5:00 Fridays: Tipping My Glass to Laura Bennett

I recently got a copy of a fine read Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos from the author herself. I've even exchanged emails with the author herself. I feel like it's a brush with fame. Well, if said brush were but one hair thick. A brush nonetheless. And nevermind that I have never owned a pair of stilettos in my life.

Gasp!

The author of Didn't I Feed You Yesterday? A Mother's Guide to Sanity in Stilettos, Laura Bennett, is someone I'd like to have a weekly cocktail with. We'd have our 5:00 Fridays inked in our calendar books, and it would be a weekly standing date while our boys would tear up the joint. We'd kick off our shoes, hers, 4-inch fabulous Manolos, mine, more modest cowboy boots or handmade leather sandals my aunt brought me back from India. I'd drool over her shoes and bags while she'd secretly be thankful I'm not her size. Then Bird would deck someone or Deal's whining would reach epic levels and she'd ask us to leave.

Laura and I would make quite a pair. She towering at close to six feet, while I stand at a solid five feet if I throw my chest out, yank my shoulders back, and hold my head up. She, a redheaded red lipsticked beauty. Me, a brown skinned and eyed, dark eye-circled, 40-something with a swoosh of black eyeliner and lip balm. I think I'd mostly like to hang out with Laura in hopes of her cool factor, sense of style (Did I mention she was on Project Runway and made it excrutiatingly close to the end?), confidence, and ability to shake it off.

You see, Laura (We're totally on a first name basis. I mean, we did exchange emails and all.), lives in Manhattan in a two bedroom loft. With FIVE boys (her daughter is lucky enough to be away at college...incidentally, her daughter and I went to the same boarding school...but let's just say I didn't graduate from the same school). And of course Laura has a husband, who's really like boy #6. And here I thought a lousy two boys and a husband (boy #3) was bad. Even my dog is a male. Being outnumbered isn't the issue as much as the sheer dirt and noise. You did know the meaning behind my blog's name, right? If two boys can run amok and wreak havoc, I can only have nightmares about what five boys can do.

Laura's life is pretty much a gassy cloud of burps, farts, shrills, guffaws, spills, and well, Chaos.

Yet she thrives in it. What I learned from reading this laugh-aloud funny book was that I could use a lesson in taking it easy. I'm clearly wound too tightly, and it ain't from my Spanx (which, thanks to Laura, I must run out and buy because it's apparently the miracle non-surgical surgery fix). My version of letting loose is to declare Sunday as no-making-the-bed day. In fact, on a recent vacation Bird cleared Deal's stuffed animals off the hotel bed and started to make it. I stopped him, but part of me was damn proud. In an admittedly sick way.

I'm a stickler for rules, manners, healthy food, home cooking, blah blah blah. After reading about Laura's philosophy on mothering, take care of yourself first (akin to putting on your oxygen mask first as Laura recounts), I realize I am piling on loads of couch fodder for my sons' future therapy. But can I really exchange my rigid cookin' ways for a more fabulous MO? I mean, it doesn't seem that Laura's sons are any worse for the wear. Actually, they appear quite smart, gracious, and downright funny.

And yes, she has help. Dear God, she must. But let me be the first to say that having help doesn't make Laura less of a mother. There are no blue ribbons in motherhood, so get off your soapbox and make room for us all to share a piece of the winner's circle.

I might not be as relaxed, charming, talented, and funny as Laura Bennett but I could at least don some red lipstick and stop yelling for a spell. Luckily for me it's 5:00 Friday so I can put up my kicky-shoed feet and relax with a cocktail.

This one's for Laura. Her candor. Her humor. Her style.

Now go buy her book. If you don't laugh aloud I'll buy you a drink. Make that three. Because if you don't laugh out loud, it clearly indicates that you are a fool with no sense of humor and a corncob stuck up your ass.


DIFYY

3 ounces of Hendrick's gin
1 ounce of Stirrings Bitter Lemon Soda
1 cucumber slice

Drop a few ice cubes into a highball glass. Pour in the gin. Top off with Bitter Lemon Soda. Float a cucumber slice in there to make it look fancy and spa-like. Put on some of that long lasting lipstick that doesn't wear off, you know, the kind flight attendants and Mary Hart must wear, and sip away. You'll tune out that chaos in no time.

