After a football game loss, a member of the opposing team upset Eric by giving him a hard time at school…
Eric: I can’t wait to play them again. I hope we win this time so I can go to school and tease THEM about losing.
Me: Remember, do onto others…
Eric: I know. The ‘others’ were mean ‘unto’ me, so I will be mean ‘unto’ them.
Me: No…it means you treat them the way you WANT them to treat you, not the way they DID treat you.
Eric: I like my version better.
I usually don’t post about politics, but…
Eric (age 9): “I don’t understand political commercials. One will say ‘Obama will raise taxes for middle class America’ and then right after that there will be a commercial saying ‘Romney will raise taxes for the middle class.’ How are you supposed to know what they will actually do if they are President??”
That, my dear, is the million trillion two trillion dollar question. If you can figure out the answer, the voters will elect YOU in November!
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How can you tell if a politician is lying?
His lips are moving.
~unknown
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Erma Bombeck is remembered as more than just a brilliant writer. She paved the way for wives and mothers to openly admit the difficulties encountered in every day life. She broke away from the status quo and embraced imperfection. She is legendary for her ability to tell the stories of her life with incredible humor and unwavering honesty. The following story is my tribute to Erma. While Erma’s gift to “tell it like it is” is exceedingly difficult to replicate, she will always have a huge influence on my writing.
BROTHER BRAWLS
I don’t understand why siblings seem to make it their goal in life to be cruel to each other. Sometimes I think they do it just to get a reaction out of me. And they usually do. The meanness will make my blood boil faster than a pot of water.
One day, Eric and Jake were having an argument that escalated to the point that I felt I needed to step in and ask “What happened??” Both started spewing out responses at the same time. “He started it.” “I didn’t do it.” “It’s his fault.” “It’s not my fault.” I interupted, “Woah, wait a minute. From the beginning!” Eric responded, “Well, it all started when I was born and…” Maybe you are on to something Eric.
Jake enjoys looking at videos on Youtube. I saw his most recent search on the computer. “How to annoy people.” I don’t think any instruction is needed for that topic.
Jake got in trouble for calling Eric a nerd for reading the newspaper. When I reprimanded him about it, he concocted the answer “That was a compliment. It means Not…Ever…Really…Dumb.” Good save.
Jimmy and Jake were having a pretend fight as we were leaving a football game. Jake rolled on the ground while Jimmy “kicked” him. An elderly lady came up and yelled for them to stop fighting. Jimmy tried to inform her that it was ok because they were brothers but Jake interjected, “No we aren’t. I don’t know him. He’s bullying me!” Jimmy couldn’t convince her otherwise and they both ran to the car while she yelled after them. Jimmy and Jake still quote her sometimes. “Don’t make me have to go get my badge!” To this day we can’t figure out what kind of badge she would have had.
The game “punch buggy” involves punching someone in the arm every time you see a VW Bug. During an intense “punch” game, Greg was getting frustrated because he was in the back row of our Suburban and couldn’t reach anyone. I saw him kicking and was ready to scold him when he yelled “Kick buggy, no kick back!” All I could do was laugh. The game eventually got out of control and the punching was banished because of too many injuries and complaints. A few minutes later Greg exclaimed, “Say buggy, no say backs!”
Eric came to inform me that Greg called him “dumb.” Greg ran in and defensively responded, “I did NOT. I called you dork.” Yes, that is much better.
Just when I was about to lose all hope of them ever getting along, the following conversation happened on the way to the first day of school for Greg. Eric asked if Greg knew where to go and Greg said he couldn’t remember. Eric put his hand on Greg’s shoulder and reassured him, “Don’t worry. I will show you the way.”
With moments like that, maybe brotherly brawls and parental peace actually can coexist. Hopefully they will show me the way when I forget.
It isn’t often that a broken bone is funny. Unless, of course, the bone has a funny name. And the patient is a 13-year-old boy.
Jake literally got knocked on his butt last night during his football game and was still in a lot of pain this morning, so off to the urgent care center we went. Had to stop myself when asked the reason for the visit. “Jake is a pain in the…uh…I mean Jake HAS a pain in the butt.”
Jake’s reaction to showing the female nurse “where it hurt” was enough to get me in a giggly mood. The blushing cheeks and the one word please-let-this-be-over answers showed that the nurse’s questions were much more painful than the injury.
