Thor is a very, very fortunate boy. Very fortunate. Right now, he knows he loves his daddy, and he knows his daddy loves him. One day, he will fully comprehend just what a great father he has. For the time being, I know it, and everyone else who knows him, knows it.
Happy Father’s Day to the best father I know.
Today I decided on the word that best characterizes my son. Bonhomie. He is a genuine bonhomme, possessed of a truly pleasant and affable disposition. I like him a lot.
I like him even more as he grows. I know the teen years are coming, and I know that all the chemicals washing through his brain are going to bring changes that can only result in him becoming a TEENAGER, but the glimpses of the future I get in his more mature moments–like when he stops himself mid-action and says he needs to start over properly, or corrects himself when he’s being rude, or congratulates an opponent on a great play and tells the player how proud he is of them, or when he turns his efforts to self-enforced politeness–feed my optimism that no matter how badly he might smell, how loudly he might play his music, how much he might argue about the unfairness of the rules, he will still lovingly, and playfully pat me on the head from his new vantage of height and try to do the right thing. My moments of greatest pride are when I realize that B and I are raising someone we both would have sought out for friendship, were he our peer. And my moments of greatest relief are when I realize that Thor is going to attract the kind of friends that B and I have today.
Every day, I tell Thor these things:
I strive to back up those words with actions. Spending time with him, having real conversations with him, really listening to him, reading to him, drawing with him, sharing my thoughts with him, answering his questions, and letting him poke his fingers into what I am doing–you know, until I have to go lock the bathroom door and beg for five minutes alone. It isn’t enough to say the words. The words without the back-up are just empty, and he’ll start looking for what he thinks fills them.
The idea is for him to be confident enough in having a foundation of love and support at home, that his metaphorical legs will be strong enough to leap over any cracks he finds in the foundations everywhere else. The idea is for him to be confident enough in his value and self-worth (which we back up by feeding his mind) that he doesn’t even notice peer pressure, save to see that it exists and he doesn’t need to take part in it. The idea is to give him the childhood it takes to face the teenage years without falling into the deep end. Actually, the idea is to give him enough of a push out of the kiddie pool, that he can swim to the deep end on his own power, get out, and start doing cannon balls off the diving board. Because we all know that the deep end is where the fun is. It’s just a matter of knowing how to swim in it without drowning.
I am incredibly thankful for his grandparents, who give him confidence in ways parents cannot. I am thankful for the teachers he’s had, who have understood him and loved him. And I am thankful for our friends, who have always treated him with adult-like respect, and who have modeled great behavior to him.
Thor starts camp next week–his first real camp. Not daycare. Camp. He is delighted, as you can well imagine. Since the camp mascot is a Kookaburra, we have been listening to that Kookaburra song over, and over, and over again. And over again. And over again. The things you do for love, right?
I still really can’t believe how he makes my heart skip a beat. From the moment Bryan put him in my arms in the hospital…man. He just takes my breath away. Even when he is gnawing on my last nerve, I love him with every fiber of my being. This is very helpful when I have told him seven times to put on his shoes, and he is still sitting in the floor starting at his toenails.
Anyway, the Kookaburra song. “Kookaburra sits in the old gum tree. Merry, merry king of the bush is he. Laugh, Kookaburra. Laugh, Kookaburra. Gay your life must be.”
Thor asked me what gay meant. “Happy,” I said. “Dancing, singing, twirling around because life is so good, happy.”
“I like that,” he nodded.
“Me too,” I agreed. Then, we sang the song again before he headed to bed, taking with him my old comparative study bible. I wonder how old he will be when he starts putting two and two together, and asking questions about why the bible’s got a problem with dancing, singing, twirling around because life is so good, happy? We’ll have to talk about how the bible has problems with his love of crustaceans, too, and maybe that can throw the rest into perspective. Because that boy loves crab.
Meanwhile, I am anxiously awaiting the new vocabulary that will come with his reading of the King James version of the bible. And the New American Standard. And the Amplified. And the New International Version. Because that’s going to be spectacular! And hilarious. He’s already been reading the notes I wrote in the margins and shouting those out to me with his own added commentary. Lord. How am I going to explain concubines? I’m going to tell him they are a kind of porcupine, and old kings liked to keep them for pets.
