Kid Sensation: Living dangerously

Hey, you guys!  I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie.  The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie.  My initial reaction was, “Of course not.  You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ”  Ignorant, I know.  But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato.  Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened.  One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years.  Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie.  Conclusion:  I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie.  I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans.  I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death.  And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl.  No.  This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together.  Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time.  Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks.  Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire.  However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation.  (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents.  I’m not gonna front though.  It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl.   The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.”  But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

ddbw
All day, every day.

 

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air.  We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA:  Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad.  But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself.  He hates repeating himself even more than I do.  Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border.  Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote:  “Okay, Okay.  Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here.  When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening.  No, maddening isn’t right.  It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red.  I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE!  NOW!”  It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself  from the room.  I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony.  I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out.  Living with Grandma?  No, she lives half a mile from here.  Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever.  He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys.  But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day.  I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask.  I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

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Howareya?

Hey ya’ll.  I know I promised all sorts of things and I have not delivered.  What had happened was I wrote a few and I lost some of my work and then I blamed my blog.  So I stopped writing for a while.  Also, I’m pursuing an MFA in creative writing, so I’ve been writing (my own stuff) and editing (other people’s stuff) for that and then not wanting to even look at a keyboard or monitor after that.

Anyhoo, how have you been?  Yeah, yeah, now back to what’s important—me.  Just kidding, you know I love you guys.  But seriously, back to me.

One, Wondergirl is eleven.  Or as I prefer to call it:  Eleventeen.  Wondergirl has never been easy, but good gravy, you guys, this chick is acting brand new.  Like she has never met me or the Big Man before.  Well, in the words of Kevin Hart, “She gon’ learn today.”

So she’s stomping around here, slamming doors and such, when finally, the Big Man has had it.  Now, the petty stuff he lets me handle—I enjoy being petty.  I really do.  I will argue with a seven-year-old and fight a baby.  (BTW, shout out to Birdie for teaching me how to fight a baby.  It’s an art, you know.)  Apparently, however, door slamming isn’t petty.  From what I surmise, it’s tantamount to property damage and the Big Man ain’t having it.

He looks at me and says, “I warned her.”  And in all fairness, he did.

Okay, so a few weeks ago, she was acting all stompy and mean and door-slammy.  The Big Man was not cool with this, so he called her down to his almighty recliner and told her:

“Look.  If you ever slam that door again, it’s coming off.” And then he went back to watching Miami Vice.  The show, not the terrible, terrible movie.  Colin Farell? Really?

Anyway, I guess Wondergirl forgot.  I forgot too, but then, I’m not the one running around slamming doors.  (Sidenote:  I used to be the Door Slam Empress.  But then one time my dad had enough of my reign and decided to overthrow me with the Bust-the-Door-Open-So-Hard-It-Put-a-Hole-in-the-Wall technique.) The Big Man did not forget and he had had it up to hyeah (“here”, for those not familiar with parental grammar).  So he looks at me and says, “It’s coming off.”

At first I thought he meant his calm demeanor and that he was planning on hulking out, which I wasn’t cool with.  But he saw the confused and ready-to-argue look and my face and says, “I mean her door.  Everything isn’t comics, Veeds.”  He’s wrong about that, but I’m just glad he meant her door.

So he goes and gets all these dramatic tools from the garage and trudges upstairs like he’s walking the Green Mile.  Wondergirl suspects nothing.  I am profoundly grateful for this, because I really don’t want K street to fall victim to what happens when an unstoppable force meets an unmovable object.  (I do know that this is supposed to be physically impossible; this would be the first time people–I PROMISE. It would destroy mathematical academia as we know it.)

So maybe this? Except I'm not there.  I'm making ice cream.
So maybe this? Except I’m not there. I’m making ice cream.

You know that time Roseanne took down Darlene’s door?  This was nothing like that.  The Big Man removed the door and Wondergirl said nothing.  Nothing.  She just looked at him.  Then she cried a little bit and continued to say nothing. And then cleaned her room in silence.

