I’ll admit I am old school.  I am of the “Eat your vegetables because I told you so school”.  I grew up in an era when my parents never ever felt like they had to convince me to do what was right.  They told me to do what was right and I did it. 

And then I spit out the vegetables into a napkin when they weren’t looking. 

Which brings me to my point. 

Making your child eat vegetables by sheer force doesn’t work and neither does sneaking veggies in.  How can they learn to like them if they don’t even know they are eating them?  So what’s the answer?

Anyone?  Anyone?

“Right but where’s the big one?”

I’m thinking, spoiled much?  The glow in the dark one isn’t good enough, the church playground one not large enough?  I never got to attend more then one hunt in my life and was lucky if at the one I did I was able to garner more then three eggs. Definitely spoiled and as I started to go into my tirade about spoiled children he raised his hand which is his polite way of interrupting.

“No, no, no, the one that the Easter Bunny has very year, where’s that?”

Seriously dude.  You’re six.  I find it nearly impossible that I have explained where babies come from, you have just attended your first funeral and learned about death and yet you still believe that somewhere out there is a man-sized bunny, probably pink and hiding Easter eggs in some green hilly pasture?  Really?  I don’t even know how that’s possible.  I’m about to tell him the whole unadulterated truth, I mean he knows how to make babies for goodness sake, and as I open my mouth this is what pops out,

“There’s really no BIG Easter egg hunt; the Easter bunny is more like a distributor of eggs to various factions so then they can put on their own local hunts.”

Seriously did I just say that?  The Easter bunny sounds like a beer distributor spreading his goodies from watering hole to watering hole rather than the waskily wittle wabbit he really is.

“You mean the Easter bunny got in touch with Riley so that he could put on a glow in the dark hunt?  Should I call him if I want to put on a hunt?  And why do they sell the eggs at Target?”

UUUHHHM………..  Because I said so?  To everything you asked.  Move along kid, we got eggs to hunt for.  I mean didn’t we just go through all this rigmarole with a little green man and a pot of gold?

They say that truth will set you free and one day I won’t have to carry this big fat man in a red suit, a giant pink bunny, a little green man with a pot of gold and an airy little fairy with wings any longer but until then I’ll be glad to bear the burden for the smallest little believer in our household, even if it does mean I have to tell a lie or six.

I mean I was at a funeral facing a pastor I hadn’t seen in thirty years and let’s just say I haven’t been religious about attending church services; a childhood crush that dated back to a time when I wasn’t allowed to wear lipstick; and a teacher who I admired deeply but whose very voice could make me tremble with fear.

Let’s just say it was a long week.  Did I mention my grandmother died too?

And oh yes I was facing all this with a sixteen year old son, a six year old son, a spare sixteen year old niece who happened to be visiting, and a new husband no one had ever met.

And oh yes, I dyed my hair last week and somehow it came out black. Which would seem fortunate as I was attending a funeral but made me feel like Liza Minnelli on a somber day.

And I had an economy size box of tissue with me at the funeral which was of course …sad, but my box was more for the stuff coming out of my nose which was enough to make a stranger weep.

It was a rough week.

But as always the good was mixed with bad.

My teenage son got thrown into a maelstrom of relatives he’d never met, high school friends, and appropriate gestures and he performed admirably.  Even better, he didn’t even have to perform.  He was kind, mature, and aware on a day that didn’t have much to do with him.  I underestimate him sometimes, as you all well know.

My six year old was charming and delightful and a joy as small children can be at a funeral.  He asked me if they could announce Grandma’s name one more time just to let everyone now who was in the wooden box.  I said I think we are all aware but thanks for using your quiet voice just then.

The spare sixteen-year-old niece was at her first funeral and she had only met the star of the show one time.  She said she kept quiet because she didn’t want the conversation to be too much about her.  She was as aware and kind and helpful as she always is.  I think of myself at her age and marvel at her thoughtfulness.

