Tonight at bedtime I was sitting on Jachin’s bed, chatting about the events of the day. Wednesdays are one of my volunteer days, so we talked a little bit about things that went on in the classroom today. Then the conversation turned to puppy love. I asked him who his current crush is. Even in the dark, I could tell that he was a little embarrassed; he whacked me with his pillow.
I’ve noticed, though, that the previous playfulness between he and Rachael has sort of cooled… since she stopped wearing her reindeer antler headband… So I started going through the list of girls in his class. After a few”no’s” I got to Audrey. “No,” he said, “she’s Mikey’s crush.” Mikey is Jachin’s best friend; the only other child I know who shares Jachin’s insane love of Super Mario Bros.
“Mikey likes Audrey?” I asked.
“Yeah.” Then all of the sudden he blurted out, “Mikey and I are going to move to Mexico.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because in Mexico you can get married when you’re 10.”
“You don’t want to get married when you’re 10,” I said.
“Sure I do. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why do you want to get married when you’re 10? How will you get a job and support your family?”
“Oh, easy,” he said, matter of factly. “In Mexico you can get a job when you’re, like, 4.”
I thought of my sweet son, standing along a chicken filled street next to his ten year old wife, selling Chicklets, and I shivered a little.
While I’m happy that my son doesn’t seem to have any sort of commitment phobias, I told him to tell me before he and Mikey move to Mexico… so that I can ground him from leaving the house and the country.
Most of you with children have probably heard of — or even practice — the Love and Logic method of parenting. It’s a method that teaches parents to respond to undesirable behavior with a calm and rational head. The idea is to allow your children to make mistakes, and then allow them to also discover the natural consequences to their actions. It all sounds fine and good, and it’s possible that it even works many times. But I’m currently at a stand still with my 8 year old over a certain issue, and there doesn’t seem to be enough love or logic to solve it.
This is a conversation that took place a couple of months ago, on a cold, snowy afternoon:
Jachin (walking through the front door after school, shivering, his coat shoved into his backpack): Man, it’s freezing outside!
Me: Yeah, I know. It’s winter. Why is your coat stuffed into your backpack instead of being on your body?
Jachin: Why didn’t you pick me up? Did you want me to freeze to death?
Me: You would have been fine if you would have worn a coat over your short sleeved shirt.
Jachin: I wouldn’t have to wear a stupid coat if you would just pick me up from school.
At this point, I’m thinking that eventually, after walking home a couple of times without a coat on, the whole “logic” thing will illuminate my sweet boy’s mind, and he will wear the stinkin’ coat. If the choice is for one to walk home in the winter without a coat, the natural consequence would be for one to freeze one’s butt off.
But this has gone on all winter. For months. I don’t know why I bought the stupid coat. On the very coldest of days, he will put the hood part of the coat over his head, and then leave the rest of the coat dangling off the back of him like a cape. His arms are always the appendages that take the brunt of the nasty weather. When I asked him why in the world would he go to the effort of putting the hood on, but then not put his arms in the sleeves he actually said to me “Men don’t wear coats.” First I pointed out that at 8 years old he is not a man, and then pointed out that his dad — whose age does indeed qualify him as a man — has more than one coat and wears them when it’s frickin freezing. But this seemingly flawless logic did nothing to sway him, either.
And so the cycle continues. He comes through the door in the afternoon with blue arms and gives me the old “Why didn’t you pick me up from school?” And I respond with the whole “I’m giving your coat to orphans since you don’t wear it”.
The other day I came across a picture that shed some light on my current dilemma:
This is Zoe at about 18 months of age (I know, it’s hard to recognize her without the hair), skimming through the Love and Logic book. This is when it hits me that the kids are already on to me! They know my plan. They’ve thought through my method, and they’ve been one step ahead of me the entire time… just waiting for me to give in. Waiting for crazy mom to crack!
So my resolve grew stronger; I would stick true to my course! I would not give in, or pick up my freezing child from school! And the impasse continues…
And Jachin still apparently lacks the logic to wear his coat, and I — obviously — still lack the sufficient love for Jachin to pick him up from school. He is not so smart, and I’m a heartless wench. And for this knowledge, I paid $19.99 for the hard copy.
