Circus Circus

We took the boys to the circus this weekend. It was an impromptu decision. Brian was beyond excited to share his boyhood memories with Charlie and Gregory. 'This is the same circus that I went to when I was your age. There will be people on motor cylces riding around in a huge globe and then a man gets shot out of a cannon...' The boys were hooked.

I was not as enthused, I have never loved the circus. The clowns are creepy, the ring master looks like some mustached lothario straight out of a 70's porn movie, and the animals, those poor animals. I just have a hard time with wild creatures out of their natural state, performing for us.

Despite my apprehension, I went along. I decided to keep my opinion to myself in the spirit of supporting what should be a childhood pleasure - cotton candy, lights, the big top, families clapping and laughing in awe of the spectacles. The Greatest Show on Earth, right?!?

We were barely out of the car, the first thing we saw were protestors with poster size photos of tortured elephants. Great. All of the fears about the circus thatI had floating in my head were now spilled out into the parking lot of the Cow Palace, being paraded in my kids faces. I told Charlie and Gregory to keep walking, don't look at the pictures.

'Why Mommy?'

Just keep walking till we get inside, I said.

We were just about in the ticket door when a woman stood just outside the entrance, looked at my boys and said, "Ringling Brothers hurts the elephants. They do."

Fortunately my kids weren't familiar with the name Ringling and didn't give it a second thought. However my own feelings toward the circus were immediately choked down by my rage toward this woman. I understood her and what she was doing and I even admired her passion. But to bring my kids into it and hurt them in the process, was it really all for the greater good? How are my kids nightmares about the elephant with the big 'bandaids' on his bloody toes going to stop this? Talk to ME, beyotch, I'm the one with the wallet.

Almost as an act of defiance, we bought our tickets. Charlie of course asked what the signs were about. I told him, some people believe that animals at the circus are not treated properly and that they shouldn't be kept in cages or forced to perform. Other people think that the circus is a fun place and that the animals are happy and treated well.

Oh, was all he said.

I was amazed he stopped it at that. It was probably the snow cones in the white bengal tiger shaped plastic cup calling to him, or those spinning globes on a stick that flash colored lights. Despite Charlie letting me off the hook so easily, this was a really difficult moment. I had to separate my personal beliefs from my desire to protect my kids. No matter how much I agreed with the protestors, I deplored their method of using innocent children to get to me. They should know better.

We took our seats and watched the clowns and the Cirque du Soleil style acrobats perform. The high wire act was amazing, Charlie was certain they had some kind of super glue on the bottom of their feet that kept them from falling. We were having the experience - we smiled, ate cotton candy, and big soft doughy pretzels as flaming bowling pins were juggled in front of us. Gregory clapped like crazy. Charlie stared up with awe and wonder as the human catapult was set ablaze and launched skyward. Cool.

When it was over, Brian and I decided we would not be returning to the circus, and it wasn't because there was no longer a motorcycle act or the absence of a big top. It was indeed the animals that put a damper on our fun. The boys seemed equally unimpressed by them, they preferred some form of fire in their entertainment.

Was it the protestors, you ask? I don't think so, though they were always in the back of my mind. Watching a man taunt a bunch of tigers with a whip so they would snarl and claw and hop in the air seemed cruel. The zebras running in circles were ridiculous. And the elephants looked sad. I know, like I could really tell, right? But if you ever read Water for Elephants, that book showed elephants to be highly sensitive creatures, capable of showing depths of emotion similar to humans.

As my children get older, these situations will continue to arise. War, abortion, organic produce, whatever the subject, the kids will ask me what I am for and what I am against. My guess is they won't let me off as easily next time. But I will tell them what I believe, when they're ready to listen. My hope is that Brian and I give them the tools to form their own opinion and be able to defend and debate that in a civilized, open minded manner.

I am happy that my children attended the circus. And I even see the silver lining to the protestors, provoking our thoughts and asking me to take a stand. However, if they ever touch or talk to my kids again, I'll go all Barnum & Bailey on their ass! Leave the parenting discussions to me, that's my job, not yours.

