Monthly Archives: August 2011

Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds

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What’s a Mom to do when she’s too lazy busy to write new material??  Why, trot out some old stuff, of course.  (Most of you probably weren’t around when this post first appeared, so that means it’s new to you, right??)

So, back because I don’t have anything new by popular demand:  Nerd + Nerd = More Nerds.

Hope you enjoy!

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{ Source: Sony Pictures Animation }

nerd   (noun \ˈnərd\):  an unstylish, unattractive, or socially inept person; especially : one slavishly devoted to intellectual or academic pursuits

(Yes, I looked it up.  It’s what I do.)

My Little Guy came home from school a few days ago in a bad mood.  He went up to his room to sulk for a little while, then appeared in the kitchen a few moments later, ready to talk about it.

Him:  I’m glad I’m not going back to that school next year.

Me:  (Concerned look.)  Why?

Him:  Because they have too many bullies.

Me:  (Seething.)  What happened?

Him:  The popular kids were calling me and my friends names.

Me:  (Seething more.) What did they call you?

Him:  Nerds.

Me:  (Sympathetic look.)  Aww.

You must understand, “aww” was the word that came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying “yessss!”  For I know the path of a nerd.  And it turned out just fine for me.

You see, I’m a nerd.  To be specific, I’m an English Nerd.  My husband is also a nerd.  He’s a Computer Nerd.  Turns out that when two nerds marry and have kids, guess what their offspring turn out to be.  You got it…more nerds.

Now I use the term with great affection.  Many of my closest friends are nerds.  (Go figure.)  But coming to terms with being a nerd is a long process.  And my Little Guy just isn’t there yet.  It’s my job to get him there.

When my kids read this (…who am I kidding, they don’t read my blog…) they’re not going to be happy.  Having one’s mom tell the world you’re a nerd can’t be good for adolescent self-esteem, but deep down I think the two older kids already know.

As for the Little Guy, I’ll tell him over and over that he shouldn’t listen to what other people say.  I’ll reinforce the philosophy that “it’s what’s inside that matters.”  I’ll remind him that he has many friends who like him just the way he is.  But he’ll still want to be more like the  popular kids.  And he’ll want to be one of them.  It’s part of growing up.

This week is my College Boy’s Spring Break.  (Some of my friends have been expressing woe over their kids going to the beach for Spring Break.  I can’t even imagine that level of worry.)  When he said he planned to stay home, I was quite relieved.  Then a magical thing happened:  his girlfriend came to our house, and tucked under her arm was a physics book.  I almost cried.  They spent the afternoon at the dining room table with laptops and physics books. He has (at least on a sub-conscious level) realized he’s a nerd, embraced it, and is seeking out others like him.  The circle of life is complete for that one.

The wild-card among my children appears to be the Middle Child.  He has cool hair, a quick wit, and a free spirit.  He plays two team sports.  This apple may roll a little farther from the tree than the others.  (He’ll probably be a Democrat.)  But he did set his alarm for 3:30 A.M. a few days ago to wake up and study for a Latin test, so he’s clearly showing nerdy tendencies.

Raising a house full of nerds has made me happier and prouder than I ever could have imagined.  I’ve realized that the world has enough Alpha Males.  It needs more Nerds.  It needs more people who value intelligence over attention and substance over style.  I’m happily doing my part for the greater good!

So, to all the popular girls who called me names in high school, thank you.  (I’m sure some of you turned out nicely, too.)

Leaving the Storm Behind

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With the sixth anniversary of Hurricane Katrina approaching, I’ve made a decision.  This will be the last year I mark this anniversary.  I’m willing to tell the story one last time, as a final catharsis to anyone who still wants to hear it.  Then I’m going to declare it in the past.

The first responder marking says: 1 Dead in Attic. Photo credit: Eliot Kamenitz/The Times-Picayune

The first responder marking says: 1 Dead in Attic. Photo credit: Eliot Kamenitz/The Times-Picayune

Katrina is still in our daily vocabulary.  We use her as a reference in time.  We refer to her as an experience that reshaped our lives and our communities.  We blame her for our losses.  We thank her for our renewal.

Putting it in the past is going to be a hard thing to do, for every day I drive past vacant lots where families once lived, and empty houses with broken windows and spray-painted first-responder code still on the front.  But I also drive past gleaming new schools, manicured parks, and thriving communities.  Those who haven’t moved forward with rebuilding have obviously made their decision.

