Knuckleheads, Home From the Dance

My parents were the cool parents: they let me drive around in our sleepy one-horse town before I was officially licensed. Emphasis on sleepy. Nothing ever happened there, so they figured nothing would ever happen to me.

And they were right...until they weren't. Until one night at 2 am, when my friend Samantha and I returned home from a dance in the next town over. No, they had not let me drive that far, but they did say I could take Samantha home once the friend who had driven us there dropped us both at my house. So we had enjoyed the dance and then a party afterward–no alcohol for me–and then arrived back at mom and dad’s.  

We hopped in the orange and white Volkswagon van I learned to drive on and headed across town. She lived up in the hills, relatively far away (but still: sleepy town, nothing going on, you get the idea). I had never actually been to her house, so did not know that she lived at the top of a very long, very steep driveway. We pulled up to the bottom, and I pondered the hill before me, one hand on the gear shift of the van. 

Now, the smart thing to do would have been to have Samantha hoof it up that hill. We were both quite smart teenagers, so let’s just say it was a glitch in the fabric of the universe that we did not use our smarts to make the decision in front of us.

Let’s do it, I suggested gamely, and up we went. 

The driveway had wide curves in it, and I did fine through the first one. On either side of us, the brown grasses of the Valley of the Moon waved in a gentle nighttime breeze, their carpet punctuated by scrub oaks here and there. I had enough speed going to be fine...at first. As the slope continued, and the second curve was upon me, I couldn’t keep the speed up. The van stalled, shuddered, and died, with little ole unlicensed, inexperienced me, gripping the steering wheel. A flush of panic headed up my spine, my hands trembled.  

We looked at each other. Nothing to do but try to start this bad boy up again, so I gave it a go. But after I started the engine, there was the small matter of needing to take my foot off the brake in order to give it some gas. Years later, I would become a bad-ass San Francisco driver who would have scoffed at the challenge, but I was not yet that driver by a long shot. I tried; I failed; I panicked. And the van started to roll backward.  

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I wailed, completely unsure which way to turn the wheel to stay on the driveway.  

“Go forward, go forward!” Samantha screamed. “I’m trying!” I screamed back.

Mayhem ensued as the van gained speed. I had no idea what to do, so naturally, I did nothing. I let the van go where its heart would take it, which happened to be off the left-hand side of the driveway, down over the waving brown grasses, faster and faster, until halted in its trajectory by an oak tree, that keeper of the California hills.

We stopped with a bang. Not injured. Not harmed in the slightest. Just completely freaked out, with the specific intensity of teenage girls. I burst into tears, while Samantha looked stunned and frozen, both of us entirely dreading whatever might come next.

Way up at the top of the driveway, a light went on. We looked up to see the silhouettes of her parents, pajama-clad, shoulders bunched-up against the cold night air, staring down at the Orange Blossom Special resting against one of their trees.  

In Between

Today, I went Thanksgiving grocery shopping with my oldest, who is 11-years old. He is such a great kid: sensitive, smart, articulate, kind. He spends his days with one foot in the world of a little kid and one foot in the world of a teenager. There are many ways in which he yearns to be older, to have more freedom and to experience life on his own. There are also many ways that he is happy to stay "little." He still plays imagination games all the time, watches G-rated movies, and likes to cuddle.

He knows the truth about Santa Claus, but is happy to pretend otherwise to help out his mom and dad. Sometimes he pretends so well that I have to wonder if the pretense is for his younger siblings' sake or his own.

Today while we were walking from one store to the next, we headed towards a crowd of teenagers hanging out and being goofballs. He immediately slowed down so that he could walk behind me and not be so close to mom. His posture changed, his pace changed, his entire self took on the cloak of a teenager. Once we passed the group and entered the store, my boy was back at my side, chatting about some silliness or other.

A few minutes later, walking again between stores, I was explaining something to him and using my hands as I talked. I put both of my hands out to make a point. He thought I was putting my hand out for him to take. And as natural as anything, he grabbed it, and we walked a little ways holding hands.

So there he is. Too cool to walk near me and little enough to want to hold my hand.

He is our first. He is our Great Experiment. He will always be the first to take us everywhere we need to go as parents and will bear the brunt of our learning curve. Like most of us, he has many fears; unlike many of us, he thrashes through them and gets up each morning ready to face what comes.

On this eve of Thanksgiving, I am thankful that God has given him so many words to tell us how he feels, such a big heart to feel for others, and so much courage to face the world. I will learn a lot from him, if I am patient enough to listen.

Now, if I could just get him to eat something other than sour dough bread for Thanksgiving dinner, I would trust that he will be just fine in the world.

* * *

The Tooth Fairy Doesn't Strike Again

This morning, my son announced that he lost a tooth last night. Grinning proudly, he displayed the tell tale empty spot. He looked sneaky.

"Last night??!" said I, making a mental note to have a couple of $1 bills on hand for after bedtime. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I wanted to see if the Tooth Fairy was real."

More grinning, the "a-ha! I caught you" kind of grinning.

I was stumped. What could I possibly say to that? If he is conniving -- I mean clever -- enough to test the Tooth Fairy, then he's probably going to see through any of my usual ploys to fool my kids into doing or believing something.

Rick tried: "She is real, but there's a protocol you have to follow. You broke protocol." Relishing his win, the kid just walked out of the room, self-satisfied.

I resisted the urge call after him "well, the cash is real, isn't it, buddy? You can still buy a pepsi with Tooth Fairy money, even if she's a fraud!"

