Where did he come from???

So, one of the great mysteries of science to me is how can a female body produces a male child. And how those boy children can come out and look not one iota like their mother and be pod people of their father. In the big picture I am really grateful because managing my daughter/twin is going to be emotionally exhausting enough, and taking care of the boys is simply a source of amusement.

Every child is special. Every mother loves every child equally. However, every child does not serve the same purpose in a family. Monkey Boy is my primary source of entertainment. Literally, since the moment I saw his little jewels on the ultrasound screen, I have been walking around saying, "How did that happen?" Before and shortly after his birth, I had 3 different situations from 3 unique cultures which told me he was special. First of all, before we knew who he was, a woman from India put her hands on my stomach and said, "Oh, this is a very special little boy." Then when he was born, the water never broke. In old-fashioned times, this is called being "born under the caul" and in Celtic traditions meant he was a blessed child. Finally, a Chinese friend of mine did his horoscope which involved spinning a book, flipping a bunch of pages, making "HMMMM" noises, and ultimately declaring Monkey's future the best he has ever seen. He was born under all the right stars. I firmly believe that he is special, mainly because he is still alive. This is because through no effort of my own, but it is because he has a Grade A, high ranking guardian angel.

You know how you read about children in the paper and you think, "Well, what kind of parent doesn't notice their child is on top of the china cabinet?" The answer to that is that person is me. If you don't know your child can climb vertical surfaces and has suction toes, you don't expect to find them hiding on closet shelves, or looking in your second floor windows from a tree at age THREE. You expect there to be a learning curve. Nope, Monkey Boy has never, ever injured himself beyond a single bandaid injury despite glorious feats of stupidity.

Classic example. We see a stunt rider on a bicycle. I know things are over. Monkey is not yet five, but he is riding his bike everywhere. One day the doorbell rings. I had no idea M.B. was outside, but he was there standing on my doorstep crying with bloody knees and a bike lying in the yard. I scoop up my injured little boy and ask him what happened. His reply, "I rode down the front (brick) steps." "Well, what did you learn?" "I don't have the right kind of bike." He has also managed to climb up the stairs of our jungle gym set with his bike so he can ride down the bumpy slide. (Mom: WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Boy child: I HAVE ON MY HELMET!) We have had to pass rules like you can't climb higher than a second floor window. I have personally been to every neighbor on my street to tell them that if my child injures himself on their property or rides into his/her car, I know they didn't do it.

He thinks school, religion, and girls are all jokes and a waste of his time. School is when you doodle, religion is something he can't wait to quit, and girls are not even worth thinking about. Hair is only something you deal with twice a year, and washing it is silly since it just gets dirty again. I see dreadlocks in his future. His dream job changes, but right now it is be a professional soccer star for awhile before going to graduate school and becoming a scientist that wins a Nobel prize.

I am pretty much the only female that is infallible. His father has the information he actually wants, but Mama is the source of joy. All other people are just a waste of his time. He doesn't mind them, but they don't really serve a purpose and so he can be very rude and ingore them. He is sweet to little kids, but he probably won't notice if they are male or female. He can tell you the score of some random World Cup game from 4 years ago, but he has no idea when he last changed his underwear. (His sister just asked him, and his reply: I don't know. I haven't worn underwear for a month.) He is a glorious pile of farts, facts, cuddles and elbows. Every day for Monkey Boy is a day full of promise, and every day for me WITH Monkey Boy is a day full of sunshine.

