Dumber Than A Box Of Rocks... With Fur.

I have never claimed that the current version of the Triplicats were smart.  The original Triplicats... now those were some scarily smart cats, but they were raised by a dog, so...

The Triplicats 2.0, however... are dumb as a box of rocks.  But we love them, mostly.

Today, though, they're making that box of rocks look pretty damn smart.

So, I take my kids to school every morning, and when I get home, Calcifer, the orange tabby, is usually right at the front door, waiting for me to unlock it so he can either greet me with much affection... or make yet another escape attempt until he decides, "Hey, wait a minute... it's FREEZING out here!! LET ME BACK IN NAAAAOOOOOWWWW!!!!"

This morning, he wanted to slip out, so that meant me squeezing in through a barely opened door while blocking him with my purse, then yowling softly at him to make him back off.  He didn't back off far enough, because when I stepped back to lock the front door, I stepped on his tail.

Did I mention I was wearing Doc Marten's this morning?

He let out a truly epic cat squawk of pain, and I hastily lifted my foot while saying, "Well, if you didn't want to get stepped on, you shouldn't have gotten under my feet, you dumb cat!"

He streaked away from the door, a very unhappy cat.

In the meantime, Muta and Yuki came hurrying in on hearing Cal squall to see what was going on, and they see a cat racing away from the door.  Do they think, "Oh, no, our littermate that we've known and lived with for the last FIVE YEARS is hurt, we must check on him!"

No.  Those freeze-damaged little brains of theirs say, "INTRUDER ALERT!  INTRUDER ALERT!  STRANGE CAT IS TRESPASSING ON OUR TERRITORY, REPEAT, STRANGE CAT IS TRESPASSING ON OUR TERRITORY.  ATTAAAAAAACK!!!"  And they do.

All I know is, squalling cat running away from me, I lock the door, and turn to see Muta and Yuki both frizz out and go into full attack mode, racing after him while yowling their battle cries and slashing at him like he's the feline version of Public Enemy Number One.

Calcifer, already freaked out, is completely stunned and basically says, "Wait, what the fuck, hey, it's me, I'm hurt, WAIT, WHOA, OH, MY GOD, THEY'RE TRYING TO KILL ME!!!" and runs for it.

I grab pillows off the couch and fire them after the cats to distract them, because I can't believe they're actually attacking Cal.  Took me a minute to realize why they were attacking him.  It's... stunning.  I'm thinking, his scent hasn't changed.  His color hasn't changed.  Nothing about him has changed.  So why???

I figured they'd probably get over it and forget.  That later, Cal would come out of my daughter's room, and the other two would be like, "Hey, dude, where you been?  There was this other weird cat here, you should have been here, we would have totally kicked his ass if you were here!"

That... hasn't happened yet.

As a matter of fact, now, they don't recognize each other at all!  I mean, here it is, seven hours later, and they ran into each other in the kitchen, and it was like, "Who are you? "  "No, wait... who are you??"  "Da fuck??  Who the hell are
YOU???"
There was a squalling melee in the kitchen, and now they're all hiding from each other.  All three of them.  In.  The.  Same.  Place.   Under my bed.

This should be fun.

My cats.  Are idiots.

The Power of Vocabulary...

Reason number 253 why my son rocks:

Walking home Monday, a group of large sixth graders (meaning they were bigger than my son, who is a five foot tall 7th grader) tried to involve the Impossible Son in a fight by calling him names.

"Hey, faggot!!"

He stopped, frowned, and looked at them.  "Why are y'all calling me a bunch of sticks?  I know I'm skinny, but duuuuuude..."

They stared at him and said, "Wait... what?"

"That's what faggot means.  It's a bunch of sticks."

"No, it doesn't!" one of them said in disbelief while the rest stood there with their mouths hanging open.

"Yeah, it does," he said over his shoulder as he started walking away.  "Look it up in the dictionary."

He said by the time their brains finished processing it and they were able to move again, he was too far ahead of them to even bother.

And just in case you were wondering...

faggot or esp  ( US ) fagot 1  (ˈfæɡət)
— n
1.	a bundle of sticks or twigs, esp when bound together and used as fuel

This is what happens when you read fairy tales to your kids when they're little.  

Heh heh heh...

