Category Archives: Parenting

Conversations with Santa.

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We were standing in line, behind a screaming bundle of snot dressed to the teeth in red velvet and a bow in her hair that all but eclipsed her face.  The lace and ruffles on her socks probably weighed as much as she did.  Her parents were trying to appease her with baby talk and rattle toys. “Mommy, that baby is hurwting my earws,” my son whispered to me, trying to be discreet.  “Mine too,” I agreed.  But, it wasn’t her screaming that were causing me pain, it was her idiot parents.  They were genuinely befuddled by their little girls’ behavior and were apologizing profusely to anyone that would listen.  “I don’t know why she’s acting like this, I’m sorry,” the mother said over the shrieking.  “No worries, I’ve been there,” I replied.

First-time parents are always apologizing for the very normal things their kids are doing.  I’m sure I did it, too.  It’s annoying.   It wasn’t like they’d dragged her to a Poetry Reading at the trendy coffeehouse, we were standing in a mall waiting to see Santa Claus. If you’re in this line and not accustomed to the shrill sounds of tricycle motors, you’re shit out of luck.  I knew why the kid was screaming like a banshee.  She had a bow size of the Hubble Telescope slapped to the side of her head and was dressed from head to toe in stiff, hot, itchy clothing.  Every five seconds someone was shaking a noise-making apparatus in her face and speaking to her like she was a moron.  I’d be screaming too.

“When is Santa gonna be back from lunch, mommy?” “Soon, buddy.  I hope he skipped the Eggnog and went straight for the Whiskey.”  “What?” “Nothing, I was thinking out loud, pumpkin.” I’ve been making the pilgrimage to the mall to have my son’s picture taken with Santa for the past five years.  I have never arrived at an hour when Santa was not on his lunch or coffee break.  Not only does the bastard steal my glory, he wastes my time.  The man that brought me so much enjoyment as a child is quickly becoming number one on my hit list.

Santa came back from lunch to roaring applause.  It must be good to be him, I never got a standing ovation when I came back to work from a long lunch.  The baby in front of us predictably wailed through her photo session.  “Oh my God! She never acts like this,” her father exclaimed.  I wanted to shove the rattle down his throat and scream “the reason she never does this is because you never dress her up like a doll and hand her to a very hairy stranger, while crowds of people stand around and watch.  What’s wrong with you, you fucking retard?”  I didn’t though, not in front of the fat man. You’d have been proud of me.

My son waited patiently for his turn.  He was determined to make the most of his Santa meet and greet.  With the Toys R Us ad under his arm, he walked over to the bearded elf and introduced himself.  He shook his hand, climbed up on his lap and whipped out the ad.  He had circled some toys he thought were noteworthy.  It always surprises me when he acts like this, this is a child that has peppered pretty much everything he’s said to me for the past six weeks with the words “poop” or “butt”.  I was afraid that Santa was going to ask him what he wanted for Christmas and he was going to reply “Poop poop pee doop”.  Actually, I wasn’t afraid, that would have been hilariously awesome.

The photographer interrupted their business meeting to snap the picture, after this Santa lifted my son off of his lap.  He thought he was done, but my son had a few more speaking points.  “I’m not on the Naughty List, wright?” he asked.  Santa agreed.  “So, you’re sure there will be prwesents?  I just want to make sure I’m on the Good List.  Do you have a copy of the list on you?  I’d like to see it.” my little man wanted proof.  “The list is in the North Pole,” Santa was quick on his feet.  “You can’t get it on your phone?  I saw you on the iPhone commercial.  You asked the lady in the phone to get it for you,” my son was quicker.  “I left my phone in the Sleigh.  It’s charging.”  Santa confessed.  “You should go get it, my Mom never leaves her phone is the car.  She says someone might steal it.”  “I’m sure you’re on the Nice List,”  Santa finally relented.  “See? I told you,” the boy said to me as we walked away.  “Do you want to see the picture?” I asked.  “No, I know what we look like,” he chirped as he bounced through the mall.

It was nearly 11:00 a.m., Christmas morning when my son finally opened his eyes.  I had to wake him.  “Santa came!” I announced.  “Whatever. Can I have some chocolate milk?” he asked as he dismissed me from his room.  He was pretty sure their meeting went well.  Although he did point out that he didn’t get everything on his list.  “I asked him to upgrade my vehicle.  He missed the green trwuck,” he whispered to me after all the presents had been opened.  “If he’d had his phone, he would have been able to snap a picturwe.”  I’m sure Santa will have to sit through a Power Point presentation and sign a contract next year.  I hope he’s prepared.

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P90x is trying to kill me.

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Stupidly, I started P90X with my boyfriend the other day.  If you don’t know what P90X is, it’s an “exercise” program on DVD’s.  Exercise is in quotations there because it isn’t really exercise; it’s mind-numbing torture set to music.  I have a feeling it was developed by the guards at Guantanamo Bay to punish the detainees.  When it arrives in the mail, it comes with a pull up bar and a meal plan. It should come with a defibrillator and a paramedic in a can.  I’m in so much pain, I’m whimpering every time I move.  The last time I was this uncomfortable, I went to the hospital and got sent home with a prescription for Vicodin and a brand new baby.  The only part of my body that’s functioning without severe discomfort is my fingers.  I guess the fitness guru; Tony Horton (no relation to Tim Horton and his fantastic doughnuts, just incase you Canadian folks are wondering) hasn’t found a way to sculpt the phalanges yet. 

I ordered this six-disc set of satanic rituals about a year and a half ago, I intended on doing this exercise program in lieu of joining a gym.  I’ve had two gym memberships in my life.  Historically, I never actually go use the exercise equipment.  The memberships basically only inhibited me from spending $50.00 more on beer, a month.  I discovered after signing the first contract that I don’t like working out with people around.  I hate waiting for some sweaty, mouth breathing slob to disembark the treadmill just to run like a hamster on a wheel, while watching CNN with no sound.  Plus, I was afraid to touch anything.  I didn’t want to contract some brain-eating fungus from the free weights.  I forgot about that when I signed the second contract, but then replaced my initial discovery with the alternate realization that I don’t like working out…period.

I was really excited when the P90X arrived.  I was hoping I would use it regularly and start living a healthier lifestyle.  Five minutes in to watching the first DVD, I thought, “Fuck this.  Get me a Twinkie,” and changed my mind.  The P90X went unviewed by me until Monday.  My boyfriend, who willingly tortures himself with this exercise program on a semi-regular basis, suggested I should join him.  I foolishly agreed. 

I blame Dora the Explorer for my misery, because that’s easier than blaming myself.  I have this amusing habit of changing the lyrics of songs I find horrifically annoying, to more entertaining versions, in my head.  If you haven’t tried it, I highly recommend it.  It’s normally harmless; I’ll change something like “direction” to “erection” and giggle at my immature remixes.  This habit has gotten me into a bit of trouble.  For those of you that don’t have children, Dora, like her name implies, is an explorer.  She and her monkey friend “Boots” travel around a fictional landscape on the Nickelodeon channel singing in English and Spanish.  Near as I can figure, the monkey is named Boots because he is…wait for it…wearing boots.  I don’t understand how cartoons can get away with this shit.  I wear thong underwear, no one calls me “Butt Floss”. 

