Poopy Fingerpainting

It’s not uncommon for Jack to completely trash his room soon after we’ve cleaned it. And by we’ve I mean, Donny, ’cause y’all know I don’t clean that much. And by that much I mean, hardly ever. So, it was understandable that when Donny came into our bedroom, sighed, and said, “That boy’s room is covered in shit,” just an hour or so after he’d cleaned it, I thought he meant it was covered in a bunch of toys, books, and clothes.

Then I saw this look in Donny’s eyes that I can only describe as a desperation to flee, run away from home, and I knew he meant shit shit.

“Ooooh! That’s what he was doing!” I said, proud of my deduction skills. Ten minutes before, Jack had come into our room and headed straight for the master bathroom where he stood on his tippy-toes and turned on the water, informing us he needed to “keen my hands.” Apparently, he’d pooped, then dug in his diaper and smeared it all over his room.

This was three weeks ago. Since then, we’ve had one other poop finger-painting incident and a few close calls. The other day he pooped and then proceeded to smear a small amount on the wall behind Kali’s bedroom door. What we think is happening is, he sticks his hand in his diaper for confirmation – “Yup. I shit alright.” – and then wipes his hand on the nearest surface with all the sophistication you’d expect from a 3-year-old.

Later in the day, after the poop had been cleaned from behind Kali’s door, I was in my bedroom, listening to music on my laptop while the TV was muted, and writing. Jack came into the room, saw that awful Yogi Bear movie on the TV, and asked me to turn up the volume so he could watch it. I called for Kali and asked that she bring me my headphones, the ones I’d let Jack use when she wouldn’t share hers. He wasn’t really using them, but he likes to copy whatever his big sis does.

 

Except when she brought them into my room, the white ear cushions were missing.

“What did he do with them, Kali?”

“I don’t know.”

Jack and Donny enter the room and I ask Jack, “Where are the cushions?” I point at the earbuds so he’ll know what I’m talking about.

“I eat them.”

Silence.

“No, really, Jack. Where are the cushions?”

“I eat them. In my tummy!” And he pats his baby belly.

What follows is about a solid minute of sputtering from me, Kali, and Donny.

“Did he… is he serious?” “How could he possibly…” “Holy fuck!”

That last one might have been Kali. I don’t know, there was a lot of panic and it’s all very confusing.

“Well,” Donny sighed. “We’ll have to wait to see if he shits them out.”

“He just shit! This could be a while.”

More silence.

Kali goes to her room and returns with my earbud cushions. “Where did you find them?”

“In my room… on the floor… behind the door.”

They were covered in shit.

“That’s probably why he was digging in his diaper. He was trying to get the cushions out!” Donny smiles, proud of his deduction skills. “You want me to wash them?”

“No. No. Just… throw them away.”

 

Growing Pains

My daughter is 12 today. A pre-teen. A young lady.

Mama needs margaritas.

Long-time readers may remember me mentioning this before, but right before each birthday I notice a change in my children. I don’t know if it’s natural or if, as parents, we automatically start looking for signs of change. Whatever it is, I notice.

I’ve spent the past month or so preparing for the release of my book. I could go whole weekends without seeing Kali except for the few times she’d poke her head into my bedroom and ask what we were having for breakfast, lunch or dinner. My response? “Go ask your Dad.” Any guilt I felt was assuaged with, I’m doing this for them. What kind of mother can I be if I’m miserable, waiting for others to see fit to make my dreams come true? Why not take my fate in my own hands and make them happen? And what better way to start than with a book that my daughter inspired?

And this did the trick up until this past weekend when Kali admitted that she kept forgetting her birthday was Tuesday. She was not excited about it. Anytime we asked what she wanted or what she wanted to do, she would shrug and say, “I can’t think of anything I want or need.” I joked that this was a good thing. When I was her age, if someone asked me what I wanted, I’d respond with a list as long as a New York City block. “When I was your age, I didn’t have shit!” We both laughed.

But I felt horrible. She may be turning 12, I thought, but that’s still a child. Children should be excited about their birthdays whether they have a wish list a mile long or not. Everyone wants to feel like their birthday matters and I’d done a piss-poor job of doing that for Kali. If she can’t think of something she needs or wants, then it’s my job to come up with something. To surprise her with things she didn’t know she wanted or needed. It’s my job to create magic because this day matters. This day, twelve years ago, changed my life and it should be celebrated every day, but especially today.

Yesterday, when she got home from school, we went to my nail salon and got our nails done. I did not cringe (outwardly anyway) when she chose black polish.

