Welcome Home
And finally, the very best part of coming home to a Little Guy who is just learning to read and spell. Trumpeted in the airport and accompanied by a big hug:
"I love you, M-O-M-Y!!!"
And finally, the very best part of coming home to a Little Guy who is just learning to read and spell. Trumpeted in the airport and accompanied by a big hug:
"I love you, M-O-M-Y!!!"
Question: It's 7:30 on a Saturday morning in the dead of winter, and your five-year-old son asks for fresh strawberries. What do you do?
A. Use this chance to discuss growing seasons and the cost of fruit when it's out of season, then suggest an apple instead.
B. Hand him the car keys and tell him when he can reach the gas pedals he can get strawberries himself. Return to your coffee and newspaper.
C. Just. Say. No.
D. Grab your boots and a ponytail holder and race to the expensive grocery store that sells anything anytime for a cost. Take out a second mortgage to pay for fresh strawberries that only yesterday were sunning themselves happily in the mountains of Chile.
Answer: D. Because when your kid asks for food that might actually contain a vitamin and isn't entirely composed of white flour, chocolate, or cheese you fly to Chile and climb the mountain yourself if you have to.
The Little Guy is only in kindergarten, but his school teaches kids technology from the get go. Evidently it's working, because LG is becoming quite the computer pro:
Little Guy: Mommy, guess what a server is?
MomBrain: I don't know, what?
LG: It's a computer that links other computers together.
MB: That's right! Did you learn what the other computers are called?
LB: Yup. Macs.
MB: Macs? Not clients?
LB: No, Macs. It's short for Maximum.
MB: It is? Maximum what?
LG: Maximum fun. Because that's what computers are.
MB: Oh.
In which MomBrain detects the unmistakeable whiff of testosterone ...
Here at House O' MomBrain we are trying very hard to make Family Dinner the rule rather than the exception. This is a challenge because the Little Guy would eat at 4:00 if he could, the Big Guy would eat at 9:00, and I would skip dinner altogether and spend my wad of calories on pancakes the next morning.
All this has changed, though, since we began telling Shaggy Dog Stories at the dinner table. Suddenly the Little Guy would rather starve than eat before us, and the Big Guy races home from work to eat at 6:00. Then we hunker over dinner and take turns starting a story. Now. MomBrain is proud to say that she is a gentle creature intent on telling tales that enlighten and educate. The Big Guy is more about slapstick entertainment. But the Little Guy is all about destruction. Tonight our stories began like this:
MomBrain: Once upon a time there was a squirrel and a nut.
Big Guy: Once upon a time there was a pirate ship and a treasure chest.
Little Guy: Once upon a time there was a fire bomb catapult and a cannon.
And because these are shaggy dog stories, they head south as soon as one of the Guys takes over. Boys will be boys. Even when the poor hungry squirrel is just trying to find the nut he buried, it is guaranteed that a shot will ring out, a fire will burst forth, or a scream will be heard in the distance. Sometimes it is my scream. But more often it is a sigh of resignation.
MomBrain made the very horrible mistake of giving the Little Guy a zipper pull with a digital watch on it. It was only a dollar at Target, and who can resist that? But LG is now covered with bruises because he stares at his zipper pull constantly, including while he's walking. Also, our morning conversations have been reduced to variations of one recurring sentence: "MOMMY!!! IT'S 8:38!!!" followed by "MOMMY!!! IT'S 8:39!!!" until mercifully we are at preschool and IT'S 9:00!!!
Shout Outs ... My new stats counter has a time zone map of all the people who click into MomBrain. And hey - there's five people in Africa! I'm guessing those hits are from Iraq, probably from friends of Navy Corpsman Sean at Doc in the Box. So here's a big shout-out to the troops who stumble into my little corner of the Blogosphere. MomBrain thinks about you every day.
There is a boy in my bed, wearing nothing but his Incredible Hulk underpants and my lavender-scented eyemask. He is lying on his back, sucking his thumb. He is five years old.
