E is a voracious reader. Seriously. He earned recognition at school for being only one of two second graders to earn more than 100 Accelerated Reader points. (The average grade level reading book is worth less than 10).
His award was a '100 point club' tee shirt that he has demanded to wear every day. Ew. He has yet to earn any recognition for hygiene.
Since he is always reading, and since he is reading above grade level, and loves it, M and I have pretty much decided he can read what he wants to, provided it is not grossly inappropriate. Harry Potter? Yup. This crazy Cat series, Warriors? I guess. Judy Blume? The 4th Grade Nothing series, but not Are You There, God?
When Barnes & Noble closed in town, they had a massive sale. I bought the kids a jillion books. I bought a thesaurus, even though there's now an Internet, just so they could learn to use it. Besides, E will read it cover to cover like entertainment, and how can THAT not help his vocabulary? I also bought The Children's Encyclopedia of the Human Body.
Last week, E asks me why they call "this" (pointing at his crotch) public hair. I explain that it is pubic, rather than public; and that in fact it is ANYTHING but public.
The next morning, I start to wonder what prompted that random question on a Wednesday. I see the body encyclopedia in his room, and think it must be the source. I scan the index for publ--, rather pub-- hair. Sure enough. There it is.
Above it is 'penis.' I think maybe I can give this a look-see. Page 84 has a doctor's office style cutaway of the male reproductive system. Fully labeled. Useful.
I turn the page. There's the same quality drawing for the female reproductive system. Woah. That's a little more than I anticipated. This is turning out to be a page turner. Next page--a woman's menstrual cycle explained. Um. OK. Flip.
Yup. That's where I thought this chapter was going. "Reproduction occurs when a male sperm fertilizes a female ovum. This occurs during intercourse..."
Yah. Yah. I know the rest.
Apparently, now, so does my eight year old. I've been waiting for more questions, but merciful god, there have not been any yet.
I told M this story, and showed him the book. Page 84: he nods and gives me the "what are you so worried about?" look. Page 86: "well, information was never a problem." Page 88: M's eyeballs get a little big. He finishes brushing his teeth.
Slides into bed, thinking about how he never sees anything resembling pg. 90.
Showing posts with label Mouths of Babes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mouths of Babes. Show all posts
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Kids say the darndest things
I have a soft spot in my heart for S's sense of humor. Don't get me wrong, I have soft spots for E, too, but he's just not as naturally funny as the other one.
S's sense of humor can be dry, wry, and altogether in a different league of that of his peers'. It can be goofy and physical like Jim Carrey and it can be annoyed and verbal like a Jewish Catskills bit. Either way, if you're ever one on one with S, and he's feelin' it, you will laugh your ass off.
An example, directly from his teacher, on studying seasons: "S, what a lovely Santa Claus you drew on the white board. He is indeed associated with winter." To me from teacher, "His Santa was like a Victorian version with the long beard and the wire rim glasses, not the plump current version." S, to teacher, brusquely handing her the Expo marker, "not bad for a Jew."
He also has a killer Marvin the Martian impression.
This morning, though, after the alarm went off, and he curled into my bed, we had this conversation. The funniest of all, because it's unintentional:
S: "Mom, I HATE Mondays."
Me: "Good news, then. Today's Tuesday."
S: "What? I thought yesterday was weekend."
Me: "No, remember yesterday was a holiday?"
S: "Right. It was King Arthur Junior day."
Happy King Arthur Junior day, everyone.
S's sense of humor can be dry, wry, and altogether in a different league of that of his peers'. It can be goofy and physical like Jim Carrey and it can be annoyed and verbal like a Jewish Catskills bit. Either way, if you're ever one on one with S, and he's feelin' it, you will laugh your ass off.
An example, directly from his teacher, on studying seasons: "S, what a lovely Santa Claus you drew on the white board. He is indeed associated with winter." To me from teacher, "His Santa was like a Victorian version with the long beard and the wire rim glasses, not the plump current version." S, to teacher, brusquely handing her the Expo marker, "not bad for a Jew."
He also has a killer Marvin the Martian impression.
This morning, though, after the alarm went off, and he curled into my bed, we had this conversation. The funniest of all, because it's unintentional:
S: "Mom, I HATE Mondays."
Me: "Good news, then. Today's Tuesday."
S: "What? I thought yesterday was weekend."
Me: "No, remember yesterday was a holiday?"
S: "Right. It was King Arthur Junior day."