Anyway, Dora and Boots are annoying to me and highly entertaining to children.  They lack creativity and are accompanied by many singing inanimate objects on their 30-minute mission to drive me bat-shit crazy.  One of these singing characters is a backpack.  The backpack has its own theme music…it goes something like “Back-pack!  Back-pack! Back-pack! Back-pack!”  See? I told you, no imagination there.  In order to keep myself from sending death threats to a fictional character, I changed the lyrics to a more age appropriate “Back fat! Back fat”.  My version sings the praises of the little layer of blubber women sometimes develop on their back that rolls over the top of their braziers.  You’ve seen it before; don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.  Men have it too, but it’s not as obvious because they don’t have to squeeze into a bra to go out into public.  I was pleased with myself for altering the tune, until I happened to get a glimpse of the backside of my body and discovered that I had developed back fat. 

Damn you, Dora.  If you weren’t so repetitive and annoying I never would’ve had to change your song and could go on blissfully oblivious.  I tried to ignore it, but once I know something is there, I tend to obsess about it.  I know that there is no undergarment that is going make my back fat look more voluptuous.  Since I don’t have a plastic surgeon on speed dial and am not brave enough to try do-it-yourself liposuction with my dad’s shop vac, the only way to banish the pudge is through exercise.  

We’re on day two; I cannot move any of my extremities.  I’m told the pain will subside and the exercise will get easier.  I don’t buy it.   I have only proved to myself how out of shape and uncoordinated I am.  I’m trying to keep up with Mr. Horton and those muscular assholes in the video, but I know I look like a drunken Water Buffalo.  It’s hard to follow instructions when you don’t know your right from your left.  He keeps encouraging me to do what I can, but I think I may just invest in a few baggy t-shirts until I can find something new to worry about.  P90X is going to kill me.

Your departure has been delayed…

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“Mombo! Wisten, I wrote a new song for my formonica.  It’s called Henrwietta on the farwm”.  It never fails, when my son sees the hair dryer out and the concealer being applied, the bathroom turns into a concert hall.  The kid can want absolutely nothing to do with me all day, but the second he thinks I may be going out, he’s determined to delay my preparation.  Already running behind, I was getting ready to attend a little Christmas gathering with a few of my lady friends. I was fairly certain there would be pictures taken and was trying not to look like a broken down sea hag.  He now calls me “Mombo” for reasons I have yet to determine. It could be an homage to Sly Stalone’s Rambo, a reference to the dance, or something he came up with entirely on his own, whatever the inspiration…it’s my new name.

My brother is a musician and has made it a point to fill my son’s life with all kinds of musical instruments.  Two years ago, he bought him a drum.  I’m still actively plotting against him for this gift.  (Someday, Mikey….someday.)  I was trying to figure out if he was responsible for the harmonica my son is blowing into when I was distracted by how good he actually sounds.  When he’s done playing “Henrietta on the farm,” I clap and tell him he sounds like John Popper, “I’m not done yet, Mombo”.  “THANK YOU, CLWEVELAND! AND GOOD NIGHT” he yells, as he takes a bow.  The Lightning McQueen sunglasses he’s wearing tumble off of his face in the process.  Why’s he wearing sunglasses?  Everyone knows harmonica players wear sunglasses, duh.

“Ok.  Now I’m done. Who’s John Pop Tart?” he asks.  “Popper, buddy. John Popper.  He’s a guy that plays the harmonica in a band called Blues Traveler,” I explain, leaving out the parts about Popper’s near fatal heart failure, gastric bypass surgery, and alleged marijuana possession.  What’s important here…is the harmonica.  “He’s from Cleveland” I add.  I can tell by the glaze that is forming over his eyes that he’s not really in the mood for a history lesson on music right now; he just wants to jam.  My brain is pulling double duty; I debate whether or not to curl my eyelashes in front of him as I contemplate asking where in the hell he came up with the song title.  I decide to do neither.

I plucked my eyebrows while he was watching once; this resulted in him high-jacking my favorite pair of tweezers.  I still haven’t been able to find them.  I know he has them because “Back-up Elmo” now has curious bald spots above his eyes and I occasionally find red fur hidden behind the bed.  Back-up Elmo was purchased to replace the old, well-loved “Regular Elmo”.   My mother’s attempt to transfer my son’s affections from the legless puppet that looks like he’s escaped from a leprosy colony, to a new, clean monster, complete with the lower half of his body, failed miserably.  Back-up Elmo is always going to play second fiddle to the amputee; I bet that chaps his ass.  I really miss those tweezers.  

“Can I have some peanut butter crackers?” he sheepishly asks.  He’s watching himself in the mirror to be sure he’s making his best cute face.  “You’re really pulling out all the stops to keep me from getting ready, aren’t you?” I question, just to let him know I was on to him.  This is a child that will never admit to being hungry.  But, because I’m part Sicilian and genetically predisposed to feeding people, I put down my angled eye-shadow brush and make my way to the kitchen to prepare the snack.  I know damn good and well these crackers are going to be fed to the dog when he thinks I’m not looking.  In the cabinet I find the peanut butter and the box of “Limited Edition” snowflake shaped Ritz crackers.  Why do food companies insist on printing stupid things like “Limited Edition” on their packaging?  It’s food.  Food has a shelf life.  Technically, ALL food is “Limited Edition”.

I pull three snowflake shaped crackers out of the waxed, paper sleeve and plop a bit of peanut butter on each one.  “Can you at weast make smiwey faces?” my boy asks, displeased with my hurried attempt to nourish.  I smooth out the dollops and artfully carve smiley faces with the knife.  He’s satisfied for the moment and I go back in the bathroom to continue with the make-up.  Predictably, the dog and he join me a few seconds later.  My big, clumsy hound was exhibiting the tell tale signs of peanut butter mouth, and it appears that she’s come in to thank me for the snack.  “Mom, I taught Tiny a new twick. Watch!”.  “This oughta be good,” I mumble under my breath. Tiny, as lovable as she is, isn’t the kind of dog that does tricks.  She does whatever she damn well pleases, which normally involves stealing cupcakes off the kitchen counter and laying in the way.  She’s more of a furry hurdle, than she is crowd-pleasing, wonder puppy. “Sit! Speak! Rowl-ovew!  Tiny did not follow his directions, instead she let out a big burp and laid down, taking the boy off of his feet in the process. 

I wanted to scream “Oh Jesus! Just let me draw my eyebrows on!” but I couldn’t, because I was laughing too hard to form the words.  “Get off of me Tiny,” a muffled voice demanded from under the dog.  Tiny wasn’t moving.  “Plwease?” that didn’t work either.  “Wanna go for a walk?” Ahh, the magic words.  She leapt up and released the boy.  “We’re gonna have to prwactice some morwe” he declared, once he finally got the feeling back in his legs.  I started with the eyebrow penciling, only to discover that I was using a lovely shade of purple eyeliner, instead of the “natural blonde” I should have selected.  Yep, I had two lilac arches on my forehead.  There isn’t a lot you can do to correct this and I had to start over. 

It was almost 6:30, this is the time my son’s father picks him up for their weekly overnight visit.  As much as I hate to see the boy go, I was really looking forward to being able to get ready without interruption.  I put the make-up on hold and decided to get dressed.  I bought a new outfit with a gift certificate I got back in September. As I put it on, I laugh, thinking about how it’s something I would have worn as a freshman in high school.  Leggings are back…and since it seems that they are the only things Macy’s is selling in the way of pants these days, I have no choice but to wear them again.  “You wook stylwish,” the little guy compliments from my doorway as he watches me get dressed.  “Stylwish” is something he says when I look fashionable, so I’m pleased with my wardrobe selection.  “Which shoes?” I ask my budding clotheshorse.  “Boots,” he says, matter-of-factly.  “Really? Boots? Ok”.  I put on the pair of ankle booties per his suggestion, and immediately go from feeling like I look now and edgy, to feeling like a hipster Pomeranian in fake patent leather.   I was going to have to change the footwear, after he left. 

