It's That Time Again!

It's the holiday season, which means I'm covered head to toe in glitter and glass shards and at a complete and total loss what to get anyone for Christmas this year.  Welcome to Christmas 2015!

As in typical fashion at my house, we came late to the holiday party.  While everyone else had their tree up the day after Thanksgiving, we finally decorated this past weekend.  Which means, of course, James the Elf is back.

I'm not against the elf.  When we're being creative, he's actually a lot of fun.  But, if you don't already know, we are procrastinators.  Which makes us forgetters.  Which makes us next-morning panickers and rushers.  Which makes us failures.

The 11-year-old doesn't believe anymore (heart. breaking.), but the 8-year-old does.  And, for weeks now, he's been asking after James.  Unfortunately, James had a wee bit of an accident last year.  He was left somewhere a little too close to my sister's dog and... ended up headless.  Somehow, we were able to put him together again, but he's looking pretty beat up.  He's fraying at the neckline, I didn't do a very good job removing the black eye he got from the Nutcracker last year, his smile is just a little less bright.

I'm hoping no one looks too closely.

So, we're on Day 2 of Elf Watch.  Yesterday, he was in the Christmas tree and was thoughtful enough to leave a note, explaining his absence.  (Basically, he thanked us for finally decorating so he could come back.  Yeah, thanks for pointing our our failures, James.)  Today he moved to another Christmas decoration.

We're awesome at this thing.

I'm hoping we'll get a little more creative.  Last year, the husband created a zip line for James to hang from, we've had him have some "fun" (not fun for me) with toothpaste, and there's always Pinterest for inspiration... or to make us look worse.

Can't.  Wait.

I Saw You Before You Got Up This Morning

Here's the thing about kids:  they have needs.  And you, as the parent, have to fulfill every. single. one. of those needs. Until they're old enough to be kicked out fulfill those needs themselves.

Most of the time, it's a joy to help my boys.  They are good boys (bless them) and I am glad to be there for them.  Although, I recently read an article about what my 11-year-old should be doing by this age and am failing.  Miserably.  I actually noticed it the other day when I was cutting up his meat.  I mean, really?  He's 11.  Pick up a damknife and do it yourself already.

Anyway, my 8-year-old hasn't been feeling well.  He has had a cough for what seems like months and came home from school yesterday complaining of ear pain.  We know where this is going.  Luckily, I had enough time to call the pediatrician and secure an appointment for 8:00 this morning.

Btw, if you ever are ever offered the first appointment of the day?  Take. It.  It's amazing.

Most days, I try to be awake and ready to go before the children get up.  This allows me to focus on them, ensuring we don't forget anything.  Like homework.  And lunches.  And, on the rare occasion, the child himself.  There have been mornings when I'm running around like crazy and my oldest son has to remind me (5 minutes before we're ready to leave), "Lunch?"  Crap!

This morning, we left the house at 7:30.  I have to give myself props for getting out of the house on time.  Because?  I'm Greek.  "On time" means "at least 15 minutes late" in our world.  Our pediatrician is about 15 miles away.  She made sense when we lived in the same city, but, now that it's a good 30 minutes to get to her, I wonder if we should switch.  But, I love her and switching requires work, so... 30 minutes it is.

We got to the doctor at 8 on the dot (woo!), saw her for about 5 minutes, got our script and left.  Best appointment ever.  There's vindication when you get a prescription, isn't there?  Like you didn't just spend 60 minutes in the car, another 30 minutes in the waiting room, and 5 minutes with the doctor for nothing.  Somehow, I was able to get my 8-year-old to school on time, too (double woo!), and me to work at a reasonable time (well, we can't have everything).

However well this morning went, I can't help but fondly remember what it was like before kids.  When I used to get up in the morning and only have to get myself ready.  There was no yelling, no rushing (well, maybe there was rushing [Greek]), and no stress.  While I may have been a rock star this morning, this is not typical.  Which is why I had to write about it.  For posterity.

See, kids?  Mommy was on time!

So, Your Kid is Taking Sex Ed? Mine, Too.

My 11-year-old is in the 5th grade.  5th grade in our school district means APL, or Art of Personal Living.  Let's just call it what it is, OK?  It's sex ed.  With a tiny focus on,"Clean yourselves, yo.  You will stink more as you age."

I took APL in 5th grade, too.  It was all thrillingly awkward.  I wanted to know, but, also, didn't want to know.  You know?  Lord knows my parents weren't going to tell me a damthing.  And I was right. When I asked my mother about it later, she just said, "I figured school would take care of it."  The only advice I got from my mom in that area was, "God doesn't want you to do it until marriage."

Aaaaand, end scene.

Anyway, my experience wasn't traumatic.  They glossed over anything remotely interesting.  You know, what to actually DO when you do it.  And, in hindsight, I'm perfectly fine with that.  A) I was eleven and shouldn't know anyway and B) it means my children won't know either.

They had a parent meeting before our children's class began.  I was unable to make it, but my brother went (his daughter is also taking the class).

Sidenote:  Can I just say, once again, how entertaining it is (for me) that my brother got the girls?  As awful as he was to girls growing up, including me, I find it deeply satisfying that he now has to worry about boys like him hurting his beautiful, beautiful daughters.  Not that I want them to hurt either.  I just kinda wish he could go back in time and be this guy instead of that guy.  But, I digress.

So, the class.  With bleeding ears, he listened to them talk about periods and acne and various other horrifyingly hormonal happenings.  It all seemed very vanilla to me.  I mean, yes, periods are uncomfortable to talk about, but, well, whatever.

Fast forward to the afternoon of the first class.  All day, I knew my son had this class.  I had learned my lesson about oversharing, so I had decided that I would play it cool and not ask a damthing.

