A Moment With My Daughter

I had a moment with my daughter this weekend.

She's had a tough time lately dealing with her emotions. Earlier, when we had gone out to lunch, she was starting up a temper tantrum in the restaurant so I had to take her outside to chill for a minute. Only, she had no intention of chilling.

She raged at me. She yelled. She screamed. Told me I was a bad mama. Said this was a bad family. Said she didn't like any of us and no one liked her.

"We do like you. We love you," I replied. "I just need you to stop screaming so we can go back in the restaurant."

"NO!"

And so it went, back and forth.

"I'M COLD!" she finally screamed.

"If you stop screaming, we can go back inside," I said.

"NO!"

I didn't know how to navigate this storm with her. If I tried to wait her out, we might both freeze to death or starve to death. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but her will is strong. No matter how I tried to alternate between patiently waiting out her tantrum and then offering her an opportunity to go back inside, she would not relent.

When it seemed we had reached an impasse, I walked over to her, picked her up and hugged her.

She went limp in my arms.

"Do you want to go inside?"

"Yes."

"Are you all done screaming now?"

"Yes."

"Do you want pancakes?"

I felt the little head nod on my shoulder. And so we went back inside and she was perfectly lovely for the rest of the meal.

Later that day, we were playing in the house. She was laughing and adorable. All smiles, a tumble of blond hair and spindly four-year-old legs. I picked her up and held her at arm's length, both of us laughing and looking into each other's eyes.

And we held the look. Something in me connected to her in a way that almost merged us. So often people have told me that she looks like me and I haven't really seen it. But in that moment, with her head cocked to the side and her long hair spilling over her face, perhaps the angle of her chin or her smile—whatever it was—I saw myself in her. A little me. And my heart swelled with such empathy and love, for both of us. For the four-year-old little girl she is and for the four-year-old little girl I once was.

And it was good.



This post is a part of National Blog Posting Month or NaBloPoMo. Click here to learn more about it and to participate on your own blog. If you've written a NaBloPoMo post, feel free to share it in the comments here too. XOXO, Mandy

Friday Nonsense

Since I have writer's block about my own life, but I'm apparently overflowing with creativity when it comes to popular culture and sex, I'm just going to claw my way through a blog and let it just be terrible, without a clear beginning, middle and end, and possibly a run-on sentence or two.

Things That Happened This Week:

1. Someone posted a passive aggressive note about dirty dishes at work and I have resisted the urge to blog about it because I try not to blog about work. Even though I just did.

2. My son saw his two frogs in their tank and cried out: "Oh look, they're playing piggyback rides!" I could not stop snickering and he kept asking me why. "Piggyback rides are just funny, " I said.

3. My son learned how to ride a bike this week. I have a massive bruise on my leg from my one failed attempt at teaching him. Props to his step-daddy for his dedication and patience in this task. Thanks to him, my son will not enter the second grade without knowing how to ride a bike.

4. I played piggyback ride with my husband a few times this week.

5. I know, that last one was totally inappropriate but it made me laugh yet again.

6. Piggyback rides are comedy gold.

7. I found out that my dentist is going to use me in a paper about how you can create a dramatic difference in your smile without the use of veneers. So, I will basically be a dental superstar. I wonder if they'll want me to do signings and public appearances?

8. My daughter discovered tomato sauce.

9. My husband asked if we could have a few work associates over to our house for a party and now the total "Yes"s are up to 30 people and the "Maybe"s are outstanding at 10. That's 40 potential people, people. We have a small house. I'm considering installing a disco ball and a karaoke machine because what else can you do with that many people in that small of a space? It had better not rain.

10. Do I talk about how awesome my husband is? Is it annoying if I do? I've known the man for six years and I feel like I get to know and understand him more and more with each passing year. I also feel like knowing him and growing with him as a person has enabled me to be a much better person than I ever thought I could be. He inspires me. He makes me laugh. He's truly my best friend. He's good in bed. And he regularly sends me news stories like this:

Important news for Mandy to read.

That's my week, in short. Tell me something that happened to you this week. Or something that didn't happen, but should have. Did you get any piggyback rides?

