Why Not Open for God?

I don’t know if there is a band that reaches the depths of my husband’s heart, soul and 1970s era lovin’ as well as Hall and Oates. The other night, to celebrate our five-year anniversary (take that naysayers!) we showed up at their concert. My husband, raring to go with his, “I Can Go for That, Darryl, I love you” signs, and me with my bra ready to be thrown on stage and immediately become, P. O. J. (Property of John) we had our minds right.

We got to the concert a little late, late enough to miss the opening act because, as my husband put it, there’s no one qualified to open for Hall and Oates so, “Why not just try to open for God?”

I reflected on that question, as I realized I would never be as good a parent as my parents were/ are, and, here’s why I know that:

I am currently living back home with my parents.

I am here for several reasons, some respectable, and most, maybe not so much. For all those college students who return home, bitching and moaning about being under their parents’ roof again, I would like to tell them now and forever more to go screw themselves. When you are 21 or 22 years old and you find yourself back home, yes, there are some shitty rules you find yourself once again obeying (chores, calling when you’ll be out late, sneaking back in at odd hours, etc.), but, you don’t face the ultimate humiliation of telling your other 30+ year old friends where you’re headed to at the end of the evening, “Oh yeah, have to check in on mom and dad… they’re getting up there…” No, they’re not getting up there. They are perfectly fine. I know because I live with them.

In my current situation, I am the opening act for my parents. I am the person who people get up, walk around, use the restroom, get some food, check their phones, and eat dinner prior to the real act- my parents, coming out, and shutting this shit down. It is both debilitating and exhilarating.

A couple of things I have realized since moving back in:

1.    Having sex in your high school bedroom when you’re married is not as cool as having sex in your high school bedroom when actually in high school. This is unfortunate. You realize the bed is still small, the decorations still a bit young, and your parents just down the hall coupled with the fear of getting caught doesn’t contribute as much to the overall “bad boy” “bad girl” image you had of yourself that never actually rang true. Still fun? Sure, absolutely it is. Just…different.

2.    They’re the best. My parents had four of us- four. I have my son and I am headed for a nervous breakdown daily. They work selflessly not selfishly and they do it with humor and grace. Growing up, I felt like an only child- in the best ways. I was never want for attention. And, I was loved regardless of what colossal fuck up I had created. We had less “stuff” but we were never without. I am the last generation that grew up without cell phones, still played outside regularly and thought Atari and Nintendo were some of the greatest innovations to mankind. We had a shared family computer and a t.v. we all got to watch together. We had family dinners nightly where we rehashed our day, and still had that Wonder Years Kevin Arnold feeling of growing up in a safe neighborhood with neighbors we knew and parents who were involved.

3.    They are the Hall to my Oates. They are Darryl. They’re the brain child, they’re the show, they are who the people are paying to see. I’m the pre-show, the warm up act, the “go get a burger and beer and I’ll save our seats” set. And, that’s okay, because they’re doing one hell of a job, and my son is the better for it.

I feel 11 years old around my parents still. I realize this never goes away, and it’s a pipedream to think it might. But, my son’s happy. He’s fed, clothed, well rounded (can’t dance for crap, like me) and loves his Nonni and Papa. Is it awkward telling my friends I live here? Yes. But, I am eternally grateful that at the end of the day, in spite of all my mother’s passive aggressive comments to my son that are really directed at me, “Brrrrrrrr! Isn’t it cold, sweetheart? Goodness me, I wish someone would go get you a sweater before your icicle arms fall off. Hmmmm now who might be able to do that?” and my father’s pearls of wisdom to my son, “You better stop crying before I really give you something to cry about” you really can go home again, and sometimes, it’s not that bad.

Mom's Sage Advice

 

If it wasn’t for my mom, I would be without a sense of humor, a sense of adventure, and the cold, dark sense of reality. So, a month late, here’s a tribute to you, Mom- a few gems you’ve offered over the past few months/years of my existence…

1.     “Popcorn is corn and butter is a dairy product.” Mom and I sat together for a viewing of What to Expect When You’re Expecting with our extra large refillable popcorn buttered at every third (didn’t know that was an actual request until my mom made it) and as I began chastising myself for eating from an actual bucket of fat, she reassured me that “Popcorn is corn, and butter is a dairy product”- logical. That last point from my mom was probably the best part of that film which was unrealistic and did not do the book justice in the slightest. The solid advice she gave me during my pregnancy could’ve saved the film. Gems like, “Are you really buying a medium in those shorts? Your ass will never be a medium again.” Or, “It’s not that we don’t think you’ll be a good parent, we just really, really want you to think this whole thing through, you can’t return these.” Even better, “I will be humiliated if we go into that room for your delivery and you swear in front of your nice doctor. And don’t get me started on your butterfly tattoo that this poor woman will have to see when she pulls your innocent son out.”

