Incognito Breeder

Swing Battah-Battah!

There are "truck boys," those toddlers who must watch Bob the Builder and Thomas the Tank Engine and for whom a trip to the local construction site is a joy unparalleled.  Then there are "ball boys," drawn to all manner of ballgames; soccer, baseball, football, even golf from before they can walk. My G-Man was neither of these. He spent most of his preschool years in a mysterious place between his ears, and only let the rest of the world in for moments at a time when he'd act out his fantasies in costume dramas and backyard sword fights. Try as I might, I could never interest him in team sports. Skateboarding, judo, fencing, swimming, even tennis captured his imagination, but interacting with a bunch of loud boys on a team offered nothing to the G-Man. Until this year.

He came home in December and asked to sign-up for intermural basketball. I wasn't sure where the sudden interest had come from, but I asked no questions and got him into the program. He was awkward, unfamiliar with the concepts of offense and defense, and was caught off guard by the ball more than he caught it, but he had fun. He started wearing a headband and wristbands to school, he asked for workout clothes to match his uniform. He's an actor, my son. He might not be the star baller, but he's got the costume and that's enough to get him into character.

After basketball, he asked about baseball. Now, I love baseball. I've wanted this kid in Little League since he was old enough to hold a bat. So, I'm all over this. But I know, G-Man is 9, most kids start Little League with Tee-Ball when they're 5 or 6. They've got 4 or 5 years head start on him and he's got no skills at all and the most barebones understanding of the game. At 9 years old, they start splitting the kids into the minors and majors, it starts to get really competitive. I was really nervous for the kid.

We totally lucked out and got a coach who would work with him without making him feel remedial. After the second practice, G got in the car and said, "I'm the worst kid on the team."

"Oh, don't say that," I said, "Everybody has a bad day."

"No, really," G insisted, "I'm awful, but I'm having fun!" And he was serious. He knew he had a lot to learn, he knew he wasn't the star, but he was having fun with it. Really, what more can you hope for your kid to learn about sports?

Last night was the last scrimmage before opening day. Our team was playing the dreaded Kobra Kai team (ok, not their real name) The other parents had warned me about the Kobra Koaches. These two, grown men are super competitve, obsessed with winning, living vicariously through a team of 9 and 10 year old boys. One Koach weighs-in at over 400 pounds, some overweight people have multiple chins, this guy was sporting multiple knees! The other Koach is so obese he coaches from the seat of his Rascal scooter. They are the winning-est coaches in the league, but the kids dread being drafted to their team because they suck all the fun out of baseball.

Our team is fairly well-rounded, we've got some stars, a lot of kids in the middle, and then there's the G-Man, vaguely covering second base, dreaming about Silver Surfer and drawing in the dirt with his cleats. When a ball was hit in his general direction the center-fielder knew to back him up, the shortstop covered second, and G stopped sketching long enough to see them make them make the doubleplay. But when it was our turn at bat, my son got up there and he wacked that ball. It didn't go far, but it went in the right direction and the third baseman fumbled the throw to first. G rounded first base and without thinking to check if he could, ran to second. How he managed to get there safe, I'll never know, but there he was, safe on second, with a look that can only be described as unadulterated joy.

The next kid walked, there was another hit, and the G-Man scored a run. I don't think he even realized it at first. He crossed homeplate and just hung out there for a minute or two until his coach called him back to the bench where there were high-fives all around.

The Kobras kicked our butts. Their coaches, men who haven't run since the Carter Administration, had advised their team to steal bases everytime our kids overthrew the ball or fumbled a catch. I know that technically it's legal, but it was a scrimmage, ferchrissakes!  Our kids earned all of their runs the old-fashioned way and left the practice primed and ready for opening day. Isn't that what being a "ball boy" is all about?

