A Picture A Day Project: Day 1

I was inspired by another mommy blog (and no, I am not going to link it here. What? And redirect my ONE reader to some other blog? I think not) to start this project. Although she's not a professional photographer, her photos are awesome. (Okay, I may need to link it at some point here in my blog.) This project that she came up with for herself is ideal for me, given my perfectionist tendencies. I usually wait until I'm "inspired," which ends up resulting in Vaughn having big gaps in his photo album. "Vaughn, here you are at 2 years old, and then, here you are at 4. Yeah, the 3-year mark just didn't do anything for me." As she put it herself, the project forces her to think outside the box and challenges here creativity. We'll see how long I can maintain it.

Red or Black, Sailors Go Back; Yellow or Brown, Sailors Go to Town.

"Mom, the doctors said you need to look at the color of your pee and poop."

What? The doctors? What doctors? What?

"Yeah, the doctors. You know, the doctors on TV. They said you only need to worry when it's red or black." This said as Vaughn gestures animatedly, hopping around, demonstrating the different locations from which these substances emit.

Dave then interjects that there is a show called The Doctors that our hypervigilent, death obsessed child evidently caught a segment of.

"Uh-huh. If your poop or pee is red or black, it means you've got an infection in your butt."

As if I don't get enough of this at work, except this is like the Melena and Hematuria for Dummies version, not quite accurate but layman friendly.

"Well, Vaughn...that's...uh...good to know."

Touched by an Angel

"What are the chances of getting killed by a golf ball?"

This is one of many questions relating to mortality that my son has become obsessed with and has made me feel like a walking actuary table (and not a very accurate one at that. For my peace of mind and to stop my son from worrying incessantly, the chances of getting killed by anything, according to my statistical calculations, are 0.01%). This particular question was launched as we were walking around the golf course near our house, and is something, I am reticent to say, that has occurred to me more than once as I circle that particular route.

At first the questions and comments were sporadic:

"We're not going on the freeway are we? Tell me we are not going on the freeway. People DIE on the freeway!"

Then they started becoming increasingly annoying:

"Oh, not Jack in the Box...A kid DIED eating at Jack in the Box!" (How many years ago was that? Where does he hear this stuff?)

"I'm not riding on any rollercoasters. People DIE on rollercoasters." (This is upon learning about our, now canceled, Disneyland trip. How many rides are essentially rollercoasters at Disneyland?)

"Promise me I won't die until I'm old and that I'll be living with you until I'm..."

"Until your 18?"

"No, until I'm 63." (Say what now?)

"You won't live with me until you're 63! I'll be...Wait, you might very well be living with me when you're 63. Do you realize how old I'll be when you're 63? I'll be over 90, so yeah, there's a strong possibility you'll be living with me when you're 63." (It'll be PAYBACK time.)

So all this obsessing and worrying leads up to bedtimes that are fraught with "I'm scared." "I'm afraid we'll get robbed." "What if someone breaks into the house?" "I need to watch Spongebob until I fall asleep. It's the only thing that keeps me from being scared." (Riiiggghhhhttt.)

Last night's bedtime was no different. Exasperated, I decided to resort to my childhood theological roots:

"Vaughn, don't you know? Everyone has a guardian angel. A special angel assigned to them that protects them and keeps them from harm."

"What?!?" He's looking at me big-eyed and I can't discern whether this is incredulity or gullibility.

"Yes...Didn't you know that? What are they teaching you at church?" (What is the point of having someone else indoctrinate them if they don't propagate the proper mythical fodder?)

"No." (No, of course not. They're too busy teaching such useless character building blocks as respect, patience, grace...Missing the all important theological basics like Heaven, Crowns of Gold with jewels in them for every good deed, Mansions, GUARDIAN ANGELS. Of course, we want to leave out the nasty bit about the guardian angel looking away or crying when you do something bad...although, that could come in handy. Who needs to be taught patience when you know you're going to be making your guardian angel cry or possibly go on strike, leaving you completely unprotected, if you throw a temper tantrum?)

This then led to a 15 minute interrogation as to what these guardian angels look like, what they do, where they come from, etc., until he was literally crying with relief, or as he put it, crying because "I was touched."

