No Ifs, Ands, or Butts

In the process of packing up our house I came across my son's joke book-- a notebook in which I compiled jokes that my son made up.  I started keeping the joke book when he was about four and stopped updating it when he was about.... four.

Okay, so it is more of a joke pamphlet than a joke book.  Nevertheless, at a young age he was churning out some pretty decent material.

Example:
Q: What did one poop say to the other?
A: You look flushed.

Not bad wordplay (if you can get past the poop part).  Unfortunately, for the past few years, there has been no getting past the poop part.  Or the parts that poop.  My kids (and their friends) think that true humor lies in the mere utterance of certain words.  I have tried-- and failed-- numerous times to explain to my son how much funnier he is when he turns a phrase or draws a parallel.

Toilet humor, I tell him, is beyond lame.

Which is why it is all the more shameful that I am still laughing when I think of the anatomy lesson my seven year old daughter's friend gave me.

"Do you know what this is called?" she asked, pulling on the extra skin on the back of her elbow.

I shrugged. 

"The wenis" she informed me, matter-of-factly.  "And do you know what this is called?" she asked, pointing to the inside fold of her elbow.

I shook my head.

"THE WAGINA!" she guffawed, ever so pleased that I had walked right into it.

Wonder Woman

My parents were pretty far ahead of the curve in terms of health awareness and nutrition.  In addition to promoting an active lifestyle and mindful snacking (only one sweet or soda per day), my mom cooked and served a healthy, complete meal (and salad) every night-- an impressive feat that shames me on those days when the best I can manage is to warm up leftover leftovers. 

There was no official list of forbidden foods in our house but there were many processed goodies that never crossed the threshold: including all sugar cereals, anything by Hostess, and Wonder Bread.

I work hard to instill healthy habits in my kids.  Be active and eat right.  I'm not inventing the wheel here: if they develop good habits now hopefully they'll keep them up for life.  The activity side is easy-- both kids are happily  involved in lots of different sports.  The food side takes more effort.  I feel like I'm always at the store buying produce.  And reading labels. And trying new recipes. And searching for the perfect luunchbox foods.

Bread is particularly tough.  It has to be wheat (whole grain).  No HFCS.  No "hearty" texture.  I've determined that there is only one kind of bread that meets all my needs and my kids' particularities (at least until someone markets a crust-free bread, which would be a huge hit) and sometimes I can't find it on the store's shelves.

The other day I was faced with that very problem.  No bread.  I started half-heartedly to check the other loaves on the shelves.  It was slim pickings.  Seeds, nope. Extra Hearty, seriously? Corn syrup, nope.

Wait, what's this?  Wonder Bread Wheat?  I picked up the happy red, blue and yellow package assuming I'd soon be sneering and putting it down because c'mon, it's Wonder Bread.  The devil's bread would have to have high fructose corn syrup in it, right?  But guess what?  It passed all my tests.  In what felt almost like a rebellious move I bought the Wonder Bread.  My kids are so lucky, I thought, remembering the few times I made squishy yummy dough balls out of Wonder Bread at other kids' houses.

And.... my son hated it.  The pieces were too small for him.  He called it mini-bread.  And he celebrated the end of the loaf.   "No more Wonder Bread!" he happily cheered to his sister.  Thirty-seven miles away, I imagine my parents were high-fiving.

No Piggin' Way

My mother and her beloved dog, Eloise, gave birth to their first babies within weeks of each other.

A new baby requires loads of time, energy and attention.  As a matter of course, the naming of the new dog was not a top priority.   And so it was that the puppy was forever known as Puppy.

I came along six years later.  By the time I was old enough to appreciate Puppy she was almost gone.  We never got another dog, despite my best efforts.

As a consolation gift (actually, it was a birthday gift), I was given another fluffy, four legged animal.  A guinea pig.  I know I always rush to hyperbole but a guinea pig has to be the Worst Pet Ever.  And, like a couple who inexplicably tries to save their marriage by having a kid (or another kid), I thought having a second guinea pig would make the first one more fun.

I was wrong.  Babies ensued (We had a boy and a girl in the same cage! Galactically stupid!).  And then a premature follow-on pregnancy that killed the mother in childbirth.  And then infanticide by the father.  And then my brother had to feed the surviving son by dropper every few hours because I was away at camp.  And years and years of chirping and pooping and rat feet and...... ugh.

