Some day, these will be fighting words

**oh, for Pete's sake.  I was just touched by the AOL poltergeist, and this is my second time doing this entry.  Someone has apparently not discussed good touch/bad touch with it...**

Let's try this again.  Ahem.

Yesterday afternoon, Ben and Ryan went along to pick up Nolan with the lady I carpool with. 

At dinner last night, as I was feeding everyone, Nolan announced to me that they got a good look at his crush at that time.

"Oh, yeah?  I bet Ben went up to talk to her."

"Mooooom..." 

Ben starts giggling and decides to play along:  "Well, she looks like she can spell her name, that's a start..."

Nolan looks a little threatening,  so Ben changes his tack:  "She's pretty."

"She's too old for you,"  Nolan warns.  "She's like two years older than you are."

"So?" 

"Cut it out, you guys,"  I intervene.

I look over at Ryan, who has been quiet during the entire exchange.  He looks up at me, like he's thinking about what to say.

With a little, semi-dismissive wave of his hand, he says, "Eh, she's alright."

I had to leave the room because I was laughing.  Like he's some authority on girls or something, that wave, "she's alright".  

I mean, really.  He's hardly been around the block.

Yet the change, I sense it coming.  From fighting over who gets the controller next to fighting over "but I saw her first."

Umph.  Wait'll they find out that passing non-neutral judgement on the girls their brother brings home is like waving a red flag.

Time to build the boxing ring.

Jogging my memory

Listening to Nolan talk about his crush has brought me back to another time.

See, I wasn't much older than he is when I started to date his Dad.  (A fact my childhood best friend points out with glee everytime I am ranting about whatever it is I am banning from the house in an effort to protect the boy from the world.)

I told him the story, about how I'd really been interested in this boy my age.   A boy who was interested in me too, but only talked to me and certainly never asked me out.  No, his way of letting me know he liked me was to stare at me the entire time we were in Science (he sat across from me).  I could feel him, willing our eyes to meet, as he burned a hole in the top of my head.

I was in eighth grade, and desperately was hoping he'd ask me to our little eighth grade graduation soiree, and he did not.  I was really bummed out about it, but not so much that it prevented me from going stag to the thing anyway.  At this same time, I'd  made Mr. W's acquaintance at an event at the high school.  He, on the other hand, made his interest known.

His attention, which might be viewed as stalking these days (he just happened to show up everywhere I went, and drove by my house so many times I could recognize his passing by without going to the window) was certainly getting my attention.  He gave me his number, and kept telling/asking me to call him.  "I don't call boys,"  I protested, a half-truth, but one I maintained until he wore me down.

I called him.

And the rest is history.

The other boy stayed interested, for a long time, enough so that even to this day, Mr W is not too happy if I mention his name. 

I was hoping the story might help illustrate to Nolan that if you are interested, you should say something, or someone else might beat you to the punch.

Sometimes you just need to get over yourself and open your mouth.

I will spare him all the tales of when you open your mouth and insert your own foot.  While it is true that I am something of an authority on that, he has been becoming more familiar with those all on his own.

Even my overprotective self knows some rites of passage are best experienced firsthand.

Love, according to the boys

It's been interesting for me to have a front row seat on the boy point of view.  From the first time I was hit with the reality that yes, they are obsessed with their penis from the get go, astonished that they innately knew where it was and that IT MUST BE PROTECTED! as you change their diaper, it's been nothing but a learning experience. 

I had a lot of guy friends growing up, and I have a lot of guy friends (but fewer) now as an adult.  I thought I had a handle on things.

Until I realized that knowing boys is nothing like living with them.

Whether it's the aversion to bathing that seems to develop the moment you stop administering the baths yourself, or the mystery of the lost sock; the way that one of my boys didn't change his underwear for about a week and saw nothing wrong with that, or the debate over which is worse, silent-but-deadly or bomb-that-rattles-the-windows...I've discovered you just don't know as much as you think you do.

So I watch them.   I kiss them, hug them, love them, even if proximity makes my eyes water.

I try to do what I can, for the future women in their lives, guiding, correcting...and hoping.

Hoping that they keep open hearts, and are able to love freely when the time comes, and not be as annoying as the last guy my best friend dated. 

I have eagerly awaited the questions about love.  Crushes.  Girls.  Something I know a little about.