He's Never Leaving Home

This morning I had a conversation with my seven-year-old son.

"Mom, how long is college?"

"Four years," I replied.

"FOUR YEARS!" he said, eyes popping out.

"Yes, but you can come home on holidays."

"Valentine's Day?"

"Oh, well, no. I mean big holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas."

"I can't come home for Valentine's Day?" his eyes got bigger and more worried.

"Well sure you can come home for Valentine's Day if you want to, you can even come home every weekend if you want to..." I started to reply.

"Oh, good!"

"But I doubt you'll want to. You'll be a big college kid and you'll probably have parties and friends to hang out with on the weekends."

"What? No I won't!" he looked mortally wounded.

"Okay, okay. You can come home every weekend," I said, vowing to write this down so I can read it to him when he's eighteen.

Who Are You?

My son started kindergarten this week. This means he is officially a "big boy." And oh, he is. 

I watched him stand in line outside the school doors and marveled at how tall and boyish he is. The baby is all gone. Long lean limbs jut out of his cargo shorts and short sleeves. He was all smiles and excitedly gripped his backpack as he waited for the school doors to open.

The parents were all greeting one another and coming over to say hello. His father was approached by at least ten people, social butterfly that he is. And then my son looked up at me and said, "That boy over there is wearing a cool shirt. Can I go over and tell him it's cool?'

"Yes, of course you can," I said.

I watched as he marched up to the kid, an older kid, and told him he liked his shirt.

Who are you? I wondered.

Who is this boy? Who is this friendly, outgoing, happy, self-possessed person? When I look back on my own first day of kindergarten, I clung to my mother's leg and howled as she walked down the hall. For the first hour or so of the day I refused to play with the other kids, despite my teacher's attempts to encourage me to play with the other girls in the play kitchen.

(Maybe I was crying because of the forced gender roles?)

But not my son. He was happy to find his kindergarten class, delighted to hang his backpack in his cubby, and proudly took his seat at the table. He immediately looked around and started talking to the other kids. He smiled at his teacher, and looked somewhat surprised that his dad and I were still there when we came over to hug and kiss him goodbye.

He was like, "Oh. You two are still here? Yeah, bye."

No, he wasn't like that. He just gave us hugs and kisses goodbye and happily waved goodbye as his father and I peered through the door.

I've always marveled at my son. He is this separate entity. He is not mine. I am merely here to hold his hand from childhood to adulthood, and then let go.

But I still marvel at him.

Where did he come from? Who is he? He is not me and he is not his father. He is more outgoing and confident than I am, and he is more tender and sensitive than his dad. Sure you can see a little of each of us in him, but he really is his own person. People often credit his various attributes to my good parenting, which I discount. I don't discount it because I'm modest. I discount it because I know this is simply who he is.

It is not the result of me or my work.

It is his nature, his temperament, the personality that was set in stone when his heart first began to beat in my womb. His genetic code was set and he would be who he is. Yes, I understand that this is Nature, and the other part is Nurture. So yes, his father and I may have each done a decent job of nurturing his nature to fruition — but he is still Cracky.

A certain Crackiness that is not my doing.

The innate Crackiness of him.

Beautiful.

What a beautiful human being he is! I know most mothers will say such things of their children, but I say it not in ownership or pride. I say it as an observer. I observe that this strange human being that came into my world is lovely. Such a lovely, kind-hearted, funny, sensitive, thoughtful, caring, affectionate, confident, character-of-a-boy.

That's all him.

And I marvel as his personality continues to unveil as he grows. I know the five-year-old boy, but wonder who the man will be? Just as I wondered that first day I discovered he was in me. I sat on my porch rubbing my belly, mystified and incredulous that a separate entity resided within me.

"Who are you?" I said to him then.

And I still say it now.

That's the beautiful mystery of children. They are not ours. They are their own. We are merely temporary custodians.

But what a lovely shift it is.

Nuts.

"Mom, where do babies come from?" my son asked as we were enjoying a summer evening on The Boyfriend's deck.

"I've told you, they come from their mothers' tummies," I said, somewhat surprised at this out-of-the-blue question.

"I  mean, how do babies get out of their mothers' tummies?"

