Tag Archives: things kids say

What I learned from the Olympics*… *Not what you think

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We have been watching the Winter Olympics. I didn’t plan to. But what’s not to love really? Finally something on prime time that does not involve dead bodies, sexual predators, or its own mythologies.

Naturally I gravitated towards Ice Dancing and Figure Skating. (No, I don’t really want to engage in a debate about how Ice Dancing does not count as a sport and should not even be included in the Olympics. Thank you very much).

Last Sunday though, we caught a glimpse of the Super-Combined and the boys and I were hooked. We don’t ski. Skiing has never entered my mind as a recreational option despite our proximity to some relatively inexpensive hills in Wisconsin. The word “skiing” conjures up images of Vail and the fancy schmancy aura surrounding “Skiing resorts” in my psyche. Memories of seeing people refusing to do away with their lift tickets still hanging on their zipper pulls long after their last skiing trip without any hope of ever going back again this season.

What was shown on TV was exhilarating. The commentators were talking about Bode Miller as this Comeback Kid. Everybody loves a good comeback story. So we held our breath as he rushed downhill. The camera at one point cut to his mother, I assume, with her hand to her mouth watching her son intently, perhaps with a bit comprehension. The camera zoomed in further to try to catch an emotional moment. Everybody loves a good human interest perspective in the games of sports.

With his eyes still on the screen, my oldest commented,

“You know, when I or [my brother] go to the Olympics? You have to remember that you are always on camera. So you have to remember to look good all the time. Don’t let the camera catch you tweeting or Facebooking! That’s the lesson we should learn here.”

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Our job goal as far as our kids are concerned as parents is to never embarrass them. I am sure with me as a mother THIS is constantly on his mind. Later when one of the athletes crashed on the snowy course and thus dashed his dream for any medal, for yet another human interest angle, the camera mercilessly zoomed in on the father who buried his face in his hands, leaned his forehead against the fence, visibly shaking.

My preteen reached across the sofa, grabbed both of my hands, and besought me,

“Promise me. You will never do that! Don’t cry like that if we lose. Promise me!”

I simply laughed. For sure, this is a promise I will not be able to keep…

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I also learned that athletes for Winter Sports live on the wild-er side, and they either have no mental filters because they are so adorably honest, or they are simply really really high, like “high”, when they are on the high mountains…

Read this quote from Norway silver medalist Odd-Bjoern Hjelmeset as reported in Sports Illustrated… and tell me if it is not one of the best…

“My name is Odd-Bjoern Hjelmeset. I skied the second lap and I f—– up today. I think I have seen too much porn in the last 14 days. I have the room next to Petter Northhug and every day there is noise in there. So I think that is the reason I f—– up. By the way, Tiger Woods is a really good man.”

(Sports Illustrated Writer’s note: By far the craziest quote released by the VANOC information desk over the past 13 days.)

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Or this quote from Graham Watanabe, a snowboarder from the U.S.

“It’s feeling a lot more like this is my first Olympics. Try to imagine Pegasus mating with a unicorn and the creature that they birth. I somehow tame it and ride it into the sky in the clouds and sunshine and rainbows. That’s what it feels like.”

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Update: Naptime Writing had written in a post “Lessons from the Olympics” which has a list of the things she learned about human nature from this Olympics that was observant, profound, hilarious at the same time. Knowing my readers, I just want to emphasize hilarious. I was grateful that she commented on the “fake flesh-colored” costumes worn by the skaters to make them look like they are wearing skimpy outfits when actually they are not. So it’s not just me.

Do you know what you are reading to your children?

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Do you really know? I mean, really really? Do you know what you are reading them and how they are hearing what you are reading them?…

I was browsing through the Costco “magazine” (what sadly passes as reading material for me nowadays) in bed when my oldest came to snuggle with sit by me. Not wanting to stop this rare moment, I tried hard to engage him in conversations.

“You like 2012 right?” The DVD is featured in the magazine because it is a shopping catalogue in disguise.

