panic

I assume most parents of young children have experienced vomit panic.  We did last night.

We had enjoyed a busy and fun family day and had just put both children to bed.  My husband and I were on the couch starting to watch an episode of Dexter.  I heard one of the boys coughing and assumed it was allergy issues, our downside to spring, and I wished I’d remembered to give the boys their Zyrtec before bed.  My husband went in to see if the boys needed attention, and then I made a disturbing connection:  our youngest son had a vomit illness two days ago.  Oh oh.

I followed my husband in and that’s when we had vomit panic.  Our older son was sitting in his bed, vomiting all over it and on the floor as well.  Our youngest son was still asleep in his bed, across a sea of vomit from us.  Several very special stuffed animals were on the bed with the vomiting son, distressingly close to the mess.  My husband had vomit on his socks.  And there was, of course, the smell.  We froze and stared.

Fighting the urge to give up and start retching myself, I threw the special animals off the bed and clear of the havoc, ran for the bathroom garbage can, helped my son navigate the vomit the best he could, and got him in front of the toilet.  He looked dazed and half asleep, but I got the point across that he should aim for the toilet or the garbage can.  We got his clothes off and started a pile of contaminated items.  I got out the Lysol and started spraying indiscriminately and frantically.

At the same time, my husband made it over the vomit, scooped up the sleeping child, and got him to our bed without waking him.  Then he ditched the vomit socks and gathered up the bedding.  That was when he realized there was a problem with his strategy.  There’s no other way to describe it:  there were chunks.  They were too large to go in the washing machine.  So he decided to go outside and hose everything off.  I knew I didn’t think this was ideal, but had no concrete objection, so out he went. 

He finished the outdoor portion of the clean-up and started the washing machine.  I got our son cleaned up and back in his freshly made bed, cleaned off the carpet, put the garbage can next to his bed, and watched him fall back to sleep.  I kept it up with the Lysol spray and started stiffing around to figure out if there were any undiscovered puddles on the floor, furniture, or toys.  We left our youngest in our bed in case of more commotion.  Then we started watching Dexter again and tried to relax, though I’m not sure a show about a serial killer is quite right for a recently traumatized stomach.

When I went downstairs to put the wash in the dryer, I found out why not to take damp bedding out into the yard for hosing.  There were leaves in the washing machine.  There were leaves in the bunched up soaking wet mattress pad.  There were crumbled leaves everywhere.  I put everything in the dryer anyway, hoping the leaves would turn up in the lint collector thingy.  Some did, but some stayed.  So far today, I’ve cleaned out both washer and dryer twice, and have washed the mattress pad again.  My husband thinks it is acceptable to put away the mattress pad sprinkled with crumbled leaves, since they are clean leaves.  Though I see his point, I’m not entirely convinced.

Next time there is vomit in the house, I vow we will be organized, sensible, and calm in dealing with it.  Of course, it helps that both boys are feeling fine today and, knock on wood, no more vomit appears to be on the horizon.  Though I do feel a little queasy writing this.  Oh oh.

Peep Peep………..Peep Peep

Since moving to the suburbs from the city, I’ve kept an informal running tally of pros and cons for each living location in my mind.  It feels strange that I’m still doing this after eight years, but it’s a decision that I can’t help reconsider occasionally.  The main issue is that deep down, I am a city person.  I like the energy, the creativity, the variety, the ability to walk and not drive, and a lot more.  However, I also think it is a good decision to raise our children in a house, with a yard, with lots of big green parks and places to hike within minutes, along with great public schools and everything else that the suburbs have going for them. 

It’s just never been one of those decisions that makes me think “Wow, good thing we left the city.  This is clearly the right choice.”  The pros and cons usually stay there, intact.  Some decisions are just irrefutable.  I can say “Thank goodness nothing worked out with any of my exes so that I could marry my husband.”  And having children, obviously the best choice I’ve ever made.  Living in Scotland, absolute thumbs up; traveling often before children, even when not financially advisable, also well worth it; every moment spent on a beach, never a wrong choice no matter what else I was missing.  And those years living in little apartments in the big city, wouldn’t trade them for anything. 

But every once in a while, I get a glimpse of what it would be like to say, “Ah, this really is where I should be living, good job.”  It happened this year when our spring peepers returned. 

When we first moved here, I didn’t even know what they were but I liked the sound they made.  I was pretty sure they weren’t crickets, I hoped they weren’t anything creepy, and that was that.  Every once in a while, my husband and I would ask each other “What is that sound?” but would usually fall asleep before too much discussion ensued.

Finally, I found out what was making the springtime chirping sing song lullaby that starts at dusk outside our home.  I asked our bat proofer (fyi: needing to bat proof your house as a result of giant bat droppings on your deck – BIG strike against leaving the city.)  He said that they are spring peepers, a kind of frog.  We have a pond – not a pretty crystal clear landscaped pond with a little waterfall in the middle, but a down and dirty mucky swampy pond.  And apparently it is the perfect habitat for spring peepers.

