Category Archives: Parenting

Why is water blue?

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The boy and I had an interesting day of bonding. He was my lunch date on Saturday, although he didn’t really want to be. “I don’t like food anymore, can’t we just go to the toy store?” I had promised him a reward, he was determined to collect it. “You can’t toy shop on an empty stomach, dude. This is serious business,” I said, instead of trying to debunk the “I don’t like food” defense. “I guess you’re right,” he sighed, as we pulled off the road and into a restaurant parking lot.

As we got out of the car, he began to crawl on his hands and knees peering at the undercarriage. “Um, what are you doing?” I asked, as I think any reasonable person would. “There’s a can under there, I wanted to see if you crushed it when we pulled in. You didn’t, can you try to smash it when we leave?” “I’ll try my best,” I responded. I helped him up and led him into the restaurant. We sat outside on the patio, it’s starting to get ridiculously hot here, again. I knew it wouldn’t be crowded and we could quietly chat. He touched the table the way old ladies do when you take them someplace to eat they’ve never been before. “This is nice,” he said, smiling and inspecting the children’s menu.

“Hi, my name is Chris. I’ll be your server today,” the waiter was cheerful and eager to bring us things, I like those qualities in a waiter. “Hi, I’m five. I can ride my bike without training wheels,” my son said with the confidence and demeanor of a politician, while throwing his elbow over the back of his chair. “I don’t wet the bed anymore and… I have a Puffle named Willie. I’m just throwing that out there. What’s your Puffle’s name?” The waiter looked at me, I could see he was taken aback by the little dude. I waited for him to respond, when he didn’t, I wasn’t sure what to say.  I figured things couldn’t get anymore awkward than they were at that moment, so I went with, “Hi. I’m 34. I don’t wet the bed anymore either. I helped name the Puffle, and I’d love a rum and coke in the biggest glass you have”.

“What is a Puffle?” Chris asked. “The thing that makes me want a drink,” I responded, hoping he’d walk away without any further questioning. It didn’t work. My boy might have a future as a Jehovah’s Witness, as he insists on spreading the good word. “Willie is Jr. Flappers’ pet. Jr. Flappers is my Penguin. Willie is red and fluffy. He doesn’t have any arms or legs…but he still rides a skateboard pretty good. I play with them”.

For anyone keeping track, my little nugget of awesome is claiming we are harboring an arctic creature in the simmering heat of Florida, and are forcing a long-haired, quadriplegic, life form to entertain us by riding a skateboard. No, I haven’t replaced his nutritious breakfast with frosted LSD and please don’t call PETA.

All of these things take place in the virtual seventh circle of hell known as “Club Penguin”. Disney thought it would be a great idea to create a social networking site, infused with games, and of course…Puffles. “I have a membership card, wanna see it?” Yes, they sell membership cards. Yes, he carries it with him. “Jr. Flappers has an igloo, you should stop by sometime.” Yes, he just invited someone over to his igloo.

“That’s awesome, I have a daughter. We haven’t reached the Puffle stage yet, I guess.” I was thankful that the waiter had experience wrangling small children and I didn’t have to try and explain. You can’t control what they say, resistance is futile. You can either be embarrassed or embrace it. I want him to be able to carry on a conversation. These are the things that are important to him, so this is what we talk about.

Sometimes, admittedly, he throws me a curveball. “Mommy? Why is the water blue?” he asked as he was getting ready for a bath. I tried to pull up all the long forgotten Earth Science information I still had stored in my head. I said something about reflection from the sun and depth of the water, but I was clearly just making it up as I went along.

He stared at me blankly for a minute, “No, I mean in the toilet…why is the water blue? Everyone knows why the sea is blue.” Apparently,  my long-winded explanation about the ocean bored the hell out of him. “Oh, I put stuff in there to help me keep the house clean,” he thought about my answer and then, “Does it help you concentrate?” I laughed and responded, “Uh, sure.” I still haven’t figured out where that one came from, I guess he must do most of his thinking on the potty.

The toilet cleaning tablets went in the tank on Sunday, but had they gone in on Saturday…I’m sure the waiter would have heard about that, too.

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Say CHEEEESE!!!!

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“What’s that?” he asked as he walked by the dining room table. He was eyeing a shiny leather case with the word “Kodak” embossed on the front. “It’s a camera,” I responded. In pristine condition, this relic belonged to my grandparents. Everything they owned looked like it had never been used.

“That’s not a camera, it’s too big to be a camera,” he laughed. Born in 2007, he is of a generation that will never be able to look at a common household item and fondly remember its Buick-sized predecessor.

“Can I have it?” This is a question he asks when presented with just about everything he’s not familiar with. Sometimes I give in. “I wanna break it,” he chirped. Thankfully, he hasn’t developed the ability to mask his true intentions. “No, that’s mommy’s,” I said, grabbing the case and moving it to higher ground. The safest place in the house right now is atop the refrigerator, next to the cheese grater and the other things I don’t want him to touch. “Are you gonna break it? I wanna help!”

The boy stood in front of the refrigerator; his arms extended, pointing at the camera. He was trying to will the the camera to leap into his arms. His face twisted in frustration when it didn’t work. He tried again, this time standing on his tiptoes.

“No, I’m not going to break it,” I said calmly as I put dinner in the oven. There are times when the memory of my grandparents has made me want to break things, but this was too cool to smash into itty bitty pieces. I was amused by my son’s experiment with telekinesis. Quietly, I wondered if the Russian scientist who coined the term ever encouraged his test subjects to “put some toe in it,” for extra oomph.

“How does it work?” Relentless curiosity, it’s a good quality to have. He’s also quite the food critic, so I made him wait til I set the oven timer before I provided an explanation. No one likes burnt nuggets. I handed him the camera and let him examine it, watching carefully. He flipped it over several times, pushing the buttons and turning the knobs.

“Where’s the screen to see the pictures? This thing is broken.. You should throw it out. Can I have it?” this sentence came out of his mouth so rapidly it sounded like one long word. “It doesn’t have a screen. It was made before they had screens, they used film. It’s not broken. No, you have your own camera,” I replied, just as quickly. “Fiiiilllmmm?” he repeated, as if I was teaching him a new word in a foreign language. I started to explain what it was, his eyes went blank. I’d lost him. I was thankful, because I know about as much about cameras as I do….mid-century Chilean porcupine sedation techniques.

