Monday, October 31, 2016

Trick or Treat

So, I spent the morning running around getting last minute finishing touches for our Halloween costumes, including everything I need to make the dog's. I also bought some special stuff for our Halloween dinner, excited to set the table with our sugar skull china and ouija board platter.

I got home and put it all away and received a text from the 13-year-old.

"Mom, can I go trick or treating with Nate? In his neighborhood? At 6?"

I sat and stared at it for a few seconds, happy for him. My favorite Halloween memories happened around his age.

"Yeah! Sounds fun! Definitely yes."


And then I called Mr. Ashley.

"Well, yeah, this is what we want for him. He's 13, Ashley!"

"I know! I want that too! But he's our Willy Wonka, and the dog is the Oompa Loompa, and I bought his favorite drink for the dinner and was gonna set the table with the Halloween china and he has to be there at 6 and," I stopped and took a deep breath as I stifled sob, "it's one of the last times!"

Ugh. It's not the Willy Wonka-less Chocolate Factory family costumes or the special dinner or his lone Oompa Loompa of a brother (who has the dog, I guess).

It's that it's all kind of winding down -- his childhood, or at least the part where we play the starring roles -- and how did that happen?

The other day I casually reminded my childhood best friend that they'd be in middle and high school next year and she replied, "He'll be a freshman?!" and I briefly thought, no, that's impossible, before realizing that yeah...that's exactly what that means. I just hadn't considered him in that context. Ever.

Not even five full years until he's a legal adult. I remember five years ago like it was yesterday.

(I'll be lobbying to change that, by the way, you're not an adult until you're 25.)

As a mom it might be one of my scariest Halloweens ever -- standing at this parenting precipice and seeing what comes next more clearly than I have before. Ugh.

And part of what comes next is no more family costumes. Dammit.

Life makes no sense without a Willy Wonka.

The idea is going to take some getting used to.

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

Sweat Salutations

I was out with yoga friends a few weeks ago and confessed that I haven't done yoga in a year. The ones who were surprised looked at me like I had just admitted that I stopped brushing my teeth.

When asked why, I rattled off a list of excuses, some more valid than others, as a friend gave me the patient, almost bored, kind of skeptical of my bullshit look that yoga people give and immediately offered to eliminate every obstacle that he personally could, which left me with not enough excuses to continue not doing yoga. 

I returned yesterday, and the whole thing was so lovely and comfortable. From the building to the people to the smell of my mat to the unthinking fluidity of the movements. I felt strong and graceful and peaceful and challenged (but mostly only looked challenged, probably). 

I was able to breathe more deeply than I have in months, lying there in my puddle of sweat at the end. 


Perhaps power yoga in a heated room after a year of barely moving while not feeling well was overly ambitious, if not borderline suicidal. Maybe I was hoping that this would be it and everyone could say, "Well, she tried. At least she died doing what she loved," and the people who knew me best would know that was a lie and that chair pose finally killed me like I've always said it would. 

I used to help teach yoga for kids with severe autism and one of them would angrily mutter, "I HATE YOGA," before every class. 

I'd always assure him that I hated yoga some days too, but we were doing it anyway and would feel better for it later. 

And occasionally, if I asked him if he felt better afterwards, his "I HATE YOGA" would be a little less emphatic. That's the work. He's my yoga spirit animal and guru. We don't always have to like it, we just have to do it. 

So, anyway, I thought I kicked ass that day. Mostly. I did it. 

Then came today, and I can barely get off the toilet unassisted due to my shaking muscles. (Fucking chair pose.) 

But, as I ask my children when someone comes whining during a fight, did anyone die? 

No. I did not die. 


There's still tonight though. I don't know, I think a muscle spasm could possibly do me in or I could seize up and fall off the toilet and hit my head on the tile -- the danger hasn't passed yet. 