King of Random

Charlie consistently blows us away with his intellect and depth of thought, especially for a 6 year old.

"Daddy, do you know why I like sad songs? Because they make me feel my heart."

"Mommy, you know we're all really strangers, don't you?" What do you mean, Charlie? "Well, you don't know everyone in the world, so that means you're a stranger to someone."

Gregory, while equally smart and funny, is a bit more, how should I say, esoteric? Many of the aforementioned conversations take place in the car, where Charlie and I have thoughtful banter about many subjects; the fastness of every car on the highway and whether it could beat a Ferrari, how rain clouds are formed, what would happen if you really did try to dig to China?

Just as we're discussing the core of the earth burning us up, shovels and all, Gregory will chime in, "What would happen if all of these cars were made of green beans?"
I usually respond with a simple 'I don't know' or 'Oh, really', where appropriate. But Charlie is not that kind or tolerant, "GREGORY! We are talking, so be quiet. And, how would the cars even be able to drive if they were made of green beans? There would be no engine to make the car go! Jeez, Louise."

Sometimes it's not even that outlandish of an idea, but it's not right and I want try to help my boy figure it out without telling him he's flat out wrong.
"Mommy, did you know that llamas have horns?"
I don't know bud. I think llamas have really fuzzy ears.
"Yes, they do have horns."
Are you sure?
"Yes."
Maybe when we get home we can look at our 'Llama, Llama Red Pajama' book to see if that llama has horns.
"It does. They all do"
Okay.

And then the statement can be just so bizarre, all we can do is laugh because we have no idea what he's talking about. Charlie will be telling me about the different invasive and non native plants that he found while hiking at summer camp. Gregory will interrupt, "Hey, Charrie, wouldn't it be silly if Jason Sparkle 80 came to my camp and used my orange swim shirt as a scoochoodoochoo?" Not sure who Jason is, but I can imagine what a scoochodoochoo could be. You can see why Charlie started calling Greg, the King of Random.

I get it. The level of sophistication at which Charlie can converse, it's hard for me to keep up, let alone his 3 1/2 year old brother. The poor kid has to try to grab some air time for himself, no matter how ridiculous he may seem.

"Mommy, did you know that Pirate Booty isn't popcorn?" Really? "No, it's not." I checked the package when I got home. It really isn't popcorn, it's puffed rice and corn. Maybe not so ridiculous, but still very random.

Bulldish the Dog

Charlie has a new pet. His name is Bulldish the Dog. Charlie likes to take him for walks, give him treats, and play games with him. You are probably thinking, big deal, so the kid has a dog. Well, this dog didn't come from a breeder, or the pound, I birthed this puppy myself. Charlie's dog happens to be his brother, Gregory.

That's Gregory aka Bulldish in the picture here, giving me his paw.

Bulldish came into being last summer, interestingly right around the time school ended and summer began. My guess is Charlie was bored. We had a couple of weeks to kill before camp started. Most of his friends were on vacation until then. He missed them and the challenge of school so he created his own playmate to occupy his time.

I thought it would be a passing phase, lasting perhaps until camp started. Or that Gregory would simply hate it, cry about being called a dog, and Charlie would endlessly taunt him with it. I was wrong on all fronts. Turns out Gregory loves being Bulldish the Dog and Charlie loves ordering him around, 'Bulldish, give me your paw. Paw. Paw. PAW, Bulldish, PAW!'

Gregory is so into it that he has created several alter egos for Bulldish and Charlie enjoys the challenge of trying to figure out which dog he is at that moment. Frankly, I cannot keep track, but here's what I have so far.

There's Ski Rider, who's more of an off leash hound. He likes to jump on the couches and beds and slam doors. Sho Sho is a bit fancier. He is always on a leash (usually made out of yarn) and prances about like he's at a dog show. Baseball the Ghost Dog crawls around on his knees chasing people, though you're supposed to pretend that you can't see him, because, well, he's a ghost.

