Just another conversation with my son.

Just another conversation with my son.

My son and I just realized we are starving. A conversation about who is fixing food for whom ensues. Of course, he wants me to do it.

Following are some just of the things LJ has said to me;

· Mom, you know I can’t make simple food.
· I’m saving YOU money by wanting a sandwich.
· They just taste better when you make them.
· MOM MOM MOM MOM (insert Tarzan yell)
· Don’t make me use your government name.
· It is your god given right to make me a sandwich!
· Mooooooooooooom Pleeeeease!!
· You’re kinda being a dick right now.
· Don’t make me call Papa.
· (yelling) Mom, mother, mommy mom, mom c’mon… Please PLEASE!!
· Mother, please make me food.
· One day I won’t need you to make food for me. Take advantage of this NOW.
· You know what would be the worst thing EVER? If you made me food now. I’m over it. Not hungry. (Reverse psychology)
· Yeah, not hungry now. I wish I was though. So I would be happy about a sandwich.
· MOTHER!! Hollie! Ms. Monaco! I’m hungry.
· If you make me food, I’ll be quiet for the rest of the night.
· (Sounding pitiful) I don’t deserve this.
· *Heavy sigh…
· Is this what not being loved feels like?
· I hope you know that when the time comes and you need to be put in home, I’m not picking a nice one. Because you’re an asshole.
· Mother, I’m not asking again.
· *Loud screaming, wailing, fake crying
· Mom, why do you hate me?
· I just want you to know I’m not very happy with you right now.

*** I’m laughing so hard ***
· I’m glad you think this is funny because I think you’re an asshole.
· Mom please, I begging you. I’m begging you for food.
· Mom, I’ve been more than polite.

Seriously, 20 minutes of this. I’m dying. And now, I’m off to make us sandwiches. He earned it!!

to ink or not to ink

kid-with-tattoos

I am 47 years old. I have a full sleeve on my right arm, a full back piece and my right calf is tatted.  There are a few other small tattoos scattered (tastefully) in various places.  I love my ink.  The answer to the question, “To ink or not to ink?” is ALWAYS “YES!”  Or is it?

People always ask about my tattoos.  Where, when, why did I get them?  What’s the story behind each one? Did they hurt?  Do I regret them?  How am I going to feel about them when I am older?  So many questions, to which I have answers.  My favorite question has always been, “What are you going to do when your kids ask if they can get a tattoo?”  My reply has always been the same.  Yes, my children may have tattoos.  How could I say no?  Why would I?

My son has always said he would only get ink if it was a memorial tattoo for his sister or me.  A little on the dark side, but it makes sense.  A cousin of his got a tattoo for his younger brother who passed.  They were both in their teens.  The younger brother was diagnosed with cancer and was given the honor of inking the outline of the tattoo on his big brother.  It’s a beautiful piece with more meaning than any other tattoo I’ve ever seen.  This tells me my son would not get a tattoo unless it really moved him.

My daughter, for years, has said she wanted a stick figure on the inside of her right wrist.  No story. No reason. It’s just what she wanted. Truthfully, I’ve been looking at stick figure tattoos getting ready for when she is ready.  Maybe a mother daughter tattoo??  Then, this year, she said she still wants a tattoo, but probably not the stick figure. Damn, I was kinda excited about this idea! Madi is a free spirit.  I can see her getting a few.  Maybe she will want a matching one with me as one of them.

These are the rules I’ve had in my head:

  1. You must be 18.
  2. You have to tell me repeatedly you want the same image/design in the same place.
  3. There should be story/reason behind what you want.
  4. Do not sneak off and get a crappy tattoo.
  5. Let me take you.  I love and trust my artist.

Until now.

Recently, my son has come to me and asked for a tattoo.  My son, the cautious one.  The boy who takes no risks.  My first born and still very much the baby at 16 years old.  I was shocked and intrigued.  So, I asked what he wanted, where he wanted it and why?  While, I’m not exactly thrilled with the origination of the concept, I must say I was pretty moved by his story.  It’s well thought out and it means a lot to him on an emotional and artistic level.  I won’t share the what or the why.  That’s his story to tell.

For the purpose of this blog the simple details are this: He wants in on his left forearm.  The image would be about 2.5″x5″ish.   He’s a large kid (6’4″, 275 pounds) so it’s proportionate.  It is tasteful and simple.  He says he eventually wants a full sleeve of all music related images.  Who’da thought??

So, here I sit, questioning my rules.  I know I’m right, but I think maybe I’m not.  This mom stuff isn’t easy.

Music has always moved me.  To this day, my most favoritest (I know that isn’t a real word.  It’s my word.) music is the music I listened to when I was 16-21! Tastes change. The world changes. I get it.  I’m trying to apply logic and have a rational argument against this.  That is what a normal, good mom would do, right?  But, I end up arguing with myself. I still LOVE the same music.  It moves me.  Hmmm… This is really tough.  Both of my children are headstrong and they want what they want.  I know this isn’t a rash decision.  His story was quite moving, really.

I have a n appointment on the 20th of this month.  More ink for mom. Do I take him with me?

To ink or not to ink?  That really is the question.

 

Mom is crazy. Love her anyway.

One of the duties of being a mom is embarrassing your children.  My mom embarrassed me as often as she could and generally in an EPIC fashion.  

When I was little, I was the cutest little boy anyone had ever seen, until I was 13. Seems like overnight I went from boy status to a set of B’s. Yay boobs! This was a big deal. We had to go bra shopping immediately. 

Back in the day, your mom would drag you to Macy’s and have the bra lady measure you for the right fit.  Why do they call them “training” bras? What are they being trained to do? Hell, I skipped that stage.  There was so much discussion about and measuring of my boobs.  Urgh!  I thought this was the most embarrassing thing EVER.  It wasn’t.

What’s more embarrassing than your mom discovering you have boobs and taking you to a store where a random stranger measures your chest, picks out a bra and helps into it?

This is…  

We were visiting my grandparents at the time of this little adventure. My father, both grandparents, aunt, uncle and two male, teen aged cousins were all seated at the dining room table when we walked in the door from shopping.  My father asked about our  trip to the mall.  My bat shit crazy mother grabbed my shirt at the waist and promptly pulled it up over my head for everyone to see  and announced, “She’s got boobs now. How do you like her new bra?”

Mortified. Thanks Mom.

Now, I’ve got a lot of D’s and I don’t care who sees them. If you haven’t seen boobs by now, please look at mine. They are my two best assets. And a great source of embarrassment for my kids.

It’s not just the boobs, it’s everything about me that embarrasses my kids.  They say other mom’s don’t act like me.  Apparently, it’s embarrassing to inform your son about “man scaping” or to tell your daughter you’re jealous of her ass because its “PA-DOW!”.  Both of my kids have great asses.  It’s a fact.

My son played JV high school football for one season. I was so proud. I loved watching him walk out onto the field, get to the line and squat down ready to plow through the kid before him. Apparently yelling, “That ass, tho!” is embarrassing to my son.  Who knew?

Perhaps I am bat shit crazy.

To my mom, thank you!

To my kids, you’re welcome.