Warping the Future Generation

See what I mean about letting things slide? I start putting my blog in late and now look at me! I am sitting at my computer, not only on a Tuesday, but on a Tuesday afternoon, typing my Friday blog. Outrageous. I really need to get a hold of myself before I completely go off the rails.

Have you ever created a moment with your children? We are not talking about a beautiful moment. No, this moment is something you realize even as it’s happening, is warping your children. This moment is the beginning of a story your children will tell their friends as an example of how truly weird, how truly and completely lame you are and always have been.

I created one of those moments with my almost nine year old daughter last Saturday. Even as it was happening, I could feel it. I knew it. Yet I was powerless to stop it.

The girls and I were almost home after a visit with my parents, jamming out to my amazingly cool loud music, when Bohemian Rhapsody came onto my ipod. I squeaked in delight (yes, I squeak when I am delighted) and turned the music up even louder. I glanced in the mirror and noticed that my daughter had a rather skeptical look on her face and was not bobbing her head along in the normal fashion.

“This is the coolest song ever!!!” I said loudly to make myself heard over the semi-deafening sound of Queen. The skeptical look remained. “Seriously, Bugs, you just have to give it a second to get good. It’ll get good, I promise.” To emphasize my point, I began heartily singing along, pausing to glance back and make sure she was truly getting it. She was looking at me in the rear view mirror, half-heartedly bobbing her head, trying her best to like it.

I believe that at this point any normal person would have just admitted defeat and realized that Bohemian Rhapsody is not for everyone, especially an almost nine year old girl whose musical sensibilities lean firmly toward the Rihannas and Justin Biebers of the world. Looking back, I realize that Freddie Mercury singing, “Mama, just killed a man…” may have permanently damaged my child’s psyche.

I was far too caught up in expanding her musical horizons to realize that at the time. It was like I was having an out of body experience… I could see myself being way too enthusiastic, I could see the manic gleam in my eye, hear the too-loud singing… But I was powerless to stop it. I was a freight train of ridiculousness barreling toward the end of the “my kid thinks I’m cool” tracks, and I had gathered so much momentum there was no stopping me.

I should have reined myself in. But instead, I did something unthinkable… Something so all-encompassingly pathetic…

I waited for my moment, waving one fist and singing as loudly as I could… And I did it. I actually yelled, “This is it!!! Check this out!!!” And proceeded to re-enact the scene from Wayne’s World in the front of my maroon Mom-mobile. With two small children in the backseat.

It was the saddest of all the heavy metal headbangs. It was the headbang of a woman desperately trying to make her cheesy old people music appealing to her child. The headbang of a woman whose references are from 20 years ago. 20 YEARS!!! I feel sick right now just typing that. And my wrinkles hurt. It was the headbang of a woman who still, somewhere inside, believed that headbanging was inherently cool.

When it was over, I looked at her in the rear view mirror again. She was frozen, her eyes wide, and was no longer even attempting to bob along to the music.

“Um… Did you like that song? It’s cool!! Right?!?” My daughter looked at me with sympathy. “Yeah Mom, it was great. It was… It was really good.” Is there anything more shameful than being the object of pity to a child?

If I had any sense at all, I would have just let it go. Instead, I tried to explain myself. “It’s from a movie from when I was a kid. It was an awesome movie! It’s so hilarious. I’ll show you the clip of it when we get home.” She tried to summon up some enthusiasm for it, but I could tell she was just humoring me.

The second we got home, we marched directly in to the computer and got on YouTube. The following is the exact video that I forced my poor innocent child to watch:

I absorbed it with gleeful nostalgia. I can’t explain how happy it makes me inside. This movie is buried so deeply in my psyche that I haven’t seen it for at least 10 years and can still recite the entire scene. I wish I could say that I didn’t indulge myself in that recitation as my daughter sat next to me and tried her best to pay attention.

I turned and said, “Well Bugs, what did you think?” She took a moment to answer, looking thoughtful. Had I turned her? Had I been able to make my child appreciate the full spectrum of amazing that is Bohemian Rhapsody and Wayne’s World? Had I managed to dodge the bullet of being the dreaded… “Uncool Mom”? I never dreamed that I wouldn’t be able to cruise by on my charm until she was was at least 13 before she realized what a hopeless dork I am.