The headlights shining through the window by the door alert me to the fact that his father has arrived.  We go out to greet him, but he is lingering in his truck, writing something with a pained expression on his face.  This expression always makes me happy, it means it’s child support check day.  Our son happily jumps around while we make small talk.  I make sure that he has his school clothes, Elmo and the harmonica.  My son is holding the armful of plastic, talking trucks he always takes with him for entertainment.  The combination of talking toys and musical instruments ensures that it’s not going to be a quiet night on the farm.  His father begrudgingly hands me the check.  Parting with money, unless its being spent on himself, is something he doesn’t do very well. 

As he assists my son’s entrance into his vehicle, I glance at the paper note.  It’s not signed.  “Uh, hey.  You didn’t sign this,” I chirp, while standing near the passenger-side door.  “Oh, right. Sorry. I got distracted,” he apologizes, as he snatches back the check and quickly makes some scribbles on the signature line.  I know him well enough to know that the only thing more important to him than Jameson Irish Whiskey…is money.  I can also tell when he’s trying to put one over on me, which is why I looked at the check in the first place.  He didn’t forget to sign the check; he was hoping to be out of the driveway before I noticed.  I never gave him the impression I was simple, I don’t know why he insists on acting as though I am. 

The only thing I can do is shake my head and laugh.  As I do this, a moment from the “Sara must be stupid” chronicles pops into my head.  A few months after we initially split-up, he got wind that I might be dating another man.  For some reason, he fancy’s himself quite the puppet master…only he’s a moron, and you have to have at least some smarts to manipulate people.  He sent me roses, anonymously, thinking I would call whomever it was he thought I was seeing and thank them for the flowers.  Oh the hilarity he must’ve assumed would ensue after he sent the long-stemmed prank, trying to make me look like I was courting multiple dudes. 

My life was so upside-down at this point that I didn’t assume anything.  The box of buds confused me.  I called 1-800-Flowers because I thought the delivery was a mistake.  While the operator would not divulge the identity of the person responsible, she did confirm their geographic location and first few letters of their last name.  The roses went in the trash and I went on the warpath.  My anger and actions after that only really accomplished making two lawyers very wealthy.  We don’t get along any better now than we did then…but we now have court papers to keep us from acting like the infantile twits we both can be.  It’s sad. 

After the boy is settled in his car seat, I quietly suggest he play “Henrietta on the farm” for his father, as I kiss him goodbye.  “I don’t wanna.  I can’t play the formonica,” he declares.  Having a child this age is a lot like caring for Michigan J. Frog.  When no one is around he could be singing “Hello my baby. Hello my honey. Hello my ragtime gal,” while wearing a top hat and doing the can-can.  As soon as he has an audience, the only thing he is likely to do is croak slowly, and do nothing.  He’s good at making me look like an idiot.  I’m used to it.  I bid them farewell and go back in to the house to rapidly throw my face on.  I do so at an impressive speed and dart out the door, now having 15 minutes to get to a location that was more than an hour away.  I don’t like to be late, but it’s something that comes with the territory.  I knew the girls would understand.  I got more than a few compliments on the boots my son selected, which surprised me…because, in the rush, I honestly forgot I was wearing them.

Please stop singing about fruit salad.

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I never used to understand people with children, until I was one of them.  Now, that’s not to say I agree with everything professional diaper changers do and say.  I don’t.  It would seem that a lot of parents expect other’s to modify their behavior just because they have multiplied.  I find this phenomenon to be presumptuous, strange and more than a little egotistical.  Yes, you are only a child for a brief period of time and you should be able to enjoy it.  But, if your parents make it their business to sanitize your environment so there is absolutely nothing that isn’t child friendly about it, you grow up to be a gullible idiot.

I have people apologizing to me because they’ve accidentally used a four-letter word in the presence of my son, all the time.  I appreciate the sentiment, really I do, but it’s not necessary.  I use four-letter words in front of my child quite a bit.  Don’t get all crazy and judgmental on me here, I don’t hold him down and scream “Shit!!” in his face or anything.  But, if it happens to come out of my mouth, oh well.  I don’t make a big deal about it, so neither does he. I kinda did this on purpose, I didn’t want to be the parent of the kid that is always running to his or her mom at social functions, reporting “So and so said a bad word,” I hate that fucking kid. You do too; it’s ok to admit it.  You’re amongst friends here. 

Some parents are fanatical about profanity, like it’s the words themselves that are going to send their children down a path of ill repute. I for one, would much prefer that you said the word “ass” in front of my boy, instead of “tushie”.  The word “tushie” just annoys the piss out of me.  There is nothing worse than a adult who gets used to speaking in child-like vocabulary and can’t bring themselves to use the word “toilet” in a sentence.  There was an Office Manager at one of the places I worked, she was in her 50’s, wore a lot of sweaters with kittens on them and her children were in college.  Although she was a nice lady, she seemed to be old beyond her years, I think her vocabulary had something to do with this.  The woman would often have to report plumbing malfunctions to the landlord.  I listened to her leave messages like “The potty is clogged on the second floor, again” more than I’d like to admit.  She insisted on speaking to everyone like they were in preschool, by the end of the workday I wanted to beat her face in while singing the alphabet.  It made me wonder if her kids were walking around the college campus, asking where they could get a sippy cup of beer or telling stories about how some girl touched their no-no’s at a frat party.  It takes a village to raise a child, and every village has at least one idiot. 

While some of my habits are different, I’m basically still the same broad.  No one is ever going to look at me and say “Gee, Sara.  Being a mother has really changed you,” unless they’re lying.  I haven’t really done very much to myself, personality wise, since he entered the world.  I probably should, but what fun would that be?  If you get in my car right now…assuming you could find my keys…because, I sure as hell don’t know where I’ve left them…you’d find that there is not one “Wiggles” CD in my vast, traveling music collection.  I hate the Wiggles and everything they represent.  I think they assume children are morons and I don’t see any reason why anyone should walk around annoyingly singing the praises of fruit salad.  My son and I jammed to Bob Marley on the way home from school this morning, a few verses of Bob teaches more valuable lessons than the entire Wiggles anthology. 

I used to live next door to a family with a small child, before I had my own.  If you’ve never enjoyed condominium living, there is nothing quite like it.  Someone is always complaining about noise…well, at least they were when I lived there, because evidently…I’m noisy.  The young and single and old can cohabitate without much discord.  The old can’t hear the blaring, late night music and the single aren’t going to complain about the sounds of Matlock being enjoyed at a deafening decibel during the day.  Throw in a neighbor with a new baby, and everyone is miserable. 

My neighbors expected the world to shut down whenever nap-time rolled around.  The mother was the biggest noise Nazi.  She came out of her unit on many different occasions to scold me for causing any kind of auditory disturbance that would wake her sleeping angel.  Initially, I was compliant.  I would apologize for setting my groceries down too loudly or sneezing in the hallway.  That didn’t last too long, though. I got tired of living like Anne Frank.  Oddly enough, her expectation of complete quiet ceased shortly after I stopped apologizing.  When I had my own child, I made it a point to tell people to make as much noise as they would if he didn’t exist.  I didn’t spend nine months playing charades for fear of disturbing his sleep while gestating…I certainly wasn’t going to encourage silence now that he had arrived.  The world isn’t a quiet place, he was the new guy, it was up to him to adjust.  He did, he slept through talking, loud music, and the occasional jackhammer.       

