“Mom, what’s lesbi?”

In honor of today’s joyful, love-affirming SCOTUS decisions, let me tell you a little story of something that happened a few months ago.  I’ll preface the story by saying that I let my kids watch youtube videos on their ipads.  And the occasional Gangnam Style or Baby Monkey sing-along aside, 99% of the videos they watch are Mario and Kirby play-alongs.  Basically, adolescent or adult guys, playing video games, and talking while they play.  I monitored it for a while, because I have learned that any Mario-related video on youtube is one click away from excessive profanity (which I don’t really care about that much, because let’s be honest, it’s probably no worse than what they hear from me), but also no more than three clicks away from Mario-related porn.  Yes, people make Mario porn.  Yes, really. 

So… I monitored their youtube consumption, but as you can imagine, listening to hours on end of adolescent (or protracted adolescent) boys playing video games while you’re trying to work, read, or play Candy Crush can get old real fast.  So imagine my joy when they settled on one favorite gamer.  This guy is a celebrity in our house.  Half of the phrases that come out of my son’s mouth can be traced back to his new online friend.  And I’ve listened to enough of this guy’s videos to know that he’s pretty reasonable.  So I let them watch his videos in their room without me listening, or with headphones.  Blissful silence.

That brings us to the story.  One fine evening, as I settled down to watch TV with my hubs, our children nestled snug in their beds, visions of Mario play-alongs glowing in front of their heads, my son comes out and asks, “Mom, what’s lesbi?”

“You mean lesbian?”

“Yeah, lesbian.”

“Where did you hear that?”

Youtube, obvi. 

So no big, I tell him that that’s what you call a woman who loves and wants to marry another woman.  And that a man who loves and wants to marry another man is called gay.  We never talk about marriage in our house without the option of either/any gender as a partner, so it’s not new information for them.  We’ve even already talked with them about how some people think a man can only marry a woman and a woman can only marry a man, and how ridiculous that is. 

Then he asks me, “Can I say lesbi at school?”

Shit.  He knows that our home rules are more lax than school rules.  I don’t let them say stupid or hate at home, but most other words… eh… I’d rather teach them that part of being allowed to say “grown-up words” is being grown-up enough to know when NOT to say them.  So lesbi… home-only word or OK-everywhere word?  It’s a hard question.

It’s a hard question???  No!!  WTF!  No, that should not be a hard question.  And yet, I hesitated.  While Maryland is a blue state, the area where we live is kind of purple.  It’s pretty darn socially conservative around here.  Can he say lesbi at school?  I don’t actually know.  I don’t know if the teachers would tell him not to say it.  I don’t know if the other parents would be angry if their kids learned the word lesbian from my kid. 

Are you effing kidding me?  Am I really having to think about this? Nothing about that is OK.  I’ve been angry about some of the religious stuff other kids have taught my kids at school.  So let them be angry if my kid teaches their kid about love in every form.  Love is my religion, if anything is, so let my kids proselytize that on the playground. 

“Yes, honey, you can say lesbian at school.  But some people might think that it’s a mean word or a bad word.  It’s not a mean word or a bad word, but people who think that a woman shouldn’t marry a woman might think that it’s a bad word.  So you can say it at school, but if the teacher tells you not to, then you listen to her, OK?”

The end. 

Except to say this.  Please, please let me live to see the day when I wouldn’t have to think twice.  The tide is turning, but we’re not there yet. 

The “special naked hug”

It’s spring break around here, so my kids are home all day with me.  Not so good for work-from-home productivity, but great for sleeping late and hanging out in pjs.  Sleeping late, you ask?  Yes.  You can hate me if you must.  I have those rare, almost mythological children who sleep late if they stay up late.  I’m not gonna lie.  It’s freakin’ awesome.  They slept in until 10am this morning.  I don’t look like death.  It’s great. 

What’s slightly less great is what bedtime looks like.  Yeah… that’s where we pay the price.  (The completely, utterly worth-it price.)  During school breaks and on weekends, we push bedtime later, and then the kids push it later still with various requests and irresistible cuteness.  We often have our best conversations late on non-school nights, because they don’t have access to toys or iPads, and they will do anything to keep the conversation going so they don’t have to go back to bed.  So last night… around 11pm… my daughter decided to ask me a question.

“How did we get in your belly?”

Oh yeah.  Buckle up. This is happening.

“Well, there is a special hug that makes babies.  So when mommy and daddy decided to have a baby, we did that special hug, and a little part of daddy and a little part of mommy came together and that made you.”

Yeah no.  That’s bullshit, I know.  They were so on to me and not having any of it.

“But HOW do you do the hug?” my son asks.  “Do it to me.”  Oh shit.

“No, no, it’s only for grown ups who love each other.”  Or, you know, grown ups who smell really good to each other.  Whatev.  Same diff.

“Then do it to Daddy so I can watch.”   

[At this point, I am stifling laughter and totally unable to look at my silently shaking husband or I will just laugh until I pee myself and the conversation will be over.  I squeeze my kegels and continue.] “No honey, it’s very private.  I can’t do that in front of you.”

At this point, I realize that they may think it’s, like, a regular hug, and my daughter might stop hugging people.  So I specify that it’s a special NAKED hug. 

Brought the house down.  Who says I’m not funny?  Apparently, I am effing hilarious.

“But HOW?” my son asks again.  “What do you really do?”

At this point, I look at my husband, because had I been alone with the kids when this question was asked, it would have been time for the bombshell.  The P-in-V bombshell.  They’re curious and asking.  I answer honestly.  That’s my philosophy.