"Through the birth canal, didn't I tell you this already?" I asked and smiled at his sweet little choir-boy face.

"Yeah, but I think I know how babies really come out of their mama's tummies."

Ruh roh.

"Okay. Tell me." I was careful to remain light and calm, though I figured this would be good.

"You'll get mad." 

"No I won't. Just tell me and if you have it wrong, I'll correct you. But I won't be mad."

"Well Ben at school told me that babies come from their mother's nuts." 

Pause.

The sweet cherubic face stared at me, waiting for my response. Braced for anger, perhaps. The Boyfriend and I stared at each other, each caught in a stunned moment of silence. I fully expected him to laugh first, but the bastard kept his shit together. I, on the other hand, collapsed into a fit of laughter.

"What? What's so funny, Mom?" My son was smiling nervously, confused.

"Oh baby, girls don't have nuts," I managed to choke out, just to assuage any fear of his mother's wrath for saying a word he obviously knew was loaded.

"They don't?"

"No, only have boys have nuts." I heard The Boyfriend finally start to snicker across the table. But I stumbled through. "Do you know what nuts are?"

He nodded.

"Where are they?" I asked.

He pointed at his nuts.

"Okay, so you know boys have nuts and a penis. Well, actually 'nuts' isn't really the polite way of referring to them. You really should call them 'testicles.'"

"Testicles?" 

"Yes, that's more polite. Calling them nuts or 'balls' is considered rude. Anyway, boys have testicles and penises, and girls don't. Girls have a vagina."

"You mean that flat thing?" He scrunched up his face and made his hand flat.

"Yes, where you have a penis and testicles that stick out, girls have a vagina, which is flat, relatively speaking."

He nodded his head soberly.

"What are the other names for 'vagina?'" he asked, rather shrewdly, I thought.

"I don't know," I paused and looked at The Boyfriend. "Do you care to fill Cracky in on the other names for vagina?" I smirked.

The Boyfriend just shook his head, mouth clamped shut. I have never known the man to miss an opportunity to talk about vaginas and nuts, but now Mr. Prolific was suddenly at a loss for words.

"I think we should stick with 'vagina,'" I explained to the boy. "It's more polite."

Just then The Boyfriend caught my eye and mouthed the word Poontang, which I studiously ignored.

Though that'd be quite a word  for Cracky to teach Ben. It'd be a nice little tit-for-tat for Ben's parents at their dinner table, I think. 

"Mom, Cracky told me babies come from their mamas' poontangs."

What?

At least it'd be anatomically correct.

Boys Who Love Boys

"Boys can't kiss boys!" my son shouted, turning away from the television to laugh with me.

"Sure they can," I said.

"They CAN?" he said, and scrunched up his face to show his amused disgust, a practiced look I'd seen on one of the more inbred boys in his class. 

"You kiss your dad, don't you?"

"Yeah."

"And your dad kisses and hugs your Papa, doesn't he?"

"Yeah."

"So there you go," I said and shrugged. "Boys can kiss boys."

"But boys can't get married, can they?" he repeated the exaggerated disgusted face from the oaf at school.

"Sure they can," I said, immediately deciding that I wasn't going to get into a discussion of the law with a five-year-old.

"They CAN?" he looked surprised and watched my face to see if I was serious.

"Sure why not? If you love someone you can marry them," I shrugged again.

"And can girls marry girls?" Now his eyebrows were raised and he wasn't making the stupid Deliverance face.

"Absolutely."

"Oh. I didn't know that," he said, and went back to playing with his superheros clad in tights. "I'd like to go to a wedding."

"Me too. We could get you a suit."

"I'd look handsome in a suit."

"Yes, you would," I said, and closed the conversation that could have turned my son into a homophobe but didn't. For today.

Uncle Stephen is coming over tonight. He has a new boyfriend about whom he is all a-flutter. I accused him of acting like a lesbian because you'd swear these two were ready to move in after their second date. He sends me giddy little love text messages that make me smile and feel as though the world isn't about to collapse.

"I think I'm pregnant," he texted me this weekend.

I know he was kidding, but I'll have to talk with him about the importance of getting married first. Besides, Cracky and I want to go to the wedding.

