As parents we want our kids to dream of wonderment and adventures. We want them to have dreams they are so excited for, they want to act them out all day in the back yard. This is honestly how I thought parenting would be. When I was pregnant I dreamed of waking up with my children and listening to them tell me all about the amazing things that danced through their heads while they were asleep. I knew there would be nightmares, and I was prepared for that as well. Nightmares are soothed with kisses and a quick snuggle.
Ah, the merriment of a new parent’s dreams; also known as: complete bull shit. This is not how it happens folks.
At least not in my house. My children are special, all the way down to the dreams they have. This, my friends, is how my kids dream.
“Mommy, last night I had a dream.”
“Oh yeah, what happened in your dream?”
“We had a camper and we went to the zoo. At the zoo there were zombie elephants, and they were eating people’s brains,” She says with a huge smile.
We obviously watch too much TV. “Because the people’s brains were peanuts.” Maybe I should watch what I say in front of my kids. “When they tried to eat our brains we ran back to the camper and drove home. When we got home there were zombie elephants there too. So, we got back into the camper and drove to daddy’s house.” All the way on the other side of the country, 3000 miles away. “There were NO zombie elephants there, and then I woke up like *gasp*!!!”
“Wow, Pheobe! That is quite a dream!”
“Oh yeah, and some of the elephants had long hair that was gray. Girl and boy elephants. No, no, no, no ,no….It was brown, and only the girl elephants had long brown hair.”
“Not the boy elephants?”
“Mommy, they’re boys, so no.”
Obviously not the boy elephants. What was I thinking?
And so go the dreams of my daughter.
“Last night I had a dream too! I was a knight fighting bad knights.”
So far, we’re off to a good start. “I shot them with my cannon, and they flew up to the sky.” Maybe not as good as I thought.
“They flew up to the sky?”
Why do I encourage more detail?
“Yes, because when I shot them with y cannon they turned into butterflies!”
Leaning back to a good start. “And then I shot the butterflies!” WTF kid?
“Um, why would you shoot the butterflies?”
Again with the encouraging of the details.
“Mommy, because they were bad knight butterflies.”
Stupid question mom.
I think I’m doing parenting wrong….still.
I missed your taste on my lips.
The way you sweetly touched my tongue.
Your roughness on my finger tips makes me tingle as I close my eyes.
I can feel you go through me.
Your warmth fills me.
My mouth is on fire as I take you in again.
Give me more!
When you were gone, I dreamed about you.
I saw you when I closed my eyes.
I’ve longed for this moment for so long.
I want to saver every inch of you touch.
I want this moment to last forever.
Where are you going?
Please don’t leave me all alone again, I can’t take it.
My dear sweet jalapeno pepper combos, you always leave too soon.
I’m not an uptight parent. I don’t over sensor myself in front of my kids, I don’t lock the bathroom door when I’m in there, and I walk around the house in my underwear when my kids are awake. They have heard me swear
although I try not to and they have seen me naked they will be scared for life. To me, it’s life. It happens. Deal with it. In fact, the kids have basically learned to zone me out. They don’t pay attention to what I’m saying especiallly when they are in trouble, and they don’t broadcast the fact that they caught me in my underwear. It’s our crazy little life, inside our tiny little bubble. Outside of that bubble they are well behaved, even tempered children. In general, I am not worried about how they are being raised despite some of my major mom fails.
With that being said, I have a bit of an addiction to morning radio talk shows. An addiction in the fact that I get anxious when I don’t get to listen in the car on our way to where ever we are headed. It wakes me up, it makes me laugh, it causes problems with parenting. Wait….what? Problems with parenting?
Have you ever listened to a morning radio talk show in the car with a five year old on board? It doesn’t matter what else is going on in the car, singing row-row-row your boat for the millionth time or going on a space ship ride through the solar system, when an unfamiliar phrase suddenly fills the airwaves, they are going to pick up on it. Words like bitch, ass hole, and butt nugget usually cause a fit of giggling, but that is about it. The little parrot in the backseat will usually have to ask if I heard what they said, I say yes, they repeat it once, I remind them it’s a bad word, and we drive on. Back to the melody of
that damn row boat row-row-row your boat, and the fact that John Smith is a butt nugget and his wife is a bitch is now null and void. Thank you radio talk show for your assistance in asserting proper language with my children.
This is all well and good until they start talking about SEX. For some reason the word sex turns my five year old into a broken record. “Mommy, what’s sex?” she asks
as I want to hurl myself out of the car.
“It’s something adults do when they are alone together.”
“Like something kids don’t do because it’s for adults only
and horny teenagaers in the backseat of a car.”
“But what IS it?”
I now want to turn in my parenting permit and quit. I don’t want to do this anymore, parenting was a real shit decision on my part. Belay my last, someone take these damn kids before I ruin them for life.
Fuck! “It’s when two grown-ups wrestle naked. Alone. In the bedroom or the kitchen counter, or the shower, or the backyard.” When in doubt, go with the old standby used in the past. Please don’t ask anymore questions. I would kill for another round of row-row-row your fucking boat! Alas, for some reason, this explanation just isn’t doing it for her. Either it’s not sticking, she’s looking for more detail, or she doesn’t believe me. Naturally, I assume she is looking for more detail. I told you I wanted to turn in my parenting permit. “Do you and Steve have sex?”