Kids & Pets: All the Same

There are days I'm a better pet owner than I am a mother. I seem to have more patience with Lark, perhaps because he doesn't whine or throw temper tantrums. He also does not kick me or scream "NO" in a volume that would raise the OSHA red flag. Did I mention that Bird kicked our babysitter last weekend? Twice. Buh-bye date night.

Back to today's regularly scheduled post.

I have learned a few things from my recent life as a pet owner. The funny thing is how raising children is so similar to having a pup. Seriously, the physical demands are much the same, and the mental capacity is huge. The similarities have been enlightening. My three boys, two of the two-legged variety and one of the four-legged variety, have taught me a thing or two.

Shit happens. Often in places it shouldn't. Like the time Bird pooped on the dining room floor when he was two. And when Lark did his business on the bathmat. While I was in the shower.

Accidents happen, as in things get broken and shit happens.

No one pees, poops, eats, drinks, or sleeps on demand.

Fleece feels as good to wear as it does to chew.

Treats are better than meals. Always.

A back rub is never long enough.

Dry clean only outfits stay in the back of the closet.

Don't play tag in the house.

A potted plant or vase of fresh flowers set just-so on a side table will end up catawampus in minutes.

It's hard to distinguish what's a dog toy and what's a plush toy. Poor Deal, who has an FAO Schwartz sized collection of stuffed animals, has battled Lark for sneaking under his bed and stealing his stuffed bear, dog, hamster, yes hamster, and cat.

Selective hearing runs in the family.

No one comes when called. Unless treats are at stake.

The most expensive piece of furniture is the most coveted.

No one gets water after 6:00 PM.

It's easier to clean pee out of a dog crate than it is to change crib sheets.

Christmas sweaters do not belong on children or dogs. Or anyone else, if you ask me.

It's important to let the least out a tish as trust and responsibility grow.

Kisses are best when wet.

Clipping nails is no fun for anyone.

Bacon is good.

Potty training blows.

A warm head nestled on your shoulder is divine.

A queen sized bed is only comfortably big enough for two people.

I might need to change my blog's name to Dirt & Noise & Stink.

The biggest thing about being a mom to boys as well as a pup? They make your heart swell. With pride, affection, love, humility. They make you laugh. Every. Single. Day.

Ace of Cakes Cake Bakery Flops

Alternate Title: Let Them Bake Cake!


There's nothing like a little Food Network to bring a family together. Other than Phineas & Ferb, it sure beats the other crap on TV that is fit for kids' consumption (not to be confused with the consumption of kids, which would just be plain creepy and disgusting).

I happen to love food. I could watch the Food Network 24/7, and for those times that I am holed up in bed with a fever, I do just that. But let's be real, no mother with a fever gets to hole up in bed; no rest for the weary as they say. I don't know who "they" are, but they sure do know what they're talking about. If there's one thing I want to impart to my sons, it's a love of food. I want them to see that food is about so much more than sustenance. It's tradition, culture, adventure,

The boys like to watch the Food Network Challenge. We don't much care about the wacky burger recipes or food styling competitions. Bring on the cake challenges! The next best thing to eating cake is watching the pros making cake. It's good fun to see the extreme decorating and smoking, spinning whatchamacallits. We teeter with tension when it's time to move the cake to the judging table. We all hiss at the mere sight of sugarcraft hall of famer Kerry Vincent. She's like the pinch nosed Simon Cowell of Food Network Cake Challenge.

The one show we all love best (though Mac Daddy would still put anything with Giada in it at the top of his list), is Ace of Cakes. I've been a huge fan since before Duff, Geof, and Mary Alice were household names. I can't bake worth a lick so I live vicariously through the team at Charm City Cakes. What I really want is to share a whole mess of 5:00 Fridays with the crew and laugh until my jaws ache. I also really want to chow down on all those carved off bits of cake (The waste is criminal! All that lost cake...sigh.). Bird, Deal, and I gasp whenever we see those carved off hunks of delectable cake brushed into the garbage. Cake!

