My brother-in-law once told me, "If we don't harness Nathan's powers for good, he's going to become an evil genius and take over the world." That's a heavy burden to carry, considering I'm his mother. I must admit, I was duly cautioned. My mom warned me about second children. "If the first one is easy, the second one will be the end of you." I didn't believe her.
Birth Order Theory is not an idea that I support, but I have to say, there is something to it. Those first children are responsible, law abiding, and so interested in justice. They're like little adults. The second child, however, is a different creature altogether. They are about joy. I've never seen a group of children happier in everything they do than second children. Why is that? It could have something to do with parents being more at ease with a second child. Or, it could be that we just "gave up" a little bit. I mean control.
Nathan is a joyful bugger. He delights in life. The high points of his day include badgering his older brother into a fit, tormenting the dogs, and weaseling his way out of homework. These all sound a bit dark, but he proceeds through each activity with ease and cheer.
I was talking with one of the youth group leaders at church. She was telling me what a fine job he's doing. He participates appropriately, listens carefully, and has beautiful manners. The bells and whistles go off in my head. "We are talking about Nathan? Yes, I'm Nathan's mom." We laugh together and I'm grateful for the encouragement.
Each morning, I wake Nathan up by getting into bed and talking with him. He pretends to be asleep and I pretend to smother him with a pillow or sick the dogs on him. I suppose it's unconventional, but this is Nathan. The first thing he says to me is: "I was really gassy yesterday." I have no idea where this is going. "Yeah, I farted huge during prayer time." I recall the lovely conversation with the youth leader. Yes, that was short-lived and now I'm back to reality. "It must have been really bad, because the kid next to me picked up his stuff and moved." He beams with pride. I am speechless.
Before I reserve my seat next to Stalin's mom in the Evil Leader's Hall of Fame, I consider his softer qualities. He is a sympathetic soul. Though he is a ruthless tease, he is heartbroken when someone is sad, sick, or hurt. Gift-giving is also serious business. Even if we give someone a gift from the family for a birthday, that is not good enough for Nathan. He will make or buy something to give just from him. At Christmas, his gifts sit unopened until each one of us has opened the gifts he bought for us.
I'm not exactly sure how to harness his powers for good. So far, his energy doesn't seem to be focused entirely toward the dark side. What is a mom to do? Be practical. I'll continue to be a diligent teacher, a fair disciplinarian, and try to remember that it's not illegal to fart in church.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Heart of Darkness
Scout and Kitty eat about 600 pounds of hay every week. In the horse world, they call them "easy keepers" because you don't have to give them grain or supplements to maintain their weight. In the nonprofessional world, we call them fat. Yes, they are fat horses.
Every winter I line the fence to the north with large round bales to block the icy wind from whipping through the corral. Normally, they don't mess with the bales, because of the electric fence. Clever as they are, they discover that the fence is not presently charged. Instead of finishing the end of the bale they have in the corral, they move on to the tasty ones just outside of their area.
I never noticed it before I discovered Marge Simpson, but I make the same growling noise she does when she's witnessing something that annoys her. "Alright, you two, you asked for it." I'm going to fix the fence. I gear up: socket set and driver, electric drill, spare fence parts, screws, tool belt, and electrical tape. I am the Chuck Norris of fence repair.
Since the north fence was disassembled, I decide to start there. Now, do you remember the old lawn chairs from the seventies? My fence is made out of a tape kind of like that, but it's woven through with a series of wires to carry electricity. Genius, it is, because it's light and easy to handle. I think it took about an hour to string the entire corral.
Feeling like the enforcer, I duck through the fence and start pulling the lower section tight. I am obviously irresistible, because the horses come right over and start playing in my hair. This is a classic Scout maneuver. He starts out being very sweet and twirls the hair on the top of my head, then he gets bored and starts in with some serious sniffing. If I'm paying attention, I know this is the time to get out of the way, because he's going to blow snot all over me. "Get lost! Back, back." He plays along and steps away. I lean in to reattach a fitting onto the fence post and Kitty pulls the screw driver out of my tool belt. "Hey, give that to me." I grab my screwdriver and put it away.
