My Penis Does Math

Wyatt told me this morning that his penis is smart. He said, and I quote: "My penis is smart. He has a 7 out of 7 on the intelligence scale. He helps me with my homework."   Wow.

So I asked: "Is he better at language arts or math?"  And he answered: "Math."

"What's 5 times 3?" I asked this question knowing that Wyatt's class hasn't tackled multiplication just yet.  I figured he might turn to his penis for some advice.  I kind of wanted to witness how that might go down.

Instead, he answered straight away.  "We haven't learned that yet. But it's 15. He doesn't know the answer but I do."

I'm glad he doesn't rely on his penis for everything. Yet. But given the scale and scope and dimension of his obsession, I suspect I'd better brace myself for the day that the penis takes over entirely.  I just hope that when that happens, and he talks to it as he does now about basic addition and subtraction,  that he tells it to stay in his pants until college. Knowing that is unlikely to happen, I'd settle for late high school.  Wishful thinking?

A Marvel-ous Woody

I walked into Wyatt and Virgil's room after Wyatt had his bath. Wyatt was standing naked on his bed looking at his new Marvel poster. He turned around and I could see that he had an erection. A big one. Oy. Go away (Wyatt). Ok (mommy).

And then later,  we were watching "Family Guy" (I know) while eating chicken and the word "woody" was uttered. What's that? (Virgil and Wyatt)  Fortuitous!  I explained.  "You know when your penis sometimes stands out straight? That's a woody. Also known as an erection."

Oh yeah, I was wondering about that (Wyatt). Well, yeah. I imagine you were. Just about an hour ago.  Why does that happen? (Wyatt) Usually if you're touching it (mommy).

Why? (Virgil)

I pondered. How honest should I be? Oh well, what is there to do but explain?  That's what happens when you're going to have sex (mommy). So you have to touch it before you have sex? I was thinking it probably shouldn't be floppy (Virgil).  Clever boy.  I don't know why he would have been thinking that. He's 10.

I suppose (mommy).

Why are you still talking about this?! I don't want to talk about this anymore! (Virgil) I don't either! (mommy) You're the one that started it. Stop! (Virgil)

I like when my penis is sloppy because then it can dance better (Wyatt).

Touche.

River of Snakes

No one really tells you how hard it is to end your marriage. Of course you know it's hard. That's why you put it off for so long. Your divorced friends egg you on, maybe a little bit because they want someone else on their "team". The team of those who haven't made it through the gauntlet. The team that courageously ends what is known, maybe unfulfilling, maybe miserable, but known, to go in search of something maybe better. Maybe non-existent. Or, depending on your perspective, what could be considered the team that failed. That couldn't hack it. That simply couldn't endure the marathon of marriage with its highs and lows. Courageous love crusaders or failures.  Tomato / tom-ah-to.  Regardless, these people want you on their team so they tell you: you can do it!

Whatever the reason, there are many divorcees that cheer you on. That tell you there is happiness on the other side. If you can just cross the river of snakes to get to it. They leave out the snakes part.

And then there are your married friends who haven't been happy in years but stay, and want you to stay, to continue to be a confidant in misery. You meet for drinks, you complain, you both go home to a warm bed.

My bed isn't warm anymore. And I'm knee deep in snakes. And I don't know if I will make it to the other side.

Oh yeah, I forgot, there are those few, those happily married few. Who are confounded by your marital distress. They have understanding and support and the warm bed and all of it. They can't imagine 1/ how you can be married and not have those things 2/ how you'd put up with anything less; 3/why you're sad now that you no longer have someone who doesn't understand, support and hug you.

I just wish someone had warned me about the snakes. I might have decided to brave them. I might have. I certainly would have worn some sort of snake protection suit, that is for sure. Ideally it would keep the bed warm at night and turn the lights on before I come home.

I Want To Be Joan Rivers

Sound weird, I know. But who has more tenacity? She's almost 80 and she works every day. She has her wits about her. She's completely honest about her insecurities (hence the plastic surgery).  She isn't that far from three digits and she curses like a sailor. She actually has a joke about anal sex and how she likes it because you're free to do other things - like answer emails on the blackberry.

She is varied in her pursuits: comedy, QVC, acting, Celebrity Apprentice, Fashion Police, the red carpet, commercials, NY theater, corporate bookings. If it's work she'll take it.  She's unabashed in her pursuit of money to enable her lifestyle.  And at the same time, she volunteers delivering meals to those in need. Ok, so it's in a limo, but she still does it and goes inside and talks to people who perhaps haven't been outside in months.

Her husband killed himself and she kept going. She made a movie about what it was like with her daughter. Which sounds crass. But she doesn't care because it helped them both. She's a feminist of the highest order and those who say she isn't because she makes fun of other women simply don't get it.  You've got to laugh amidst the sorrow or else what's the point.