Bird and Deal like to pretend to make and decorate cakes. They use Kapla blocks, LEGO, cardboard remnants. Then Deal grabs the toy mayonnaise squirter from the toy kitchen and pretends it's frosting. He conjures up all kinds of wacky odds and ends to manufacture his own brand of gum paste. Bird was doing his homework the other day and asked me how to spell "fondant." The boys love to play Ace of Cakes. Bird is always Duff (the boss, no surprise there), Deal assumes the role of Geof, and I am Mary Alice despite my whining to be Elena since our names are so much alike. Mac Daddy is always Ben, particularly fitting on Sundays when he hasn't shaved all weekend. Whenever we see a dalmatian Deal is relieved that Duff isn't around because he apparently has a fear of dalmatians. And yes, Deal even mentioned this to the fire chief on a recent field trip to the local station.

I have been thinking about getting the boys some sort of Ace of Cakes present for Christmas. Perhaps this. But not this.

Now take a moment to click on those links or the rest of this post won't make a lick of sense to you. Go on. I'll wait.

<Insert Jeopardy music here.>

Jeopardy waiting music sound bite

I find it pretty disappointing that Duff, a tough yet affable guy who bakes cakes for a living, is supporting a product so clearly geared toward girls. Does he really want to limit his brand like that? Does he really want to turn off (and away) all the boys who finally have society's permission to explore the kitchen? For starters, the company is Girl Gourmet. The colors, while not treacly pink, are decidedly girly and definitely not unisex. Bird and Deal would have loved this toy, but the packaging would be a big pee-ewww (best said with your nose plugged for full effect). And sure, being the liberal progressive mom that I am, I should go ahead and buy it. And I just might. But that's not my point.

I'm wondering why such a toy is targeted just to girls in the first place. As if the pink irons and dishes and brooms aren't bad enough. The toy aisles are clearly demarcated by a gender line these days. Girls engage in domesticity while boys flirt with violence. Do you have any idea how hard it was to find a gender neutral play kitchen and accessories for my kids? And pink tools in the aisles of Sears and Home Depot and Lowes?! Don't get me started. Alas, I have already started. Who's sponsoring the time travel back to 1952 trip here? Is Dr. Laura lurking around the exhibit booths of the Toy Fair, saddling manufacturers and buyers with subliminal messages of feminine obedience and servitude? Girls should be encouraged to do more than cook and clean, no? If anything, boys could use some bolstering in that department. I live with three of them. I should know.

Wordless Wednesday: Jail Bird & a Deal

Wordless Wednesday: Busted

New Adventures at Old Navy

The blogosphere is all atwitter with issues about integrity, transparency, honesty. For that matter, Twitter too is atwitter with such discussions. As a blogger who writes with my values and ethics at the forefront of what I share, I profess to bring you the whole truth, nothing but the truth.

So what does this have to do with the Old Navy sign up there?

Well, I get to be a brand enthusiast for Old Navy. I'm not sure about the details and what the year will hold but it's sure to be fun. What I do know is I'm not being paid, I'm not required to blog about the brand, I can write my own unedited opinions if I do choose to write, and I get treated to some free stuff every so often. When I get something gratis, you'll know it.

I don't generally do product reviews or giveaways unless they are for brands and items I adore. I often just share my opinions on a random assortment of thises and thats. All the long time readers of Dirt & Noise know, for example, that I am a raving fan of Lash Exact mascara. Cover Girl has never sent me anything for saying so. In fact, I bet their PR people have no idea. Ditto for the ingredients of all the 5:00 Fridays I post.

Old Navy is one of those go-to brands for me. Much of my maternity attire came from there, and the jeans fit me perfectly with no added alteration costs. Damn those petite sizes that aren't made for us short folks after all. Grrr....

I've written about my feelings on boy clothes before. Basically the continuum runs from high testosterone to sissy. My general rule is that if a boy can pee standing up, he has no business in anything smocked. Not to mention that the damn john-john snaps make doing his business all the more difficult, and with most kids, you don't have time to spare. I also eschew the iron on character licensed crap. I do have some favorite stores where I go for special occasions or just to find that something cool and unique. Moxie Kids is just that place. And no, I'm not getting paid to say that. I just happen to dig that store and am thankful I don't have a daughter every time I walk in there. No sense in my kids being better dressed than I am. But the dresses and tights and coats, oh my!

Anyhoo...

