Their Mother Did What?

by Julie Davidson

It’s easy to look at our own parents and think how badly they messed up. But really even at their worst did you ever consider suing them?

There are two adult children (23 and 20) who tried to sue their mother. Their claim? Emotional distress. That distress came from incidents in which the mother told her son when he was seven that she was going to call the police if he didn’t buckle his seatbelt. And he also was upset that some of his birthday cards did not contain cash or a check.

The younger sister apparently had it bad. Her mother once called her at a homecoming party at midnight and told her to come home. It gets worse: This same mother refused to take her daughter to a car show.

I never thought I’d get hauled into court. I have however worried that my boys will get me on the Dr. Phil show. They’ll both be seated across from me, and Dr. Phil will be between us. One of the boys will refer back to their childhood and say, “Our mom would get upset and tell us that when we grew up she was gonna come over to our house at 6:30 in the morning, pee in her adult diaper, and cry until we let her in to give her cereal.”

Dr. Phil would suck in his breath and have that 10-second pause for affect. Then his shiny head would turn to me, and in that signature Texan drawl Dr. Phil would ask, “How’s that workin’ out for ya?”

Okay, so if my kids were truly going to take me to court for emotional distress, I guess I should prepare my list. Well, I made Miles wear tennis shoes he decided he no longer liked. And they were brand named, poor thing. I told Maxon that hot dogs would no longer be suitable for breakfast. And being the meanie I am, I always insist they both wear helmets when bike riding and skateboarding. I am awful, I know. It’s shameful, but I have been a stickler for brushing their teeth and taking vitamins. I can only imagine the lasting torment I bestowed upon them for demanding they wear hats and gloves in the winter.

Man I hate to sound like my parents, but I can’t help it. “Wait til you have your own kids. You’ll see.”

Do Moms Really Read This Stuff?

by Julie Davidson

Two years ago, I was thrilled to be asked to join a book club. Not because I like reading. Seriously, I still like picture books. But this group of women is really cool. So, when they asked if I wanted to join I was all over it.

The month Gina was hosting book club she sent out an e-mail about the book she wanted us to read. She said the book had cussing. And crime. And sex.” Great…now our husbands may want to join. The title of the book was G Spot. Gulp.

So there I was, wondering how I was gonna get the book. The library? It would be my luck to get to the check-out and realize my card was expired. Meanwhile, the librarian would have the book on the counter in plain sight while she updated my card. And I could see her giving me quick looks of disapproval, calling me a pervert in her mind.

If I ordered the book in the mail, it would get delivered while I was at work. It wouldn’t fit in the mail slot, so the delivery person would take it to Kyra’s house next door. Then I’d have to get it from her, and before she’d hand it over to me she’d undoubtedly ask what it is. I can here the conversation now. “Oh that looks like a book. What’s the title?”
She’s a huge reader so lying isn’t really an option, so I’d tell her. “It’s called G Spot.”

Then there would be this awkward 10-second pause before I’d tell her it’s a gag gift for a bachelorette party. Then she’d smile and tell me that it sounds like the perfect raunchy gift for such an occasion.

Whatever. I decided I would just go to Barnes and Noble Sunday after church. Yeah. I’ll ask for forgiveness then get to sinning.

There we were, kids in tow at the bookstore. Charles told me to get the book. I reminded him of the title, and he quickly took the boys to the kids’ section. Okay that part is taken care of. I mean I really don’t need the boys saying, “Hey how come the lady on the cover is kind of naked? I see boobs.”

I had no clue where to find the book, so I headed to the check-out I usually go to. Great. It’s a guy. I suddenly felt really dirty. I asked him, “Um, do you have the book, G Spot?”

He asked for clarification. “The name is G Spot?” Oh God. I should have gone the mail order route.

“Yes, that’s the title.”

He gets on his computer and I’m standing there beginning to get flushed. I mean, it was worse than waiting to see if you have exceeded your credit limit as you make a purchase.

He looks up from his computer and points to another counter that I need to go to. Then he gets on his walkie-talkie thing and says, “Customer assistance lower level.” He said something else that I didn’t understand, and I was convinced that it was code for “dirty book purchase.” Perfect. Now all the employees can look at the forty-something lady that is buying the steamy read.

As I head over to the “dirty book” counter I see an older couple heading over too. I walk slowly, hoping they will go ahead of me, but they motion for me to go first. I meet the new customer service guy. I really don’t want to have to say the name of the book. It’s like a drug deal or something. The best I could muster was, “I was told you could find a book for me.” He gives me a look like he wants to say, “Yeah. That’s what we do here. We sell people books.”

He didn’t say that but did ask me the name of the book. Oh no. And the old people are behind me.

“G Spot.” I tell him. He looks up at me like he doesn’t understand me.

“I’m sorry. Say again?” He asks.

On top of being embarrassed, I am getting upset. I’m thinking to myself, Say again? No I don’t want to say it again! Give me the book!”

I very curtly replied, “It’s called G Spot.”

