Teeny Manolo

The other day a friend and I visited the local aquarium with our kids.  Sadly, the thing that held their interest the longest was the splash park located outside.

There was a cement shark with various buttons to press that caused water to shoot from different points on the shark’s body.  The prize spot was on top, where the largest jet of water was located.  This jet sprayed more vigorously than the others, and was easily diverted by placing your hand in front of it.  This was great fun because you could cause people standing on the sides of the shark to get wet, or really any direction you wanted the water to go.  Sort of like when you put your thumb in front of a hose.

A little boy got to the top of the shark, but decided he just wanted to sit there.  Wasn’t pressing any buttons, wasn’t directing the water anywhere.  Well, playground rules dictate that if you don’t use it, you lose it, and soon other boys were climbing on and while not pushing him off, utilizing the full features of the shark.

This upset the little boy, who was whining and hitting people’s hands away from the water and the buttons.  He was easily six, if not older, so should have known a bit better than to do that.

Lately I have tried to keep out of any of the Munchkin’s interactions with other kids.  Unless someone is about to get hurt, I have vowed to have a more hands-off approach.  This is very difficult for me, but I am trying.  So, I watched this little boy having a fit and trying to push the Munchkin away as he tried to play with the water.

After the third time, the Munchkin looked at him and said, “Well, you just aren’t very nice, are you?”

The boy had nothing to say to this.  He whined some more about people playing with the water.

In his most reasonable tone of voice, the Munchkin said, “But you don’t own this. This isn’t yours to tell people what to do.  The aquarium owns this.  It isn’t the only one here either, so if you don’t like other people playing with it, you should go to a different one.”

Not being able to refute this logic, the boy got off.  Although still whining, he went somewhere else.

Do I sense a possible Ambassadorship in the Munchkin’s future?

(Photo Credit: Jono Rotman)

There is a family next door to my parents whose son is a week older than the Munchkin.  Sometimes we get the boys together to play, and there is invariably a conversation that goes something like this:

Mom: Soooo, the Munchkin is very tall.  How tall is he?

Glinda: Uhhh, I want to say something like 45 inches, I’m not really sure.

Mom:Hmmm….  Is the Munchkin reading yet?

Glinda: Yes, yes, he’s reading.  He really likes reading.

Mom: I seeeee.  How about math?  Is he doing addition?  What about writing? Can he write his name?

Glinda: All of that, yes.

And on it goes, the sole purpose of which is to measure her son against mine.  Who’s taller?  Who can throw the ball better? Which one has the better social skills?  It’s sort of exhausting answering the seemingly endless battery of questions.

While I can understand the temptation to compare since they are so close in age, sometimes I just want to completely lie.  To say something totally outrageous and actually dare her to call me on it.

Mom: So, what kind of books is the Munchkin reading?

Glinda: Well, yesterday we finished War and Peace, which he just loved.  Now I’m thinking of starting on some Shakespeare, maybe Henry V, maybe Hamlet.  It’s so hard to tell which one he will like better.  But I think so far his favorite book has been The Republic by Plato.  He’s really into the whole just and unjust concept.  We debate it practically every night before bedtime.

That’ll teach her.

Maybe.

My son has nothing to do.

And that’s fine with me.

From the time school ended, we have been on two vacations as well as various day trips since the Scarecrow was still off work. Then he had a week of day camp, and then came the Fourth of July and all the related shenanigans.

That is a lot of stuff packed into three weeks.

So I have deliberately scheduled nothing for the next two weeks. I’m trying to give the Munchkin the gift of being able to utilize that time when you are essentially your own boss. To learn how to amuse himself without the benefit of anyone else around.

I am of the opinion that we are doing our children a disservice by the constant bombardment of activities we deem important to their development. Classes, endless playdates, daycamps, and even daycare deliver large amounts of stimulation. An overstimulated child is not a happy child.

Equally important to their development, if not more so, is the ability to be by yourself. To be able to entertain yourself independently. The value of devising plays, lying on the grass, reading a book, constructing towering Lego buildings without help, and creating elaborate stuffed animal tableaus is vastly underrated.

And even though it means that I am currently listening to the very loud crashing of dozens of large wooden blocks, the kid needs all the practice he can get.

While at the beach today, I heard a woman ask her daughter “Where is your cell phone?”

The girl wasn’t more than twelve, and I wondered when the Munchkin would qualify for a cell phone of his own. Because I really don’t think it’s a question anymore if a kid will or won’t get a phone, it’s simply a matter of when.

My mother apparently came into motherhood about twenty years too early, becuase the idea of being able to call me at any second would have greatly appealed to her. Whenever I went out, which was often, I was required to give a detailed itinerary, even after I became an adult. She was even known to ask for the phone number of the movie theater where I would be watching a movie. No, I couldn’t believe it either.

I know that they have those very simple cell phones for young children that have all of two buttons or something, with pre-progammed numbers. But I’m wondering exactly how many seconds it would take for him to lose it at school. I bet that even if it was kept in his backpack all day, somehow he would still manage to lose it. The child cannot keep track of a pair of sunglasses, much less a phone. Thus you will never see him wearing sunglasses any more expensive than five dollars.

Maybe when cell phones hover around ten bucks or so, I’ll think about. That can’t be too far off, right?

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It seems that fate has decreed I only have one child. It wasn’t necessarily what I would have wanted, but my body has emphatically refused to produce another.

