The Royal Wedding

When I was around 7 years old, I remember coming downstairs in the middle of the night to find my mother watching the wedding of Charles and Diana.  I didn't understand why she cared or why she was willing to sacrifice sleep to watch a wedding for a couple she had never even met.  I did wonder why the bride was wearing a dress that looked like it was trying to swallow her. 

That sucker was huge.

So thirty years later, I still can't fathom all the fuss over these royal weddings.  Friends of mine set their alarms, poured champagne, and watched with fascinated devotion.  They knew what the invitations looked like.  They had studied the guest list.  They knew the history of the horsedrawn carriage in which the bride would ride.

I caught the highlights on CNN.

I must say, as a girl not that steeped in fairytale lore, even I could recognize the Cinderella-like spectacle.  Kate was beautiful - the loyal bride toiling away for 8 long years waiting for her prince to step to the plate.  The two evil step-sisters (okay, they were really William's cousins) with their horribly ugly hats and outfits.  What was with those hats?  Don't they know the number one rule of a wedding ettiquette: never detract attention from the bride.  Those hats looked like grotesque parasitic twins.  Stacy and Clinton would be mortified.

My husband, who likes weddings not for the inherent romance but rather for the grand party after, watched about 10 seconds of the coverage before rolling his eyes and putting on ESPN.

This is why we are married.  We are just not romantic wedding people.  Perhaps I was once.  As I planned our wedding years back, I got furious with my husband over his lack of interest in the preparation - believing that he didn't value our relationship.  He gently reminded me that it was the marriage that counted, not the wedding.

And so I am more excited to watch Kate and William have children and develop a long life together as husband and wife.  My dormant romance gene always comes alive when I see the old couple walking down the street holding hands or finding my husband had charged my phone for me.  Romance is sometimes defined not by the grand spectacle, but the day-to-day. 

Although if anyone sees my husband, please let him know that flowers wouldn't kill him.

The Only Carpool Listening to "Rent"

It was my turn to drive carpool this week with 3 extra little boys in the back seat who are not mine.  We do not have a DVD player in our minivan, so music is the only thing I can use to distract my little army from hand-to-hand combat while driving home.  As the boys were extra keyed-up the other day, I quickly popped in my Rent  CD.  Instantly, everyone started banging their heads and singing:

"We're not gonna pa-ay...we're not gonna pa-ay....we're not gonna pa-ay next year's rent..."

We've been listening to Rent for most of the year, so they know several of the songs by heart.  Naturally, I've had to limit some of the selections (like the song that rhymes "sodomy" with "God and me" for instance), but they know most of the kid-friendly tunes.

When I saw the movie Knocked Up, I think I was the only person laughing in the scene where the two little girls are in the backseat fighting over music selections.

"I want to listen to Rent!" the one little girl in the move shouted.

I nearly chocked on my popcorn. 

My boys also know many of the songs from Mama Mia, Wicked and Les Miserables.  As I spend most of my days driving kids to various schools, activities, and functions, I feel it is my duty as a mother to mix up their music.  My husband on the other hand would prefer to have them only listen to classic rock.  Every time he gets in the car when I've left a CD on, the look I get could topple mountains.  He can't switch it off fast enough.

But I don't care.  I will continue to broadcast a wide array of Broadway tunes until my sons beg me to stop in their teen years.  Even then, we will have to negotiate cleaning their rooms for turning off, say, Hairspray.

It's all about leverage.

Coffee Grind Prophesies

I was pregnant with my second son when I went to one of those coffee grind psychic parties hosted by a friend of mine.  I wasn't too far along in pregnancy, so I took off my wedding ring, sucked in my stomach, and marched over to the gypsy-like woman with my empty coffee cup to see what she could glean. 

Almost instantly, the woman saw penises.  "Ohhh...dis mean you surrounded by many, many boy" (I'm not sure she had a Bosnian accent, but for purposes of the blog, I'm going with it).

I didn't know at the time that #2 baby was a boy, so I just nodded.

"Your husband (I hadn't mentioned I was married)...your husband surround by penises, too.  Lots of penises there."

If my husband didn't have 5 brothers and work 2 jobs that were all men, this statement could have been upsetting to a wife.  Again, I nodded. 

"Many many penises I see."

Now I just wanted her to stop saying penises. 

"I see boys.  No girls for you.  Dat twenty dollars.  Cash only."

When I was pregnant with my 3rd son, I went to the ultrasound convinced I was having a girl.  My mom had even hidden a tiny pink baby girl doll in her purse.  The ultrasound tech hesitated before announcing it was another boy.