“I don’t have a camera!” he declared The child has a mental inventory of every object he has ever owned…which makes it hard to pare down the growing collection. Even if something is broken he still demands it be kept, heaven forbid you throw out the severed arm of a missing lego figure. He knows exactly what he has, until he sees something he wants. Because of this talent, I also have to keep a watchful eye on the toy chest to keep duplication to a minimum. “You most certainly do, the red one,” I reminded him.

He knew which one I was talking about, but he paused for dramatic effect. “The red one? Oh, that red one! Where is it?” I wasn’t going to divulge that information. I’d made it temporarily disappear a few months ago. His laughter showed me he was still incredibly amused by the actions that caused the camera to go into seclusion.

It was January, the weather was crappy and we were stuck indoors. There are few things worse than being holed up with a rambunctious child. Admittedly, I was hiding. I could hear him laughing from the other side of the door, but it wasn’t the evil genius laugh. I assumed that he and the dog were still playing the loud game of tag that sent me seeking refuge. It’s not really tag, it’s more chase the dog until she hides under the table…wait until she forgets why she’s hiding…then chase her again. Semantics. As long as a wagging tail is present, I don’t interfere.

I let my guard down and the laughter got further away, resuming my immersion in the article I was reading about Kim and Kanye. I had just gotten to the part where Mr. West introduced Kim as his “babymomma”. I stopped to gather my feelings, which I grouped thusly: A) I was not aware that Dolce or Gabbana designed maternity wear. B) I pictured the woman of his dreams to feature a diamond encrusted release valve, vast amounts of air behind vacant eyes, and a permanently puckered facial expression. C) Kim Kardashian is probably the closest thing to a blow-up doll society has to offer at this point.

I was just about to move on to “D” when the door swung wide open, wildly bouncing on its hinges. “Say CHEESE!!” screeched my boy, clad with his Disney trademarked digital camera. He blinded me with the flash as he rapidly snapped photos. When he stopped and I was able to commandeer the device, I went through the memory of the camera. At the end of the 700-and-something close-up pictures of the inside of his nose and the dog’s butt, there were at least 35 shots of me…sitting on the toilet…wearing my pants around my ankles, and a less than thrilled expression.

If I went through them fast enough, it was almost like one of those flip-books I made as a kid with the galloping horse. I could see myself go from surprised to irritated, mouthing the words “What are you doing? Get the hell out of here with that thing!”

Some of the photos even had me on the commode, seated right in between a smiling Lightning McQueen and Mater. Apparently, you can press a button and add a digital version of your favorite character to the images. Disney really pulled out all the stops when they dreamed this toy up. It’ll be fun, they said. Let your child capture memories on their own, they said.

Either he was prepared to suffer for his art, or he now realizes that he is always granted immunity when his acts of mischief are hilarious. The boy didn’t even try to fake remorse, he just giggled, grabbed the camera out of my hands, and ran into the living room.

As I relayed this story to my parents, they laughed. Then my mother said, as she always does “You’d better look out, you’ve got your hands full. I don’t remember you guys ever acting this way.”  We totally did, my brothers and I just tormented each other, instead of our parents.

Betty White eats Andy Warhol

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Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the front door. I’m always uneasy about what I’m going to find. Betty White predictably greets us. She’s a happy soul with a destructive nature, it’s exactly what you’d expect of a creature her age.

The entry hallway of our condo obscures the living area. As I round the corner I hope she hasn’t entertained herself by shredding important documents, crayon desecration, or artfully arranging my dirty underwear in front of the sofa.

My son darts ahead of me, at his age everything is a race. “I win! In yo’ face, Betty! This is MY HOUSE!!!” he giggles, pretending to stuff an imaginary basketball through a nonexistent hoop. He learned this celebratory taunt from me, I borrowed it from Charles Barkley.

Ms. White, completely unaware that there was a competition sits down on the floor. Her memory isn’t the best. She reacts with surprise, even though the same scenario plays out consistently. It’s not the onset of Alzheimer’s disease, I’m not ignoring the warning signs of deteriorating cognitive abilities. I’m also not holding a 90 year old Emmy winner captive in my home. Betty is our Shih Tzu puppy.

“Ewww! Underwear!” I was waiting for my sons reaction. It’s a daily thing.  He’s disgusted by her hobbies. He doesn’t have Alzheimer’s either, he’s five. Words like underwear are hilarious to him. “Farty, fart, fart fart! You eat underwear!” he sings to the small ball of fluff as she wiggles with excitement. “What kind of dog is Betty, again?” he asks me…knowing full well what the answer is, but doing a pretty convincing job of feigning ignorance.  “A Bull Mastiff,” I say, winking at him.  “No she’s not, she’s a SHIT SUE!” He’s jumping up and down as he says this, I can’t tell if Grandma’s cookies are to blame for the burst of energy or he’s still ecstatic that he gets to yell the word “SHIT” without fear of punishment.

I grab my unmentionables and take them into my room. We got Betty from a friend in September when she was the size of a coffee cup, she isn’t much bigger than that now. My friend told me that the breed was used to guard the castles of ancient Asian royalty. Throwing my undies in the pile of dirty clothes in the corner, I laugh thinking about this. I try to piece together a scenario where a stealthy man dressed in black leaps over a wall.  Carrying an arsenal of primitive weapons, he wanders through a bonsai garden without detection.  Finally he reaches a house, as he scurries around a rice paper wall he slips on a puddle of freshly squeezed dog pee and a shredded piece of paper with important elementary school telephone contacts printed on it.  Suddenly he hears a burp, his ankles are being licked aggressively.  He retreats in fear, deterred by a small-bladdered mop with feet, and an underwear fetish. “Ninjas must not be the fearless warriors we assume they were.  Pussies,” I mutter under my breath.

“Mommmmm-mmmmyyyyyyy! Betty is in my room! She’s got Sharky! She won’t let him go!” I hear the boy shout.  Yeah, he’s telling on the dog. “You should learn to pick up your toys, buddy! Keep asking for a little sister”. I yell in response, amused by his exasperated tone.

“Betty is NOT my sister!” he declares. “Oh, but she acts like one. She’s doing exactly what a little sister would do. I should know, I am one.” Sharky is a plastic Great White.  He was a purchase from the art museum gift shop and broke approximately 30 minutes after swiping my debit card. The boy only shows interest in him when he’s scheduled to be thrown away or he’s covered in dog spit.

