A writing prompt given to my son last year asked him to create a list of five things. I’m revisiting it this year because 1) the list accurately reflects his thought process, 2) not only is it thoughtful and creative, it’s funny, 3) public schools, 4) he killed it on his PSAT, which is not related but brag-worthy anyway, and 5) today is his birthday. This is his list.
I wrote this review for Bookmans.com in the summer of 2012 after reading The Island of Doctor Moreau aloud with my then 12-year-old son. When Bookmans did a website redesign earlier this year and migrated their website database, we unpublished all but 30 posts. I tweaked this post to park it here for now.
According to The Literature Network, The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896) by H.G. Wells, deals with themes of eugenics, the ethics of scientific experimentation, Darwin’s theories and religion. But it’s summer and who cares about vivisecting literature? We care about enjoying a good book, so we’re providing our own guide to The Island of Doctor Moreau.
Hawt Mz came by the ole cookie booth yesterday. I wanted to tell her something cool like how I wore a Goody comb in my back pocket all day and then leave the story all enigmatically like that. Instead I geeked about books, gossiped about, uh, not gonna say, and then realized I smell like armpits most of the time.
Later the 10-YO, who was sitting behind a plate glass window playing his DS and minding his own business, came to inform me he was getting water for some guy. I looked at the grimy paper cup in his hands and asked, “What guy?” The 10-YO pointed at a man even more grimy than the cup who was peering over the shoulder of a gamer. “Dude, you totally just failed Charlie Check First.” “Yeah, so I’m going to get that guy some water.” “Uh…kay,” I said thinking he would visit the drinking fountain back inside the store and brb. I also took a look at my son’s gaming stuff that he left in the seat next to Creepy McStranger. I wasn’t in the position to leave my 7-YO Girl Scout with all those boxes of cookies plus the cash kitty. She’d totally establish her independence before sundown. Nah, I had to trust the universe. “But after you give him water, get your stuff and move.” I then commenced the “I will f*** you up!” stare at the oblivious man, daring him to look at me. That took about three seconds before my attention was redirected to cookie sales. I later learned the 10-YO didn’t go to the water fountain. He went down the way to a restaurant and got iced water. Iced. Freaking. Water. The 10-YO and I eventually had the expanded stranger danger discussion, during which I asked why he complied with the request. “Because he asked nicely.” I need to lock that boy up.
The 7-YO has another cookie booth in a few minutes.
I’ve discovered that, for work, Twitter is a billion times better for getting my info/gossip fix than anything else and that I act like a total techie jerk when my boss sends me a message like, “This is something so and so should know about ASAP.” Meanwhile I’m thinking, “Yesterday’s news.”
And so if you’ve been following my personal Twitter feed you know that lately I’m all about my great parenting and how God commands my kids to acknowledge my great parenting. This swim suit spied at My Parents Were Awesome would enhance my great parenting, don’t you think? You can tell it’s the perfect swimwear for moms by how it accentuates the firmly-held hand of a young ‘un being dragged to the water. Seriously, I hope someone on Project Runway makes this suit this season. It’s freaking awesome! This is where you say, “Your obsessions are yesterday’s news.” Fortunately, I obsess a lot.
It’s hard not to. Moms get the blame for everything and when they aren’t the target for blame, then they are self-questioning or loathing. Choices, so many choices, with their pros and cons leave us looking over the fence where indeed the grass is greener (bending light, yo). Should I continue to pursue systems think, inquiry-based, performing/visual arts focused education for my kid in a happily diverse school? Or am I, like Hitler’s mother, creating spoiled darlings by encouraging their artistic ambitions though they have no talent? (Yeah, she totally got the blame for that! Fortunately, my spoiled darlings do have talent.) Screw it. If I’m going to mess up my ankle biting rug rats no matter what, then I’m going to have fun and I’m going to do it in that swimsuit.