Old Navy treated Bird and Deal to a back to school shopping spree. Don't keel over when I tell you that I walked out of there with not a thing for myself, though I totally looked and will be back later when I don't have the boys in tow!

What I like is that the jeans are rugged with adjustable waists. They are hearty enough to be passed down from Bird to Deal with no holes in the knees. Considering the jungle gym mania that pumps up that kid, this is no small feat. Plus the vintage inspired T-shirts are cool without being cheesy or tacky. I don't mind Superman and Chewbacca gracing my boys' torsos every once in a while. It makes getting dressed for school fun. And hey, at 8:00 AM when everyone is cranky and rushed, I'll take what I can get to make the morning routine squeak by smoothly.

During our shopping spreee I doubled in the role of paparazzi. Have a look:


Deal could have cared less about the clothes at first. All he wanted was to pet the dog. The poor kid covets a dog so badly that he didn't even care it was fake.


Bird was happy to find a Star Wars shirt in his size. He was more happy I let him put it in the basket. He couldn't believe he actually had autonomy in the store. Like I said, the licensed stuff does not dominate the dresser drawers at our house. Plus, I really hate Star Wars so this was a big concession on my part. I actually lost followers on Twitter for saying that. True story. Anyway, Bird was a happy camper, and I was happy to oblige.


Deal, on the other hand, was totally bummed that there were no XS size Star Wars shirts for him. It's amazing that kid isn't ridiculously spoiled. Do you have any idea how hard it is to not keel over and give in to his every whim with a face like that? I mean really, look at him. If you feel the strong urge to pitch in to pay for his college or even a playset for the backyard, don't deny yourself.


Here we are in the dressing room. My kids have never agreed to try on anything before. The only time they've ventured into a dressing room was during a period in which I temporarily lost my mind and took them swimsuit shopping with me. It was ugly.


Here's our reserved dressing room. We were like rock stars. I totally should have made diva demands like only purple M&Ms served on sterling silver platters, Moscow Mules in copper cups, purple dendrobium orchids, Brown Eyed Girl playing on repeat, and a sisal rug underfoot.


While Deal looks like he is being helpful, he actually had just stolen the cart from Bird and was racing it down the aisle. Stinker.


Teamwork at last. Notice Bird's hand on Deal's arm. It looks like gentle guidance, but I have a hunch there was coercion involved.


Bird, thinking my shutterbug ways are an embarrassment to myself. With that bowl hair cut, he's the one who should be embarrassed. This is what happens when Mac Daddy takes him to Not-So-Super Cuts without me.


Serious shoppers need sustenance. The folks at Old Navy provided us with organic juice, bottles of water, and even organic snacks. They also had an assortment of toys and a manager on hand to chill with the boys while I shopped for a bit. I think Bird and Deal were doing their Mutt and Jeff routine for her.


So here we are, blending right in to the Old Navy mannequins. They are admittedly a tish creepy. I think some girls during sorority rush looked just like them, frozen plastered on smiles, taut cheeks and all. And pardon my poor posture. I am clearly weighted down by those shopping bags.



Gentlemen, at the tender ages of 6 and 4.

Rubbers Again

My sons are wondering what I'm up to with rubbers on my hands. Check out Deep South Moms to find out why.

I Should Have Named My Sons Hoover and Dyson

I just witnessed this and had to jump onto my laptop to chronicle it. Yes, it is that amazing.

This is what my two sons, ages 5 (almost 6) and 4 (as of yesterday) just ate for breakfast.

3 peanut butter pancakes
2 cream cheese blintzes
1 package of smoked salmon
6 slices of French bread with cream cheese (vehicle for the salmon, of course)
8 slices of pepperoni
3 helpings of Santa Claus melon
1 serving of watermelon
2 cups of vanilla yogurt


I have a hunch they will be asking for a snack before this post is done.

And you see why I can't commiserate with the other moms who say "I can't get my kids to eat a thing" and other such nonsense?

Boy Toys: Shame on Toy Manufacturers

I am the only woman in a house full of dirt and noise. We don't have tea parties or wile away the hours quietly coloring. There's not a Disney princess to be found here. Once in a while we make construction paper party hats and have a birthday party for Teddy. We do our share of art projects; my table bears the marks of glitter glue and stickers and paint and markers that weren't washable after all. We concoct new stews and fancy meals in the toy kitchen. I have a borderline unhealthy affinity for play food. Seriously, have you seen the fantastic toy sushi? And don't think that I don't totally hog the toy grocery cart. But I digress...