Many high school friends and other acquaintances from long ago came to show their respect to a woman who was long in their past.  No one would have blinked an eye if they didn’t show up but they did.  It touched us.  Some of them said kind words and stood to speak though to do so they had to hold back tears.  They were braver than I.

I spent the weekend facing my past and now I am back home confronting my future.  I have lost one grandmother but I have gained a few new friends, welcomed some old family back into my life and look forward to things to come.  In a sense the week WAS just like normal life.  There will be good; there will be bad; my attitude just depends on which side I choose to live in.

“My penis is a steel rod.”

(Don’t worry; I’m not affixing that quote to either of my children- way too embarrassing…but true).

It’s selfish I suppose.  You don’t get much from a baby when it’s yours.  I mean sure their ears are soft as rose petals and their breath smells like fresh washed sheets but besides that it’s pretty much eat sleep poop eat sleep poop and for some reason they can’t do any of the three when you want them too.

But today I watched a video of Carmella hiccuping and was at rapt attention.  Did my babies hiccup?  Did I notice?  Were they cute? I vaguely remember one resembled Yoda and the other Charlie Brown, so…. maybe not so cute.  But like I said, I can’t remember because I think I was too damn tired.  I don’t do tired well.
 
What I do remember is thinking,

“Seriously, like you just send me home now and this baby goes with me?  Is that a good idea?  For either of us?”

I also remember one endless night as I fed and fed Beau.  I walked and rocked and wondered why he wouldn’t eat.  Four hours later I found out I had left the inside cap on the bottle.  Baby had no milk but he had a heck of a lot of gas so let’s just say things got worse before they got better.

And I remember changing Donovan was like a pit stop at Nascar.  He loved his little bundled burrito shell blanket and whoa be to those who unwrapped it though he should have known diaper changing couldn’t be achieved by osmosis. 
Put baby down, unroll burrito as quickly as possible causing vertigo, rip apart tape, take off some flesh, crying ensues.  Crying continues, swab down bottom with freezing cold wipe.  Wipe, wipe, wipe, sweat drips from brow, screams rip your heart out, the neighbors call Child Welfare.  Baby sticks sock in poop, change socks, change diaper, stick chicken legs back in sleeper, which is like putting stockings on a pig. 

It’s like we thought the kid was going to expire after one good wail.

With Carmella I’m like la deed da, give her to me.

It’s because of a little thing we like to call perspective.  When you’re not dog tired and caught in the endless sleepless cycle the little thing is no longer a pooping , eating, sleeping machine but a beautiful little blessing just fresh from the oven; with a bunch of greedy baby hands grabbing at her. 

I’d cry too.  And then I’d poop and sleep and eat and cry and sleep….

Day one, five minutes later:  D has befriended the conductor and is now eating a free sausage biscuit.  We are only five minutes into the trip and he’s already turning on the charm.  I can see what kind of trip this is going to be and though I am happy about it I am also exhausted already.  Mr. Charm requires a lot of energy.

Day one, 2:45 p.m.:  Donovan buys a key chain for his Richmond Girlfriend.  It says, “I love New York.  Girls Rule.”  We are still waiting for Beau to buy someone a gift and he’s sixteen.

Day one, 3:00 p.m.:  Donovan meets Aunt Kelly and is smitten.  Minutes after meeting her he begins to woo her.  I’ve got to rein this kid in.  As I’m considering all this, he asks for a little privacy with Aunt Kelly so they can peruse the Captain Underpants book she bought him……alone.

Day two, 9:00 a.m:  Donovan asks Aunt Kelly how she slept.  At this point he’s pretty much dismissing the presence of her husband, Uncle Herve as if he is merely a temporary obstacle.

Day two, 2:17 p.m.:  Despite himself, Donovan is starting to like Uncle Herve.  I go into the gift shop and he asks, “May I stay with Uncle Herbe?”  First of all, his name is Herve; second of all YOU skip the gift shop?  Unheard of.

