In the kitchen.
Sydney: Mama, I hurt my nostril.
Me: You hurt your nostril?
Syd, grabbing crotch: Yeah, right here.
Me: That’s not your nostril. Why do you call it your nostril?
Syd: ‘Cause that’s what I call my extra body.
Me: Your extra body, huh?
Syd: Yep, that’s right. That’s what I call it. Everything is a nostril on your body.
Me: Everything is a nostril?
Syd, turning around and patting her booty: Yeah, except for this.
Me: What’s that?
Syd: That’s a bummy!
Nostrils? Extra body? I’m so confused. She’s so confused.
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Later that day. In the car.
Syd: Mommy, I hurt my crotch.
Me: How did you do that?
Syd: I just scratched it.
Me: Oh. … Where is your crotch?
Syd, pointing to nostril: Right here.
It’s all starting to make sense now. A natural mistake, really, seeing how the words “crotch” and “nostril” are practically interchangeable.
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Last month McKenzie had a field trip to go swimming at the local YMCA, and came home somewhat disturbed by her locker room adventure. She saw naked people. Apparently, they were just walking around and sitting on benches and carrying on normal conversations with boobs and bums and other bits hanging out for all the world to see. I had not even thought to prepare her for this inevitable YMCA experience. Although, I’m not sure how one goes about preparing for it.
McKenzie: And there were old ladies in their bathing suits, and when I saw them I was like (putting hands to the sides of her face), “Ahhhh!” in my head. And then when I saw them naked, I was like, “AAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” in my head.
Elise, coming in late to the conversation: There were naked people?
McKenzie: It was like the girls locker room and so there were like only girls, so I guess some people are OK with it, but some people are like not OK with it, so they should be more considerate.
Can I hear an AMEN?
Monday, June 8, 2009
That Mom
I was at Freddy’s last weekend, picking up this and that when I noticed they had their summer clothes on sale for 50% off. All of my darn kids have grown since last summer (can’t this shooting up a size or two be like a bi-annual thing or something?), so I looked around for shorts for everyone.
I picked out a few things for the girls, and then moved on to the boys section. I looked around, and all I saw was plaid. Plaid shorts everywhere. Now I’m thinking these plaid shorts are pretty cool, but Tyler tends to be on the more conservative side, so I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about them. I called him up.
Me: So I’m at the store looking for shorts for you, and everything’s plaid.
Tyler: OK.
Me: Are you OK with plaid? Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days? (Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?!)
Tyler: Yeah, plaid’s fine.
And then I proceeded to describe to him the different color/stripe thickness combinations to try to get a feel for whether there was a difference between cool plaid and dork plaid because, you know, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid. Actually, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid without any special instruction from anyone else, but frankly, I have no such confidence in myself. I have no idea what’s cool anymore. And did I mention I said, “Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?”?! No wonder my children have taken to rolling their eyes at me.
I used to roll my eyes at my mother when she whistled along to Personal Jesus on the radio (you don’t whistle to DM!), when she said words like “annual” (it’s a yearbook, Mom!), when she came home from a shopping trip with the dork plaid. I swore to myself I would never be old. That Mom old. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Yesterday, driving in the car, I looked over at Tyler and the slight scowl he had on his face and realized he’s doing his best to settle into that prepubescent angst I’ve been dreading since the day he was born. I worry sometimes that he’s going to start seeing me as That Mom—the woman who has no clue, the one who doesn’t understand him (or anything else, for that matter) at all. The next few years are going to be tough. I’m hoping, at least every once in awhile, he’ll be able to see past That Mom whistling along to Boom Boom Pow (or whatever it is kids are listening to these days) and just let me be his mom.
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At the dinner table.
Tyler: Can I get a handlebar moustache?
Me: Like at the store?
Tyler: No, grow one.
Me: If you can grow a handlebar moustache, you can have one.
McKenzie: Why would you ask that?
Tyler: What? Handlebar moustaches are awesome.
McKenzie: No, I mean wouldn’t you just be able to decide for yourself?
Tyler: But I might still be living at home when I grow hair. You never know.
Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
I picked out a few things for the girls, and then moved on to the boys section. I looked around, and all I saw was plaid. Plaid shorts everywhere. Now I’m thinking these plaid shorts are pretty cool, but Tyler tends to be on the more conservative side, so I wasn’t sure how he’d feel about them. I called him up.
Me: So I’m at the store looking for shorts for you, and everything’s plaid.
Tyler: OK.
Me: Are you OK with plaid? Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days? (Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?!)
Tyler: Yeah, plaid’s fine.
And then I proceeded to describe to him the different color/stripe thickness combinations to try to get a feel for whether there was a difference between cool plaid and dork plaid because, you know, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid. Actually, I’d like to think I’m the kind of mother who wouldn’t buy the dork plaid without any special instruction from anyone else, but frankly, I have no such confidence in myself. I have no idea what’s cool anymore. And did I mention I said, “Is that what the kids are wearing at school these days?”?! No wonder my children have taken to rolling their eyes at me.
I used to roll my eyes at my mother when she whistled along to Personal Jesus on the radio (you don’t whistle to DM!), when she said words like “annual” (it’s a yearbook, Mom!), when she came home from a shopping trip with the dork plaid. I swore to myself I would never be old. That Mom old. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Yesterday, driving in the car, I looked over at Tyler and the slight scowl he had on his face and realized he’s doing his best to settle into that prepubescent angst I’ve been dreading since the day he was born. I worry sometimes that he’s going to start seeing me as That Mom—the woman who has no clue, the one who doesn’t understand him (or anything else, for that matter) at all. The next few years are going to be tough. I’m hoping, at least every once in awhile, he’ll be able to see past That Mom whistling along to Boom Boom Pow (or whatever it is kids are listening to these days) and just let me be his mom.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At the dinner table.
Tyler: Can I get a handlebar moustache?
Me: Like at the store?
Tyler: No, grow one.
Me: If you can grow a handlebar moustache, you can have one.
McKenzie: Why would you ask that?
Tyler: What? Handlebar moustaches are awesome.
McKenzie: No, I mean wouldn’t you just be able to decide for yourself?
Tyler: But I might still be living at home when I grow hair. You never know.
Maybe there’s hope for us yet.
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