Lately I have been having trouble finding appropriate toys for my boys. I'm a firm believer in the power of play. Sure, not everything must be educational and erudite in nature. There's something to be said for just a good old fashioned knee slapping laughing good time with some Tupperware and wooden spoons. My sons had more fun with the ginormous cardboard box that the oversize bean bag came in than the bean bag itself. That box was a spaceship, gnome house, race car, sail boat, train car, animal shelter, treasure box, and umpteen other things before it collapsed on itself. That box was Imagination captured, yet not contained.

The toy aisles at big box retailers have proven to be a resounding disappointment. I'm not talking about the likes of the marvelous Tookie's Toys here. I mean the Targets and their ilk. No disrespect to Target. You know how much I love the bull's eye. But if you wander the toy section you will see a clear gender delineation. The kitchen stuff is all pink and ruffly. Even presumably unisex things such as instruments and hand held games scream with cotton candy pink and rugged camouflage. The toys geared toward boys are so jacked up with testosterone that I find myself puffing out my chest in a show of manliness. My sons just might grow hair on their soft little bottoms by just being among all that testosterone. Everything is chock full of flames and neon and muscles and growls and fists and lasers and grime and snarls. Every action figure bears a grizzly grin or gritted teeth. Even the Legos, perhaps my favorite thing besides toy food, has disappointed me the most. Must every kit be movie merchandising? Enough with the Star Wars and Indiana Jones crap! Where are the boxes of Lego pieces that allow kids to engage their own imagination? Why are there teeny weeny toy guns in the kits made for five year olds? And why is there one lousy box of random pieces in a pink box on the bottom shelf, as if it were an after thought?

Meanwhile, the "girl" toys are bursting with unicorns and rainbows and sparkles and charms and toothy smiles and tulle and fluff. And pink. All that nauseating pink. The irony of the color of Pepto Bismol is not lost on me.

The old adage "the more things change, the more they stay the same" seems fitting in these times. Here Lily Ledbetter has paved the way for equal pay. We are seeing more and more stay at home dads heading up families. A woman almost because President of the United States for cripe's sake. Women, while facing a long, long journey ahead, have made great strides. Yet we as a society are forcefully shoving our children into gender traps. Yes, traps.

Girls' toys should be pretty (and pink!) while boys' should be rough and rugged. Let's extrapolate this lesson into how children develop emotionally. Are we not telling our girls to just sit pretty and our boys to suck it up and be tough? How are we emotionally equipping our sons to express the crazy quilt of emotions that they feel? How are we teaching our daughters to stand up for themselves? If children do indeed learn through play, we are setting up a pretty poor, lopsided playground for their future.

Come on toy manufacturers and buyers, girls shouldn't be relegated to the kitchen. And boys need more than dirt and noise.

Reposted from an original Deep South Moms Blog post.

Time Travel

When my babies were tiny, I used to spend hours gazing at their slumbering faces. Little nostrils flaring, breath setting a hypnotic beat, eyes twitching in dreamland, itty bitty fingers swatting away invisible itches on a scrunched up nose. Their little faces contorted this way and that. Their gaze so fixed on me upon waking. In their faces I would imagine them as toddlers, boys, grown men. It was an involuntary slideshow running before my eyes.

In a flash I would catch a glimpse of them as their older selves.

Now that my boys, my babies, are teetering on the cusp of six and four, I see time reeling backwards and forwards in a cruel teasing tango. In a random giggle I see them as their infant selves. Perhaps it’s in a pensive moment while chilling out in the back seat. Perhaps it’s while they rest their heads upon each other, a scrambled mess tucked onto the beanbag chair.

At other times, I see my boys as men. When Bird glances at me sideways and snickers in jest at some silliness, I see him as a high schooler, rolling his eyes at my latest faux pas. When Deal perches on the couch with a toy catalog in hand, knees crossed, fist tucked beneath his chin, I see him as a contemplative adult. His gestures already too grown up for his three years.

Time is at once a thief and a jester. We want more of it, we want it to clip along at a faster pace, we want to switch it to slow motion, we want to hit the pause button, and sometimes we want to rewind. Yet Time controls us. We simply live to its ticking. It’s infinite and eternal beat.