I do not enjoy being stumped by my offspring. I vastly prefer being the one with the tricks up her sleeve, who can hustle Tallulah into her car seat and Elizabeth into cleaning up. I loved it when this same son drew a picture of a "super creature" and put eyes in the back of its head, "just like you, Mom!" I revel in the way the little ones get excited and celebrate when the "Music Truck" rolls through the neighborhood.

My parents had a classic one: on our way to visit my grandparents, the road took us by Casa de Fruta, cash-trap extraordinaire and much loved by us kids. It did not occur to us as strange that Dad just happened to see deer on the opposite side of the highway on the exact same stretch of road on every single trip. But we fell, hook line and sinker, and would line up like trained monkeys on the left side of the car, faces pressed to the window, scanning the hills for deer. We were always unlucky and missed them, while our VW van merrily scooted past Casa de Fruta. Chalk one up for the 'rents.

So when the kid starts turning the tables and being sneaky himself, well, I think it's cause for mourning. An era comes to an end, a cosmic shift in the parent-child relationship takes place, it's curtains for the parent-trickster.

Whatever will I do when all five of them are on to me? I am doomed.

On the bright side? I can spend my dollar bills on my tall non-fat latte. That'll teach him to be clever.

* * *

What is Wrong With Her?

She is impossible to get up in the morning. No matter what we say to her, she stubbornly insists that she can't get out of her warm bed and start her day. She makes us late almost daily, and nothing I threaten her with convinces her that getting up early will make her day go better.

She won't eat her vegetables. It's very difficult to make sure she eats a balanced diet: she would carbo-load till the cows come home if she could. She knows -- or says she knows -- that vegetables are good for her. She even claims to like them. But not when they have been prepared for a meal; just in the abstract, I guess.

She procrastinates like mad. When she's got something to do, like an assignment or a chore, she waits until the very last minute, and then gets all stressed out and whiney about having to do it. Why can't she figure out that doing a little bit each day is far preferable to cramming everything into one evening and making the entire family miserable -- especially herself -- with the mad dash to finish line?

Getting her out of the bath is a pain in the neck. First of all, she doesn't bath often enough -- always has something better to do -- and then when she finally gets in, she won't get out. I try and try to be nice and encouraging, but she just loves to play in that water, and resists the inevitable cold dash into a towel. Can't talk to her about saving water: she's just stubborn, stubborn, stubborn.

She claims to love it when her room is clean, when things are neat and orderly, but try getting her to keep it that way. Resistance in the extreme. In no time flat, her clean room is rendered chaotic and unbearable. It's a total bummer.

And there are thousand other ways in which I wonder, breathlessly, wearily, WILL SHE EVER GROW UP?

* * *

Oh how I wish I were talking about one of my daughters. They have an excuse. They are 2, 4, and 6. No, this incorrigible female is me.

But the question remains. Will she ever grow up? Will she someday embrace the things she knows are good for her, will make her happy, will make her peaceful? Or will she continue to give in to being tired, overwhelmed, uninspired, or just plain lazy? Will she live forever with the same bad habits, or will she finally, as the sticky note her co-worker gave her says: "Put on her big girl panties and get over it?"

* * *

Twenty-Five Minus Twenty

I have been tagged by a few of my friends, three to be exact (Gabriele, Laura, and Carolyn) on Facebook to do the 25 Random Things About Me dealie-bop.

I can only think of one. So here it is:

When I was a child, instead of a toy box, I had an elephant's foot. A real, African elephant's foot, hollowed and dried, and about 3 feet high. Or so. My sister and I kept our toys in it. My dad spent some time in Africa, and came home with this thing, and we kept our toys in it. Now, when my kids say "Mom, have you seen my [fill in the blank] toy?" I usually respond with "Have you looked in the elephant's foot?"

When I was a child, I was not aware that keeping one's toys in an elephant's foot was not commonplace.

OK, so that was one thing. For the purposes of this post, I will come up with four more, and call it Five Random Things About Me.

2. I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue.
3. I don't care that Michael Phelps was caught with a bong.
4. I was born with one ear folded over.
5. My most embarassing moment was tripping and falling on stage while in a college production of You Can't Take It With You. My merciful cast members covered it rather well, but this particular performance was for the student body specifically...so the embarassment quotient was high.

And a Bonus #6: Bushmill's makes me a better mommy. At least tonight it does.

There ya' go. If I get more ideas, maybe I'll do the whole 25 things. I just don't think I'm 25-things interesting.

***

The Talk

"The Talk" is looming at our house. We even have a cool book called What's the Big Secret that we are consulting. Well, it's on our dresser anyway, although I have yet to look at it. (Thanks for loaning it, Erika!)

But the talk is on its way. There are many signs that tell us that the time is right: questions about things he hears at school (and there have been some doozies), movie scenes with kissing (ugh!), questions about babies...

Indiana Jones has become really popular with the boys, and Rick and I have enjoyed revisiting these old favorites. (How come I never noticed how cheesy they were? Especially the third one!) Anyway, Sam and I were watching the 1st one the other night. Remember the scene where Marian (IJ's love interest) and Bellach (bad guy archeologist) are in a tent where the Germans are holding her hostage and Bellach wants to put the moves on her? He hands her this fancy white dress (because archeologists digging for the Ark of the Covenant in the middle of Egypt always carry one with them) and says: "I would very much like to see you in it." She takes it and goes over to the other side of the tent to put it on. Bellach spies on her with a mirror and watches her change, catching a lovely glimpse of her bare back in the process.

Sam says: "Why is he doing that, mom? Is he making sure she doesn't escape?"

Me: "Yup!"

OK, so we really need to have the talk. Rick? Hello? Hello? You're up! He must be somewhere reading that cool book...