 

We went to Claire’s next and I bravely endured the constant nose tickling as it seemed everywhere I turned, a feather-adorned accessory was invading my nostrils. I did not pass judgment on the fingerless gloves or the belt with skull and crossbones on it – I simply thanked God the skulls were surrounded by rainbows.

Next we went to Aeropostale for new shirts and then Charming Charlies where she picked out the cutest zebra print slip-on shoes and purple hat.

As I watched her beautiful fingers with their black nails brush over fabrics and patterns, and her face react in either pleasure or distaste, I realized she was well on her way to being her own person with her own tastes and style. And sure, I could say no and only agree to buy the things that we both liked, or worse, the things that I liked whether she agreed or not, but doesn’t that defeat the point? Hadn’t I raised her these past twelve years with the desire and knowledge that she’d eventually become her own person? How can that happen if I insist on lots of pink and frills in a vain attempt to keep her “my little girl?”

Her mood had lightened considerably. She even tried convincing me to buy something for myself, but I declined. As much as I wanted the bag, this shopping trip wasn’t about me.

 

This was about Kali and (I didn’t tell her this) the plan was to not say no to anything she wanted. When she spotted a t-shirt she wanted in Aeropostale and asked, “If I put back one of the other shirts, can I get that one?,” I replied, “Why not get them all?”

“I can do that?” “Yes, you can.”

I did it because I could afford to. I did it because everyone should have a shopping spree once in awhile. We went to Best Buy last and I bought the two things that I had planned to buy her anyway: an iHome system for her bedroom so she could dock her iPod at night and listen to music while it charges (it’s really cool – it changes colors) and an iTunes gift card so she can download all the Japanese music she’s into now that she’s also into Anime.

When we got home, she excitedly pulled her new clothes, shoes and accessories from their bags and showed them to her Dad. She couldn’t wait to go to school today and wear her new shoes, belt, and fingerless gloves. And here’s the cool thing about my kid: she won’t expect this from now on. This wasn’t about buying her love, acceptance, or happiness. I’d been in her shoes, thinking no one cared enough about your birthday to make a big deal. Some years the big deal may be a home-cooked meal of your choosing with cupcakes made with love for dessert. And some years the big deal may be a shopping spree with Mom as you both giggle over how pretty your nails are and drive with the windows down, singing “The Dog Days are Over” at the top of your lungs.

I watched her walk into the school this morning with a knot in my stomach. The kid has a funky style, for sure. But it’s hers and I worried if I’d done enough to teach her to own it. Then a boy in front of her stopped to hold the door as she adjusted her new white tote bag with the black butterflies and she flashed him a braces-lined smile of gratitude. And he blushed.

She owns it alright.

We’re going out to dinner tonight to celebrate. And she gets to pick the restaurant. And I just pray they serve margaritas.

Big ones.

Brace Yourself – Part One

“Mommy, will getting braces tomorrow hurt?”

I smile, showing a gap between my two front teeth and an overbite.

“Do I look like I know if braces will hurt? You should call your Aunt Christine and ask her. Grandpa loved her enough to get her braces.”

Kali calls my sister who tells her that it will be uncomfortable. Kali tells me later, “I feel like I should be nervous, but I’m not.” I go to bed thinking, “We just may get through this.” Then I wake up to this email from my sister:

So… You didn’t speak to me first, before you had Kali call. I wasn’t sure how honest you wanted to be.

I told her to expect discomfort and to take tylenol before the appointment. I didn’t tell her it’s going to HURT LIKE HELL!!! Having it put on is not that serious because they are gluing it on, but once they add the wire and tighten that bad boy!!!! The pressure from having her teeth being pulled together will keep her from being able to eat and will make her have the “F. U. face” for days….She may even cry tonight from not being used to that kind of pain/discomfort. Her teeth will be sensitive to touch and she may even talk funny for no good reason… just because her mouth is hurting…. It does subside after a few days…. However, she will experience it all over again, after every appointment.

Make sure the plan for dinner is mushy. don’t sit around the table having her favorite foods while she’s stuck sippin’ on soup. Think soup, mashed potatoes, even Ensure. Don’t make her chew!

Love ya!

Toodles…

And just like that, I want to vomit. I start thinking about cancelling. Upside: I save myself a $550 deposit and $156 a month payments for the next 30 months. Downside: My kid needs braces. Somehow, despite being up since 5:30am (and waking Kali up at 7:30am), I manage to still be in the house at 9:15 which is when Kali is supposed to be starting her day at school. Once I finally have Jack strapped into his carseat, he says, “Juice!”

“Oh, Jack. We’re late. I’ll give you juice when we get back.”