But my "I hate yoga" is quieter now. I won't want to go again but I will and I'll hate it less and less until I realize I'm lucky to know it and have it and everyone and everything that goes with it. 

Everything but chair pose. 

Tuesday, October 25, 2016

One Bite

"I ate all of my dinner!" I told my husband, who is the resident chef around here. He looked over at my plate.

"No, you didn't. You didn't eat the chicken."

"Right. The chicken smells like that stuff I don't like."


"Okay. I will take one 'no thank you' bite. Maybe I will like it," I said, because that's what we require of the children, and they eat all kinds of weird stuff.

He laughed and shook his head, watching as I took the bite. I tried to be gracious, because that's the polite thing to do, but it had that stuff I don't like on it and I grimaced. "No. Thank you," I said after swallowing.

"You eat like four things."

"Right. That stuff isn't one of the four."

"It's chipotle seasoning."

"Ugh. No thanks. You know I've always hated it. The steak was amazing, but chipotle tastes like it smells. Bad."

"Being married to you is like having a toddler for life. Like, forever."

"Like having a monkey?" I asked.

"No. A monkey would be way easier."

(So there goes the argument for why we can't have a monkey. This is practically permission to get one.)

Monday, October 24, 2016

Chop Wood Carry Water

You know how some dog owners use a colored leash and collar to indicate a dog's mood?

You probably don't, if I read that sentence, I'd be like, "What in the hell is she talking about?" and I know. 

But some people use a yellow leash to ask you to approach with caution, or a red one to ask you to stay away.

I feel like I need that as a person. Like on some days, I will have a green signal -- I will indulge old men in boring conversations, tell random strangers they look nice today, allow people to cut me in line, and I'll be quick with a smile and greeting.

On yellow days, it would be great if people would approach slowly and speak quietly. Don't try to pet me unless I'm already wagging my tail. On yellow days I long for closeness and company while also being cautious, and I'm not sure if I want to lick you or bite you. 

On red days, stay the fuck away. It won't end well, and now that you've been warned I won't be held liable either. 

Currently, my wardrobe would be a sea of yellow. I don't know if it's the election or my age or my life experiences but people feel increasingly dangerous. It's harder to be a green, and as a naturally gregarious and outgoing person, this onslaught of yellow is damaging. Yellow is ugly. I want to love people and they make it so difficult.

I feel like my heart is a small fire and everyone is walking around with either buckets of water or kindling but I can't tell which until I get too close and they've sloshed themselves all over me. 

And my own bucket of kindling is damp and dwindling, so sometimes other people seek me out for more warmth and flame and I accidentally put out their fire too. It can take a lot to get the inferno going again, and I feel bad I don't have enough to help at the present moment.

I also don't have much energy for hunting and gathering. The dampness invites darkness, and I find myself flirting with it -- just the big eyes and fluttery lashes during the day, but nighttime brings whispered promises of a greater commitment, a longing to stay in bed wrapped up in the silky cobwebs of fogginess together forever and safe from the unpredictability of the world. Depression is a tempting lover (but not a satisfying one, and so I remind myself to stay away).

The people with water in their buckets have a lot of water right now too, more than they can carry, and maybe they need to pour some out. I want that for them; for them to dump it all out, triumphantly and forever until they are drip-dried, but my fire is so small right now that I can't let them do it near me and I avoid them and their potential sogginess altogether.

So the people with the good bits have to give out lots of it, the people with damp material are busy spreading it thin and keeping it safe, and the people with water buckets are just carelessly splashing all over the place. 

And a warning signal probably wouldn't stop them anyway. 

I've been trying to tell those closest to me to approach with caution right now, fearful that they will drop their bucket and run, maybe splashing me in the process. Most of them have admitted that their fires are small right now too. That the gathering takes so much more work lately and that they find themselves slipping into the comfort of protecting the small flame they already have versus creating something brighter and more lasting. 

My friends aren't moody like I can be, so maybe it's the current state of affairs. Sad, as an unwise man has said four thousand times on Twitter.