This morning we actually had a birthday party for the latest 4 legged addition to our family, Ski Milk. Charlie made him a birthday cake, which consisted of Goldfish in a bowl. Ski Milk flipped the cake, along with his water dish, while trying to blow out his candles. As I stared at the huge mess on my kitchen floor, Charlie said, "Mommy, you can't get too mad, Ski Milk is just a puppy after all." Then he got down on his knees to rub Gregory, I mean Ski Milk, behind the ears, saying in a consoling voice, "Isn't that right Ski Milk, you're just a puppy. Good puppy."

Gregory is reveling in all of this positive attention - there's no eye poking, teasing, yelling, pinching, or name calling. He's probably created these different canine personas to keep the game fresh so that his brother won't lose interest in being nice to him. The saddest and most ironic thing is that Charlie treats Bulldish, and all the other dogs, far better than he's ever treated his brother. I wonder if he knows that they are the same person/dog?

Yo Mama

There is always fighting in my house, whether it's a war of words or fists; IT, is always on. Mealtime is no exception. Lately our dinner conversation has been reduced to my kids finding new ways to abuse one another. Shockingly it's not violent, but a complete verbal one-up-man-ship of how much they can kick the other's ass.

"Gregory, I'm going to take a cup of gasoline, dip Mr. Monkey (Greg's favorite snuggly) in it, shake it up, then watch him explode. BOOM!"

To which Gregory responds,"Charrie, I'm going to take lava and throw it in your cup and you will get burned." For some reason Gregory is obsessed with lava these days. He wants to know what will happen if a cat walks through lava, if lava falls on our car, or in your mouth.

Um, it burns, babe.

Mr. I Must Always Have the Last Word says, "Oh yeah? Well Gregory, I can take you in a helicopter and drop you in a volcano and that would burn you way more than just throwing lava on you. Plus lava would totally burn the cup up as soon as it touched it."

"Charrie, the lava is going to burn your butt, too."

"Gregory, I'm going to take gasoline AND diesel mixed together, put it in your glass like it's water then you'll drink it and die! Hahaha."

Any talk of death or killing and I bring a quick end to the banter. Clearly Gregory isn't as adept at the verbal sparring game as his brother, but at least he's playing along. Not too long ago he would have been in tears at the mere mention of Mr. Monkey being harmed.

After listening to the boys go on like this endlessly for a week, I noticed something. The cadence of the exchange smacked of something familiar. I wracked my brain trying to determine what it could be. Literally 2 nights later the movie White Chicks was on TV and the bells sounded off in my head like sirens. I realized my kids were having their own Yo Mama Off, only it was the Marin County preschool boy version.

In the movie, Marcus and Kevin Copeland, played by the Wayans brothers, are cops cleverly undercover as 2 white sisters, hence the title. The White Girls get into a Yo Mama Off with Megan and Heather Vandergeld, your stereotypical rich bitch Hampton society bimbos. After Megan insults the White Chicks' mother for shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue, one of them retorts, "Your mama is so dumb she went to Dr. Dre for a pap smear."

To which Heather Vandergeld scoffs, "Oh yeah, well your mother is so stupid that she exercises when she could just get like, liposuction or something."

As someone whose fanship of the Wayans brothers ended with In Living Color, I must confess that the movie struck me on a couple of levels. First, I found the predictably played out blunders that the brothers experience as they try to pose as women comical. That's right, I laughed when I watched it, a lot. But it also struck a deeper chord. The verbal lashings each side gave to one another in the movie reminded me so much of my kids, each rebuttal getting lamer and more ridiculous, that it made me think - Why couldn't I script a movie using my kids as a foundation? The writing would be significantly better, and the content about equal in quality to White Chicks.

Eureka! I finally found a use for my kids besides as bitter fodder in my undersubscribed blog!

By the way, for those who don't see the humor in the whole 'Yo Mama' genre of jokes, I apologize for the poor representation in this post. They really are hilarious. I hope that the following will restore your faith, peak your interest, or at least make you smile. Or maybe Yo Mama jokes are like the Wayans brothers, you either tolerate them or you hate them. Whatever the case may be, this is one of my favorites.