Y’all ain’t hearing me though.

Background:  I have to BEG Wondergirl to clean her room.  BEG.  So now, after punishment, she does it voluntarily?  I’m not buying it. It seems like she’s getting her affairs in order so she can assume a different identity. You know, like after committing a horrific crime.

I’m a coward, though, so I didn’t say anything.  I’m just acting nervous around her and offering lots of ice cream.  Who knows? Maybe being a widow won’t be so bad.

Oh. OH.  Remember I was telling you guys about Omega Prime?  This kid is so awesome I can’t even. So just wait a bit.  It’ll happen.

There she goes again.

I know, I know, another Wondergirl post.  But you have to admit, she’s pretty entertaining.  I’ll even throw in some bonus Kid Sensation and The Destroyer.

Actual conversation on their way to school:

Big Man:  Wondergirl, are you supposed to be chewing gum?

WG: (Smack, Smack) Nope.

Big Man:  Aren’t you going to get in trouble?

WG:   Probably. (Smack). It doesn’t matter, Principal Conners is soft.

Soft?!?!? SOFT?!?  How are you ten and calling someone soft like you’re The Rock?  Like, I’m fully expecting her to continue that statement with, “You wanna cross the Wondergirl? Well, the Wondergirl says this…”

The week she was on steroids and became a ten-year-old rage monster (I told you guys it was going to be great):

Kid Sensation was flying his paper airplane in her vicinity.  Yeah, I know.  I’m not sure how he thought it wasn’t going to end badly, or if he was willing to risk it unaware of just how badly it was going to end.  This is how–and you guys, just, you guys.  Wondergirl, who was curled up in the recliner trying to suck her thumb despite her swollen face, was trying to watch TV.  Besides the steroids, she was also going through thumb withdrawal.  No bueno.  So then Kid Sensation comes through with this airplane. Wondergirl is tracking the plane with her eyes.  It passes in front of her face twice.  Somehow the barometric pressure in the room drops, so I know it’s about to go down.  Third time–and I swear on my Batman T-Shirt–her feet shoot from underneath her and she grabs the airplane out of the air with one hand simultaneously.  She crushes  poor Kid Sensation’s airplane while staring him down, then balls the airplane up and slams it into the garbage.  Then she went back to the chair, curled back up, and continued her attempt to suck her thumb.  It happened so fast, if the Big Man hadn’t asked me if I had just seen what he did, I would have thought I imagined it.

You guys, I'm pretty sure this is what happened.
You guys, I’m pretty sure this is what happened.

She blew  up at The Destroyer so hard you guys he just put his hands up and walked away.  He was trying to tell her that dinner was ready.

Wondergirl was in her room ranting for no reason.  Well, maybe there was a reason, but I was scared so I didn’t go in. Or even knock. There might be a body in there, but all I smell is Bath and Body Works Sweet Pea lotion so I think I’ll leave it alone for now.

Oh, and Kid Sensation tried to get himself killed.  The other day he threw himself face down on the couch, then lifts his head, coughs, and says, “Oh, I think it’s Dad’s bottom.”  He then lowered himself down to floor and immediately put his own head down.  He already knew.

Oh, oh, and I have to take timeout to be that parent who brags about something her kid did like other people really care and aren’t just politely nodding and thinking about how to escape.

So the Destroyer runs track, and he ain’t half bad.  He runs the 400 and the 4 x 100, and he throws discus.  So last week, he’s running the third leg of the 4 x 100 and his teammate steps on his shoe during the handoff.  The Destroyer trips, falls, and his shoe comes off.  He rolls over, pops up, and finishes his leg and handoff. WITH. ONE. SHOE.  I thought that was kinda cool.

Anyway, how have you guys been?

Six is the good life.

After being here for two weeks for winter vacation with my kids and not going insane—well, more insane—I’ve decided that Kid Sensation is on to something: being six is awesome. It must be the best thing ever, because when you’re six you get away with crap that no one else in the house does, which is pretty cool. Also, he’s awfully cute, so that helps.

