Dancing the night away

My parents gave up classic rock and roll when I went away to college.  My mom finally convinced my dad to take dance lessons, country western swing dance lessons.  After a couple of weeks, they realized their timing was off because my dad was listening to The Beach Boys in his head.  He gave it up for my mom.  Ten years later, they go dancing four nights a week dancing with the car radio blasting country, with my dad crooning songs as he listens to his MP3 player.

Good country music is all right, but I’m an alternative girl.  I spent my youth going to straight edge clubs, dancing to garage bands, moshing, skanking, free style dancing.  I love the rawness of it, the newness, the trying something different, looking for the new sound.  I love just dancing too it, though my dancing has been cut drastically since the boys, not to mention monitoring those adult content songs.

My mom is starting a line dancing class this Wednesday.  She has been scouring for more dances, calling all her friends and associates, making flyers, getting babysitting for the boys.  “You’ll come, won’t you? Your dad can watch the boys and bring them to the bar when the class is over.”  Um.  Line dancing?

It takes me several days of practice to get a dance down.  I hardly know my left from my right.  To remember all those steps, timed with music, it makes my mind swirl, and I end up looking as graceful as a cow.  I won’t tell you how many weeks it took me to learn to swing back in high school, which is all forgotten now.  I won’t bore you with details of the private dance lessons (because the husband doesn’t dance without a blood-alcohol level of .16) two months before the wedding.  Not to mention, line dancing?  What part of my music taste equals group coordination?  It’s all about not being a Tool, Raging Against the Machine, having a Green Day.

But it’s my mom.  She needs social approval, so if no one comes she’ll be crushed.  She needs moral support, so if I don’t come, she’ll be hurt.  Granted if her friends come, then I’ll be completely ignored, but I don’t need social approval.  To her it’s a gone conclusion that I’ll be there.  I don’t want to, but I feel I have to because look at all the softball, volleyball, basketball, Girl Scout, swimming, drama, school events she had to attend for me. 

Though this cow doesn’t want to, I’ll be there tomorrow night (unless I can come up with a good excuse) with combat boots on instead of bells (or cowboy boots).  Well, at least, I look good in a cowboy hat.  Just promise me I can still get the new Green Day album.

Rock and roll

Back in high school, I had to do a report on ancient Egypt, which I got an A.  During the research, I came across a fascinating book about ancient Egypt that I ended up reading cover to cover instead of the small part I needed for my report because the author was so engaging and interesting.  It was the first non-fiction book, I enjoyed.

I remember reading the chapter about children and childhood in ancient Egypt.  The author wrote about the amazing toys found in tombs, in archeological digs.  There were toys that rolled, toys that made sound, lions that jaws opened and closed.  Some of the toys were very complex.  At the end of the chapter, the author went on to write about how the kids were probably delighted by these bright, shiny, new toys but fifteen minutes later they were probably playing with the dirt and rocks, forgetting the toys, like children today.  I laughed at the truth of it.

Now I see the truth of it.

Last week to keep the plastic grass carpet from blowing away (because our rental house only has rocks for a backyard), I placed a brick-sized red rock on the corner.  It worked perfectly.  Then the other day, Sean decided to adopt it.  He brought it inside, barely able to carry it.  When we tried to take it away in fear of him dropping it on his toe, he wouldn’t be parted with it. 

NO!  My Ra-rock!

Evan was a little jealous of the attention, so he brought in his own rock, same color, much smaller. With some cartoons and a trip to Grandma’s and Papi’s, Sean forgot all about his rock.

Until we came home. 

My Ra-rocks!

Then Sean went back to playing with his rock and Evan’s smaller rock.  Evan had moved on.  When bedtime came, Sean lugged his rocks into the room with him, sitting next to them during story time.  He was insistent that the rocks went to bed with him, but I feared for Sean’s little noggin.  I told Sean we would leave them beside his bed, which induced heart-wrenching wail after heart-wrenching wail.  Evan chimed that we could put the rocks in the doll bed, and he put them in and covered the rocks with a blanket.  I took Sean out of bed to say goodnight to his rocks.  In his distress, Sean ran out of the room seeking a place to throw a temper tantrum.

Sean: My Ra-rocks!  My Ra-rocks!

Me: Come on, Sean.  Let’s say goodnight to the rocks.  You can play with them in the morning.  They have their own bed, and they are tired.  Goodnight, rocks!  Sweet dreams, rocks!

Sean: Night-night, my ra-rocks!

While Sean peeked over his rail a few times to make sure his rocks were safe and sound, he made no more commotion about the rocks sleeping arrangements.  He went to sleep himself.

The next morning, Sean woke me up for a story and juice.  We played for a little bit, until Sean got up and ran from the room.  He ran into his bedroom.

Sean: WAKE UP!

