Reflecting on 13 Years of Weird Mothering

 

The Mud Puddle hits the ripe old age of 13 on Monday and I like to spend this time of year reflecting on those precious months and weeks in 2002 while we awaited his impending arrival. I also like to start giving him stick on or around September 3^rd and continue until his birthday. You see, the MP was born 11 days late and those were the longest, most uncomfortable days of my life. So right about now I am saying things to him like “do you know what I was doing 13 years ago today? Jumping Jacks and yelling GET OUT at the top of my lungs.”

 I also jokingly make him do something nice for me each of the 11 days (usually unloading the dishwasher, which he does anyway or a repeat after me: “Thank you mother, for allowing me to occupy your womb for an extra 11 days.”)

And all of this is hilarious to the both of us. We are two peas in a pod the MP and I. I wonder sometimes if other mothers have the same bond with their sons that I do with him. I assume we are closer than many but I have no frame of reference.

 I have never had another son and quite frankly I am not inclined to ask my MomSon friends about specifics in case it is met with a “NO, you freaking weirdo. Nobody does that but you and your kid.” So I keep most of our little jokes, rituals and conversations to myself.

However, with his impending birthday I will share one of the reasons I think we are so close: I talked to him when he was in my belly. A LOT. I traveled extensively for work when I was pregnant with the MP. We went to all kinds of fabulous places: LA, Tucson, Washington DC, San Antonio. A world wind tour of educational technology conferences. 

And I was always pretty knackered. That baby cooking was very tiring on top of booth duty and social events. So I would usually beg off early from whatever team dinner or pub crawl was planned.

And alone in my room, just he and I, we would chat. Ok, I would talk and he would swim around contentedly living the fetus dream (apparently with no plan to ever actually come out and join the real world).  I don’t mean I would goo goo gaa gaa and schmoop at him, I would talk to him like another person in the room.

I distinctly remember being in San Antonio for a conference in May or June of 2002. I was already in my pj pants and “Free Winona” t-shirt (purchased two sizes too big so I could wear throughout pregnancy: because Ryder is my homegirl) and had the latest episode of “Iron Chef” all ready to go. I was absolutely obsessed with that show during that summer and I would talk to the MP during every episode.

Giving him a play by play and a running color commentary: “Oh my God it is Squid AGAIN!! Why does it have to be that stinky fish?? I can smell it from here.” “Why did he make squid ice cream? That has to be the grossest thing I ever heard of.” And while I would occasionally get a kick of acknowledgement I was content to just talk to him. He was keeping me company alone in a hotel room far from home and I was laying the ground work for many (MANY) mother/son chats to come.

All of a sudden there was a knock at the door: One of my co-workers had come to check on me and wanted to see if I wanted to join them in the hotel bar for an after dinner drink (or milk, or whatever). He kind of peered around me into the room “Is someone in there with you? Did Scott fly out to surprise you? I thought I heard voices.” Nope, not voices, a voice. Mine. Talking to my giant belly. But I was not about to explain to this very nice kidless man that I was talking to someone who didn’t exist outside my own body. I have been hyperaware of my weird mothering techniques since the beginning. (Oh, and he loved my shirt because: Winona forever, or so said Johnny Depp’s arm once upon a time).

Nowadays the MP and I cuddle side by side on the couch and watch tv or a movie and the running commentary is a two way street. Sometimes I feel bad for Scott that we never had a daughter that he could share a daddy/daughter relationship with but then I remind myself that I probably wouldn’t have liked her, she would have gotten in the way of the MP and I, and I was always meant to be the mother of one fantastic son.

 

Has anyone seen my little boy?

I haven’t blogged in a while. After my brother died finding the humor in the mundane became a bit of a challenge but I feel like I might be ready to ease back in. So here we go!

One night, sometime in March or April I went to bed after receiving the sweetest, high pitched “Good night Mommy, I love you” from my best fella (the Mud Puddle).

The next morning I woke up greeted by James Earl Jones: “Good morning Mother. I hope your rest was pleasant.”

SAY WHAT? How do you go to bed a boy with a high pitched voice and wake up this man-child hybrid with a deep (albeit cracky with an occasional goose honk) baritone? All these months later I still glance over when he is saying something to make sure it is in fact him speaking. I am not quite used to the manly tone his voice has taken on.

