The bleepin’ Gingerbread House. Looking good here.
Five minutes later. I want my money back.
Oy. I really didn’t want to tell him this young. Then again, I’d rather he hear it from me than another kid.
And I remembered I was eight when I asked my mom, after which I bellowed, “THAT IS DISGUSTING!”
Feeling guilty, I asked Tyler a few days later if he still wanted to know.
Oh, I should have just said “Yes” and ended it there, adding a disclaimer like “The guy gets lucky and the girl gets pregnant.” But I figured that was cheating.
Instead I sighed and said, “Well, first, you have a man and a woman who are MARRIED and IN LOVE….” Now, I know this isn’t always true, but it’s my version and I figured I might as well open with it.
“Mom, I know that! I mean, how are they made?”
At that point I decided it would be a good idea to borrow a line from one of the websites I’d googled after he asked the first time. “Well. The man gives love to the woman and then a baby grows in her belly and comes it out when it’s ready.” Even to me it sounded vague and confusing.
“What? But how? I don’t get it.”
ARGhghghghgh. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook. So, finally, I told him the real deal, plain and simple, careful not to give too much information, but using the correct terms.
“I know it’s confusing and it may sound weird, but it’s a very beautiful thing,” I added hopefully.
Tyler looked dubious. And confused.
“Are you confused?” I asked him.
“I don’t know. But I know one thing.”
“Now I really don’t want to get married!”
I guess you could say Mission, not accomplished.
Back to the drawing board and, maybe, the library.
GRIN # 403
It’s dawning on me that if I just run by the bank and get a stack of one dollar bills life could be a lot easier.
Because my kid will do anything for a dollar.
Last night I was so frustrated by a mosquito in the house; it kept biting me but I couldn’t catch it.
When I got home, I found proof of death and a bill.
GRIN # 390
I have to admit I was quite cantankerous about the Easter bunny this year. I shouldn’t be, I know.
I mean, I only have one kid and in a few years the gig will be up so I should be enjoying these fun times of mythical wonder, right?
Only the Easter bunny is a man is a creepy rabbit suit and the whole thing has absolutely nothing to do with the real meaning of Easter. At least with Santa, we can theorize that he gives gifts to us because the wise men gave gifts for the baby Jesus. You see what I’m saying.
But the Easter bunny breaks into your pad somehow and leaves you stuff–stuff that he damn sure didn’t have to stand in a long-ass line for at Target. And he never would have driven to three different drug stores to find plastic eggs because someone waited too long, as she always does.
How would the Easter bunny even pull all of this together? Does he have an Easter carriage? A garden workshop? Little ladybugs in bonnets helping him out? We’ll never know because whomever started the Easter bunny legend (cough, candy companies, cough) didn’t care about the details.
And that’s how I found myself hiding plastic eggs in the living room at 11:30 Saturday night.
“The Bunny is going to come tonight and leave a basket and hide eggs!” Tyler said, before he went to bed.
“He is? He hides eggs too?” I said, groaning inwardly.
I was really hoping Tyler didn’t mean dyed hard-boiled eggs because, really, I have to draw the line somewhere. That is a kitchen-related activity and by that time the kitchen was closed. Fugghedaboutit.
So after everyone was in bed, I put the basket together, half hoping Tyler might come down and catch me doing it. I know. I’m grumpy. I warned you about that in the beginning. But, of course, he didn’t and so now I’m on the hook another year.
The next morning I played the “hot and cold” game with him as he looked for his eggs.
After a minute, he stopped dead in his tracks and looked at me: “Hey! Did you hide these eggs?”
This was my chance!
“Certainly not!!” I said. “I just saw them while you were opening your basket.”
I’d take these guys over ladybugs any day.
GRIN # 388
So we’re at the end of the second week of track-out and things are going okay, other than Tyler practically impaling himself on a palm frond yesterday while playing putt-putt golf and me taking out my chronic irritation on the Jehovah Witnesses whom, frankly, I think are camping nearby. BTW, don’t ever tell them they can stop back by. They will.
Anyhoo, yesterday we were having some work done at the house so I set off with T to be gone for a few hours. In the car, Tyler wanted to listen to “Hey, Soul Sister” by Train, which I like too, but I didn’t have the thingy that attaches the iPod to the car so we listened to a CD mix I had instead. Tyler got a kick out of Paul Simon’s song “Fifty Ways to Leave your Lover.”
He kept asking me to replay it and after a while I thought we might rename it to: Fifty Ways to Irritate your Mother.
I made up a refrain, or maybe it’s a chorus?, that I think most moms can relate to:
Dontcha dare talk smack, Jack
Get off the can, man
Pick up your toy, boy
Just listen to me!
Don’t miss the bus, Gus
You don’t need to discuss much….
Just lift up the seat, T
Or wipe off the pee…
Eat all your food, dude
Don’t tell me no lie, guy
You’re gettin’ on my nerves, boy
Just listen to me!
Cut out the fuss, Gus
You don’t need to discuss much
It’s time for the bed now,
…but first you go pee.
Sigh. Today I have the wants.
Does that ever happen to you? Wanting stuff that’s too expensive, not feasible or practical? It’s days like these that I have to remind myself why I work for myself. I could make more money working in corporate communications or public relations.
But the job I have allows me to work at midnight so that at noon the next day I can go roller-skating with Tyler. He’s finally learning to keep his knees together. Afterward, we pay a buck-fifty for air hockey that lasts all of ninety seconds.
While Tyler takes a shower at night, I transcribe tape so that the next day we can ride our bikes early—stopping along the way to examine the beetles, slugs, tree frogs and caterpillars we find on the trail. I taught him how to suck the honey out of a honeysuckle instead of writing press releases.
Because of the job I’ve chosen—and its less than stellar salary—I can be at the bus stop every day at 3:45 to witness what accompanies him home from school: the Abe Lincoln stovepipe hat, a homemade papoose with a paper baby inside, or the cup of slime from science that demonstrated something I can’t remember.
I’m grateful for my job’s flexibility because I know there are many women who would love to be able to both work and stay at home. Working is too often an all-or-nothing proposition for mothers. There are not enough jobs like mine, and I am grateful that I have it and that it sustains me, both financially and emotionally.
So when I get the wants, I remind myself that no matter what it is I want, the cost is too high. I think of T, his cargo shorts loaded with rocks and cricket’s legs, the two of us coasting downhill on our bikes, and I think he is like me: free.