I was surprised that my oldest started to confide in me about someone he really likes.  (He's usually not so chatty about such affairs.) I let him talk to me, and sometimes I will offer a little advice.

Considering he has not spoken directly to her and has been admiring her from afar for months, I figure a little encouragement couldn't hurt.

"Mijo, why don't you just talk to her?  Just be yourself, and say something."

"She's always in a pack.  I can't talk to her when she's in a pack.  Why are they always in a pack?"

Jokingly, I suggest a wingman.  A diversion.  A friend willing to take a little heat so he can have a few words.

We'd banter back and forth about this daily, until one day last week, when I mentioned it to Mr W.  Since Nolan was around, we both were kinda giving him a hard time, but trying to help him out. 

I backed off, so I could listen to Mr W's take on things.  "Son, don't worry about it.  If a girl wants to talk to you alone, she will come to you.  She'll find you.  Don't worry about the pack."

Right after the 'is he kidding?' thought flashed across my mind, other thoughts, other snippets and flashes from my past reared their heads. And then I felt myself blanch, right before I started to blush.  I felt a little sick.

Surely, it is not that simple.

Oh, but yes, it is.

My husband is a genius.  An evil bastard genius.  It's always the quiet ones, you know.

It's one thing, afterall, to know you always have your heart on your sleeve; it's quite another to know that all those times when you thought you were being subtle, you were pretty much waving the "I like you LIKE YOU that way" sign above your head.  The one with the "nail me" fine print.  Nice.  Humbling.  (I should be relieved, I guess that no one bothers to read fine print.  I have to stick with relieved, because 'horrified no one took me up on it' is just too...ugh, the shame...)

At any rate, the boy felt better. 

But as of today, he still hasn't talked to her.  Wonder what Mack-Daddy has to say about that.

I managed to catch something at dinner about a bet.  As in, "bet you a buck...you don't talk to her."  I found this amusing, but not as amusing as the story Ryan told me.

Ryan has mentioned a little girl in his class having a crush on him for quite some time now.  I've kinda discouraged him thinking that, as they are only second graders, and I figure maybe she just wants to hang out with him; and the other kids are teasing them about it. 

Tonight, he was earnest as he said: "Mommy, Shannon has a crush on me.  Seriously."

"What makes you think that?"

"She likes me.  She follows me around sometimes."

"Okay."

"Really, Mom.  And when I ignore her, she's worse and comes around all the time to talk to me.  But when I'm nice to her, and talk to her or try to play with her, she doesn't want anything to do with me."

Oh, boy.  Well.  He's eight.  He's got that whole thing figured out.  I'm thirty-eight.  Apparently, as my memory gears me up for some more embarrassment, I still don't have a clue.

Ignore her = she tries harder

Talk to her = she's gone

As I take note of this, I am stunned by the simplicity.  (Are boys/men really like that?  Oy.  I'm feeling a little sick again.)

"Do you have a crush on her?"

His "NOooo" is so instant, so emphatic, that I had to giggle, exchanging a look with Mr W as he laughed too.

Later, we were out walking, and I asked him about her again.  "So, does Shannon have a crush on anyone else?"

"Nope," he says with conviction.  "Just me."

"Oh."

"I know she likes me because one time, we were waiting in line, and I came up to her and she saw me coming and she did this to her hair (he flipped imaginary hair back over his shoulders) and looked for something to smash and she found a pine cone and she did this (he wiggles his foot back and forth, wiggling all the way up to his hip, crushing the imaginary pine cone) and that's how I know."

I am struck by how very Olivia Newton-John in "Grease" this move is, except we have a pine cone in place of her cigarette, and I am sure Shannon is not wearing black hot pants.

"Do you think she was smashing things to impress you?"

"Yup."

I believe him.  Afterall, she did do the hair flip, that time-honored flirty move used by girls everywhere.

I left him at his friend's house, and went home.

I found Mr W in our room.  (he was alone)

Relating the story to him, I flipped my hair about ten times.  (flirty girl)

"24 is on in 30 minutes," he reminded me. (I was about to take the dogs out for a walk.) 

Subtlety is a waste of time.  Hair flipping? Only works on eight year olds.  What was I thinking?   I should adopt a more direct approach.

Like emblazoning "nail me" on a t-shirt. 

No fine print.

Real Moms

I got tagged for the 'Real Moms' meme, first by Chantal, and then by Steph.  I have been thinking about it off and on now for quite some time---but decided o just go for it.

