Consonants and Karma.

I discovered something about my baby boy today. I'm not really proud of this, but I think it may actually show some cunning - some terrifically clever stuff. (All parents say this about their kids). But for a two year old to have this link up in his language arsenal is, well, pretty impressive - although not so great if we were meeting the Queen tomorrow. I'll tell you, I'm getting to it. First I must put out my disclaimer (yes, it's that bad). Here it is:

As said mother of this child I in no way condone, support, advocate or encourage said child's choice of vernacular (purposefully, that is). I do admit that I have used on the rarest of road rage moments the big whopper of curse words - you know the one. I bet you're saying it in your head now. I don't even have to "rhyme it" with anything to clue you as to which one. Let's just say on Casey Casum's top 100 Billboard, it's numero uno. Okay, done with that.

Here goes: This is me: "E? Want to take a bath with your toys now?" His response: YES! (think really quiet kid). I WANT TO TAKE BAFF. I WANT MY PISHY'S, MY PARK, MY F**KS! YES! WANT BAFF (clapping hands now).

Me: (mouth open, not sure what I just heard. Composed enough now and about willing to roll back that cue card to see if I understood what was really familiar about his response - particularly that last word). "E? What do you want to bring in the tub?"

E: (whispering now as he always does while counting off on his fingers): "F**K, PISHY, PARK, ALL DOYS! (As he says this last word he throws up both arms and spins around like he just released confetti in the air.)

Me: (several different shades of grey by now). "E? Say Fish." E: PISH! "Say Finger." E: PINGERS! I HAB PINGERS HERE! (points to his hand). Long, gulp and then, "E? Say, Truck." F**K!

What the??!!! I don't get it. The word that actually utilizes the phonetical "f" sound like, I dunno, FISH?! gets a "p" while the one that goes with the "t" sound gets the "f"? If he knows how to use the consonant "f " at all like when he says truck, why then my friend, doesn't he use it where it is supposed to be used?

I'll tell you why. I have two possible explanations. Could it be he understands exactly what he is saying and is simply being my devil child - you know the one who knows how to push all your buttons but whom you cannot kick through the goal posts of life because he's too damn cute? That one? Yeah? Well, that's him. My suspicion? He knows what he's doing and I don't know whether to curl up in a fetal position or do a jig if the kid is that smart.

(Or, more likely) In this great universe of ours...this mystical, unbounded, karma-like world we live in, I must have been this really horrific kid. I picture some "event" - some behavior of mine - that made my parents cringe with mortification. And from that moment of "little evil kid me", my adoring parents, choosing to let me live versus stuffing me back in the womb, they prayed a prayer that became woven into the tapestry of life - destined to remain unanswered until I myself became a parent.

(Fast forward) Ding dong! "Special delivery from heaven! Yes ma'am, this letter just arrived for you. The management sincerely apologizes for the delay. We have no idea why it took 30 years for us to find it - but you know what they say, better late then never! Oh, you want me to read it? Sure ma'am, I can see you have your hands full there. Oh! Three! Yes! I can see that. Okay, let's see....it says...."Dear Darling Daughter of Ours, We pray, for our sake, that we live long enough to see you have children just. like. you. Ha ha, hardy har har! Love, Mom and Dad."

It must be both. God help me.

Silence. The enemy to all that is good.

Me: one armed bandit; casted left arm; in dire need of 2nd cup of coffee.

Kid 1: "I want, I want, I need, I need, she's touching me, being mean," etc., then something about "being hungry".

Me and what I heard: "something, something, blah, blah, blah," Response: "m'kay, yep, gotcha" (read: piss off I'm feeling an Exorcist moment coming on and where the hell is my favorite coffee cup?)

Kid 2: "I want, I need, she touched me first, she was being mean first, I am never playing with her ever again, I'm gonna hit her and I'm taking Brown Teddy! and something something blah blah blah".

Me and what I heard: yadda yadda, same ole same old- premeditated assault and battery w/ felonious theft impending from 5 year old - Response: look up from pouring hot coffee into now found favorite cup; assess that threat to inflict bodily harm may have been puffery; return to assuring demons now screaming in my head that I am actually a good Mom and will not eat my children no matter how tempting.

Kid 3: Silence???? What ho? a foe? Yes, silence...There it is again.

Me: Tilt head like RCA Records dog toward indecipherable sound that seems to interfere w my mothering ability to locate the child who has mysteriously (and adeptly) gone covert and slid under the "mommy radar". Yes, zeroing in now: detecting faint sound of water running in some other part of house. Correction, torrent of water running in some other part of house and muffled giggles resembling "Silent Bob" kid's little laugh.

My Response: Leap over kitchen island and ascend stairs in one smooth launch. Locate offending child #3 and small flood developing around his feet. Feel the pea soup gurgling in my throat and fend off muscles spasms in neck which suggest my head is attempting to rotate off shoulders. Ignore voices that suggest I lay down in said flood and cry. Call over Kid 1 and Kid 2 to "help" Kid 3 get dressed while devilwoman, I mean, Mommy, cleans up water.

