Readers of my own blog are well aware of my rabid interest in the US Election, and on this site I have been taking part in a discussion forum that has got tempers flared and patriotism ignited.  It’s pretty intense.  As an Australian, living in Australia and therefore about as unable to vote in the US Election as a person can be, it is perplexing for some Americans to have me weighing in with my opinions.  One person on the discussion forum suggested I take my opinions and shove them in my tucker-bag (I’m paraphrasing).

continue reading…

Bookmark to:
    

Two nights ago, my husband, son and I are met some friends at a local park to watch fireworks. Initially, I was concerned because the show didn’t start until around 9:30pm, which is just a touch past my son’s 8pm bedtime. And once we’ve blown that time out of the water, it’s a crapshoot as to whether we’ll get Son: Demon Spawn or Son: Ball of Smiling Cuteness.

On the bright side, my son did really, really well. The not-so-great side is once we got past the concern of Mommy and Daddy having to leave all the good beer and fireworks and friends behind because Son is melting down, we experienced a far greater concern: Other People.

I’m not talking about the nice families who came to see the fireworks, or the lovey couples together or any other “normal” people.

No. I’m talking about the people who viewed the fourth of july as a time to break out their shiniest wife-beater, dust off the old forty and proceeded to grope each other under the thin façade of a cotton blanket. The sad part is, this isn’t an anomaly because I’ve seen this every year. Every single year I’ve attended fireworks, there’s at least one group of people who feel as though fourth of july is a fantastic time for sexual activity in public.

Usually, my husband and I point and laugh, however it was much more difficult with our son there, seeing as how he stays in one place for like .05 seconds and the last thing I wanted him to do was crawl over to Joe and Betty while they were bumping crotches and pick up a stray condom or cigarette butt. And it was a little too early in his life for a sex education talk, so we distracted him by buying a glow stick necklace.

Then, the woman next to us pulled her mouth away from her boyfriend/husband/hired male escort’s ear long enough to let me know I really shouldn’t be allowing my child to suck on a glow stick. So many things I could’ve said to her, each more fitting than the next, but I figured my son had been exposed to enough filth and profanity, so I simply thanked her for her concern.

But? Next year? Lady with the dragon tattoo? It’s ON, bitch. Consider yourself on notice.

Bookmark to:
    

Clearly, in any attempt to effectively manage or overthrow fierce dictators bent on forcing their will on a helpless populace, it is imperative that our country’s ambassadors be well versed in conflict resolution and the careful handling of narcissistic personalities bent on personal victory at all costs. Ideally, these people should be parents.

Diplomatic. Not until I had children did I realize how much of this parenting gig was all about diplomatic relations.

For all the talk of how ideal it was that my children were spaced almost exactly two years apart, presumably so they could grow up close to each other, it was never made clear that this actually meant “close enough to poke the other’s eye out.”

It is said that you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer. It may be assumed, then, that you should keep your siblings closest. Directly under your foot might be good.

Referee. I now routinely spend my days refereeing blatant acts of aggression, in-fighting, and attempted coups on the part of my son and daughter. Each of whom sprung from birth fully equipped and eminently capable of arguing to the end of time over such crucial life altering decisions such as who has the biggest piece (of what? Who cares?)

Size is key. The item in question could be a clump of mud. It wouldn’t matter.

Who went “first” last time; and who has dibs on any and every thing in (as my son has actually claimed) “the whole world to infinity plus six.” Repeat as needed.

Only child. Granted, this might be a non-issue for the average parent, but I am operating under one glaring handicap: I was raised an only child.

As a result I am utterly incapable of grasping what makes window seating, the blue cup, or being first in or out of any door so crucial that one would be moved to tears over not achieving any or all of these aims.

My husband, one of four children and - it might be worth mentioning, the only boy - finds my utter incomprehension fascinating.

It is, as he puts it, as only a person who spent too many carefree years riding shotgun, always getting the biggest piece, and having to share nothing would think.

I know not the fight to the death over the red toothbrush or what that means for all future negotiations if one should actually suffer the indignity, and resultant weakness, of losing.

No insight. Thus, I cannot understand why my two otherwise loving, sweet, and caring children can be stirred to shove each other brutally over which one gets to push a shopping cart, for example.

Or that my obvious solution that they take turns would simply disseminate into a secondary struggle over who would push “first.”

“First” being a term that I hope to abolish from the English language along with “always” and “never.” As in “you always let him go first” and “You never let me do anything!”

It helps if your children are sufficiently dramatic so that each of these utterances is accompanied by hand wringing and the flinging of themselves to the floor in a performance worthy of vintage Olivier.

Drama. Extra points are awarded if a child can shriek, as if in pain, “he’s looking at me!” in a frequency heard only by dogs, beleaguered parents, and certain childless people who are always convinced that their children, if they had any, would never behave that way.

Of course, as a result of my only child status, I was also not well versed in the stealthy, and seemingly innocuous way that sibling torture can occur.

Once, at age 4, our daughter appeared before me sobbing and clearly in real distress. Upon hearing (through nearly unintelligible sobs) that her brother had been “kicking” her, I was moved to set aside my usual “don’t ask, don’t tell” position on tattling and call in the big guns - namely me.

Rushing upstairs to confront the culprit with my still sobbing, but now deliciously martyred daughter in tow, I cornered the alleged perpetrator at the scene of the crime and let him have it.

Oops. Coming up for air only long enough to pause in my “we do not, and I mean do not, ever hit or kick a person in this family mister” diatribe, I was met with his incredulous reply: “But mommy, I wasn’t kicking her, I was kissing her.”

Which just goes to show that when it comes to even the most otherwise loving siblings, sometimes a kiss is just a kiss; but other times, it’s a little more like a declaration of war.

Immunity. So what’s a mother got to do to get a little diplomatic immunity?

Bookmark to: