Son-I-Care

Today my son shared the most horrifying bit of information that he could have ever told me. We were in the bathroom trying to get him ready for the day. As I rolled the tube of toothpaste against the side of the counter to try to squeeze a 1/4 size dab out of the flat tube, he looked up and sheepishly, yet proudly admitted, "Mom, sometimes I use your toothbrush."

What!!! My head was reeling. I know this little dirt dauber, candy eating off of the floor when no one is looking, fingernail biter, yet never washing hands unless told to, nose picking little imp, did not just say he had my toothbrush in his mouth.

My own mother wouldn't even share a glass of water with us on a 100 degree hot summer's day. "I don't know where your mouths have been!"she repeated over and over like a parrot throughout our entire childhood years.

"Why?" I demanded of him incredulously as my mind wondered where my own mouth had been.

"Because your's spins. I want one that spins, too," he said matter-of-factly as if that made it okay.

Well, it may not have been okay, but it was my fault. Stupid me. He had had a cheesy spinning brush with a Spiderman head, and he once had another with the Hulk. Spongebob even made an appearance, as did Thomas the Train and others. They all came and went with the batteries. But most importantly he has been using a spinning brush for over three years.

That is until the day I forgot. The batteries had gone out in his, and for convenience sake, I dug out the dentist freebie and gave it to him. I replaced it a couple of months later with another dentist small head freebie. It must have gone on like that for six to eight months.

Completely forgetting that he had been using quasi high tech brushes (no, it was not the Sonicare that I used, but it did spin), I had done the equivalent of replacing a child's xBox with an Atari pong game. And instead of telling me about it, he simply resolved the issue himself. I typically love his resourcefulness, but I am not quite feeling it this time for some reason.

But I will admit one thing, it got me going... straight to the store for a new toothbrush for him (and me) and you better believe they both spin.

The Lone-Ly Ranger

A good mommy does not get upset when he announces at bedtime that he needs to be a cowboy tomorrow. She dutifully gets up extra early (4:30 a.m.) and digs out bandanas, irons a plaid shirt and jeans, rummages for a vest, an old toy horse on a stick, and stuffs socks in her own cowboy boots so they will stay on his feet. She places dad's too big hat on his head and she smiles as he smiles at his perfect costume. 

A good mommy does not get upset when she picks him up at 3:00 p.m. and is told by the teacher that he was one week too early.

A Fishy Situation aka Prozac for Nemo?

Did I ever tell you about the silly little $50.00 free fish named Goldie. You see, my son won him at a school carnival. So, yes, he was free ... after $2.00 in quarters. My next door neighbor's son was bragging about the three fish he had gotten making my son a tad bit jealous. But, I explained that she was a teacher there, so they gave him the leftovers. As the son of a teacher from a different school, he would get no perks, or special treatment....though in all honesty, the teenage girls running the game felt sorry for him and gave him the fish after the eighth try. Personally I was quite content teaching him he can't always win. So much for life's lessons. He is already learning all right -- to work the girls.

It was a full night of basketball, popcorn, and quasi-cute and ingenoius homemade games. I decided it was time to leave after lightly questioning a teacher who rubbed me the wrong way. I scooped up my son and his new pet in a bag that was smothered and wrapped with our winter coats. I didn't want another animal but knew this one would not be around too long.

However, heading home I began to sense I that I was in trouble; they had bonded. Well, more like my son fell in love. I got that impression when he began crying profusely after I said we would not go that night for a fishbowl. So, I did what any mother would to preserve her sanity, I made a u-turn and headed to the nearest pet store 20 minutes away for a bowl, some rocks, and some Goldfish food. Cha-ching: $20.00. So much for free.

Next, we did what any parent would do. We put it in the bowl and pushed the big red Staple's button that said, "That was easy!"