I then filled Dave in on the latest Fear Factor update, cautiously patting myself on the back for my quick parenting reflexes. I say cautiously because there is, of course, the inevitable logical query of: If EVERYONE has a guardian angel, then why do some people die in accidents? I hoped I had bought myself some time, and Vaughn would for a few months, at least, not question the deeper philosophical contradictions in such theories. He is only 8, after all.

The next day:

"So if everyone has a guardian angel that protects them, why did Kyron Horman get kidnapped, HUH!?!"

Author! Author!

I've been dreading the day when Vaughn would discover that he, in large part, is the subject of this blog and become self-conscious, demanding that I cease and desist my accounts of his escapades (as I have read has been the case with other blog mommies and their children). At 8-1/2 now, and thanks to his "Everybody Reads" charter school's efforts, he is a monster reader. Tonight, I was trying to surreptitiously get in a quick entry, when I spot him hovering over my shoulder, eyes wide, reading my final draft. I hunkered down, preparing myself for the righteous indignation. Instead, he starts giggling, then out right laughing. Really?

The rest of the evening was spent with Vaughn shouting, "Read another one!" and me narrating past blog entries, ending with Vaughn collapsing into a fit of convulsive laughter.

Well, at least this buys me a little time until he understands what all those words mean between the "pee," "poot," "poop," and "butt."

Vanity, Thy Name is Chocolate Chip Cookies

"Nikki makes the best cookies!"

This is proclaimed as my son is going for seconds on the ones I've just baked. Nikki is his best friend Charlie's mom.

"What!?! She makes better cookies than me?"

"Yes."

"Are they chocolate chip?"

"Yes."

"Are they made from scratch?"

"Yep."

"So...what you're saying is you like Nikki's cookies better than mine?"

"Yep. They're crispier."

"Mine are crispy AND chewy!"

"Yeah, but hers are crispier."

"But that isn't what makes a good chocolate chip cookie. It's having the perfect combination between crispy and chewy. So...you think Nikki's cookies are better than mine?...Huh...I bet she uses milk chocolate chips instead of dark, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well...that's why you like them better...So you really think her cookies are better?"

"I'm just saying! They are a little bit better."

"A little bit? But you said they were the BEST."

"I'm just SAYING!"

Hrmph.

A few minutes later:

"I think the reason I thought Nikki's cookies were better is because I had them with milk...Yeah. That's probably why."

"Yeah...probably."

A few minutes later:

"Actually, Mom, I think your cookies are about equal."

MY COOKIES RULE!

Spotted Slugs with Whine

I decided to tempt The Fates today and take Vaughn on a hike with me after I got off work. It was a beautiful day, and there was a trail I had been eyeing in the 30-plus-mile local "city" park here. I usually avoid any kind of physical exercise with Vaughn for a multitude of reasons. One of those reasons being I usually like to actually get a workout whenever I hike, bike or otherwise devote time to physical exertion. Once Vaughn is added into that equation, all possibilities of breaking a sweat evaporate. I have lamented before that shortly after we start in on any journey we have to take a snack break 5 minutes in, so the only true opportunity for me to eek out any pretense of physical fitness is by acting as a pack mule for all the food. You can imagine the weight of my burden on what was intended to optimistically be a 5.7 mile loop. I say optimistically because before we reached the halfway point it became painfully obvious we were getting dangerously close to the outskirts of whine country.

Now, I had already debriefed (translation: bribed) Vaughn on my expectations for the hike. If we went the full loop with nary a siren song, he could play on the computer for as long as he liked when we got home--"Until bedtime." Of course, being 8 and really having no concept of time quite yet (and not owning a watch), this seemed like a generous offering, and he closed the deal.

However, before we had reached the 2.7 mile point, there had already been a couple of "Are we there yet?"s and at least one "When is this trail going to END!?!" I wrestled with my goal-oriented self and decided to check out the time. It was 6 p.m. (Seriously? We weren't even averaging 3 mph?!) At this rate, Vaughn would get maybe an hour on the computer by the time we got home. I decided I would much rather conclude the hike whine-free than suffer through God knows what just to say we'd walked a 5.7 mile loop.