There are things I shield my son from, basically because I don’t think he is mature enough to grasp the concept.  There’s a house in the neighborhood that puts on a haunted house at Halloween every year, even though my son pleaded, I made the decision to skip it.  I didn’t figure there was anything beneficial about scaring the shit out of him.  Plus, I wasn’t going to willingly walk into the darkened home of a stranger as a defenseless, single woman with a small child, this act defies my common sense.  They’re probably good, spook-loving folks and not crafty rapist/murderers, but I wasn’t in the mood to find out.  He doesn’t get to watch anything on TV that is police or medically oriented.  I don’t want to have to explain why anyone is bleeding or dying.  I don’t talk about death, I know it’s part of life…but until it’s something we have to deal with in reality, I’d rather not romanticize it. I’m not sure I entirely understand the concept myself.

In the end, I decided to have him and I am the only person responsible for making his life comfortable.  Sure, if you’d like to help, that’d be awesome…but it’s not expected and I’m certainly not going to tell you how to conduct yourself.

What will the neighbors say?

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My son was very talkative before school today, but he’s always chatty.  He was telling me about a new song the mystical, all knowing Ms. Patty had taught in school, asking me if I knew it.  “It goes Pol-wice Polly-wog.  Pol-wice Polly-wog…or somethin’.  It’s a Chwrismas Song,”.   I was scanning the memory banks for some obscure carol that contains the words “police” and “pollywog”.  You see, I have an annoyingly large collection of music lyrics stored in my head.  It doesn’t really matter what the message is, if it’s set to music, my brain absorbs it.  Unless, it’s useful information…if it’s useful, my brain shuts off.  Music lyric retention is my super power.  It’s a blessing and a curse.

My talent would work very much in my favor if I were ever a contestant on Jeopardy! and there was a song lyric category.  I can confidently say, I’d run that shit.  Now, this will probably never happen, because it involves voluntarily signing up to be a contestant on Jeopardy!  This is where my little fantasy ends, because I’m not gonna do that.  If Congress accidentally took a bunch of acid and decided to initiate a game show draft, thereby forcing me take the on-line exam and…let’s say I did make it through the selection process and got on a show that had such a category, you’d be in for quite the treat.  If I could get through the first two steps of this mission and the last part didn’t materialize, I can assure you that I would entertain you with my artfully signed name and dazzle you with my ability to give the wrong answer.  Given the chance I’d like to ask Mr. Trebek why he insists on pronouncing the word Sophomore; “Soph-A-more”?  I wait all year for the High School Tournament, so I can feel like I’m incredibly smart and that condescending, know-it-all, silver haired, prick ruins it by distracting me with his oddly emphasized speech patterns.  Damn Canadians, they’re all the same.

Up until the invention of the smart phone, my phone would ring in the wee hours of the morning; on the other end would be a friend, a very drunk friend.  This friend, who has no concept of time because, as I pointed out…they’re drunk, would say something like “Haaay! Haaay, can you hear me?” as loud bar sounds blare in the background.  “Listen, I’m sitting here trying to figure out what the name of this song is.  You’re the only one I could think of that would know….can you hear it?”  Usually, I couldn’t hear the song, but I had to wait a little while to communicate this, because the friend had removed the phone from their ear and was presumably holding it above their head, thinking they were improving the chances of the music being heard.  Drunk people think that this is the best way to collect the sound waves floating through the air, I’m not sure whether they think their bodies act as a giant antenna or what.  The only thing I was ever able to hear was my friend yelling “Oh my God! I love this friggin’ song!” and the murmur of other people talking over the clinking of glasses.  After the intermission my friend would put the phone back in talk position, I’d say “I couldn’t hear it,” and they would proceed to poorly sing it to me, in all of their slurring glory. After several minutes of being serenaded, as sad as this may sound, I was always able to identify the name of the song.  I was thrilled when someone finally designed a phone app that could do this job for me. I sleep much more soundly. Thank you Shazam, wherever you are.
   
I was trying in earnest to figure out what song my son was talking about when I pulled out of my driveway and almost ran over my neighbor.  This is not something that is abnormal. Although I may not be the world’s best licensed driver, it is she that is to blame for near bumper contact, most of the time.  She’s a strange bird and I have never been one of her favorite people.  I don’t particularly care; I’ve never intentionally done anything to her to make her dislike me. Unless she reads my blog, in that case, she has every reason not to like me, now. 

I’ve mentioned before that I believe she is a certified whack-job.  We’re all weird in some way.  Take me for instance; I do some pretty strange things, sometimes unconsciously.  I’ve been told that my normal expression conveys a message of confusion.  It is not uncommon for a complete stranger to walk up to me in a location I am very familiar with and ask me if I’m lost.  This never happens to anyone else I know, so it qualifies as weird.  I also collect horrifically ugly socks.  Sure, I might be very well coordinated on the outside, but inside my shoes lies a knitted secret.  The uglier the sock, the more inclined I am to wear them.  Right now I’m wearing some lovely red and blue ones that go straight up to my knees and bear the image of cartoon monkeys. How’s that for a visual?

Along with my neighbor’s affinity for walking her dog in her jammies at all hours and talking to herself, she displays a lot of other quirky behavior.  She’s a compulsive gardener, and I don’t mean she likes a well-manicured lawn.  I mean that I have come home at three in the morning to find her laying in her front yard, trimming her grass with scissors by flashlight.  I have also seen her drag out the vacuum cleaner and vacuum her driveway and street out in front of her house.  My parents have lived in this house for almost 20 years, it was apparent she was a little off when we moved in…either she has ramped up the crazy or I am just getting more observant.  She seems to do a good job of hiding her insanity from the other neighbors on the block, but not me…I’m on to her.  

I’ve seen her engaged in many a pleasant conversation with Bob, the neighbor that lives across the street.  I think I’ve had a neighbor named Bob in every location I have called home.  If you don’t have a Bob in your life, I recommend you get one.  They’re aces.  When she talks to him, she looks him in the eye and never makes a bee-line for her front door when she sees him coming.  It makes me wonder, what does Bob have that I don’t?  It’s very strange.  I have never tried to engage this woman in conversation, but still she avoids me like the plague.

Maybe she hates me because she’s always sneaking up on me as I back out of the driveway.  It’s almost like she wants me to put her out of her misery.  My neighborhood came equipped with a sidewalk, you’d think after a few years of being in my blind spot as my reverse lights come on, she’d learn to use it.  Or maybe she hates me because I have been in my backyard and heard her berating her husband from over the fence.  “My mother was right, I should have married Arnie Shenkowitz” seems to be her favorite insult.  Arnie, if you’re out there, I’m sure you’ll be happy to know you dodged a bullet.

Today, she wasn’t walking her dog; she was seated in the road, again with scissors, trimming her grass.  People are not supposed to be in the road, so I’m not sure why she got all bent out of shape when I tried to use her as a speed bump.  I rolled down my window to apologize for not seeing her, but I didn’t really mean it and she didn’t really accept it.  “Ask her, Mommy! Maybe she knows the song!” my son directed from over the seat.  “I don’t think she’s in the mood for Name That Tune, Buddy”. “Why not? You always wisten to music when you mow the lawn”.  “Yes, and I always use the lawn mower when I mow the lawn.  I think she might be Jewish”.  “Does that mean she can’t use lawn mower?”.  “No, it means she might not know the words to a lot of Christmas songs”.  “Oh, why can’t she use a lawn mower?”  I didn’t have an answer for this one  aside from the obvious “She’s off of her meds,” but I didn’t want him to repeat that.  He ended his questioning and started caroling again.  I realized, halfway to school that “Pol-wice Polly-wog” was his rendition of “Feliz Navidad”.  While I appreciate Ms. Patty’s efforts in trying to make my child multi-lingual, I was hoping he’d master English before he went on the bastardize another language.