I had ASSUMED that such things take place over a course of months. I ASSUMED a la Peter Brady that he would squeak and squawk and there would be ‘time to change’ and I could ‘rearrange’ my emotions about impending teenage-dom over the course of time. Not literally (please note the correct use of that oft mishandled word) overnight.

Not only did his vocal chords move to adulthood the Mud Puddle in general now resembles a teenager. Not a tween, not a 12 year old on the verge of teenville but like a proper 14 year old. He is at least an inch taller than me and his sweet little face has elongated and changed so quickly it is jarring sometimes to realize just how quickly puberty showed up and set up camp.

And before you are all “Oh Kris, you are so melodramatic. How does Scott live with you?” (No seriously, I get asked that question A LOT. Usually with a follow up: “poor Scott”. Pffft) I have photographic evidence that he went from boy to almost-grown-ass man quickly.

The Mud Puddle with his favorite Summer Theater Camp Counselor July 2014:

And with the same favorite Summer Theater Camp Counselor July 2015:

 

 

See?? I am not making this up. The camp counselor looks slightly older (an appropriate aging if you will) but the MP is a changed fella.

You can assume that is not the same green t-shirt in both pictures as he has gone from a Men’s Small to a Men’s Large in the last year.

I think we should set up a parental warning system: All parents of 10-12 year olds will be registered. And when the rapid development of children from “I can still see a little bit of baby” to “Almost too old to star on 90210” is upon us we get at least a month’s head up to prepare.  Emotionally obviously but logistically too.

There’s deodorant to be purchased, shower schedules to rearrange, new clothes, face wash, hair gel to procure. I just went ahead and updated the ½ bath en suite as my days in the main bathroom appear to be over.

And you might as well come up with a list of responses for when the hormones kick in and the sass comes out. My current favorites are: “I assume you didn’t mean to use that tone when speaking to your mother.”, “Excuse me? Do you want to rephrase that?” and the oldy but a goody (even though it turns out he was not a lovable 80s sitcom patriarch but a serial rapist…allegedly) “I brought you into this world, I can take you out of it.”

The good news is it is not only his physical appearance that has matured. He has started paying attention to politics and world news (like BBC World News, not that weather report and celebrity gossip that passes for news in the US of A).

He has an opinion on the Iranian Nuclear agreement, the genocide in Syria and an understanding of 8 of the Republican presidential candidates and where they stand on the issues. Sure, most of his opinions are shaped by our opinions but he pays attention and asks questions.

He also has a new found appreciation for Stephen King. Which is brilliant. I have an entire bookshelf filled with Stephen King books. The one flaw in this new found common interest is that when Mr. King has written something the MP doesn’t like he gets mad at me. It is somehow my fault that when Stevie wrote about the tragic fate (34 year old SPOILER) of Tad Trenton in “Cujo”. Or the ending of “Carrie” was someone my diabolical plan to make him care about a character and then pull the rug out from underneath him.

His favorite exclamation in both cases “I can’t believe you let me read that!” To which I responded, “Okay no more Stephen King books for you. Do you want me to pick you up some Harry Potter?” Um no, was the answer. No Harry Potter. So his love of my favorite author continues.

There are some things I do draw the line on: No Rated R movies, no explanations of strange adult terms, no dirty limericks. I usually ward off such requests for information with a “I’ll tell you when you are 15.”

I am fairly certain he has a notebook under his pillow where he writes all of those instances down. I might as well ask for September 14, 2017 as a personal day as I will probably have a lot of explaining to do.

Decade of Difference

I was thinking the other day (probably after reading some article on Buzzfeed about what was hot in 2004 and why that should make you feel old and uncool) and realized how much has changed in the evolution of the MP. I still see that sweet 18 month-old when I look in his eyes but have we come a long way baby….

2004                                                    2014

Wears a diaper                                     Starts the car for me in the morning

Sleeps in a crib                                     Unloads the dishwasher

Drinks from a bottle                            Follows good personal hygiene standards

Cuddles                                                  Cuddles

Laughs a lot                                          Laughs a lot

Wears giant baby sneakers                Wears grown man sneakers

Rides well in the car to Boston          Rides well on planes to exotic locations

Love to run up and down the hall     Loves to run 3 or 6 miles

Plays his light up piano with gusto    Plays his saxophone with soul

Loves to eat                                           Loves to eat

RIP I guess...

So as you may or may not know, we have a menagerie of pets. I justify our myriad of living creatures by telling myself that the MP’s desire to be a marine biologist benefits from getting to know different types of animals. Of course, he could get to know them better if he actually took care of them. But in his defense he has gotten better and not all of the animals are technically ‘his’.