Turns out, I didn't have to.

He came right home and said, "So, we had our first APL class."

Me (side-eyed, pretending to be doing something else):  Oh?
Him:  Yeah.  She gave us a pretest to find out what we knew.  We had to answer, 'yes', 'no', 'not sure'. I said 'not sure' to a lot.
Me:  Like what?
Him:  I don't remember all of the questions, but one was (small, embarrassed smile), 'Do you know what a penis is?'
Me (to myself):  OK, a necessary evil.
Him (continuing):  Semen...
Me (again, to myself):  Oh, God.
Him:  Wet dream...

I blink.
He blinks.

Me:  Oookaaaayyy... do you want to know what these things are?
Him:  NO!  I'm going out to play!
Me (to myself):  Oh, thank God.

I'm not sure if I should be horrified or proud that he doesn't know these things yet.

I'm going with proud.

What to Do When a Girl Breaks Your Son's Heart: A Tutorial

A few weeks ago, my 11-year-old was mopily (yeah, it's a word.. to me) playing Legos at the kitchen table.  I could tell all was not right in the state of Denmark, but I didn't want to pry.  Like most parents, engaging a pre-teen in conversation is like trying to capture a cat in order to take him/her to the vet.  You have to creep up on her all stealth-like, get her to trust you, maybe even pet her once, and then BAM! Attack! Wrestle all 4 limbs to the ground! Shove headfirst into the travel carrier! Run like the wind!

Is that just me?

Anyway, so I engage.

Me:  Hey, kid.  What's going on?
Him:  Eh, nothing.
Me:  You OK?
Him:  Well, I just found out [girl's name] likes someone in her class.
Me (side-eyed):  Oh...
Him:  I thought she liked me.

I could hear the pitter-patter of his little heart breaking a little.  Or maybe it was mine.  What do I do in this situation?  I know what it's like to have a crush not reciprocated.  That was me for most of my formative years.  Crushes suck.  To quote the dad from Sixteen Candles:

"That's why they call them crushes.  If they were easy, they'd call them something else."

Dang, 80s movies are so, like, poignant.

So, to help all the mothers out there with similar stories, I have put together a tutorial.  You're welcome.

1.  Try not to wring the girl's neck.  This should be a no brainer - no one wants to go to jail.  But, you have to be reminded of this when you next see this person who has (knowingly or not) stomped all over your son's feelings.  In our situation, the girl came over almost immediately after he told me, I had to hold myself back from drop-kicking her out our back door. Instead, she got the stink-eye. Take that!

2.  Allow your son to share his feelings without going all mama bear on him. As I watched him struggle with grown up feelings, while playing a child-like game, I wanted to grab him, hold on for dear life, and say, "I know how you feel!  I've loved, too!!  Allow me to tell you about ALL of them!  In detail!!!"  Which then leads you into #3.

3.  Share your own painful, and extremely personal, stories of heartbreak.  In retrospect, this is probably bad advice.  As I walked him through my many stories of unrequited love, he looked more and more alarmed.  He really should know better than to talk to a mother of sons.  Who else am I supposed to share my wealth of knowledge with?  I know better now!  Let me teach all you girls of a certain age!  Boys are dumb!

If these words of wisdom don't send your son running for the hills, ensuring this is the LAST TIME he'll ever come to you for advice, you obviously did it wrong.

In the end, it all wound up OK.  The girl is a friend of his, she continues to come over daily and I just have to get over it. He seems fine with it (really, he seemed fine with it less than 10 minutes after it happened).

That's boys for you.  



Disclaimer:  I am in no way, shape or form a person who should be giving actual parenting advice.  Please do not attempt any of the above.  Especially the wrestling of the cat.

The Story of an Unlikely Hip Hop Girl

For as long as I can remember, I've loved hip hop & R&B music.  I don't even know how it happened.  I grew up in a fairly "Top 40" kind of town, where would I have learned the awesomeness that was LL Cool J? Ice T? The Beastie Boys?  Keith Sweat?  Granted, a lot of their songs were mainstreamed, but I continued to listen to (and memorize) ALL the songs on their albums.  I was hooked.  And, an excellent rapper [read:  no, not at all].

In high school, it was more of the same.  Sure, I ran with the crowd. I knew the words to Madonna's "Vogue" or (shudder) memorizing the "rap" to Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire".  But, rap, hip hop, R&B?  That was my thang.

In college, I had more freedom to listen to what I wanted at higher decibels.  As you know, I love to swear, so swearing because the song called for it was the peanut butter to my chocolate.  I met similar-minded people in college.  My roommate was devastated when 2Pac was killed.  We listened to him all night long.  She called her long-distance boyfriend to make sure he was okay.  We mourned when Biggie was killed, too.

So, we spent our weekends dancing at clubs and overtaking the DJ booth at our favorite bar.  We danced and sang and rapped and hip hopped all the livelong day.  It was pretty fucking awesome, G.

These days, I still listen to my music.  A white girl.  In her minivan.  Driving down her predominantly white street.  Because SiriusXM has created a station called The Fly. Hip hop from the 90s.  That shit is playing in my car 24/7, yo.  To add to that, I have become a sideshow at book club.  My friends and coworkers are always amazed and, yes, amused when I tell them my favorite songs.

And then they make me rap.

Listen.  Just because I know the words by heart doesn't mean I can perform them well.  I'm a small, white girl.  I don't even have swagger.

And, you know, grammar is important to me.

But, it doesn't matter.  Because I'm such entertainment, my one girlfriend downloaded a bunch of music to her Kindle so I could perform for her yet again at this month's book club.

My once considered hard-core rap existence has become an opening act (or closing act, if I've had a lot to drink) for all our parties.

What do I care?  I get to listen to my music!  Bring it!