Last week I was at an impromptu birthday gathering for a ten year old girl who was visiting from out of town.  A married couple that has known the father for years came up from the city and brought "their boys"-- two guinea pigs.

I know that my husband and I kind of treated our dog as our first baby (my mom even calls her her granddog) but, really, guinea pigs??!   I could not imagine anyone loving guinea pigs that much.  I had to ask lots of questions.  And the answers left me gobsmacked.

Their boys don't live in a cage.  They have two living areas in the apartment and are allowed to run free.  They poop in one spot only.  They come when called.  Ooooookay.....

My daughter loved holding and playing with those guinea pigs.  I told her don't even think about it.  I'll get her a puppy first. 
 

Cut it Out

On our street there are ten kids in elementary school and each morning-- at the bus stop-- they attempt to jam two hours' worth of activities and mini-dramas into ten minutes.

I am often the only parent at the bus stop in the morning (don't get me started).  So, usually, my role is equal parts referee, town crier ("CAR!"), and volume modulator.

Yesterday morning, the kids were playing some hybrid of tag and sheer physical intimidation that had my daughter using me and our dog as cover/base.  I was talking to another parent but took a moment to point out the leash to my daughter and how she couldn't run through it.  Can you see where this is going?

Sure enough, her brother came running at her and she took off-- tripping over that same leash and hurtling herself face first (or so I feared) onto our bumpy road.

After helping her up and ascertaining that the worst of her injuries was a scraped up knee, I lit into her for not listening to me.  Didn't I just say not to run through there?  That the leash would trip you?

Nice, huh?  And I couldn't let it go.  It was like there were two of me:  the chastiser, finding 50 different ways to say "I told you so" to a crying seven year old; and the loving, soothing mom shooting the chastiser the death glare.

When I went into the school at 9:30 for a meeting, I stopped in at the nurse's office to make sure my daughter had gone in to have her cut cleaned up.  I'm fairly friendly with the nurse so, while I was there, I confessed to her my shame over my reaction at the bus stop.

To my surprise she commended me for how nice I was before yelling.  With her kids, she said, she always jumps immediately to "What were you thinking?!!!" without even stopping to brush off the dirt.

She said the yelling is the release after the fear for their safety and that it actually shows how much we really care.  It comes from love.

That's her story and I'm sticking to it.

Soccer Coach, Stoned

Sorry to bore you with another soccer story but such is my life right now. So, for my oldest daughter's team we carpool with 2 other families. Without going into too many details, the girls' coach is mercurial and often cruel. She trains them at the intensity of a professional team, including having them carry each other on their backs for sprints and jumping side-to-side over a cowering fellow teammate wearing cleats (yes, ouch). Every time I drive (and presumably with other parents, too), our three little girls concoct ways to kill their coach without getting caught. Sometimes, after a particularly vicious drubbing, they don't even care about serving time and just want immediate results. While cast as a big joke, their ideas are quite elaborate and absolutely cold-blooded.

What made me laugh/cringe this week was that three OTHER girls from the team arrived in THEIR carpool with their soccer shorts full of pebbles to throw at the coach if she was too mean to them! I pictured a scene from biblical times (or modern day Afghanistan?) peppered with a dash of Monty Python. She's a witch!! Stone her!!!!!

Time to shop around for a new team??? I think so.

And Now for Something Completely Different ...

Minx has been taking piano lessons since September. She absolutely loves to make music and while her first request was to play the drums, she seems very satisfied with our compromise. The first hint of trouble came a few weeks ago, when it was established that although she had taught herself 'Yankee Doodle', playing first the left hand than the right, and counting and naming the notes, this wasn't in fact her homework. She hadn't played any of the songs she had actually been assigned.

The teacher asked me if Minx was enjoying her lessons to which I replied, "Of course! She leaves each Tuesday proclaiming it to be the best lesson ever!" Well, in that case, the teacher felt that there might be a control issue, ie. who is leading the lesson (aside: she gets that trait from her father). She was concerned that reigning Minx in might put her off music altogether.