I burst into tears.  My mom tried to comfort me.  My friend handed me a tissue.  And I shook my head.

"No, I'm happy!"

I couldn't have been more relieved.  I had been secretly hoping for a third boy from the time I found out I was expecting.  I didn't know how to braid hair!  I hated Barbies!  I was a boy mom!  I liked sports, mismatched clothes, and was completely incapable of finding a girl name that wasn't associated with someone who called me "Giraffe" in high school. 

Now don't get me wrong.  I would have loved and treasured any daughter that came into my life.  But it would have broken my heart to watch a child of mine go through the "mean girl" years after being a six footer myself by 6th grade and finding no reprieve from the childhood taunts.  Not that boys don't have their issues. But for that, I've got a husband who grew up with a lot of penises and seems pretty adept at all things male.

So instead, I will wait patiently for a future daughter-in-law who likes coupons and online shopping.  Perhaps we can even lunch together on two-for-one days.  Joy.

Does One Bad Friend Equal Disaster?

My husband was watching one of those intervention-type shows where a grown man was undergoing another round of treatment for drug addiction.  He was a life-long meth addict who had not only destroyed his own life, but the lives of all who loved him.  The part that caught my ear as I was folding laundry was his mother.  She was talking about how her son was always a good boy, got good grades, and was on the right track.  Then he met another kid who introduced him to the drug world.

"That's the thing," said mom, "no matter what you do, one bad friend can destroy your kid's life."

I got the chills that moment.  One bad kid?  How do I recognize a bad kid?  Do they behave only when people are looking and then whip out the crack pipe when you go get milk & cookies?  I started to sweat.  My husband realized the mistake he made having this show on within my earshot.

"Stop obsessing.  Daniel (our oldest) isn't even 7 yet."

Stop obsessing?  STOP OBSESSING?  Does he even know me?

I quickly started running through the boys' friends.  They all seemed okay, but it's hard to tell this early, right?  Should I run a background check on their families for substance abuse?  Can I come up with a form?  Would the parents be willing to submit to random drug screens? 

Now my husband turned off the t.v.

"I can hear your brain from over here.  Stop.  Now."

Maybe we can plan a trip to jail so the boys understand where drug addiction can lead?  Or we can home school!  Yes!  That's the ticket.  We'll home school!

"We're not home-schooling."

"I didn't say anything," I countered.

"I know how your brain works."

So now I'm left obsessing about my kids having "one bad friend" that could undermine the values we're teaching and the aspirations we have for our sons.

"Relax," said my husband, "they're probably not even going to have any friends with a mom like you."

From his lips to God's ears....

Three Deaf Bunnies

In a delicious show of absolute obedience, my 3 sons dutifully followed their father's directives to only to have a few bites of their chocolate Easter bunnies. 

"How much can we eat?" questioned Daniel.

"I don't know, Dan.  Eat their ears."

The message obviously trickled down the ranks:

Joey has indicated he wants to eat his bunny's "butt" tomorrow.  I'm thinking this is his way of protesting his newly potty trained status.

Mommy Meanest

I'm starting to get a rep around my neighborhood.  I yell at other people's kids.  It usually has a lot to do with sticks - big, sharp ones that look like daggers.  Kids think these are grand and run around just looking for eyes to pop out.  And so I yell.  A lot.  As in "Drop that stick before you hurt somebody RIGHT NOW."  The kids usually freeze, refuse to look at me, and drop the offending tree limb.  Within moments, another kid has picked it up and the whole process repeats.

Atheist Friend thinks I'm a lunatic.  She reminds me that we all grew up unsupervised while running around with sticks.

I don't care, so I continue to yell.  Then there are manners.  I have a strict policy on how to ask for things.  Kids in my house have a precise template of "May I please have (insert object of desire)."  Anything else is met with resistance:

Kid:  "I'm thirsty."

Me: "That's nice."

Kid:  "I want water."

Me: "I want to be young, thin, and have all my money back."

Kid (catching on):  "Pleeeease."

Me:  "Put it all together, Pee Wee."

Kid:  "May I please have a drink of water?"

Me: "After you pick up that mess of toys you left over there."

So I'm not that easy, fulfilling-every-need mom.  I personally think I'm helping my boys be better husbands one day as they will not expect a cold beer and remote control to drop from heaven when they're older.  But they will have to endure the stories at the pub in about 25 years or so....

"Do you guys remember that crazy lady at the park that was always yelling at us?  She was NUTS."

"Dude, that was my MOM."

"Geez, guy, that must have been rough.  Lemme buy the next round."

Regardless, they will all have their blurry eyes firmly in place thanks to me.

My husband tells me not to expect a thank you note.