My son is not a dog, so please don’t pet him

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My son, Aaron, is a cute kid.  I’m not just saying that because I’m his mom.  People tell me all the time – family, friends, strangers.  There is just something about him.  Maybe it’s his glasses, people seem to love little kids with glasses.  It might be his impish smile or his adult manner of speaking or maybe it’s that he’s naturally funny.  Mostly, though, I think it is his hair. Aaron has lush, dark curly hair.  People, especially old ladies, can’t resist it.

Ever since he was a toddler, people would come over to the shopping cart or stroller drawn in by his wide smile.  “Oh, what a happy baby!” they would say as the reached over and stroked his hair. ”I love his hair.  I just had to touch it.”

As Aaron grew older, his hair continued to attract attention.  “Where did he get that great head of hair?” they would ask, looking at my poker straight locks, accusingly. “Must be from his dad, right?”

“Oh, what a shame to waste such beautiful hair on a little boy.  Too bad he’s not a girl.  Do you have any daughters?” people would say right in front of Aaron.  He would always smile politely.  Then, when we would walk away, he would tell me that it hurt his feelings.

“Why are people always saying that I should be a girl?” Aaron would ask.  “I like being a boy.  It makes me feel bad when they say I should be a girl.”

I wanted to tell Aaron that sometimes adults are rude and stupid, but since I knew Aaron would turn that around on me some day I told him that people were trying to complement him.  “Yeah, well, they’re not very good at it,” he said, dissatisfied with my explanation.

It’s not that I haven’t tried to protect Aaron from these people but they just sneak up on you.  I am trying to select apples, I turn around to someone touching Aaron’s hair.   I load my groceries onto the checkout counter and look up to see the cashier reaching out to stroke Aaron’s hair.  I bend down to tie his shoe as we wait in the bank line, the lady in front of us turns around to touch his hair.

The day an older gentleman came up to me at a garden shop and said, “Excuse me, I’m not a pedophile or anything, but your sons are beautiful.  Do you mind if I touch the little one’s hair.  It looks so supple,” I had had enough.  Now, when I am out with Aaron, I keep him very close to me.  When I  see someone walking toward us with that  I-just-have-to-touch-his hair   look on their face, I put my hand on Aaron’s head and give them an I-dare-you-to-even-try look.

It has always amazed me how adults will treat children as if they are not people.  No one ever asked Aaron if they could touch his hair.  The only person who ever asked me was the “I’m not a pedophile” guy.  It seemed that adults didn’t think they had to ask, they had no sense that they were invading Aaron’s space.  I doubt they would have done the same to an adult.  Heck, they would have done the same thing to a dog.  You often hear people ask before they pet someone’s dog.  I have always told my boys that they should never pet a dog without asking the owner first.  Maybe I should get a t-shirt for Aaron.  It could say:  My Son is Not a Dog, So Please Don’t Pet Him.  He Might Bite.”

My kids were all like, “whatevs” and I was like, “whaaa?”

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So last night I went upstairs to bed at 10:00. I thought I heard the kids talking as I was walking up the stairs:

Me (semi-loudly): Anyone who’s still awake I’m going to feed to the monsters. Is anyone still awake?

Two small voices in unison: I am

Seriously? My real intention in asking that question was to signal them to be quiet and go to sleep, but, you know, in a threatening gentle, loving way.

Either my kids are unerringly honest (they’re not) or they have absolutely no self-preservation skills.

And to make it worse, their floor was landscaped with tiny legos which made walking barefoot to and from their beds for goodnight hugs an exercise in torture. Actually, the lego-scape may be the best monster-deterrent ever.

A tribute to my mom

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When I was growing up my mom made everything. She was one of those moms who made her own bread everyday. And this was before bread machines made the process easier. We always had several loaves stored in the freezer and she gave a lot away as gifts (One year I was so sick of homemade bread, that I asked for, and received a loaf of Wonder Bread for Christmas. I should have been shot). Every teacher I ever had got a loaf of bread at Christmas. She also made my dad’s granola which was a multi-step complicated process.

