L: “I think I aced my spelling test today.”
M: Why’s that?
L: “I studied really hard and I have a system.”
M: (He has a lot of systems). How’s it work?
L: “I use my brain like a computer. I scan the words and then store them in my memory. Then when I need to spell them, I see them in my mind and I just copy them down. Just like that.”
M: Wish I had that.
L: “Maybe if you practice a bit more…”
L spent the latter half of his spring break solo with dad in a cabin. Here’s something that I think is basically true (with exceptions, of course). When the fellas are hanging out with other fellas, they ingest only cured meat products, their mouths clamp shut if faced with a vegetable or a fruit, and they forgo bathing at all costs.
I suppose a mother should expect such things. I can only hope we’ve averted scurvy.
To that, soapy, warm, clean L.
Rock hopping, bike riding, hoops, skipping stones, hiking forests, banana slugs, and no four leaf clovers.
The biggest gift? Most of it was done solo.
L: I’m going to ride my bike to the park. See ya.
Spring break draws to a close.
Just as L began talking about his many conquests (the holding hands, pulling hair variety), this morning he asked where all of his stuffies had gone.
L: “Do we still have Stingy and Sharky and Woofy?”
M: “I think we do.”
Pan to the bed where Sammy the ice-cream sandwich, Bully the bulldog, Ali the albino alligator, and the above are now resting.
There is a reason we don’t throw everything away. The purple blanket he’s slept with from his first breath is still accessible in a heartbeat. Especially because I have it in triplicate.
Can never be too prepared for age eight or eighteen.
Some ramblings from last night:
L: “I think L and I broke up. I think we’re better as friends.”
M: “You broke up? Broke up from what? What do you mean?”
L: “Well, she was crushing pretty hard on me and I really like her, but in the end, I think we’ll be friends.”
M: (Aghast.)
L: “So now, I’m thinking about C only I think she likes V and I’m not sure I’ll get anywhere with that.”
M: “Where is ‘anywhere?'”
L: “You know, when you like someone. LIKE like.”
M: “I think you and dad are going to have that talk sooner rather than later.”
L: “Oh, gross. Do we have to?”
There are moments, okay, hours, if not weeks, when I wonder if L wasn’t switched at birth.
Case-in-point:
M: “Did you make your bed?”
L: “Yup.”
M: “Brush your teeth?”
L: “Yup.”
M: “Sing Rihanna’s new song really loudly without knowing any of the words?”
L: “Nope.”
That last one makes me wonder. Because the order in which I would do my chores would definitely start with singing. And, if I ever made my bed when I was a kid, it bore no resemblance to this tidy bit of work.
(Are the stripes of the blankets actually ALIGNING?!)
Insight:
I grew up in the Midwest. One of my parents was raised in the Deep South; the other grew up all over the place and escaped a fairly dark childhood because he is, well, he’s brilliant. College at 16. PhD at 20. Particle physicist/musician/poet/programmer/humorist. All of that probably came to be because he was so dang smart and because he absolutely, desperately needed to get away.
That said, brains aren’t equivalent to common sense. The first movie we saw in the theater was “Soylent Green.” (Yes, it’s people. For a small child, NOT GOOD.) The first movie I saw on television? “The Birds.” Yes, THOSE birds. Terrifying, squawking, ubiquitous, horrifying, not-melodious birds. To this day, a bird that’s too close is, dagnabbit, just plain scary to me. Lovely songbirds? Charming from a distance. Hummingbirds? Cute, but aren’t they a bit like killer bees?
This weekend, I set out to conquer that fear. What better place than a beach filled with seagulls and a loaf of stale bread? Seagulls are goofy, right? Pixar and Disney depict them that way. Sure, they can be a bit bossy. So can I.
Bread chunks in hand, I began my quest. Gulls are not shy. In fact they’re downright aggressive. (And, yes, of course I should know this, but we must remember the Midwestern roots.) The second they sensed “sucker with bread” they swarmed. I shrieked. They stepped back and squawked at me. With great trepidation, I held out my hand, with giant 72,000 foot long bread scrap (give or take), and they swarmed again.
Shriek.
Squawk.
Shriek.
Squawk.
…
I stopped my lunacy long enough to take a good look at the leader of the bird pack and what I saw looked downright human.
“Just pipe down and hand me the bread and we’ll all go on with our day.”
Did that. Lost my voice in the process. Gained a little less fear of birds. And a son who laughed so hard, he fell to the ground and said, “my mom is crazy.”
Laughter. As much and as often as possible.
My Kid Wears A Gas Mask 