Tag Archives: my youngest

Interview with my child: “Why I don’t like blogs”

Mom: How do you like blogs?

Child: I hate them.

Mom: Why?

Child: It is very annoying to me because my mom is being spoiled and wasting time instead of doing something useful like reading a book.

Mom: Why do you think it’s a waste of time?

Child: Because it is like a computer or Facebook and it is wasting time, not like doing something relaxing like eating lunch or doing work.

Mom: Do you think doing my work is relaxing to me?

Child: No. Because doing your work is something you have to do.

Mom: Do you not like my blogging because you feel I am not spending time with you?

Child: Yes. No. Maybe so.

Mom: What if I say this is my hobby and I really enjoy doing it?

Child: Life’s not fair. Deal with it.

Mom: That’s all?

Child: That’s all. I wanted it to end in a funny way.

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"Oh My Blog!" is the new OMG!

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This post is brought to you by Just Humor Me who shared her new OMB! Award with me. Thank you, Diane! There are rules associated with this award:

A. doing a video blog (vlogging)

B. writing a blog post while in a state of intoxication (drogging) or

C. blogging about your most embarrassing moment (embarraslogging)

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Originally I had this evil scheme of making begging Mr. Monk, my 7-year-old, to vlog for me since he’s been having a lot of fun with Flip video. I made the mistake of forgetting to use bribes not easing him into this idea, instead I ASKED HIM NICELY.

“No.” He said without even giving it another thought.  “Here’s your pencil and paper. Go!”

“What?”

“Well, you want to interview me right? Ask me questions. I answer. You write them down. Don’t you know anything about interviewing people, MOM?!”

What did he mean? Writing stuff down longhand? I haven’t done that since, well, grad school!

“How about this? How about if I write your answers down on my blog?”

“What?” He sounded rather indignant, sensing entrapment. “You want to write about me on your blog. Again?”

At the end, the exhibitionist in him won the battle.  In fact, I made the mistake of pushing forward with my REAL question:

“Do you not like my blogging because you feel I am not spending time with you?”

After he gave me the deliberately ambiguous answer which spelled out, to me, the real reason behind his discomfort with my new obsession “hobby”, he was rather upset.

“You ruined everything! I want ‘Life is not fair. Deal with it.’ to be my last line! Because I really want it to end in a funny way!!!”

So I manipulated the interview script to give him what he wanted.

“Good. Now can you print it out for me?” He couldn’t wait to show it off to his brother. “Look! These are my words!”

Later when we were getting ready for bed, he penned a poem calling his brother a Computer Geek and a Facebook Freak. Nice I know. But hey, we encourage artistic creativity in this household!

“Mom. I know what I want to be when I grow up. I want to be a writer!”

So… Who is a future blogger in the making?!…

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It is extremely hard to decide whom to pass on this award to since all of you are wonderful bloggers. This may be a tall order: Anybody up to give VLOGGING a try?

Vagina-blogging? I guess we have all (except the handful of male readers I have… I am a sexist now too, I guess…) been VLOGGING all this time.

Video Blogging. Anybody up for it?

Bueller? Bueller?

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iEXfASbPbDM

Teaching Kids Simple Words: Part 1

I have learned in my parenting career that the fewer letters there are in a word, the more the potential of it being an extremely difficult concept to explain to your child. Some small words are deceptively simple. Small words with big, heavy baggages.

Mr. Monk used the word “gay” in the bad way the other day.

As soon as he said it, he knew he did something wrong. The air froze. The earth stood still. His brother sucked in his breath and for once, was speechless.

“It’s ok. Mommy’s not mad.” I reached for his hand and walked him upstairs to his room where I could talk to him quietly, without my 12-year-old chiming in whenever I took a breath as if he couldn’t wait to start parenting himself.

“I am sorry. I know I am not supposed to use this word, unless of course I am using it the right way.”

“What is the right way of using the word?”

“Being happy?”

I had to make a split decision at that moment to decide whether I should seize the opportunity to educate him or to prolong this “shielding”. I remembered this excerpt from NurtureShock:

How to raise racist kids?

Step One: Don’t talk about race. Don’t point out skin color. Be “color blind.”

