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.

Little boy blue.

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“2:15 today,” that’s all the email said. Damn, I wasn’t expecting her to respond so quickly. It’s not that I wasn’t grateful, but I was hoping it would be a little later in the week. I dug in my purse for my cell phone to enter in the time and date on the calendar. There was no chance I was going to forget…but, I’m trying to be more deliberate in the organization of my personal life.

Blindly foraging for technology at the bottom of my bag, I felt something squishy. I’m used to finding all kinds of items in there that are not mine; they’re usually from Taiwan, by way of Hot Wheels. This feels more like something that Darwin might have studied, it wasn’t moving…so that’s a plus.

I’m relieved as I discover that a pink, rubber gecko has been added to the fleet of vehicles in my purse. My son probably thought it was a suitable trinket because it was pink. Since I am female, he has decided that pink must be my favorite color…or maybe it was placed there for insurance purposes.

I left it in there, you never know when you’re going to need a lizard. Parked next to what feels like a miniature pick-up truck is my phone. I normally use the calendar function to amuse myself. My alerts read something like this: February 10th @ 7:00 a.m.- Put on pants. The appointment that I entered for 2:15 said, “Meet boy’s teacher, apologize for inappropriate language. Research ball-gag”.

I wasn’t sure just how inappropriate we were talking. In my head I pondered, on a scale of “gosh darn” to “go fuck yourself”…what exactly was the infraction? I didn’t put my thoughts in writing. I’m pretty sure there’s a filter on the school’s email that flags this type of language as very naughty and probably put me on a list to be investigated by Child Services.

My son wasn’t exactly forthcoming the night before when he’d told me about getting in trouble. He said it involved another “cwassmate,” actually, his exact words were “baby-head, toy-stealing, cwassmate”. While he’ll freely report his short comrades for acts worthy of receiving a “red” smiley face, he was tight-lipped.

He will happily present the little strip of paper with a green smiley face on it. Green means good. He’s crafty enough to destroy the evidence if a yellow or red is sent home. Until today, I was unaware that there is a primary color far more damning than red. The boy had gone blue. I don’t even know where that fits in on the color wheel.

It was almost as if he’d rehearsed his confession, “I had to be spoken to about inappropriate language. Don’t tell Dad,” he politely requested from the back seat. “I can’t keep this from your father. Daddy has to know,” trying not to laugh, I said this firmly. In the parenting arena I’m the one that is reactionary. It’s me that raises my voice. This interaction let me know I’m not nearly as intimidating as I think I am.

“I want to sing you a song,” he said. As random as that might sound to you, it’s kind of the norm when it comes to communicating with the under-tall.

His song was Valentinian in nature; something about puppies and hearts…and there was some barking. After the third verse, his voice cracking when he hit the high notes and a freestyle “ruff, ruff, ruff,” the back seat concert was over.

He must’ve learned it in school, because it wasn’t his signature style. Not the ode to farts or monster trucks he would have come up with when left to his own devices. “That was very good!” I said. “Ok, so that means you’re not going to tell Dad…right?”

His teacher was pleasant, we met with her in my son’s classroom. The term “whirling dervish” was used to describe him, more than once. Accurate? Yes. When we talked about his inability to focus, I was not at all surprised by this information. I just don’t exactly know what to do about it. I suffer from the same affliction. People have been trying to fix me for years. I’m not broken, neither is my boy.

This does not mean that I have abandoned my son’s educational endeavors. I am not acting defiantly, insisting that my son is a genius and faulting the teacher. I’ve seen what this does to a child. When you allow a person to sidestep their responsibilities in a situation, you create a lazy, self-absorbed, douchebag…gifted in placing blame on others…but lacking any other talents.

My son may grow up to be a giant asshole. If he does, I want to make damn sure he has the skills to back-up a big mouth or an inflated ego. I refuse to spend my golden years helping him dig out from under the self-created shitstorm that would be likely be his life if I ignore the problem and blame someone else. We all agreed that we are going to push to have him tested for learning related issues.

Once that was out of the way, the topic of inappropriate language was addressed. Keep in mind that I was seated at his desk…in his chair. In order to attain any level of comfort I had to contort my body into a position much like the “brace for impact” illustration on an airplane safety card. Almost expecting an oxygen mask to deploy from the ceiling, I bolstered myself for what I was about to hear and prayed that it wasn’t the four-lettered, grand-mother-of-all-curse-words.

The teacher tried to broach the situation delicately…but there wasn’t any real way to do this. Finally she blurted out, “He said bullshit”. She didn’t look at me as she said it, in fact, she turned her head completely around…like an owl. I laughed, even though I know I wasn’t supposed to. I’ve never acted appropriately before, why start now?

From the information I was able to gather, he was involved in a small dispute with a classmate. My boy felt that the best way to handle the argument was by getting a few inches away from the other child’s face and yell “BULLSHIT!” whenever the tot tried to speak. Since the boy’s father was seated right next to me, I couldn’t blame this language on him. This is one of my choice words to express frustration. He was also mimicking my preferred method of delivering the message. It was difficult to put on the air of disgust, when I was clearly thinking that it was pretty fucking awesome.

My son relays the story differently. He does not dispute the fact that there was an argument, but claims that he and the other child were playing with building blocks when it occurred. “I said “push it”. I wanted to play Godzilla and he wanted to finish the building”. I did not buy my boy’s alternative version, but I was impressed with his ability to find a non-offensive phrase that sounded so close to “bullshit”.

We had several discussions about there being a time and place for this kind of behavior. “You’re not supposed to say those things at school, dude”. “Or at work or church,” he added as he looked down at his feet.

I fought the urge to correct him with “No, you should totally call bullshit in church,” but I didn’t want to force my views on religion on him. “Mommy, can we go to church? Quincy goes to church…with his grandma”. I couldn’t believe he’d just asked to go to church. I could just see my little angel telling his Sunday school teacher she sucks. “Ask your father,” I replied.

I asked to see the “blue” smiley face. I was hoping to add it to his collection of undesirable notes. Somehow it disappeared. Perhaps a little religion wouldn’t be a bad thing.

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.

‘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.

Who’s gonna help me be awesome?

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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.

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.

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.