I love my kids, I really do. They’re different, and very entertaining. Growing up in theater, I always enjoyed watching rehearsals–the drama, the staging, the frustration, and then the excitement of opening night. Living in my house is like living with a small theatre troupe. I really never know what’s going to happen but it’s always going to be big.
Big tears. Big fights. Big scenes. It’s always big around here and so are my headaches.
The kids are nudists, and I can say that here right now because they don’t know I have a blog and they don’t know (yet) to check and see if I’m writing about them (again). One day I won’t be able to do this (as much), or at least without being cut out of their lives, so I might as well spill my guts now.
Back to the nudist colony. They love being naked. They play chase naked. They um, Greco-Roman wrestle, you know, naked. And I don’t have curtains and I’m sure the neighbors have had an eyeful more than once and probably really like it when we all go away, on vacation, and stay away, on vacation.
The other thing my theatre troupe does that stresses me–besides the fighting (oh, why do boys like to hit so hard?!? why isn’t a little push enough? why does it have to be a series of Gladiator-ish deaths?) is the gaseous quality of our lives. If it’s not a belch, it’s a burp from the other end and the bigger they get, the more the different ends go. Why? How can gas give a male so much pleasure?
Lastly, my greatest enjoyment is conversing with the kids, and that’s because they’re funny. And honest. And if you put the two together, very very painful.
Ten year old Jake doesn’t ever really hit below the belt…so hard. It’s my 7 year old Ty that just goes for the jugular and doesn’t let go. Like earlier today. I’d showered, put in my contacts, done my hair, dressed and actually did the whole make up thing and I was feeling pretty.
Yep, pretty darn good. And you know, that’s always when you get your extra large serving of humble pie.
My Ty comes, sits on my lap wraps an arm around me. I beam at him. Feeling pretty, oh so pretty and– ‘Mom, when are you going to cover those marks on your face?’
Not so pretty, not so pretty. ‘What marks?’
‘The ones there.’ He makes a circling motion over my face.
I pat my cheek. ‘I put on make up. Didn’t I cover the marks?’ (Thinking, my acne isn’t flaring up, is it?)
‘No, the marks you fix with injections. (he pronounces it indecutions) You indect it with a needle and smooth things so you look better.’
Oh, he’s talking about my crow’s feet. ‘Do I have a lot of wrinkles around my eyes?’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yeah. Do the injections. It’ll make smooth skin, like on Oprah.’
He’s suggesting I get Botox.
He smiles, gets off my lap. His job is done. ‘Get your shots.’
I smile weakly. Okay, son. Thanks. I’ll get right on that.
What�s not to love about my kids?