What My First Kiss And Snakes Have in Common

I wasn't the prettiest, most popular kid when I was in middle school. Or high school for that matter, but I'm okay with that because I was down with being uncool. My lack of popularity was a deliberate choice by then, something I strived for and worked hard at maintaining by strutting around in my pajama bottoms and slippers and obsessively writing in my leather bound journal.

I was supposed to be unpopular in high school because I was on my way to becoming a starving, tortured artist who would one day write the world's greatest novel and channel all my pubescent pain into my art.

I'm still working on that for the record.

But middle school? Junior high? That was a different story. I was meant to be popular. I just couldn't get any of the other kids to agree with me. It didn't matter that I had straight A's, or was on all the sports teams, or that I was captain of the Peer Power team, lead in the drama productions and general all around do-gooder.

No, the only thing that mattered in middle school was the fact I was flat chested, stringy haired and walking around in clothes that didn't have fancy labels plastered all over them.

Still, I was a CATCH darn it, even if no one could see that just yet.

This is what I could have looked like if I had blue eyes and my mom didn't let me chop off my hair into a triangular spiral hair mess. I'm sure of it.

Somehow, I survived middle school and even managed to cultivate a romance or two along the way. First there was the boy who gave me a box of chocolates. I brought the box into the bathroom in a fit of excitement and a sudden horde of chocolate starved zombies, I mean girls, swarmed me and ate the entire box before I even had ONE. That was awesome.

The next day the boy told me he only brought me the chocolates because his friend had dared him to do it.

Then there was the boy who brought me a porcelain seal tchotchke thingy. He came up to my chin and routinely commented on whether I had a new zit that day. Our love never really got off the ground.

But then there was Jeff.

He was a hockey player and his mother was a teacher. He was cute. Like, not just 'geek' girl cute but 'every' girl cute. Not only was he cute and he was always nice to me even though I'd known him for a lifetime. Or at least since grade four.

He passed me a note in the hallway the day before the Valentines dance saying that he hoped to see me at the dance. We never talked much but oh, the longing stares which passed between us. I just knew he was my Romeo and I was his Juliet. Minus the whole mutual suicide thing of course.

I don't remember much leading up to that dance but I remember how my blood thrummed with excitement and how I kept running to the bathroom to fluff up my spiral permed hair. How my friends would run up to me with updates on his exact location and whom he was talking to.

"He's by the stage! Under the speaker! Talking to Jason!"

"He just moved past the side door! I caught him looking at the hussy Brenda!"

And then it happened. That magical moment every girl dreams of. He walked up to me and he asked me if I wanted to dance. Instantly an ocean of sweat pooled in my armpits. My knees started to tremble and suddenly I knew exactly what those twins from Sweet Valley High must feel like, if they were real.

We gazed into each other's eyes as I placed my hands on his shoulders. He was sweaty and I remember it grossed me out a little. His hands rested where I would one day develop a waist and slowly we shuffled our feet back and forth in perfect rhythm.

And that's when it happened. I saw him swallow hard and I followed the trajectory of his mouth, trying not to be repulsed by the fuzzy little black hairs I was close enough to see just under his nose on his upper lip. So I closed my eyes and leaned in and then BAM!

My first real kiss.

And it was...

Disgusting. He had braces on and clearly he hadn't figured out the purpose of a breath mint just yet. At some point in the day he had eaten pepperoni pizza because I remember a chunk of it fell out of the wire in his teeth and on to my tongue. French kisses aren't supposed to be CHEWY.

I probably wasn't any better. I was a saliva producing machine and I worried I wouldn't be able to swallow fast enough and our combined spittle would seep out our mouths and drip down our chins and onto our shirts.

And the tongues, mercy, the tongues. He kept stabbing at me with his tongue like he was angry. It was like I had this giant pink snake trying to choke me to death underneath the middle school gym lights as a ballad played on.

The best part of my very first kiss? A girl named Melanie who stood behind us and timed our snogging session. When we hit 30 seconds without coming up for air she pumped her fist in the air and yelled, "We've got some action going on!"

Finally, the song ended and so did our kiss. We wiped our mouths and didn't make eye contact and for the rest of the dance we would catch one another looking furtively at the other but we never did approach the other again.

Our love lasted as long as a well played guitar riff in an 80's hair band song.

I never kissed a boy again until my husband came along. I was almost 16. We've yet to figure out how to stop kissing.

I told that story to my daughter the other day when she came home from her friend's sweet 16 party, worried that she is one of the few in her grade that has never had a real kiss.

She worried there may be something wrong with her because she hasn't had her moment yet.

All I can think is, thank God. My moment turned me off of pepperoni forever.

I promise you Fric; someone out there will see you.

And hopefully he'll know what a breath mint and dental floss is before he leans in.

Just keep being you kid. Because you rock.

I Blame The Testicles

He looks like a sweet kid, right?

I thought so too, until Thursday.

Turns out if you poke my gentle giant enough, he'll poke back.

Hard.

Who knew?

