Conversations With a 7 Year Old (Temporary) Only Child

I .

“Mom, what’s a bachelor party?”

“It’s a party that men have before their wedding, one last night to go out and get crazy before they’re married.”

“Do they take their girlfriends?”

“No, it’s usually just their guy friends.”

“That’s no fair that girls don’t get a party!”

“Oh no, if girls want to, they can have a bachelorette party. Same idea, just all girls.”

“No boys?”

“Nope.”

“So you just go out with your own kind? All girls or all guys?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

(2 minutes of silence)

“Mom, I think those parties are really smart.”

“How come?”

“I think it’s a good idea to go out one last night, and figure out for sure if you’re gay or not.”

(More silence,while I try to unravel where that went off the rails.)

II.

“How was daycare today?”

(Big sigh) “Pretty much torture.”

“Oh, really? Which was worse? The jumpy castle, or the mini-golf? How dare those sadists put you though this? This clearly contravenes the United Nations Convention Against Torture! HAS ANYONE CALLED THE UN??!???”

“Mom, do you ever get tired of your own drama?”

III.

(We tried to go to a movie. Their Internet was borked, so no credit cards, the cash confused the hell out of the teenage cashiers, and the theatre’s Fro Yo stand was down. Screw that. We improvised by hitting Marble Slab instead.)

“What do you want, kiddo?”

“Chocolate. Large. With peanut butter cups and smarties and sprinkles and peppermint patties.”

“Sounds messy…..”

(Fixes me with the iciest, most laser-like glare on which I have ever been on the receiving end.)

“Good.”

(Turns back to detachedly supervising the mix-in process.)

A Mother’s Tears

I look about a hundred years old, tonight.

My eyes are exhausted.

Literal tablespoons of tears fell from them.

It’s not what you think.

I spent a good part of tonight laughing.  Laughing until I couldn’t breathe, until I was actually scared that this was how I was going out of this world.  And then I laughed some more.

I’m sure that one day, when The Boy is older, he will want to be funny.  He will try to get laughs.  And I probably will laugh.  But right now, when he’s not even trying?

Oh holy shit.

We’re discussing tomorrow’s Show & Share, for school.  His teacher asks the class to bring in an item that begins with a specific letter.  They’ve been working their way through the alphabet, and they’re up to “O”.

He’s mulling over his options.  We have no owls.  Oil can be messy.  He thinks for a bit.

Then he asks me, “Mom?  Can I have an empty jar?”

“But it’s not ‘J’ week, it’s ‘O’ week,” I try to tell him.

“I know.  I’m taking an ‘Odor’.  I need a jar to fart in.”

Seriously.

———————————————————————————————–

If you’re ever pissed off, tired, sad, at wit’s end, here’s what you need to do:

Grab some Mad Libs.

Find a six-year-old boy.

Combine.

Enjoy.

I go over the basic concept with The Boy, nerdily excited to explain nouns and verbs and adjectives.

He’s getting the hang of it.

He’s starting to rattle off words, as soon as I ask for them.

“Give me a plural noun.”

“Houses.”

“Now an adverb.”

“Quickly.”

“A part of the body.”

“Taint.”

Yep.  That’s the first body part that came to my baby boy’s mind.  The taint.  Which, unlike many 6 year olds, he has a word for.

I could defend my skills as a parent.  I could make excuses as to where and how he may have heard that word.

But my eyes and stomach muscles are tired.

So instead, for the first time anywhere in the world, The Boy’s First Mad Lib.  Enjoy!

When you go to the beach, you must take along a big blanket, a thermos bottle full of fruit juice, lots of suntan goo, and a couple of folding chairs.  Then you put on your socks so you can get a beautiful red to last you all summer.  You also should have a big hat to keep the sun off your taint.  You can also bring a short lunch, such as hard-boiled houses, a few lion sandwiches with mustard, and some bottles of goofy cola.  If you remember all of the above and get a place near a clean lifeguard, you can sunbathe quickly all day.

I am, as you can imagine, incredibly proud.  So proud it would bring a tear to my eye.  If I had any left…

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear. And by “Came”, I Mean, Well, You Know…

Picture it:  Southern Alberta, the last night of 2001.

The night is cold, we (my sister Sherri, her boyfriend, me and Owen) are drunk.  Sherri has neighbors over, and we are trying our best to act, you know, normal, and what-not.

Midnight comes, people kiss, the neighbors go home.

