Drive-bys in Gitmo; or, How a Gang Took My Youngest and Brought Back Pigpen

Kids here do a thing I like to call "drive by friending." It starts with one kid, picking up another on foot or bike, working their way through our winding neighborhood, knocking on doors, collecting classmates and friends until they have a large group to go to the park, bowling, the movies, etc. Part of being one of NINE kids in your entire grade means that as a high schooler, drive-by friending is a social necessity. Our oldest ends up at the movies at least once a week. There is a base bus that runs every 30 minutes from our housing area, and it works out beautifully for exhausted parents who don't always want to drive kids around. The theater is outdoors, and the evenings are usually in the low 70s with a nice breeze. Here's what is showing this week:

Not bad for free transportation and free movies! 

Overheard, at the high school: "My friends in the States just sit in their houses and text each other. They are so boring!" 

A gang of children came by and got our youngest for his first drive-by friending this weekend. (By gang, think "Peanuts," not "Crips"). A vagabond group of elementary-aged munchkins rode their bikes to the park right behind our house, which has a basketball court and huge (covered!) playscape. We all have gates on our back fences opening to a path to the park. It's great. 

Best part? 

H was filthy when he got home. We're talking a 2 bath cloth, scrubbing until you turn bright pink filthy. His face was smudged, his hair and clothes were caked with mud, and the smell. . .  In the immortal words of James Brown, "Good God, Y'all!"  It took me back to my childhood in small town MS, hanging out with my friends from The Subdivision (yes, my town was so small that my neighborhood was called---you guessed it---"the subdivision"). We would be ride our bikes to the ballpark, the town pool, or the Icee store, with me sometimes riding my Siamese cat Me-Me-Ow in the basket (wearing baby doll clothes, of course!), and always coming home to my mom's protestations: "Wash your knees! Go re-wash them! They are brown! You are dirty!" "But Mom, my knees are always brown!" Even today, when I have a tan, my knees, elbows, and toes turn dark brown. But that didn't keep my mom from trying her best to scrub me clean. Then there was my precious Granny who would tell us grandkids, "You've got the goats!" which was her way of saying we were nasty and smelled, of course, like goats. 

(If any of you reading are city-folk who have never gotten close to a real goat, trust me---their smell is not pleasant.)

It's one of my favorite Granny-isms and I try to casually drop it in conversation when the opportunity/smell arises. 

So having a son who a)looks like a feral child; b)smells like a goat; c)hangs out all afternoon with a group of kids and NOT A SINGLE ADULT; and d)passes out by 7 pm from exhaustion all makes me a happy mom. Exercise, socialization, and independence---mission accomplished. 

Santa, also known as my parents, brought us grownups (and kids) a beautiful dining room set for Christmas, and part of the beauty of everyone being at home at dinner time is we can actually sit around a table and talk like civilized humans. 

When you are married (to the same person) for almost 20 years, you can narrate each other's childhood stories. I think of them as our "greatest hits." We both have trauma stories involving sharp objects and our faces. It's like us getting together was destiny. My story is about a gruesome freak Thanksgiving accident---I ended up in the back of my mom's old Oldsmobile with a wire coathanger stuck in my eye (eeeewwww!) as we were trying to leave for my grandparents' house. Talk about ruining the holiday. 

But my husband's story of getting radio antennae to a remote control car (oh, technology of the seventies) stuck up his nose, all the while his brother is giving it gas, the wheels spinning as the car is violently dangling, is one of my favorites. And the way he tells it is really funny. 

So funny, in fact, that the youngest fell out of his chair laughing hysterically, and then he threw down the gauntlet: all dinner time conversation must be exciting, riveting, and dramatic. No more, "How was your day, honey?" B.S. He wants laughter. He wants entertainment Actually, he wrote out a list, called the "talk list," and this is what he wants: 

Oh. My.Gobble. My son has a genrefied table topic list. You'd think his mom is a librarian or something. 

In addition, here is yet one more H incident this week (or as my friend Amy likes to say, "sh*t my H says").

One of his last moments in his hometown in Texas was getting his hand slammed in the car door on the way to the airport. Not an auspicious way to end one chapter and begin another, right? His pinky nail turned green, then purple, then black, until this past week, it finally fell off. There was a nice new nail underneath, and being a boy, he wanted to keep the nail (naturally). 

He also has two teeth that are dangling in the front of his mouth. It totally grosses me out (Like, totally! Gag me with a spoon! Fer sure!). So Snagglepuss has wiggled and twisted and even tied floss to his loose teeth, but they are staying put. 

He wants to know this (and maybe some of you know): if there is a tooth fairy to give you money, why can't there also be a fingernail fairy? 

Good question, right? 

Something for you all to ponder. Maybe for your talk list. 

You are welcome. 

for Mrs. Brown: Rock Lobster, Thursday Nite. B There or B L7.