Dr. Strangemom (or, how I learned to stop worrying and love the blog)

Brown's Anatomy

My sister, my older sister, recently admitted that she didn't know exactly what or where the hymen is. She is not mentally challenged or blind; in fact, she is quite intelligent, creative and a grandmother of two. How she managed to get by for over half a century thinking it was a sort of Saran wrap covering "down there" begs all sorts of questions best left for another time.

Our parents were not prudes. My sister and I were given the requisite books about babies and the special love between a Mommy and a Daddy, and all that shit. And yet, somehow, the hymen remained a mystery to one of us. I don't remember when I learned what a hymen is, exactly, although I recall my cousin Andrea once making a joke about a naval officer named Seaman Hyman Seman, and I noticed that everyone snickered, so maybe that's when I asked about it.

Half of what I learned about sex as a child was wrong, anyway. Even the shit my mom told me, I misunderstood. Mostly, because I just wasn't all that interested in the academic or romantic aspects of the birds and the bees. I pretty much just wanted to know if our dog had a baby with our cat, would the litter be kittens or puppies? And my parents could not answer that with any definitive responses other than my dad finally throwing up his hands in exasperation and saying, "you know what? If that happens, I will call Time Magazine and you will be famous." Which is a seriously lame avoidance strategy, I know that now that I am parenting consultant. Although it worked like a charm on seven year old me, the fame whore of Crewe Street.

I raised boys, so the heart to heart talks I had with my kids on the facts of life were mostly centered around their endless questions about dinosaurs. God knows what shit I made up to keep it interesting to them. They probably grew up thinking that the ice age and extinction are part of the mating ritual. One of my sons once covered himself in Maxi Pads and said he was Donatello from the Mutant Ninja Turtles, and insisted on going to the bank with me dressed that way ("Donatello HAS to wear these, Mom! He HAS to!") When I tried to explain why Maxi Pads are not suitable outer day wear for a three year old boy, I was stuck for a real reason. I mean, is the whole deal about getting your period germane at all to the argument at hand? Does knowing that the pads actually go in my underpants once a month help the situation at all? I told the people at the bank that he had a skin condition. Fuck 'em.

Is it easier for moms to explain the facts of life to daughters than to sons? One mom in my class shared the job with her husband, each giving their daughter some bits of information at various times with her. The result? When the little girl was in the bathroom and saw her mom pull out a tampon, she clapped her hands and said, "oh great, Mommy! You caught a fish!"

True story. Hand to God, this is a true story.
I wonder if my sister will understand it.

I'm Too Sexy For My Weener

Here's the latest reason that school buses are dangerous: The radio. Especially when the driver has it turned on and "I'm Too Sexy For My Shirt" is playing.

The song raced throughout the bus like wildfire, of course, searing the provocative lyric into impressionable young brains like Kraft singles onto hot buttered white bread. The excitement might have hovered at medium hysteria for the ride home and waned in the wake of milk and cookies on the kitchen table, but for a (Talented And Gifted, of course) second grader who went rogue and changed the word "shirt" to "weener".

"I'm too sexy for my WEENER.,,too sexy, YEAH!" And a classic is born.

Came the clarion call, angelic voices rising to the heavens, as the yellow bus meandered through suburban streets. "I'm too sexy for my WEENER!" One by one, the kindergartners, not savvy enough to keep the song hidden from parents, ran into their houses and serenaded their moms and dads and sibs, and - in one case - Great Grandma Nell who was visiting from Spokane. Some kids added choreography by shaking their hips at the word, "weener". A few of them shimmied their shoulders, evidently not being fully aware of where, exactly, the weener is located.

The Incident (as I like to refer to it in a wide-mouthed whisper) resulted in no dearth of discussion topics in parenting class. After all, this song, this "weener" song could be the musical H1N1 of the primary school, an epidemic of potty-themed parodies sung in school buses, hallways and recess yards.