But her creativity and skills weren’t confined to the kitchen. For the first 6 years of my life my mom made all of my and my sister’s clothes. One summer she made us bathing suits out of terrycloth. They were very absorbent, and heavy. Also, every time we moved she bought new fabric and made the curtains for the house. She used whatever fabric was leftover to make more clothes for us. My sister and I could camouflage ourselves just by standing still in front of the curtains. Any scraps of material that remained was used for barbie wardrobes. Dressed all the same, our barbies looked like members of a cult.

Our Christmas trees were hung with decorations that she sculpted out of clay, baked, and painted by hand. She had done oil paintings of her brothers and my dad which hung in the hallway. And she made wooden purses that she covered with old-fashioned looking newsprint, stained, and shellacked to make them shiny.

Over time she had to stop making everything, as multiple sclerosis gradually robbed her of her motor skills. So she turned to collecting antique dolls. She named them and bought accessories for them. She posed them and had professional photos of them taken and put into albums. She had one “tranny” doll which had both breasts and a penis. She posed that one with the doll lifting its skirt for the camera. She created personalities for her dolls and would make up stories about what they had been up to lately. She had one doll she called Camille that had an open-mouthed smile which showed the teeth. It was really creepy. I told my mom I expected to wake up one morning and find Camille standing by my bed with a steak knife in her hand. My mom’s caretaker damn near died when she found Camille in a coat closet holding a knife (I arranged that).

At the end of her life my mom had lost the use of her legs and had to use a stamp for her signature on documents. But she was surrounded by folks who loved her, still lived in her own home, had fresh-baked bread everyday (courtesy of her caregivers, some of whom were like family members), had her own paintings hung on her wall, a room dedicated to her doll collection, and a tree hung with beautiful ornaments. It wasn’t MS- related complications that killed my mom; it was a house fire. It started in the early morning hours shortly after Christmas of 2010 and burned her house completely to the ground, killing her and one of her caregivers. My sincerest hope is that she didn’t suffer, or even know that her house was on fire.

I have very few of my mom’s physical possessions, but I do have memories of a lifetime with her. I keep those memories in my heart. And I make bread every week for my family from the recipe that she passed down from her mother and grandmother before her, to me:

Ingredients

2 – 1/2 cups milk

2 tsp. salt (measure flat)

3 tbls. sugar (rounded)

7-8 cups of flour (start with 7 cups, add more if needed)

2 tbls. butter or margarine

2 packages yeast

Directions

In a 4-cup measuring cup put in salt, sugar, milk, and butter and microwave until luke-hot. Test with your finger. Stir.

In an electric mixing bowl (with a bread hook) put in the flour and yeast.

Gradually pour liquid mixture into flour mixture while stirring.

Dust countertop with flour. Knead dough until it gets bouncy (about 10 minutes).

Put dough in greased bowl. Cover bowl with a towel and put it in a warm place for 1hr so dough can rise.

After 1 hr. punch the dough down. Cut it into two equal pieces. Shape each piece into a rectangle with your hands and roll up like a newspaper. Fold under the edges and place into a greased bread pan (total of two pans). Cover with towel and let it rise in warm place for 30 minutes.

Remove towel and bake at 350 degrees for 35 minutes. Place on bread rack and cool completely before cutting or wrapping in foil.

 

 

 

White & Nerdy

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So Mark and I took the kids to a Weird Al concert last week (on a school night, ’cause that’s how we roll).  Mark, wearing his Captain America Hoodie over his Periodic Table of Pirates t-shirt, myself and our two older kids set out in our minivan to the concert venue. It was packed with geeks, nerds, and gamers everywhere. One of Mark’s rpg (role playing game) gamers was seated right in front of us. Weird Al could make a mint if he started playing nearby venues during gaming conventions. That seems to be his core audience.

So Weird Al was doing his stuff and about halfway through the show he rolled out onto the stage on a Segway and started singing White and Nerdy. And he was wearing a hoodie with White & Nerdy stitched across the front.

Me to Mark: ohmygod, if they’re selling that out front you have to get it. It’s perfect for you.

Mark: What? Why, you think I’m white and nerdy?

(in my head) Let’s review, shall we. Captain America hoodie. Check. Periodic Table of Pirates t-shirt. Check. Role Playing Gamer. Check. Attending a Weird Al concert. Check. Skin the hue of a marshmallow. Check.

Me (in Yoda’s voice) Defy my assessment, do you?