2.     “When will that dildo be out of his position so you can get some work done?” My mom said this in reference to a colleague I’ve casually mentioned being an annoyance at times. She mentioned this over dinner while a couple of elderly folks looked on in dismay. It got me thinking that 1. My mom just said the word “dildo” casually over tacos and 2. I need to reevaluate how I’ve been handling my son’s new language acquisition. My son cannot say “truck”. This isn’t like when my cousin, Cristiana, couldn’t say the word “truck” without it sounding like an expletive, so, when I was younger, my siblings and I used to make her say variations of “Truck you” or “Go truck yourself!” all in good fun. My son’s version of truck comes out as a word that sounds similar to “clock” minus the “L”. He was outside playing with my husband today, sadly couldn’t find his truck and began worriedly screaming, “My c---! My c---! I lost my c---!!!”

3.     “It’s the freakin’ weekend, Bill.” My parents and I went out to dinner last night and I had left a new CD I’d burned in their car without thinking. As R. Kelly started singing about the “freakin’ weekend” and putting his “key” into a lovely lady’s “ignition” I began to shudder and pray my folks were not listening closely. The song went on to describe what Robert would be doing to these nice girls in his limo and up in his hotel room. As we pulled into the driveway and I’d decided once and for all they hadn’t been listening, my mother turns to my father and says, “Bill, get ready, it’s the freaking weekend”. To which he replied, “Sandy, I don’t know what the hell you’re even talking about.” What embarrassing music will my son listen to?

4.     “Things just got passed around in the circle. I didn’t know what it was.” This is my mother’s only admission of minimal marijuana usage. A “flower child” of the 60s, apparently, a lot of shit would get passed around, and my mother, better known as “Cheech,” would happily oblige. I pray to God my son is not a complete imbecile in this department. I also hope and pray, that when I give the token line my parents gave me all through high school, “We want you to be safe. If there is alcohol involved, we will pick you up immediately, no questions asked, no humiliating repercussions” he realizes that really means, “If you call me from a party inebriated, so help me God, I will come down to the party myself, wait until that kid’s parents get there, and rip the entire family new assholes, and you will never be allowed outside again.”

5.     And, my personal favorite, “Well, try not to f--- it up.” I told my mom recently that I was given a promotion of sorts at work. And in true fashion, she paused what she was doing, looked at me intently, and goes, “Well… try not to f--- it up, I guess.” Some may find that harsh, but I think that’s a true sign of a block-walking parent (i.e. one who has been around the block a few times in this profession) and wants the message out there that you still need to work hard - promotion or not.

Thanks, Mom.

Motherhood Melee

It’s been a while, my apologies.  I’ve been drinking as much as possible.

And now for a recap of the last couple of month’s best parenting moments:

1.    Where My Bia At?

My son doesn’t suck his thumb. He doesn’t have a favorite stuffed animal, and he never took a ‘paci.’ When he came out of me, I swear he winked at the attractive nurse assigned to my room, giving her a head nod circa Joey Tribbiani from Friends as if to say, “How you doin’” as she measured his manhood.  He’s just been further ahead of the game than most kids when it comes to needing support or security items. Cut to: his blankie. My son has a blankie which he only refers to as his “bia,” that I purchased for him courtesy of a large retail chain store with countless baby items, that I, in all my inept motherhood glory, figured would never be discontinued (it has been). It’s a brown blanket with multicolored polka dots that I saw another kid holding onto in Disneyland and I seriously contemplated walking by, grabbing it and running through Fantasyland without looking back. I picked him up from preschool where his teacher thanked me for my son putting a new spin on the term “bia” for her. She explained that “bia” refers to a “bitch” and one of her favorite Lil’ Jon songs. Awesome. Now, when my son and I are walking around highly populous areas and he’s screaming for his bia and I come running, it puts a whole different spin on that for me too. 

2.    Easter Bunny/ Santa Pictures

Are these necessary? Will my son be devastated if he doesn’t have these to look back on? He has them going back two years now. Does this need to continue? His second bout with Santa included an older, thinly built gentleman who looked strung out and smelled awful. In the picture, my son looks like Alexander from the Terrible, Horrible, No Good Very Bad Day sitting next to Meth-head Santa. Do we need a photo to remember this? This year’s Easter bunny picture faired no better. My son’s head is covering the Bunny, and they both look pissed. When the prepubescent photographer asked if we’d like to try again, I think my face said it all.