Nix the Cool Mom

The G-Man and I are walking that fine line, that tiny, little stretch of DMZ between “Momma, can you wipe my ass?” and “Ma, can I borrow the car?” He’s this cool, little person with his own personality and he’s too young to hate me. So, we get to hang out. We watch movies together, talk about music, go to bookstores. It helps that I’m going through a belated adolescence and share many of his interests. This might not work if I was still in what I like to call my “Natalie Merchant” phase. That’s the time in a young woman’s life when she takes herself and everything in her life waaayyy too seriously. Too much Nina Simone, (and not the Put Some Sugar in My Bowl-Nina) not enough Kylie Minogue. Too much Meryl Streep, not enough Lindsey Lohan. That’s the time when you just can’t appreciate that a song like Baby Got Back is a positive, feminist manifesto. It’s a sad, serious, sensible shoes and Michael Stipe kind of time. No fun at all.

It helps that I’m out of that phase. G’s friends all think that I’m the “cool mom.” Of course, once you label yourself the “cool mom” you become immediately uncool. There’s nothing lamer than a 30+ year old adult trying to impress a bunch of third graders. To take the piss out of myself, I once joked with the G-Man that I almost won “Coolest Mom in New England,” but I lost to a lady from Hartford, Connecticut who was a champion Dance, Dance, Revolution player. “If only we had PlayStation2, instead of GameCube,” I lamented.

The funny thing is, as hip and sarcastic as the G-Man can be, he tends to be a bit literal. Yesterday, he got a pretty good report card, so I took him to the local comic book store. The last time we were there, G asked Comic-Book-Guy-Bob about Silver Surfer—who is he? what’s his story? When we stopped in last night, the CBGB had put aside three, 25 year-old, Silver Surfer issues for my boy—gratis. G was appropriately surprised and grateful, “What’s this for?” he asked.

“Consider it part of your ‘Good Report Card’ comic books,” I offered.

“You get comic books for a good report card?” CBGB asked, “You‘ve got a cool mom, there.”

“Coolest in five states,” stated the G-Man, “Damn that Dance, Dance, Revolution.”

Shaved P^ssy

(title edited due to nasty google hits) -- There's just the G and me in my house, so there's not a lot of random nudity. I figure on any given day I ought to contribute at least $20 to the therapy jar, no need to add brief glimpses of my fat ass to his psychological baggage. Further, the G-Man is particularly modest for a nine year old boy, I haven't seen his tiny hiney hasn't since March of 1998. As a result of the lack of skin at Chez Breeder, when we visit our friends with young children, my son is often horrified by an unabashed three year old streaking through the house. He doesn't have little siblings, he doesn't understand that a post-bath lap around the living room is the most efficient way to dry off. Little boy or little girl, it doesn't matter, when a bare ass gleams in his presence, the G-Man is prone to blushing, averted eyes, and stammering. He's a missionary at the orgy.

In addition to the G and me, in our house there are two kittens, Tiki and Ollie. As felines, they're given to laying about, prone, legs akimbo. Or worse, keeping themselves cleaned and groomed with some thorough licking. I had them fixed last week and the clinic shaved the poor things from tits to tail, leaving their undercarriage quite exposed. Poor G doesn't know where to look when they're in the room, rolling about like a couple of co-eds on oxycontin and E. I brought them home on Tuesday and he's been staring at his shoes ever since.

The New Math

Every year G and I put together a CD of Christmas songs which we distribute in lew of cards. I say “G and I” because one way or another, my son is involved in the development of the CD, be it choosing songs, or designing the package, or the story behind the theme. He may not stay up nights burning and labeling discs, but he has been actively involved in some manner these last five years.

This year, he really out-did himself. The theme of the CD was a punk Christmas, all the songs were by punk or indie rock artists, and the tone was decidedly tongue-in-cheek. The G-Man not only created the cover art, he took an active role in choosing the tunes. One track on the disc is that holiday classic, Santa’s Got a Mullet by Nerf Herder. The lyrics go…

Santa’s got a mullet, keep on looking out for him
Driving in his I-Roc, with the killer rims
Santa’s got a mullet
As he’s streaking through the night
Jamming to Foghat
And drinking Dewar’s Light

Singing Fa la la la la...
Singing Fa la la la la...

Angels up in heaven are plucking on their harps,
Santa’s wearing Oakleys, and he’s looking mighty sharp

It’s very catchy. Of course, I had to explain to my dear boy what a mullet is, and what an I-Roc is, why jamming to Foghat is funny, and why Oakleys are cheesy. That’s my job. I’m the mom.

