Magic words of the 21st century

So it’s my turn.

My turn for the August Blogchain at AbsoluteWrite.com. Take a peek-a-boo over at Kristi’s The Mommy Writer and have some ice cream with her adorable kids, then walk off those extra calories by toddling over to Ralph Pines’ Neither Here nor There (which sounds like it might be difficult to find, but it’s not. I put a link nearby, close to your favorite chair.)

Kristi’s post made me laugh. Kids will always find a way to make wearing a bag over your head in public seem like a reasonable option. Her kids notice the resemblance a man at the ice cream shop has to Santa Claus, mine discuss in bright, clear voices certain noted differences in the male and female anatomy.

It’s all my fault. I thought I was being so progressive, my kids wouldn’t be the ones using baby-talk euphemisms to describe body parts. Listening to mothers and their children use the word “num-nums” to indicate women’s breasts or “wee-wee” or “pee-pee” or once “the little man” made me want to run screaming from the room. My children would know from the get-go proper anatomical nomenclature. I can’t tell you all the many ways that particular area of knowledge has come back to bite me in the buttocks. But I feel I should try, as a service and a warning to mothers of pre-verbal children.

Rule #1 Do not tell your son he has a penis.

First of all, he knows. He knows because he came into this world fitted out with the best pull toy EVER. Fisher-Price and Baby Einstein will never come close to inventing a toy this cool and so convenient. If you can convince the young prince to keep it in his pants, you’re doing a far better job of it than I ever could. The real challenge, however, comes when he wants to give a name to his friend and constant companion. Don’t be fooled that this is mere curiousity, it isn’t. He wants to know what it’s called because he wants to talk about it a lot. To everyone. Everywhere.

For Conor, the word “penis” had a profound and magical effect on his life. Not only did his friend finally have a worthy name but every time he said it in public, which was daily and abundant, his mother would a) turn color or b) start moving that shopping cart at warp speed or c) dive into the closest hedge. All of which amused my tow-headed progeny to no end.

While standing in the check out lane at Safeway, Conor came to know the awesome power of his best friend’s name. Pointing a pudgy toddler finger at the large man waiting in front of us, Conor says, “Mommy, is he my daddy?”

“No. He’s not your daddy.” I probably should have continued on to say that his daddy is the lovely, hard-working man who lives in our house, the one I’m legally married to just to soothe the looks of horror I received from the man in question and the old woman behind me.

“Does he have a penis too?”

In hindsight I see I should have faked a fainting spell right there. Maybe if I had fallen to the ground or spontaneously combusted or even jammed my fingers in my ears and started singing “The Star Spangled Banner” I wouldn’t have been sucked into this topic, imprisoned between upstanding members of the moral police in the check out lane of Safeway. Anyplace they could have taken me would have been better than where Conor was going with this.

“Maybe we should talk about this later.”

I tried but there is no later for toddlers, there is only now. Now. Now. Now. I knew that before I said it, I also knew that Conor had latched on to his new favorite word like a barnacle on the Titanic. Even after the boat’s laying on the ocean floor, the barnacle is still attached, loving every minute of it.

“Is his penis as cute as mine?”

Someone just kill me because I’m going down in flames.

I must have blacked out because I woke up in the parking lot, attacking a quart of Butter Brickle with a rubber-tipped baby spoon, humming “The Star Spangled Banner.”

The future of parenting

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
Kalil Gibran

I knew from the moment I became a mother that my children aren't mine at all. They belong to themselves so completely. And although I am responsible for their education and well-being along with Big Daddy, I know that I could not put a single thought in their heads, I could not move their hands to take mine or control the crazy curliques of their imaginations. I saw that they were entire universes where only the smallest part would be visible to me in my lifetime, like trying to count the stars in the Milky Way. But even that tiny part is so cool, it makes me smile just to think of it.

Yesterday as I was putting Conor to bed, he said, "I love you so much Mom. I'll always love you." I laughed and told him his future. "One day you won't love me. One day you will tell me you hate me and mean it." He looked stricken and said, "I would never say that!"

"It's alright," I said, "every kid says it to their parents or at least thinks it. It's part of growing up. But you know, on that day what I will say back to you?"

He braced himself for harsh words of rejection.

"I'll say, 'I love you forever' and mean it."

That kid positively glowed.

The Worldwide Premiere of "Return Engagement"

"Everyone has to have a first day."  

Or so I say when the waitress hands me the wrong order or the customer service rep can't help me, the customer, with anything I need or my cable connection goes away because someone living two and a half blocks away switched services. I try to cut first-timers some slack, I really do because I know as well as anyone that firsts can be tense.  

For example, this is my first blog post.  I want it to dazzle and disarm the whole population of cyberspace.  Of course, I expect that my readership will more likely encompass approximately 3 people, 4 if my mother ever comes to terms with the "glorified calculator" sitting on her desk.  But like a new mother showing off her first born, I want everyone to cheer and feel their spirits renewed by the words here.  So it's not a Brangelina baby, as long as it doesn't puke on your shoe, and maybe makes you think a bit or god forbid, even laugh, then it's all good.  

Besides the obvious ego-stroking inherent in blogs, I have some legitimate reasons for beginning this adventure in anonymous journaling.  First, my status as a Stay At Home Mom is about to drastically change.  Time did this to me by making my children grow like kelp.  One day I have 3 toddlers all in diapers, the next day I have to figure out how to simultaneously deliver three kids to three different schools.  My youngest is 7 years old now.  She'll be starting 2nd grade on Monday morning.  Kendall is nervous about entering the 2nd grade, it's her first time after all.  I try soothe her and tell her, "I'm going back to school too."  But that doesn't soothe at all.  In fact, she cries about it and explains to me that mommies don't need to learn anything else, they already know how to love their children.

Well, maybe mommies do know everything they need to know about loving their families, but I don't know how to write the books I want to write.  I don't know how to make my passion for words a profitable one for my family.  Yet.  Although I'm sure no college course can cover such diverse topics as Magic Boo Boo Kisses, Differentiating the Cry of Pain From the Whine of Boredom, and Upper Division Sharing, my courses will educate me in the finer points of technical and multimedia writing.  Kendall doesn't see it's not mommy who's going back to school, mommy who makes sure your teeth are brushed and that you put on clean underwear, no, not mommy but Carol, me. 

Don't worry, baby blog, no pressure, no pressure.