When I was in college I met a lot of new people and connected with some I neither saw nor heard from for some time. Like when Bobby Soccer called me out of the blue and asked, “Are you the Kelly who went out with me in 4th grade?” and I snorted first because of the thought that I had, indeed, considered myself of dating age when I was 10. So, yes, we went out.

Our conversation had a strange tone to it as he had simply found my name in a phone book, but I knew it was him when he confirmed that while I was sitting in some playground equipment that we called The Hamburger (dome-shaped, you climbed up a ladder through the center, apparently passing the lower bun until you sat in the meat part - why are you judging me, I was 10. And dating.) I noticed that Bobby was leaning forward on The Hill where he played, you guessed it, soccer. There was blood coming from his face as his hands were covering it because he apparently took a soccer ball right to the nose and it broke his glasses which cut his face up.

Why am I telling you this? Why am I leaving that preposition at the end of that sentence?

Because I am a rebel, that’s why.

Not entirely, but bear with me.

Once, while vacationing in Washington, DC with my husband and children and in-laws I was walking down a busy street (Pennsylvania Avenue is busy, no?) and squealed with delight as Roger History and I were passing one another. It hadn’t quite been 10 years since high school where we sat in U.S. History (you didn’t suppose I named him that because we took French together, did you? I took Spanish anyway. I was trying to throw you off your game.) and acted like we knew more about American History than our teacher who kept trying to move us apart because we were such disruptions. Roger was quick-witted, punk-attired, and rather fluent in German as we were seniors and he’d been taking it all four years. That moment, when I had two kids in diapers and a precocious 10 year old (who wasn’t dating yet, as far as I know) I turned into a 17-year old again and we hugged and kissed until my family finally asked Who IS this strange man?

During a family vacation in Tennessee one year I never expected to hear the voice of a former student call out my name while we were waiting to ride go-carts, but I did. We were several hundred miles from home and I ran into someone, yet again, that I know. Even my friend Becky teases me about going anywhere with her because once at that enormous Ikea store in suburban Chicago she joked, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you ran into someone in this store that I get lost in every time.” and within 2 minutes I heard my maiden name called from across the pillow bin. I hadn’t seen her in 12 or so years, but there was Basketball Michelle standing there squinting at me still trying to guess if it really was me. (It was.)

This is all to illustrate the number of people I’ve come across so far in my life. One time I calculated that with the average number of students I have in a year and their parents whom I’ve met at Parent-Teacher conferences as well as their step-parents and siblings I know well over 5,000 people in an educational career spanning 14 short years. Currently, I am reading Malcolm Gladwell’s “The Tipping Point” and he makes mention of the types of people who connect others and connect TO others. There is something about relating to people on a daily basis that is necessary for me. When I meet people I never forget a face and I do very well at names. Mostly, however, I will recall incidents of occurrences to help me make those connections.

There was even a blogger meet-up where I only knew one person who connected me to other people and another blogger who came to the Chicago meet-up simply because I was attending and out of that came folks near and dear to my heart.

All that was to say that I like to connect, that’s all. I’m thinking so much more about how we connect with one another daily like the same people I see at the Farmer’s Market or the scruffy guy at the liquor store who knows I never use their bags (long, slim wine bags are not good for anything else and waste paper). It’s amusing to see these people elsewhere and watch their faces betray their brains which are trying to connect, “Where do I know that woman from?” Whether it’s the mani-pedi gal (Mary) or the kickboxing chica (I just call her StrongBad) or the older gentleman at the bookstore (Gordon), I enjoy my connections. They are familial reminders of who we put our energies into on this earth.

Even today, I got an email from a gal I’ll call Tattoo Seeker who wrote that she’d seen my daughter’s tattoo and wondered if I would write some lyrics on paper to send to her so she could get those lines tattooed on her body. See the amazing beauty in being connected? Someone, a person I’ve never met, wants to have MY WRITING ON HER BODY. Surreal. Not the prosaic requests one gets day to day.

In my effort to learn about my own connectedness I wonder, quite often, how people connect to places like this. What brought them here? Where they on a coffee break and walked by a co-worker reading this thing called a ‘blog’ and then happened to continue reading? Did someone send my writing as a link to someone else who gets this via an e-mail service like Feedblitz? Is my mother telling everyone she meets, “My daughter has a blog! Read it!”?

We connect, we link, we network, we build relationships, we support, we get fired up for indignant behavior, we search for a commonality, we seek invitations to be a part of something. This very moment I consider: Who is even still with me after this long posting? I marvel: How did this reader get here? I ponder: How did I?

For My Homo Homies

Sally Kern must have forgotten all the best movie quotes. As a representative out of Oklahoma, she’s clearly never seen An Officer And A Gentleman and heard this line:

The only two things from Oklahoma are steers and queers, and I don’t see no horns on you, boy.

Incontrovertibly, she does not purport to play for the other team, so she must be the devil. She did a nice job proving that. Somebody please check her head for hornlike projections.

I would think with all my connections out there SOMEone could do that for me.

As I steadily transition from Mom of Some Kids to a Mom of Teenagers I have to admit that uttering the words, “I have teenagers at home” makes me shake my head, look around for the person who should have said that, and then remembering that I did, in fact, just take a daily vitamin with my pooping yogurt so yes, I did really admit to having TEENS. Today my youngest turns 13.

That, in and of itself, made me calculate how many months my youngest has been on this planet. 156 months.