Happy King Arthur Junior day, everyone.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Turkeys, crows, chickens and other birds
Have you been wondering about where I've been? I know you're missing me and the shining light of humor I bring to you every morning.
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
I have been sucked into the vortex of the iphone. I haven't been online with my computer since I got it. I have turned into one of those antisocial freaks peering into the nanoscreen of my iphone to get my news, email, weather, world-goings on, games, entertainment and life resources in general. Sad, but true.
Even in the fog of technology, however, I did enjoy the company of my family, however briefly.
S came home with a good story last week. At school, they played a variation of capture the flag. Only I guess they play it with a rubber chicken?! When S's team won, he demonstrated the score with his fingers: one to zero. He was crowing about his team's success, and I suspect he was probably not exhibiting the best of sportsmanship.
However, instead of using pointer man to illustrate one, he used tall man. And for those of you without kids, that means he gave the losing team the finger.
After regaling us with the victorious tale of capturing the chicken, and his flaunting of the score, we asked him why he used his middle finger instead of his pointing finger.
He says, ever so nonchalantly, "I flipped them the bird."
Why, yes you did, young man. "Do you know what that means?"
No. But just like a chicken, you know, bird?
Hmm. Yes. Indeed. However, in our culture, flipping some one the bird is a really obscene thing to do. It's like saying a dirty word. Like, sometimes when you want to curse or swear at some one and maybe they can't hear you, you can say the obscene message with your middle finger.
Like f#$( you?
Exactly. (How lovely that my child can just blurt out that sentiment). Pointing the middle finger is like saying f&^* you. In fact, it is saying that without using words. Everyone in our culture understands that gesture to mean f&*^ you.
Hmmm.
Now, I feel as though I have armed little S. Not only with knowledge (I am sure he's heard the expression like a million times) that he can share with his mini cohorts; but also with a certain power. It's kind of alarming. Like having a small nuclear device in the trunk of your car.
Let's hope he uses his new found power for good, rather than evil. Although he has been so mischievous lately, it would not surprise me at all for him to get caught flipping the bird at another losing squad. But, also it would not surprise me at all for him to look up at the disciplinarian with wide, pathetic eyes a la Puss in Boots from Shrek, and say, who, me? I was just showing them the score. How could THAT be naughty?
That kid is trouble. f#$%
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Child Punisher
The other night in the car, S becomes aggravated with my (admittedly irritating) game of echo. I was playing that infamous game from childhood and repeated everything he said. Including, "Stop copying me!" I was having a good time, feeling rather rousing of the rabble, and was enjoying some time with my little guy.
Eventually, he screams: "The Child Punisher is going to come get you!"
This gives me pause. What an entirely fantastic concept! The list of adult offenses (keep it clean people) that could rile the anger of the Child Punisher would be hysterical. So, S and I then start talking about some of offenses the Child Punisher would not take kindly to:
1. Serving vegetables/making kids eat everything on their plates
2. Making kids clean their rooms
3. Making kids go to school
4. For not letting kids play Wii
5. Not letting kids eat whatever they want
6. He does not like it when grown ups talk on their cell phones and ignore kids
So, basically, no surprises there. The list of adult crimes eligible for The Child Punisher shares a number of items that make kids misbehave. Coincidence or psychic phenomenon?
The idea of the Child Punisher exacting revenge for every small slight against (pretty) spoiled kids amuses me tremendously for whatever reason.
Mostly, though, the idea of a world small enough that injustice can be identified as a candy bar is kind of wonderful.
Eventually, he screams: "The Child Punisher is going to come get you!"
This gives me pause. What an entirely fantastic concept! The list of adult offenses (keep it clean people) that could rile the anger of the Child Punisher would be hysterical. So, S and I then start talking about some of offenses the Child Punisher would not take kindly to:
1. Serving vegetables/making kids eat everything on their plates
2. Making kids clean their rooms
3. Making kids go to school
4. For not letting kids play Wii
5. Not letting kids eat whatever they want
6. He does not like it when grown ups talk on their cell phones and ignore kids
So, basically, no surprises there. The list of adult crimes eligible for The Child Punisher shares a number of items that make kids misbehave. Coincidence or psychic phenomenon?
The idea of the Child Punisher exacting revenge for every small slight against (pretty) spoiled kids amuses me tremendously for whatever reason.
Mostly, though, the idea of a world small enough that injustice can be identified as a candy bar is kind of wonderful.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
A brief anatomy lesson
By and large, I have taught my children facts. The true kind. I haven't sugar coated too much, or fibbed or fudged. I mostly explain their world in their vocabulary in the most straightforward way possible. Example: Boys have penises. Girls do not. However, everyone pees and poops.
Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.
But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.
So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)
Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.
Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.
You see where this is going, right?
"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."
"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"
"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"
"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*
"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"
"Fine. Chicken nuggets."
"An excellent choice."
I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:
"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."
Here in Mobile, more so than in other places, parents use nonsense and euphemisms to describe their children's worlds. Such that: Boys have wee wees, girls do not. However, everyone tee tees and potties.
I'm a big grammar aficionado, however it is difficult to determine just how letters and nouns became verbs and pronouns came to represent nouns to which they are unrelated. It's all very confusing.
But, since we live here, I have discouraged the kids from shouting penis. So, the word for genitalia in daily usage (and because we have boys, there is ALWAYS a daily usage) has become tenders. While I am no expert, it seems as though the name seems apt, as men's genitalia do seem pretty tender, and also, it's nicer than nuts or whatever.
So, "MOM! He hit me in the tenders!" or "MOM! I fell on my bike and hurt my tenders!" or "MOM! Don't look at my tenders!" (The last invariably as the speaker is standing on his head nude in the kitchen while I'm making dinner.)
Now, to move the story forward, the only thing that preschool boys are obsessed with more than their tenders is junk food. And since their birth, the boys have eaten nothing but macaroni and cheese, peanut butter and jelly, and chicken nuggets. Thank you, by the way, to Ronald MacDonald who coined the vague term nugget for the equally vague ingredients of whatever goes in a chicken 'food product.' Now, all unidentifiable fried chicken bits are universally known as nuggets.
Except at this one restaurant. That called them chicken tenders. It said it right on the menu, "chicken tenders." And I made the mistake of failing to translate "tender" into "nugget" for S.
You see where this is going, right?
"So, do you want the hot dog, the macaroni, or the chicken tenders?"
*Snicker* *Snort* "Tenders. Heh heh."
"Chicken NUGGETS. Do you want the chicken nuggets?"
"Are chicken nuggets REALLY chickens' tenders?"
"No. They're part of the chickens' breast meat."
"BREAST?!? Heheh."
"No, dopey. Breast meat is muscle. Like this part on you." *poke*
"Have you ever seen a chicken's tenders?"
"No. Have YOU ever seen a chicken's NUGGETS? No. They're different words for the same piece of cut up chicken meat. Do you want the chicken nuggets or not?"
"Fine. Chicken nuggets."
"An excellent choice."
I am quiet for a moment, wondering if I should resuscitate this now defunct subject. I decide to just lob one out there for him:
"By the way. Only roosters have tenders."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Babies Babies, Everywhere!
The official start of spring is nearly upon us. The time of year when flowers bloom, the air is rich with the scents of thaw and growth, and when farms and forests everywhere witness the birth of ridiculously adorable baby animals.
I notice on Facebook pages of friends, that many, many people I know are celebrating spring with their own ridiculously cute human babies.
I stare into baby-eyes in full screen photos, or squint at thumbnails. I cock my head sideways to try to decipher ultrasound pictures. New baby girls born into families of boys. More baby girls added to families of girls. Baby boys with mischief already sparkling in their new, toothless grins. Babies, babies everywhere!
And, of course all of these new babies are born as we celebrate the spring birthday of S. Five years ago, we welcomed our fuzzy little spring bundle. Round, and soft and smelling sweet. Now, he is all Lego-playing, stitches-requiring, tball-playing boy. There is no baby left.
As I see my smaller baby--my last baby--grow into boy, I have a sense of why some of my friends are having more. That ephemeral sweetness of a baby. The tiny sigh accompanying a full tummy, the tiny fingers clutching mine. All of that is behind us. And some part of me misses that.
But then, THEN, another realization strikes. It's all behind us! The next time I change diapers, it will either be on a grandbaby or myself! No more crappy silicone spoons falling down the garbage disposal. No more rotten sippy cups under the car seats. No more hours of rocking an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night. No more piles of throw-up covered onesies. Aha! Done! Bazinga!
Nostalgia remedies itself.
Sure, I have pangs. Last night, as I scooped a sleeping S out of my bed to return him to his own, I nuzzled his soft cheeks and thought of how cozy it was to snuggle a sleeping child. But I'm over it.
