Another Gray Hair

Abracadabra

Siegfried and Roy watch out! My son is only five years old and well on his way to becoming the next hot magician. I'm going to encourage him to stay away from sequins and albino tigers but, other than that, I'm all about him making his mark on the magic scene.

Today, for instance, he put on a dynamo magic show. The first couple of tricks were standard fare involving cards and pennies but the last one was a doozy. He walked into the room and stood on his "stage" in front of the coffee table, waving his magic wand in dramatic circles,

Son: Would you believe that I can turn myself into a metal robot?

Me: No way. I'll believe it when I see it.

Son: Close your eyes. Don't open them until I tell you that you can.

Me: OK

Lots of rustling takes place at this time, and I can hear him walk from the living room to his room and then back. There's some additional rustling and then some footsteps into the kitchen.

Son: You can open your eyes now

I look around and try to figure out what is going on. There, on the coffee table directly in front of where my son's "stage" was, is a little silver plastic robot, an Ironman Kid's Meal toy. I hear a voice from the kitchen,

Son (in best monosyllabic robot voice): I'm a robot. Would you like me to bring back the magician?

I did my best not to laugh and oohed and aahhed in amazement at my son's trick.

Me: Yes, please bring him back.

We went through the same process, lots of rustling and footsteps and the next time I opened my eyes my son was standing there with a proud grin on his face. I could have smeared him with butter and swallowed him whole, he was so adorable. Maybe I should take him on, "America's Got Talent" and let him perform his trick for David Hasselhoff in the hopes of becoming someone that won a show once and now does weddings and bah mitzvahs. Vegas, here we come!

Hat Tricks

Given my status around the changing table (that's the mom's water cooler for those of you who aren't hip to such things) as a certifiable fashionista, I have decided to start a new trend for the summer: hats. Sure, it sounds simple and perhaps a bit of a faux pas but I'm determined to change that. By the end of the summer, people will see me coming around the corner in my faded "Life is Good" ball cap and haul ass to their local outfitter to purchase one for themselves. I don't look particularly attractive in a hat. I have short hair and no neck. This is not a good hat combination. In order to really look good in a hat you need a nice thick ponytail that fits perfectly through the hole in the back of the cap and a long thin neck. A sports bra and some shorty shorts come in handy too. They all come together nicely to create a hot hat look.

I'm not going for a hot hat look. I'm going for the yes-in-fact-this-hat-DOES-look-good-on-me-and-it-also-covers-up-my-terrible-haircut-and-saves-me-about-15-minutes-in-the-morning look. Are you with me?

My next move: stopping the Carrie Bradshaw-inspired stiletto insanity. Seriously, who let this happen? I'm bringing back the flip flop!

Cooties

The kids and I were playing Cooties today when it turned into Cootie Chaos. Somehow my comic musings about eyes and legs falling off of my goofy green creature morphed into heads, thoraxes, legs, eyes and antennae flying through my living room at warped speed. It felt a bit like a warzone. I ducked and covered many times to avoid impact with disconnected bug parts. It didn't take long for me to tire of this destructive game and I decided to take the energy level down a notch and cut the cooties out of the equation, opting instead to have a little dance-off in the living room. I turned the TV to the Kid's Beat music channel and busted a move to Usher's version of, "You'll Be In My Heart."

My daughter, a lifelong fan of move bustin', stood stunned for a couple seconds and I tried to cajole her into gettin' down. After a palpable epiphany she said, "I need to wear my princess dress." And there it was. In order to fully enjoy a family dance-off my daughter must wear a princess dress. I smiled and took her hand. We walked to her room and slid her dress over her clothes. We went back into the living room and got down to business, me with my clog/hip hop moves (jealous yet?) and my daughter in her downward-facing-dog leg kicks and twirls. I dread the day when she no longer requires the dress.

Super Patriot

My son is ultra-patriotic. He doesn't insist on wearing flag pins every day and cry during the National Anthem or anything but he does have an unusual five-year-old fondness for the Grand 'Ol Flag. We have a reward system in our house in which the kids are given a ticket for completing a household chore. One ticket earns them one half hour of television viewing or one half hour of computer time. If they manage to save up five tickets, they earn $3 toward the item of their choice and, if they save up 10 tickets, they get to go to Chuck E. Cheese. Recently, my son saved five tickets and asked to go to Target (yes, I've trained them well) to pick out an item. We went and he picked out, of all of the glorious things in the Dollar Spot, an American flag. Even though I tend to have my own agenda about what my kids should want, I try to let them make the decisions.

I paid for his flag and took it out of the cellophane package. He waved it back and forth, staring at the stars and stripes with a smile, the whole way home. When we got home and I found a moment to sit down, my son informed me that we had a new rule now that he had his American flag. This is what he said:

Whenever I walk into the living room holding the American flag, you have to stop what you're doing and say the Pledge of Allegiance with me.

