An Open Letter to My Oldest Son

Dear Oldest Son...

As I write this, you are sleeping soundly. Even though you now dwarf me, in size, I can still see you as a little boy, doing things like "helping" me sweep the floor, or brightly saying, "Cookies!" when the oven timer goes off.

You talked early, and well, and I took that as a sign of things to come...an indication of intelligence.

And you are very, very smart.

But you're not that smart.

For instance, when you casually mention a new video game, and offhandedly remark about how it includes references to the inventions of Leonardo da Vinci, and takes place during the Crusades, don't think that I don't see where we're going.

Don't think that telling me how you'll have to probably use higher order critical thinking skills to figure out effective ways to kill your enemies will cause me to rub my chin and think, "Hmm...maybe Assassin's Creed is the missing piece of the puzzle I've been trying to solve, about "Peep" #2's education..."

I know you believe that you've figured Ol' Mom out, and you probably chuckle to yourself at night, rubbing your hands together and envisioning how I'll blink blindly the next time you toss out a factoid that perfectly illustrates the educational merit of Assassin's Creed, and stagger, zombie-like, for my wallet.

You're wrong.

And having your charming friends tell me things like, "Religion figures in big, in Assassin's Creed" won't help your cause. It only alerts me to the conspiracy. (In fact, if I hear "Assassin's Creed" one more time, I think I'll become an assassin, myself.) I'm just waiting for Grandma to tell me that she read a newspaper article about how Assassin's Creed probably accelerates brain development. Because I don't doubt your skill, your cunning...I only know that your premise is flawed.

Because you believe that you CAN figure me out. And I know that to be impossible.

Many other boys and men have tried to understand me, through the ages, and failed. The workings of my mind remain a mystery to the male of the species. If your father, an intelligent man who probably has more reason than any other person alive to want some shred of a clue as to what goes on in my head, can't get close, then I don't think you should take it personally that you haven't totally succeeded yet.

But you gave it a good try.

Love,

Your Mother

He's Just Not That Into You

Hmm. Well, it's Tuesday. Do you know what that means?

The Good Wife is on tonight!

The reasons why I love this show are manifold.

First...

Julianna Margulies is not twenty years old. (Thank you, Powers That Be.) You can actually see the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. (Granted, she still looks like a million bucks, and is way beyond the pale of "Average Middle Aged Woman", but...still. She's representin', that's all I'm sayin'.)

Second...

This show actually has intelligent dialogue, some humor, and reasonable plots. It does not suffer from what my friend A. calls "Written By A Ninth-Grader Syndrome". (I saw Ridley Scott's name listed as a producer, and I'm betting that has something to do with it.) The emotion they evoke with some of the smaller scenes (a wife that has been stung by public adultery finding a tape and tensing up before watching it...only to find that it's a home movie of her husband and kids) is achieved through an element that's in short supply these days...restraint. Just good stuff.

Third...

During all of the various political scandals involving cheaters, everyone watching, I'm sure, feels horrible for the wife. During the Good Wife's pilot, you get to see a dramatized wronged wife smack her philandering spouse right in the kisser. I don't condone violence (often), but sometimes it just scratches an itch, you know? They get big style points with me for taking this (unfortunately) oft-repeated situation and giving (a portion of) the public what they would really like to see.

And last but not least...

Titus Welliver is a guest star.

Mr. Welliver is a...well, a particular favorite of mine, on the Ol' Flickering Screen. Go Google him, and tell me that he doesn't look like he could be Jakob Dylan's mean older brother. And then tell me that's not totally awesome.

He's even more of a favorite since he's turned gray. (More on why it's so unfair that men are completely HOT when they grow old and get gray hair later). So it was especially exciting to find a well-written, nicely produced television show...and discover that he was going to be on it, from time to time. With his gray hair.

Because while I have been guilty of watching something simply because he's on it, occasionally, that's not a hard and fast rule.

I will not, for example, start watching Lost again, just because he might be on it, now. (I will, however, look at the totally hot photo stills, like the one linked above. Is that so wrong?)

I mean, I tried to watch Lost, when it first started. But when they got too convoluted for ME to get interested in, then I had to quit them. (And I'm generally all about the cryptic and the crazy, so that's saying something large, when you can lose me with a twisted plot.)

Mr. Crib Chick, of course, was never interested in the first place. I provide more than enough puzzlement in our everyday lives, leaving no reason for him to seek it out in his entertainment. (His comment on Lost: "Yeah...that's a good name for it. Lost. Because that's exactly what you'll be, if you try to watch it.")

For crying out loud, one character can't even ask another one to pass them a coconut without Lost fans hopping on the Internet and dissecting it!

"What does that mean?! What does the coconut represent? Eternity? Doesn't Kafka talk about coconuts in Metamorphosis?! No?!"

Anyway. What was I saying?

Oh yeah...Titus Welliver.

You know, I had a dream about Mr. Welliver, once. Don't worry, this isn't going to be R-rated--although it was certainly MY intention for it to be that sort of dream.