On our return trip, we passed by a spotted slug that Vaughn had previously helpfully transported from the middle of the trail safely to the other side out of harm's way. (By the way, this simple act was shocking to me. Vaughn will scream for someone to clean out the hair in the bathtub before he will step foot in it and will gag at having to pick up a dust ball to dispose of it, yet he will pick up a slimy slug without flinching. He was also the mealworm (imagine maggots) dispenser for Susan. Go figure.) Now the slug was back in his previous position before Vaughn's Boy Scout act of kindness. After a brief argument as to whether this was the same slug, I joked, "It seems you misdirected him in his travels. The slug is like, 'OH MAN! It took me an HOUR to get there. Darn kid.'" This got Vaughn chuckling (no small feat), but insisting he did help it in the direction it wished to go.

"How do you know?"

"Because he was headed that way."

"How do you know that?"

"Because of his antenna."

"Well, how do you know that was his head."

"Because their antenna are on their head."

[going into nature film announcer voice] "A little known fact about the spotted slug is that their antennae are located not on their heads, as is the case with your average slug, but on their butts, giving passersby the confusing impression that they are going backwards when going forwards. This causes countless spotted slugs to be misdirected in their travels by helpful, but misguided children, who are constantly moving the spotted slugs back to their original starting places. As a consequence, the spotted slug never gets anywhere."

At this point Vaughn is stumbling along, giggling uncontrollably, begging me for more mythical factoids on the spotted slug. I tell him I've run out of material, which leads him to pick up where I left off in typical 8-year-old boy fashion:

"Spotted slugs often poop on banana slugs, mistaking them for yellow leaves..."

Needless to say, the return trip went much more quickly.

Ode II Susan

(Susan. Well, technically, NOT Susan since I procrastinated getting a decent picture of her and seem to only have video from her Christmas Day unveiling.)

I have come to the conclusion that I'm incapable of keeping any mute living being alive.

The past few days have been invested (financially and physically) in reviving our ailing reptile. I managed to get her a vet's appointment on Thursday at Dr. Occasionally's. They were able to squeeze me in if I dropped her off, and they gave me a drive-by assessment. Interestingly, they didn't tell me what exactly was wrong with her, other than she was 10% of the body weight of a gecko her age. Yes, Susan had been languishing, probably since January, slowing wasting away right before my eyes, with me not having a clue.

Now that I look back on it, I thought when she quit squawking every time we took her out it was because she was getting used to us. I also thought the same thing when she quit struggling. In the last month or so, I thought it odd that there was fecal matter stuck to her little lizard bum, but again, I thought she was young and just didn't know how to clean herself yet. (Hey, I grew up with KITTENS, not reptiles. I'm only familiar with warm-blooded species.)

Anyway, when I went to pick Susan up at the vet's, they basically contradicted everything the pet store had told me. This is at the same time I'm calculating in my head how much money I just wasted the day before on a bunch of vitamins, supplements and meal worms that I had no need for. They gave me antibiotics for her and soft dog food to feed her by syringe, so for the last two days I have been diligently picking up her almost motionless body to shove food down her gullet. (I reflect now how I didn't ask about a prognosis when I picked her up, and they didn't offer one. It could have just been me, but I had the distinct feeling there was a big neon sign flashing "SUCKER" above me with arrows pointing down to either side of my head.

Yesterday, I had Dave go to the pet store to get more items for our convalescing lizard. Vaughn came trotting back from the pet store,

"Hey, Mom! Guess what they had at the pet store? A GREAT BIG GECKO! And it was only $17!"

This juxtaposed our now (let's see $55 for the gecko, another $100 for the terrarium, $20 in lights, $10, $15, $20 here and there for crickets, accessories for the tank, meal worms, etc., $30 for gecko medical rescue kit, $112 for vet visit) priceless Susan.

Today, before we went out for movie night, I decided I'd give Susan another feeding. She wasn't looking any better than she did before I took her to the vet's, and if it's possible, actually worse. I went to pick her up. Uh-oh. Vaughn was in the room with me.