Peeking through...

Every once in a while, little glimpses of the woman my mom used to be comes peeking through...

So, I was talking to her today, and while we were talking, Bets walks in to show her something.  The first I hear of it is Mom saying, "What's that?"

"It's broccoli, Mom," I hear my sister say.

"Huh," says Mom thoughtfully.  "Okay."  Then after a long pause, she says, "Is it supposed to be brown???"

I nearly fell out of my chair, but managed not to laugh out loud, because I was dying to know the answer, you know?

"It's dehydrated," I heard Bets say with exasperation in her voice.

"I see," Mom said politely.  "That's... interesting."

"I'm gonna take it back to the kitchen and put it on a plate so you can eat it after you get off the phone," my sister said.

"Okay," Mom said.  "That's fine."  And then, after a moment, when she was sure Bets was gone, she leaned close to the phone and said, quite emphatically, "I'm not gonna eat that."

Yeah, I completely lost it at that point.  And I don't blame her one bit!!  Brown broccoli??? WTF????? Do I even want to know???

That moment when you realize you helped raise the next generation of the village...

It all started because the Impossible Son said, "One of my friends is pansexual."

I blinked, because this was a definite non-sequiter not related to the conversation we were having, but I'm well used to this sort of thing because... that's just the way my kids' brains work.  And I admit it, I'm kind of that way, too.  So, I said, "Really?  What makes you say that?"

"Well..." he hedged.

"Do you know what it means?" I asked while keeping my eyes on the road, because I had just picked him up from school and wanted to not, you know, run off the road into a ditch.

"Yeah," he said, "it means you'll basically have sex with anything that stands still long enough."

Wow, I thought, and knew I had to nip that one in the bud.  "Nope, not even close," I said firmly.

"But... that's what my friends said it meant," he protested.

"Yeah, well, they don't know what it means, either," I said dryly.  "Being pansexual means you're attracted to a person, not their gender.  Gender doesn't matter to you, it's the person themselves that attracts you."

"Oh," he said thoughtfully, then he frowned at me.  "Then... why didn't my friends know that?"

I shrugged.  "Because a lot of folks don't even bother to learn what those things mean."

"I thought that was being heterosexual..."

"No," I said, wondering how the hell he'd gotten so mixed up about this, "being heterosexual means being attracted to someone of the opposite sex.  And," I said before he could ask, "being homosexual means being attracted to someone of the same sex as you.   And being bisexual means being attracted to either sex."

We kept chatting until we got home, and I think I cleared it up for him, but wow...

I shouldn't be too surprised, though, that he's mixed up.  Last year, the 6th grade assistant principal told my son he needed to keep some friction burns he had on his hands covered with bandaging, not because it was hygienic, or would keep them clean, but... because he could pick up AIDS from the surfaces of the desks in the classrooms and the tables in the cafeteria.

*watches the collective jaw drop*

Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too.

So, going by that shining example, along with the fact that what passes for sex education in the schools in our small town is of the abstinence variety, it's no big surprise that my son's friends have no clue whatsoever what any of those terms mean.

No.  Really.

There is a disturbingly high rate of teen pregnancy in our little town.  My son is in 7th grade.  There's already a girl in his class that is expecting.  A girl at the Impertinent Daughter's high school went into labor on the first day of school.

I have news for all those parents who keep saying that they don't want comprehensive sex education taught in the schools because it might give their kids ideas and make them want to have sex.  Your kids have gone way past having ideas and they're already doing it.  Not knowing anything about it hasn't stopped them.  They're doing it, and they're getting pregnant, and getting STDs because you're too stupid to give them the tools they need to prevent it.  You're preventing them from knowing enough about it to make an informed decision, and you know what?  It's been proven that kids who take comprehensive sex education classes tend to delay having sex longer than kids who don't.

Anyhow, moving on, later in the evening, I was discussing this with the Husbandly One and the Impertinent Daughter, and she said, "You know, Mom, I'm not surprised at all, because my friends used to pop out with stuff like that all the time.  I'd come ask you about it and you would explain it to me and then I'd go back to school and explain it to my friends.  I mean, I knew they were wrong, but sometimes, I didn't know why, or I didn't know how to explain it.  So I'd go to you, you'd explain it, and then I'd go and explain it to them!"