Step Two: Actually, that’s it. There is no Step Two.

Congratulations! Your children are well on their way to believing that <insert your ethnicity here> is better than everybody else.

I decided to talk about what it means to be gay, to not make a big deal out of it, in the most basic manner, especially since we do see a lot of gay characters now on TV and in the movies, for which I am pleased.

We also just finished watching Modern Family in which a gay couple was portrayed just like any other suburban couple in a sitcom.

“You know there are people who are gay right?”

He nodded.

“Do you know what it means that they are gay?

“That they are happy?” Then he chuckled in a way that said he didn’t believe his answer and he was proud at his own wittiness.

“It means that… some people when they grow up, they realize that, well, … Ok.  Instead for a man to have a girlfriend, he has a boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“And there are women who instead of having boyfriends, you know, they are in love with their girlfriends.”

At this moment as I write, I realized that I didn’t use husbands and wives. Please allow me to explain my oversight as that because I was discusssing the matter of heart and love with him at that moment, I unconsciously used the term boyfriends and girlfriends because that’s what people get when they are in love. Boyfriends and girlfriends.

I crouched down and held onto his shoulders so I could look him in the eyes.

“Did you know that I have friends who are gay?”

He looked surprised.

“I have a friend, a boy, you know, a male friend, he is gay so he has a boyfriend.” I continued. “I also have a very good girlfriend and she and her girlfriend have been together for longer than 10 years!”

“Wow.” At this his eyes widened.

“Yup. I met saw them not too long ago. They look very happy together. Actually I think they get along much better than mommy and daddy. They don’t seem to fight a lot.”

A smile.

“It must be because they are girls!” A lightbulb lit up over his head.

Then he added, quieter now, while looking down at his own feet, “Or, because they don’t have kids?”

Oy, gevalt!

Contract

My husband is out of town again. Well, since he travels 50% of the time, as dictated by his contract, there is always 50-50 chance he is on the road. He’s sort of like George Cloony in Up in the Air, but without the dashing good looks.

(Oh, I love you honey. I just need to say THAT ’cause it is not nice to brag on the Internet…)

I brought this up because I wonder whether the following would have happened if my husband were home right now.

Mr. Monk just wrote something on a piece of paper that he did not want me to see. Upon completion though, he came to me with the paper and demanded,

“Mom. Sign THIS!”

“What is it?”

“Just sign it!” He covered up the words while pushing a pen towards me. Yet another lawyer in the making. I’m going to be well taken care of in my old age…

So… what do you think? Should I sign it or not?

Sign here, please

p.s. I did “consult” with my husband regarding the proper response to this. Here’s the IM between us:

me: Hey dude
your son is making me sign a contract
which says,
get this
wair [sic] for it!
“You will never remarry somebody else other than dad”

Him: wow
cool

me: WHAT?!
WTthebeep?

Him: what if i die?

me: He’s insisting that I sign it.

Him: hehe

me: ugh
ARGH
you guys
ganging up on me

Him: do it or crush his dreams and hopes
haha

me: Thanks
I don’t have enough guilt already
You rock man.
Bye

Makeup

1.

Reading the comments people left for my last post, praising me for recognizing and questioning the rigid gender rules, in addition to feeling thankful, I am actually embarrassed. Feeling a bit like a fraud. A hypocrite.

In an ironic way, although I set out to remain anonymous so I can speak my mind on my blog, perhaps I have been putting my best face forward when I am spouting parental wisdoms: For the hours I am composing my posts, I am wise and patient; The rest of the time, I feel my way around in the dark, making horrible mistakes.

Such is the peril (merit) of knowing someone online: s/he is made up of the words they (choose to) publish.

I do struggle with how much I need to compromise on a daily basis because my kids are school-aged and they deal with realities in the school hallways, in the classrooms, on the playground. They are their own people and I no longer live their lives for them.  I feel that it is unfair, selfish even on my part, to allow (encourage?) my children to become social pariahs because of my own philosophical convictions. Because I have a point to make.

I am torn every day between wanting to challenge what pass as gender “norms” and needing to protect them. As some of us have learned the hard way, some mishaps stay with you for the rest of your school career, if not your life.