Update: coffee is cold; kid 3 is dressed as Snow White (which would have been fine if he were a girl); I'm lying prostrate on bathroom floor motionless in hopes that "this too shall pass".

Generous big sisters.

My big sister has become a lady for whom I hold the highest and greatest respect. I have always considered her super intelligent, fiercely savvy, sharp witted, yet, unfortunately, grossly understated. I say this because had I possessed all these same great qualities and managed to complete my baccalaureate with honors, as she had, you bet I would have been running through traffic buck-naked screaming my fool head off about "me, glorious me!" She apparently does not share this sentiment and prefers the calmer, more refined approach in these moments of accomplishment. Have I taught my family nothing?

I can honestly say that I cherished living with such a terrific sibling. So earnest, in fact, was my zeal to be like my sister, so dedicated in my quest - that I would sometimes "borrow" some of her most prized outfits (just to be like her). Did I tell you that she was perfectly fine with it? Oh yes. She was as generous and tolerant as any big sister could be of a younger, nosier, pushier, spoiled baby sister, like myself. Take for instance that black sassy number she just completely adored and that I just had to have..read: so long as she didn't mind the fact that I never asked her permission or that I took a few liberties with the hideous white bows hanging off the sleeves. We are talking generosity abound! I remember it as if it were yesterday...Why, after my parents successfully completed their very own seek and destroy mission to recover and return the remainder of said prized sassy dress, my loving, wonderful sister turned to Mom and Dad with one of those tearful expressions of benevolence and whispered (through apparently very clenched teeth) the most wonderful thing I had ever heard: (let me forward you to the good part).."I, blah, blah, blah, hate her. I wish she were blah blah blah. Look what she did to my blah blah blah dress! And if you're not going to do anything about it (okay here's the good part and I quote)..she can friggin' have it!"

Now I'm telling you folks, that is generosity! My big sister, knowing how much I admired her in every way - how I wanted to emulate her crazy cool style - wanted to give me, her baby sister, the one article of clothing she treasured most. She was just the best. Still is.

Send this to a bajillion of your friends & Bill Gates will send you a check.

My dear friends are constantly emailing me these "don't break the chain" emails. You have all seen them. Very similar to the ones that used to come via US Mail which required the sender to shell out mulah and place in the hands of the postmaster (read: cost the sender dinero to bother you), and would arrive in that square thing sitting outside your house called a mailbox. Remember those? Yes, well, they're still around clogging up the web much like what too much Charmin does to a, well, you know.

I consider myself a rational gal - to an extent... I don't actually believe a bus will fall on my house if I don't forward the message to the bajillion or so friends/family members associated w my address book. But there is always that moment right before I delete that sucker when I hear that whisper - you know the one that says, "don't do it..what if it's true?" I do...I hesitate ever so briefly, blow up my cheeks with air, squint my eyes, and gently depress the "delete" key as if expecting that my course of conduct was actually about to activate some launch code sequence for the North Korean missle site. When it disappears off screen - pffftt - there is great relief (moment of silence really) and I sigh quickly as if to say, "well, that's over".

Forwarding chain emails was more heartache than it was worth. It certainly didn't curry any favors with the "friends" I wound up sending them to - strange how I haven't heard from those guys in a while? Hmm. Suffice to say, never once did Bill Gates/Microsoft ever "track" my emails or find my home address to bestow upon me a great big fatty of a check as evidence of his gratitude for "helping him out". Nor have any of my prayers come true the very next day - of course, I may have been asking for something not quite of this world when I prayed that I could fit an entire weeks worth of work into 12 hours and call it quits for the rest of the week. Apparently these notions of supplication are simply unheard of. Who knew?

Not to say that grassroots movements like ones generated by mommybloggers (such as myself) do not benefit immensely from chain emailing - oh contraire mo fraire - that's such a butched French, ignore that. Huge momemtum is gained by groups banding together and casting the net far and wide across the populace simply through an email chain. These correspondences make sense..need to get the word out fast and furious? - get "ma blogger" on the job b/c she knows someone who knows 5 ladies who knows 27 ladies, etc., and so on. My complaint, before I go off on a rant again, references the chain mailers who actually leave someone with, how shall we say?....guilt, for having the moxy to annihilate Aunt Rita's power prayer chain. (T-minus 10 and counting). For these friends/family members who still believe that God will send the Arc Angel Michael swooping down from heaven to destroy all ye sinners who deleted His message as recompense for failing to heed the chain mail warning (holy run on sentence!) - I assure you, I've obliterated hundreds of Aunt Mildred's power prayer thingy's - nuthin'! And as for Bill Gates sending me money for forwarding an email for him? - let's just say he's happily retiring from his position as CEO of Microsoft and it isn't b/c he was Robin Hoodin' his wealth with the masses - at least not the masses who were busy sending on an email for him to track.

So delete away my friends and yay though I walk through the valley of death, I fear no evil. Kidding! Really, superstitious stuff! (T Minus 10, 9, 8.....) Gotta go.

