This weekend, I unfurled a c*ondom for my son. He was fascinated, checking out the texture, noting that it was a little slimy. Turned it around a few times. Tried rolling it up. Handed it back when he was done.
Cue the Afterschool Special music. It’s that time. The boy and I, we’re talking puberty!
In truth, I think the boy is a little young for “the talk.” First off, I am lucky enough to have friends who have been through this whole boy thing, and from what I see, it’s somewhere around 4th or 5th grade that boys stop talking to their moms, at least about anything of substance. In 5th grade they cover these topics in school, which is great, but I’d prefer that’s not the first place he gets that information. Secondly, he’s been asking tough questions for a while. A few months ago, he realized someone had a very young mother. He quickly did the math in his head and declared, “That can’t be right. Don’t you legally need to be eighteen years old to have a baby?” And, finally, I’ve seen some of those 4th grade girls. They aren’t getting the talk; they’re living the talk.
Of course, once he gets older and is too embarrassed to talk to his mom, he can always ask Adam his questions.
Wait, hold on a minute.
Okay, I’m done laughing. Just thinking about Adam trying to talk to the boy about s*ex or his body sends me into the giggles. The boy was looking over Adam’s shoulder a week ago and read about something being “o*rgasmic.” Apparently, the boy logically asked, “What’s ‘o*rgasmic’?”
Adam: Aren’t you reading that book with your mom?
The boy: Yeah.
Adam: Have you covered o*rgasms yet?
The boy: No.
Adam: Well… you will.
Can I just say… wow? Puberty wasn’t so scary when I was growing up. It’s a fine line, trying to give the boy facts and not scaring the living hell out of him. The scariest thing when I was a kid was gonorrhea and pregnancy and being “cheap” (seriously, the gym teacher who taught our s*ex ed class used to talk about Susie S*lut). Now the books talk about IVF, the different forms families can take, used needles, AIDS, how HIV is and is not spread. Not a one of those things existed when I was learning this stuff.
The book tries to lighten the topics with cute cartoons, and they work to a certain extent, but it’s still slightly terrifying. I stop reading now and then and give him quizzes. “What’s the only sure way to not get pregnant?” (“Abstinence.”) “What is the only way a c*ondom is going to help protect you?” (“Using a new one every single time.”) He’s getting it down pat. I even told him his first dirty joke. (“What’s long and hard and full of seamen?”) He liked that. And I can rest assured that when the kids start joking around at school, he may not always get the joke, but he’ll at least know what they’re talking about.
We’re almost done with the book. We’re both surviving. And it’s good practice. Because in two more years, I’ve got to do this all over again. Unfurl the c*ondoms!
January 23rd, 2012 § Comments Off on Spelling List… for the Apocalypse § permalink
I’ll be honest: Most of my elementary school years are a blur. I mostly remember doing super fun, incredibly dangerous things that I would never ever let my children do today (playing on construction sites? Riding a bike exploring new areas for hours on end? Roaming in the woods?) I think everyone on Facebook has seen this one by now:
But in my day, there was less to fear. Well, not less to fear. Just no Internet so we didn’t know what to fear. So we did’t fear anything. Except Bloody Mary and the guy who put razor blades in trick or treat apples and the teepees in the woods that were definitely haunted. But now, now I’m a grown-up with 24/7 Interest access. I know exactly what to fear. So, yes, I’m guilty of overparenting. Not a second of the day passes that I don’t know precisely where my kids are. The world is evil. I’m just protecting my babies.
The school, though, is taking another tact. The school is preparing the children for the future head on. Exposing them to the grim realities of life. What do I mean? My son brought home his list of spelling words today. Third grade spelling words. What words does every third grader need to know how to spell? Well, duh:
terrorist
prisoner
defender
specialist
attacker
survivor
civilian
Of course! These are the words they will encounter on a daily basis, the words they’ll need to know how to write when passing notes in school. Mixed in this list of spelling words is also Australian and Asian. And artists. What are we saying about the Australians and the Asians? Does the school know something I don’t? Are the Australians and the Asians the terrorists or the survivalists? And exactly how do the artists fit in?
