Blinded by the Light



 A few days before Christmas, The Today Show aired a filler parenting segment titled, A Parent's Guide to the Holidays from their ongoing series Parenting Tips for Those Who Have Been Parenting Under A Rock or Parenting for Those Who Cannot Think for Themselves. Matt Lauer interviewed a panel of experts consisting of a magazine editor from a popular family magazine, a lifestyle expert, and some fat guy (I am not being insulting here, this is how he introduced himself) who wrote a book with a self- deprecating title. The theme was At What Age is it Acceptable to _____________? At what age is it acceptable to let your teenager get drunk with you on New Year's Eve? At what age is it acceptable to pull the rug out from under your unsuspecting child's feet and let them know the truth about that jolly visitor from the North Pole? And, here is my favorite, at what age is it acceptable to stop taking family pictures? The answer was a resounding: when it ceases to be enjoyable. Hmmm, are we there yet? Thank goodness for the wisdom that The Today Show bestows upon me because I honestly thought, as you may remember from my previous posts on the subject, that family photos were an acceptable form of child abuse and torture.

In our family, we extend the tribulation to visiting relatives. See Exhibit A below. This is a sketch of my  sister, her husband and my two lovely nephews who were visiting from Las Vegas. They had only been in Buffalo for 24 hours and the boys were still on Vegas (Begas, as my 2 year old nephew, G calls it) time. My sister had not gotten any sleep the night before from trying to settle the boys. They were out of sorts from having missed their naps. Yet, it was imperative to my family to catch a shining Christmas Eve moment with all four of them. Look at how the little one, my nephew Lu, is fighting and giving up at the same time as he tries to contort his body and become dead weight in his mother's arms. Most of the 200 photos captured G, in his Michael Cera haircut, with his head down, clawing his way out of his father's grip.

I wanted a portrait of  H, my Dad, and me. "Ooh, ooh! Let me!" offered First Born Son enthusiastically. Like a kitten sidetracked by a ball of tinsel, First Born Son was mesmerized by the camera flash. Or, he was spellbound by a novel way to annoy me. He started giggling sadistically at the outcome of his picture taking, a series of images with our heads cut off, our mouths distorted as we pleaded, "Stop! Stop! I'm going blind!" Our eyes uneven and squinty. I tried to push through the blinding light which singed all of my senses; and, I pawed helplessly, hopelessly at him trying to recover my camera. But, he contined to dance around just outside of my grasp. I was so disoriented, but I thought I heard him singing, "That's what you get! That's what you get! For all of those years, doing us wrong with your camera lens!"


These are the kinds of photos you get when you hand your camera to a teenager who is out for revenge.


On the final day of my sister's visit, we gathered the kids together. There are six grandkids. If I thought that trying to get a photo of four kids was difficult, six kids is impossible. The Baby was one hour past done. G was too rambunctious from eating a dinner of cookies, with more cookies, and some fudge. H was antagonizing First Born Son by showing him affection. And Princess Commando shouted out through the clicking and snapping of 4 cameras with flashes on, "Ugh! The paparazzi!!"

If six kids is impossible, then eleven people and Simba is just plain silly. But, we did it anyway.

And, because, we like to learn things on our own time and the definition of "enjoyable" is subjective, we'll probably do it again next year.

Dark Rooms and Flashlights

The other day I was inquiring about H’s Language Arts teacher. I asked him if she had said anything to the students about her impending maternity leave.  “Nope.”

Had she even mentioned that she was pregnant? “Nope.”

Was she looking any more rotund? “I don’t know. She looks the same as she always has. She always looked round to me.”

“Maybe she’ll go into labor during ELA and you can deliver the baby.”

He looked confused. Of course he would. He can’t remember back to the tender years of childhood when he proclaimed that he was going to be a midwife.

He was three years old when I was pregnant with Princess Commando. He was my little companion to all of my prenatal visits with my beloved midwives. Their office occupied the first floor of a lovely brick Victorian home. That is what the office felt like- home- with its waiting room set up in the original living room and decorated with worn couches and children’s toys. H loved it there. He was impressed that they always left out nutritious snacks like fresh fruit, cheeses and crackers for visitors. Usually, he would stay in the living room with the receptionist, Mary, while I was having my examination. Mary put him to work copying papers, putting stamps on envelopes, etc. But, there were occasions when he just wanted to be with me. He would sit on the chair in the corner of the exam room, keenly observing every gesture, every soft laying of the hands by the midwife. I was used to the boys barging in on me in the bathroom- coming in to have a conversation while I was taking a bath or getting dressed. I had long gotten over being modest about my body around them. But, I also wasn’t parading around the house flashing my lady lumps.

On the day that I was to have my internal exam and Group B strep test (about 36 weeks), H decided that he wanted to join me. I was hesitant because up until now the only body part ever exposed during an exam had been my belly. I knew I would be draped and if he stayed in his corner, he wouldn’t see anything. I asked my midwife, S, if she thought it would traumatize him to be there while she was all up in my lady business. She laughed and told me that children (siblings) had seen far worse in the delivery room. S let H put the blue jelly on my stomach for the Doppler. He called it blue mustard (maybe this is why he has an aversion to mustard?) She guided his hand with the device to find his baby sister’s heart beat. He was spellbound. When S began the internal exam, the lights were turned down low. S told H that he could be her assistant and she gave him a flash light. So, there I was with my legs in the stirrups, draped, with my parts exposed. And, there H was, at my feet, dutifully pointing the flashlight. All of a sudden he exclaimed with equal parts pride and wonder, “Mommy, I can see right into your vagina!”

I kept trying to assure myself on the ride home that that he would probably forget that visual before we even pulled into our driveway. And, it seemed to be the case as he didn’t mention the experience at dinner when the Mr. asked him how his day was.

A few days later,  H and I were at Target. I cannot remember why we were there. All I remember is that we were standing in the home goods section when the lights went out. There was a sudden sputtering and belching sound from the building as systems were shutting down. And, then, silence. I was struggling to find my bearings. My eyes were adjusting to the darkness and I could make out the form of an elderly woman at the other end of the aisle. We stayed put, listening to the muffled confusion of the employees trying to figure out why the back up generator had not kicked in. I looked down at H sitting in the cart, who seemed more amused than frightened.

 “Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said with a huge smile exposing his little chicklets.

“Hey, Mama?”

“Yes, buddy?”

“You remember when we were at the midwives and it was dark in the room, and I got to look into your vagina?”

Oh no! There is was, as loud and clear as Christmas bells. There was no mistaking what my sweet boy had said. I thought I heard the old lady gasp in horror. And typical H, kept going, the more I tried to hush him and the less I tried to answer. “What? What did I say?!”

I tried to unbuckle him and rip him out of the shopping cart in the shroud of darkness, but the power was restored and the lights came back on. I hung my head and sped out of the aisle. This wouldn’t be the last time one of my children embarrassed me in a Target store. And it certainly was not the most scarring (that incident involved an epic tantrum, a Lego set and the help of 4 adults to get us to our car).

While I am a little disappointed that he has forgotten about his dreams to be a male midwife (he would be perfect for the job), I am certainly grateful that when recalling this story to him today, not a single thread of it sounded familiar. I am putting money aside for therapy, just in case.