B-e A-g-g-r-e-s-s-i-v-e

Last night, after thanking God for our blessings, I asked Son #2 what one word he would use to describe our family.

Son #2: Aggressive.

Me: Huh? Aggressive?

Son #2: Yeah, dad always cross checks me.

Me: Wow, I wasn't expecting that.

Son #2: After that it would be "funny." Well, at least daddy and I are funny. You can be sometimes, too, but not really.

Son #1's response was "playful." I didn't have the heart to know if I was included in that or not.

Merry Christmas!

From the kids' mayhem, glow stick (turned light sabre) Christmas service at BCC last night to the peaceful, inspirational mass at St. Louis Church today, I am filled with the joy of the season.

Merry Christmas from our Star Wars Legos/Jaromir Jagr hockey house to yours.

Como se dice Babewatch?

This just in from the BBC: "The Simpsons has been dropped from morning TV in Venezuela after being deemed unsuitable for children - and has been replaced by Baywatch."

I'm sorry; I must have misread that. Baywatch? Pamela Anderson in a tight, red bathing suit?

Yeah, that's healthy for kids: girls with poor self-images and boys with (insert your own sardonic thought here).

Next, they might want to consider getting rid of the sodas in the school vending machines and offering only light beer.

Same Games, Different Millennium

My middle brother, who is closest in age to me, was in town from NC -- just for dinner -- last week. It was awesome to see him, albeit briefly. The strange thing is that, now that I have two little boys, I feel like I’m reliving much of my childhood with him. I can still hear him badgering me to stay in the lines as I sit on the floor at night coloring robots and racecars. And he and I played endless games of “pig” (i.e., basketball) and Battleship: two things I’ve been doing a lot lately. But finally, at least for now, I have the advantage. “Mama, you’re really good at basketball.” Yep, and I’ll take on any five-year-old who dares me.

Like him, my boys are nascent drummers and both are even sporting the same, short, military haircut that he modeled in the 60s; they’re just lacking the Buddy Holly, thick, black-framed glasses to complete the look.

I wonder, however, if either of my kids will get his bizarre sense of humor. He once told me that we went to private school because we were mentally challenged. “Haven’t you ever noticed it says ‘SLOW Children’ right where the buses park?” Nice.

My girlfriends loved him because he used to make Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes for us during sleepovers. This was after he would wake us up just to “make sure we were sleeping okay.”

He and I were the ones who rode in the back of station wagon together, facing backwards, on every family trip. Then, when he learned to drive, he would purposely hit every bump on the road if I was applying mascara in the passenger seat. He later taught me how to drive.

Because of my brother, my heart now aches when I witness kids in the neighborhood not wanting to play with the younger kids -- not because the little ones feel left out but rather because it must be such a huge drag for the older kids when they are forced to include them. My mom always strong-armed my brother to let me tag along with him and his friends even though I am a girl and four years younger. And then he would get in BIG trouble when his friends would ditch me. Especially when I got home first and promptly told my mom (like the time I made the perilous journey back from the next town over, sans supervision, along the train tracks). D'oh!

It's hard to believe it's been over thirty years since we hung out as kids. It feels like only yesterday.

Regrets, I've Had a Few

My sister and two brothers are all 1-2 years apart and then four years later I came along. My middle brother told me once, when I was really little, that I was a mistake. I started crying, ran to my mom and asked if it was true.

“Of course it is. You all were.”

Altruism at Five

Last night, the neighborhood kids were all in our yard. The boys were digging under the big pine tree and the girls were hanging out with me and chatting -- mainly about shoes.

After doing a cartwheel, the little girl next door, who is five, said to me, "Sometimes, when I'm doing gymnastics at the gym, I hear a voice in my head that says, 'Your job here is to help'."

Hello.

Otherwordly Visit

A few months ago, Son #1 got up really early, around 5:30 a.m., and came downstairs in the middle of my ersatz-yoga, morning routine. It was a little chilly, so we got under a blanket on the couch and snuggled. Neither of us said a word. After a few minutes, Son #1 spoke, “Mom, do you see that angel over there?” “You mean the one on the lamp?” I asked pointing to one of the curved angels that serves as a pseudo-urn handle on the lamp base. “No, the real one standing in the corner,” he responded.

I whispered, “No Scootchie, I can’t see the angel but I’m glad that you can.”

Again, we were silent for a while and then he said, “Oh, it was your dad.” “What makes you say that?” “Because he just came and gave you a big hug.”

Fallujammies

Riddle: What does a seven year old boy get from a bunch of first grade kids for his birthday at Chuck E. Cheese’s?

If anyone were ever to read this blog, that lucky person may answer “germs” and/or “ill” – both of which are likely to be correct. Another accurate answer might be “robbed” since there were a bunch of teenage hoodrats stealing all of the children’s tokens.

However, the real answer is “ready for Fallujah.” We left the house with goodie bags only to return home with spy gear, night vision goggles, a dart launcher that looks suspiciously like a surface-to-air missile, laser beam gloves, etc.

Why play with G.I. Joe when you can actually become him?

Kids Say The Darndest Things: Part 1

I've never kept a scrapbook or baby book for my kids. We just have heaps of pictures on the computer and in drawers or boxes throughout the house. And there are a million things I have wanted to capture but never did. But here's the first from my memory bank with more to come.

When Son #1, our oldest who is now seven, was in preschool, he went upstairs one afternoon and it was suspiciously quiet for a bit too long. When I went to check on him, he was lying in bed looking at one of his toys. "What's the matter Scootchie?" He responded, "My plane is broken. And I don't know what the h*ll is wrong with it." I gasped. He looked shocked. "Is that a bad word?" I assured him it was and he apologized. After a minute of silence, he then asked, "I don't know what the f*ck is wrong with it?" They don't teach this in Parenting 101 but I burst out in laughter. "Dude, that's worse!" I haven't heard him swear since.