Up until this week we had: A french bulldog, a red eared slider turtle, an Australian Bearded Dragon and Two Zebra Finches.

That was until yesterday when we went down a Dragon.

Now, the dragon (named Coki, not Koki don’t get THAT wrong if you are asked) was my least favorite pet. I barley tolerated him when he rolled into town three years ago. He was kind of cute when he was 18 inches long but when he started to enter Jabba the Hut territory  ( I exaggerate slightly) at three feet from nose to tail and a big rolly polly belly he became all scary no cute. And he had those lizard eyes, all dead and cold and watching me… always.

I will admit that I did have a traumatic lizard encounter the first time the MP and I went to the London Zoo. (Favorite zoo of all time, btw). We were visiting the Komodo dragon enclosure and it was feeding time, no big whoop I have watched our turtle devour many a gold fish (and he weirdly always keeps one as a ‘pet’ or as I like to call it his precious. He never eats the last one so I wind up having to have fish food on hand for the turtle’s pet, yup this is my life) so watching a lizard scarf down a mouse was not a big deal.

The big deal came when I made eye contact with the male Komodo and then he followed me. We were separated by glass but he had his eye on me, and walked the length of the enclosure, around the corner gaining speed if we did trying to catch me. The MP found this to be cool while I was creeped out big time. Hence my lizard dislike.

Coki (not Koki) liked to be held at first and would sit on Scott or the MP’s shoulder before getting cold and antsy. After he got a little bigger that didn’t happen but Scott would take him out and hold him and usually sneak up on me with him. This did nothing to alleviate my lizard fears.

But I tried to be a good guardian of Coki (not Koki) and even took him to the vet for a baseline exam and nail trim. The vet LOVED him, a welcome change from mangy cats and hyper beagles I would imagine.

As Coki (not Koki) grew heavier and lazier he could barely be bothered to ‘catch’ the crickets we would tong feed him.

And there were plenty of times before this week I assumed he was dead. He was very good at playing possum or bored lizard. I would wait until Scott got home to check him because I was not going to touch that dry scaly flesh.

When Scott came in the other morning to tell me he had passed I was like “are you sure? He isn’t just MOSTLY dead like the other 17 times?” but alas he had made his trip to the big Australian outback in the sky.

Which upset the MP DEEPLY. I could clearly give a rat’s ass but for his sake I tried to be comforting. And agreed to a funeral.

Scott was home early that day so he dug the hole and the MP decorated the ‘coffin’. The hole was put at the base on the deck in the backyard and surrounded by candles. My NICE candles which I thought was  a bit much for this pet but whatever.

As an ordained minister (via the internet) and a Justice of the Peace (via the State of NH) I felt like I should say something but all I could really muster was “see you on the flip side.”

The MP had a few dramatic words: “I will always remember him.” Which I plan to test at his high school graduation.

Scott had nothing but the shovel so it was brief and we brought my good candles back in. I was worried the MP would be upset for days but 15 minutes later he was laughing his head off at an episode of the “King of Queens.”

The moral of this story? I have now done some serious pet life expectancy recon and am happy to share the wisdom I have gathered:

Hermit Crab – three months (first crab did die during a prolonged power outage and was replaced on the sneak but the second one lasted three months as well).

Hamster – 18 months (probably would have lived a longer life if we hadn’t all stopped interacting with it because of its vicious bite. We named it Chewy but it should have been Bitey given its affection for human flesh).

Bearded Dragon – Three years two months

First of Two French Bulldogs – Nine years (She was the best and I still miss her. Three trips to the vet failed to find the growth in her chest and I still feel guilty I didn’t push for a second opinion).

Zebra Finches – 9 months and 6 months and counting – they are Scott’s and he loves them as long as they remain a twosome, I am fine with it.

Red Eared Slider Turtle – Eight years and counting. Life Expectancy is 30 years. My brother’s turtle is 21 and still lives with my parents. I am going to be the little old lady with a pet turtle and his precious.

Second of Two French Bulldogs – Twelve years and counting. He benefits from a better vet, fewer teeth and all the love a dog could want.

And in true MP fashion he asked exactly 24 hours after Coki (Not Koki) expired if we could get another lizard.  How about a nice pet rock instead?