Last year, our pond dried up and our spring peepers didn’t peep.  I missed them.  This year, knowing the swamp was filled with liquid and mud again, I listened hopefully as the weather changed.  I knew my neighbor had already heard peepers and since our yard was silent, I thought our frogs must not have made it back.  But then one night soon after, they were there. 

I turn off the children’s white noise machine and the dishwasher and the television just so I can hear them peep away.  It’s a different world from when I used to imagine that the nearby BQE traffic sounded kind of like waves crashing or when I decided I didn’t mind living in a loud apartment above a bar in the East Village because at least they played music I liked. 

Score one for the burbs.

When Did We Start Raising Superheroes?

I’m feeling thoughtful this afternoon, a few hours before we take my second grader to his first travel soccer game, playing kids a year older, with our town’s more competitive soccer league.  I have very mixed feelings about competitiveness for second graders, but then again, since my son enjoys soccer and seems to have some natural talent, it seems reasonable to nurture it. 

Joining this team wasn’t a long, thoughtful decisions process; he ended up on the team because some of his friends were doing it and some moms I know were involved.  Now, it seems like a nice group of quickly growing boys who like nothing more than to run constantly and have more energy than can be contained.  There’s more focus on winning than I’m used to, but maybe that’s ok.  I hope we are doing the right thing, and I hope I am attuned to my son’s needs enough to call it all off if needed.

I can’t help thinking of something one of my oldest friends said to me about a year ago.  We were in junior high and high school together, and she’s now a year or two ahead of me in parenting experiences with her eldest son.  He is great at soccer, and she told me that the first time someone called him a “jock” she was hugely offended, since in our youth, being a jock pretty much meant you weren’t getting tracked towards calculus.  There were jocks and geeks and the two usually didn’t intersect.

Now, it seems like the kids who are the overachievers are overachieving in every area at once – academics, sports, arts, and more.  And the term well-rounded means so much more now.  As a teenager, when I realized colleges wanted to see more than good grades and test scores, I joined a few clubs and that was that.  Now, the top kids seem to be brainy, athletically talented, and launching programs to fight hunger in the third world all by junior year.

I’m not sure what to make of this, and I’m sure I’m thinking too far ahead, as is my inclination.  I do know that I’m glad I didn’t peak in every way in my youth, and I hope our kids don’t burn out too early.  They are all bright, talented, creative, and unique in so different many ways, but maybe they do need to leave some talents untested or undiscovered until they’re a little older.  Or maybe not.  My first passion as a child was creating art, and it turns out that’s what I’m pursuing as a hobby and hopefully more in my thirties. 

I guess it's just one more part of parenthood that we all have to muddle through with the hope that we are getting some of it right.  And maybe knowing our children as well as we can will guide us in making the right decisions about how much they should try to achieve at once.

What Color is Your Grandpa?

I volunteer at my son’s second grade classroom for an activity called writers’ workshop.  It’s a nice way to help out, feel connected to the school, and get to know the kids and teachers better.  Most importantly, my son likes me to do it.

I’m there today and each child is working on a book about one of their grandparent’s childhood and teenage years.  I’m at a computer, heading up google searches for photos of things that they’d like to use to illustrate their books – Frank Sinatra, Bob Hope, The Crests (they sang “Sixteen Candles,”) a photo of a black and white TV, and more.  Some of them are doing their own drawings, but most want at least something printed out to glue under their text.

I notice that my son is working on his book cover.  I’ve offered him photographs of my father, the grandfather he is writing about, and he has turned me down repeatedly, because he’d rather draw his own pictures.  I look at what he is doing.  He has drawn a man on the cover, and his skin is brown. 

“Is that Grandpa?”  I ask.

“Yes.”  Says my son.

“Why is he brown?” I ask.  It’s a valid question.  I don’t think it crosses any political correctness lines.  The plain fact is, my father is a white Jewish man of Eastern European descent.

“Because he is brown.”

“But he’s not.  Isn’t he more like peach or tan?”

“No.  He’s brown.”

“Why do you think Grandpa is brown?  Is it because he likes to go in the sun and get tan?  I do that too.  Would you like me to find you a tan crayon?”

“No.  Tan is brown.  Grandpa is brown.”

“But he looks like he’s African-American in the picture.  And he’s really not.  He’s a white, or peach, Jewish man.”  At this point, the little girl at the computer next to me starts to giggle.  The girls generally are a little more attuned to things at this age than the boys. 

“It’s fine,” Insists my son.

“If you are really happy with your work, then you’re right, it’s fine.  You do good work and you work hard.  Ah, ok then,” I babble, switching into fully supportive mom mode.

And so I give up.  My family will be getting credit for a lot more diversity than we deserve.  And I still don’t know if my son really thinks my father’s skin is chocolate brown, or if he just wasn’t in the mood to redo the picture with the tan crayon.