I am so proud of who my boys are and what they can do now. I love watching E read everything he can get his hands on. S swinging a bat vaguely in the direction of the tee is perfect. I am relishing these accomplishments. They are the hints of the full potential these boys can achieve. They are tangible to me in ways that the accomplishments of infants--grinning, crawling, babbling--are not. And while those baby milestones are significant, these new ones are for us all to enjoy together. Even the boys realize the significance of their new found abilities.
Yesterday, S was laying in the floor of the bathroom while M was readying for work. M playfully heaped his towel upon S's resting body, and S responds with: "So this is how it's going to be on my birthday? Covered with wet towels?" And I realize that we truly are shaping this child and his humor and view to life. And I love that there's going to be one more wry person in our family. Another soul who can look at his life, himself, and laugh. I know that S was the perfect spring addition to our family.
But when I recall that first spring with S, that second spring with S, indeed that third spring with S, I know that he is the perfect last addition.
Happy Spring, babies everywhere! Happy Birthday, S! Here's to knowing you'll never be a middle child...
I notice on Facebook pages of friends, that many, many people I know are celebrating spring with their own ridiculously cute human babies.
I stare into baby-eyes in full screen photos, or squint at thumbnails. I cock my head sideways to try to decipher ultrasound pictures. New baby girls born into families of boys. More baby girls added to families of girls. Baby boys with mischief already sparkling in their new, toothless grins. Babies, babies everywhere!
And, of course all of these new babies are born as we celebrate the spring birthday of S. Five years ago, we welcomed our fuzzy little spring bundle. Round, and soft and smelling sweet. Now, he is all Lego-playing, stitches-requiring, tball-playing boy. There is no baby left.
As I see my smaller baby--my last baby--grow into boy, I have a sense of why some of my friends are having more. That ephemeral sweetness of a baby. The tiny sigh accompanying a full tummy, the tiny fingers clutching mine. All of that is behind us. And some part of me misses that.
But then, THEN, another realization strikes. It's all behind us! The next time I change diapers, it will either be on a grandbaby or myself! No more crappy silicone spoons falling down the garbage disposal. No more rotten sippy cups under the car seats. No more hours of rocking an inconsolable baby in the middle of the night. No more piles of throw-up covered onesies. Aha! Done! Bazinga!
Nostalgia remedies itself.
Sure, I have pangs. Last night, as I scooped a sleeping S out of my bed to return him to his own, I nuzzled his soft cheeks and thought of how cozy it was to snuggle a sleeping child. But I'm over it.
I am so proud of who my boys are and what they can do now. I love watching E read everything he can get his hands on. S swinging a bat vaguely in the direction of the tee is perfect. I am relishing these accomplishments. They are the hints of the full potential these boys can achieve. They are tangible to me in ways that the accomplishments of infants--grinning, crawling, babbling--are not. And while those baby milestones are significant, these new ones are for us all to enjoy together. Even the boys realize the significance of their new found abilities.
Yesterday, S was laying in the floor of the bathroom while M was readying for work. M playfully heaped his towel upon S's resting body, and S responds with: "So this is how it's going to be on my birthday? Covered with wet towels?" And I realize that we truly are shaping this child and his humor and view to life. And I love that there's going to be one more wry person in our family. Another soul who can look at his life, himself, and laugh. I know that S was the perfect spring addition to our family.
But when I recall that first spring with S, that second spring with S, indeed that third spring with S, I know that he is the perfect last addition.
Happy Spring, babies everywhere! Happy Birthday, S! Here's to knowing you'll never be a middle child...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
May the Force (and dryer sheets) be with you
Just before bedtime tonight, S came running down the stairs in clothes completely different than a) the ones he wore to school b) the ones he changed into after school (why?) or c) the pajamas he was supposed to have put on for bed.
He was wearing a brown Chewbacca shirt with brown sweats, and desperately searching for his lightsaber. He blew by me, as I was folding laundry, headed for the playroom. He ignored the heaps of crap on the floor and humped on to the couch, removed one of the cushions, peered into the behind-the-sofa-cushion chasm of mystery and looked disappointed. "What's up?" I ask, suspiciously. "Where's my lightsaber?" S asks, accusingly. First of all, what do I want with a lightsaber. Second of all, what kind of psycho specific memory recalls that a lightsaber was at one point between the sofa cushions and the place where popcorn kernels go to die? Third of all, why does a third costume change of the day require lightsabers?
This development will require more questioning.
"Um. Why do you need a lightsaber?"
"OK. If you don't have the lightsaber, do you have a brown marker?"