And the ones who spilled on me in response were just showing me what was in their bucket -- not in a mean way, but in a "I'm not the warm, dry stuff you're seeking. See this red I'm wearing?" kind of way.

Please be mindful of your bucket right now. If you have extra kindling, shower fires with it freely. If your bucket is heavy, find a way to relieve your burden without getting other people wet. 

Also, I'm sorry if you're in my real life and have seen my yellow, and wondered if it was your bucket I've been avoiding. 

If you can be the green in the ocean of yellow and red, now is your time to shine, people. In the meantime, I will kill myself to collect kindling instead of succumbing to cobwebs in the hope that one day I have enough to share again too.

(But I'll never stop with the overly involved metaphors that make little sense. Sorry.) 

Saturday, October 22, 2016

Net Nanny

"I'm thinking of live streaming but I don't know what. I could do a walk through of --" Big Kid started.

"Oh, oh, I know!" I offered.


"Me dancing to Meghan Trainor songs."

"No. Nope."

"No, seriously. You could go viral."

"In the very worst way, mom. No. Absolutely not."

"Because you hate Meghan Trainor? I could do Justin Timberlake. Remember? How good I am at JT songs?"

"I could make a cameo in it." Mr. Ashley said.

The other day some cute cashier told Mr. Ashley that he looked like Justin Timberlake. I almost needed an Uber home because the car was so crowded with ego. I laugh hysterically every time it's mentioned, just like I did when she said it.

"No. Guys. God Himself will leave heaven to speak to me personally before any of you appear in one of my videos. Like, the second coming of Christ will happen first."

"So, like Tuesday?" Mr. Ashley asked.

"Well -- that's cool, though," I said, "Exciting and stuff. I'm available now. I could put pants on. Or not?"

At this point Big Kid began playing a screaming sound bite from his computer, over and over again. A continuous loop of screaming, the perfect background music for raising teenagers and for living with us.

"No. That's okay."  He said over the screaming.

"I thought no pants too. Alright. What song? Let me stretch first."

The screaming continued. Everyone ignored it.

"No. No. No. It's fine."

"Big Kid, it's no trouble, I'm happy to support you."

"I think it's really nice that you're supporting your mom, actually. This is a dream of hers."

"Well, let's face it, there's some great cross promotion opportunity here too. We probably have dozens of fans once you add them together. Go get little kid, he's been wanting to get our band off the ground. He calls it the Singing Sisters but I really think we should go with Clinton and the Secret Service."

Big Kid closed his laptop with a hard click. "Nevermind. I am just going to delete the entire internet from my life."

So. That worked out well.

Thursday, October 20, 2016

Human Enough

I had to make an unexpected trip into Target yesterday and sat in the car trying to do what I could with myself in the rearview mirror first.

"Ugh. I guess I'm human enough to go in now," I muttered.

"You're always human enough, mom. You're more than human. When you're at your very ugliest -- which is never -- you're still one of the most beautiful ladies there is," said my 10-year-old,  ever at the ready with a compliment.

"Aww. Dude. Seriously. What would I do without you?"

"You'd always forget to look at the bright side of life."

And he's exactly right.

I didn't have kids so they could help with the chores (frankly, they suck so bad at chores), I had kids to help me remember life's brightness.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Purpose of Parenting

After two solid hours of playful yelling, door slamming, towel slapping, pillow fighting, bathroom wrestling, screeching, threats, argumentative debates and god-knows-what-else, Mr. Ashley walked into the house and declared it unacceptable within minutes of arriving.

I laughed. "This is my life. My. Whole. Life. I've been listening to it for hours now, I've tried to stop it several times, this is just how they are. These are our children. Welcome home."

Big Kid was indignant about this truth (that I didn't even mean insultingly). "You know, all people ever do is complain about kids, and then they wonder why I'm not going to have kids. I'm not. I won't. It seems to be a miserable situation."