Yesterday, the G-Man came home from school with a binder in his backpack. The binder contained a book his class published, a collection of math word problems they wrote themselves. Most of them go like this one, from Beverly…

Each flower has 4 petals.
There are 20 petals in all.
How many flowers are there?

…or perhaps this one, from Kevin…

Each football has 5 laces.
There are 100 laces in all.
How many footballs are there?

This is the word problem the G-Man wrote…

Each rockstar dude has one pair of Oakleys.
There are seven unstylish sunglasses in all.
How many rockstars are there?

I know, I reap what I sow. I should probably stop saving to send him to CPA school, huh?

Eat Papa, Eat!

G and I watched the Rankin Bass animated Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer special the other night and now that he's getting older, he's noticing things in the Christmas classic that he was not aware of before.

"Rudolph's Dad is so mean!" he observed, "So, his kid's nose is different, what's the big deal? Does the mailman have a red nose or something?"

"I don't know, G-Man, I think they're setting up the premise that Rudolph wasn't accepted because he's different."

"But his own father!? And what about his Mom? Would you let anyone talk about me like that?"

"Well, no."

"I think she should give him a piece of her mind, set him straight. I mean, geez, if your Dad treats you like a retard and your Mom stands there and nods her head, how can you expect any better from the rest of the world?"

"I suppose you can't."

"They're lucky Rudolph didn't go all Columbine on their reindeer games. Rudy spoke in class today, ya know?"

"Good thing they have gun control in the North Pole, huh?"

"The guns shoot jelly."

"True."

"And how is that a bad thing?"

"Couldn't tell you."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"Isn't Mrs. Claus normally a sweet, chubby, white-haired old lady?"

"Well, except for in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, then we see her as a young school teacher."

"Right, but then she's German."

"True."

"When did Mrs. Claus become a pushy, Italian woman?"

"Couldn't tell you G."

"Ok, so now there's bad weather and Rudolph is supposed to forget his entire childhood, how all these elves, and reindeer, and even Santa treated him so awful. I mean Santa was a real bastard to Rudolph! Come to think of it, he wasn't even nice to the elves when they sang him a song. This Santa's a freakin' crank! And Rudolph is supposed to smile and pull the sleigh and swallow the whole thing?"

"Well forgiveness is a virtue."

"They barely apologized! And how did Santa gain sixty pounds in less than two minutes?"

"I don't know, maybe Barry Bonds and Jason Giambi are on his nice list?"

"What's that mean?"

"Nevermind."

"Mom?"

"Yeah?"

"You know that other special, The Year Without a Santa Claus?"

"Yeah."

"I think that if Santa felt like that today, they'd just give him Prozac and forget the whole thing."

"Probably, G-Man, probably."

Nine

"I can always tell when the holidays are coming by the way that the house smells," observed G.

"How's that? The turkey? The Christmas tree smell? Pumpkin pie and gingerbread?" I asked, such a good mom I am, giving my child wonderful memories of the holidays to look back on.

"No, it just smells clean," he said.

"Oh, like that's a new thing?"

He looked at me sideways and disappeared into his room, leaving me on my knees on the kitchen floor. I had a spray bottle of Clorox kitchen cleaner in one hand, steel wool in the other. In a desperate attempt to clean our dingy, linoleum floor before Thanksgiving I was bleaching and scouring, Cinderella-style. The house smelled less lemony fresh, more like the indoor pool at the Y, and the chlorine was burning my throat and lungs. Worse than that, it didn't seem to make much of a dent in the gray film on the tiles.

I'm not sure why I was going to such lengths, our guest list was limited to my Dad and brother, Tim, who live together in such bachelor filth that the Queer Eye Guys and Fear Factor could combine their efforts and do a two-hour crossover special live from their condo; and my brother TJ, his new girlfriend, their newborn son and his twin daughters. It's not a crowd that's expecting a Martha Stewart Thanksgiving, a Swanson's Turkey (mostly white meat) Dinner would suffice.

Taking a break from the kitchen, I stood next to an open window, gulping the cold, fresh air and looking over our stock of videos and DVDs. "How old are the twins?" I asked G-Man.

"Well, Uncle TJ has a new girlfriend and a new baby, right?" yelled G from his room, "the girls must be five."