'Yo mama so fat you have to grease the door frame and hold a twinkie on the other side just to get her through.'

A Beautiful Mind

Charlie has always been a child who loves structure and routine, yet revels in the disorder he can create. While a steadfast observer of all traffic and safety related rules, the ones regarding basic treatment of your fellow man are virtually ignored; like don't hit and tease if you want your friends to play with you; or don't wrap wires, cords or rope around your brother's neck. As he gets older, the set of rules by which he governs his life continues along divergent paths, making him ever difficult to predict and follow.

For the past 9 months Charlie has been obsessed with the door to his bedroom and making sure it is shut every single time he leaves. Even if he's just going to visit the bathroom, which is literally next to his room, that door gets closed. But be mindful that the door is not closed all the way. The frame and the edge of the door are touching ever so slightly, but the smallest crack of light needs to be left. I learned the hard way the importance of proper crack allotment to my son. "Mommy, Jeez Louise! How many times do I have to tell you? (said with eyes rolling) You have to close my door but not really close it. See, like this. NOT LIKE THIS. Do you see the difference?"

At times it feels as if he's declared Martial law on the little 9 x 10 ft box that is his room. Some of the directives of Charlie's regime are easy to follow, like how much crack is too much or not enough, other rules leave us walking on egg shells, hoping we don't misstep. Most specifically those applying to the highly regulated, and ever growing mass of 'stuff' in his boudoir.

At the end of Charlie's bed, on his dresser, the shelves of his closet, and now under his bed, there is a collection of, well, shit. His closet naturally houses the largest amount of trash - silly putty, old gun holster from his policeman costume, furry bear key chain, remote control car. It's like the closet of forgotten toys that needs to be purged. But try telling that to Charlie, it's all sacred space to him.

On his footboard, he's a little more particular about the arrangement of his treasures. Though most of the items seem to be worthless left over birthday party gift bag trash - 5 used glow sticks (and not an ounce of glow left in them), 1 set of LEGO wheels, 1 pair of childproof scissors, 1 small silver tin pail, 1 pink birthday candle, 1 pumpkin shaped flashlight.

Saving things as memorabilia of fun times past, this I get. But I'm not sure what to think about the rest of the items at the foot of his bed - 1 roll of duct tape, 1 Dixie cup with a single black feather, 1 pair of broken plastic pliers, 1 broken plastic camera, a wad of fake money (mostly $5's and $20's), 1 Edna Valley Chardonnay cork, and 5 clumps of cut hair.

Why are these things on display? It almost appears to be a shrine of evidence honoring some gruesome crime that's been committed (Can you tell I'm a Law & Order junkie?).

But alas, even the most seemingly worthless of trinkets, no matter how bizarre in nature, have rules attached to them.

Rule #1 - Positioning of items - 4 of the 5 glow sticks are to be laid directly next to one another with the fifth placed exactly in the middle of the footboard. Do not try to group all 5 glow sticks together to create some kind of symmetry . Everything has it's place and do not question the divine order of all things Charlie.

Rule #2 - Terms of use - none of the afore mentioned items may be borrowed at any time, whether their owner is using them or even present in the house is immaterial. 'I will know if you use my scissors when I'm at school Gregory, and I will cut you.'

Rule #3 - Appropriate cleaning techniques - do not change position of any items even by 1 cm as their owner will know immediately upon entering his room if something has been moved. No consolidation/neatening allowed; the glow sticks would not look better if they were stored in the silver tin pail.

Rule #4 - Replacement items - do not attempt to switch out items with something of lesser or equal value. The Edna Valley Chardonnay cork is worth WAY more than the Penfolds Shiraz. Do not ask why, it just is. And the children's scissors must be from CVS because they cut better than the ones from the Dollar Store.

Rule #5 - Hair - there are no real rules for the clumps of hair under the foot of his bed. I was actually allowed to clean them up, thank goodness. Charlie decided one day that his hair was too long and bothered him so he cut it. He threw the clippings under his bed to avoid being found out. Incidentally, his favorite place to cut from is on the right side of his head just above his ear. So I guess there are rules even here.

