Saturday, July 07, 2012
Moodiness in My Sons - Laughter Reigns
His superb photography interest and skills made him work on this compilation yesterday, sending it to my phone for use this morning.
My sons are predictably used to bossy women, what with me as their mom, and Martin was laughing and talking about Hazel at supper, "rolling up here like she's white or something, bossing us all around." Even Grandma cracked up at that statement. Yet another bossy woman.
"Can we ever be politically correct around here?" I'd suggested in vain to my sons who were guffawing at the dinner table, pointing out who jumped the highest for Hazel when she barked at 'em for milk, a toy or whatever. She's gonna later wonder why all Hispanic Bubbas in the South don't jump to do her bidding.
Our PC struggle is generational. Sarah's status on FB reads, "If it's wrong to give one's child *political* nesting dolls, I don't wanna be right." Yet another bossy woman cracking me up. All my daughters are bossy come to think of it. All 18 of 'em.
I think all moms with more than one child either gets the, "You don't pay attention to me," or the "Back off and lemme breathe," routine depending on which way the wind's blowing that day.
One of my kids yesterday told me of a friend who just got sent to live with the other parent unexpectedly, woken up to the sight of all her bags packed, thus messing up a track record of living in one place and going to one school with the same set of friends for the past decade, now one step away from homelessness as this other parent is almost a coach surfer.
My kid was very upset, she who's lived here all of her life, whose emotional stability is rock hard solid stable, now hurting for her dear friend who gets very good grades in spite of parental turmoil, this is the second of my 14 year old child's friends to move away this summer.
Tears were dripping down her face, I hate to see my children so upset. "I'm so sorry sweetheart," I hugged her until she got a grip.
This summer is rapidly dwindling down to the school's opening day just one month away. "We've hardly been out a week!" a baffled JoJo screeched in response to the news. Me trying in vain to list all he has done in his alleged one week of summer vacation, "Honey, you've been out since mid-May," thus predictably sparking a, "No, I haven't," oppositional argument that I should've expected. Got me again. Logic has no foothold here. He stood on the back deck shaving his head and arguing with all of my dogs, my gardenia bushes, the sandbox, and all the birds in the skies apparently.
Then he launched into a spastic rendition of a crazy, deaf person with monkey-like tendencies, causing even my stoic dogs to stare in amazement at him. I, as usual, busted out laughing because this kid is super hilarious. Even his perplexed teachers call me to tell me that in spite of his inappropriate silliness and completely disruptive behaviors in class, they just can't help but to really like the guy. I know, he affects me the same way too.
"Where's your old lady bag of chips?" Martin asked me.
What the heck? My quizzical look coaxed him to elaborate.
"The whole-grain kind with seeds and herbs and spices," he explained to this dummy who didn't know those were the elderly variety. I'd been explaining to Sabrina the yucky evils of soda and how even diet soda is linked to obesity. Not that she's heavy, not at all, she's unbelievably Gorgeous with a capital G, but now that she's working in the fast food industry, she's taken up guzzling one of the vile drinks each shift.
"You'd be better off sucking gasoline," I'd growled in disgust. I can't even tolerate the smell of a sweet syrupy drink, my gag reflex working overtime at the thought of those nasty fake-sweet chemicals going into a person's body.
I'd had a very long, successful discussion with my one teen who's been sneaking out at night. We've had major emotional breakthroughs this summer, but that doesn't mean this one won't do it again. Sometimes it's even in direct response to the perceived emotional vulnerability they've allowed, the subconscious mind is a very strange animal.
"Would you be willing to have a psych eval?" I broached, knowing he won't be diagnosed with anything at all, he's just a normal teenager, but the insight he could gain from knowing his tendencies, behaviors, and his impressive cognitive skills could be very beneficial. I'd be slightly depressed too if I'd endured what he'd been through before he'd even entered kindergarten back in Texas.
It's encouraging to me, as the mom, to watch my kids visibly respond to therapy, to be taking in all they're learning, again making me super grateful to Medicaid for footing this very necessary bill. Thank you diligent tax payers, this is your money at work.
We'd be sunk without a neutral, super-educated, supernaturally insightful third party to help us sort everything out, we as a family know we are so totally blessed by the longevity having been supplied by Dr. Mandy, as well as the fact that every single kid feels like this one very lovely woman truly likes them as human beings. Not all adults respond so favorably to my sometimes very challenging young'uns.
He's at the cusp of allowing success to overtake him, in spite of his inner turmoil, or even of sabotaging that which should be his destiny. I wanna push this sixteen year old budding man over to the right side.
I'd worked outside all morning long, sweating profusely, as walking out the door here is similar to entering an oven that's been running on high-intensity all day. My tomatoes, so far, are looking wonderful, Lily and Tabby picked several bucketfuls, I've been freezing my excess, not wanting to fire up the canner and heat up the kitchen. We each eat a plateful of them every day of summer with grated hot pepper cheese on 'em as a snack.
Jack stood in the gardens eating several sweet bell peppers like apples, tossing the inside seed mass to the hens.
I'd cooked six pounds of pinto beans last night, not needing anymore to cook my usual two sacks of six pounds, now that our numbers at home have dwindled by half in the last five or so years. Truthfully cooking for 24 or 12 - it's just about the same, long hours in the kitchen are the result.
Martin ate a pint of my Fire Hot Pepper Sauce for some reason, his tacos swimming in it.
Lily's taken a very strong interest this year in my gardens, gathering produce, saving seed, and photographing so much. This is the Mrs Huff Lantana that she and Gina had purchased for me, Sarah has one of the most lovely lantanas I've ever seen out her kitchen window, then provoking my own interest in them. It's really Miss Huff, but Sarah and I'd once had an elderly country neighbor, Mrs. Huff, who always made us pear preserves when I shared my bounty of pears with her back then.
We've learned that our potential new youth pastor, that we'll meet tonight, was born in 1978. "That's so old," CW stressed. I explained to him that Saray and Gina were both born in 1978 which didn't unmuddy the waters for him at all. That's still someone in their 30s. "Chucks 32," I continued. "That's really not that old, Dubs."
I'd facebook stalked the new guy once I got wind of his name, knowing he'll have ten of my teens and one preteen, taken aback at his photo ( a nice looking man) inexplicably wearing a Boston Red Sox hat. Seriously dude, this is Georgia, but the caption said his heart beat Braves.
I'd never put a Boston cap on my head. I'd put a turd there first. That's about as likely as seeing me drink a Coca-Cola, not gonna happen. That's why God made water folks...and the Braves.