Trying to squelch the panic in my voice, I start mental math. Brown outfit, brown marker, lightsaber. What do these things have in common? Brown....outfit....lightsaber....marker? Outfit...lightsaber...brown...marker? Is he a Jedi UPS delivery guy? What the hell was going on here?
"Why do you need a brown marker?"
"I need to draw a beard."
Alarm sounding.
"On what?"
"Me."
"OK. You see, we SO don't need to be doing that. Why do you need a beard?"
"Who am I?"
Trick question. Jedi UPS delivery guy is probably not the answer. But Jedi has to be right. Nobody but comic book nerds and Jedi carry lightsaber. And poor S hasn't figured out just how not far Star Wars is going to take him with the ladies.
"A Jedi?"
"Which Jedi?"
Jedi with a beard. Not Samuel L. Jackson. Alec Guiness? Beard. Ewan Macgregor? Beard. Liam Neeson? Beard. Shit. No help here. Random guess.
"Obi Wan?"
"Yes. The brown is like the cape and the pants. And I need a beard and my lightsaber. I want to show E and Dad."
"Great costume. They'll love it. Without the brown marker, right?" Slight threat in the voice. "And after they see it, the costume goes back in the drawer because it's clean, right?"
"Yah, yah. ya...." the voice trails off as he goes racing through the kitchen in search of brother, dad, and lightsaber.
I go back to folding laundry, and realize that tomorrow I will be folding Obi Wan's worn for 2 minutes sweatpants and teeshirt. Because there is no Force in the galaxy that is going to get that outfit back in the drawer.
He was wearing a brown Chewbacca shirt with brown sweats, and desperately searching for his lightsaber. He blew by me, as I was folding laundry, headed for the playroom. He ignored the heaps of crap on the floor and humped on to the couch, removed one of the cushions, peered into the behind-the-sofa-cushion chasm of mystery and looked disappointed. "What's up?" I ask, suspiciously. "Where's my lightsaber?" S asks, accusingly. First of all, what do I want with a lightsaber. Second of all, what kind of psycho specific memory recalls that a lightsaber was at one point between the sofa cushions and the place where popcorn kernels go to die? Third of all, why does a third costume change of the day require lightsabers?
This development will require more questioning.
"Um. Why do you need a lightsaber?"
"OK. If you don't have the lightsaber, do you have a brown marker?"
Trying to squelch the panic in my voice, I start mental math. Brown outfit, brown marker, lightsaber. What do these things have in common? Brown....outfit....lightsaber....marker? Outfit...lightsaber...brown...marker? Is he a Jedi UPS delivery guy? What the hell was going on here?
"Why do you need a brown marker?"
"I need to draw a beard."
Alarm sounding.
"On what?"
"Me."
"OK. You see, we SO don't need to be doing that. Why do you need a beard?"
"Who am I?"
Trick question. Jedi UPS delivery guy is probably not the answer. But Jedi has to be right. Nobody but comic book nerds and Jedi carry lightsaber. And poor S hasn't figured out just how not far Star Wars is going to take him with the ladies.
"A Jedi?"
"Which Jedi?"
Jedi with a beard. Not Samuel L. Jackson. Alec Guiness? Beard. Ewan Macgregor? Beard. Liam Neeson? Beard. Shit. No help here. Random guess.
"Obi Wan?"
"Yes. The brown is like the cape and the pants. And I need a beard and my lightsaber. I want to show E and Dad."
"Great costume. They'll love it. Without the brown marker, right?" Slight threat in the voice. "And after they see it, the costume goes back in the drawer because it's clean, right?"
"Yah, yah. ya...." the voice trails off as he goes racing through the kitchen in search of brother, dad, and lightsaber.
I go back to folding laundry, and realize that tomorrow I will be folding Obi Wan's worn for 2 minutes sweatpants and teeshirt. Because there is no Force in the galaxy that is going to get that outfit back in the drawer.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Tender Thoughts
Living with kids is much like reading a stream of consciousness novel, and I try to stimulate my brain by seeking meaning in the flow of verbal diarrhea. He likes to play with rhyming words, alliteration ("that frickin' frog is freakin' me out"), multiple meanings. It's a Jeopardy Potpourri category, Alex. And it's a humorous hiatus from the heinous havoc for now.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.