That being said, Kid Sensation is kind of weird. Again, we forgive him all the weird ish he does because he’s six. (Well, the Big Man doesn’t, but that’s because they’re the same person.) So. As I list the stuff that ol’ K.S. Does, some of it you’ll compare to a normal six-year-old. Don’t. It’ll give you a headache.

He gives himself the thumbs up. All the time, not matter how shoddy his work is. I’ve gone to his room after he’s “cleaned it” and told him his work was garbage and that I was going to write him up for it. He gave himself a thumbs up behind my back, like I didn’t know what I was talking about. I had to restrain myself from physically pushing his thumb down. If I went around giving myself the thumbs up, I’d be committed.

He refuses to pronounce things correctly. I try to teach him, but he doesn’t care. I already told you about “unpossible”. (Typing that made me mad all over again. Unpossible. Hmph.) He freaked out one day about having to change in the truck because people were going to see him “maked.” Not “naked”, “make-ed”. Then when I try to tell him the right way to say it, he tells me, “Never mind that.” He does that all the time, like he can’t be bothered with proper English. I swear, if I mispronounce a word and someone corrects me, I am instantly shamed into saying it correctly for the rest of my life.

He brought the Big Man’s shirt downstairs and stomped on it because he was upset with him. That only means something to a six-year-old. You try doing that with a straight face.

Kid Sensation talks mad crazy to his dad. And anyone who has met this man knows that this is risky, at best. But again, being six means not getting beat into paste for being disrespectful to a 350-lb powerlifter. Although, having to put his head down is apparently just as bad.

When you’re six, it’s okay to cry when someone calls you names. Like, Kid Sensation was crying about something and Wondergirl called him a crybaby (he is). He cried about that. If someone calls me names I’m supposed to do things like “be the bigger person” and “not let it get to me”.

Except much, much less stoic.
Kid Sensation. Except  K.S. is much, much less stoic.

He silently points at his food. I don’t even know.

Kid Sensation would rather watch the special features than the movie. We let him get away with this because it keeps him quiet. I’m grown, and if I did that me and the Big Man would probably get into it. He’d be all, “Can we just watch the bleeping movie?!” and I’d be all “No! I need to hear how Mark Ruffalo felt the day they approached him to play the Hulk! I need this!”

I don’t know. I mean, being a grown up ain’t all bad. You know, coffee addiction and such. But being six seems kind of great too.

Oh, and is your kid as weird as mine? No? Fine.

Time, that’s what happened.

Hey you guys. You guys, I have been so sick, and I still am a little bit. But I feel good enough to run my mouth today, so here we go.

The weather here has been pretty nice the last few days, just a little chilly. (Somewhere in the Midwest someone is flipping me the bird right now. ) So since it isn’t raining, I make my kids bundle up and then kick them outside until they have mild hypothermia. Parenting, ladies and gentlemen!

Anyhoo, I was watching them play and it reminded me of things I used to be able to do effortlessly. “Oh, here she goes with her lists,” I can hear you thinking. Well, it was kind of rude for you to think that, but I’m going to present my list to you anyway.

1) Running. No, not jogging or running for exercise—which I don’t do—but an all-out-full-bore-sprint for no reason other than to run. The Destroyer runs everywhere. Everywhere. Full speed. And he’s got nowhere to be; I have no idea why he’s running. But if I wanted to sprint somewhere (you guys, I just stopped and busted up laughing after typing that, tears and all) I would really have to get ready to do it. First, I’d have to put on my sports bra that’s made of titanium alloy. Then I would have to psyche myself up. Then I would have to stretch. After that, I would have to talk myself out of going back in the house to lay down. Oh, and I’d have to make sure there was no one around within a ten mile radius. Okay, and your mark, get set, go! I did it! Now, I’m just going to lay face down in this grass twenty feet from my house…

2) Jumping. Every one of my kids likes to jump down the stairs. Like five of them at a time. I guess their femurs shooting up through their kneecaps and the ensuing patella ricochet isn’t a concern for them. It is for me though, so if I ever have to jump down from somewhere, first I get my feet as close to the ground as humanly possible. Then I point my toes as hard as I can in order to get even closer to the ground. Then I use my arms to launch myself to wherever it was I was stupid enough to have to jump to get to. I try really hard to make sure that my ankles and knees are bent when I land so that I don’t collapse into a heap of two immediately broken ankles. Jumping down one stair is not for me.