Day two, 4:21 p.m.:  Donovan offers his seat to cousin Caroline.  My how debonair and I thought Virginia was for lovers.

Day two, 7:34 p.m.:  We go out for steak.  It is the one extravagance that D and I have promised ourselves, except our hosts will never let us pay so I feel bad asking for steak but I promised D.  We go to my nieces’ restaurant and D gets a steak as big as his head.  Considering he’s working with a Charlie Brown sized dome, this is a pretty substantial slab of meat.  When someone there asks him if he has a girlfriend, he shoots back quick as a wink that he’s got three and from the way he’s eyeing Aunt Kelly it looks like he’s planning to make it four.

Day three: 9:00 a.m.:  Charlotte buys flowers for her Mom for completing her yoga training.  Not to be outdone, D asks if he can get her a bouquet as well.  I can see this kid is going to need a job and soon.  He doesn’t even know how expensive it is to be a ladies’ man. 

Day three, 3:00: p.m.:  We go to Lion King.  It is brilliant, beautiful, moving.  It brings tears to my eyes.  I might feel foolish but when I hear sniffling from D’s corner I know it’s ok.  I look over and he’s finding solace in the crook of Aunt Kelly’s arm,
I ask D if he loved New York and he said,

“Yeah but I loved the people in New York even better.”

And as the shirt, coffee mug, bumper sticker, hat and pencils say in blazing black and red,

“I ♥ New York”

And from what I could tell D, New York ♥’s you back….. a lot.

“Mama, I am gonna wear my I love New York Shirt.”

“Great yeah man I love New York too.”

“Then you should get a shirt.”

“It’s cool, D, I love it I just don’t want to wear a shirt that says it.”

“What’s in NY?”

“Lots of people and things and we’re going to see the Lion King.”

“On television.”

“Nope the play.”

“What’s a play and can I bring binoculars and is there a toy store there?”

“Yup.  Big one.”  I only answer one question per breath.

“Can I bring my wallet, the one that fits on my belt?”

Sure son, but remember at this point you have a fanny pack, binoculars and I love New York shirt.  Don’t forget the sun tan lotion, giant camera and map the size of your bed and we will be on our way.

I loved to travel with Beau, it was just so easy but if you thought you were going to get an ounce of enthusiasm then you were dead wrong.  He would walk all day long, never complain, sit where you told him, stand where you asked and shut his mouth if you desired it but he could have cared less if he was standing in the wilds of Africa or the streets of Chicago. 

Donovan is however an enthusiastic traveler.  Donovan is also a taxing and wearing traveler.  He plans to hit the city running and see all there is to see and by that I mean I am already exhausted.  Vacation might be the wrong for it so let’s call it an expedition.  I’m pretty sure D is ready for New York City but is New York City ready for D?  To be continued….

I don’t mean when he says, “Can you buy me the new Blackberry Pearl?”

The answer to that is, “No.”

“Can you take me to Costa Rica for spring break?”

Again, “No.”

Or, “Can you call my history teacher and tell her I’ve got impetigo and can’t take the test?”

Alas, “No.”

Know two things before you say yes.  Know that it may be a very long time before he asks you again and know that he will not return the favor.

“Beau, do you want to see the new Will Smith movie?”

“Why?”

UUUHHMM because a projector puts a story on a screen and sometimes people go see it.  They get popcorn and sodas.  It’s an interesting concept: some like it.

Or: “Do you want to go to Barnes and Noble?”

“For what?”

OOOHH too browse, look at books perhaps purchase a novel or two it’s really considered a treat in some countries.

Despite the lack of participation in the mutual respect and admiration club, if he says the following, try to say yes, try.

“Can you help me with my homework? “

Sure I’d love nothing better then to relive my seventh grade algebraic nightmare right here with you at the kitchen table.

“Will you take me out to practice my driving?”