Right now, S is obsessed with his genitalia. His tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. Freud would have a freaking field day with this kid. He is convinced some one is going to shoot off, laser off, sword off, pull off, or in some other way, remove his tenders, privates, bits, junk, whatever. When he gets in the tub, he says I'm boiling his tenders. When I dry him off, he says I'm fluffing his tenders (for people in the porn industry, that has a completely different meaning). When he and his brother wrestle and fight, there are no-tenders pulling rules. When we were in Arizona, every other word out of the kid's mouth was tenders. And worst of all, he violated the no-tenders rule while horsing around with his uncle, and delivered a swift blow to HIS tenders.
Then, I start thinking about the word association with tenders. Chicken tenders. Tenders on cruises that shuttle people to shore and back. Tendering money. Meat tenderizer. Legal tender. The next time I see "tender, juicy steak" on a menu, I'll probably barf.
But, this has only been one aspect of his verbal concentration. Yesterday, S was playing with his Star Wars figures. He had them hurrying to escape an exploding ship: "run to the escape pod" he says in action figure voice. "The ipod?" action figure two queries. "No, the pea pod!" says another. "NOOO! The escape pod! The shuttle!" screams the first figurine. "OH! Shut the door. I got it" says the second. "No. Don't shut it...the shuttle, the space shuttle" says the third.
He's like a living dictionary, blurting out all the multiple definitions of a word his little brain can conjure. It's fun, because of course, I am the queen of puns and wordplay and LOVE that sort of humor. But, as always, it's a noisy monologue that streams from his mouth constantly. It's a littany of language to make James Joyce proud. On the other hand, living with it is somewhat like reading Finnegan's Wake: an impossibility best aspired to, and never undertaken.
This phase will undoubtedly end shortly, and we will be on to some other form of Guantanamo-esque torture, but in the mean time, you might want to cover your ears. Nears. Fears. Gears. Tears.
Monday, September 14, 2009
From an Alternate Universe
My goodness. What a busy day. I woke up so cheerfully when the alarm clock chimed this morning at 5:00. It was as though I had slept among clouds. I was able to run 3 miles this morning without so much as an ugly thought crossing my mind. My legs carried me, and the uplifting music on the ipod reminded me that indeed, aspiration is inspiration.
By the time I came home, the boys were stirring in their beds. Their angelic lashes sweeping and fluttering on their delicious cheeks. Rise and shine, little ones! How I love waking them and helping them dress and brush their teeth. And this morning, we thought it would be silly to sing songs like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke as we dressed. The older one has a charming Cockney voice. Everything went amazingly smoothly this morning. Except, shucks! I stubbed my toes. On days like this, I reconsider our choice to have only two children. It's a daily miracle to watch them grow and change.
After the kids and hubby had left, I tidied up; although they had left hardly any evidence they had whirled through here at all. I started a delicious dinner. I am very excited about it--everyone is sure to love a roasted red pepper and tomato chicken cacciatore. The boys are SUCH adventurous eaters.
After school, everything was organized so well, that all of our extra curricular activities went swimmingly and we had time to spare. A mother at our playgroup was so frazzled--so much to do, so busy, so frenetic. I told her to find her inner Zen and do more with less. Serenity is a daily gift. Although not everyone, sadly, can live their lives with the focus and the inner quiet I am blessed with. In fact, at the little playground after school, I heard some child, clearly unloved, unsupervised and not told every day what a precious little soul he is, playing with my son. That child, making gun noises, and playing so roughly, actually said, "let me go, asshole. I'm here to kill some wookees."
Honestly. Some people are just letting our entire society's fabric rot down to its core. Where are we, if we lack civility, peace, and love for our children.
By the time I came home, the boys were stirring in their beds. Their angelic lashes sweeping and fluttering on their delicious cheeks. Rise and shine, little ones! How I love waking them and helping them dress and brush their teeth. And this morning, we thought it would be silly to sing songs like Julie Andrews and Dick van Dyke as we dressed. The older one has a charming Cockney voice. Everything went amazingly smoothly this morning. Except, shucks! I stubbed my toes. On days like this, I reconsider our choice to have only two children. It's a daily miracle to watch them grow and change.
After the kids and hubby had left, I tidied up; although they had left hardly any evidence they had whirled through here at all. I started a delicious dinner. I am very excited about it--everyone is sure to love a roasted red pepper and tomato chicken cacciatore. The boys are SUCH adventurous eaters.
