I’ve been listening to so much sad and melancholy music this year, but I think I’m pulling out of it. Not that I will ever stop, because I love the sad and melancholy beauties more than any of the others, but I hear variety is also supposed to be good.
A few things have been a catalyst for this . . .
I know I already posted the snake thing, but this requires it’s own discussion, because kids starting middle school is like some kind of hyperspace/warp speed shit. . . all of a sudden all this kind of serious stuff starts whipping by and it’s all a blur.
Dinner table subjects tonight included:
– How babies are made
– Sperm (with interpretive dance by Rollie)
– Todd: “Tiller, time for your shower.” Me: “Tiller, let me know if you ever have questions about what we all talk about.” Tiller: “I don’t even know what sperm means, but it sounds creepy.” [Exeunt Tiller]
– Drugs (weed, coke, meth, addiction, withdrawal, chewing tobacco, big league chew, oral cancer, and symptoms, medicinal weed, plant-based drugs vs. synthetic, “if you do meth, i will punch you in the face, it is really, really bad.”)
– STDs, communicable diseases, and “how” they are spread
– Rollie: “Tony said he’s in sex ed and some kids started thrusting and Ms. Furr said, ‘Stop gyrating like you are in a sex club.'” (Who the hell, is Ms. Furr?)
So, then we talked about whether or not he knows what she meant by sex club, and he said, “a club where you go to have sex?” and I said that I think that she meant “strip club” when she referred to it as a “sex club” and that you just go there to watch people take off their clothes while dancing to bad music, and they might ruffle your hair or something. (R: “They have poles, there?”)
And then Todd tried to break up our very serious sex club discussion by doing his own interpretive dance, taking off his flannel shirt and whipping it about his head. I’m pretty sure he was hearing Bob Seger’s “Night Moves” in his head.
Me: “And you never put your hand down on anything at a strip club and then lick your fingers.” [‘Yep,’ I thought. ‘I just said that out loud.’] He wanted to know why and I said, “well, they are kind of dirty.” And Rollie looked judgy/disgusted and I said, “Well, they are not bad. It doesn’t make you bad if you go there. Mama and daddy have been to them before. They’re just kind of dumb.” Pause. . . “Maybe don’t tell all your friends mama and daddy have been to strip clubs. [Oh god, plural. Why did I make it plural?] “But other people’s parents probably have too.” R: “I doubt that.” Me: “Well, maybe you’re right. Not all the parents have.”
And then I told him this is all very serious stuff, and that the important thing is to be safe, and respectful, and that he can always talk to us about anything, or ask us about things he has questions about.
This is about where Todd send him off to bed, which is for the best, because obviously I am fucking this whole parenting thing up to hell and back, because I have a hard time not being honest about stuff.
(I originally put this on Facebook, but wanted to document this one here, because one day the kids are going to think this is very, very funny, OR they will need it to hand to their therapist at that initial appointment.)
It always seems like the two hard things to talk about with my kids will be sex and the deaths of those close to them, but really, so far, the thing that I have the hardest time with is subjects of sheer human brutality and tragedy. Things like explaining why I was so upset when my cousin Jane was murdered, or what suicide is, or answering questions about the holocaust, or 9/11.
That last one comes up every year in September, because now they learn about it in school as part of Social Studies. I get why they are learning about it, but my kids speak very nonchalantly about it, as if I were speaking about, say, Pearl Harbor. Honestly, it rubs me the wrong way. They see the footage of the plane crashing into the building in class, and they have questions that definitely linger for weeks after, that they proceed to bring up at the worst times, like when I am trying to have a margarita and eat a taco.
And so whenever the subject comes up, I try to answer their questions honestly, and in an age-appropriate way, which at their ages is getting to the point where they can hear (and have heard) just about all of it. But damn, when they ask those really specific questions:
“Did they find the bodies?”
“How many planes were there?”
“Did the bodies burn?”
“Did babies die? Did kids die?”
“Did people on the ground outside the buildings die?”
“Why did that one plane crash in the field?”
“Wait, there was one in Washington, DC, too?”
“Did people really jump out of the buildings?”
