And today, we are seven

Happy birthday, my bright boy. You're not exactly a baby any more. Too big to carry, too big to even sit on my lap without my legs going numb. Too big to shop in the 5T section of the store, too big to hold my hand on the way into school.

You're outgrowing my world and I can only watch and be awed.

Lenten Journeys

The week before Ash Wednesday, D and I were discussing what we were going to give up for Lent.  I usually go the meatless route, but with my newfound and newly-developing cooking skills, I was afraid I wouldn't be able to maneuver much if I went with that as a Lenten sacrifice.  So I was at a bit of an impasse until D suggested dessert, at which point my heart froze...and I knew I'd found my choice.

I have an impossible sweet tooth. I need something sweet after breakfast, for goodness' sake.  So giving up dessert has been difficult (and I fail miserably on occasion). But I start over again when I trip up (consciously or unconsciously), and I guess that's just part of the Lenten journey.

My sweet, innocent son also decided to give up something for Lent.  Two things, in fact, despite my worried assurances that he didn't have to make the sacrifice. In retrospect, I should probably have wholeheartedly and unhesitatingly endorsed his desire, but at the time, I was thinking more along the lines of "He's only 6!!!"

He persevered, despite my lack of enthusiasm.  And decided to give up drinking milk (he's still allowed the requisite bowl of cereal or two), and playing computer games.  Now, playing computer games is not something he does very often at all, but milk is his favorite beverage by far.  (Before you call me a bad mother for encouraging him to deprive himself of delicious nutrition, he takes more than enough Vitamin D in the sour gummy form.  Don't ever doubt me again...) So I was quite impressed with his willingness to give up something he loves so very much.

Now I just have to make sure he knows why he's giving it up.

Happy Lent.

At least he appreciates me...

I was sick last week, to the point where I stayed in my room almost exclusively for two days in a row, with the lights off and the curtains drawn. My bedroom wall backs up to the kitchen, though, so I could hear my boys going about their business as usual.

So I was rather gratified to hear E tell my husband: "You know, you'll have to do everything that Mommy does 'cause she's sick."
D: "Oh yeah? Like what?"
E: "Just everything!"
D: "Well, what does she do that I need to do?"
E: "I don't know! She just does a lot!"

It's nice to have some recognition. Even if it's vague...

Baby Mozart

My son has restarted piano lessons for this semester. We went through about 6 months of them starting in January of last year, but when the summer was over, we (I) just didn't have the time or energy to wrestle with lessons again. In addition, although I liked his teacher quite a bit, I didn't feel that she was offering him much more in his lessons than my mom or I could. So mom took over, and she very patiently and bravely took him through to the Christmas season. But then we met a lady at Target (of all places), who was a violinist and highly recommended her son's piano teacher to me.

We had his first lesson last week and it went wonderfully. First of all, she didn't talk down to him and didn't really filter her "big words" for him. She had an obvious goal in mind for the lesson and didn't slow down for a moment, so that he was never twiddling his thumbs while she figured out what to do. Most importantly for me, she was actually teaching him, and not straight out of a book (like Mom and I were doing). Most importantly for E, she made the lesson really fun and they spent most of it laughing at each others' musical antics, both on her grand piano and on the hand drums she had in the studio.

On the drive home after the lesson, I asked E what he thought, and he said "That was actually fun!" Which is exactly what I hoped for, and what I couldn't give him in my lessons.

I realized the other day that piano is one of the few things that I have infinite patience with. I can sit down at the piano and get lost for hours at a time, running the same passage from a piece over and over again. And no matter how often I mess up, I just do it again until it's perfect. If you know me, you know that I am not patient, including with myself, my husband, my son, my family members, and the world at large.

My son inherited (or learned...) my lack of patience. He's a lot better about it than I am, though. But the piano is the only thing that consistently brings the Impatience Monster out. He HATES his 4th finger, or he HATES the way his hands don't stay in the proper position on their own, or he HATES that he can't remember what a sharp note looks like on the page. And I hate having my time wasted, so piano practice is always a struggle for us.