Scout is enormous. He's 16 hands at the withers which makes his back level with the top of my head. That gives him an extra three feet in neck and head over me. He looks like he's staying back, but as soon as I'm distracted, that giraffe neck stretches out and snatches my socket set. "That's it! Give that to me." I shove all of my tools through the fence, out of the reach of the raptors. I grab my battery powered drill, aim it at them and pull the trigger a few times. That gets their attention. They shift their weight to their hind quarters, widen the stance on their front legs and bug their eyes out at me.
I get the fitting reattached and pull the fence tape taught. They have decided the threat has passed and follow me from post to post. I fetch the solar unit from the pasture fence and hook it up to this corral. Of course, I have to drop some small parts into the long grass, so I can dig around for a few minutes which attracts the dogs. "Away, you animals!" It is perpetually playtime at my house.
Now comes the good part. I turn the fence on. I have to admit, this next part troubles me a bit. After watching the horses push through the fence and tear apart two bales, I am hoping to witness the moment when they discover the fence is active. I move around the back corner of the fence with my eyes keenly fixed on my delinquent horses. "Ahh, here it is!" My moment. Kitty reaches through the fence and grabs a mouthful of hay. And...nothing. What? She goes in for the next bite and whoa! There it is! She spins around on her rears and heads for the back of the corral. Scout runs after her, takes a stance between Kitty and the unknown threat at the front of the corral. He snorts and looks as tall as possible. Victory! What comes out of my mouth at that moment is a laugh so evil, I shock myself. "Heh, heh, heh." No, that's not it. There was a "y" sound in there. "Hyeh, hyeh, hyeh." Yes, that's it, much more diabolical.
Why was I so delighted with that? Was I relishing in their pain? Have I discovered some darkness in my soul? Bah! No, that's just silly. The truth is simple. Sometimes pain is just funny. The Three Stooges made a mint off of that truth and if you watch YouTube or one of those send in your home video shows, you know the funniest ones are always when someone inadvertantly injures himself. It's not just other people's pain. I once gave myself a humdinger of a black eye by pulling a 20 ounce Diet Pepsi out of it's plastic holder from the top shelf of my fridge. I had a hold of that bottle with one hand and held the six pack with the other. Boy, that thing was stubborn, so I gave it a good pull and when it gave way, whacked myself right in the eye. I laughed my fool head off.
Maybe pain is funny when we deserve it for being stupid. Or, in the case of my horses, it is funny when you just have it comin'.
Every winter I line the fence to the north with large round bales to block the icy wind from whipping through the corral. Normally, they don't mess with the bales, because of the electric fence. Clever as they are, they discover that the fence is not presently charged. Instead of finishing the end of the bale they have in the corral, they move on to the tasty ones just outside of their area.
I never noticed it before I discovered Marge Simpson, but I make the same growling noise she does when she's witnessing something that annoys her. "Alright, you two, you asked for it." I'm going to fix the fence. I gear up: socket set and driver, electric drill, spare fence parts, screws, tool belt, and electrical tape. I am the Chuck Norris of fence repair.
Since the north fence was disassembled, I decide to start there. Now, do you remember the old lawn chairs from the seventies? My fence is made out of a tape kind of like that, but it's woven through with a series of wires to carry electricity. Genius, it is, because it's light and easy to handle. I think it took about an hour to string the entire corral.
Feeling like the enforcer, I duck through the fence and start pulling the lower section tight. I am obviously irresistible, because the horses come right over and start playing in my hair. This is a classic Scout maneuver. He starts out being very sweet and twirls the hair on the top of my head, then he gets bored and starts in with some serious sniffing. If I'm paying attention, I know this is the time to get out of the way, because he's going to blow snot all over me. "Get lost! Back, back." He plays along and steps away. I lean in to reattach a fitting onto the fence post and Kitty pulls the screw driver out of my tool belt. "Hey, give that to me." I grab my screwdriver and put it away.