"Uh, Dave, can you come in here?" I'd already touched her, and though I had declared Dorothy's demise prematurely, I was feeling pretty confident on this death pronouncement.

Vaughn hurries over to the terrarium.

"Is she dead?"

At this point, Dave is poking her, and she's...well...stiff.

"Yeah. I think Susan has passed."

I'm starting to tear up. I can't believe I got so attached to a reptile. When Santa brought her Christmas, I had really prepared myself that she wasn't going to last out the month. I steadied myself to comfort Vaughn.

"Hey! Can we get the gecko at the pet store?"

What did I expect from a boy that was willing to trade his dog for a hermit crab?

I guess this doesn't bode well for my future as a Reptile Whisperer. Reptile Grim Reaper anyone? Yeah, doesn't have quite the same ring to it.

I quickly cleared up any misconceptions Vaughn might be forming about getting a replacement, ANY replacement. As I said, unless it's something that can shove itself in my face and unceasingly harass me for food and water, it doesn't stand a chance. That is the only explanation for Vaughn lasting as long as he has.

Dog Appetit

Watching a commercial where the kid is sneaking his vegetables under the table to the dog.

Me: "Vaughn's out of luck in that regard. Poe would just stare at the broccoli as it dropped to the floor, 'Let me know when you've got a bone or some meat.' She won't eat any grains either, although I've recently discovered Fritos, it seems, do not fall into that category. That dog is a food snob."

Dave: "Yeah, weird, right? This from an animal that will go to town on cat poop."

Me: "Are you kidding? That's like dog cavier!"

Dave: "Yeah...Catier!"

Guess you had to be there.

Meet Susan

This seems a rather belated introduction since in a few more blog entries, I might very well be writing a farewell to her a la Dorothy.

Susan came to our home via Santa Claus. Thankfully, Santa Claus saw the wisdom in sending a gecko rather than Vaughn's original request--a penguin or turtle. A friend suggested a stuffed penguin, and a visit to the Downtown bookstore a few months ago had me cursing my infrequency at getting out more because they had life-sized stuffed penguins (although I'm pretty sure my friend was referring to a taxidermy one).

Anyway, after some investigation, Santa, in his wisdom, decided that geckos, in the grand scheme of things, were relatively low maintenance (at least, that's what the pet store staff said) in comparison to turtles, and Santa, the big softy that he is, decided, "What the heck! I don't have to take care of it. This is a one-day-a-year gig. What do I care?" and left a clever little note saying that geckos were just turtles without a shell. Fat bastard.

Anyway, I figured it was a relatively easy way to make a little boy extremely happy on Christmas Day, even if the thing only lived a month. Unfortunately, I grew attached, and I did what I always do and started investing in the little reptile.

In the last month or so, I've noticed her becoming less active and looking kind of scrawny, but I read up in the little Gecko Care and Maintenance book Santa had left, and she wasn't showing any signs of obvious illness. I mean, when is lizard listlessness just a lizard being a lizard and when is it a sign of illness? However, the listlessness had reached such proportions that she barely had the energy to move around and just lied around with her limbs splayed out at odd angles for extended periods of time. Call me hypervigilent, but that just didn't seem right.

After much researching and calling around, I find out there is only ONE reptile expert in this area, and he's clear across town. I call to make an appointment and only get an answering machine with such a complex and convoluted schedule of open hours that it made my head ache: "On Tuesdays, we are open from 10 to 6, except for lunch, which we take from 11 to 12. Wednesdays and Mondays, we are open from 8 to 4, except for lunch, which we take from 10-11:15. On Thursdays, we are open from 7:25 to 12:10, except for a tea break from 9:15 to 10:18, with a 10 minute break we call "surprise!" during which time we do answer the phone, but it's random, kind of like the lottery. On Fridays, your guess is as good as ours. On weekends, are you kidding? Closed all traditional and nontraditional holidays."

At this point, I decide to go to the place from whence Susan came (the pet store), figuring maybe that could give me an idea as to whether this constitutes an emergency and also if there is someone other than Dr. Occasionally that we could go to.