Battlestar Gallactica & it's application to modern day driving.

When I was a child I remember how my father would drive us in his car (a Pinto, no less) at warp speed, flying up to the ass end of other cars at red lights and tearing around them on the green when (heaven forbid) they did not move their vehicle the instant the light turned. (All this usually while trying to make it to the 9 o'clock mass on Sunday). I guess one could say he was a bit impatient. There was a program (sci-fi, of course) airing at the time called Battlestar Gallactica, which he and my sister would watch faithfully - still do, now that it's on again. I digress. He simply loved this show - it was catchy, no doubt - but not the cult-like level of Star Trek. (Back to driving). I remember the incoherent ramblings of this man as he encountered who he so lovingly referred to as "this jackass or that jackass" - all of them...they were all his little jackasses - anyone who had the misfortune of impeding his "air" space as he whizzed up and down the highway at break neck speeds. Admittedly, I could agree with this characterization as this was our road and who the heck were these people getting in our way? Jackasses. Anyhoo, after a time, it was no longer entertaining for my father to merely hurl muffled insults through a closed window at the offender - no, in time, we added "phasers" to the antics. Phasers were these buttons which my father firmly believed were on the fleshy part of his thumbs and the mere depression of them on a steering wheel would activate the lasers. Did I mention, killer lasers? So instead of witnessing the puzzled and indignant looks of the Jackass drivers as our blur of orange and white Pinto zipped passed them on the right, w/o any justification or provocation I might add, now we rolled right up behind their bumper (deaccelerating only briefly to the actual speed limit) for the purpose of vaporizing them with our "phasers". Actually, this was all my Dad's notion of high-jinx - I was just the smallest kid stuck on that effing bump in the middle of the back seat destined to have no viable opinion on the matter as being the youngest in the family. Invariably one would then hear from the driver seat: "Activating phasers" (as he would lock on to one of these Jackasses)..."Steady" (slowing now from 80 to 70 or in Pinto terms 65-55)...."steady now" (we are practically in their backseat) and then...."FIRE! Got you, you little bastard!" as he accelerated again to ludicrous speed while simultaneously swerving around (and just barely missing) the vaporized remains of his conquest. A Bastard? I turned to my sister: did Dad just say bastard? A nodding assent. Apparently, when you go official Battlestar the insulting lingo changes as well. Didn't know.

Every now and then I fall away from the "pc" way of today and have adopted (most informally of course) these lunatic driving tendencies of my father. This usually occurs on the rare occasion when I am actually alone in the car. While I tend to temper my comments about modern day "jackasses"..."bastards"...whatever they are called these days - particularly when my little buggers are around - there have been times when I've shouted something altogether ugly about the driving ability of another. On this one particular day, however, it was full moon junction and it seemed like every blessed idiot in the world was out driving - sans me of course. I'm just so blissfully perfect! I was becoming more and more frustrated by the insufferable stupidity of some "holiday shoppers" that what followed linguistically could best be described as the clear rantings of an Alzheimer patient. I looked up in the rear view mirror to see my son with this huge grin on his face as if to say "I get it and really, it's ok - they are (insert whatever English word I ravaged at that particular moment.) Then, oddly, before the parental guilt could set in, my son lifted up his shirt to expose his belly, pressed twice on his belly-button and yelled in his best stage whisper voice evah: "BEEP, BEEP, GE-OUTTA MA-VAY!" Yep, that'll do. My son, he just gets me.

Brothers.

I have a big brother. He is eight (count em') years my senior, but I don't hold that against him. He is the eldest "child" in the family. Me? I am the youngest of the three and as such was often indulged and resented by my older sibs - quite the psychopathic, but very typical, love/hate thing experienced among all siblings. So it was always a shock when my big brother bestowed his loving attention and unsolicited generosity toward me. After all, upon being able to formulate full coherent sentences, I immediately became the snitch, the mole,....the enemy to all that was sacred in sibling world. Birthdays in our house were fairly unceremonious "yeah you - Happy (whatever age you are now) Birthday". The p's appeased us on these special occasions with gifts of money versus large, overbearing parties. This was satisfying indeed - what kid couldn't use some cake and dinero? Fast forward: It is July, my brother's b-day, and all is right in the world. He's definitely in a good mood, which means peace reigns supreme over the household. (He was a very broody type). As the rest of us sat around the kitchen table watching him count out his haul, five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-one, etc., etc, - to my utter astonishment, big brother turned to me (me, the mole, the rat, the quintessential enemy of secrets) and with a flourish presented me with.....a dollar bill! I snatched at it with the precision of a pit viper, (after all, I was eight and how often would generosity like that last?). Before I could tear off like a hawk with its prey grasped firmly in its clutches, I heard my brother say: "Here (or as we say in NY "he-a") don't say I never gave you anything....And hey, don't be dumpin' that in the church collection or nothin'." My big brother...he was always thinking of the big picture and that's what I loved and still love the most about him - his keen ability to anticipate just about anything.