“But, he was my present from the buseum. Remember? We got him when we went to see the shark exhibit and Larry Walmart?” he yelled from the carpet in his room. He was trying to elicit a fond memory so I would come to the rescue of Sharky. “Warhol, buddy. Andy Warhol,” I correct.  ”Whatever,” he said.

I did remember our trip to the “buseum”.  I told him we were going to do something fun, it backfired. “This isn’t fun, mom. Fun is getting dirty. This is boring”.  I must have heard him say, “culture sucks” at least a hundred times that day.

Even his pint-sized protest could not persuade me to leave. I love art, someday I am determined to force him to love it too. The “Larry Walmart” exhibit was a collection of Warhol’s car paintings. Once we trudged through the shark exhibit, with the security guards laughing at my efforts to get the boy to appreciate the sculptures and paintings, I was certain my boy would change his tune.

“A BMW!!!!!” he chirped as we made our way up the stairs. “We should paint your car like that!!!” Admittedly, I considered it…but only for a minute. “No, I don’t think so,” I said guiding him to inspect the brightly painted German engineering. ”Mr. Warhol said that in the future everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes,”  I thought imparting this pearl of wisdom would catch his interest. “He was wrong, mom. I’ve never heard of him,” ignoring me, he let go of my hand and tried to get a better look at the car. I held onto his shoulder, not because the museum was busy, but because I know my son.

“Don’t touch,” I ordered.  “Mommy can’t afford to buy a damaged Warhol” He seemed to be okay with just staring at the colorful pieces on the wall.  “This guy should paint sharks!” the boy declared.  We spent quite a bit of time on the second floor, I was pleased that I’d tricked him into culture.  We made our way towards the exit. like everything in Florida…Walt Disney’s marketing strategies leaked in.  Gift shops materialize out of nowhere.

I was hoping to get out of there without dropping an ass-load of coin on a cheap plastic memento   As I scanned the bins I noticed that there were no cars, I thought I was off the hook.  My boy wasn’t interested in the art prints.  “Success!” I thought.  We wandered towards an elderly man in a navy blue sport coat.  He smiled as he saw us coming, “It’s always nice to see a young person here”.  The boy was suddenly shy, he whispered “I really liked the trucks,” as he pressed himself against my hip.  “That’s great! Let me get you a coloring book!” the man said.  He motioned for us to follow him.  What seemed like an innocent act of generosity was actually a trap.  The route to the coloring book lead us to another gift shop.  This is where the toys were.

The boy thanked the man for the book.  As soon as he was out of sight, I was handed free gift and my son was on the hunt for something…less free.  He wandered through the merchandise, I stood near a shelf making sure he couldn’t escape and molest the artwork.  As he shopped, I perused the pages of the coloring book.  If you’re wondering what feeling an Andy Warhol themed children’s pamphlet gives you…the answer is creeped-out.  The pages contained a cartoon Andy saying things like “Hey kids, this is art”.  From what I know of Warhol, I don’t think he would ever have said that.  My little art critic came bounding back with what, at that point, was the unnamed shark.

“You didn’t even like the sharks,” I said, as I saw the price.  “No, but I want to paint it like the BMW.  It’ll be cool.”  It would be cool, I couldn’t argue with that.  I paid for the shark without any more questions. I put the coloring book in the bag with the PVC creature from the deep.  When we arrived home after our day of culture, Sharky had been named and Warhol had been forgotten.  We took Betty out for a walk, she seemed to be hanging on the boys’ every word as he told her of his adventures at the museum. Clearly, she was enthralled.  She came back in the house and promptly began eating his coloring book. I didn’t realize this until my son presented me with the pieces…stating “I guess his 15 minutes are up”.

Death to Schmootchu?

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Behind me, the noise of daily life…the coffee table which doubles as a race track, the kitchen sink that I could swear was empty a few minutes ago, and is now full of dishes…and the laundry, don’t forget the laundry.  It all dissolves as I close the sliding glass door.   “I should really scrub that wall,” I said out loud as I sipped my coffee.  Abruptly, I corrected myself, “Who in the hell am I kidding?  I’m not scrubbing shit.  You wall, can stay dirty.”  Yes, I was talking to the wall and no, I’m not the least bit worried about it.  I did what every good mother does when she sees something that needs to be cleaned, I looked somewhere else.

I focused my attention on the nature preserve behind my apartment. It was this view that sold me on the place. The inside might have looked like a 1970’s porn movie set, alright, it definitely looked like a porn set, but it didn’t matter.  There is no hint of civilization from this angle, not one glimpse of parking lot or swimming pool, just trees and big fucking spiders.  The spiders and I have an agreement, as long as they stay on the other side of the screen- I won’t kill them. For a few seconds I was lost in the gentle motion of the branches swaying in the breeze and the chatter of the squirrels.  This feeling was fleeting…chaos is now old enough to open the door. ”Look, those little bastards ate all the Cheerios,” came wafting over my shoulder.  I had company, an invasion of the short, car enthusiast variety.  He and my boyfriend had set out some cereal for the squirrels a few days earlier. He was right, the little bastards did eat the Cheerios. It’s hard to get mad at him when he uses the words in the right context.  He knows he’s not supposed to say things like this, but he also knows that he’s not supposed to run around screaming without his pants on and a bucket on his head…so…there’s that.

I woke up in a particularly shitty mood, it wasn’t getting any better.  My next door neighbors have three children under the age of five, this alone makes me question their sanity. Kids are loud, it’s what they do.  I understand and accept this. The neighbors and their children were involved in their regular early morning stampede, on a good day I can sleep right through this.  Saturday was apparently not a good day.  The pitter patter of little feet coming through the walls of my master bedroom had awoken me…and I was pissed.  All I wanted to do was sleep past 7-fucking-30.  That’s it. I wasn’t looking for a unicorn to bring me a breakfast of fresh fruit, bagels and neatly folded twenty dollar bills.  I just wanted to sleep in.  It was too much to ask.  I tried the ol’ pillow over the ear trick, but there was no muting the little curmudgeons or their disagreement.  I have no idea what the argument was about, it was in Spanish.  Everything said in Spanish around me before 8 a.m. sounds like someone is asking for directions to the library, or whatever incredibly useful phrases I learned in my 10th grade Spanish class.  “Juan es muy guapo,” I mumbled, to keep myself from wishing them dead out loud.  If I can hear them, they can hear me.  They’re actually nice folks, I don’t really want them dead…I just want them quiet.

