Where we live, school begins the day after Labor Day. With the children only recently returned from summer with their dad and my being unable to find consistent childcare for the week, I chose to stay home with them, a decision that turned out to be the best one. We have spent the last couple of days talking as we cleaned up hurricane debris outside, knocked the house back into order inside, organized school supplies, and played in the yard. The conversation has been priceless.
"This is uncomfortable," my son said about something that was agitating him. "It's like having a wedgie."
And later from my daughter: "You know, I feel sorry for homeless people because the only friends they have are imaginary ones."
And last night, the sitter documented this particular conversation between my kids:
"Tiny, talk to Daddy."
"No, I no want to talk to Daddy. He's always angry with me. He spanks me."
"That's because you do stupid things and he gets mad at you," replied my daughter.
"I knoooowww," sobbed Tiny, "and I do them anyways!"
The youngest still fits neatly on my lap and I can, for a little while longer, carry him a good ways. Being five, his baby-ness is fading fast. His sister, who starts middle school as a sixth grader next week, has long left those tender days behind. They still both, though, say the sweet things that remind me they will always be their mother's babies, such as these words from Tiny.
"Mom? Mom. Mommy. I wuv 'ou. I weally, weally wuv you."
Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label conversation. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Classic Conversation
I know I have been quiet this summer, but I have been taking time for other things... gallavanting around my fabulous little town with step-daughters or traveling, for starters. But this has given me much opportunity to note amusing conversation, both public and private.
The conversation here is with my ten year old, who is visiting her father right now. He obviously does not have the same rules I do about movie ratings and what is appropriate, but this is still funny:
“Are you getting ready for bed, sweetheart?”
“Well, I already took a shower so we are going to watch the rest of a movie.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Which one?”
“Batman. The Dark Knight. There is a lot of killing in it and my favorite character got blown up already.”
In a museum gift shop, this conversation took place between two significantly aged women—women with grey hair, osteoporosis, and canes:
“I studied art with him once and he pinched my fanny!”
“Well, I studied art with him, too, and not only did he pinch my fanny, but he felt me up!”
(When I heard this, I had to walk away before I could hear any more. I thought I was going to die.)
At a restaurant, said by a grandmother to her grandchild:
“Honey, really! Are you sure you’re ok? You won’t stop moving!”
(All right, maybe you had to be there for that one.)
In Target, I overheard a woman on her cell phone:
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was a prisoner, and now I feel like a criminal!”
From a young lady this summer (if you are reading this, sweetheart, remember I love you):
“I completely wasted my good make-up and get-a-man outfit on that party.”
Something I said yesterday to my youngest step-daughter when she asked if I had ever driven through Pasadena. I wasn’t thinking—or maybe El Paso was stuck in my head:
“I drove all the way across Texas, twice, but I don’t remember Pasadena.”
“California!” she corrected. Of course, she had to stop laughing at me first.
Another cellphone conversation:
"He lives in the ghetto, the real ghetto."
(As opposed to the fake one?)
Told to me by my little four year old son, after a visit with his dad:
"Is not nice to say dammit, shut up, or stupen (stupid). Or shut your mouf. Or shit."
"I'm glad we've got that covered," I said.
I figured it was at least nice that someone had explained this to the little guy.
The conversation here is with my ten year old, who is visiting her father right now. He obviously does not have the same rules I do about movie ratings and what is appropriate, but this is still funny:
“Are you getting ready for bed, sweetheart?”
“Well, I already took a shower so we are going to watch the rest of a movie.”
“Oh, that’s nice. Which one?”
“Batman. The Dark Knight. There is a lot of killing in it and my favorite character got blown up already.”
In a museum gift shop, this conversation took place between two significantly aged women—women with grey hair, osteoporosis, and canes:
“I studied art with him once and he pinched my fanny!”
“Well, I studied art with him, too, and not only did he pinch my fanny, but he felt me up!”
(When I heard this, I had to walk away before I could hear any more. I thought I was going to die.)
At a restaurant, said by a grandmother to her grandchild:
“Honey, really! Are you sure you’re ok? You won’t stop moving!”
(All right, maybe you had to be there for that one.)
In Target, I overheard a woman on her cell phone:
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I was a prisoner, and now I feel like a criminal!”
From a young lady this summer (if you are reading this, sweetheart, remember I love you):
“I completely wasted my good make-up and get-a-man outfit on that party.”
Something I said yesterday to my youngest step-daughter when she asked if I had ever driven through Pasadena. I wasn’t thinking—or maybe El Paso was stuck in my head:
“I drove all the way across Texas, twice, but I don’t remember Pasadena.”
