My kids are growing up. I wish I had mixed emotions about this, but I don’t. I’m happy they are growing up. Mainly because I have enjoyed (most!) every second of it. I loved watching “All My Children” with M…cuddling up until I was too pregnant with V to fit my 18-month-old in my lap. I loved being stopped on the way out of the pediatrician by a woman who was so tickled by how much V looked like a “Madame Alexander Doll” (think: a 4 month old baby with TONS of black hair, bright blue eyes, a perfect pink bow, and big pink cheeks and lips) that she missed her elevator TWICE, as she cooed to my colicky baby that she should be a model (we opted against that route!) Being an At Home Mom instead of a Working Mom has been challenging, but I am so proud I did it and stuck with it. But things are (as they ALWAYS are…) changing for us. And here are two stories about how:
Call me a damned hippie…I don’t care. I am naked (or as we Southerners say “nekked”) often. A lot. T-shirt and panties. Or nothing at all. Hell, before the kids I was a nude model at not one but TWO different art schools. Being “nekked” doesn’t bother me. M doesn’t seem to notice or care and V has asked the occasional question about “boobeeeth” (with her little lisp!)
Today we were in the private “family changing room” at the YMCA designed specifically for a situation like ours…Momma with a boy and a girl…the boy is too young for the “Mens” locker room, but too old for the “Girls” locker room. As we changed out of our wet bathing suits, M looked me up and down and exclaimed, “Momma, your boobs look fat.” I assume he wasn’t using the vernacular of popular culture and meant “phat,” and I would have been more than a little disturbed if he’d said “Momma, your boobs look dope!” Since M lacks the maturity and since I lacked the time and energy, I refrained from using words and phrases like “mammary tissue”, “puberty” and “breastfeeding” and stuck with, “they are just supposed to be,” biting my tongue as I wanted to say, “M, some ladies pay lots of money for boobies like these.” He then queried, “Momma, what are those pink thinks sticking out?” I quickly donned my bra and shirt, again, not wanting to bust out with “nipple” and “aereola” lest my memory-like-a-steel-trap son repeat back to some unsuspecting co-ed, “I like your nipples…” So I remained silent.
“Momma, are they AIR HOLES?” he guessed.
Poor kid. I could almost see the wheels turning as he tried to deduce the purpose of my breasts. And then, barely missing a beat he said,
“Momma, guess what? Some chameleons can breathe with their skin!”
Well, color me FULLY CLOTHED from now on!
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I heard the door bell ring and immediately chose to ignore it. It wasn’t the UPS man (I have semi-curbed my addiction to amazon.com and therefore wasn’t expecting any packages), which meant it was either my neighbor Bonnie or the Jehovah’s Witnesses
(who can’t seem to get enough of trying to convert me) On a side-note: I get a BAD case of the “church giggles” ---those chuckles that creep up on you at the most inappropriate times…church pews, school conference, obstetric stirrups---whenever they try to talk to me…ESPECIALLY when they introduce each other as “Sister.” In fact, I’m thinking of changing my title from “Mrs.” to “Sister.”
“Mrs. Brownie, can you please---“
“Ah, no…that’s SISTER Brownie…”
“Oh.”
I was in my bedroom on the other side of the house pretending to not be home when I heard the dog barking at the mystery person on the other side of the door and my kids’ footsteps thundering through the Great Room into the Foyer. They got to the door before me and so our cover was blown and that we were, in fact, home. But it wasn’t Bonnie or the JW’s,
it was what could only be described as “some dude” in cut-off shorts and a t-shirt sucking on a lollipop. Let me say that again in case you missed it…SUCKING ON A LOLLIPOP.
I reluctantly opened the door, like a college kid whose Resident Advisor smelled pot. My kids crowded around me, but ever the protective Momma Bear, I pushed them behind me. Our dog, who happens to be a VERY menacing looking and sounding 60 lb. pit bull mix stood a few feet away, head down, ears back…solidly holding his ground…and looking as if he was about to spring into action if “the dude” made any shady moves. Kona stood, eyes locked on his target, and emitted a low, steady growl.
The dude’s eye darted from me to Kona and then back to me again. He rustled up a smile and pulled the sucker from his mouth.
“They call me ‘Shorty!’” he began. He said “they” as if “they” were a panel of esteemed judges and the nickname “Shorty” was a synonym for “handsome.” He WAS short, shorter than me, in fact. He was NOT handsome. He then went into some VERY scripted back story about how he was a new dad and had a 3-week-old son, and would I like to buy some [extremely sketchy, possibly frozen, thawed and then frozen again, probably contaminated] meat from a cooler in the back of his truck. I just stood there. In the silence, Kona’s growls elevated to snarls.
I wanted to just shut the door in his face, I started in with the “church giggles” and almost DID shut the door in his face, but he spoke again:
(Looking at Kona) “Er…um…Sorry I set off your “alarm system!”” He coughed out a nervous laugh as he gestured to Kona.
“Yes, well, you'd better go now. He doesn’t like strange men.” And with that, I closed the door. Kona went to the window and stared at him, still growling, until he disappeared down the driveway. Meanwhile, V let out a huge “AwwwwwWWWWW!” It was the noise a disappointed 4-year-old makes when you tell her "no, we can’t buy another Barbie mermaid today." I couldn’t imagine that she was upset because she really, really wanted to purchase some e-coli ridden, (semi) frozen, grey hamburger patties from “Shorty,” so I asked her what was wrong.
“I thought he was going to give me that lollipop!”
PAUSE. Chills. Horror. Disbelief. Nausea. Sweat. All of those things, plus all of my worst nightmares woven together into a giant tapestry of terror. A hard swallow, as I tried to get my stomach, and its contents, out of my throat and back into my abdomen. It never occurred to me how totally, completely trusting and, for lack of a better word, gullible my beautiful baby daughter was. Sure, I am protective. ME. *I* am protective. But I’m not always going to be there. And if today was any indication, V just proved she would follow any stranger with candy in a skinny minute.
No one wants to think all the potential dangers lurking in the “outside world.” To be fair, I shouldn’t have opened the door for some dude, but I felt safe with Kona, the scary barking pit bull front and center. 
But he won’t always be there to protect the kids from the awfulness lurking in the shadows of the “real world.” I dread having a serious talk with the kids about “stranger danger,” because I want to keep their innocence bottled up and safe under the heavy glass belljar that has protected it, so far. M and V are both very outgoing, friendly, gregarious. I don’t want to do anything to stymie their benevolence or altruism. I hate, for them, that there are real-life monsters out there, beyond the four safe walls of “home.” But I’d rather have them have nightmares then be a part of one. Le sigh.