“Make sure you do not have BO. You don’t want to go down the history as ‘THAT kid with BO’. Once a rumor starts with you having BO, it does not matter whether you have BO, or whether it was just once after the gym class, because you know, you are going to be, yup, you guessed it, ‘THAT kid with BO’!” I warned my oldest, despite much eye-rolling on his part.

2.

The morning after I published the post, feeling pleased with myself. Smug even, I’ll admit.

Fuck you, world! I had declared.

Mom. 1. World. 0.

At breakfast my oldest was leafing through Mr. Monk’s notebook.

“Don’t touch my diary!” Mr. Monk reached over to secure it. (Before you are impressed that he keeps a diary, well, so far, he has only filled out ONE page. And that was a long time ago…)

“But I want to see it!” His brother grabbed a hold of it.

“NO! It’s mine! Don’t look at it!”

“Why can’t I look at it? You are saying I can’t look at it only because I want to look at it now. If I say I don’t want to look at it, you are not going to care!” My oldest, the future lawyer. I believe we have established that before.

“Just don’t touch it. It’s my diary!”

After a few more minutes of heated exchanges, I had chosen to stay out of these occurrences that happen all the friggin’ time throughout the day, my oldest delivered the throwaway punch:

“Fine! Anyway, diaries are for girls!!”

My eyes widened. I could see the steam coming out of my nostrils the mad bull into which those words had transformed me.

“What did you just say?” Disbelief. The first time I heard something like this in my household. An utterance that dared to arbitrarily dictate what a boy is not supposed to do from the mouth of my own child directed at his own brother. Ironic, isn’t it?

“Diaries are for GIRLS! He’s like a girl! Only girls keep a diary!” Words tumbled out with the intention to hurt.

By now no longer a mad bull, I was Fury Herself. “Please shut your mouth right now!” I did not mince words. Did I ever mention that I have a fiery temper?

I went on to drop my oldest off at his band practice (Our lives are full of ironies…)

“Why did you say ‘Diaries are for girls’ to your brother?”

“Because it is true. THEY ARE! And that was 10 minutes ago! Why are you still talking about it?!”

“BECAUSE I don’t want my children to grow up believing in gender stereotypes!” I know I sound ridiculous. But I do talk to my oldest in such a fashion.

“How can that be a stereotype if it is true?!”

“Why is it true? Why do you think it is true? Who gave you the right to say what is for a girl and what is for a boy? Who gave you the right to be spouting such nonsense in my house? How would you like it if someone makes fun of you because of your long hair? That you look like a girl?” I am not proud of myself but I do get carried away when debating against my oldest. Because he’s always so sure of himself, so quick to argue, I often forget that he’s only 11 3/4.

“I DON’T LOOK LIKE A GIRL!”

“How did you feel when some girls laughed at your because you are in gymnastics?”

Pause. True to his heritage as a “Last Word-er” though, he soon retorted, “It’s different!”

“Why is it different? No. I want to know why you think it is different.”

“Just because!” He’s crying now. “Fine! Diaries are for boys too, ok? And what does it matter? He‘s going to be made fun of anyway because he speaks with a British accent!”

Mom. 0. World. 1.

On some days, I just want to surrender, and curl up inside a cozy black cave. Wake me up when they turn 25 please.

3.

After watching me going through my nightly ritual of makeup removal, Mr. Monk asked, “Why do women wear makeup?”

“Because we want to look pretty.”

“So why can’t boys wear makeup?”

I couldn’t think of any legitimate reason other than, “Well, they just don’t.”

Mr. Monk walked away with my powder brush, unsatisfied with my copped-out answer.

Later my husband came in the bedroom, I repeated the question for his benefit, “Yeah… WHY can’t boys wear makeup?”

“Because their fathers will kill them. That’s why.” He summed it up succinctly.

At this moment, Mr. Monk came back to the room and asked his father, “Why can’t I wear makeup?”

“Because I will kill you. Ask Grandpa what he would do if I wore make up. He would kill me too.”

“But Michael Jackson does!” Mr. Monk protested; I looked away, trying hard not to laugh out loud.

