November 9, 2006

Wednesdays: Bible Club, Smelly Van and Pink Thong

My minivan is never clean and fresh, but it smells particularly putrid on Wednesday afternoons when I drive six fifth-graders from Bible Club to their various homes. An attractive younger mom has volunteered to teach the boys for several years now. Mrs. Sally does it either out of the kindness of her heart or a guilty conscience. Based on what I know of her, I’m betting it’s the former.

Mrs. Sally doesn’t have a ten-year-old, but she is blessed with a tremendous faith that is amply rewarded each Wednesday. I can tell because she lets the boys play in the nearby creek before their Bible lesson. Most parents would insist that the boys listen to the Word and then search for crawdads. In my experience, even the most assertive mother requires divine intervention to get thirteen boys out of a creek and in a circle to listen to a Bible lesson without resorting to tears, threats or cussing.

When Bible Club is over, Mrs. Sally (with help from the Holy Spirit) has each boy collect his belongings and gather at the end of the driveway to wait for their carpools, which they do with a normal amount of jostling and yelling, which seemed to shock Mrs. Sally at first. God has since fitted her with holy earplugs and the ability to step out of the way of a particularly vicious shove.

Finn and his friends get in the van, accompanied by the smell of wet sneakers, armpits that have never seen a streak of Right Guard, shirts that have escaped the laundry, and a thousand other noxious odors. This is when I apply my minty Pout lip gloss that masks the smells for the twenty-five minutes it takes to get everyone home. It also allegedly plumps up my lips, but no one in the van has ever remarked on this phenomenon.

Inexplicably, as soon as all my riders have crammed themselves into the van, they start talking in faux English accents. The minivan strains to make it up the steep hill towards the first house, and the accompanying chatter goes something like this:

“Henry, old chap, could you get your backpack out from under my butt?”

“I daresay it’s that your gluteus maximus is atop my backpack, Bo. Remove your gluteus maximus at once.”

“Mrs. Glamore, dear lady, might we hear some tunes from your iPod? Perhaps some Green Day?”

“Gross! I mean, that seems like a rather nasty choice to me. I would much prefer to listen to the latest by Hinder, if you please.”

“The driver has no Hinder. I asked last Wednesday when you were ill.”

I have no idea where the accents came from, but it’s jolly good listening.

Once we reach the top of the hill and make a left, however, all thoughts of Britain are gone. Everyone in the van, including me, is consumed by one thought: pink thong panties.

The pink thong panties lie discarded near the gutter by Henry’s driveway. They’ve been there for weeks. As I turn into the driveway, all the boys lean to the left, seeking a glimpse of magenta cotton.

I try various strategies to divert their attention.

“Back in your seats, guys,” I yelled the first time I was aware of the presence of the panties, “before the van tips over and we’re all smushed! Even weight distribution is vitally important for a safe ride!” It’s not, really. My motherly instinct kicked in, wanting to prevent them from seeing the wadded up panties, although we all knew they were there. It didn’t work.

I still felt that I had a duty to try something– anything– to prevent them from seeing girlie underwear lying discarded by the street, so the next week I sped up as we got to the driveway, executed a sharp right turn, and bounced up the asphalt, scraping a trench into the road with the bike hitch and giving everyone whiplash. After all that, they still saw the panties when I made a somewhat more careful exit out the driveway.

The next week I discovered that screaming as if I had been shot did not draw the boys’ attention away from the shrubbery and underwear and onto me as I had intended. Their sharp eyes spotted the thong, which had been exposed to the elements for over a month, although it was not as bright a pink, and was starting to be covered by falling leaves.

“There! I see them! It’s the thong panties! Hey, Mrs. Glamore, when you come back down the driveway, can you drive really, really slow? Please?”

“Pink panties! Pink panties!”

“Someone should get out and grab them and we can make Henry wear them on his head!”

“No, put them on over your pants and walk around like a girlie man!”

“A girlie man with a bikini on!”

“It’s not a bikini, it’s a thong.”

“There’s no difference, it’s all underwear.”

I glanced over at Finn as the last comment came from the back seat and heard him mutter to himself, “Actually, there’s a lot of difference between a bikini and a thong.”

That was it for me. The next morning after Jazzercise, I went to Henry’s with a shovel and a grocery bag. I scooped up the thong, deposited it in the bag, and dumped the whole thing in the trash.

I daresay we’ll have to content ourselves with some funny accents and Green Day from here on out, eh, chaps?

November 6, 2006

My Name Is Anne Glamore And I Am A Member Of Curmudgeons Anonymous

I rarely write about topics I consider too saccharine, and my last story about the notes the boys have left for the Tooth Fairy lately came mighty close to being cloying, in my opinion.

None of you seemed to think so.

This caused me to take a hard look at myself and the stories I write, and I realized that they are not necessarily happy and uplifting. Some are smelly. I’ve written depressing tales and I’ve related episodes in which I actively discouraged the boys from bringing other imaginary creatures that required work on my part into the house. I’m ashamed to say that this website even has sex and violence, often committed by me.

It would be fair to characterize me as a bit of a curmudgeon when I write. It’s no wonder that some readers have commented that they were not aware that there are pleasant aspects to childrearing, because more often than not I have made the process sound dreadful and cumbersome.

Therefore, I have resolved to try and bring more rainbows and butterflies to the page in the future to give a more balanced picture of parenthood and encourage procreation, which is always tremendous fun.