“JUICE!”

Kali sighs. She reminds me of myself at that age. She’s completely unaware that she possesses so many things that will make her both popular and envied, and that will drive boys crazy. All she knows is that she doesn’t like a lot of attention and that’s what she’ll get when she comes waltzing into class ten minutes late, toting a backpack and violin case. She says, “Really? You have to have juice now, Jack?”

As if he senses that today is going to be one of those days all about Kali, Jack looks at her like, “Yes, really, bitch.” I run inside for juice. After dropping Kali off, Jack and I head for the supermarket. While I’m grabbing a bag of 5lb potatoes (mashed potatoes for Kali’s dinner), Jack spots grapes. He loves grapes.

“Grapes!”

I give him a bag of red seedless and toss a bag of white seedless into the cart. He starts eating them immediately. I’m too frazzled about what Kali is going to be experiencing later to care whether or not they’re cleaned properly. I briefly wonder what I would say if management stopped me from letting him eat while I shopped.

My daughter is getting braces today. Back off!

I bypass the ready-made Jell-O cups and go right for the boxes of powdered stuff. Why? Because that’s what good mothers do. We feel guilty about everything! Even if she didn’t get the crooked teeth from me -

And she didn’t. That’s all DJ Spermdonor. So much so that I once gave him a disclaimer before introducing him to my best friend. True story. Just before we rang his bell, I stopped her on the walkway and said, “So, you know how I said he’s really funny and nice? Well, he is. But he’s not what you would call… traditionally handsome.”  So, yeah, this is all his doing.

- I do take responsibility for mating with Mr. Snaggletooth. Making Jell-O from scratch is the least that I can do. I also grab pudding, ice cream, heavy cream so I can make my own whipped cream (the LEAST that I can do, people!) and a Waterpik cause they say it will make cleaning easier.

I head over to the pharmacy for some Tylenol. Children’s Tylenol stops at 11 years old and up to 95lbs. Kali is almost 12 and weighs 100. I wonder if I should get her something stronger. Like whiskey.

Puff, Puff, Hall Pass

Last night Kali and I were watching the local news when, after a story about two teenage boys beating a man in his 90′s nearly to death for a small amount of cash and a piece on a bishop of a local mega-church who may or may not have used his position of power to seduce young men (but who is definitely guilty of taking cell phone pics of himself in tighty-mouse shirts), Kali says, “They should talk about what happened at my school this week.”

“What happened at your school?”

“This boy got in trouble for selling weed.”

I blinked.

She said weed in a low whisper as if we were girlfriends at a sleepover talking about boys instead of mother and daughter sleeping together so that father can sleep with son in the other room and help mother wean son from boobs.

We’ve explained to Kali what drugs and alcohol are and she’s seen Intervention – a wonderful cautionary tale to say no to just about everything and the perfect opportunity to impart such wisdom as, “I will see you dead before I help you buy drugs. I will put your little ass in the ground myself! – and she’s witnessed Donny and I deciding who’s going to drink and who’s going to drive home when we go out to dinner.

But over the past year or so I’ve found myself wondering if she actually gets it beyond the basics: drugs are bad, you can go jail, and you can die. I know she doesn’t know the difference between rum and vodka, uppers and downers, heroin and crack, but I didn’t know she knew the nicknames. Weed? What’s next? Pot? Mary Jane? Chronic?

“Do you know this boy?”

“Yeah, he was in my class last year.”

Last year? Last year she was ten. Last year she was in elementary school. Fifth grade. Isn’t there a buffer anymore? And shouldn’t middle school be that buffer? That transitional zone before you get to high school and become the pot dealer, whore, jock, bully, junkie?

“Is he black or white?”

Asking for a name would have made no sense. I only know the names of the kids (girls) that call here or have been to the house. I wouldn’t know James from Stephen. But I needed to get a mental image of this middle school dealer. Race seemed a good place to start.

“White. He was a new student, too. He got there four weeks after I did.”

I realized at that moment, and I can’t really place my finger on how or why, that this story was about to take a turn. I could see the wheels spinning in Kali’s head. She’s also a writer, a storyteller, and it’s important that the person receiving the story sees the complete picture. Like someone who has forgotten an actor’s name and is struggling to remember a movie he’s been in that I might have seen, I can see her trying to figure out a way to show me who this drug dealer is.

“Oh! You know him. He’s the tall one in the class picture.”

Before the words were completely out of her mouth I knew who she meant.

“With the mustache?!”

“Yes!”

“And he calls it his squirrel?!”

“Yes!”

“Ewww!”

“I know, right?”