Nothing in my hand…nothing up my sleeve…

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“Mommy, why’s the mans sittin’ in that Subawu?” my son inquired as we got out of the car on our way to preschool.  “Maybe he’s on the phone,” I answered, not having a creative or funny retort.  This is unusual for me, the non-creative-funny-retort thing, I normally respond with the most insane thing I can think of.  I claim that I do this so that he will learn to come to logical conclusions on his own, someday.  But I really do it to entertain myself and break the monotony of answering his barrage of questions.  “How’d you know that car was a Subaru?” I asked, since there is nothing, really, about a Subaru that I would think would be appealing to a child.  It’s not the big truck, or the flashy sports car he would usually try to call my attention to.  It’s really the automotive equivalent of wheat toast.  Although, the commercials tell me that they are environmentally friendly and walking through the parking lot of a gay bar tells me they are rainbow friendly, I have never really understood why anyone would seek out a Subaru.  I guess I’m not their target audience.  “Something’s I just know, Mom,” he replied, in a tone that suggested he was annoyed by my questioning where he received his information.  “It’s not like it’s a State Secret, Buddy.  I was just asking,” I was not impressed with him trying out his tiny attitude on me.

The age of four has been my most favorite and least favorite, all at the same time.  My son is now a freethinking, autonomous individual.  He has his own opinions, which is great, until his ideas conflict with mine.  It makes getting anything accomplished very difficult.  I now know how the President feels when he suggests that Congress pick up their toys and is met with a resounding “No”.   I’m getting filibustered all the time.   I think it’s the age where you really see how a personality is developing.  My son is able to communicate he needs, which is much less stressful than having to play “I’m legally responsible for your life and I have no idea what you’re asking for” charades.  Rosetta Stone should come up with a toddler edition.  They should also team up with the good people at Encyclopedia Britannica and PBS to sponsor a NASCAR team.  I am of the opinion that this union could propel the popularity of education in the Southern States.  Look what it did for Budweiser and M&M’s?  There are drunken rednecks everywhere, hopped up on chocolate.   It’d be nice to hear one of those simple bastards say “Boogity! Boogity! Dzentlmen, spustite motory” (which is Slovak for “Boogity! Boogity! Gentleman, start your engines,” just incase you’re wondering) while peppering the commentary of the race with historical information about the Spanish-American War and videos of some obscure jungle rodent from Borneo.  I don’t know about you, but I’d watch more.

My mother used to say, “I hope you have 10 kids, and they’re all just like you,” when I was behaving like a shit-head.  Through the wonders of modern fertility treatments, I could probably make my mother’s hopes come true.  Thankfully,  I prefer the old fashioned remedy of Tequila and poor judgment.  If I were to reproduce in bulk, you can bet there would be a reality TV show about me and my litter of Scarplings, like Kate Gosselin.  By the way, have you seen her lately?  There was a blip on some Hollywood gossip show about her the other day. Something about her getting a facelift.  She denied having one, which isn’t the newsworthy part. What I find astonishing is that she is only 36 years old.  She has the demeanor and grace of a woman far more aged and bitter.  Yeah, you could argue that I don’t know her and shouldn’t pass judgment…but she did willingly allow a camera crew to film her in action for a few years.  Survey says: full-blown bitch. I don’t really care about Kate Gosselin, if she has a face, or what she does to it…I’d just like her to stop talking and/or writing about having a lot of children.  I’d be more inclined to take parenting advice from a rabid Pitt Bull/Wolf mix in the whelping box at the pound.   

I never used to think of my mom’s statement as punishment, until I birthed a child with a personality exactly like mine.  I would think “Ten other people that get me? Bonus! Bring in the test sheep and let the cloning begin!” Um, yeah…now?  No.  My son is every bit as sarcastic and quick witted as I am.  I know your thinking “Wow, Sara! That sounds like a laugh-riot, where do I sign up?” or you could be thinking, “Nothing wrong with your self esteem, is there? Way to pat yourself on the back with that one”.  Whatever your thoughts are, humor me. Alright? 

It’s very clear that my son shares a few of my less desirable traits; I was hoping he’d be away at college when he started displaying them.  At least I know there will always be someone walking the Earth that will laugh at inappropriate times, blurt out the first thing that comes to mind and be just as unfriendly as I am, if woken up too early.  But, I realize I may have made an error in the parenting department.  While I want him to be relentless, outspoken, intelligent and creative; I don’t necessarily want him to be all of these things while communicating with me.  The other day we were on the back patio, he was playing a very involved game of Fireman.  Evidently, someone called in a four alarm fire from way out behind the trampoline and he had to get there A.S.A.F.P.  He was having difficulty getting his red, plastic, ride-in fire truck out of the screen door.  It was a “bemergency”!  “Fire Marwshall Mom. Uh, a wittle helwp herwe?” he pleaded, as he repeatedly rammed the truck into the metal doorframe.  “Buddy, don’t do that.  You’re going to break the door,” I advised.  “Mo-ooom! I need you’we helwp” he said again, ignoring my warning and seated in the car with his back towards me. 

“I’ll help you when you stop crashing into the door and ask the right way,”.  The “right way” to a child his age is open to interpretation.  I meant say “please”.  He thought I was asking him to look me in the eye while giving orders.   “Therwe’s no time!”.  “That’s not how you ask for help, what’s the magic word?” I said, using my best mother voice.  I should have known that this was going to backfire.  It always does when I go all regular, cliché spouting, mom, on him.  By this point he had turned the truck towards me, figuring he had complied with my directive.  Climbing out, he removed the flimsy plastic fireman’s hat from his head and threw it. He positioned himself two inches away from my face and growled “How in the hell am I suppowsed to know what the magic word is? I’m a firewman, not a magician,”.  I think a normal mother would have scolded her child for using adult language and being sassy.  You can tell by my previous entries, that I’m not normal.  I, obviously, laughed my ass off while maneuvering the child powered emergency response vehicle out from behind the screened-in roadblock.  My irritated little hero went to put out the blaze, reporting back to the station that the delay was my fault and the Chief should talk to me about this.

Today, Justin Bieber was on a television commercial.  I’m not a huge fan of his.  I know lot’s of people are, I don’t understand why…but I don’t try to get in their way.  We were watching a previously recorded concert featuring Willie Nelson.  My boy was mesmerized, sitting Indian-style on the floor in front of the TV; I was finding it highly entertaining that he was so engrossed in Willie.  After all, Willie is the man.  Yes, he may be nasal sounding and look like he was carved from a rotting tree stump with a plastic butter knife, but he says some really deep, pretty shit.  I was thrilled that my son is displaying an interest in acceptable music. I was equally elated when Bieber interrupted the concert to remind us that he has an annoying new album on the iTunes. The little guy is smart, he quickly made the connection that Nelson and Beiber don’t mix.  He asked “Is that little girl  going to be singing with Willie?” with the disgust he normally reserves for me when I suggest he hand over Elmo for a spin in the washing machine.  