He began typing away on his computer. It looks like we have a copy. You need to go back to that other counter.”

What the…? Aren’t they paid to get books for people? Oh I get it. If you want a “dirty book” you have to get it yourself. Like bagging your own groceries at the discount grocery stores.

So five minutes into my smut book journey I’m back where I started. Now the first guy to help me sees me at the counter and turns to the shelf behind him. I feel very dirty. Not to mention my kids are in the same store.

At this point I have very little dignity left so I ask the guy,” Is the book back there behind the counter because it’s dirty?”

He told me no. He explained they changed the store around and had to move inventory. That helped salvage some of my dignity.

I’m not a prude. Really. But I kept feeling that as a mom I shouldn’t be reading that kind of stuff. Ridiculous. I know. But I will say searching for, buying, and reading a Dr. Seuss book was far less stressful.

And the Countdown Begins

by Julie Davidson

August: It’s the new December. It feels like every weekend there is an event.  Weddings, reunions, and end of summer season trips fill the month. And then-bam! The kids are back in school.

But even in this hectic time of transition there is a certain amount of excitement. My boys return to school tomorrow, and I love to see how excited they are. We were at orientation tonight and they were high-fiving their friends. There were giggles and smiles all around. And armpit fart noises. Not my favorite thing, but I’ve convinced myself it’s like dogs sniffing other dogs. You know, saying hi and happy to see you again.

I asked Miles what he liked most about school. He had a list. “The backpacks. The teachers are nice. We have pets in our classroom. I get to see my friends.”

And plenty of parents are equally excited. The stay-at-home moms are all over Facebook. Some are posting about how many days until the kids go back to school. Others are detailing what they will do first as they venture out with no kids in tow. I have a picture in my mind of certain moms I know starting an early happy hour followed by a stop at the nail salon. Last week I came across a woman in a grocery store who was doing the happy dance like you wouldn’t believe. I kid you not. She was grinning from ear to ear and something told me she was counting down the days until school started. She showed no shame in her game. “My kids are in college, and every time this year I do the same dance.” And she headed off the alcohol section.

A lot of moms who are working outside the house are happy too. With the kids back in school, they don’t have to shell out loads of money each week for camp and daycare costs. Not to mention trying to find things to keep the kids busy all summer. Scheduling three months of activities can be like a game of Twister gone bad. The idea of a regular routine brings a huge sense of relief.

Even the camp counselors are ready for the kids to go back to school. Today was their last day, and I hear they were pretty lenient on the rules.

Makes me wonder who else is looking forward to this transition time. The mail carriers? Definitely. Because now they won’t be bombarded by kids asking a bunch of questions when they drop off the mail. The neighbor? That’s a no brainer. Far fewer soccer balls will be launched over to their side of the fence. The ice cream truck guy? Of course. That’s just a part-time gig for him, and by the third week of June he was tired of counting out all the piggy bank change-in coins. Which makes me think about the people at the bank. Yeah, they aren’t so keen on kids griming up shiny glass counters and messing with their neat stacks of deposit slips.

Okay. It’s time. But just to shake things up should we start counting down the days til next summer? Are you with me? Anyone?

Are You Sure You Don’t Have One of These?

by Julie Davidson

There’s just so much curiosity about bodies with my boys. Which is why I stopped sharing a bathroom stall in public places with them.
I have never been a fan of sending them alone in the men’s room. So, for a while I took them with me into the restroom for women. In order to save time and not have anyone lock themselves in a stall, we’d all cram into one.

Well, the last time we did this ritual my youngest son used the toilet first. Then my oldest. Finally it was my turn. As soon as I assumed my squat position my youngest son went to the back of the toilet to get a view-of my back side.

He sounded confused as he asked, “Where’s your penis?”

Oh man. I was just trying to pee without hitting the back of my pants in this cramped position. Suddenly my concentration was broken. In my mind I imagined what the lady in the next stall was thinking, “Well, where is your penis?”

While this line of questioning took place, my oldest was trying to get out of the stall. I had one hand on the door, trying to keep it shut and the other on my youngest pulling him away from behind me as he keeps looking at my butt. It was like a really bad version of the game Twister. Only this version had a child repeatedly saying, “Mom, I wanna see your penis!”

“I don’t have a penis!” I finally told him.

I don’t know if I have the vocabulary to describe the look on his face. I think horrified would be best. “You have to have a penis! Otherwise you can’t pee!”

All I wanted was to get in and out of there as fast as I could. Now I was forced to break down the anatomy of girls and boys. And honestly I wasn’t so sure I was qualified to do that.

So when taking the boys into the women’s restroom became a traveling side show I decided it was time they use the men’s room. Now I stand as close to the door as I legally can, and in a loud voice say, “Hey guys everything okay? There aren’t any wierdos in there are there?” More times than not I get stares from adult men leaving the bathroom, but trust me, it keeps the weirdos away.

Let the Shopping Begin!

by Julie Davidson

It’s got a list that’s longer than most holiday shopping lists. It’ll run you half your paycheck. And there’s a good chance your blood pressure, mood, and disposition will be affected by it. Yep. Back to school shopping.