I had the usual weekend errands to run, I wanted to get them out of the way early so I wasn’t scrambling on Sunday night to get prepared for the week.  I should have been thanking them for rousing me, but “thank” is not the term I was putting in front of the word “you” at that particular moment.  I know planning is the responsible thing to do, but I sometimes resent it. I am aware that there’s really no way around it once you breed.  I held out for a long time, I was the anti-planner.  I guess I assumed that it was the gateway behavior to chin length haircuts, book clubs, minivans, and checking to see if my son’s pants were roomy enough in the crotch…in public.

Instead of openly embracing the morning and scooting over to the grocery store, I went out on the balcony to brood. “My son is down there with his shotgun. He’s driving his black Dodge Ram and shooting bears. See?” the boy said, trying to get me to peer over the side of the building and down towards the ground. I looked, there weren’t any bears, trucks, or guns. Yes, I am a grandmother and sometimes, depending on the mood, a great-grandmother.  I don’t know exactly when this happened. Chronologically speaking, if you ask my son, my grandson and great-grandson were born in 2006.  This is puzzling to me, since I vividly remember the day in 2007 when my son entered the world. “My son Jack is six and his son Schmootchu is six, too,” the boy will tell you if you ask him…and also, if you don’t.  Even though they are imaginary, we talk about them all the time.  He’ll even whip out his fake cell phone and show me pictures of them, while bragging about their accomplishments.  Jack has quite a few trucks, he’ll rattle off a list of the vehicles Jack owns on the way to wherever we’re going.  I’m not sure where he gets the money,  I think he might be into something illegal.  I never ask, though.

Apparently there is no Department of Imaginary Children and Families to keep them from driving motor vehicles or using firearms without a permit. The boy claims that his son Jack was named after his grandfather on his mother’s side.  I happen to know that my father’s name is not and has never been Jack.  Infact, no one on my side of the family is named Jack…or John…or Robert…or Roberto…or…Jacktholomew.  His grandson’s name “was found on babynames.com,” just in case you were wondering. No, I don’t know where he comes up with this stuff either. He’s too young to being ingesting acid, so this must just be the way his little brain works.  The mothers aren’t in the picture,  they have been forbidden from any contact with their figmental offspring because I am told, “girls are stupid, except for you, Mom.”  Can’t argue with that.

The other day, while I was cooking dinner the boy announced that Schmootchu was no longer with us.  I was secretly pretty happy about that, because saying the name Schmootchu in public just makes me feel like an asshole.  I prepared myself for a conversation about imaginary death and feelings.  I was relieved when I didn’t have to go into that, though.  My son went on to say that Jack sold his beloved Schmootchu to buy a new truck.  Mystery solved, Jack makes his money in human trafficking. After the laughing stopped, the boyfriend tried to explain that you’re not supposed to sell your children.  Although the boy said he understood, I’m not sure that he did. I’m pretty sure there’s going to be a note coming home from school asking me to speak to my son and inform him that the correct term for a squirrel is not “little bastard,” and it is in poor form to pedal his classmates for material goods.  I can’t wait. At least Schmootchu is gone, for now.

Get well soon.

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Keep in mind it hovers somewhere between 90 degrees and “Holy shit it’s hot!” here in sunny South Florida during the summer months.  I was curled up on the couch, wearing two sweatshirts, three pairs of socks, and some track pants I can assure you have never been near a track.  I don’t know why I have these pants, you may have noticed…I’m no Flo Jo.  I like to look as unattractive as humanly possible when I’m not feeling well…the pièce de résistance is the ill-fitting, sagging in the ass, navy “exercise” pants, with the racing stripes down the sides.  They scream “speed” as I assume the fetal position and pray for death.

“Mommy, are you sick?” I managed to respond with something other than a guttural noise, “yep”.  “Can we go to the park?”.  “No park”. “Scooter walk?”… “No scooter walk”. “Pool?”. “Arrgh! No, I’m not leaving the couch.  Please, find something to do and find it in your room!”.  At this point I was experiencing all of the pleasantries of the flu:  high fever, chills, sweating, aches, vomiting, runny nose, sore throat, and coughing up a yellowish/greyish/greenish substance reminiscent of alien afterbirth. Plus, I was wearing the pants.  The boy knew there was no chance of fun, but he wasn’t going down without a fight. “CanIhavesome chocolatemilk?”.

“Everything in my room is boring.  I want to watch Monster Trucks or torque trucks…in the mud on the internet.  T-O-R-Q-U-E…see?  If I can spell it I can watch it”.  I hate when he uses my words against me, especially when my words involve education.  I really just didn’t want to move.  He was doing his little spelling dance,  which is a variation of my little spelling dance.  I started doing it to keep him focused on me when I was trying to teach him how to spell his name.  Now, it would seem that I am unable to spell anything without it’s assistance. It’s much cuter when he does it, trust me.  There is nothing charming about a 30-something year old women marching in place and gesticulating like a Mouseketeer while trying to spell “acetaminophen”.  I didn’t have the energy to argue,  I turned on video of a truck pull and tried to pretend that I didn’t just willingly expose my child to the youTube ramblings of some inbred cousin-fucker at the county fair who thinks pulling stuff with a vehicle specifically designed to pull stuff is a spectator sport.  It makes no sense to me, none at all.

I debated leaving the couch for the comfort of my bed…but I knew that this would only result in the boy running into my room every six seconds to give me a report on the truck videos.  It’s nice to be needed, but…you know…not all the time.   If I weren’t sick he wouldn’t want anything to do with me, somehow, the first signs of a cold triggers his need to be an inch from my face.