Apparently, it wasn't a question of Minx not listening, rather she was choosing her own way to respond. For example, instead of saying the names of the notes on the page as asked, she would play it on the piano. On at least one occasion she had miaowed the note, which on the one hand is borderline rude and on the other is highly amusing and either way hard to punish since it was in perfect pitch. Sometimes she left the piano altogether to play with the egg timer.

So I had a little conversation with Minx about being respectful. I explained that while it was fine to go off reservation on the piano at home, during the lesson she must do exactly as the teacher asks and will learn music much faster that way. It seems to have worked so far but I can see that there will have to be weekly reminders and I live in a state of nervous tension over the upcoming recital in June.

I guess I should just relax and celebrate the entertainment value of having a child who can miaow the E Major scale. It's better than burping the national anthem, right? Oh lord, I hope she never cottons on to that idea.

Don't be THAT guy

A friend of mine told me that the best advice she ever gave her kids was 'Don't be THAT guy'. Don't be the boy who combines Mentos and Diet coke in the parking lot of Rite Aid. Don't be the girl arrested behind middle school, charging $5 a pop for sexual favors. Don't be the dad at the soccer game wearing the too-tight tracksuit with his name embroidered on the chest, who yells so much at their own kid that even the opposing team's parents and coach are cheering the kid on.

My husband and I went to a wedding on Saturday night and had not one but two THAT guys at our table! Or, I should say, THAT girl. One of them, in her late 20s actually introduced herself as "Eleanor, but my gay friends call me Ellie" (So ... 'Eleanor' then). She then butchered my name and had the nerve to ask if my accent was Irish. Even before the main course was served she was three sheets to the wind, telling everyone her life story before barfing, passing out and finding her second wind in time to heckle the best man's speech. When we left at midnight, she was still drinking.

The second woman, who was probably in her late 50s, initially rolled her eyes at the obnoxious behaviour of our table companion but quickly became her dance partner. As more alcohol was consumed she became obsessed with men's ties, particularly those of the groomsmen, dancing over and grabbing said neck wear, then writhing erotically with it. Thankfully, she passed out reasonably early on and had to be escorted back to her hotel.

I'm not a volume drinker so it always amazes me that people of any age can let themselves get so plastered that they literally can't control bodily functions. It's sad, really. So I've got to agree that the advice stands. I think I'll pass it on to my kids.

Here Come the Judge

You may want to sit down because what I'm about to say may shock you: I can be pretty judgmental.

Was that an audible gasp? I did warn you.

I tend to have an opinion about everything and everyone. And though some reactions are educated and well-reasoned, others are baseless and completely wrong. That total attention-seeking bitchy mom that I rolled my eyes about all through kindergarten is now one of my most reliable, generous car-pool buddies. The crazy, pseudo-crunchy neighborhood couple we bended over backwards to avoid having dinner with.... Well, I was right about them.

Having children has really forced me to recognize how wrong I can be about things and how I shouldn't judge others until I've walked a mile in their shoes, or thrown a stone at their house, or insert your own aphorism here. When my son was a baby I would page through the One Step Ahead catalog and roll my eyes at the crazy childproofing gadgets in there. A lock for your toilet seat? A tent-like enclosure for your crib? Who were the suckers buying these things? And then I had my daughter, who started throwing herself out of the crib at nine months and who I once found standing in the toilet (to the everlasting delight of my son, who still tells that story).

I didn't get the toilet seat lock but I certainly became more sympathetic to the plight of those with curious toddlers. Never say never, right?

And, yet, even though my eyes have been opened (repeatedly) to the fact that not all kids are the same, I still think that keeping your kid on a leash is wrong. And I still say that I will never, EVER, let my kids play their devices at the table, whether in a restaurant or otherwise.

Last night we were out to dinner with our children and at the tables on either side of us were kids fiddling with their handhelds while the parents sat silent. Not texting (which I am not naive enough to think won't become an issue at some point), these kids were playing games. And wearing headphones.

Judgment rendered: that's just lame.

100 Ways to get sent to Gitmo

Today was the 100th Day of school for my kids. The elementary schools in our town make a big deal of the event by drawing pictures of themselves at 100 and writing about what they would do if they had $100 or 100 wishes, etc. My son had to do a project listing 100 things.

I had already been through this with my elder daughter two years ago who chose to list "Hello in 100 languages". We found a website called "Hello in 100 languages" and - Bob's your uncle - a bit of glue and a map of the world later, we were finished. My son, who suddenly seems a very long way from his Quaker preschool roots, chose "100 Modern Conventional Weapons".