3) Pull-ups. The Destroyer was doing pull-ups for fun. I haven’t done pull-ups in years. Just kidding! I’ve only ever done one pull-up in my life, and I’m pretty sure I was drunk.

4) Falling. The Destroyer was playing basketball with one of his friends in front of the house. On the street. And he dove for the ball. He fell, of course, but then popped right back up and continued dribbling. I remember doing that all the time. Just popping with a skinned knee or something and going on about my business. People, I am so for real when I say that, now, to me, falling down is devastating. It always happens in slow motion, I can never stop myself, and it seems like it’s always really loud. Like a couple of weeks ago, I fell after misjudging a stair—in my own house, a stair that I have gone down only a million times—and when I landed it sounded something like PLAP! It was horrible. I had to lay there in a pile of embarrassed Mom for a minute so I could recover. Was anything hurt? Well, my feelings. And my pride. I have no dignity left, so that wasn’t an issue.

Like this.  Except nobody cared so I just had to lay on the floor.
Like this. Except nobody cared so I just had to lay on the floor.

So, while I’m sure every last one of you is in better shape than I am, (I’m obviously a walking disaster) what are somethings you used to be able to do easily? By the way, if you say pull-ups, I’m going to call you a liar.

They also smell.

I just read an article about if it’s okay to call kids jerks.

Real talk, you guys, I didn’t know people didn’t call kids jerks.

Because kids.  Are.  Jerks.

Now, I’m not suggesting that people call kids jerks out loud to their faces. (Even though I do.  All three of my kids are old enough to know when they’re being jerks.) What I’m saying is that kids do stuff that jerks do. Stuff that would make adults unfriend or unfollow or whatever it is people do these days.

Like:

1.)  Correct your speech.  I hate this. You know why?  It’s not like they’re correcting your grammar or anything–they’re correcting you about crap that is completely irrelevant. Kid Sensation is good for it.  I was talking to Kid Sensation about a dvd we got from the library.  “Make sure you have that Blue’s Clues dvd in the case.”  He says, “You mean, Blue’s room.”  Listen, pal, I don’t give a flying fish stick what it’s called, just make sure it’s in the case so we don’t have to pay for it!  Or the time I told him that something he wanted to do was impossible.  He says, “You mean unpossible”.  No, I didn’t, because I can’t mean something that isn’t a word.  That is jerk stuff, right there.

2.) Question you.  I don’t mean ask questions.  I mean question me–two totally different things. When I give specific instructions, I don’t need to hear “why do I have to do it that way? It’s just as good if I do it the sloppy way I want to do it that is destined to fail”.  I obviously have reasons for telling you how to do something a certain way, or maybe I don’t.  Point is, you live here rent-free and you are wearing clothes that I didn’t steal off a bum as well as horrendously overpriced shoes.  If I want the towels folded into thirds, so be it.

3.) Ignore you.  This is grade-A jerk stuff because you know for a fact that they can hear you.  Kid Sensation is also really good at this.  The other day, I asked him to clean up all his Thomas crap.  Nothing.  So I repeated my request.  He didn’t even turn his head.  I raised my voice a bit (a lot) to make sure he could hear me.  Bupkis. So then I said, almost whispering, “Guess I’m gonna have to eat this ice cream all by myself.”  Guess what?  I get, “Ice cream? What ice cream?”  Uh huh.   “No ice cream, I already ate it by myself. Now pick up your Thomas crap.”  Take that, jerk.

