Saved By the Kid

Little guy just saved me a whole bunch of money . . . or at least temptation.  This is one of the hottest bags of the year . . . the Celine luggage tote costing four figures.  http://www.bagsnob.com/2012/05/dakota-fanning-totes-celine-for-off-day-chic.html

But when I look at the bag, I only see this:

For those of you unfamiliar, it's the Annoying Orange, star of an annoying iPad/iPhone game and videos that my youngest favors imitating.

Do you see it on the bag? . . . the handle attachments are eyes, the zipper is the mouth and the zipper pull is the tongue.

I showed it to two high-end sales associates who lust after the bag.  I ruined it for them; they'll never look at the bag the same way.  If sales plummet, I guess we know who's to blame.

Today's Funny . . . courtesy of you know who

Nine-year-old's inquiry:  Does expired milk come from expired cows?

You really can't make this stuff up!!!

On the Lighter Side . . . Out of the Mouths of Babes . . .

Nine-year-old learned dad was in Texas for the week.  He asked whether his father was going to be in a rodeo.  When I stopped laughing, I said no, but that dad was attending a dog and pony show.  Boy was interested at first.  Then, I  explained corporate finance.

No Magic Blue Pill Here

This is the pillbox of my nine-year-old.  You read that correctly:  my nine-, not ninety-, year-old.   Prescriptions for seven days of the week with am and pm dosing. Specifically, he takes four pills in the morning (although, for full disclosure, three are the same medication since that is the only way to get 30mg) and two in the evening.  None are blue . . . not that that matters.   More importantly and unfortunately, they are not magic.

Faced with a cornucopia of acronym diagnoses from the DSM-IV, medication is the prescribed remedy.  We (or perhaps I should say he) have tried assorted meds from different pharmaceutical categories in varied doses, both short- and long-acting, in assorted combinations . . . without much success.  We just can’t shake the right cocktail.  As a result, my kitchen counter is a virtual pharmacopeia of current and rejected drugs.

I look at my stash and wonder how I got here.  Just ten years ago, I scoffed at the notion of drugging my kids.  My eldest tried sugar pills before Ritalin.  Yes, we did ultimately go pharmaceutical, but not without a fight.  Alas, there was no placebo effect from sugar.  As time and children progressed, my anti-med resolve weakened.  By the time we got to the third kid, I was asking for the narcotics. 

Now, I beg that they work.  With each new prescription, hope rises . . . and fades.   My counter gets more and more crowded.  

The Unconscious Mother

Unconscious or subconscious? . . . or maybe it's just sleeping . . . Regardless, I'm a mother under all conditions.

Yesterday, I dropped my eldest at the airport for a flight to Europe where he and a friend will travel to several countries on their own with limited itinerary constraints and without any adult escorts.  [I know, I know, technically they're adults but that's not the point; they're still young and in their teens, even if only for a few more months.]   I did not park and escort him to the gate.  I didn't text him at the airport.  I asked only that he let us know when he's about to take off and when he lands.  And then I went about my life, attending to his brothers.

At 3:30 am I bolted awake in bed.  Unconsciously, subconsciously and half-asleep, I turned on the news and watched until after 4.  Still talking about Bin Laden.  Possible retaliations.  But, no plane disasters.  I breathed easy.  And turned on repeats of RHoNYC.  I then realized that my son's plane was scheduled to land at approximately 4 am our time.  The maternal alarm had gone off without a premeditated setting.

 

War is Hell . . .

But is it real?   My eight year-old thinks World War III is a video game.  Or something else Barney (the purple dinosaur) started as in "I hate you, you hate me, Barney started World War three."  Either way, he didn't understand that we don't want WW III.

Silly me, I tried to explain about WWs I & II.  Real wars, real fighters, real people died.  I talked about the present wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The bombing in Libya.

He wasn't getting it:  No, not like the fighters in Star Wars.  Not like the mega multiplayer Lego Universe.  Finally, he says - like George Washington and the Revolutionary War - with real people in uniforms.  Okay, we're getting closer.

Cursed

@#$%&*!   It finally happened:  I cursed at one of my boys.  Pushed to the brink by a surly demanding teenager, I blurted that he was a . . . well, use your imagination.

I'm not proud of this.  But I think he was pleased.  He has long-inquired why his dad and I don't curse, and particularly don't curse at the kids.   Teenager thinks we should.  Teenager says "all" (to be taken with a grain of salt) the other parents, and his coaches, do.  Even my mother has been heard using salty language.  But we don't, or, I didn't until today.

I suppose it's amazing that I've made it nearly 20 years without kids hearing my potty mouth.  It wasn't a conscious parenting decision.  Hubby and I never really discussed it.  It just didn't feel right.  That's not to say, I didn't mutter things under my breath or in my head, especially at bad drivers.  I did; it was just silent cursing.   If mom curses silently and no one hears it, is it cursing at all?   To my kid, apparently not.

The question is, now that I've transgressed, will I continue?  I hope not but I fear that the floodgate may have opened.  What the eff do you think?

PS In an email, I told hubby that our son was behaving like an a@#hole.  Hubby wrote:  "I don't like that language."  I guess I have to keep a clean mouth.