Fearing that Sean was trying to wake up a sleeping big brother, I ran into the bedroom to swish him back into the family room.  I found Sean on the floor next to the doll bed, cradling the rocks.

Sean: Wake up, my ra-rocks!

Giving into this new turn of events, I’ve decided to go with the flow, praying that Sean doesn’t break any toes.  When we leave, I scoop up the rocks and place them in a tote for easy transportation.  Every bedtime and naptime, the rocks are put to sleep in the doll bed.  I even debated on painting them, but I’ll let Sean tell me if he wants to do that.

I’m just wondering if I should be relieved that it isn’t a coconut that will rot or worry because it’s a rock so it’s here to stay.

Boys!

Hmmmm. Right.

 

Yes, that’s my eldest son.

Yes, those are pennies on his nipples.

Yes, he’s proud of the accomplishment.

Yes, I’m glad he’s a boy and not a girl.

It’s all about names

Mommy, this is Sicky the robot.

Mommy, this is Sicky the cactus.

Meet my friend, Sicky the bug.

Mommy, say hi to Sicky the car.

This is my friend Sicky the bear.

My friend Sicky the monster is coming swimming with us.

Sicky the dinosaur is going to have lunch with us.

Mommy, Sicky the duck is thirsty.

Mommy, Sicky the octopus is hungry.

Sicky the worm wants to play outside.

Sicky the snake is my friend.

Sicky the dog wants to watch cartoons.

Sicky the turtle doesn’t want peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Look, it’s Sicky the rock.

 

Kid, we’ve got to expose you to more names.   I don’t know how, but we will. 

 

Look in the mirrors Mommy.  It’s my friends Sicky, Dicky, and Luke.  They’re brothers.

 

Ok, I can work on this.

 

Met my friend Sicky the truck.

This is Sicky the dragon.

Look, it’s Sicky the tree.

 

Or not.  What happen to Gooey?  I miss him.

Project Womb: The Hope for Pink Booties

I would like to jinx myself in a public forum.  I’m announcing we’re going to go for another baby because I’ve just got this burning, crazy desire, and we’re hoping it’ll be a girl.  It’s not like I wouldn’t absolutely love another boy, but it would be awfully nice to have a girl in the mix.  With every added penis to the household, I become more girly to contradict the incoming waves of testosterone.  Soon I won’t be able to open a jelly jar.  This is all the research I’ve been doing to try and up the chances of a baby girl.

 

First we’ve ruled out help from science.  It just doesn’t sit right with me.  It’s like I’m pushing us towards Gattaca.  And that ain’t right.

I’ve also ruled out the Chinese birth calendar.  It worked for Evan.  It did not work for Sean.

I’m ruling out times for conceiving in the month.  One, it’s pretty complicated, mathy stuff, and I just don’t do mathy.  I also don’t count very well.  Actually I was sure I couldn’t conceive when we happened to make Sean.  Oops.  We were just beginning to talk about it.  I’m one of those you-know-we-should-have-a-oops-I’m-pregnant kind of girls.  I probably won’t have time to synchronize our watches, much less our calendars.

 

This leaves me with the most interesting of advice.

I’m changing my diet in hopes to make my womb less hospitable for Y sperm.  I’m to eat lots of diary (check), vegetables (check), fish (does sushi or fried count?), and a piece of chocolate (check, check, and check).  I’m to stay away from caffeine.  Yeah, I laughed too since I need that caffeine.  (What am I going to do when that test becomes positive.)  Supposedly this will make my womb more acidic, killing off the weaker but faster Y sperm.  Fun fact: Did you know women actually produce a type of spermicide?

We’re changing positions.  The advice for girls suggests missionary or woman-on-top positions in hopes that the Y sperm will tire out before the egg as the X sperm go for the gold as long distance swimmers.  Since I know for a fact that Evan and Sean were conceived missionary, we’ll have to go for the other one.

There’s also talk about the time of day having an effect, which I find laughable, but heck, I’ll try it.  Since I know what time of day the boys were conceived, I wonder if my parents will watch them for an afternoon or two every month.

My favorite: When making love, keep a frying pan under the bed.  It’s an old wives tale, but I won’t rule out anything.

The husband’s favorite: They suggest that when trying to conceive a girl to have the woman not orgasm.  The husband’s first reaction was for my well-being, which is touching, but since I’m willing to sleep with a frying pan under my bed, I think I can go without a few Os for the sake of a girl.  He was still chuckling for a day or two when I pointed out how many people we know who have daughters.  A whole round of laughter commenced for another few days.  When I mentioned it to my mom, she pointed out that she had a girl first, which showed my father’s improvement.  Then I tried to scrub my brain clean of that conversation.  That obviously did not work.

Now that you know too much about my sex life, you can laugh with me when that sonogram shows a little penis.