4.)Try to go over your head.  This right here is so infuriating, I can’t even.  When I say no, going to the Big Man to plead your case isn’t going to work.  Odds are, he’s going to tell you to ask your mother, anyway.  Oh and being extra sweet and sitting on his lap won’t work either, Wondergirl.  I’ve tried that.

5.) Ask you the same thing repeatedly.  This is going nuclear in the jerk-being department in my book.  I will, never, ever, ever in this life change the answer to a question just because you ask me 546,687 times.  If I said no then,  I promise I will say no the 546,688th time. I guaran-freaking-tee it.

And then I do this.
And then I do this.

I don’t know.  Like I said, my parenting skills are iffy, at best.  What about those of you that are good parents?  Are your kids jerks?

Random Thoughts Thursday

I decided to treat ya’ll to another visit to the wonderful world inside my head.

Because you enjoyed it so much last time.  YES YOU DID.

“I guess being dead won’t work either.”  I tried not to respond to the kids pleas for some motherly attention and played possum with my eyes closed.  Kid Sensation stone-cold walks over to me, lifts up my right eyelid, and screams “MOM!” right in my face.

“Oooooh!  I have a Honeycrisp in the fridge.  Imma eat that!”  Pretty exciting, if you ask me.

“I guess it’s time to ram the doors with my truck.”  The Destroyer was fifteen minutes late coming out of football practice and the school doors were locked.  I had to figure out a way to save him (and then kill him if nothing serious had happened). Ramming things with my truck is always the solution.

“Do I separate them or let them work it out?”  Trick question–I had no intentions of doing either.  I just parked them in front of a violent cartoon so they’ll both shut up for thirty minutes.  I’m such a good mom.

Because this is EXACTLY the kind of things Wondergirl needs to see.
Because this is EXACTLY the kind of thing Wondergirl needs to see.

“You stay in that corner, spider, and I will stay in this one.  That way we’ll both lead long, happy lives.”  She didn’t listen, though, and I really didn’t want to fight her. I only talk tough.  I went into the other room–no one wants a spider in their afro.

“That was bad.”  I thought that about a lot of things today.  I think that about a lot of things a lot of the time–a solid fifty percent of which are things I have done.

“I am so trifling.”  I was playing Farm Saga instead of cleaning the kitchen.

“Matching socks?  Who cares about having matching socks?  Ebola is real in these streets!…is what I’ll say.”  Have I mentioned that I hate laundry?

“You lose, cat.”  I had a staring contest with the neighbor’s cat through the window.  He thinks he’s better than me.  I showed him.

“If I take two samples of the same item at Costco, is that stealing?”  Now that I think about it, probably not.  Also, I’m a fatty, and everyone expects a fatty to take two samples.  I can’t let them down.

“Those are for douchebags.”  I’m not sure what this was about.  Oh, wait.  It was one of those bikes that goes over your shoulders and you have to run.  I saw one of these in real life.  It was pretty douchetastic.

“How dare you?”  After pretty much everything that comes out of Kid Sensation’s mouth. I mean, he says stuff like “Never mind that” and “You meant to say…”  How dare he?

“Where does he think he’s going?1?”  I thought Kid Sensation was getting into someone else’s car and panicked.  Turns out it was Gustavo, his classmate.  Again, I’m pretty much Mom of the Year over here.

“I know!  A tangerine!”  Trying to think up what to have for snack.

“Buzz all you want, dryer.  Those clothes will stay in there until no one has underwear.”  Not true.  Just until I have no underwear.

“NO!  No more Gerald and Piggie!”  Seriously, no more Gerald and Piggie.

I know I’m not the only one with random thoughts–gimme some of yours.

Wondergirl on Ice.

I decided to spend a little time with Wondergirl the other day, mano y mano.  It’s football season, so most of our time is spent either at The Destroyer’s games, to and from his practices, or watching football on TV.  I figured one of us should pay her at least a little bit of attention, that way her therapist can’t blame us.

