November 19th, 2012 § Comments Off on As Long as You Love Me § permalink
I save my son from a lifetime of humiliation and does he thank me for it? Noooo.
Boy: I want to go the Jingle Ball [which is advertised nonstop on the radio station he has on at all times.]
Me: No.
Boy: Why not?
Me: First of all, it’s sold out.
Boy: You can still get tickets.
Me: Second of all, the bands playing suck.
Boy: No, they don’t!
Me: Name who’s playing.
Boy: Uh, I don’t remember.
We go online and look it up.
Me: Oh, fer Christ’s sake. Justin Bieber is headlining. You like Justin Bieber?
Boy: No. But I like the other bands.
Me: Which one? You like The Wanted? Train? Karmin? Bridget Mendler? Isn’t she the one from Disney Channel? Alex Care?
Boy: Yeah, him. I like him.
Me: Name one song he sings.
Boy: I don’t know the name! I just know I like it.
Me: No.
Boy: Look up how much tickets are.
We got to StubHub. Tickets are in the $39 to $5,000+ range.
Boy: They’re not that much.
Me: No! The money is not the point! The point is that someday you will go to college, and people will say to you, “What was the first concert you went to,” and you’ll have to say, “Justin Bieber,” and then you will cry yourself to sleep at night from the shame.
Boy: I could lie!
Me: No. I forbid it. I forbid you going to see Justin Bieber. Have some pride in yourself, boy!
He’s still pissed. But I can live with that. And one day, he’ll be in college, and I’ll show him this post, and he’ll have to buy me flowers or chocolate or cars in gracious thanks that I didn’t let him go.
September 21st, 2012 § Comments Off on All I Want for Halloween… § permalink
Hey, guys, how do you like my new iPhone 5? What? You can’t see it? That’s because my freak of a husband left for a business trip last week and FORGOT TO ORDER MY PHONE! Of course, I’m probably one of those morons who would have fallen for this:
But really I’m just cranky because my smoke alarm system HATES me (yes, it’s an all-caps kind of day). Adam was–again–on a business trip (who knew someone working for a travel company would have to travel so much?) and the smoke alarms decided to f*ck with me right at bedtime. One of them would beep. Which one? I couldn’t tell. Because when I ran to look, nothing would happen. So I’d leave. And it would beep again. Sometimes it beeped at 15 minute intervals. Sometimes at 3. Once it was about 25 minutes, luring me into believing it had stopped. So I frantically chased beeps. I finally figured it was the hall smoke alarm, so I took it down. I went to replace the batteries, only to discover we are out of batteries. So I took the old batteries out and left it on the table, and finally went back to sleep. Ah, sweet sleep. BEEP! @@%$##@! It was the wrong detector. It was the one not one foot away from the hall detector in the guest room. Back out, put one on table back up, take out new one. Back to bed. Ah, sweet sleep. “Mommy, my throat hurts!” And in crawls the little one.
This morning was the eternal debate: Is my child healthy enough to go to school? Do we factor in that her class picture is being taken at 8:30 a.m.? But… But… Ah, but what if it’s strep? My guilt gets the better of me, and I make Adam swear he won’t let Doodles out of the house on picture day with crazy hair and I run Pie to the doctor for the 8 a.m. walk-in hours, making sure we’re 5 minutes early so we’re first, and I get her a strep test, and we find out she’s fine, and I haul her butt to school, arriving 3 minutes before it’s class picture time and before I’m on duty volunteering for picture day. Yes, that was a run-on sentence. Because it is a run-on sentence kind of day. I guess I’ve moved on from all caps.
But now Pie is chipper and fine and running around the playground last I saw her. Doodles’s hair was almost laying flat. I got to work with a photographer who really didn’t seem to like kids very much. And now I’ve got one hour to figure out our back-to-school picnic dinner, what we’ll be bringing to tomorrow’s block party, finish up the work I’m supposed to get done for a committee meeting on Sunday, and, oh, write a novel.