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.   I know from personal experience that a personality like this cannot be contained.  I can see that there are many parent/teacher conferences in my future.  I think I may hire a stunt-double to attend these meetings. I’m not sure I’ll be able to hide my amusement when he gets expelled for explaining to his Kindergarten teacher that he has no formal experience in wizardry, when she expects him to say “please”.  Wish me luck or send me a photograph with a short biography. Auditions will be held shortly.

There is no truth in advertising.

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Paper towel commercials are the bane of my existence.  Never once have I walked into a mess like the ones those little bastards on TV make and reacted the way a commercial mom would.  When I see a whole bottle of juice spilled on the counter, a muddy dog running through the house or a science project go awry; I don’t smile, put my hands on my hips, give the “you wacky kids” head lean, and then saunter over to where the paper product are kept, happy to soak up whatever liquid is coating the counter.  I’m never wearing a sweater set and khaki, pleated pants.  My hair is always disheveled and I’m never pleased that my offspring is trashing the kitchen. 

When I watch this unrealistic scenario play out in between Dora the Explorer and Spongebob Squarepants my mind always tries to figure out what’s wrong with the women on the commercial.  I, without fail, come to one of two plausible conclusions:  the bitch is either so medicated and botoxed that she is unable to show emotion or…it ain’t her house.  She’s delusional too, 90% of her kitchen is under goop and she grabs ONE paper towel to tackle the mess.  Really Bounty? What are you selling here? Is this vignette supposed to sing the praises of the “Quilted, Quicker Picker Upper” or Zoloft and cosmetic surgery? Let’s have a come to Jesus moment, shall we?

My life plays out a bit differently than the commercials.  Maybe if I wore a matching sweater set and khaki pants I could circumvent all the madness that occurs under my roof, but I sincerely doubt it.  When I walk into a mess a la Bounty commercial, the scene plays out something like this: My hair is in my face and my real-life muddy puppy sticks her nose in my crotch and then jumps on me, leaving two black paw prints across the face of William Shakespeare that is rendered on my t-shirt.  Let’s not get too excited, although I do love the Bard, I’m not one of those “rose by any other name” bitches. On my shirt, underneath his face, he is quoted as saying “This shit writes itself”.  I look down to see my son, covered in grape juice and wearing a large measuring cup on his head.  I make a mental note to stop buying grape juice and hide the measuring cups.  I promptly start cursing under my breath as I try to get my son out of the juice soaked clothing and Pyrex hat.  I use the dry portion of his clothing to help soak up the juice that has puddled on the floor and send him into the bathroom to remove the sticky substance from his body.  The dog helps slurp up half of the mess, the other half she tracks through the house via her filthy paws. 

My face turns red and my eyes begin to pop out of my head.  I grab a roll of paper towels and start cursing loudly.  I briefly contemplate giving the dog to the Jehovah’s Witness who is knocking on my door; but before I can answer, they go away.  Perhaps my yelling “God-Damn-Son-of-a-Bitch, what now?” alerts them to the fact that this might not be a great time to spread the good word and give me a religious comic book.  I decide cleaning is futile until I can get the dog sequestered. I chase her around the house trying to herd her into the other bathroom.  I finally get her locked away and come back to the kitchen to continue wiping up the congealed concoction of fruit products and high fructose corn syrup.  I wipe and spray until the floor is no longer sticky, I think I’m done and then I move something on the counter and discover more juice. 

As I clean, I detect the notes of sweet, warm, fresh, cozy, and dog in the air.  I turn around to see my son holding and an empty roll of toilet paper, with the dog licking his abdomen, from underneath my bath towel.  “I thought I told you to get cleaned up,” I mutter.  “I did, I put on some smell good stuff and made a tescelwope,” he chirps happily.  “Why is the dog wearing my towel?” I ask, but I don’t really want to know the answer. “She was still a wittle wet fwrom the wain, I wet her out of the bathwoom to drwy her off.  I do this all the time”.  I’m sure you just recoiled in horror as much as I did when I came to the realization I’d been sharing my towel with the dog.  But I couldn’t deal with my own issues at the time.  

I know when he says tescelwope, he means telescope, which is what he calls the cardboard tube at the end of the toilet paper roll.  I remembered putting a fresh roll in the bathroom the day before. We may be full of shit, but we usually don’t go through an entire roll in a 24-hour period.  I go into the bathroom, boy and dog in tow, to find that he has sprayed a bottle of Victoria’s Secret body spray on his little frame and shoved an entire roll of Charmin in the toilet.  “I took a big poop dump” he explains trying to validate his reasoning, “and I wanted to see the moon,”.  Holding the cardboard tube over his left eye, he runs out of the bathroom, just about the time the toilet starts to overflow.  The dog walks in the toilet water and begins to track that all over the house.  I frantically reach for the plunger, and after a few forceful shoves I get the toilet unclogged.  Then I follow the dog tracks to retrieve my towel and use it to soak up the water.  

I don’t have to tell you that I never looked at anyone lovingly and put my hands on my hips during this interaction.  I went through a roll of paper towels; yeah…one sheet just wasn’t doing the trick.  With grape juice in every nook and cranny, I had to give someone a stern talking to about using mommy’s towel.   I don’t know why advertisers don’t take a more realistic approach when trying to sell products to real families. They’d sell more products that way…and I bet condom and birth control sales would go through the roof.

Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee…but me.

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I don’t have a middle name.  I’m not lying about this.  There is no horrific sounding family name in between Sara and Carpenter. I know some people claim this to not have to divulge a name that their very well meaning parents gave them at their time of birth, because they are embarrassed by it.  I’m not one of them, if my middle name was Hortence or Mildred, everyone would know.  I don’t feel like I have been slighted by my parents choosing only one name for me to go through life with.  I could give myself one, if I so desired…but nothing, with the exception of “Danger” has ever really appealed to me.  I have a feeling that Danger would lose its charm after a while, but it may give someone at the IRS a chuckle as they audited my tax returns. 

As I may have mentioned before, people are always trying to suggest a middle name for me, the most common names that come up are Jane, Lee and Michelle.  I don’t have any desire to be Sara Jane; it’s a nice enough name.  It rolls off the tongue, but it’s just not Scarpy enough.  Lee is completely out of the running; I am not ever naming myself after anything that is associated with mass-produced baking products.  Yes, I know…nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee; except Sara Carpenter.  I despise the C-U-Next-Tuesday. My hatred for her can be traced back to the third grade, when I was called Sara Lee by every one of my classmates because nothing infantile and offensive rhymes with Sara.  You’d think I’d be over this by now, nope…I hold a mean grudge. I’m on team Betty Crocker and I will be for life.   Almost every Michelle I have ever come in contact with has been a raging bitch.  Sure there are one or two that I have been quite fond of, but the majority were in need of Midol and a constant supply of chocolate to keep their personalities at a bearable level.  I know there are many Michelle’s that don’t fit this description and if you’re one of them please don’t send me hate mail.  Actually, send me hate mail…it gives me something to do. 

I was born during the late 70’s, where 90% of girls ended up with the name Jennifer, Amy or Nicole.  I’m sure Sara was up there in the ranks too, but I was usually the only one in my class.  In addition to not having a middle name, my parents were of the opinion that my name did not need any extra silent letters to gum up the works.  I’m not Sarah.  There is no breathy “ha” sound required at the end, when pronouncing it.  I was the last of three children, I think my parents were tired and I wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital until I had, at very least, a first name.  I am told I was named after both of my great-grandmother’s.  But I know for a fact, that only one of them was actually named Sarah…the other was Sicilian and probably had six or seven names that no one could pronounce, so she went by Sara.  She also used to give my mother candy when she was a child and lock her in a kitchen cabinet so my mother could eat it without her mother getting upset about it.  It’s funny that one of my mother’s fondest childhood memories involves being locked in a cabinet with food.