Why do I drink so much bourbon? It’s because the third graders are apparently on to something! The terrorist are coming. Beware the Australians!
I’m open with my children. When they have a question, I answer it. I don’t censor them, I don’t censor myself, and it can lead to some interesting conversations. But what surprises me is from where the conversations originate. My six-year-old daughter’s questions have come from out of nowhere (“Mommy, when will I get my period?”) but for my boy, I can see the little hamster wheel in his brain turning and I know exactly when the questions are going to hit and what they are going to be.
Like last night. Last night I took my son out of Hebrew school a half hour early so we could go Christmas caroling. And I mean Christmas caroling in the sense of which my father would approve. We sang about the baby Jesus. We done gone religious. Not our religion, true, but someone’s religion. A friend from the school invited us out for her yearly neighborhood caroling, and it was really fun. Truth be told, I find some of those religious carols quite beautiful. We sang “Holy Night.” We sang the song that goes “Gloria” (which when I saw in the book titled “Angels We Have Heard on High,” I thought was a new song, but then the Glorias hit and I totally knew what we were singing and joined right on in, although I had the mumble every word that wasn’t “Gloria”). We sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” We praised Jesus. Oh yes we did. And then we went home and lit the candles on our menorah. Because although we may sing about the baby Jesus, we save our actual observances for the Maccabees.
Anyone want to guess what the question was the boy asked on the way home? Anyone? Bueller? Bueller?
Three seconds into the car ride home: “Mommy, what’s a virgin?”
I explained. I explained about virgin births and how this is why people believe Jesus is the messiah. The boy accepted it. The girl was having none of it and we went around in circles. “But how could he have been born if his mom was a virgin?” “That’s the entire point. Because she was a virgin, then it’s a miracle. They believe God is the father.” “But how can he be the father if she’s a virgin?” “Because who else could make a virgin pregnant but God.” And then I scratch my head, wondering why I’m arguing Christian theology when I’m a Jew through and through. So I finally say, “Who wants to open presents when we get home!” and we are suddenly off of virgin births.
But it’s not just the Christians that bring up such topics. The Jews do too. One Jew in particular: Woody Allen. I was watching the American Masters documentary on Woody Allen, conveniently forgetting that an eight-year-old boy might not be the best audience for the PBS show.
Woody Allen on oral contraception: I asked a girl to go to bed with me, and she said “No.”
The boy: What’s oral contraception?
Woody Allen (in Annie Hall): Hey, don’t knock m*asturbation. It’s sex with someone I love.
The boy: What’s m*asturbation?
Woody Allen: … {that’s me turning off the TV before Woody Allen can say anything else that’s going to start a therapy-inducing conversation.}
He’s learning. I’m learning, too, albeit a bit more slowly. I need to watch out for Woody Allen. And the Christians. They bring strange topics into our household.
With that, I leave you all with a Happy Hanukkah. And a Merry Christmas. Or whatever is your family chooses to observe.
I’m ashamed. I’ve done something that’s just so… wrong. I feel so dirty. Which will sound a little ironic when I tell you the horrific thing I’ve done.
I’ve– I’ve–
God, it’s hard to spit this out. But I must. Deep breath. Okay. Here it is. I’ve done the laundry. And not just once. I did it three times. I know! It’s horrible! Please don’t tell Adam about this. I don’t want him to know that I’ve located the machines and figured out what the “Oxi-timed” cycle is. (I’m sure he’ll never see this, here on my very public blog; I’m guessing his eyes will just skate right over this, in shocked disbelief.)
I can explain. Seriously. I had good reason. Not that there is ever a good reason to do laundry. But we had a Hanukkah party on Sunday.* A rousing party with bourbon and latkes and sufganiyot** and a lively time was had by all.
The next morning I was not in the mood for much. Except to try and count exactly how many whiskey sours I had consumed while flipping latkes. And how many glasses of champagne I had at the post-party party (yes, people, I am cool enough to have a post-party party. Deal.) The last thing I wanted to do was household chores of any kind, which included making food for my children:
Me to Doodles: Do you want to buy lunch today?
Doodles: Nah. Nothing looks good on the school menu.