Bad Mom put up this fun Movie Quiz, and I — being the big, fat, follower that I am — totally copied it. Well, I mean, not word for word, or using the same movies, because that would be dumb and not fun. You: Play along!! The rules are as follows:
For the blogger:
Pick fifteen of your favorite movies.
Go to IMDB and find a quote from each movie.
Post them on your blog for everyone to guess.
Fill in the film title once it’s guessed, along with the name of the smarty-pants guesser.
This part is for the reader (y’know, you):
No Googling or using IMDB search functions. No cheaters, please.
Leave your answer(s) in the comments.
Keep your hands and legs inside the blog at all times. Here we go:
1) Ok. Orphans! Listen to Ignacio. I know it is fun to wrestle. A nice piledrive to the face… or a punch to the face… but you cannot do it. Because, it is in the Bible not to wrestle your neighbour (Nacho Libre, by Stu)
2) You should’ve gone to China, you know, ’cause I hear they give away babies like free iPods. You know, they pretty much just put them in those t-shirt guns and shoot them out at sporting events. (Juno, by Stu… again)
3) Dear Baby, I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that’s all they do. They don’t pull away. They don’t look at your face. They don’t try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it. (Waitress, by my bff Diana)
4) You know my girlfriend is dead. She fell off a cliff and died on impact. (Happy Gilmore, yay Bill! I was starting to think no one would get it…)
5) Before Judith, our fun level was at an all time high. Ninety-three, it is now an eight. (Saving Silverman, by Leslie)
6) Get off of me, don’t you touch me. It is over between us, Kate. Nobody makes me bleed my own blood - nobody! (Dodgeball, by Leslie)
7) Bastian made many other wishes, and had many other amazing adventures - before he finally returned to the ordinary world. But that’s… another story. (The Never Ending Story, by Nerak)
8 ) Assimilate this! (Star Trek: First Contact, by Nerak… she didn’t get the exact title, but I don’t think anyone else would.)
9) You hear that Mr. Anderson?… That is the sound of inevitability… It is the sound of your death… Goodbye, Mr. Anderson… (The Matrix, by Stu)
10) Look at you, you have a baby… In a bar. (Sweet Home Alabama, by Nerak)
11) Oh, nonsense. This is nothing compared to the twig of ‘93. (A Bug’s Life, by Diana)
12) You all wanna be looking very intently at your own belly buttons. I see a head start to rise, violence is going to ensue. Probably guessed we mean to be thieving here but what we’re after is not yours. So, let’s have no undue fussing. (Serenity… my favorite movie… by Diana)
13) Witness Exhibit A: My 8th Grade science project - a working rain forest. Mike Dexter threw it out a third story window. It rains here no more. Witness Exhibit B: An eye patch I wore for a month after Mike beaned me with a raisin in home ec. My parents took me to a 3D film. I saw no third dimension. And of course, how could I forget the pudding incident? I know no one else has. Well gentlemen, tonight, Mike Dexter will know humiliation. Tonight Mike Dexter will know ridicule. Tonight is the night we fight back. Tonight is our independence night.
14) I flunk English, I’m outta here. I gotta get a job, and you know what that means. That’s right, they start me at the drive-up window and I gradually work my way up from shakes to burgers, and then one day my lucky break comes: the french fry guy dies and they offer me the job. But the day I’m supposed to start some men come by in a black Lincoln Continental and tell me I can make a quick 300 just for driving a van back from Mexico. When I get out of jail I’m 36 years old. Living in a flop house. No job. No home. No upward mobility. Very few teeth. And then one day they find me, face down in the gutter, clutching a bottle of paint thinner and why? Because you wouldn’t help me in English. (The Sure Thing, by Sam)
15) The fact that you’re not answering leads me to believe you’re either (a) not at home, (b) home but don’t want to talk to me, or (c) home, desperately want to talk to me, but trapped under something heavy. If it’s either (a) or (c), please call me back. (When Harry Met Sally, by Stu… who apparently likes many of the same movies I do.)