I suppose we should censor his reading, but other than that CSB, he hasn’t shown an interest in any books that would alarm me. I’d rather our bookshelves be open to his whims. If he has questions, he’ll ask. And that way, he won’t feel like he needs to hide books he likes (like I hid James Bond.) Since my CSB was next to a huge collection of Douglas Adams, I’m hoping he’ll pick up the Hitchhiker’s Guide next. The only thing better than feeling gay, is being a hoopy frood.
You know I can’t resist a challenge, so when Mommyfriend posted about the Nickelodeon ParentsConnect Sexy Mama Month, I had to step up to collect my (hopefully well-earned) badge, and nominate a few ladies whose sexiness is undeniable. But first, in the interest of feminism and my own temper, let’s talk about sexy.
I was actually thinking about “sexy” this morning: what constitutes it, what it isn’t, why it is such hard word to use. The latter was the easiest for me to answer. Our society pushes the Virgin/Whore dichotomy on women from the earliest ages. It’s adorable to dress your daughter in Prostitot Chic, but even while she’s bouncing her buttons off to Rhianna’s latest ode to getting the booty, she must be sure to blow the most innocent of kisses, lest you focus on her bare midriff and get the wrong idea. As a society, we can’t decide if we want women to be independently minded regarding their sexuality, or if we want them to conform to patriarchal ideals of chastity. To paraphrase Tom Jones (and you should absolutely do this in any situation even remotely apropos) the ideal is someone you’d like to flaunt AND take to dinner. Or, to quote Nikki Sixx (all my role models are rock stars), “A woman should be a lady on your arm and whore behind the door.”
Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to attempt to fill all those roles? And at the right times? Lord above. Sexy is a hard word to use because it is a major bitch to fulfill! Now I won’t win my badge because I cursed. But according to AskMen.com, men find dirty mouths really sexy, so maybe I’m still in!
What isn’t sexy is a trick question because there is an audience for everything. Just watch a season of Secret Diary of a Call Girl and you’ll get filled in on folks who fancy sploshing, pony play, toilet bowl licking, and all manner of things you’d need to be either very desperate, or very bored to even imagine in the first place. Even the star of the show, Billie Piper, is a big question mark. I know men who find her luscious, and men who find her completely unbelievable as a sex symbol.
What we are told is not sexy is anything that does not conform to the Playboy ideal of big hair, big boobs, and a big Photoshop brush. If it is obviously over 30 years of age, 130lbs, and/or has hips, throw it back. We are told that sexy is young, tight, sleek, slightly moist, and ready to say yes to you, and no to everyone else.
What is actually sexy is entirely relative, and is absolutely why I will never try to fight you for your husband. I find my husband absolutely attractive and very sexy, and I’m so blinded by all things Bryan that no one else even registers–that’s actually true, and possibly embarrassing in its schoolgirl crushiness. But as Salt-n-Pepa said, “He keeps me on Cloud Nine just like the Temps; He’s not a fake wannabe tryin’ to be a pimp; He dresses like a dapper don, but even in jeans; He’s a God-sent original, the man of my dreams.”*
Sexy is difficult to pin down because it means so many different things to so many different people. So while some might find the ParentsConnect Sexy Mamas Month icon picture of a thin, mostly naked woman, jumping on a bed sexy, I find the angle of her legs alarming because that’s not going to be a pretty landing. I also find it insulting because it insinuates that this is what a “Sexy Mama” looks like. And while some Sexy Mamas might look like this or better, there are hosts of brilliant and beautiful women who do not find representation here.
But I should get to the question portion of the blog, shouldn’t I? ParentsConnect asks:
*I would have chosen the lyrics in verse 4, but my dad reads this.
I don’t have a baby any longer. If there had been any doubt, it was removed along with his first lost tooth tonight. I didn’t even know he had a loose tooth! I had no time to prepare myself for the paradigm shift between My Baby and My Gap Toothed Boy.
Tomorrow, he’ll be driving.
I pulled the tooth with thread. And in case anyone else is googling how to pull a tooth, like I did before employing my mother’s old method, here’s how to do it:
The Outside Lane 