So we watched Frozen for the billionth time together.  But this time, instead of faking like I was watching the movie while screaming on the inside, I listened to Wondergirl’s running commentary during the flick.

It was…interesting.

“Why are her parents telling her not to feel anything?  They’re not good parents.” Well, the king’s idea of medical attention was a visit to some trolls, so there’s that.

“So after they’ve messed her up, then they up and die.”  I thought the exact same thing. But they seems to be Disney’s way out with bad parenting a lot of the time.  Cinderella’s dad croaked and left her with this terrible woman he obviously married for money.  But I digress.

“So why did he (Hans) come to the coronation?  If he’s got that many brothers, he can’t be very important.” I know, right?  Elsa should have been insulted.

“If someone was dancing like that at my party, I would make them leave.”  I wouldn’t.  That old man was getting down, and I would have made sure he had plenty to drink purely for entertainment value.  Then when he started getting belligerent (I don’t know, but the Duke of Weselton seems like he’d be a mean drunk) I’d kick him out.

“Why would she announce that she wanted to get married at her sister’s party?  If my sister did that to me, I’d kick her out.”  Wondergirl sure is kicking a lot of people out of a party that isn’t even real.  Oh, and announcing her engagement at someone else’s party is exactly the kind of crap Wondergirl would pull.

Of course, she had to stand up and sing “Let it go.”  She’s still only ten.

“Kristoff looks like he stinks.”  Yeah, he kinda does.

“If she didn’t remember Elsa’s powers, how did she remember Olaf?” I don’t know.  But I know one thing, remembering him from childhood wouldn’t have made him less of a freak show.

And why does he have teeth?
And why does he have teeth?

“So, um does Elsa have a kitchen and a bathroom in there?” You know, Wondergirl, you’re kind of ruining the movie.

“She’s a wreck.” Wondergirl is right on with this one.  Elsa is clearly an emotional wreck.

“Why didn’t she tell them to shut up singing and wasting everyone’s time.  I would have.”  She’s talking about the trolls. We know you would have, Wondergirl.  But on the other hand, she has a point.  If I were Ana, I would have been like, “Yeah, fixer-upper, true love, that’s great and all BUT I’M LITERALLY FREEZING TO DEATH OVER HERE.”

“I would have taken my last bit of strength and strangled him to death.” I almost pointed out that then she would have surely died too, but we have already established that Wondergirl is fine with dying as long as someone goes with her. 

That was pretty much it. I think I need to revisit some of the other Disney movies with her–her take on the Little Mermaid is something I am pretty sure I need in my life.

Is it because they’re cute?

I often watch my kids and their interactions in amazement. You know how they say “kids are cruel”? I think it’s because kids under a certain age are brutally honest. The other day I had the privilege to observe Kid Sensation and his peers at the new library play area. I have to say, not only are kids dead honest, other kids handle this honesty quite well.

I saw a little boy who was contentedly playing alone with some blocks. Another boy came to join in the block fun. The first boy stares at the other kid, sighs heavily and gets up to go somewhere else. Now, a stare, a sigh, and bodily self-removal only mean one thing: I don’t really want you anywhere near me, but since I can’t ask you to leave, I’ll go instead. To me, this is even ruder (ruder? Is that a word? Well, there’s no squiggly red line, so I guess it is) than being asked to leave. This is basically being told that you stink. As a grown woman, I would fight someone who did this to me—they obviously just told the world that I stink. I feel very strongly about that because I don’t stink. The kid who must have stunk didn’t seem to take this too badly, though.

I saw a little girl horde baby dolls. I mean, chickie-poo wasn’t letting anyone touch the babies because everyone else had germs. Those were her words. “Don’t touch the babies cause you have germs.” The funny thing is, I am pretty sure I know who this girls turns out to be. She’s the mom that begs for playdate that turn out to be absolutely zero fun because no one can get dusty or touch anything. Notice I didn’t even say dirty. The girl managed to remain un-beat-up, and other little girls kept approaching her. It probably won’t be until middle school that people start to avoid her like the plague.