To Charlie there is an order to the chaos of his 'stuff' that reminds me of the Coen brothers' movie, "A Serious Man" (yawn). In the film, the protagonist's unemployed, wacky brother, Arthur, sleeps on his couch and spends his days filling his Mentaculus book with equations and formulas that will, he claim, tie together all natural laws.

Disappointingly, Arthur's character is never really developed past this point, when you do get to see his Mentaculus book, it looks like the writings of a madman, but if you look just a little deeper, you might just catch a glimpse of genius. Like on Law & Order (damn it, I can't stop) when they finally get that search warrant for the apartment of the serial killer who's evaded detectives for decades. They enter and every square inch of wall is covered with numbers, letters, shapes, pictures, drawn in human blood but in these cool nonsensical, circular patterns that just scream out CRA-ZAY-ZEE and guilty (BTW, Arthur is later arrested for solicitation and sodomy).

Do I think my son is a paranoid schizophrenic or a serial killer in the making? No, of course not. Even the famous Carl Jung believed, In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.

I'm just hoping some day to see the genius in the madness and not vice versa.

The Last Frontier

Every aspect of my life has been invaded by my kids - my thoughts, dreams, bank account, potty time. Even my phone conversations are no longer private. Charlie asked me the other day why I wanted Yia Yia (my mom) to get special love from a Chinese person on her trip. It took me a minute to figure what he was talking about when I realized he had been eaves dropping on my conversation with her.

I was concerned as my mother, who has been suffering from sciatica, was embarking upon a 13 hour plane flight to China. My advice to her, should the sciatica flare up while abroad, embrace the practice of eastern medicines. I think my exact words were, 'Don't be afraid to ask a nice Chinese man to give that sciatic nerve some love by sticking needles in your butt.'

My last frontier of privacy seems to be the shower. I've never been a big fan of the bath; sitting in dirty bath water, ick. Even before kids, I got in, soaped and rinsed the necessary bits and pieces, and got out. But lately I have really begun to embrace the long shower. Not only do I appreciate that when the water is running I can't hear anything going on outside, but I can actually hear myself think inside because I'm alone (my kids hate the shower). It's like a little oasis of quiet.

It's just so peaceful and quiet in there - did I already mention that? It really has become the perfect refuge from my motherly duties. When one of the kids comes in to complain that his brother breathed on him 'so hard', that they need some water with no ice in a red cup with no top and no straw, or that they require me to fast forward through the commercials to get to the next episode of Tom & Jerry, there's no yelling or negotiating necessary. A) I can't do anything about it because I'm in the shower and B) I can't hear them! There's also C) That I really don't care, but that doesn't get me out of anything because my kids will just nag me to death until I comply with their demands.

My average shower time has increased from about 4 minutes up to 10 just in the last few months, and I may keep going. The Guinness Book of Records states that the longest shower was recorded at 101 hours, that's more than 4 days. Sounds like heaven to me. But here's the rub, or should I say scrub, that record was set by a group of 10 people, though 3 dropped out from exahustion. They each took turns, many of them sleeping standing up, and with no more than a 10 minute break per hour. Breaks? Sounds like cheating to me. A 17 year old boy was among the participants. What was his motivation? What does he have to hide from, the SAT's and teenage acne? Maybe he has bad parents who complain about him in a public forum.

I bet I could get a group of 10 mothers together - and none would drop out from exhaustion - tell them that there is only one rule, stay in the shower and no kids will bother you. Each mom would stay in for 1 day at a time, no breaks necessary, because obviously you can just pee in the shower, and of course, breaks are for sissies. And would you really want to take the chance that during that 10 minutes outside of the shower/safe haven, one of your kids would find you and whine for you to get them a snacksandwichdrinkcookiecheesestick, retrieve a piece of gum from their brother's hair, or wipe their butt. I guarantee those 10 women could keep that going for a month, easy. 101 hours, pah-lease.