Unfortunately, this was not a quick project. Making the initial mistake of looking up "modern warfare" we were redirected to video game websites with all manner of weird postings. Between the Internet searches and the local library checkouts the NSA probably has me red-flagged right now. It doesn't help that I am a murder-mystery aficionado and foreign national to boot.

And now I've just mentioned the NSA and weapons in the same blog post. And now I've just done it again! As long as I don't mention the president I should be fine ...

The Super Bowl

We're deep in the third quarter here in the Weaselsnark household.

And, by that, I mean that three out of four members of the family have now been struck by the stomach bug.

It started on Sunday night after the Giants victory (woo-hoo!). My husband woke up in the middle of the night and was violently ill. Food poisoning, he surmised, based on prior experience. My mind raced to what food we'd eaten that day. I couldn't think of anything that he had eaten that we hadn't all shared in our Big Game Smorgasbord. Uh-oh.

For the next few hours I vacillated between lying in bed in a state of wide-eyed panic waiting to dash to the bathroom myself and running upstairs to check on the kids to make sure they weren't "going number three" (my neighbor's euphamism for vomiting).

But the night passed without (further) incident.

Cut to Tuesday night. My daughter came downstairs at about 10:30pm covered in foulness. It was even in her hair. So gross. After getting her cleaned up, changed and settled in my bed I went up to her room.

Evolution has favored a special kind of parent adrenaline that kicks in to help in times of severe body fluid events. I know this to be so because there is no way I could have tackled what I found waiting for me in my daughter's bed if it weren't. Suffice to say, one pillow and several stuffed animals made the ultimate sacrifice. Ironically, the one thing left completely unscathed was the bowl I had given her ("just in case") to throw up in.

Whether my husband's food poisoning was merely a coincidence or whether, in fact, he was patient zero, I figured it was only a matter of time before my son succumbed to the stomach bug. So last night I took extreme preventative measures: I removed the comforter, books, extraneous pillows and his one beloved stuffed animal from the bed. And, ever hopeful, I left him with a big bowl and instructions to try to aim for it should the need arise.

And he did! That superstar came down at 11:30pm last night with clean hair, clean pajamas, and a bowl full of puke. My heart swelled. I was so pleased about not having to strip the bed and stay up doing loads of wash that I almost forgot to comfort my poor sick son. Although, in my defense, because he had avoided getting any throw up on himself he wasn't particularly freaked out or upset. He just washed out his mouth and went right back up to bed.

With a clean (super) bowl.

And then there was one.... tick, tick, tick....

Fumble!

My son got a gift card to a sports store for his birthday and had been itching to spend it. It worried me a little that he didn't actually NEED anything but I took him to the store and as soon as we walked in we saw the sign for 50% off football jerseys. The next day (Friday before the Superbowl) was team spirit day at school and there at the front of the rack was a blue Manning jersey!!!! And it was size XL so he could wear it for years. We snapped it up along with some flannel Giants pj bottoms. Score!

On Friday I dropped him off at school. He started looking around anxiously at all the other kids and said to me, "Mom - why does everyone else's Manning jersey say #10 and mine says #18?"

"Maybe he changed numbers?" I replied, hopefully.

Poor kid. Now Peyton Manning is arguably the better player (I'm told) but he is out for at least a year and will probably no longer play for the Colts. It REALLY should have occurred to me to question why an Eli Manning jersey would be on sale three days before the Giants were in the Superbowl. Over the weekend another mom confessed to making the same mistake, although hers was returnable. It's just so embarrassing.

Why I Overtip the School Bus Driver: Reason #437

I'm trying to break my son of a bad habit: he's starting to preface things with "No offense, but..." I first took note of this little verbal crutch while driving him and a couple of his friends to practice the other night.

"At recess I scored the winning touchdown because [the quarterback] saw that I was being covered by [another one of his classmates]. No offense, but he stinks and so I was basically wide open."

and then,

"No offense, but he's a total liar. He was definitely tagged."

On the spectrum of bad habits, this new one is not as disfiguring as nail biting (which he dabbles in) or as disgusting as nose picking (which, thankfully, to my knowledge, he does not) but it is way up there in terms of being-- for lack of a better word-- offensive.