 

“EB”ing a Mommy

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I came across a mom blog called “EB”ing a Mommy this past weekend. The author of the blog, Courtney, had posted that day about her much she missed her two-year-old baby, Tripp, who had died of Epidermylosis Bullosa. I went back to read her blog from the beginning with tears running down my face. It was heartwrenching. I can’t even imagine the agony of holding your baby as he dies. I wish I could somehow ease her suffering. After I read it I went to hug my children tightly and spent the rest of the day relishing my time with them. It made me appreciate anew all that I have. My heart goes out to this mom. I’m so sorry, Courtney.

Happy Mother’s Half-Day!

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I don’t ask for much on Mother’s Day.  The only thing I really want is to be left alone.  Yes, I know.  Today is the day that I should be celebrating my role as mother, basking in the love of my children and the admiration of my husband.  And, I do that, at least for the two or three hours that it lasts.

The morning starts out with my sons climbing onto the bed with greetings of  ”Happy Mother’s Day!  Can I use the computer?”  “If he’s using the computer than I want to watch TV.” 

I don’t even roll over to look up.  “Ask you father.”

Today is the one day out of the year that no amount of guilt can get me out of bed before my husband.  He sleeps in nearly 364 days of the year.  I figure, I deserve this one.

An hour or so later, my boys are back.  “We have a surprise for you.”  This time I can smell coffee and fresh-baked muffins.  The boys are giddy with excitement.  They race down the stairs before me and pop-out from their hiding places yelling, “Surprise, Happy Mother’s Day!”

Their faces beam with genuine joy.  How could I have wanted to be alone today, I think.  I walk toward the table and notice it hasn’t been set, but the boys willingly help set the table.  We enjoy our breakfast of warm, buttery corn muffins. 

My son, Aaron, can no longer contain himself. He wants to present me with the gift he made at school.  I bring over my coffee and set it on a shelf near the couch.  The card and gift are adorable, breakfast was wonderful, the boys are excited.  This is how Mother’s Day should be I smile to myself as Nic leans in to give me a hug and sends my coffee flying everywhere.  Coffee spatters the gift and card Aaron made at school.  It is running down the wall, soaking into the couch and dripping off my chin.

Aaron is yelling because his card is “ruined” (though it really is only a few drops of coffee that will dry).  Nic is on the verge of tears because he thinks he ruined his brother’s gift to me.  My husband is yelling about the coffee staining the walls.

I get the paper towels and begin to clean up the mess.  I reassure each of the boys that it was an accident and everything will be okay.  I give my husband the evil eye as he stands over me letting me know that I shouldn’t miss the spot over there and if I don’t dry it quickly the coffee will stain the walls.  By the time I am done wiping up coffee, they have scattered throughout the house.

The breakfast dishes are on the table.  The bowls and utensils used to make the muffins are piled in the sink.  Mother’s Day is over. 

I clear the dishes, load the dishwasher, and wash what is in the sink.  I put up a load of laundry, sweep the kitchen floor and wipe down the table.  I know that this evening, my husband and sons will get some take-out so I don’t have to cook (though setting the table and cleaning up will still be my job).  They will present me with gifts that I don’t really need.  It will not be my perfect Mother’s Day, but it will the one they planned for me.  And, I will love it because I love them.

So, for now, I’m going to mow the lawn so I can have what I really wanted – to be left alone.  Happy Mother’s Half-Day!

 

Swim lessons

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So, I started my oldest son in swim lessons several years ago. At first, it was only during the summers. However, last summer when he was nine it was becoming obvious that any advances he was making during one summer were not carrying over into the next. So I decided to have him (and now my daughter) take year-round lessons at the Y until they both become proficient swimmers. My daughter loves swimming. My son … tolerates it. Swim lessons are the only lessons I absolutely require them to take because swimming is, in my opinion, the only sport that can save your life (or someone else’s).

Now, after several attempts at group lessons it slowly dawned on me that my kids would both need to take private lessons, separately. For my daughter, it was a matter of safety, and my sanity. Twice, during a group lesson my daughter jumped into water over her head when the instructor wasn’t looking. I jumped in once (fully clothed) to get her and the lifeguard jumped in the next time. She has no fear of the water. As a result I have developed a terror of the water when she is near it. So, private lessons for her, and fewer panic attacks for me.