“Who were the people in the planes?”
And the most daunting question of all, “Why did they do it?”
Well, I usually get choked up and can barely talk, and have to really physically control myself to try and explain it. But they learn about it as part of history in school, so I feel like I have to be honest about it. Tonight i told them a lot more about it than I have before, mostly because they had way more questions, and they also had heard some stuff that was patently incorrect, and I felt it was my duty to set them straight. So, tonight, I tried to explain what it was like on that day, at least what it was like from my perspective, and how, in retrospect, we know what happened, but in real time, things were very confused, horrifying, and scary, and people were a little panicked in general, even outside of NYC and DC. I tried to explain how getting on a plane with my sister the first day they resumed flights again felt like a heroic act. I told them about the soldiers at the airport with machine guns, and other people at the airport handing out little American flags to people getting on the flights. Rollie asked why I didn’t keep mine, and I honestly don’t know, because normally I would keep something like that, but I tried to explain how everything felt uncertain and surreal, and people were in shock for days and weeks after. It just didn’t occur to me. He’s right – I should have kept it.
And it kind of sucked, because their questions now are pretty logical, and I could see the little gears churning in their mind as they asked a question and got an answer and they came to the same realizations that slowly dawned on all of us that day.
One important thing, though, is that i think I got the message across to them that for people who were alive then, it is difficult enough to talk about, but that they really need to be respectful when discussing it, because you never know if the person you were talking to might have been there that day, or lost someone close to them.
And then R. proceeded to tell me about a school friend whose Grandfather worked at the Twin Towers and that morning, Grandpa went out for a smoke break and feels that smoking that cigarette saved his life, and so he will never quit smoking. And that actually made me laugh and cry at the same time, and I said, “You know what, Rollie? I don’t blame him.”
There is not really a point here, except that I wish I had a dollar for every time I tried to enjoy a margarita over dinner and my kids asked me really hard questions and made me cry over the absolute beauty and exquisite pain of being a human.
It has all come full circle. I have become my parents.
Tonight we watched Forrest Gump with the kids. I do not recommend this movie for 8 and 11-year-olds. Sure, Forrest is sweet, but bullying, child abuse, racism, war, death, amputation, implied nudity, sex, drugs, cancer, AIDs. This is not a kid’s movie. We watched it anyway. We had some good discussions and a lot went over their heads. They actually really liked the movie, and of course they think it is funny when I cry. Which i do, pretty much the whole movie.
So, there is this one scene, where Forrest goes to see Jenny at her all girls’ college, and she takes her bra off (but you don’t see anything, but Forrest does), and Forrest ejaculates. And when that scene came on, and we realized what was about to happen, Todd, sitting between Tiller and Rollie on the couch, put his hands over Tiller’s eyes, and he told Rollie not to look, and Rollie wanted to look, so I did exactly what I was taught to do in that situation.
I sang “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” at the top of my voice, distracting the kids from the TV and drowning out the sound of the movie. Todd joined in, as if my father passed down this little coping mechanism to him the day of our wedding. And then we acted like nothing much happened.
Yep, as a kid, my father sang “The Bear went over the Mountain” during any romantic or sex scene in any tv or movie. Until i was at least sixteen.
Oh. Except that time he took me to the theater to see Greystoke: The Legend of Tarzan. It’s hard to sing “The Bear Went Over the Mountain” at the movie theater at Roswell Mall. So, instead, there was 12 year old me, sitting next to my Dad, who was lusting after Andie McDowell the whole time. (Pretty sure he still does.)
The Bear Went Over the Mountain: Because it’s easier than talking to your children honestly about sex.
(Footnote: When Forrest is sitting on the bench in Savannah, waiting on the bus, and he gives Jenny’s address to the lady next to him, it is Henry St. Where my grandparents lived. Pretty weird.)
Seems just yesterday she was like this. . .
And here she is today. Brownie bridging ceremony at Stone Mountain Park Grist Mill. Almost 8 years old, 2nd grade, October 2013.