Once she left the room, Jake announced that he needed to fart (boys feel the need to proclaim that hourly). The conversation went something like… “Don’t you dare!” “But I have to.” “No, this is a tiny room and the doctor will be in any second.” “I can’t hold it.” “Don’t do it! The doctor may think it was me!!”
When the doctor came in, the first thing he said was “Yes, you can smell it in the air…” I glared at Jake as if to say TELL ME YOU DIDN’T DO IT!!! Fortunately, the doctor continued his statement “Yes, you can smell it in the air. Football season and the injuries it brings.” Whew. I had to cover my face to hide the chuckling over what I thought the statement was referencing. I’m not sure what the doctor said for the next 5 minutes, because I was using all of my focus trying to maintain my composure.
For some reason, hearing someone say buttocks is hysterical to boys. Every time it was mentioned, Jake would smirk and glance at me. “Did you get hit in the buttocks or did you fall on your buttocks?” Snicker. Snicker. “Does your right buttock hurt more than your left buttock?” Snicker. Snicker. And so on… I was trying to do anything to prevent an outburst of laughter. Bit my lip. Fake coughed. Thought of the ending of Toy Story 3. That worked. The doctor probably thought I was overreacting a bit to be tearing up about the injury but at least I wasn’t going to be known as the Mom who laughed at her child’s broken bone.
By the time the doctor began talking about the crushed coccyx bone, I could barely contain myself. “The bones in your spine curve in at your lower back and then once it gets below the sacrum, it curves back out. The bone that sticks out at the bottom is the coccyx.” A bone called the coccyx sticking out below the sacrum…well, I’m sure you can picture the expression on Jake’s face. The word buttocks is funny to a teen boy; the word coccyx is hilarious. Add in the word sacrum, and it’s too much to handle. I couldn’t even look Jake in the eye because I knew if I did, I would be rolling on the floor.
If there is going to be a bone referred to as the “funny bone,” I think the coccyx bone would be a better choice than the elbow. But then again, the skin covering the elbow is sometimes referred to as the wenus so, yeah, I guess that is funnier. Hey docs, who named these body parts anyway??
Now before I get slammed for being unsympathetic, I do feel very bad for Jake. I know first-hand that it is very painful because I broke my tailbone falling down some stairs once. Perhaps a problem of weak cheeks runs in the family? Our family just tends to find humor in strange places. Just imagine if he broke his humerus bone…
If laughter is the best medicine, Jake should heal very quickly. I surely hope this injury doesn’t cause Jake to be the butt of any jokes.
Greg: Mooommm, Eric kicked me in the face!!!
Eric: No, I kicked you in the arm!!
Greg: Yeah, but that made my hand hit my face.
Eric: So….basically you punched yourself!
From a distance, the yellowed, typewriter written, tattered papers appear to be nothing impressive . But the information contained on those papers is what makes them amongst my most cherished possessions. It is the only window I have into an unknown part of my life. The only knowledge about my biological past. My adoption papers.
The sketchy information does not even come close to telling the entire picture about the beginning of my life, but it’s enough for me to read between the lines to create a story in my mind. Enough to take the blank slate and provide some understanding of the circumstances surrounding my birth and what makes me the person I am.
The first page of the paperwork contains details about my biological parents. The brief description – only a few lines total – is the most valuable information to me. I can peruse the traits and see glimpses of myself in the presentment, especially in the features and personality of my biological father. “Green eyes, dark brown naturally curly hair, dark complexion” could readily describe me. I like to think I also am somewhat “outgoing, happy-go-lucky and have a good sense of humor” which is how my biological father’s personality is portrayed.
My biological mother is also described as having brown hair but with brown eyes, and no curls. From reading her description, however, I know where I got my left-handedness. Drawing is listed as an interest. Perhaps that is where my son, Jake, got his love of art. Her personality is depicted as “moody, quiet and lazy.” I choose to envision that she was understandably moody because of the turmoil she was feeling over giving me up for adoption. She was uncharacteristically quiet. Pensive, wistfully wondering what “could have been” under different circumstances. She was not lazy, just weary. Fatigued and distressed about the toll pregnancy was taking on her body – and soul – for a baby she was not going to raise.
“Completed high school” is listed as the education for both, with the addition of “anticipates furthering her education” for my biological mother. From this, I deduced that the pregnancy occurred during their senior year of high school and I was born the October after they graduated. In another area of the paperwork, it states that pre-natal care began in mid-June. I concluded that the pregnancy was concealed from her classmates, and most likely her parents, until after graduation to reduce the embarrassment of her predicament. I wonder if either did go on to attend college after the adoption.