Apparently my man-child finally figured out size matters. Especially when you are his size.

Middle school hell finally caught up with Frac and he found himself tussling with another boy*.  Both kids ended up getting suspended from school for a day and in the end there were two momma bears wringing their hands over what to do with their stubborn juvenile sons.

And since my husband was off starting a new job and unavailable for guidance and/or growling, I was navigating these uncharted waters solo style.

For the very first time ever while parenting my son, I felt like I was out of my element. I just have a terrible time seeing the world through the lens of teenaged boy since you know; I've never been one.

Those testicles, they are tricky things.

I needed to drive the message home to my son that I loved him and supported him no matter what. Even when I didn't necessarily agree with the choice he made.

But I also didn't want to be the mom who high fives her teenage son and say 'if you're going to fight, you darn well better win' while raising his arm victoriously like the refs do in the boxing ring.

Even if I may have wanted to, just a tiny bit.

(Cue the theme music from Rocky.)

The thing was, I was less concerned with the whole boy on boy whooping he engaged in and more concerned with the fact my son lost control of his temper. Even if, from all accounts heard, he had reason too.

I blame the testicles.

So I needed to come up with a punishment that said, 'Hey son, I stand behind you no matter what, but the next time you decide to engage in teenaged tom foolery I'm going to be here to remind you why your testicles are often wrong.'

It's just easier to blame the testicles I tell ya.

I've since refined the art of creative teenaged boy punishment over the past weekend. Punishment which included but was not limited to, how to swim the sea of feminine products including purchasing his very first box of tampons, how to navigate Sephora to find the perfect lip gloss, why kitten heels are a fashion necessity for me and how to flirt with the Apple store dude to get your phone fixed for free.

Then there was the pedicure he learned how to give (using my hairy toes of course), the trip to the local fabric store, his lesson on why I prefer real wool yarn as opposed to the acrylics, and the four hours he lost when I made him watch multiple episodes of The Secret Circle with his sister as his eyes started to bleed.

I finished it off by making him wash the insides and outsides of ALL my kitchen cupboards as well as hand wash everything inside them (whether it needed to be washed or not.)

My biggest regret? I never got the chance to take him to the local retirement home to play Bingo with the retirees.

This morning as Frac was getting ready to head back to school I asked him what he had learned this weekend.

He thought for a second and then he replied, "I learned you really want me to think before I act, no matter what. I learned that you think it's okay for me to stand up for myself but to not do it in anger because I've lost control of my temper."

I looked at him; impressed he paid attention to me this entire weekend.

"Is that it?" I asked him.

He furrowed his brow and then grinned, "Oh ya! I've learned that if I spill jam in the fridge I should wipe it off while it's fresh because that's stuff is nasty hard to get off once it's hardened."

I was waiting for him to promise this would never happen again, but heck, that jam lesson was important to learn too.

 

*I know the other boy involved in this mess and I'm hoping both boys will work out their issues and become friends in the future.

**And thanks to each and everyone of you who helped brainstorm creative punishments with me over on Facebook. Frac may not thank you but I sure do. Wink.

Spread the Word To End the Word

These are my children:



One of them is different than the others. I'll give you a hint:



Clearly the Jumbster is younger than his siblings and obviously much more hip. I mean, just look at the boy's shoes.



And unlike his siblings, he already owns his own set of wheels:



This is a boy who clearly knows how to party:



How many people do you know who can rock wearing a balloon on their head?

My son believes in dental hygiene and practical jokes. Which is why he actively seeks out his older brother's leg just so he can gnaw on it. I'm pretty sure he's using Frac's leg hair as dental floss.



This boy is patriotic:



But he's no jack ass whisperer.



And like all good boys, he's clearly a momma's boy:



He's all of these things, and more. He wears more labels around his neck than most people wear in a lifetime. He is all of those labels, those random tags pinned onto him to help other's identify and deal with his uniqueness and he is more. Strip away all the medical and legal jargon and maybe you'll see my son the way we do.

There is one label, however, that my son refuses to claim.

Jumby is many things, but he is not, RETARDED.

He is not the butt of your jokes, he is not what you mean when you accidentally or casually toss the 'retarded' word around.

I've written about why using the r-word hurts and demeans not only my child but everyone. I've explained why this word, this slang that is so often accepted and ignored is wrong. I'll keep writing about it, banging away on my little keyboard, hoping one more person takes the time to read my words and see the world filtered through my family's eyes.

Through Jumby's eyes.

I hope you'll re-read those words today. And then I hope for one small moment you will put yourself in the shoes of a boy who was born at 24 weeks because his birth mother was high on crack. Wear the shoes of the boy who spent five months in a hospital after birth just struggling to survive. Take a few steps in those shoes of a boy who was shaken when he was six months old. And then walk another couple steps for the time he was violently assaulted, smothered and shaken again before he turned two.

There is a reason my son is blind, deaf and in a wheelchair. There is a reason he will never be like you or like me.

My son is many things.

But he's not retarded.

Spread the word to end the word.

Peace out peeps.