My husband retorted, in a tone that signaled end of discussion, “Michael Jackson is dead!”

Thank goodness for dads. That’s what came to my mind as I sneaked away from this land mine of a conversation.

Raising Boys

As much as I lament the lack of girl presence in my household, I know I am blessed to have my boys. They tug at my heart even though they bruise my sides sometimes when they roughhouse; They have no control over and are unaware of their own growing limbs.  They are protective of their mother even though I am often the butt of the joke made by them. (“Ha ha. You said Butt!”) They crack me up with their antics even though at least once every day I have to use my most unpleasant voice in order to be heard.

I am a tomboy. Magenta makes me physically ill. I am scared of dolls. It is probably for the better that I do not have girls. (I know I am committing gender stereotyping here. Guilty as charged.) On the other hand, what do I know about boys that equips me with the wisdom and strength to bring them up to become upstanding world citizens?

I know there are many excellent books out there on how to raise boys so they become well-adjusted, whole persons. Raising Cain: Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys, as has been recommended to me when the kids were little, is one of them. I have to admit though, I haven’t read any of these books. I am wary of reading parenting books. It’s probably the aftermath from reading dozens of books trying to teach me the right way to get my babies to sleep through the night and every single one of them failing me. Unfair judgement and gross generalization? Probably so.

That being said, the title of the book Protecting the Emotional Life of Boys has been on my mind ever since I heard about it.

First of all, the title itself is misleading: Not only do we need to make sure we construct an emotional life for them, afterwards, we also need to make sure to nurture and protect it. The premise of the book is that boys have been pressured by this society to be isolated from their emotions, and that it is becoming more and more important, with the increasing violence committed by young men to their peers in mind, to provide our sons with a well-rounded emotional education, to allow them to learn a vocabulary of emotions to express themselves.

As much as I agree with the above statement, the way I see it, this book, and all the other books, failed to ask the first question:

WHY does the emotional life of our boys need to be protected? What does it say about the society we live in?

We need to protect the emotional life of our sons because this society we are bringing them up in is obsessed with an uber macho image of itself. Instead of challenging the hegemony, they simply took it as a given.

Frankly I am tired of this bullshit. This cliche. What defines a man in this country.

We have never told the boys to stop crying because they are boys.

We encourage reading and writing. The appreciation of arts and music.

We allow them to like and own cute stuff. (Thank you to Japanese pop culture which provides ample supplies of cute imagery and items that do not churn one’s stomach).

We allow Mr. Monk to declare that his favorite color is pink. And then purple.

We allow loving rainbows.

We still snuggle with the boys now that they are no longer toddlers.

We have always engaged in frank conversations about our emotions with the boys.

We tell them we love them every single day.

We don’t watch sports on the weekend.

We don’t push them to go outside and play ball with the neighborhood boys.

My husband does not go fishing.

My boys do not play any ball-related sports.

They watched and LOVED ice dancing, realizing what an athletic accomplishment it was.

My oldest is in competitive gymnastics, a sport, frankly, as athletic as it gets, and yet, he gets teased by girls for doing a “girls’ sport”. (Fortunately we have managed to provide him with a well-rounded emotional life that he does not care…)

I know we are considered to be “odd” in the neighborhood, our being an interracial couple aside.

Once when a neighbor dad invited Mr. Monk to his backyard to play football (or some other ball) with all the other boys, Mr. Monk looked him straight in the eye and declared, “I don’t like sports.” He turned around, walked away, and then stooped to pick up a dandelion. The poor man looked dumbfounded. I didn’t allow him a chance to show me his “sympathy”. “I don’t like sports either.” I said nonchalantly as I walked away.

I am tired of how all these experts failed to question what’s defined as properly masculine in the US society.

Why doesn’t anybody wonder WHY it is perfectly okay for a man, any man, say, to wear pink, carry a purse, comb your hair in a European and Asian society? And yet it is a NO NO here in the US of A?

What happened in the relatively short history of the forming of this country that caused this? Surely Andrew Jackson could not have done this single-handedly. Could he?