Scout is enormous. He's 16 hands at the withers which makes his back level with the top of my head. That gives him an extra three feet in neck and head over me. He looks like he's staying back, but as soon as I'm distracted, that giraffe neck stretches out and snatches my socket set. "That's it! Give that to me." I shove all of my tools through the fence, out of the reach of the raptors. I grab my battery powered drill, aim it at them and pull the trigger a few times. That gets their attention. They shift their weight to their hind quarters, widen the stance on their front legs and bug their eyes out at me.
I get the fitting reattached and pull the fence tape taught. They have decided the threat has passed and follow me from post to post. I fetch the solar unit from the pasture fence and hook it up to this corral. Of course, I have to drop some small parts into the long grass, so I can dig around for a few minutes which attracts the dogs. "Away, you animals!" It is perpetually playtime at my house.
Now comes the good part. I turn the fence on. I have to admit, this next part troubles me a bit. After watching the horses push through the fence and tear apart two bales, I am hoping to witness the moment when they discover the fence is active. I move around the back corner of the fence with my eyes keenly fixed on my delinquent horses. "Ahh, here it is!" My moment. Kitty reaches through the fence and grabs a mouthful of hay. And...nothing. What? She goes in for the next bite and whoa! There it is! She spins around on her rears and heads for the back of the corral. Scout runs after her, takes a stance between Kitty and the unknown threat at the front of the corral. He snorts and looks as tall as possible. Victory! What comes out of my mouth at that moment is a laugh so evil, I shock myself. "Heh, heh, heh." No, that's not it. There was a "y" sound in there. "Hyeh, hyeh, hyeh." Yes, that's it, much more diabolical.
Why was I so delighted with that? Was I relishing in their pain? Have I discovered some darkness in my soul? Bah! No, that's just silly. The truth is simple. Sometimes pain is just funny. The Three Stooges made a mint off of that truth and if you watch YouTube or one of those send in your home video shows, you know the funniest ones are always when someone inadvertantly injures himself. It's not just other people's pain. I once gave myself a humdinger of a black eye by pulling a 20 ounce Diet Pepsi out of it's plastic holder from the top shelf of my fridge. I had a hold of that bottle with one hand and held the six pack with the other. Boy, that thing was stubborn, so I gave it a good pull and when it gave way, whacked myself right in the eye. I laughed my fool head off.
Maybe pain is funny when we deserve it for being stupid. Or, in the case of my horses, it is funny when you just have it comin'.
Friday, October 9, 2009
First job
"Mom! There it is. My dream job." I scan the immediate area, but since I'm driving, I don't see much. "It's right there!" He points at a guy waving a sign in front of a pizza place.
"The sign guy?" I ask. "That's your perfect job?"
"Yeah, wow. I'd just have to hold that sign and pace back and forth." I don't want to discourage the boy, but I'm baffled. He continues, "Do you know how much thinking I could do? I could write stories in my head and get paid for it. You think they'd let me use a digital voice recorder?"
Now I get it. My oldest son is a writer. I don't mean he gets paid to do it. I mean he wakes up in the morning and those wheels in his head start turning and by breakfast he's added a whole new chapter to one of his countless on-going stories. Not a minute is wasted. He may look like a dead head underneath those iPod headphones, but there's plenty happening in there.
He comes up with insane questions for me. Last night, it was this: "If a ten pound owl has a wingspan of approximately five feet, how large would the wings have to be to carry a 180-pound man?" I don't even ask why. I tell him that's a simple math problem. It's ratios, go figure it out. Later, he came back to tell me that he was going to have to compromise the realism, because that was entirely too much wing for a man to manipulate. Yeah, that's life, every now and then we all have to compromise the realism.
"You really want to work there?" I ask. His eyes become very round and his head bobs up and down at a ridiculous pace. "Okay, then. I don't want to be responsible for crushing your dream." I pull into the restaurant, so he can ask for a job application. This is an interesting first. The job application is complex considering the venue. He reads, "What do you hope to achieve by working for our company?" He knits his brow and looks at me. "I just wanna carry their sign. I'm not hoping to achieve much." He pauses. "I probably shouldn't write that on the application, though."