That sort of boggled me and I laughed and said, "Wow, kiddo, you make it sound like I'm responsible for providing all your friends with sex education."

The Impertinent Daughter snorted as she headed to her room and said, "Duh, Mom, haven't you noticed?  None of my friends are pregnant!!"

Holy cow, she's right.  None of her little circle of female friends are pregnant, and none of the girlfriends of her male friends are pregnant.

That... is pretty stunning.  And you know, all I have done is say things like, "It's easier to prevent a baby than to raise one," and "don't depend on the girl to provide contraception unless you're prepared to be a father," and, "if he doesn't love you enough to wear a condom, then he doesn't love you and he's not worth your time," and "No is a complete sentence all on its own.  No.  Period.  End of story,"and "You have a perfect right to refuse to engage in sex if you're not ready, but it doesn't hurt to develop a good left hook, too."

It's not that hard.  You start when they're old enough to start asking questions.  You tailor it to their age, but you answer their questions.  You don't tell them the stork brings babies or that you go shopping at the hospital.  You tell them it takes two people to make a baby, and the process that goes into it.  You tell them about the changes it makes to a woman's body, and what it takes to grow one, and how it comes out.  And... you tell them what it takes to raise a baby.  Money, time, and patience.  A stable job, a good home, a willingness to love, nurture, teach, lose many, many, many nights of sleep, to sometimes go hungry so your child can eat, to forgo new shoes so your kid can have new shoes, or a band instrument, or piano lessons, or whatever they need.

You talk to them about relationships and what it takes to build them.  What it takes to build a good solid friendship with their buddies, then apply that to a relationship with a girl/boyfriend, a spouse, a lover... you talk about what it takes to learn to live with a completely different person than they're used to living with, sharing books, records, a car, a house, money, or a dog, and you talk about how it all changes when you bring a child into it.

You talk to them about responsibility and respect, for themselves, for others, and you talk to them about how to treat other people.  How to recognize when someone genuinely cares and when they just want to get into someone's pants.  You teach them how to put a condom on themselves, or on someone else.  You teach them about other forms of birth control and how to talk about it with another person.  You teach them about drinking responsibly, about knowing the people they're with and making sure they have a designated sober person in their group.  That they have a signal to let their friends know when they're leaving a party/bar/social scene willingly and when they're in trouble.  That they should have someone they check in with regularly when they go on dates, so that if they miss a check-in, their friend will know something is wrong and will react appropriately.

Doesn't everyone do this?  If not, they should.

Because this really annoys me....

When I dropped my son off at the junior high this morning, and my daughter at the high school, I couldn't help but notice the groups gathered around the flag poles at both schools.  In case some of you are unaware, today is See You At The Pole Day, and that means Christian students and teachers gather around the flag pole of their respective schools to pray and "fight" for their right to pray on taxpayer land.

And... of course, they are completely missing the point.

See, they're doing it under the mistaken notion that their faith is somehow under attack because they aren't allowed to officially pray in school.  They aren't allowed to have that moment after the pledge of allegiance to have someone lead a prayer over the loudspeakers, or before a football game, etc, etc.

And they think that means they are being persecuted.

Here is what is actually happening.  They aren't being prevented from praying in school or at school sanctioned events because they're Christian.  They're being prevented from doing it because school districts are unwilling to allow other faiths the same right and access.

In other words, Christians can't have officially sanctioned school prayer because Buddhists can't have officially sanctioned school chants, and Muslims can't have officially sanctioned calls to prayer throughout the day for interested students, and Wiccans can't have officially sanctioned circles...

Are you getting my drift?  It isn't the government that's doing this.  It's the school districts.  Because... if they let one faith group do their thing, then they have to let them all do their thing.  If they allow Christians to proselytize, then they have to allow all of them to proselytize.  If they allow Christians to pass out Bibles, they have to allow Muslims to pass out Korans, Jews to pass out Torahs, Wiccans to pass out Redes... you see?

If you allow one group to do it, you have to allow them all.  And school districts aren't prepared to have hysterical parents calling in because little Johnny brought home a Koran, or little Susie wants to go dance naked in the city park under a full moon at the next Sabbat.  Hysterical Christian parents.  Because, of course, the only true religion is Christianity, never mind that none of you can get your messages straight or even decide which one of your many, many denominations is the actual true faith.