“California!” she corrected. Of course, she had to stop laughing at me first.
Another cellphone conversation:
"He lives in the ghetto, the real ghetto."
(As opposed to the fake one?)
Told to me by my little four year old son, after a visit with his dad:
"Is not nice to say dammit, shut up, or stupen (stupid). Or shut your mouf. Or shit."
"I'm glad we've got that covered," I said.
I figured it was at least nice that someone had explained this to the little guy.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Truth, Tales, and Nonstop Talking
Because I am only seventeen and a half years older than the eldest step-daughter, the line between us is a bit blurred. As a step-mother, this is somewhat of a dubious honor. They girls tell me everything and will say anything. And constantly. Last night, I found a split second of privacy to sit on the front porch and regroup from the shock of—well, the memory of myself at the age of twenty or so. I sent my husband a text message which played on a favorite quote from The Diaries of Adam and Eve by Mark Twain: The creatures… they won’t stop talking.
My husband’s girls had a friend over, so the gossip and analyzing taking place was multiplied by three. The stories exchanged were so funny that I could not have paid to hear a comedian entertain me so well. On occasion, I was slightly marked with horror about how open they were, down to choice of language even, but as I told my husband later, getting to really see how they were living their lives was a kind of gift. Receiving the girls with grace and humor is my gift in return.
The friend told a story about how a young male acquaintance of hers had too much to imbibe and had boldly asked her mother, “So, what do you think about premarital sex?” (I love this question. It’s as if once we age we are the poster children for abstinence or worse yet, chastity.)
“Well,” said the woman carefully, “it has its places.”
At this point, I said, “Its places?? Like in the back seat?”
Earlier, we had a rather enlightening discussion about piercing. These days, the trend among college age youth is to pierce anything that counts as yielding flesh. The ladies knew well which parts of the body healed the fastest, the likelihood of nose piercings to close overnight should a stud fall out, appropriate sanitary procedures for the initial professional piercing, and the funny name for that part of the ear behind the cheekbone and below the hairline. This was all news to me. I wished for a pen to write it all down. We discussed why one should not pierce genitalia—the mere thought of which makes me want to run around with hands over my own in protection, but the best part of the conversation was the curious note that nose piercings can catch onto other things when a couple is making out, thus making for quite a tense and awkward moment as fabric, the other person’s nostril, whatever, is extracted so the session can resume.
Oh, the places they go. They things they do. What they say. At one point this week, the eldest girl told me about a certain bar fight, the resulting drama, and ensuing comedy. I looked at her, took a breath and offered gently that one day, these things would not be part of her life at all—that the environment in which these things occurred, the people or their strange, hormonal, and unpredictable behaviors would be absent from her life. This would be a good thing, I offered.
“This stuff, “ I said laughing as I drew a circular motion in the air, “is not even remotely in my world.”
Ah, youth. Watching the girls pal around and giggle is refreshing. I have a full reminder of my youth and a glimpse into my children’s. Parents should never be so foolish as to forget their own comedic entrance into young adulthood, nor should they aspire to entirely prevent poor choices (or bizarre ones) from taking place. It’s how we learned. And frankly, years later, it makes for wonderful writing.
My husband’s girls had a friend over, so the gossip and analyzing taking place was multiplied by three. The stories exchanged were so funny that I could not have paid to hear a comedian entertain me so well. On occasion, I was slightly marked with horror about how open they were, down to choice of language even, but as I told my husband later, getting to really see how they were living their lives was a kind of gift. Receiving the girls with grace and humor is my gift in return.
The friend told a story about how a young male acquaintance of hers had too much to imbibe and had boldly asked her mother, “So, what do you think about premarital sex?” (I love this question. It’s as if once we age we are the poster children for abstinence or worse yet, chastity.)
“Well,” said the woman carefully, “it has its places.”
At this point, I said, “Its places?? Like in the back seat?”
Earlier, we had a rather enlightening discussion about piercing. These days, the trend among college age youth is to pierce anything that counts as yielding flesh. The ladies knew well which parts of the body healed the fastest, the likelihood of nose piercings to close overnight should a stud fall out, appropriate sanitary procedures for the initial professional piercing, and the funny name for that part of the ear behind the cheekbone and below the hairline. This was all news to me. I wished for a pen to write it all down. We discussed why one should not pierce genitalia—the mere thought of which makes me want to run around with hands over my own in protection, but the best part of the conversation was the curious note that nose piercings can catch onto other things when a couple is making out, thus making for quite a tense and awkward moment as fabric, the other person’s nostril, whatever, is extracted so the session can resume.