“Mom, what was wrong with that guy? What party did he go to? Why was he sitting in the middle of the street? What’s a spew???”

She doesn’t even know what “spew” means??? “Spew” is a reference that is so old-fashioned my child has never heard of it???

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no… I am old. Ooooooollllllddddddd!!! I’m melting. Meeeeeelllllltttttttiiiiiinnnnnnggggg into a pile of wrinkles and the stench of old lady perfume!!!

I suppose my daughter probably had her suspicions about me before, but with this incident I confirmed it beyond any shadow of a doubt… In song and in dance… (Why did I dance? Why??? It’s my weakest category, I know that!!!)

I am not even remotely cool, “with it”, or “hip” (there’s another reference from an old movie for you!). I am a dorky old cheese ball that will in the future humiliate my daughter on more than one occasion.

I might as well accept it. I can hear myself aging even further as I type this…

But once I accept it, I can have some fun with it maybe… Get creative with my embarrassing antics. Look out Bugs, in just a few short years I can perform my Bohemian Rhapsody for your friends!!!

Looks

As I am typing this, I am in the midst of a whirlwind of activity. I am about to embark upon the rarest of adventures… A night on the town without my children. I am determined to write my blog this evening and get it out on time, even if my makeup suffers the consequences. I was a day late putting it up last week, and as I have learned from my dieting history, if I start letting things slide they will quickly turn into out of control Wilde-beasts rampaging through the cupboards and submitting things late left and right.

As I was getting ready this evening, twirling (the clumsy version) in front of my husband, and asking his opinion on my outfit, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I have a real shirt on, I’m not wearing yoga pants, and thus far I have no stains on my clothing. And not to toot my own horn or anything (but, toot toot!) I am wearing makeup and jewelry, which is practically unheard of.

Then I happened to wander past a mirror.

The discrepancy between the way I think I look and the way I actually look is alarming to say the least. It truly frightens me that I can be so delusional because it makes me feel as if I’m losing my mental capacity as well as my looks. Here I am, prancing around, thinking I look like my college self, and when I prance past the mirror I am jarred into the reality that I am, in fact, thousands of pounds heavier than I feel and a million years older. As I was gazing mournfully in the mirror, I came to a horrible realization… The way I look now when I’m all dolled up is the way I used to look when I had a really bad hangover in college. Right down to the puffy bags under my eyes.

I have been telling myself since the birth of my youngest (three years ago), that I’m just tired and I’m not getting enough sleep and if I could just get a couple of extra hours I would look like a million dollars.

I got ten hours of sleep last night and guess what, this is just how I look now!!! I am mystified.

I don’t think of myself as being particularly old, I am certainly youthful and vibrant in my own mind, so what’s with my face and body deciding to age??? I am sincerely angry about it. How dare they betray me this way?!? Especially considering the amount of money and I spend on face creams, devices, wrinkle eliminators, and sunscreen trying to keep my face looking like it’s former self.

It’s nights like these, when I’m caught in a spiral of “my body is dying all around me” thoughts and visions of myself using a walker and having purple granny hair that I am grateful for the unrelenting advances of my husband.

This man cannot let me bend over to pick something up from the floor without trying to grab my butt… And when someone treats you like some sort of sex object all the time, you can’t help but feel at least a little sexy on occasion.

For instance, when I marched out of the bathroom this evening and said to him, “You said I looked great! I look like a sister wife!!!” he calmly replied, “Well, you do… But you are a SEXY sister wife.”

Well, hopefully this made sense and contains no typos because I am leaving it as it is, much like its author, in all of it’s imperfect glory, because I will NOT be more than five minutes late for my girl’s night out.

Have a wonderful week everyone!!!

The Dirty Mouths of Babes

So, I detonated the dream bomb last week… After all of my freaking out and paper bag breathing, everything was okay, nobody pointed an laughed at me (at least not publicly), and you were all so sweet and supportive about it I wanted to cry. I didn’t though, which I feel is a step in the right direction considering my proclivity for unnecessary waterworks.