But yesterday, I realized something. He's not used to hearing me practice, because he's usually asleep by then, and he thinks he's the only one in this family of pianists who's ever had to practice to be good. So I disabused him of that notion. I told him which of my fingers is my least favorite. I played my fingerwork practice piece for him, which sounds an awful lot like his (just harder, thank goodness for my pride). I stifled my impatience and I never raised my voice. And he calmed down and had a very good practice.

I struggle with my own impatience on a daily basis. But the piano is one arena where I usually don't have to. So maybe this is one way both my son and I can work on our patience together. And maybe, just maybe, one day he won't hate that finger.

And he won't hate playing the piano.

He's Ready to Buy

D and I are currently in the process of tentative house-hunting.  Tentative as in we won't know if we'll be moving until March 18th, but we want to jump in on the first-time home buyers tax incentive, blah blah blah.  So we're looking, but just keeping our eyes open for now.  For me, that means watching a lot of HGTV House Hunters, as well...

Last weekend there was an open house in a gated community right behind where we currently live, so we trundled ourselves over there after church to see how it was.  The house was lovely and of course we did the typical things like comment on the woodwork and the size of the rooms, whatever.  As we were about to leave, E requested that we go upstairs and look around for a second time, so we obliged.  But apparently what he wanted was to truly examine the floor coverings, because once he had done so, he loudly stated, "Well, we can always take this carpet out."

The realtor, who was standing downstairs, started laughing. Thank goodness.

Because then as we went back downstairs, he perused the carpet on the stairs, and declared, "I don't really like the color of this carpet, but we can change it."

D said he needs to be on a strict regimen of Spike TV every day. But I think we'll value his opinion when the time comes to actually buy our first home together...

Racism

E has been learning about MLK Jr for 3 years now. The 1st year, when he was in pre-K, they watched a video about him, and then they had to draw pictures illustrating what they got out of it.  E drew a picture of a man and a woman and wrote "Martin Luther King Jr got married."

I don't remember what he did last year.  It must have been less memorable.

This year, E asked me out of the blue last Thursday, "Mom, is Martin Luther King Jr dead?"
"Yes, sweetie, he died a long time ago."
"Who harmed him?"
"Someone who didn't agree with what he was doing."
"The white people?"

At least he's getting more than "MLK Jr got married." The boy can be taught!

Delirium

If you haven't heard of Zhu Zhu pets, I hope you remain ignorant.

I am not so lucky.  My poor son and I traipsed all over town today looking for the darned things to give as a birthday present to D's niece (whose birthday was more than 2 weeks ago, by the way...we're terrible...).  It was after dinner, and after a long day, and E was being extremely good, but I could tell it was wearing on him, because he was starting to lose control of his limbs.  I'll explain in some other post, but it's hilarious.  He starts to lose coordination, I'm serious.

Anyway, we had just come out of Wally World, which happened to have one Zhu Zhu product, but not the one we were searching for (I bought it anyway, as surety against further disappointment).  And I had put a cardigan on whilst in the Big W, since fall is in the air and all that.  But apparently E missed that development in his sleepiness.

Because while we were trudging into Toys 'R Us, he put his hand on my arm, and jumped about a mile in the air, then exclaimed, "I thought you were turning into a BEAR!"

I laughed so hard that I cried.

I Haven't Been Around in a While...

But I'm baaaaaack!

Quick update, just to get things rolling.  Jess, I heard your complaint, I just had to finish Step 2 before I let anything else fun happen in my life...

My sister moved to New Orleans to go to law school.  She is Legally Blonde-ing it up down there, and having a blast.  I'm so jealous.

My brother moved to the LA area to go to film school.  He is taking gorgeous pictures and eating Filipino food, and having a blast.  I'm so jealous.

So now it's just me, my boys, and the rents here in the city!

My life path took a rather abrupt turn at the onset of my surgery rotation last May, with the result that I'm deserting pediatrics for general surgery! The residency application process started up officially on September 1st and I've already applied to 30 places.  Because I'd really like to get a job...

E finished up a semester of piano lessons with his first piano recital.  It was adorable, and he performed wonderfully.  Unfortunately, due to our time constraints, we had to pick between soccer and piano this semester.  And piano we can provide, but soccer is a little more difficult when you only have one 6-year-old on your team.  So piano is currently being provided by my long-suffering mother.  She's awesome.