He really does insist he's not having kids. I've told him I don't care either way, and I don't because it affords more time to care for me in my old age. Besides, little kid will probably have a clown car full of kids.

I rolled my eyes and sighed. "You are the joy of my life, my reason for being, the only motivation I have to continue to breathe some days, you are the beat of my heart, the only meaning in my universe. Doesn't mean you're not annoying as all get out sometimes."

He continued without pause, in a mocking tone. "Oh, why aren't you having kids, ask the same people who hate kids."

"Bro. You're being ridiculous. For real. You HAVE to have kids." little kid interrupted.

"No. Really. I don't. Apparently they're terrible people."

(He's 13. There's no middle ground at 13, in case you've forgotten.)

"No, listen. If you don't have kids, you have to do all the chores yourself. It's free slave labor, bro. Who would unload the dishwasher if she didn't have kids?"

He's right. I should have actually had more kids.

Friday, October 14, 2016

Stop and Grab

So, my 13-year-old is really into politics right now.

Is it because he's an intelligent young man with thoughts and opinions and a growing interest in his future and that of his country?

Or because this election makes professional wrestling look like a tea party with the queen?

I don't know, but it is what it is, and I'd rather have the sex talk every day forever than discuss most of it.

And, of course, with an interested older brother, a passionate mother, a small house, and intriguing sound bites from television, radio, and other grown-ups, the 10-year-old hears a lot too.

It may come as a surprise since I'm laid back, but I still monitor their media in a major way. PG-13 is a firm maybe, nothing scary, nothing sexually gratuitous. So the whole election wouldn't be allowed normally. They were prohibited from watching the second debate.

But they still know more than I realize, despite my careful avoidance of conversational landmines that could destroy their innocence.

The other day, little kid said, "Mom, I heard Donald Trump got caught doing something bad."

Please don't let it be pussygate, please don't let it be pussygate, please don't let it be pussygate, I screamed inside my head.

"Yeah...a few things," I answered evasively.

"What's the new one though?"

"I don't know. I'm not sure which thing you're asking about. There's been a couple."

"I think someone overheard him say something?"

"Hmmm. He says a lot of things."

"About ladies?"

"Yeah, a lot of things about ladies."

"I think there's tape of it? People are mad?"


"Do you already know what was said and just want to discuss it? You can tell me if so."

"No. Just that he said something and people are mad. And I do want to discuss it."

"Huh. Yeah. Well, the difficult thing is that what he said was so bad I can't tell you. It's hard to even give you context. But the gist of it is that he was bragging about how he could kiss women and grab their private parts without asking because he's rich. A little worse than that, but that's bad enough."


"People are mad because not only is it disrespectful, it's actual sexual assault. So he kind of said that he routinely sexually assaults women, and now women are saying that he did this to him, so it's looking pretty credible."

"Oh man. You know what I just thought of?"

Terrified to know, I asked what.

"You know that stop and frisk thing? What if he only wants that so he can touch ladies!"

And then I died a million deaths trying not to laugh at the hilarity, and horrific sadness, of that statement.

Wednesday, October 12, 2016

Power of the People

Yesterday I took the kids to see Bill Clinton speak.

I can feel about half of you reaching to clutch your pearls at the mere thought, and I want to assure you that this post isn't really about him. 

(But he's in it, there's your trigger warning.) 

I take them to any future historical figure I can get them in front of -- they've seen George W. Bush and Barack Obama and now Bill Clinton, and more minor but just as important characters like Bill Nye and Caroll Spinney aka Big Bird. 

Anyway, what was notable, especially after the disheartening aftermath of the debates, were the people in attendance with me. 

I had to take the kids out of school and drive an hour to get to the venue, with no guarantee of getting in. Everyone stood in an unmoving line for hours in the heat, anxious about whether or not their efforts would be wasted, and connections and conversations grew between strangers as the boredom became unbearable.

