There’s a particular little boy that Sean plays with sometimes who I would describe as “all boy”.  He is a bit more rough and tumble than Sean and uses language that we don’t use  try not to use don’t approve of at our house.

Periodically, Sean will tell me he doesn’t like playing with Billy and then gives me an earful of what kinds of things this little guy says.  With great judgment and condemnation Sean reports that Billy calls him a poo poo head and says idiot and butt and that he doesn’t like that.

He looks to me for agreement.

I can see in his face he wants me to jump on his bandwagon and say, “Yeah! That Billy!”  But I don’t say it. Out loud.  He then folds his arms across his chest with a harrumph, furrows his brow and pokes out his bottom lip to demonstrate the disdain he has for Billy.

I stop what I’m doing and look into his face.  “Well Sean, some people use those kinds of words, but we don’t.  We don’t think those are nice words,” I tell him.

“Well I’m not going to play with him anymore!” he says and harrumphs his arms to his chest again, this time adding a little foot stomp for effect.

“You know Sean, sometimes it’s better to continue to play with someone and just try to be a good example by being kind and not using ugly words,” I tell him.  As I say this, I realize it’s asking a lot of a four-year-old.  

And then I add, “But sometimes, you just have to find someone else to play with.”

He considers this for a moment.

“Well the next time he calls me a poo poo head, I’m just going to strut away!”

The mental image of Sean Travolta strutting across the playground made me laugh.

And then the mental image of a strutting Christian made me queasy.

When I was growing up, my mother fixed my brothers and me a hot breakfast every day before school — usually an egg and toast, sometimes a bowl of oatmeal. Never cold cereal.   Breakfast bars hadn’t been invented yet.

My mother isn’t one to look down upon or feel superior to others, but she definitely frowned upon women who sent their kids to school on an empty stomach.  Still does.  Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.  Then happy hour.

Consequently, I am in the 50% of the population who likes to eat something of a morning.  Consequently, I try to get my child to eat something of a morning. Unfortunately, he seems to be in the 50% of the population, along with Antique Daddy, who don’t want to eat anything before noon.  Weirdos.

Yet, every morning I get up, I make eggs and toast, or pancakes, or sometimes I even offer him a cereal bar, trying to get him to eat breakfast, trying to squish him into the me-shaped box.  Then after breakfast, I scrape the untouched eggs and toast into the trash and pour his cold coffee down the drain.

And then I frown upon myself for sending my kid to school without breakfast.

Late last fall, my friend Jennifer signed up Sean and her little girl for Soccer Tots and last night was his first time to go.

You might wonder why someone else signed up my child for soccer and the reason is simple. Jennifer is a young and energetic mother and I am not. Jennifer is hip to the mothering scene and knows about this kind of stuff and I do not.  Plus, she is tall and I am intimidated by tall people, so I am powerless to say no to her.

Prior to this soccer tots thing, I have not involved Sean in any organized sports. I didn’t know I was supposed to involve my child in involvement type activities.  They didn’t mention anything about soccer at the hospital when they handed him over, so how was I to know?

So for the past four years, I have been perfectly happy leading a soccer-free existence and just playing Legos with him at home in the den.  Apparently this is bad.  A number of other mothers with whom I have shared this information retracted in horror that I would disadvantage my child in such a way!  If he ends up in jail, clearly it’s my fault.  Exhibit A will feature a picture of me in my pink chenille robe looking like Lindsay Lohan on a bender with the following bullet points:

•  Didn’t care enough to sign him up for soccer until he was four.
•  Let him play with fungicide and prescription medication. 
•  Lied to him about ugly rugs. 

His only hope is a jury of soccer moms. 

Perhaps subconsciously I have been avoiding the organized sports thing and I don’t really know why.  I just have the feeling that I am not really soccer mom material. For one thing, I don’t have a minivan.

For another thing, my generation was not driven across town to play with other children. My generation was sent outside to play and told not to come back before dark. We didn’t play soccer. We played with firecrackers and jumped our bikes off of homemade ramps without wearing helmets. Good wholesome activities.

Having said all that, we took Sean to soccer and he had a great time.  All the little children ran up and down the field chasing the ball like a little school of clueless gold fish.  It was adorable.  And he really seemed to enjoy playing with people who do not have AARP subscriptions, so there was that.

He was so happy it nearly made me weep.  But not nearly as much as writing out a check for $217 for something that my generation used to do for free.