And so, at night when I am restless, I slip out of the comfort of my quilt, kneel beside my sleeping boys, and watch them sleep. Inhale, exhale, twitch, rub, toss, flutter, turn, sigh. And I watch Time travel before my very eyes.

Wordless Wednesday: Sunny Disposition

Word to Your Mother

Bird and Deal say so many things that astound me, for better or for worse. I am floored by their train of thought and rationale. Their little personalities are amplified by the things they say. Take for instance the other day:

Me, kissing Deal good night: "You are so sweet. You are going to be an amazing man one day."

Deal: "You mean when I am a daddy?"

Me: "Yes, you will be an awesome daddy."

Deal: "Will I still live with you when I am a daddy?"

Me, chuckling: "No, you will live in your own house."

Deal: "Then I'll be your neighbor, Mommy."


And the next day, when Bird, Deal, and I were making and decorating cookies (also known as trashing my kitchen with flour and sprinkles and frosting):

It goes without saying that baking with a 5 and 3 year old is messy business (gross understatement of the year, emphasis on gross). And if you know me, you know that I abhor a mess. I braced myself for an evening of slinging flour and sprinkling colored sugar. I practically bought out the cookie decorating aisle at Target: green and red sugar, red, green, and white frosting, red and green sprinkles, silver dragees, and coated candy confetti in all the shapes of Christmas. I went to town rolling the dough, and the boys cut various holiday shapes. The counters, walls, and floor, not the mention all of us, were a veritable mess. It looked like Willy Wonka's store room exploded in my kitchen. And you know what? I didn't even freak out. For the first time in my life I went with the flow.

When we were done, Bird was gobbling up all the spilled sugars and sprinkles and such. He'd poke his sticky little finger into a pile of sugared confetti on the counter, pop it in his mouth, and replay. I must have been watching his precision scavenging for a good five minutes.

Bird, looking up at me with pure earnestness in his eyes (not the Eddie Haskell type of earnestness): "Technically Mommy, I am helping you clean up."


Proof once again, that is is indeed possible to render me speechless.

Spelling Lessons

Bird is learning to read. We are very proud. I love to read too. Bird is also learning to spell.

"F-A-R-T"

"Fart! I spelled fart! Fart! Fart! Fart!"

Laughter, guffawing, chuckling ensues.

Boys will be boys, as they say. And by boys, I mean anyone with a Y chromosome. Apparently fart jokes don't get stale at any age. Mac Daddy, at the ripe age of 40, was busting a gut. He was trying to hide his over zealous amusement, but I totally nabbed him.

What's next on the list of life lessons a father teaches his son? Pull my finger? I guess that's all I can expect from the Old Fart.

A Page out of My Playbook

Ah, I can breathe again, let my gut hang out, my hair down. Mac Daddy is home. HOME! Running the household, taking care of Bird and Deal, working, and of course, blogging and tweeting, are pretty damn hard as an army of one. Mac Daddy's job beckoned so off he flew to Chicago for six days. Six. Days.

And you know what, it wasn't so bad.

Even I, the glass half empty, angry, whiny, pissy pessimist of a girl, saw the silver lining so bright that it was more than just a bright side. I got to spend time with my boys. We played games galore, we colored, we made Thanksgiving turkey art projects, we kicked the soccer ball, we told jokes, we read books, we snuggled, we tickled, we danced, we ate cookies and popsicles, we played with our food. You see, I'm not usually the "fun one."

Mac Daddy is the jovial ready-to-roll-around-arms-wide-open-kneeling-to-the-ground-in-an-enveloping-hug guy. He's the one who plays the role of banshee, super hero, spy, wrestler, dragon, wide receiver, and point guard. I'm just no good at that stuff. For starters, I don't know what a wide receiver and point guard are; I just heard the terms somewhere. Where was I? Oh, I play differently than Mac Daddy does. Pretty true for most moms and dads, right? Given the choice, the boys would way rather play all rough and tumble than the more cerebral, creative, and gentle ways that I play. Well, with Mac Daddy being gone, it was just the boys and me. Guess what? We had a great time.