After school, everything was organized so well, that all of our extra curricular activities went swimmingly and we had time to spare. A mother at our playgroup was so frazzled--so much to do, so busy, so frenetic. I told her to find her inner Zen and do more with less. Serenity is a daily gift. Although not everyone, sadly, can live their lives with the focus and the inner quiet I am blessed with. In fact, at the little playground after school, I heard some child, clearly unloved, unsupervised and not told every day what a precious little soul he is, playing with my son. That child, making gun noises, and playing so roughly, actually said, "let me go, asshole. I'm here to kill some wookees."
Honestly. Some people are just letting our entire society's fabric rot down to its core. Where are we, if we lack civility, peace, and love for our children.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Do as I say, not as I YouTube
Sometimes it occurs to me that M and I are raising our children in the most fucked up way possible. For example, we often say sentences that end in phrases like "the most fucked up way possible." Not only is that ruining their sense of grammar, but it's a little vulgar.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
Also, while M and I have cultivated our wry, dangerously dry, and completely jaded senses of humour over the last thirty years, our children seem to be immersed in daily ennui therapy and are in a DeVry crash course on sarcasm and vulgar comebacks so they will be properly void of any wonder and sweetness by the age of eight.
Additionally, M (and while I usually assume responsibility for these things jointly, this is squarely on his shoulders) feels obligated to allow our children to watch WILDLY inappropriate things on YouTube. So, in addition to wasting the lives of millions of teenagers across the world, YouTube is now sucking the sweetness right out of my little babies. For example, my kids LOVE the Gilly bit from SNL. They also like snippets from a TV show on Cartoon Network's Adult Swim called Robot Chicken. I don't know what the show is usually like, but my kids are hooked on a spoof of Star Wars as acted by stop-action animated Ken dolls, and voiced by supremely pissed off comedians. For example, the Emperor, deplaning his shuttle on to the Death Star starts complaining to Vader: "lemme tell you about my flight. It was a total nightmare. The tray table collapsed and spilled burning hot coffee all over my groin. Seriously. It was like dipping my wang in burning hot lava. But you know something about that, right?" Vader: (sadly, sagging his head) "yes." And, being children, the boys can instantly memorize every last syllable of the damn show, so that randomly, and often in front of people who are judging me (I am not paranoid), they regurgitate this filth leaving me with only nervous laughter and blather about how kids can learn ANYTHING on the Internet these days.
After watching that, though, no wonder my kids no longer have any room in their soul for Max and Ruby or Diego. They just can't watch those shows with unironic eyes anymore. Is that a tragic capitation of their childhood or just good sense? I am not sure. A friend of M's once told the story of his nieces and nephews who would respond out loud when a TV character asked a question and how he was so disappointed in them: "Come ON. I know you kids are smarter than to answer that completely OBVIOUS question." Well, my kids stopped doing that at around 3. "Why is Diego asking us questions, Mom? He can't even tell that we're ignoring him."
Sigh.
I, on the other hand, am completely responsible for another parenting failure. My kids are now totally obsessed with bad, one-hit wonder bands from the 90s. I realize that I have no musical taste whatsoever. (See: Coldplay collection on my ipod). I realize that occasionally I find myself singing along to the worst theme music ever (but Jimmy Buffett is on the radio ALL the time here.) Since my kids spend a huge amount of time with me in the car, driving all over creation to take their spoiled selves to activities to enrich the mind and body, they have adopted some of my musical pitfalls. So that when M asks them what kind of music they want to hear on YouTube, they never answer The Beatles or Van Morrison. They answer like S did today, with "Drops of Jupiter" (That band was called Train in case you blinked) or "Shattered: Turn the Car Around" (OAR). And little musical S, who remembers every syllable of everything, sweetly sings the pablum that is Train as though it were the most gentle of lullabies. Of course, this he does without a HINT of irony, which sends M through the roof. It also begs the question of why I bother to take them to music class at all, if I am going to make them listen to/appreciate schlock on the way to the class.
But there it is. Which explains why S has been singing "Around Midnight" from a soon to be forgotten band with the douchy pretentious name of Airborne Toxic Event. And why last night, as he was playing with his Star Wars figures, he reenacted the Robot Chicken coffee break scene: "Get your hands off me, asshole. I was hired to kill wookees."
Stand back--Parent of the Year coming through.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Movies and Volcanoes
The other night, Sam announced out of nowhere that, "love is like lava." We could not get him to elaborate, and I do not know if he meant that love is metaphorically like lava or if love and lava are similar words. Regardless, I am thinking it is a profound statement for a four year old. He is either right on with his phonetic skills or he is a big thinker/Pele worshipper.