Though there are movies from a few genres, most are comedies… since I do love the zippy one-liners.
When I start thinking I’m bored with the internet (we’ve all been there… thinking we’ve seen and done everything the internet has to offer), I like to go to www.apple.com/trailers. I get giddy watching trailers for upcoming movies, and this site has high-quality viewings (not the crap you find on YouTube).
Nosing around this evening (Jon is out laser-tagging without me… *sigh*) I found several movies that I’m freakin’ excited for. A short list:
First on the list is a brilliant looking movie called Son of Rambow. After watching the trailer, I wished so badly that I could immediately watch this movie. Like, right now. Like, ten minutes ago. How cute are those kids? How much do you wish that you’d had a friend like that when you were ten or twelve, running around filming action movies. *sigh* Even just the trailer makes me want to be a creative, care-free, mischievous kid again. Can’t wait…
For the handful of you out there who don’t know that I’m a Trekkie, well… now you do. I’m both excited and apprehensive about the new Star Trek movie. I hope, hope, hope that it’s good. Since all of the original Star Trek actors are ancient (even the TNG-ers are getting up there in age), the new movie is a prequel. Kirk and Spock at Starfleet Academy. Fraternity house of the future. My fingers are really crossed for this one. I’m sending happy feelings its way.
Now we come to the eye candy. Just when the world finally simmered down and stopped guffawing at In the Name of the King: A Dungeon Siege Tale, we are enticed with the next pec-tastic installment of Jason Statham’s hotness: The Bank Job. Dare I say it, people… this movie looks… well, good. And not just “good” like staring at Jason Statham’s fantastic martial arts moves, buff muscles, and scruffy-licious 5 o’clock shadow kind of “good“, I mean good, good. Decent acting. Non-nauseating dialog. Plausible plot (in fact, it’s based on a true story). All of my sultry good energy is being directed toward this one. My poor, sweet Jason is long over-due for a good movie.
Last but certainly not least is the newest installment of M. Night Shyamalan genius: The Happening. I am a Shyamalan fan. The Sixth Sense? Genius. Signs? Creeeepy. The Village? Spooky with a good twister ending. Lady in the Water? Ok, wow… I’ll admit it… it was a frickin stinker. Whatever fantastic, over-my-head ka-pow smartness he was trying to convey just didn’t work out. I think it was supposed to maybe be a metaphor of something… but who really knows? Only M. Night himself. At the end of the movie my husband and I both gave each other the WTF? look and I wished for those lost hours of my life back. So I’m hoping this is the comeback I’ve been waiting for. Give me something good man… I’m ready.
There are, of course, others. This is a short list. What are you looking forward to seeing??
Jachin failed to finish his homework from last week (even with a free day yesterday to finish). I told him that if it was not turned in today, on time, that he would be grounded from video games for several days. So he finished it on the way to school in a flurry of pencil scratching… and on a Cheez-It box. And when I gave him the old “Smile for mommy’s blog readers!” he gave me this look:
Did you catch that? Look again…
He’s a charmer, that one. I actually get this look a lot. From both of my kids. And occasionally my husband. And strangers.
Incidentally, he finished his homework packet before we got to school, and then promptly left it on the backseat when he got out of the car to enter the school. I’m still trying to figure out if that means a grounding or not…
From the time I was 4 or 5, I always wanted to be a dancer. For a few months, my parents put me in ballet classes at the local community college. I was a natural (or so I’d like to remember). For a reason I can’t remember (but it was probably lack of money) my parents didn’t take me anymore. I was on my own as far as learning sweet moves. I turned to Mtv for all of my dancing knowledge. I wanted to be a Solid Gold Dancer. I wanted to be on Fame.