Today is the Big Party. Now, by some standards, MomBrain is a very, very bad mommy. Do I bring in ponies? No. Do I rent a moonbouncer? No. Do I hire clowns? Hell, no. We are simply meeting a bunch of kids at the local park, where we'll have cake and ice cream and presents followed by a free-for-all at the playground. Five-year-olds don't need more than bikes, bubbles, and sidewalk chalk to have fun, so that's exactly what we're providing. My nine-year-old niece Girly Girl has agreed to be law enforcement. My fourteen-year-old niece Sweetie will be attending to presents and food. And Sister N, with an Eye for Beauty, is the Official Party Photographer. The rest is just fun, fun, fun.
MomBrain is back from a lengthy absence in which she was held hostage by her other personality, Suzy Snowflake. Suzy is a sad, sad girl who likes to look at her bellybutton a lot. She also sleeps a lot and eats nothing but Oreos. Poor MomBrain is bound and gagged in the corner while Suzy writes very bad poetry about dead leaves in the gutter of life, forgets to shower, and misses all of MomBrain's deadlines.
Eventually Suzy gets tired of herself and MomBrain manages to break free of her restraints. We stretch. Eat salad. Wonder how fast we can lose the three pounds of belly fat that Suzy left behind. And start typing.
Today is the Little Guy's fifth birthday. Every sentence begins with "Since today is my birthday and I'm turning five ..." and ends with some variation of "Can I eat breakfast in front of the TV?" or "Can I not go to school today?" And I can barely squeak "No" because I am so misty-eyed remembering my little peanut.
Waterlogged Seattle-ites know that when it's pure sunshine and 60 degrees in early March, you just gotta get outside and kick it up. And so we are - going to brunch at a friend's house on Vashon Island, which includes a ferry boat ride, a waterfront view, and short sleeves. Oh yes, my friends - MomBrain is doing the happy dance.
And since four-year-olds do not believe in brunch, the Big Guy has taken the Little Guy to iHop for a funny face pancake. LG is wearing his Batman cape in case any bad guys show up. It's reassuring to know we have a 3-1/2 foot superhero on our side.
Around these parts, finding a good private school is a part-time job from October to March. Each one requires an essay, personal references, an IQ test, teacher recommendation forms, a parent interview, and of course a $65 non-refundable application fee.
We are at the very last and most frightening step - the child visit. I nailed the essays and I rock at parent interviews (fundraising, you bet!!!). But I cannot control what the Little Guy does in a strange and distant classroom while I am held hostage by perky teachers and bitter coffee in the library. I will tell you, though, that all the activity books and practice writing his letters and adorable outfits mean nothing when your child has the alarming habit of belching like a sailor.
The burps, they just come thundering out. And all I can think is no one light a match. I tried ignoring it. I tried the good manners discussion. I tried the gentle correction. And just as the savage beast begins to be soothed, another belch rumbles out and everyone laughs. And it sets us back a week.
After today's visit I asked him what he did, which of course is the only report I'll get. All I know is he built two Tonka Joe thingies, heard a story about Hootie the Owl, and burped three times. And did you close your mouth when you burped? Yes, the first two times!
If only the ability to belch were a sign of giftedness. If only they could hook him up to a seismic scale and measure the earth's movement when the rumbling begins. A 7.2 on the Richter Scale! Go to the head of the class!
Here at Hotel MomBrain, we are doing our best to entertain an Italian gentleman. At least, I think he finds us entertaining. His English is passable, and he has the charming manners of most educated Europeans. But he and the Little Guy are dancing circles around each other. For one thing, the language barrier is higher: the Little Guy's English is also only passable, and he insists that our Italian friend is actually from Texas, because he has an accent. He also sees any adult male as a potential playmate.
MomBrain: Would you like red wine or white wine with dinner?
Nicola: Een my reegion of Eetaly, we dreenk onlee the wine that ees red.
Little Guy: Excuse me, Nickel-a.
Nicola: Yas?
LG: I have push-ups!!!
Nicola: What are the poosh ups?
LG: You can have one!!!
MomBrain: It's a kind of ice cream.
Nicola: Ah. Een my reegion of Eetaly, we do not eat verrry much ice creem. But I would like one heeere.
LG: Great!!! After we eat push ups we can play with Bumper Bot!
Nicola: (looking bewildered) Ah. That sounds verrry great.
MomBrain: More wine?
Nicola: Yas, pleeez.