“I’ll just get myself some chocolatemilk,” he chirped as he bounced into the kitchen.  I have been encouraging independence, but cleaning up a gallon of milk and store-brand chocolate syrup off of the kitchen floor was not on my list of things to do.  “I’ll get it,” I wheezed as I tried to beat him to the fridge. In addition to the possibiliy of a milk tsunami,  I didn’t want him to see that his favorite beverage was now being made with something other than Hershey’s.  He’s been consuming a lot of store-brand food as of late, so far he has not caught on to my clever ruse.  Much like every child in America with access to a television…he prefers to dine on cuisine that has a commercial featuring a cartoon character, a catchy jingle, and a ridiculously high retail price.  He’s been eating knock-off Lucky Charms…I think they’re called Happy Stars or something like that…for about a week.  What they really should be called is marshmallows, monosodium glutamate, and crack.

I got to the fridge before my son, threw open the door, and cracked a little smile.  The contents of our refrigerator is starting to resemble one of an actual family and not the cooling receptacle of a bachelor.  We finally have more than coffee creamer, beer, and a jar of pickles being kept at a consistent temperature.  We moved about a month ago, we’re no longer living with my folks.  I envisioned the sweet sound of independence to sound more like birds singing…and not a persistent cough, sporadic puking, and whining of a bored child…but whatever, I’ll take what I can get.

‘Twas the night before Kindergarten…

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“Lunch, pants, beer,”  I repeated to myself as I fumbled around the kitchen.  I couldn’t get the zip loc baggies open.  The grapes I was trying to corral were slipping from my clutches.  I’ve never had a problem with plastic sandwich bags before, it was clearly nerves. ‘ Twas the night before kindergarten…and I was a wreck.  I changed my mantra…”Beer, lunch, pants”.  The boy was in bed, and I assumed, blissfully unaware of how insane his mother was driving herself with selecting the perfect snacks to accompany his peanut butter and jelly sandwich for his first ever cafeteria lunch.

It’s a good thing children are short, and therefore their clothing requires very little actual ironing.  I’m not exactly domestic, but I was giving it the old college try…well, community college try, to make sure my son didn’t feel self conscious as he tackled this new thing called elementary school.  I only mildly singed some arm hair as I reached for my beer over the iron.

I don’t remember my first day of kindergarten.  I couldn’t tell you what I ate for lunch, what I wore, or what neurotic things my mother obsessed about the night before.  I know this logically, so I’m not sure why I was acting this way.

We had an orientation of sorts the Friday before.  We got to see his classroom, meet his teacher, and tour the school. When we walked into the school it was pretty clear that the boy wasn’t impressed.  “What do you think, buddy?” I asked, overly expressing, like a Mary Kay sales woman.  Those bitches must get a free case of Valium or Ripple with every lip gloss they sell, because they’re entirely too happy about make-up.  I couldn’t believe I was acting this way…I sometimes do the hyper-gleeful schtick, hoping that my excitement will somehow rub off on him.  “I think it sucks, Mom,” he replied…totally on to me.  “I don’t think I’m gonna do the kindergarten thing,  I’ll just hang out with Grandpa and…you know…be a rock star.  Rock stars don’t go to school or eat chicken nuggets.  We discussed this, remember?”  I did remember, we have discussed this…he’s right about the rock stars not going to school…but, I wasn’t quite sure about the nuggets.  Rock stars would almost have to eat nuggets, something has to soak up the Southern Comfort.

I ignored his disgust and showed him the music room, which was equipped with a bitchin’ blue drum set.  Blue, I was recently informed, is my son’s new favorite color.  “Look baby, they can teach you how to be a rock star  It’s the right color and everything,” I said, grasping at anything I could to make this a positive experience.  “I’m not a baby, and drummer’s aren’t rock stars.  But, it might be something I can work with”.  I was getting shut down at every turn, and cursing my brother under my breath.  My brother is our family’s resident musician.  He can actually play the guitar, very well.  I just get drunk, climb up on stage, and sing, poorly. Uncle Mike isn’t a fan of drummers, I’m not sure why…you’d have to ask him.  “No nephew of mine is going to beat on the drums like a moron,” were his actual words.  Soon after he said this, my boy got his first electric guitar and amplifier.  Do I think Uncle Mike thinks that all drummers are morons?  No, I think it was a rare emotional outburst prompted by my brother wanting to mold my boy into a loud, long-haired, anti-establishment, nugget of awesome.  Aside for the hair thing, he pretty much came out of the womb this way.  I’m going to pay for this,  it’s already started.

The first day of school went pretty much as expected,  everyone’s mommy is reprimanded by two separate police officers on the way in, right?  “No, mommy isn’t going to get arrested.  No, the police officer doesn’t mean it.  Just keep walking, pretend he isn’t there,”   I said, as I tried to get him through the door of the school before the officer caught up to us.  It’s the first day of school, there was an entire fleet of vehicles resting on the berm.  I figured there was some kind of allowance, a parking “hall pass”, if you will.   Yes, I am aware that a traffic cop can arrest you.  I am also aware that parking on the sidewalk is illegal.  No, you shouldn’t park on the sidewalk just because everyone else is doing it.  I was trying to show the boy the importance of arriving to school on time.  I decided to forego the lesson on the whole “being considerate of others” bullshit.  I dropped him at his classroom and kissed his forehead.  He wiped my kiss away and stated “Tomorrow, I’m taking that damn bus,”.  “That’s not appropriate language, pal.” I whispered.  “Whatever.  Tomorrow, we bus.  I don’t want have to tell my teacher you got arrested”.  He made a valid point

As I exited the school, the second very angry police officer I totally pissed off was waiting for me by my car.  “You do realize that because you parked on the sidewalk, that guy had to walk around you!?”  he yelled within two inches of my face.  “That guy?” I asked, as I pointed at the slightly rotund man huffing down the sidewalk.  I bit my tongue and smiled, I was fighting back the urge to demand that the man thank me for forcing him to walk a few more steps…because, well, he didn’t have the physique of a “walker”.   I’m not judging, but it appeared that exercise isn’t this guy’s thing.  The cop picked the wrong guy to make an example of.  He knew it.  He’d already chosen the hard-nosed approach and caused a scene…he had to keep it going.  I understood.  At the end of his tirade I looked at him. “Tomorrow, we bus,” I said, quoting my son.  “What!!!?”  Officer Asshole yelled.  “My child will be a bus rider from here on out,  I’d hate to be a danger to society or… guys…who…uh, willingly walk into oncoming traffic”.  I was taking a chance here, I never really think about things like this…they just come out of my mouth.

He made it a point to tell me that he was issuing me a verbal warning, and walked away to scold some guy driving a minivan.  This guy was trying to jump the curb, while on his cell phone…someone can always out-do you, if you give it enough time.  As nervous as I am about putting my little man on a big yellow bus in the morning, I’m going to allow him to spread his wings…just a little.  Tomorrow, we bus.

Don’t pee in the pool.

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“I have to PEEEEEEEE!!!!,” my son shouted at me for the 86th consecutive time from the confines of the community pool.   It’s his new thing, announcing his need to perform basic human functions at a decibel that can be heard from anywhere in a 3 block radius.  I’m used to it, but the gaggle of condo commandos that had congregated under an umbrella at a table near the pool were obviously unnerved. They all turned to look at me, their skin permanently bronzed and leathery from years of retired-life sitting underneath a palm tree in the Florida sun.  I’m not judging, good for them…but holy shit, there’s this stuff…it’s called sunscreen…when applied liberally to the epidermis, it can help prevent you from looking like a talking saddle in a Hawaiian shirt.

As the sound of Frank Sinatra reverberated off of the buildings surrounding the pool, they asked to borrow one another’s reading glasses to inspect the “musicpod thing” one of them had ordered from “the inter-web”.  I dutifully grabbed a towel and escorted the boy to the bathroom.  His little dripping body was leaving a puddley trail of footprints the entire way.  I didn’t want them to think I was letting the boy use the pool as a giant urinal.  He giggled, pretending to be a Tyrannosaurus Rex making tracks to be discovered by a “Paweontowogist”  (that’s Paleontologist, for those of you that don’t speak 4 year old) as we strolled past the judging eyes of the Condominium Association Elite. The alpha male of the AARP members, a big guy, who used to be a New York cop, called out to me “Don’t let him have an accident! Hey, and when you gonna cut that kid’s hair? He looks like a fairy, for God’s sake,” as he gesticulated wildly.  I smiled and said “Never”.  It wasn’t the “I’m sorry my kid is interrupting your Sunday Jazz and incontinence breakfast” smile.  No, it was the “I’ve peed in your pool and I’m probably gonna do it again” smile.  They’ve done it too, everyone has.  Just because you stand around telling people where to park and yelling at kids for running on the patio doesn’t mean you’re immune to being too lazy to get out of the water when you have to go.  As far as his hair goes, I like it long and until my son demands that I shave it all off, it’s going to bounce off of his shoulder blades.

Ever since my son mastered the art of using a toilet it’s become quite the topic of conversation in my home. It’s like some mythical portal. If it weren’t for human waste and automobiles, the only thing the kid would probably say to me is “I don’t want to talk right now”. When he’s not using the can himself, he’s offering its services to anyone he thinks could benefit from taking a big dump.  We don’t entertain a lot, but last week during a family dinner he took it upon himself to tell my Aunt Lois that “if she needed to frow-up or had to poop, she could use his bafroom”.  Aunt Lois didn’t appear to be experiencing any gastro-intestinal distress, but perhaps he thought if there was a sudden issue he’d give her his blessing.  I’m always telling him that he needs to make our company feel welcome…his interpretation is totally not what I meant.

My mother is always quick to point out that “none of her children acted this way” in regards to the fascination with the toilet.  I’d like to point out that I have yet to visit the emergency room to have a french fry removed from neither my son’s left or right nostril, nor has a volunteer fire department been called to assist his safe extraction from the boughs of an extremely tall pine tree.  I’m not discounting my mothers parenting skills, I’m just stating the facts.

I’m not worried about his fixation, something else will take its place in a few months.  I worked with a girl who’s kindergarten aged son was obsessed with Justin Beiber a few years ago.  Every time the kid heard his music or someone said his name he would shriek and go into a trance-like state singing “Baby, baby, baby…ooooh” and do a little leaping jig.  Yeah, I’d talk about shit…using a bullhorn…on the courthouse steps with my son everyday, rather than have to endure that embarrassment.

The wheels on the bus…

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9


The boy was in the backyard climbing on the swing-set.  He was perfecting his latest daredevil move: sliding down the slide on his face, and singing the “I like getting dirty,” song he’s been working on for a few months.  Aside from variations in pitch and pronunciation; I, like, getting, and dirty are the only words in the song.  What it lacks in lyrical depth, it makes up for in enthusiasm.  There’s a dance that accompanies the song, its no “Electric Slide” or “Hustle” but I do it with him on occasion because it’s infectious; think one-man Conga Line with some hip gyration for added flair.

“Mommy…uh…hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you…do you think you could, uh…push me on the swing?” I wasn’t in a push-you-on-the-swing kind of mood.  I was quietly brooding, trying to figure out why in the hell I was asked to attend a parent/teacher conference for a preschool student.  “No, buddy.  You can do it yourself,” I said from the comfort of my chair on the porch.  “Pwease?” “No.” “Prwetty pwease?” “No.” “If you don’t get out herwe an push me on the swing, I’m going to come in there and lick your arm!”  After I stopped laughing and composed myself, I again, firmly answered no.  I did so on general principle.  I can’t have him walking around, thinking he can threaten people with arm-licking to get his way his entire life.  I’m only half Sicilian.

Because he is my son, he made good on his threat.  Angrily climbing down off of the swing-set, he stomped into the screened-in patio on the back of our house and licked my left elbow.  He looked at me and grinned, pleased with himself.  He was more than a bit surprised when I laughed, stuck my finger in my mouth, and then inserted it into his ear.  “You can’t out-gross me, son.” I said sternly.  I thought about putting him in a headlock and giving him a noogie, but I figured I’d save the heavy artillery for another day.

“So, why does the director of the school need to see me?” I asked, figuring it was as good a time as any to try and get some information out of the little guy.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  “Did you get a sad-face?”  “Not exactlwy.”  “Did you call someone a name?” “No, but that Geno kid is a piece of crwap.  He threw Legos at me durwing ciwrcle time”  “It’s not nice to call someone a piece of crap, dude.” “Wright, poop.  I’m sorwy, Mom.”  “He hit me in the eye, though.  That makes him crwappy, wight?”  “Did you tell Ms. Patty about the Legos?” “Nope, I sat on his face and pwetended to farwt.” “It’s not nice to sit on someones face and pretend to fart,” I said, marking that down on the mental list of things I can’t believe I’ve ever had to say to another living creature.