She’s eight. I’m no longer one of those moms with babies. Or toddlers. I’ll never have a preschooler or a kindergartner again. It’s sad, but so so sweet, too. She can run her own bath, and swim laps, and brush her own hair, and boy does she have ideas about how she wants her hair to look. She has beautiful, soft hair. It still smells good after a bath, but smells more little girl than baby. I know now why grandmas want to smell babies heads – it’s like crack. You get a whiff and you want it the rest of your life.
She’s in 2nd grade now, and reading stuff like Tales of a 4th Grade Nothing, and likes clothes and puppies and stuffed animals and jewelry. She likes reading and writing and homework, and god help me, crafts. She is sensitive and sweet and nothing like me. She wants to please us and her friends and her teachers. She wishes she had a sister. She still writes notes to Fairies, and believes in Santa and the Tooth Fairy. She still loves my hugs, and wants to be with me whenever she can. She sits next to me comfortably, and without pulling away. She is a Brownie. A swimmer. She has the most amazing smile, even with that little snaggle tooth. Her laugh is my favorite song. And she laughs a lot – she likes to make up jokes, and she likes it when we make jokes. She wants to be a vet. And a zookeeper. She likes math. SHE LIKES MATH. She makes up stories. She writes stories. She loves loves loves her Grandmas. She wraps Grandpas around her fingers with just a smile, or a hug. She adores Leah and Syd, Mia and Liliana, Rachel, and Gia, Nathan, Tristan, and Michael. She loves her brother, but god do they fight sometimes.
This week, at the lake, I watched her, and she didn’t know i was watching. She sat under a tree, and wrapped her arms around her knees, and gazed out over the lake. And I knew she was thinking. Just like I used to think under Connie’s dogwood tree. Or on the front rocker of our porch in New York. Like i still think when I lie on the boards of the dock at night and ponder the moon and the planets and the constellations. Sometimes she lies with me. Sometimes she holds my hand. She holds me in her hand.
MUSHY. Let’s talk about the party.
So, yeah, we had an old-school carport cookie-decoratin’ party. October birthdays might be the best.
Tiller loves beanie boos.
Watching tills open stuff.
Miss Chloe.
Lilian, I think? Tiller collects beanie boos and twins.
Yeah. Twins. Maybe Syd.. Gah. I have trouble when they are not together.
Boys focused on cornhole and that jumpie thing.
So, yeah, not sure what the deal was with the gems on foreheads. Hopefully not insulting to my Indian friends and family – They were part of the scavenger hunt treasure, and the kids started putting them on their foreheads. I like to think it is their multicultural upbringing that made them do this.
A rare moment of still sitting with this whirling dervish of a nephew.
My sweet girl. Best smile in the world.
He was pretty bored.
The basket and bell, because why would you make a girls’ bike that doesn’t have these? Where would you put acorns, rocks, bows, and beanie boos?
Just what all 8 year olds need. A messenger bag She loved this gift, and it actually looks really, really cool.
Chloe and Tiller, about to blow candles out.
My baby is 8. This cannot be. Also, i just ate the rest of that cake with coffee for 2nd breakfast. A pitfall of working from home.
Chloe always has the best expressions.
My sweet, tissue-paper pasty skinned, freckled nephew. I want to eat him up.
Leah, i think.
Yeah, that’s definitely me. With tills and . . . uh syd. I’m going with Syd.
My sister will eat some cookies.
Good sister, bad sister. Guess which one is which?
Pretty sure that’s syd, and leah. Syd on left. It’s like a puzzle.
These kids are just a bunch of peas in a pod.
Jimmies my ass. There were sprinkles. Lots of sprinkles.
Rollie doesn’t go for hugs anymore, not even from his Aunt, not unless his fever is at least 102. He’s ten now, you know. Way too old for your hugs.
We decorated cookies. Not a bad way to spend an afternoon.
Tiller wins.
No matter how many times I look at this, it fails to become less funny.
And this is a little freaky. . .
Afraid this is just a taste of the awkward middle school years.
Uh, yeah. . . We’ll be doing a retake.
First of all, 15 hour days completely suck ass. Especially when you are completely worn out, fighting a cold that won’t die, and with the specter of strep throat haunting your future.
