Poetry time!

Tonight Henry had to write a poem for his school anthology. His assignment was to write about a living thing that was important to him, and he was apologetic as he told me that he would probably write about the dog or the cat. I assured him that in no way did I expect him to write about me. No self-respecting grade-schooler is going to write an ode to his mother in the school anthology.

Then, together, we composed the poem that would never be published:

Mother
Skin, so soft
Smells like lavender
Hours of cuddletime
Whispered secrets
Mother

I offered to pay him real money if he put that into the anthology. He laughed so hard he got the hiccups and then happily wrote the real poem he was stressed out about a few minutes before and I high-fived myself for being the best parent in the entire universe. Sorry, rest of you. It's me!

A few minutes later we got into a fight, somehow, in that magical horrible way you do when you're talking and then you're yelling and you can't remember how your mouth went from making normal sounds to angry ones. The pants on his Lego Minifigure were wrong and he was frustrated and I didn't want to hear it and he slammed his door and I said, "When you're ready to apologize I'M NOT GOING TO ACCEPT IT," which is the funniest thing I've ever said in my life although I was dead serious, of course. As if he would have come out a few minutes later and I'd hiss, too late. Take your Lego minifigure and his incorrect pants and go. Just…just go.

Although if I had done that, think of the poet he'd turn into. Not that he needs help, because his poem about Charlie was pretty much the best. This is my unbiased opinion.

We've had this conversation, I am not exaggerating, three times at least

"I don't know why everyone says you shouldn't stare at the sun. I stare the sun all the time."

"Please don't stare at the sun."

"But I do it and it feels okay."

"It is not okay. Staring at the sun will damage your eyes. This is a fact."

"Hmm, I don't think it's a fact."

"There's really no debating this. No staring at the sun. Period."

"No, but see, it doesn't even hurt!"

"Listen. Even if it doesn't hurt, for whatever reason. Don't stare at the sun."

"I did it once for like ten minutes! And I can see fine."

"You did not look at the sun for ten minutes."

"I really did. My friends dared me and I just stared and stared."

"What?! Stop it! Are you trying to go blind?"

"You don't understand. It's fine. I do it all the time."

"Stop staring at the sun. I can't believe we're still talking about this."

"Mom. Listen to me. I don't get hurt, so it's no problem."

"For the love of--DO NOT STARE AT THE SUN."

"No, see, what I'm saying is, all those people who say it's bad for you are probably wrong. Because I've been testing it."

"They are not wrong. This is basic stuff, Henry. This is--look. No more staring at the sun. Promise me."

"Fine."

"Thank you."

"I'll stop telling you about how I stare at the sun."

"HENRY."

--

Hey, guys!  Over at my Babble column I'm writing a bunch of posts that are sponsored by Dell (there will be two this week and two next week). And the excellent part of that is that we're giving away a Dell Inspiron! So you should go over there and comment on one of the sponsored posts for a chance to win. Before October 28th, please, thank you, goodnight. 


Giveaway results! And more!

The winner of my The Internet is a Playground giveaway is…

Erin! Fierce Beagle Erin!

She told her sister to buy the book. THAT COUNTS. Erin, be prepared for an email from me, in which I will solicit your mailing address, and promise you that I won't actually show up at your home. But then, who can say what I'll do? I go wherever the day takes me.

I will write more soon. My writing is being impeded right now by two factors. One, my son is home from school, and as he's going to two-week sleepaway camp (SOB) in a few days, I want as much quality time as I can get with him until then. SO HE DON'T FORGET ME. And oh my goddamn heart, I almost can't take what a delight he's being. We're really enjoying his company right now. I kind of didn't realize how much of a drain second grade was to him until he was done with it. Academically it was fine, but as we were wrapping up the year I spoke with a few disgruntled parents about yelling and teasing going on. From the teachers. (He had two this year.) He never shared this with me. Then the other day I asked him what he learned this year, and he said, "Keep your head down and don't make trouble." Crap. Here's hoping he learns next year to keep his head up and make trouble when trouble is called for.

Two, I'm having a truly irritating relapse of arm/hand pain. I wrote years and years ago, back when my blog was in its infant stages, about my two-year adventure with repetitive strain injuries. I got to the point, back then, where I was completely incapacitated, despite loading myself up with meds and lidocaine patches and daily therapies of various kinds. Then someone recommended John Sarno's The Mind/Body Prescription, I read it, and within months my pain was completely gone. Gone, never to return.

If you have any chronic pain, you should read this book. It's all about how certain types of pain syndromes are often rooted in the emotions. He gets a little Freudian and maybe he's a tad angry with the medical community, but I just discounted the parts that didn't resonate, and it still worked for me.

ANYWAY. So I totally buy that the pain is in some way caused by stress, not any structural defects in my body or whatever, so why is the pain still shooting around in my arms? I'm so onto you, body! Cut it out!

Probably what I should be doing is writing even more to show my arms that they are FINE, and they can CALM DOWN already. And I will, as soon as I'm done building Legos with my son. He's teaching me how. Every few minutes he looks at the lopsided little structures I manage to build, and he exclaims, "You're getting really good at this!" I really like who he's turning into.

On the walk home

"The book I'm writing, it's actually a series, it's going to be nine parts, and the part I'm writing now--well, not actually writing but planning in my mind--is the part with me and Nick and we're fighting robots, not big robots but small robots, well actually medium-sized robots, like they're dog-sized, and Nick has this laser gun and it's like ka-zing but the laser misses and the robot is like WHEEAAAAA and I'm hiding in a locker and then I jump out like WHOAAA and then WHOOOoOSHhhhh and BLAMBLAMBLAM and the thing explodes all over. That's the first part. And then--"

"Okay, Henry?"

"--the second part is when everything's all blown up and the robots are on top of the school and we're like GET AWAY STUPID ROBOTS and they're all flying up in the air and there's like a big spider monster who's all [frantic limb movements commence]--"

"Henry. HENRY."

"Mom. I'm trying to tell you about my book."

"Yes, but there's a problem.  I don't understand a single word you're saying."

"So?"

"I've lost track of what's going on."

"I'm saying, the robots are like ON TOP and we're like DOWN THERE and they've got these green tentacled things, well, not tentacled, they're kind of like spiders but not--"

"I'm totally lost. Why don't you just write down your stories? Like, on paper? Then I can see them and understand what you're talking about."

"Because I want to tell you about them."

"But I can't understand what the story is. Half the time you're not using words."

"Mom, that's okay."

"It's okay that I can't follow your story?"

"I just feel like saying it."

"Okay, so while you're talking, can I let my mind wander? I don't have to try to follow this?"

"Yes."

"So I should just pretend to listen?"

"You don't have to pretend."

"No 'uh-huh's and 'I see's? You don't need those?"

"NO. Mom, can I just tell my story?"

"Absolutely, my son. I will go on a little vacation in my mind while you natter away."

"THANK you."

"I'm so glad we can communicate like this."

"Yep. Can I talk, now?"