We went to Dallas, San Antonio, and South Padre Island for our vacation this summer.  And then E traveled to Branson and South Dakota with various in-laws.  Craziness.

Newest on the lifestyle adjustments is finding a babysitter.  It's a drama, but we finally (may have) found someone.  We're meeting her tomorrow, and if she's at all normal and safe to be around children, she's going to get paid a lot to make my life much easier.  So I'm looking forward to it.

That's about it for now! I'm glad you stuck around, if you're reading this...

We're Going on a Bear Hunt

Remember that book/rhyme/game? We probably all played or read some form of it as kids. Well, my son has never read that book for some reason. But he has his own version of the bear hunt...it's called (and I quote) "Jungle Hunt". It involves E and his meek mama creeping creepily through his room, stopping frequently to comment in awed tones on various toys that have morphed into either statues or robots or treasure. 'Robots?' you say. Yes, robots. There are robots in this jungle. And they periodically come to life and chase any unsuspecting jungle travelers, forcing us to run for the trees (aka his upper bunk) and hide under the covers, clutching whatever supplies we may have packed in our trusty jungle pack close to our bosoms. It's ridiculous. And he gets a huge thrill out of it, to where it's our "special game". Probably because it's the only game Mommy's apparently any good at.

Yesterday, we played this game. And everything was going fine and dandy as usual (we found an "ancient sword" and the "ancient hands of a giant" and a mini version of said giant that cast a reddish glow and looked suspiciously like someone who would say "you won't like me when I'm angry") until the robots came to life and chased us to our treetop haven. Whereupon the game suddenly morphed to involve Bakugans.

Bakugans are currently E's favorite toy. If you don't know what the little devils are, they are literally small balls that have a magnet in them, so when you roll/pass them over special magnetized cards (one in every package!), the balls pop open to reveal tiny little anime creatures. Like Transformers, but tiny and magnetized and in balls. And more Japanese. He's obsessed, and there is apparently some form of card-trading game where exchanges of "G's" and various "powers" are made. Unfortunately, this game is unimaginably complicated when described by a five-year-old who likes to make up his own rules when the game starts going against him... Anyway, most of our games recently have been involving Bakugan (Bakugans? Bakugani?) and I was looking forward to a respite. But oh no. There we were, in our airy sanctuary, and the darn things make their appearance.

The next thing I knew, E told me we were making a "virus", which involved some ridiculous ritual of mixing the cards up, casting some spells, picking out the cards that were miraculously turned upside-down, and throwing them down on the floor while yelling "Evackirate!" at the tops of our lungs and then adding up points on the cards. This somehow equaled making a virus.

I can't explain him. I'm just there for the show.

I'd like to dedicate this post to my friend Fenny, who made me laugh with a recent blog post on the impossibilities of playing with your kids. While E and I were playing this game, I was thinking to myself "some other kid would be so much better at this than I am. I have NO idea when it's appropriate to celebrate because I've created a virus, or be scared because I've uncovered the ancient sword." So here's to us, Fenny, and our attempts to fit into their magical worlds. I don't remember how to live there, but I can watch through the windows.

Healing

Disclaimer: I'm feeling religious this evening, so don't read this if you are in the mood to roll your eyes.  Or do, because I'll provide fodder or something.  But hey, if you can't write about religion during Lent, when can you?

I went to Mass this evening, because it's Holy Thursday.  While there, I was thinking about why I've remained Catholic, in the face of all the bad rep and/or influence out there.  I was thinking about why I hate to miss Mass on Sundays, on why I drag my husband kicking and screaming, on why I do my best to bring up my son with a healthy respect for why we go to church every weekend without fail.

For me, it goes beyond wanting to please my mother any more.  Something goes missing in my weekly life when I don't make it to Mass, and something feels incomplete for the rest of the week until I can go again.

