jerKs

So I'm putting my adorable, funny, amazing, dashingly handsome boy to bed when he announces the following: 

Mom, I want to be kewl like Spencwer*.  He's so kewl.

What do you mean, Ethan?!  You're totally cool!  Oh, and honey, put your tongue to your top teeth to make the l sound like your speech teacher says.

He just so kewl, mommy.  And he says I can't be kung fu master because I not a big boy who's five...I only four.  And I want to be kung fu master and I want to be kewl.

Despite the lack of context about the kung fu master game, or explicit details on how EJ's master ambitions were stymied by Spencer, I did what any hot-headed mama bear would do and flipped out immediately over this huge problem.  I shot up, mumbled something about needing to blow my nose, and left the room to cry for a good two minutes about how the cruel, cruel world had messed with my sweet, sweet boy.  Upon returning with mascara-smeared eyes, my sadness shifted to straight-up, claw brandishing anger over the blond little turd who had caused my boy to question his kewlness, err, coolness.  Where had I left my brass knuckles again?

Now let me remind you, I am a teacher.  An elementary school teacher.  Ish like this happens on the daily and I'd like to think I handle it with a certain panache. I consider myself a recess-problem dog whisperer, only with kids.  The pied piper, without the cliff.  I help, and problems seem to dwindle or dissipate.  Apparently, that's only teacher me.  Mom me was at a loss about what to do.

Back to EJ's room. I collected myself as different emotions pulsed and pulled, and my little boy stood starting at me expectantly.  I knew I had a captive audience for only a minute before his four-year-old-ness took over and made him fart or go grab one of the monster trucks strewn about on the floor.  I had to come up with something good.  And then it hit me.  This wasn't only about Spencer.  It was about all the jerks EJ will encounter in Kindergarten and beyond.

I think all you can really do to prepare your kid for jerks is to remind him or her that they are awesome and then give them options of what they can do in the trenches.  This is what I said:

Ethan J, you are an awesome, kind, funny, smart kid.  When Spencer tells you you can't be kung fu master, you can tell him that he's your friend, but he's not the boss of the game and you want a turn, you can go find another game you want to play, or you can run up to the teacher and tell on his ass (okay, I didn't say the last one like that).  No matter what you decide to do, you are already cool.

EJ paused for a moment, let out a huge burp, and smiled triumphantly, "That burp smelled! Okay mommy, now I want to go to bed."  So much for that.

A few days later, I checked in.  EJ was puzzled at first, but then seemed to recall the problem and our conversation.  "I like to play Lego master and not kung fu master now mommy, so I fine."  Maybe he did hear my advice after all. 

*Names have been changed to protect the identity of those involved.  Really, I just want EJ to still be invited to birthday parties so I can scope out mom friends.

Four More Years

No, not for that guy.

It's my son.  EJ.  He's four and it's dreamy.

 

My sister recently gave birth, and after FaceTiming with his baby cousin for the first time, my son asked what he was like when he was little...you know, because he's so old now.  Anyways, I, as a 21st century parent, whipped out my phone to document my narration with a bevy of photos.  And he, being a 21st century kid, grabbed the phone, swiped past the photos, and clicked on the videos. He really got a kick out of them, not fully connecting that he was the infant star of each short film.  For me, the videos drummed up feelings of nostalgia, but moreso, feelings of surprise.  It was the voice. My voice.  On most of the clips, it sounded disingenuous and hollow, even beyond when you know you're being filmed and inadvertently raise your voice an octave. I was acting.

I tried to place myself back in those days. Beyond the exhaustion and trepidation all new parents experience, I was also dealing with a divorce and coming to terms with the fact that "single" would precede my major titles in life. It was all a lot to deal with, but I realized that wasn't all of it. When I watched the videos again, I also acknowledged this: I didn't love when EJ was an infant.  There, I said it.  Infancy wasn't my jam.  I got through it, had some nice moments within it, but even now after it's long gone, my hindsight can't gloss over or rose-color the bad.  I will always remember that when EJ stopped looking like a boneless alien, he was super cuddly, soft, and smelled good (most of the time). But then right along with that, I feel the phantom aches in my arms, back, and wrists from all the holding, and remember how endless each day felt. 

But four is a different story.  For me, four rocks. EJ is this complete little person who makes jokes and shares deep thoughts about superheroes and the monsters that hide in his room at night.  He has a sharp sense of humor and strong opinions about colors, TV, what he wants to wear, how to build Lego ninja-super-laser-rocket-blaster-ships (are those a thing?), and when it's an appropriate time to pick his nose (anytime). The diapers are gone, but the cute neediness remains.  I love it. And now, I find myself savoring and trying to slow down time before the cretins of Kindergarten interfere with my boy's sense of self and how he fits into this world.

Through the ups, downs, and diarrhea-y, I've never wanted to get off this parental rollercoaster I'm on, and heaven-willing,  I'll ride this piece for a long, long time.  If the past four years have taught me anything, it's to keep your eyes open and be thankful for the ride, but don't be afraid to keep it real when it's nausea-inducing and scream things like, Go the F&@# to sleep!, or Guess what, today sucks!, or, My boobs are closed, you guzzling miscreant!, or Did you really not see that table you just walked into, fool!?, or Why are you acting like the spawn of Satan!? (okay, maybe whisper that last one).  

Blahg

That's how I've been feeling about writing this blog-blah, blech, meh. I've lost my purpose. I don't fit into any blogger niche-this is certainly not a lifestyle publication that helps you dress better, create beachy hair waves, or make your living room nicer, nor is it a mommy blog focused on either kevetching our helping people parent more effectively.  I'm most definitely not a guru of existential wisdom handing out profound advice. My life isn't entirely exciting or difficult either, so I don't offer you an opportunity of escapism, reflection, or comparison. What is this then, and more importantly, why is this?

I don't know, but for some reason, I can't let it go.  I still check on my readership after months of idleness and am thrilled when so much as one person stumbles upon my work.  A solid dozen found me last week.  It made me smile and guffaw out loud. That has to mean something...my gut saying yay as my head says nay. 

It's a new year. I think I'll go gut and blog on.

Overthinking usually leads to under-performing.  Fears and doubts drastically slow, if not cripple us.  If we are not talking about life or death stuff, what's so bad about shutting off our minds and just going for it?  What's really the worst that can happen if we listen to our guts? Why don't we entrust our intuition rather than our analytics with daily decisions?

Truth bomb. I am a faux, wannabe writer.  A teacher with a dusty journalism degree who wants to be heard outside of my head for either narcissistic or altruistic reasons; I'm not sure which.  I don't have a thematic, polished blog, and there's essentially no use or purpose for it. However, that doesn't mean there's no value. Some things can't be articulated or quantified.  It feels good pretending to write to the masses.  I like coming up with a clever line or quip.  I like re-living and narrating funny or poignant events from my life.  And maybe you like reading and can connect to them.  That has to be enough.  It's a new year.  Guts and glory.