Boys, Bubbles, and Butt-Cracks

If you can believe my Beloved, everything you ever needed to know about boys and friendship can be described in three simple terms: Snow globes, bubbles, and butt cracks. 

I guess I should explain.

Our boychild is on the cusp of, well something. Not entirely sure what yet, but he’s at the tail end of his primary school education and about to move into the high school years.  At the same time, as you’d imagine, he and all his mates are approaching puberty- that wonderful, wonderful time in a parent’s life.

Naturally, there are a lot of changes taking place. But it’s the out-of-body experiences that are causing the most concern.

As we all know, those who sat through sex education classes at school, or even more embarrassingly, “The Talk” our parents gave, boys and girls mature at different rates. In different ways.  At this stage of the game, boys seem to lag behind- physically and emotionally. Here’s the crux of the matter. Not even the boys in my boy’s group are moving at the same pace. Some just aren’t keeping up on the social side.

I won’t go into the gory details but this means a few, well, let’s just call them ‘moments’. And more than one conversation about how to deal with it all.

Since my Beloved has the same hardware as our manchild (if you know what I mean), I have been trying to encourage him to do the father-son thing, and talk to him not only about the physical stuff ahead, but also how to deal with mates. I suspect there is some Post Traumatic Stress about his own memories from a similar age (can’t say I blame him as my own experience wasn’t a walk in the park) so he’s been a little reluctant in approaching this task.  So imagine my utter amazement, not to mention amusement as I overheard their little chat the other night.

After a day at school with a number of ‘moments’, our son was feeling a bit low. I was in the process of settling the girlchild into bed when I wandered past my boy’s bedroom door to overhear the lad and his dad saying something about bubbles, and butt cracks.  “What the?” I muttered, only to be told to move along, it didn’t concern me.

On my return journey the topic seemed to have shifted to snow globes. Again the mystery was not to be revealed as I was again shooed away.

It wasn’t until my son came in the next morning for a chat of our own that he filled in the blanks.

Here’s how it goes.

At the start of every school year all the students are put into different classes, some end up with their friends, and some don’t. Our school’s Principal in particular likes to shake things up. As my Beloved explained, the kids are floating around like the flakes in a snow globe. Some settle pretty quickly, others take a bit more time, but there’s usually one that takes a lot longer to come down. Like our boy’s buddy, he’s taking a while to find his place this year. 

Not a bad analogy I thought. 

Now for the bubbles.  Our son has been with one group of guys since Kindergarten, they are great mates, get along really well for the most part and have stuck together. Like a little bubble. Over the years a few new friends have joined up with our lad, due to extra kids coming to the school, classroom placement, similar interests, whatever. There’s your second bubble.  OK so the two groups occasionally come together, but like two bubbles, never really join up - there’s a line down the middle. According to my Beloved, that’s our lad. A common denominator if you like. (There are actually a couple of the kids who would also make up that line, but for simplicity, and since he was only talking to our son at the time, he was in the middle.)  In imagining how the two bubbles look stuck together but not completely joined, and being typical males, they came up with the image of a butt, and the centre line was- you got it (do I really have to spell it out?)...

After the laughter, our son seemed to get it.

You see, in my Beloved’s opinion, as long as the kids realize that they can all still be friends, even if not totally stuck together all the time, things should settle down eventually, once that last flake finishes floating.

So there you have it. Everything you ever wanted to know about boys, bubbles, and butt cracks. And how to solve friendship problems in adolescent lads.

You can thank me later.

Once you get any unsavoury images out of your head.

Jx

© 2014

I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles

There's something about bubbles.

Think a sweet sip of chilled champagne, the frothy foam in a steaming bath, the ubiquitous bottles of bubbles that show up in every child's party bag or wedding reception. And at least one chocolate company has marketed the fact that "it's the bubbles of nothing that make it really something".

And who hasn't succumbed to the pleasure of popping bubble wrap?

So you can appreciate the temptation that presents itself when a child's shiny new school book also comes with a bonus little bubble.

If you've ever had the parental pleasure of covering text books you'll know how hard it is to get the plastic wrap off the backing and onto the front and back of the book without crinkling, creasing, inadvertently sticking the stuff onto itself...or an air bubble. It's kinda like tinting your own windows, on a smaller, not-so-dark scale. And we all know how easily that little project can go pear-shaped.

So I cannot possibly tell you what possessed me to stick my hand up when the school asked for help covering a new batch of texts. Silly me thought maybe half a dozen books would come home with the kids, but somehow forgot that the vast majority of students at our school are orphans, apparently. The same few mothers (and some fathers I must acknowledge) always end up doing the bulk of the work when parental help is needed.  My designated pile of books wouldn't fit in the backpacks of both my kids combined. It took a couple of trips to the car with the backside falling out of the flimsy plastic bags they were packed in, before I could head home and get started on my latest volunteer work.