Don’t worry.  I can handle three boys.  It’s four that I can’t handle.

A Comedian is Born

Humor runs in the family.  Nothing makes my family happier then sharing a joke, making a joke, being in on a joke or becoming the butt of a joke.  Ok, maybe the last one is a stretch, but if it’s a good joke, even the butt can find it amusing or at least tolerable.  In my experience, if my dad is telling a story where I have to come out looking dumb for the joke, I just sit back and take it, knowing the more I protest the story the dumber I look.  I think the daughter does protest too much.

We weren’t surprised when Evan started to aspire into the family hobby.  I was more surprised at where he started.  He skipped over basic fart and burping jokes and went straight to knock-knock jokes.

Evan: Knock-knock.

Me: Who’s there?

Evan: Wormy!

Me: Wormy who?

Evan: Wormy has a hat! (Insert Evan’s manic laughter.)

If you get it, let me know.

But the uncles worked on him.

Me: Knock-knock.

Evan: Who’s there?

Me: Boo.

Evan: No, Mommy.  You have to use a word!

Uncle M: Trust us, Evan.

Uncle T: It’ll be funnier near the end.

Uncle M: Knock-knock.

Evan: Who’s there?

Uncle M: Boo!

Evan: NO!  Uncle M!  Use words!

Uncle T: Let’s try it again, Evan.  Knock-Knock . . .

After many hours of training, Evan made it.

Evan: Knock.  Knock.

Me: Who’s there?

Evan: Boo!

Me: Boo who?

Evan: (in a high pitched voice) Whyyoucrying?!  (insert Evan’s manic laughter.)

But the banana-orange knock-knock joke is far beyond Evan, but I won’t repeat the laborious hours of teaching that joke.  (WHY DO YOU KEEP SAYING BANANA?!)  I have spent all afternoons saying “whose there” and “boo who.”  We haven’t gone to anything more complicated, waiting for him to get older, smarter, more sophisticated (because that’s what you need to get a good fart joke, according to the uncles.)

Then the other day Evan was eating breakfast with Sean while I unloaded the dishwasher.

Evan: Mommy, what do you call a man with a coconut on his head?

Me: I don’t know.  What do you call a man with a coconut on his head?

Evan: PAPI!!!! (insert Evan’s manic laughter)

My son made is first insult joke, alluding to my dad’s bald head.  My first thought was “Wait, until I tell Papi; you’re now open game.”  My second thought was, “Welcome to the family, kid.”

Words to Live by

I’ve come up with my parenting motto.  I feel like a geek with making up a saying for being a parent, but I found the words to define the kind of parent I want to be.  They just popped in my head while I took a shower.

 

To love unconditionally.

To always be right there in their corner. 

To always get their back.

To separate them from the stupid things they are bound to do.

 

To love unconditionally.   It is a no brainer.  Loving unconditionally is what we should do as parents.  The rest of the motto defines how I plan to love unconditionally. 

To always be right there in their corner.  This means a little more than what most people assume.  While I have known people that have been upset that I didn’t “get their back” and I wasn’t “in their corner,” this phrase doesn’t mean supporting some one right or wrong, no matter what.  It’s a boxing term.  Who is in the boxer’s corner?  His trainer, his manager, his coach.  These people train and teach.  Of course, they encourage, but they also instruct, critique, even fight the boxer to keep the boxer safe by throwing in the towel.  Being in someone’s corner means not only being there for the person but willing to call that person out on the crap that s/he is doing.  That’s the job of a parent.

To always get their back.  Again this doesn’t mean defend someone right or wrong.  It is to defend a person from cheap shots, from people who fight dirty.  It means to try and protect someone where they are most vulnerable.  As parents, we are protectors.

To separate them from the stupid things they are bound to do.  We all do stupid things.  We just usually do them in our youth.  But those stupid things are not us.  They are what we did.  No matter what our kids do, we know that they are who they are, not what they did or will do.

Everything else is blue . . .

We’ve learned to strip Sean of his swimsuit immediately after he swims.  Or else he walks over to the grass and pees in his swim trunks.   Sean stood on the pool decking, naked, shivering in the wind, waiting for Uncle M to climb out of the pool after he fetched all the diving toys the boys let drop in the deep end.  My brother looked at Sean and then at me.

Uncle M: Hey, Fae! I can tell when Sean’s cold.

Me: From his shivering?

Uncle M: No.

Me: From the bright blue color of the scar on his lip.

Uncle M: Nope.  His penis is totally blue.

Me: What?!

Who doesn’t rush over to see a blue penis?

Papi: Well, we now know he’s pick up line in college.  Girls, have you ever seen a blue penis?

Me: (groan)

Papi: Or.  Some guys get blue balls, but I get a blue penis.

Me: (roll of eyes and groan) You know this is going to go in the blog.