When I had my son, I fixated like most expecting mothers, on what to name him.  It was like it wasn’t real until the baby had name.  For the first few months of my pregnancy I called him Mr. Bean, because he looked like a legume of the Lima variety in his sonogram pictures.  I had baby books with 1001 names, why 1000 names weren’t good enough…I’m not sure.  Most of the names in these books suck.  The entries are different variations of the same name; the publishers really stretch things out to add more pages. His father and I couldn’t agree on anything, name included.  I wanted my boy to have a name that would look good on a diploma and could be found on a keychain or kitchen magnet, should someone want to bring him back a souvenir from a vacation destination. No, really…I did, I ruled out many a perfectly acceptable name because I couldn’t visualize it above a cartoon lobster and the words Boston, Massachusetts.  If I had it my way, my son probably would be answering to Benjamin.  But for some reason his father loathed this name.  So, I put Benjamin out of my mind and tried to come up with another respectable name.  My friends suggested a multitude of monikers, none that they would actually consider naming their own offspring. Woman will never tell you what they envision naming their imaginary children for fear you will take the name for your own actual embryos.  Some of them get offended when you take a liking to a name they have already used for a child they have birthed, like they invented the name Charles or something. Yes, I know this is crazy…but estrogen will do that to you. 

Most of the names suggested by my friends were, um…how do you say…wretched?  They were often taken straight from characters of popular TV shows or music.  I didn’t want my son to grow up knowing he was named after a character on a defunct sit-com.  I also didn’t want to give him a creative, unique name, like all the celebrities are doing.  Those kids are lucky they’ll never have to go to a job interview, look someone straight in the eye and say “Pleasure to meet you, Sir. I know I’m the right person for this position. My name is Eucalyptus Zoological Detroit (insert famous last name here).”  Thank God for trust funds.

I finally settled on a first name that was perfect, incidentally, it’s also my father’s name.  My son’s middle name is Michael, if you look on his Birth Certificate.  But, as of late he is claiming otherwise.  Last night in the tub we were having a conversation of sorts.  He was asking a million and one questions about where he came from and how he got his name.  He often asks me the same question several times in a row, getting the same answer every time.  When I grow tired of repeating myself, I answer with “I dunno. What do you think?”  The question of the hour was “What’s my middle name?”  I must’ve said “Michael”, at least 20 times, each time he responded, “No, it’s not”.  When I finally reached my annoyance level, I reversed the inquisition.  With his hair fashioned in a soapy Mohawk, he thought for a minute of two and then said “Nah, my middle name is Awesome.”  I don’t know why I didn’t think of that one, first.

Lobsterbations on raising an outspoken child…

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I got a really early start today; I foolishly squandered it.  I should have been halfway through with today’s blog before I picked my son up from school, but decided I’d rather putter around drinking coffee and watching TV.  I should know better, it’s hard to concentrate with a tiny dictator demanding my attention every two minutes.  “Mom, it’s a bemergency! I need you to open this juice box, wight away”. “Mommy, I have a lobsterbation. That guy has a weally big butt” are just two of the things he’s said to me since I sat down to type. “Lobsterbation” for those of you not fluent in quadra-grammar, is how a four year old says “observation”.  He always murders the English language, multi-syllabically, when he really wants my attention. It’s a surefire way to get me to stop whatever it is I’m doing and compliment him for being smart.

He’s been claiming to have an emergent situation that requires my assistance or have observed something fascinating more than usual today.  To his credit, the juice box was difficult to puncture and the guy he saw walking down the street did have an abnormally large posterior.  I always come running when he starts pointing out the physical differences of others, loudly. It’s not that I think people who have big asses aren’t already aware of their situation, but I don’t think they want to hear my son point this out. 

He frequently says things that make me laugh and have to apologize.  I used to get really embarrassed, but not anymore.  I’ve given up trying to control the things that spring from between his lips and now, just deal with the aftermath.  Going out into public with him is a lot like hanging out with a drunk, bi-polar, dwarf, who has been home schooled.  Much like the inebriated, he has no regard for the volume of his voice. He goes from happy to sad at the drop of a hat, and well…he hasn’t hit his stride in the social graces department.  I know it’s my responsibility to correct this behavior, which I do pretty poorly…because I admire his honestly. It’s not that I’m trying to raise an ill-mannered, little creep that goes out of his way to be hurtful; I just think he should say what he thinks.  There’s nothing worse than having to censor yourself for the comfort of others, although, sometimes it’s necessary.   It’s hard to achieve a healthy balance, but I’m working on it.

A few months ago, I took him to the beach.  It was a weekday; there was no one on the sand but tourists and the unemployed.  After spending the day playing in the surf, we rewarded ourselves with ice cream.  Well, he had ice cream; I sat next to him holding a stack of napkins and a beer.  While we enjoyed our respective treats and people watched, he got that look in his eye that alerts me to when something priceless is about to be said.  “Hey buddy!” he called out to a passerby in a Speedo bathing suit.  In addition to the small swim wear, this guy was sporting the hairiest back and chest I have ever seen on a mammal outside of watching Animal Planet.  When my boy got the attention of the passerby he inquired, “So, uh…tell me something. Why you got on a shirt and no pants?”.  I nearly spit out my Budweiser product after I registered what he’d said. As luck would have it, the furry fella was Canadian and in addition to culturally dictated friendliness, his main mode of communication was French. I tried to think of the phrase for “I’m sorry” in French, but all I could come up with was “Vous les vous couchez avec moi” and that was far more apologetic than I was willing to be, so I shrugged, pointed at my son and smiled.  He laughed at my mouthy offspring and kept strolling down the beach, letting the wind whip through his curly back locks. No harm, no foul.

Shortly after that, my boyfriend had a friend in from out of town, named Brad.  Children, much like the American public, are enthralled with anything new.  My son found Brad to be an interesting playmate and it didn’t seem to matter that Brad wasn’t actively involved in playtime.  It started innocently enough, the boy jumped over Brad, as he sprawled out on the floor, watching TV, with a pillow propping his head up.  When that got old, my son stole Brad’s pillow and began beating him about the head with it.  Admittedly, this was entertaining for everyone…the exception being, Brad.  When my son grew tired of assaulting the guest he came over to where my boyfriend and I were seated “Um…so…Brwad.  He’s kind of a douchebag,” he stated.  I could tell that he was puzzled by why Brad wasn’t volunteering to be a human jungle gym. He wasn’t wrong; Brad was kind of being a douchebag.  He was going to be an uncle soon and needed all of the child related interaction he could get, but didn’t seem to be taking advantage of the wealth of giggling information he had before him.  This is not to say that I expect people to entertain my child, but what kind of soulless individual can resist an impromptu pillow fight? I didn’t get to see the look on Brad’s face when he reacted to being insulted by a child.  I was too busy doubled-over laughing and trying to hide my amusement from the boy. My reaction only fueled his tiny ego. For the remainder of the week, everything was a douchebag: the dogs, his toys, the bitchy lady in the bakery department at the grocery store that pretends not to hear him when he asks for his complimentary cookie.   