I explained to my son and the other boys that saying "no offense" doesn't get you off the hook for whatever follows. In searching for an example that would illustrate the lesson without singling any one of them out, the best I could come up with was "What if I said to Lady Gaga 'No offense, but I don't think you are very pretty.'?"

Missing my point completely, one of the boys piped up "But she isn't pretty." He then started singing along to the radio, loudly changing the words of the Maroon 5 hit to "Boobs like Jagger." Hilarity ensued.

Third grade boys are so painfully lowbrow. No offense. (Ha! None taken. As if! They revel in it. Little buggers.)

Sunrise, Sunset

Another milestone I wasn't prepared for...

Back in 2002, early on in my first pregnancy, I went on the internet to search for information about what exactly was happening inside my uterus. I think I was just trying to justify why I was absolutely ravenous and craving buttered bagels at six weeks. I signed up with babycenter.com to get weekly updates on "my baby."

I liked receiving those emails. They were informative and served as mile markers for the pregnancy (they always reminded me what week I was in-- I had "mommy brain" before I ever had kids).

After our son was born, the emails kept coming every week (or so. I stopped reading them faithfully). Your baby is three months old. Your toddler is two years old. Your big kid this week... Of course by then I was receiving two emails a week-- one tied to my son's age and one to my daughter's age.

I delete the emails immediately most of the time. Unless it's a list of the top baby names. But I got one yesterday that caught my eye: "Your 8-Year Old: Wow, where did the time go?"

Ever the sentimentalist, I opened it and learned that I'm being cut off!!!

"Can you believe your child is almost 9? It's been an amazing journey, and we're so glad to have shared it with you. And though you've reached the end of our age-by-age newsletters and articles, our door is still open.... We wish you the best as you parent your tween and teen!"

How will I fill the hole in my life? Okay... the hole in my inbox? Buttered bagels?

A Rockefeller Christmas

My six year old's note to Santa, as written:

[ON THE FRONT]

To: Santa
Love: [full name]

this is What I Want!
A Whole Stable of thoroughbreds!
thank you!

[ON THE BACK]

I tuch
cellabee staFat Anamel
And More! A BOOK that I Would like

Wow.

As it turns out, the "whole stable of thoroughbreds" is actually something she saw in a toy catalog. Too bad. I kind of liked the shoot-for-the-moon approach to the Santa letter. But then, I guess she has about as much of a chance of getting an iPod touch for Christmas as she does a collection of racehorses.

Don't cry for her Argentina: between the eight days of Hanukkah AND Christmas, she'll make out just fine.

The Gift Git

When we were first married and before we had kids my husband and I were THOSE people who give other people's kids inappropriate gifts. We gave my niece her first Rollerblades, a mini drum set and a karaoke machine all before she turned 5. Eleven years ago, with the birth of our first daughter, we finally gained some perspective but, alas, inherited a "THAT guy" uncle of our own.

My two eldest kids have late December/early January birthdays so every year around this time I perform the great pre-Christmas purge. It's a time-consuming, but ultimately very cathartic way to make room for the latest round of stuff. Anyway, I decided to document all the idiot gifts I found that said uncle has given my children this year (because that's the kind of mood I'm in, bah humbug):

A toy gun that fires hard paper pellets
A toxic, "may stain", paint-spinning art kit
A build-your-own dinosaur kit involving superglue
Giant cheapo candies that are sticky even before the kids make contact
NFL shirts that support my husband's mortal enemies (ie. not Dallas)

Need I say that most of the above have a recommended audience age of my kids' ages plus 10.

He's coming to visit next week, so ... I'll keep you posted.

My Mother is Trying to Ruin My Life

This is the title of the book Minx checked out of her school library this week. Apparently, I am being sent a message. I am no longer allowed to kiss her within sight of her friends/the school bus or make any suggestions as to her wardrobe or activities (although I refuse to relinquish absolute veto power). She actually ran away from home briefly, making it to the end of the driveway before my casual warning to look out for bats persuaded her that she could tolerate living with me for a little while longer.

