Banging Cinderella

Last night I decided to treat my kids to a movie night at home. I would like to call this a tradition, but I am hardly vigilant about baths so for argument's sake we will just call it a movie night whim. So as the popcorn was emitting possible deadly fumes from it's microwaveable bag, I went through our Disney movie collection. I was doing this in the hopes that my son would pass right over Cinderella. Not a chance! For the third time in a row, he reached for that worn case with it's popular princess on the cover. I tried distracting him with Shrek but to no avail. As I popped in the tape (yes, I said tape as in VHS tape) it occurred to me that he might want to BE Cinderella rather than just BANG her. My mind flashed to scenes of us walking with arms locked giggling about men. He is trying to talk me out of purchasing "old lady shoes" and gingham kitchen curtains with patterns of roosters on them. Not a bad vision to have except for the rooster curtains. If I have learned one thing from the gay people that are in my life, it's that "being gay" was not a choice for them. It was just the way they woke up from puberty.

By the end of the movie, all he could talk about were the animals, and how pretty Cinderella was. And all I could talk about was how much therapy she might need after living her whole life unloved by her step-mother and step-sisters and how running off and getting married to staive off the pain of her Father's death would come back to bite her in the ass one day. My son gave me a puzzled look, and I pretended like I didn't just say that. It's amazing to me how very different our perceptions change as adults. All this time, I had him pegged for wanting to be a princess and he just wanted to see some mice sing, dance, and dress humans. As of 4pm today there has been no mention of Cinderella or her rodent friends. Tomorrow, who knows. Sleeping Beauty anyone?

Mother's Day Shout Out

First off, Happy Mother's Day to all you mommas out there. I know, I know...Mother's Day was yesterday. But I was too busy spending the day with my children to even notice my blog. It was a day made for good memories. We headed out to a restaurant called the Park Tavern, which sits directly on Piedmont Park (Atlanta's lame answer to NYC's Central Park). And I took the trouble to bother with beauty. Most days in a fevered fury, I might hurriedly apply mascara to tired eyes, and hope for the best. But on Mother's Day I wanted to feel as appreciated and beautiful inside and out. I am staring straight ahead in the mirror, my wet hair is clinging to the sides of my face as I brush on concealer to tired eyes. My son is darting nervously from my bathroom to his bedroom. A practiced ritual from watching me get ready to" leave" him for an evening out. He is questioning me about where we are going, and my answer is the same. "We" are going out to have breakfast with Mommy. Grey is not quite 4, and is still trying to grasp the concept of Mothers Day. I am finishing my hurried makeup job, and he is standing in the doorway of our bedroom. His eyes are bright and eager and search to meet mine. Within seconds, he is greeting me with a clumsy hug that envelops my legs. " I love you Mommy", he says. I am dizzy from emotion, and push back stubborn tears. There is something so primal about your children uttering those words, and I dare any parent to stave off my same emotions after hearing them. I am scrambling to pack the last few items in my "saddlebag" before leaving the house, and I can tell that my husband is especially patient with me today. I can't blame him. Most days or 50% of time, I only use 12% of the crap in my bag. But God forbid, if even 99.9% of the time those items are not on usual expeditions to the shopping mall or restaurants. But I would rather spend 25 bucks on physical therapy session copays from the weight of those supplies than 25 bucks on character licensed pants any day of the week. These are the hardships that make motherhood. We arrive at the restaurant, and my husband is in "daddy mode" as he puts together a palletable plate of breakfast fare for both our children. I am in awe of what my life is, what it has become, and how unselfish and self-sacrificing it really is. These small moments, in my small world, are what love is made of. Happy Mothers Day!