We were behind a middle-aged Indian couple. She impulsively bought me a Hillary button as she bought one for herself, and he and I bared our souls about our fast and hard fall during the real estate crash and our pride about where (and who) we are now that we've rebuilt. They discussed the difficulty of being mistaken for Muslim in the white-washed area they live in and refused to be interviewed on camera for fear their business would be destroyed by supporting the area's unpopular candidate. 

There were two men behind us, a white good ol' boy type and a younger black man, who listened patiently for hours as this guy told crazy tales about all of the people who had psychotic breaks from smoking pot (he knew a lot of them) and how the entire problem with the world today is that people won't stop breeding. Not only did this guy listen with respect, he actually engaged thoughtfully in this conversation. For hours. Because this other guy needed to talk. They had nothing in common other than their place in line.

There was a group of senior citizen friends in front of us who were passionately discussing the importance of solar energy. Every once in a while all of our newly formed pairs and trios would end up in one big group discussion -- maybe 10 or 12 of us talking about our hopes and fears and pasts and futures and things we think are important. 

We finally got to the front of the line...and the door closed in front of us. This happened with Obama too, we were the last four in, and only because some kind soul saw the exhausted look of one tired lady with three heartbroken kids next in line. 

This time we were six people back. I started preparing the kids to go home and everyone was saying that we had fun anyway and it was nice to meet each other. No one was angry, or even complaining. Then an official came out and said there was room for a few more and ushered us all inside and we gave each other thumbs up and joyful smiles and quick hand squeezes before dispersing into the crowd.  

The boys and I were crammed into the back of the room where an old burly Marine-type spotted us and told me the kids wouldn't be able to see. I told him we were lucky to be there and they'd catch it on someone's iPad or phone screen, like they had Obama. He shook his head and began tapping people on the shoulder and asking them to make room so these two little boys could see a past president. 

The crowd parted willingly -- unhesitant about giving up their places. We ended up about three rows back and he wanted to continue but the people in front were a black family with young adults who I had seen near the front of the line, and I knew they waited all day. I thanked him and said we were good and he went back to his place after checking with each child that he could see the podium from where we stood.

We listened to a variety of introductory speeches from local and democratic officials, murmuring to each other about interesting snippets. There was a long pause before the main event and music played on the speakers and a small impromptu dance party broke out -- there was no room to move but everyone was shaking their hips to Mary J. Blige and songs from The Get Down soundtrack, laughing with strangers at this interlude of silliness. Tired people of all races and sizes and ages and sexual orientations. 

The man behind me was a high school teacher from Alaska, rough around the edges, and asked if I told the kids' schools why I took them out for the day. He whole-heartedly approved of skipping for this.

I replied that I had kept it vague and said we had an appointment, especially since I knew one of my sons' teachers holds different political views. 

"How do you know that?" 

"I guess it comes up. A lot." 

"You know what? I was a teacher when Obama was running and I asked my kids who they thought I was voting for. It was split 50/50, and that's when I knew I was doing a great job. You have to be objective in that environment." 

I don't disagree, but my son has his own opinions that aren't in alignment with his teacher's, and seems pretty unaffected and unimpressed. And I'm full up on conflict, no more room at the inn. One can have his opinion and the other can think he's wrong. That's politics. He agreed with that too.

The lady next to me kept hitting everyone with her camera and bag, but she was older and sweet and so excited to be there. The crowd all shifted to give her room, automatically ducking out of her photos and ignoring her purse strikes and keeping up with her happy chatter. No one sighed or gave her side eye. She was envious that my kids have seen three presidents and wanted to hear about each experience. 

The speech began and once the initial excitement wore down, one of the men in the group in front of us noticed my boys and gave me a look and gesture that made it clear he wanted them to join his family in their prime location. I nodded yes and they shuffled around to let them into the front row, closing back around my sons, their short blond heads a striking contrast in their new group, the whole beautiful lot of them cheering together about diversity and the importance of education and treating people well.

