Boys and Their Toys; The Girl With the Curl

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
When she was good
She was very, very good
And when she was bad, she was horrid*

This is a little ditty my sainted mother used to recite to me. Although I don’t think I’ve thrown it in my own daughter’s face, it applies to her as well. As a matter of fact, it’s still a pretty accurate description of my own temperament, the horrid part emerging when Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. (I am, however, rarely lonely. In fact I love my solitude.)

So it is with my darling daughter, on the brink of becoming a teenager. So hungry. She got braces on Monday and can hardly chew. So angry. With her 16-year-old-brother. All the time. Lonely? I don’t think so judging from the amount of time she spends IM,ing and the recent increase in her telephone time. Tired. Not at night when she can’t sleep. Definitely in the morning, when she can’t get up in time to make the school bus. So sweet/So cranky. So easygoing/So stubborn. So fun/So not. Did I mention she’s a redhead? Of Irish and Italian extraction? God, I love her. So much it hurts.

Wednesday, my 16-year-old announces he will not be taking his car up to our corner garage for an oil change. Instead, he is going to do it himself. Never mind that he’s never done it before. In fact, no known ancestor has done it before. What has possessed him? I stayed inside, bracing myself for the crash that would indicate the Bimmer had fallen off the blocks. It took about three hours, two neighbors, a can of $45 motor oil and a $15 filter, but the job was done.
“Honey,” I said. “That’s three times what it costs up at the corner when you’ve got a coupon.”
“Mom. They use (respectable name brand oil). I can’t put that in my car.” And here I thought motor oil was motor oil. God, I love him. So much it hurts.

Still, maybe I ought to put Click and Clack on speed dial.

*The journalist in me always wants to give attribution to quotes. When I Googled** this childhood verse, I was surprised to find its author is Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

**When is the spellchecker going to realize that "Googled" has become a verb?

Soccer Mom...

...is not really what I am. I have a daughter who plays soccer and a son who used to play until his Premier Soccer experience ruined his appreciation for the game. I do not own, nor have I ever owned, a minivan. I think you're supposed to at least have that to be an official soccer mom. I do not have the kit (uniform) cleaned, fluffed and folded the same night it is spattered with mud and red Gatorade. We frequently throw the conflict jersey in the washer perilously close to game time and hope that it dries on the way to the pitch (field). Often we cannot locate a matching pair of socks. We keep losing water containers and usually have to stop at the corner gas station to buy water on our way to the game... That's when I usually realize my gas light is on. Soccer moms (I think) are better at planning ahead. I do well to remember when it's my turn to drive to practice. Does it start at 4:30 or 5:00?

Late afternoon is my worst time of day. That's when the exhaustion and fibrofog set in. I bribe myself into gear with the promise of a skinny latte at My Java. There I can slouch in a cool leather chair and try to think up what we're going to have for dinner and read O magazine while feeling guilty about not using the time to work out at the gym.

I do not own, nor have I ever owned, a crockpot. If I did, it would require some planning and organization, which would not be a bad thing. A lot of times we have to fly from soccer practice to basketball practice, or miss soccer altogether for a basketball game. Even if I had started a stew or something in the crockpot we wouldn't be there to eat it. The older one might be. But also he might be at his job sacking at the grocery store, or washing his car, or playing golf, or eating at Chipotle with his friends.

Today was a soccer and basketball day with the orthodontist thrown in as an extra little side trip. God smiled on me and soccer was cancelled due to thunder and lightening. They played 4 games over the weekend, so they probably needed a soccer break anyway. I know I did. Even I had mud on my legs when we got home from the tournament yesterday. And my ankles have been itching from bug bites all day. I skipped tonight's basketball game, turned the AC way down and took a hot bath.