Sure I’d love to put my life in my hands with your erratic teenage impulses guiding us down a windy country road.

So when Beau asked me if I was going to watch the VCU game, I said yes.

But let’s be honest it wasn’t really an invitation per say, but sort of.

And while we are being honest, I’ll admit I do like to hang out with Beau, mostly because we don’t get too that much but also because he’s smart, funny and oh yeah, because he’s mine.

Even more honest, let’s admit that he’s not super keen on hanging with me.  That’s normal, that’s fine, that’s expected but if one day he does decide to clue in to how really super cool I am then who am I to deny him.
What I really wanted to do was take a six-pack into the bedroom with my six new library books and 32 pillows but I didn’t and needless to say by half time I was fading.

“Did you see that move?”

Jerk awake, “Yes, yes, brilliant if it was on the inside of my eyelids then I saw every muscle twitch of it.”

Let’s just say the second half was a bit blurry but I woke up in time to see the final Hail Mary hit all rim. 
I suppose it might have been a bit more of what one would call quality time if I had been awake but I’ll take an A for effort rather then execution and hope for better next time; if there is a next time.

“Mama, guess what,” he chirped.  “Blankety-Blank said he DID want to be my friend.”

“Oh, I’m so glad Honey.”

“He said just make sure I don’t tell anyone else because the other boys don’t like me.  So as long as I don’t tell anyone, then we can be friends.”

Say What?  Donovan’s cool.  He’s so cool; he’s like an ice cube.  Blankety-Blank should be dying to spend time with him.  And then I have a vision of Donovan panting after Blankety-Blank and basically kissing his little blue-jeaned butt.  O.k. Maybe he’s not cool, but hey kid he loves you…to death.

Seriously, I thought this started in sixth grade.  I’m thinking that K-5 is a wee bit early for social hierarchy.  I mean, is he embarrassed of D?  Is that what’s going on?  And what constitutes not being cool enough in K-5; can’t run fast enough, too slow with a glue stick, too many veggies in your lunch pail?

I’ve asked around and not a single person can remember such nastiness at such a tender age.  Aren’t they supposed to be chasing butterflies and believing in Santa?

My husband said it best, “When I was five I just wanted to get dirty.”

An hour later, I broach the subject with my sprite.

“I don’t think it’s right to treat your friends like that Donovan and I hope you never say anything like that to anyone.  Perhaps he was having a bad day (perhaps he was having a bad life, perhaps he’s a pain in my butt, perhaps, perhaps he’s only six and I should extend him some kindness, perhaps the reason no one remembers it is because it’s not a big deal).

And let’s be honest, Donovan isn’t completely innocent himself.  At the playground someone was trying to impede on his Bromance time with Blankety-Blank and this is what he said,

“It wouldn’t bother me a bit if you were a thousand miles away right now.”

Does it make it better that he sounds like Mr. Belvidere while he tells the kid to get lost?  I think not.  We left the playground immediately.  Love hurts, the pain just shouldn’t begin before first grade.

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” I thought, and so Sunday evening we got together some eye catching shiny trinkets, some green paints and pens, some double-sided tape and a few treats to tempt the little green man.  Sitting there, I remembered my own school days and more distinctly I remembered a project that I was assigned; it was to create an environment for one of your stuffed animals.  I crafted and hot glued and colored all night.  My mom didn’t lift a finger.  When I brought that project in it was the rinkiest dinkiest crappiest looking project in grade two.  In my mind it had looked like the Garden of Eden when in reality it looked like a Salvador Dali rendition of Where the Wild Things Are.

I wish I could say I was the type of kid who loved my project anyway.  I didn’t.  I wanted to stuff it in the trashcan and take an F.  I was mad at my mom.  She didn’t help me with the project; she didn’t have a closet full of the best Crayola products; and oh yeah she NEVER made homemade cookies.  That being said, I am just like her.  Oh yes, I’m willing to help.  I’m willing to help find supplies, be it in the trash or a desk drawer, but I ain’t doing no project.  Period.  I’m thirty-seven and if I do a project I get paid for it.  If I do a project it doesn’t involve a leprechaun and I hate a science fair so like I said, my time has passed.

