You Just Can’t Undo Some Things

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.

birdsEDIT

Samson!

As a serious baseball fan, I’m prone to superstitions, as in wearing the same pair of socks to certain events, making sure my lucky bracelet is facing upward, and anything else that might help determine the future (or a World Series win). Yeah, one person’s OCD is another person’s baseball.

That said, I admit I’m a bit nervous that L’s hair has zapped him of his strength. Hearty and strong, he was felled…

RIGHT AFTER HIS HAIR WAS SHORN!

Not feeling well on Sunday.

Came home sick from school on Monday.

Stayed home on Tuesday.

His malady? No fever, no sniffles, no cough, yet lethargic and without appetite.

WAS HIS HAIR HIS STRENGTH?

Guess I’ll go procure some of that hair growing concoction and find out. (Kidding on that.)

Winner!

I played a game of chess with L the other day and… I won! Checkmate! Woooooo hooooooo! He looked incredulous (appropriate, as I can’t beat him).

I recounted my victory during our annual Super Bowl party and all of the adults said, “way to go. You’re showing off about beating your second grader at chess? You are awesome. Get some help.”

Gotta laugh. Especially at myself. (L did not lose graciously or gracefully.)

Next: Losing.

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.