And God said…

Memorial Day weekend. The pool club we belong to opens. Another season of beach bag loaded with oversize towels, goggles and sunscreen. Temps in the mid 80s. Lots of sun.

The pool club means I get to plug into my ipod shuffle, lay back, as Snoop Dogg says, and listen to The Fixx, Oingo Boingo, Muse, Katy Tiz, Astrud Gilberto, Basia… I get to see friends I only see at the pool club. And we get to talk, while the kids swim.

It’s been a year, so there is a lot of catching up. My pool pal is another mom with three boys. I don’t know how she does it. They are all well-behaved.

Not like mine.

I know that’s mean, but they have it coming.

When she comes in, we greet each other with a hug and the usual, ‘How’s your year been?’

There’s a lot of catching up. So, I start, eager to impress my friend, because her kids are well-behaved. And mine are not.

So I start with 14-yo. “He’s doing well in his first year in high school. He’s got a summer job lined up mowing lawns for the neighbors, he’s fencing, playing piano, blahaaha.” She listens to me brag. Because shes’ nice. And then I start in on 12-yo. “She’s getting ‘A’s in her classes. She got a great part in the school play. She’s doing chorus… blah, blah, blah… ”

And then the kids sit next to me. “Mom make her stop,” 14-yo whines. Like a four-year-old. “He won’t come in the water with me,” 12-yo squeals. “Make him get in the water… he just wants to sit on his fat, lazy a–.”

Kill me now.

My friend tries to distract them. “You’re getting so tall – how tall are you?” she asks 12-yo. Because she is nice and this works with her kids. Who are well-behaved.

But 12-yo is not buying it. Because I’m not good at distracting my kids. I’m good at yelling.

But I can’t do that here.

So I glare at them.

This seems to make them stop talking. And start hitting.

Kill me again. Please.

“Ok. Maybe we should leave..” I say. Then they’re off and running. Chasing each other around the pool club. Jumping into the water and splashing each other. Wrestling with each other. Trying to drown each other in the water. The lifeguard stops twirling his whistle, getting ready to blow it.

Oh please.

I turn away and try to resume conversation. But I’m flustered and distracted and worried about what they’ll do next.

It’s my fault I know. I let them get away with it… apple doesn’t fall far from tree (for the record, I do not chase people around the pool and try to drown them). I don’t know.

But I had it coming. I had to brag, and God said, “No.” And “Let them be a–holes.”

And so they followed through. When they come back to sit next to me, (why do they want to be around me? Mommy time bumming them out?) they are dripping wet and still taking swipes at each other. What’s the saying? “Pride goeth before a fall?”

I get up, apologize to my friend and tell the kids to pack up. I smile at her.

I feel like a turd.

But I’ve learned my lesson. I will not bore people with kid brag. Instead, I’ll tell them “my kids are a–holes.”

On the way home, I reprimand them, quietly, through gritted teeth, looking around as we pass other families loaded up with beach bags and sunscreen. It all comes out now. All the things I wanted to say but couldn’t in the presence of other well-behaved children and their well-behaved parents. I’m enjoying this. I tell them what a–holes they were.

And that it’s my turn now.

Are ya one? Are ya two? Are ya three?

Cro Magnon is depressed.

Cro Magnon had a birthday.

He’s had a lot of birthdays.

I won’t say how many (more than I’ve had).

Because I don’t want anyone to know how many birthdays I’ve had. (It’s more than I ever thought I’d have). Not anymore. And I sort of know how he feels. I know how he feels because when we do the family thing with the cake and candles and blowing out the candles and everybody singing “Happy Birthday,” the kids like to blow it up with “Are ya one? Are ya two? Are ya three?” And it takes waaaay too long to get to the magic number. So the kids stop at around 8.

It pisses us off.

But they love it. They’ve loved it since they learned it in elementary school.

So… He gets up a few days before “the day.” He is looking out the window. He sighs.

Cro Magnon rarely sighs.

“What’s the matter?” I ask. Even though I know.

“I’m old,” he says. Sigh.

“I’m almost (bleep)-years-old,” he says.

“Well it could be worse,” I say. “You could be dead.” I chuckle. Because 1- I’m mean. 2 – this is funny. And 3- I’m mean.

But this does not even make Cro Magnon chuckle. He just sighs. And stares out the window some more.