Colossus Mud Puddle

 

The Mud Puddle started out life as a staggering 9 pounds 8 ounces and 23 inches. Within the first few days he was 11 pounds and eating 6 ounces every three hours (where it would take him an hour to eat so it was like feeding him every two hours, I do not miss that particular merry go round AT ALL).

So I knew that we were headed for big places. He was never going to take after his petite mother but the rate at which he is racing to 6 feet is accelerated: at least in my opinion as the person who has to keep him in clothes that fit.

The first recent milestone that made me pause was a sneaker buying experience. The MP is a loyal fella. Once he finds a pair of shoes that he likes he will wear them until they fall apart or until they no longer fit. In this case they were a pair of (formerly) bright yellow New Balance minimalist sneakers. They had long since lost their sheen and were looking tight. So we headed off to the local sporting goods store to secure a new pair of kicks.

He headed for the first bright yellow pair he could find. But the smallest size they had was a men’s 8. Well that was SURELY going to be too big.

 I asked the kindly young gentleman working at the store if they had one of those foot measurement doohickies (yes, I said doohickies while gesticulating with my hands in measurement ways). He found one (without a noticeable eye roll) and the MP stuck his socked foot on it.  

The young fella looked and me and said “He’s an 8.”

Excuse me? 

So I replied: “Are you sure? Is his heel all the way back? Is that a woman’s doohickey?”

No, not a woman’s and yes his heel was all the way back. “You might want to try an 8 and a half, he is close to being over an 8.”

OMG, WTF???? He is TEN! I wear a women’s size 8.5 for god’s sake. Scott wears a men’s 9.5.

I sat there gobsmacked while the boys went to fetch the size 8 bright yellow kicks he had been eyeing. He pulls them on. I make him walk up the aisle twice holding up his pant leg.  I keep pressing my thumb on the front of the shoe unable to believe they actually fit.

Scott finally put a stop to my denial and stated that they did indeed fit and we should buy them. I kind of paid for the shoes in a daze.

And then texted my mother.

 I have learned that while the MP has my love of singing British pop off key and Scott’s love of fart jokes, he is the physical equivalent of my brother.  While my mother couldn’t remember what size shoe my brother wore at age 10 she did state he was a size 11 by the 8^th grade.  Thanks, I think. For the record my brother currently stands at 6 feet 2 inches.

When Scott travels for work (which is quite frequently this time of year) the MP takes up residence on his side of the bed. Which requires the construction of a pillow wall between he and I as he tends to roll and much like a cat is only happy sleeping on my head or kicking me in the calf.

The pillow wall is usually an effective tool to ensure that I get some sleep while sharing my bed with a lip smacking, sleep talking, cover hog.

One night recently we were settling in. The MP was already asleep on his/Scott’s side of the bed and I was ready to join him in dreamville. I crawled into bed, had the remote in hand ready to watch whatever manner of trashy television the DVR had waiting.

 I started to snuggle down in when I felt something impeding my progress at getting under the covers. I pushed at it from above. Was it the remote? No that was in my hand. Was it my book (yes, I occasionally fall asleep with a book in bed. Occasionally meaning on a weekly basis. At least)? Nope, that was next to the nightstand.

What the heck was it?

So I threw back the covers and stifled a scream. There lay a giant disembodied foot.

Somehow the MP had gotten his giant puppy paw UNDER the pillow wall and on my side of the bed.  After I got the initial shock I went and found my mother to show her. Because this was too good not to share.

She and I both laughed for five minutes and then I set to work trying to get that enormous foot back on the right side of the pillow wall.

The MP was 5 feet even at last count. I believe my parenting philosophy that all children should be a little afraid of their mother is going to come in handy very soon as he shoots past my 5’3” and straight on to Colossus status.

The Lady Boss

 

This is Tulisa. She is a popular singer and current/soon to be former judge on the British X-Factor. She is also known as the Female Boss.

Now, when I saw this tattoo I was inspired. Not to be a British pop princess mind you, but I felt that the self-imposed title was pretty close to the way I view myself in our little family.

 I am the Lady Boss.

What does it mean to be the Lady Boss? Well, I pretty much run sh*t. I am the go-to decision maker. Scott is obviously co-authority in the house but I am the final say.

We are pretty in sync when it comes to decisions so it isn't like I am usurping his authority. It is just helpful to have someone who is going to have final veto/approval so there is no question, no sass, no going behind one parent's back to get the answer you want from the other. 

You would think this would be a pretty straightforward set up but occasionally I need to remind the MP who runs what.