Gregory the Girl

Well over a year ago I wrote about Charlie's propensity for calling his brother girl names. While Gregory is still a beautiful child, his girlish qualities are limited mostly to his long, lush eyelashes and his squealing. But that has not stopped Charlie from still referring to him as Mrs. Bentney. Stephanie is still around, too, along with a few new ones like Mary Garcia, Gloria, and one of the most inventive, Jessica Hairdryer.

Now that Gregory is 3 he actually understands that Charlie is teasing him. Much to Charlie's chagrin, his brother usually tries to ignore his initial attempts to get a rise out of him. In those cases Charlie goes for the jugular and flat out calls him Gregory the Girl. That elicits one of the following responses, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. WAAAAAAAAHHHHH." or "Mommy, Charrie called me a girr (we're having some trouble with our 'L's)."

Sigh. Greg, are you a girl?

Sniff, sniff, "No."

Then go tell Charlie that!

"Charrie! I am NOT A GIRR."

And it never just stops there, does it?

Even a solid argument based on the indisputable fact that Gregory is not a girl can deter him. Charlie the brilliant manipulator moves onto his next tactical advance. "Gregory, you can be Gregory, but you will not get any dessert tonight. Or you can be Gregory the Girl and you can have cake, ice cream, chocolate chips, anything you want really. Do you want dessert?"

Like leading a lamb to slaughter, Gregory falls for it. "Yes, I want dessert."

"Okay, then if you want dessert you have to be Gregory the Girl, because if you are just Gregory, then no dessert. So which one is it?"

"I am Gregory the girr."

"Ha ha ha, you are a girl. Gregory is a girl."

"Nooooo, Mommy, Charrie called me a girr."

Dana is another new persona that has been added to Charlie's repertoire of names. This morning the boys were playing Legos before school. Gregory was trying to build a dump truck but was frustrated because he couldn't find any wheels. He asked Charlie to help him search for some. Charlie said, "Well, is your name Dana?"

Gregory of course says, "No, it's Gregory Goldstein."

"If your name is Dana then I can help you find some wheels for your dump truck, but if your name is Gregory, I can't help you, sorry. So are you Dana or are you Gregory."

And with no argument, Gregory concedes, "I am Dana. Now will you get me the wheels?"

Like a lot of Charlie's verbal attacks on his brother, they are as random as they are senseless or non sensical to be exact. Just the other day in the car Charlie says, "Gregory is Jessica Hairdryer."

I kind of chuckled at that one, but Gregory didn't even bat an eye.

Again it comes, "Gregory, you are Jessica Hairdryer."

Every once in a while we get a glimpse that Gregory could be a contender in these mind mastery games of his brother's.

Gregory says, "No, I AM Hairdryer. YOU are Jessica, Charrie."

Quite satisfied with himself, he sits back and smiles.

Never to be outdone, Charlie retorts, "No Gregory, Jessica is the one who gets to play with the train table. Hairdryer is me, because Hairdryer is 5 and I'm 5, so you have to be Jessica. You want to play with the train table, right?"

The logic is mind numbing.

Gregory is like, OK, you had me at train table, I am Jessica.

It's not always easy pickings for Charlie. After numerous failed attempts to get under his skin and at least a half dozen female monikers slung his way, sometimes Greg won't take the bait and stomps off to his room to play by himself. But never fear, when preliminary attacks fail to illicit a response from his brother, Charlie brings out the big guns. Not only is my eldest an extremely smart, evil genius, but the kid can carry a tune to boot.

He'll follow Gregory into his room singing his insults to the tune of Air Supply's 'Lost in Love', with a few changes to the lyrics (the Greatest Hits of Air Supply has been Charlie's favorite CD for 3 months running now).

"Gregory is a girl and he don't know much/ He was thinking aloud when he fell out of touch/ Now he's back on his feet and eager to show he's a giiiiirrrrrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrl/ Gregory is a girrrrrr-herrrrr-herrr-erl."

I think that CD might be finding a new home very soon.