A few years later, after moving to another town, I got a new next door neighbor and best friend, Susie. She shared both my love of dancing and my lack of formal training. We talked our parents into buying us matching leg warmers (pastel stripes) and the work began. Hours and hours of choreographing and rehearsing in my basement. For weeks, people. We poured our hearts and souls into our routine. The song was “All I Need is a Miracle” by Mike and the Mechanics, and, indeed, what we needed was a real miracle… because our goal was to take our routine on Star Search. And win it, baby. We incorporated a lot of running in place, and floor rolls, and pointing at imaginary audience members, a la Flashdance (and yeah, I’d seen Flashdance, and no, I don’t know why my mother allowed me to watch such a sassy show at such a young age). After polishing our routine, we finally called our parents to the basement and allowed them to see what we’d been working so hard on. We turned the music up loud and danced our butts off. I thought for sure I really nailed it with the jump-off-the-couch-with-a-spin-and-land-on-my-knees-on-a-pillow move. I thought they were really impressed. But in the end, what they told us was that we needed to practice more before any calls would be made to the Star Search people. We were kinda crushed. But we kept dancing.
By middle school I had discovered a goddess named Paula Abdul. Her music was great, and her dancing was even better. I thought her CD “Shut Up and Dance” was brilliantly titled. I wished more people in the world would just shut up and dance. Except for me. I was allowed to talk while I danced. I bought Paula’s “behind the scenes” video cassette that chronicled her years from Laker Girl to Pop Sensation. I memorized it. I giggle along with her as she told the story of how she passed off her mom as her agent when the music industry came calling because she didn’t have a real agent. “Just tell them you’re my agent. I don’t know, tell them anything.” Haha, oh Paula, I would have done the same thing, you clever minx. I danced in front of any mirror I could find. Actually, I danced in front of anything that had any sort of reflective properties whatsoever; store windows, car door panels… At school dances, I danced in a circle of kids, pantomiming the choreography from Paula’s music videos. (Straight up!)
By high school I realized that there were girls who were better dancers than me. Girls whose parents kept them in dancing lessons. Girls who had seen and worked with real choreographers. As much as I still loved to dance, I wasn’t as confident as I once was. I found cheerleading and that gave me a little bit of dancing and performing, but it wasn’t exactly what I loved. I practiced routines to Janet and Paperboy in my bedroom. But only in my bedroom.
When I was 20, I had moved to Utah. I heard about the open call for dancers to audition for the Utah Jazz dancers. I totally had to do it. I psyched myself into going. The guy I was dating at the time offered to drive me over to the Delta Center the morning of auditions. Right before we left, one of his friends said to me “you do realize that all the girls who will get it will be girls who know Larry Miller (the owner of the Jazz).” That gave me a psychological kick in the gut. By the time we got to the Delta Center, I was deflated. When I saw the hundreds of girls walking into the Delta Center for auditions, I wanted to cry. I chickened out. I tell myself it never would have happened anyway, but honestly… who knows?
A few years ago I took a hip-hop class at the Gold’s Gym where I had a membership. I was a good 10 years older than anyone else in the class, including the instructor. The first night of class he explained that he was a dance teacher at BYU, and would there be anyone in the class taking dance at BYU this semester? Everyone’s hands up went up except for mine. Dude, I was old, and clearly not a dancer. But that was okay. I was just there for fun. I had given up on the dream of being a real dancer. I didn’t have to impress anyone, and I certainly wasn’t being graded. So he started teaching us a routine to a nice Craig David song. (I’m fairly sure I was the only person in the room who knew that it was actually a Sting song… and I was definitely the only one in the room to think that Sting is hella-hotter than Craig David.) I was also the suckiest dancer in the room. Hands down. By the end of class, the instructor was giggling at me and wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and giving me the condescending: oh, I love it, you’re great.
And with that, any wisp of the smallest hope of me being a dancer went out the window. He told me that the dirty dancing class might be a better fit for me. That’s the class lots of chubby moms take to feel sexy, and slowly melt away the post-baby pounds. Grinding hips, fist pumps in the air, zero talent needed.
Thanks, junior. You punk ass. (I quit Gold’s, also…but not just for that reason.)