In case you’re wondering, the update is that I need to have 4-5 minutes of material ready for my open mic debut. Holy hell!!! I’m a talker, as everyone knows, but that just seems like a daunting amount of material to prepare… Freaking out again? No, not yet, but trust me I will be soon. I’ll occasionally update you all on this stuff, and until then rest assured that I will be entertaining (???) you with my semi-coherent ramblings about whatever pops into my little brain.

Anyway…

This week it has become painfully obvious that my children love to curse (in our house this includes the words “fart”, “shut up”, “stupid”, and many other staples of childhood humor). They love it more than anything in the world. If they had to choose between the lives of their beloved stuffed animals (which have all been named, imbued with sparkling personalities, and dubbed their “children”), and never uttering another curse word, they would choose cursing without hesitation.

I can’t explain it. I have absolutely no idea why they derive so much satisfaction from using the “forbidden” words they know shock and humiliate their mother. I don’t roam around my house like some sort of deranged sailor (that’s my husband, haha), dropping f-bombs like socks out of the laundry basket. Is that even a saying or did I just show my frump again? I know that most kids end up saying a naughty word at some point, much to the horror/ashamed amusement of their parents, but this is something else… This isn’t casual experimentation with language… This is… Gleeful.

I am by no means saying that my kids curse all the time. They don’t at all. What I am saying is that when they do, they enjoy it. Those kids savor curse words like I savor five minutes of peace and quiet.

Why?!? Why do they love it so much?!? Is it because they are 1/2 sailor on their father’s side? Is it in their DNA? Do they somehow sense that once upon a time I, too, thoroughly enjoyed peppering my sentences with those four-letter gems when my mother wasn’t around? Sorry Mom, but I did. I, at least, had the decency to wait until she wasn’t around.

Lord knows I have curbed my tongue since having children to a painful degree, and I feel my self control should have earned from my girls at least some modicum of shame when they pop off with a swear. I mean, seriously, nobody wants to scream, “Cheese and crackers!!!” when they stub their toe. Nothing takes the pain away like a well-placed cuss word.

So you might be asking yourself how I came to this horrid conclusion in the first place. The sad answer would be that when my kids accidentally cuss, they don’t gasp in horror nor do they even look guilty. They glance slyly at one another and burst out laughing. They laugh their little guts out. They literally hold their sides, roll around on the ground, and chortle until they can barely breathe. It is beyond appalling.

Each time it happens, I lecture, reason, beg, put them in time out, take away their dessert, tell them their Grandparents would be horrified, or take away toys, and nothing seems to make it any less funny. I am at my wit’s end (apparently it is quite a long wit because I have been teetering on its end for quite some time now). In fact, I get the distinct impression that punishment adds to the mystique and hilarity of cursing. This has led me to ponder the obvious… The unthinkable… The punishment that must not be named…

THE DREADED SOAP!!!

When I cussed as a child (when I got caught anyway, haha), that is exactly what happened to me. And everyone else my age. I will never forget the taste of that blue Dawn from the bottle. It tasted so wretched it had to have cleaned every word that came out of my mouth for at least a month. I have to say, it worked like a charm. I only remember ever having to taste that soap one time.

So the question is… Could I? Should I? Do I dare apply this punishment to my babies?

Uh… No.

I just can’t do it. I don’t have it in me. I can’t imagine putting soap into one of their tiny little mouths. I mean, they kiss me with those mouths. That’s not to say that I think it’s wrong to do… I mean, I got soap in the mouth and look how great I turned out! I’m just saying I’m a weenie.

So, for now, I will have to comfort myself with time outs, lengthy lectures on decorum, and the saying “therapy helps, but screaming obscenities is faster and cheaper.”

That being said, I am seriously considering shipping them off to the Cuss Control Academy. It’s a real thing, look it up.

Hope you all have a wonderful week filled with fun and laughter that is not induced by saying words you know you shouldn’t.

A comedy podcast by an idiot and her brother.