Oh, the week was also hard. Tiring. Stressful. Hurried. But we had fun. I'm in no rush for Mac Daddy to take off for a week again any time soon, mind you. But when he does, we'll have a good time.

And just so you know, all THREE boys trashed the house wrestling and romping all weekend. They clearly made up for lost time.

Wordless Wednesday: Brothers

Boys Like Pink Too

Do you see what I'm doing in the photo up there? I'm playing the role of Al Bundy, helping my son Deal put on some red glitter Dorothyesque dress up shoes. He was 2. It was his birthday party at a children's museum. Stop the judging. Pull up your jaw. Roll your eyes back into your head. Take a breath. He was 2, people. 2.

And you know what? Deal is 3 now, and his favorite color is pink.

Mac Daddy and I don't care. His favorite color will change 10 times before he hits grade school. Bird's favorite color changes almost daily or every time he grabs a new crayon from the Crayola box of 64. And if Deal is 54 and still loves pink, I don't care. In fact, Mac Daddy can rock a pink shirt. Hubba. Hubba.

My point is this: Shut up about my son's sexuality. He's a preschooler for cripe's sake. Really, should we be talking about sexuality at this tender age? I bet you wouldn't want me waxing about your 3-year old daughter's sexuality. Sounds dirty, right? Because it is! You are twisted people. Deal is not to be taunted, judged, or otherwise mocked. Deal is quite simply the sweetest child you will ever come to know. There isn't enough room in cyberspace to list the many ways he shows his utter sweet demeanor. And yes, I write this from the frustration stemming from multiple comments at school.

The fathers in preschool who guffaw at Deal's little "all about me" sheet that lists pink as his favorite color should take a good look in the mirror. You're deriding a child, assholes. Ditto to the moms who look in horror when Deal trapses around in those red glittery shoes at the children's museum. Some have even been brazen enough to flat out ask me if I'm okay with that. Gee, are you okay with your son's snot ridden hair and satanic laugh as he sticks his hand down his pants and then sucks his fingers, lady? Shut the hell up! Then those queen bee moms retreat to their little friends and whisper and point. Yeah, high school clearly is alive and well. The difference now is that I'm not the one being taunted. Don't fuck with me when it comes to my sons.

Do these same mothers and fathers denigrate little girls when they dress up in scrubs or a firefigher helmet? Do they sneer when girls like blue or green or other such colors we tag as masculine? And why do gender roles need to be so clearly defined? Does society tell us that girls cannot be assertive and boys cannot be sensitive? Au contraire, mes amis! Bird asked Santa for two dolls for Christmas when he was 2. He also had a pink toy stroller. He stuffed it full of super hero figurines and raced it around the house. Deal is rough and tumble and can wallop the heck out of a pitched baseball. Both of my sons cause a ruckus with their wrestling, sword fighting, and car racing. Well, that's the stuff they do with Mac Daddy. They are plenty happy coloring with me or doing a craft project or rocking out to Aerosmith for Dance Party USA.

I don't really give a damn what my boys become, as long as they are kind, genuine, productive, and smart contributors to society. I hope they have a good sense of humor and their dad's easy going nature too. I would be so ashamed if my sons grow up to be like those dads in preschool.

Deal loved those glittery shoes so much that he picked them out to give to his buddy Sarah for her birthday.

Streppers in the House

The boys are sick today. Double case of strep throat. It was mighty pleasant dealing with two throat swabs this morning. Yup, nothing better than pinning down your kid and prying his mouth open long enough to allow the nurse to get a reasonable swab without getting bitten. Took three tries, lots of tears, some screaming, gasping, kicking, pinching, and promises of ice cream. Mind you that I was the object of said kicking and pinching, not the inflictor.

Both kids are pumped up with drugs, tomato soup, and watered down mango juice now. Popsicles will be awaiting when they wake from their much needed slumber.

They are unusually somber today. I must admit, it's kind of a nice break. They are mellow and cuddly, not whiny and mopey. We have enjoyed the day snuggling with books and listening to tunes from my childhood, Free to Be You and Me. Bird is especially snuggly, which is something I see him outgrowing bit by bit each day, and it breaks my heart. Deal is a lap dog by nature while Bird has the constitution of a cat. We'll watch some TV cozied up under a down throw this afternoon. Maybe I'll go all June Cleaver on you and bake chocolate chip cookies.