People wonder why I eat so much sugar. Thank goodness it’s Halloween time! I wonder if the Switch Witch will bring me an iPhone 5 this year. Damn, I want an iPhone 5!
September 10th, 2012 § Comments Off on The Star Wars Dilemma § permalink
My memories of childhood are hazy, which is why that I remember this one fairly clearly is rather odd: I’m nine years old. There’s a movie out that my father is crazy to see. It’s been out for a bit, and apparently everyone is talking about so we make arrangements to go to the movies with our neighbors, who have a son my age and a daughter Tweedle Twirp’s age.
Because Tweeds has just turned six, she is deemed too young for the movie, and she is offered the opportunity to see, with some random grown-up and the other little sister, in another theater of the multiplex the movie Pete’s Dragon. They decide upon that without hesitation. The brother and I are also given a choice: Pete’s Dragon or this definitely grown-up movie called Star Wars.
The brother and I consult for a few moments, before deciding upon the obvious: Star Wars.
The movie was entrancing. I was hooked.
We didn’t wait as long to see Empire Strikes Back when it was released. Return of the Jedi I saw on the opening weekend, with friends. For these movies, I saw them early enough that the movies were fresh, exciting. No Internet could spoil the endings. The movie reviews were subtle enough not to give anything away. I remember my shock and excitement at the “big reveal” in Empire. It was brillant! Genius! Oh. My. God! (Or, rather, as I would have said back then, “It was totally bitchin’!”)
Flash forward a dozen years or so, and yes, I was the geek outside at the midnight showing of Phantom Menace. To my credit, I wasn’t the one who left the office at 11 a.m., paying good money for the movie Meet Jack Black, just to see the trailer for Phantom Menace and then leaving without seeing the movie. This should not be a surprise to anyone. I worked at Amazon.com in 1999 at a time when it was populated with hipsters and geeks (as opposed to now when it’s filled with blue shirts and khaki pants). One of my geek friends waited in line for opening day tickets, and kindly purchased one for me.
It was disappointing. I was upset. That didn’t stop me from seeing the movie again with my folks, but I was left saddened.
Attack of the Clone Wars came out a month after Adam and I were married. Despite both of us not liking Phantom, we dutifully filed in at the Cinerama for it. Eh.
Here’s a confession. Revenge of the Sith came out in 2005. Something else was happening in 2005. What was it? What was it? Hmmmm. Well, whatever it was, we never got around to seeing the final Star Wars movie. Adam actually DVR’d it a few months ago, and it sits mockingly on our TV, laughing at me every time I go to watch Dance Moms (yes, Dance Moms! See how the mighty have fallen. Get over yourself, people!).
But here we are. Dance Moms not withstanding, Adam and I responsible grown-ups with an obligation to do what’s right for our children. And the big questions these days, the weight upon every parent Gen Xer today, the albatross we must carry is: In what order do you allow your children to view “Star Wars”? Do you see them chronological order, starting with Phantom Menace and ending with Return of the Jedi? Or do you watch them in release order, starting with New Hope and ending with Revenge of the Sith?
This became of grave importance recently when in a discussion of “Star Wars,” Pie asked, “So, Darth Vader is Luke’s father?”
I responded: “You’re not supposed to know that.”
She continued: “And Queen Amidalah is Princess Leia’s mother, so Luke and Leia are brother and sister, right?”
“You’re NOT supposed to know that!” I say louder, feeling agitated.
“Mom!” said my oh-so-wise second grader. “I’ve known that since kindergarten!”
Oh my child. I am your mother. I am here to rescue you.
This past weekend, I declared that we would all be watching the “Star Wars” films. All of them. Doodles had seen Episode IV: The New Hope (for which I still get in trouble for referring to it as the first “Star Wars” film) a while ago, but I think it had been a couple of years.
Adam had previously done extensive research on the “what order to watch the films” dilemma, in anticipation for this day comes. We were in agreement that the films should be viewed in the Machete Order (IV, V, II, III, VI, and then much, much later I), although Adam thinks that we should view Episode I before Episode II, and I think we stick with the order and watch Episode I at the end.