I think it is because Mass is a haven for me.  No one at Mass is judging me (at least where I can hear them) and no one is asking anything of me.  I don't have to be the perfect medical student, the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect daughter.  I don't have to interact with anyone else, don't have to present a front to the world.  I get to interact with my faith and my God only.  I get to just be me, in the silence and stillness of my own soul.  I get to reflect only on me and the positioning of my life for one precious hour.  I get the chance to voice all of my joys, my worries, my concerns, my secret fears, my sins to a God who I truly believe listens to me, even if only with half an ear (He's busy, after all, I cut Him some slack...).  In a life of unscheduled, spontaneous chaos, where my days revolve around the wishes of so many other people, the Mass is highly structured, with no uncertainty and no surprises.  It's such a relief to spend an entire hour doing something so ritualistic, something that has been the same for my entire life, for hundreds of years, something that in essence never changes and hopefully never will change. A girl likes a little stability in her life.

And in the end, I truly feel so lucky/blessed/happily predestined/whatever in this life.  I feel as if I have so much joy that I could never possibly deserve.  And if I choose to attribute that joy to a higher being, to something larger than chance, and if I choose to be grateful for that joy, what better way than to give an hour of my week over to reflecting on that gratitude?  It's only an hour.  And I receive so very much in return.

The Parents' Club is Kind of Exclusive

I love animals just as much as the next person (ok, less than some people I know...D...). But I have sort of a pet peeve. (Pun non-intentional until I reread this post...) And none of my best friends who have pets have EVER done this to me, so I don't feel bad about bringing it up here...

When people are talking about their children, I understand that it may be difficult to participate in the conversation. But let us have our time. Our children drive us crazy and make our lives difficult, it's nice to revel in our shared insanity and shared delirious joy when we can. But we don't think we're the only ones who have ever been around children, so jump in with questions, comments, whatever. At the least, we will act as a form of birth control.

But for goodness' sake, please don't ever attempt to jump into the conversation by saying: "Well, I have a four-legged child!"

Because later that day, when I tell my husband about how ridiculous you sounded, he'll say things like "Did you ask if they had considered any surgeries for it?" And then I'll laugh.

(As an aside, I'll be perfectly happy to listen to you talk about your precious pet. Believe me, I'll be jealous of how easy it was for you to potty-train it. Just pick your moments better than my classmates generally do.)

What would I do without him?

Thank God my husband was here last week.  Because it was a bad week.

In med school, certain rotations are dreaded by all.  Well, one specific rotation, really.  Both because of the intense nature of surgeons pretty much everywhere and because of the impossible work hours.  And I'm definitely not eager to start my surgery rotation at the end of the school year.

But as of tomorrow, I will have completed the rotation I was dreading the most: Neurology.

It's only a 2-week rotation (thank goodness), but the course director is one of the most terrifying men I've ever met (because he's manic and opinionated and loud and not very nice).  And neurology and I did not get off to a good start my first year of med school.  Let's just say me and the brain do not get along.  So I was NOT looking forward to this rotation.

That may have been a self-fulfilling prophecy, because sure enough, by the 2nd day, I was holding back tears.  My mind was blanking during lectures, and I was completely incapable of answering such basic questions as "What are the parts of the cerebellum?"  I mean, come on, I should know this stuff.  But I didn't.  My mind was dead and I couldn't even come up with good B.S. answers.  Needless to say, I embarrassed myself pretty thoroughly and spent the rest of the week frantically trying to improve my performance, and failing miserably.  By Friday, I was a nervous wreck.

D and I had last weekend to ourselves.  So we saw The Reader, which was very good, but made me cry.  Now, I'm the type of person who cries a lot during movies and not very much in real life (well, except for certain times...mod people, don't tell on me).  But I guess I opened the floodgates, because once we got home, I succumbed to about an hour of torrential crying.  Over stupid neuro, for goodness' sake.

I have to say, I've had some low points in my life, but I've never felt truly depressed until that night.  I felt hopeless, as if things were never going to improve, and like I was completely incapable of doing anything right.  I wanted to quit med school.  I was reminding myself of all the things I've given up in order to be where I am right now, and telling myself that it just wasn't worth it.  And in retrospect, I was just scared and exhausted and stressed and tired of holding myself together.  I just needed to let it all out, but at the time, I thought I wouldn't be able to move on from that point.

But I did.  Because D was there, holding my hand and patting my shoulder the entire time.  I was feeling so sorry for myself that my own mother probably would have given up and walked away after about 10 minutes, much less an hour.  But D stayed and said all the right things.  And he said one thing that really struck me and has been kind of a mantra for me this past week:

"The real world hasn't changed.  We're still here.  Just come back to us."