In the mean time, it's a shame the boys are sick. But it is indeed nice to have some quiet time together. I have a sinking feeling that the rambunctious kids I know will be back in rare form all too soon. Quick, put away the lamps! (We've had a rash of broken lamps at our house. Add those to the Christmas list.)

PS
Be glad I posted the artful photo of the streptococcus bacteria. You might mistake it for abstract art even. If I had posted photos of the boys' throats you would have been left gagging. I spared you, dear readers. Then again, it could have been a great diet/appetite suppressant.

Metrosexuals in the House

Deal is currently in the bathroom with Bird. They have become miniature metrosexuals, favoring a shower everyday. We have four body sprayers in the master bath shower, and the shower is plenty big for 3-4 people to shower off chlorine and lake muck. The boys love squirting my various bottles of shampoo, exfoliator, body wash, gel, sugar scrub, and other such things that smell yummy and should really be left for the mother, the only woman, in the house to indulge in. Why, oh why, will they not use the California Baby stuff or Burt's Bees concotions I spent a fortune on?

They have always loved to watch Mac Daddy shave. Now they each stand on either side of him like obedient dogs awaiting a pat behind the ear and patiently wait for their turn to shave. This involves a quarter size dollop of shaving cream and a cotton ball to rub it off. They boys stand side by side cautiously rubbing that cotton ball as if it would really cut a vein. Then they run to me, cheeks pointing upward, begging me to feel how smooth they are. I suppose this display of manliness compensates for the times I let them choose one toe on each foot to paint red, magenta, coral, or whatever hue is in for the season. They are sporting a deep brick red on their big toes at the moment. I don't anticipate any bullies taking out my kid at kindergarten or preschool recess, but I do realize this practice will have to stop soon.

And Bird. Oh Bird. He stands in front of the mirror with his preferred purple (It MUST be the purple one, no, not the blue, I said NOT THE BLUE ONE!, and definitely not the pink one, no, I won't use pink, the PURPLE one is the ONLY one that will work, eeeeeggaaadddsss!!!). Apparently all combs are not created equally.

Deal uses his shower time to try to juggle his testicles. Lord knows what creeps will find me now that I've written "testicles" here. Anyway, Deal has always had a wandering hand. I'm afraid of what he'll be doing once he's in seventh grade hiding out in his room for an entire afternoon. So far he goes up to his room and says he wants to play all alone, but I know he's up there in the rocking chair sucking the hell out of his thumb. I bust him every time. "Ball" wasn't his first word for nothin'.

So this morning, as I write this, the boys are in the shower. Mac Daddy is standing by with the Spiderman and Thomas hooded towels. Licensed character shit is fine for the things the public does not see (towels, underwear, sheets even). But I don't want my kids to be sporting licensing mania to the Nth degree. No Spiderman backpack, but I did cave for the Batman lunchbox. And so I digress.

This morning Deal is fondling the hell out of his little balls. It must be a combination of fascination, curiosity, and well, old fashioned, it-just-feels-good. After squeezing those suckers around for a bit, he looked up with those gloriously long eyelashes beaded with water and asked, "If I squeeze my tenders too hard will they pop out?"

Our eyeballs almost popped out from laughing.

Crappy Cake

Wiping a child's poopy bottom is always good times, right? Just when I least expect to get blogging inspiration, Deal plops a big one. Um, literally and figuratively.

While wiping his cute little double dimple bottom with the birthmark on the left cheek, he looks into the potty and remarks, "Lots of poop, Mommy. The poop is the cake, and the pee is the frosting. But don't eat that cake. It's fake. It came from my penis and bottom. It's really just poop, not chocolate."

Good times indeed. Is this just the beginning of my boys' lifelong infatuation with poop and farts? What's next, looking at poop logs trying to see images like when you lie on your back and stare up at the clouds?

Sensitive Boy: My Deal

"Don't pound on that xylophone so hard. You'll hurt it." Mac Daddy

"Oh, does the instrument have feelings, Daddy?" Deal

That right there sums up Deal's personality. He dropped the xylophone mallet immediately and looked so sad. He gently stroked the keys as if to say he were sorry. Then he wanted a hug. Sweet, sweet sensitive little thing.