Showing posts with label boy panties. Show all posts
Showing posts with label boy panties. Show all posts

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Gleimous

I just adopted this word at savethewords.com. I believe I was inevitably drawn to "gleimous" because of what I found in my son's bedroom this morning. And that is the last I will say about that.

I used to enter his room slowly, gently, savoring the way the nursery smelled. Everything like caramel and baby powder (fine, it's toxic, fine, I used it and he lived and neither of us have lung cancer) and clean laundry. Sometimes I would just stand there, in the middle of the room, eyes closed, inhaling in rapture.

This morning, I wrenched the door to his room open, holding my breath, quickly tore the sheets off his bed, gathered the socks and boy panties and t-shirts and shorts and jedi outfits and Mountie costumes into one reeking armful and didn't exhale again until I was safely past the open door in the kitchen, which marks the half-way point to the laundry room. I gulped in another lungful of fresh air and tore down the stairs and threw the whole pile into the washing machine, which I had readied with its door open. Slam! Start! Relief drenched me in grateful sweat. Life--ah, it is sweet to be alive.

In all the books they write about parenting--even about parenting boys, specifically--why is there no chapter on "Your Angel: Soon Enough He Will Smell Like a Goat"?

Friday, April 30, 2010

Momoir

The Bad Moms Club alerted me to this challenge: motherhood in six words or less. It being laundry day here at the voodoo bungalow, I had my response ready:

So many little socks. All singles.


How is this even possible?

"Bleach could not possibly whiten these." (aside: Who told Calvin Klein to make WHITE boy panties? Seriously, what kind of numbnuts makes tighty whities for the under-8 set? I shall say no more on the subject.)

"Lips say NO. Eyes say PINOT."

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Peanut butter and gi

In 15 minutes the kids are supposed to be barefoot and obedient in their karate class. Instead they're downstairs drinking Coke, eating crackers and peanut butter, and horsing around with Lego Atlantis.

They're happy, but I'm happier: I don't have to get in the goat-mobile to drive them to class, wait for them to figure out how to get into their little pajamas, wait some more while they're actually shuffling and whacking and whooping and hollering, wait again while they try to remember what locker they put their boy panties in, wait in the parking lot to get out, wait in the turn lane, drive all around the twisty-turny suburban cul-de-sacs and crescents that GOD HELP US if we ever have to evacuate this city, we'll all be circling our own neighborhoods for 25 minutes trying to figure out how to get out, and all this in a rusting stationwagon that smells like a certain sweaty coonhound. And all this while trying to edit a business proposal that must be out the door in about an hour. In Los Angeles. And WHOSE bright idea was it to forbid open bottles of alcohol in moving vehicles?

I think I'll couch this latest parenting failure in terms of a beaming gift of childhood. Here, boys, take it easy. Eat some junk food. Teach each other some swear words in the basement. You're welcome. Don't get Jiffy on your gi or I'll skin you alive.

Monday, August 31, 2009

Who Am I?

Kid's whole school is pursuing the concept of "identity" this year, and so he has to bring three personal objects from home to school tomorrow morning:

These objects should have some special significance such as a baby blanket, their first stuffed toy, an ornament from someone special and so on. These objects should not be something that would cause distress to the children if they were broken or lost by accident.

So. . . . something special that isn't so very special that Kid would care that it went missing. . . .

So far Kid's suggestions have included:

The remaining half of an ice cream sandwich in the freezer
That one sock, you know, with the bear and the fish
The apple tree in the backyard (we could just grow a new one)
His toothbrush
A mood ring

Overall, the entire exercise has turned into a weepy appreciation of things he suddenly realizes he would mourn upon loss.

"Dear Lord, not Bunny."
"Red Hat, Blue Hat? Lor, are you crazy?"
"NO! NOT THE MOBILE!"
"What will I do without my glow-in-the-dark star? I won't ever be able to sleep again ever. I won't be able to keep my eyes open at school and will fall off the swing. Waaaaaaaah!"

I can't help but notice that the suggestions offered--baby blanket, first toy, and one of those popular "ornaments from someone special"(?)--miss the mark pretty seriously, at least as far as Kid is concerned. Because let's face it, if we want to really get to the heart of his identity--not the pie-in-the-sky, say isn't that deep and interesting, what a sensitive boy you are raising fictive identity that this assignment seems to be asking for, but Kid's own understanding of his unique Self--he would be bringing his Nintendo DS, his Jedi robes, a DVD of Raiders of the Lost Ark, Count Dooku's Solar Sailor Lego kit. (At school they could then teach the dangers and mythologies of defining oneself according to material possessions.)

My real-life suggestions for things that define my boy would include:

His whoopie cushion

The lilac-bush slingshot that his grandfather made for him

His savings account book

His tiger-striped underpants

The complete adventures of Captain Underpants

His passport

The picture of him taking pictures of tourists emerging from the loo near Jasper

The comic books he creates (complete with copyright)

His sports goggles

The bronze acrylic paint tube that he uses to create gleaming armour in his art

His white cowboy hat

His fedora

His walking stick

His medal

His tie collection

The frog shorts


Now you know what's in my time-capsule. Sigh. . . it goes by so quickly, sometimes it's hard to catch my breath.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

The beds are made!

Soon I shall shout THE BEDS ARE MADE! THE LEGO IS PICKED UP! THERE ARE NO BOY PANTIES ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR!

And here's how I'm going to do that (thanks, government of Indonesia, for the inspiration):



Yep, I'm going to grease me a totem pole, tie some treats up top, and -- where was I going with this? How will having the Kid climb a greased totem pole result in him cleaning his room?

Just a sec. I'm sure it will come to me.

Shit.

Well, THIS is awkward.

Once again, "eyes bright with purpose" has not translated into "brain bright with logic" here in the voodoo bungalow.

I think I should maybe go back on disability for another week or two.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Confession: I Hate Cuddly Pup

Every 25 school days, Kid comes home from kindergarten with a cow-themed satchel containing. . . . nope, not a cow, but "Cuddly Pup," a small stuffed dog who spends overnight at each child's home and brings with him a math book, some spelling and reading exercizes and a journal in which each happy child is to draw or describe the thrilling adventures had with Cuddly.

We had CP for six days over the holiday and had not a thing to share with the class come Tueday morning when school was back in. I desperately flung him into the red vehicle on the way to swimming lessons and then stuffed him, it, whatever, into the locker while Kid was in the pool and then tried to make it look like we'd been to the pool as a family, remembered to take CP and carefully documented the whole madcap go-round of gaiety. Kid was having none of it. "Dude," he says to me he says, "we COULD write that we imprisoned Cuddly Pup in a dark locker with only my Spiderman underpants to keep him company while we had fun. That would be the truth."

This whole taking care of Cuddly Pup thing is kind of the last straw with me. I have enough to do without worrying about the wellbeing of an understuffed toy that, frankly, smells kind of yucky and wants me to do math with a five-year-old. Five year olds should do math only to the extent that it enables them not to know how much things cost, whether five jellybeans is less or more than eight jellybeans and that clocks do sometimes run backwards, meaning that bedtime tonight is at 7 and not 8 because 7 really is 8 just for this once.

Teachers. I can tell they're going to be a problem already.