“Oh. That movie is AWESOME!” For my son, things can be easily divided into two groups: Things that are awesome; things that sucks.

I pointed to the DVD for the movie Where the Wild Things Are directed by Spike Jonze (of the Being John Malkovich fame). “Dad said the movie is actually quite good. He saw it on the plane. We should watch it sometimes.” Having two boys five years apart in age, I am constantly searching for movies that will appeal to both of them and are age-appropriate. To be honest, I aim for semi age-appropriate now because the picking is just slimmer than a meth addict on a super model diet. I bet Mr. Monk has watched more PG-13 movies than any other 7-year old in the suburbs.

“Oh. I know what it is about. It is based on the book Where the Wild Things Are…”

Yeah. I was thinking. You and every other person older than three know what this movie is about. Duh.

“It is about this boy who got into trouble. He ran away from home to live with the monsters, and the monsters tried to kill him.”

“What?” I sat up to look at him. “Are you serious? No. Seriously. Is that what you think the book is about?”

“Uh huh. I told you. I have read this book. It was about this boy who went to live with the monsters, then he became homesick. And when he tried to leave, the monsters threatened to kill him. They said, ‘We will eat you up!'” He said, with even more conviction this time.

I laughed, yet at the same time, I was becoming more and more alarmed.

“No, dude. You are just being smartie pants, right? You don’t really think that’s what this book is about, right?”

“I am SERIOUS! That’s really the story! You don’t know anything, mom!”

Mr. Monk walked into the room at this time. I asked (with gnashed teeth) my oldest to not say anything about the book to his younger brother since I really don’t need two traumatized kids on my hand. I asked Mr. Monk whether he knows the story.

“I have the book. I’ll go get it!”

The three of us sat in bed while I read the story out loud. Just like I once did when they were much younger. I remember this book being one of the favorite books for both boys at around the same age.

When we got to the part where Max says goodbye to the Wild Things,

“Oh please don’t go — We’ll eat you up —“

“See? What did I tell you?!” Triumph in his voice now, my oldest moved in for the kill, “And see here? They were threatening to eat him!”

One of the most beloved children's books... What have we done?!

To think that I used to read this book to him before he went to bed. Many many nights.

p.s. No boys were harmed, physically or psychologically, in the making of this blog post.

Contract

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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

Trouble Maker? You talking to me?

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Sometimes I wonder whether the teachers talk about the parents amongst themselves. I would probably be known as “Trouble Maker”. My favorite moment was when I confronted approached the principal at the Thanksgiving Feast:

“Could I safely assume that the headpieces the children are wearing are ‘turkeys’ and not ‘head dresses’?” I used the quotation marks and I gave him an “I am just kidding, but only half” look.

“Huh? Ohh. I am sure they are turkeys…” Well, he did not sound so sure. He sounded surprised. I was surprised that HE was surprised. You mean, nobody else but me wondered about THAT? Anyway, he’s been put on notice and he seems scared to see me ever since. I can hear him inside his head, “Oh. For crying out loud. What now?!” Fortunately for all of us, I work full-time and I hardly ever go to school.

Today I wrote an email* to my 6-grade-son’s teacher:

Dear Mrs. G,

D told me yesterday about Heather’s big birthday party bash. She has apparently invited the whole class to her house from 2 to 8 pm. It sounds like it is going to be an awesome party. The IT party of their childhood before they go off onto Middle School.

Being a pain in everybody else’s neck, I asked D whether all seven girls in the class actually do hang out with each other.

“Does anybody get left out? You know, it’s going to hurt a lot if one of them gets left out seeing how few girls you have in your class.”

I don’t know why. Nobody gave me the job of being purveyor of social justice. Like I said, I am just a pain. Probably born that way. I am sorry… Really. I am. Because I make troubles whenever I send you an email.

At my question, D paused and said, “Well, she sort of invited the whole class. Except one.”

“What? Who?” But I already knew the answer, based on things D has told me in the past.

“Charles Wu was not invited.”