Cookie season is a major event for the girls in green. They love the excitement and enticements that accompany those sales. In Arizona, boxes are slightly more expensive because they offer so many scholarships to the girls. Last year, our troop sales were incredible and we paid for visits to Build-a-Bear, Rocks and Ropes, and Camp Creepenstein, as well as donating boxes of cookies and cash, and still they put aside a large chunk for later. I hate cookie season.
I have trouble selling the boxes, trouble chasing down the folks who ordered boxes, trouble getting money for the distributed boxes, and worst of all trouble with the self-control of the two adults living under my roof. But the season is here and tonight the Girl Scout leaders for the 7-YO’s troop launched into the various incentives for the girls, possible ways to promote the cookies, and the TONS of (annoying but necessary) rules. I hate rules. They confuse me.
Brownie Leader: You wouldn’t believe some of the things that have happened. For example, parents were taking the cash from the sales and writing bogus checks to the Council, so there’s a rule about that. Also, when staffing a booth, parents can’t stand off to the side smoking and yacking away.
Me: Well, I don’t smoke but the yacking sounds fun.
Magic: A friend of mine just returned from Brazil with a ton of slides.
Me: Oh, I guess I’d be interested in a slide show.
Magic: No. I mean we could take the cookie money and go to Brazil. HELLO?!
Okay, Magic didn’t actually say, “HELLO?!” to my face, but I would have if I were her. See? Rules confuse me. I’d like to take the cash, write a check, and stand off to the side yacking about Brazillion trips.
Redacted part where I propose purchasing cookies for personal, non-profit, and government uses, and paying in cash. Then I make a snarky comment that if my kid sells 3000 boxes ($12,000 in value), she gets a lap top.
My landlord wants to move in with us, which is totally unacceptable. There’s just not enough space here. It doesn’t seem right that I suggest she find someplace else as the house belongs to her and all, so I’m taking 30 days to move my family out of the home we’ve occupied for five years. After checking out the rental $cene, my plan is to beg her to hold off on the contractor, renovations, and moving in for another nine months. She seemed fairly determined that the contractor come this week and so until I convince her that my bright ideas are always the best, I’m going to act as though she is serious about her move. At this point what that means is that my recycle bin is full to capacity.
In going through the ginormous piles of spelling worksheets, old correspondence, and outdated “to do” lists I discovered a box of letters I sent to my father-in-law. Rather than working on one of the eleventy seven brain blog posts floating in my head and in my drafts folder, I’m just going to reprint an update on my first pregnancy. I’m just lazy like that.
Subject: Asexual Alien Baby?
So, I gained a little extra weight. That’s is good. The baby is growing. But the growth came rapidly and my girlfriend and I decided to see if there was a miracle cream that prevented stretch marks — not that I have any. Palmer’s had been recommended, so off to Target we went. Looking at the ingredient list, we came across the substance urea. Sounds frightful, huh? We left the bottle on the shelf and went to consult our old pal, Webster. He told us that urea is mammalian urine. I’m as vain as the next woman, but I don’t know if I am that desperate yet. People keep telling me what is good and bad for me (my underwire bra will give me cancer; if I don’t have two eggs a day I will birth a naked mole rat, which is ridiculous as how could I birth a clothed one?), and I wonder how good can rubbing a belly with urine be for a baby? Granted my sister-in-law tells me that it usually comes on powder form. I must agree that if you have to have hairy animal urine slathered on you, powder is probably the way to go. I have also heard of a convent in Italy where nuns donate their urine for such a product. Perhaps pristine powdered offerings of divine virgins warrants consideration. Nah, of all the things recommended to me, this is by far the scariest.
But this isn’t about lotions or potions, this is about my neuroses. I have plenty, you know. I went my entire life without a cavity and now I have one. This is definitely the baby’s fault. Doesn’t a mother suffer enough?