But not my husband’s.  He looks horrified, and tells me no, that they are too young. 

So we tell them that it is a very grown up hug and we will tell them more when they’re older.  Sigh.  Not how I would have handled it.  Why did they have to ask when he was around? 

We divert the conversation to genetics.  So the little parts of mommy and daddy have all of the information about our bodies, blah blah, and you each got parts of each of us and that’s why you (son) have daddy’s eyes and you (daughter) have mommy’s eyes blah blah boring not talking about penises or vaginas boring.

Oh, the non-boring part of this is that my son mixes up the word for cells and nerves, because he learned both of those words during another 11pm delay tactic/conversation about “How do our eyes see?”  Except he can’t remember the word nerves, so he calls them “nerds.”  So he says, “So daddy’s nerds and mommy’s nerds went together and made us?”  I die from cuteness.  And also, yeah, pretty much.  Our nerds played a big role.

Then my daughter realizes that we keep talking about a man and a woman.  She asks what happens if there are two mommies or two daddies.  I’ve never been prouder.  I leave out the concept of adoption for now because I don’t want to add the complexity of unwanted children to their lives (P-in-V, OK.  Unwanted children, not OK.  Am I weird? Contraception and sex-for-fun-not-babies talk, later.  Not tonight.)  I explain that if two men want to have a baby, they need a woman to help them.  And if two women want to have a baby, they need a man to help them. 

We ask if they have any questions.  They don’t.  They go to bed.  My husband and I discuss/argue for a half hour, I post the whole thing to facebook, and then we go back to watching Castle.

Today, on the way to the grocery store, we talk a little more about it.  I give them the names for egg and sperm.  I talk about the sperm swimming to find an egg, and how daddy has millions of sperm, but most of the time there is only one egg at a time.  But that I sent out two eggs, and two of daddy’s sperm found my eggs, and that’s why I had twins. We’ve talked about periods before, because for a while there, I couldn’t even pee alone. So I reintroduce that.  We talk about ovaries and testes.  “You mean my nuts?”  Yes, honey.  Your nuts.  I love my kids.  You’re right.  Testicles is a lame, un-pleasing word.  Nuts.  Much better.

“And the baby grows and grows until it’s ready to come out.”  They already know how babies come out.  We talk about it again.  How babies usually come out, and how they didn’t come out the usual way.  “And then the doctor sewed you back up.”  Yup.  C-sections still make them laugh.  Weirdos.

And then the light bulb comes on for my son.

“So babies come out the vagina.  Is that how the sperm get in?  They go in your vagina?”

Both kids laugh uproariously at this concept, while I say yes.  I’m not sure whether they really processed the yes.  Because vaginas are just too damn funny.  So no “Tab A in slot B” conversation, as my sister put it.  But you know… something in slot B.  It’s a start.

I’m much more comfortable the more real the conversation gets.  There is nothing shameful or illicit about these questions.  And even if there were, I would rather they know they can always come to me.  Always.  I want them to know that I will tell them the truth.  For me, this is groundwork.  We are building trust that, I hope, will remain as their questions get more complicated and the truthful answers more difficult. 

We move on to a conversation about how they shouldn’t talk about any of this at school.  How private parts are private, and conversations about private parts are also private and just for our family. I’m comfortable with my kids knowing this stuff, but lots of people (including the person I’m married to) are not.  I don’t want my kids to be the ones telling tales on the playground that make the other kids say, “Ew, gross.”  I don’t want any angry phone calls from parents who prefer to keep their kids innocent of the tab-slot mechanics.

But at home, they’re safe, and they can tell me or ask me anything.  I want them to know that.  At this point, I’m pretty much just waiting for:

Knock-knock.

Who’s there?

Sperm!

Sperm who?

Sperm in your vagina!!! 

If When that happens, I will not have to fake the laughter.

The true meaning of Christmas… a clock tower?

Well, it’s been a year since the “What’s church” conversation.  And we just had the "true meaning of Christmas" conversation.  Oh my.

We were putting up the tree, and the kids asked if everyone in the world is decorating for Christmas.  I told them some people don't celebrate Christmas, that they don’t believe in it.  "That's sad," said my daughter.  "That's crazy," said my son.  I didn't say anything else, just let it marinate.  About an hour later, tree decorated, garlands up, the “Seasonal” music channel playing through the TV, my daughter asked why some people don't celebrate Christmas. 

Gather 'round, my children... Time for you to learn that Christmas is not about Santa and Rudolph and presents.

Here are some notable events from the conversation:

When asked, "Do you remember what 'God' is?" my son answered, "God is a grown-up word" (i.e. "Oh my God," which they are not allowed to say).  So, um, that’s hilarious or awful, depending on your perspective.  Once I reminded them about God making the earth and the sky and the animals and McDonalds, they clearly remembered.  But…

They have both switched their positions since the original talk.  My son is now on the "God is pretend" track, and my daughter is now a believer. 

We talked about the pagan origins of the Christmas tree and evergreen garlands, showing how our modern version of Christmas comes from lots of different kinds of beliefs blended together, and how everyone believes something different.

I showed them the baby Jesus and nativity ornaments and told them the traditional Christian Christmas story.  We also talked about the significance of the star, and the presents people brought for God’s special baby.

My daughter is clearly taken with the idea of a baby god.  She likes baby things.  A baby god?  That is so right up her alley.  She is all about the baby Jesus.

My son said that he thinks God didn’t have a baby.  God had a clock tower.  Um, huh?  “Why a clock tower?” I asked.  “Because clock towers are really real, and God isn’t,” he said.

Um, OK.  Good talk.