“So you guys wrestle naked?”
Oh my god, someone remove this kid from my car!
“Only when you’re asleep,” and now I’m the biggest liar on the planet.
Every damn day the people in my radio have to mention sex. Every damn day I have to sit there and go through this conversation again and again. Stop it, just STOP! Isn’t there anything else to talk about? Gaza? Israel? Cheese cake? The fact that Pi has no end? Anything? Just PLEASE don’t mention sex again! Please, please, PLEASE!!! I mean, I guess I could stop listening in the car, but that would be too easy.
And then I would have anxiety. We all knows what happens when mothers have anxiety, they eat their children, and my children are far too filthy to eat without causing serious health problems. Therefore, I will continue to listen to my morning radio talk show, and continue to explain to my
fucking dear sweet five year old what sex is. Maybe tomorrow she’ll get it, but probably not.
Baseball, America’s favorite pastime. It’s the smell of the leather, the slap of the ball, and the crack of the bat. It’s the taste of the franks and the smell of the clay. We all remember ball games as kids. Either we were playing as kids as we watched the clouds float by, making daisy chains in the outfield, or watched our parents play as our dads drank beer and our mothers served cocktails in the dugout. Whatever the experience you had as a kid, baseball usually had a roll in it somewhere. Maybe you got hit in the nose repetitively
like I did, or couldn’t hit the ball to save your life also like me. It doesn’t matter what your experience was, baseball is America’s favorite pastime.
When my 7 year old decided he wanted to
be the next Babe Ruth play baseball this summer through the rec department, I was a bit hesitant. An entire summer dedicated to a sport he doesn’t even know if he “really” likes or not. Boy, was I excited. Despite my hesitation, I signed him up. It was only twice a week, and $15 for the whole thing. Worse case scenario, I’m out $15 and have only lost 12 hours of my life after 6 weeks weeks of practices. I’ve lost more time using the bathroom. At least this benefits someone other than myself. I think most parents will agree with me that the worst part of enrolling your kids into sports is having to sit through the practices. They usually last about an hour, and you have to sit there with other parents you don’t necessarily like or don’t like you (which is my case). You all sit there and play nicely with each other as you try not to strangle scold the younger siblings swarming about like black flies, b ecause no one parents nearly as well as you do and try to come up with something non controversial to talk about. In short, athletic practices are pure torture for those of us who only partake in team sports between the sheets.
Five weeks into the season, and I was ready for it to be over. Even with one week off because my kids were magically whisked away with the grandparents, I was spent. I even debated telling my son it was over a week early, but decided not to when I remembered he goes to camp with all the kids on his team. This was the dilemma I was fighting in my head as we drove to practice last Thursday, but I smiled and got Theo excited about another day on the baseball diamond. As we got to the field, five minutes before practice, the field was empty. Not a car in the parking lot or a kid on the field. Maybe I wasn’t the only parent fighting this dilemma….maybe my wish had been granted! As the practice start time came and went I pitched the ball to Theo as Pheobe lazily
baseball practice is even more enthralling for her chased the ball in the outfield until she decided to make snow angels in the grass. Suddenly we see one of the coaches truck drive in, followed by a few more cars. 15 minutes into the scheduled practice time we now had six players, proving half the parents fought and loss the same dilemma I had.
In all my mommy wisdom, I suggested we have a scrimmage of parents vs kids because there really weren’t enough players to have a “meaningful” practice. Why not? It beats sitting in the bleachers with a bunch of other parents who don’t want to be there either. At least this way we are up and moving, and more importantly, interacting with our kids. Right? Sure. I admit, it was a great idea until I looked down at my clogs, remembered I didn’t have a t-shirt on under my sweatshirt, and was suddenly overpowered by the enormity of my breasts who weren’t wrangled in appropriate attire.
Great idea, Brandi. Absolutely brilliant.
Then I looked around the field, another sweatshirt, some flip flops, a dress, and a pair of work boots. Needless to say, the kids knew they had this in the bag. The parents were going down, and they were going down hard! Five parents
still dressed for work against six kids in full baseball attire. The next hour was spent running around barefoot in the gravel, dodging little cleats, using gloves that were too small and bats that were too short. Long sleeves were rolled up as the sweat poured off of us, and we all learned that throwing a baseball is more difficult than it looks. The rule of “three strikes, you’re out” was thrown out the window for both teams, and new paths to each base were forged. Laughter became the prime element as parents and kids had actual fun together. There were no cell phones, laptops, or portable games. There were no separate rooms for everyone to hang out in, just good old fashioned fun on the baseball diamond.
So there I was, enjoying baseball again, but this time it was with my son. This was the game he was going to remember from the entire season, and so was I. It was in that hour that I was reminded why baseball is America’s favorite pastime. You can’t beat a pickup game of baseball with the people in your community
especially if you add the grill and beer. I guess sticking it out another week won’t be so bad, maybe I’ll even jump in the dugout and help.