So, I’m trying to count my blessings for the one I do have, and I put together a list of the good things about that. This list is in no way intended to offend people with more than one child, because tomorrow, I am going to deal with the down side. And trust me, there’s a down side.

1. Having lots of time and energy to give to the one child versus splitting it up between siblings.
2. Not having to negotiate who can play with what toy.
3. Only one diaper and potty training phase.
4. Only one terrible two and three phase.
5. One college tuition bill! Wheee!
6. Less use of resources. Meaning three do not consume as much water, plastic, etc…
7. One social calendar to worry about.
8. Not ever having to screech “Stop hitting your brother/sister!”
9. One set of finicky dietary demands.
10. Not having to buy a minivan.

And tomorrow, the cons…

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If you want to hear what has now surpassed Madonna’s version of “Santa Baby” as the most annoying song on the planet, have a listen at this.

He did not just say “I’m glad you’re a hot mom now.” Did he?

I don’t know why, but it seems ok when a woman uses the term to describe herself, but really creepy and wrong when some weird dude playing bad acoustic guitar does.

Is that wrong? Am I being hypocritical? Or do you think the term “hot mom” is demeaning/objectifying no matter who says it?

We hear all the time that today’s kids are sheltered. People question how they will ever learn to function on their own if we only allow them to go on pre-scheduled playdates and classes?

What say you? Is it a bunch of media hype, or do you think it’s true?

In my heyday, my musical tastes were cutting edge. Kasey Kasem’s Top 40 never blighted my refined ears, lest I instantly become unhip due to a few bars of “Jump! (for My Love)” or “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” Both of which I viewed back then with a thinly veiled contempt. Well, I must confess that the contempt is there even now.

No, I was all about New Wave, Alternative, Punk, and Post-punk. I wore black, although it was really more for show than anything else. I didn’t have that simmering rage a lot of my friends had. I just liked the music, and if I didn’t wear the black, well then they might mistake me for someone who would enjoy listening to the songs above.

As I have aged, I have kept up with musical trends. I know the music (and in most cases even like) of bands such as Weezer, Death Cab for Cutie, the Killers, and many others. My teenaged cousin’s eyes practically popped out of her head when I mentioned I liked a song from Vanessa Carlton. What? I could see the gears churning. A person over the age of thirty knew who Vanessa Carlton was? Perhaps she would have to dump poor Vanessa off her playlist since someone such as aged as myself knew who she was.

But really, who am I kidding? The Munchkin is only five. It takes a lot of work to keep up with all this new stuff, and to be truthful, I’m getting tired. Can I really do this for about seven more years? Can I possibly still be interested in new bands after I hit forty?

I have a feeling that by the time the Munchkin is in his teens, I’ll be content to be in my rocking chair, listening to The Ramones.

*You must be familiar with the songs of The Ramones, or else you will think I am referring to myself as a ho.  Which I most assuredly am not.

The phone rang, and I automatically glanced at the LCD display to see who it was. Don’t we all?

Oh, a mom friend of mine, one whose daughter is in the Munchkin’s class. Fabulous! What gossip does she have to dish out to me today?

Instead of mom, though, I hear a rather breathless, “Hello, this is Cutest Little Girl in the World and is the Munchkin home and may I speak with him?”

Thrown for a bit of a loop, I walk over to where the Munchkin is sitting. He is engrossed in his newest obesssion, which is an old Scooby-Doo movie where Scoob and the gang meet Batman. I think he pretty much has all the lines memorized at this point.

I hand him the phone with a chirpy, “You have a phone call!”

And ever the clueless male, he continues to watch the television until I make him pause it. He then chatters rather aimlessly for about a minute and a half, and they hang up. Something about chocolate chip cookies was communicated, that I know for sure. The rest is anyone else’s guess.

So he says goodbye and hangs up the phone. Instantly, he turns the television back on. No big deal. Just a blip on his radar screen.

And all I can think to myself is awwwwwwww, he just got his first phone call from a girl!

Then…

Oh crap! He just got his first phone call from a girl!

I am so not ready for this!

Gets to choose the best outfit.

The Munchkin’s preschool is having their annual musical showcase.

I am always early dropping him off to school because I am just anal like that about almost any appointment or obligation. I have yet to drop him off late. And with only three weeks to go, I am pretty confident I will maintain my perfect record. I know I just somehow put that curse out on myself, and it is now echoing through the cosmos, probably coming back to bite me in the ass on the day I need to take him to his SAT’s.

So, there I am being all early and stuff, when I see that there is a sign-up sheet on the little table the teacher has set up outside the door. I pick it up, and it seems that this year the school is being anal as well, for there are actual outfits, costumes if you will, that must be worn to this year’s Musical Extravaganza. I look at the two choices for boys:

White Dress Shirt and Khaki Pants

or

Blue Dress Shirt, Blue Pants and Blue Suspenders

Huh?

Blue Suspenders? I have no idea where you can even purchase blue suspenders around here. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a child, or even a grown man other than Larry King, who just doesn’t count, wearing suspenders.

So of course, I sign up for the relatively easy white shirt and khaki pants.

I watched as some of the moms straggled in to class as I was getting in my car. And all I could think was, you are gonna be the chumps who have to go searching high and low for some suspenders that your kid will most likely never wear again.

Suckers.