Getting Laid at the Ho Ho Ho.

A couple of weeks ago my son got busted for using the F-bomb at school. He and a friend were saying it to each other at lunch to be big comedians. Ha ha ha. So hilarious.

His dad called to tell me the bad news. He also told me that he had already dealt with it and meted out the punishment, so all I needed to do was to listen to my son's confession when his dad handed him the phone.

"He's going to cry as soon as he hears my voice," I warned him.

"No, no. He's not. He's cool now," his dad assured me.

"Doesn't matter. As soon as he hears my voice, he'll cry."

"He really won't. We've already dealt with it and he's fine," his dad said.

"Okay," I replied and waited for him to hand the phone to the potty-mouthed criminal.

"Mom?" A quavery little voice inquired.

"Hi," I said.

"MoooOOOOoooom!" he cried, choking on his sobs.

Bingo. I win.

"I guess you were right," his dad said when he got back on the phone.

"Freud said the mother is conscience," I explained.

I agreed to go along with his no TV punishment for the crime. I was actually really proud of myself for not completely flipping my lid as I usually would. It's like I conserved karmic energy or something. I may have to make a note of this for future parenting.

Then, the other day, my husband and I were driving the kids to the Ho Ho Ho to get a Christmas tree. (Or as I like to call it, the "Buddhakamas Bush.") We were joking about an uptight person who's been awfully light-hearted and happy of late.

"He must have gotten L. A. I. D.," I said, spelling out the offending word.

"Laid!" my seven-year-old son shouted from the back seat.

My husband and I froze for a moment and stared at each other in horror. Then he collapsed in laughter behind the wheel.

"No more spelling words," I said.

I looked behind me at the beaming boy, so proud to be such a fast speller. Oy.

It looks like his step-dad and I are going to need to learn a common foreign language. The boy is fluent in filth.

I wonder what Freud would say about that?

Ha ha ha.

Sex and Psychoanalysts

Hello, Doctor.

Sex, Freud, Jung. It's almost too much for my Id to handle.

Read all about it at Sprocket Ink:

Keira Knightley Goes Full Freudian in New Movie.

How Our Kids Love Us And How To Love Them Back

My son is leaving me for a week.

I'm half-excited for the freedom, and half-sad to have him gone that long. I don't think he's ever been gone from me that long when I wasn't on vacation or on a business trip. It's going to be hard to be at home for a week without him.

Last night he snuck into my bedroom and played with my hair while we listened to the thunder.

"I'm going to miss you when you're gone," I said.

"Like you missed Fred?"

"Yep."

"I'll come back, Mama," he said, not sounding at all sad to be leaving. He's never sad to leave me.

"Who will be my teddy bear?" I asked, trying to guilt him a little.

"Fred," he said.

He wrapped his arm around me and slipped his fingers through my hair over and over again until he fell asleep. I reminded myself that the fact that he is so comfortable leaving me, and so unconcerned about me is a good thing. I've done a good job. My son does not feel responsible for my happiness. He knows I'll be here when he gets back, and I'll be just fine.

But still.

Sometimes I wish I knew he missed me. Or maybe just once he could be sad to see me go? Okay, there was a time or two that he was sad, and I didn't like that. Whenever I get to thinking that his dad is his favorite and I'm just reliable old mom, I remember that when I pick him up from daycare, he always has a picture he's drawn from that day. For me. Of me. And my yellow hair.

And when he was named Student of the Week, this is what he had to say in his interview:

"Hi my name is CRACKY.

I am 4 years old. My favorite thing to do at home is play with my toys.

When I am at school I like to make art. I have 0 brothers and sisters. My favorite thing to watch on TV is "Aladdin." My favorite color is Dark Blue. My favorite food is chicken nuggets. My favorite animal is a horse. My favorite toy is Potato Head.

If I went on vacation I would go to my Mama's work and bring my music playing thing."

I guess he does love me after all. I mean, he must, if his idea of a vacation is coming to work with me. And I guess I don't need him to carry on about how much he'll miss me in order to know that. Besides, what's important here is that he knows I love him.

That's the way parenting works.

Mama in the Dark

Last night I crept into the bed I'm sharing with my son while we visit my sister. I rustled him in his sleep and tried to shove him over so I could fit. He reflexively reached out his hand, his open hand, and waved it around with his eyes closed, still half-asleep, and I knew what his hand was seeking.

My hair.

When I first met my son in the hospital after having given birth to him, they put him in a little clear plastic basinet next to my bed. Every time I spoke to someone, that baby would try and lift his wobbly head and crane it in the direction of my voice.

My voice.

Like a plant tilts toward the sun.

That simple moment, that one infant gesture made me realize I was Mama more than anything else. As soon as he latched on to me to breastfeed for the first time, his tiny arm waved around, grasping until it fell on a strand of my hair and there it clutched.

Everywhere I carried that baby, he'd have one arm around my shoulder and the other one plunged into my hair, grabbing it by the fistful. Even now, when he is sitting next to me on the couch, he will absent-mindedly reach his hand up, without looking, and feel for my hair.

Watching his little arm wave around in the dark last night -- still mostly sleeping but half cognizant of my presence -- I knew he would find what it was he sought. Comfort. Security. Safety. Mama.

Clutched in his hand.

But for a moment, while his hand waved and sought, opening and closing, I envied his sleepy certainty that he would find what he was looking for. I sometimes wonder if adulthood is simply a matter of thrusting our grabbing hands out into the dark, knowing on some level she isn't there, and learning to cope with that.

Perhaps that's the human condition, our collective angst...certainly Freud would agree. But then again, maybe that's just me.