Good news: It's not an emergency. Susan is just slowly languishing, with their best guess being that she is suffering from a calcium deficiency. "Do you dust your crickets?" "Uh, no," but you guys failed to mention that was necessary. This "easy to care for" quote is becoming less and less applicable. They gave me a few ideas as to what kind of measures I could take and then suggested I take her to someone if she doesn't show signs of improvement in the next few days.

Bad news: And if she doesn't recover in the next few days? The only doctor in this greater metropolitan area that specializes in reptiles is Dr. Occasionally.

I think I'm going to go into reptilian medicine. That seems to be an unfulfilled niche. I could become the Reptile Whisperer!

Don't Bug Me

Tonight, as I was preparing to put Vaughn to bed, he came running out of his room:

"Mommy! I need you to get rid of a bug!" He then quickly reassured me, "It's already dead. I just need you to get rid of it."

Now, Dave had warned me of my son developing an unusual aversion to bugs, dirt, hair in bathtubs, etc., but I had yet to see the bug phobia for myself until now.

As it happens, our resident bug exterminator (Dave) was to be absent from the domicile for a few more hours, and I harbor my own fear and loathing of bugs, alive and dead, so we had a dilemma on our hands.

Like a good parent, I decided to turn this into a character developing experience, which also saved me from touching the disgusting carcass, seizing an opportunity to pass on a valuable life lesson.

"Vaughn, you're a boy. I'm a girl. YOU get rid of it." See? I should write a book on parenting.

I could see from the look on his face this was not a convincing enough argument.

"Vaughn, there is going to come a day (like when you're 40) when you marry a girl (God willing), and she's going to want you to get rid of bugs for her. It's just the way it works." Now, the momentum of the principle was starting to lock me into my position. Far be it from me to reinforce gender stereotypes (given who I'm married to), but this is one that I would be willing to sign a petition on and vote into effect: Boys must kill and dispose of bugs for girls.

Once again, I could see his face settling into that all too familiar obstinacy.

"Look, do any of your boy...er...male...er...male boyfriends (redundant, I know, but somehow felt better given the context) have a problem with bugs?" Hey, when all else fails, resort to peer pressure. That one always works. Of course, this is going to come back to bite me in the butt when I try to use the same argument against something, i.e., "Well, if all your friends jumped off a cliff, would you?"

I look at him again. Hmmmm...this one just might work.

"For instance, K.? Would K. have a problem getting rid of a bug. Think about it..."

I picked K. because I know he's probably the most likely of Vaughn's friends that not only would not have a problem getting rid of a dead bug, but would probably slowly pluck the legs off a live one, and enjoy it.

Vaughn gets a sheepish grin on his face because I know he's thinking the same thing, though he's still refusing to accede on this point. This argument finally seemed to tip the scales.

I walked him through Bug Elimination 102: How to Dispose of a Bug Carcass (having completely bypassed Bug Elimination 101: How to Kill a Bug). I felt semi-competent in mentoring him in this matter, given there have been those rare occasions when I've had to eliminate a dead bug or two myself.

This class involved a handful of Kleenex (for buffering) and many "You can do it"s, which then quickly dissolved into "Suck it up!" "Be a man!" I felt like I'd turned into my dad, only this belly-up bug was not Bambi's mom. I then tried to guide him with self-hypnosis, "Imagine you are picking up a piece of dirt. Just keep telling yourself, 'It's just a piece of dirt. It's just a piece of dirt.'"

I finally ended up leaving him to his own devices after watching him for several minutes yak and gag while trying to scoop up the offensive substance, walking away, thinking, "I'll be damned if I'm going to raise one of those men that sees a spider, jumps up on the nearest chair, and screams out for their wife, "EEEEKKKKKK! Honey, can you come in here?"

I don't ask for doors to be opened for me. I don't expect men to gallop up on white chargers. I don't expect poetry or roses, but for God's sake, be able to deal with an insect. And for those women who are the bug exterminators in their family, all I can do is shake my head and say, "Honey, don't be surprised when he introduces you to his boyfriend, Lance," cause your beloved is living just this side of Gayville.

