Lolita

Vaughn has chosen his bride to be. We'll call her A. It all began with Vaughn's list of prospective BD partygoers to his upcoming birthday (my most dreaded time of year, besides Christmas). I had assumed it would be an all boy party, given Vaughn's current aversion to girls, but to my surprise, Vaughn requested the attendance of 2 partiers of the female persuasion. Needless to say, this was very shocking to my sensibilities and prompted a maternal interrogation—"Who are they? What are they to you? Do you play with them? Do they speak to you? Do you like them?" This is just a preview of things to come when he's 40 and seriously considering marriage. Maybe I'll be dead by then and spared the agony.

At first, Vaughn was rather ambiguous in his answers, and in perfect denial, I settled myself on the idea that some of our diversity training was paying off, and he had decided to widen his circle of friends to include the token quota of females.

Then Vaughn starts having some man-to-man talks with Dave on his rides home from school. (Dave has had a few blessed work-free days lately. I say blessed to keep myself from panicking--look at the positive.) Vaughn starts ruminating out loud about how he's going to foil a challenger of A.'s affections, a fellow classmate and friend, L.R. He comes up with various ideas, finally settling on the idea of some sort of giant mousetrap contraption. How he plans to sneak this into the Kindergarten room, much less get the supplies for the making of this, is never really addressed. Let's hope this is a "humane" mousetrap.

Dave had prudently decided it was unwise to suggest solutions men have devised in the past (one being jousting) to settle this little disagreement (because the next thing you know, we'd be getting a talk from the principal about how our son, holding a very long stick, maniacally ran headlong at another boy, who also, puzzlingly, was carrying a very long stick).

Now, one obvious resolution to this would be to ask the little seductress who she would like to marry. Dave, being the highly evolved male he is, asked Vaughn about this most practical solution:

"Did you think to ask A. who she would like to marry?"

"No," infusing into this one word that this was the most stupid and ridiculous question any parent could ask, we being the foolish old dolts that we are.

Anyway, as it turns out, Vaughn and L.R. have stated their intentions to marry the fair maid A. (at least I hope we can assume she is a maid). Vaughn has finally felt courageous enough to broach the subject with me, evidently having at last come up with a solution to this sticky conjugal conundrum: They will have a vote among their fellow classmates as to whom is deemed to be the best suitor.

Now this is the latest conversation between the two males:

"Dad, is it okay for kids to kiss?"

"Well, it depends. I would need to know the circumstances." (Now you know if the conversation had been posed to the female counterpart of this parenting duo--me--this conversation would have come to a quick and decisive end--"NO! Neither is it okay for teenagers to kiss nor unmarried adults--EVER!")

Vaughn's answer as to the circumstances of said kiss was, "Well…It would be a boy and a girl!"

Thank God for small favors. Given the previous dialogs, I think we can safely conclude what prompted this question and who the boy and girl are in this scenario. And I thought I wouldn't be dealing with this until he was in his teens, falsely comforted by his present seeming distaste of anything feminine.

A. wisely declined the BD invitation, stating previous commitments. This must be quite the 5-year-old that has her social calendar mapped out 2 weeks in advance, probably feared a confrontation with a more mature female. Yeah, you'd better quake, you little strumpet. I know all about girls, having been one myself. My first kiss was as a Kindergartener in the boys' bathroom, with a fellow boy kindergartner, initiated by me. (Mom, Dad, you didn’t read that.) So from one hussy to another--you'd better watch yourself, A. I've got my eye on you. I know people.

Postpartum Blue-Jeans

I have come to the conclusion that I can only blame things for so long on childbirth and postpartum effects. I think that horse is run out. That creek has dried up. That turkey has flown. I think you have a window of about 5 years to refer to everything as, "Well, with me being postpartum, and all..." and Vaughn's 6th birthday is looming on the horizon. I have about 6 months to lose the "baby fat" before it becomes the middle age spread. I actually lost all my baby weight in the first month of Vaughn’s birth, but then Vaughn started passing out long enough in spells that could be technically called naps, enabling me to sneak trips to the freezer for my Ben and Jerry fix. Most people complain that fat sneaks up on them. I can say that that is NOT the case for me. I see fat coming straight at me like one giant gelatinous boulder of adipose tissue, often absurdly embracing it as it flattens me into a size 8. Oh, don’t go pphhhhssssstttt. On my short, delicately boned frame, 5 pounds translates to 50 on a normal sized woman.