You know, you might think that as older parents of an only child, that we would go all out and give Sean one of those over the top birthday parties.  If you think that, you would be wrong.  So very wrong.  And not for the reasons you might think. It’s not because we are taking a stand on rampant materialism and the message it sends or because our ideals are so high.  It’s because our energy level is so low.

It takes energy to put on a shindig, energy that could be better spent trying to remember where we put the remote control.

Therefore, Sean got a generic birthday cake upon which I smooshed a small Lightning McQueen car and the “4” candle that was left over from my birthday cake last year. And he was thrilled. And then the next week, when we had to do the cake thing again – I used the same car and the same candle. And he was thrilled again.

That there folks, is the beauty of being four.

Last year, Gigi bought Sean a pair of cowboy boots for his birthday and he was thrilled with them.  They just fit. But they wouldn’t for long. So the next week I took them back and exchanged them for the next size. By then he had forgotten about them, so I wrapped them up for Christmas. And guess what?  On Christmas morning, he was thrilled with his new boots.  Short term memory is cute when you are four. When you are in your forties? Not so cute.

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If I can get the icing off the wheels, I think the Lightning McQueen car will make a nice stocking stuffer. 

When Sean expressed an interest in my camera the other day, I briefly showed him how to use it and then I handed it to him and told him to take off, go crazy, go take some pictures and then come back and we’d take a look at them. 

When I looked at his pictures, I noticed Mr. Monkey wore a disapproving expression, much like the Disapproving Rabbits, thus inspiring Sean’s first photography show:

“Mr. Monkey Disapproves – A Retrospective”

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Mr. Monkey disapproves of other toys.

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Mr. Moneky disapproves of baseball.

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Mr. Monkey disapproves of stripes.

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Mr. Monkey disapproves of old lady with washing machine.

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Mr. Monkey disapproves of blog readers.

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Mr. Monkey disapproves of bearded guys who read the newspaper on the sofa.

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The artist and his muse.

Anytime Sean wants to do something knowingly forbidden, he will deem it a “special b’ccasion” thereby officially suspending all rules, regulations and common sense.

The morning after Halloween, he bounces out of bed and announces, “Mom, I’m going to have M&Ms for breakfast today because it’s a special b’cassion!”  And then he cocked his head and wrinkled his nose making it seem like a completely reasonable thing to do.  And nearly impossible to say no.

And then I had to explain that no, a special b’cassion is like a birthday or out of town visitors or PMS — not Thursday.  But being the total pushover-spineless-jellyfish-wrapped-around-his-finger mother that I am, I let him have a few M&Ms after he ate breakfast.  Life is short people, you have to take a calculated risk once in a while and by my calculations chasing a bowl of oatmeal with a few M&Ms was a risk worth taking.

Last night we were lying in his bed reading books before bedtime and he asked me if I would sleep in his bed with him.

I told him no, that he has his own bed and mommy and daddy have their own bed and that everyone sleeps in their own bed.

“But it’s a special b’ccasion,” he pleaded.

“No, it’s not a special b’ccasion, it’s just Sunday,” I countered.

“But Mommy, every day with you is a special b’ccasion!” he enthused, channeling Eddie Haskell.   

“And might I just say those are lovely sweats you are wearing mother and I would hasten to add that you’ve never looked younger,” he declared.

No, not really. He didn’t say that. He didn’t actually use the word hasten.

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To mark this very special b’ccasion, why not go here and vote! For me! (Their pages are loading verrry slowly today – probably all the Amalah readers hogging up the bandwidth.)

There are two things as a parent that I don’t tolerate very well.  Well actually there are many more than two, but in the interest of my short attention span, let’s just go with two for now.

The first thing is disobedience of the willful variety and the other is disrespect of any variety.  There is just something about a smart-mouthed rude child that is like fingernails on a chalkboard to me and I must make it stop before my head explodes and boy what a mess of confetti that would be.

So far, Sean has been a pretty good boy in that regard, but as he approaches his fourth birthday, he is daily testing the boundaries, to see if they are the same as yesterday. And every day I am required to prove to him that indeed I have not given up, although about once a day it does cross my mind. Giving up and going out for happy hour instead.