Pretty Pink (Nonconsensual) Kisses

My son and I went over to my girlfriend's house for dinner last night. She has a three-year-old daughter with the same flame-red hair as her mother. While her mother has been a rather mild-mannered red head and I've known her since our halcyon high school days, my friend's daughter is a pistol.

While my Top Chef-loving son amicably played with her miniature kitchen set and baked imaginary cookies for everyone, things took a turn once they moseyed up to the pink palace that is the girl's bedroom. The little fashionista proceeded to try on every princess dress in her collection, and then wowed us all with full bridal regalia including veil, heels and tufts upon tufts of white ruffles.

"You have to marry me!" she screeched at my son.

Though he had been game enough to play chef to her waitress, and perhaps even brave knight to her princess-in-tower, he was a rather hesitant groom.

"Kiss meeeeeeeeeee!" she screeched again at the determined bachelor. He in turn ran down the hall and cried.

Once we managed to convince Romeo that Juliet would desist in all sexual assaults upon his person, the two miniature we's proceeded to dress me up in their love. I was ensconced in feather boas, covered in both bridal veils and babushkas (simultaneously), glossed in pink oft-used lipstick, painted imaginary fingers and toes, and bedazzled with light-up ruby rings and rave-worthy glow-in-the-dark necklaces. I was only sorry I couldn't fit in any of the Princess's kitten heels.

By then Princess had disrobed to nothing but a pair of pink panties and boudoir heels.

"Mom, why is she naked?" the troubled Prince inquired.

"Oh, it's not like you haven't seen your mother in the same thing," I laughed and shrugged my shoulders.

At which point Princess slid off the offending pink panties and showed the Prince her whole tiara. He just stood and stared at me wide-eyed and somewhat relieved she wasn't trying to plant one on him in her denuded state.

"It's not polite to remove your panties in front of company," my friend reminded her daughter.

(Oh, if only my own mother had reminded me of such things!)

I left feeling primped, pampered and girlified. I'll admit my ovaries twirled a bit as Princess Pink enveloped me in glittery girldom and preschool pedicures. While my head was twirling with visions of ballerinas, tiaras and plastic stilletos, my son was round-eyed and wounded at the indignity of love's first nonconsensual kiss(es).

The Last Number

I drove my son to work with me this morning. He was quite excited about it, as he loves coming to work. There are elevators, bagels and he gets to watch DVDs on my laptop.

In fact, today I set him up in his own cube. He had a spread of Spider-Man comic books (or as he calls them, "MaZagines"), a couple of action figures, his Kitty (dressed in a bow-tie for work) and an orange juice. He was ready to go!

I've noticed lately that he's been mock-parenting Kitty. I now understand why therapists have kids play with some sort of stuffed toy or doll and watch then re-enact everything their parents say to them.

"Kitty, I need a little PRIVACY," he announced, and placed the stuffed tabby in a corner, far-far-away.

"I'm the boss of Kitty and you're the boss of me," he told me. I thought he was being rather Machiavellian about this, though his language was undeniably mine. In my defense, the only time I ever tell him I need "privacy" is when I'm sitting on the toilet. So hold the calls to Child Protective Services.

A half hour later or so, he went and gingerly picked up Kitty and hugged him. 

"Thanks for using your patience!" he said to the cat.

That one is all me too.

"When am I turning five again?" he asked me.

"In January."

"Next weekend?" he cocked his head.

"No, in three months."

"Tomorrow?"

"No, in about 90 tomorrows from now."

"Remember when I turned four and we had a Superman party in the clubhouse?"

"Yes," I said, surprised he'd retained the vocabulary word "clubhouse" all these months later.

"Remember when I turned three?"

"Yes."

"Remember when I was a baby in your tummy?"

"Yes."

"When do I turn five again?"

"In January."

"And when do I get to the last number?"

*Pause*

Did my son just ask me about Death?

"Nobody knows," I say and hold my breath.

"It's a surprise?"

"Yes. You could say that."

"Okay," he said, and went back to his mazagine, unconcerned with the concept of a surprise death.

Which seems the right way to handle it.