LEGO Batman Fo-Evah

My preschool-aged son has taken to lamenting that if I don’t help him RIGHT NOW then whatever his need, it will go unmet “fo-evah!”

Case in point, I was nursing the baby on the couch next to him and couldn’t spare a hand at the moment to dig through the couch cushions for the LEGO Batman helmet he dropped. This is after I told him to be careful not to drop the LEGO Batman helmet so naturally this was all my fault. His response to my failure to respond immediately was, “Now it gonna be gone FO-EVAH, Mom.” Direct eye contact, sad puppy face, he repeats, “Fo-evvvvah.”

This is a silly example. My kid is smart and sometimes lazy and he could easily have gotten his own damn LEGO piece. But “forever” is a concept that gets thrown around a lot more often than it applies.

I have no problem with children and teens misunderstanding the nature of “forever” because they haven’t lived long enough to see how often things change. I can’t think of a better example right now than with my infant. Days go by and everything changes! She grows, she learns a new skill, she likes a faster speed on her baby swing, she can hold a bottle by herself? (That one’s new!)

And most things, I realize, change so slowly that you don’t always notice: how my preschooler needs a haircut before I realize it looks any different than the last time it was cut, that he doesn’t need his food cut in such small pieces anymore, that he knows the word “catastrophe” and uses it in hyperbole like, way too often.

But there are people who should know better. There are people who should have the experience and knowledge and insight to know that, at least with children, “forever” isn’t necessarily true.

So explain to me why my son’s doctor told me, when he was only nine months old, that if I continued to rock him to sleep, I’d be rocking him to sleep for the rest of his life. “Do you want to be rocking your thirteen year old child to sleep? No? Then maybe you better stop that now.”

Or how lots of people think I nursed him too long and he’d never be able to give it up.

Or how some of the older people in his life think that if he’s not potty trained by NOW, he’ll be wearing diapers until he’s in college.

Or if I still have to help him get to sleep at night, he’ll never learn to fall asleep on his own.

I stopped rocking him when he was ready for it. I weaned him in the span of two days, after I started taking a medication that could affect my breast milk. We’re slowly working on potty training when his mind and body are so inclined. And I’m giving him strategies for falling asleep on his own and letting him backslide on bad days.

People who lose limbs are dealing with “forever” type situations. People who insist that potty training is just a bag of skittles and a weekend of cleaning up messy floors away? Those people need to reassess.

 

Also, we finally left that terrible doctor. That’s a fantastic story if you’re looking to get riled up toward people who mistreat children. Another day, perhaps.

Snorelympics

I love Leslie Jones. I think she is an amazing Amazonian tower of strength and humor and power and love and I just want to be her best friend forever.

But even her hysterical commentary doesn’t inspire any interest or positive feelings for me about the Olympics.

I’m sorry. I tried.

At Least the Government Recognizes My Work

I’m still a noob to this self-publishing thing, only two years in and not by any means successful in the traditional “gaining attention” or “making lots of money” sense. But I did have to pay taxes on royalties this year and that’s new for me. Mind you, I spent about as much at Target this morning as I made on my books last year but still…

Success can be counted in lots of different ways.

 

Tired Mom Tells a Story

“Mom, tell me a story. ’bout the real Goldilocks, not just Goldie and Bear.”

“Ok, sure. The real Goldilocks. Right, so… here we go.”

Onesuponatime, there was a girl. A blonde girl. I mean gold… gold girl. Girl with gold hair. And her name was Goldie… locks. Goldilocks.

Goldilocks was… um… going into a house, the bears’ house. She went into a stranger’s house and just made herself at home, didn’t she? Rude.

In Goldie and Bear, she was delivering an invitation but I don’t know why the OG Goldie was in a bear’s house. Did she even have a reason or like… are fairy tales just… plotting for the sake of the moral and not even… Oh right, sorry so…

Goldilocks was in the house and she… went in the kitchen and she ate some porridge. Or she found some porridge and the Dad’s was too hot.

“The Papa. His name is Papa Bear.”