One week later, A horrible smell began seeping out of his room. It reeked of ammonia and the fish was barely visible behind a foggy haze of soot. I knew then and there that I could not put it off anymore. I moved the bowl to my office until I could change it later that day. And...finally... three days later, I braved the door to my office half expecting to see a floater. But much to my surprise, there swimming happily beneath a cloud thicker than Mount Saint Helen's ash and smelling like a sulphur pit, was Goldie (more like Ochre by then).

I poured him and some of his soot into a bowl, and dumped the rest. I then happily poured him into his temporary digs, a baptismal salad bowl font of fresh, clear, cool water. He looked oh so happy swimming around -- or so it seemed.

Well, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum... that frisky new member of the family...who should have loved being in his temperary situation while I waited another two or three days to clean his permanent one, lay suspiciously still at the bottom of his retention pond.

Uh-oh! I then kept the door closed on my office, not to hide the smell, but to keep my son from popping in and questioning me for the murder of his new pet. The funny thing is that my son did not even ask his about his $24.00 free fish the entire time. The smell had turned him off, too. And secondly, it was not quite dead. It was twitching ever so slightly at the bottom. As much as I did not want it to die and break my son's heart, I was a little perturbed at its resilience.

The next morning as I was sneaking a peak to check for movement, my son burst in behind me. I stiffened at the prospect of explaining this new phase of life and then announced, as ceremoniously as possible, "Baby, Goldie died. Now let's go flush him!"

"Huh, flush him?"

I realized the bluntness of my ways and softened it a bit by explaining, "We bury fish at sea...through the toilet. And then we say a prayer."

"Oh, okay!"

"Now let's hurry up and do it, so that we are not late for school!"

As I grabbed the bowl, my son screamed, "MOM, wait, he is moving!"

"What?"

Sure enough, the little booger twitched. I had moved too slowly.

 I explained that he was truly almost dead, so we will have the burial after school... I was sure.

That evening I went in to do the dirty deed. He was lying there motionless at the bottom of the empty bowl when he twitched again. "Oh hell, let me throw him into his old bowl. His now clean, ammonia-free old bowl with the gold beehive and blue and red fake bush and see how long he lasts.

Well, much to my surprise, the damn thing started swimming and jumping like Shamu at Sea World. How do you go from deadlike and twitching to lively and  acrobatic in under 60 seconds flat? You don't! Not if you are sick, but you do if you are sad. I am now firmly convinced that the little bugger was not ill at all, but depressed and in need of prozac. Fish have feelings, Nemo was not a lie!

The nice young lady at the pet store tried to convince me that it had experianced s a toxic shock caused by going from nasty to clean (my own description). But I am convinced otherwise. He was after all, still in the same water he had been playing possum in for two days. (By the way, don't joke callously to pet store fish attendants about flushing fish after leaving them in pure ammonia piss for five days. They don't think it's funny.)

Later that night, as I dined on my Tilapia with lemon pepper and capers, I looked down at it and wondered what he was feeling as he was swept up into his net. And then my mind wondered further, like one house over, as I pondered how did my neighbor get all three of her son's goldfish to die? I can't get rid of one.

Lastly, on a a sidenote, I decided that if I must change a bowl that often, I had to breakdown and get a small filtered tank for his room. And I was in luck, they were on sell for $20.00, plus a net and a Betta fish for me (I have to use the old bowl for some right?) Last count, the free 15 cent goldfish was up to $48.00 plus tax. And the new filtered tank seems to look a little cloudy already... just two days later.

A Hard Head (used to) Make a Soft Behind!

My six year old is feeling quite full of himself these days.  I used to smile and say he is filled with such determination; I was sure he would go far in life with that "his way or no way" attitude. Yet, in the back of my mind I know that was just my way of covering up for my true feelings which were that he was quite hard-headed, as my mother used to say -- right before she would add that a hard-head makes a soft behind.

