I was visiting my favorite online message board where I hang out with a bunch of other moms, and I was sharing the latest about my kids.
Then it hit me! Am I running a three-ring circus or what?
Yep, there’s the bearded lady, there’s the two-headed chicken and there is my two-year old jamming his finger in the top of his eye so that he nearly pops it out.
How can he DO that!?!?!
And along comes one of my eleven-year-olds announcing that today she only fell on her face ONCE. This is a great feat considering that only days ago she ran into a parked car and gouged a good chunk of skin off her knee.
But let’s not forget my three-year-old. Now here is raw talent. She can suck her thumb and pick both nostrils at the same time…with ONE hand!
Let’s have a round of applause!
Should I be worried? Should I be more concerned?
Heck, no. All this is pretty sane compared to the antics of my bipolar eight-year old son. But today he’s having a relatively normal day. Today he is just another male lost in the confusing labyrinth that is called WOMAN, heedless of the Minotaur that waits for him, preying on him. (Did you know that the Minotaur was actually FEMALE?)
He so desperately wants to be friends with the pack of kindergarten girls on our street that he keeps going back for more pain and punishment. They tease, they confuse him with their mercurial moods, and they steal his toys and break his heart over and over and over again. Never mind that I’ve warned him time and time again, men on the street just shake their heads when he gets his feelings hurt and I even hear them pass on this timeless wisdom: “They’re GIRLS.”
Like that’s supposed to mean something.
What does it mean?
I know it means something. I instinctively know that it’s a reference to the confusion women have left men in since the dawn of time.
But does my son get it?
Noooooooooo. Back he goes for more. And the grown men wipe their greased stained hands on their oily rags and peep from under the hoods of their cars as my son valiantly marches up to the girls and makes a plea for their attention.
They erupt into a cascade of giggles and he stands there perplexed. Evel Knievel had nothing on my kid. He jumped ten cars? Twenty? My son would leap from the earth to the moon just to know the joy of friendship with these little women.
Ah, but there is a lesson about the difference in the sexes that he must experience for decades before he can truly appreciate and respect it…and then tune out while he watches the game on television.
For now he is happy with the ten minutes of attention they fawn on him.
Meanwhile, I need to check on my other eleven-year old, the acrobat who glides through the trees with greatest of ease until she lands on her back impaled on a limb. That was a memorable summer.
And just where is that two-year old?
Something rolls across the floor.
Oh, GREAT, is that an eye or a marble!?!?