Archive for the ‘conversation’ Tag
February 03 2012
Walking to the bus stop one morning with Jedi tagging along beside me yammering on about something or other, as is his usual way, when he turns to me in mid-run-on-sentence with a request.
“Hey, Mom, can you teach me how to whistle?”
“I don’t know how to whistle”, I tell him. It’s true, I don’t know how to whistle. I’ve attempted, others have tried to impart their wisdom, but they all say I’m just blowing air out of mouth. Hot air, no surprise. To further blow his mind, I also offer this extra piece of information towards my inadequacies. “I don’t know how to swim, either.”
“You don’t know how to swim?”, he asks, shocked. It was as if I could have told him I was born with a tail. Though he doesn’t know how to swim, either.
That’s right, kid. Your mom has no idea what she’s doing on many fronts. So please don’t fall into a large body of water, because not only can I not swim, but I also can’t whistle for help.
A list of other select things I can’t do:
- understand a large part of his 2nd grade math
- crafts
- drive in Chicago, or any large city, without incurring an anxiety attack
- fall asleep without the television on
- properly accessorize
- roller skate
- read or write or talk about s.e.x. without blushing
So tell me, as that I may feel better about myself and everything that escapes my ability, what are some things that you can’t do?
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.
December 13 2011
I’ve been doing most of my Christmas shopping online this year, which means there have been your standard, non-descript shipping boxes coming through here with secret toys inside. My dilemma is how to hide those boxes since I have nowhere else to store them. Luckily, I have an open area above my kitchen cabinets that is just enough space to house a big brown box.
A really big box.
The great thing is that the kids can’t get to it. They can see it, however. And it was the first thing Jedi noticed.
“What’s that box for?”, he asked.
“Um, it’s just stuff. Nothing important”, I replied.
“Is it clothes?”, he continued.
“No.”
“Kitchen stuff?”, he still wouldn’t let it go.
Realizing that this would probably result in a game of a thousand questions, I gave in. “Sure, fine, it’s kitchen stuff.”
But that wasn’t good enough. “Is it a box of knives?”
“Yes, Jedi. It’s a giant box of knives. Sharp knives. Dangling precariously above our heads. So you should probably stay away from here, huh?” With that, he slowly backed up out of the kitchen. There’s hasn’t been a word said about it since. And that is one way to make sure your kids don’t find their Christmas presents.
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.
October 12 2011
Jedi called out to stop me as I walked past his room after putting him to bed. He was supposed to be fast asleep already, especially after complaining about how tired he was. There’s always a stall tactic, however.
“Hey, Mom?”
“Yes”, I whispered, not wanting to wake his brother or sister.
“So let me get this straight. Cows just have milk in their body? Like, how do they make it?”, he wondered. I had to give him credit for the inquisitive question, though.
“Well”, I considered, not sure exactly how to phrase my response for an almost 8 year old boy. “Do you remember how I used to feed Abby, with milk from my body? Cows make milk like that, too.”
Thinking a string of thoughts along, he questioned next, “So the milk we drink is supposed to be for the baby cows?”.
With my limited knowledge on the nature of farm animals, I went with the safe, flippant approach. “Yes and no”, I mustered. Then I began to worry that this may cause him to feel sad for the cows, and thus refuse to drink any more milk. To thwart this, I suggested a story of how the farmers are really doing the cows a favor, because if they didn’t empty their abundant supply they’d get sore and full. Like engorgement. A tale taken from a combined total of 5 years personal breastfeeding experience on this farm I call my life.
After we said our goodnights again and as I was making my exit, he called out one last time. “Hey, Mom? I’m glad I’m not a cow.”
I’m glad I’m not a cow anymore, either. My milking days are done.
