The words “bad hair day” should NOT be uttered by a second grader.
Enough said. (And yes, they were.)
Monthly Archives: January 2013
To Publish or Perish
L came home yesterday and announced he had begun his magnum opus, called…. er…. maybe, “Red Eyes in the Night.” He explained it was a horror story (this from the boy who still nearly faints at the sight, description, or even mention of blood) and he had conquered Ch. 1. He told me that the secret to writing a successful horror story is to “add as much detail as possible. That’s very, very important.” When I asked why, he said, “details make the reader feel like he’s IN the story.”
Sounds good.
He told me that the second chapter would start with a simple sentence: “Meet me at the dock.”
“Doesn’t that make you curious? Aren’t you just dying to know what happens?”
He also said this was the first book he was truly committed to finishing. He then asked, “how old do you need to be to publish a book?”
M: “There are no age limits.”
L: “Wow. Seriously? Okay, I’m going to really make it the best it can be and see if I can get my book published.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I could make (and publish) the book for him. Better to have him shop it around, and see what kind of movie deal he can secure.
Play What?
Gads, while I love having L’s buddies over (and vice versa), I practically break into hives when I hear the term, “play date.” Can everyone come up with something else and we’ll universally change it? Just saying.
To Starve?
L is intent on being an artist. Having grown up wanting to be an artist (and somehow actually making a living at something very creative), my heart stops when I hear how passionate he is about this endeavor. The expression “starving artist” sounds romantic. It’s not. And, of course, I’ll support whatever he loves.
As long as it’s legal.
Gratuitous Post or… Letting Go
Last Fourth of July:
Oh, the Fourth. BBQ, fireworks (provided by professionals), loud noises, and the ever-present, “Ooooooooh” after a giant peony-shaped burst appears over head. Cheesy, roadside stand fireworks, not so much. Years and years and years of hearing my mother say, “you’ll lose a hand” have embedded themselves in my psyche. Even sparklers are fraught with danger.
Actually, they’re not. They’re fun and manageable and if I can shut my brain off and let go, everything’s going to be fine. Letting go, not so easy.
Fun with Food
Every eating outing is ripe with opportunity for creativity with L. Featuring Jolly Roger aka cherries and Wassup, Mr. Wasabi.
Surprise?
I arranged for L to take a swimming evaluation and start private lessons. My error? I did all of this a couple of days ago and somehow forgot to tell him.
M: “L, we’re going to go swimming today! Woo hoo!”
L: “What do you mean?”
M: “We’re (I’m using the royal WE) going to a great, heated pool and are going to see where you are and then start lessons.”
L: “WHAT?! I’ve been taking lessons at school for three years.”
M: “Yes, and they just concluded, so now you get to have cool, individual lessons.”
L: “Why didn’t you tell me? What if I drown? What if I’m not good enough? Mom, this is the kind of thing I need to prepare for. I need to have enough time to mentally get myself ready. You can’t just spring this on me. This is becoming a problem. You sign me up for things but you don’t ask me and you don’t give me enough notice. This doesn’t work for me. Who knows if these people can really swim? If I’ll be supervised? Do you want me at the bottom of the pool?”
M: “Got it. Discuss then act.”
Super Duper
In honor of the team that won’t see the Super Bowl for a long, long time, I give you the Spirit of Football Past (yup, that’s the black & silver).
What the F?
Yesterday as I was chopping some veggies for dinner, I nicked my finger and let out an F-bomb.
L: “Mom, I think it would be more appropriate for you to stop using that sort of language. If you’re telling me not to use it, I think you should stop using it. You’re sending a confusing message.”
M:
L: “Do you think you can stop using that sort of language? Because you’re sort of telling me it’s okay. And I know it’s not.”
M: (DREAM SEQUENCE: You betcha, I will not say s–t, f–k, a–h–e, d-bag, d–k wad, h–l to the no. I will abstain from such language.)
M: “Got it. No more potty mouth.”
L: “Great. What’s for dinner?”
Puberty Punt
While sitting in the general waiting area at L’s doctor’s appointment yesterday, I was handed a pile of paperwork. The usual stuff… Brushes teeth, eats a billion servings of vegetables every single day, doesn’t spend 12 hours in front of a video game… We happened upon a printout on puberty.
Apparently, girls can start puberty at age 8 these days. Who knew?
L was reading over my shoulder and said, “what starts to happen at age 8? What does that mean?”
(He’s terrified. I can hear it in his voice.)
M: “Well, that age applies only to girls. Seems some girls’ bodies can start to change when they’re eight years old.”
L: “Like what? What kind of changes? Like they get wrinkles?”
Thanks.
L: “Okay, so what happens to boys when they turn 10?”
M: “How would I know? I’m not a boy. You’ll have to ask your dad.”
A good punt if ever there was one.
My Kid Wears A Gas Mask 