Now I only dance if I am alone or with Zoe. Because Zoe doesn’t care that I dance in a stupid fashion. I still have a few good years before I become lame and dorky in her eyes. A few things still really get me going, though. One is the release of awesome movies like Step Up, (which I watched with Jon the other night and he said and I quote “How much longer is this stupid movie??”) and Step Up 2 the Streets which I’m dying to see. In my mind I am dancing with Channing Tatum (the cutie pants), and I rock it. Suspension of reality is good sometimes. And who knows… maybe in my next life I’ll be married to Channing Tatum and we’ll own a break dance studio and I’ll give lessons to the punk brat from Gold’s Gym, berating him all the while on his lack of skillz.
I’ve noticed that several of my favorite mama-bloggas are now “Fit Friend Bloggers”; women who have taken some sort of interweb oath to be a little healthier. (I, myself, have taken no such oath. My secret oath is to eat more pie.) Because I am a nice blogger friend — and because sometimes I like to laugh at other people — I have scoured the internet to find the perfect work out for busy, on-the-go moms who want it all.
May I present, The Celine Dion Workout:
For the more practical moms who may not already own the high-heel/leg-warmer combo (like you, my loafer-lovin’ Bad Mom) I am perfectly willing to share one of my combos with you. You need only pay for shipping. Please specify in your request if you’d like to borrow the “white-warmer/Jimmy Choo” combo or the “Striped-warmer/Payless pump” combo. Both are chic.
Monday afternoon, Jachin came rushing through the door after school, panting and red faced.
“Wow,” I said, “Did you run all the way home or something?”
“No,” he said, blurting out words between breaths, “someone threw a chicken leg at Cade, and I had to chase him down the street.”
“Wait… what?” I asked, confused. “Someone threw a chicken leg at you and Cade?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of chicken leg? Like, KFC?”
“Yeah, like KFC, and it came two inches from hitting Cade in the head.”
“Who threw it?” I asked.
“Some teenagers in a red car. Both of the windows were open and they threw the chicken leg at us and kept on driving. They were laughing.”
“So what did you guys do?”
“Well, first Cade kicked the chicken leg into someone’s flower garden, and then he ran after them, shaking his fist and yelling ‘You suck!’ at the top of his lungs. And then I ran after Cade and tackled him in the neighbor’s yard, and covered his mouth and told him that it was not a good idea to yell ‘you suck’ in public.”
At this point I was wondering a few things. One, who the hell is throwing chicken legs at my kid? Two, who would waste perfectly good KFC on a prank… especially if it’s crispy? And three, should I be happy that my son saved his friend from a potential beat-down by teenagers, or worried that the neighbors saw my kid tackle another kid and put his hand violently over the other kid’s mouth like he was accosting him?
I know, they’re all really good questions.
So, last night the whole family packed into the car to dispense some vigilante justice. None of us knew exactly what was going down, but something had to be done about the disrespect and the wasted chicken.
“Are you going to punch them when they open the door, Dad?” Jachin asked.
“No one is getting punched,” my husband said. I, personally, thought that we should have brought along some toilet paper… y’know, to fight teenage fire with equally childish teenage fire. But that probably would have sent a mixed message to my kids.
We started at the top of the street and Jachin ran us through the events.
“Here is where we were when the chicken leg came at us. And there is the flower garden where Cade kicked it.” A few houses down he said, “And there’s the yard where I tackled him and put my hand over his mouth.” We saw the indentation in the snow that was shaped like two boys rolling around, arguing about whether or not they should go after the punks who threw a chicken leg at them.
“Show me where the red car parked,” Jon said.
“It pulled up and parked at the house on the corner, at the end of the street.” So we drove down the street to the corner.
“Right there,” Jachin said, pointing to a house currently occupied by an elderly couple. In fact, the couple has lived there over 30 years.
“Are you sure?” Jon said. “A really old couple lives here. I don’t know why teenagers would park and go in here.”
“Yeah, it was this one,” Jachin said. Then, turning and looking in the opposite direction, he said, “Or else, maaaybeeee… It may have been that one,” he said, pointing to another house across the adjacent street. Now, we don’t know who lives in that house, but there was, presently, no red car parked outside.