The last thing you want to do? Go to an elementary school talent show. You’d rather have that torture guy from Game of Thrones cut off a pinkie finger or two.
But to the talent show I went. Right after putting makeup on the girl, and slapping peanut butter on bread for the both kids, because you have nothing else to eat in the house because you had pantry moths and had to throw it all out.
We got to the talent show. I saved myself a second row seat, made sure the girl went potty before it started, and took the boy to the backstage area.
Went back and found my seat. Sat through the damn PTA meeting. And then it started.
Wow.
If you ever need to restore your faith in the youth of America, and in the parents that stand beside you in trying to improve things at your school, or even if you’re just having a crappy day and need a good laugh, OMG DO YOU NEED TO GO TO AN ELEMENTARY TALENT SHOW.
There were two emcees, both female, and one was dressed like Austin Powers. She was so not into the whole outfit and she told me she was only wearing it because her mother paid her ten bucks plus ice cream. She did the worst Austin Powers accent you ever heard. It was awesome. There were two best friends – one sang a . . I don’t know who did the song. It doesn’t matter, because the awesome part was her best friend getting up there with her and hula hooping the whole time her friend sang. There was a kid who did a bad ass Smooth Criminal dance. There were two acts playing guitar and singing Beatles songs. Kids singing The Beatles? It slayed me. There was a kid who did a comedy skit that bordered on offensive to little people, and I’m pretty sure he’s like the next Richard fucking Pryor. Little girls in frilly dresses played minuets on the piano; a boy played the James Bond theme song. Dressed as James Bond. There was a kid who called himself “Rollin’ Nolan,” who dressed in a disco getup, and roller-bladed on stage to the Bee Gees. There was a little 3rd grader who sang a Taylor Swift song, and almost made me cry. There were dancers galore. There were comedy troupes. There was one duo that sang some song I’ve never heard before, that sounded like some kind of Boys II Men/Rap mashup. I think one of them dropped the F-bomb. They were pretty good.
There was this little girl, who I think secretly wanted to perform, but yet she just signed up to help behind the scenes. Turns out only three kids signed up to do that. And then the organizers realized they needed someone to introduce the acts. And so they asked two of the kids to emcee. The little girl was one of them.
And she was really excited. And she must have really practiced her lines, and standing on the little stool that made her tall enough to be seen over the podium, and adjusting the microphone to her height, and her speaking into the microphone at the perfect volume. She wore a sequined, psychaedelic 60’s dress and white Go-Go boots. She loved the boots the moment she tried them on. It might have been the boots that transformed a first grader into a young lady. A poised, talented, well-spoken young stage professional. She watched every performance in between her introductions, and clapped with the music, and mouthed the words to every acts songs. She was more in her element than I have ever seen her. Every time I looked at her, she looked so very happy, and it was like looking at someone grow up in the course of an hour. I was swollen with pride. I could not contain my smile or the tears that threatened to spill over onto my face every time I looked at her.
And then the boy came on. The boy cannot sing. I knew he could not sing when he tried out. I thought for sure they would cut him. I secretly hoped they would cut him, because I didn’t think i could bear to watch my child fail so terribly at something. They did not cut anyone. There were probably three or four they could have cut, but they didn’t. He came on stage wearing a Hawaiian shirt with the collar popped, swim trunks, and flip flops. His sunglasses on his head. At home, he said he was “dressing for the weather in Istanbul.”
He looked scared. I felt sick.
The music started. And he smiled, and he began to sing.
Istanbul was Constantinople
Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople
Been a long time gone, Constantinople
Now it’s Turkish delight on a moonlit night
It was shaky. It was terrible. And I was so very in awe of my smart, unsmiling, ornery, stubborn, easy-to-anger boy, who had the nerve to get up in front of a cafeteria full of his peers and their parents, and sing that song. And people clapped along with the song, as they did for all of the performers, and it didn’t really matter that he was not in tune, and he was off key, and a little out of time.
