Category: Little Brother

Incorruptible…or Just Incorrigible?

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Because sometimes you just need to laugh in the midst of it all.

I know I can use a laugh today. Maybe you could, too. So here’s the latest Little-Brotherism.

On Friday night, I was trying to convince him to be an altar-server for Saturday’s funeral. There wouldn’t be a coffin, I told him (in case that was spooking him about the whole thing) because Mary had been cremated.

Apparently he didn’t know what cremation is, so I had to explain that. The concept horrified him.

“When I die, I want to be all together, with my bones and everything,” he informed me. “And you know what I want? One of those glass coffins, you know, like the saints have…with the little air conditioners inside to keep them fresh.”

Someone’s been studying St. John Neumann at school, I see.

But I had to burst the kid’s bubble and let him know that those things don’t come with air conditioning.

In all seriousness, it’s good to know that he’s aiming high. He speaks very matter-of-factly about possibilities for sainthood. I can’t take credit for putting that idea into his head, but I’m certainly glad that it’s there.

Question du Jour

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…or, more accurately, del día.

I sent Little Brother off to scrub toilets after he finished his homework. He’s always been a fan of that job.

While he was busy creating toilets full of bubbles, he noticed the bilingual label on the Comet. “It says ‘20% más’. What does ‘más’ mean?”

“In Spanish? It means ‘more’,” I replied.

More scrubbing, then:  “Do people in Spain have toilets?”

If You Bake It, They Will Eat It

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This year, Little Brother is a member of his school’s chapter of the National Junior Beta Club. They have frequent service projects and fund-raisers, the proceeds of which are donated to charity.

This morning he let me know that next week, the Beta Club will be having a lunchtime bake sale. “There’s a paper in my classroom, Mom. It’s on the 6th and the 7th and we’re supposed to bring in baked goods….Will you bake a good?”

Talking Football

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This afternoon I went to parent-teacher conferences at Little Brother’s school.

He’s earned all A’s, so I wasn’t worried too much about his grades. But I figured it was my parental duty to put in an appearance, and it would be a good time to touch base with his teacher about his emotional health, given the disruptions of the past few weeks. She’s aware of most of them, and assured me that he’s been fine at school.

She also let me know that “he’s been talking A LOT about Notre Dame.” No surprise there. I’ve been talking a lot about Notre Dame myself. Frankly, I think I’ve done my job right if I’ve passed along the proper fan allegiance to the next generation. And I worked hard for the right to be an Irish fan.

My parents are staunch members of the “Fighting Irish Subway Alumni.” Both devout fans of Notre Dame (but alums of Seton Hall), they were pleased when I applied to graduate school there.

I was accepted at ND, Purdue and SUNY Binghamton. Clearly I was not basing my choice of university on “balmy winter climate.” (What WAS I thinking back in 1986?)

Once the acceptance letters came in, my dad informed me that I would be going to Notre Dame. That was that. I’d gotten in at his dream school, apparently.

I showed up on the campus of Notre Dame in August of 1987, never having seen a football game–ANY football game–in my life. One of my roommates was a band assistant. All three of my roommates were horrified that here I was at Notre Dame and I knew nothing of football and didn’t even care. I do like bands, though, so they insisted that I watch the games on our tiny TV so I could see the band.

I attended one game (ND vs Navy on Halloween of 1987.) The Irish won, 56-13. No, I didn’t remember the score–I just looked it up. I remember that they won; that one of my non-band roommates was at the game too, very patiently explaining what a “first down” was; that in the student section, no one sat during the game. We all stood on the bleachers the whole time.

It was great.

25 years later, I still prefer basketball and there are still football rules I don’t get, though I do understand “first down” now. But I taught my kids early (and often) that in my football world, it’s Notre Dame vs. “The Bad Guys.” I never actually said that, but that’s what Big Brother took away from it when he was four or five. Let’s just say I never bothered to correct that assumption.