Me: I’ll pay you a dollar to buy lunch today.
Doodles: Five dollars.
Me: Forget it. I’ll make you lunch.
Doodles: Two dollars.
Me: You’re on. Go tell your father to pay you two dollars.
Yet, soon the house was clear and all that was left was an oil-laden stack of linens and my clothes from the night before. The stank of oil was harshing my hangover, so I reluctantly made my way down and surreptitiously stuck the items in the wash. I had them out and put away before Adam ever knew about it.
But then that morning crises struck. It was pajama day in Pie’s class. She wanted to wear her Hanukkah pajamas. But I wouldn’t let her sleep in her pajamas if she was playing in them outside all day. But Hanukkah was starting Tuesday night. So? Adam can wash the pajamas. But Adam had the NERVE to decide to go to New York to be part of the team that rings the opening bell of NASDAQ the day his company spun off into it’s own company.
Which left me alone. With dirty clothes. And a girl with a sad face who wanted to wear Hanukkah pajamas.
And so the descent into the laundry room occurred again.
A side note that is really not a side note: I have two pairs of jeans. Really I have four pairs of jeans, but two are ones that a friend pressured me to buy because they actually look good on me, but frankly, they’re too expensive for me to wear on a daily basis so they sit in my drawer unless I’m going to New York, at which time they come out and say, “Hi!” And of the two I have left, one is my favorite pair of Gap Boyfriend jeans that they’ve discontinued and which also have a lovely hole in them. The other pair is a pair of Target jeans, which suit my meeds. But with just two pairs of jeans in play, I’m constantly begging the laundry guy to do laundry so I can have clean jeans. Adam has yet to understand that jeans on the floor means, “I will wear these again if I have to, but if there’s a load of laundry being done, these jeans would be much happier going for a spin.” And so my jeans can go weeks without ever experiencing the soothing relaxation of a shower of water and soap.
This week I broke down and bought new jeans. Four pairs. From Target. Actually online Target, because even I am not crazy enough to weather Target the week before Christmas, no matter how much of my thigh is exposed in my hole-y jeans. They didn’t have my “short” length, but the regular length is serviceable. But new jeans require a washing. Because I hate that indigo-dye look I get when I don’t wash new jeans. So the new jeans went into the wash. By my hand. Although in all fairness to me, they never made it to the dryer and are sitting there, sad in the washer, shivering in cold, waiting for an unsuspecting Adam to find them and eventually move the near-dry pants to the dryer. Because, although I bought four pairs of jeans in order to ensure that laundry is near never needed, I can’t bring myself to complete the process for a third time. Because the third time’s the charm. And I’m so not charmed.
You’re pretty sorry you stopped by my blog today, aren’t you? Well, they can’t all be days of wine and roses. Or even bourbon and sufganiyot. Sometimes there’s laundry involved. It’s an ugly world out there, people.
*Yes, I know that Hanukkah hadn’t started on Sunday. But we always hold our party on the Sunday of Hanukkah only this time there was some conflict. Something else happened on the Sunday of Hanukkah this year. A big guy in a red suit? The birth of the Christian Messiah? Not sure, but something took precedence over our party.
**Traditional Israeli fried donut served on Hanukkah. This is not your Dunkin Donuts donut but a completely different animal. Kosher animal, of course. Minus the animal part.
–I’m getting old. I went to Adam’s office party last night. I did not get drunk. I did not saying anything that could potentially get Adam fired. I did not embarrass myself or anyone else. It was a whole different world. There’s no way around it, people: Getting old sucks. I miss the old days of post-party shame and humiliation. If nothing else, it gave me lots to blog about.
–My son’s e-mailing has gotten a little out of control. He has mastered the emoticon. He sent me an e-mail with the subject line “look what I can do” and the text read, “Dear Mom, [e-mail full of emoticons] From, Doodles.” I wrote back, “Yes, but can you put your dirty clothes in the hamper? That would REALLY impress me!”
The boy? The boy wrote back,
Dear Mom,
Yes I can put my dirty clothes in the hamper I just chose not to!
From
Doodles
He apparently also chooses to ignore punctuation.