Papi: Or. Gu-

Uncle M: Evan! No!  We don’t touch people’s penises.

Evan: But I want to see it!

Me: Evan, we don’t touch some one else’s penis.  Even if we want to look at it.  Here, Seanny.  (I wrapped Sean in a towel and carried him in the house.)

Papi: Ok, how about this one? –

I slammed the back door shut.

Learning Bathroom Etiquette

Last week as I set out a breakfast of pancakes for the boys, I called for Evan and Sean to come get breakfast.

Evan: (from the master bedroom) In a minute, Mommy!  I need to watch Daddy pee first!

Lucky Daddy.

 

Then the other day we were hanging out with my baby brother.  Like the great uncle he is, my baby brother played with the boys, wrestling, sword fighting, tickling, playing cars.  Finally my brother had to excuse himself to use the restroom.  Knowing Evan and being modest, my brother locked the bathroom door.  Evan walked right in to the door, and then he started knocking to get in.  My brother only knocked back.  Evan gave up.

Evan: Mommy, why did Uncle M lock the door?

Me: Because he’s going potty and he doesn’t want you in there.

Evan: Uncle M doesn’t want me to see his penis.

Me: (thinking for a second) Yes.

Evan: Daddy doesn’t mind me seeing his penis.

Me: That’s because Daddy is teaching you to pee.

Evan: Why is he doing that?

Me: Because one day you’re going to pee standing up.

Evan: Why?

Me: Because that’s what big boys and men do.

Evan: Why?

Me: Because it’s easier.

Evan: Why? – Oh, Uncle M!  Let’s play ball!

Saved by my baby brother.

Dad

When I decided to go away for college, I had a panic attack after I sent in my acceptance letter.  I closed the door to my room and cried, thinking about my teenage brothers and my dad.  When I left for college, who would hug and kiss my dad?  Who would kiss him goodbye before he left for work or before bedtime?  Who would randomly give him hugs?  Like every other existential crisis I had, my dad just gave me a few words and pushed me on my way.

I got a lot of things from my dad: my cheeks, my smile, the female version of his family’s nose, my sense of humor, my flair for drama, my lone wolf style, my storytelling.  His tact and way with people skipped me and went to my brothers.  Bummer.  While he teased me about having to put more years into the force since someone had to go to college, I knew he couldn’t have been prouder.

One Sunday when my mom was too sick to go to church, my dad took us across the street to the elementary school.  He carried two five gallon buckets brimming with softballs as I carried my mitt and bat and my brothers carried their mitts.  He pitched ball after ball to me, teaching me to hit.  He never lost patience or got tired of pitching.  No matter how bad of a hitter I was.

Then there was the crisis of faith I had a week before my confirmation, wondering if I was doing the right thing, choosing the right faith.  My dad sat and listened to a thirteen-year-old kid asking how did one hear the voice of God and would God be angry if I chose the wrong faith.  He nodded and then told me that if I couldn’t think of a different faith to go to then I should go right ahead with my confirmation.  He assured me that God would lead me to the faith I was meant for, and my dad wasn’t even a Catholic.

My dad can be an intimidating guy, with his cop walk and all.  One Monday during my freshman year in high school, my dad came early to pick me up from swim practice because Monday nights were Boy Scout nights.  My dad came dressed in his Boy Scout leader uniform.  As we walked to the car, we walked by three damn-we’re-tough-and-cool teenage boys smoking their cigarettes trying to look like rebels.  The minute my dad made eye contact with them, those boys snapped to attention, hiding their cigarettes behind their back.  The leader of the pack said, “Good evening, sir.  How are you?”  For years I tried to emulate that walk.

But the night that sticks in my mind was the night I got to hang out with my dad.  I arrived home around midnight after a babysitting job to find my dad waiting for me, not even pretending to go to bed as he usually did.  I popped into the family room to give him a kiss goodnight to find that he was watching Bill Cosby Himself.  “Sit down, Fae.  The first time I saw this I nearly peed my pants laughing.”  So I sat down and nearly peed my pants laughing.  From the night on, when I came home late, my dad was there, and we would talk.  I’d listen to all his amazing stories or get his opinion on politics or matters in my life. 

The one thing I miss now that we moved here is that there are no more late night discussions.  There is always some one around.  Sure, we find time to talk.  But it’s different when it’s night and everyone’s sleeping.  And it’s just the two of you.  When it comes to measuring myself up against a pole, it’s my dad that I measure myself up against.  It’s my dad that I want to make proud, that I don’t want to disappoint.  I’m sure he would hate knowing that because all he ever wanted was for us kids to live the life we wanted, not the life my mom envisioned.  I never thought I was a daddy’s girl.  Until I wrote this.  As I end this I remember all the other memories that I have with my dad, and I could go on and on, telling tales just like my dad.

My Dad and me