The only bit of unpleasantness -- the ONLY BIT EVER in hours of heat and standing and waiting and lots of passionate people -- was that at one point someone in the back of the room screamed something rude, breaking the quiet focus of the crowd and interrupting the speech while also shocking and scaring everyone for a moment. 

People were stunned and quiet, and then commotion began as everyone turned around to look and the crowd began to rumble angrily. 

Clinton laughed in a casual way and said, "No, guys. Nah, don't be like that. They've all had a bad week. Besides, they even bought a Hillary shirt so they could sneak in. We should thank them for that."  

The crowd laughed quietly and turned back around, completely ignoring the jerk being dragged out in a headlock by Secret Service. The entire episode of unrest lasted less than 60 seconds. My kids barely even asked about it. 

The Alaskan had to leave early, and tapped me on the shoulder to wave goodbye and mouth, "Good luck. You're a good mom." I thanked him and said he was a good teacher.

At the end of the speech, Clinton exited the stage to give handshakes and the crowd surged forward. I didn't want to lose the boys but also didn't want them giving up their prime president hand-shaking territory. The mother of the family that had accepted them into their own turned around and gave me a nod, and I knew without words that she was not only going to help keep them safe but also do her best to help them keep their coveted spots.

And President Bill Clinton looked down at little kid and grabbed his hand through the books and pens and phones being shoved in his face, and then readjusted to give him a proper handshake. 

I was 6 or 8 people back, too far to even try to reach him and only worried about the kids anyway, when he leaned into the crowd and looked right at me with his arm outstretched, and I stretched out my hand AND SHOOK HIS. 

(And I unapologetically loved it, pearl clutchers.) 

I told the guy next to me that he was lucky to get a sneaky selfie, and he pointed out that the former president went out of his way to shake my hand. We looked through the pictures on his phone, exclaiming excitedly about the one they were both in. We agreed that we were both super lucky and that it had been a fun afternoon.

We stuck around to avoid the crush of the crowd making its exit, and some college-aged boys offered to take our photo with my phone. While we hung out, I eavesdropped on their playful, boyish banter. They were smart and happy, respectful and well-spoken. The kind of young men I'd like mine to grow up to be.

We left through a back door, curious about where it would take us, and ended up on a screened walkway. At that moment Clinton and the Secret Service (that should be a band name, guys) were walking around the back of the building to greet everyone out front. It was just us and them.

I shouted out to him and he looked up at us and smiled wide and waved. The kids were thrilled. (And I was too.) Secret Service maybe a little less so. 

As we exited, we saw our Indian friends and hugged them goodbye after exchanging business cards, and saw the annoying old guy talking the ear off of a protestor and wished him the best of luck, and told the happy lady with the camera that we hoped to see her at another presidential event. 

All day long, I never heard one hateful word about the other candidate. Incredulous disbelief and some amused talk about that Saturday Night Live skit, but the focus was on the positive. That was impressive in itself.

And yeah, it was awesome that we got to shake a president's hand. But what was more awesome were the people in that building. 

Goodness gracious, at a time that I needed to know (more than ever) that people are good, I ended up in a building chock full of extraordinarily good people. 

The universe has my back.

Bill Clinton said, "There is nothing wrong with America that can't be solved by what is right about America," and it felt wonderful to believe it thanks to the company I kept that day. 

Tuesday, October 11, 2016

White Lies

This morning my 10-year-old looked me right in the eye and asked, "Mom, if Donald Trump gets elected, will we be okay?"

I've heard variations of this question since the matter first came up. Originally I laughed and assured him that he would not even get nominated since he has no experience. Then I scoffed and promised that people can't and won't support this. Gradually, I moved on to pointing out that people are good, and people will always be good, regardless of who is in charge. Lately I offer up the fact that four years isn't long at all.