We laid there in silence for awhile. I marveled over the fact that if I was so inclined, I wouldn’t even know where to go to find weed, but my daughter would.

“Who was he selling to?”

“Some girl named Emma.”

I made note of that name because now it’s more important than ever that I keep a complete mental rolodex of every child she comes in contact with.

As I dropped Kali off at school this morning, I had Donny on the cell’s speaker phone. She climbed out the backseat, DAKINE backpack on her shoulders and lugging an $800 violin. She blew her little brother a kiss and I gave her the usual farewell with a little extra.

“Bye. I love you. Have a good day. Don’t buy any weed.”

From the speaker phone, “WHAT?”

As I pulled away I filled Donny in on the 6th grade, mustached, pot dealer at our daughter’s school.

Brand New

In the span of about six months my child has gone from this:

to this:

And it’s all my fault!

Last November I had a mystery shop at Aeropostale. Prior to that, I hadn’t stepped foot in that store and couldn’t tell you what they sold. It was one of those jobs where they don’t pay you a shop fee, but reimburses for the required purchase – in this case, a shirt. Kali wanted to tag along because the store was very popular with the kids in her class.

First, we had to deal with the little matter of how to pronounce the damn name. My father called it AIR-O-PO-STAL-LAY – all fancy, like he’s Madonna or something. Kali insisted that wasn’t right. I called it AIR-O-POS-TELL (rhymes with Aristotle.) Kali insisted THAT wasn’t right either.

So, I’m doing the shop and realize that I enjoy food way too much to fit anything in that store. Also, the clothing seemed to be catered towards people that actually left the house once in awhile. After holding up a few XS tees to Kali, I decided I’d make the required purchase for her and picked out a super cute orange T-shirt with AEROPOSTALE obnoxiously plastered down the side.

As we’re checking out, Kali nudges me. “Ask him!” she stage whispers.

I look at the young man ringing up the shirt. He’s wearing a tight plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up and jeans made to look like they’re dirty when they’re really not.

“My daughter wants to ask you something.”

If looks could kill they’d have been cleaning up a Nina-sized stain off the Aeropostale floor.

“How do you pronounce the name of this store?”

“AIR-O-PO-STAL” (Stal like Stalin.)

So, Kali was right.

He then flips his head, tossing back hair cut in one of those uber-trendy styles that only white boys can pull off, and says, “But we just call it Aero.”

Oh, well, excuse the fuck outta me.

And that was all it took. It’s been Aero this and Aero that ever since. I feel like pulling out one of my mother’s old standards and asking, “You got Aero money?”

For her birthday we took her to pick out some shirts. I was very happy to see the “ALL TOPS 50% OFF” sign in the window. I didn’t want to spend more than $50. We got two t-shirts, a plaid button down, and a white hoodie for just under $50 (everything was either 50% or 70% off.)

It’ a little weird watching her style change and some of it frightens me. I mean, come on! Look at that ad again. Those kids are an eating disorder and one roofy experience away from being an Abercrombie and Fitch ad!

But as long as I am in charge of picking out and paying for the clothes, this shouldn’t be a problem. The style may be older, but we’ll always remain appropriate.

And I’m already putting the brakes on this idea that only one name brand is suitable. She wanted Aeropostale flip-flops, but they were $10.

“Girl, we can go to Old Navy and get you some flip-flops.”

“But these are better.”

“Why?”

“Because they say Aeropostale!”

“Yeah, across the bottom where no one will see it. Let’s go.”

On the bright side, when she’s old enough for a part-time job, I know where to send her.

McDonald’s Money

The other day I was at the kitchen table, paying bills and balancing the bank account when Kali looked over my shoulder, pointed at a circled dollar amount on a sheet of paper and asked, “Is that how much money we have?”

Any parent will tell you that you always pause to figure out the best way to answer your child’s question no matter how innocent the question may be. My first instinct – sometimes to a fault – is to always tell the truth. But then you have to worry about the ramifications of telling the truth. Take Kali’s question as an example – I had to ask myself, “Did we have the talk about privacy and money? Do I have to worry that I’ll see this post on Facebook:

My Mom has $1,600 in the bank!

I realized that a simple yes or no answer might not be so simple after all, so I gave the standard Mommy reply when we need time to stall.

“Girl, go play.”

As I prepared to write this, I tried to remember what my perception of the family finances were when I was a child (without being biased by what I know now.) Did I think we were poor? I’m not sure if I felt like we were poor, but I knew we didn’t have money. At least not a lot of it. My mother always attached money to our wants.

“Ma, can we have McDonald’s?”

