I think we’ve finally reached a tipping point with the Monkey. The delicate balancing point that lies between all of the glorious silliness of a little boy and the pure embarrassment of anything out of the ordinary that comes with being a teenager. Phrases like “Mom, please don’t ever do that in front of my friends” and “That’s okay, I can walk myself” have begun to emit from his lips. Truthfully, I’m not particularly shocked or hurt by these phrases; it’s all part of the process and so far I’ve been able to take it all relatively in stride.
It does, however, present a problem for me.
My life—and more importantly, the lives of my kids—provides fodder for my livelihood. Kid does silly thing. Mom writes about silly thing. Story about said thing gets published. Kid makes poignant discovery, process repeats itself, etc. etc. Everybody’s happy. Until teenage boy decides silly thing is too embarrassing for publication. It’s not uncommon for him to glance sidelong at me and say, “You’re not going to write about this, are you?”
Um…no, honey, of course not.
It’s made worse by the fact that there is no literary fruit sweeter than the life of middle school children. (Read more…)
Lately I’ve seen a couple examples of what I think of as adult brats. These are people who have never passed the development of, say, that of an 11-year old.
To wit: this weekend we went to a water park hotel. The water area was quite large but it was packed filled with screaming kids and their parents. The sound of bass-heavy pop music pulsed beneath it all. The adults filled the whirlpool and perched on the sides, squawking and stepping on one another, like penguins in a wildlife documentary. The kids and I hung out in the smaller, kiddie area; next to it was a larger area with two huge slides and a “lazy river.” Now, to use the lazy river you needed a tube. There were none to be found. But I did notice several people cruising along with more than one tube. Finally, I asked a woman if I could have her extra tube. “Sorry,” she said, “I’m saving it for my husband. He went to get another drink.”
“By all means, lady,” I said. “The whole idea behind the water park is for you – an adult – to cruise down the ersatz river, drinking a beer while little children shiver at poolside, tears coursing down their cheeks.”
What I really said was, “Okay.”
One day last summer I was at the playground with son H. when there was a mom’s group was there, perched on the swings. (Read more…)
I have said before that my childhood wasn’t a Norman Rockwell painting. I have no frame of reference for what family traditions can be – beyond what I saw on TV (I always wanted the Cunninghams to be my mom and dad … until I saw what a train wreck Joanie ended up becoming – but I digress).
But there was one thing my dad took seriously, and that was sledding and the quest for the fastest sled. My Dad’s most preferred time to buy a sled was the night before a big snowstorm. While other adults were out buying milk and eggs, my dad was test-driving flexible flyers.
I have never been one to throw caution to the wind, but when it came to sledding, I was a maniac. We’d pack down the snow after a good blanketing—and my Dad and I were even known to put a fine spray of water on it, so it would freeze up and turn the back yard into a bobsled run. Or, as we’d call it today: a lawsuit waiting to happen.
He’s been chomping at the bit waiting for Spicy Girl to go for a ride, and this winter, the “grandparent visit”, and “perfect sledding snowstorm” planets aligned. I was about to put SG down for a nap, when my father emerged looking like he was auditioning for the role of Yukon Cornelius. “Ok let’s get going.” (Read more…)
Last night, Elise and Luke were playing behind the rocking chair in Luke’s room when he emerged holding a sippy cup. It was an old sippy cup of his that I hadn’t seen in months.
I recoiled when I noticed it was still filled with liquid. A liquid that must have once been milk. But it was yellow. Yellow milk.
I screamed. Internally.
As he walked closer to me, I noticed how the clear plastic top to the top was tinged brown. *more internal screams*
And then, I notice he had a drop of opaque liquid on his lower lip and was wearing an expression of regret.
ACK! HE TASTED THE NAST MILK!
I grabbed the cup from him and looked at it. It was, indeed, milk. And amazingly, it was still in liquid phase. (Apparently, after the solid-phase rotten milk curdling, which I was, unfortunately, well aware of, was the back-to-liquid-yellow milk phase.)
Then, because it had to be done, I gave it a sniff. (Read more…)
