Little Boy History Lessons

martin-luther-king31This morning, I asked Bryce (age 6) if he knew who Martin Luther King, Jr. was, and why we celebrate him.

He responded with this…

“Yes, I know who he is.  He was a great man who went to jail, like thirty times, so that black people and white people could eat together.”

(Insert proud mom moment here.)

It’s a simple answer, yes.  A complete answer, no.  But through the eyes of a six-year-old, it’s one hell of a start.  🙂

Birthday Gifts

giphy-facebook_s[1]A conversation with my son, Bryce.   He will be turning five in a few weeks.

Me:   What do you want for your birthday?
Bryce:   A Dj set! (He then starts to imitate scratching records with motion and sound.)
Me:   So you can drop a fresh beat?
Bryce:   Yes!
Me:   Where did you learn about DJ turntables and scratching records?
Bryce:   America’s Cutest Cats!

Happy Friday everyone!

Wanda Says…Random Thoughts, Fancy Cars, Play-Doh and TMI.

cleaning ladyMy house is a bit of a mess and I keep waiting for someone else in this family to take some initiative and clean it.  Then I remind myself that everyone else is waiting for me to do it because as a stay home mom, that’s my job.  I’m looking at the floors and thinking I need a raise.  Or a glass of wine while I contemplate when I may feel like getting around to some housework.

I’m tired all the time.  I thought once I started working out a lot that I would have all this boundless energy.  All I have is sore muscles, some new muscles,  and constant cravings for caffeine and meat.

10154307_596887757062232_1116757788_n[1]

Every Tuesday and Thursday when I go to the gym, there’s a black, Rolls Royce Wraith in the parking lot.  Seriously.  A freaking Rolls Royce!  Every week I see this car and I think…Really?  Because that’s your casual car?

Would you drive this to the gym?

Bryce has been begging me all day to play with his play-doh.  I hate play-doh.  It took forever to clean up the mess he made yesterday with his play-doh, and I just want it to disappear.  He likes to take several different colors, squish them all together and then shape it into a puddle.  Then he brings it to me and says, “Here’s another pool of vomit, mommy!”  He makes these “pools of vomit” and then expects me to save it and display it on the fireplace mantel.  He gets upset when I try to secretly throw them away.  He notices when they disappear from the mantel.  He doesn’t believe me anymore when I tell him I’m saving them in a special, secret location.  Did I mention that I hate play-doh?

My husband had to fly to Oakland today for a meeting with one of his clients.  He’s in the e-commerce business and he works with a variety of online retailers.   This particular client happens to be a company that makes products exclusively for adults.  *Ahem*  To be more specific, they sell sex toys.  Apparently, during the meeting, the company gave out goodie bags to all the executives.  He texted me a picture of the bag and said, “I can’t wait to go through TSA at the airport.”  He won’t tell me what’s in the bag.  He says it’s a surprise.  I don’t actually care about what’s in the gift bag, but I would give almost anything to watch him go through airport security with that bag.  It was a day trip so he didn’t take luggage with him.  It should make him feel better that everyone from his company got a gift bag, so they all have to go through airport security together, with sex toys in their possession.  (I’m crying laughing just thinking about it!)

10806242_1572206826353329_5670738414475305045_n[1]

Because I won’t put up a picture of a sex toy, its funny, and topically, it’s somewhat relevant.

Have a great weekend!  😉

Wanda Says…On My Son’s Opinion of Green Poop.

shamrockParenting children is so glamorous. If I’m not pulling teeth, wiping bums, or determining the source of crusty residue left on various surfaces, then I’m a scientist/medical doctor in training attempting to help my children decipher their bodily functions and the source of any problems that arise.

I apologize for the gross topic of this post, but I had this conversation with my four year old son this morning, and for a lack of anything more interesting to write about, decided to share the poop story love with all of you.

You’re welcome, world.

This morning I heard Bryce muttering to himself in the bathroom.

Bryce:  Why is my poop green?  What makes green poop?