She knows who she is and that's refreshing. "I am a performer, that is my life. That's what I am. That's it." Cheers to that, Joan.  I now have an idol. I've never had one before.

Bad TV Sunday

When I am anxious I do the following things that are bad for me: pick my fingers, bite the inside of my mouth, drink wine (in relative moderation), watch bad TV. I do not do the following things that are good for me: exercise, get fresh air, write, read, see people.   I suppose I've always had some anxiety.  It was hard as a kid to compete in the way that I did.  But as a grown up, it's been moderate. And even sometimes productive when I can lasso it into 'energy' rather than panic. Except for the last few months, since I separated from my husband.  Now the anxiety breaks in and won't leave.  Sometimes I feel like I can't breathe.

But I started today in the good place - took a long walk, actually did sit ups and push ups. Been a while. Felt good.

Then the anxiety set in. I had walked the kids back to dad's at about 10:30am. Took the walk, in an effort to maybe enjoy the time to myself.  Thought I'd even see a movie after.  But then... the anxiety descended.  At which point I took to the couch to watch bad TV (Millionaire Matchmaker, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills) and convinced myself that leaving the house was a very bad idea.  I went into a forced slumber to extract some relief.

And now I'm writing this down because the whole purpose of this thing is to keep anxiety at bay. To do something slightly more productive than engaging in a marathon Real Housewives session while bludgeoning my fingers.

I think it's the notion of 3 days stretched before me with no work, no kids. Sounds nice but it freaks me out.  A little too much empty space for my tastes.  Since today is reasonably over enough that I can settle in and finish reading the Sunday paper before retiring to my pajamas, I will chalk this day up as a "transition". Tomorrow will be better.  Fresh air, long walks and movies await.

A Christmas Story

I celebrated Christmas with my kids, my brother and my nephews yesterday. Unfortunately, my sister in law could not be with us because, sadly, her father passed away in the morning.  His body gave way to a degenerative disease akin to Parkinson's, but different, called something I can neither spell nor pronounce. He deteriorated slowly - losing his balance, then losing his way and finally, relegated to his bed seemingly in and out of consciousness.

When my kids asked why Aunt Rachel didn't come to dinner, I told them that her dad had died and she was very sad. Virgil, without missing a beat, said: did he die of cancer? No, I said. Aids? No. Something else.

I found it strange that these were the first two things he guessed. Cancer, I suppose I understand. His maternal grandmother suffered and survived cancer a few years ago and we have discussed what it means to be sick in that way. Aids, well I'm not sure. On second thought, I suppose I am. He's walked in more than one Aids Walk, on one occasion with me and his father. On another, with his other grandma. It prompted a discussion about what Aids is and how one gets it.  Not an easy subject.

And I guess with no religion in our house (thus no talk about heaven and its opposite), and all grandparents alive and kicking, his only experience with talking about death has been those conversations. I'll have to expose him to other ways to pass. Like simply letting go as a result of old age.  This should be a slightly easier conversation than explaining the ways that Aids is contracted to a kid who asks A LOT of questions.

Certainly a child shouldn't think the only ways to go are to suffer from ravaging diseases. I'd like for my boys to believe in or simply be aware of gentler ways to go.

Rest in peace, Richard. Love to Rachel, Jason, Jonathan and Roberta.

Do something awesome

Virgil told Wyatt to do something awesome. So Wyatt put an altoid mint on the tip of his penis. And then folded the skin over it so that it could not be seen. A hidden mint. Minty fresh penis breath. Virgil said:  that's not awesome. Anyone can put a mint in their penis.
Not anyone. But a lot of people, if they so chose.

Intersecting Circles

I have passed the time. I have made the following treats for tomorrow's festivities: cream of mushroom soup, pumpkin pie. Already prepared: jewish apple cake. Oh the irony of serving jewish apple cake on christmas. but i'm not much of a jew and never have been.

My son virgil once said: mom, there are three jewish people in our family - you, me and Wyatt. Because it gets passed down by the mother, you know. [They must have told him this at JCC summer camp because I didn't]. AND, there are three black people in this family - dad, me and Wyatt. But there are only 4 people.  Weird right?

That my friends, is a Vin diagram.  And a clever boy. C'mon... he was only six. He curses, reads a lot and understands abstractions. What more could a mom ask for.

The Title

I called this blog guess which finger because Wyatt held up a finger the other day and that's what he said. He and Virgil like to hold up a finger - not the middle one - and pretend like they are doing something they're not supposed to do. Then i get mad or pretend mad - 'You can't do that! do you know what that actually means?' and then they say: 'Yeah. it means fuck you. But that's not what i did. See! Its this [holding up index finger] finger.'  So now they just say 'guess which finger?' which is kind of funny I suppose, so i don't get mad, or even pretend mad, anymore. It isn't like either of them is ever NOT going to say, or imply, the word fuck. So I might as well get used to it.