Not Something You See Every Day

Tonight, it must have been around 10 p.m., I was driving down a major boulevard in this fair city of ours. As I was stopped at an intersection, I couldn't help but notice stopped directly opposite me a jacked up 4-wheeler with gray camouflage body paint, big fat heavy tread tires, and mounted on either side of the hood were these gigantic flags, one United States and the other Confederate. I think the only sight odder in the heart of this granolanutty town would have been if I'd seen them cruising Downtown or on Martin Luther King Boulevard. As the light changed and I passed by, I saw the prerequisite baseball cap and wife-beater T-shirt wearing red neck behind the wheel. I failed to register whether there was a gun rack mounted behind him or the obligatory fake bull balls dangling from the trailer hitch. I'm still kicking myself for not using my camera phone the way in which God intended.

The Princess and the Pee

Poe has developed the annoying habit of shadowing me in the kitchen, very often firmly wedging herself between my legs and the cabinets on which tops I'm trying to assemble something resembling a dinner. Our kitchen is just big enough to turn around in (okay, slight exaggeration), which has resulted in my just very nearly diving headfirst into the preheated gas oven because I've tripped over her immobile figure on more than one occasion. I finally decided it was time to advance her obedience training (since she's been unemployed all this time)and teach her to stay in a stationary place while I worked in the kitchen.

I found a blanket for her to lay on, still within a comfortable obstructing distance in the kitchen doorway, so she could feel secure in knowing that if there was a chance of any tasty tidbit dropping to the floor, she could be there within microseconds to inhale it.

Now, I've taken her through an obedience class, so I hunkered down for what was probably going to be a long process of teaching her to stay put and knew this was going to require consistency (difficult) and perseverance (not as difficult) on my part, but she's a smart dog and displays her submissiveness through physical evidence at every opportunity, so I figured it probably wasn't going to be too bad. Once I cleaned up the first trail of urine that resulted from me throwing cheese onto the blanket and telling her, "Blanket," and then quickly followed that up with more cheese (knowing I was going to pay down the line in dog-processed-cheese-smelling-paint-peeling poots) and a firm "Stay," it was a breeze. She stayed put, I occasionally threw her a piece of cheese and said, "Good stay. Good stay," and we managed to get through a dog-shadow-free dinner. Dave was impressed by my superior Dog Whispering skills, and I smugly said, "Well, it was easier than I thought (mentally patting myself on the back), but she's a smart dog. Now, it'll just be a matter of reinforcing it."

Next day:

"Blanket, Poe, Blanket." She immediately assumes what I call the dog-squat-walk, legs splayed out in opposite directions, low floor-to-piss gradient, weeing all the way to the blanket. "Awwww, Poe!...Okay...um...Good stay. Good stay."

Next thing I know, she's off the blanket. "Poe, blanket. Blanket." All of these commands are interspersed with generous amounts of cheese, but no matter how much cheese was waiting for her on the blanket, she still assumed the position, tapped into her submission bladder (which I'm of the firm belief at this point there are two of them, besides her "regular" bladder), and let 'er rip.

By this time, Dave is trying to get in the action, which just makes things worse. If you're a male, all you have to do is look at her and her fount runneth over. She has an innate ability to detect penises and immediately show them proper deference.

Things quickly deteriorated to her running upstairs to the safe refuge of her crate, leaving a trail of pee behind her. Since this "trauma," on more than one occasion when I see the telltale signs of loss of bladder control, I have had to scream at Dave, "Don't look in her eyes! Don't look in her eyes! For God's sake! DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT!" in an effort to try to avert the inevitable, like facing some kind of canine Medusa, only instead of being turned to stone, you're bathed in a puddle of pee.

The September Issue

Me: "So what movie did you get?"

Dave: "The September Issue."

Me: "Huh? What's that about."

Dave: "Uh, it's about a magazine. I think it's a comedy."

Me: "Really? Are you sure." I start Googling it.

The following is a brief summary of The September Issue from Amazon: "This a documentary about the enfamous Vogue September issue, this movie being based on their biggest September issue in history. Fashionistas finally get a glimpse of the mastermind behind the lion's share of the American fashion industry, Anna Wintour, editor of Vogue, in the dishy documentary The September Issue. The title refers to the fattest monthly edition of the fashion bible, and the sheer creative and financial efforts it takes to stage and publish it--not unlike a full feature film..."