Real Moms need Real Dads.  There is nothing more humbling in the world than realizing that not only does he help you out in ways so subtle you don't even notice, but sometimes, he does things better than you do.  So get over yourself and let him handle the baths once in a while.  Bite your tongue when he tells you what they had for breakfast.  Look the other way when he takes 20 minutes, 10 wipes, and covers his nose with his shirt when he's changing a diaper.  He can handle it.  Let him. 

Real Moms sometimes hoard the chocolate.  The kids know the dark chocolate is mine.  Step away from the Dove, and no one gets hurt.

Real Moms spend a lot of time in the car.  If that isn't an excuse for your music habit, I don't know what is.  iTunes cards are like crack. (Don't complain about my singing, either. It prevents road rage.)

Real Moms like to be appreciated.  I used to think it was odd when Mr W would have the kids say "thanks for dinner, Mom" but it's nice.  Even if I wind up scraping too much of it into the trash can, it's sweet that they say thanks, for a job that you really can't get a break from.

and speaking of breaks....

Real Moms need some time to themselves, where there are no demands, no noses/asses to wipe, and no interruptions.  Impossible?  Maybe.  But five minutes will do if that's all you can get.

Real Moms are still real girls.  I can remember exactly when it happened...I was talking to a friend of mine, and he said something about how he'd hand his wife a wad of cash and point her in the direction of the nearest Ulta.  I felt a little green, as I was still hauling Audrey around and down to the minimum amount of all things girly.   I think I was at the mall the next day, GodMACzilla reborn.  (You know it's bad when the Clinique lady not only recognizes you, but knows your daughter's name.) 

Real Moms still look.  And like to be looked at.  Oh, yes.  Errands are a little less tedious when there is eye candy in the produce aisle...at work...the coffee shop.  On the flip side, it sure puts a little spring in your step when you get The Look.  You know the one, the one that reminds you you have a pulse, and it just started to race. 

Real Moms sometimes go hide in the bathroom.  For whatever reason, it  seems to be the only locked door children get; they understand it means privacy.  I will admit that sometimes I go in there, not to do any business, but to take a break.  I might read.  I might cry. I might be putting myself in time-out.

Real Moms love all their kids.  I have a coworker who once asked me about how you find the love for the other kids (she has one baby, and she's mad about him).  I told her you love them all, equally; you might not like them all the time, but you do love them.  They are all different, different strengths/different weaknesses; you might feel more warmly about certain qualities than others depending on your mood, but at the end of the day, you still love them.  At least that's how it works for me.

Real Moms like it when people remember their names.  It's fun the first few times someone calls you "<insert child's name>'s Mom."  I'm over it.  There are a couple of my husband's colleagues that I don't see very often, and their stock shoots up every time I do see them, because they remember my name.  (And use it in sentences that don't involve potty training.)

Real Moms like sex.  I know, I'm echoing Chantal here, but, really: Why not?  It got you to the Mom-stage to begin with....you need to remember how to do it so that when they are finally gone, you can resume your earlier fervor.  And have a heart attack.

Real Moms accept their faults.  I apologize to the kids when I am out of line, and that does happen from time to time.  (More than I care to admit.)  They need to know that no one is perfect, we all have moments when we cross over from "plain unreasonable" to "fucking insane" and are no worse for it. 

That's all I have to say for now.  I have to get the kids in the car to go to aikido.

And I need to find my iPod...

I just need some time...ALONE

Audrey has upped the ante and is now stalking me in the daytime, too.  I've not been this tethered to a child since my breastfeeding days.

It's so frustrating, too, because one minute, I am ready to go into the bathroom and lock the door--forever, or until her Dad gets home; and the next, I am giggling at something charming that she just said.

"Mommy, you look pretty," is always a good one.

Anyway, she has been fixated on her babyhood, and for some reason, asked me the other day:

"Mommy, when I was born, did you see my tushie?"

To which I replied, "Of course I did.  When you came out of me, you were naked."

"WHHhhaaaaaat?"  she asked, completely aghast.  "I was NAKED???"

"Honey, everyone is born naked."

She was totally horrified.

As if she would have sprung out of me in pink go-go boots and a Hello Kitty t-shirt, bows in her hair, ready to party.

With as much trouble as the docs had pulling her out during my c-section, it only felt like it.