the pieces of my life

Boston is famous for its drivers. We even have a special term for them. They’re called Massholes. For me, personally, though, the word uttered most frequently while driving is “a$$wipe.” I don’t know where the word came from. I don’t know why I say it. I never use the term outside of my car. But inside the car, the a$$wipes fly freely.

Today for example. Driving home from Cambridge. At rush hour. One car cuts me off, another stops at a yellow, and another hangs out in the box.

Me: Godd*amn, motherf&%$* a$$wipe! Freakin’ a$$wipe drivers.

The boy: Why do you call them that?

Me: Because they are. Every freakin’ last one of those drivers out there is an a$$wipe. All drivers are a$$wipes.

The boy: You’re a driver. So you’re an a$$wipe.

Me: Not me. I’m not an a$$wipe. Every other driver is an a$$wipe. And you shouldn’t be saying “a$$wipe.”

The girl: Daddy drives.

Me: Yeah, and he’s an a$$wipe when he drives.

The girl: Are you saying Beetle is an a$$wipe?

Me: No. Well, unless she’s driving. Then, yeah, I guess she’s one too. I don’t think you’re understanding. Everyone who is not me behind a wheel is an a$$wipe.

The girl: Beetle says that her husband is a crazy driver!

Me: Probably is.

The girl: So is he an a$$wipe?

Me: I really don’t think you should be saying that word.

The boy: Yeah. You should say “jacka$$” instead.

Me: No, not that either.

The boy: Why not?

Me: People tend not to like it when you say “a$$” anything.

The boy: What about a$$ idiot?

Me: Yeah, not that either. “A$$” is pretty much out.

The boy: Oh.

Guy freakin’ cuts me off again.

Me: A$$wipe!!

The girl: Mom!

Me: I’m a grown-up! Leave me alone. I’ll give you sugar when we get home.

I’m practicing my parenting speech as I type…. (And how many readers did I lose with this post?)

Every morning, I yell at the boy, “Can you please move it? Why are you so slow? Can you please walk with us?”

Today he skipped to school. A full block ahead of us. Skipped. Literally. Looked the crossing guard in the eye. Said, “Hi!” Ran to his side of the building before I could even give him a smooch good-bye.

Ah. The last day of school.

On Wednesday we had the end-of-year performances and the class slide shows. When Doodles class sang, “Take me out of the second grade/ It has been a good year… For it’s one, two, three months and/ Then we’ll be in third grade!” I just melted into a mess.

And the girl. Oh that girl:

Our after-school plans involved swimming and sand play. Our after-school reality included cold and rain. So instead we invited a handful of friends over for an after-school make-your-own-sundae and mojito party (the idea, of course, was to make sure the kids got drunk enough to let us moms have our ice cream in peace).

A fitting end to a crazy year.

Welcome, Summer. We’ve been waiting for you.

Today is the end-of-year celebrations in both the kids’ classrooms even though the last day of school is Friday. I turned on Alice Cooper’s “School’s Out for Summer,” saying, “I’ll play it again for you on Friday.”

Me: Would you like me to bring a boombox on Friday to pick up and blast this song for you as you leave school.

Pie: Boombox? What’s a boombox?

****

As a final reward for filling the marble jar, Doodles has a beach day at school. He was told to bring flip flops, a tank top and shorts, and a beach towel.

Me: Which beach towel do you want? We have an Amazon.com towel, a TripAdvisor towel, and a South Park towel.

Doodles: What’s South Park?

Me: It’s a cartoon with little boys who curse a lot. [I bring down the towel] See?

Doodles: Oh yeah! I know them! I saw the cartoon at School of Rock.

Me: Oh my God! They killed my kid’s innocence! [Okay, not really, but I thought it.]

[And yes I need to get the kids to school and I’m standing here watching the “Beefcake” episode. “Follow your dreams. You can meet your goals. I’m living proof. Beefcake. BEEFCAKE!” Okay, maybe you had to be there.]