Saturday was a rainy, stormy night. Adam brought our copy of Episode IV up from the basement. The kids curled up on the couch, and I used it as my opportunity to sew badges on Pie’s Brownie vest as I cheered on the Rebel forces.
The movie began. “You are going to love this!” I promised Pie. “Be brave like Princess Leia! Tomorrow night, we’ll watch Empire Strikes Back, and next weekend we’ll move on to the next movie!”
She buried her head in the couch for a few scenes. She watched most of it. She seemed to like it.
But then she didn’t want to go to sleep by herself. And finally, once she was down, she was up a couple of hours later. I was still awake, getting ready for bed, and she refused to leave my side, merely following me around like a little shadow.
Before I could even get her into bed, the bigger one was up. “Back into bed, Monkey,” Adam said quietly, gently leading him back to his bedroom.
“Uh uh!!” came the growl out of the half-asleep boy as he planted himself in our doorway, refusing to be carried back to his room.
I gave up. There were four in the bed and the little one said, “Star Wars is scary!”
Sunday morning, Adam bleary-eyed said to me, “I guess we’re not watching Empire Strikes Back tonight, huh?”
No, my padawan, I don’t think we shall. We’ll try again in a few more years. With luck, the Force in our children will be stronger then. May the Force be with you.
August 7th, 2012 § Comments Off on It’s All Right, Baby’s Coming Back…* § permalink
My baby boy is home. Did you guys hear that? I’ll say it louder. MY BABY BOY IS HOME! And he loved camp. Sob! Next year he wants to go for the four-week session (refresh! refresh! refresh!).
I myself had a whirlwind weekend attending the wedding of two high school friends. It was one of those crazy stories–they dated for years in high school, broke up, married other people. Those marriages didn’t work and when they found each other again, the sparks flew. So I jetted off to Sunny Isles, Florida for their wedding. It was beautiful. But it meant that Adam had to pick the boy up from camp. So insufficient pictures. (And, let’s be honest, there would be no “sufficient” pictures if I’m not the one taking them.)
I woke up this morning to a not-so-little boy body in my bed. Ahhhh.
“Whatcha doing in my bed?” I asked him.
“I had a bad dream,” he told me. “You know, I really shouldn’t read the dictionary before I go to bed. I had these nightmares and people were using all these fancy words.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “I didn’t even know what all of them mean.”
“Like what?” I asked.
He thought for a moment. “Like ‘exquisite.'”
I’m so happy he’s home!
*One of my favorite songs, even if they do spell “all right” incorrectly.
7:20 a.m.
“Boy, get dressed. We have to get you to camp.”
7:33 a.m.
“Boy, are you dressed? Put down the comic book and get dressed!”
7:41 a.m.
“Where are you? How long does it take to get dressed? You need breakfast!”
7:50 a.m.
“You are leaving in 10 minutes! Get your butt down here!”
“Okay, okay!” the boy yells, as he runs down the stairs, fully dressed, and into the kitchen.
I look at him. “Are you wearing clean underwear?”
The boy looks at me exasperated. “You didn’t tell me I had to put on clean underwear!” And back upstairs he went.
Later that day, after returning from School of Rock camp: “Mom, there was a line in the song we’re writing that I don’t understand. The line is, ‘You bang your drums when you should be plucking my g string.’ What does it mean?”
It started out innocuously enough. The song “Call Me Maybe” would play on the the radio, and I’d change the station. It’s an annoying song. Truly. And then a friend posted a link to the Harvard baseball team dancing in their car to the song. She thought it meant she was a cougar, because she liked the boys in the video. I thought it meant I was a total mom because all I could think was, “Why aren’t they wearing their seat belts? I can see them, right there in the corner! Put on the DAMN seat belts!” I played it for the girl. She liked it. And then there was the Barack Obama version. I played it for the kids. They were amused.
