I've never heard it called that before

Audrey has been taking swimming lessons since we got out of school.  She's as brown as a bean, truly a Coppertone baby, and I point at her as she prances around, lifting an eyebrow at Mr W: "Do you see my good work?  That tan, that's all me,"  I giggle.  Of course I can giggle now, after class--it wasn't so funny earlier, in the locker room, when I accidentally shot sunscreen right into her eye.  Ooops.

Speaking of locker rooms, on our way out of the pool today, she was on her third "Mommy?  I was wondering..."  (it's her current way of phrasing a question, and I hear it a million times a day); I was on autonod, automm-hhm when I realized she was walking into the boys' locker room.  "Let's go in here," she said, mischievous glint in her eye.  "What?  No,"  I said, as I put a hand on her shoulder to guide her back out.  She giggled, then said, "I want to see the boys.  I want to see...their...noodles."  There's an interesting turn of events, I thought to myself, suddenly sensitive to the swirl of Moms and kids around us.

"Noodles?"  I asked her, cocking my head to the side, moving her along ahead of the pack.  "Yeah.  You know, their wieners."

This is going from bad to worse, I thought.  Aw, honey. If it's a noodle, you don't really want to see it.  Whoa, girl, filter ON, snap out of it.  

As we turn the corner, continuing our way out of the locker room, I ask her, "Where'd you hear that?"  "Ryan.  He told me not to hit Ben in his private place because I'd hit his wiener and that hurts."  Ah, anatomical wisdom from a sage 9 year old.  Fabulous.

Why am I squeamish? I wonder.  Has it been that long since I had this discussion with her brothers?  All that "use the right term" blather with all the adults who might be asked this question, and here I am, blanching at 'wiener'?  Be the grown up, I scold myself.

I take a deep breath.  "Well, honey, he's right.  It would hurt if you hit Ben in his private place.  That's because boys have their private parts on the outside.  It's called a penis,"  I said, looking over my shoulder for eavesdroppers as we enter the parking lot, playing my sudden film of sweat off to the heat, as I walked her faster, faster, to the van. "A penis,"  she repeated, trying the word out herself.  "Boy private parts are on the outside?" she repeats, as I see she has a spark of understanding, and moves on to the next question: "So what are our (girl) private parts called?"

Of course.  Of course that was next, what did I expect? She's a bright girl. Too late to turn back now.  I can do this, I reassure myself.  I'm ready!  I'm enlightened!

Still, I stumble on it. "Um, ah.."  Do I give her the whole deal?  Good lord.  Keep it simple. "um...It's called a vagina,"  I replied, saying it out the side of my mouth, over my shoulder down at her, like I was asking for something illegal.  "Ah-G-INA?"  she parrots.  I whirl my head, surveying the parking lot, estimating how many feet to the van, "No, sweetie, vagina," I say again.  "An-gina?"  I wish.  "Vuh. VUH-JA-INA."  Oh, the hell with it.  I say it, intoning the syllables, restraining myself from the cutesy "va-jay-jay" (thank you, Gray's Anatomy), from "hootchiekoo", from every other thing that would make us giggle and probably entice her to repeat it wherever we go at random and at probably the worst time.

"And girl parts?...."  "...are on the inside,"  I say, finishing her thought.  Holding back: And neater.  And prettier.  Please.  I'm a fan of the boy parts, but we all know that's true.

We are steps away from the van.  "Because the boy private parts are on the outside, it's very important to not kick or hit your brothers there, it is very painful," I remind her.  Besides, I think I might like grandchildren some day, don't knock your poor brothers' goods.

I realize I left out "scrotum" and "testicles".  At this point, however, we were in the van, and she was more concerned with what we might havefor lunch.  Parts were forgotten in lieu of:

"Can I have McDonalds?" 

Honey, you can have Peking duck, I'm so glad you didn't say "noodles."

Top Ramen will never be the same.

Red is my color

My forearm is riddled with little red slashes.

A sign that I should be under surveillance in the padded room of my choice?

No.

(Although, if the padded room was equipped with air conditioning set to "artic", I might consider it.)

No, these marks I bear are from my seatbelt.  I miss the hole every time and when hot metal bumps up against your skin, and you hear a sizzle...well, it's bound to leave a mark.  Who knew that taking Audrey to her swimming lesson would be such a challenge? 

As I breathed in the superheated air of my van, I could feel my lungs crinkle in protest.  So I felt kind of bad urging Audrey into her seat while at the same time, I have to chuckle at her ingenious way of buckling her seatbelt.  She has taken an old knit hat, part of her winter hat-and-mittens set, and uses it to hold her seatbelt as she guides it in.

It's a sad day when your six-year-old outsmarts you.

Unfortunately, this happens a lot.

The boys are visiting with their uncle, three hours away, and it's down to me, the princess, and Mr W.  I'm trying to focus on the boys having a good time, making memories with their cousins and family; and not that they are taking classes instructed by Professor Tio E, in "Porn 101:  How the Internet and Cable TV Are Your Friends"; "When to Tip a Stripper";  and "The Physics of Quarters", accompanied by the seminar "Alcohol:  Lowering Inhibitions or Broadening Horizons?"

I exaggerate, of course.  My brother is a good guy and he enjoys my childrens' company. Besides, as he put it--"I'm not going to corrupt your kids."  It's just that he is way more fun than I am, I know it.  Less filter.  Less "no, that's inappropriate."  They will have enjoy their time there, no doubt. 

I am, admittedly, a little overcome by the emptiness of the house.  Not the quiet.  Audrey takes care of that, no problem.  And it is nice to not have to be feeding people all daylong.

However, even though I assured them that I rented their rooms out while they are gone, I miss them.

Maybe I need my own seminar.