While the kids wound down from the pressures of learnin' (read: in front of television, snack in hand), I set to work measuring, cutting, and cracking the backs of a small mountain of materials designed to expand young minds. While my own went quietly crazy with the task.

Anyway, only a few hours after I started this insanity I sat back, exhausted, yet safe in the knowledge that no less than 22 new text books are protected from the pending onslaught of students.

And what do I see? About halfway down the pile, a brand new book covered front and back with glossy plastic coating.

And a damn bubble.

Now anyone who's ever sat down with a child to do homework knows how little it takes to distract said child from said homework. A sibling sitting too close. A catchy tune drifting in on the breeze from a stereo somewhere. The smell of dinner cooking. A bright shiny light. Now add the temptation of a little pocket of air and it's like bubble wrap personified. Many hours will be wasted by flicking, clicking, chasing it 'round the cover and trying to squeeze the air out. If we're lucky the bubble will burst first go, and there'll just be a little flaw in the plastic.

So now I have three choices. Try to tear the covering off and start again (but there's no guarantee same thing won't happen again next time). Simply not return that book and tell the school they miscounted (yeah right, 'cause they don't cover the 3 Rs at our school). Or send it back and hope that it's not the one issued to my child.  Maybe we'll get lucky and one of the alleged orphans will get it instead, let their parents keep them on task. Think of it as a small contribution to the school community.

I go with the last option, and realise that even though I completed my own schooling some 20-odd years ago now, I can still learn something.  Next time they ask for volunteers to cover the new books...I'll put my hand up for canteen duty instead.

Jx

©2012

Flat Out

There’s an old saying: be careful what you wish for…it just might come true.

As a mother and stepmother, with two out of three children classified as ‘special needs’, you don’t really get a lot of time to yourself. Even husbands take their fair share of work.

But there’s a big difference between wanting some down time and being forced into it.

10 days after I blew my back out I’m getting a touch of cabin fever.

And I’m fast running out of ideas here.

I’m trying not to get stressed about the mess that’s sitting there staring me in the face waiting for me to get to it. I’m trying not to feel anxious that there’s people to see and places to be. And I’m trying not to anticipate more pain from simply doing the basics of childcare and housework. But there’s really not a lot one can do when one is forced into staying still.

So I go from lying flat out on the bed, to being strapped to a TENs machine, and moving slower than a turtle (and way slower than the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles my son so loves) from room to room.

This evening my Beloved thought I was up to a bath, so he turned on the taps and sloshed in some special stuff in a bid to help me unwind.

Unfortunately he was a little too generous with the bath products, probably thinking the more the merrier.

If you’ve ever seen pictures or those TV shows where someone adds a little too much laundry powder to the washing machine, you can guess what happened next.

With the spa jets on full, and my back frozen into position once more, I found myself slowly disappearing beneath a white wall of froth. And with the sound of the motor echoing around our miniscule bathroom, it seems no one could hear my pathetic little pleas for “Help!” from their spot in front of the television.

To make matters worse, when I finally was able to break through the pain barrier in order to make a desperate lunge for the ‘Off’ button on the spa, I sloshed enough water up the sides to promptly douse the candles my Beloved had ever so thoughtfully lit to set the mood, and upended my little tipple of Baileys by the bath. The sight of the ice cubes disappearing beneath the waves brought back memories of the ‘Titanic’, destined for a similar fate to Jack (for the solitary soul who hasn’t seen James Cameron’s version, rent it when you get a spare three hours or so and you’ll know what I mean).

I could only console myself with the thought that if milk baths were good enough for Cleopatra, they’re good enough for me. (Not sure about any beneficial effects Baileys Irish Cream® might have on the skin, though.)

It was at this time that the children decided Mama needed company in the bath, and I was joined by two slippery little critters amidst the bubbles.

After 15 minutes of this I was given permission to leave them to it, and hauled myself out of the tub and into standing position, flailing about for the towel which was just out of reach, before I finally caught hold of a thread on the corner and attempted to dry myself off.

Sadly, the entire episode didn't quite have the desired effect of relaxing me, and I shuffled to the bedroom and crawled under the covers, completely exhausted and still slightly damp around the ankles.

Luckily it was my Beloved’s night off and there was sufficient food in the freezer for him to rustle up some grits for himself and the kids. I was also in prime position for the regular bedtime story then simply bid them all goodnight, took my evening dose of painkillers and drifted off to sleep.

With a bit of luck this bad back will all be behind me soon enough (pun intended) and it’ll be business as usual before too long (minus any scrubbing of showers for the foreseeable future).

And if I happen to notice any significant improvement in skin tone- who knows, milk might make a regular appearance in my bathing beauty routine. But I think I'll keep the Baileys out of the bubbles just the same.

Jx
©2010