Archive for the ‘boys’ Tag
January 24 2012
Jedi had just finished showing off his newest feat of awesomeness when he looked at me for recognition. Not offering it fast enough or with the required amount of enthusiasm, he took the matter into his own hands.
“Why didn’t you say anything about what I just did? Did you even pay attention?”, he interrogated, already perfecting his irritation and angst.
“Oh, sorry. It was awesome”, I praised half-heartedly, snapping out of whatever daydream I was finding myself in.
Clearly noticing my indolent disregard, a problem that he will most likely delve into during therapy sessions later in life along with the overwhelming confusion that can come with an ounce of fake praise, Jedi sulked before continuing. I swear I could see him kick his feet, “You didn’t mean that. You’re not supposed to say that, anyway.”
Pretending to be annoyed, I defended, “Yes, I did mean it. It was awesome. Wait, what am I not supposed to say?”.
“Awesome. You can’t say that word. You’re not allowed.”
“Why am I not allowed to say ‘awesome’?”
“Because it’s not a word for girls”, he said. And then, “Only boys can say awesome.”
That’s not awesome. Awesome is a descriptive word for so many occasions. I would be lost without awesome. Like Jedi, he’s awesome. And you know I’ve been saying awesome as much as possible, even more than usual. Because I’m a girl and girls are awesome. Awesome does not discriminate.
January 19 2012
The Incredible Hulk. Spiderman. Iron Man. Captain America. Wolverine.
I have a 5 year old boy who wants to be a superhero.
He spends his days hulk smashing and climbing invisible spiderwebs in an effort to save the world. People in his pictures are colored green, blue, and red. In the bath, he’ll take his shampoo-lathered hair and stretch it into Wolverine-inspired side horns. Over the years, he has acquired a collection of super alter egos, each with it’s own distinctive look and plastic freeze-framed mask to match. He changes in and out with the speed of Superman. His imagination is nothing if not wild.
Even when it shouldn’t be.
“Put the Incredible Hulk on for bed”, Buzz insisted within moments of turning the sheets down for the night, his feet fighting for footing in the green and purple faux-muscled fabric disguise.
“No, we’re not wearing that to bed. You know you need to wear your pajamas”, I told him. Because even superheroes take off their mask for a good night of rest. My pleas were only met with encouragement, however, as his little sister helped fasten the closures in the back. The trusty sidekick.
Suffice to say, he wore the Incredible Hulk to bed. And the world slept a little safer.
But at least he took off the mask.
November 10 2011
Dearest Jedi,
As I am writing this, you are proudly burping at the desk across from me. Every time, you ask delightedly, “Did you hear that?”. Every time I say, “Of course I did”. Because of course I did.
For your birthday today, along with a few other things, I bought you a book where the main premise had to do with farts. Super farts that could make you fly into the air.
This is you at 8. My son. My boy. Farting and burping.
But so much more. You a genius on the computer. What you know how to do honestly astounds me. You have surpassed my knowledge by leaps, and I’ve found myself asking you how to do things on a number of occasions. Your Grandma likes to say that maybe you’ll be the next Bill Gates. She may not be far off.
You are brilliant and beautiful and excited. Dramatic and loud. A torpedo of constant motion and conversation. And as much as you complain when your siblings invade your space, as impatient as you can be, I also see how you look out for them when you think no one is watching. You make sure Buzz is safe at school and you comfort Abby when she’s upset. You are a wonderful big brother.
I am so proud of you in so many ways. And as I finish writing this, as if right on cue, you exclaimed, “Now that I smell it, my farts really do smell bad”.
My farting, burping, smelly, amazing now 8 year old boy.
Happy Birthday.
Love,
Mom
October 31 2011
The kids have been staying with their dad over this four day extended weekend. While I was slightly disappointed that I wouldn’t get to see them in their Halloween costumes tonight, I quickly got over it when I realized I wouldn’t have to drag them around trick or treating.
Then this happened. When it was clear someone finally decided to cut me a break.
About an hour into their drive to his house, still in the car, their dad called to ask, “Did you pack any extra pants for Jedi?”.
“Extra pants?”, I wondered. What kind of question is that? “Uh, yeah, he has a couple pairs in his bag. Why?”
With a sigh in his voice, he retold the horror. “Well, he was trying really hard to push out a fart and…”
“Oh, yuck!”, I interrupted, knowing where this was going. Then burst into laughter. “I’m glad it’s you and not me! Oh… wait”, I paused, lowering my voice. “I think I forgot to pack him any underwear.”
“You forgot to pack his underwear?”, he repeated, a disbelieving tone in his voice.
“What? I had a lot to do this morning!”, I said, still laughing.
Apparently, that one accident in the car was a prelude for the full blown unpleasantness that erupted by the time evening rolled around. With no choice of clean underwear, but plenty of pants. Of course I don’t want to see my son in any kind of distress, but I can’t help but feel this is a small turn of kismet. Because with all the shit I put up with, it’s nice to know he’s dealing with a bit of it, too.
October 20 2011
It was bedtime, and I was busy turning down Jedi’s covers as he finished his business in the bathroom. This included tucking in his stuffed teddy bear and lion on the pillow next to where he lays. When the door opened and he urged me in.
“Hey, Mommy, come in here”, Jedi ordered. “Lean in close to the mirror, like this”, he instructed, his body hunched over the bathroom counter.
Following directions while standing over his curls and mouth full of mixed-age teeth, I asked, “OK, what am I looking for?”.
My 7 year old son began to wipe across his top lip with his fingers, as if straightening a mustache. “Do you see this?”, he wondered earnestly. “Do I have facial hair?”
“What?”, because really.
“I think I have facial hair”, he repeated.
“No, you do not. Not yet. Maybe a little bit of fuzz, like on your arm.”, I told him, referring to the baby fine wisps that you have to strain to see.
“Yep, facial hair”, he declared brightly. Then, in what I can only describe as his best Austin Powers impersonation, he pronounced, “I’m a man!”.
A man who still needs his mommy to tuck him in at night and sleep with his stuffed animals to keep him safe. I don’t think I have anything to worry about just yet. We’ll deal with it sooner than I’d like, though. So my little boy, slow down. There’s no need to grow up too fast.