Exhibit 1: Finn Being Non-Argumentative and Quiet

Exhibit 2: Drew and Porter Being Still (Rare Photo)

I will be on the lookout for other evidence that raising children can be a peaceful and heartwarming experience, and will present them as they occur.

November 1, 2006

In Which Bill Is Right

Our children are big believers in any fantastical creatures that can visit your house throughout the year and leave gifts. I had a bit of a problem preventing elf-mania from taking over our household last Christmas, but I lucked out. And don’t think I miss the irony in having a child who knows all about sex yet still professes to believe in Santa.

Additionally, the boys like to write notes for Santa, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy, quizzing them about their diet, their habitat and other random facts. In my view, a smart parent will take those notes, carefully date them on the back, and file them away for safekeeping so you can pull them out in twenty years and remember how precious it was when Sammy asked for a machete for Christmas.

Bill believes that these notes should be answered, despite the many dangerous issues raised by the practice. What if the child wakes while the note is gone? What if the child recognizes handwriting or a turn of phrase? What if the answers given to one child are inconsistent with those given to another? I have voiced each of these concerns in the past and have succeeded in convincing Bill to take the notes and run.

However, the boys are getting older. Last week Finn confided to Bill that he had detected several black hairs in his armpit, and maybe one near his willie. The next day Finn lost a molar and left it, along with a lengthy questionnaire, under his pillow for the Tooth Fairy.

In light of the possible pubic hair sighting, Bill grew misty-eyed over the thought that his days as the Fairy were coming to an end. He delivered a dollar, returned with Finn’s note, and demanded that I respond to it.

“What the hell?” I asked. “You know my position on this. It’s foolhardy. Plus, the kid already knows about sex. You don’t really think he still believes in the Tooth Fairy, do you?”

“What does the Tooth Fairy have to do with making sweet love, honey?” Bill asked. “Not a damn thing. Our kids are getting older and we won’t have these years forever. We’ll be in our rocking chairs at the old folks’ home drinking iced tea and you’re going to wish we’d answered these letters when our boys were little.”

“Okay Mr. Old Folks,” I conceded. “You can answer it.”

“But you’re the writer,” Bill begged. “You’re so great at this stuff. I can’t think of anything to say.” He looked at me pleadingly.

“I won’t do it,” I said.

“You will,” Bill said, “because I’m such a talented Fairy that I took all your New Yorkers and I’m holding them hostage until you answer Finn’s note.”

I glanced by my bed and swore. All that was there were the remnants of the Sunday Times and a tattered Us Weekly.

“Hand it over,” I said darkly. I looked at the note.

Finn had asked all kinds of questions. The damn thing looked like an employment application. I had law school exams that took less time to complete.

I grabbed a pen and in fairy-like writing, painstakingly began filling out the form. When I was done, I had created Tooth Fairy Queen Helene, female occupant of Cloud #9. Bill tried to fall asleep while I answered the questions on the Tooth Fairy’s behalf, but I stuck a washcloth under some cold water and slapped it on his belly and this kept him wide awake so he could suffer, too. Here’s the finished product:

(click to enlarge)

This took place the same day as my day of beauty, which is why the Tooth Fairy ended up with the name Queen Helene. And as long as I was undertaking the project, I got in a few digs about Finn’s spelling and his messy room. Sighing, I handed the note back to Bill.

“This is the dumbest thing I have ever done as a parent,” I said.

Bill didn’t share my attitude. He read my answers and howled. “You’re awesome, honey!” he said. “Finn will love this! How do you think this stuff up?”

Before Bill put the note back under Finn’s pillow, I insisted that he accompany me to the basement to scan the document so we’d have a record of the Tooth Fairy’s answers. That way she could be consistent if questioned closely again. Bill thought scanning the Tooth Fairy letter was a bit much, but I wanted to be certain the Tooth Fairy had a stable identity.

Scanning the note was a brilliant idea. The next day Drew’s orthodontist recommended that he have two teeth pulled as soon as possible. Two nights later, Bill was the Fairy again, and returned to the bedroom with yet another note.

Drew’s letter was actually pretty cute, and much less like a government document. The stars and picture were endearing and made a much better impression on me.

I took the note to the basement and looked up my answers to Finn’s questionnaire, and then filled out Drew’s. I was consistent, yet I added a few interesting details about Queen Helene’s life.

The following week Porter broke his front permanent tooth in half during gym. Drew, ever resourceful, retrieved the broken piece and accompanied Porter to the health room where they called Bill after they were unable to reach me. According to Bill, Porter was upset that his tooth would be glued back together immediately, and that he would not be allowed an evening to leave the shard under his pillow, collect on it, and then submit it for reconstruction.

When they came home, Finn and Drew were equally mad, because while Porter was at the dentist, they’d assembled a paper plate full of miniature marshmallows and had a cup and tea bag ready to make tea for Queen Helene’s visit. I made Bill break the news that Porter’s tooth was whole again and that Queen Helene would not be flying over that night.

Although I thought answering the notes would surely reveal the Tooth Fairy’s true identity, so far the boys have not appeared to catch on.  Finn has lectured his brothers about the importance of never asking a lady her age, as it is impolite, so at least they learned some good manners from the whole thing.

I never thought I’d say it, but I’ve actually enjoyed the whole experience. Watching the boys set out tea and marshmallows for Queen Helene was entertaining.

Bill is right.

These days won’t last forever.