“And she gave out the invitations to everybody else in class? Does Charles know about this?”

D’s eyes turned red.  “Yeah. I think he knows.”

“We play with Charles during recess and we are nice to him.” He continued, his eyes getting redder. “I guess all that is just skin deep…”

I am not writing to ask you to talk to Heather about any of this. On the contrary. It will probably worsen Charles’ status on the food chain. Besides, if she is indeed forced to include Charles, I shudder at the thought of what’s going to happen to him at the party. Probably nothing. Exactly nothing. Nobody would talk to him or play with him. Indifference is the most hurtful thing one human being can do to the other.

I am writing, in addition to me being a pain, to let you know the situation in case Charles seems down lately. I am sure you have seen THIS many many times in your years of teaching. So please tell me I am making too big a deal out of this. (Yeah, I know. I wish I did not read Lord of the Flies either…) Please tell me that they all survive, that they all walk out of this unscathed. But I know, I never forget what happened to me in elementary school. And it still hurts because nobody talked to me about it when it was happening.

Sincerely,
[Me]

* Names have been changed to protect the innocent. Just in case.

We are all in this

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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.

The Golden Rule

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I can’t remember exactly what started us discussing the Golden Rule at the dinner table. Probably had something to do with the constant bickering between the two of them.

“Remember the Golden Rule? What is the Golden Rule?” I wheedled.

“I know: it’s something like ‘Love thy neighbors’.” My oldest has the knack of answering any question with utter conviction without knowing anything about it. I hope he goes into law or politics so as to optimize this talent one day…

“I know: We were just talking about it in our class…” Mr. Monk said.

“I remember now,” my oldest said, and he did, sort of, “it is something like ‘Do unto others how you would like to be treated’.”

“No! You are wrong! That’s not how it’s said!” Mr. Monk protested.

Before this escalated into another heated argument over nothing, I clapped my hands, “Okay guys. The official phrase is ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’. But you know what it means. I just want to say this: ‘When in doubt, evoke the Golden Rule.’ Okay?”

“Reinforce Moral Upbringing of Offspring.” Check.

An hour later…

The two boys were wrestling on the floor. As Mr. Monk was being overpowered by his older brother,

“What is the Golden Rule? *pant* What is the Golden Rule?! Ahhhh. *pant* Hrrrmmmph. REMEMBER THE GOLDEN RULE!!”

I think my kids are scarred by this Christmas song…

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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…

“How you should behave when you grow up”: a primer for your kids

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My 6 year-old, at the end of sugar high, launched into a campaign for something that he thinks my husband and I should offer to him and his older brother.

“A program.  A program for ‘How you should be like when you grow up‘,” he said.

“Mom.  I think you and daddy should give us a program so you can teach us what we should do when we have our own kids.”

“What do you mean?” I was intrigued, with caution.

“Well, you see.  You and daddy fight a lot. You don’t want us to grow up like you, do you?  So you and daddy should give us a program called What you should be like when you grow up, to show us what to do when we have our own kids.”

“Ooookkkkkaaaaayyyyy.”  I hesitated.  My mind was racing.  Tickets in hand to take one LONG guilt trip.

I admit that my husband and I fight.  Although we DO fight, I don’t think we fight more than an “average” couple, judging from my conversations with other women, both in real life and online. We argue in front of the children.  From the beginning, I actually made a conscious decision to not hide our quarrels.  I don’t want them to grow up with a pair of rosy glasses with regard to adult relationships.  That being said, we do NOT call each other names.  (Well, not in front of the kids anyway).  There is absolutely no physical contact during these fights.  And I make sure that the kids see when we resolve our differences.

Perhaps this has been the wrong approach? I thought to myself.  How much harm has it done?  Is it too late to undo the harm? Panic.  Don’t panic.  I am not sure any more.

Later when I put him to bed, he brought up the subject again,

“Mom.  It is going to be just a private program for us.  Well, if [his older brother] does not want it, you just need to give it to me.”