Oh, the places they go. They things they do. What they say. At one point this week, the eldest girl told me about a certain bar fight, the resulting drama, and ensuing comedy. I looked at her, took a breath and offered gently that one day, these things would not be part of her life at all—that the environment in which these things occurred, the people or their strange, hormonal, and unpredictable behaviors would be absent from her life. This would be a good thing, I offered.
“This stuff, “ I said laughing as I drew a circular motion in the air, “is not even remotely in my world.”
Ah, youth. Watching the girls pal around and giggle is refreshing. I have a full reminder of my youth and a glimpse into my children’s. Parents should never be so foolish as to forget their own comedic entrance into young adulthood, nor should they aspire to entirely prevent poor choices (or bizarre ones) from taking place. It’s how we learned. And frankly, years later, it makes for wonderful writing.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Tiny Man Talks
I have written previously about conversations with my daughter. I finally have managed to capture certain discussions with my son, who is nearly four. Below is his latest attempt to delay bedtime.
“Mommy, dere’s a bug on my bed.”
“No, son, there’s no bug on your bed.”
“Dere’s a bug IN my bed… in da covers.”
“No, son, there’s no bug in your covers.”
“Dere’s a bug under my bed. It flew up into the sky.”
“Tiny Man, go to bed.”
His stalling tactics are brilliant. Since we moved to another state, I have had a hard time getting him to talk on the phone or web camera to his father, who lives 8.5 hours away. We used to bribe him. It stopped being effective this past fall.
“Tiny! Daddy is on web cam,” called out his sister one day.
“No, no talk right now,” he answered as he looked at a Martha Stewart Living magazine, the Halloween edition.
“Daddy says he has a shark! Come see the shark.”
Tiny Man turned a page sharply, slapped it down, and sang out without even looking up, “Not workinnngg!”
Aside from dancing naked at bath time, we are having a particularly hard time motivating our little boy to cooperate with this same specific thing again—talking on the phone.
“It’s time to talk to your father,” I said this week and began directing him to the stairs where his sister was on the phone.
“No. I no want to.”
“It’s time. Go talk.”
“My tummy hoits.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re fine. Your father is waiting,” I said again as I picked him up and carried him up the stairs. “Just say hi, so he hears your voice, and then you can go play.”
“I fink it’s time to brushy teef!”
“No, son.”
“Hey—dere’s dis time, and my dad, he holdy me.”
“Here we go, Tiny Man. Daddy is on the phone.”
“Noooooooooo.” Within seconds of my putting my son down, he weaseled out of my arms and scampered down the hall.
You know those expressions-- nailing jello to a wall or herding cats. Yes, exactly.
“Mommy, dere’s a bug on my bed.”
“No, son, there’s no bug on your bed.”
“Dere’s a bug IN my bed… in da covers.”
“No, son, there’s no bug in your covers.”
“Dere’s a bug under my bed. It flew up into the sky.”
“Tiny Man, go to bed.”
His stalling tactics are brilliant. Since we moved to another state, I have had a hard time getting him to talk on the phone or web camera to his father, who lives 8.5 hours away. We used to bribe him. It stopped being effective this past fall.
“Tiny! Daddy is on web cam,” called out his sister one day.
“No, no talk right now,” he answered as he looked at a Martha Stewart Living magazine, the Halloween edition.
“Daddy says he has a shark! Come see the shark.”
Tiny Man turned a page sharply, slapped it down, and sang out without even looking up, “Not workinnngg!”
Aside from dancing naked at bath time, we are having a particularly hard time motivating our little boy to cooperate with this same specific thing again—talking on the phone.
“It’s time to talk to your father,” I said this week and began directing him to the stairs where his sister was on the phone.
“No. I no want to.”
“It’s time. Go talk.”
“My tummy hoits.”
“No, it doesn’t. You’re fine. Your father is waiting,” I said again as I picked him up and carried him up the stairs. “Just say hi, so he hears your voice, and then you can go play.”
“I fink it’s time to brushy teef!”
“No, son.”
“Hey—dere’s dis time, and my dad, he holdy me.”
“Here we go, Tiny Man. Daddy is on the phone.”
“Noooooooooo.” Within seconds of my putting my son down, he weaseled out of my arms and scampered down the hall.
You know those expressions-- nailing jello to a wall or herding cats. Yes, exactly.
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Joy of Sex Education
Sex education can be a dicey topic with young people. I think these discussions embarrass most parents, but I would rather my daughter learn from our talks than from what she hears at school. I have been operating on a blunt, but simple need-to-know basis.