It was an educated guess, every five years or so my brother's latest victim gets tired of his bullshit and throws him out. He immediately finds himself a young woman with self-esteem issues severe enough for her to overlook his bright, red, plummage of warning flags. They date, once, twice, he takes her to the Olive Garden, nine months later I'm an Auntie again and TJ has a place to live for the next five years. Don't knock it. Twelve years and five kids later it's a proven successful strategy.

"We should rent a video to keep them entertained, or I'm afraid they'll just torture the kittens," I suggested.

"Not Ella Enchanted," insisted G.

"Oh, come on, they're five year old girls, they'll love it."

"Mom, you watched it three times last weekend."

"I need to start dating again, huh?"

Again with the sideways glance and he ducked into his room.

I resumed my position on the kitchen floor. Wax on, wax off, Daniel-san. It's good for the gramma-triceps,  good for the shoulders, weightwatchers would have to give me at least 2 points for the whole floor. 3, if I did the bathroom, too.

"Mom?" G-Man slipped back into the kitchen,  "I want to know the truth, I can handle the truth."

"No, we're not renting A Few Good Men for your cousins."

"Huh?" he's sarcastic, like his mom, but without all the pop culture references, "I want you to tell me if there is really a Santa Claus."

I'm on my hands and knees, my green sweatpants bleached to a pale yellow, his big feet are under my nose, his shins are newly furry with dark brown hair. I look up at him, I mean I look up at him, damn, he's getting tall. His face is longer, he's developing a unibrow. It is furrowed with concern, "Tell me, truly, I'll be ok."

I sit back on the floor, take a moment, exhale the chlorine, a scent now forever associated with the end of innocence and wonder, "No. Not the way you think of Santa, no."

His head dipped slightly and he nodded, "I'm ok with that," he said, "so you buy all the presents?"

I nod.

"But we're broke," he correctly observed.

I pulled him down to the floor with me, sat him in my Indian-style lap, and wrapped my arms around him, I thought of winters when we ran out of heating oil. I thought of the succession of shit-box cars with the rust and bald tires. I thought of our first apartment, the one where I  told the landlords that G-Man was my brother's child who I babysat while he worked because they wouldn't rent to a single mom, which worked pretty good until he learned to talk and started calling me 'mama,' but I digress. I thought of all of these things, and how my big, sweet, sarcastic, furry boy has survived them all, "We'll that's the spirit of Christmas, I guess," I said, "and that's what Santa really is, you know, the spirit of giving."

He tucked himself into my hug and nodded, "It's good to know." He didn't sound very convincing.

"And there was a Saint Nicholas, of course," I added, because he seemed to need to hear it. "He was a real saint, very generous to the poor and good to children."

"That's true," he agreed, "and there was that time that we left out the reindeer feed on Christmas Eve and it was all over the driveway in the morning."

Innocence is not lost in an afternoon, growing up doesn't happen overnight, for any of us. I held him in my lap as he held on to the grains of his childhood for a little bit longer.

Roger

It snowed this weekend. It was our first snow of the year and it was quite respectable at 4-6 inches, more impressive than some of my ex-boyfriends. The G-Man, being nine years old, was deemed old enough to share in the shoveling responsibilities. I sent him out at 9 a.m. with a shovel and a broom and instructions to clear the stairs. I hoped he would manage to shovel all the stairs, the two sets that led up to the porch and the 40 stone steps that ascended from the parking lot to the house. But I knew, if he managed to clear the porch stairs it would be a major accomplishment.

Ten minutes into the first set of steps, he showed up at the front door and asked for hot chocolate. "Not until the stairs are clean," I said, evil slave driver. He hung his head and dragged his shovel behind him, back to the mines.

Twenty minutes into the first set of stairs, (there are six steps in this set,) he showed up at the front door complaining that neither his shovel nor his broom were effective against the white, fluffy stuff. "I don't care what you use, use your hands if you must. I want the stairs clean." Such a bitch am I, an overseer.

It was now obvious that the 40 stone stairs would crumble to dust before my son set his eyes on them. I pulled on my jacket and gloves and grabbed a shovel and headed out to tackle this part of the job. It had been 30 minutes since G started on the six stairs outside my front door. He was on the second stair. He was clearing them with a little garden spade that I use for repotting my plants. I opted not to comment, as he was following my explicit directions to use any tool he deemed useful.