I believe his metaphor is apt. Love, especially the love for a child is like lava. Explosive and ferocious. Slow and mushy. White hot. The foundation on which he will build everything else for his entire life. Unpredictable. All over the place. The Hawaiians have like 20 words for lava--all the different textures, viscosities, temperaments are differently labeled. The more intimately you live with something, the more specifically you identify it.
But anyway, back to love. M picked movies for this weekend. Let me preface the rest of the story by saying I know NOTHING about movies. I do not like trailers, movie theaters, movie theater popcorn, previews, art films, horror, or drama. I do not read about movies, I do not want to know about them. I haven't seen the "100 Movies You Must See." I am the customer Netflix loves--I keep movies for weeks because M thinks we "should see" something and then it arrives and I put it off and put it off until finally he watches it alone or sends it back unviewed. I really hate movies that are about wrongful imprisonment, movies with dramatic irony, or movies in which bad things happen to children. I find them too emotionally draining to watch.
So, knowing that about me, let me say that M picked Slumdog Millionaire to watch. I knew nothing about it except that the red carpet fashions for the cast were exciting at the Oscars. (I watch the red carpet stuff--I love celebrity fashion failures.) He said it would be "light" and "fun." It was chock full of bad things happening to children, wrongful imprisonment and dramatic irony. I cried and cried. And then I went upstairs and crawled into my kids' beds and loved on them as they slept and cried some more.
THEN we went to see Disney's Earth. Humans suck. Global warming sucks. Climate change sucks. Dying polar bears SUCK. I cried and cried and hugged my kids and cried some more.
Needless to say, next week we are going to watch Harold and Kumar and maybe Roman Holiday. Enough with this gritty realism.
But back to lava. Those movies drew up in me that primitive love that I have for my kids. That ferocious protect-them-from-all-pain-and-suffering, that desire to make the world safe for them. It draws up the slow moments of tenderness that will not last much longer as they age. The evils of the world are dwarfed when I realize how fiercely I would fight them to protect my babies. All those words we have for the love of our children--tenderness, adoration, spoiling, affection, cherishing, devotion--I thought of them all as they slept in their giant beds enveloped in the childhood scent of sleep. The more intimately we live with some one, the more intensely we feel for them, the more specific our language is to describe them.
Love IS lava.
I believe his metaphor is apt. Love, especially the love for a child is like lava. Explosive and ferocious. Slow and mushy. White hot. The foundation on which he will build everything else for his entire life. Unpredictable. All over the place. The Hawaiians have like 20 words for lava--all the different textures, viscosities, temperaments are differently labeled. The more intimately you live with something, the more specifically you identify it.
But anyway, back to love. M picked movies for this weekend. Let me preface the rest of the story by saying I know NOTHING about movies. I do not like trailers, movie theaters, movie theater popcorn, previews, art films, horror, or drama. I do not read about movies, I do not want to know about them. I haven't seen the "100 Movies You Must See." I am the customer Netflix loves--I keep movies for weeks because M thinks we "should see" something and then it arrives and I put it off and put it off until finally he watches it alone or sends it back unviewed. I really hate movies that are about wrongful imprisonment, movies with dramatic irony, or movies in which bad things happen to children. I find them too emotionally draining to watch.
So, knowing that about me, let me say that M picked Slumdog Millionaire to watch. I knew nothing about it except that the red carpet fashions for the cast were exciting at the Oscars. (I watch the red carpet stuff--I love celebrity fashion failures.) He said it would be "light" and "fun." It was chock full of bad things happening to children, wrongful imprisonment and dramatic irony. I cried and cried. And then I went upstairs and crawled into my kids' beds and loved on them as they slept and cried some more.
THEN we went to see Disney's Earth. Humans suck. Global warming sucks. Climate change sucks. Dying polar bears SUCK. I cried and cried and hugged my kids and cried some more.
Needless to say, next week we are going to watch Harold and Kumar and maybe Roman Holiday. Enough with this gritty realism.
But back to lava. Those movies drew up in me that primitive love that I have for my kids. That ferocious protect-them-from-all-pain-and-suffering, that desire to make the world safe for them. It draws up the slow moments of tenderness that will not last much longer as they age. The evils of the world are dwarfed when I realize how fiercely I would fight them to protect my babies. All those words we have for the love of our children--tenderness, adoration, spoiling, affection, cherishing, devotion--I thought of them all as they slept in their giant beds enveloped in the childhood scent of sleep. The more intimately we live with some one, the more intensely we feel for them, the more specific our language is to describe them.
Love IS lava.
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