Today he turned in his application while I waited in the car. He returned looking larger than life. "The lady handed it to the manager and told him that I wanted to be the sign guy. He said, 'Sweet! We'll give you a call next week and maybe get you on the schedule.' I think I'm getting the job."
And the saga begins.
"The sign guy?" I ask. "That's your perfect job?"
"Yeah, wow. I'd just have to hold that sign and pace back and forth." I don't want to discourage the boy, but I'm baffled. He continues, "Do you know how much thinking I could do? I could write stories in my head and get paid for it. You think they'd let me use a digital voice recorder?"
Now I get it. My oldest son is a writer. I don't mean he gets paid to do it. I mean he wakes up in the morning and those wheels in his head start turning and by breakfast he's added a whole new chapter to one of his countless on-going stories. Not a minute is wasted. He may look like a dead head underneath those iPod headphones, but there's plenty happening in there.
He comes up with insane questions for me. Last night, it was this: "If a ten pound owl has a wingspan of approximately five feet, how large would the wings have to be to carry a 180-pound man?" I don't even ask why. I tell him that's a simple math problem. It's ratios, go figure it out. Later, he came back to tell me that he was going to have to compromise the realism, because that was entirely too much wing for a man to manipulate. Yeah, that's life, every now and then we all have to compromise the realism.
"You really want to work there?" I ask. His eyes become very round and his head bobs up and down at a ridiculous pace. "Okay, then. I don't want to be responsible for crushing your dream." I pull into the restaurant, so he can ask for a job application. This is an interesting first. The job application is complex considering the venue. He reads, "What do you hope to achieve by working for our company?" He knits his brow and looks at me. "I just wanna carry their sign. I'm not hoping to achieve much." He pauses. "I probably shouldn't write that on the application, though."
Today he turned in his application while I waited in the car. He returned looking larger than life. "The lady handed it to the manager and told him that I wanted to be the sign guy. He said, 'Sweet! We'll give you a call next week and maybe get you on the schedule.' I think I'm getting the job."
And the saga begins.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Blog victim
I was inspired to tell my family photo story after I read a similar one posted by my friend on her blog. Now, I wasn't planning on telling the whole thing, but instead, thought I'd add a note of encouragement (or at least sympathy) to the comment section after her post.
Normally, I read her blog and comment about it on her FaceBook page, because the blog site requires some sort of identification or account to participate. I decided to take the leap and register, start an account...whatever. Google is a friendly word, so I started there. Good thinking! I have a gmail account. I typed in my account info and voila! it knew me. I was on my way to leave some commentary. It's a bit hazy now, but the screen asked me what name I wanted give my blog. My blog? How did that happen? I must have done something wrong. I scanned the page. There must be something to click on. I don't always know what the question is, but in computerland, "click on something" is the universal answer. The back arrow is a safe one, so I started there. Not helpful. So, like any computer illiterate, I click the forward one. Back, forward, back, forward. I'm stuck here.
The only other option is to answer the question. What do you want to call your blog? The cursor marks time. I feel the pressure as it blinks at me. I'm trapped. "Alright, I'll play along, but I don't have to be cooperative." In an effort to be difficult, I type in "I have a blog?" It doesn't care. Zoom, on to the next question.
It asks me about an address or url or something of the like. "Hey sport, this is your ride, I'm just a passenger." So, I type into the box "confused passenger." It clearly agrees with me and then congratulates me for starting a blog. Suspecting that I might have an opinion about color, it asks me to make some choices about aesthetics for my blog screen. Great, more stuff to click on. The result is the fine screen you're visiting now.
Here I am, a blog owner. This brings about a whole new set of questions. What should I write? I feel strangely responsible, like I made a purchase and ought to make the most of it. Are there rules? How many other skill-free techno-idiots such as myself have gotten railroaded into starting a blog?
Then today, I had to consider an entirely new question. How do I post to my own blog? You'll be glad to know that it only took me 15 minutes and 25 screens to find the answer. I'm sure my 11 year old son could have done it in 2, but then again, he doesn't have a blog. Or maybe he does.