And I laughed. People know it’s your kid up there, and so naturally they also look at you, to see you watch your own kid perform. And that laugh of mine somehow turned into crying, because I was so relieved that he was okay up there, and at one point during the song, he very coolly pulled his shades down over his eyes, while nodding his head and not missing a word, and then i was laughing and crying, and the only other time I remember having that exact feeling was when I was standing at an arbor in Auburn, Alabama with my husband and I was saying my vows and i was crying and laughing all at the same time.
You know that scene at the end of the movie Parenthood? The one where Steve Martin is sitting next to Mary Steenburgen in the crowd at the school play, and she’s knocked up, and he’s lost his job, and the whole family is there and Steve Martin is watching his weird, emotional kid freak out and knock over the sets on stage, and things are in slow motion and you start to hear the sound of a wooden roller coaster in the background, and Steve Martin is laughing and crying and watching the play and riding the roller coaster all at the same time?
That was me. I was riding the roller coaster and i was proud and scared and crying and laughing all at the same time. And isn’t that what life is all about?
I was Steve Martin tonight.
I fight to keep my kids away from the tv. Even when we are at the lake, with all of nature around us. So today, I finally said, turn off the tv. We’re going fishing. We did it old school. We walked around the whole cove. We stopped to poke sticks in ant hills. We saw a snake and just watched it. We talked about the birds we saw. We untangled fishing lines from trees. I stayed patient. The dog followed us and laid down and rubbed his face in things that smelled dead. We laughed at a startled turtle flopping off a log into the water. We talked about the old outhouse and what it was for. We peeked in a deserted house. I showed the kids how you could use a vine like a whip and how cool the sound is. We poke more sticks in anthills.
We didn’t catch a thing.
We walked back home. We sat on the dock. I made them bait their own hooks. They did it and didn’t cry, poke eyes out, or let the dog eat a hook. I drank a Moscow mule as the sun set. We laughed.
We came in, took a shower and heated up leftovers. We ate them on the screen porch, by candlelight. We talked.
After dinner, we went down to the dock. We had left the lights on for night fishing. We caught three fish. (Not exactly a mess o’crappie, but enough to keep’em interested.) tiller brought her blankie. We watched the poles, and we looked at the stars. We talked about Jupiter, and life on other planets. We talked about the moon.
The kids got cold. Rollie grabbed my hand to hold as we walked back up to the house. He’s 9. Almost ten. He might not reach for my hand next April.
We had a really perfect day. The kind that I think I’ll recall 20 years from now.
Or maybe just on a Thursday afternoon next week when I’m sitting in a cubicle, wishing life were more simple than it is.
So, let’s say your kids’ school has a mock presidential election. Let’s say that you are sitting at the kitchen table and you ask your child about the election. You don’t care who your kid voted for, because you’re more interested in them learning about the election process than about platforms and issues, because elementary school is maybe a little too early for them to be wrestling with issues that adults can’t even begin to work out. Your child tells you that they had the election and who they voted for. And then they proceed to ask you who one of the candidates is. And you tell them about the candidate and then say, “why do you ask?” And your child says, “Because they told us we couldn’t vote for him. So why was he on there?”
What would you do?
Because I am about ready to go down to the school tomorrow and raise some hell. Which of course I’m not really going to do, because my school is also my polling place, and you can’t do that at a polling place. But I am going there to vote. And while I am there, if the teachers are working, I am seeking out the teachers who were present during my child’s voting experience, and I am going to ask them about it. Because, seriously. Is this not basically electoral fraud? (Not to mention really, really poor teaching, and just very, very dishonest.) Any other ideas about how to go about this? Other than taking my level-headed husband with me?
Here’s another question: Does it matter which candidate the teacher said this about? Answer honestly. Do you care more if they said it about one candidate than if they had said it about another?
Any other thoughts?
Or, should I say, “Fairys.”
Todd already posted this on Facebook, but it was so adorable I wanted to capture it for posterity on Dogwood Girl. Kids are funny. I had a bit of a rough day yesterday, and I was actually in the bathtub trying to wind down when todd walked in to show me this, warning that I might not be able to handle the cuteness.
And he was right.
There are so many things that I love about this.
Maybe there are such things as fairies. . . and maybe, just maybe, they show up at just the right time, right when you need a little lifting of your spirits.