And then the kiddos went off to a movie-making camp. And for part of the camp they made a music video. To Carly Rae Jepsen. And that’s when I discovered how much the boy hates the song. I mean it really upsets him. Makes his skin crawl. Which means I now love it. Frequently. At top volume. The girl is in on this.
I find the song online and play it. Today, we were driving home from the library and the song came on just as I pulled into the driveway. I locked the doors and cranked the volume, while the boy tried to frantically claw his way out of the minivan. But I prevailed. I feed lines to the girl. “Hey, I just met you!” I say. And she responds, “And this is crazy!” I whisper to the song to him as he’s falling asleep. “I’d trade my soul for a wish, pennies and dimes for a kiss…” [Edit: Even Cookie Monster is in on it!]
Just another reason of why I deserve the Mom of the Year award. And why he’ll be in therapy before he’s twelve.
June 28th, 2012 § Comments Off on Ob La Di Ob La Don’t § permalink
The girl has a minor blackberry addiction.
Which is odd because I tried to get the girl to eat blackberries for years, but she hated them until her Nana* fed her some and now she can’t get enough.
Which (thanks to my genes directly inherited from said Nana) led to me singing, “Blackberries singing in the dead of night! Take these broken wings and learn to fly!”
Which led to a mini-Beatles dance party. The boy pulled out his drum pad and joined in. We went from Blackberries (oops, “Blackbird”) to “Back in the U.S.S.R.” to “Birthday.” But the boy was frustrated.
“Can’t you play something other than the Beatles?” the boy asked.
“Why?” I said. “The Beatles are good.”
“Hippies are annoying. They play music on street corners,” he said.
What? “I blame your father!” I yelled. “You are no longer allowed to spend time with your father!”
Adam perked up here. “What?”
“I don’t like your influence on the kids,” I told him.
“I didn’t say anything!” he protested.
“Say it, Boy,” I told the boy.
“Hippies are annoying,” the boy repeated.
“Oh yeah,” Adam said. “I did say that.”
The gauntlet has been thrown. Adam and Nathan don’t like it when I play the Beatles? Well, they’ll really freak when the Grateful Dead come out…. “Riding that train. High on cocaine….”
*Note, I do know that “Nana” used in this manner is actually a common noun and should be lowercased, but–and this applies going forward in this blog so I will not make note of this again–I make the editorial decision to capitalize because she really is “the Nana.”
[edited: Adam asked, “Did you put that disclaimer in there just for Peter [my dad]?” I said, “I put it in for anyone who knows proper grammar and might think I made a mistake.” He responded, “So you put it in for Peter.” Whatever.]
June 27th, 2012 § Comments Off on Have One Pair of Underwear. Will Travel. § permalink
The boy is in his room, on his bed, reading in his underwear.
Me: You need to get dressed. With CLEAN underwear!
The boy: Got it.
Me: I’m serious. I’m making a note of your underwear right now. You are wearing your boxers with the stars on it. When you come downstairs I am going to check your underwear to make sure it’s clean.
The boy: Got it.
Me: Okay, so get dressed, tidy your room, and come on down.
15 minutes later. The boy ambles down, dressed, hair wet and styled.
Me: Da da dum! Time for the underwear check.
I peek.
Me: This is the SAME underwear! Boxers with stars!
The boy: I actually have two pairs of this underwear!
Me: So if I go upstairs and check the laundry hamper, there will be a pair of boxer shorts with stars on them on the top?
The boy: Um. On the bottom.
He’s going to be really popular in the dorms when he gets to college.
June 17th, 2012 § Comments Off on The Trouble With Fairies § permalink
The boy is reading a new book a series about Nicholas Flamel. I bought him the first book (closing my eyes, covering my ears, and saying, “La la la” about it being for ages 12 and up), and he read it quickly. It mentions a–definitely grown-up book–called the The Book of Abramelin. The boy had to have it. It’s a pricey book.