Uses for Old Boyfriends

I haven't been writing in awhile because I have been trying to live a dull life. It has gone really well, except for my obsession with Facebook. Frequently you hear all about how the computer and on-line communities have caused real relationships to fail to develop. I am the counterargument. At this point in my life, I have the attention span of a guinea pig and zero time for meaningful conversations. My whole life I have been blessed with an excess of friends, most of whom never have managed to escape my Christmas card list. I have tons of people I want to be in touch with but I don't have any time to do so. Enter Facebook. Through it, I have managed to stay in touch with more people with less time. I have refound elementary school friends, archrivals, sorority sisters, people to whom I taught TV theme songs, a couple of folks I didn't realize were as strange as they are... I can quickly scan a friend's page and find out if anything interesting has happened to them and move on without discussing any details. Facebook is perfect for those seeking shallow encounters. But there is one problem. Ex-boyfriends

My whole life I have liked boys. I remember my PRESCHOOL favorite boy, my first grade, second grade, etc. My poor first-grade boyfriend I managed to find in a cotton field at a Blues Festival, and all I can say is I am glad he is unlikely to remember that encounter because he was so much worse off than I was. Liking boys and having a boyfriend are two entirely different things, and I didn't manage to acquire one of my very own until 10th grade, but after that I had a fairly steady supply until my husband. Once I acquired him, I had to stop collecting obviously. But I do have a strict ex-boyfriend rule: We can break up, but you can never leave. I have just lovely relationships with almost any boy I have ever dated/had a crush on/talked to for a long time. One of my favorite ex-boyfriends is providing the future spouse for my child. He has three gorgeous boys, and I have generously told Bunny she can have any one of them. Another ex-boyfriend is actually responsible for explaining stock markets and world news to me. Another ex-boyfriend is the source of all musical suggestions. Yet another is the science go-to guy. Each of these was lacking in some essential quality that my husband possesses, so even though I am fondly attached to all of them, it is sort of like the way you feel about your grandmother's furniture. Sure, it was good for a nap when you were little, but you don't actually want that furniture in the house. However, like I said, they can't leave. The main reason for this is my childhood hobby, funeral planning.

Like most little girls from Mississippi, I grew up playing wedding. Imagine the cutest boy from Leland Middle School or Sean Cassidy, draw an elaborate picture of your dress, winnow down the list of friends worth enough for bridesmaid status, and play pretend wedding. It was fun and satisfactory to a degree, but not nearly as much fun as what I really liked to do, playing funeral. I have been writing my wills since I was in third grade, making lists of who gets what stuffed animal. My actual will has a codicil where my best friend, Shelley, gets my pink rotary phone with the glow-in-the-dark funeral advertisement on the handset. She was determined it not be a family heirloom. Anyway, back to funerals. I am ashamed to admit it, but I would love to attend my actual funeral. Shortly into my marriage, I explained to my beloved what exactly my funeral would entail. Detailed explanations. However, it is now time to revisit those decisions.

I always thought I wanted to be cremated and dumped into a volcano, thrown into the Mississippi River, or something. I also wanted everyone to sit around and tell stupid stories about me and write them all down for my children, just in case they remember me as some saintly figure. HA. Now, however, I want a green funeral. You know where you become fodder for trees? I love the idea of being buried somewhere in some crappy, non-hermetically sealed box and having a Christmas tree farm planted on top of me. No, I am from Mississippi, so I want a pecan farm. And, the part that I want my ex-boyfriends for is I want them to be pall bearers. Several of them have failed to inform their wives of the central role I played in their lives, so they would probably have to mention coming to the funeral, but I just love the symbolism of them dumping me in the ground. Just like they dumped me (or, occasionally, visa versa). That way all my relatives will be free to wail and throw roses in the hole and comfort my little angels and my distraught husband who will probably still be trying to figure out where I stored Daniel's socks and how to turn on the dryer and who will, if he truly loved me, be unable to focus on getting me in the ground and other such funeral details (hence, the detailed to do list). Wouldn't you love to be there for that? Which is, again, why I love Facebook. I only had four ex-boyfriends that I was confident I could beg to help me (I want to do it like Camille in the opera - slow, drawn-out, dramatic, then boom, I am dead, so I can have time to explain my plans but die before I have to comfort anyone), but Facebook has helped me acquire at least one more and a couple I can possible call on for backup. I haven't cleared this with my husband, so he might not actually like the drama of it all, but it definitely appeals to me. But if the show gets scheduled anytime soon, which I am NOT hoping for, I will let you know so you can beg an invite.