You Know What They Say About Big Ears

My oldest children are a year, a month and a day apart in their birth order. For years Fric lorded over her baby brother that she was the dominant child merely by the timing of her arrival into this world.

Frac, growing weary of this routine over the years did the one thing he knew he could do: He outgrew her. Now that he towers over his older sister he has tried to wrest dominion from her by claiming to be the ruler of the roost by height. (Of course, this doesn't work while his father is home, but if the kid keeps growing, he'll have that title locked in another three inches.)

I listen to their squabbles and fights and do what any parent worth her salt would do: I tell them to be quiet or take it outside. My ears are routinely assaulted by their bickering and it often feels as though their arguing is liquefying my brain and making it seep out my ears.

I figure I still have to survive this parenting gig until all three of my children move out of the house (please God, let them all one day move out of my damn house) and I need whatever brain power I can save to get me through the troublesome teen years. So go squabble elsewhere before I am forced to duct tape some mouths shut. I'm told the government frowns upon this unapproved use of duct tape.

But my children are intelligent and constantly looking for new and improved ways to drive me crazy while simultaneously annoying their siblings. They're like evil little geniuses. So their squabbles have now moved from beyond the household pecking order and past the height requirements of domination and they've started taking pot shots at who is the better looking of the two.

Neither of them realizes they are spitting images of the other and by insulting one you are insulting both. So I quietly just sit and snicker until I'm forced to intervene and tell them that Frac is by far the prettier of the two while Fric is by far more handsome. Neither of them appreciates my gender confusion when I do this.

Nothing like turning the tables and annoying them for a change.

The other night, as we were driving home from my parents, for some reason or another the two of them started up again.

"Whatever Frac. Talk to me when you don't have a gap in between your beaver teeth."

"Oh good one Fric. This coming from the girl with beady little eyes. Must be hard to see the world through such small slits."

"I see well enough to know that your hair looks like a dandelion gone to seed."

"Oh ya? Well at least I was born cute. You were fat and bald and everyone thought you were a boy."

"Well at least one of us looked like a boy. You still look like a school girl."

At this point, as they tried to outdo one another's insults, I briefly thought of intervening. But since there was no anger involved in the mud slinging, I decided to keep quiet and wait it out. History indicates they will either run out of steam or start beating one another. I was game to see how it ended. Parenting at it's lazy finest.

"WHATEVER FRIC! At least I didn't need to have my ear pinned back! Dumbo!"



At this, my daughter gasped and touched her ears. "What? I never had my ears pinned back!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Mom, tell her she was born deformed!"

Sighing heavily, I looked at my daughter through the rear view mirror and said, "You weren't deformed. But you did have an ear pinned back. Just one though. Don't listen to your brother. He was born with a giant hematoma on his forehead. He looked like a troll baby for two weeks until it went away. Neither of you were perfect if it means anything."

Fric was quiet for a second and then said, "I don't believe either of you."

"You don't remember this? Really? You were five! You were in kindergarten. You don't remember having to go to school with a bright orange bandage around your head? You looked like a pumpkin! You thought it was pretty cool!"

"No! I don't remember any of this!"

"You don't remember being in the recovery room and trying to rip off your bandage, telling the nurse to eff off and then puking on her? I was mortified. And slightly proud." I mean, every parent dreams of having a daughter with a trucker mouth who can projectile vomit on innocent health workers, no?

"I don't remember any thing!"

"Well, it happened. But don't let it bother you now. You're beautiful no matter what your brother says."

Frac snorted loudly and rolled his eyes in disagreement as Fric processed the fact she had cosmetic surgery and can't remember a thing about it.

Fric nowadays. Without her rudder.

"So if I wanted to have a boob job because I have small boobs, you'd help make that happen, right?"

Hahaha. Nice try kid. "No. You can buy your own bolt ons."

"Oh, just thought I'd try."

