Archive for the ‘For Giggles & Grins!’ Category
Happy Birthday, Ray!
The Viv loves Ray Bradbury.
Just not quite as much as this lusty chick:
The M & Ms were ‘helping’ SassyMama clean up the kitchen the other night.
(the kind of ‘help’ that pushes mama one step closer to the nearest meth lab)
BLARING from my very favorite appliance in the world, my under-cabinet TV/CD/DVD player,
came a COMMERCIAL.
The ubiquitous and obnoxious SNUGGY plug?
Naw; couldn’t be so lucky.
It just so happened to be one of those erectile dysfunction ads.
M2, her nose buried in her 3rd (yes, 3rd ) Nintendo DS game system, was intent on her Mario Bros. game — or so I thought.
The ad spokesman cautioned the millions of men within the viewing (and listening) audience who have the occasional and unfortunate flaccid penis to:
“Ask your doctor if you are healthy enough for sex….”
M2, my hyper-tasking-Ritalin-poster-child, immediately perked up.
“Mama, why did that man say, ‘sex‘?”
M1, who just turned a worldly nine years old, replied,
“Sex is whether you are a boy or a girl, stupid dummy-head.”
M2, who is six-going-on-26, said,
Sex is when you get NAKED!”
(Oh, God and Baby Jesus, help me)
Just then, The Dingus walked in to the kitchen.
I was able to face neither him nor my precocious children; I remained with my back to the whole flippin’ lot of them, frantically trying to recall where the hell I’d stashed my ‘Let’s Talk About Sex’ script.
***NOTE to SassyMama-Self: Find that dagum script — STAT! An all-nighter-cram-and-jam session may be needed so that I wouldn’t get caught tomorrow, bright ‘n’ early, with more prickly questions.
***Erstwhile, keep workin’ the ‘Mama’s-just-been-frontal-lobotomized-con’. Drool for added authenticity:
Seeing that — for once — SassyMama had no sass up her ass, M2 whipped around to confront her father.
“Daddy, did you and Mommy SEX in high school?
HOLY SHIT! WHERE’D THAT COME FROM?
That one’s NOT in the flippin’ script!
(Oh, God and infant baby Jesus lying in the manger)
I threw The Dingus right under the bus.
I let that question (and my hubby)
I was able to muster only a few more weak monosyllabic utterances while pounding a cabinet with my open palm
(that one was genuine; no acting on the pounding).
The Dingus wheedled out of the question by saying something akin to:
“That’s something only those who are 10 and older are allowed to talk about.
Until then, it’s not appropriate for little girls to discuss such things.
When you’re 10, MOMMY will tell you all about sex.”
Touché, mon ami, touché.
I asked a little neighbor girl what she plans ‘to be’ for Halloween.
She wants to be ‘The Grim Creaker’.
It reminded me of another wee one who once wished to be DEATH.
Long ago, when I taught preschool in Hawaii, I had so many adorable wee ones.
My favorite was a squirrely little guy named Vinny.
He was a sour, pickled little fella; an old soul trapped in a tiny three-year-old body.
No matter what the task or the treat, Vinny would wrinkle up his little face in utter anguish and growl-whine,
(as if we dipped him in boiling water on a regular basis)
He had to be prodded and cajoled and finally forced into participating in every exercise — even lunch.
Vinny hated everything.
I ADORED HIM.
One October morning I had ‘lanai’ duty (porch watch).
Coming up the ramp to school was a walking hooded sweatshirt.
(It could only be my buddy Vinny.)
No part of his body could be seen under his teenaged brother’s chocolate brown hoodie.
Ever Vinny, his hooded head was hanging to his chest as he moped along the walkway, dragging several inches of sleeve along the cement.
No clue how he was able to navigate; somehow he ended up in front of me, still hood-down, just waiting for me to engage him.
“Good morning, Vincent,” said I.
(At this point, I realized that today Vinny was refusing to be himself — which is common in preschool.)
Finally, he tilted back his head, and I could see part of his scrunched-up face under the hood.
I waited for it….
“I’m The Grim Creeep-er!“
“It’s ‘Reaper’, Vinny. The Grim Reaper.
You’re the Grim RRREEEAAAPPP-ER.”
Then he dropped his hood to his chest and lope-dragged his wicked little butt into the classroom and promptly prostrated himself in the middle of the circle-time rug, a mangled ‘kiddie-version’ of The Vitruvian Man.
DEATH came to life only when I offered to let him make a bumfodder-roll-and-tinfoil scythe.
After all, it was a Catholic Montessori Preschool; I was simply allowing The Grim Creeep-er to investigate, to create and to explore his chosen path for the day.
(hhmmm….let me think: medieval weaponry…or lacing Dressie Bessie’s shoes?…hhhmmmm….)
Vinny spent the rest of the day scaring the shit out of the other wee folk.
I think The Grim Creeep-er actually smiled that day.
God, how I loved that child….
Now, you know Viv didn’t come upon these little beauties in her own search for spirituality; she has been barred from many a church….