Go team?

Last week, my son was invited to a birthday party for one of his classmates.  He was one of only two or three kids from the class invited, so clearly this kid and my son have connected.  We had a fantastic time, and I enjoyed the other moms and the kids.  But here’s what happened.  The party had an Orioles theme.  (That’s baseball if you’re as sports-dumb as I am.  I’m just proud that I didn’t have to look it up to determine the sport.)  The birthday kid asked my kid, “Do you like the Orioles?”

And my kid looked at him blankly, and said, “Huh?”

Once someone at the grocery store asked my kid if he liked the Ravens. (That’s football.  I didn’t have to look that up either.  Go me!)  He answered, “A raven is kind of like a crow.” 

Yeah.

See, I pretty much hate watching sports.  I would go to a live game, I guess.  If there was going to be beer and naughty food I don’t usually allow myself.  But honestly, I’d rather go to a pub and have beer and naughty food without the boring sports part.  I could see tailgating, especially with friends of ours, one of whom went to culinary school. He makes elaborate meals including Scotch eggs from scratch. (He mixes his own sausage spices, etc.)  I would be totally down with that.  And just, you know, skip the football part.  (A Scotch egg, if you don’t know, is a hard boiled egg, encased in sausage, breaded, and then deep fried.  Dipped in spicy mustard, if you’re me.  Mmmmm, Scotch eggs.)

I like playing sports.  I played basketball, soccer, and tennis as a kid, and I still enjoy those, or the slower-moving mommy-playing-with-kids equivalents.  I would probably still enjoy the faster-moving versions if I had better shoes and a better bra and a month to get back in cardiovascular shape.  But watching?  Absolutely no interest. 

My husband doesn’t watch sports on TV either.  He probably would.  He watches when he’s with his family.  But it’s not high enough on his priority scale to set aside time to watch, especially since he knows he would be watching alone.  He has made some noise about taking the kids to an Orioles game, and I said, “Awesome, have fun!”  But since I tend to plan all of our outings, the odds of this ever happening are pretty low.  Like, not statistically different from zero.  He can go.  I’m not going.  And I’m not planning it.  Maybe some other dad will plan it and he can tag along.

He has taught them baseball (a sport I loathe in all forms—playing, watching, watching kids play, etc.)  My daughter, who is very sporty, can already bat better than I can.  I have taught them some soccer skills.  They did gymnastics, and they both dance.  They have been exposed to parkour, and know the names of some of the feats from American Ninja Warrior.  They’re not… you know… deprived.

But in this area of the country, I wonder if sports and (gag) the local teams are an important part of their social education that I am neglecting.  Maybe they should know who the Ravens are.  Sigh.  But do I have to?

Kids their age are asking.  If I expose them to sports and they still prefer Mario and Pokemon and reading and dancing, at least I’ll know it’s their choice.  But what if they like sports?  I managed to score a husband who doesn’t watch sports.  I am not having football on every… um… Monday?  Monday night football?  That’s a thing, right?  Except that my dad comes down on weekends, and there always seems to be some important football game on while he’s here too.  So, is it, like, more than once a week?  Is that right?  That sounds bloody awful. 

Can I just not?  What do you guys think?  Can I just… not?

I’ve spoken with a few friends about it, and the consensus so far seems to be that I have to at least expose them to sports.  Football first, and then baseball, pretty much the two LEAST appealing sports possible.  I guess it could be worse.  It could be golf.  I imagine myself sitting down to watch a Ravens game with them, telling them that the Ravens are “our” team.  It feels like talking about the Easter Bunny.  Or maybe more like indoctrinating them in a religion that I don’t share.  In Maryland, the Ravens are more of a religion than, like, you know, god.  People (apparently) wear purple on Fridays before games.  No one dresses up every week for god.  I’m just saying.  Well, maybe for church I guess, but around here, people don’t really dress that nicely for church.  This isn’t Manhattan.  There are no fabulous hats.

This whole question makes me miss the San Francisco bay area.  Around here, my friend’s kids apparently have a “wear your favorite team jersey” day at school.  I have this fantasy that in the bay area, people would send their kids to school wearing the uniform of the Irish curling team or something.  It’s not the appreciation of sports that makes me uncomfortable.  It’s the assumption that everyone is into sports.  We have no jerseys.  We have no favorite team. 

The easy solution, proposed by a dinner party companion the other night, is that I outsource the problem.  Send the kids to someone else’s house on a game day.  Or make chicken wings and taco dip and buy a bunch of beer and have some people over to my house to teach my children what they need to know to be socially accepted in suburban Maryland.  So I guess I’ll do that.  So that at least when a school friend asks them if they like the Ravens, they won’t start quoting Poe. 

But can’t I have that same party—chicken wings, taco dip, beer—without the football?  Oh, right.  Right.  Crap.

You get what you get

For some reason, sending my kids off to kindergarten has really spotlighted my parenting insecurities.  Knowing they would be away from me all day made me realize how many times a day I would step in with a small correction, say or do something to settle them when they were getting dangerously nutso, give my son a timely “remember, don’t use your body” when I could tell he was angry and starting to lose his cool.  But now they’re on their own, their full unedited behavior on display for the teachers to see.  They might stand up on the seat while eating.  They might bust out a swear word or talk about wine and make me look bad.  They might hit someone.  They might crack up over a poo-poo joke and not be able to stop for five minutes.  They might be completely incapable of completing any task at 2pm because they need a snack.  (Seriously, they have lunch at 11am and don’t get home until almost 4.  They need a damn snack!  It would make your lives easier, teachers, I’m telling you.) 