One hour after I sent my big, strong, youthful son out the door, I have cleared the front path, the 40 stone stairs, my car, part of my neighbors' truck, (yes the Vegas light neighbors, I have to realign my karma, somehow.) Our neighbor's son, the one with the banjo and the Deliverance cameo, came out with a shovel. He cleared the second set of stairs from the porch and started to help the G-Man with his lot. G was on his fourth stair. I hollered at Banjo to cease and desist. G-Man hung his head dejectedly and continued to spoon snow with my garden tool, one---spade---at---a---time.

Banjo reemerged from his door with a sled.  My son, kneeling on the sixth step and only starting to clear the fifth one, looked up at Banjo longingly. G was the starving man in the Warner Brothers cartoon, hallucinating that Banjo carried not a sled, but a four foot tall rack of ribs. He was salivating. If my sneakers weren't full of snow and my gloves not soaked clear through, I would have found this entertaining.  But it was an hour and a half since I first asked him to shovel and he had only cleared four and a half steps.  I was not amused.

The promise of sledding seemed to provide the fuel that my impending displeasure did not. The G-Man completed the last two steps in record time and bounded down the hill with new found energy to request permission to go with Banjo across the street to the new park. Right in the middle of the new park is a big hill. G looked at it and thought, snowboards, toboggans, somersaults. I looked at it, remembering the landfill that was there only a year ago and thought, broken monitors, used cars, toxic waste, hypodermic needles.  Still, what good is youth spent sheltered from biohazards? "You may go, but only if you bring the radio."

With thoughts of the new park across the street,  I had recently purchased a set of two-way radios with a 3-mile radius, "Get the 8-Mile ones, Mom!" pleaded my Eminem-obsessed son. But the 8-mile radius radios were $20 dollars more and where did he think he was going? Boston? The 3-mile ones were fine. I figured I could take walks in the park while G played Game Cube. Should he burn down the house, he could buzz me, "Mom, not to interrupt your workout, but the house is in ashes. Don't worry, I got the kittens out. Can I have a snack?" And G could play with Banjo, a boy I'm convinced will get my son arrested before his thirteenth birthday, and I could buzz him from the house, "G-Man, I don't want to cramp your style but I'm watching from the porch and I was wondering if you have permission to hang that small dog from the slide by his tongue?" It was a wonder of modern technology. This would be the first time we'd put it to use.

The G-Man, Banjo and Banjo's friend, let's call him Rusty, all headed over to the park, sleds and snow skates in tow. I could see them from the porch for a while and then I couldn't. I buzzed my son on the radio. No response. I buzzed him again. Nothing. I thought of the brook on the other side of the big hill. I thought of that scene in the beginning of It's a Wonderful Life when George's little brother, Harry, falls through the ice.  I buzzed him once more. Silence.

I was ready to run across the street to pull my cold, dead son from the depths of the icy retaining pond, when I saw the boys climb over the crest of the hill. G saw me. He waved. I buzzed him again and got nothing and I realized he had turned off his radio. "Well," I thought, "we'll have a little talk about the purpose of the radio when he gets home."

Bzzz. My radio buzzed.

"Yes, G?"

"Mom?"

"What's up, hon?"

"We're coming home," he said.

"Do you want me to help you cross the street?" It's a busy street.

"Nope. We're good," he replied.

"Mom?"

"Yes, G?"

"Can you have three cups of hot cocoa ready when we get home?"

"Sure, G."

"And heat up some of that turkey chili, too, with the cheese and the crackers."

"Would you like fries with that?" I asked coldly.

My son, never one for sarcasm, cheerfully buzzed back, "nope, crackers will be fine." And then he turned his radio right off. Slave driver, he is. Overseer.  I stepped out onto the porch and found  my garden spade, a useful tool for serving chili.

 

Teach Your Children Well

From what little I’ve learned, all you can do is give your kid an idea of where he’s from, so that he can figure out who he is. The whole “give them roots, so that they can grow wings,” which is a poor metaphor when you examine it, because really, what creature has both roots and wings? Hmmm?

