It came to my attention today that there are 3 people in this world who regularly read my blog and those three people are probably worrying themselves sick that I’m dead, or they just can’t find out how to unsubscribe from me on Google Reader. But if it’s the former, you should know I’m not dead. I’m just kind of tired. Of life AND the Internet. Both are just pretty lame for me right now.
For instance, people stopped using Facebook about three months ago. The people who used to have updates every day are gone. Or maybe they blocked me. Or maybe thats just me not knowing how the hell to see statuses since FB just randomly changes stuff around all the time. Where did everybody go? What is the new Facebook so I can sign up quickly and be smug about what a trend-setter I am?
And in the blogging world, it seems like everyone has really slowed down as well. I mean, perhaps everything that can be said, has been said and there isn’t a single new thing to blog about. So if the collective Internet machine is going to take a break, so am I. I need to be inspired. By some really great blogging or good stories or Oprah and Ellen on the “O” cover or something. So if you’re reading this and you have a blog – go write something good. Please. The Internet NEEDS YOU right now. So does Love.
My five year old has recently become inspired — by a posthumous Michael Jackson. He begs me to play Smooth Criminal and They Don’t Really Care About Us and Thriller all the time. And that would be fine, except then he insists that I watch him dance. And that would be fine, except he never stops AND then he wants a critique. And that isn’t fine, because I have an Internet to surf, albeit a lame one.
Like a good mother, I tell him that he keeps getting better and you know what he tells me? That God whispers in his ear at night about new dance moves that he can “magically” do in the morning. I don’t know how I feel about this. Maybe my kid is schizo. Or maybe even from the grave, Michael Jackson is trying to lure small boys to grab their crotches and do pelvic thrusts so Michael can clap in heaven. I already have a history of having angels talk to me, so now I’m perturbed that Michael Jackson is my son’s angel and the next thing you know, he is going to want a hyperbaric chamber for Christmas. Or a chimp. Or MacCauley Culkin in sequined pants — none of which is in the budget (although I should check into the MacCauley thing – at this point in his career he might fit in the budget…). So needless to say, I have a lot going on these days trying to save my son’s soul from a dead Michael Jackson, but it still isn’t that inspiring and not enough for a whole blog. I guess if it does become enough for an entire post, I’m screwed.
Be well, Internet. I will be back when I find something I’m excited to write about again.
Yeah…..Yeah. Repeatedly, and with a giddiness mine eyes have not seen since Oprah visited TomKat’s Telluride prison mansion. And I’ll admit to you that this isn’t the first time he has done this. This child loves to try and put cars, Legos, pieces of ham sandwich and anything else he can get his sticky hands on down my shirt, preferably in my bra. This isn’t that tough a task because there is generally a gaping — well…gap — between my boob and my bra, a perfect nook for my 2 year old to store his foodstuffs in.
When he isn’t grabbing my neckline and plunging toys into my bra, he is trying to grope my boobs while delightfully singing “BOO-BIES! BOO-BIES!” just like the drunk obnoxious frat boy I pray everyday he will not become. On one hand I’m glad someone celebrates my little peanuts, but on the other, much larger hand, (though my hands aren’t as lopsided as my chest) I’m not sure it should be my baby boy. If you gave him the choice between playing with cars, or markers, or even electrical sockets (his other white meat), he would still prefer fondling his mother. He uses my boobs like his personal little stress balls. Hmm. Maybe not such a good metaphor.
BD is no help. He thinks I brought this on myself by laughing at the boy the first time this happened and telling him they were called boobies in the first place. I should have called them something else like “chicken” so that when he was feeling me up and singing about it, people would just think he likes chicken and has no idea what the hell he is doing with his hands – like maybe he has a palsy or something and they’d feel compassion for us. But oh no! Shoppers rush by hurriedly as he tries to grope me from his seat in the Target cart singing about boobies. And the more I tell him to stop or move his hands away, the louder and more insistent he becomes. “MOMMY! I want BOO-BIES! I want IT!”
I know they are only bracing themselves for the logical next step – they fear that at any moment I might yank up my shirt, pull out my right boob and feed this child. The horror they feel at that moment is palpable – or maybe I’m confusing my own horror with theirs. I just want to reassure them that he is simply trying to feel me up for the sport of it, not for the food and NO – they are not about to get flashed and made to watch this child with teeth slurp milk from my boobs in the freezer section – but I’m not sure that telling them he gropes me just for the fun of it is that reassuring either.
Am I raising a total perv? Is it normal for young boys to feel their moms up on a regular basis? I would think kids who use boobs as a viable food source have a good reason to pay special attention to them, but my son just likes boobs for the way they feel and probably because he knows it embarrasses the hell out of me and probably because boys just like boobs at every age. My oldest went through this stage pretty quickly – I don’t remember us having physical altercations in Target because he wanted to rip my shirt off and squeeze my boobs. But this youngest one – I’m going to have to buy a Taser for our trips to Target to teach him an early lesson about sexual assault being a very bad decision. “No means no! Dig it, dude?! And while we’re on this subject, I’d advise you to ignore any impulse you may ever have in your life to grow a mustache.”
This too shall pass, right? RIGHT?! Please GOD, deliver me – here he comes again…
Posted in Am I seriously a mom?, Good times, Oprah, Unanswered questions
Tagged baby, boobs, boys, breastfeeding, children, embarrassment, life, parenting, toddler, TomKat