There’s this idea (maybe it’s only in my own head, but I don’t think so) that if you do a good job at parenting, you will have kids who do what they’re told, eat their vegetables, go to sleep, behave pretty well, play appropriately with friends, and do decent in school.  There’s this idea (maybe only in my own head, but again, I don’t think so) that if you can find the right strategy, you can fix any “problem.”  So we read parenting books, and try new discipline or reward strategies.  We have marble jars or prizes or time outs or 1-2-3 Magic or no Wii for the rest of the day or verbal praise or sticker charts. 

My sister’s pediatrician once put it this way:  We are trying to “raise the shit out of” our kids.  We’re high power, smart people who kicked ass at our jobs, and now we’re gonna kick ass at this parenting thing.  We’re not going to have the kid who only eats chicken nuggets and applesauce.  We’re not going to have the kid who hits the other kids at school.  We’re not going to have the kid who says, “Whatever” when an adult tells them what to do.  Those kids must have really bad parents.  We’re not gonna have those kids.

But, um.

Yeah.

You get the kids you get.  You can move their tendencies around a teensy weensy bit, but basically?  You get what you get and you don’t get upset.  Or maybe you do get upset, but it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

Having twins has shown me this so clearly.  I did all of the same crap at the same time.  I had an equal number of “I don’t feel well, let’s just watch TV all day” days with both.  They went to the aquarium and the zoo and didn’t go to the library an equal number of times.  I used pretty much the same sleep strategies (modified slightly for each kid’s needs, but basically the same).  I exposed them the same foods.  We read the same books together.  I used the same discipline/behavioral techniques. 

I got what I got.

One is practically a vegetarian; the other would eat steak at every meal.  One prefers vegetables; the other fruits.  One loves to draw and color; the other loves to play on the Wii.  One is a “pleaser;” one doesn’t give a flying f*** what I say.  One is getting “treasure tickets” for good behavior at school every day and brings home perfect papers with all correct answers and gold stars on top; the other has gotten almost no treasure tickets and brings home papers with “please review at home” on them.  One comes home from school and tells me all about the day; the other makes up crap that is clearly false and mixes it in with (possibly) true stuff so that I have no idea what really happened.  (“No, honey, your teacher did not dress up as Mario today.  What really happened?”)

Honestly, I am starting to think that I have very little to do with this process of them growing up.  I’m here to offer them unconditional love, and some structure and boundaries.  I’m here to make healthy food and set limits.  I’m here to teach them about the world and offer opportunities.  But they are who they are. 

I’ll keep pushing against the tide, because it’s not OK that my son still hits sometimes.  It’s not OK that my daughter will cry and gag rather than try a new food, even when that food is a peanut butter and nutella sandwich that I KNOW she would like if she would just stop gagging in anticipatory hatred.  It’s not OK that my son rolls his eyes and says, “Whatever” to me when I tell him what to do.  (It’s f***ing hilarious, yes.  But it’s not OK.)  So I will keep reading parenting books and making up new sticker charts or reward systems so that maybe I can shift them by a minute degree. 

After years of pushing against the tide, now more often than not, my son punches the air when he’s angry instead of hitting me or his sister.  His anger is physical.  He can learn to punch a pillow.  My daughter ate two bites of chili the other night, one piece of meat and one bean, and last night tasted my Thai sweet potato lentil stew without gagging or crying.  She still gives me the evil eye when she sees something unfamiliar on her plate.  She still claims to hate new foods almost before they hit her tongue, but she tastes them.  And mostly doesn’t gag or cry.  And so I push against the tide, working my ass off, for these tiny shifts. 

I’ll keep pushing.  I’ll encourage my rather solitary, easily overstimulated son to make friends, and I’ll be thrilled when he comes home and tells me he held hands with another boy who is now his best buddy.  I don’t have to do much behavioral modification with my daughter right now other than the food thing.  Did I mention, she’s a pleaser?  But when she’s 12 and 13, I suspect I’ll be doing a lot of tide-pushing against her tendency to please when the people she cares about impressing are her friends and (I’m gonna anxiety-puke just thinking about it) boys. 

In the scheme of things, I have really easy kids.  I lucked out on the kid lottery, and I know it.  Yeah, when they’re in the same room, they don’t sleep until midnight.  They fight.  They would rather screw around than sit down and eat.  Whatever.  Normal crap.  The stuff I am dealing with is nail biting, talking back, sibling rivalry, leaving their toys all over the house.  Booo-ring.  When I was dealing with my kid hitting other kids at school, when I was dealing with a preschool teacher implying that maybe my kid had Asperger’s, yeah, I busted out a lot more behavioral wing-dings to deal with those things.  It didn’t work awesome until developmental changes happened in their own time, but I had to feel like I was trying everything I knew how to try. 

I’m not sure it made any difference.  But at least I felt like I was doing everything I could.

I watch parents deal with more challenging kids, kids who are not as easy as mine.  I watch them push against the tide, and when that doesn’t work, I watch them try to build bulwarks and levees made out of sheer will.  I watch them try to plug leak after leak, until the number of leaks exceeds their emotional resources.  They have to.  I would do the same.  When your kid is having a problem, you have to do everything you can.  Because what if that next parenting book, or that next strategy, or that next specialist is the one that can help your kid? 

But I want to tell them this:  You didn’t give your kid this problem.  Your kid is not struggling because you don't read enough parenting books, or because you aren't consistent in your discipline strategy or because you let them watch too much TV or eat too many Cheez-its.  You’re not getting notes home from the teacher because you’re a bad parent.  You got the kid you got.  And your job is just harder.  You’re working harder than I am, harder than lots of parents, and maybe people think you’re not doing a good job, but that’s because they don’t know shit about how hard your job is.