3.    Mickey Mouse

I dropped my son off at preschool the other day. It’s a really great, clean school near a vast park surrounded by trees- very picturesque. So, we followed our morning routine of sitting at his table, me in excruciating pain trying to fit my ass onto chairs made for 2-3 year olds, enjoying a nice breakfast of cheerios and cinnamon waffles and some light conversation. We’re in the middle of a discussion about the dinosaurs he hit a kid with the other day, as a mouse scurries behind us and into the changing table area. My calm, cool, collected self picked my son up, and ran screaming from the room while I yelled at the teacher about the mouse. I ran with him all the way to the front office where they assured me they would find the culprit and let me know when this happened. After calling my parents, and my husband, and being assured all would be fine, I went back into the room, trying to pretend nothing had happened, and if this were a real emergency I wouldn’t have saved myself (and son) first.

4.    “Your son’s a biter”

Amidst a break from class the other day, I listened to my voice mail and was concerned to hear a message from the director of my son’s school: “…we’d like to inform you, since it’s standard procedure, that your son bit another child. On the back. Thank you, and have a great day!” WTF. My son is a biter?!?! I did what any good mom would do and I called my own mother to get the real story. Her response, “Well, we know it wasn’t your son’s f-ing fault. He was provoked!” Whether or not that was true, it was what I needed to hear. Granted, my son is physical, but he isn’t a vampire. I buy my mother’s story, and fully believe that the other kid was starting beef, and he now knows to check himself before he wrecks himself. I of course had a serious conversation with my son about not hurting children, and using the four words we know to convey our disapproval (only one of which is an expletive). I also told him I was happy he wasn't acting like a "bia" out on the preschool playground.

5.    I Sold My Soul to Pixar

I would like to personally thank the people working for Pixar because they are doing an incredible job of raising my son. When I pick him up in the morning, rather than saying hello to me, he will implore, “Car show?” (Cars 1 and 2) or “Woody Buzz?” (Toy Story 1-3).  I used to take offense to this. Are Tom Hanks, Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor and Owen Wilson doing a better job raising my son than me? Yes, yes they are, and I appreciate them fully.

How do I ensure my son does not end up a juvenile delinquent?

If John Hughes were casting the biopic of my 2 year-old-son, I firmly believe, and am somewhat embarrassed to admit, he’d be played by Judd Nelson (John Bender), the juvenile delinquent from The Breakfast Club.

This past week I picked my son up from daycare only to hear that he had been throwing sand at other kids, shoving them, and at naptime, chose to stand up, pull down his diaper, and pee on his nap mat (anyone see Tom Hanks in A League of Their Own? The peeing scene in which Madonna comments on is what I’m picturing…). Had he made fun of Brian (Anthony Michael Hall’s character) for eating “PB and J with the crust cut off” this vignette would’ve been complete. My son is that kid at preschool.

Here’s the thing: I can’t have my son be that kid; I’m a teacher. This will not fly. I relayed this story to one of my closest friends at work. He listened, recognizing the seriousness, the severity of my words, how much is riding on what happens next in my son’s life. And, with that, he told me the story of the time his son (now a successful, attractive, well adjusted, young man) called another student a mother***** on the playground. Brilliant. Obvious to anyone who has children, my coworker’s son used that term because he had heard his father say this time and time again. This is no one’s fault, really.

Now, had my son told the other students in his class to go f*** themselves for some egregious error they had made, I’d recognize that as being completely my fault. That, in all honesty, I may have said that at some point in my child’s existence, wondered at some point, when my husband was going to take me up on that offer. Mea culpa. But, that’s not what happened. And, my son doesn’t see people shoving or hitting each other in his home, so what the hell?

I listened with horror as his teachers told me they had reprimanded my son by telling him this action (his shoving, throwing sand, peeing standing upright over his mattress) makes them sad. Sad? Really? That’s it? I’m humiliated. I went home and immediately told his Nonni, my mother, who insisted (love the Italian in her) that it was obviously some other kid’s fault (and we should place a horse’s head in that kid’s bed…), and my son was just sticking up for himself (does this still include the peeing on his own bed at nap time?) I beg to differ. So, my quandary is, how do I ensure that my son does not end up a criminal? Some suggestions…

1.     Stop swearing in front of my son. For the most part, I’ve done this. However, there is the occasional under my breath/ loud enough for myself to hear telling someone around me where they can kiss me if they have the time…

2.     Try to make my son believe that my tattoos (though hidden from view) are drawn in, can be erased, and were the worst mistakes of my life.