At this point, I launched into a parental lecture about why some cosmetic surgery is okay and some cosmetic surgery isn't and tried to keep my head from exploding. I want my kids to accept who they are and feel good about how they look but at this point, thanks to my son resurrecting the past, all my past lectures seemed moot and insincere since we already had her surgically fixed for a physical flaw.

"Listen kid, maybe your dad and I didn't make the best choice. But we were 26 years old, dealing with one severely disfigured and disabled son already and the idea of you being taunted because of your ears seemed silly when it was so easily correctable. Would I make the same decision now as your mom? I don't know. But it's all water under the bridge now, right?"

Fric touched her ears again, and then looked at me and said, "Well, thanks I guess."

"You're welcome." I was just relieved this conversation appeared to be over.

"Mom? Just one last question," she ventured.

"Sure baby. What is it?"

"Why only one ear? Didn't they both stick out?"

Before I could answer her, her little brother with the big mouth and small ears piped up, "It was because only one ear was big. Mom and dad worried that if a strong wind came up and you took flight with your ear you'd be hopelessly flying in circles because you'd be constantly banking left."

Fric leaned over and punched Frac in the arm, as Jumbster and I giggled.

"Think of it this way Fric," he laughed, " It was Mom and Dad's version of getting you on the straight and narrow."

Parenting. It doesn't come with any magic feathers. Just a bunch of dumbos with various ear sizes.

 

Not Every Box Is Equal

School starts in less than two weeks up here so I've been doing the mad dash to get the smalls ready for some scholastic arse kicking.

And by doing the mad dash, I mean sitting here at my kitchen counter, twittering while playing some lame strategy war game that someone linked to on twitter.

(I don't even like computer games, and yet I see by the bored looks in my children's eyes and the numbers on the clock that I've lost 92 minutes of my life killing ogres. Awesome.)

I will never again yell at my husband or my children for getting sucked into some stupid computer strategy game.

(Okay, yes I will. Just not today.)

Twitter. The world's greatest time waster. I really need to stop clicking links that show up in my stream. I'd be much more productive then.

Ahem.

Yesterday, however, unlike today, I was actually feeling productive. (Probably because I tried to stay off of twitter. See how that works?) My daughter and I took the city by storm, emptying out my bank account and filling her closet with new purchases. She walked out of the stores happy; I walked out slightly shell shocked by what passes as acceptable clothing for young teenaged girls these days.

Along the way, I picked up the boys a few things and was ready to call it quits for the day when my daughter suddenly stopped and exclaimed, "Mom! We need to get Jumby a new lunch box!"

Now I'd have been happy to use his lunch box from last year but apparently my children beat the crap out of it. Literally. On the last day of school Fric and Frac took a bat to it to see how far they could knock it down the driveway. Apparently it was their way of celebrating the beginning of summer vacation. When I asked why they had to destroy their little brother's lunch box to celebrate, they very honestly answered, 'because we lost ours.'

Like duh Mom.

So the great lunch box search began.

I'm a bit of a fussbudget when it comes to Jumby. I admit I tend to spoil him rotten. Maybe it's because he's my baby, maybe it's because I'm trying to make up for the five years he had to live without his family, or maybe it's because I clearly have too much time and money on my hands. Either way, the boy is spoiled.

I can live with this. I'm pretty sure he's okay with it too.

As my daughter and I searched for lunch boxes that met my requirements (metal, big enough to hold his medical supplies and thermos of liquid food, and most importantly, cool looking) my husband called.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Spending your money," I answered as I shook my head at the lunch box my daughter held up. No way was I sending J to school with the same lunch kit every other kid in his class would have. Jumby has standards. (Or rather, I do. Whatever.)

"On what?"

"Lunch boxes. Trying to find something cool for him."

"You do realize he can't see whatever box you choose, right? That this is more an exercise for you?" My husband is very helpful with his armchair psychology.

"Whatever. It sits on my counter for an entire year. It has to be something that doesn't make me want to stab anyone every time I look at it."

"Well okay, but no skulls. I'm sick of skulls. If that kid could see, he'd have nightmares from all the skull stuff you buy him."