–I’m not ready for the holidays. I’m not ready for the holidays. I’m not ready for the holidays.
–My son got his holiday ‘do. A red faux-hawk. He wanted blue, but it was too dark to really show. So red it is.
–Next week I’m going into my kids’ classrooms to make latkes. But it’s not really making latkes. According to the e-mail sent out, it’s “Hanukkah Cultural Enrichment.”
All right. Time to deck the halls in boughs of potatoes. Or something. This house is lacking in cheer, and my children are demanding I change that. Fa la freakin’ la.
My boy has an e-mail account. Today, he decided to write himself an e-mail:
Dear Me
Hello
I am doing this as a test to see how fast a email can go.
be you in a little while.
From,
Doodles 12:33 pm Sunday
ps.you lucky dog whats it like in the future.
First off, we’re home late because we have to go to instrument pick-up, which is the definition of clusterf*ck, with seven elementary schools picking up instruments at the middle school. The smallest size viola… is still a smidgen big for my peanut. But it’s okay. Because I learned tonight what “I liked the sound of the viola better” means. It means “when they demonstrated instruments at school, they played the theme to Star Wars on the viola.” Marketing works, folks!
We get home and I tell the boy to get himself into bed. He does, and then I get a phone call from the mom of a classmate. “J. doesn’t have the complete list of spelling words. He only has the first twelve. Can you give me the other twelve?”
To which I, of course, replied, “What list?”
She said, “For tomorrow’s spelling test.”
To which I, of course, replied, “What test?”
I go upstairs and tell my boy to tear himself away from his Calvin and Hobbes book. “What’s up with this spelling list?”
Boy: Huh?
Me: You have a list of spelling words?
Boy: Oh, yeah. I didn’t take it home. I have all the words memorized.
Me: Oh, really? I just happen to have half the list of words. Spell “quiet.”
Boy: Q-u-i-t.
I raise my eyebrows.
Boy: Uh… e!
Me: No.
Me: Spell “giant.”
Boy: G-i-e… No, a! No, e! No, a! n-t.
Me: Spell “cease” as in “cease and desist.”
Boy: S-e-a-c-e.
Me: No.
Boy: S-e-a-s-e.
Me: No.
Boy: S-e—
Me: No.
Boy: S—
Me: No.
Boy: S—
Me: No!
Boy: S?
Me: No!
Boy: C-e-a-c—
Me: No.
Boy: C-e-a-s-e.
Me: Yes.
Boy: Got it!
He’s his father’s child. Always certain, often wrong.
Am I the only one who gets teary eyed at Schoolhouse Rock? Seriously! Every time that Bill becomes a Law, I just want to weep in happiness for him.
The pressure in not blogging very often is that when I finally do blog, I know you all think I’m going to have something interesting to say. But very often—okay, always—I don’t. So then you just have to hear about what’s on my mind. And, oh, there are many things on my mind! For instance:
Adam and I play this little game. The recycling bin fills up to the point where we can’t close the garbage drawer. So someone pulls it out of the drawer. And we leave it in the middle of the kitchen. And continue to fill it. It’s like Jenga, in reverse. Who can add on the most without the pile toppling over? And who’s going to be chicken, finally taking the recycling out? Last time, it was me. Next time, I won’t give in so easily.
My son, who has Hebrew school three days a week, (soon) hockey twice a week, drums once a week, Cub Scouts every other week, has now decided he’s going to take up the viola. The viola. I had to look it up. I mean, who the hell knows what a viola is? Why not the violin? “The viola makes a better sound.” Let’s try him in a blind listening test. I don’t think he’d be able to tell the viola from, oh, I don’t know, a garbage truck.
My daughter is coming up with yet more creative ways to get out of going to sleep. “My arm hurts! My eye hurts! Mommy, let’s make out!” [Making out being our snuggle time with lots of kisses] Pie is currently working on being “brave and independent.” Uh, yeah.