“You know, everybody gets old. At least everybody who’s still around,” I say knowing that this sounds stupid. (Because, duh, it is).

But it seems to make Cro Magnon feel a little bit better.

“What do you want for your birthday?” I ask. I had to ask.

He gets a look on his face.

I’m sorry I asked.

Because he wants lingerie, a show, maybe some dancing. I’m a mother for Pete’s sake.

“Oh, I thought you were going to tell me a shirt or something. Can’t I just get you a shirt?” I say. (As if).

“No,” he says. “I want blah, blah, blahbiddy, blah…”

“Wait a minute,” I say. “You’re birthday’s on a Monday.”

“So,” he says.

“Well I have to work the next day.”

“So?” he says.

Oh for cryin’ out…

“You’ll have to wait til the weekend,” I tell him.

And that’s good enough for him.

I should’ve just bought him a shirt.

Why ‘Armageddon’ is better than ‘The Mummy’ and other $%^# kids fight about

Last night, I wanted to slap people.

And it wasn’t Cro Magnon. But he was close.

Last night at about 9 ‘clock, I’m in bed re-reading ‘Gone Girl.’ Kitty at my feet. Double pillows for support. Visions of Ben Affleck in my head. Downstairs, the kids are fighting.

Actual conversation:

14-yo: “‘Armageddon’ (the one with Bruce Willis and Ben Affleck and an asteroid about to hit earth) is the greatest movie ever.”

12-yo: “No it’s not. Armageddon is the stupidest movie… blah, blah, blah..”

14-yo: “The Mummy (with Brendan Fraser and Rachel Weisz) is stupid. You don’t know what you’re talking about. ‘Armageddon’ teaches you something. ‘The Mummy’ doesn’t teach you anything…” he says

I’m thinking, maybe they’ll shut it soon. It’ll be quiet soon. And since when is 14-yo so concerned about learning something. But 12-yo’s not quitting.

12-yo: “Duh. Duh. ‘The Mummy’ is all about ancient Egypt and we just learned that in school, so, yeah..”

Ugh.

12-yo: The only thing I learned from ‘Armageddon’ is that scene with the Animal Crackers… and how he tucked the Animal Crackers in her underwear…’

Why, oh why, did I let her watch?

14-yo: “That’s it? That’s all you got from that movie? He was trying to make a point about Animal Crackers – is it a cracker? Or is it a cookie?”

Uh, no. That wasn’t the point of the whole scene. And why am I listening to this sh–?

And on and on they continue. Nobody will give in. Nobody will admit that each movie has its good qualities and its bad qualities and they will continue to fight until I fly downstairs.

“Get. In. Bed. Nooooow.”

They stop arguing and look at me. Then they laugh.”

“I mean it. Quit screaming. Quit shouting. (I am shouting. And screaming. But I don’t care. I’m pissed.) And get. Up. Stairs.”

They make a big fuss about getting up from the table and head upstairs to brush their teeth and get in bed. I go to read. Again.

Then one of them starts. “Mine is better than yours.” Ugh. Aren’t they a little old for this?

Then I think, ‘Gone Girl’ is better than both of them.

Happy Mother’s Day. You mother.

I’ve always had this picture in my head of what Mother’s Day should be. It’s May. Trees blossom. It’s warm. The sky is periwinkle. Lilacs perfume the air. A breeze blows petals into the periwinkle sky. Mothers are dressed in pastel dresses and sandals and their children are clean and dressed up too. There will be tea and lemon cakes. It’s all very Mary Poppins. Everybody smells good.

But nooooo.

Mother’s Day didn’t go the way I thought it would. I had plans. First, get up and go to church. For the May crowning of Mary. It’s a beautiful little celebration. A statue of Mary stands at the alter. The little people that made their First Communion the previous week, dressed in the Communion whites, place a crown of flowers on Mary’s head. At the end of mass, Father asks all the mothers to stand up for a round of applause. Yay.

This did not happen. Nobody wanted to go to church and see the May crowning of Mary. On Mother’s Day. The kids fight with me about getting dressed and going. They make excuses. They want to play Animal Jam and Minecraft. Now I’m really pissed. I tell them I’m going to go by myself. A mother alone at church on Mother’s Day. I actually get dressed, get in the car and start off – to go to church. I would be the only mother in church without her kids. On Mother’s Day. F— it. I turn around.