Me:  Is something wrong?  Do you need help?

Bryce:  Yes.  My poop is green mommy.

(I joined him in the bathroom, and yes, his poop was a shamrock green color.  WTH?)

Bryce:  Why?

Me:  I don’t know, buddy.  Maybe it has something to do with the blue icing you ate last night on the cake.  But it will be ok.  Poop changes color sometimes based on what you eat.

Bryce:  So the blue icing and the chocolate cake made green poop?!

Me:  I’m not sure.

red velvet cupakeBryce:  What does red and green make?

Me:  Probably a brownish-gray color.  Why?

Bryce:  Well, then to turn my poop brown again, I need to eat some Red Velvet cake!  Can you get some of that for me, because we need to fix this!

LOL!  Little boy problems are so fun.  I heard him talking to himself a while later saying, “I never should have eaten that chocolate cake!”   😉

 

Update:  About two hours after I posted this, my family and I were shopping at the local mall, picking up some clothes for the kids.  In the middle of the girls department at Macy’s, I look over and Bryce has his pants down around his ankles, his underwear around his knees, bare-ass, inspecting the inside of his underwear!  He was so worried about the green poop, he said, with big fat tears in his eyes and a sad look on his face, “I had to make sure the green poop didn’t get into my underwear.”   We left the store and got him a Red Velvet cupcake just to ease his worries.  🙂

Wanda Says…No Bandits!

kid walking to schoolMy daughter Bryn is ten years old and in the fifth grade.  We live one block from her school.  At the beginning of the school year she begged me to let her walk to school by herself.  She had a convincing argument.  She said, “It’s only a block, mom, and I’m old enough to walk a block by myself.” (To be read with the required level of pre-teen sarcasm and eye rolling).

She’s right, of course.  When I was her age we played outside every day after school, running around the neighborhood, riding our bikes everywhere.  As long as we were home by the time the street lights came on, our mom wouldn’t stand in the yard shouting our names until we came running.  She is old enough to walk a block, and farther, by herself.

But life today isn’t the same as when I was her age.  The dangers are real, and I do not trust the general population with the safety of my children. I think most people are genuinely caring and look out for kids in their neighborhoods, but it’s the person late for work that accelerates too quickly down their driveway without watching for school age kids on the sidewalk, and the child predators who look like nice people just wanting to stop and chat for a few seconds that scare the shit out of me.  I feel bad that she isn’t allowed to run the neighborhood like I did at her age, but none of her friends are allowed to do that either.  All of her friend’s parents are just as cautious as I am.

But she’s ten, and she is responsible and knows how to cross a street, watch for traffic, and not talk to strangers.  I can’t choose to hold her back from something that is developmentally appropriate and allows her to grow because it scares me.  So the least I can do to allow her some measure of independence is to let her walk to school by herself.  She loves it.  She feels like such a big girl, and I love seeing that look of satisfaction on her face when she walks in the door after school.

But I hate it.  I hate not being there to watch over and protect her for the four minutes it takes her to walk one block.

I silently stress out every morning when we say good-bye at the front door.  I watch her walk down the driveway, and I don’t stop watching until she rounds the corner and is out of my line of sight.  And then I surreptitiously keep my eye on the clock.  I know that as long as the school doesn’t call here by 9am that she made it safely.  I start watching the clock again at 2:30pm. She’s usually home by 2:40pm, and then I take a deep breath and relax.

This is what I look like when I'm protecting my kids.  For real.

This is what I look like when I’m protecting my kids. For real.

I know this sounds obsessive and crazy.  Especially to a younger person who has never had kids.  But having children changes you.  Having children brings out your protective instincts in a way nothing else can.  I became the mother bear.  I am that dangerous female Grizzly that will rip your throat out if you even think about physically harming one of my children.  And I’m not alone.  Thankfully, I’m in good company with all the other Grizzly mothers at Bryn’s school.  We all agree that allowing our children to walk to school at a certain age is a necessary risk to help them mature, grow and learn to be responsible for themselves and recognize potentially dangerous situations and how to handle them.   They need to know how to apply and use all the advice we’ve given them. “Look both ways before you cross the street, don’t talk to strangers, be aware of who’s around you and if someone approaches you and tries to get you to go with them, you drop your backpack, scream for help and run like hell is chasing you.”  Well, I didn’t give her that last bit of advice in exactly those words, but she got the message.