When in doubt, be honest with your children and treat them like adults.  I tried to take his words seriously without overreacting (which in itself was against my natural instinct…)

“Well, I think you already know what should be included in the program, don’t you?  If you know it is not good when mommy and daddy treat each other badly, you know not to do it when you have your own children.”

Taking a deep breath, he turned to me, looking worried,

“What if I still do it even though I know it is wrong?”

This is my 6 year old.  Wiser beyond his age.  An old soul.  Although I feel blessed, I feel inadequate as a mother.  There is no witty ending to this story.  No closure.  Let’s file this post under “There is no manual for parenting” and “I don’t know how to tell you how you should behave when you grow up because now that I am a grown up, I still have no idea”.

I shall dub thee… John Mc”Cane”

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Warning: This post should be filed under “Things I find to be extremely amusing only because my kids said/did it and you probably wouldn’t give a rat’s ass which I am perfectly fine with but I still need to write this down so that I will remember this moment when I start losing the memory of my kids’ brilliance, like in the next five minutes, and I don’t keep a paper journal and also I’ve forgot how to write with a pen”.

My 6 year-old had a brief infatuation with John Mccain last fall: he was really worried that Mr. Mccain would lose the election and then he would be really really sad. My 6 year-old thought he looked like a grandpa, and we should NOT make a grandpa cry.

Anyway, the point I brought this old history up was that at that time my son also sported a fedora and a cane wherever he went. (Ok. He was only FIVE years old then so it was pretty adorable…)  He also called his cane John Mccain at that time.

Yesterday we went to have our one Weekend Fun Event for this weekend at a dollar store, (The best cheap thrill indeed!) and he got a giant plastic candy cane.  Later the candy cane was giving him trouble and making him unable to get out of the car in the lightning speed that I demanded, I asked him,

“What’s wrong with your cane?”

“Maw CANE is sad ’cause he lost the election!”

I guess you’d have to be there. But I couldn’t stop laughing and kissing him for the next 5 minutes.

“I want to be an artist so I can be rich!”

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“Mom, what did you want to do when you grew up?”

My 6 year-old asked innocently. This question stirs a lot of anxiety inside me, but that’s another post, if you are unlucky enough, I may indulge myself in one day…

He’s been really concerned about his future lately. He has pondered on being an artist for a long time.

“I really would like to be rich when I grow up. So I’m going to be an artist.”

Oh, boy. I tried to think back to all of the things I have ever said to him, since he was a fetus inside me, things that I have done or not, Is it because I didn’t breast feed him long enough?, that have caused him to become so materialistic. Have we been living a life of too much comfort that somehow has instilled a sense of, oh gosh darn it, greed in the upbringing of our kids? PANIC.

Great job, mom. I said to myself.

What to do? What to say? In my mind, I could picture myself running around like a headless chicken. Wings flapping. Cluck. Cluck. Cluck. Somehow this visual image of myself as a headless chicken or a deer with widened eyes is projected quite frequently on the back walls of my eye sockets…

“Hmmm. I don’t think being an artist will necessarily make you rich.”

How honest should we be with our children? Once again I wondered. Once again I had to make an uninformed split-second decision purely based on intuition, yup, the same one that helped me every time I purchased lottery tickets…

“Van Gogh was very poor when he was alive. I don’t think he made a lot of money by selling his paintings until after he died.”

Way to go, mom, for dashing your child’s hopes and dreams. Why don’t you just tell him to dream about being an accountant. Or an actuary. Don’t ever tell them to reach for the stars now Mary Poppins…

“Not even a house?” A look of concern crept up his face. “I just want to be rich so I can buy a house when I grow up.”

Ooops. Failed by overthinking again. Fortunately I am a champion in the sports of back paddling…

“Oh, yeah. Of course you will be able to buy a house. I would say though, you should do whatever that makes you happy and not worry so much about buying a house now.”

“Oh good. Because I was thinking that if I cannot be an artist, I would like to be a musician so I can be rich and buy a house.”

Oh, boy.  Here we go again…