But here's the problem with trying to vaccinate against it:
It's funny. "Weener" is a funny word. And all the stern looks, finger-pointing admonishments and firing of school bus drivers isn't going to change that.

Weener. Yup, still funny.

I've heard a lot of, "that just isn't funny, Ann Brown" from school teachers, parents, piano teachers, neighbors and television producers rejecting my work. But you know what? It still is funny to me. Which makes me sad and pathetic, I know, sitting alone in the attic reading through my old "Caroline In the City" spec scripts, laughing alone, but it's true.

Trying to convince a child that something s/he finds hiLARious is not, in fact, funny, is a losing game. So don't play it. You don't have to laugh along with it (although that would be sweet), you can even legislate when it's okay to sing it (yes, in Trader Joe's; no, at vacation bible camp, for instance) but don't give away all your power by trying to get your kid to agree that it's not funny.

Because you are just plain wrong.

However, you wanna know what really isn't funny? Grandma Nell actually died the day after hearing the song.

You better not laugh.

You Are So Special

I am always on the lookout for signs that the world is going down the toilet. It is the favorite pastime of hand-wringing melancholics such as myself. Recently, I only had to look as far as Facebook.

I am not going to go all Andy Rooney on your ass. This is not an old crone grumbling about social networking. I have no issue with Facebook. (I do have issue with the tiny, illegible numbers and letters on my cell phone and I definitely have issue with young people responding, "not a problem" when I thank them, but other than that, I am pretty much at peace with progress. Although progress can lead to the future, and that concerns me because the future may hold in it my death. Again, however, not my point today.)

When I logged on to Facebook the other day, I was asked if I'd like to become a fan of the UPS store in my home town. I'm FB savvy enough to say no to most fan requests because you just wind up getting notices about all the shit you don't care about and do not need to know. I mean, does my brain really need to make room for the price of peanut butter filled pretzels at Trader Joe's? Can't I just find out the price when I get there? And moreover, do any of us really have to carry so much insignificant information in our heads? No wonder we can't remember where we put the baby's birth certificate. Or where we put the baby.

Still, I got to thinking about the UPS store down the street and whether or not I wanted to be its fan. I take it seriously, being a fan, like being a bridesmaid or a godmother, or being the only person in the house who knows where the Halloween candy is hidden. Accepting the mantle of "UPS store fan" has ramifications of time, energy, identity and - who knows - random financial support.

Or so you'd think. But no. The responsibilities include: nothing.

A sign. Down the toilet.

Your kids are growing up in a world where we pledge to be a fan of something that we will forget once we click on the word "yes". A world where we are instructed to have an "outstanding day!" by a phone voice that is not going to do a damn thing to help make it happen. A world where fucking John McCain calls me (and everyone else) his friend! We live in a world that demands pretty much nothing of the people upon whom we bestow titles. My kid didn't just do what was expected of him at school; he was STUDENT OF THE WEEK! I don't just buy my groceries at the same market; I am a SUPER VALUED CUSTOMER! With a SUPER VALUED CUSTOMER card to remind me! I don't want to find my UPS store a merely moderately pleasant place to buy Sharpie pens; I want to be a FAN. A SUPER VALUED FAN! I want a card! Be my friend! Be my fan! Title me! VALIDATE MEEEEEEEEEE!

Love forever,
Your BFF and greatest admirer,
Ann

Keepin' it Weird

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The buzz in parenting group is around a certain young blanket sniffer
in preschool. Moms are talking. Camps are being chosen. Carpool
alliances are threatened.

Some feel that he (of course, it's a
"he". I believe, based on nothing but my own opinion, that blanket
sniffing is totally a male proclivity) should be stopped, even sent
home if he cannot kick the habit. Other parents feel that a fair
compromise is to have his mom to pick him up from preschool before nap
time. Let him get his jollies at home, they murmur, away from my kid.
The aroma of Lysol spray and extra strength Febreeze wafts from the
kids' nap blankets when they pull them out of their little backpacks.
Which, I might mention, also contain petrified bananas, rocks from the
sandbox that neighborhood cats use as a toilet, a couple of dried
boogers and - resting atop one girl's blanket - a petrified tooth. And
the parents are freaking out over one sweet little boy's nose touching
everyone's blanket each afternoon??? Fuuuck.