For my son, private lessons are a matter of efficiency. He learns best in a 1:1 class. In a group he is too busy playing with the rubber ducks or spinning in place to listen to the instructor. Also, he dislikes the temperature of the water and the feel of the water in his hair so he needs more concentrated individual attention effort to get him in the pool.

So, last weekend I took the kids to the Y for their swim lessons. My daughter’s lesson started 15 minutes after my son’s so we went to find a spot to sit down while we waited.  I noticed after a few minutes that the swim instructor kept glancing up at me. And my son was still sitting on the side of the pool. I decided to wait it out a bit as I didn’t want to over-ride her authority with him.

However, ten minutes into his 30 minute ($40 private lesson) he was still sitting on the side of the pool complaining about the temperature of the water while the swim instructor tried to coax him in. I got up, walked purposefully over to him and gently whispered (in lethal mom-mode) into his ear, “If you don’t get into the pool by the time I count to 10 I am going to throw you in.” I got to 9.

 

Greetings! This is my Scrotum!

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Even before I had children, I was certain of one thing.  My children would be taught the correct words for their body parts – all of their body parts.  Lately, I’ve begun to rethink that position.

When Nic was little, he was very precoious with his vocabulary.  When he asked what something was, I told him.  So, one day, when Nic was about 3 years-old, he pointed to his penis and asked what it was, I told him.  No wienies, no pee-pees, no ding-a-lings in this house.  It was a penis, plain and simple. 

“Not that,” he said with exasperation as if he had known the word penis already.  “This,” he said pushing his testicles up.

“Oh, that’s your scrotum.  It holds your testicles,” I said matter of factly.

“Scrotum!” he sang with glee. ”Scrotum, scrotum, scrotum!”

“That’s a funny word, huh?” I asked as he ignored me and continued singing.  “But it’s an “at home” word okay?”

Nic just giggled and finished dressing.

Soon, the word scrotum was popping up everywhere.  In the grocery store, “My scrotum is itchy”.   At the bank, “My scrotum is sticking to my pants.” The afternoon when he woke from his nap and he announced to me with delight, “Greetings, this is my scrotum!”

Though I was amused, I was glad this greeting wasn’t made in public.  The looks on people’s faces when my young son used the word had ranged from smiles to embarassment to horror that he even knew it. (There were even some looks of confusion, making me wonder is some of the adults we encountered knew what the word meant.)

When Aaron started to ask the names of body parts, I was not to be detered.  Besides, Nic already knew the words I had taught him and was more than happy to share them with Aaron.

Aaron was not as amused by the words penis or scrotum and used them correctly, until he started school.  Soon, he came home with the word wienie.

“It’s a penis,” I said.

“Everyone at school calls it a wienie.” Aaron replied.

Eventually, Aaron would tell me that when he called it a penis, the other boys would laugh and tell him it was a wienie.  He seemed more comfortable with the words the other children shared with him.

I have decided to take my cue from Aaron.  It seems my attempts to teach my sons the anatomically correct words for some of their body parts is not quite what their peers, or, apparently most adults are ready for. 

When my boys ask me questions, now about where babies come from and how my body is different from their’s, I still answer factually.  But, for now, I think I will keep the word vagina to myself.  I’m not sure if my boys, or the world, is ready for them to be singing that.

Kindergarten teacher caught with pot

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So Mark and I brought cupcakes to our daughter’s school during snack time for her school birthday celebration. Mark read a story to her class and then we sang “Happy Birthday” to her before snack. It was cute and Kelly clearly was thrilled.

And that’s when I spotted it. I did a double take when I saw the “pot” and actually went to look inside. There were just some stones and soil in the pot. It was all very innocent. I’m not, though. Shame on me.

And, would you like a side of parenting advice with that?

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As a parent, I have gotten used to unsolicited parenting advice from my family, other parents, even teachers.  Heck, even my kids, give me parenting advice - usually to make things to their advantage – but the message is always the same.  No matter how good of a job you are doing parenting, someone else always thinks that they can do it better.

I have to say, though, I really wasn’t expecting to get any advice from my waitress.  This weekend was one of those rare occasions when we went out to dinner as a family.  Since we were going to be out shoe shopping with the boys, we decided to use some gift certificates we had to a restaurant near the shoe store.