Then she caught a real humdinger of a cold. Her fever spiked to 102.7 for two days solid. And for 48 hours she refused to leave my side. Of course, that kind of shadowing has its drawbacks as you can imagine. The house is a disaster and we have no food in the fridge or pantry. I can pretty much guarantee that I will be infected just in time for my older daughter's birthday party on Sunday.

But to have Minx all to myself, snuggling and loving and falling asleep in my arms, even if it is for only a short time? Absolutely priceless.

Eye of the Tiger Cub

As testament to how seriously we take kids' sports these days, I had an email from my daughter's soccer coach asking to set up a time to do a half-hour phone evaluation of my kid as a player. The call (which my daughter was required to be in on) consisted of an incredibly detailed assessment of her technical, tactical, physical and psychological abilities. Each of these categories was broken down into offensive and defensive subsets.

It was suggested that my daughter perform some kind of ritual pregame like putting on her right shinguard, sock and cleat, then the left and separating herself from the rest of the team for ten minutes to listen to inspirational music on her iPod to truly focus her thoughts/energy.

She's 10.

So I went on the Internet to try and find suggestions for psyche-up songs that postdate the '80s (I can only throw in so many big hair classics!). Unfortunately, I could only find heavy metal play lists for body building. One whoknewitevenexisted moment came with a CD of "Songs for Jocks" but ... eh, not so much.

Any and all thoughts welcome.

Coal? No Fracking Way, Santa

Like the mighty gladiator deftly swinging his sword, I wield the power of Santa with no mercy.

If I have to contend with Christmas music in stores and Rudolph specials on TV days before the Thanksgiving hand-turkeys have even hit the recycling bin, then you can bet your fir tree that I'm going to take full advantage of the one upside to the ever-earlier start of the holiday season: the naughty/nice distinction.

That's right. Santa Claus is coming to town, kiddos. So please put down that Wii controller. Stop teasing your sister. Clean up those littlest pet shop critters. Let's stop screaming. Wash your hands. Feed the dog. Stop bothering your brother. No fighting. Get ready for bed. Get back to bed. Go to sleep.

See, it's not riding them about their behavior; it's protecting their interests (in receiving presents). I think that secures a spot for me on the nice list too.

It's the most wonderful time of the year....

Hair No Evil

This afternoon's carpool was all kinds of hairy.

HAIRY adj \ˈher-ē\
1a : covered with hair or hairlike material
b : having a downy fuzz on the stems and leaves
2: made of or resembling hair
3a : tending to cause nervous tension (as from danger)
b : difficult to deal with or comprehend

Driving three very giggly, screechy six year old girls and one very loud, button-pushing eight year old boy in the dark through pouring rain to a remote location is hairy enough.

When you factor in the conversation taking place in the back of the car,* which somehow degenerated from all three girls making fun of their older brothers to two of them (not my own thankfully) talking about the relative size of their fathers' privates (as compared to their brothers' privates), you've entered into a new realm of hairy.

Taking definition 3a to its "hairy adventure" limits, one of the little girls realized she could elicit riotous laughs from the other three kids by referring to her father's evidently-not-so-private parts as hairy. And so that's what she did. Loudly and often.

Except she hasn't quite gotten her r's in line yet so it sounded more like hairwee.

Hairwee. Heh Heh. Shut up, Beavis.

I'm off to scrub my ear holes with soap and bleach.

* When, oh when, will some automotive engineer or enterprising wannabe Shark Tank contestant run with my brilliant idea to put limo-type partitions between the front seat and crazy town?!

Are There Any Alternate Pronunciations?

Our town is holding a town-wide charity spelling bee. My kids can't wait to go watch it.

At first, they didn't quite grasp the concept of a spelling bee, but I could tell that my son-- who can turn anything (raking leaves, taking a shower, putting socks in the hamper) into a competition-- was intrigued. Third graders don't have G.P.A.s or class rankings (yet) so the notion of a crossover between academics and winning is no doubt very appealing.

"What kind of words do they spell?" he asked. "Words like vegetable?"

Yeah, no.

Presented with a perfect opportunity to show rather than tell, I pulled up some clips on You Tube from the Scripps National Spelling Bee. We watched kids spell words like guerdon, phoresy, periscii and cymotrichous. Say whaaaa....?

Now we have our own in-home spelling bees, with the kids asking me for definitions and sentences and then pretending to write the words on their hands as they spell them. It's hysterical (language of origin: greek).