Please know this is not a rant about schools or teachers. My mother, father, husband, brother, and friends are teachers. This, rather, is an admission of how suddenly I realize how disorganized and possibly inept I am.

Now, maybe my memory is bad. Yes. It’s definitely bad. But I swear when we were kids, all we bought when we went back to school were a few pencils, a couple notebooks, and the kind of Elmer’s Glue that got jammed up after the first time you used it.

At first glance, my son’s school supply list didn’t look menacing. But when I started to read the fine print, it was kinda like a map. Have I mentioned my dislike for maps? I never know where I am and therefore have no idea how to get to my destination. Much like my yearly school supply shopping trip.

Here’s a little sample of the list:

1- pink eraser. They come in packages of 2.

2 -16 pack of Crayola Crayons. This is the third year in a row that I have paced up and down the crayon aisle for at least 15 minutes in search of the 16 pack of crayons before I say screw it; we’re buying the 24 pack. They can take out eight crayons. Yeah, it can be part of their math unit.

2 -2 plastic folders with no prongs. No prongs? Please, please let me buy the kind with prongs. That’s all I can find. Please.

1- Ultra fine tip black Sharpie. Do not confuse this with the fine tip Sharpie. Kids with Sharpies? Need I say more?

5- single-subject, wide-ruled, 70-page notebooks: 2 red, 1 blue, 1 green, and 1 yellow. You have to be kidding. I cannot find a yellow one. I did however buy a lovely purple one. Purple however, is not on the list.

We have been obsessed with finding that yellow notebook. Make that I have become obsessed. My husband went out and bought a three-subject yellow notebook. After I told him that it needed to be a single subject notebook, he tore out the dividers and proudly announced, “There. Problem solved.”

Oh no. Need I remind him of the “bag violation?” It happened three years ago when our oldest was entering K-5. We were both at school to see the boys off for their first day. It’s a flurry of activity. Weeping children. Weeping parents. Supplies everywhere. Kids scoping out their new digs for the year.

I was getting our son settled when my husband informed me that the bag we had for his extra clothes was too big. “The teacher said this bag is too big. It will never fit in his cubby.” I could hardly utter a word. How could this be? I searched really hard for that huge, oversized Ziploc bag. Sure, it was like a sandwich bag for King Kong, but all his stuff was in there. I felt like a failure. A bag violation? Poor kid. The wrong bag-on the first day no less. Bad Mommy.

I don’t know if we want things to be perfect for our kids or for us. Or both. I think we just want a smooth transition as a new year begins. And as silly as it seems for some of us that means getting that list right. So we bought a bigger than asked for notebook, a larger crayon box than was on the list, and that extra purple notebook. Sounds like a high class problem to me. I can afford the supplies, my kids go to a great school with good teachers, and they like school.

But if I see a single-subject, wide-ruled, 70-page yellow notebook, I’m grabbing it!

The Things They Tell Us

by Julie Davidson

Camp has been alot of fun for the boys. Sports, games, swimming, songs, and field trips have filled their summer days. But for me, it’s the stories they share with me. And not because I’m living vicariously through them. Well, not completely. It’s just seeing how excited they are to tell me things.  It’s like a kiddie soap opera… Days of our Summer, All My Campers, General Sports Camp.

There’s always some kid who bring cool stuff to camp. “Mom, there’s a guy who brings a cell phone to camp. But it doesn’t have batteries so he can’t call anyone.” Note to self: Must thank that parent.

And once a week, they tell me that there are older girls who think they’re cute. They no longer like this as “cute” is synonymous with small and young. Apparently they are oblivious to the fact that they are still both.

And there are a ton of people who have crushes on other people. “Our counselors have a crush on each other and are getting married. Something tells me the counselors are unaware of this arrangement. And every week there are details of a new crush.

Oh, and there’s a guy named George who lives in the trees at camp at night. He walks around and tries to eat little kids under 18. Okay, a bit creepy, but I guess it will keep them out of trees after dark.

And I can’t wait to meet the older camp friend who has a six-pack and shows it off daily. This is who I have to thank for my boys wanting to do 100 sit-ups a day. I showed my younger son my stomach, and he shook his head in disappointment and told me, “Mom, that’s a one-pack.”

Of course my boys heard some naughty words at camp. It would be hypocritical to get upset as I am certain they have heard those same words at home once or twice. Maybe three times.

One of the best pieces of inside information was that they had a secret fort. They even told me the passwords: “Money Man” and “Astronaut”. It sounded kind of sophisticated in that they had different rankings like Managers and Assistant Managers. My youngest told me he was allowed in because his older brother was a member. Hmmm…..sounds like Nepotism to me. No worries, as the counselors found out and put a kibosh on that. Squashing exclusivity? I like that.

Kids don’t always tell you what you want to hear. But to some extent, as parents we need to hear it. And I hope they don’t stop talking with me. Seriously. Bad language, endless crushes, and six packs? This is so better than Jersey Shore.