That was just the beginning. Nobody made mom breakfast in bed. Nobody made mom a card. Nobody brought mom flowers.

Happy Mother’s Day. You mother.

“Thanks for the card you made me, 14-yo,” I say. This makes 14-yo feel guilty.

“Thanks for breakfast in bed, 12-yo,” I say. And this makes 12-yo feel guilty.

“Sorry mom,” is all they say.

“No. Don’t worry about it,” I say. “It’s all over with. Forget it. Never mind. Don’t even think about it.” This makes them feel even more guilty. I speak in a monotone to really bring it home that they did something wrong. This makes me feel good. Little f—ers.

“I told them,” Cro Magnon says, enjoying the scenario, eager to not be in trouble. “I told them Mother’s Day was coming. I didn’t get you anything, because… ” .

“I’m not your mother,” I say.

“That’s right,” he says. Cro Magnon is happy. Because I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at the kids. And this makes him feel kind of good.

I’m sad. I’m pissed. This is how it’s gonna go? I’m not even in a home yet and they’re already ignoring me. But the guilt trip is working.

Because guilty 14-yo runs down to the grocery store and buys me purple flowers. And a pack of Tic Tacs. (He knows I like Tic Tacs). Guilty 12-yo quickly cuts up an apple and places a few strawberries on a plate for breakfast in bed. (I’m already up and out of bed).

F. It.

I had plans to spend the rest of the day with my mother. I’m making her a turkey dinner and we will eat it together. I take 12-yo and we head over to Grandma’s and fix up her porch for the summer. She is very helpful. Because she is guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guiltyyyyy. We hang a fern, drop a geranium plant in a basket, place it on the table and plug in a little water fountain. We vacuum and freshen pillows in pretty floral fabric. Mom is happy. Mom is happy because her daughter is doing something special for her on Mother’s Day. I wash up some dishes and come back to the newly summerized porch.

Mom is sleeping.

WTFrig?

I go back to the kitchen and do some more dishes. When she wakes, we have dinner and desert and a nice little chat. I head home.

When I get home, I finish the bottle of Pinot Grigio remarkably still in the refrigerator. I watch Steel Magnolias.

I’m all better now.

And you wonder why we drink.

Hot stuff

It only happens when the sun shines. When it’s hot outside. When Cro Magnon’s been working in the yard.

Cro Magnon takes his shirt off.

Cro Magnon should not take his shirt off.

Cro Magnon is not Magic Mike.

K? It’s no secret. The neighbors know.

But Cro Magnon does it anyway. Because Cro Magnons don’t care.

Last Sunday was the first warm, really warm Sunday we’ve had in a long time. It’s about 10:30 in the morning. Cro Magnon has been doing some light yard work. He killed some dandelions. Even though I told him not to. Even though I told him it’s bad for the bees. Cro Magnon doesn’t care because he hates dandelions. Sooo. After his light yard work, he walks out onto the deck to survey all in Cro Magnon kingdom. So I come out too. Still in plaid pj bottoms and a sleep tee, my coffee cup all warm with cream and sugar in my hand. It’s a lovely day.

“I’m excited about the garden this year,” Cro Magnon says, surveying his kingdom.

“Mmmhmm.” I say, sipping my coffee. Birds tweet in the morning air. Everywhere is sweet.

Until..

Cro Magnon takes his shirt off.

Tsk.

“Do you have to do that?” I ask.

“What?” he asks. (Like he doesn’t know).

“Take your shirt off.” I say.

“It’s hot,” he says.

“It’s 10:30 in the morning,” I say. “Why do middle aged men, or men past middle age, think it’s ok to take their shirts off. Where other people can see?”

He ignores this thought. “I want to feel the sun,” he says.

I look around to see if the neighbors are out. “You can feel it through your shirt.”

“I’m trying to get some Vitamin D in my body.”

I’m confused. So I laugh.

“You’re concerned with your body?”

He ignores me.

“I really didn’t know. That you were concerned. About your body.” Snicker. Snort. (I am an a–hole. Because it’s fun.)

He still ignores me. And walks off to the garden. Where the neighbors will see.

And he doesn’t care.

He’s just going. Going to get some Vitamin D.