I was sure the meeting had something to do with the faux flatulence, that and his refusal to actually do anything academic in school.  I’ve been spoken to about his lack of interest in the curriculum, my answer to that has been “he’s four, this isn’t Harvard” every time.   The school does not agree with my approach. I don’t care.  I didn’t enroll him there to learn how to execute polynomials and recite the Preamble to the Constitution.  I sent him there so that he would socialize with other snotboxes his age and…maybe eat some paste.  I thought he’d learn the correct words to “The Wheels on the Bus,” and not the ones I threw in because I couldn’t remember (the bums on the bus go glug, glug, glug is surprisingly not a verse in this popular children’s song, not even if you pantomime lifting a bottle of Night Train to your lips).

I know there’s a lot of people that feel that early education is paramount to success.  I agree with them…sort of.  Well, I used to agree with them…until my four year old came home with a homework schedule…then I started to feel like these people had lost their fucking minds.  Homework? In preschool?  Are we trying to make everything about school suck from the very beginning? What happened to singing and breaking your arm on the monkey bars at recess?

I tried to comply with the school’s demands…really, I did. I sat with him every day and argued, my side of the conversation went something like this: “Write the letter “E”, buddy.  Like this…ok, get the marker out of your mouth…write on the paper, not the dog…please stop stabbing the paper.  I’ll get a new sheet of paper. What sound does the letter “E” make? No, not “moo”…close. No, not “butt” either.”  Wash. Rinse. Repeat.  Through many afternoons with the alphabet and evenings with beer; I determined that my son wasn’t ready to put pen to paper.  I learned that I can still write the hell out of the letter “E” and he learned that whining drives mommy insane and makes her eyes bulge out of her head.  I did this until I got the most poorly written note I have even seen, sent home from Ms. Patty.  It said “I’ve been having so trouble with him focusing.  Just keep practice at home.  Sometime it take some time. :) ” It was written on a school bus shaped note, someday I’m going to frame it.  Apparently Ms. Patty has mastered the ability to write her letters, but has not yet grasped the concept of focus, herself.  I was going to correct it and send it back with a note of my own that said “He’s four.  What’s your excuse?”  I decided against it,  I didn’t want my son to be treated unfairly because his mother is a smart ass.

I stopped forcing the issue, I wasn’t going to make him hate school and I certainly wasn’t going to teach him that he could screw around for 6 hours and I would eventually give in and do his homework so he wouldn’t get in trouble.  A lesson in accountability lasts a lifetime, a collage of pictures of things starting with the letter “E” only lasts until the dog eats it.  You could argue that it’s my responsibility to push him to excel, and one of the things I need to do in order for him to succeed is make sure he does his homework. You could also argue that with the right amount of tutelage, you could teach a goat to hum the theme song to “Indiana Jones”. My response to both of these arguments is you can push all you want but…the student has to be ready and willing.

It’s not that he can’t sing the alphabet song or point out the fact the “Chevy” starts with “C”…but beyond that, he simply doesn’t give a shit.  This is totally ok with me, he’s got plenty of time.  Everyone learns at a different pace.  I think forcing a child to behave in a manner that exceeds their maturity level is a very bad idea, I am aware that I am in the minority here.  Sure, I could yell and threaten, and my kid would learn to please me out of fear, that’s not how I roll.  I’m not trying to raise a weasely, Yes-man.  I’m trying to create a man that can think, act and live in an manner that is satisfactory to his standards.

When I showed up for the parent/teacher conference there was no mention of the Lego incident. Educational catch-phrases were thrown around, I hate catch-phrases, regurgitating the stupid thoughts of someone else discounts what the messenger is trying to communicate.  As I expected, the conversation centered on his disinterest in school.  They had given him an assessment test and meticulously written down all of his answers.  As I reviewed the results, I couldn’t keep myself from laughing.  The director of the school was not amused.  It was obvious to me that my boy was toying with them…because he thinks he’s funny.  I’m not sure how funny I’m going to find him at 16, but right now…he’s hilarious.  They asked him what sound a pig makes and he barked.  They asked him what 1+1 equaled and he answered “boring”.  It was implied that I was doing a poor job of exposing him to the world around him.  My mind wandered to a conversation the boy and I had recently as she gave me parenting advice.  I shook my head, but I wasn’t listening…there’s no need to absorb advice you have no intention of taking.  My son’s voice declaring “Mitt Wromney is a goofball with funny hair,” floated through my head.  If I’m doing such a piss-poor job of exposing him to the world, why is my boy giving me unsolicited opinions on a GOP candidate?   There’s not a lot of politics being talked about in my home, especially of the Republican variety.

“If he doesn’t learn these things now, he’s going to do poorly on the Kindergarten entrance exam,” she said, I finished the statement in my head with “and that will send him straight into a life of crime, trailer park living and face tattoos.”  There was no way she was going to get me to take this seriously.  This experience is supposed to be fun.  I thanked for her time, and told her I would continue to work with him, but I wasn’t going to stop trying to make learning enjoyable and appropriate to him and his personality.  I added that if necessary, I would hold him back a  year to make sure he was mature enough to go to Kindergarten. You would have thought I said I was going to feed him a steady diet of paint chips and take him to visit Charles Manson on our next family vacation.  “You can’t do that, it’ll effect his self-esteem” she declared.  “Right,” I said, on my way out of the door

When my son came jumping down the hall after school was over I asked him how school was, “borwing” he answered.  “We learwned about the Jungle, that place sucks. Therwe’s no Monster Trwucks or anything.”  On the way home I reinforced the school lesson with a little Guns  N’ Roses “Welcome to the Jungle” and Steve Miller’s “Jungle Love”.  “Ms. Patty didn’t tell us about the music in the Jungle, that would have made school awesome!”

Who’s gonna help me be awesome?