Right, Papa. The Papa’s was too hot and the baby’s was too cold? Or the Mama’s was too cold and the baby’s was good? I don’t remember. There were three bowls and she ate one. And then she… um… she did nothing. She… did… nothing.

…

….

“Mom? You ‘wake?”

What?! Yeah, yeah. Uhh… so then she broke the chair and um… slept in the bed? And the Papa’s side was too lumpy and the Mama’s side was too hard so she fell asleep in the Baby’s bed and… then what happens? How does this story end? Do the bears eat the girl or like, what’s the point of… of any of this? Bears and positioning everything on a spectrum on which the middle is the only viable option? Like… why is this even a story?

I… don’t know. Dude, I don’t remember this story at all. Can we do Star Wars instead?

“OK, Mom. Tell the New Hope story.”

Sweet. I can do that one in my sleep.

A long time ago…

Talking to Strangers in Bathrooms

There’s a reason why I don’t do it. It’s not worth the effort. And sometimes it causes more trouble than you could anticipate.

Like just now when I was washing my hands in the shitty work sink with the push top water knobs that determine–incorrectly–how much water is enough to wash and rinse and then shuts off all on its own. I hit the hot, then the cold before the hot ran out, then the hot again because the cold is quick and then the cold to finish off the last of the suds.

The woman who washed her hands right after me, a doctor sort with the distinct air of Better Than Me, commented on the cold.

“Yeouch,” said the woman whose superiority defines this transaction. “Where’s the hot water?”

Normally, I would shrug and smile and walk away but stupid stupid me, I engaged, “Oh that’s my fault. I hit the cold last. Makes it last longer.”

SOCIAL AWKWARDNESS ENGAGE: Only say half of what you mean to say to create maximum confusion.

Doctor ShizDonStank gives me a quizzical look and says, “Ah, I see. But you know…” (engage kindergarten voice to stupid girl in bathroom) “we really need the hot water to get those germies off our hands.”

I did open my mouth. I did intend to clarify with some sort of, “Oh… no, I meant… oh, um… I did use… but I didn’t explain. Hot. Hot water. Hot cold. Water water. Clean… bubbles?” but caught myself, shrugged, smiled, and walked away.

Of course she exited after me. Of course she saw my supervisor in the hallway. I can’t imagine he would give a good goddamn what my bathroom habits were because we also have Purell like, everywhere so obviously, I could have… or whatever… because like…

I’M NOT DIRTY. I washed my hands. I disinfected my hands. SHUT UP, STUPID BATHROOM LADY!

I’m never talking to anyone in a bathroom again.

Listen to L

I’m gonna be one of those people right now. One of those people who says, “I don’t DOooOOoooOOoo New Year’s Resolutions, BUT!” and then totally blah blah blab about what I’m planning to do differently in the New Year.

Give me a little credit though. It is February. I’m not posting my Not-A-New-Years-Resolution resolution like, a month ago when it would be most appropriate. Also, this resolution started two years ago and has been building steam ever since.

Here it is. Are you ready? It’s profound and triumphant… for me:

I am going to stop caring about the thoughts and opinions of people who don’t matter.

It used to be so very important not only that I was able to freely express my thoughts and opinions on a subject that meant something to me but that others agreed with me and validated my feelings. As you can imagine, that did not happen. And that not happening made me question myself and the legitimacy of my thoughts and feelings. And spiral spiral crazy-making emotional mess sobbing on the floor of my closet because I’m always wrong about everything EVER!

When really, my thoughts and feelings were just fine. It was the people who were wrong. Or, not even wrong just… you know, not really involved so who cares what they thought.

“Safe driving is for girls!”

Like bitchy women at Target. Why should I care what they think? Or randos in the mall who don’t like the cut of my jib/pant legs and can’t help but criticize in overly loud whispers within earshot. Or people driving like they just finished watching Fast & Furious who honk at me for not turning left on a red light doing 90mph and then pass me at a truly ill-advised time screaming, “LEARN HOW TO DRIVE!” because somehow I’m the bad guy in this situation?