For example, his grandparents were coming down to pick him up for February vacation.  The plan was to have them pick him up after school.

He asked if they could pick him up early since half the class was going to be gone and his teacher said they would all ‘just be looking each other’ that day.

I said absolutely, since he had a good report card and hasn’t missed any days of school (knock wood) that would be fine.

So we called up my parents to see if they would be alright with picking him up early. They said sure and we agreed on 1:30.

So cut to the morning of said pick up. The MP has his phone out (He never uses his phone; I think he forgets he has one). I pick it up and see he has texted his grandfather: ‘12:30 ok?’

12:30 NOT OK. He didn’t ask me, he was going to go right to his grandparents and try and shave another hour off his day. I REMINDED him that I am not only need to be consulted on such matters but I decide.

Lady Boss.

I texted my parents from his phone stating that it was me texting and if they were able to pick him up at 12:30, could they? Of course they could.

The MP constantly remains surprised that I have a pretty accurate purview into his comings and goings.

 I know when he is going to have a math test or needs to take 100 pennies into school or what kid is moving to another town. I am not entirely sure why he is amazed by this: His teacher sends out weekly email reminders, I am on the PTO and I am friends with other moms in his grade.

But by all means, think I am psychic. Assume that I know stuff you don’t want me to know, even if I don’t.

This is all part of the Lady Boss persona.

 The first time I sprang my new title on him I showed him a picture of Tulisa and put my arm up as she does as her ‘salute’ to her minions.

Whenever he questions my authority or my ability to have my finger on the pulse I just point to my forearm.  

And he will reply: “Right, Lady Boss.” Even Scott will defer to that if there is a question. Possibly with an eye roll but I figure any power position is 75% swagger and 25% knowledge.

Someday very soon the MP will be taller than the Lady Boss but I keep my fingers crossed that the authority I throw around now will keep him in line when idle threats of violence will no longer do the trick.

 

Photo Link:http://img.thesun.co.uk/multimedia/archive/01410/SNF22TV2G---5322_1410880a.jpg

I Swear

The MP and I had a rather frank and colorful conversation the other night on our way home from afterschool care. As you may remember, I have a bit of a potty mouth (well, ‘bit’ might be a stretch. A long-shoreman after slamming his thumb with a hammer would have a hard time keeping up with me).  And the MP was looking for some guidance on what he could say and what was off-limits.

MP: So you said something the other day while we were cleaning the turtle tank, and I would like to know if it is a swear or not.

Me: Ok, what was it?

MP: well I can’t say it, if it is a swear.

Me: You can say it, this is a clarification question you aren’t screaming “Sh*t!” for no reason.

MP: While you were taking out the filter you said “Screw it, let’s just do it the easy way.” Can I say screw it?

Me: No, it is a lower level bad word but I prefer you not use it. Why, did you say it?

MP:…..

Me: It’s ok if you did, you didn’t know if it were a swear or not.

MP: Yes I said it once, under my breath.

Me: That’s ok, just don’t do it again. Do we need to review the list of swear words?

MP: Yes please.

From there, things turned into a George Carlin sketch. I ran down the list of 6 words you must never say.  Then he had a few extras we needed to cover.

MP: What about the T word?

Me: What T word? Tw*t?

MP: No, I don’t even know what that means. The T word: T-*-T.

Me: Oh that one. No you can’t say that one.              

I reminded him that derogatory words for ladies are never allowed: Ho, b*tch, skank. He asked about the S word.

Me: Which S word? Sh*t?

MP: No, S-L-U-T

Me: No. That is an unflattering characterization of a woman. You may not use that word.

MP: What does it mean?
ME: It means that a lady is liberal with her loving. Don’t use it

MP: Can I say ho if I am talking about a garden?
Me: Sure.

 

We then talked about the hierarchy of swears. "Hell” and “damn” are first tier. He had his "hell"privileges reinstated after a misuse of the word back in the fall. But  he can’t say it at school and he can’t say it more than five times a day.  Damn he gets when he turns 11.

The “A-word” and “S-word” he gets when he is 15, if his grades are good.

The “F-word” I informed him he could not have until he graduated high school and had been accepted to a good college.

MP: What is a good college? Like UMaine?

Me: Yes, Umaine is a good school; there are a lot of good schools.

MP: What about community college?

Me: No, not a community college. You need to go to a four-year accredited institution.

MP: And then I can say the F-word?
Me: Yes, then the F-word is all yours