So, my dear Christian friends, your rights aren't being trampled on.  ALL of us are having our rights trampled on... because of you.  Because you think you're more equal than us.  So basically, you're doing it to yourselves, and dragging the rest of us along with you.  And you know what?  We're kind of tired of that.  So stop.  Just stop.  And get over yourselves.  Because you don't see any of us at the schools, demanding the right to practice our faith, or not practice a faith, on the school grounds.  We're not there demanding those rights because we're perfectly happy to have the schools teach math, science, reading, history... you know, all the stuff the schools are supposed to be teaching?  And treating all our kids equally, no matter their ethnic origin, gender, religion, etc, etc?  That's part of the separation between the church and the state that Christians apparently don't quite grasp.  So, we're happy that there isn't religion in schools because it doesn't belong there.

So stop freaking out over the non-existent persecution.  The rest of us would like to be left in peace.

And The Growing Continues...

Last Tuesday, the Impossible Son was complaining of a headache, sore muscles, and nausea.  When I took his temperature, it was a stunning 96.4 F.  So... no fever.  I figured it was the result of not enough sleep after a three day weekend and pronounced him mostly fit for school.  However, in the car, he turned green and looked likely to hurl, so I turned around and brought him back home.

I knew something was off when I suggested a nap and he went without protest.

My son has been protesting naps since the advanced age of two.

But last Tuesday, he said, "Huh... good idea," and promptly went to bed.

When he woke up five and a half hours later, he'd grown an inch.  I am totally serious about this.  He was taller when he woke up than he was when he went to sleep.  Noticeably taller.

He's grown another inch since then, and I have a feeling he's going to do it again today.  Because, once again, he woke up complaining of a headache and nausea, but this time, he's added a sore throat to the mix.  I sent him to school after giving him something for the headache and congestion that had led to the sore throat, and they called me around 10:30 to come pick him up.

When we got home, as we were walking through the door, I said, "Maybe you should take a nap... wait, where'd you go?"

He was in bed before I could finish my sentence.  Taking a nap.

He's going to grow again, I just know it.  And dammit, that means MORE SOCKS.  And probably another pair of shoes.

Shoot.  Me.  Now.

Growing, Growing, Too Much Growing!

I cannot keep up with my son's rate of growth.

He's twelve years old, and already looks like a teenager, all arms, legs, and lankiness.  Yesterday morning, while getting ready for school, he came to me and said, "Mom, I'm out of socks."

"Look in your drawer," I said while finishing up lunches, "I know there were four pair in there two days ago."

"There are no socks in my drawer, Mom, I looked!" he insisted.

Grumbling to myself, I went to check and sure enough, lots of underwear, no socks.  So, I headed for my bedroom and the Sock Basket.

In case you're wondering, the Sock Basket is a small laundry basket where we toss all the socks with missing partners.  Sometimes, the missing socks turn up buried in the furniture, hidden under the bookcases or, even more surprisingly, on the shelves of the bookcases.  I have found socks where you expect, jammed into shoes or hidden under beds or the kitchen table.  And I have found socks where you don't expect, like... in a box of music CDs, or on top of the XBox.  And I've found them where you shouldn't expect to, like... between the pages of a book?  Really???  Stuffed into one of the drawers of the china cabinet?   Seriously, guys?? What possible reason would any of you have for stuffing your dirty smelly socks in there???

It's moments like those that I realize my children are strange, strange people.  But I love them anyway.

So, I went to the sock basket, figuring I could at least give the Impossible Son a mis-matched pair of socks, which seems to be all the rage among the teenagers of our small town anyway.  No, really.  They buy pairs of wildly colored or striped or spotted or patterned socks and deliberately mix them up, and wear the resulting mis-matched pairs.  I was dubious at first because, hey, grownup here, raised by parents who kept all our clothes strictly matched and handed down ironclad rules of dressing: 

1.  "No plaids and stripes shall be worn at the same time!!"

2.  "White shoes shall not be worn before Memorial Day nor after Labor Day, unless you are in the Navy and serving in Florida or the Tropics, and you, Young Lady, are not in the Navy!"