Or my in-laws when I make the rules about health and safety for my children and they disagree. Or try to break those rules. I learned two years ago to let go my concerns for their thoughts and feelings about how I raise my children because they dooooo noooooot maaaaaatter. What matters is that my children are healthy and safe.

This year, I’m extending my Do Not Care policy to friends and relatives who offer NOT advice or concern but derision, judgments, and those awesome “jokes” that are really just offensive statements followed by a laughy emojis and “haha” on Facebook (GAWD I hate Facebook). Also on the list: salespeople, waitstaff, irrational customers and any vendor or healthcare professional–people I pay for services–who act unprofessionally.

Henceforth, I’mma LL Cool J that shiz:

 

Listen, haters, you say what you’re gonna say but, I don’t receive that.

Thanks LL.

 

Absence Makes the Joke Grow Fonder

Working with pre-teens is such a trip because they repeat what they hear in an effort to look cool but without any of the necessary context to understand what they’re saying or how stupid (or inappropriate) it sounds. I used to just shake my head and laugh but now that I’m like, a legit grownup*, and a role model of sorts, I reaaaaallly feel like I should probably say something.

*Like a parent with kids I can’t give back after class ends.

Case in point: My Body is Ready

Let me share first, a fun resource I’ve just discovered that I’m sure I’m the last grandpa shouting at clouds to find: KnowYourMeme.com Owing to my lateness in arriving to grownup town**, I am not totally unaware of memes and their prevalence in youth culture (like a certain fake 26 year old on a show I can’t wait to see the next season of), but I’m also… like… busy, man. I got two jobs and two kids and right now, two WIPs going on so I don’t have time to engage in every bit of internet ridiculousness. So Know Your Meme is like the Cliffsnotes of middleagedom.

**I got to be an idiot for a long time before becoming a grownup, unlike Liza who spent her youth being a mombot and has to catch up to culture now to stay relevant in her profession.

And today, instead of engaging with the original material like a responsible scholar, I used the condensed version and learned the following:

“My Body is Ready” is a catchphrase mainly associated with image macros wherein the subject is posing in a seductive manner or smiling creepily, similar to the usage of “Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls.” In discussion forums, the phrase is often used to humorously convey one’s excitement or anticipation towards the impending arrival of a desirable object or an event.

The phrase was originally uttered by Nintendo executive Reggie Fils-Aime^[1] during the company’s demonstration of Wii Fit at the E3 press conference held on July 11th, 2007. As Japanese game designer Shigeru Miyamoto and translator Bill Trinen unveiled the Wii Balance Board, Fils-Aime walked up onto the stage and stated “My body…My body is ready” before stepping onto the accessory to start the demonstration.

Ok, so… imagine, if you will, hearing a group of 11 to 13-year-old boys repeating the phrase over and over again while playing a physically active game. They don’t know what it means, they don’t know the implications, and they haven’t yet discovered that the repetition of joke phrases actually makes it LESS funny.

I was forced by my conscious to act.

What I wanted to say was, “Children… I do not think that means what you think it means.”

But what I actually said was, “Please stop using that phrase. It’s inappropriate.”

That one actual teenage boy present, the one who probably does engage with the material and knows exactly what the phrase means, did his best not to laugh.

“Also,” I said, because I just want to teach them the way, “repeating a joke actually makes it LESS funny. Obey the rules of comedy, kids.”

Yoda’s Little Basket

My son found the leftover stack of Yoda napkins from his birthday party, unfolded them, and lined them up across the kitchen floor.

“This is the path to baby sister,” he tells me. He walks across it with his arms out for balance.

“When you’re finished walking your path, can you put it away please?” I ask, thinking of the unholy mess of little green shreds I’ll find if the cat gets to it before I do.

“No, Mom. The path doesn’t just end,” he says. “The path never just ends.”

The path… never just ends. Hmm.

“Profoundly true, baby,” I say, thinking of endings and beginnings, doors closing and windows opening. “Wait… what?” I ask, because I’m not sure I heard that last thing he said. “Did you… just call me a poop basket?”

“Yeah,” he says, tossing a transformer behind the couch.

“Yup, that tracks.”

“You a poop basket, Mom.”