And so we did. He came into the room three or four times, waving the flag and I stopped folding laundry or dusting to recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. The whole process cracked me up but I did get tired of saying the Pledge after the third time. There is something to be said, however, for repetitive Pledging of the flag. The process accomplished an unexpected feat when it actually managed to abate my post Mess-o-potamia (thank you Jon Stewart) cynicism a bit. I've even found myself humming It's a Grand Ol' Flag at random times during the day. I haven't started cloggin' it out yet but I'm close. I'm real close. It won't be long before I don my patriotic clogging duds and crank out a little Patriotic Medley in the kitchen, just for the heck of it.

Chihuahua Tasering in the ‘Hood

I got a check from the City of Cleveland yesterday for $25. They actually reimbursed me for the cost of my dog because I brought proof of his neutering to the Animal Control office. Talk about a deal. The Dud was free, plus I get 40 or 50% off of his veterinary care because he is a rescue dog. It blows my mind that there  are stores out there that offer financing for purchasing a dog. Financing! A weird, bassetty mutt at the local shelter beats the heck out of a $900 Yorkie in a sweater. Come on! Dudley could wipe the floor with some pedigreed Yorkie. Puh-lease!

Speaking of vicious dogs, we took a family walk in our 'hood last night and came upon several varieties of scary canines including, but not limited to:

• A pit bull with a tumor on his face that makes him look like the scary guy from Goonies who wanted a Baby Ruth so desperately.
• A boxer tied to a precarious looking stake, barking aggressively at us.
• A Rottweiler tied to a similar stake in the same yard barking even more aggressively at us.
• A leash-less Chihuahua who cracked me up but, nonetheless made my ankles a bit nervous with his throaty barks and bared teeth.
• A leash less German Shepherd the size of Texas who followed us for the length of two yards along with his side-kick, a yellow lab the size of Arkansas, barking at us with his ears back and his hackles up.

I remembered, after the encounter with Cujo and his sidekick, why we drive 2 miles to a local park to take our walks. I've got two options:

1. Invest in a tazer
2. Drive the four miles round trip for our walks

I think the kids might be permanently scarred if they saw me taze the Chihuahua so I better stick with option 2.

Beaver Fever

This weekend was Ugly Dawg's inaugural trip. She treated us well and we had a great time on our annual Stone Mountain adventure. The weather was beautiful, there wasn't a dead body to be found and, best of all, we were NOT in a tent.

My friend, Jacquelyn, and I tend to be pretty chill about our kids getting dirty and having fun. The same cannot be said for our husbands. Twice Jacquelyn and I were met with subtle contempt when we let our kids run wild a bit. The first time was atop Stone Mountain where, unlike years past, there were several puddles left by recent rains. The puddles were filled with a soot-like substance. While this may sound like a cesspool, these puddles are not exactly teaming with life. This was new rain on a mountain made completely of stone. They were clean, in a very dirty way. The kids started wading in the puddles and we did nothing to stop it. Our husbands fought us initially but gave up and distanced themselves from the entire scene. They sat on a rock several yards back, quietly judging us and watching onlookers do the same. I will admit that I did not see another child running through the mud but I cannot do that without also acknowledging that I did not witness another child having nearly as much fun as ours were. They were filthy little mongrels having the time of their life. I relished every moment of it.

The next day we all took a little hike through the woods at the base of the mountain. There are some short trails, perfect for young children. The hike led us on a bridge over a stream. The kids were hot and at the height of their afternoon, I-need-a-nap lull. What better anecdote for a case of the naps than some cool mountain stream wading? We consulted our husbands briefly about allowing the kids to get a little wet. Their response was predictably negative. My husband, however, took us by surprise when he mentioned the possibility of the ever-menacing "beaver fever." We both laughed and I tried to suppress thoughts of a 16-year-old boy, headed out to a party on Saturday night telling his buddies that he had a bad case of "beaver fever." Yes, I'm a little twisted, but it made me laugh. It's making me laugh even as I type this.

Still skeptical of the existence of "beaver fever", we decided to take a chance and let our kids wade in the mountain stream. They loved every minute of it. A google search upon returning home revealed that beaver fever is a legitimate condition. I'm happy to report that despite the warnings to the contrary, every one of our children remains beaver fever free.

Naked Boot Camp

My kids really enjoy being naked, perhaps more than other kids. Tonight, just before their bath, they were both running from the kitchen to the living room and back, naked as a jaybird, singing the following chorus (to the tune of the Spiderman theme song):

Naked girl. Naked girl. Naked naked girl girl girl.

&

Naked boy. Naked boy. Naked naked boy boy boy.

They sung it in stages like Row Your Boat.

They sung it loud and seemed to gloat.

They sung it soft, too soft to hear.

They sung it slow and loud and clear.

Sorry. I've got a little Seuss vibe going tonight. They actually did sing it in a variety of ways. It was as if Truman was a naked drill sergeant, giving commands for tone and volume to his naked, incorrigible PFC.

Does this type of thing go on in other homes or is it a certifiable freak show at the Hale house?