Until Little Brother started moonlighting as Mr. SportsCenter, I never even paid attention to other schools’ teams. But this kid is a walking, talking sports encyclopedia who inhales football (and soccer) trivia like it’s oxygen. He knows who’s ranked where, what teams have injured QBs and who’s favored to win next week’s matchups. I, on the other hand, know that Notre Dame home games are on NBC.

I’ve enjoyed this football season immensely so far and look forward to this weekend’s game. I might even stay up late to watch the whole thing.

After all, I have earned the right to be a fan. I’ve stuck with my team during the bad years, and I’m going to relish this one.

Electioneering

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It’s all politics, all the time around here tonight. TheDad lives for this stuff and is even ignoring an upcoming nor’easter in favor of election returns. Little Brother’s school had a mock election today among grades 4 and up, so he’s interested in watching the elections as well (though I suspect he wants to stay up late so he can play Minecraft with the news in the background.

And Middle Sister asked what channel would have the elections (pretty much everything but ESPN, kid) because she’s taking US History 2 this year and her teacher expects the class to pay attention to this. Along with a real-life civics lesson, she’s also getting a geography challenge; her teacher gave the kids unmarked outline maps and wants them to label the states according to the results.

He’ll get no argument from me, but my older two kids missed the geography boat in their early educations. I insisted that Big Brother sign up for a geography class in high school and he later conceded that he’d learned a lot of important information.

When Middle Sister complained that she didn’t know which states were which, I informed her that she’d be selecting Geography as her first-choice elective next year, and if she didn’t, I wouldn’t sign her course-selection card. There was loud protesting, but I’m not giving in, even though Grandma stuck up for Middle Sister and said that it’s not important to know where the states are. (Thanks for that.)

Big Brother said he’d pass on watching election returns at college, because he figured that watching these in a public place could get tense. Besides, he’s got stage crew.

And I’ve got a couple of interesting books and a bowl of Halloween candy to occupy my attention. I voted, and there’s nothing I can do about this now.

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

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Little Brother is getting ready to go on his very first camping trip with the Boy Scouts. The troop has invited the Webelo 2 den along on this weekend’s camping trip so that the Webelos can begin to learn the camping skills they’ll need as Boy Scouts.

There has been much packing and preparing. Last night he began gathering his stuff and stuffing it into an old backpack. We had gotten him a multi-tool-utensil (Swiss Army silverware?) and it was still in the plastic clamshell package. He spent more than 10 minutes with his Scout knife, stabbing that clamshell in random places.

I could have taken care of the situation with one swipe of my kitchen shears, but I let him struggle with it himself, even when that struggle proved potentially dangerous to his fingers and my coffee table.

That’s a lot of trouble to go to, especially when you consider that this kid still doesn’t use utensils on a regular basis.

This morning I tripped over his fully-packed backpack with the flashlight sticking out of the front pocket. I asked him if he’d packed extra batteries for the flashlight.

“I won’t need those,” he informed me. “I’ll have the moon and the stars to be my light.”

Good luck with that.

(He packed the batteries.)

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

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Little Brother’s not going to be little forever, and that means all those Little Brotherisms are going to come to an end someday. I’m savoring them while they last. Here’s today’s:

We were in the car after soccer, discussing that we were both surprised to see the soccer coach smoking.

Little Brother:  “He should try to stop smoking. Maybe he could get some of those patties that you pat on your arm that help you stop smoking.”

A Whole New Meaning

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One thing I love about our church is the cross. A Franciscan parish from the time it was founded in 1913, our church has a huge San Damiano Cross on the wall behind the altar. It’s more than a cross–it’s an icon, and every little detail has meaning. Read all about it, then gaze upon a large San Damiano Cross if you can find one. It’s a wonderful meditation.

It’s such a wonderful road to prayer, in fact, that I hesitate a bit to share this story. But I thought it was funny, so I’m going to tell it anyway.