It’s like the person on The Voice who tries to sing a Whitney Houston song.  It’s easy to get all judgey when you can’t sing worth a damn and don’t really know anything.  But other singers know which songs are hard to sing.  Parents of tricky kids, you got dealt a Whitney Houston song.  Sing your heart out.  But cut yourself some slack.  Worrying about your kids is one of the worst feelings in the world.  But you know what’s worse?  Guilt.  Let it go.  Parent as well and as mindfully as you can, do whatever you can to help your kid.  And then let it go.

Some kids are never going to make friends easily.  Some kids are never going to like sushi or strong flavors.  Some kids are never going to make the honor roll.  Some kids are never going to sit still with their hands folded and listen to the teacher.  Some kids are going to be just a little bit tone deaf.  Some kids are going to struggle with temper, or with impulsivity, or with reading, or with handwriting (stupid D’Nealian).

Obviously, there are kids and families with much more challenging problems than these.  But without even bringing up special needs, just your average “typical” kids… they are who they are, and it seems to me that you just can’t change it that much.  While they’re children, society wants them to sit quietly and be friendly and write neatly.  Kids who can do that will have an easier time in school, and their parents might feel like rock stars.  Until they have a second kid who doesn’t do those things, no matter what they try.

All of these kids, the easy ones and the tricky ones, will grow up.  And handwriting and sitting still will matter less, and there will be ways to make friends who share their interests rather than just share their classroom.  And strong family connection and love will matter more than coloring in the lines.  And they will find their own way, and become more than you ever could have imagined.

So love them, and yes, push against the tide.  Try to help them strengthen the areas that are a struggle for them.  Do everything you can for your kid, because you love them and you can’t not.  Do everything you can so that you will know you did everything you could.  And then let go. 

That’s some pretty good advice.  I should really try to take it too.  Letting go, not my strong suit.  Never was.  Nothing anyone really could have done about it.

A parenting confession

Want to feel better about yourself as a parent?  Yesterday, I took my five-year-old kids to the library.

For the first time. 

I know, I know (hides under desk). 

They have been to Storyville, a fabulous play area in a branch of the Baltimore County Public Library with topical books in each of the play zones.  We have a veritable library at home, with more books than we can fit on the shelves, and a steady stream of new books, including easy readers and short early “chapter books” passed down from their cousin.  We read books together every night, and they love to read.  They see me reading all the time.  But somehow… somehow, I just never took them to the library.

When normal parents were taking their kids to story time or circle jerk or whatever it’s called, my two were too crazy.  They were in a “pull every book off the shelf” phase, and it was enough work for me to just get through the day with my destructor twins without (a) subjecting some sweet librarian to their antics, or (b) sweating my junk off trying to corral them both and make them sit and listen.  The idea of one of them pulling shelf after shelf of books down while I chased the other was more than I could handle. 

But then they got older.  I should have taken them then.  But I didn’t.  Why not?

See, here’s the thing.  Until yesterday, I didn’t have a library card either.  I read books, every day, every chance I get.  I write books, or try to.  Whether or not I ever finish a novel, I AM a writer.  It’s part of who I am, something I am driven to do.  So why don’t I go to the library?  It should be my magical place.  But no.  I like to own books.  I like to read them in the bathtub and not worry about the edges turning wavy where they sit on my damp boobs.  I dog-ear too.  I know.  Shameful.  Bad Pam.  But they’re MY books, so I can.  I know I’m hard on books, so I buy them instead of borrowing.  Used when I can, new if I must.  Paperbackswap.com is awesome, although they won’t take “water damaged” books (see above re: damp boobs).  I read books over and over, so it just makes sense to own them.  I am on my third copy of Worthing Saga, having loved it to death twice over.  Three paper copies, plus then I bought it on kindle.  Kindle will save me from having to buy Fionavar Tapestry again, because that book has been read to pieces.  Literally.  At some point, my kindle will fall in the tub.  I am at one with that expense when it happens.  It’s a drop in the bucket compared to what I have spent on books for that thing.

Also, when I used to borrow books from the library, I wound up paying ludicrous amounts in overdue book fees.  I bring books into my life and absorb them into my library, into my heart, into my soul.  Books I read become part of who I am and I don’t give them back.  Don’t lend me books.  I will steal them.  I won’t mean to, but I will do it anyway.  Don’t ever, ever lend me books.

In my defense, once I realized this about myself, I stopped letting people lend me books.  Someone would recommend a book to me.  I would write it down (or, later, text it to myself).  They would try to give me the book to borrow.  And I would say, “No, don’t lend me a book.  I will never, ever give it back.  Ever.  I steal books.”  You know what happens when you say that?  People don’t believe you.  They lend you the book anyway.  And then they never see it again.  Friends who may or may not read this blog, I have your copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell.  Another friend, been looking for one of your Sandman anthologies?  Yeah, I totally have that.  Grad school friend who lent me Middlesex and The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Nighttime, loved ‘em.  Yup, still have ‘em.  Oh, and I also still have your copies of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues and Cynthia Heimel’s Sex Tips for Girls, lent to me well over a decade ago before I knew to warn you of my book stealing problem.  Grad school roommate who was convinced you would get your books back by using an elaborate system similar to a library, with cards inside the book and cards in your little index-card box saying who had what, how long did it take you to get your books back?  Something like four years?  Did I ever actually even give those to you?  I know at some point I pulled them off my shelf, but I can’t remember if I ever actually gave them to you or not.  If you did get them back, congratulations, you might, truly, be the only person who ever has. 

