Bye-bye Birdie...

Recently, I found myself explaining to my children what “Flipping the Bird” is. Flipping the bird…what a funny expression – I cannot even fathom where that came from. In any case, it had all started out harmless enough.

We own quite a collection of movies. My precocious seven-year-old is getting bored with animated kid’s movies and wants to progress into real movies…you know the kind with actresses and actors. Innocently, she sidled into the kitchen while I was making dinner.

“Mommy, can I watch this movie?” She holds out 50 First Dates. Mentally, I review the flick. I remember it being a cute and quirky film about how much Adam Sandler’s character loved Drew Barrymore’s character. I saw no issue. I should have known better…

“Sure baby. You’ll have to turn it off when I call you to the table for dinner though…” Famous last words. Dinner is served and true to her word the movie is turned off. The dishes are cleared and I snuggle up with my Things (I like to refer to them as Thing 1, Thing 2 and Thing 3 – I feel in this world of stolen identities, if you need to know their names, chances are you are close enough to have met them). Where was I? Oh yes, on the couch, nestled comfy-like with three kids sprawled on me with a blanket.

Precisely then is when IT occurs. Adam Sandler happens! A litany of asshole, shit, ass and more assholes fly at us. I pray they don’t notice. No one says a peep. Not even a giggle, as they know these to be grown-up words – words that are not totally off-limits, but ones that you have to “grow up” to merely utter. And then…the mother of all dreaded things happens.

I don’t recall who gave whom the finger, but someone sure as hell did. I gasp. WTF is this movie rated? One small sad detail I neglected to look at when allowing this feature to air on Fay TV. Epic Parenting Fail. The next thing I know, my sweet, sweet son looks up at me, gives me the finger and asks, “Mommy, what does THIS mean?!?”

“It means grown up things that I can’t tell you about.” Never mind that I already fast-forwarded through a sex scene with similar explanations. He pushes on, “Really Mommy…you tell me!”

That’s when my moment of brilliance strikes. I call upon one of the most revered people in our home, The Granny, to save my behind. “That is something bad. Something so monumentally horrible that if seen, Granny will never come here to visit again. Something so bad that if Mommy did it, Granny would spank me! Forget about what happens to little boys & girls who use that finger like that…If Granny would spank me, a grown-up – what-oh-what would she do to you?”

This accomplishes what no dancing around the subject I could tap out would ever do. My son jerks his fingers into a fist and shoves it under the blanket. His wide eyes beseech me and he inquires, “Never?” My only answer is, “Nope. She’d NEVER come visit.”

It seems after all these years, my mother, inadvertently; is still capable of striking fear in the hearts of children. Granted, this time she wasn’t screaming and brandishing a pancake turner (having long since broken the wooden spoons on my brothers’ asses). But stone cold fear, none-the-less. That night as I silently said my prayers, I thanked God for my mother, whom even without knowing it, continues to save my sorry hide after all these years… So, thanks Mom! And to the rest of you – I pose in my middle flippant salute.

Just Bust A Move

Every now and then, our living room gets transformed into Studio 54. I DJ while my children dance around like the gawky white kids they are. [They obviously did not inherit their father’s dancing abilities, or did they? As, I’m told it was strongly suggested to his mother that she enroll her son in a professional dance school. Oh, how different my life would be if I were married to K-Fed. I digress…] Tonight was no exception. As the likes of One Republic, Bruno Mars and Maroon 5 pumped out rhythmic beats, these kids got down like James Brown. Or Steve Martin – you take your pick.

Halfway through a song my oldest piped up, “Mommy! You and Daddy need to dance! Dance I say!”

I made a feeble excuse, “Sure. Just as soon as this song ends. I can change the Pandora station to something more suitable and appropriate for Daddy and I to dance to.” In parental terms, this means: I need to put on something slower so not as to blow out my hip and pull numerous muscles. The song ended, and I quickly snatched up my iPhone to change Pandora’s Modern Male Station to my Pandora Motown Station.

Oh. My. God. What are the chances that of all the Motown Songs out there that Pandora should choose to pick “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gayeat this precise moment? I look at my husband. He looks at me. We meet up and bust out laughing over the kiddies shouting, “Dance, Mommy – Dance, Daddy!” We start slow dancing. This dance had none of the showmanship our children have come to love seeing. There were no dips, no twists, no spins. There was no intricate hand or foot movement as we rotated the dance floor. Instead, there was an inappropriate amount of hip grinding, neck kissing and whispered double entendres.

The freaks I gave birth to decided that this would be a good time to make a dance circle around us. They began chanting, “Love it! Kiss her! Love it! Kiss her!” Their father was happy to oblige. He kissed me, alright. I think I blushed. Cheers and clapping erupted in our living room. For a brief moment, I was thankful that I’ve shown my children what a happy loving married couple looks like – and hope they hold onto these memories that we never shy away from…and then I realized, well – if they hold onto those memories, quite possibly in about 15 years they will put two and two together and understand why they were rushed through their bath time routines and put to bed early tonight.

Shit. I owe the Therapy Jar five more dollars.