Normally, I read her blog and comment about it on her FaceBook page, because the blog site requires some sort of identification or account to participate. I decided to take the leap and register, start an account...whatever. Google is a friendly word, so I started there. Good thinking! I have a gmail account. I typed in my account info and voila! it knew me. I was on my way to leave some commentary. It's a bit hazy now, but the screen asked me what name I wanted give my blog. My blog? How did that happen? I must have done something wrong. I scanned the page. There must be something to click on. I don't always know what the question is, but in computerland, "click on something" is the universal answer. The back arrow is a safe one, so I started there. Not helpful. So, like any computer illiterate, I click the forward one. Back, forward, back, forward. I'm stuck here.
The only other option is to answer the question. What do you want to call your blog? The cursor marks time. I feel the pressure as it blinks at me. I'm trapped. "Alright, I'll play along, but I don't have to be cooperative." In an effort to be difficult, I type in "I have a blog?" It doesn't care. Zoom, on to the next question.
It asks me about an address or url or something of the like. "Hey sport, this is your ride, I'm just a passenger." So, I type into the box "confused passenger." It clearly agrees with me and then congratulates me for starting a blog. Suspecting that I might have an opinion about color, it asks me to make some choices about aesthetics for my blog screen. Great, more stuff to click on. The result is the fine screen you're visiting now.
Here I am, a blog owner. This brings about a whole new set of questions. What should I write? I feel strangely responsible, like I made a purchase and ought to make the most of it. Are there rules? How many other skill-free techno-idiots such as myself have gotten railroaded into starting a blog?
Then today, I had to consider an entirely new question. How do I post to my own blog? You'll be glad to know that it only took me 15 minutes and 25 screens to find the answer. I'm sure my 11 year old son could have done it in 2, but then again, he doesn't have a blog. Or maybe he does.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Family photo
I have been placed into the "bad mom" category. I have failed to have my family members photographed at proper intervals. Falling short in diligence may be a theme in several areas of my life. Luckily, the members of my church have a picture directory of families and it requires my participation.
In an effort to understand how the process works, I look through old church directories. Oh my. My family is going to string me up for this. Our participation is going to require matching clothes and a comb. The pictures are stunning. Families are stacked up in heaps to get all of the faces into the picture. There are only four of us, so I think we're going to be in the minority here. Why is the average number of children in this directory five? Sorry, we'll just have to make due with two or possibly grab other children off the street. Hair is going to be a problem. The kids in the pictures are impossibly clean and have some recently-wetted and parted-to-the-side hair. We don't own a comb.
Dissatisfied with the clothing choices, the kids complain at me all the way to church. My only reply is, "count your lucky stars that I did not put you in a button up shirt with a clip-on tie." The horror shows visibly on their faces and they stop complaining about the shirts they have on. My husband sets the tone for the evening by listing the other things that he could be doing instead. "I could be watching t.v., playing on the computer, getting a lobotomy..." So helpful!
Our little family is ushered into the waiting room where the boys start picking at each other and inevitably one of them pokes the other in the eye. Good thing it was the tall one that got tagged in the eyeball, because he's at least going to be put in the back row.
We're called into the photo area and the guy says, "Is this all of you?" I've never felt self-conscious about having ONLY two children before. "Yes, there are just the four of us." He answers, "Well, alright then, I think we can make something of this." I don't even know what that means.
Properly placed, he starts snapping away with the camera. The ancient photographer lifts his head from behind the camera and squints at us. "You know that little one is screwing up his eyes." I'm confused. I look at our younger son. He's obviously amused. I tell him to stop whatever he's doing and stand there like a gentleman. Where did that come from? I'm sure my son has never had that term used on him and honestly, who talks like that anymore? This experience is taking me down a path I'm not comfortable traveling. I'm starting to sound like my crotchety grandmother.