Before Vaughn was born I had all these big ideas about working out with a baby. The first month I was pregnant I subscribed to Fit Pregnancy, determined to maintain my hard earned fit body. Fit Pregnancy had all kinds of ideas on how you could not just stay fit during pregnancy, but that first mentally hazy 6 weeks after delivery and beyond, with mommy and baby exercises. The first problem with this very noble concept was I had no energy after getting exactly 3-4 fragmented hours of sleep, at best, on any given day. The second problem is I didn’t anticipate having a child that would gain 5 pounds every week. My now flaccid muscles couldn't conjure up enough strength to keep up with Vaughn's growth curve. And the third problem is these exercises required one of those complacent, barely alive babies, who are happily accommodating enough to provide the resistance needed in mommy’s situps to get her six-pack back, which Vaughn was not.

One of the very first baby purchases I made when I was pregnant was a baby jogger, visualizing jogging my way back to fitness while baby was blissfully unconscious in the jogger, after performing our Mommy and Me exercises, of course. The reality turned out to be me sprinting frantically down the sidewalk, Vaughn’s screams echoing throughout the neighborhood, desperately trying to get home as soon as humanly possible to avoid being any more conspicuous than I already was. I think I broke some Olympic records in those first years. I attempted a few of these jaunts, each time optimistically thinking that this time I would make it, at the very least, around the block, and by that time, Vaughn would have passed out. And each time, the same race back to the house, either pushing screaming baby, or if too far from the house to not elicit someone calling Children's Services, pushing stroller with one arm and holding unnaturally heavy baby in other. Well…it did provide a workout of a sort.

I then tried various other methods of transportation--Baby Bjorn, backpack, etc.--but Vaughn had an unusually rapid growth pattern, stubbornly staying in the 95th percentile (that means he was bigger than 95% of his peers), and well, there comes a time when it just isn’t humanly possible to carry around a being that weighs 35% of your body weight for any length of time.

Then there was the bike. We live in a hilly area, and again, Vaughn was a fat baby and quickly outgrew the weight limits on the bike seats.

I then tried The Trail Gator. This enabled Vaughn and I to ride tandem. This seemed to be another good idea, but again, the reality was people could hear us a mile before they saw us:

“Don’t put on the brakes…I said DON’T PUT ON THE BRAKES…Vaughn, we’re in the middle of an intersection, STOP PUTTING ON THE BRAKES!” Or

“You’re going too fast… MOMMMMYYYYY. STOPPPPPP. YOU’RE GOING TOOO FAST!!!!!” And so on. Add to that that he is now almost half my body weight and 3/4 my height and gets too pooped to pedal after 15 minutes, hilly area, etc., etc.

I tried walking with him, but for that I have to pack about 10 pounds of snacks and expect to take “snack breaks” about 2 minutes out the door and at 5 minute intervals thereafter, pretty much defeating any cardio benefits.

Well, as I said, I am now close to 6 years postpartum, and before I turn 40, I have set for myself the goal of getting back to my prebaby weight and shape, with or without my source of weight gain's (Vaughn's) cooperation. I think the shape part of my goal is futile, but I told myself I was for sure cleaning out my closet this year if I didn’t fit into my size 2’s. Hope springs eternal!

Well…back to the treadmill.

Warbling Garbo

In the process of following through with Dave and my New Year's resolution of practicing at least 15 minutes every day, Vaughn has been more than often the involuntary recipient and vociferous critic of our musical endeavors. Last night whilst we were practicing, he was finishing up his late night snack at the dinner table (which is in the living room/family room/dining room/music room), so he was unavoidably positioned smack dab in front of the speakers where my voice is blaring out. After we finished a song, he looks at me and says:

"Are you are movie star or something?"

"Why do you ask?" (Bracing myself for mini-Simon Cowell's acerbic observation.)

"Because you sing a lot of songs."

"Well, that doesn't make a person a movie star."

"Yeah…but you sing them really good."

*blushing* Hey, Simon likes me…today.