With this thorn on my back, you could imagine my excitement when I came across a book called Boyhoods: Rethinking Masculinities. Oh Boy, was I ever! Especially since it has the endorsement of Judith Butler and Tony Kushner, I couldn’t wait to read some scathing argument against the preconceived notion of masculinity and perhaps there would be some explanation on why the American society is so distinct in its homophobic tendency. Yes, it is homophobia, hand in hand with this cultural obsession with machismo. Our men are so concerned with NOT being labeled as gay that they would go to great length to prove otherwise.

I was disappointed yet again.

The author basically preaches the concept that it is ok for boys to behave feminine since some of them do. And it is ok if they are gay since most of the feminine ones turn out to be.

While I agree with 75% of the statement above, I take issue with this automatic equation between Feminine Boys = Gay

Before I go on further, please allow me to invoke “The Seinfeld Disclaimer” first: “Not that there is anything wrong with that!”

The “feminine” tendencies as identified in the book did not trigger my “OMG something is wrong with my kids”-dar at all. Perhaps because I did not grow up in this country and of course, I am not male, I do not have all these nerve endings that automatically warn me against what will inadvertently be taken as “inappropriate boy behavior”. To me, things such as “dislike for sports”, instead of being a label for femininity, should be counted towards individualities and personal quirks.

Who defines what is considered feminine vs. masculine? I am not so progressive as to suggest that donning a woman’s dress is not sufficient enough to identify a male person as “against the norm”. However “simple matters” such as the preference of certain colors (pink), activities (knitting, cooking, arts & crafts) and companions (little boys liking to play house, or other quieter play in general, with little girls) as “signifiers”? We need to stand up and cry foul. The arbitrary, rigid line needs to be challenged.

I try. As they grow older, especially as my first born looking towards entering Middle School after the summer, I fear I may be fighting a losing battle. Soon, as dictated by the reality called Living in the USA, I will need to gear up to protect his emotional life for him as he slips further and further away from his emotional self so that he could be strong enough to face his reality called School Yard.

Random pictures I took with my phone because I could

This post should be filed under “Random pictures I took with my phone because I could” and “I am swamped at work but I need to feed my Tamagotchi aka blog so I am taking the easy, FINE, lazy!, way out” and “I am taking 6:30 am flight out, again, which sucks ass, and I just did grocery shopping because there are only three things in the world that my kids would eat, cleaned up the whole house, did the dishes and the laundry, packed their lunchboxes, left notes all over the house to remind them of trash day, so my kids will NOT grow up to become serial killers, and I needed to go pack for my trip wondering what I could wear that would not make me look pregnant” …

Mr. Monk, my 7 year-old boy, told me to come over so he could give me a very important lesson.
He was very proud of himself. I, like a good mother, was very proud as well.

Mr. Monk gave me "a very important lesson" the other day...

Mr. Monk decided to write a newsletter when he first overheard about what happened in Haiti. Only that he did not know at that time it was an earthquake and not a tsunami that destroyed Haiti. (He was probably also thinking of what happened in Indonesia in 2009…) He also did not know how to spell Haiti then.

Mr. Monk decided to be a Newspaper man...

The 21st Century Phone Booth - What would Super Man do?

Yes, I took this picture in a bathroom stall...

Velcro makes it so much easier to change the price on the fly

We are all in this

Mr. Monk, my 7-year-going-on-50-old child, asked me last Friday at dinner,

“Mom, is it true that you would not be here if Martin Luther King did not give THAT speech?”

I was caught by surprise, I’ll be completely honest. Although I understand the impact Dr. King’s speech has had on the American history, culture and psyche, it has never occurred to me that what Dr. King said from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on August 23, 1963 would have material effect on my personal fate. After all, I was not even born then in 1963. What’s more, I was born in Taipei and grew up there and did not make my way to the U.S. until 1993.

I looked at my husband, and although he looked as puzzled as I was, he did give me the “a-ha” look that confirmed what was racing through my mind. Mr. Monk was right.