I remember my mom trying to get my dad to sell books at yard sales, and him being so sad about it.  Dad, I totally I get it.  I have a few of my dad’s favorite series that he smuggled to me or to my sister to save them from the “5 for $1” box.  Don’t worry, Dad.  They’re safe here with me.  I’ll never give them back to you, of course.  But you know where they are.  You can steal them back if you need them.  But not Foundation.  I need those. 

Where were we?  Oh, right.  Library.  So yeah, I don’t do the library thing.  So I didn’t think to do the library thing with my kids.  They get attached to books too.  Imagining having to return Harry the Dirty Dog, or Mog the Forgetful Cat (affectionately nicknamed “Drat That Kitty” in my house) to the library after three weeks?  No way.  I get that I should try books from the library and then buy the ones we love.  I understand why that’s better, you don’t have to tell me.  But here’s the thing, we don’t need more books.  We have more books than we could ever read. 

We do buy books when the kids get obsessed.  Currently, books about Mario.  In the past, books about the Wonder Pets or Little Einsteins or whatever.  And guess what?  The library doesn’t even have most of those.  Thanks to my mom’s book-loving generosity, we have roughly double the library’s selection of Miss Spider’s Sunny Patch Friends books.  And you know what else? The library didn’t have a single Mario book!  Not a single one!  My kids went up to the librarian, so brave and big, and asked her if they had any Mario books, and they didn’t.  Well, library, booyah to you, because we have two.  Four if you count the two my kids wrote and illustrated for themselves.

I feel like I am protesting too much.  No Mario books!  Down with libraries!  You guys know that’s my shame talking, right?  Because my poor kids were five before I took them to the library.  The librarian who took our info for the library cards, let’s call her Judgey McJudgerson, looked at them and asked, “How old are they?  Three?  Two?”

Bitch, you know they’re not two.  Go to hell.  They’re five.  And I brought them here because they’re going to kindergarten in a week and I don’t want them to go to the library at school and tell the nice teachers that they have never been to the library before.  Because that would make me look bad.  We’ll probably go once more this week, so they can get in the groove of the whole checking out and returning books thing.  So that I won’t look like quite as bad of a mother as I am.  Because really, my kids are healthy and loved and secure, so most other stuff I do is about not being judged.  Just me?

I seriously considered telling the librarian we had just moved to the area so she wouldn’t judge me, but I was afraid my kids would rat me out.  Sick.  I know.  I have a problem.  Well, more than one.  Fear of judgment, book-specific kleptomania, the list goes on and on…

So anyway, I took them to the library.  They loved it.  We read several books there and picked four to bring home.  Pinkalicious, Me and My Cat (both awesome), some Sponge Bob book I couldn’t talk my kid out of, and a Sid the Science Kid easy reader.  I took this adorable photo of them reading a book of animal-based fables from around the world.

My kids, reading together like angels.

And then I was afraid to post it on facebook because I didn’t want to be judged for being that excited about them at the library when it should be old hat to all of us.

So I did what I do when I am overcome with shame.  I told the entire internet all about it.  There you go, people.  My failure, here for your downward social comparison and amusement. 

I think they’ll live.  I know they’ll love to read.  They’re mine.  They will read.  You probably shouldn’t lend them any books, though.

The summer of love

This is a bittersweet summer for me.  My last summer with preschoolers.  Come August 27^th, they will be kindergarteners.  Elementary school kids.  I’m gonna pack their lunches, kiss them goodbye, and then put my two little angels on a bus with no car seats and no seat belts, and send them off to school.  I won’t know anything about their day other than what they tell me, unless I noodge the teachers with early conferences or lurk in bushes and peek in windows.  Terrifying. 

Somehow my children who currently take over an hour to eat lunch are going to have to eat it much faster (what do they get, 20 minutes?) and without me constantly reminding them to stop playing and put food in their pie holes.  Somehow they are going to have to go the whole day without Cheez-its.  They can read a little and do arithmetic on their fingers.  They can sit and listen and learn.  And the social stuff that used to paralyze me with fear has largely resolved itself.  But they’re young.  August birthdays for a September 1 cut-off.  They’ll be the babies.  They’re MY babies.  They’re excited.  I’m considering home schooling.  No, not really.  I’m not really.  But for the first time I understand why anyone would.  They’re MINE!  I want to keep them here with me, where no mean kids will ever throw pretzels at them or teach them that skipping is only for girls.  If my son stops skipping joyfully around the house, I am going to cry. 

This summer.  Our last summer of innocence.  It feels that way.  The last summer of my kids being just mine.  When something comes out of their mouths, it can usually be traced to me, my husband, their cousin, or their best friends.  (Or the Little Einsteins.  Or Mario videos on youtube.)  We are on the precipice of their friends having more influence than we have.  My brain knows that it’s right and natural and an early stage of the evolution that has to happen so that someday they are grown-ups.  My brain knows.  My heart breaks.  Don’t go.  Stay with Mommy forever, with your little lisps, almost gone but still flavoring your speech, making bring “fring” and disgusting “exgusting.”  Keep saying “aminal.”  Stay with Mommy.  Give me unselfconscious hugs forever, and smile at me with your growing up faces, child-like but retaining that touch of babyness that makes me want to rub my face on yours.  Don’t go.  Stay.

I don’t really want them to stay this way.  I don’t.  Not with my brain anyway.  My heart, well, yeah.  Maybe.  My heart wants to crack open and expand until I can fit them inside it and hold them there, protected from anyone who would ever hurt their feelings to the smallest degree. 