I relay this information to Dave.

Dave: "Sounds interesting."

Me: "Are you serious?! I'M not interested in watching a documentary about a fashion magazine, I can't believe you are."

Dave: "Well, let's just see..."

Me: "Okay, you know how in the past I've said you are one shoe shopping expedition short of gay? I have just witnessed you completely bypassing the whole shoe shopping stage and going straight to gay."

Hostless with the Mostless

Dave was spending some quality time with Vaughn yesterday, some man-to-man, largely because I wasn't available to pick Vaughn up from school, and so Vaughn had to "assist" his dad at work. It's always interesting what little revelations come out of this time of male bonding.

Dave: "So I said to Vaughn, '...don't want to have to twist your arm' and Vaughn asks, 'What does that mean?'"

And Dave goes on to explain that it is a figure of speech and demonstrates the actual physical act of "twisting an arm."

"And then I told him, 'Say Uncle!'"

This is the point where I started visualizing Vaughn at the first opportunity reenacting this whole scenario on the school playground, grabbing one of his unsuspecting playmates, yanking the innocent's arm into a dangerously unnatural angle, and then screaming in their ear, "SAY UNCLE! SAY UNCLE!" all witnessed by the shocked and horrified soft-spoken, laidback, peace loving female teacher, Ms. Slalom (not her actual name).

"Oh, that's great Dave! You've now introduced him to the world of schoolyard terror tactics."

"No, no! He WANTED to know this stuff. He's already heard the kids at school saying these things, and he had no idea what it meant, so he wanted me to explain it to him."

Of course...which must also be the place where he recently acquired the ever so charming phrase "holy crap," because, I can assure you, that one little gem is NOT in my sailor's vocabulary. I do not bestow sanctity to any of my swear words, even those referring to feces, in spite of my apparent preoccupation with said material.

"He then told me about this Nirvana like place his friends have created, made up entirely of Twinkies, and he wanted to know what a Twinkie was."

Apparently, when Vaughn declared his ignorance of that revered childhood institution (otherwise known as The Twinkie), his friends' reactions were the equivalent of him suddenly sprouting a tentacle from the middle of his forehead that spewed a glutinous green material like a fountain, covering everything within a 10 feet radius, with his friends recoiling simultaneously in horror and fascination:

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT A TWINKIE IS!?!"

Oh my God, it's like my child is one of those weirdo missionary children we used to mock in church school. I remember I had the exact same reaction when one of the missionary girls told me she had absolutely no knowledge of the story of Cinderella or who Cinderella even was, "Was she one of the prophet's wives in the Old Testament?" Oh, the humanity!

Now, I know we've kept him away from commercial TV, and up until he started preschool, I was vigilent about his diet and keeping his palate ignorant of all ingredients unpronounceable, but really, how could my son possibly have almost reached the ripe old age of 8 and missed the fundamental childhood milestone of Hostess goodness? I know we live in the land of granola-nuttiness, but even I am taken aback at the fact that my child hasn't an inkling as to what sheer childlike bliss lies in a Hostess cupcake or the marshmallowy marvel contained in a Hostess Sno Ball, a substance made of neither snow nor marshmallow, but some wondrously artificial cracklike massively addictive substance. And don't even get me started on Hostess Fruit Pies (neither pie nor fruit, but lard with a sprinkling of flour encasing a cherry flavored, tooth achingly sweet, syrupy ambrosia). Some of my fondest memories as a child were the infrequent romps to the local Hostess Bakery Outlet and the subsequent Ding-Dong-Ho-Ho binge. Mmmmm...preservative goodness. I think there is a direct correlation between early childhood exposure to Hostess mystery ingredients and my looking younger than my age. My liver is probably still processing a Hostess Twinkie or two.

So, the mission this coming movie night is to fill the cavernous gap in Vaughn's epicurean education and give him a crash course in Hostess Snack Cake Appreciation 101. It's a tough job, but that's what parenting is all about, and I feel I'm up to the task. Now...hand me a Ho Ho. I'm goin' in.