Pop Tarts and Demons

I wrote this post back in February to save for a rainy day. Today is one such rainy day:

If you ordered say, blueberry pancakes, at IHOP and the waitress brought you strawberry instead, would you freak? Would you morph into a demon and scream at the waitress as if she were an imbecile? Would smoke come out of your ears? Probably not. You’d do one of two things: A) Bring the error to the waitress’s attention and politely request the correct dish or B) Accept your fate and enjoy the strawberry pancakes. But you’re not my son. And the waitress is not me, on the phone with a doctor from New Hampshire, conducting an interview for an upcoming article.

It was a pop tart. I gave my son a cherry pop tart instead of a blueberry one. We were out of blueberry. I loathe pop tarts. They’re chock full of high-fructose corn syrup and they amount to a nutritionally worthless breakfast but I keep them on hand for after-lunch treats (my kids split one) and emergencies. This interview was one such emergency. I called the doctor on Wednesday. My house was quiet and orderly and I could have conducted a highly professional interview but he was not in his office and I left him a message. He called me back yesterday morning and instead of telling him that I would have to call him back and getting the kids in order, I acted impulsively and decided to take the interview then. I hauled out the big guns: pop tarts and Sponge Bob and sat down in front of my computer.  Things started to go south about 10 minutes in.

My son was not pleased with his cherry pop tart and kept yelling, “Mommy WHY-DID-YOU-BRING-ME-A-CHERRY-POP-TART-I-DON’T-LIKE-CHERRY. GET-ME-A-BLUEBERRY-ONE.” This was not said in a kind voice. It reminded me of a tape I heard in Sunday School in junior high of a man possessed by a demon named Legion. Not pretty and just a tad distracting. The doctor was gracious and kind and, best of all, a father of two kids under 5. He kept right on talking and I kept right on listening, occasionally peeking into the living room to point at the phone forcibly and give my son the evil eye. As you can imagine, it was highly effective. My parenting skills, especially under duress, are off the h-iz-ook.

So, writer Mamas, what’s your strategy for effective and professional interviewing? Hire a nanny? Invest in a kid-cage? Sound proof walls? I’m up for suggestions!

Little League Heckler

Can someone please tell me why my ground turkey is, "flavored with natural ingredients"? Shouldn't ground turkey be flavored with, say, ground turkey? And what, pray tell, are these supposed natural ingredients? If you know the answer to this, please enlighten me. I'm cooking that bad boy tonight.

In other news, my son has taken on a new role on his baseball team. He's the official team heckler. He stands at his post as catcher behind the batter and heckles each kid as they swing the ball and miss (9 times out of ten—this is 5 & 6 year-olds). Right after he haphazardly throws the ball back to the pitcher, he yells the player's status, S-trike 1!, and then proceeds to laugh uncontrollably. It just started at tonight's game. I'm mystified. I don't think he even knew what a strike was prior to this evening's game. The only explanation that I can think of for this bizarre, yet humorous, behavior is that the coaches, in an effort to get some manner of enthusiasm out of him, advised my son to yell out the strikes as they happen. Who can blame them? This is a kid who we have to cajole into getting the ball each time a batter gets a strike. Baseball, for him, is all about hecklin' and dirt playin'. No wonder he loves it so much.

 

Third Rites

There are many rites of passages associated with particular birthdays. At 16 you can drive, at 18 you can buy tobacco products (yippee!), at 21 you can drink and, last but certainly not least, at 25 you can rent a car. My daughter is obsessed with two of her little known three-year-old rites of passage. The first, swimming lessons, consumes her thoughts on an hourly basis. She asks me at least ten times per day, "Mommy, am I going to imim lessons today?" I only get to answer her question with an affirmation on Tuesdays and Thursdays and the rest of the time she sulks around, depressed about her non-swimming, three-year-old existence. This morning, a swimming lesson day, I awoke to green and white striped lycra two inches from my face and my daughter repeating, "Can you help me put on my bathing suit for swimming lessons? Can you help me put on my bathing suit for swimming lessons?" over and over again. I finally gave in, surrendering the fantasy that I might actually get to sleep until 7:00am on a non-school day. Where do I get these ridiculous notions?

Her second obsession is with the nursery at our local YMCA. We are regular Y-goers so that nursery and the wonderful staff that helps care for the kiddos is a second home for my kids. My daughter and I go sans my son on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays while he is in preschool and then we all go on Tuesdays and Thursdays. The days when my son is present are a little complicated due to the fact that my son is in the 3-5-year-old section and my daughter is in the 18 month-2-year-old section. The only thing that divides these two areas is a 3 foot book shelf but my daughter can't stand it. She wants to be with Bubba in what she refers to as, "The Boy Room." The other room where she spent hours of agonizing partial separation from my son on Tuesdays and Thursdays is aptly named, "The Girl Room." There is, mind you, no separation based on gender in the nursery. This is just how my daughter sees the world I guess. Suffice it to say, she was thrilled to death when, on Tuesday, she was permitted to stay in "The Boy Room" with Bubba. She practically danced past the 3 food bookshelves and staked her claim in the space right next to Bubba. It was a victorious day.