Category Archives: conversations to remember

March 12, 2013 · 10:44 am

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Kids say the darndest things, don’t they?  Dylan’s “Six Years Ago I Was Dead” bit comes to mind right away.  One of my favorite lines from Riley is, “I love you all the way to Costco and back.”

Kids also ask a lot of questions.  I think we can all agree on this.  Here’s one from the car on the way home from the park.  We were talking about when the boys were in my belly (this comes up a lot) when Dylan asked, “How did I get in your belly?”

And there it was.  The big one.  The question that, if answered truthfully, would end with a premature, confusing, and awkward conversation with way too much information at too young of an age about sex.  The question that, if answered falsely, would result in a child who thinks babies are made as a result of holding hands, touching heads (remember the Coneheads?!), or a really good knock-knock joke.  After a long and excruciating silence, my response was, “That’s an excellent question.  Would you like some Pirate’s Booty?”

Pause.  Acknowledge.  Redirect.  (Every so often, my deer-in-the-headlights parenting works.)

Here’s another one I think we can all agree on (and roll our eyes at and hide in a closet from and drink to).  Kids are prone to tattling.  Now there’s an understatement!  The frequency, originality, and drama of tattling in my house is un-freakin’-believable.  If it weren’t so annoying, it would be hilarious.  The other day, while tattling on Riley for not sharing one of roughly seven thousand Star Wars toys, Dylan said, “My heart is breaking.  Riley has broken my heart into hundreds of tiny pieces.”   Good grief.

And here’s a new one (for me).  I’ve recently noticed that kids like to show off in front of their friends.  You know, “The tooth fairy gave me this much money,” or, “I have all the Batman movies,” etc.  Unfortunately, this bragging occasionally exposes us parents as the Crackpot/Throw Spaghetti Against The Wall To See What Sticks/We Have No Idea What We’re Doing But We’ve Kept Them Alive This Long imposters that we really are.

Like the other day in the car (we’re in the car a lot) with Dylan, Riley, and one of Dylan’s friends from school.  Out of nowhere, Dylan boasted to his buddy, “I get to sit in the front seat with Daddy.”  Seriously?  I quickly interjected, “Just once or twice…in your booster seat…in the neighborhood.”  Then Dylan said, “No, Mommy, remember the time I got to ride in the front seat home from Grandma and Grandpa’s house.  We drove on the highway that time.  Near the airport.”  Ugh.  True (and not recommended by the Insurance Institute of Highway Safety) story.

And the hits just kept coming.  Next, Riley said, “Yeah, and I get to drink Daddy’s beer!”  OMG.  Crap.  Also true.  Also not recommended.  Illegal, actually.  (For the record, Daddy got in a hell of a lot of trouble when I found out about the beer tasting.)

There I was driving this nice boy back to his house where he was probably going to tell his Mama about all of the irresponsible things I allow my kids to do.  All I could think of was the scene in Sweet Home Alabama when Reese Witherspoon’s character says to her old high school friend who’s in a bar with her baby, “Look at you.  You have a baby.  In a bar.”  (Bugger.  I’ve done that, too.)

Many, many moons ago I worked in public relations, and the number one rule in a PR crisis is to stay ahead of the story.  Therefore, in the interest of full disclosure and because my kids are inevitably going to rat me out again, there are three streets that we use to enter our neighborhood and at the first stop sign on each one, I let the boys  unbuckle their seatbelts.

I am sooooo glad I got that off my chest.

Anything you want to unload?  The comments section is all yours.

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Filed under conversations to remember, friendship, motherhood, parenting, Uncategorized

March 5, 2013 · 10:25 am

Six Years Ago I Was Dead

The other day, Dylan said to me, “Six years ago I was dead.”  We were at the gas station.  I was pumping gas, and Dylan and Riley were hanging out the window.

I replied, “No, you weren’t dead.  You just weren’t born yet.”

Then he said, “I was dead when I was in your belly.”

I replied, “No, you weren’t.  You were growing inside of me.”

Then he said, “Look, I’m dead,” and his body went limp.

Then Riley said, “Look, I’m dead, too,” and he went limp next to his brother.

“Neither of you are dead,” I said.

Then Dylan said, “Two years ago I was dead and now I’m back.”

After that zinger, I changed the subject.

The ease with which my kids talk about, think about, and imitate death astounds me.  Equally surprising is the ease with which I talk about it with them.  Dylan has, on many occasions, asked me about death (thankfully he’s only had to mourn a fish so far), and I’ve had some pretty darn good answers (if I do say so myself).  The problem is that underneath my super cool, no big deal this-is-what-happens-when-you-die exterior, I’m a hot, flaming mess.

You see, death is one thing.  Dying is another.  I don’t even like it when my boys go to birthday parties without me.  How am I supposed to die?  How am I supposed to be gone?  Forever?  Holy crap.

I don’t know what happens after we die.  (Maybe Dylan was dead before he was born.)  Even more unsettling is that, if I’m being totally honest, the theory I consider to be the most likely is that nothing happens, which doesn’t leave me much to hang a hat on.

So, how exactly does one prepare for the end?  For nothingness?  And as long as I’m on the subject, what’s my purpose and why am I here?

Wait.  I’m sorry.  Do you think I have answers to these questions?  Ha!  If I contemplate for just a few seconds the notion that the earth is a speck of dust in an infinite universe, my chest tightens and I can’t catch my breath.

I don’t like being out of control, which is why general anesthesia is so hard for me and why life’s lemons propel me to clean out closets and organize cabinets (or at least go shopping for these projects at the Container Store).  Every aspect of death – from how to when to where to why – is a crapshoot, so I can’t embrace it any more than I can Dylan going to sleepaway camp or – gulp – driving a car.

I’ve lost my fair share of loved ones.  Their lives and deaths have not only given purpose to mine, but also amplified theirs.  I cherish the memories I have of them, the perspective they impart, the lessons they pass on, and the endless wisdom they share, even in death.   Whether I know it or not, my children and loved ones will have the same experience after I’m gone, which is a beautiful proposition, but it’s the “whether or not I know it” part with which I struggle.

I don’t believe in anything enough to surrender to it.  After 9/11, I desperately wanted to believe in something to make sense of why I was alive and others were dead, and I felt something eerily similar after my molar pregnancy.  In the end, though, these tragedies didn’t give me faith; rather they made me keenly aware of what I don’t believe.  I don’t believe in fate, I don’t believe in a plan, and I don’t believe things happen for a reason, all of which make dying a tricky proposition.

I certainly hope that by the time I’m an old lady – assuming I have the great fortune of growing old – I’ll have adopted a belief in something other than nothing or become exhausted enough with life to accept what does or doesn’t happen next.  In the meantime, I’ll obsess over the wrinkles developing in my cleavage (true story) and how my hands are starting to look like my mom’s (sorry mom), and I’ll live my life how I want my children to live theirs and how I want their children to live theirs and how I want their children’s children to live theirs.   Chest tightening.  Can’t catch breath.  And when overwhelming thoughts of death, nothingness, infinity, and my children’s children’s children take hold, I’ll do what I did after Dylan said, “Six years ago I was dead.”  I’ll change the subject.  Or, I’ll go to the Container Store.  (Ahh.)

watersunpark

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Filed under anxiety, conversations to remember, death, molar pregnancy, September 11th, shopping