Now, maybe I have been brainwashed, but I have since been taught that we should not undermine a child’s spirit. You do not want to instill negative thoughts. Always speak in the positive. Well, I don’t know about you, but my mother beat the positive out of us and we turned out just fine. In fact, she is 82 years old and I still will not talk back … too much. If I do argue back, this 5’ 2” (used to be 5’4”) women looks at me with so much venom that I feel guilty for the next two months.  She does not have to beat us, we learned our lessons well early on.

So, how do I, an old school-trained mother, raise my son in the ways of the new? Well, I can tell you right now, it is not easy. Take for example today, he asked for a chocolate chip cookie and I said sure. Then my quickly fading memory kicked in and I grabbed the Oreos instead.  Now most children would have said, "Oh well", and would have taken the other cookie. But my head strong – determined to have it his way – child, looked at me with anger in his eyes and had the audacity to face off. He squinted his eyes, folded his arms and spit out, “I said chocolate chip! That’s not chocolate chip. Why didn’t you bring me chocolate chip! Didn’t you hear what I said!”

I have never had so many things go through my head at one time. I envisioned my mother’s old school response and could actually see his head fly back from the power of the closed-fisted bop, slamming the  back of his head into the brick pillar. Then I saw my father grab the entire bike (he was a grabber of things nearby), lift it over his head and hurl it with the power of a Greek god into the small inconsequential child who had not even enough time to close his mouth let alone duck. Lastly I saw me wanting to offend him verbally, to hurt him maybe physically and mentally, and to teach him a lesson,  but unable to let the true wrath leave my tensely pulsating body.

“What did you just say!” was my first mode of attack. Then came the reiteration, “did you just raise your voice at me? Did you just yell at me because I brought the wrong cookie!” And he had the audacity to shake his head yes! I did not know what to do or say. I could feel the heat slowly rising in side and knew that I could not turn to my parents' teachings. If I had said what he said to me, I would not be alive today to write these words.

Where did I go wrong? He is full of determination alright. Determined to have it his way or no way! So I pretended to think I was in control of the situation and yelled for him to get in the back seat. Then I headed off to piano practice knowing that I was concerned that if I were too hard, he would have a bad day at his lesson. Oh if my mother knew that those were my thoughts, she would have my head on a platter and would revoke my mother card. But the longer I sat stewing behind the wheel, the more I determined I became. I would come up with the appropriate response and let him know who was really in charge of this situation. 

Then it hit me, I had long felt that spankings were not always the answer, particularly with a child  who thought they were always right. I needed to rationalize with him and make him understand.  But I had to be creative in my speech because I had to work his emotions. So I pulled to the side and slammed on the brakes. Then in a calm voice, I began by saying how disappointed I was. I talked about all the wonderful things that I do for him, and how I try to give him the world whenever he asks. I laid it on thick. I read that extra book. I let him have cereal for dinner. I feed his dog and change his hamster cage. I understand the importance of buying that perfect Beyblade. I hug him every morning.  I put bandaids on his boo-boos. Yet, the one day I made a mistake, one tiny little mistake of grabbing the wrong cookie, he was so disrespectful and flippant that I was stunned. It really and truly hurt my feelings.  He made me want to cry. (Not really, but it added that perfect edge. 

And then a miraculous thing happened as I sat there looking injured.  In the rear view mirror I could see that my words were truly having an effect. Everyone knows how close boys are to their mothers, so I pulled the mama card and it worked. Wow! My determined, offensive child, was actually now a warm and caring human being who felt horrible for the way he disrespected his mother. Yeah! Sorry Mom, but just like the pen is mightier than the sword, I found that words could be mightier than any belt, .... in this case anyway. And I am quite certain that I will have plenty more opportunities to test this theory against all of the  other options between now and his adulthood... if he makes it that far!

But for now, I love you, too, James

If only for a day!