I’m training him to drink coffee at a cafe with a computer. (Don’t write to me and tell me not to give my kid coffee because FIRST OF ALL, I started drinking it when I read Diary of A Young Girl by Anne Frank and wanted to feel more “European” at age 13 and secondly, he’s really drinking hot chocolate. I’m not a terrible mom. I give him decaf. See? I’m also not a stupid mom.)

He’s enormous. But still tries to fit into my lap crushing me under his weight. He has that bluish fleshy skin inherited from my own mother. Most importantly, he has a great sense of humor as we giggled wickedly as we used the book What’s Your Poo Telling You? as our bedtime story last night. I’m pretty sure that “deja poo”, “turd tea”, and “deuce juice” will now be a part of the birthday dinner talk tonight.

Happy Birthday, you cool kid, you!

My post for Flawed But Authentic is up.

You may not feel like the melancholy flavor over there so here is something a little more a-ha ha, o-ho ho and a couple of la-di-das for you.

At dinner tonight Mason and I were discussing his classes and he said that he likes his consumers ed class.

It’s not CONSUMERS with an S. It’s not plural. It’s CONSUMER ED.

Yes, it is Mom. It’s CONSUMERS. Because there are lots of them. Lots of people who CONSUME.

Honest to God, kid. What are you learning? Have I not taught you well enough? It’s CONSUMER ED.

Ok. It’s like you don’t know anything. Next semester I’m taking PHYSICALS ED. 

I no longer pull out glue sticks and finger paints to do activities with my children. They’re just getting too old for that so our time is spent doing other things. We play family friendly video games at times, play Guess That Movie By This String Of Quotes I Have Memorized, and once in a while we will play cricket in the backyard or basketball in the front. All things that have incorporated my love of sporting and competition, but that have been something I have learned to love.

For a long time I considered myself the Mom Of A Girl because for a while it was just Mallory and me. Having sons later on became something I probably struggled more with than I ever admitted because I grew up with all girls and boy stuff was lost on me.

When it came time to discuss girly delicate issues with my daughter I didn’t have any problem whatsoever, but that was because as a young parent who didn’t know any different, I just talked to her about everything. Sometimes she was the only being around and if I didn’t have anyone else to talk to then I would turn to this infant and just start rambling about everything. That’s probably why she learned to talk early and used the word “narcissistic” as soon as was possible. She liked the sound of that word when I read Greek Mythology to her. That was mostly because I was studying English Lit and didn’t have time to read The Very Hungry Caterpillar to her so she was subjected to whatever courses I signed up for.

Basically, I have no problem communicating with my kids because I tend to blurt things out and then shrug my shoulders when they give me the “God, You Are THE STUPIDEST PERSON IN THIS HEMISPHERE, Mom” look. That’s not really been a concern of mine, but what I’ve been trying to say in my wordy writing today is that I say just about anything in front of my kids.

For example, when the onset of menses came for my daughter I encouraged her to talk about it. Tell her dad. Let him know that she’d become a woman. She caught him as he was coming out of the bathroom on a Sunday morning. The fact that I spurred her on in this didn’t lesson the shock he had upon hearing it.

Uhhh. Well. Ok.

A stellar moment in my parenting, forcing my daughter to talk about such things with such an uninterested party.

From then on we agreed as parents that I would do the girl stuff, the “tampon” discussions and he would do everything with the boys. He would be stuck with morning wood, wet dreams, and the creative uses of socks so I felt it was all fair. Unfortunately, my daughter has taken after me in those monthly times because if her brothers or father ask her why she’s so crabby she is none to happy to let them in on the cause.

My uterus is sloughing itself off. Happy now?

Last night Morgan informed us that it’s probably time for him to protect his goods during karate and could he please have a cup? Since dad was busy and couldn’t get around to it and I needed to hit the sports store anyway for a few things I agreed to do it.

Mom. I will need a cup.

Fine. Tell dad we’re leaving now.

I think the incredulity of my taking him shopping for this object scared his father because he sat up straight in his recliner.

What? You’re taking him? You. You are taking him. You. Do you know anything about what you’re getting?

Yes. It’s not like I’ll take him to a dressing room and force him to come out and SHOW ME.

Do you even know what it is?

Yeah, it’s the thingie with the straps that don’t cover your butt and you step into it.

I started to doubt myself at this point.

Right?

Well, yeah, but what about how it stays on, Kelly?

Umm. I guess he needs a (demonstrating for the family at this point) thingie that has like a pocket that you … umm … tuck it into. Right?

Oh, Lord. This should be fun.

After going to Dick’s Sporting Goods (no, really, I can’t even make the obvious joke here) we determined that, yes, he would need a large size (Well done. To all his future girlfriends, you’re welcome) and he wouldn’t have to put it on for real until tonight when he has his Black Belt Training class.

But he isn’t one to struggle with inhibitions. He came home and took a shower and walked downstairs where I was watching television and knocked on his crotch.

Oh. So you’re going to wear it to bed, then?

Nah. I just wanted to try it on.

Uh huh. Is your butt hanging out of the back?

Yeah. That’s funny. Wanna see?

No thanks, son. Just sit here and watch some tv with me.

Mission accomplished and awkward conversations avoided.

He did, however, spend the rest of the night knocking on his crotch. While sitting on the couch. Next to the Tampon and Cup Queen.

*Comments are off. It’s better that way. Trust me. But know that I miss you. I miss you so so much that my tummy hurts and I have a hole in my heart so my tummy and my heart ache.

Me: I like Brittany Murphy. She’s a decent actress, but also a good singer. She did the vocals on one of the songs I listen to when I run by Oakenfold.

Mom: Paul Oakenfold? The one who does rave music?

Me: Umm. I don’t know. Rave music? You know him? Mom, you’re the shit.