This memorial is across the street from the Convention Center. The inscription to the right reads: Honoring the people and remembering the events that occurred August 29, 2005 Hurricane Katrina. Photo credit: community.devexpress.com

I’m going to be part of the “new” New Orleans.

I’m going to reflect one last time on this event that changed my life.  I’m going to recall a few details, commit the lessons to my memory, and thank those you saved me when I most needed saving.

One last time.

Rites of Passage Sure Have Changed

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I keep a short leash on my boys when it comes to certain things.  The big kids weren’t allowed to have a Facebook page until they were in high school, and then only under my watch.  Slick and The Trailblazer didn’t have internet on their phones until recently.  The poor Caboose is the ONLY sixth-grader on the planet that doesn’t have a cell phone at all.

So last night was a bit of a big night.  The Caboose sent his first email.  To his dad.  Then one to The Trailblazer up at LSU.  (Then we had to call his big brother to tell him to check his email.)

His new school is very “21st Century,” and most of their curriculum is based from the laptops every student is issued.  They have school email addresses, and they use email as their primary means of communication.

He showed me how to open up Outlook to check his email like Bill Gates must’ve done once to show the world.  I oooh-ed and aaah-ed, and gave a proud smile.  He had two messages in his Inbox from teachers.  And now he has two in his Sent Items as well.

I saw no need for an email address until now.  (The fewer paths pedophiles have to contact my kid the better.)  But his school has an extremely aggressive filter on their services (and it’s required), so whether I was ready or not, it was time.

He’s now entered the world of electronic communication.  And I’m sure he’ll be toting a cell phone before too much longer.  But it won’t have internet.

This may be TMI.

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I’ve made a few vague references to peeing in my pants once or twice here, so the intuitive amongst you may have figured out that I (along with thousands millions of other women, so don’t judge) experience occasional bladder issues when sneezing or laughing or jogging or jumping on a trampoline.

There.  Now you all know.

It’s not a chronic problem or anything.  Just an occasional (and minor) condition that I sometimes feel the need to be prepared for.  So my shopping routine sometimes includes the purchase of panty-liner type products I lovingly call pee-pee pads.

I usually slip into Walgreen’s at an odd hour when the crowd is light and the chances are slim that I’ll bump into my priest or a neighbor and spare myself the awkward moment when they glance in my hand to see what I’m buying.

But today I needed school supplies and groceries and pee-pee pads, so I decided to be a big girl and go to Wal-Mart, where I could get everything I needed in one stop.

I scope the aisle I need to go down and, seeing no one I know, trot on swiftly to snatch what I need.  My plan is to do a slow-rolling grab, then proceed to the shampoo aisle to calm my nerves.  From there I’ll compose myself and continue shopping.

I get to the spot for my grab-and-go, but alas, the product I need is on the top shelf with only a few remaining, pushed back far beyond my reach.

Damn.

I go around the aisle to look at this predicament from a different angle, hoping to spot a misplaced package of what I need on a lower shelf.  Nothing.

I stand there.  Staring.  As if my glare and presence are going to make the packages move to a shelf within my 5’2” reach.  Still nothing.

I glance around, and notice a really tall older man on the next aisle. Perhaps I could ask him for help.  (He’s much older, and probably won’t think anything of it when I asked him to hand me a package of pee-pee pads.)  Nope.  Not gonna happen.

Can I stand on a lower shelf and try to reach it myself?  (Visual: me lying on the ground after the shelf falls on top of me, surrounded by neighbors and friends, covered with hundreds of packages of incontinence products.)  Nope.  Not gonna happen.

So I make another lap around the aisle looking for solutions.  (Lo and behold, the aisle next to the pee-pee pads is full of geriatric products.  Hmmm.)  I pull a cane off the rack of geriatric aides, and (shrugging off all previous anxiety) use the cane to pull the package I need to the edge of the shelf where I can stand on my tip-toes and reach it.

Smugly, and with a sense of accomplishment, I put the pads into my cart and turn around to return the cane to the next aisle.  The man I had considered asking for help was now nearby.  “You had to get creative?” he said.  I gathered a smiled and managed a little laugh, returned the cane, and high-tailed it to the grocery section.

I gotta find a web site where I can order this stuff online.

Happy Birthday, Little Man

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He wore that jersey for three days straight. Since he hasn't gone through puberty yet he can get away with that.