When we arrived, the restaurant was starting to fill up but wasn’t crowded.  We were seated quickly at a table which had a console on it.  After some confusion about whether we were supposed to order our meals from our waitress, Tracy, or the console, we placed our order for drinks with Tracy.   We also asked for the console to be removed from the table since it was causing a great commotion with our children and it could only used to order drinks or desserts or to pay the bill.

“But, it says you can play games.” pleaded Aaron.

“You’ve had enough screen time. We’re here to enjoy a meal together.” Ron, my husband, replied.

“There are games on it,” the waitress interjected. 

Ron smiled, and calmly said. “We still would like it off the table.”

The waitress struggled not to roll her eyes as she picked up the console and put it on the table next to us.  From the look on her face, I wasn’t sure if she didn’t like waiting on parents, kids or just us.  Either way, I knew this would be a long dinner.

Tracy arrived with our drinks.  Two lemonades and two unsweetened ice teas. Before she could place them down, my sons started blurting out their orders.

You see, my guys aren’t the best with social interactions and social rules.  Waitresses take the food order, so if the waitress is standing there, I order.  They also were tired from the ever-dreaded, why-is-this-taking-so-long, the-only-pair-I-like-they-don’t-have-in-my size, can’t-you-just-buy-my-shoes-without-me, shoe shopping excursion.  Now, we had taken them to a restaurant that had something that looked like a computer game on  the table and we wouldn’t even let them use it, and we wanted them to wait to order their food?  It was all just too much.

After some commotion, and a strained smile from Tracy, we placed our orders and the wait began.  By the time the appetizer came, Nic had finished his lemonade.

Tracy asked if we wanted more drinks for the boys and we said yes.  A few minutes later, she arrived with two more lemonades.  As she placed them on the table, she looked at Nic and said “Now, drink this one slowly because this is the last one you get.  You are only allowed two.”  And, off she went.

When Tracy finally came back, this time with the boys’ meals, my husband asked if the one refill applied to all of our drinks or just the kids.  “You can all have refills you want.  I just find that the kids fill up on drinks and then they don’t eat their meals.  I think the kids should eat their meals.  But, they can have as many refills as they want.  If, you want them to.”

There must have been fire coming from head or daggers from my eyes because Tracy slowly backed away from the table and my husband wasn’t talking. 

“Are you kidding me!” I said to Ron in disbelief.   “Seriously?  It’s not bad enough I have the government telling what and how to feed my children.  Then I have the “Nutrition Task” force at the school telling me how to feed my children.  But I also have to come to a restaurant where I am trying to enjoy a meal just to have the waitress tell me how to feed my children.”

My husband looked scared.  I am usually the calm one is these situations.  I am usually the one who says, ” I get this stuff all the time, just ignore it.” 

“Why don’t you say something to her,” he suggested, knowing full well that he was taking he’s life into his own hand’s by doing so.

I looked at the kids and said I would do it at the end of the meal.

The rest of the meal didn’t go much better.  Aaron hated his pizza and who can blame him since it turned out to be a pre-baked crust with some sauce and slightly melted cheese on top.  Ron didn’t get to eat because Nic had to keep going to the bathroom and eventually threw up. 

When Tracy finally came back to the table to see if we wanted to order dessert, she looked at Nic’s two empty lemonade glasses and full plate. She then looked at Aaron’s barely touched pizza.  A small smile of satisfaction crossed her lips, “Will you be needing take-out containers for these?” she asked.

It wasn’t worth it, I thought.  Explaining to her why my children hadn’t eaten would likely just lead to more suggestions that I didn’t want or need.  I asked to have everything wrapped and for the check.

Before I left, I spoke to the manager, Brian.  “She said what?,” he responded a little confounded.  “I’m so sorry.  You just came here for dinner not any parenting advice.”   Brian apologized and gave a gift card (ironically, we had gone to the restaurant to use a gift card my husband had received after complaining about a problem at another location of this restaurant).

Despite the issues, we will probably try the restaurant again.  Brian asked that we call ahead so a manager can wait on us.  He promised to provide the dining experience that the chain would like the customer to have  – this time without the side of parenting advice.