No Bandits!

So, I let her walk to school.  The first few weeks were the hardest for me.  About three weeks in I was sort of grilling her at the dinner table, trying to be nonchalant and casual about it.  I didn’t want to be up in her face with overly detailed questions, but I wanted to know how it was going.  I was obsessing, and I guess I wasn’t as subtle as I’d hoped because she looked at me and said, “It’s good, mom.  There’s no bandits!”  As she said this, she winked at me in a jaunty way and made finger guns.  LOL!

In that moment she made me laugh out loud with her cheeky sense of humor, eased my fears and reassured me that she truly is a big girl, which broke my heart a little too.  Now every morning when she leaves for school and kisses all of us good-bye, we all say, “No Bandits!”   🙂

Wanda Says…Why my husband’s gaming privileges are about to be revoked.

boy playing video gameA couple of days after my last post, On the subject of video games and prison lingo, this conversation took place with Bryce about another video game.

Bryce:  Mommy, will you watch me play this game?  It’s pretty cool.

Me:  Sure, I can watch for a few minutes.

Bryce:  Let me show you the characters first.

He starts flipping through these pages of characters on the game.  The graphics of this game are also cartoons, but I realized right away that it’s more of an adult cartoon style.  At least the detailed pictures were.  When the game is in play the characters all compress down into innocuous looking little people and they appear child-like.  But when you peruse the actual game roster the characters are all sexy fantasy creatures…who are well endowed and wearing very little clothing.  I saw picture after picture of female characters with their breasts hanging out and wearing small bikini style costumes to match their persona.  I was shocked, but Bryce didn’t seem to notice how exposed these characters were and the conversation continued…

Me:  I’m surprised daddy let you pick this game.

Bryce:  Why?  It’s fun.

He then shows me a picture of an exceptionally racy looking character and I almost choked on my tongue.

Me:  Who is that character?

Bryce:  She’s a Succubus.

Me:  For fuck’s sake!  (said quietly to myself so Bryce wouldn’t hear)

When I mentioned this little conversation to my husband, he had the decency to look embarrassed before he started laughing his ass off.  And when I mentioned writing this post to him he said, “What’s the big deal?  It’s a mythological creature……that could be painted on the hood of a Camaro.”

I rest my case.

Wanda Says…On the subject of video games and prison lingo.

werewolfLast week Dan downloaded a new game to the ipad for Bryce.  The graphics of the game are cartoons, but the game is still a bit scary because all the enemies are monsters, like vampire bats and werewolves.

This was the conversation I had with Dan about the game last week.  Keep in mind that Bryce is only four years old, but because he has an older sister who loves video games, he’s more adept than most four year olds at playing them.

Dan:  I got this new game for Bryce.  At first you only had to shoot enemies with a bow and arrow, which didn’t strike me as being overly violent.  But now you have to defeat your enemies with a dagger, and that just seems too violent.

Me:  You think?  He’s four, and he has to defeat enemies with a dagger?  Is that the same game he asked me for help with the other day?  He told me he was in a “creepy situation” with a game and needed help getting out of the level.  I saw the vampire bats and told him to shut it off.”

(I want Dan and Bryce to have their own activities, you know, father/son stuff, so I don’t want to interfere.  Although I am a bit concerned, I’m trying to trust Dan’s judgment).

Dan:  Yeah, I’m not sure we’ll be keeping this game.

Two days later….

Dan:  Bryce, tell mommy what you did to the werewolf.

Bryce:  I shanked him with a shiv.

Me:  (epic sigh)