The lifeguards at our local pool terrify me. Seriously. This one woman is so whistle happy, I’m hearing the shrieks hours after the fact. I’m dreading going to sleep because I know those whistle blows will echo in my dreams.

Unlike the rest of you reading this blog—or at least 99% of you—we are not yet done with school. Thanks to the wicked bad Nor’easters (who says I can’t talk like a local?), we had six—count ’em, six!—snow days this year. One snow day was burned off by taking away a teacher’s professional development day. But we are paying for those other five snow days now, and our last day of school is this coming Friday.

But it’s the first day of summer and, school be damned!, we were going to make it be summer! Our Y membership gives us access to an outdoor pool, so we headed there today. I meant it to be a quick half hour swim, but two and a half hours later I was dragging the kids from the water. Doodles especially as this year he passed the deep-end test and now he can frolic in the long coveted deep end. Pie dolphins about in the shallow end, but we’re finally at a point where I can sit on the edge and watch her instead of feeling like I need to keep her at arm’s length. Not that the whistle-blowing lifeguard would let her do much.

Lucky we got this one day of summer in, because per the weather reports, it’s the last one we’ll be getting for a while. Tomorrow after school we’ll head to Barnes and Noble. I said to my kids this weekend, “There’s no need to get workbooks this summer, right? You guys don’t need them.” They’re at a point where they read and do math for fun and love writing letters that I in no way feel compelled to make them do pages of workbooks. But clearly I’ve forgotten who I’m dealing with.

“Mom! I want a math workbook!” the boy said.

“I want to do a workbook this summer!” the girl complained.

Yes, my children. The ones who do workbook pages for fun. I see lots of exciting blog posts for the summer. “Pie did four more pages in her workbook! Doodles completed a whole page of math!”

At least they’ll always be able to look back at today’s one day of summer.

I’m not sure which is worse: How much fried food I ate today at Woodman’s (fried lobster tails, fried shrimp, fried clams, French fries, and onion rings, washed down by a cone of ice cream) or the fact that I’m wondering what’s for dinner….

The day started bright and early. First I had my 5:30 a.m. run, because who am I to miss a run. Then we were on the road to Gloucester (or should that be Glosta?) by 6:45 a.m. In second grade, the kids do a unit on whales so one of the parents arranged for a group rate on a whale watching trip. I loaded us up with Bonine and seabands and we were rarin’ to go.

As a surprise for the kids who went, one of the second grade teachers came (Doodles’s teacher, in fact). I took a fabulous group photo… that my boy ruined by being the only child to make horrible goofy faces in every photo. Yep, that’s my boy.

The trip went well. Lots of whales.

Everything was hunky dory… Right up until the girl started feeling woozy. But a Coke revived her. Of course, she decided she was much happier sitting alone on the bench eating popcorn while all the other passengers went to the other side to—shocker!—actually look at whales.

Not so much the boy. He got seasick and nothing revived him…

…till we got to the fried food.

And then all was right with the world again.

P.S. The kids are half asleep. I’m making them eat vegetables for dinner to make up for everything they ate today. And the girl asks, “Are we going out for dinner for Father’s Day? Daddy really likes Legal Seafood.” So full, it hurts to think about.

…to relay a conversation with my son. Tuesday was an early release day, so I took my kids and a friend to the MFA to see the Dale Chihuly show. (Which was a big hit. My son declared “Mille Fiori” to be the “most awesome thing [he’s] ever seen!”)

On the way there, my son asked me, “Do people become artists because they can’t find other jobs?” (Keep in mind the boy’s grandmother is an artist.)

Later, after I told Adam what he said, Adam told the boy, “You know, if I were out of work, I don’t think I could be an artist. I can’t draw.”

To which the boy logically replied, “Well, in that case, you could be an abstract artist.”

It must be spring. The air is warmer. Birds are chirping. The boy is begging to ride his bike. I dropped my iPhone in the toilet. The girls is asking to go about in just a bathing suit.