...this week was much better.  I can do this.

Stacy London, we've done something awful

I made the mistake of putting the TLC show "What Not To Wear" on our DVR list last week.  All the episodes that were running.  So by yesterday evening, I had about 12 episodes to watch, and that didn't include the repeats...  Needless to say, this weekend I spent a lot of time clearing the list.  And my poor, hapless husband and son were forced to watch with me at times.

This came back to bite me.  I was at the mall today, engaging in some intensive retail therapy.  I happened to be in a clothing store, examining the shoes, when E piped up from behind me: "Oh, no, Mom, not those."  (Now, I must admit, I'm always "involving" him in the process by asking him what he thinks, so we had established a premise for him to give fashion advice long before this.) 

"What's wrong with these?!" I gasped.  (And I'll have you know, they were adorable.)

"Remember?  'What not to wear?'" He replied, with a rather "duh, Mom, they're awful" intonation.

I'm not sure what he meant, exactly, but I know that [straight] men everywhere are screaming in horror.

Well, If It's True...

Whilst finishing up after my son's very cursory self-brushing of his teeth, I mentioned (to myself, primarily), that he needed to go to the dentist.

"WHAT?" He moaned, horror in his eyes.  "Um. You liked the dentist." I reminded him.

"Oh, yeah," He replied sheepishly.  "After all, the last time I went, she was quite....quite...."

"Quite impressed."


I should have taken him down a few pegs by informing him that if "she" had been at all impressed the last time he went to the dentist, it definitely wasn't due to his stellar tooth-brushing skills.  But I was busy trying not to laugh.

I Miss You, Mickey D

My New Year's resolution actually started before 2009. It began back in November, when I realized that my honeymoon on the beach in December was swiftly creeping up on me...I'm sure you can guess what my resolution was. So, I started counting calories (with the help of The Daily Plate) and working out (with the help of Billy). And it worked! I didn't really lost that much weight before I met the beach, and I didn't exactly develop a 6-pack. But despite the fact that I'm pretty sure I look exactly the same in the mirror, I felt better about wresting control of my health from the tyrannical rule of medical school. Believe me, the lack of free time is more influential on one's well-being than the hazard and/or motivation of being around sick people all day.

Suffice it to say that I started, and I've continued the habit into the New Year, with the aim of reaching the size I was way back when I was 17 and a soccer player. We'll see how that goes. I'd settle for being able to move fast enough to keep up with residents in the hospital stairwells.

Two lovely friends of mine (and occasionally my mother and sister) have been helping me stay motivated by joining me for group sessions in the evenings after my son has been banished to his bed. Our combined collection of workout videos includes such gems as Hip Hop Abs and "Bollywood Booty". In the former, we get to shake our backsides to the Pussycat Dolls, and the in the latter, we get to practice our "Bollywood vogue" hands. Seriously. And if anything's going to keep me pointed straight toward my goal, it's the joy of dancing to Indian music with two of my best friends and laughing our butts off as we "paint the world with love".

Being Green

On our way to the house to change for dinner (out of nice clothes into t-shirts and jeans, ironically), E was calmly eating a bag of M&Ms in the back seat. Yes, I give him candy before dinner. If I do it, I can't expect him not to...

Anyway, so he's eating the devil dots, and the next thing I know, he says "Mama, can we recycle this M&M bag?"

I was instantly overcome with pride. My obsession with searching out every single recyclable item in our lives had been picked up by my five-year-old son! O frabjous day! (My mom made me memorize that poem when I was about 11 and I can still recite it 13 years later. So don't blame me, blame my crazy literature-obsessed homeschooling mom.)

I answer, "Probably," immediately trying to categorize to myself which bin that little bag is going to end up in (help me out: it's paper, right?). Then E says "Good. Because I tore it up."

And sure enough, as I whip around to cast my gimlet eye upon him, he's cradling a pile of tiny M&M bag scraps in his chubby hands, cherubically grinning at me.

"Why would you DO that?" I gasped. "What are we going to do with that NOW?!"