3.     Make him see that fast cars, fast money and fast women have no place in his life. (But all seem so easy…)

4.      Never buy him a red plaid cut off shirt. Ever.

5.     Remind him that I love him, and use this guilt for the rest of his life.

Om Namah Shiva

           

Do you remember that scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the Hindu priest is pulling a man’s heart straight from his chest while chanting, “Om namah shiva” - sounds like “Om nom shivai”, and later on he tries to do the same to Indi only to fall to his own death? That happened to me this week; minus the Hindu priest, or an incredibly built Harrison Ford nearly shirtless on a bridge, or the fall to a fiery or crocodiled pit of death. My heart was figuratively ripped out of my chest when I dropped off my son at daycare for the first time.

Granted, I tell my high school students on day one of my course that I’m a miracle of modern science because I have no heart; that if they come to me with their ‘tugging at my heartstring stories’ of how their homework is lost, they can just sell that batch of crazy somewhere else because I’m not buying. I figured this ability to become ‘heartless’ when needed would prove useful in this new endeavor with my child; this week, I was proven wrong.

My son has had the privilege of having my sister nanny him in his home the past two years. I’ve taken this for granted, and now realize after my sister’s decision to stop helping rear my child to find her own way in life, and my parents’ out and out refusal to take him until he’s 18 (selfish much?), that I had it pretty good. For the first time in his life, my son is out of the comfort of his home, and in a pre-school atmosphere. This is the most difficult thing I’ve done in my life.

Day one of this endeavor went well, a little too well. I dropped my son off expecting tears, pleas for me to stay, lingering goodbyes, and was met with my son practically throwing up a peace sign and telling me not to let the door hit me on the way out homeslice (do people say that anymore? Did they ever?); I was pissed. I became determined that my son would be more upset the next time I dropped him off (sick, I know). I had plans of spending the rest of the day with him only so that he would miss me more when I dropped him off day two. How could he nonchalantly say goodbye to me, not even noticing while I waited by the window (for 30 minutes) watching what he was doing, hoping he would look up, notice me gone, and cry out?  

Be careful what you wish for.

This morning my son held onto me with a vice grip akin to Lindsay Lohan holding a water bottle disguising her vodka at a party she hasn't been invited to. I contemplated not going to work. I started making empty promises which, at the time, I actually believed; I’ll quit my job, I’ll stay home with you, call in sick for the rest of the year, etc. etc. etc. While his sweet, grandmotherly teacher gently took my son from my arms assuring me this would all be okay, I wanted to grab him and run.

Does this get easier?

Things I didn’t think I’d have the stomach to handle until I became a Mom

1.     Vomit. Last night was a scene straight from the Exorcist; I was just waiting for my son’s head to spin around. We had a fairly normal day, but he over did it on the cereal bars right before bed. Look, I’ve seen my fair share of vomit. I’ve held back the hair of friends, of coworkers, and thrown my own pony back to do some ‘cleansing’ after a night gone awry, but my God. Yes, it was New Year’s Eve, but I don’t party that hard anymore. My son was in bed by 9:30pm, and why the hell do clubs stay open until 2am anyway? Who still looks good at that hour? (How old am I? Did I really just write that?) Regardless, as we were up the stairs off to bed, my son decided to christen the evening and the stairs with his own parting gift for 2011.

2.     Diapers. For human beings on the scale of my son, should they really be that bad? My son weights 30+ lbs, and he produces things that look reminiscent of the sick triceratops’ droppings from Jurassic Park, is this healthy? And why, when I’m attempting to change his diaper does he fight me? If anyone is getting the short end of the stick here, it’s me. Shouldn’t he be thankful? Buying me flowers after we’re done? Or at the least a drink??

3.     Ultimatums. I am a strong, confident woman, why do I give my son these? My latest favorite is, “Oh, okay, you’re not going to listen to me? Do you want me to get your papa?!” My son doesn’t take me seriously (like my students, and the rest of the world), so I stoop to this level, am I proud of that? No. But, it gets me through the day. My son’s papa is my father, his grandfather, a man who at 5’10” is a teddy bear and a whiz with children. Is he always nearby? No. Does my son know that? Absolutely not.

4.     Tantrums. What could possibly be so wrong in my son’s life that he chooses to lay down on the floor, throw his head back and scream? You know what? I’m going to try this at my job. The next time I disagree with a superior, or have had it with a student, I’m going to lay my head on the ground and cry. We’ll see how well that works.

5.     And, I understand that my son is only two, but looking forward… why do male high school students feel the need to bathe in Axe? It’s awful. Will my son do this? Is it hormonal? I have vague memories of my older brother getting ready for his junior high dances by showering in Draakar Noir; that evil black bottle that could grow hair on a woman’s chest… does someone tell them to do this?