Category: Parenting Fails

My 8 Year Old Wants to Rule the Internet

My 8 Year Old Wants to Rule the Internet

Being the youngest of four, Lucas is a wee bit more precocious in many areas than my other kids were at the same age. He is incredibly internet savvy and can navigate around his iPod and the (parentally restricted) interwebs like a whiz. He has somehow managed to finagle his way onto both Instagram AND Facebook. I am not sure how that happened, but it has and my head is still spinning. Clearly he is a smooth talker.

His latest passion in life is to be a social media sensation. I am not certain how he plans to achieve this aim, as all his accounts are locked down and private, but he is trying like sweet hell all the same. He posts videos, songs and so many selfies I am considering changing his name to Narcissus. He is King of the Overgram.

His current entourage consists of his personal chef (me), his personal chauffeur (me), his stylist (also me) and his tour photographer (you got it – me). I am even his hairdresser…three weeks ago he talked me into bleaching his hair PLATINUM. As I am pretty much the furthest thing from a hairstylist, it looks more like a golden tamarind monkey pelt than Billy Idol’s spikes, but he loves it.

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My Golden Tamarind…I mean Billy Idol

 

On a biweekly basis we need to go into the studio to do another photo shoot for his most current “social media picture”. He takes this extremely seriously and art directs and styles all his own shoots. Then he stands over me until the stuff is retouched perfectly to his specifications. WORST boss I have EVER had.

This kid has a plan. He has the photographer. He has the style. He has me signing him up for music. It is only a matter of time before he wants me to help him make a music video. For all I know, he already has one out there. It’s only a matter of time.

They don’t cover this stuff in your prenatal classes, nor are there any books out there that I can find. Maybe I should write one, and be the new authority on the subject.  “What to Do When Your Baby Wants to Rule the Internet”, by B. Merrifield. Has a nice ring to it!

I am already shopping for my dress for the Grammies, as I am totally going. I hope he makes some money at this – I plan to buy an expensive one. Just a smidge of payback for all that hair dye.

 

Feet

Feet

It all comes down to feet.

They are like the baseline. The lodestone of my existence.

They are everywhere.

When I was expecting, there were feet in my spleen. Feet in my lungs. And oh my god were there feet in my bladder.

Later on, it was feet in my hands. Tiny, perfect newborn feet.

Then those feet swiftly became entrenched in my bed, night after night. More and more of them as the years went by.

Starting out pointing at the end of the bed, as is proper, and eventually making a 180 for the nightly ritual of kicking me right in the kisser.

Feet brought socks out, never to be seen again. Feet brought mud, sand and snow in.

These same feet kicked me, and they also snuggled in with mine.

These feet have been piggies, and they have also been piglike. They’ve also been excellent hosts. We have seen our fair share of fungi, parasites and warts.

And in the end, despite the mud, the sand, the smell and the danger, these feet bring me joy.

So, I think I can sleep balanced on the edge of the bed a little more. But all bets are off if I get booted in the nose again at 1am. Two nights in a row is my limit.

Basket Case

Basket Case

As I scrabble around the pantry this morning, attempting to pack a lunch that will end up consisting of croutons (hey! They’re just like cube shaped crackers!), pickled jalapeños, and the same apple that has travelled back and forth from school for a week, I ponder how well I’m actually doing at this parent gig.

I remember when my firstborn arrived…things seemed to be much more…well, “normal” than they are now.

Laundry was actually folded and PUT AWAY IN DRAWERS. Now, I lay hastily balled up piles of clothes on my children’s beds, where they promptly throw it all back in the hamper.

Baby food was made by hand. FROM ORGANIC INGREDIENTS, y’all. I kept a meticulous chart of first foods tried so I’d know if baby had an allergic reaction. By the time I had my fourth child, I’m pretty sure his first solid food was a six week old McDonald’s French fry. From the floor of the minivan. That he got to just before the dog did.

Perfectly coordinated clothes were worn. These days, if we manage to find a matching pair of socks, it’s worthy of a Facebook post. Last week, one of my kids went to school in a wig for three days straight. They are still calling her Afro Steve.

Homework was done. Meals were planned. Phone calls and emails were returned. People –  I even used to RSVP for birthday parties…wait for it…BY THE DATE ON THE INVITATION.

I now find myself living in a house where I regularly find hockey balls in the fridge and the dryer being used for science projects. The only place I’ve wrapped gifts for birthday parties in the last five years is in my van on the way to the party. All my tools are in the woods beside the house. My world involves a three foot tall person who is perpetually in character as either the tenth or eleventh Dr Who. And don’t even remind me about the time the kids unplugged the deep freeze so they could plug in all the Halloween inflatables in the basement…

As I pack that well travelled apple back in to the lunch pack for the tenth time, thinking about my failings as a nurturer, a smallish, sticky person comes up and says to me- “Mom, I hate your lunches. But I love you anyway.” And I realize, that maybe, just maybe I’m doing ok at this mother shtick.

Being a bit of a basket case has become situation normal. And I love it. Give me a little nuts over a lot of ordinary any day.