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12


So, I got the job I interviewed for on Tuesday.  I started on Wednesday, I wasn’t expecting that.  Normally, you start on a Monday or something.  I wanted a job, I just didn’t think it would happen so suddenly.  I had a list of things I was planning on doing before I was gainfully employed, win the lottery was number one, do some laundry was second.  I’m not complaining by any stretch of the imagination.  I really like the idea of a paycheck and doing something other than writing about being unemployed and poor.  It’s still sort of surreal, like I’m playing secretary and at any moment my game of make-believe will end. I hope that’s not the case, but you never know.
My son is mad at me, really mad.  When I told him I had an interview he said “don’t go back to work.  Who’s gonna help me be awesome?”  it was heart-breaking.  I reminded him that I’d had lots of interviews before and his levels of awesome were not depleted.  He didn’t buy it. He was even less enthused when I told him that I had gotten the job.  I believe his actual words were “pppppbbbbbtttzzz” or however you spell the sound of someone sticking their tongues out and blowing.  He was making a “thumbs-down” gesture, simultaneously.  It was encouraging.  I know it’s just an adjustment thing, and by the end of the week he’ll be used to the new arrangement. I don’t like the idea of leaving him, but I liked the idea of everything I own being repossessed by the bank even less.  Perhaps I will have some extra coin to buy his love with talking plastic toys.  He spent the entire ride to school this morning asking why I was wearing make-up and grandma’s pants.  “Why don’t  you go home and put on your flip-flops, mommy?” came floating over from the backseat at least a couple hundred times.  “You’re gonna pick me up from school when this work thing is borwing, right?”  I think he thinks my job is a phase, and I’ll be back to normal in a few weeks.

For the record, I was not wearing my mother’s pants.  They’re mine, but the last time I wore them he was too young to remember.  He’s not used to seeing me in anything “officey”.  I guess no one else is either, because the lady at the front desk at his preschool didn’t recognize me. She asked if I was his aunt.  It’s not like I had a face transplant in the last 48 hours.  Geeze,  put on a pair of slacks and a turtleneck…and all of the sudden people don’t know who you are.  I guess I must clean-up nice or she just cleaned her contacts.

My first day of work was rough.  I came home, did the dinner/bath/bedtime battle with my son and crawled into bed.  I was contemplating not going back.  But, I don’t claim defeat that easy.  It was like my first day was a hazing ritual.  I wasn’t given any direction and I was told at the end of the day that I needed to be more proactive.  When I say I was given no direction, I mean nothing.  I walked in, said “good morning,” no one said anything in return, and the phone rang…so I answered it.  I sat at my desk and spent the day poking around the network, trying to figure out what in the hell I’d gotten myself into.  No one told me where to find anything or how anything worked.  It’s a good thing I’m not the village idiot, because they’d be replacing a lot of office equipment.  I was as proactive as I was willing to be, as the new girl.  I wasn’t going to go in there and start taking things apart asking “gee, this looks expensive, how do I break it?”

Today was better, I’m hoping the trend continues.  As much as I’d like to heed my son’s advice and stay home in my flip-flops, it ain’t in the cards.

Independence and freedom…version 2.0

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So, my awesome parents got me a new laptop for Christmas.  It’s shiny, fast, sleek and pretty.  It also has a mind of it’s own and thinks I have really good eyesight.  It keeps “zooming out” on the web-pages I am trying to view, making the fonts reeeeeaaaaally small.  I haven’t figured out what it is that I’m doing that is causing the lilliputian sized words.  I’m pretty sure it’s operator error.  The good people at HP probably wouldn’t have installed a “drive the user crazy, random shrinking feature” but if they did, I’ve gotta hand it to them. It’s entertaining.

I’m trying to use the help thing that comes installed on the computer, but that thing is about as useless as…well…something that is completely useless.  I was going to say “useless as tits on a bull” there, but after careful consideration…I decided that bull tits might be useful to a very small sector of the population.  Maybe there’s a cattle rancher somewhere that specializes in herding gender confused bovines?  I haven’t been to Whole Foods lately, I’m sure that there’s a few packages of dead cow that are labeled “Kobe Beef:  Hand massaged.  Raised on a special diet of grain feed and Barbara Streisand music”.  I’ve seen Japanese game shows, they do some pretty strange things to their people…why would the cows be any different?

The symbol for the help directory is a blue and white question mark, I find that clicking on it and typing the word “zoom” in the search bar is not answering any of my questions.  It’s just leaving me more confused.  I think zoom is a pretty specific term, but the people that programed my laptop must think I am asking for an existential interpretation.  Oddly enough, typing the word interpretation has just caused the screen to zoom in to a visible size.  That’s better.  I wonder what I did to fix that? I’ve worked in the computer repair field before.  I find that 90% of everything I’ve fixed happens by accident.  Whatever, I’ll take the credit.

The laptop came with a bunch of programs that I’ll never use, already installed.  It’s taken me a few days to remove them and/or hide them from sight because they refuse to go away.  I remember when a computer came with disks and you got to pick and choose the software that you wanted to curse at.  The computer keeps insisting that I use Bing as my search engine. Little does it know I went Google exclusively, a few weeks ago.  I have Google on my phone, on my computer, and now even on my TV.  The Google TV was a gift from my boyfriend.  If you don’t have this wonderful creation, I suggest you stop what you’re doing and go buy it, now. Once you get it set-up, you can finish reading my blog from the comfort of your sofa.  It was purchased for my son and me, but the whole family has gotten in on the action.  The boy can now watch videos of Monster Trucks and people falling down 24-hours a day, if he so desires.  He could probably use it to learn something too, but we all know that’s not gonna happen.

I worry that this constant exposure to technology is screwing up his childhood.  Santa bought him a bike for Christmas.  He was super excited about it until today, when I took him out for his first long ride.  I thought the bike would give him a sense of freedom and independence.  He got about halfway down the sidewalk and said “Ok, I’m tirewd.  How do you turn this thing on?”  I laughed, trying to explain that it doesn’t turn on and off…you just use your feet to make it go.  He looked at me with disdain and said “what? Arwe you nuts? There has to be an app for this thing.  Use your phone to downwoad something.”  I wound up carrying the bike down the sidewalk for a few blocks, until he was ready to try again.  He seemed like he finally believed that the only thing that could power the bike was a four year old boy.  He got on and with a few pushes was sailing down the street.  This lasted until he got spooked and abruptly turned the handlebars, sending him ass-over-teakettle, nearly head-first into a parked Nissan.  Once the dust settled and I knew that his injuries weren’t life threatening, he climbed up off the pavement, kicked the bike and said “I could weally hurwt myself on this death-trwap.  I’m surprwised you got so old if this is the only thing you had to play with when you were little.”   So much for independence and freedom, I’ll be searching the Internet for bike safety websites and anti-aging creams.