Oh to be five again... just for a day!
I would become super,
 ... with just a cape
Fly through treacherous sprinkler waterfalls.
Create mud puddles for squishing toes
and drink water from a water hose
I would climb knotty trees
I would slip and slide,
I would cycle away and race back fast ,
so as not to be that rotten egg last.
I would eat cereal for dinner
and snack on mad snacks
I would wrestle and play til all playing was done
and I swear I would not stop til the daylight was gone
And then I would dress in my my Mario Cart  jammies
and I would fall fast asleep on my mothers lap and dream
away of all the fun I had for that day.
If only for one day...
There would be no bills to pay
no place to be
No meals to cook
no house to clean
there would just be me
and my imagination.

"I Don't Need you!

          A staccato and rhythmic pulse emanates from a sterile and cold metal box, and you immediately fall helplessly in love. It is life springing forth from within you.  A miracle.

          You spend the next seven months in preparation. All of your hard earned cash is used to purchase overpriced baby furniture. And you happily give up your spare room, squishing all of your designer suits and your stiletto collection into one tiny shared space with your husband. Next, you happily transform this space by painting it baby blue, sappy yellow… or puke pink. Though it clashes with the gray walls, glass, and chrome of your avant-garde décor, you love every inch of it.
            The next transformation is to your body.  First, you swear to the god of fertility that you will have ABSOLUTELY no alcohol for next eight months. (This is to make up for the unfortunate situation whereby you find out you’re pregnant after you have spent the first month and a half in a drunken stupor).  This also means you spend the next eight months praying the child does not suffer brain damage from the very early introductions to grain and grapes.
            The second transformation is to your shape. It is unbelievable how fast your body can grow and your boobs can sag. Forty years of perky gone south in just a few short months. But you don’t mind. You are too busy reading to your belly and showing off your new temporary enhancements sans implants.
            Alas, the day arrives and you are now a parent. You have lost friends (all of your single ones who cannot bear another cute baby story or milestone such as “he pooped in the potty, today”.  Even worse is that you have not bought yourself a pair of shoes in over a year, and he has eight pair by the first five months. But, life is good -– the child has said “Ma-Ma!”
            As time passes, you are surprised to find that monthly daycare matches the mortgage, and now you couldn’t afford to shop if you wanted to, not to mention the kid needs a new wardrobe every five months. You can still fit yours, so it’s no big deal especially since safety pins work wonders on falling hems. Oh and food? So what a can of Similac costs the same as a pedicure? Back in the day we all used to do our own, anyway. FYI, Wet and Wild has some really bright colors for just over a buck. Besides, your baby is reciting “I love you” on a regular basis now and that happily negates any negative thought that may have momentarily surfaced.
            By year three and four, you struggle to keep your marriage alive with a child sleeping between you (though he has his own decked out room that looks like F.A.O. Schwarz on steroids.) The only outings are family outings. The only dates are play-dates. The laundry size had tripled, and you are preparing double meals because the child is finicky. But he constantly reminds you how you are the most beautiful princess in the world. And that is so worth everything (especially since your husband isn’t saying it these days).
            Somewhere between year four and year five, you apply for a chauffer’s license or get a minivan with “soccer mom” plates. The kid’s schedule is so jam packed with piano, T-ball, swimming lessons, karate, play-dates, and birthday parties that you keep a Google calendar just for him. Your evenings begin with walking and feeding his dog, and cooking dinner for him… then your husband. And yes, there are days when you just want to scream, but you don’t because the photos of him in his little uniforms are just so darn cute.
            Finally, the day of reckoning arrives. Your child is going main stream and is entering the real world. It is the first day of kindergarten. All you can think about is whether he will cry, while knowing that that is exactly what you will be doing. You dress him in his cute new little designer outfit, while you put on your seven year old suit with the hem that has being held up with a safety pin. You grab your camera, your husband, and his grandpa and head off to school. The whole way he keeps talking about how he is a big kid now and that he can walk all by himself. You remind him that although he is bigger, you must go with him. He continues his argument. As you reach the school grounds, your baby… your son… the love of your life… suddenly pulls away and runs ahead. He then turns back and shouts, “I DON’T NEED YOU!”
            You are stunned. You have been slapped. And though you know what he really meant, it hurt you to your heart. And, as if it were not enough the first time, he ran further out and yelled it even louder, “I DON’T NEED YOU!”
          A thousand things run through your head as you watch the other children walking proudly by holding their parents’ hands.  Okay, then who is going to feed you, buy your clothes, read to you at night? Fine you don’t need me, I’m out of here. I going to Happy Hour today and let’s see how you get home from day care! Oh, and I not taking you to any more practices. I am spending my money on me – starting with my nails. You don’t need me. Walk your own damn dog!
          Then, at that very moment as you are rushing to try to catch up with him, a miraculous thing happens. The god of redemption steps in and all you can do is smile as you shout back, “YEAH, YOU DO! YOU MISSED THE DOOR!”  