And Sherri shows us what her boyfriend bought her for her last birthday:

(FOLLOW THIS LINK, BECAUSE I JUST CAN’T PUT A LARGE PICTURE OF A DILDO IN THE MIDDLE OF A HOLIDAY POST.  I JUST CAN’T.)

They say it was a gag gift.  The scale of it makes me hope like hell it wasn’t serious.  The thing is the size of my forearm.  And it adheres to flat surfaces, like, say, the wall, the windshield of a car, whatever you might need it to adhere to.

We’re contemplating bed, the night is winding down.  But Sherri & Owen aren’t quite ready to call it a night.  They feel like maybe a prank is in order.  So they pick up the Gift, and head to the neighbors.

They place it, carefully, on the doorstep.  Then knock on the door and run away.

They hide behind a car and watch as the neighbor comes out, looks both ways, sees no one, and closes the door.

Sherri is willing to give up.  Owen is not.

He goes back, pounds harder, runs like hell.

Damn near wipes out, instead makes it look like he’s sliding into home around the back of a car.

The neighbor comes out again.  Same thing.  Starts to close the door.

“LOOK AT THE GROUND.”

The neighbor heeds the disembodied voice.

Looks down.

Sees the gift.

Picks it up and quietly closes the door behind him.

I can only assume it was a Happy New Year at their house.

And Happy New Year to all of you!

Dear Santa: Let’s Make a Deal

Dear Santa:

I’m not going to mince words here. As I understand it, you’re pretty much omniscient. I can’t bullshit you like an innocent 5 year old, tell you I’ve been good all year, or even tried to be good all year.

You saw. You know.

But then, I have an inkling this goes both ways. You’re a man in complete and utter control of many, many little men (elves, if you will). I don’t know exactly what kind of kinky S&M relationship you have with them, if their plastered-on smiles belie a darker truth. I just can’t see these little dudes willingly indenturing themselves, without some unseemly shit going down off camera.

So let’s talk turkey.

I have enough slippers/coffee mugs/mittens/pen sets/seasons of The Gilmore Girls on DVD.

This year, I want something good. GOOD.

Last week, to quote the esteemed Lionel Richie, “I had a dream, an awesome dream.”

A dream from which I did not want to wake.

I dreamt I had a gay boyfriend.

I used to have one, in real life. That perfect specimen; cute, polite, hilarious, flirty, immaculate, flattering, and not one bit interested in my girly parts.

Heaven, in a pair of expensive jeans. He left me for law school. I’ve never found a suitable replacement.

The dream brought it all back. Realizing it had been a dream, not real? I was disappointed for the better part of a Saturday.

So that’s what I’m asking for, Santa. A gay boyfriend. (Don’t worry, my husband’s totally down with it. Gets him out of theatre productions and, you know, talking about feelings and junk.) I’ll expect him to be lounging under the tree on December 25.

Anticipating your cooperation in this matter,

Ginny

P.S. Don’t try to pull a fast one. Because funny or not, if you bring me a Bruce Vilanch

the jig is up with your snowy little sweatshop.

We’re talking Neil Patrick Harris or better.

Or. Better.

Capiche?

The Day in Letters

Dear Son:

 

I wish you wouldn’t worry about bad things that I can’t guarantee won’t happen.  I wish you couldn’t read so well, and I wouldn’t have to explain the “Future Porn Star” bumper sticker on the car parked ahead of us, outside your elementary school.  And finally, I wish you flushed on a more consistent basis.  Never let it be said I didn’t have wishes for you.

 

Love,

Mom

 

 

Dear Daughter,

 

I’m sorry I didn’t believe you when you said that you told your dad you weren’t supposed to have a brownie, but he gave you one anyway.  Even as a three-year old, I think you can see how far-fetched that one was.

 

My bad,

Mom

 

 

Dear America,

 

You’ve already absconded with one of my siblings.  If you think I’m letting you take another, you’re out of your automatic-weapon-loving mind.

 

Suck it,

Ginny

 

 

Dear Husband,

 

For the love of all that is holy, quit butt dialing me from your cell-phone.  (And keep in mind that at this point, I still believe your account of what’s happening, and have not yet fallen into the assumption that you are lying, and are instead engaging in an absurdly passive-agressive hobby.)  Also, if you could change the ring tone on your phone so that when I call, it DOESN’T play the Imperial Death March?

That’d be awesome.

 

Love,

G

 

 

Dear Smell Emanating from my Kitchen Sink Drain,

 

What the fuck are you?  More importantly, what will it take to kill you?

 

Yours in Confusion,

Ginny