And then they spend a day fighting or whining, and I’m ready for kindergarten to start.  So ready.  That happens too.  Life is not a magical love-fest every day.  Nope.  For sure not.  But my heart doesn’t care about that either.  It just says, “Mine.  Stay mine.”

They won’t.  They can’t.  And if they did, it would be creepy and wrong.  I know.  So I put on a smile and act excited about kindergarten.  I buy #2 pencils and research bento box style lunch containers.  I take them to playdates with kids who will be entering kindergarten with them, and try not to freak out at the maturity of the kid who is 10 months older.  Try not to freak out that lots of people in our area hold back their kids with summer birthdays and send them to kindergarten when they’re 6, so there will be kids in their classes who are more than a year older.  Just breathe and have faith and try not to freak out.

Try not to freak out.

Try not to freak out.

This summer is ours.  For the pool and vacations and lazy days in pajamas.  For sleeping over friends’ houses for no reason on a random Tuesday.  For too much time on the Wii and sometimes being allowed to get out of bed and watch So You Think You Can Dance or American Ninja Warrior with Mommy and Daddy on the couch when they should be sleeping.  For hugs and hugs and endless hugs.  Don’t go.

Go.  I love you.  Go.

I love you.

Pay the toll

My son just asked me to open a bag of cookies, and I told him he had to "pay the toll," which means a hug or a kiss.  We jokingly make the kids trade affection for favors.  It’s a silly fun game we like to play.  He gave me a kiss, but then said, "Mom, I don't have to, right?" 

He knows he doesn't have to, that it's just a silly thing.  He knows that his body is his own.   We never insist on hugs or kisses if they don't want to.  We ask.  We encourage.  But in the end, their bodies are theirs to control when it comes to affection. 

"No, you don't have to.  But you like to kiss me, right?" I asked him. 

"Right, mom, but you just ask for hugs and kisses too much." 

Heartbreak.

We’ve reached that point already.  The point at which I want their affection more than they want mine.  I can’t believe we’re there already. 

I shrugged it off.  They’re getting older.  They’re busy and have places to be and things to do and snuggling mom is not at the top of the list anymore.  They’re secure and they know I will always be here and it means I am doing my job.

It’s OK, even though, waaah, it totally sucks. 

A few minutes later, he came back in.  I was enjoying a glass of wine while reading on my Kindle. 

“Mom, if you want to drink any wine, you have to pay the toll."

Heartmelt. 

Not gone yet.  I paid my toll, one kiss, and he ran off to do all of the extremely important things in the life of an almost-five-year-old boy.  Gratitude.  These days are not gone yet.

Might makes right

Being a mom. It’s a great job. It’s rewarding, and inspiring, and it fills your heart with love… and sometimes it makes you want to cheerfully bludgeon your sofa cushions to death. No sick days. No vacation days. No measurable metrics of success. No recognition. Shit hours. No respect. And your bosses are total tyrants. They don’t care if you’re having a rough day. They demand that you work weekends, early mornings, late nights, through your lunch break, and through dinner too. They come with you on vacation, and even follow you into the bathroom.

Who would want this job?

Well, I did. Apparently lots of you did. And there’s one more person who seems to. My son.

He has figured out that I’m in charge, and the ambitious little devil is after my job. He has spent the last few months trying to figure out how to become the mommy. See, the mommy says whether or not brownies can be eaten. The mommy is in charge of the Halloween candy, the TV, and the Wii. The mommy decides whether we can buy the remote control helicopter at Toys R Us and what time we go to bed. The mommy has the power, and my kid wants it.

His scientific mind started with rules. The mommy makes the rules. Like this gem: “We never say fruckin’ in this house. Or at least, kids never say that. Sometimes when mommies and daddies are angry or frustrated, they might, but we shouldn’t, and well, just don’t say it in front of your preschool teachers, OK?”

My son’s version: “Mommy,” he tells me in a perfect imitation of my firm voice, “we never ever give time outs in this house.”

But that didn’t work. He still had time outs and he still couldn’t have a Hershey bar 10 minutes before dinner. Hmmmm, he wondered, what else does she do?

I know, she counts.

“Mommy. Get me a lolly right now. One… two… three.”

What?! She didn’t do it. Crap, what happens now? I don’t know. We all live in fear of three. We never get to three. I have no idea what happens when you get to three. I’ll try that for a few days and see what she does.

Oh, right. Time outs. Time outs suck.

I’ll give mommy a time out, and then she’ll learn to heed my counting. “Mommy, give me cookies right now or you will have a time out. One… two… three… That’s it, Mommy. Time OUT. Time out, Mommy. Now you have to go in time out. Mommy? Mommy?”

Crap. How do I get her in time out? Well, how does she get me into time out? I always just go. What happens if I don’t go?

Oh, right, she picks me up and puts me in time out. OK. Got it. I can do that.

Um, no, kid. You can’t. You can drag at my leg all you want. In fact, please do, because it is effing hilarious to watch you try. But there is no way in hell that you are going to be able to get me into a time out against my will. I’m sorry, kid. In the end, the reason that I get to tell you what to do and you don’t get to tell me what to do is that I can pick you up. That’s not fair, is it? It sucks for you. But there it is. You have to do what I say because I am bigger than you.

For now. Hopefully by the time he is a teenager, he will forget this little lesson, and will just do what I say out of habit. Yeah, I know, I’m not holding my breath.