"First off, skulls were cool. Last year. He had that whole tough kid image going on. But we've moved on. I'm thinking retro this year. Like Jem and the Holograms."

"He's a BOY."

"Fine. He-Man then. By the power of Greyskull!" I exclaim, slightly louder than I intended. My daughter cringed and walked further away from me. By gones.

"You're a dork."

"You married me. Which makes you a dork lover."

After hanging up, I returned my attention to finding the perfect lunch box for Jumby. There were a couple of contenders but nothing jumped out at me like last year's lunch box.

And then I saw it, tucked in behind a bunch of Superman lunch kits.

"Hey Fric, what do you think of this one?" I asked as I held it up.

"Um, it's ..." She fumbled for the right words.

"It's AWESOME!" I finished for her. "I think we found a winner."

"But mom, I really think Dad would like this one better," she countered while holding up a green lunch box with Kermit on it.

"Ya that's cute too but this is better!"

Kermit's cute but he has no edge.

"I'm not sure it's appropriate for a second grader. I think you should ask dad his opinion first," she whispered.

"Oh please." But then I thought of my husband rolling his eyes at me when he saw it and lecturing me about trying to recapture my youth through our youngest child so I figured what the heck, I'd just send him a picture via text.

"He's going to say no, Mom," my daughter warned me as I pressed send.

"You really think so? I think it's awesome!"

"You say the word 'awesome' a lot Mom."

"Because it's totally awesome. Like gnarly awesome. You're just too young to have developed a rad lexicon like I have. Don't worry, it'll come with time."

"Oh, AWESOME," she said as she rolled her eyes as my phone vibrated.

In all caps, my husband had texted, "PUT IT DOWN, WALK AWAY. NOT ON YOUR LIFE. HE'S 7. NOOOOO."

My daughter, reading over my shoulder, chuckled and said, "I told you so."

I looked at my coveted lunch box and sighed heavily and sadly put it back on the shelf.

"Fine. We'll go with Kermit. But for the record, Kermit will never be as cool as that lunch box."

"Whatever Mom," she said as she walked to the register to go pay for Jumby's new container.

Apparently, someone has to be the responsible parent who makes suitable tasteful choices for their special needs child. Equally apparent, that person will likely never be me.

 I still think this lunch box is better than stupid Kermit.

Now excuse me, I'm going to drown my lunch box woes in an online game killing trolls while stalking twitter. Again.

Like the responsible parent I'm not.

 

 

 

It's Only Funny When I Say It

I sent my daughter to art camp last week.

Which is only slightly better than saying I sent my kid to band camp.

Ahem.

Well technically, while I paid for this over-priced teenaged vacation where the hormones ran rampant, I didn't actually deliver my child to a place where she most certainly created teenaged memories I don't really want to know about.

I had my sister take her there. Because I was cavorting in San Diego, creating memories I'm certain I don't want my teenagers to know about. (No, momma didn't shake her thang while wearing sparkles and holding a beer. Don't believe the pictures. They all lie.)

No, I had my sister drive two hours to dutifully attend to my parent responsibilities. All for the cost of gas and a promise of one day returning the favour if she so needed it. It almost made me sorry for the years when my sister and I shared a room and I would graffiti over the fuzzy kitten posters my sister always liked to hang up the wall.

Sorry sis, but kitty posters were never cool. The devil horns and moustaches I liked to draw on them made them somewhat palatable and probably saved you from me smothering you with a pillow after being taunted by such overt cuteness day after day.

I probably should have been nicer to my sister back then. That was a serious lack of forethought on my part, seeing how she now bails my arse out of a pickle more often than naught. If I had known, I'd have tormented her with slightly less frequency.

Maybe.

While I missed dropping my kid off at her camp, her father and I were both around to make the long drive to pick up our child and bring her home. Like the good parents we ought to be.

After reuniting with our daughter in the parking lot (when did she start to become so womanly? Damn you Co-Ed Art Camp!) my husband and Fric took to the dorms to pick up all her luggage as I wandered about the art gallery high-lighting the fruits of week long labour.