As young as he is, I really have to hand it to him; he’s got quite the sense of humor.  When he’s not heckling tourists, he’s screwing with me. We seem to spend a lot of time in the car together; he’s already picked up on the fact that his mommy is not the world’s best driver.  It’s not uncommon for him to start shouting “Whoa!!!!! Wooook out, Mom! Stop the car!” just for the hell of it.  It used to send me into cardiac arrest when he’d try to alert me to a danger that wasn’t there.  I’d slam on the brakes, which would send us lurching forward and whatever crap I had shoved under my seats, to keep the appearance of a tidy individual, would come sliding out and fly into the front seat.  He’d then giggle and say “Oh, there’s my toy boat”.  After a while, I got wise to him and realized he was manipulating me to find his toys and get a bumpy ride. He still does it, only now I just laugh.  

This past Fourth of July, one of his random statements made me realize that I wasn’t doing such a bad job raising a compassionate, yet outspoken little man.  I spent the week before trying to explain the significance of the holiday. I evidently got through to him that it was America’s birthday, which we celebrate by blowing things up, while cooking dead animals over open flames.  He was mesmerized by the fireworks display; when suddenly I caught him whispering to my boyfriend “We didn’t get Amerwica a pwesent”.  My boyfriend, who is usually on the same page as my son, didn’t pick up on what he was saying.  “What, buddy?” he replied, confused.  “It’s Amerwica’s birwthday and we fowgot to get it a pwesent,” my son went on to explain.  He was trying to correct our social faux paux, and since I am normally the gatherer of presents, he didn’t want me to feel bad for forgetting. Instantaneously, my boyfriend was turned into 230 pounds of mush.  He laughed, as he tried to explain that America was old and wasn’t expecting a gift, but, it was the soft, comforting laugh he reserves for my son, puppies and sometimes, me.  It wasn’t the loud, booming, “that’s hilarious” laugh…I could tell that my son’s sensitivity had caught him off guard and made my normally very decisive partner fumble for the right words.

As I type, my son is yelling at me from the bathroom “I have to take a dump. I can’t see. Who turned out the wights?” I’m not going to surprise you when I tell you that the lights are very much on and he is again, seated naked upon the potty, this time with a bucket on his head, obscuring his vision.  At least he’s using one of the less offensive adult words in his arsenal and not trying to give me a heart attack. But,  I must go now and assess the situation, before it gets ugly.

Santa is watching.

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I hate to admit it, but I’m sitting here listening to Kelly Clarkson…on purpose.  I needed some fluffy, emotionally charged, girl music.  Sometimes it does the trick, lights a fire and reminds me of all the things I already know.  I downloaded Pandora on my phone; on it I programmed all the stations I’d never listen to in public – Kelly Clarkson, Air Supply, Rihanna.  No- Air Supply isn’t fronted by women, but…they could be. It’s not that I think this music is beneath me; I just like to think I’m tough broad and listening to sappy music doesn’t exactly fit the bill.  In the back of my head, I’m warning myself that chick tunes are a gateway to the Lifetime Channel. If I start writing about Meredith Baxter-Birney, cramps, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or any other estrogen related topics…I advise you to skip the intervention and shoot me…Ol’ Yeller style.

I’m not sure what’s going on lately.  I seem to be on the receiving end of a whole shit-load of reminders that I’m not doing what I should be doing, what I could be doing and what I’m not doing. Yes, I have more than a few flaws, but they’re part of my charm.  Without them, life would be exceptionally boring and I would have nothing to talk about.  My son is my most vocal critic; he’s at an age where he knows everything. Near as I can figure, this starts at four and continues well into 40.  Yes, I know I am the adult here and it’s likely just a phase, but as much as I consistently correct the behavior, it continues and it’s starting to wear on my self image.  I miss the days when I was the greatest thing since sliced bread.  Now someone that just mastered the skill of wiping his own butt is commenting on my shortfalls.   

All of his mom directed statements start with “Moooooom! You were supposed to…” or “Mooooooooom! Why didn’t you..”.  When he woke up this morning I was supposed to have his chocolate milk ready and his school clothes laid-out.  Well, excuse the hell out of me.  As I trudged through his whining, I thought about teaching him that I am not here to wait on him hand and foot.  Someday, he’s going to have to learn the lesson that any woman he is lucky enough to have in his life is not a mind-reader or perfect and will disappoint him.  I decided to go the alternate route of  “Quit whining. Santa is watching”.  I love this time of year; I get to rule with an iron elf.  I can sing “He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake” under my breath and momentarily correct whatever obnoxious behavior is occurring.  I feel sorry for Jewish mothers; not having a score keeping, fat man to hold over their little darling’s heads when they refuse to eat their Matzos.  Sure, guilt is just as effective, but not nearly as musical or entertaining.  I look forward to the excitement on my son’s face, when he discovers the loot that Santa left under the tree Christmas morning.  What I don’t look forward to is running around securing the requested items, tripping over the bounty until the toys break and having to make room for all it.         

This morning, I attempted to get into the shower but decided it was too much effort.  My bathroom, much like the rest of my house is ankle deep in toys, especially the tub portion of this room.  In the very near future I am going to have to sort through all of this shit and donate it to a charity or the dump.  I turned on the shower and attempted to locate a clearing in the tub so that I could shampoo and exfoliate.  I got the water to an acceptable temperature, disrobed and put one foot in, only to be greeted by something resembling a dolphin with a birth defect, under foot. It squeaked at me like Flipper and stabbed me in the arch of my foot, viciously, with its dorsal fin, as if it was shanking me in the yard of a Dolphin Prison. This sent me lurching backwards, jumping on one foot and yelling “God-damn-son-of-a-bitch-that-hurt!!!!”.  Dolphins are supposed to be loving, gentle creatures, aren’t they?  I let the dolphin think it had won the turf war and decided to put off showering until I was in a more reasonable mood. 

Toy manufacturers; if you’re reading this…please explain the sharp, pointy obsession. I spend ginormous amounts of money on toys to entertain my son, why do you only repay me by trying to make me an amputee?   And why must everything have a million little pieces that get lost under the couch 5 minutes after opening the package?  Spider-man is not a crime-fighting hero, he is malicious little fucker that lurks in the shadows waiting for me to step on his web launcher and taunt me with repetitive phrases. These toys shouldn’t come with catch phrases like “retractable mega-gun” or “live action play”.  They should be more accurate and announce fun things like “parent crippling action” or “6 real life drain clogging functions”. 

My son is obsessed with the toy magazines that now arrive in the mail on a daily basis.  He’s sitting on the couch right now with a red marker; circling the items he thinks Santa should consider leaving him in exchange for good behavior, while finishing off the rest of his Halloween candy.  Last night, he was on the phone with his father; the entire conversation was toy centered.  It was pretty obvious that his dad doesn’t know his “Talking Fijit” from his elbow.  I’m not even sure what a Talking Fijit is, but it sounds annoying and expensive.  Thankfully, through eavesdropping, I was informed that it is a girl toy and not required to be wrapped and under our tree.

We haven’t even gotten through Thanksgiving yet and I am already willing Christmas to be over.  I know the holidays are supposed to be the most wonderful time of the year, but in reality, for me…they aren’t.  There’s a lot of pressure, whether it be finding the perfect gift or putting aside anger for a day and not stabbing a member of my extended family with a fork for being a jackass.  The holidays are not about making yourself happy; they’re the days reserved for making someone else happy and wearing stupid sweaters. I will do my best not to go psychotic when I hear “Blue Christmas” for the 800th time or get into an altercation in a mall parking lot, with some asshole wearing reindeer antlers and driving like an idiot.  Sometimes, even I need to be reminded that Santa is watching.