But this isn’t about my dentist visit, it’s about my OB Visit. Dr. Anderson says my uterus is looking good. Of course, she only looked at my stomach (thank God she isn’t into vaginal look-sees). She said that I could have a walking epidural during labor but wondered why I would want to walk around a hospital hall with my fanny hanging out. She has a point. She said that she doesn’t give episiotiomosectomies as a rule, unless they are necessary and not more than a centimeter of slicing. Mmmm, more fun. She promised that I will have to have an IV and that there are things more frightening than needles, but I don’t believe her. She supports the Bradly method of labor and delivery because they teach you about what is happening to your body, but at the same time she is a doctor and has her own way. Best of all, she blamed my weight gain on heavier clothes. You see why I think she is wonderful?
The kid is still kicking constantly. The other night the baby’s wiggle made me giggle. Mostly, the movement feels like involuntary muscle spasms but this movement was deliberate. I had Handsome Hubster do the laying on of hands thing and every time the baby kicked he said, “DAMN!” Being the generation that we are, we can’t help but think of the birth scene in Alien. This baby is strong I tell you. I imagine that soon the baby will pop out of my stomach via my belly button. Now that I think of it, I broke no ribbons at any of my bridal showers. I did snip one with scissors and my sister-in-law’s mother-in-law, you know how these extended families are, said that meant I would have a cesarean. Ah, one more thing to think about.
You may be able to tell that I am loving pregnancy. The weight gain, the back pain, the abdominal strain. For all this work, I expect some goods in return.
Oh and I did get some goods as evidenced here pictorially. I can only blame the pose on inexperience with mommy hormones. On closer inspection of my face it appears as though I just finished crying.
If you are good, I’ll post some other self-obsessed pregnancy rants. Maybe I’ll tell you about the time I was accused of smuggling a basketball out of Wal Mart, which also happened to my cousin, so I guess it’s a family tradition and not so much a unique experience.
About mid-way between Earth Day and Mother’s Day, Caddo Artist sent me this:
Caddo Care Carton Contents:
Sandy Springs Buffalo Meat Jerky, Hinton, OK
Pepper Creek Farms Dip Mix, Lawton, OK
EEMB Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookie Mix & Peanut Butter Brownie, Lexington, OK
Lasley Roasted Peanuts, Eakly, OK
Scott Farms Tortilla Soup Mix & Reds, Rice, & Spice, Altus, OK
Sooners Salsa, Amigo’s Salsa, Ardmore, OK
Native Roots Market Bumper Sticker, Norman, OK
That there first item was done et straight’way. The brownie soon follered and the salsa wern’t long for this world. I’m not saying that Caddo is fattening me up for reunion slaughter; I am saying I haven’t exhibited much self-control.
Caddo included a card with the quotation, “There is nothing more honorable than motherhood.” I have plans in the coming days to disprove this, but for now, I am embracing the honorific. A separate note read, in part, “I wanted to send the apple pie, it was a party in your mouth with every bite!” The tease! I guess there is honor in motherhood, but cruelty in friendship.
Okay, while she did everything as I have written, the expanded contents of the note were personal, touching, inspiring, and directed straight my way. Perhaps there is nothing more honorable than motherhood, but for sure there’s nothing more humbling than reflective generosity. This mother of three who takes care of her family and friends so well is certainly most honorable.
Not the real sort of housekeeping where I wash dishes or any of that. As the hubster will attest, I detest such frivolity and won’t entertain even the thought it. For example, here is my drawing room:
And my library:
Okay, these are photos of the Collyer Brother’s home, but only because we don’t have a drawing room or a library. Instead we have a landfill and a Goodwill drop-off station, and unlike these photos, my clutter is in color. I’m ignoring the real cleaning for now. The housekeeping to which I refer is the mental, electronic sort. Therefore, today I’m presenting a listy sort of thing.
1. I’ve delivered another phenomenal guest post to Denveater. Seriously, I am so erudite, sophisticated, amazing … where was I? Oh, yes, I am well edited. That’s what I mean. She makes me smart. Big hearts to the glamorous, hilarious, and freakishly intelligent Ruth for whom I’d write anything.