“You got McDonald’s money?”

“Ma, can we go to the movies?”

“You got movies money?”

I was always left with the feeling that we didn’t have any money. Of course, now I realize when my mother said, “I don’t have McDonald’s money,” she meant exactly that. She had money, just not for McDonald’s. There was never a time when we didn’t eat, we just didn’t have McDonald’s.

Even though my mother and stepfather never fought about money openly (or even stressed over it in front of us) it wasn’t hard to figure out our financial station in life. Hell, just spending any time with family and friends who had more money or turning on The Cosby Show told me that we weren’t exactly the Rockefellers.

As a parent, I worry about what kind of financial message (even silently) I’m sending to my kids. There’s very little that Kali wants that she doesn’t get. But she also knows that these things don’t come magically. We’ve had the discussion about pay, taxes, and bills. She understands that going to work means getting paid. She saw me doing side merchandising and mystery shop jobs before the holidays in order to buy the laptop she wanted for Christmas.

I’m hoping this has given her an appreciation for the things we have. But there’s a fine line. We want our kids to take care of the things they have because they know they cost money and they know that money isn’t plucked out of thin air, but we don’t want our kids worrying about money. I don’t think they should have to.

I found myself choosing my words carefully when explaining our recent move to Kali. It’s an uncomfortable sentence, but I thought, “Mommy and Daddy can no longer afford that bigger house,” was appropriate. It was the perfect segue way into how much it costs to, well, live. Bigger houses are more expensive to heat in the winter and keep cool in the summer, this means bigger monthly bills and less money left over for extras or savings, etc.

Spending habits are just that – habits. If you have poor ones, your kids are in danger of picking them up. Of course, there’s also the chance that your kid may grow up to do the exact opposite. So affected by growing up in a household where utilities were also at risk of being shut up off, a child may grow up to be super responsible with their finances to simply not repeat their parents’ mistakes. But why risk it? Even if you’re faking the funk, is it better to always put on a happy face in front of your kids when it comes to money?

No matter how tight money becomes, there’s one area in which I refuse to have my kids affected. Food. Growing up, there was four of us kids and not a lot of extras. We pretty much ate breakfast and lunch in school, and things like cereal were saved for the weekends to be devoured in front of Saturday morning cartoons. And though we weren’t denied food, there was definitely the unspoken understanding that food couldn’t be consumed just for the sake of doing it. It seemed everything had to last. There wasn’t a lot of extra snacks laying around the house.

Soda was a treat. Kool-Aid was a (cheap) staple. It always seemed to me that other people had it so much better than we did. I’d go to my cousins’ houses and marvel at the amount of Sunnydale juices in the fridge or bags of chips in the cabinet. I was fascinated when school friends could go into the kitchen and prepare a sandwich without having to ask first. To me, these folks were living large! As a result, I make sure my house is filled with the things my kids like to eat. There are very few things (snacks purchased strictly for school) that Kali has to ask for before eating. I wonder if she thinks she’s living large.

Then again, she is only 11 and 11-year-olds aren’t exactly known for being rational thinkers. The other day she asked if we were poor. I told her no and then wanted to know why she asked.

“Well, I keep asking to be a premium member of that website I like, and you keep saying no.”

So, let me this straight: you live in a nice house with nice televisions, every game system on the market, tons of video games and DVDs, you have nice clothes and your own laptop and you think we’re poor because I won’t pay for unlimited access to a site where Chester Chester, Child Molesters could be lurking? *facepalm*

But maybe this means I’m doing something right. Maybe this means that she has all the understanding of money one needs to have at 11: things cost money and sometimes Mommy and Daddy will buy you the things you need/want because they can and it’s appropriate and sometimes they won’t because they can’t or won’t. Then again, maybe she was just being a smartass.

So, how much info is too much info? Should your children know what’s in your bank account? Should they be aware of exactly how much money it takes to keep the roof over their heads, the lights on, and food on the table?

Snoopy McSnooperstein

I would like to point out right away that I was not snooping on purpose. Oh, I was snooping, but it was because the opportunity to do so kinda fell in my lap. Like, when you find a dollar on the street. You don’t walk around looking for dollars on the street, but when one presents itself, you’d be a dumbass not to take it.

And, quite frankly, even if I were looking to snoop, it would be my right seeing as how I carried her for nine months and went through 26 hours of labor (24 without drugs) and pushed her out in 53 minutes which, I’m told, is a Herculean-like feat for a first time pusher.