Some of the other tidbits of information tend to cause more questions than answers. The papers state that I wasn’t given baby formula for the first time until three days after birth. What happened during those first days of my life? Was I still with my biological mother during that time? What other explanation could there be for the delay in receiving formula? My adoption wasn’t finalized until the end of January, more than three months after I was born. I believe I was in a foster home during this time. Was I living at a private residence or a group home? Who were the kind people who took care of me? What were they like?
Most of the remaining information is mundane medical records and daily routines. But to me it is precious. I don’t have anyone with whom to discuss those first three months. No one to tell me how often I ate, how I reacted to bath time, that I made a “coo” sound when I laughed. These type-written words are all I have.
Will I meet my biological mother and father one day? Perhaps. There are so many questions that these papers can never answer. Maybe one day I will try to fill in the gaps left by the words that are not written. But for now, when I feel overwhelmed by all the unknown, I will pull out the worn, aged papers and look for a clue I may have previously missed. A clue to my biological past. A clue to my adoption story.
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You may have noticed I only reference the parents who created me as my biological mother and father. Not Mother and Father. Not Mom and Dad. I will always be grateful to the people described on those pages for making the difficult decision to give me to someone who could provide a better life for me. But my adoptive parents were, and always will be my Mom and Dad.
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I’m so excited that this post was featured on the Freshly Pressed page. Thanks WordPress for the recognition! http://wordpress.com/#!/fresh/
(7/30/12)
Yes, officially it may be Labor Day. A day intended to celebrate work and also the symbolic end of summer. However, for me today is a day to recover from the first week of school, and to mourn the end of summer.
The first week of school is really tough. Adjusting to rising early, making a good impression on the new teachers, getting all the homework done. No, not the kids. ME!
The horrid beeping of the dreaded alarm aside, the first week is full of assignments for the parents. This early in the year, I’m still trying to give the illusion that I have it all together. By the end of the year, it is unquestionably apparent that I do not, but I start out each year using slight of hand tricks to cover the truth.
Monday started out well. I got all 4 of the dreaded “first day packets” filled out. It even seemed less time consuming this year. Maybe after 12 years, I’m finally getting it. I even filled out the “describe your child” sheet for Eric, which I find extremely difficult. “Five adjectives that best describe your child.” OK Miss Teacher, do you want me to describe my child or really describe my child?
Abrasive, Combative, Volatile, Obnoxious and Selfish. No, that’s is how his brothers would describe him.
Argumentative, Whiny, Defiant, Forgetful, Lazy. No, that’s only when asked to do chores.
Brilliant, Enchanting, Enthusiastic, Responsible, Dazzling. No, too kiss up.
Kind, Bright, Funny, Happy, Stubborn. Simple, with a negative thrown in for a reality check. Bingo.
Truthfully, I don’t remember which adjectives I ended up using. I know stubborn stayed. The rest were probably barely legible because I changed my mind so much I almost erased right through the paper. Immediately I put the paperwork in the kids’ backpacks to be returned the next day. Put one in the win column.
Eric came home Tuesday with all the papers still in his folder, exactly where I had proudly placed them. Are you kidding me?? “Teacher, teacher, I did my homework. I did it all. I did my best. But…my dog ate it? Well, my kid ate it. Or forgot to turn it in. Something like that.” Come on Eric. Let me look good past the SECOND day of school!
One of my other homework tasks for Eric’s class is to sign his agenda every day. Simple
enough. Illegible initials in the signature box. Check. On Thursday I notice – in bid red letters – a note from the teacher. A note that was written on TUESDAY. In addition to not turning in my homework, he didn’t turn in his time capsule. Apparently I’m not JUST supposed to sign the agenda. I’m supposed to actually READ it first. Maybe the teacher needs to add flashing lights and sirens next time.
In the backpack the time capsule went, to be turned in first thing Friday.
Sigh. First homework assignment 3 days late.
Friday afternoon I notice an envelope on the couch. That looks similar to that troublesome time capsule envelope. No way. Are you kidding me?? No, really. Someone must be messing with me.
Sigh. First homework assignment 4 days late.
If it actually gets there tomorrow.
Trying to keep the illusion going this year is going to require some smoke and mirrors. And maybe a rabbit. 
That awkward moment when you realize the kids have left the room and you are watching Spongebob alone.
And you still don’t change the channel.
See??? It’s good stuff!