The Chinese Exclusion Act, a federal law enacted in 1882, was not repealed until 1943 (China was, after all, an ally during WWII…) when Chinese already residing in the U.S. were permitted to become naturalized citizens. However, it was not until the Immigration Act in 1965 when the federal law in the U.S. was relaxed enough to allow large number of immigrants, especially from the non-European parts of the world (contrary to the belief by the politicians at that time, I am sorry to point this out), to enter the country legally. The Civil Rights Movement led by Dr. King in the 1960s opened the eyes of many Americans to the rampant racism permeating the country and therefore made the passage of the Immigration Act even thinkable.

“You are right. It is possible that Mommy would not have been allowed to enter this country if the Civil Rights Movement had never happened.”

As I looked at Mr. Monk, his beautiful face, wondering what was inside that little head of his, it came to me: And there was the laws against interracial marriages!

Anti-miscegenation laws were not eradicated completely from the U.S. until 1967. As a matter of fact, as recently as in October 2009, a Justice of the Peace in Louisiana refused to officiate the civil wedding of an interracial couple, citing his concern for the wellbeing of the interracial offspring produced from such a union. (No, I am not making this shit up… I wish I were. Believe me.)

I added, “You are right. Without Dr. King, it is possible that daddy and mommy were not even allowed to get married.”

“And that means I would not even be here!” Mr. Monk said with amazement, looking pleased and proud that his existence on earth was made possible because Dr. Martin Luther King gave that speech, 47 years ago.

And he was right.

Christmas Day Rambling

The presents were all opened, displayed, oooo-ahhhed, ridiculed, and appreciated. The floors have been cleaned up, except the piles of new possessions pushed against the wall around the corners of the small family room in my in-law’s house to make room for foot traffic. And for Zhu Zhu pets, which my husband discovered online (specifically at Slickdeals where mostly MEN take to bargain shopping as a competitive sport)  to be HAWT this year. He got the children some even though they were not asking for them, probably did not even know about them JUST because everybody’s looking for them, apparently, and HE found some…  Oh, he was so excited. Score one for daddy. Yeah! (… I wish you could hear the enthusiasm in my voice…)

This post really should be called “Insert Foot in Mouth”, in reference to my earlier post “WTF Wednesday: Christmas Presents Don’t” which poked fun at the drugstore’s suggestions for “Great Stocking Stuffer!” Well…

Tis the morning of Christmas day, we jumped out of bed as soon as my youngest child, the only one who still believes in Santa, opened his eyes and sat up in bed. He rushed downstairs, looked at the presents surrounding the tree, and went into the other room to snuggle up to Grandma. Alas, Mr. Monk has learned to wait for his cousin (who along with her mother keep an entirely different schedule from the rest of us) to wake up and come downstairs before he can open the presents. Can you even imagine? A 7-year old, patiently waiting to open the presents that Santa brought, NOT even holding them up and shaking them?

As we dumped out the content in the stockings to while away the time: Candy, as usual. Mini flashlights. COOL. Chap sticks. Very useful for my unwashed, bare face. I put it on right away, laughing quietly at the post I wrote. My brother-in-law exclaimed,

“Wish we had some mini deodorants too!”

I burst out laughing. Too bad I couldn’t tell anybody why…

There is something pure and magical about how a young child’s favorite presents often turn out to be the ones least expected… Mr. Monk’s favorite items this year:

Kichen timer and mini flashlights (aka "bomb" and "detective tool")

Grandma hung up Mr. Monk's "silver ball" ornament as soon as she was presented with it...

Christmas Eve Shuffle

Every year we come back to my husband’s childhood home for Christmas. We are fortunate, I guess, in that we never have to worry/argue/agonize about splitting time between two sets of grandparents since mine are 7,500 miles away. It has become a holiday ritual:

Santa goes to grandpa and grandma’s house.

This year I let my 7 yo, Mr. Monk, pack his own backpack for the plane ride. Not surprisingly, “practical” was not his top priority…

Packed with Love by Mr. Monk



I have been doing the holiday the right way: I did not accomplish a thing since we arrived here on Monday. It certainly feels good to not have to be mindful of efficiency 24/7 because now I have plenty of time to burn… I am after all, as the British calls it, on holiday.