But not to worry, Donovan had a very distinct idea of how he wanted to make his trap and so he did.  I sat there for moral support, to listen to his ongoing litany and to unscrew the glue top.  My job was simple.
When he finished the trap looked like, well it looked like a trap constructed by a six year old; think lots of glue, random bits of tape and shiny gold beads in a jumble glued to the top. 

However, when we got the school it was a whole different story.  As we were walking into the auditorium I begin to see children carrying what looked to be small-scale models created by perhaps Frank Lloyd Wright.  Huge rainbows and genuine little pots of gold and suddenly I see Donovan looking at his little messy card sized box as if he’s carrying rat trap with an extra set of Mr. T’s gold teeth on top.

Great, great, my kid has a crappy little ghetto leprechaun trap but don’t worry I wanted to scream there isn’t even a real thing called a leprechaun so all these silly people wasted time creating brilliant traps when there is actually NO BAIT…HHHHHAAAAHHHAA!

But I don’t, because he believes in the little green man and before he saw these Ninth Wonders of the World he thought he might be able to catch him in his, which is by the way losing gold beads with every step as if Mr. T’s teeth just took a hard knock to the jaw.
I scramble after beads and send him on his way with a merry kiss, but he only vaguely brushes my lips because he is too entranced by a leprechaun trap that actually has motorized moving parts while his looks like he pulled it from the trash pile. 

Now I’m pissed.  I call my husband pronto. 

“Great Babe,” I say, skipping the introductory customary hello.

“Whhaa?”

“You blew it when you read the instructions.  Donovan WAS NOT supposed to make the trap, we were.” 

I’m joking. 

It was Donovan’s project all along and maybe we will catch that wee little man after all.  I mean, who doesn’t like Mr. T?

I pity the fool.

Beau, however, told two lies his entire life while under the age of ten.  After that I stopped keeping count but even at sixteen he’s pretty truthful though sometimes I think a little white lie might make his life easier.

“Beau, do you like the tattoo I’m getting?”

“No, I hate tattoos.”

OOOKKAY then.

“Beau, what do you think about the roast beef?”

“Chewy, definitely chewy.”

Allrighty then.

“Beau, how’s school going?”

“Not so great this week.”

Well then.

But as I said, when he was younger he told so few lies I still remember them.

Lie #1:  Beau, at Disney, tries to step on a frog.

“Beau why would you try to hurt that little thing?”

“The sun made me do it.”

Points for originality.

Lie #2:  In first grade I pick up Beau and his hair is shockingly stiffly standing out like a sunburst from his dome.

“Uhhm Beau?”

His teacher looks at me apologetically and says,

“He put glue in his hair, he said you do it at home all the time.”

Worrisome that you didn’t doubt him Teach, worrisome.  Do you also think we put small tattoos on his chest when no one is looking?

Donovan however is a fibber.  He feels bad when he is caught which Beau does not.  Which one is worse?  I ponder.
Donovan wakes one morning at Uncle Bill’s, slips into the bathroom seemingly unnoticed and uses the potty.  He heads to the sink but by this time he has a visitor and doesn’t even know it.
He turns the water on, looks mischievously around and then turns the water off without a drop ever hitting germ infected hands.

FIBBER!

Donovan appears with chocolate on his shirtfront, his teeth, his lips, and possibly even his eyelashes.

“Donovan did you eat your Valentines Candy?”

“No, why do you ask?”

Perhaps it’s the chocolate mask that tipped me off.
And yet over and over, unsolicited, he will crow,

” I will never lie to you Mama never.”

Yes, I think, except when you do…FIBBER.