The altar servers at our parish often wear a little cross over their albs. But the crosses aren’t all the same. Some have the words “Altar Server” inscribed on them. Others are San Damiano crosses. On Sunday, Little Brother got himself vested for altar serving, then came out to wait by me in the choir area. After I fixed his collar (an every-Sunday occurrence) I told him that I was glad he was wearing the San Damiano cross because it’s my favorite one.

He wanted to know why, and I showed him that it matched the cross on the wall in the church. He’d never noticed it before (possibly because he usually sits with the musicians who don’t have a good view of it) and I pointed out some of the figures on the cross.

Then I mentioned the “angels with halos” at the very top. Suddenly he got interested. “Halo people?” he asked. “I thought those were only in video games!”

Signs of Affection

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Last night I entered into complicated negotiations with Little Brother. I’ll be seeing him at school today (and every Friday) and there is that delicate matter of parental affection to be dealt with.

For the past year, he hasn’t wanted me to wait for the bus with him in the mornings. I do miss that; he’s the only kid at the bus stop at that time, and we used to have some nice little chats.

And while I used to get a hug (maybe two) from him on those school days when I volunteered in the library, last night it was made pretty clear that I’m not to expect that this year. At 10, Little Brother thinks he’s too big to hug his mom in public. He grudgingly suggested that I could muss his hair a little bit.

Usually the librarian schedules me to volunteer on the day when Little Brother’s class will be in the library. I appreciate this and so does he (and I think she does too, as this is a big and, well, loud group. They’re good kids–but they are noisy.) When he was in second grade, she needed me on a different day, but when his class was on the way into the art room next to the library, his teacher would let him run into the library and give me a hug.

Those were the good old days.

I mourned this on Twitter last night: “Sign your “baby” is getting old: you have to negotiate an acceptable sign of affection in advance of seeing him at school tomorrow.”

The prevailing opinion on Twitter was that I should tackle and hug (and/or kiss) the kid anyway; after all, “real men kiss their moms” and I am the one who pays his bills. The truth is, Twitter, I don’t tend to be boisterous like that.

At least he still hugged me when he said goodnight, after all those negotiations.

At least he still wants me to help at his school–with his class.

And at least he has library in the mornings, before the hair that he is so graciously allowing me to touch gets too sweaty from the playground football game at recess.

Fat Police

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This morning, Little Brother and I went grocery shopping. Everything went well for the first 3/4 of the trip. We got nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios, peanut butter, cookies (I had a coupon) and EVOO. Then we got to the dairy aisle, and that’s where things got ugly.

I reached for a gallon of milk, the kind with the red top that screams, “Full fat!” at the casual observer, and my skinny 10-year-old took me to task.

It’s got to be the propaganda that’s behind it. First of all, the kid doesn’t even drink milk–hasn’t in more than 8 years. I am the main consumer of that weekly gallon of milk, and I like my milk whole, thankyouverymuch. But boy, was I in trouble. “Why don’t you buy 2%, Mom?”

“Because I don’t like 2%. I like Real Milk.” We went along this way for a while, as I wheeled the cart along and picked up a pound of Real Butter and 18 Real Eggs and then headed toward the Coffee Nirvana section, where I once again bemoaned the fact that ShopRite never has quarts of light cream anymore.

“Half-and-half is just as good, Mom,” said my young Food Policeman.

“No, believe me, half-and-half is not just as good,” I sighed as I placed a quart of half-and-half in the cart sadly.

“Mom, I agree with that governor of New York about this,” he commented. (I think he meant “mayor,” but whatever. I was arguing for my Real Milk, not accuracy regarding government officials.)

Kid, I’m all for healthy, which is why I bought nectarines, cucumbers, melon, bananas, celery, Cheerios and peanut butter, and also the EVOO. But when it comes to dairy, I’m a full-fat kind of girl. And no one, not any governor or mayor or president or surgeon general or doctor on TV is going to tell me not to have my nice big glass of milk with dinner every night.

Real milk. With the red top. Ice cold. It’s the only way. I’m willing to sit down with the Fat Police over a cold one and discuss this, and I will not back down.