Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Channel your inner Led Zeppelin

“That’s because boys’ brains are bigger than girls’ brains.”

And there it is.

The sentence that almost started World War III in our family last week.

Let’s just say my seven-year-old son, the light of my life, is lucky his mother doesn’t possess nuclear weapons. 

(Although, I admit, I was seriously eyeing his NERF gun, secretly calculating its range and wondering if I could attach live ammunition to it. ...Yeah. It’s do-able.)

However, in his defense, I started it.

After he remarked the new stocking cap I purchased for him seemed a little small, I merely pointed out that, yes, I should have ordered a larger size.

You know. Taking into account his freakishly large head.

I followed my observation with a not-so-ladylike snort of derision.

But as the woman who gave birth to him - AND his freakishly large head - after 24 hours of gut-wrenching labor, I think I’m in a fair position to judge.

Been there. Done that. Got the T-shirt...and miles of stretch marks.

Then I took it a step further and added, “Your head is bigger than mine!”

And that’s when he dropped his little word bomb regarding the correlation of head size to brain power.

Look out, world. Here he comes.


Education is the key to success.

Unless you’re 7 feet tall with a nice hook shot, then it’s professional basketball.

Or marry one of the Kardashians.

Since that seems unlikely for our little guy, we have to concentrate on the ABCs instead.
It’s amazing what he picks up....

“Hey, Mom,” he called out from the back seat of the car after I picked him up from school, “did you know people used to think the earth was flat?” He paused then added, “Seriously. How stupid. Didn’t they wonder why all the water wasn’t draining off the sides?”

Oh, my little thinker. I was so proud.

And it lasted all of 10 minutes.

After sending my son into the home office to do one page - ONE PAGE - of homework that should have taken all of 60 seconds, I hear what I believed to be a second grader’s rendition of the legendary drum solo in “Moby Dick” by John Bonham of Led Zeppelin.

“Hey, are you doing your homework in there or are you playing the drums?” I hollered from the kitchen.

Without missing a beat, he yelled back, “I’m trying to do both.”

I guess it’s time to hope he grows another three feet and learns to dribble something other than his food.


So, yes, just when I thought all was lost on the intellectual front, the little bugger jumped up and shocked me again.

“You’re going down with a frown, Clown,” I said, pushing him out of the way just as the video game tournament challenge was issued. Sure, it’s rather lame trash talk. But considering I’m barred from using anything related to the four-letter variety, I have to use what I can.

“Oh, it’s on,” my son asserted, meeting my challenge.

(See? His trash talk isn’t much better.)

But my victory was short lived. After getting pounded at ping pong, he then plastered me at basketball (The dream is still alive!).

Then we proceeded to sword play. This was new territory for me, so what I lacked in skill, I made up in enthusiasm.

I figured speed was the issue here, so I swung and stabbed and twirled and twisted at a ferocious pace. 

I was so wrapped up in my awesomeness, that I failed to notice my son had yet to make a move.

I stopped, turned to look at him and simply asked, “What?!”

He shook his head and said with all the wisdom of his seven years, “Don’t just whack it around, Mom. Try to use a little finesse.”



That’s a mighty fancy word for a such a little guy.

Apparently the drum solos are working.

Who am I to mess with genius?

Thursday, October 11, 2012

Color me clueless

“I’m dying,” I croaked through dry, cracked lips that felt so withered to the touch that they belonged on the face of a 3,000-year-old mummy hanging out in the desert.

I added a fluid-filled cough for good measure then flopped back on the pile of pillows I had gathered to create my final resting place.

Some people call it nesting.

I call it burying myself alive.

“You’re not dying,” my husband, let’s call him Mr. Sensitive, replied when he walked into the bedroom.

“Yes, I am,” I insisted and weakly waved an arm in his direction. “Start digging the hole, so you can throw me in later.”

His eyebrow rose a fraction and he said, “I thought you wanted to be cremated. You know, like the Vikings.”

“Oh, yeah,” I sighed, “I forgot.” Pause. “See? I’m already delusional,” I whined.

He snorted, rather unkindly, and said, “You were delusional BEFORE you took the cold medicine. This just took it up a notch.”

Then he added, “What’s that on your face?”

I tenderly reached up and touched my sore, red nose, which at the very moment was covered with a wide swath of white tape.

“My head is so stuffed, I can’t breathe,” I said, “but we were outta those breathe-easy-strip-things, so I made my own with something I found in the first aid kit.”

He snorted and asked, “And what was that?”

I mumbled something to the effect of “athletic tape.”

He howled with not-so-sympathetic laughter, “Ouch. That’s gonna hurt when you peel that off later.”

“No, it won’t,” I insisted. I sighed again for what I hoped would be dramatic effect, but due to the congestion of cruddiness in my head, sounded more like a dying cow at the end of her life, “I’ll be dead, so I really won’t care.”


For the record, I rarely get sick.

I can’t brag about it, though. It’s not because I’m doing anything correctly. I’m horrible about working out. I enjoy red meat, pasta, sugar and caffeine more than any normal person pushing the age of 40 should.

I never take vitamins, and while I love milk, I forget to drink it unless I’m dunking OREOS in the glass.

I’m sure I have the bone density of an 80-year-old man.

So color me clueless on how I rarely fall victim to the latest crud making the rounds.  But this one nailed me. Son-of-a-biscuit.

However, after my husband’s initial crack about my MacGyver’d breathe-strip, he remembered our marriage vows and got to work.

“Do you want more tissues? I can go to the store and get more tissues,” he offered kindly.

I clutched the double roll of toilet paper to my chest and declared, “No, this stuff is better.”
He rolled his eyes and gently said, “But, honey, it’s...toilet paper.”

I shook my head defiantly, in turn making me dizzy because the 47 gallons of snot in my head started slushing around between my ears.

My eyes briefly rolled back into my head, scaring the bejesus out of my husband, then the world tilted back to the right.


I held up the roll and poked it with a finger. “See? It’s super cushy, and it has all kinds of aloe and other stuff in it.” 

For the first time, I was grateful that the two male members of our household insist I keep the expensive, 62-ply toilet paper stocked in the hall closet rather than the cheap, cardboard stuff other non-sensitive-rump households enjoy.

If we ever go to war, those two are toast. Forget waterboarding. Take away their fancy toilet paper and they’d start turning state secrets in all of five seconds.

I looked with wonder at the roll and added, “I think it’s magic or something.”

My husband, who understood my cold was sending me for a ride on the crazy train, decided it was time to take a different tact.

“Drop the toilet paper,” he said, “and I’ll get you some ice cream.”


He’s good.

Forget what I said about my husband’s possible action in war time. 

He’s gonna be just fine.

Mr. Sneaky knows how to make a deal.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Columbus Day lesson

After my second grader returned from school on Monday, all hopped up on the lessons of Christopher Columbus, he wisely says to me, "Can you believe people used to think the world was flat?! Seriously. Come on. Didn't they wonder why the oceans weren't draining off the sides?!"

That's my thinker. Watch out, world. Here he comes.