Oh Brother!

Of course I love him dearly. He is after all my middle child, and though it is by marriage, I love him just the same. However, he is 21 years old and anyone with children know that right around year 15,  a demon takes possession of their bodies and holds them teen-napped until the early to mid-twenties. It is during this period in life that we come to learn and understand the concept of love and loathing at the same time.

Now my baby boy is five. Yes, it is a whopping 16 year spread, and my little boy adores this big brother. He can do no wrong in his eyes, no matter how hard I try to tarnish that image. Why would I, you say? Well, maybe it is because he has flunked out of college three times and feels that 24 hour video gaming is the life-- though that is not something I would tell his baby brother. Then, there is the fact that he has turned what used to be MY basement office … with a fireplace and walk out patio… into a bona fide pigsty of a bedroom and malodorous dog kennel (for the horse-sized dog that he brought home with him from college).  But I would never say that to my five year old either.

And did I mention that the dog is barely trained (translation horse-sized poop), and has not been snipped. He eyes me like a piece of meat. My poor little miniature schnauzer screams and runs every time he makes a break for her. My child thinks it’s humorous – I do not!

Also, son number two (there is actually another one even older) seems to have a neurological disorder affecting his memory. It is the darnedest thing.  He can’t seem to find the kitchen for returns even though he has no problem finding it in the middle of the night when he raids the fridge of all things edible (most recently it was my diet crackers and fat free rubber tasting cheese slices). So I watch as our glass collection, plates, and silver count diminishes over the course of a few days until I am forced against my psychological will to enter the dungeon. It becomes a scavenger hunt, or should I say excavation, as I dig under piles of clothing and beneath furniture to see what treasures I can find. I do not know why, but I always feel like I have hit the Jackpot as I head upstairs with my arms ladened with dirty, crusted plates and glasses.

On Saturdays, I constantly tell my baby boy to be quiet because his brother is still asleep, even though it is three o’clock in the afternoon. Inside my mind, I am silently hoping he will be annoyed that he can’t make noise. However, all that my child does is ask me if his brother is nocturnal. 

Sometimes I tell my little son who is dying to talk to him, to go ahead and say hello at 8:00 AM on a Sunday morning, only to have my child say, “That’s okay mommy, he is still asleep!” I even send him down below on occasion to seek help with his DS. Only to have him boomerang right back up to me with, “He was busy, here, you do it mommy!”

 And when son number two finally emerges from the depths around seven pm foraging for food, my child lights up like Times Square. Imagine my annoyance when he picks him up, calls him buddy a couple of times, Hi-fives him and heads back into the cave. And my child, who has waited for 20 hours for his appearance, the way a fan waits outside a concert venue stage door for their favorite star, is happy and satisfied for those ten minutes of affection.

So why then was I surprised by his unpredictable response yesterday? My son had asked for a bowl of Coco Puffs. I said we are out. He countered with, "No we're not; you just bought it." I smiled and was happy to reply, "Yes we are… your brother ate it all!" My baby boy, who typically loves the ground I walk on, too, refused to admonish his idol. Instead, with venom in his little five year old eyes, he turned to me accusingly and growled, "WHY DIDN'T YOU BUY THE BIG BOX!"