And this time, fresh after the debates, the answer didn't come as easily.

Because we're not okay now.

No matter what happens on November 8th, we will forever live with the fact that roughly half of us identify with a man that -- I was going to start a list, but there's no need. They identify with THIS man; they think this is what we need more of in our world. They want this to represent us.

Our children -- who have been taught to be kind to others, treat everyone as equals, not bully people over their looks, last name, disabilities, or socioeconomic status, who were born without an ounce of hate in their pure bodies -- are inheriting a future that is half this.

The burden on their little tiny backs, that they don't even know they're carrying, crushes me as a mother and a human being.

No, we're not okay. I can't believe it, but we're not.

What the fuck, people. How are we this not okay?

But motherhood is about making things better. Right this second and in five minutes and in five days and in five weeks and in five years. My job is to work towards that, no matter how impossible it may seem. My work is to fix the unfixable and make the unbearable bearable.

"Of course we'll be okay! There are checks and balances for a reason. All of this isn't anything for you to worry about. Just a lot of talk," as I avoided the terrifying 'they're just words' phrase Trump throws around so cavalierly. "Remember, people are good," I lied. "We will be the good."

I'm raising sons in a world where the statement "Grab her by the pussy" is all over the news and being defended by people on my Facebook page.

No, my sweet boy who befriends kids who speak other languages or are differently abled. No, innocent child who would think the national discussion is about holding cats nicely. No, my little man who has been taught not to cheat or lie or step on others to rise up.

We're not okay, and I'm sorry about that, but we're going to be okay. Somehow.

Monday, October 10, 2016

Walk Through Life

Today on the way to school my 10-year-old pointed out an old lady walking on the sidewalk with a younger man.

"I bet that's her son and I bet he's taking her to church," he noted. "That's really nice."

We love the old people who go to the church across from his school, and their many modes of transportation. It's a block from the beach, so they ride street legal golf carts, shuffle along with their walkers, or, our favorite is a guy that has to be in his '90s who rides his mobility scooter -- orange flag flying high -- right down the street and into our turning lane.

"When I'm an old lady will you walk me to church?" It was one of those moments that made me overly emotional, because I know he would.

"Of course!" He was quiet for a moment, I thought probably sentimental like me. "No offense, mom, but I don't see you asking to go to church, though."

"Well, will you walk me to yoga?"


Sunday, October 2, 2016

Bro Fashion

"Just once I would like to see him dressed like a human being. I'd like to see him wearing a shirt, wearing a shirt right side out, wearing pants -- "  Big Kid was looking at his younger brother with disdain and ranting.

Just another day in the life.

I looked over. He was shirtless, but wearing pants. Size 6 (he's a 10-12) pajama bottoms at 3pm that were shorter than capris, but whatever, they were pants.

"Actually, he's wearing pants," I pointed out.

"Hold on here, I'm listing some variables. I want to see him wearing pants that are not mine, pants that fit properly, pants that are not backwards, pants that haven't mysteriously appeared out of nowhere that belong to no one in this family, pants that aren't inside out, pants that aren't pajamas, underwear -- God, underwear every single time, but not just any underwear, only his own underwear. If he has a shirt on, I think he should also have pants AND underwear on and vice versa. The tags should be in the back and inside, at all times. Is this too much to ask? Any of these things?"

I considered his frustration, and then the impossibility of enforcing most of this. I looked over at little kid, with his 8-inches-too-short pajama pants with skulls on them, looking wounded. I remembered insisting that he put pants on because I was tired of seeing the backwards boxers he was rocking before that and I felt like the results were a reasonable compromise.

"It really is. Technically, he is wearing pants."

"It's ridiculous. My life is ridiculous."

"I don't disagree. I just don't know what you want me to do about it."

I'm not that big on wearing pants myself. It seems hypocritical to become the fashion police. If we're dressed in public, we're doing okay.

Sorry, Big Kid. You deserved a normal family.