3.  "Sandals will not be worn before May, nor after September, I don't care if it's December 25th and it's 90 degrees F and we live in Texas.  It's just Not Done."

4.  "All socks shall be matched and be the same color, and they shall be a color the same as or complimentary to the outfit you are wearing.  And if no matching socks are clean, you shall wear sandals, unless it's before May or after September, in which case, you are Out Of Luck."

However, I got over it, and have seen the mismatched sock thing as a good way to empty out the Sock Basket.  So getting into the spirit of it, I found a mismatched pair for the Impossible Son and handed them over.

Ten seconds later, "Mom... they're too small."

"What do you mean?  We just got you those socks."  

I looked down.  Now, these are what my kids call "footie" socks.  They're the short little socks that barely show over the top of your sneakers, and my son is particularly fond of them.  The sock should come up over the top of his foot and up the back of his heel.  But it doesn't.  It doesn't come up over his heel.  It's too short.

Jaw dropping, I grab another pair of large socks and hand them over.  These are supposed to come up to the ankle.  Except... they don't come up over his heel, either.  So... I grabbed a pair of the Husbandly One's socks, a mismatched pair as well, and they fit.  Kind of.

"How does Papa stand these?" the Impossible Son asks conversationally as he tilts his feet side to side, peering at them dubiously.

"He loves them," I said, putting the other socks back in the basket.  "He says they're very comfortable."

"They're kind of tight around the top," and I look down and sure enough, I see red lines pressing into his skin where the socks end.

I stare at him.  "Honey," I said slowly, "I can't give you any of my socks, because my feet are much smaller than yours.  And I can't give you any of your sister's socks, because her feet are smaller than mine!"

"I know," he said miserably.  "I'll... just wear these."

I had just bought my son socks.  And he had outgrown them in less than two weeks. 

*pauses to hyperventilate*

You know, I thought I was prepared for this.  I thought, because I've already been through the teenaged thing with the Impertinent Daughter, that I at least had an idea of what to expect.  And it sank in.

This... is going to be totally different.  Teenaged boys have a completely different growth rate than girls.  I knew this intellectually, of course.  But I was basically being slapped upside the head with it.  

When the Impertinent Daughter started her growth spurts, she outgrew a brand new pair of shoes in less than an hour.  They had fit just fine in the store, had plenty of wiggle room, and were comfortable.  We put the shoes back in the box, took them to the cash register, bought them, and went home.  She took the shoes out of the box, put them on, took three steps and cried out, "They're too tight!!"

Understand, she's still wearing the same socks she'd worn to try the shoes on.

I knelt in front of her, just like I had in the store, and felt her feet in the shoes, and it felt like her feet were about to burst out of them.  Literally.  I made her take them off and put her old shoes back on.  

She couldn't get them on.

I thought maybe her feet had swollen for... whatever reason feet swell, so I said, "Hey, run around barefoot for now, we'll try them again in the morning."

She couldn't get them on in the morning.

When we went back to the store, her feet had grown a whole size bigger!

So... I thought, when it came to the Impossible Son, hey, I can handle it!

Riiiiiiight.

He's grown nearly four and a half inches since last May.  Which doesn't sound like much, until I tell you that three of them were just in the last two and a half weeks!!  And his hands are now officially bigger than mine, which I know isn't saying much because I have small hands.  His feet are huge right now (think Sora from Kingdom Hearts), and I know that means he's going to grow again, to fit those big feet.

He's going to be taller than me.

I knew that.  I expect that, but it was always in the distant future, when he would be sixteen, seventeen... not now.  Not... like... by next summer, when he'll be thirteen.

Holy Mackinoly... he's going to be thirteen.

*hyperventilates*

He's my youngest child, and all of a sudden, time's passage is rushing by me as I watch his jaw lengthen, his chin lose it's pointy-ness, his face taking on a more adult aspect, and my baby is receding further and further into the past.  I no longer see the cheerful toddler, or the bouncy kid with the big grin, I see the adult that is to come, and whoa!

Then he catches a toad and brings it to show me. And goes flying awkwardly after it when it hops out of his hands.

Yep.  The kid is still there.  And I can still smoke his butt at Smash Brothers.

Hey, it's the little things...