perfectly acceptable

I'm sitting here wondering when it became perfectly acceptable for me to wear socks with a huge hole in them and when did the thought of darning them become my first thought instead of getting into the minivan and driving to Target for a new 6 pack of black socks - like a sane woman would do.


Excuse me while I go count my sugar ration tokens.

awesome moments in parenting - #251

Henry has learned two great little phrases just this week: "I'm pissed off" and "This is the shit".



We've gotten into a habit of watching Survivor with Henry and it use to be, with the exception of the occasional blurred butt, it was a show we could watch with Henry. Afterall, what five year old boy doesn't love watching people make spoons out of sticks and eat fish live from a stream? He generally goes nuts for the challenges and drools over the ideas that the mazes, the puzzles and being blindfolded puts into his little imagination. But there you have it; his ears perked up, his eyes bulged a little upon hearing "I'm pissed off" and immediately turned to my husband to asked what it meant.

Awesome.

The second was a snowboarding/skiing YouTube video. (Yes, I'm starting a petition here and now that videos on YouTube should be subjected to the same movie ratings that actual cinema movies are... who am I kidding, that would involve quite some parenting initiation... ) Right at the end of the video the guy gives a nice little "This is the shit".

Sweet, little, still-innocent Henry, I dare you to speak either of these phrases in public. If by chance you do, you bet I will Ralphie's Mom your butt be wiping your tongue down with a little Dove and when people ask where you may have learned such a colorful phrase, Daddy and I are just going to look at eachother and play dumb

or blame your potty-mouthed Grandma.









(Just teasing, Mom)

WTD Wednesday

It would be way more fun to say WTF Wednesday, but I rarely swear 'in real life' so I'm not going to pretend that I'm a rock-n-roll, cussing cool mom, I am not. (I'm also very punctual, I'm hardly ever late for appointments, preschool, swimming lessons - that's how rock-n-roll I am.)

On to WTF Wednesday What's The Deal With That or WTD Wednesday.


A 'Gentle' Brazilian wax is an oxymoron (though I cannot testify to that as my Brazilian area has never been seen by Sandra). The part that made me laugh out loud though, see the tiny fine print: Ladies Only. Come on, what's the deal with that, if a gentleman is man enough to get hot, searing wax in his lower vicinity, I say let him have it.

I mean really WTF?

my cup runneth over

I didn't really realize how unique Henry was until I spent some time in his friends' rooms, playing with their toys. They have cars, trains, trucks... and actually play with them in the fashion that those toys were designed for.

Henry's room is filled with empty egg cartons, pvc pipe, bungee cords and cups. Cups in all sorts; from those little creamer cups to empty applesauce cups, from Crystal Light mix containers to washed out pudding cups. His cup of the moment is the lid from the laundry detergent.

(Dad drew a little happy face on him and called him Sr. Top Hat before bedtime one evening.)

Henry has been taking these cups to the gym as his 'toy' to share. I try to tell him that other people won't necessarily think of his laundry cup as a fun toy, but I also don't press too much as I don't ever want to diminish this quality of his.

Anyway, he brought his cup (which the following day, he brought an empty 5 quart ice cream bucket to the gym, much to my chagrin). After I picked him and Wyatt up from childcare, we chatted along the way to the van about what people thought of the cup.

"People didn't want to play with my cup" said Henry. My heart broke a little for him.

I responded "Henry, some people don't have the imagination that you have, some people think that it's just a cup, you are so creative that you see all sorts of possibilities in your cup, to you it could be anything".

Henry sits and thinks for a bit, "I can't wait until I have friends that will have my same big heart for cups".

I smiled and replied "Some day you will have a million friends that will have your same big heart", envisioning Henry sitting in a dorm room of MIT surrounded by friends working on an engineering class final project.

Henry replies "I can't wait".

My little big-hearted boy, MIT may be in your future, but I for one, certainly can wait.

phoning it in

She was probably too cool for me anyway.

