OverHeard

"Your mama's gonna tell on you."
I'm guessing this is an incorrect rendering of "I'm gonna tell your mama on you." I don't know if Paolo is the only one who has it wrong or if all the kids are saying this. Either way, it's hilarious, especially when he sings it to the melody of the Backyardigans theme song at completely random moments. Derivations of this phrase are "Daddy's mama is gonna tell on him" and "Grandpa and Grandma's mama is gonna tell on them." When asked if his mama is going to tell on him, Paolo emphatically answers, No. (Just wait until he finds this website. Heh heh.)

"Bingo!"
One of Paolo's favorite Christmas gifts is a Leapfrog Bingo game. Of the approximately 78 times we've played thus far, Paolo has lost only once. It's uncanny. It's Bingo! You can't cheat at Bingo. You can't even let someone win at Bingo. I don't know how he does it. Do casinos let children in if accompanied by their parents? What? I'm just asking.

"Bye-bye, Tayne." "Bye-bye, Paolo."
When I complained to my mother that there was a creepy little monster in Paolo's class who made him cry on the second day at his new school, she told me the creep would probably end up being Paolo's best friend. Criminy, she's good.

Mad Love

Love is...

Listening with care and attention as I woefully explain that my #14 cross stitch needle is simply too big for attaching seed beads.

Mad love is...

Going to a crafts store and buying me a pack of #10 beading needles when you happened to be nearby shopping for meat.

That's just cruel

Sam to squirming, impatient Paolo:

"Hold your horses, boy!"

"What? I don't have a horse."

"YOU DON'T HAVE A HORSE? What did you do with your horse?"

"Daddy, I don't have a horse!"

"Well, you'd better go find it."

Easy there, killer

So Paolo came down with a mean, wart-nosed gremlin of a cold last Friday, and we kept him home from school until Wednesday. He still wasn't at his best, but well enough to allow his parents to earn some income. I was pretty confident already that I wasn't being one of those shitty parents who send their kids to school sick, so I didn't need the teacher to gush about how she UNDERSTANDS that kids have to go to daycare even when they're sick, and how SHE'S A MOM, TOO, and she'll take care of the sickies. "Um, okay. Paolo's not that sick, really. This is the sixth day; he just has a cough at this point." The teacher insisted that she UNDERSTOOD, and it was totally okay, and led me over to see another sick child that had been entrusted to her care. Before me was a child curled into a ball on a bean bag, with just his big brown eyes and TV kid bowl-cut visible above the blanket. He'd been out of school as long as Paolo, but from the looks of him, was still dancing with the gremlin. "Oh, poor Tayne. You're not feeling too good, huh? I leaned over and whispered gently, "Karma's a bitch, little man." Oh, stop. I did not.

That evening, Paolo and I were playing one of his two favorite games: light sabers! Catch is the other favorite, although Paolo calls it playing Ball. He is madly enthusiastic at discovering something new to do with a ball. He has been throwing balls since he figured out he has arms, but now he's like, holy crap, catching is an option? Who knew? His gleaming eyes lock on mine as I repeat, "Look at the ball, the ball, not me, the ball." And he nods vigorously as his gaze never wavers from my face. He's about 1 for 10, but oh! to see his joy when he makes a catch. Right, but we were playing light sabers, and he announces, "I'm a KILLER!" My heart dropped. "You're a what?" Paolo explained, "I'm a killer because I kill...stuff." I blanked, and the only thing I came up with was, "That's not a nice thing to say." That didn't impress him, and he demanded to play some more. I told him sadly, "I don't want to play with you if you're going to be a killer." He sighed and said, "Fine, Mama. I'm just a bad guy." I perked up, "Yeah? Am I the good guy?" He smiled back, "Yeah!" En garde.

Note to idiot parents of Paolo's classmates: I am fully sick of your kids introducing Paolo to violent concepts like killing and death and guns. I wish ever so fervently that your reckless and moronic choices in raising your kid didn't have to affect my son. But they do. And I spit in your eye.

Cold makes me angry

For the past week, it has been very cold here in my corner of the world - teens to thirties, no snow, no ice, just cold. Yes, I know how fiercely this cold front has hit other parts of the country, but this is about me. First of all, I lived in warm, sunny South Florida the first half of my life, where the temperature dipping below 70 is feared more than an impending hurricane. Second, my body mass index is so low I would not be allowed to be a runway model in three countries.

Consequently, I am colder than everyone around me. My hands and feet are numb all the time. My nose, also numb, runs until Spring. From time to time, I soak my hands in hot water so my fingers will bend again. This is while I'm indoors. I've learned to cope by wearing four more layers than everyone else and generally looking pathetic (whimpering helps) in the hope someone will take pity and turn the heat up a few degrees. The five minutes I spend outdoors in a given winter day (car to building, building to car) put me in full, adrenaline-pumping, fight-or-flight mode. You do not want to stand between me and warmth. I will cut you open and crawl inside your steaming carcass.

At home I park in the garage, so I don't have to deal with a car that is cold as the grave, but I park outside at work. When I get into my frigid car at lunch and at 5:00, all the life-sustaining warmth has drained away. I turn into a raging lunatic, with Tourette's. I rail at the radio: "THAT SONG IS NINE YEARS OLD. How can you call yourselves THE EDGE?" Until the car warms up, every other driver on the road gets a profane tongue-lashing: "CAN YOU TURN ANY SLOWER? Maybe all of the bumper stickers on your car are weighing you down. Can you even see out your back window?" (One sticker is a rainbow silhouette of a cat. Is it advocating gay cat pride? I'm not against gay cats, but I didn't know there was a movement. Are they being oppressed?) "Do you really think bumper stickers make a damn bit of difference? Did you buy the matching T-shirt, too? Free Tibet!"

As my blood thaws and begins coursing through my veins again, my teeth unclench and my anger disappears. I'm telling you, if there is a Hell, it is cold. That gnashing of teeth you feel? Frostbite. That weeping and moaning you hear? Me. Oh, there's a lake of fire, but they won't throw you in it, no matter how much you beg.