I thought my life was perfect.  Two terrific sons, a wonderful husband, a new house with a spare bedroom.  I didn’t think it could get any better.  Then you came along, and the relatively calm life we had with two kids gave way to the new hustle of three.

Your brothers were easy.  You were hard. There were times when I resented the amount of effort it took to get through the day.  But that was because I hadn’t yet learned what God wanted me to figure out.  That you were the child who would complete me.  That you were the one I still needed.

For you are the person who made me realize the greatest truth in life:  that we are all EXACTLY what God wants us to be.  There have been people along the way who didn’t get you, who thought you needed to change, to fit in a little better, to be more like the others.  I must confess that I even thought that a few times.  But watching your conviction to be yourself made me realize this great truth.

Thank you.

Now that you’re getting older, I see the greatness that is in you.  You will do amazing things one day, because you think so big.  I’m not yet sure what that thing will be, but I have no doubt the creativity inside you will one day change the world.  You’ve already changed mine.

This year will bring big changes.  You’ll be leaving boyhood behind soon, entering adolescence.  Manhood isn’t far behind.  But I know it will suit you.  In fact, I think some of the constraints of childhood hold you back and that once you’re free to open up that amazing mind of yours you’ll reach heights even I can’t imagine.  Yes, adulthood is going to suit you well.

So Happy Birthday, Little Man.  Keep rocking the world!

Good Night, Sleep Tight . . .

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I know I’ve already extolled the perks of having big kids, but a few weeks ago, Mr. Wonderful and I pushed the envelope a little further, and planned an overnight trip – without any kids.  The Trailblazer is still home for the summer, so we left him in charge and darted down I-10 to the Mississippi Gulf Coast for a get together with Mr. Wonderful’s old high school friends.

We had a lovely time, and for a few blissful hours, I actually forgot I had kids.  (There’s something about being around the people who remind you of a time before you had kids that can actually transport you back to that time. Aaahhh.)  We hung out at a casino (no one under 21 present), had dinner at a lovely restaurant (no chicken nuggets on the menu), and spent the evening at an outdoor venue listening to music (drinking refreshing adult beverages) in the July Mississippi heat.  The next morning we gathered again for brunch, slowly bringing ourselves back into reality for the trip home.

This is the critter I found in my bed. * cringe *

It was so blissful I completely forgot about a topic that has been in the news quite a bit lately.

Bedbugs.

I don’t travel much anymore, so when this topic hit the current events circuit in every news outlet in America I brushed it off as something that really didn’t apply to me.  I disregarded all of the advice on how to inspect a room for evidence of bedbugs and how to handle your luggage in a way that reduces the likelihood of bringing them home with you.

I now regret not paying better attention to that advice.

Sure enough, as I’m stripping beds last week, I pull back the fitted sheet on my bed to discover a little brown critter sitting all comfy at the foot of my bed.  Not realizing what it was at first, I made an audible noise of disgust and flushed the little sucker.  It wasn’t until the following morning that I realized what I’d seen.

Then the panic began.

I Googled BEDBUGS to look at some photos, only to confirm my terrible suspicion.  As I feared, it was, indeed, a Cimex lectularius, a common bedbug.

The cleaning process. I was making sure no bugs sneaked past me.

I read a few articles to get an idea of what I was dealing with, watched a couple of YouTube videos on how to inspect a room for infestation, and put in a call to my exterminator.  Then I began the process of dismantling my bedroom.

I discovered that eradicating bedbugs is a lot like getting rid of fleas or lice.  (Both of which I have done at various times in my parenting career.)  It involves lots of laundry, intense vacuuming, and thorough cleaning.

Our search produced only one live bedbug, so my exterminator seems to think I got off easy.  (Probably just a single stowaway who wasn’t in a family way when he/she hitched a ride to my house.)  Whew.

Now I just have to get over the heebie-jeebies I get every time I walk into my bedroom.  And figure out if I ever intend to use that suitcase again.

As for the cute little saying “Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite…” I’m no longer amused.

 Bedbug advice:

  • NEVER place your suitcase on a hotel bed.  Put it on the stand, on the dresser, or if necessary on the bathroom counter to unpack it.
  • Pack plastic garbage bags, and seal your luggage in the bags during your stay.
  • Examine the sheets for small, rust-colored flakes.  (Bedbug poop.)  Or for actual bugs.
  • If you find them in your home, don’t panic.  But do get ready for a boat-load of work to get rid of them.