And really, let’s blame Facebook. And Farmville while we’re at it. It’s not my fault that Kali got bored with Farmville after a week forcing me to log in to her Facebook account and tend to her farm because really, I take my farming very fucking seriously. And, and, and, it’s not my fault Facebook allows two people to be logged in to the same account from separate laptops thus allowing me to see everything that is going on with her account in real time.

Note: So, if you are a parent looking for a way to snoop, there you have it. You’re welcome. And don’t feel bad, damnit. It is your God-given right!

Usually, I give Kali a heads-up that I am logging in to her account so she can log out. It is so annoying to have her little chat boxes popping up when I’m trying to harvest my crops. A grown ass woman can only take but so much OMGs and LOLs and my personal favorite, OMGCYBI?!!111!?

Last night I didn’t tell her I was logging in because I planned on being in and out. I posted a feather collection and I wanted her to snatch one. (Don’t judge me!) So, there I am waiting for Farmville to load when a chat box pops up. (I’d also like to point out that Kali has about 12 chat boxes minimized at the bottom of her screen. I honestly don’t know how she does it.)

So, this chat box pops up and it’s from a little boy in her class. Let’s call him “David.” And I’m pretty sure he’s the little boy pulled from school early the day Obama gave his speech to students and he told Kali, “My parents don’t like Obama and black people.”

Fucking lovely. Tell me again how this sudden surge in anti-government/anti-Obama rhetoric is not about race at all.

Anyway, the box pops up and little David says…

“Xena says that you think I like you cause I keep sending you game invites.”

Note: I am totally going to correct the spelling in the retelling because typing all of those “u’s” and ur’s” gave me a headache.

And Kali says….

“Um, no.”

“Oh, ok. Because no offense, but I don’t like you like that.”

Well, fuck you, little twerp.

He continues…

“Can I ask you a question? Do you like me and do you like anyone in our class?”

And my girl replies…

“Um, that sounds like two questions and the answer to both is no.”

My daughter is fucking awesome!

“OK. Well, can I tell you who I do like?”

“Sure.”

“You have to promise not to tell anyone.”

“I swear.”

“Destiny.”

“WOW. I didn’t see that coming.”

Neither did I, ’cause not for nothing, Destiny sounds like a black girl’s name and I can bet mini-David Duke’s parents ain’t having it. I should probably point out that – in case this is your first time on my site – I am black, my husband is white and Kali looks white. Like, could totally pass if she wanted to. Thankfully, she doesn’t.

Then he clarifies….

“The white one, not the black one.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

At this point, my daughter starts a new chat with another friend.

“I KNOW WHO DAVID LIKES!!!”

When I tell this to Donny his response is, “Our daughter is trifling.”

“I know, right?”

What follows is five minutes of this kid trying to get my daughter to admit that she likes ANYONE in their class and my daughter telling him she doesn’t. Either that, or it was five minutes of Kali realizing I was in her account and not setting herself up for an ass-whipping.

So, Donny posts a gold egg and I go to Kali’s home page to get one. (Hey, what did I say about the judging!?) And I see this status update from one of her other friends. We’ll call her “Angela.”

“I love my boyfriend soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much!”

OMGCYBI!?!?11?!

Another little girl leaves a comment asking, “Who is your boyfriend?” And I’m guessing Angela tells her privately because dumbass comes back and leaves another comment saying, “Harrison? Really?” (We’re just gonna call him “Harrison.”)

Then, a few comments down, Harrison weighs in…

“And I have the best girlfriend ever!”

People, these kids are TEN. TEN! 10. 1-0. One-Zero. Just barely into double fucking digits ten!

At this point, I’m ready to chime in that these kids need Jesus, but I’d be doing so under Kali’s name thus ensuring she will never have friends or a boyfriend of her own… and suddenly, the idea doesn’t seem so bad.

“Nina! Log out of her account. Stop being nosy. You’re invading her privacy!”

“Are you new? She doesn’t have privacy! She’s ten! Also, she knows that I do this. I warned her. If she says or does something she knows I wouldn’t like, then she wants to get caught!”

Then an IM pops up from a little girl we shall call “Megan.” I don’t like Megan. Megan is grown and mean. Megan wears inappropriate clothes and influenced some inappropriate internet activity over a year ago. Megan’s partner-in-crime, a boy we shall call “Pete”, also sent Kali a Facebook friend request which I promptly “ignored.” She’s lucky I let her be Megan’s friend online… but only because I monitor.

So, I’ve seen IMs from Megan before and I can just tell what kind of teen she’s going to be. She’s going to be like all the girls I hated in junior high school and high school: catty, petty, jealous, boy-crazy, and sometimey. I want Kali to learn early that that isn’t the way to be. More importantly, I want her to learn how to not give a fuck when girls around her are that way. So far, it’s a hard lesson to drive home.