She is from Quebec so she speaks French at home, yelling at her children in French “Ne me touche pas!” (don't touch); she is an artist, she had her own little studio in the sort of gangster area of Minneapolis and she does cool things like getting a little black tattoo on the back of her neck for her 30th birthday.

Two years ago, I counted on her. She had two children, she had gone down that sibling road already and yes, she was a lot of fun. When I would call her, she'd invite me over but always as an afterthought, like 'yeah, I'm having so-and-so over already, you should come too'. For two years it was always me calling her, not once did she pick up the phone. So last year, I decided to not call her, not put myself out there and wait to see how long it would take for her to call me.

It was 11 months.

She called me last month. I returned her message after stewing about whether to call or not for a week.

I cried, a lot, because I really don't have many friends. I told her how I felt, how friendship is about reciprocation. She told me excuses; I've been traveling, I've been sick, my life is so busy. I told her that we should try to start fresh. She told me she was upset, she would call me 'this weekend'. She hasn't called me back yet, it's been more than a month.

Why am I telling you this? Because I haven't been visiting you, my friends, I haven't reciprocated. I don't have any excuses; my kids aren't sick, I've certainly not been traveling (outside of running to the mini-van in the freezing cold) and I'm not any more busy than usual. I just want to keep blogging fun, not doing it out of responsibility.

I plan on popping over to your houses this weekend, but for now, here I am, phoning it in.

barbie world

I'm adding a big plus to the lucky-I'm-only-having-boys column today.

Countless hours, days, perhaps years of mothers sitting cross-legged on the floor with daughters playing Barbies may have just been wasted. Mothers who sit there talking with their daughters about body image, how Barbies are not realistic figures of women, that there is no way that a woman's waist would be that tiny, her boobs that huge or her body be that insanely flexible; that the body of a Barbie isn't real.

After all that, they go and have a fashion show with real models dressed as Barbie for her 50th birthday.


I never was into Barbie, Cabbage Patch dolls were more my thing (and you bet I cried when my first Cabbage Patch was a homemade one with those weird flaring nostrils) but if I'm lucky enough to actually have a girl, I can look forward to sitting cross-legged on the floor with her and totally pointing out that Mommy's legs are just as stout and that her belly is just as squishy as her Cabbage Patch dolls

(but oh yes, Mommy is just as flexible as Barbie though).

the other 1%

I was just joking about Blogher being my birth control. I'm on a real form of birth control, 99% effective if used correctly. (I'm not joking about going to Blogher though, I'm the-tickets-are-already-on-the-credit-card going).

The other 1% of my effective birth control:

owning it

I was introduced to a great list of tips on how to blog. Read it, really, it's that good. It's good enough that I'm writing a post about it months after first reading it, testament that it has struck a cord with me.

The one point that goes through my mind fairly often:

26. Don't be afraid to come across as an asswipe. own your asswipeness.

Own it.

I sent out an email asking if Henry's application was received. (I was sneaky and sent it the day the lottery was being held, but really I was just freaking out because they hadn't cashed my check, meaning they didn't have his application, meaning he wouldn't be in the lottery and his entire academic career would be ruined, okay, maybe not the last part). His application was for a public school Chinese Immersion program, where his chances of getting in were a little less than 50%. It's still a small program, so my email went directly to the principal. I titled the email

"Chinese Immersion application recieved?"

That's right, I sent the email off misspelling received. How could I have forgotten 'I before E except after C'. Duh.

She replied politely that it was there, but I was devastated. I felt like I was sitting in the principal office myself, hands in my lap, looking down at them, making excuses. "Yes, I know I'm a horrible speller. I've been in the lowest spelling group since elementary school. Please, Principal, don't black-list my son because I'm a horrible mother who can't spell".

So, there I sat rereading the email wondering what I should do, forget about the misspelling (maybe she didn't notice) and just reply with a simple thank you or own it.

Then it went through my head once again "own your asswipeness".

So, I did.

2 days later he got his acceptance letter.

So people, go forth, own your own asswipeness.
(It just might work to your benefit.)