"Yes, I'll Have a Margarita."

Babyproof

"I won't use it,"  he said flatly, with the disaffected air of a teenager. 

We were in Costco.  During a trip there earlier in the week, I'd spied backpacks and a Camelbak.  I took the oldest boy along with me so I could show him the stuff and so that he could pick out his own backpack color, even though I knew he'd pick black (he did).   It was the Camelbak, though, that was supposed to be the main attraction.

Nolan's going to band camp next month and while he is going to be someplace cooler, he will be out on the field all day practicing, marching, and I thought (and it was suggested) that the Camelbak would be a good option.   Hydration in the summer in AZ is not something to mess around with.  And he's...well, he's what the old guys in Westerns would refer to as a "tenderfoot".  That boy hasn't seen real physical labor ever, whether it's 75 or 110 degrees.  I was just looking out for him.

Judging by his response, perhaps I should stop doing that.

It seems every attempt I make these days to guide him along is met with, at best, a sigh and an eyeroll.  I know he's growing up, and would prefer to be left to his own devices.  I get that, and for the most part, I rein myself in more often than not. 

But.

But it's hard.  It's not so out of character, really, to look out for the kids.  It's been a part of my life, everyday, for the last 14 years.  Surely he could find it in his adolescent heart to cut his mother some slack.  Over the years, I padded corners, I locked drawers, covered outlets, and cut up his hotdogs--among myriad other things-- to keep him safe.   Sleepless nights spent feeding him and fastidiously changing his diaper (no rashes for my boy) are ready in my memory as I walk by his room at night, doing my last lap of the house before bed.  It's just that now, where I used to stand and marvel at chubby, cherubic cheeks, I find myself standing and marveling at cheekbones, lanky, long limbs, and the whisper of a mustache.

During the day, I find myself torn---letting him take his steps away from me while simultaneously fighting the urge to babyproof the world for him as he does it.  

When we got home, I told Mr W what had happened, and that my feelings were hurt.  And that Nolan's general bad attitude of late and his constant bitching about Ben were pushing me closer to the edge by the minute.

"If he wants to go to camp, ill-prepared, get sunburned, and dehydrated, and have blisters on his feet because he doesn't want to listen to me, then that's fine!"  I exclaimed, exasperated and near tears.  Mr W pointed out to me that perhaps I should let just that happen.  I found myself sputtering, incredulous, at the thought.

(He obviously has not met the Good Mother Police.)

I was pondering his ideas when I overheard him talking to the boys in that tone he uses, the one reserved for affronts to the Mama.  It's a 'she's upset, so I'm upset' kind of thing, where he has my back, and I am grateful for it.

Consequently, this week has been better.

And Nolan has learned how to ride his bike to friend's houses within a couple of miles of us....while encased in bubblewrap.  :p

The bigger they are

Towards the end of the school year, I had a brainstorm.  I have been increasingly concerned over Ryan, he's gaining weight, and was trying to think of a way to up his activity level without making him feel like I was picking on him.

I realize that he may have a growth spurt in his future, but maybe he doesn't.  And having a lifetime of "you'll grow out of it" still ringing in my ears experience behind me made me start thinking.

I decided that although our summers are brutally hot, we could do things together, as a family, that could be fun and get the kids off the couch, late in the day or early in the morning.  I told them they would have to earn their video game time, and just to sweeten the deal, I made it easy--15 minutes of activity for 30 minutes of game time.  I came up with things like kickball on Monday evening, maybe walking on Tuesday mornings, etc.  We would all play, and it would be good for every one of us.

I invited another family with four kids to come and play kickball with us, and tonight we had our first match up.   We had a lot of fun, even though I failed to take into consideration that they are quite athletic--soccer and running kids---and we are....not.  LOL 

We still had quite a good time, in spite of the fact that Mr W was not along this evening, and Audrey was not feeling well.  The other family readily stepped in and rotated people onto our team once it became apparent that we were in need of help.  :p

At one point, I was running to third base, my brain urging me to run faster to make it, just as my eyes noted one of the other kids moving towards me.  I put on the brakes. 

And still managed to trip.  In a most spectacular, play-of-the-week fashion.  It was not pretty, and it dispelled my thoughts of ever being a contestant on the Amazing Race, as clearly my talents are more of the MXC variety.

As the earth sped up towards me, I thought, sweet Jesus, this is gonna hurt, and I was right.  My hips and legs came up off the ground, and I scraped up everything from my right boob on down. My hands are scratched up, my knee and ankle really hurt, and there's a fabulous bruise on my calf.  Although I would have blamed no one for erupting in peals of laughter, my friends were good and asked me how I was before commencing to tease me and chuckle heartily.  (My children later assured me it was hilarious.)

All in all, as I sit here nursing my wounds, I realize it's not such a bad thing to remember how hard the ground really is, and not so bad to embarrass myself publicly. 

What's a little dirt amongst friends?

Besides, I'll be okay.

Once my ego stops smarting.

She toots her own...horn

Ben, Audrey and I were hanging out in my room.   We were lounging in my bed, and they were watching tv while I was surfing iTunes. 

(I have to admit, I should be in a twelve-step program for my iTunes habit.  It's that bad.)

Suddenly, Ben starts laughing.  "Mom!  Didn't you hear that?"  "What?"  I ask, removing a headphone from my ear so I could hear him.  Audrey stood in the doorway of my bathroom, laughing maniacally.

"She was sitting here, watching tv, with me, and all of a sudden, she jumped up, ran into the bathroom, pointed her butt at the bathtub, and shouted "Fire in the hole!" and she let one rip.  She farted!  It was loud!"  he starts laughing.

I couldn't help but giggle too, reminded that our resident delicate flower is not so delicate....in spite of what the pink dress says.