I scroll back and read the conversation from earlier that evening. Several times Megan referred to people or things as being “gay” which reinforced my belief that she’s a bitch-in-training. The rest of the conversation was her having a hissy fit because Kali wasn’t writing her back fast enough even when Kali explained several times that she wasn’t feeling well and even when Kali explained that she had been away from her laptop eating dinner.

“Fine. If you don’t write me back in five seconds, I am never talking to you again,” she wrote at one point when Kali was in the bathroom.

“5….4….3….2….”

“What?”

“Too late. BYE KALI!”

“Wait! What are you talking about?”

“I told you, you had five seconds to answer and you didn’t.”

“I was in the bathroom.”

‘Whateva.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I typed,

“Goodbye, Megan!”

What I wanted to type was, “Goodbye, bitch,” but I’m adult and she’s ten and I ain’t tryna go to jail. It’s 9pm now and Kali’s laptop shuts off automatically. I hear her in the other room playing with Jack, but Megan is still typing away – threatening Kali that she’ll never speak to her again if she doesn’t answer her RIGHT NOW. Then, out of the blue, she asks…

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

“Megan, this is Kali’s mother. Her laptop is off. She is not allowed online after 9pm. She is getting ready for school tomorrow.”

Like your little ass needs to be.

“Oh. OK. I’m sorry.”

Donny turns to me, “Do you feel better now?”

“No.”

I will feel better when Megan is no longer around my daughter in any capacity. I will feel better when we move in two weeks and Kali is in a new school and can start over. Oh, I’m sure the ten-year-olds in the new school are no different/better, but still.

I will feel better when I know that Kali realizes that calling something “gay” isn’t cool. I will feel better when Kali realizes that having a boyfriend at ten is out of the fucking question. I will feel better when Kali realizes that a ten-year-old girl asking another ten-year-old girl if she’s ever kissed a girl or boy is inappropriate. I will feel better when little David is old enough to decide for himself if he’s going to be a racist fuckstick or a decent human being so I don’t have to worry about my daughter associating with him in any fashion.

And that’s just a start.

Mommy Monday: I Never Thought I’d…

There are times when Kali and Jack will be cuddled up, giggling over something he just did – or sometimes nothing at all – and she’ll look up and say, “I never thought I’d have a baby brother.” She’ll further explain that she kind of resigned herself to always being an only child.

As we pack up the house for our move, she’ll sometimes say, “I never thought we’d be moving. I just kinda thought I’d always live here.”

She really does think about these things. At ten, she has definite ideas on how her life is, how it should be, and how it will be. In that sense, she’s a lot more connected to herself than I was at that age. I didn’t give the future much thought at ten. In fact, I kind of expected things to change at any moment, so when they did it was normal. When I was Kali’s age, I’d already lived in at least three or four different places.

I was too busy reading to give much thought to how many siblings I’d eventually have. My parents just kept popping them out and somewhere between To Kill a Mockingbird and Of Mice and Men, I’d look up to find a new baby sister.

Then again, I was convinced I’d never live past 18. Not sure why. I couldn’t envision myself in my 20′s or 30′s. I shared this prediction with my best friend once. She thought I was crazy. Not just cause it was a very morbid thing to think, but because I’d also recently confessed to being able to control traffic lights and NYC subway trains with my mind.

So, I am fascinated when Kali and I have these conversations in which she shares what she imagines for herself and our family. She seems to take change with ease. Excitement even. It’s like by having another baby and moving to a new house we’ve opened up a whole new world of possibilities for her.

Never thought you’d have a baby brother, but now here one is? Why not another? Why not a baby sister? Of course, this also teaches a valuable lesson in disappointment when I explain to her that Mommy will, most likely, not be having anymore babies.

Once, after she’d admitted that she still couldn’t believe she had a baby brother, I asked, “Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah. I never thought I’d have one, but I’m happy I do. Life is so funny.”

What a funny thing for a ten-year-old to say, right? She already has this sense of wonderment about life and an appreciation for it. I hope that never goes away.

Do you talk to your kids about their expectations? Their wants? Their dreams? What are they? Do you feel a responsibility to keep things as they are for your kids or have you found that your kids adapt well to change?

Mommy Monday: Facebook Fiend

It was bound to happen. Just a few short weeks after getting Kali a laptop for Christmas, she now has a Facebook account.