No, it didn't turn out like that because even though I was sitting at a table with Mr. Welliver, and recounting what I thought was one of my more scintillating anecdotes for his benefit...he got up and left. Without explanation or polite pretense. Just left.

Now, when your celebrity crush gets up, in your own fantasy, and walks off...that says something. Maybe it says that yes, you really do talk too much, if you can bore a man in a DREAM SEQUENCE. Perhaps it hints at some deep rooted self-esteem issues. Or a failed fantasy might be God's way of helping me stay bonded to my husband, who will at least pretend to listen to some of my long-winded stories, some of the time. (If they're new, and not reruns. Or if I'm wearing that one sweater...)

Or maybe I should just cut out the Ho-Hos before bed.

Nah. It can't be that.

See y'all later.

Those Three Little Words

It was brought up again tonight at the Ol' Crib Chick Coop; Mommy's favorite three word phrase.

"I Love You"?

Nope. Guess again.

"I Already Did."

I suppose one could say that my Love Language is Acts of Service. That would be an understatement on par with "Some Ladies Sort of Like Twilight", or "Chocolate is Kind of Good", though.

A Facebook Friend (yes, Facebook, so what) said that her Love Language was "Pick up Your $#%^", and I think that's closer to the dialect that I appreciate the most. But "Figuring Out Stuff on Your Own" is a close second.

When a child smiles and says "I Already Did", when you're in the midst of a Why Am I The Only One Who Sees Dirty Dishes crisis, it's as if you can feel the dopamine flood your system. (Or something flooding your system, anyway. Feel good hormones or incontinence, I guess.)

Mookie Doesn't Live Here, Anymore

So, the latest episode in my own personal "Desperate Housewife" soap opera was a case of mistaken cell phone identity. I'm sitting in the movie theater with Good Ol' Verne (who is the buddy I find myself at the movies with most often) and just when I'm about to turn it off (being the considerate movie-goer that I am) I get a text message that reads thusly...

Hey Mookie wake up let's bbq
this is Sparkle

I didn't respond until the second message, after the movie, and honestly...I was a little tempted to hear more about the life of someone named "Mookie" who could a) sleep until midday, and b) barbeque with folks named "Sparkle".

(Yes, it did occur to me later that "bbq" could be some sort of euphemism. Now I want to adopt it to mean anything dangerous or fun. Sort of a replacement for "Let's Rock 'n Roll!"...."Let's BBQ!")

Get Out of My Head, Man

I've recently been introduced to the comedic stylings of one Tim Hawkins. My favorite, thus far? A toss up between Cletus Take the Reel, and his ode to that little deep-fried gift to humanity, Chick-Fil-A. (Seriously, buy some of his DVDs, and support a clean comic. While you're at it, support Brian Regan, too!)

Don't Take Any Wooden Nickels

I've been contracted to come up with a passel of tips for inclusion in a newsletter that will go out to homeschooling parents. Now, of course, since this is a paying, serious job, I'm only going to share tips that would be helpful to people who are honestly trying to do a good job of running a home and parenting.

I'll save my other tips for you guys.

So, as my pledge to you, here are the first in a series of tips that would fall into the "Other" category, if one were to categorize them.

Tips you really need to know. But can't ask for.

#1 Hide Your Evidence

This gem comes from my friend, Monda, who has been Jedi to my Padawan in many ways, parentally-speaking. It was Monda who inspired me to be more of myself with my children, by being her own funny self with her kids, and showing me that yes, you actually can have fun as a mom. There's no penalty for that. But she also shared another secret with me that I'll pass along now...

Throw away the Slurpee cups before you go in the house.

Let's assume your husband loves you, and begrudges you no trinket or snack that will make your housebound life of drudgery any less difficult. That's awesome.

But if you throw away your evidence before going in the house, then it won't even matter if it's otherwise, will it? Maybe today would be the day that he would start to worry that the $1.10 you frittered away on 95 ounces of liquid corn syrup and food coloring is going to put you in the poorhouse, and you're really doing him a kindness by protecting him from the ugly truth. It's about considering others more than yourself, ladies.

#2 Cultivate a Love for Spice

And I'm not talking about the Dune version, either. (Here's where I insert my standard disclaimer about "Not Being A Sci-Fi Person", blah blah blah).

No, I'm talking about peppery foods. Cayenne, chipotle, jalapeno...anything that includes a reference to a capsaicin-bearing compound is your friend.

Extend that love to chocolate foods. Red pepper brownies, ground chili-sprinkled chocolate bars...develop that love and nourish it.

Why, you ask?

So that everyone else will leave it alone. Children will be conditioned to shun anything chocolatey after realizing your new fondness, and you'll have it all. to. your. self.

Well, that's all the wisdom I can dispense for one day. Whew. This guru business is exhausting.

Obama IS a uniter!!

Despite all of the partisan bickering that's gone on during Barack Obama's term, thus far, I think he finally made good on all of those hopes that he would be a great uniter...by calling Kanye West a jackass.