2. While driving around in the minivan listening to the oldies station and not paying attention, the 6 YO girl says, “Mom, if it is a bad case, then he probably should go to the doctor, but I think he’s talking to his girlfriend.”
3. I’ve been crazy stand-on-my-head while running in circles busy. This is the afternoon of my dreams:
Thems are beets from Hawt Mz who identified and lifted one of my many recent foul moods, veggie fried rice fortified by backyard chicken eggs, and a Mexican Coke made with real sugar and not the post-New Coke crap.
4. I’m proud of my for pay job. It’s fun, interesting, and challenging. I actually get to use my college degree. Yup. I got one or two or three. I know, I know. You are shocked, but it’s true. I don’t do anything without my computer guru, Ultimate. Except this, I did this all by myself (with the help of a zillion other people). You can see me in the background trying to convince people how cool my job is. Get out your tissue. Two asides: A) don’t get me in trouble and B) we are in a capital campaign and if you have a check for a million or so, your gift will be fully tax deductible.
And just like that, I’m exhausted and can’t sweep up one more item for you. Those dusty corners aren’t going anywhere. I’m totally going to do a Scarlet O’Hara on them.
I don’t even want to get into the drama clouding the pastoral existence I’ve so desperately attempted to carve out for my family. Don’t ask and don’t tell, please. I’ll keep mine to myself. You keep yours to yourself and we will pretend everything is fine and dandy like a hard candy Christmas. Leave me alone, I’m doing fine, Just go away, I’ll be okay, Please don’t touch me… (an inside joke shared between my family and millions of SNL viewers).
In the midst of major dramas, there are minor dramas. Each fire is put out in its own turn. We plod determinedly ahead. Considering our real-life, unavoidable drama, I have no desire for avoidable, made-up crises – even if they make me giggle a little.
Now, forget everything I just said because I’m gonna share a wee bit o’ priceless, made-up drama. Due to planning shenanigans (avoidable drama), I unexpectedly attended a field trip with the 9-YO boy’s class today. His unhappiness about water molecules made me giggle a little. Dra-ma!
Clearly, as the photo evidences (noun verb, boo-yah!), I am nothing but a loving supportive mother. I’m hugging him; I have a clear look of concern on my face; he has a kissy mark on his face. Yet he sees me as a mustache-twirling evildoer on whom he wishes doom. Or perhaps he’s thinking, “Kill me now!” Whatever the case, I’ll be ready for your drama in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t be surprised if I laugh at your lack of molecular diversity. ‘k?
If you found this blog because of a dirty Google search, get help you perverted bastard. This is not a sick tale. I mean it is, just not in that way.
The sick part is how I take such pleasure in the routine torture of my family with remnants of my somewhat twisted childhood. My brother and I are products of the slight neglect of parents who had a great sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic. The Hubster and company tend to think I’m making stuff up about my childhood as my brother and I always believed my father made up every song he sang while grocery shopping.
I have to prove my childhood memories. “I swear Attack of the Killer Tomatoes is a real movie!” My brother and I watched it every chance we got. Again, being the children of parents who tended to leave us be as long as we didn’t burn down the house (not that we didn’t try), we got lots of chances, late at night, when the Boogey Man roamed the streets.
My brother used to cue me to scream like this:
I rocked the crazy scream. It made big brother giggle. I did it silently during confirmation classes (divorced, beheaded, died, divorced, beheaded, survived). If I were not the old lady soccer mom that I am (I am that I am), I would make a great scream queen.
The hardest sell for those in tow of my thrilling reenactment is that the killer tomatoes are defeated by:
That’s right. As Video Killed the Radio Star, so too Puberty Love killed the killer tomatoes. My family might argue that my rendition of the same killed any interest they had in hearing more of my childhood memories, but that won’t stop me from spending the next few days singing Puberty Love.