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At any rate, now that Sean is potty trained – yes, that’s right, completely potty trained — we have been shopping for the bunk beds and the Corvette that I had promised him.   So just recently we found ourselves at the local furniture store where there was an antique truck parked in the lobby. He asked if he could go look at it and I agreed.  As he was standing on the running board and looking in the window, I called to him to turn around so I could take his picture.  He is in the anti-picture taking phase and what I thought I heard him say was “Oh be quiet!”

So I marched over to the truck and gave him a swat on his itty bitty behind and said in my stern don’t-mess-with-me mommy voice, “What did you say to me?”  And oh, the look of surprise on his face.  And hurt. With big round blue eyes, tears puddling up to the brim, he whispered, “I said can we buy it.”

Gulp!

Antique Schmuck.

I got down on one knee and I hugged him and told him that I had made a terrible mistake and that I was very very VERY sorry.  And then I asked him to please forgive me. He squeezed me tight around the neck and said, “That’s okay Mommy. I forgive you. You didn’t know what you were doing.”

Oh he has no idea how true that is.

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My computer died suddenly Friday night after a long and protracted illness.  She had been sick for some time with the vapors but late Friday, she gave one long loud gasp and she was gone.  So Saturday we took the money we should have spent on tires for my car and got me a new ‘puter!

At any rate, I now have room for all of my pictures on my computer and as I was downloading them (uploading? whatever) I came across a few pictures that reminded me just how far we’ve come as parents which is to say, not that far.  Not only is Sean a yummy delicious tax deduction, but he is an endless source of entertainment.

 Here’s one of Sean in MeMaws store window when he was about four months old that we took to amuse ourselves and passers by  in Downtown Tuna.

We got a letter from the pre-school last week stating that all three-year-olds must be potty trained in order to attend school in the fall.  This fall – the one that arrives in two weeks according to the school calendar.  Which is still summer.  Remember the good old days when fall had something to do with the Gregorian calendar and leaves falling, blah blah old lady rant blah?

They do not indicate if they will refund our deposit if we are unable to meet their stupid arbitrary deadline.  But I’m guessing not.

The pressure to potty train, it’s just so… not helpful for my own intestinal issues.

Nonetheless, we’ve made a little progress on that front. We have had some measure of success. We still have a ways to go, if you will — or even if you won’t — but we are working on it.  At this point, it’s a matter of will, not skill – a will that makes iron look like warm butter.

Many times a day, I enthusiastically enumerate to Sean the many benefits and privileges of wearing big boy undies.  And I sound as though I am trying to sell him an annuity or something equally useless.  If I were calling myself on the phone with this fabulous offer, I would hang up on me. Really.

The stupid arbitrary deadline has turned me into some sort of slimy incentive-wielding used car salesman.  Whereas normally, I’m not that slimy.  Oh the depths to which I have stooped in the name of potty training.  There is nothing that I have not promised that boy in the last week.  The incentives have increased from gummy bears and plastic dollar store crud to a bicycle.  But apparently, even at that, I wasn’t aiming high enough.

This morning, when I gave him the “poo poo on the potty” pep talk and promised him the moon and the bicycle of his choice, he listened intently and like a little executive, he nodded slightly while making a little church steeple out of his hands.  “Well, I want to be in charge of the world and drive the car,” he countered. And then he walked away from the bargaining table. “What’s it gonna take to put you in these big boy undies today?” I called after him.

On the other hand, he may be 16 by the time I get him potty trained, so handing over the keys to the car shouldn’t be a problem.

So, lets say you are a fireman.

Let’s also say that at around 6:45 am, you are roused out of your slumber by the smell of smoke. So you spring out of bed and you start putting out fires. Even before your first cup of coffee.

At first, the fires are small and you can keep up. You kind of just step on them and smother them with your flip flop. But then, there are more and more little fires and you are river dancing on fires all over the place. And in between the little fires, big fires flare up here and there.

And so all day long you are putting out fires. You are running from fire to fire, stomping on them and spitting on them and whacking them with whatever you can find. And every time you sit down or try to grab something to eat or even try to run to the restroom, another fire starts and so you just keep putting out fires, all day long.

And then around 5:30, all the fires are subdued and the smoke has cleared and you are whipped and you realize you haven’t even brushed your teeth today.  So you sit down and wipe the soot from under your eyes. And you try not to cry.

About that time someone walks in and says, “Wow, you look beat!” And you say, “Yes, your son has been a pill today.” And then that same someone says, “He seems fine to me.”

Is that an okay time to whack that someone with your charred flip flop? Hypothetically speaking of course. Or should you finish your martini first?