Folks, that's a belief that spans political lines, race, and religious affiliation.

Yes, it was off the record, and yes, the hapless reporter who Tweeted it deleted it quickly...but not quickly enough, thank goodness.

In a related aside...how is it that medical technology has not yet found a way to diagnose urinary tract infections in quicker than two days? (If your lab/doctor does it in less time, please...don't tell me.)

Seriously, a woman comes to you, pale and trembling, gives you her urine and says, "For the love of all that is dark and chocolate...GIVE ME SOMETHING TO MAKE THIS GO AWAY!"

And you say..."Well, we'll know in two days if this is a UTI or not."

Um...okay. Do you have a hammer that you could hit me in the head with, then? Could you inject me with something that will put me into a twilight state (and I don't mean twilight with a capital "T"...although that might help) until you figure it out?!

So then you go home, pound cranberry juice and water, take butt loads of vitamin C (I'm using that phrase as a descriptive term...that's not a new method of ingestion or anything), and then, two days later...you feel fine.

And they call you. "Hey, looks like you have a UTI!"

Duh.

Speaking of Twilight, imagine my surprise when, on our walk today, "Peep" #5, a four-year-old boy, pipes up while we're discussing the smaller kids' day at co-op yesterday (I'll post a definition down below, for you non-homeschooling types who wonder what that is), and says...

"Yeah, my teacher read us a book called Twilight!"

I kept my cool and replied, "Oh, really? What was it about?" knowing in my head that he couldn't possibly respond, "Sparkly vampires and true love!!", but yet wondering, all the same.

"It was about...it was between day time and night time!"

Mommy breathes a sigh of relief.

"And I told my teacher that there's a movie about Twilight!"

Did you, now.

*(Co-op: A co-operative effort between homeschoolers, usually academic, where teaching and other responsibilities are shared. The younger "Peeps" refer to it as "Co-Hop", however, and I think that works, too. We all sort of hop along in the same general direction.)

I really hate to admit this...

...but I love it when the husbands cry on "Wife Swap".

In fact, it's almost like porn. It's distasteful, you know you shouldn't watch it, and yet...you are compelled, because the high is unrivaled.

Watching a big, burly man weep and choke out the words, "I--just...didn't...ap-p-p-reciate her!" is really too much to turn away from. It's worse than chocolate donuts. It scratches an itch way down deep in my soul, I'm afraid.

It's not me, it's you

So, we got a letter in the mail, from our family doctor, informing us that he is packing up, leaving private practice, punting us to his learned collegue...and he's doing it within two weeks. There was a hurried explanation about his growing family (they just had twins), and...that's it.

Mr. Crib Chick and I stood looking at the letter, a little dumbfounded (can you be a "little" dumbfounded? Or is that something you just are or aren't?). I mean...this is the Dream Doctor; cautious but thorough, supportive of homeschooling and our other weird parenting choices...and now he's leaving.

Or...is he?

Mr. Crib Chick posited the theory that maybe, just maybe, this letter was just an elaborate ruse to get rid of our family, alone. You know, the weirdos with the five kids who try to schedule all their well child visits at once? The family with the mom that makes you wish the layman couldn't Google medical problems?

But I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe there are others like us.

Art Imitating Life

"Peep" #2, who is a fourteen-year-old boy, was recently enjoying the vocal stylings of Mariah Carey with me (okay, he was trapped in the car while I had control of the iPod), and offered this opinion on one of my favorites, "Heartbreaker"...

"Wow, that's just like real life."

"Why, what do you mean, son?"

"The guy speaks for like, a fraction of the time the woman does. And all that stuff is true, about what girls do."

He's referring to the rap by Jay-Z, that occurs towards the end of the song. Mariah Carey sings a soulful tune (comprised of many, many words), detailing the challenges of being in love with someone who's just "not that into you", and then the young man steps in, and staccato-style, gives a brief rebuttal that paints her as crazy.

She wanna shop wit Jay, play box wit Jay
She wanna pillowfight in the middle of the night
She wanna drive my Benz with five of her friends
She wanna creep past the block, spyin' again
She wanna roll wit Jay, chase skeeos away
She wanna fight wit lame chicks, blow my day
She wanna respect the rest, kick me to the curb if she find one strand of hair longer than hers
She wanna make love in the Jacuzzi
Rub up in the movies, access to the old crib, keys to da newbie
She wanna answer the phone, tattoo her arm, that's when I got to send her back to her mom
She call me Heartbreaker, when we apart it makes her wanna piece of paper, scribble down
"I hate ya"...but she know she love Jay because she love everything Jay say, Jay does...

Now, if you can get past the eye-rolling that a fourteen-year-old boy perpetrating to know "how it is" can induce, it does answer one of the concerns that many folks have about homeschooling; that boys are overly influenced by their mothers when they're in their company all day, instead of that of men.

Nope. I've still got my work cut out for me.