My kid, my innocent darling Kid Sensation, shooed another child. Like, he said the word, “Shoo!” to someone else. I swear to god, if another adult, (besides my mama and Grandma of course) said shoo to me, I would lose it. Shoo? SHOO? Like I’m some sort of fly with poop-covered feet? No dice. However, Kid Sensation remained unscathed. 

Well, maybe if I was this fly.
Well, maybe if I was this fly.

One little girl told another girl that her hair was ugly. The other little girl shrugged and moved on with her life. This is not something I would have been physically capable of. If another grown woman had decided to straight up tell me that my hair was ugly without the usual dancing around the subject (you know, the “ Ooooohhh, you got your hair cut. It’s, um, different.” Or, “that color? Humph. Well if you like it…) there would have been no further words exchanged. It would be all “Eyewitness reports say that the suspect, Vida, somehow turned into a wolverine and ripped the offender to shreds. Reports say that the suspect keeps muttering the phrase, ‘They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me. They told me Tuscan Honey would look good on me’”.

When do we lose the capability to be so honest and accept such honesty in return? Are kids better people than adults? Maybe. But they don’t pay bills or have jobs or do laundry, so maybe not.

 

 

 

Soap for her mouth, please.

School will be starting again in about a month. I can’t even tell you how much I can’t wait for that.

But at the same time, I worry.

I’ve already told you guys about the girls that go to school with The Destroyer. And he’ll be in seventh grade this year, so it’s only gonna get worse. I’ve come to terms with that.

What I’m having a time with is Wondergirl. She’ll be in fifth grade this year, and these girls are getting too grown too soon. Actual conversation from last year:

“Mom, I didn’t know that some girls call their ginas different things.” (Pronounced jy-na, it’s her word for vagina.) I didn’t like where this conversation was going already. I felt like saying, “Well, those girls grow up to be strippers. At places with names like The Lil’ Bo Peek. Is that what you want?” But I try not to shut my kids down immediately. I usually give them about five minutes before shut-down.
“Is that right? How did you find this out?”
“Well, there’s this one girl in my class who calls it her c—t.”
I think I blacked out. I know my heart stopped. I had chest pains, dizziness, and stomachaches. But I forced myself to remain calm.

This is exactly how I felt.  Except I could only scream NOOOOOO! inside my head.
This is exactly how I felt. Except I could only scream NOOOOOO! inside my head.

The thing is I was prepared for coochie. I was prepared for va-jay-jay. I was even prepared for,*gasp* the p-word.
But the c-word? In fourth grade?
So I stammered out a weak, “Really. Well, first, let me tell you that that is not a very nice word for a young girl to use. I’m not even going to repeat it.” True story: I never even heard that word out loud until I was twenty and started working retail. We had the universe’s worst district manager, but even then, I had to clutch my pearls when someone called her that. But when I was nine I. DID. NOT. KNOW. THERE. WAS. SUCH. A. WORD. And I sure as heck didn’t know to apply the word to my vagina.
Then it dawns on me: in what context in the fourth grade did this conversation take place?
So I ask. Wondergirl replies off-handedly, “Oh, she got a hair on hers and showed it to us in the bathroom.”
My knees almost gave out. Is Wondergirl telling me that another girl in her fourth grade class decided to pull her pants down in the bathroom in front of a bunch of other girls while telling them, “Hey look you guys, I have a hair on my c-word”?!?!? Is that what happens in fourth grade?
I still didn’t freak out. But I sure did pour myself a vodka tonic. We were WAY beyond wine at this point. If I had had a Valium…
I told her that when she pays bills in her own house, she can call her vagina whatever she wants. Until then, certain words were off limits.
It has never come up again.
Can you see why I’m a bit worried? What’s next? Whew, I need a vodka tonic just thinking about it. Please you guys, tell me that that was the worst and it get better. Even if you don’t mean it, just tell me that. Otherwise, I’m going to need some kind of prescription.