“We’ll get it from the library,” I said. He was amenable. It’s nowhere, though, in our entire library system. “You have to pay for it,” I said. He was amenable. He counted out his money. He had $22. The book is $30.56. Finally I gave up. I said, “Why don’t you write a letter to the Book Fairy and ask for it?” He was amenable.
As I’ve mentioned before here, the Book Fairy is a fairy who appears totally at random, leaving a book under the the kids’ pillows. There’s no rhyme or reason when she’ll show up. Or what she’ll bring. But the kids do know that I communicate with her to let her know what we’re up to, so she can bring books related to what we’re doing. Before we go on vacation, the Book Fairy, for example, always knows to bring books about the place we’re visiting. At one point, the boy felt fairly sure the Book Fairy originated in the house–and there were even rumors that the boy had located the Book Fairy’s stash of books–but when he learned that the Book Fairy (or any fairy for that matter) doesn’t visit those who don’t believe in her, he got with the program.
So, the boy wrote the Book Fairy a letter (I kept his spelling and punctuation):
Dear Ms. Book Fairy,
thank you so much for the books! I have a couple of questens for you. My first questen is are you married? if so what is husband’s name? And my second questen is where do you get your books from? The reason I am writeing this letter is that there is a book that I want but I can’t get with my allowance The book is called “the book of Abraham the mage” (commenly known as the codex). Thank you!
Scencerally,
The boy
Magically, two nights later (it is just a coincidence that Amazon Prime takes two days to ship), the book appeared under his pillow.
The next morning, I said to him, “I saw the Book Fairy last night. Did she stop by?”
The boy said, “Yeah,” although I didn’t have to ask, as his nose was buried in the book.
I said, “It was odd, she had a message for you.”
The boy said, “Oh?”
“She said to tell you she is married.”
“Really?” The boy perked up and looked up from his book. “Who is she married to?”
“The Tooth Fairy,” I said.
“How is that possible? The Book Fairy is a woman and so is the Tooth Fairy.”
“Yes,” I said. “So. What’s wrong with that?”
He looked at me, rolled his eyes in a “my mom is a moron” kind of way, and said, “Nothing,” and went right back to his book.
Then, this past Friday, the girl came home from school with a new hole in her mouth. “I lost my tooth!” she said happily at pickup. Around her neck was a tooth-shaped box that held her tooth. She wore it all day and proudly showed everyone the way it rattled with her tooth inside. That night, as we came home, all of a sudden I heard a squeal.
“Mommy! Mommy! My tooth box opened up and my tooth fell down the grate!” I peeked down the heating grate and couldn’t find the tooth, although, granted, it was dusty down there and I didn’t look very hard. We agreed she’d leave the Tooth Fairy a note instead. Yet, that night, the Tooth Fairy was able to dig down into the vent and retrieve the tooth. She put the tooth back in the tooth box and left a note telling the girl that she should try again the next night with the tooth. The girl was very excited her tooth was found and she placed it under her pillow.
This morning the girl came eagerly out of her room and she announced, “Guess what the tooth fairy left me!”
Uh… uh oh. The Tooth Fairy? The Tooth Fairy has been very busy and tired and it’s just possible…
“She left me my tooth! The Tooth Fairy didn’t come!”
“She didn’t?” I said. “Well, she’ll probably come tonight.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured,” the girl said pragmatically.
But the boy wasn’t letting go so easily. “Oh really?” he said, with a gleam. “The Tooth Fairy forgot to come?” He pins me with a hard stare. “How did that Tooth Fairy just forget to come? Hmmm? Anyone know? I wonder how the Tooth Fairy could just forget to come!” He looks at me, blinking his eyes innocently, with a sh*t-eating grin on his face.
Sometimes that boy is a little too clever for his own good. And we’ll see what the Tooth Fairy brings him next time. Is it just Santa or can the Tooth Fairy deliver a lump of coal as well?
. I bought him the first book (closing my eyes, covering my ears, and saying, “La la la” about it being for ages 12 and up), and he read it quickly. It mentions a–definitely grown-up book–called the 