"Mom!" He frowned at my failure to immediately grasp the silver lining. "We're going to use them for CREATIONS!"

.......

So I suppose the point got across...just not in the way I had imagined.

Mama Bear

Child development is one of my very favorite subjects. Between my-mother-the-baby-doctor, a much-beloved college course, and of course, medical school, I've had a lot of exposure to what should normally be expected at which ages.

Therefore, it baffles me that my five-year-old refused to wear his dark blue hoodie with dogs on it because his 'friends' at school would make fun of it. Was it babyish, you ask, and therefore deserving of derision? I reply with an emphatic no. Despite my natural (I think) desire to preserve my son's babyhood for as long as possible, I left behind (most) of the cutesy clothes a long time ago. If I hadn't, his firm personal preferences would have overwhelmed me quite effectively by wearing the same Spiderman shirt every day...

So I don't get it. I sort of blame older siblings. Developmentally, it's expected that preadolescents and adolescents become hyper-aware of how they look/act/etc. in comparison to other people. So it's entirely plausible that they are passing their insecurities down to their younger brothers and thereby bequeathing their teen angst to poor E. I blame parents, too, though. If I've heard one parent try to guide their child's preferences, gently or otherwise, I've heard a million. And done it myself, on occasion. (But my child's opinions are more firmly set in stone than my mother's, and therefore possess strength superior to that of my own.) I mean, how often do you hear parents saying "don't play with that, that's for babies," etc. And partly that's good, because we want our children to mature in their tastes. But they'll do that on their own, and too soon for most of us, so why put such pressure on them to grow up before they're ready?

My son is an avid Thomas the Tank Engine fan. We own several Thomas movies, a dozen or more Thomas books, and the only reason we don't have a ton of Thomas toys is because they're overpriced and I'm stingey. A couple of months ago, Thomas actually came to town, so of course we packed up and went off to see him. We had a great time, and managed to survive the inevitable visit to the sales tent without burning too big of a hole in our collective pocket. E even fell in love with a battery-operated Thomas set complete with waterfall, and managed to keep from whining too much about how much he wanted it.

Well, last night, while we were slaving over his Christmas list, the memory of that toy was brought to bear by the doggone Target and Walmart toy magazines. His excitement was immediately apparent, as he almost hyperventilated at being reunited with this long-desired (for a 5-year-old) toy. "I love Thomas, Mom!" he exclaimed, practically bouncing with joy. And then, a second later, he deflated like a sad, child-shaped balloon.

Upon gentle questioning, this is what I got: "My friends make fun of me because I like Thomas. I don't ever want them to come over to my house, because they'll make fun of my room." Single sad, sad tear.

Yeah, it's a learning opportunity, and of course I lectured my son on how he shouldn't care so much about other peoples' opinions. But he's five. And I was hyperdefensive of my siblings (who, let's face it, I really didn't like that much...kidding...).

So in closing: I love children, all children, without reservation. But you little cretins had better watch your backs.

(I really hope my son doesn't go around teasing other kids about the toys they like and the clothes they wear. Just because I don't witness it doesn't mean karma won't come around to bite me in the maternally overprotective rear.)

Wearing Your Heart On Your Blog

I'm a pretty frequent reader of a certain very popular Mommy Blog. The author writes with a lot of openness and humor about her journey through maternity, and it makes me feel a little better to know that there are other people who have hard(er) times with their kids. Admittedly, that has more to do with her having 3 times as many than with there being any superiority to my mothering, but still...

There are some posts I don't like to read, however. And those are the posts where she writes about her fights with her husband. My parents (and the wonderful couple who did our premarital counseling) always emphasized that what lies between you and your spouse is intensely personal and that no one should be privy to your marriage issues (well, except for God, who should already know about them...). It's kind of like the tattling that my son and I struggle with on almost a daily basis. Yes, it's vindicating to tell on someone when you feel they're not behaving properly, but if you can deal with the situation yourself, who else needs to know? (Disclaimer: this does not include griping about coworkers/mothers/schoolmates/friends/enemies/children/strangers/siblings/bosses/anyone else. 99.9% of the internet's blogs would have to be shut down if we couldn't be entirely open about every single aspect of our other relationships...)