I ogled the serious talent some of these teens had, while privately judged others as not being up to snuff and when I came across my daughter's work, I stood in front of it and just oozed parental pride.

Oh yeah. My kid is good. She totally takes after me. (Or so I like to delude myself.)

As I stood marvelling at some of the pieces in front of me, a lady walked up next to me and asked if that was my kid's work.

"Yes, my daughter, Fric's," I smiled as I pointed over to where she and my husband now stood, across the room.

"She's very talented," this lady replied.

Yes. Yes she is, I thought as I puffed up with pride.

"I don't recall meeting you last week at the beginning of camp," this lady continued and then introduced herself as one of the chaperones of the camp.

"Oh, I wasn't here. I had her aunt drop her off. I was away at a conference," I prattled on, suddenly nervous that I was being judged. I quickly ran my tongue along my teeth to make sure there was nothing stuck in them, and stood a little bit taller.

"Oh, a work conference?" She pried.

"Yep." At this point I was trying to make eyes with my husband so he could come and rescue me from this awkward social encounter. I don't like small talk at the best of times while my husband can talk the ears off a tin can. He's very useful like that.

"What is it you do?"

"I'm a blogger."

"I'm sorry, a what?" The confused look on her face would have been comical except for that vibe she was sending out that screamed judgement.

"A blogger. It's a term for internet writer."

"Oh! You're a writer!" I nodded and smiled, while scanning the room for my family.

"What do you write?"

At this point, had she not been sending out condescending bitch vibes, I'd have happily engaged with her a lengthy explanation of who I am and what it is I do. But seeing as how her voice was just a tad too loud and her looks more pointed than I felt comfortable with, I floundered.

I gave her a pat answer, my elevator pitch, while looking around desperately for any of my kin to step in and save me. The voices inside my head were screaming "make a break for it!" but my manners my parents instilled in me seemed to override the flight response my instincts were demanding.

"You write about your life?" She repeated, dryly. As though she had read my blog already and found it lacking.

"Well, yes. You know, stuff I experience and all the stuff I want to do." And with her less than enthusiastic response to my career choice I finally gathered my courage and decided to make a break for it. Two minutes too late, granted, but still.

"It was lovely meeting you, but if you'll excuse me, I see my family over there." I didn't stick around to get her permission to leave. As I hot footed it over to my husband and daughter I breathed a sigh of relief.

Judgy women just don't do it for me.

"You guys ready to go? Some of the people here are freaking me out a bit." I nudged my chin in the direction of my new friend.

My daughter looked at the woman I was referring to and started to laugh.

"Oh, that was my dorm mother!"

"Ya, well I don't think she liked me too much. Didn't seem to think very highly of what I do for a living. Plus she kept looking at me like I had a booger hanging out of my nose."

Frac suddenly looked a little guilty. No, a lot guilty.

"Ummmm," she stammered.

"What? What did you say to her?" I demanded to know.

"Nothing really, it's just a few days ago after dinner we were all talking about our parents and she wanted to know what you did for a living. You know, typical camp talk, Mom."

"Uh huh. What did you say?" My kid's skin was suddenly going a lovely shade of red.

"Well, I may have made a small," she held her fingers up, "joke about what you do."

"Really? What kind of joke?" My husband and I both peered down at my daughter.

"Something about mumble, mumble..."

"What?"

Frac looked at me and I could see her weigh the outcome of her answer in her mind. "I was trying to explain to them about what you did for a living and I may have made a crack about it. I was just trying to being funny," she hurriedly tacked on as a personal defence.

"What crack?"

"That you write internet porn for a living?"

Ahhhh.

"Well that explains the looks she was giving me." My husband was howling with laughter while my kid was giving me puppy dog eyes in hopes of me not beating her to death with one of the odd abstract statues we were surrounded with.

As we walked out, I could feel that woman's eyes on me.

So I blew her a kiss.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

Next year, we're finding a different art camp. And I'm duct taping my kid's mouth shut for the length of her stay.