"What's so hard about the first sentence is that you are stuck with it." Joan Didion
The garbage truck is coming up the street. If I can't get this post done by lunch, when the truck heads back down, then I'll quit. I've spent the better part of the morning here. The list of things I could be doing grows by my feet on the floor.
Meantime, my reason for this? A place, a home, a chez to hang out and share some ideas with friends.
My inspiration? Language, people.
My two favorite people are the two boys who live with me. My son is 13 months and my husband is 476 months. I'm also inspired by my family. And my friends, especially those who have blogs-Rachel (Teacher Mom), Lisa (Gorgeous for God), Karen (Bad Yogi) and Nate (Big Blog). In fact, it is with Nate in mind that I share with you a story from our recent vacation at my in-law's camp in Maine.
"Pull my finger."
My nephew, shoved his dirty index finger in my face last week when we were at camp. I looked up from my reading. Was he serious? Next to me his sister ignored him. She and I were crowded into the big leather chair. We were analyzing their father's copy of the latest People magazine. "Why is that man covered in shaving cream?" She asked me.
"Pull my finger." My nephew said again.
"Why is the man covered in shaving cream?"
There I was, crammed into a chair between four kids (their friends perched on its arms) stuck with a decision. Encourage my nephew's attempt at adolescent humor or explain the homoerotic Old Spice ad to his younger sister. Their parents sat in the kitchen eating with friends who'd arrived a few hours before. I wasn't certain the gin and tonics had sufficiently mellowed them. What's a girl to do?
I've been around boys enough to know that burping and farting occupy much of their time. I've not figured why that is. I do know, now that I have a child, that bms are the main topic of covnersation in our house. And mostly they are a laughing matter. Details aren't necessary, but I'm not certain you can really appreciate the discussion until you've lived with a baby for some time. I didn't realize that gas and poop would make me laugh or cry so much. Diapering is not one of my strengths. My mother finds it especially funny when I'm changing Cameron and he decides to crawl away from me mid-wipe. This often happens on her beige carpet. She watches me struggling and laughs. Laughs while he is wiggling his dirty bum on her wall-to-wall. At that moment not only do I panic because Cameron might pee, but I worry that Mom will be annoyed that he's soiled the carpet. When I try to wipe both baby and rug, she says, "Don't worry about it. We'll get it later." And she giggles. She then laughs so hard that she toots. That makes me laugh.
I've been warned that the diapers only become nastier as babies become toddlers. That doesn't worry me much. What I'm afraid will make me crazier is the incessant joking about farting and pooping that seems to be hardwired into boys. They find it hilarious. At any age. Am I right?
Eron, a friend, took her son and two nephews camping by herself. I thought that was brave. The going alone part, I mean. She went up north and tent-camped for five days with them. "Oh, I was brave all right." She said to me. "You don't know how gross it is getting into the tent when it's hot and they've been farting in there for a half hour. They're gross, René. Boys are disgusting. It was a long week." She said.
I sympathized with her. My husband has spent the better part of this summer farting. He'll put his arms around me as if he wants to kiss and he'll fart. He climbs into bed, rolls over and farts. He walks up the stairs... Each time he does this he laughs. Sometimes it's a giggle. Sometimes I think he's going to lose control and not just wet himself. He hasn't always been so blatant about farting. In fact, when we were dating my Uncle André commented on Doug's manners. He was personable and neat. He appeared "clean." I understood that to mean he wouldn't do something like fart on demand.
But now he does. Back at camp, I said to my nephew, "That's gross." It was then that his sister, and their two friends looked away from the Old Spice ad. "What's gross?" They asked in unison. There was a lull in their parents conversation. What was I to explain?
"Pull my finger." My nephew asked again. I did and he burped. Everyone laughed.
When the adult conversation started again I said, "Hey kid, pull MY finger."