Wait, what? No, no, no. I definitely did not wear my capris with the shallow back pocket and, upon pulling them down to do private things, allowed my phone to fall into the toilet. Of course not! I did that last year and who in the hell who be so incredibly moronically stupid to do that kind of thing twice? Seriously? Not me. Absolutely, totally, and completely not me. Which means this conversation with the boy did not happen this evening.

The boy: What are you doing?
Me: I’m putting my phone in a bag of rice.
The boy: Why?
Me: Um, because…
The boy: Why?
Me: I dropped it in the toilet.
The boy: Again?!
Me: Maybe.
The boy: You really should get a cheaper phone. You keep dropping them in the toilet!
Me: Harumph.
The boy: And if you get a cheaper phone, can I have the iPhone to take apart?

But of course there is no iPhone to take apart. Because I absolutely, definitely, for sure didn’t drop my iPhone in the toilet again! How much longer till the iPhone 5 comes out? (And, just to be clear, I went to write, “How much longer till the iPhone 4 comes out,” and the boy said, “You have an iPhone 4. The iPhone 5 is what you want.” Can you say, “his father’s son?”)

You guys were all disappointed by that post on writing the other day, weren’t you? Because I know what you really want to know. I know what keeps you coming back here. You want to know, nay, you can’t sleep till you know…

…what happened at the school dance.

Let’s see. They served Oreos and popcorn. Which I like because the boy is incapable of eating an Oreo without leaving a trail of chocolate around his mouth. “Stop eating Oreos!” “I’m not—mumble, mumble, chew, chew—eating Oreos!” Don’t need Colonel Mustard in the library with the wrench for this one!

The girl found her friends. And was gone. For the night. I got one dance with her before I was ditched for the A-list crowd. Which apparently does not include me. If I make L-list, in her world, I think I should be excited.

True to his word, the boy gave me a dance. Well, not quite a dance. More like three swivels of his hips, when a lovely girl in a red dress from his class tapped his shoulder. He took one look and ran. She ran after him. The rest of the dance was spent with him attempting to break dance until she spied him, at which point, it was really more a 5k than a school dance.

And the best part of the dance? It’s every child’s worst nightmare. A mother with a video camera! You can see the action yourself:

The boy went outside in his socks, no shoes, after being told not to. I told him he could go out in shoes or barefeet, but not in just socks.

A pair of socks coated in mud appeared mysteriously on the front porch.
Me: Are those yours?
The boy: Yes.
Me: After I told you not to?
The boy: I couldn’t help it! Tab and Nevada stole my shoes!
Me: And you couldn’t get your socks off, too?
The boy: No! The took my shoes and then held me in place so I couldn’t get my socks off.
Me: Wait, I don’t understand. They took your shoes off while you were standing?
The boy: No, I was on the ground. But then they stood me up and held me so I couldn’t get my socks off.
Me: Whatever. You owe us $3 from your spend jar for new socks.

Later:
Adam: What’s with that present for me on the front porch?
Me: Present?
Adam: The mud-coated socks.
I tell Adam what the boy did.
Me: I told him he has to pay us $3 for new socks.
The boy: Noooo!
Adam: He shouldn’t have to pay. I’ll just teach him how to do laundry.
Me: No! That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.
Adam: Just because laundry ruined your childhood doesn’t mean we shouldn’t ruin his.
Me: No, no laundry.
The boy: Why’s that?
Me: I’m allergic to laundry.
Adam to the kids: I blame Nana and Peter for your mother being allergic to laundry.

I apologize to whomever ends up marrying either my daughter or son. Neither one will be able to do laundry. I plan on making sure of that.

At breakfast, I’m puttering in the kitchen, very casual-like.

Me: So…
Boy: Yeah?
Me: Who do you like these days?
Boy: Huh?
Me: Who do you like?
Boy: You mean like like?
Me: Um… Yeah.
Boy, with a deep exasperated sigh: Mom, I told you, I’m not discussing it with you!