Watch Your Mouth
Azul has been tinkering with using “bad words.” He’ll say, “I’m going to tell you a funny story, but I have to say a bad word.” Immediately he puts his hand over his mouth ready to catch the foulness about to escape and stares at me wide-eyed. I usually shrug and answer, “A bad word? Okay, go ahead.” I am always curious as to what word he wants to use, which are usually not real bad words at all, so of course I’m going to say okay, not to mention I have a potty mouth and my five year-old is well aware of that fact.
Having a potty mouth is really an understatement — I cuss like a sailor. I’m not sure if it is hereditary, my mom says I had a great-grandmother who would make a grown man blush with her colorful dialect, or the nature of the business I worked in for years (pause, deep breath) — Radio.
Some of the dirtiest things you will never hear on the radio are said when the “on the air” light is off. I have always had a fairly liberal view of off-color language. If it’s used for emphasis or to make a point or to be funny, by all means use it, be creative but never hateful.
The rule I have always had to follow at work has been set up by the FCC (Federal Communications Commission), and when Azul is older, those will be the rules I will enforce in my own home as well, much to the dismay of my husband. So for now we will follow my husband’s rules, in that Azul can’t cuss. And whatever the reason is for my talented linguistics, it is what it is, and Azul knows he should not talk like me. In one instance he questioned these rules and I replied in the most kind and gentle mom voice I could muster, “I can talk like this because I’m a fucking adult and you’re a kid.” I might have used that “emphasis” only to get his attention, and it worked. Now he resorts to prefacing his “cussing” by asking for permission.
I may change my mind once I have to start doing detention at school with him for cussing.
Head Case
Azul suffered from a head injury this weekend.
This was not his first head to floor duel, as an infant he rolled off the bed and landed on his head (this was my first official freak out as a parent), last year he fell off a chair at the kitchen counter and landed on his head (the sound of a head cracking on the tile floor was by far was the worst sound I have ever heard), but this was the first time I have had my wounded child delivered to my doorstep.
He was playing on the trampoline next door with his neighbor friend Nadia, like he has been doing on a weekly basis since she got the trampoline. I guess they were playing and the zipper door was not completely closed, so one jump too many and Azul flew through the opening like an arrow searching for its target. He landed head first on the decorative landscaping rocks.
When the doorbell rang only minutes after he had gone next door, I was immediately concerned and jumped up to answer the door. Of course it was chaos! Azul is crying and in our neighbor’s arms and her daughter is crying following along. As we do the pass off from one parent to the other, Nadia’s mom is explaining what happened and I look at his head and put him on the couch and grab a mother’s best friend, the ice pack. It was a big bump, but he was okay. An emotional Nadia and her mom headed back home. They did check on Azul later, he was recovering much better than Nadia who hadn’t stopped crying since the incident and now wanted the offending trampoline taken down.
While I was trying to make him comfortable, he yelled, “I just want some alone time!” He really didn’t like all the fussing over him and the extra attention we were giving him. All he wanted was the ice pack, some snacks and a movie. I was feeling a little concerned, but I was sure he didn’t suffer a concussion. Just then while feeling slightly more at ease and lying with him on the couch, in his weakened injured voice he said, “Can we just watch The Breakfast Club?”
Now, some may think that statement in itself is evidence of a serious head injury, but it made me feel better! He progressively felt better through the movie and at the end said, “Can we watch it again?” Maybe all his falls have knocked a few screws loose.
Lucha Azul
Most evenings while I am cooking dinner, there is a little time for me to have a break. The News is on TV at this time and once I get dinner going, I sit on the couch with my legs propped up and more than likely I have a drink in my hand. This is my happy place, my down time, the “me” time between playing with my five year-old and feeding my family.
Occasionally, and when I say occasionally, I mean if I’m lucky, Azul is bored with me by this point and goes into his room to play. This evening I was lucky. Ahhh! But all of a sudden he ran to me at full speed, stopped and breathing heavily he asked, “Do wrestlers wear shirts?” Oh, no! I thought, this means the clothes are about to come off! So, to stop the topless show before it even started I said, “Well, some wrestlers are fully clothed.” That’ll do it. I tricked him into keeping his shirt on.
He laughed at what I had said, with his mouth wide open and his head tilted all the way back. And once he regained his composure he asked, “Some just wear bigboys, right?” If you didn’t figure it out, bigboys are underpants or drawers or underwear or whatever nickname you gave your potty training toddler that has stuck through the years.
Recognizing my defeat and knowing there will be a shirtless boy in my near future, I said, “Yes, some just wear bigboys.” And in a flash he was gone!
To my surprise, upon his return he was yelling, “I am a wrestler!” Then I was attacked by a naked little boy. It was as if he had flown through the air from the top rope of a wrestling ring to pin me for a count of three. I yelled back, “Wrestlers aren’t naked!” Thinking, And if they are, there is usually some type of jello involved. There was no jello.
“Being naked gives you strength!” My nemesis retorted. He was right as I recoiled from his new-found power. He won!
Carmelina Hart 