We are all so
squirrely these days. A three year old likes to go around his preschool
room taking a quick hit off of everyone's blanket before he settles
down on his cot for mainline sniffing of his own threadbare schmatte.
And moms and dads are running to the Situation Room (the white Toyota
Sienna in the parking lot) like Rumsfeld and Cheney jonesing for a
bombing. Orange Alert in Miss Mell's class. Remove all blankets from
the school. Duck tape and plastic! Shock and awe!

There is
something quirky about every single one of us. Some adults click their
fingernails. Some nod obssessively and say “uh-huh” waaaay too many
times.

My friend Freddy used to beg his mom to stick her elbow in
his (closed) eye when he was young. The feel of her elbow in his eye
socket meant security to him. The world made sense when he whispered,
"elbow in eye" and his mom complied. Today, Freddy is the founder of a
worldwide educational foundation that might save the world. Should we
have kicked him out of preschool because of the eye thing? I mean, it
might have given the other children ideas.

I know this one guy
who silently mouths the words I am saying while I am saying them. He is
my dermatologist and I count on him to find my suspicious moles and
save my life because I am a diehard tanorexic and cannot stay out of
the sun. Do I care if he is a little bit quirky? Do I care if his habit
of mirroring my speech is annoying? Do I give a shit if he goes home
and masturbates to diagrams of malignant melanomas? Well, come to think
of it, yes. That would be creepy. But do I care if he likes to sleep
with a used dryer sheet in his pajamas? No, I do not. Save my life, I
say, do my annual Mole Patrol and the rest of your time is your own.

And
bring that little blanket sniffer back to nap time. Someday he might be
the nose that discovers pot in your teenager's school locker.

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I want to market a bumper sticker that reads, "I have no idea how my
kid is doing in school." Only I have a feeling I'd be left with boxes
of them, unsold, taking up space in my garage. I mean, who's got the
balls to slap that sentiment on the back of the minivan?

But we have to do something, don't you think? It is just creepy how we over-identify with our children.

I
overheard a mom in line at Starbucks saying to a friend, "we have had
four days in big girl pants!" Now, this statement in of itself holds a
lot of intrigue for me. Who is "we"? And are you both sharing just the
one pair of pants? And, pardon my judgment, but have you not changed
the pants for four days? Because four days is a lot of time in the same
pair of big girl pants. Once I had to go three days in the same pair
because I forgot to pack underwear on a trip to Big Sur with my
boyfriend, probably because we decided to drive there on the spur of
the moment (and at the end of a very big joint, when questionable ideas
become seem like pretty good ones, and truly misguided ideas seem
awesome) but those undies got pretty funky after the second day. I'm
just saying.

"Four days in big girl pants". The possibilities
enthrall. Maybe she was talking about herself, hoping the euphemism
"big girl" would dilute the sting of her three-digit pants size. Or,
and I really wanted to believe this one, maybe she was talking about
her husband. The emerging tranny. God, I would have totally gone to the
back of the line again just to hear the rest of that story.

But
no. She was, of course, referring to her three year old daughter, both
of them, evidently, facing the challenge of potty training. And
everyone in line at Starbucks cheered as if she and her three year old
had isolated the gene for brain cancer that morning.

We have to
stop bogarting our kids' destinies. First of all, we are stealing their
life stories, co-opting them to be our stories. And second of all, do
we really want their experiences to be inextricably bound to ours? I
mean, should my sons feel as if they are going through menopause with
me? Do I want them regaling their friends at college with anecdotes
about "our" hot flashes and vaginal irritability?