Anyway, the G-Man was five years old the first time I took him to Fenway. The Sox played the Kansas City Royals. Jimy Williams got thrown out of the game. Nomar performed an inhuman double-play. We sat in the 23rd row on the third-base line. G lasted until the 5th inning, it was a night game. The Sox won 6-5. The G-Man remembers his Cool Dog, an ice cream treat in a sponge cake “bun” that looked like a hot dog.

The second time I brought him to a game was a week after Ted Williams passed away. We had the same seats, (the same print broker hooked us up.) It was Boston vs. Tampa Bay. I invested a day’s pay into hats, and balls, and programs, and Cool Dogs, and popcorn, and Fenway Franks, and soda, and cotton candy—just to keep him interested in the game. He was bored, he didn’t understand what was going on, and worse, he got nervous when the crowd would shout and chant. He takes these things personally, and confused enthusiasm for general aggression.

From an early age, I taught him to jeer the Yankees. Instead, he would cheer them on, just to get a rise out of me. Even when they weren’t playing. Even when we were at a Bruins game. I finally resigned myself to being the lone Sox fan in the house. Perhaps, I could interest my nephews in the team.

Then this season happened and peer pressure intervened. It’s all fine and good to root for the Yankees if it makes your mom's skin crawl, but when your friends refuse to sit with you at lunch, being contrary loses it’s appeal. Two weeks ago, while walking around Boston, we came upon a street vendor with a table full of Sox caps and souveniers. My son, my boy insisted on getting a ‘Yankee-Haters’ cap. I thought I could never be prouder.

That was until this Saturday night, during the first game of the World Series. Up to the plate stepped right fielder, Trot Nixon, and his name appeared at the bottom of the screen.

“Mom,” said G, through a mouthful of peanuts,“is he any relation to Mojo?”

Damn, I love that boy.

Mother of the Year

Imagine your most embarrassing moment from childhood...

Now imagine your mom had a blog.

The G-Man was burned once when his friend's older brother Googled him and found a story I wrote about concerning the definition and purpose of testicles. From then on, each time I sat at my computer, he watched me like the cashier at the corner bodega.

He's nine now and reminds me daily that I am, "an embarrassment to nature." There are not enough twenties in my wallet to put in the therapy jar for my every indiscretion. I am trying to find the balance between telling my stories and exploiting his. It's a very delicate juggling act.

For his ninth birthday, G requested a slumber party with a "Monster" theme. Monster movies, monster video games, monster cake (see photo) and six little boys who, at 2 o'clock in the morning, certainly qualified as monsters.

"What kind of monster movies are you thinking?" I asked, remembering that at last year's sleepover, G found The Tuxedo with Jackie Chan too violent and left his own party to snuggle up in my room and watch The Princess Diaries. ($20-in the jar *ching*)

"How about Gremlins?" asked G-Man. An excellent suggestion. So, after pizza and cake and ice cream and running around the backyard with sparklers, ("Remember, they're called sparklers. Don't go home telling your moms that I gave you fireworks,") and the Belch Idol final round, we set up the sleeping bags to watch Gremlins.

Perhaps forty minutes into the movie the little Mogwais unplug Billy's clock and he feeds them after midnight. This causes them to mutate into the green, scaly, slimy, angry gremlins. It also caused previously puffed-up, macho, little boys to freak right out. Unless you have a boy, or were one, it's easy to forget that their bravado is a front. These boys who want to be dropped off three blocks from school and won't wave back if you acknowledge them in public, call their mothers "momma" when they're tucked in at night. For some of G's friends, this was their first sleepover and there was some jockeying between looking weak and asking for a new movie, or sticking with it, knowing that they'd never get to sleep. It was time to call in the reserves. It was time for teddy bears.

Each boy was given one of G's menagerie of stuffed animals and a glow stick, like the kind you get for Halloween. Then, I pulled the pillow and comforter off my bed, stepped over the sea of sleeping bags and candy wrappers and set up shop on the couch. I haven't seen Gremlins in ages, it's not bad, it has Phoebe Cates. No one asked to turn it off, everyone was asleep by 3 a.m., no harm, no foul, no reputations irrepairably damaged. One more year down, nine more to go.