“Are you showing off, Mom?”
“Am I what?” I had just done a jerky off-balance twist move to check out the back of my ankle after I felt something jab me. “No, no, I am not showing off. I think I just felt a mosquito bite me. I was just looking. That’s all.”
“Oh. I thought you were showing off to attract a mate.”
***
Upon further questioning, it turns out that my movements were evocative of a bird of paradise’s mating ritual. Quite a compliment, really.
Martin and Chris have discovered my brother’s cache of old toys and are fascinated by them. I remember so many of them–like the action figures he kept under his pillow and called: “My men.” As in his famous quote at about three years old when he found out what college was: “I don’t want to go to college. I want to stay here and play with my men.”
Of particular interest is the car from the old show Knight Rider with the accompanying David Hasselhoff action figure. Although I was a bit disturbed seeing my little boys play with a miniature David Hasselhoff, I shrugged and introduced them anyway. “Guys, this is David Hasselhoff. Can you say David Hasselhoff, Chris?”
“Hazel Hasselhoff!”
And Hazel Hasselhoff it is.
As in, “Steve, come quickly! Hazel Hasselhoff rescued a baby croc who was captured by a poacher and needs your help because he got injured! Get Bindi and bring the helicopter!”
And, “Steve, come quickly! The baby is eating Hazel Hasselhoff’s head!”
This is the first summer that I’ve grown stuff. Real stuff, from seeds, that we can cut for vases or eat for dinner. Sure, I’ve planted stuff before, but never actually grown it.
Stay tuned for green peppers and tomatoes.
The bites on my thighs are baby-height. The bites on my arms are all on the right side because that’s where I hold him. He whips his head around and chomps (I think he might growl even) and once his teeth are clamped, it’s over. And oh, the pain.
And while I’m getting constantly bitten by this voracious teether, I can’t help but recall a post by Mimbles not too long ago, which includes a photo of what happened when her leg got caught between a dog and a cat having a tiff.
I thought we could perhaps start a new theme: What Happens When Cute, Cuddly Creatures Attack You, Even Though They Really Don’t Mean It.
My thighs:
I have other pictures, too. My arms and stomach, for instance. But maybe I’ll save them; I’m still recovering from the fact that I think I’m about to post a picture of my thighs on the internet.
As soon as I heard the elderly lady shout, I knew nothing good was about to happen.
“MISS! MISS! YOU, MISS!” she yelled. Oh, don’t be talking to me, don’t be talking to me. . . She wove her way across the wading pool area, through the toddlers and the toys to say, sharply, and with a whole lot of gesturing: “Move your baby! It’s too hot for him here! Move him into better shade!”
Huh? Are you kidding me? “He’s fine, thanks.”
“No, no, no, he isn’t. This is not cool enough. Take him over there! It’s too hot here! He will be sick!”
“Noooo….he’s fine.” Just go back to zooming cars with Chris and pretend this is not happening. Don’t flip out on a tiny old lady in front of your three year old. This is no big deal.
She goes back to her chair. She’s watching me; I am sure of that.
Now, the baby really is fine. I could describe just what type of shade it was, and how he was doing, and whether he was sweating, and what the temperature was like, and the breeze, and the time of day . . . but none of that is necessary. I am sitting there with my baby, I am taking very good care of him, and the baby is fine.
On her way out, though, again. And with more feeling this time. She veers away from the exit for one more go. “Get your baby into the OTHER shade! LOOK AT HIM! LOOK AT HIS FACE! He’s HOT! This is very BAD!”
“HE. IS. FINE,” and I ignored the rest of her rant while concentrating on my car-zooming. She tired of the tirade, I guess, and took off.
I would rather not spend any time writing about children and bathroom issues. I get grossed out by that whole aspect of parenting, and would prefer not relive those situations, let alone record them for posterity. I’m entertained by others’ stories; it’s just ours I want to forget.
I’d definitely rather not write about stopping at a rest stop along the highway for a desperate three year old, who, despondent that the portable toilet had been forgotten, was even more freaked out by the ziploc freezer bag that his mother presented.
I would not like to recall that miserable three year old in the middle of the minivan dealing with this thoroughly distressing situation while his baby brother gleefully pulled at his hair in an unwelcome attempt to play and his five year old brother pulled out a camera to snap pictures of a strange man who had chosen to park directly next to said minivan rather than anywhere else in the acres of empty parking lot.
I would surely rather not relate the horror of the three year old as this man peered into our car, pressing his face to the glass, his interest no doubt piqued by the relentless young photographer, while the young boys’ mother hissed–then shrieked, “STOP taking PICTURES of that GUY! You’re just ENCOURAGING him!” while the three year old cried, “He’s going to see my PRIVATE AREA! HELP!”
At least I won’t have to worry about the young aunt in the minivan’s passenger’s seat relaying this story anytime soon, since she was studiously turning the pages of Lonesome Dove and imagining she was anywhere but there.
“Mom, why do they call you the Stud Whisperer?”
“The . . . what?”
“Why do they call you the Stud Whisperer?”
“Who calls me that?”
“They do.”
“Martin, I have no idea what . . . ”
Then I got it. Months ago, Tom and I were hanging a shelf on the wall, and I bragged about my stud-finding abilities. (The kind of stud which are those heavy beam things behind the wallboard, of course. Though I have also had good luck with the other kind.) I can tap oh-so-gently on the wallboard and pinpoint exactly where the studs are very quickly and with uncanny accuracy. I said, cocky as ever, “They call me the Stud Whisperer.” The name seems to have stuck in Martin’s memory for all these many months.
I can just hear him twenty years from now: Lemme tell you about my mama. . . they call her Stud Whisperer . . .
In case you're lucky enough not to be able to see this blurry image, it is a sticker on the back window of a truck. It depicts the figure of a woman, on her hands and knees, with the confederate flag superimposed on her. It's captioned: Southern Style.
Sitting at a red light behind the guy with this on his truck, I had a very difficult time subscribing to that lovely notion of not making immediate judgments about someone. In other words, I exclaimed: “What an ASSHOLE!”
(But let me gamely attempt to find another explanation in the spirit of not making those snap judgements. For all I know, a thoughtful, intelligent guy could be driving this truck. Perhaps he just bought this truck from someone up the road, and is cringing while driving it, knowing that everyone with an ounce of respect for women or African-Americans, or, indeed, southerners, is thinking he’s a jerk. He might even have a little spray bottle of that goo-be-gone bumper sticker remover stuff and a little knife, and he’s just waiting for the first parking lot that he can pull into to get the sticker off of his car. Plausible? Eh, maybe not. Probably just an asshole after all…)
So sad when you have a bad day and are irritable with little children deserving of more patience, and one of them looks at you sadly, then walks away, murmuring, “You used to be so good.”