On marriage

My daughter, prompted by the lovely people in Disney’s marketing department, has become interested in brides. The Disney Princess Polly Pocket bride and groom 3-pack, a bridal veil I picked up for her at a thrift store a few months ago, and playing bride with her other toys. We were playing, as usual, with Mario characters, and the twin Princess Peaches decided to get married. (No, not to each other.) For my Peach’s groom, I chose Mario. My daughter chose the less obvious Toad. I guess she’s into a man who is the right height for frequent motor-boating, although surely that gigantic hat would get in the way.

So I asked her, “How do two people get married?”

Her answer: “They dance.”

“That’s it? They dance and then they’re married?”

“Yes.”

Thanks Disney. Yeah, when I think about it, that’s pretty much how it works. They wear wedding clothes and dance, and poof, they’re married. And then the movie ends. Watching them actually be married with how little they knew about each other… watching them try to work it out as their beauty fades and they pop out a couple of kids… that would be a very different movie. But I’m not here to rag on Disney.

I asked next, “After they’re married, what do married people do together?”

“They hug.”

“What else?”

“And kiss, kiss, kiss.”

So far, very sweet. But she goes on.

“Sometimes one gets on the other one’s head.” Um, what?!

She then demonstrates this by showing Mario lying down on the ground and Peach standing on his head. My brain pretty much interprets this as a Mario moustache ride. I have no idea what my daughter intends, but it’s too late. There’s no going back once you picture the Mario moustache ride.

“What else?” I say, NOT giggling.

“The get up on the table together.” And do what? I will not ask.

“Anything else?”

“They watch a show together, and that’s it.”

Now you’re talking, kid. Hug, kiss, moustache ride, get up on the table, and then watch a show. Awesome.

Next kid. Now that I know how fun this is, I am curious what my son will say.

“What do married people do together?”

His response: “I don’t know. Do you know?”

“Yes.”

“Then just say it.”

“I want to know what you think.”

“They go round and round, holding hands like ring around the rosy.” Hmm, Disney again? Or cartoons? A sweet image.

“What else?”

“They do stuff.” Do stuff? I swear there was a naughty twinkle in his eye when he said this. It’s like he knows there’s something there that he doesn’t totally understand. He’s very innocent, of course, but just like me at his age, I think he knows there’s something more, and he’s intrigued. I may be projecting, but I don’t think so. I’m gonna have to watch that one.

“What kind of stuff.”

“Like, check their computers.”

Ah, reality. You are not a Disney movie.

Sauntering under the raised bar

Yesterday, I had an epiphany. About parenting and competition and self-acceptance. I have been working on re-doing the kids’ rooms with the goal of making them excited to have their own rooms after sharing for four years. I’m planning all sorts of ludicrous things for the princess room I always wanted as a kid and the Mario Kart room that I think every little boy might have wanted. I am custom-making a castle bed for my daughter and modifying a little Tikes car bed for my son to make it look like the Wild Wing car from Mario Kart. I am doing a mural in my son’s room and using GlitterGlaze to make my daughter’s walls sparkly. I’m swapping out ceiling fixtures and adding lots of fabulous details that they will never notice.

I was thinking yesterday that if I were someone on the outside looking in, I might be irritated at that mom who was raising the bar.

And it hit me. Blammo. (No, not decorative gourd season. Um, by the way, if you don’t like excessive profanity, don’t click that decorative gourd link.) Aaaaanyway, as I was saying, it hit me. Blammo. I’m not raising the bar. I’m just doing what I love to do. I fully recognize that my kids would be just as happy with some Disney Princess and Mario printed comforters. Everything else I am doing in those rooms, I am doing because I love to plan and decorate rooms. I’m decorating those rooms for ME.

You’re probably thinking, “Well, yeah, duh, of course you’re doing it for you. Your kids are four. I thought you were smart, but if it took you that long to figure it out, you’re really dumb and I’m not reading your blog anymore.” Yes, duh. I did already know that. But also, wow. Because those moms who made their own baby food? Maybe they like cooking and mashing things. Moms whose houses are always clean? That’s probably important to them or maybe they find cleaning therapeutic. Moms who somehow manage to show up in clean clothing with their hair done and makeup that doesn’t look like it was put on in the dark? They must be really into fashion. Moms who go to the park a lot? Maybe they like fresh air more than they like the catchy tunes of the Fresh Beats. Moms who are thin? Maybe they enjoy working out, or maybe the child care at the gym gives them their only alone time of the day, (or maybe they just have a fast metabolism… but let’s not talk about those bitches because then I start getting all swear-y.) Moms who don’t have any crumbs on the floor of the minivan? Well, OK, something weird is definitely going on with those moms. But other than that, do you see it?

Here’s my point. We do what matters to us. And if someone else wants to raise the bar, let them. And then just walk the hell under it. Do your thing. Your kids will remember you for the things at which you are awesome. I remember my mom’s amazing cooking and baking. I remember that we were allowed (nay, encouraged) to get dirty. I remember that she took us to museums. I remember that she (and my dad) made our Halloween costumes. She was awesome at those things. Was our house clean? Nope. Did I care? Nope.

My kids will remember that I took them to the Renaissance Faire, that I decorated their rooms for them, that the three things we never ran out of were fresh fruit, fresh veggies, and brownies, that I planned fun parties, that we did a lot of painting and art, that sometimes I let them stay up late for family fires outside, and that I snuggled them and tickled them and just loved them like crazy.

We all know it’s not a competition. But some days, I forget. And I think most of us, when we forget, probably feel like we are losing. We’re not. We rock. We’re good at what we’re good at, and our kids will remember that we loved them in all of the ways that we are best at showing it.