Don't get me wrong: I know that there are times when you need to tell a grown-up. When you need to bring in outside help. And I definitely feel like she and her husband are at that point. Although by outside help I mean that of professionals, not a bunch of nebulously sympathetic blog-readers like myself. If you feel you absolutely need to get your problems off your chest before you smother with the unfairness of it all, it's probably better to tell carefully-selected friends rather than toss your emotional cookies all over the World Wide Web, too.

But that's not my only deterrent from reading her "He's such a dirty dog, no?" posts. Mostly, I avoid them because they make me sad and angry that a man could say such hurtful things to his wife. It's bad enough to launch personal attacks on your wife's weight/looks/clothing/sex drive or whatever. And it's another thing entirely to attack her abilities as a mother. Which he does with startling regularity. Of course, I only know one side (although admittedly eloquent) of the story. (Which leads back to the main issue with inviting your friends into your marital woes. We just can't be totally impartial.)

However, we can be grateful.

D is my biggest fan and my staunchest support, which is a constant unlooked-for joy in my life. Plus, he thinks I'm the best mother in the world. Right up there with his own. I think my only one-up is that I sleep with him. She cooks for him, though, so we might be tied... ;-)

A Noodle By Any Other Name...

This is just going to be a quick, minor rant (hopefully), because I really can't describe who/where/when I heard what I'm about to rant...about:

I hate when parents teach their kids silly, stupid names for their body parts (and I can't describe which body parts, because then, knowing the internet, I'll get some nasty person trolling for horrible things looking at my blog...).  But I heard a mother today (a very educated lady who I know has taken anatomy and should therefore be comfortable with all the ins and outs of the human body) describe her daughter as calling her body part a "front bottom".  I almost threw up in my mouth.

Someone tried to teach him to call it a wee-wee, pee-pee, noodle, and only God knows how many other things.  (You don't call a bottom a "poo-poo", so why would you use "wee-wee" as a nickname?)  I nipped that in the bud, believe me.  Luckily, by the time he came home with those words, I had already taught him the correct term.  Or I would have suffered.  A lot.  From the moment my son became aware that he had more going on downstairs than his feet, I was determined that he would know the actual word for it.  It probably had something to do with the fact that I was entering medical school at the time, but let's not be picky.

I really can't figure out why parents teach nicknames.  As children, my sibs and I called a certain anatomical part a "squirt".  But, admittedly, that's funny, so maybe my parents just let us call it that so they could secretly laugh every time it came up in conversation (which was how often???).  I don't remember a point at which I learned the correct terms, so maybe we knew them at a young age, but just were not encouraged to use them.

I suppose some parents do it so that other adults won't be like "OH MY GOD!" when your son yells "Ow, I hurt my PEN15!" in public.  But if you're just trying to avoid embarrassment, it's not any more subtle when  the same child hollers "Ow, I hurt my pee-pee!"  Really not.  Sorry. That just makes me laugh more.  Which is really not what a small boy wants to have happen when he's just been injured in such a sensitive spot, after all.  My son's had his share of those moments, and yes, they're not the best parental memories, but children have to be taught that there are things you don't talk about in public anyway.  So why subject yourself to hearing "front bottom" in private...?

Anyway, I can't really express why I hate bodily nicknames.  But I think they're inappropriate and degrading, and feed into this horrible societal impulse to treat every normal bodily thing like it is shameful and sinful.  Isn't it a better idea to just teach our children, rather than hide our fear behind silly nicknames?

Ok, I'm done now.  Commence eye-rolling.

Aspirations...

Tonight, while driving home from basketball practice: "Mom, I'd like my job to be a person who helps people cross the streets.  There's one of those guys at my school, and I'd like to do that."

Admittedly, that's an improvement from his latest Life Goal.  He dropped this bomb on me last week: "I'm not going to have work when I grow up.  I'll be too busy with basketball and soccer and guitar and all my activities I'm going to be doing.  I might be in the Olympics, but maybe not because it's really hard.  So I'm not going to have a job, because I don't want to take other people's money.  I don't care about money.  I just want to have my own money, so I can do my activities I want to do."

I gotta admit, he has a point.  There's a very good outlook on life in there.  Somewhere.