Thanks to Windows 7, we’ve been able to closely monitor not just her internet use, but everything she does while on the computer. So, she won’t be tempted to stay up late doing God knows what while we sleep, we have a timer set so that the laptop shuts off at 9pm on school nights and 11pm on the weekends. Only games of a certain ESRB rating are allowed to be played/installed and as the administrator I watch her browser history with Dick Cheney-like hawkishness.

(She’s also kinda under the impression that every night her laptop emails my laptop a complete video of everything she did on the computer that day.)

The fact that she has since joined the Facebook fray is totally my fault. It all began when I would ask her to log in to my Farmville and Petville accounts to harvest my crops and clean my apartment. What?! It’s not my fault Zynga has yet to install the upgrade where you can peruse the local Home Depot for Mexican day workers!

Like all oppressed, she started grumbling about reaping the benefits for herself. Why can’t I have my own farm with neighbors and stuff? Why, indeed.

So, I let her have an account under the rules that I will accept all of her friend requests, read her emails, and get first crack at her golden eggs when she posts them. Don’t judge me.

I made my status updates invisible to her and only sent out friend requests to family and friends that didn’t post questionable content. Of course, it has recently come to my attention that one family member in particular got super offended when  they were excluded from Kali’s friends list and I’ve since been defriended. Ain’t the first time, won’t be the last.

But that’s the beauty of being the boss of your own kids. You get to make the calls, rules, and decisions. They may not always be popular with others, but my motto is, “They’ll be aight.”

I’m afraid, though, that I’ve created quite the Facebook monster. Kali is kinda obsessed with two features: quizzes and Facebook chat. The latter has gotten out of control. She can be sitting across the room when suddenly:

Sometimes, it comes in handy:

And my child has never met a quiz she didn’t like.

What kind of Miley Cyrus song are you?

Who are you more like: Miley Cyrus or Selena Gomez?

Is your name nerdy?

But my favorite:

Needless to say, I can’t stop calling her Butter Nuts.

Mommy Monday: Getting To Know You

Your children assume that your life began the moment they were born.

Kali is always shocked to find that I know things.

“Oh my God, Mommy. How do you know this song? I’ve never heard it before.”

“Um, cause it’s from 1982.”

Once, we were headed upstairs with our dinner and I carried both of our plates and glasses.

“You’re really good at that.”

“Well, I used to be a waitress. This is a breeze compared to some of the stuff I carried.”

“You used to be a waitress?!”

“Uh huh. In Texas.”

“You lived in Texas?!”

She asked both as if I’d just confessed to inventing ice cream.

The older she gets, I realize there’s a lot she doesn’t know about me. The other night, while driving home from the library, I dropped another bombshell.

“I have to tell you something.”

*pause*

“I used to be married. To someone else. Before Daddy.”

We’d already had the biological Dad convo a few years ago and I thought I’d save the first husband revelation for a later date.

“You were?!”

“Yes.”

“To who?”

So, I tell her about my first husband – met him when I was 18, married at 22, divorced before you could say, “infidelity abound.”

She leans forward from the backseat and whispers conspiratorially, “Does Daddy know this?”

“Yes!”

“Well, just checking. I mean, I can’t believe he married you knowing you used to be married to someone else.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“He wasn’t married to someone else before.”

“So? He had girlfriends and stuff.”

“That’s different.

The conversation was taking an ugly turn. I thought this revelation might make me seem worldly and mysterious to my daughter. That she would see me as someone other than the woman that worries about bills and drives her to the library and after-school book club. I wanted her to think I was cool. Instead, she kinda made me feel like The Whore of Babylon.

We get in the house and she says, “Are you sure Daddy knows, cause I’m gonna tell him.” And then, just in case I was lying, she proceeds to confirm that Donny did indeed know that he wasn’t my first husband.

Nice to see whose side she’s on now.

“When will you tell Jack?”

“Well, I don’t know now. I’m sure you’ll tell him soon enough, Ms. Judgey McJudgerstein.”

Last night, I thought she’d get a good laugh out of this pic from my 18th birthday:

“Can you believe Grandpa let me wear that out of the house?,” I asked, giggling like a fool. “It was a nightgown, but I wore it as a dress.”

“I can’t believe anyone let you out the house like that!”

It’s odd what impresses her. She’s more in awe of my past in the food service industry than my tales of hob-knobbing with, now, irrelevant celebrities or how damn hot I used to be.

“I mean, why would you wear a nightgown in public? Why not just buy a real dress? I know your birthday is in August, but it couldn’t have been that hot, could it?”

“OK. Go to bed.”

“I don’t have school tomorrow.”

“Go to bed anyway.”

So, how do you handle discussing past relationships/escapades with your children?

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