My mother-in-law on the other hand makes the gingerbread house, does arts and crafts, plays “pretend games”, bakes cookies, plays cards and Scrabbles, in short, provides great childhood memories for the boys. And in all honesty, things that I am not good at. I do however remain an accomplished “efficient” dishwasher, as my father-in-law commented appreciatively. Here’s the thing: I don’t mind helping out when I am at my in-laws because they are always so appreciative, making sure I know that I “don’t have to do this or that”. They actually thanked me EVERY TIME I did the dishes. Because of my own anal retentiveness, I cannot sit around watching the mess built up anyway. I volunteer to vacuum the house while they entertain the children. I consider that a more than fair trade.

There is no rest for the wicked as the cliche goes, especially on the day when baby Jesus was born: I do need to pay the piper today. Christmas Eve. An entire holiday tradition of my own: Frantically wrapping all the presents that have been arriving at my in-laws since November and accumulating in the basement. The “DO NOT ENTER” zone for my kids until December 25, aka, Santa’s Workshop…

Santa'w Workshop...

The most annoying part of “Santa’s job” is to open up all the packages, tear open the plastic wrapped around the items and discard the cardboard boxes and the said plastic thingy. Seriously, Amazon.com, have you not heard of global warming or any environmental alarm about our impending doom? You do NOT need to wrap books in that fashion: they do not break! One of the boxes has an elongated shape, and is about 4 feet tall. You wonder what it contained? A nylon kitchen spoon for my mother-in-law, wrapped in giant bubble wraps! Yes, yes, yes, I do feel guilty for being part of this… But they (Amazon.com) make it so easy to just order everything and have it shipped to my in-laws rather than lug them all the way from Chicago…

So. Now you know what I will be doing the whole day on Christmas Eve: Hiding in the basement. I only wish that Santa’s Workshop came with a bar…

If you celebrate Christmas, here is wishing you a peaceful Christmas Eve and a very Merry Christmas.

My treasured James Garfield card from The Bloggess

I think my kids are scarred by this Christmas song…

I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus*

Yeah. You know the lyrics. And seriously? This song is wrong on so many different levels…

The innocent explanation of course is that DADDY is dressed up as Santa Claus. So mommy is actually kissing daddy, only that the poor kid has no idea and is probably going to grow up with this terrible secret weighing him down and become… well, you guessed it: either a great writer or a serial killer…

As a matter of fact, my tongue was tied since my youngest is determined to still believe in Santa. That leaves me no choice but to listen, while pressing my lips hard so I wouldn’t burst out laughing, to their reactions to the lyrics…

“Is his mommy single?”

“Why is she seeing Santa Claus?”

“Is she dating Santa? He is so much older than she is. Yew…”

“Is she cheating on his daddy? Yew…”

Yew… aside, they found the video hilarious and fascinating. My youngest asked me to play this version several times this weekend. Right before bed on Sunday night, I heard both boys humming, actually trying to sing, the first few bars of the song. On Monday, when we were in the car listening to the “All Christmas Music All the Time” Channel (which is, indeed, the epitome of “Season Treason” perpetrator since they start playing Christmas music right after Halloween every year), the kids complained about the songs being played and decided to substitute with their own rendition of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus”, which went like this,

“I saw mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe last night. La la la la la (off key off key off key)…”

Then my husband chimed in, “I saw daddy kissing Santa… OOOOOPS!” Ugh. Boys.

Is it the bizarre contrast between Santa Claus, one of the most benign, trustworthy, persona and something naughty even though they are too young (and for one of them, too immature) to put their fingers on it that makes this song so fascinating?

“When you are married, you are supposed to stick together.” Back on Sunday evening, my youngest ruminated on the only lesson one could possibly get out of this.

Then finally, he declared,

“I am going to go tell daddy!”

You do that, buddy.



Later my husband told me that my youngest offered this explanation without any prompting:

Mommy is on a break from daddy, and Santa Claus is on a break from Mrs. Claus.

Can I get an Oy Vey here? Oy vey indeedy.

* This URL links to the Jackson 5 version. Remember the times? When M.J. was a normal kid? In hind sight, if I had shown the kids this version, instead of the weird animated version with the slutty-looking mom and the perv-look-alike Santa, it would probably not have caused such an alarming, albeit hilarious, brouhaha…