Speaking of my daughter, she said to me, “I’m reading level M books! I can read Junie B. Jones!” I asked her, “Were you tested on level M books?” quite surprised. Level M is the beginning of 3rd grade reading. My little first grader is a great reader, but an age-appropriate reader. Last anyone checked, Pie was solidly on the end of kindergarten/beginning of 1st grade level. So I asked again, “Someone tested you on Level M books?” She happily replied, “Yes!” Very surprised, I said, “Who tested you on Level M books?” She rolled her eyes. “Me, Mommy! I tested myself! I can read Level M books!” Sigh. And now comes the process of “managing expectations.”
My son is not immune to problems. Last Wednesday he said to me, “School is boring. I’m not going today.” I tried to ascertain if something had happened, but no, it was simply boring and he wasn’t going. “Okay,” I said logically. “Everyone needs a mental health day every now and then. And if you need one, you can take one. However, in March, when you truly need a mental health day and want to take one, I’m going to say, ‘No, because you took a mental health day ON THE FIFTH DAY OF SCHOOL, YOU TOTAL DOLT!'” Shockingly, the boy decided to go to school. Boredom and all.
John Irving signs a copy of "Hotel New Hampshire"
A friend and I went to see John Irving speak the other night. He read from his next book, which will be out next year, and it definitely intrigued me. But I enjoyed when he talked about writing, how he plots out every part of his book before he starts so he knows exactly what will happen and just needs to worry about language. An interesting way of looking at it. I want to try that on my next book, for which I have some pretty strong ideas but no formally written plot yet. But then he said things like, “I think writing in the present tense is lazy” and “I don’t like most modern writing” and it made me happy that literary curmudgeons still exist today.
After school this afternoon, my son said, “I’m so happy! We have homework and it’s due tomorrow!” I said, “Really? That’s great!” He looked at me with third-grade eyes, and said, “Duh, Mom! That was sarcasm!” Gee, how did I miss that?
I e-mailed an author I like to see if she’d blurb my novel, and she e-mailed me back to have my agent send it to her agent. How exciting is that! She basically told me, “Have your people call my people,” and, I HAVE PEOPLE! Life throws you a bone every now and then.
Ah, the first day of school. The little ones left. The not-so-little one bounded out the door, “By mom!” and I had to run to keep up with him. “Third grade is going to be cool!” he declared. The little-little one clung to my leg, sobbing, and had to be pried off by the principal and her teacher from last year. “I don’t want to go to first grade!” she cried.
And so it begins. The stress. The anxiety. The carpools. Tuesdays will be a real whammy with my delivering two children to Hebrew school and then another three to dance class. Yea, mini-van!
In the meantime, I’m a deer in the headlights, with so many things piled up—both literally (ack! Don’t even look at my desk) and figuratively—that I don’t know which way to turn. I have to write some comps for my agent, start the school newsletter, revive my committee at the synagogue, plan for Sunday’s eight-year-old animal birthday party, and generally do all the things that didn’t get done because I’ve had a child with me for the past, oh seven weeks solidly and a whole bunch of half days before that when the two had camp. Today is my first day alone in months and… well, to tell the truth, it’s a little lonely. But before I know it I’ll be back in the swing of things.
So, clearly, the first thing on my to-do list is procrastinate. Let me tell you what we’ve been up to!
We had a whirlwind weekend in NYC with the grandparents. We went to the Intrepid, MOMA, the Strand (three times for me!), and ate a whole bunch.
We are finally having our basement floor redone (remember those floods a year and a half ago? Well a year and a half of wet floors can cause a whole bunch of mold. Ew, I don’t even want to think what was under there!) so there are tile guys making lots of noise and coming in and out.
And the most insane thing? Let me ask you, what kind of freakin’ idiot has a birthday party in the middle of a Tropical Storm? Oh, right. Us. Yes, Pie had her Little House on the Prairie party in the middle—the absolute middle!—of Tropical Storm Irene. But those brave parents didn’t mind. Out of 13 guests, only two decided not to brave the weather. We lost power for about fifteen minutes, but hey! No problem! There IS no power on the prairie! But it turned out well with indoor potato sack races, making butter and rag dolls, playing pin the wheel on the wagon.
Now I leave behind my summer of relaxation and get back to the grindstone. That outline for the next novel isn’t going to write itself. Where’s the Novel Fairy when you need her?