“Hmm,” said Jon. “What should we do?”
“I think we should go home and forget about it,” I said.
“I think we should go find the chicken leg in the flower garden,” Zoe said.
“I think a cat probably already ate it,” Jachin said.
It was at this point that Jon turned the car around and started back for our house. “Do you think I’m making too big a deal about this?” Jon asked me.
“Yes,” I said, honestly. And man, do I wish I would have lied… because a big, fat argument started over the chicken leg, and how I was the lesser parent because I was not incensed about my child almost getting his eye taken out by a delicious projectile. “No one got hurt. Nothing was damaged,” I said. I kind of thought it was funny, even. (But I didn’t tell my husband the part about me thinking it was funny.) All I could think about was how I, at 16, would cruise around with my friend, Margie, in her car. In the summer, we would take the T-tops out of her car, and she would drive down the street while I sprayed people with a super soaker and yelled obnoxious things out of my cheerleading megaphone. (Oh yeah, I was one of those irritating teenagers.) And I thought of how much fun it was, and how we never hurt anyone (even if we irritated the ever livin’ crap out of them), and how if this wasn’t my kid we were talking about, it would really just be kind of hilarious.
As of now, the mystery remains in the unsolved case files. The chicken leg is becoming garden compost as we speak. We are, however, still on the look out for the elusive red car with wild teenagers and buckets of fried chicken in it. It will no doubt be parked at some corner house at some point. Nancy Drew is on the case… and she’s bringing toilet paper.
My bike has been parked, lonely and neglected, against the wall of the garage all winter. Today as I went out to get in the car, my bike confronted me. It was a sad and emotional confrontation for both of us. But some things had to be said.
Bike: Surprise, surprise, you’re getting in the car. Again. Ignoring me for another day. I get it. I understand…
Me: Hey, Trek, I’m sorry. The weather’s been so bad, you know that. The sidewalks haven’t been clear for weeks.
Bike: Yeah, whatever. I saw Zoe ride her bike yesterday.
Me: Well, she’s 6, and she doesn’t seem to mind riding her bike when it’s 26 degrees outside. It’s a little cold for me…
Bike: Dude, whatever! Just admit that you love your car more than me!
Me: Of course I remember. I still love you. And this spring, I’m going to buy you a nice, new basket and we’ll have great times again…
Bike: You think you can just buy me a new basket and everything will be okay?!? You can’t just buy my forgiveness! It doesn’t work like that!
Me: Trek, man, I’m sorry…
Bike: No, forget it… You’ve changed. And why don’t you just admit that your feelings have changed… you never even touch me anymore!
Me: That’s not true…
Bike: Oh! Well, moving my handlebars out of the way so you can back out of the garage in that STUPID CAR doesn’t count…
Me: Trek, don’t call the Pilot stupid…
Bike: It is stupid! And why are you taking up for the car?!?
Me: I love both of you, in different ways…
Bike: That hurts, man. That really hurts… *sob* I can tell you that the stupid car doesn’t love you like I do. Do you think I would have let you slide into the side of a truck?!? Huh? Do you? No, of course I wouldn’t have… because I love you more than the stupid car does.
Me: That was an accident. It wasn’t all Pilot’s fault.
Bike: So whose seat do you like more?
Me: Trek…
Bike: No! I want to know! And I’ll know if you’re lying to me… whose seat is better?
Me: Well, Pilot does have heated seats…
Bike: I knew it, you jerk!
Me: Trek, don’t you think you’re being a little bit dramatic?
Bike: You know what… whatever. I don’t care. You’ve changed, Suz. And I’m going to be honest, your butt has gotten A LOT bigger since you started ignoring me and hanging out with the stupid car.
Me: Okay, you know what, Trek, you’re just being mean now…
Bike: The truth hurts, doesn’t it?
Me: Whatever. We’ll finish this later when you can be more mature about things. Have a good day…
I heard him screaming something to me as I pulled out of the garage in the car. As the garage door went down, he cried. I felt bad about the whole stinkin’ situation.
I can’t wait for spring, when Trek and I can be good again.