At last, the photo shoot is over, but sadly, this is not the end of my responsibilities. Now we have to choose the photo for the directory. My husband and I sit in front of the computer monitor and a woman brings up five different pictures. Ugh, I hate looking at pictures of myself. I lean in and get a good look at myself. I look terrified. Yeah, that's about right. A picture's worth a thousand words. In the first two shots, my youngest son has his eyes crossed. Of course, those are the poses where everyone else looks best. My husband and I have a non-verbal conversation. We both realize that the rest of us look great in photo number one. I lift my eyebrows and tilt my head toward the screen. He smiles and shrugs. I tell the lady that we would like photo number one in the directory. She looks incredulous and states the obvious, "The little one has his eyes crossed in that one." I respond, "Yeah, but the rest of us look great." She's obviously worried about getting in trouble, so I offer, "They're used to our family here, and they haven't kicked us out yet."
Alas, we have become "that" family. When I welcome new members, they look at me and say, "Aren't you the family with the cross-eyed kid in the directory?" Heehee, I'm bettin' they can't identify any other family from the directory. The only thing my youngest son had to say about his picture was, "Well, I guess I won't be doing that again next time." Perfect.
In an effort to understand how the process works, I look through old church directories. Oh my. My family is going to string me up for this. Our participation is going to require matching clothes and a comb. The pictures are stunning. Families are stacked up in heaps to get all of the faces into the picture. There are only four of us, so I think we're going to be in the minority here. Why is the average number of children in this directory five? Sorry, we'll just have to make due with two or possibly grab other children off the street. Hair is going to be a problem. The kids in the pictures are impossibly clean and have some recently-wetted and parted-to-the-side hair. We don't own a comb.
Dissatisfied with the clothing choices, the kids complain at me all the way to church. My only reply is, "count your lucky stars that I did not put you in a button up shirt with a clip-on tie." The horror shows visibly on their faces and they stop complaining about the shirts they have on. My husband sets the tone for the evening by listing the other things that he could be doing instead. "I could be watching t.v., playing on the computer, getting a lobotomy..." So helpful!
Our little family is ushered into the waiting room where the boys start picking at each other and inevitably one of them pokes the other in the eye. Good thing it was the tall one that got tagged in the eyeball, because he's at least going to be put in the back row.
We're called into the photo area and the guy says, "Is this all of you?" I've never felt self-conscious about having ONLY two children before. "Yes, there are just the four of us." He answers, "Well, alright then, I think we can make something of this." I don't even know what that means.
Properly placed, he starts snapping away with the camera. The ancient photographer lifts his head from behind the camera and squints at us. "You know that little one is screwing up his eyes." I'm confused. I look at our younger son. He's obviously amused. I tell him to stop whatever he's doing and stand there like a gentleman. Where did that come from? I'm sure my son has never had that term used on him and honestly, who talks like that anymore? This experience is taking me down a path I'm not comfortable traveling. I'm starting to sound like my crotchety grandmother.
At last, the photo shoot is over, but sadly, this is not the end of my responsibilities. Now we have to choose the photo for the directory. My husband and I sit in front of the computer monitor and a woman brings up five different pictures. Ugh, I hate looking at pictures of myself. I lean in and get a good look at myself. I look terrified. Yeah, that's about right. A picture's worth a thousand words. In the first two shots, my youngest son has his eyes crossed. Of course, those are the poses where everyone else looks best. My husband and I have a non-verbal conversation. We both realize that the rest of us look great in photo number one. I lift my eyebrows and tilt my head toward the screen. He smiles and shrugs. I tell the lady that we would like photo number one in the directory. She looks incredulous and states the obvious, "The little one has his eyes crossed in that one." I respond, "Yeah, but the rest of us look great." She's obviously worried about getting in trouble, so I offer, "They're used to our family here, and they haven't kicked us out yet."
Alas, we have become "that" family. When I welcome new members, they look at me and say, "Aren't you the family with the cross-eyed kid in the directory?" Heehee, I'm bettin' they can't identify any other family from the directory. The only thing my youngest son had to say about his picture was, "Well, I guess I won't be doing that again next time." Perfect.
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