A few years ago, my daughter wanted to know exactly how horses made babies. After all, we were around them all the time. I explained in general terms, but it was not enough. Not being able to understand my daughter’s exact informational gap, I did what the twenty-first century mother does—I googled it. We found a few helpful pictures of horses in action, so to speak, maybe a video, and my daughter finally announced that she grasped the concept. She went upstairs to play only to return 20 minutes later with two beautifully drawn, colored, and cut paper doll horses—one of whom was endowed with a spectacular penis.
“It’s like this,” she said unblinking. “They graze on all fours like this, then the stallion wants to make a baby, and he gets on two legs and climbs on the mare like this.” She rotated the stallion paper doll to the perfect reproductive angle and slid him toward the unsuspecting mare. The stallion’s extended shaft slid behind the mare’s tale.
“See?” she asked proudly. I was dumbfounded.
“Well,” I stammered. “That’s just… perfect.” She left the horses on the table and I put them somewhere for safekeeping. I am just waiting for her teenage years; the paper dolls are perfect blackmail material.
The tab A-slot B discussions did not end there. She eventually applied that knowledge to human reproduction. I was taking her and her little brother to the park when she asked again and we had a recap.
“Oh, gross! You and Daddy did that?”
“Well, sweetheart, it was necessary to produce you and your brother,” I said.
“You mean you had to do it TWICE?”
I laughed so hard I had to pull the car over to the side of the road.
This year, the discussion once again became a hot topic. Since she is ten, I provided more detail. She just did not understand the whole erection thing and I really did not feel like using that word just yet. We ended up having to illuminate that concept as well.
“When a man climbs on a woman, how does his thing go in there?” she asked.
“Well, he gets all excited and aroused. Blood flow starts going. His part gets stiff so it can go in the woman.”
“I just don’t understand. I mean it hangs down. How does it get in there? Does it have problems getting in? How does it know where to go?”
“Trust me, sweetheart,” I said, “it always knows where to go.”
“Well, why does a man get aroused?”
“He sees the woman. He sees her face. He sees her body. He wants to touch her, be near her. The whole act is based on love, really.”
“He gets excited when he looks at her??”
“Trust me. It doesn’t take a whole lot.”
I can’t wait to see the paper dolls she might make as a result of this last chat.
A few years ago, my daughter wanted to know exactly how horses made babies. After all, we were around them all the time. I explained in general terms, but it was not enough. Not being able to understand my daughter’s exact informational gap, I did what the twenty-first century mother does—I googled it. We found a few helpful pictures of horses in action, so to speak, maybe a video, and my daughter finally announced that she grasped the concept. She went upstairs to play only to return 20 minutes later with two beautifully drawn, colored, and cut paper doll horses—one of whom was endowed with a spectacular penis.
“It’s like this,” she said unblinking. “They graze on all fours like this, then the stallion wants to make a baby, and he gets on two legs and climbs on the mare like this.” She rotated the stallion paper doll to the perfect reproductive angle and slid him toward the unsuspecting mare. The stallion’s extended shaft slid behind the mare’s tale.
“See?” she asked proudly. I was dumbfounded.
“Well,” I stammered. “That’s just… perfect.” She left the horses on the table and I put them somewhere for safekeeping. I am just waiting for her teenage years; the paper dolls are perfect blackmail material.
The tab A-slot B discussions did not end there. She eventually applied that knowledge to human reproduction. I was taking her and her little brother to the park when she asked again and we had a recap.
“Oh, gross! You and Daddy did that?”
“Well, sweetheart, it was necessary to produce you and your brother,” I said.
“You mean you had to do it TWICE?”
I laughed so hard I had to pull the car over to the side of the road.
This year, the discussion once again became a hot topic. Since she is ten, I provided more detail. She just did not understand the whole erection thing and I really did not feel like using that word just yet. We ended up having to illuminate that concept as well.
“When a man climbs on a woman, how does his thing go in there?” she asked.
“Well, he gets all excited and aroused. Blood flow starts going. His part gets stiff so it can go in the woman.”
“I just don’t understand. I mean it hangs down. How does it get in there? Does it have problems getting in? How does it know where to go?”
“Trust me, sweetheart,” I said, “it always knows where to go.”
“Well, why does a man get aroused?”
“He sees the woman. He sees her face. He sees her body. He wants to touch her, be near her. The whole act is based on love, really.”
“He gets excited when he looks at her??”
“Trust me. It doesn’t take a whole lot.”
I can’t wait to see the paper dolls she might make as a result of this last chat.
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